Part Two
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Kveltain stood at the rail on the balcony. Leaning against it, he stared silently at the streets below. Horns and lights filled the night, but they held little interest for him. Neither did the magnificent view of the city skyline beyond the darkness of the great park below. New York City was bright, loud and exciting, but still just another city at heart.
Another human city, he thought.
Breathing deeply, he straightened and gripped the rail with both hands.
I'm losing it.
He tried to quash the thought, but it skittered away and crept back.
I'm fading out, losing touch or whatever you want to call it, but it is happening and I don't think there is anything I can do to stop it.
Funny how you can feel yourself go, he mused. Supposedly if you could ask whether or not you were crazy, it meant you were not. Not in my case, though. I can feel myself going, and there is nothing I can do about it.
It was quite horrifying. That in itself was amusing. After so many years and so many terrible things, going mad seemed to be such a little, petty thing to affect him so greatly.
Kveltain turned back towards the spacious apartment behind him. The double doors that opened to the balcony were thrown open before him and light spilled out in the night. He strolled in, and cool air from inside rushed over him.
Walking through the richly appointed rooms, he passed paintings and sculptures without noticing them. They were shiny baubles, collected in a failed attempt to bring some kind of peace over the years. Whatever relief they had brought had been fleeting; now they were just things to be walked past and ignored. He went deeper through the rooms. Coming to a hall, he turned toward a light shining in the kitchen.
A white-haired old man sat at a table surrounded by tools. He wore surgeon's gloves, and he pried delicately at the edges of a thin slice of wood. It split suddenly and he lifted the top portion away and set it aside, then turned back to the bottom.
Inside a thin hollow space lay a single sheet of beaten gold. Thin as paper, it was indented with angles and dots...runic-style characters. The old man turned and opened a dark wooden box. Rich, deep blue velvet lined the interior. He rubbed the fingers of his hands, then picked up a pair of identical tools. Each was a thin metal rod with a flat, shovel-like piece on one end.
"Careful," he murmured to himself. He slipped the flat ends under the gold and lifted it carefully into the air. He placed it softly on the velvet in the box and shut the lid. Latching it closed, he exhaled loudly, then turned to Kveltain behind him. "That's the last of them."
Kveltain stepped forward into the bright light. His dark, tired eyes belied his otherwise youthful appearance. Speaking quietly, he gestured towards the table. "Gather your things. The car is waiting downstairs. Tell the driver that I will be along shortly."
He reached past the old man and picked up the wooden box. Leaving the kitchen, he went down a short hall and stepped into a dark office. An open briefcase lay on the desk. Within lay five boxes identical to the one he held in his hands. He set the box in the briefcase next to the others. Kveltain was about to shut the case when he paused and ran his fingers over one of the boxes. Six, he thought. I have six. Severian has two more and the last is in Sunnydale.
An odd sense of irony swept over him. How strange that the last should await him in precisely the place they were to be used. An omen, perhaps? The prophecy attempting to assert itself? He stifled a wild urge to laugh.
Maniacal laughter was a sure sign of insanity, he told himself. Grinning for a moment, he shut the briefcase, picked it up and turned to leave.
Omens and prophecies? There was always a good and bad side of those. The trick to them lay in figuring out exactly what all the pieces meant before you were too deeply caught to do anything but ride along with them. Not this prophecy. This time he was going to dictate the way things went and to hell with some scraps written by a diseased lunatic nine hundred years ago.
Smiling no more, he tightened his grip on the briefcase and left the room.
* * *
Buffy flew back hard and slammed against a tombstone. Wincing in pain, she rolled away quickly as her assailant dove for her. Fangs gleaming in the dim light of a streetlamp, he crouched on all fours and issued a low growl. His breath was foul and putrid, and it hissed through his rotted lips. Buffy wrinkled her nose in disgust. The vampire seemed to coil up for a moment, the lunged at her.
Kicking her legs up into the air, Buffy caught the beast in the stomach. She pushed him on over her and with a final shove flipped him over. He sailed through the air onto a narrow tombstone, hitting the top with the small of his back. There was a sickening crunch and he flopped to the ground awkwardly. He moaned softly.
Getting to her feet, Buffy said, "Feels good, doesn't it?" She pulled a stake from her jacket sleeve and plunged it into the vampire's chest. He flashed to ashes and Buffy brushed herself off. Putting the stake back into her sleeve, she sat on a tombstone and rubbed her back.
"Not exactly the normal side of a Thursday evening," she muttered.
A hand touched her shoulder.
She yelped and leapt away. Spinning around, she fumbled for the stake in her sleeve.
"Whoa, Buffy, its just me."
Angel. He stood before her with hands in front of him protectively. His dark eyes glittered with amusement and a hint of a smile quivered on his lips.
