Chapter Three
His look hadn't changed at all, she assessed with hands on her hips. Still the same fedora and bad taste in suits. He was somewhere between flashy and morose, as if caught between the forties and the eighties.
"Let me guess… some new apocalypse I have to take care of?"
"Not quite." He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a long, thick cigar.
Her brow rose. "It's never a social call with you."
He lit up, creating small plumes of smoke. The tip of his cigar glowed like a light in the darkness. He tossed the match and dug one hand into his pocket. "Care for a drink, Buffy?"
She sighed a crossed her arms over her chest. "I'd prefer you to get right to point. I need to patrol. You know, sacred duty and all," she bit off as she waved a hand flippantly.
He chuckled. "Don't worry. It's a dead night—literally. PTB pulled a few strings to give me some time to talk to you. This is more important anyway.
"So, drink?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"You always have a choice. You should know that better than anyone."
She regarded him for a long moment, staring as that cloud siphoned in the evening breeze—slowly—and away from his face. She shifted weight from one foot to the other. A sigh was repressed and she narrowed her eyes on him. "Free night, you said?"
"Yup."
"You're buying."
He grinned. "That's a given." He snapped his fingers; quite suddenly the graveyard was gone and replaced with a bar.
Buffy blinked and looked around as she dropped her arms. "Where…?" It was plush, quiet, and void of any life aside from her and Whistler. Lighting was low and style was modern. Sleek black, maroons, and russet tones covered the room in a dim atmosphere. In the background she could hear the subtle tune of jazz music.
"Take a seat."
She turned swiftly in the direction of the bar itself. He was behind it, cleaning a glass and still smoking a cigar.
"Want a drink, don't you? Even the Slayer deserves a break."
"I had one. Once." She stepped forward and slid into one of the velvet stools. Her feet came to rest on one of the rungs and she leaned forward, forearms resting on the black counter.
"Ah… yeah…" he trailed off, pausing his cleaning. He set down the glass and pulled the cigar out of his mouth. "Well… you can't blame the higher up for that one. That was your nosey friends."
To this Buffy said nothing.
"But, wasn't all bad, right?
"What you want, Whistler?"
He sighed. "First, what are you drinking?"
"Cosmo."
He raised a brow.
"What?"
"Nothing," he murmured before going about making her request. "We've got a problem. And it's not something we can take care of easily."
"You sure this isn't an apocalypse? It's starting to sound like one."
"I'm sure." He began shaking a silver canister. As he poured her red drink he went on, "Spike's been missing for about how long? A month?"
She looked down as he set the drink in front of her. "About that, yeah." Her fingers curled around it. "Why? What does this have to do with him?" She took a sip.
"Kind of everything," he admitted as he popped the cap on a beer. He tapped ash off his cigar, inhaled, and then expelled smoke. Fragments of it continued to escape as he spoke again. "When he realized what he'd tried to do to you he went to Africa. Tried to fix things; tried to get himself a soul."
"What?"
He took a swig of his beer and nodded. "Yup, hard to believe, huh?"
No…she wanted to say. "…I just didn't think you could go… get one." When Angel lost his it was such a pain in the ass to get it replaced.
"It wasn't easy." He smirked, smile crooked. "Went through fire and brimstone for it."
"So what's the problem?"
"Problem was the way he worded it. 'Make me what I was,' he said. Demon sent him back to the night he was first sired—back into William's body. Know the problem with that? Lots. Lots of supernatural ramifications. It's one thing to go visit; it's another to stay and be unaware of it. So many things could go wrong."
"So just bring him back."
"Not our job."
"And it's mine?"
He sighed. "You know, I thought you gave a damn. Don't you? After all the dust settles, can you say he deserves it?"
If it keeps him away from me… somehow… yes. She frowned.
"Look, even if you don't give a damn about him this could have seriously earthly plane repercussions. People could die. People like your sister, your friends."
She was frowning still, her grip almost tightening around her drink. The glass lifted to her lips and she took a sip. Her tongue darted out and licked her lips. "So, what do you plan on doing? Dumping me in the middle of Victorian England?"
Whistler looked relieved. He would be; he lived in this plane too—mostly. "No, we've got a contact set up for you. A Watcher who's not too involved with the council. He'll set you up with whatever you need and help you get the job done."
"What's the end goal here? If their one person now?"
"They need to be separated. Christopher will help with that—your contact."
She rolled her eyes. "That's magic stuff. I'm not—."
"He's been fused by magic. You're the key to breaking that."
"Why?"
