Summers Pryce: Chapter 2

Fare Ye Well, Wherever Ye Fare

Packing up was not that big a deal for Wesley Wyndham-Price. He was neat by habit, and that made packing easier. But before he started, he had one more thing to do, a very important thing.

He went to the lockbox in his bedroom closet, and pulled out his copy of D'Angelo's Demons of Rarity. The book had been a gift from his father, a graduation gift on Wesley's completing his Watcher training. It was one of four copies left in the world — at least, four solid copies. Wesley had long since scanned the pages into his computer, saved them as PDF files.

It was worth a fortune — a large fortune. And Wes knew someone who wanted to buy it, wanted that very, very badly. Yes, it had been a gift from his father, but . . . Wesley knew he had issues with his father, and thought this might be the perfect way to begin overcoming those issues.

He set the book down, picked up his phone, and called the number that he had for the buyer, who had, after all, told him to call at any time, day or night, if he decided to sell.

"Good evening, Mr. Houston," Wesley said when the phone was answered before even completing a single ring. "This is Wesley Wyndham-Pryce. You once offered me a very large sum of money for my copy of Demons of Rarity, if you recall . . . . Yes, actually, I have decided to sell the book, sir — at auction. Now, since you've expressed an interest already, I thought I would offer you a chance to buy it before I contact the auction house . . . yes, that's right. No, no — it's only a common courtesy, Mr. Houston . . . . Yes, you're quite welcome.

"Now, given that I am offering you a chance at buying it before auction, I'm afraid you'll have to make a better offer than what you had before — we both know what sort of price I can expect at auction. However, I thought — yes, sir? Ah. Yes, that is more than satisfactory. Can you transfer the funds to my account?"

A moment later, Wesley sat down at his computer, went to the bank in the Cayman Islands that he used, made sure his account hadn't been shut down for inactivity or its pathetically tiny balance, and saw that it was still there. "If you'd like, I can bring the book to you, or you can come here, and we can do the funds transfer th—really? Well, yes, that's very kind of you, sir. One moment and I'll give you the number."

A few moments later, Wesley sat and stared at a screen telling him that he had more money than he'd ever expected to see in his life.

"Yes, the transfer is complete," Wesley said, starting the process of transferring the majority of the money to his account in Lichtenstein, that this could not be undone — not that he thought it would be, Mr. Houston wasn't a criminal. "All right, Mr. Houston — you have my address, why don't you come and get the book. And sir, given the sum involved, I do hope you'll understand that I'll want you to come yourself . . . . Yes, all right. I'll see you shortly."

Wesley smiled, and looked at his balance in the Lichtenstein bank — nineteen million, five hundred thousand dollars, and another five hundred thousand in his Cayman Islands account.

"I should have done that years ago," he said as he stood to start his packing.

Houston picked up the book twenty minutes later, having made record time to Wesley's apartment, shook Wes's hand, and asked if he might send Wes a list of other rare books that he was interested in.

"You must have an interest in rare books of the supernatural," Houston said. "Perhaps in your search for books you want, you'll find one that I want — mutually beneficial."

"Certainly, that would be fine," Wes said. "Email me the list — I'm leaving LA soon, but I'll contact you if I find something you're interested in."

Houston left, and Wesley packed up everything but his computer. He then sat down at the machine and typed a letter, a surprisingly short letter, to Lilah Morgan. He printed it out and looked it over before starting to disconnect the computer.

Lilah —

By now, I'm sure you've discovered that I'm gone. I'd tell you that I'll miss you, but I'm not entirely sure that I'd be telling you the truth.

The fact of the matter is that by associating with you I am only making my betrayal of Angel and my other friends worse than it already is — and I can't continue to do that. Nor is this . . . thing that we have healthy, not for either of us. So I will end it, and hope that you will make no effort to rekindle it.

I'm leaving Los Angeles, very probably permanently. I do hope that you will grant me the courtesy of not trying to find me — and should you find me, of not approaching me.

We are from different worlds, Lilah — and we need to stay out of each other's worlds for our own sakes, and the sakes of each other.