"God, Angel," Buffy shouted, "I told you to stop that!" With effort, she calmed and continued less loudly. "How much of an effort would it be to stomp some twigs or shake some branches?"
"Sorry." Angel's smile said that he wasn't. "I was trying to get close and help, but you were finished before I could get here."
Buffy tilted her head to one side and put on a blank, questioning look. "Let's see, isn't about now the time that you launch into a series of short, mysterious sentences about how some kind of big danger or new bad guy is in town, or maybe about how some curse of the purple whoosits is about to unfold?" He blinked at her. "Well not this time, cryptic one. I already know about the little hollow picture things and that one or more may be in my mom's show this weekend and this being the Hellmouth and all it probably means some lame prophecy about destroying the world is about to come true unless I stop it." She paused for a moment, then continued with a smug look. "See, I've got my own bad news for once and how do you like that?"
Angel stood silently, his lips pursed.
"Well, did I leave anything out?" Buffy said.
"Ah, are you feeling okay? Because I don't know what you are talking about," Angel said. "Actually, the reason I came by was to see if you wanted to, uh, spend some time together. Now I think I'd better look into on these things you mentioned." He turned to go but Buffy grabbed his arm.
"Wait. You, uh, wanted to spend some time with me?" Buffy gave him an uncertain smile and went on. "Maybe we could check on things together."
Angel smiled and stepped towards her. "You seem to be having such a good time here," he gestured around the graveyard. "I wouldn't want to interfere."
Buffy looked around and gave a shrug. "The novelty is kinda wearing thin. It was fun at first, but I think I'm ready to move on." She stepped right up against Angel. Looking up into his eyes, she said, "Know any new places?"
Angel leaned down to kiss her. "Maybe," he murmured.
* * *
Across the graveyard sitting on a low tomb, Severian watched Angel and Buffy kiss. His mouth hung open in shock. Spitting out a half-eaten piece of candy, he began laughing softly. My, oh my, he thought. This town is weird.
He slipped off the tomb and began walking away. Shaking more candy from the box in his hand, he said aloud, "Skittles. Much better than Dots, but not nearly as good as Junior Mints." Feeling a pang of real hunger, he put the box away. He left the graveyard and headed downtown, towards the pitifully small offering of nightclubs that Sunnydale boasted.
Time for some real food.
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Kveltain stood at the rail on the balcony. Leaning against it, he stared silently at the streets below. Horns and lights filled the night, but they held little interest for him. Neither did the magnificent view of the city skyline beyond the darkness of the great park below. New York City was bright, loud and exciting, but still just another city at heart.
Another human city, he thought.
Breathing deeply, he straightened and gripped the rail with both hands.
I'm losing it.
He tried to quash the thought, but it skittered away and crept back.
I'm fading out, losing touch or whatever you want to call it, but it is happening and I don't think there is anything I can do to stop it.
Funny how you can feel yourself go, he mused. Supposedly if you could ask whether or not you were crazy, it meant you were not. Not in my case, though. I can feel myself going, and there is nothing I can do about it.
It was quite horrifying. That in itself was amusing. After so many years and so many terrible things, going mad seemed to be such a little, petty thing to affect him so greatly.
Kveltain turned back towards the spacious apartment behind him. The double doors that opened to the balcony were thrown open before him and light spilled out in the night. He strolled in, and cool air from inside rushed over him.
Walking through the richly appointed rooms, he passed paintings and sculptures without noticing them. They were shiny baubles, collected in a failed attempt to bring some kind of peace over the years. Whatever relief they had brought had been fleeting; now they were just things to be walked past and ignored. He went deeper through the rooms. Coming to a hall, he turned toward a light shining in the kitchen.
A white-haired old man sat at a table surrounded by tools. He wore surgeon's gloves, and he pried delicately at the edges of a thin slice of wood. It split suddenly and he lifted the top portion away and set it aside, then turned back to the bottom.
Inside a thin hollow space lay a single sheet of beaten gold. Thin as paper, it was indented with angles and dots...runic-style characters. The old man turned and opened a dark wooden box. Rich, deep blue velvet lined the interior. He rubbed the fingers of his hands, then picked up a pair of identical tools. Each was a thin metal rod with a flat, shovel-like piece on one end.
"Careful," he murmured to himself. He slipped the flat ends under the gold and lifted it carefully into the air. He placed it softly on the velvet in the box and shut the lid. Latching it closed, he exhaled loudly, then turned to Kveltain behind him. "That's the last of them."
Kveltain stepped forward into the bright light. His dark, tired eyes belied his otherwise youthful appearance. Speaking quietly, he gestured towards the table. "Gather your things. The car is waiting downstairs. Tell the driver that I will be along shortly."
