Don't own Buffy.
Reviews would still be nice; and yes, I'm also talking to the people who only start reading this story long after it's finished. I'd still like to hear your opinions.
Also note; there is some heavy evidence that this epilogue is setting up for a larger story, or a "season" of Buffy fanfics. This is entirely possible. In fact, that is the plan. However, I would very much like to hear what all of you think about the idea. Yet another reason to review!
###
A humanoid shape scampered through the night shadows. It was late for a very important date, and this was one boss you did not piss off. At all.
The figure slowed as it reached the bus station, glancing around cautiously. It saw not a single being, soul or otherwise.
Good. It could pretend to not have been late.
Taking an exploratory step forward, the figure was thrown into relief by the illumination of a streetlight, and appeared human. However, judging by the speed and assurance with which it traveled, any observers in the know would have been quick to conclude that this was a vampire. A speed and grace that could only be supernatural, given the leg wound it had received earlier from one Vampire Slayer at the local art gallery.
This vampire was named Horatio.
Horatio padded forward slightly, expectantly. He was lucky his boss was late, but he couldn't expect that to last very long.
Just as he was thinking this, a bus quietly slid into the station and stopped. Not many humans would notice the very faint purple aura the bus had suddenly acquired, but Horatio knew what it was.
His boss was working magic again.
The door to the bus hissed open, and a tall, thin figure, dressed in an old-fashioned cloak, descended the steps, accompanied by the stench that can only come from several dead corpses and old blood.
Horatio bowed low. "El Reclusa Sangre." He uttered in deference.
The cloaked figure tilted its' head in acknowledgement. "Horatio." It greeted, voice warm and regal as any monarch of old.
Horatio, stilled bowed, extended an arm, hand flat with the palm facing skyward, and raised it to his master.
El Reclusa Sangre looked down at the offering in his lackeys' palm, and a smile split the hidden face. "Very good, Horatio. But then, you always have been the most successful of my servants. Were there any difficulties?"
Horatio cleared his throat to speak, but El Reclusa interrupted.
"Oh; and you may stand, of course."
Horatio did as his boss 'suggested' with haste. One did not ignore El Reclusa Sangre, no matter how pleasant he seemed to his underlings.
"Well, sir, there was a small difficulty in retrieving it. It was in an art gallery, and when I broke in to steal it last night, the Slayer was there."
His boss raised an eyebrow. "The Slayer?"
"Yes, sir. And this one is unusual; she has friends, sir." Horatio added.
"A Slayer with friends? That was hardly on the brochure." El Reclusa mused, stroking his chin with a hand gloved in soft leather.
"Agreed, sir. We fought, and Esteban was dusted; however, I managed to keep my hold, and retreated when the gallery's alarms sounded."
"You fought the Slayer, and yet live? Good job, Horatio!" El Reclusa congratulated his minion. Then he gave a 'come here' gesture with two fingers of his right hand, and the same purplish aura that had surrounded the bus glowed in Horatio's hand, and a small object floated off of the minions' outstretched palm. El Reclusa Sangre reached out and grabbed it, holding it up in the light for examination.
It was an intricately designed golden ring, with an inscription in a language Horatio didn't recognize decorating the outside. He was no expert, but judging from the weight of the ring, it was genuine gold. Not to mention that one didn't get to be the lackey of a powerful sorcerer for three hundred years without getting to be able to recognize magic when it was close by, and that ring had been steeped in it.
"Um, sir…I don't mean to be presumptuous, but… I have yet to feed, as I was too busy recovering the ring for you, and…." Horatio spoke up hesitantly.
El Reclusa Sangre smiled down at his oldest and favored minion. "Of course, Horatio. You must know by now that I reward successes." The vampire master waved toward the bus he had arrived on. "Help yourself."
Horatio thanks his master and eagerly climbed on board, having some idea of what awaited him.
His preconceptions didn't do the reality justice. The bodies of the many bus passengers were everywhere, fitting his masters' particular style. The driver of the bus was slumped against the steering wheel, his limbs having somehow been pretzeled around it in a figure no human's limbs were meant to make. One older, heavy man was staring blankly ahead, body curled up in the fetal position, clenched tighter than a human body could safely go. Horatio recognized one of his masters' favorite techniques-hypnotizing a victim into believing that they were undergoing tortures that a human body was physically unable to withstand without dying. However, given the nature of magic (and the mind, to some extent) the victim would last much longer than they would be able to if they were actually experiencing the physical tortures.
Horatio glanced down the row a little farther to see a delightful-to a sadistic vampire-tableau. A woman and what Horatio figured was her boyfriend/lover/husband-he really didn't care enough to search for a ring- had been holding hands when Reclusa had arrived on the bus. He could tell because Reclusa, in his eternal love for irony, had decided to pin both of their hands together with a dagger that had also been sunk into the bus seat. Just for added pain, Horatio could see that the rest of their major limbs had also been pinned to the seats-but never in a spot that could allow them to bleed out too quickly.