Goodbye.

He signed it, put it in an envelope, and left it on the pillow she used when she was in his bed.

He then packed up his computer, took everything down to his vehicle . . . and drove away, not even looking back.

Dawn was waiting when he arrived at a little after three-thirty, sitting under a dying tree in the front yard of her foster family's front yard. It took no time at all to toss her two large bags of clothes, small bag of toiletries and sundries and her one box of books into the back seat of the Trailblazer — and they started out of the city well before sunrise.

Wesley took a slightly scenic route to Las Vegas, wanting to arrive there after the banks had opened. In Las Vegas, banks were extraordinarily accommodating, and he'd checked online, seen that there was a branch of a bank there that also had several branches in Detroit. They would also be used to dealing with electronic funds transfers from overseas, so he'd be able to open an account there quite easily, and explain that he'd be moving on to Detroit, and expect to bank out of a branch there as his primary bank.

Dawn was quiet during the ride, and he soon realized that she'd fallen asleep, clutching Buffy's stuffed pig in her lap. He drove more carefully after that, not wanting to jar the girl awake.

She woke not long after they entered Vegas, and he explained that he needed to acquire some funds. Since it was still early for banks, he bought them breakfast — well, Dawn had breakfast, he had lunch — then went to the bank he'd chosen. As he suspected, his desire to open a nine-point-five million dollar account made him virtual royalty, and the bank accommodated his every wish. (He left ten million in Lichtenstein, though he did file the proper tax forms on that money, so that the Internal Revenue service would leave him alone.) He left the bank with several thousand dollars in traveler's checks, a passbook, and the assurance that the Detroit branch of the bank would welcome him with open arms.

Dawn was wide awake when he finished, and Wesley felt only a little tired himself, so he agreed to going on, and decided to attempt to get their sleep schedules more in line with one another, and stay up as long as he could (he'd been getting up at about six or seven in the evening and staying up all night). When he started flagging at around three in the afternoon, Dawn volunteered to take the wheel and get them as far as Denver, Colorado.

"Do you have a license, Dawn?" Wesley asked.

"Yeah, Reggie let me use his car to take the test and paid for my driver's license for my birthday," Dawn said.

"Are you quite rested?" Wesley asked.

"I'm good — I don't seem to need so much sleep anymore," Dawn said.

"All right, I'll get off at the next rest stop — four miles or so — and we'll switch," Wesley said. "And . . . do you think you might like to push on a bit past Denver? I'll be fine to drive again after a few hours, and I thought we might press on, try to make the halfway point, and get our sleep schedules more in synchronization — and a bit more normalized."

"Sounds good to me," Dawn said. "Where an I going?"

"Ogallala, Nebraska is where we'll stop tonight, I think," Wesley said. "But I don't wish to sleep past say, seven-thirty. Wake me up then, and if nothing else, we can talk and keep each other awake."

"You got it — boss," Dawn said, and gave him a little grin.

They switched seats at the rest stop, and Wesley rapidly decided that Dawn was a much better driver than her sister had been reputed to be. He was able to relax and sleep quite well.

Dawn woke him at seven-thirty, and the laughter in her voice puzzled him — until he realized that he, like Dawn had while she slept, had a stuffed pig in his lap.

He set the pig on the back seat, and asked Dawn if she wanted him to drive. She assured him that she was fine, and he said, "All right. Dawn . . . there is something I should tell you. I think you've a right to know why I'm no longer with Angel Investigations."

"All right," she said — and let him talk.

He said more than he meant to — he hadn't intended to tell her about his relationship with Lilah, but it just . . . came out.

It took more than an hour, and when it was over, Dawn suggested that they stop for a bite to eat, gas, and a bathroom break. Once they'd eaten, refueled and used the bathrooms, Dawn said, "Wes, do you think you could do the last three hours to Ogallala? I have something that I have to tell you, too — and I'm probably going to get too upset to drive safely while I do."

"Yes, I can drive," Wesley said. "And safely."