"He went to get the soul for you. It's all about intention—we know that."
She let what he was really saying settle on her. He knew, even if she wouldn't admit it out loud, even if she wouldn't say it to herself—voice it to herself. He knew just as well and Anya and Tara probably had known. Why couldn't she just say it?
She closed her eyes and drained her drink. "I'll need to bring a few things. Then you can send me off—or whatever."
#
"Tell me you love me."
"I love you. You know I do."
"Tell me you want me."
"I want you…"
He woke with a slow crawl, latent voices consuming his mind in the form of a hazy afterthought. He coughed and then inhaled the scent of musk, manure, and hay. Loud whistles and people talking in a chatter of voices sounded in the distance.
Slowly, his eye opened; blue depths blinked out of the fog and looked up. He tried to remember how he'd gotten here—in a stable of all places. Had he fallen asleep…? Gradually, he pulled himself up and groaned. There was a pain in his neck, piercing just a moment. He reached up, rubbing it and felt crust.
"Do you want it?"
He blinked.
Had it been a dream? That woman… He swallowed as he recalled it, but more of last night. Cicely and her refusal; that rippled through his mind soundly,cutting the broken bits of his heart further.
He looked down at his hand. Crusted blood…? No. Probably dirt. He'd probably hit his neck… or… who knew.
"You alright?"
He looked up at the man addressing him—a servant. More than likely a worker in the stables. "Y-yes, fine. Thank you." He stood up.
"Can I call you a cab, My Lord?" The look in his brown eyes said he knew William was lost, or just needed to get home.
"Yes, please," he found himself saying as he dusted himself off.
He nodded. "Right away."
William headed to the entrance, still pulling hay from his jacket and pants. Nimble fingers threaded through his hair, shaking more of it off. He didn't stand there long, though it felt that way as he continued to contemplate the previous evening. No, soon enough he found himself giving directions to his home and climbing into the hansom cab.
The day was bright—too bright, he realized. The sun felt as though there was a fire on his eyes and he had to shut them, exhaling. Had he gotten foxed as well? Perhaps he should have; perhaps he should have gone home and to his room and gotten completely foxed just before passing out in his favorite reading chair. Or maybe in his study. If he locked it up surely his mother would leave him be. Reggie might have been tempted to barge in; he really wanted to know who taught her how to pick a lock.
What had he done wrong? No, he knew. Money. It always came back to money. Money his father hadn't left for them; money he didn't know how to procure to fix it all; money he didn't have to buy his sister better clothes for her coming out.
Always about money.
He wasn't debonair enough either; no charisma; never the right words. Too much to give and not enough to bloody well fix anything.
Was he cursing now? No, couldn't be. He didn't do that. Where had it come from?
The hansom cab came to a lurch, stopping. He looked over and realized they'd stopped at his residence.
"Thank you," he said as he got out and paid the driver. Less than five steps later and he was in his home, one of the few things left to him by his late father.
"Welcome home, My Lord."
"Morning, Winston. How are you?" he asked as the footman took his jacket. "You can take that to my room. I feel suffocated."
"Very well, My Lord. And good. Very good." He folded the jacket over his arm. "Your sister is in residence. She instructed me to let you know you should find her in the music room. And," he went on, "Your mother was quite distraught that you didn't come home last night. Very worried you'd been caught up in that murder business going around London."
"Thank you for telling me. Please let her know I'm safe. I just needed the night to think some things through. I'll go see Lilith now."
Winston nodded as he moved up the flight of stairs.
His hand settled on the dark stained wood railing and slid along it as he took one step at a time. As he came to the top where the hallway split to the right and left he heard music, a piano. A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth before he went left and came to an open door at the end.
He stopped in the doorway, one hand on the frame as he stared at her. Blue eyes, much like his own, were closed to the world as she swayed with the music. Nimble digits danced over the keys. Her long brown hair was unbound scandalously and rolling over her shoulders in waves and curls. Flints of gold spun through it.
She was dressed mutely in pastel blue; robin's egg almost. The day dress gathered around in the front of her hips and coiled in the back in a simple way. The sleeves were closed around her wrists, and the top half of it had a high collar. It was a swath of thin cotton and lace and so utterly Lilith.
Smoothly, she finished the piece. A soft exhale left her and she opened her eyes. A second or two passed by before she looked over and caught sight of him watching her. She smiled, the brightness of it filling the room. "Will," she whispered happily. And then, rather quickly, she frowned and her eyes narrowed. "What wrong…? Will?"
