Xander cursed the phone quietly, afraid it would rouse Anya. He'd shut the crew down for the day and come evening he thought they were home free. There hadn't been a single interruption to the lazy day in bed with his wife. Wife. He was still having some trouble digesting it, but not in an unpleasant way. He snapped up the phone quickly, closing the bedroom door behind him. A frantic Dawn met his ear, it was going to be a long night.
Slow down, honey. What's wrong with Buffy?
She calmed down to explain her disappearance so much so that even he began to worry. Sure, she'd pulled some disappearing acts with Spike for a time but that had ended. As far as he knew. She wouldn't go back to him, come on, Buff. He shuddered at the thought.
I'll be right over, Yes I'll swing by Giles' as well.
He didn't relish waking up Anya and ran a loving hand over her blonde locks. Her breathing was quiet and even. Content. He had never thought he would have this kind of life. Hell, him, be a grown up? A successful job, an apartment and a wife to help him make it a home. She was the craziest demon-woman he'd ever known (and there had been plenty). She could be obnoxious, inappropriate and arrogant, sometimes all at once. But he had all the love in the world for her. And he liked to think he ran a very close race with the money. He planted a small kiss on her forehead and turned his mind back to Buffy. Where was She? Perhaps he'd swing by Spike's first.
It was late. Too late to be awake. Too late to be researching demons. But Xander still wasn't surprised to find Giles at home and awake. The dull, swaying chords of Pink Floyd greeted him at the door. Not that he knew who Pink Floyd were or how to appreciate them.
Rupert Giles looked up but couldn't see who had just opened his front door. A wall of books enclosed him and his thoughts had been elsewhere. England. Home. He'd been burying himself in demonology for days. It pained him that he had ripped up his one way ticket. It had pained him even more that he hadn't had the stomach to turn his back on Buffy and finally let her grow up. He promised himself it would only be for a short while longer and it would be back to his friends, Olivia in particular, cold, brisk days…and like a kite his mind was far, far away.
Giles?
Hmm..
Giles? Why haven't you been answering the phone?
Xander looked down at the dishevelled man. He'd taken his glasses off and was rubbing his eyes. A part of him tried not to notice the bags under his eyes, the rumpled clothing. But he couldn't get past the unhappy expression on his face.
Xander, what are you doing here?
I uh, didn't mean to interrupt happy hour but…
Giles replaced his glasses and waited for him to continue.
Buffy's missing. Well, Willow and Dawn seem to think so. They're worried, we should go.
Spike.
No, I checked his place, no one was there.
The two men regarded each other for a moment before departing.
The midnight hour was approaching and all was seemingly quiet. But Spike knew better than that. You didn't live to be over a century (or rather exist) without having some knowledge of the things that go bump in the night. And being one of those things was pretty useful too. The bleached vampire stubbed out his cigarette on a tree and tossed it over his shoulder absently. He'd been walking back to his crypt when he'd noticed the slayer's boy sniffing around. His relationship with him had taken a turn for the worse when the lot of them had found out he was been sleeping with Buffy. Not that they'd been the best of friends to begin with. But they seemed to think he was out to do her harm. Though he never intended to do anything of the kind. And now he was missing her. He liked that love did that to him, let him be foolish and naive. It made him feel human again. It stirred warmth inside of him. Buffy.
Even now he knew he should probably be speculating as to why Xander was snooping around his home. Bored of married life already?
But of course that wasn't it. He watched Xander leave, looking…relieved?
He picked up the paper grocery bag he'd put down and wandered over to the crypt. His brow was wrinkled as he did so.
Somewhere on the other side of Sunnydale.
Altayz sat poised on his throne. It was an Edwardian monstrosity. Intricately carved lions reached high past his head ready to pounce. Before him, neatly arranged in aisled rows were the members of the Vampire Elite. The aristocracy. The women wore veiled hats and satin gloves. The men held their fedoras and were attired in three piece suits. Each audience member housed a demon within them that was not to be overlooked. But that's true of any aristocrat.
He didn't need to stand. They all sat at attention, waiting on his address. Their leader, their master. He looked to be frozen in his thirties, though many of them were unsure what century he had been turned. When he raised a hand to brush through his brown curls, alabaster skin gleamed at them. He was tall even as he sat. And commanding. His human eyes glinted the palest of blues. He was exquisitely beautiful and terrifying.
The council have been a thorn in the side of every vampire for too long. Their influence has grown steadily and powerfully. Each time they quash our kind it is an embarrassment. For what are they but humans? Humans who know too much.
They nodded in agreement.
But what is the Council's greatest weapon?
He leaned forward in his throne, meeting the gaze of individuals.
The Slayer.
When a slayer dies another is called. He smiled now. But my witch friends tell me that turning a slayer changes the mystical energy surrounding the slayer line. I'm told that by turning Her, we can end the slayer line forever.