Once the were on the freeway, Dawn asked, "Wes, what's the first memory you have of me?"

"Well, I first read about you not long before I came to Sunnydale, and I saw your picture then," Wesley replied. "All in Buffy's file from the council, of course. My first personal memory is of you coming into the library after school to see Buffy, and saying 'New watcher, wow, lame.' Why do you ask?"

Dawn blushed a little, mumbled, "Sorry, but . . . I was a kid."

"Forgiven," Wesley said. "Now . . . why do you ask?"

"Mostly because I remember it, too," Dawn said. She bit her lip, then said, "But I know it never happened. None of the times we met ever actually happened, Wes, not before last night. I remember them as well as you — but they never happened."

"This should be interesting," he said after a moment. "Please, continue."

Dawn told it all, being as honest as he had about the whole disaster with Connor and Angel Investigations. She explained that the Slayer power had been more than confused by her and Buffy being sisters — it had been fooled because Dawn had been magically created from Buffy.

She got to Buffy's death, and how Buffy had died for her, so that Dawn wouldn't have to die, and her voice grew very unsteady — but she didn't cry.

She came closer to crying when she tried to explain how alone and empty she'd felt for her first fifteen months in foster care, right up until she'd discovered that she had the Slayer power, in fact — but she did not cry.

When she finished, she sat staring out the windshield, clutching Mr. Gordo so tightly that had he been a flesh-and-blood pig, she'd have smothered him.

"You do know," Wesley said into that heavy silence, "that I won't think any less of you should you cry over what you're feeling, Dawn."

"I can't," she said in a dull, leaden voice. "I just . . . can't."

"All right," Wes said. "But I do need you to know that you are . . . allowed to, Dawn."

"I know," she assured him, still staring straight ahead.

Wes let it go. This was not the time to push.

They got a hotel in Ogallala, slept seven hours (in separate rooms), got up, and got back on the road, both feeling more awake and alert than they had the day before.

Fifteen hours later, they arrived in Detroit, and Wesley got them a suite in a decent hotel, taking it for a week.

The next day after breakfast in the hotel restaurant, he took Dawn's driver's license, some photo-booth pictures of her, and a list of all the classes she could remember taking in high school, asked her to look online for certain sorts of property for sale (he'd set up his computer, and hooked into the hotel's complimentary high-speed internet service), and went out.

A moment later, he stuck his head back in and said, "I almost forgot — what is your middle name, and is there a last name that you'd like to have?"

"My middle name is a tragedy best forgotten," Dawn said. "And for a last name . . . ." She thought for a moment, discarded many possibilities, recalled her favorite fictional vampire hunter and said, "How about Mears?"

"All right, Dawn Mears," Wesley said. "Shall I pick your middle name, then?"

"Sure, pick away," Dawn said, waving a hand — then looking up at him. "But no naming me for anyone we know. And no horrible old fashioned names of evil like Agatha, Ruth, Cecily, Hester or even Jane."

"All right, then," Wesley said. "I shall be back before supper — order what you like from room service for lunch, and do please stay in — I realize that there must be a temptation to explore, but Detroit is not the friendliest city in the world."

"No problem, I'll see what I can learn online," Dawn said, and Wesley waved goodbye again and left.

He came back at a little after four and handed Dawn a manila envelope that contained her "new life." She found herself impressed — the packet included a California driver's license with her new name — Dawn Elizabeth Mears — her right birthday, and one of the pictures Wes had had taken in a photo booth in the hotel lobby. She had a new birth certificate, with all the correct information on it, including what she thought were her original footprints. The packet even had a new social security card for her. There were death certificates for her fictitious parents, who had died in an auto accident, and guardianship papers for Wesley, who had apparently been her fictional father's very best friend in the world. She even had transcripts from two previous schools, detailing grades in classes that she'd honestly had.

"Wow, Wes, this is great!" Dawn said. "How did you do this?"

"It's all about finding the right people," Wesley said, shrugging, but looking pleased. "And let's be honest, Dawn — if illegal immigrants who barely speak English and have poor educations at best can find such people, then an educated man who speaks the language has no excuse for not being able to do so."