These were just a few of a score of victims that El Reclusa Sangre had left, in his usual style; physically or psychologically tortured unto death.
Horatio started in on the closest one; the driver, whose neck was bared and open for business.
That was the upside of working for a vampire like El Reclusa Sangre, Horatio thought as he drained the body. He left plenty of blood behind for his loyal followers, even if the bodies had gone cold already.
Outside the bus, the grin of the sorcerer, vampire and torture-master El Reclusa Sangre- The Blood Recluse- grew ever wider as he gazed at the antique magical ring he held in his hand.
He had just gotten to the Hellmouth, and yet his plans were already starting to look promising.
###
The door to the church opened quietly the next morning, and the rays of sunlight poured in as a head clothed in black hair poked through. Seeing no one, James McAnon slipped through the doorway, letting the solid oak door gently close behind him.
Moving quickly, as of someone who has entered a house uninvited, he takes a pew near the front of the church, and closes his eyes. Not entirely sure what he was doing, other than following his instinct and what just…felt right, he put his hands together in the classic prayer position of supplication, and readied himself to speak.
Just as he was about to, a kind, elderly yet strong voice broke into his thoughts. "Hello there, son. Can I help you?"
James opened his eyes to see an older man, but one who had aged gracefully. He had a strong face, framed with soft, iron-grey hair. His mouth was bracketed by laugh lines, and his eyes held a wisdom and kindness that James had never seen before. He was dressed in a black dress shirt with a white collar, and black dress pants.
"You're a priest." James blinked in surprise.
The religious leader gave him a small smile. "Pastor, actually. Priests are Catholic, among other groups. We do not happen to be one of those." He corrected gently. "But what did you expect to find in a church?" The older man asked rhetorically. "What is it that brought you here?"
"Well…" James began, unsure of what to say. He knew that he shouldn't just tell the pastor that demons were running around town and that fighting one of them had inspired him to seek Gods' protection and guidance, but what could he say? Well, he was an actor, wasn't he? He could come up with something.
"Well, a friend of mine got pretty badly hurt, and I was really worried. The doctors are doing everything they can, but I still wanted to do something to help. So I thought I'd come here and prey for her recovery." James lied.
The pastor was watching his face closely, eyes narrowed. He was searching for something in the boy's eyes, in his facial features. After a moment he found it, but instead of relief his expression morphed into a half-frown.
"You have had an encounter with the shadows that plague this town." The pastor intoned solemnly.
James did a double-take. "Wait, what?" He asked disbelievingly.
"The evil that inhabits this town; you've seen it face to face." The pastor spoke. It was not a question, or even a guess. It was almost like…the pastor was informing him, as if he hadn't already known.
"Umm…yeah. Some friends and I…we fought a demon." James responded, confused as to how this older man already knew about demons.
The pastor's face relaxed visibly. "Is that what brought you here?" He asked.
James shrugged. "Well, I think it's related…but no, not really." Knowing that that wasn't a very good answer, he decided to clarify. "You see, a few nights ago, after I had my first…encounter, I guess you would say, I had this really weird dream. I saw things happening-friends of mine doing these things, and then I saw myself doing some of them too! And it was weird, and I forgot about it until last night. But then…well, I found myself doing something that I saw myself doing in the dream. I didn't even realize it until later, and I can't remember anything else the dream showed me doing, but…well, I guess I just needed an answer, and where better than the house of the All-Knowing for that?" James asked rhetorically.
The pastor nodded his head a few times understandingly before he spoke again. "Son, I believe you've been Called."
"What?" James asked. The only one who was Called that he knew of was Buffy.
"Called by God. To do the work you saw yourself doing." The pastor clarified.
"So, wait; you think God wants me to fight monsters?" James asked incredulously. Then, he thought about it for a few seconds, and nodded. "I guess that makes sense. I mean, why else would I have bumped into Willow then, anyway? Or would Willow have met up with me in the auditorium?" He turned away from his thoughts and back to the pastor. "Umm…what's your name, Pastor?"
The older man smiled. "I'm Pastor Fairhill, my son."
James nodded at him, a full smile on his lips. "Thanks, Father; I think you're right about that dream."
Pastor Fairhill gave another gentle smile. "Father is a Catholic title."
James nodded. "I know, but somehow, calling you Father just seems right to me." He stood up and stepped out of the pew. "Thanks again, Father; I think you gave me that answer I needed!" He hurried out of the church, a smile on his lips now that he knew what his answer for Buffy was.