He reached past the old man and picked up the wooden box. Leaving the kitchen, he went down a short hall and stepped into a dark office. An open briefcase lay on the desk. Within lay five boxes identical to the one he held in his hands. He set the box in the briefcase next to the others. Kveltain was about to shut the case when he paused and ran his fingers over one of the boxes. Six, he thought. I have six. Severian has two more and the last is in Sunnydale.
An odd sense of irony swept over him. How strange that the last should await him in precisely the place they were to be used. An omen, perhaps? The prophecy attempting to assert itself? He stifled a wild urge to laugh.
Maniacal laughter was a sure sign of insanity, he told himself. Grinning for a moment, he shut the briefcase, picked it up and turned to leave.
Omens and prophecies? There was always a good and bad side of those. The trick to them lay in figuring out exactly what all the pieces meant before you were too deeply caught to do anything but ride along with them. Not this prophecy. This time he was going to dictate the way things went and to hell with some scraps written by a diseased lunatic nine hundred years ago.
Smiling no more, he tightened his grip on the briefcase and left the room.
* * *
Buffy flew back hard and slammed against a tombstone. Wincing in pain, she rolled away quickly as her assailant dove for her. Fangs gleaming in the dim light of a streetlamp, he crouched on all fours and issued a low growl. His breath was foul and putrid, and it hissed through his rotted lips. Buffy wrinkled her nose in disgust. The vampire seemed to coil up for a moment, the lunged at her.
Kicking her legs up into the air, Buffy caught the beast in the stomach. She pushed him on over her and with a final shove flipped him over. He sailed through the air onto a narrow tombstone, hitting the top with the small of his back. There was a sickening crunch and he flopped to the ground awkwardly. He moaned softly.
Getting to her feet, Buffy said, "Feels good, doesn't it?" She pulled a stake from her jacket sleeve and plunged it into the vampire's chest. He flashed to ashes and Buffy brushed herself off. Putting the stake back into her sleeve, she sat on a tombstone and rubbed her back.
"Not exactly the normal side of a Thursday evening," she muttered.
A hand touched her shoulder.
She yelped and leapt away. Spinning around, she fumbled for the stake in her sleeve.
"Whoa, Buffy, its just me."
Angel. He stood before her with hands in front of him protectively. His dark eyes glittered with amusement and a hint of a smile quivered on his lips.
"God, Angel," Buffy shouted, "I told you to stop that!" With effort, she calmed and continued less loudly. "How much of an effort would it be to stomp some twigs or shake some branches?"
"Sorry." Angel's smile said that he wasn't. "I was trying to get close and help, but you were finished before I could get here."
Buffy tilted her head to one side and put on a blank, questioning look. "Let's see, isn't about now the time that you launch into a series of short, mysterious sentences about how some kind of big danger or new bad guy is in town, or maybe about how some curse of the purple whoosits is about to unfold?" He blinked at her. "Well not this time, cryptic one. I already know about the little hollow picture things and that one or more may be in my mom's show this weekend and this being the Hellmouth and all it probably means some lame prophecy about destroying the world is about to come true unless I stop it." She paused for a moment, then continued with a smug look. "See, I've got my own bad news for once and how do you like that?"
Angel stood silently, his lips pursed.
"Well, did I leave anything out?" Buffy said.
"Ah, are you feeling okay? Because I don't know what you are talking about," Angel said. "Actually, the reason I came by was to see if you wanted to, uh, spend some time together. Now I think I'd better look into on these things you mentioned." He turned to go but Buffy grabbed his arm.
"Wait. You, uh, wanted to spend some time with me?" Buffy gave him an uncertain smile and went on. "Maybe we could check on things together."
Angel smiled and stepped towards her. "You seem to be having such a good time here," he gestured around the graveyard. "I wouldn't want to interfere."
Buffy looked around and gave a shrug. "The novelty is kinda wearing thin. It was fun at first, but I think I'm ready to move on." She stepped right up against Angel. Looking up into his eyes, she said, "Know any new places?"
Angel leaned down to kiss her. "Maybe," he murmured.
* * *
Across the graveyard sitting on a low tomb, Severian watched Angel and Buffy kiss. His mouth hung open in shock. Spitting out a half-eaten piece of candy, he began laughing softly. My, oh my, he thought. This town is weird.
He slipped off the tomb and began walking away. Shaking more candy from the box in his hand, he said aloud, "Skittles. Much better than Dots, but not nearly as good as Junior Mints." Feeling a pang of real hunger, he put the box away. He left the graveyard and headed downtown, towards the pitifully small offering of nightclubs that Sunnydale boasted.
Time for some real food.
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