The room fell into an awed silence.
Thus destroying the council and beginning a new era of vampiric dominion.
The end of the slayer line. The blood lust was in every pair of eyes that regarded Altayz. Freedom at last.
So you have no selfish motives, Altayz? This is just for the good of Vampires everywhere?
The vampire that addressed him still had his hat on. It was tipped arrogantly to the side, exposing a long scar down his right cheek. In addition to this, angelic locks of corn silk spilled out from underneath it complementing a very attractive face. Lars. He was maybe a few decades shy of Altayz age but there had been a time where he'd sat at his best friends' right hand. When the raised platform had housed an equally hideous throne for him. But that time was passed and the scar was all that served as any reminder.
The awe became suffocating as the vampires waited on their master's reaction.
He laughed.
It began as a slow, rumbling chuckle that rose to near hysteria.
You know better than anyone that my motives are rarely otherwise. The room erupted into laughter around him. But why should such motives trouble my friends so long as the Slayer is removed permanently? Surely I can be borne no ill will then.
He stood up now, with the toes of his shoes overhanging the platform. He teetered playfully with his hands in the pockets of his pristine black suit. Any objections?
They all clapped this time. It was the steady rhythm of societal applause. Altayz didn't tolerate riff raff.
I'm so very pleased.
The two now enemies locked eyes and Altayz turned to exit.
Aren't you forgetting something? He called behind him. A lot of the vampires sighed, some shushed him. But Lars was no coward. And what was another scar really? Aren't you going to tell us that you've turned her already? Wouldn't you like the adulation?
New chatter struck up around the room. Looks of distrust were exchanged. Why hadn't he told them?
You're not afraid it hasn't worked, are you?
Altayz stopped but kept his back to the room.
When I have more to deliver, I will. He closed the door behind him. The discussion continued louder in his wake. Lars would linger to plant more doubt and depart. But that was easily remedied. He wasn't as informed as Altayz had thought after all. He wasn't deserving of the overestimation Altayz awarded. The witch had mentioned that further incantations would be necessary. The slayer essence would need to be changed somewhat manually, turning Buffy had only been the first step. It didn't worry him. Nor should he worry his followers with the particulars.
A long stone corridor opened back into the main wing of the house. The manor house was resplendent with the finest furnishing the 1900s had to offer, it had been the century that stuck most with him. He extended a thoughtful hand to the parlour fire. His age meant that he could enjoy the heat with no fear of blistering, but one could never be too careful.
He could smell her blood. Dried but fragrant. He could hear her breathing those last human breaths. The final beat of her heart. He looked in the direction of the library, where her body was draped over a sofa. His brow creased.
He couldn't hear a thing anymore. Altayz sat down to wait.
It wasn't long before his thoughts began to drift to events long passed. A vampire never forgets. It's a remorseless existence of too many memories for one mind. It's a kind of torture. Nobody wants to remember everything…It was also his personal beneath that despite lack of conscience and guilt, wisdom was an inevitability with great age. Certain feelings just begin to creep in and grow.
He was back in that alleyway.
It had been a cool evening. Autumnal. He remembered how many windows still had candles lit in them and how many did not. And He remembered every detail of her. The flame hair that was swept up, braided intricately with rubies as though she'd just come from a ball. She was however bedecked in men's clothing. The pants and shirt looked tailored to fit and the boots well worn. He recalled how he had stood, mesmerised while she pushed a much larger man against the alley wall and drained him. The look of pleasure that crossed her vampiric features as the corpse dropped to the ground was made more astounding as those features shifted. A porcelain face regarded him now. Green eyes of unfailing sweetness. She hadn't said anything. She leapt agiley to where he stood. Her fingers were warm from the kill as she ran them down his cheek. A single finger she then poised over her lips before disappearing.
It had been months before he'd seen her again and realised just how deep his longing for her ran. He found her again at court. She sat, dignified as a queen, an honoured guest of the royal family. Countess Tatiana Parlimore. Her husband Count Frederick sat to her right with her hand clasped in his. The hand she'd so affectionately stroked him with.
He was turned in the time of great kings. Rulers. Emperors and the like. He was well born and didn't see immortality as a reason to quit this. He always conducted himself as a gentleman. Though he could no longer remain in any one place for long, a nomadic life opened up so many worlds to him. The world of knowledge. He became a scholar. The world of warfare. He became a soldier. He counselled kings and he sailed aboard fleets. He killed. Then he fell in love. The way vampires do. He had the nagging suspicion it leant more in the direction of obsession.
The memories dissipated when he heard movement.
She didn't know where she was. She didn't really care. A hunger swelled inside of her, dark and consuming. She had to get out. She had to feed. She wanted to kill.