###
Scarcely half an hour later, Buffy blinked her eyes again, trying to stay awake. Not sleeping soundly last night, combined with waking up early this morning, did not bode well for her ability to stay awake. On the upside, it was a weekend, and Buffy was seeing something in the vein of a mid-day nap in her near future.
Her hand was absently stirring a bowl of breakfast cereal as she simply sat, staring into space.
She was really tired.
"I just don't understand it." The voice made Buffy jump and twist around in her chair, Slayer instincts in full swing.
Until she realized that it was her mom who had spoken, anyway.
"What's wrong, mom?" Buffy inquired.
"There were two thefts from the art gallery Thursday night. Of all the old and valuable pieces there, the thieves chose a dagger and an old ring. Why would they take those things? They weren't even the most valuable!" Joyce wondered, frustrated.
Buffy shrugged. "Maybe because both things are small, so they could hide them better?" She suggested.
Joyce thought about it for a few seconds. "Well, I guess that would make sense…" She trailed off uncertainly.
Buffy's sleep-slowed mind jumped a thought over to her mouth. "A ring was stolen?"
Joyce nodded. "Yeah. An engraved gold ring; I think it was found somewhere near the Middle East. Why?"
"I just thought it was weird. I mean, a dagger is at least pretty cool; why would they want a ring?" Buffy made up on the spot. So that's what that vampire stole from the gallery. I better let Giles know ASAP.
Just then, there was a loud knocking on the door. Joyce stood up to get it while Buffy finally took a bite of her now-soggy cereal. She could hear two voices-her mom and a rather familiar one-floating from the front door. She felt mildly puzzled as her mom called out, telling her that it was for her, but she swallowed her bite of cereal and went to investigate.
She looked through the doorway to see James standing there, face flushed, breathing more heavily than normal, but with a joyous spark in his eye.
James conspicuously looked past her, watching her mothers' retreating form, only turning back to Buffy herself when Joyce was out of sight.
A grin spread across his face as he looked her in the eye.
"Buffy, I just ran over to tell you: I have my answer." He told her breathlessly.
Buffy's brain was too tired to recall the question, and it showed in her expression.
James would not be discouraged.
"For the demon-and-vampire slaying? I just thought I'd let you know; I'm in!" He said, smiling brightly.
###
"Um, mister Mayor? I have a report for you."
Wilkins smiled as his aide entered the office. "Really? Well, this oughta brighten my day. What's it about, Finch?"
The aide shuffled nervously for a few seconds before replying.
"Well, sir, do you remember those kids you had one of our men trail?"
Wilkins nodded. "Sure I do. Alexander Harris, Willow Rosenberg, and James McAnon. What'd our boy come up with?"
"Well, late yesterday evening, those three kids engaged and helped kill a higher-level demon, sir."
Wilkins' screwed up his face. "It wasn't one of the tribute demons, was it?"
Finch shook his head. "No, sir. It wasn't that high of a level; it was Laralek the Deceiver."
Wilkins nodded. "Well, good for them. I never liked him. I don't appreciate it when people lie to me. It's just…rude."
"There's more to it than that, Mister Mayor." Finch notified him.
Wilkins sat back with a pleasantly puzzled expression on his face and gestured for Finch to continue.
"Well, it would appear that they have a friend-Buffy Summers-who, according to our guy, shows signs of being a Slayer."
"Hmm." Wilkins pondered the implications. "Well, that might cause problems. We can't have someone running around and killing too many demons in this town; it might interfere with the preparations for next year."
"Do you want us to kill them, sir?" Finch asked.
Wilkins shook his head. "No, I don't think so; at least, not yet. They should be able to keep the rougher guys from getting too out of control until I don't need them anymore." The mayor decided. "Just keep a tail on them, watch what they do. If they start causing too much trouble, then we can kill them."
"Alright sir; I'll let our guys know." Finch bowed his head in deference, and left the room.
###
In the depths of the earth, deep under the town of Sunnydale, there was a chamber. It had once been a church of sorts, as well as the prison for the vampire most simply called The Master for a number of years. The chamber had not seen any activity for months, not since its prisoner left.
But now, there was a new being dwelling in it.
The true Laralek the Deceiver sat, hunched over, in the center of the room, thinking. He was well aware that if he had not replaced his form with an illusion and slipped away, he likely would be dead right now. As it was, he'd have to lie low for a while to avoid catching their attention.
He chuckled as he thought of how his cousin had believed the ability to create an illusion of touch was useless; yet if not for that ability, he would never have been able to successfully trick the Slayer and her friends.
At the thought of his recent foes, his expression grew dark. He didn't like being bested; and that worm had managed to deceive Him! With such a simple ploy, the boy had managed to trick The Deceiver!
Laralek sat back, stewing in his anger, and began to plot.