He stepped forward to her open arms, joining her on the piano and bench. He leaned on her shoulder, throat caught with tears. He didn't want to… God he didn't. So weak. His chest hurt with it, hurt much more than it had last night. He could still see her, standing over him and telling with some sense of pity that he was beneath her.
Men shouldn't cry. Wasn't right. Perhaps at a funeral, perhaps in the quiet of a man's own space… but certainly not in front of someone. Not his sister.
"Emotion, Will, is not a sign of weakness. Neither are tears," she whispered as she stroked his hair.
She could always see right through him—Lilith. He might have been first born, but in many ways she was so much stronger than him. And he did—let it out, that is. Warm trails of it colored his face in a stain and soaked his lashes. It gathered at the corners of his eyes and fell. A sort of congestion gathered in his nose and he felt her pressing a handkerchief to his hand. He took it and wiped, trying not to blow.
"Better?" she whispered.
He nodded and slowly pulled away from her.
"Cicely?"
"She refused me," he replied softly, staring down at the keys. "Said I was beneath her."
Her hand went to her mouth. "Oh… Will."
He smiled bitterly, voice quivering a little. "I'll have to learn to move on."
She didn't say anything, wasn't really sure if she should. He looked broken and a little disoriented. His eyes—wait. She narrowed hers. "Will… where are your glasses?"
He blinked and reached up, touching his face. Surprise overcame him. "I don't know. I-I.. I thought I had them." He frowned. "I should have noticed. Usually I can't see a thing…" He paused and looked at her. "I can see."
"Can you?" she said with a little awe. "Odd. You've always had trouble…"
"Not now."
"You're sure?"
"Yes."
Now she smiled. "Some things just can't be explained, Will. Maybe this is one of them. Perhaps a little miracle, right?"
"Maybe…" he allowed. "Lilith?" he asked, his mind growing distant.
"Yes?"
"Do you think my poetry is bad?"
She hesitated, considering very carefully how to word her response. He looked up at her, cold blue eyes reaching for her answer—for hope. She sighed. "Your poetry is not bad, Will. Sometimes I see you saying things that could be poetry, beautiful words. You just… haven't realized that lovely thoughts aren't forced, but come from the heart."
He nodded and stood up.
"Oh wait, I have one more thing to talk to you about, brother."
He turned back to her and a brow rose questioningly.
"Something you need to know. But, don't repeat it to mother. And especially not Reggie; not with her coming out party tonight."
"Alright…"
"How long were you at that party last night before you left?"
"And hour. Why?"
"Some time after you left there was… well." She frowned and clutched her hand to her chest. "Everyone who'd remained behind was murdered—badly. The police are reporting it was awful. One of the worst crime scenes since Jack the Ripper.
"None of the servants were injured. But they have no memory of what happened. All of them were tied up and locked away in the cellar."
He blinked, looking utterly… stupefied. Shocked. "Cicely?"
"I don't know. I get my information from… crude means. Not the morning news. But, it might be best to slip that section out. No need to for mother to worry over something that you were perfectly safe from. I imagine it will be in tomorrow's paper."
He nodded, heart tight and twisting painfully.
"I can't guarantee she's alright, Will. But, I'm sure you can ask around or check her normal haunts. You know how her mother likes to go to stores on Saturday afternoons before evening events. Try there maybe? Or send one of the maids. Didn't Emily once work for them?"
He nodded. "I'll do that after I speak to mother."
"Will!"
He turned again and looked at her.
She smiled. "Just because one road leads to a dead end, it doesn't mean you can't turn around and take another."
He nodded and then left the room completely this time.
#
She gave a sigh at Whistler. "Are you done going through it all?"
He examined on more thing from her bag. "Don't get all patronizing. I have to make sure you're not bringing anything back that could be considered…"
"A time-line mess up?"
He shrugged.
"It's just a bunch of weapons and an extra set of clothes for when I come back with the bleached wonder."
"Looks good. Talk to your kid sister or Xander?"
"Both of them were asleep," she muttered. "It's not like it's going to matter anyway. You're bringing me right back to this point in time, right?"
He grinned. "Right. You ready then?"
"As ready as anyone would be to go back a hundred years in time, give or take a few."
He zipped her bag back together and handed it over.
She slung it over her shoulder. "Let's do it then. I'm not fond of waiting in a graveyard. With my track record something always jumps in at the last moment and screws it all up."
"Good point," he replied as he placed a hand on her shoulder. "Close your eyes if you have to. No need to throw up, right?"
"What?"
And then they were gone with a snap of his fingers, a brilliant flash of light left in their wake.
