Twenty years of his life, spent working on three degrees and playing Council politics, had all led to this one moment. Rupert sat outside of Quentin's office. The carpet here was new and the walls free of scuff-marks, unlike the halls where the rank and file worked. Mrs. Livingston, and old gargoyle of a woman, guarded the entrance. She'd been part and parcel of the Council as far back as Rupert could recall. He amused himself thinking that she was a construct, an entity created ages ago to protect the Council Head from interlopers hoping to gain access to his time. It was highly unlikely. The Council didn't use magic for mundane purposes. At some signal that Rupert hadn't seen, she told him that he could go in.
Quentin rose from his desk at the far side of the room, but Rupert took a moment to appreciate the office. The walls were filled with fine art, many of them from the Romantic period, images of vampires and demons falling at the hands of men, but they couldn't hold his attention, not when the Council's seal lay before him. The rug's gray background was just pale enough to enhance the image of the familiar double-headed black eagle holding a pen in one golden claw and a sword in the other. Feeling the thrill of being in the Council's inner sanctum for the first time, Rupert read the motto spelled out at the edge of the rug. " Et portae inferi non praevalebunt."
"The gates of Hell shall not prevail." Quentin crossed the room to shake Rupert's hand but didn't offer his congratulations yet. He gestured toward a chair, one of two placed just past the seal. "Would you care for a drink?"
"Whisky if you have it."
Quentin handed over the drink as he sat across from Rupert. "You, of course, know why you're here."
"I would hardly dare to presume." The modesty of Rupert's words were belied by his next question. "I take it the new Slayer isn't expected to live long?"
The shake of Quentin's head was more purposeful than regretful. "Merrick doesn't expect much of her. She wasn't identified as a Potential and has no training, no discipline. He'll do his best to keep her going, of course but, no, we don't expect her to last long." Quentin sipped at his drink. "The next Slayer goes to Roderick Ashworth," he added unnecessarily. Every Watcher knew who was in waiting for the next Slayer.
"But the Slayer after Ashworth's?"
"Hopefully Ashworth's girl will be longer lived but the Council prefers to prepare for the worst-case scenario."
"Of course," Rupert agreed. "Still, I can't imagine I was a popular choice."
"I won't deny there was more than a little debate. Your early rebellion did give a number of members pause." Giles held back a snicker. Trust Quentin to refer to abandoning the Council and invoking demons with as mild a term as rebellion. Of course Quentin didn't know about Eyghon. "But a good many believe your little stint with the dark side has enhanced your qualifications, has given you a better idea of what you'll be facing. They brought the others around."
They damned well better have, Giles thought. The bribes he'd paid out had been more than he'd expected, personal favors rather than money, but those favors had cost him.