"Huh," Dawn said, looking thoughtful. "I never thought about it like that. So . . . all of this is legit?"

"Quite," Wesley said. "And once we've established an address, we'll transfer your driver's license to the state of Michigan, and it becomes virtually set in stone.

"Now, it's a bit early for supper — may I see what you found on the housing front?"

Dawn showed him the places she'd found, apologizing up front for the price tags.

"I'm sorry, there's just nothing like what you were talking about in any sort of neighborhood that doesn't also qualify as a war zone that costs less than a million dollars," Dawn said, sighing in frustration. "I suppose maybe we could rent."

"I don't think that will be necessary," Wesley said, scanning the links that Dawn had found for him. "I'm quite wealthy — I sold a rare book."

"You sold — what, like a first edition of the bible?" Dawn asked.

"No, no — a very rare book on very rare demons, written in the twelfth century, and copies later destroyed by the Inquisition," Wesley said. "It was one of four copies known to still exist."

"And you sold it?!" Dawn said. "Just to finance . . . this?"

"To finance a second chance, Dawn, not just for you, but for myself," Wesley said. He smiled at her, and added, "I did scan all the pages, so I have the information. And I don't share Giles's obsession with information being bound in leather."

"You . . . wow," Dawn said. She sat down on the bed and looked at him. "Look, I get that this is a second chance for you, too — but thank you. Really . . . thanks."

"You're quite welcome," Wesley replied. He clicked on the third link of those Dawn had saved — and said softly, "Oh, my. Dawn, I do believe you found our home. Brownstone, built in the late forties, refurbished and renovated in the nineties. . . Six stories, plenty of room for training facilities, plenty of room for us to not get in each other's way — or on each other's nerves. Oh, my, the owner who did the renovations even added a balcony to each of the even-numbered floors.

"I think . . . we'll look tomorrow. But I'll call now, make an appointment."

Wes called the realtor, made an appointment for ten the next morning, then said to Dawn, "Shall we go out and see about seasonal clothing for you?"

Dawn agreed to that, and they spent less time than Wes expected (and far less money than he expected) getting Dawn properly outfitted for winter, which could come on quickly and at virtually any time, this far north. He watched her more carefully than she expected, and, while they wee in a nice department store, asked the clerk helping Dawn about something a bit less casual, more dressy, in both something like a slacks-and-blouse outfit and a dress.

Dawn protested, but only feebly, and soon had two dresses and three nice looking and slightly more practical outfits consisting of slacks and a blouse apiece — and those could even be mixed and matched, to a certain extent.

The ate supper in a decent chain restaurant, went back to the hotel, and went to their separate rooms off of the central suite. Wesley watched a movie, Dawn re-read one of the two dozen books she'd brought along, books she loved to much to ever throw or even give away.

The next morning they looked over the brownstone — and Wesley bought it without even dickering.

By presenting the realtor with a cashier's check for the full amount of two-point-two-five million dollars that morning before lunch, the brownstone was Wesley's before noon. The realtor took care of switching power, water and gas to Wesley's name, and gave him numbers for the cable and phone companies.

"I think I want the second floor for my personal rooms," Wesley said. "You may have whichever of the top three you like for yourself. The third, we will leave as a dance studio, add mats and other equipment, and make into a training area."

"I'll take the top floor," Dawn said. "It's got the biggest balcony, and I like being able to get to the roof."

"That's fine," Wesley said. "Let's take a look around, then go and look into some furniture, shall we?"

By four o'clock in the afternoon, thanks to Wesley being willing to pay "rapid delivery-and-set-up fees" that he felt fairly certain basically amounted to bribes, they had furniture. (The freight elevator and passenger elevator that serviced the building also helped, at least with placement.) Wes found himself surprised, as he had while shopping for clothes with Dawn, at her reserve in choosing furniture. She seemed to be looking for mostly unadorned furniture, no frills or fripperies, though she did ask Wes's opinion as to sturdiness.

By suppertime, the place had at least begun to feel like home.