Author's Note: Things are really about to pick up now. Hope everyone's enjoying the ride so far!
"Seriously?!"
Faith Lehane was incredulous. She had spent the better part of two hours squeezing herself into a dress she could never dream to afford. Her heels were already killing her feet, despite the fact that she hadn't even been wearing them for twenty minutes. To say nothing of the fact that this wardrobe was so not her style, but now her date for the evening didn't even want to go? How could he be glued to his laptop when his car service was waiting for them downstairs?
Where Faith a more insecure woman, she might feel some type of way about this.
"Richard freaking Castle," she chided, slipping out of her black heels and stepping into the writer's office, "do you mean to tell me you'd rather spend the night squinting into your laptop than on the dance floor with me?"
Castle's eyes rose from the screen and his shoulders deflated. "It's not about what I want," he complained. "Black Pawn needs the first draft of Heat Wave, and I'm overdue."
"And that's what you get for trying to play cop," Faith chided. "Besides, I thought Gina was your ex-wife – emphasis on ex. Don't tell me she's still got you whipped."
"If by whipped, you mean contractually obligated, yes."
"Whatever," Faith shrugged. "You promised me dancing and booze."
He did. Once he had gotten over the shock of Faith asking him out – he couldn't remember the last time someone who looked like her wanted anything more to do with him than an illicitly-placed autograph and maybe one night she could spend the rest of her life bragging to her friends about. And while Castle still couldn't figure out why Faith wanted to go out with him, he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Especially with his mother and daughter out for the evening, catching some Broadway production he couldn't pronounce. To be perfectly honest, he'd already made Gina wait two extra weeks for his manuscript; what was one more night?
Castle closed his laptop and rose from his chair, unfurling the sleeves of his burgundy button-down that had been rolled to his elbows. He stopped inches from Faith, cocking his head to the side as one of his trademark boyish grins crept onto his face.
"Then what kind of gentleman would I be if I didn't keep my word?" Castle asked, slipping a hand around Faith's waist. His eyes gave her a once-over, and the twinkle in his blue eyes grew. "Especially for someone as gorgeous as you."
Faith ducked her head to hide the blush on her cheeks. She wasn't used to being dressed up like this, and she certainly wasn't used to being called gorgeous. A lot of words had been used to describe Faith's appearance over the years, but gorgeous had rarely been one of them. She honestly didn't know what to make of it.
Then again, this date was as much subterfuge as anything else. Detective Beckett was looking into Senator Bracken after Faith had shared with her what little intel she had on Ascensions, and their joint efforts to keep Castle out of the loop apparently included Faith sauntering about in a dress that left very little to the imagination.
To his credit, Castle was trying not to let his eyes wander as they left his loft. He was failing, but at least he was trying. Faith smirked as they rode the elevator down to the ground level, taking some sort of pride that she could still elicit that sort of reaction in a man.
In many ways, Faith still had it.
"Keep talking like that," she teased as they left Castle's building and approached the car that was waiting for them, "and there might be more than just dancing."
His boyish grin widened as they both crept into the back of the waiting car, and Castle tapped on the glass partition to let the driver know they were ready to leave. As the car pulled out of its spot and took its place in line in traffic, Faith placed her hand on Castle's knee – all while her other hand sent a quick text.
He's with me, do your thing B.
Wolfram & Hart…
"This is gonna work, right?"
William Bracken was normally a patient man, content to sit back and let things unfold naturally. Being a United States Senator, the last thing he needed was to rush things; the very nature of the deliberative body was to move at a snail's pace. Change was neither swift nor sweeping in D.C., and he had found the same was true in life.
Even the process of Ascension, to which he had already dedicated several decades, was a deliberate process. Over fifty years into his journey, and Bracken hadn't even accomplished half of what he needed to.
But after his run-in the previous night with a Slayer, Bracken wanted to speed things up. The police had never bothered him, because his connections and his stature as a U.S. Senator insulated him. But if Slayers were on his tail, that was an entirely new ballgame. He remembered how the last Ascension had gone so wrong, and he was determined to make sure he didn't suffer the same fate.
Not that he wasn't still working other angles; as they spoke, Lilah Morgan was trying to track down the file, the one implicating him in a scheme that took place roughly fifteen years ago – a scheme that, if it got out, would guarantee the end of his political career. And while Bracken's sights were on something a little bigger than the White House, he had to admit: President Bracken had a nice ring to it.
Besides, President could be just another rung on the ladder.
"Trust me, Senator," Lindsey McDonald said, "we know exactly what we're doing."
A large steel cage sat on the floor in one of Wolfram & Hart's many sub-basements, torches lighting the otherwise pitch black cavern. A hooded figure paced around the cage, chanting in a language Bracken didn't recognize, tossing handfuls of some sort of dust into the cage. When the hooded figure turned so Bracken could see its face, he noticed a leathery quality to the figure's skin, which was black and red. Yellow teeth were sharp, and the voice carried with it a dark quality that sent a chill down the Senator's spine.
One last sprinkle of dust atop the cage and a flash of blue light filled the basement. Bracken and McDonald each shielded their eyes from the light, and once it died down and their eyes adjusted, the Senator and the lawyer approached the cage.
"Be of care," the hooded figure snarled. "We know not what awaits."
Lindsey rolled his eyes as Bracken stood in front of the cage, circling around it once before kneeling in front of it and carefully removing the heavy metal lock. He swung the door open, the quiet squeak made all the louder by the silence of the basement. He looked up just in time to see the hooded figure disappear in a cloud of smoke.
By the time Bracken returned his attention to the cage, a naked male figure crawled out. Clearly weak, its skin pale – and hair even paler – the figure dug its fingers into the soft ground, gritting its teeth before stumbling back to its feet.
Bracken locked eyes with Lindsey, who took a step back and grabbed one of the torches.
The Senator stood and placed a careful hand on the naked man's shoulder. "Can you hear me?"
The man snarled, but otherwise had no reaction.
Lindsey approached with the torch as Bracken grabbed the naked man's other shoulder, turning him so he could look in his eyes. "William…"
The man growled, his eyes large and yellow as he tackled Bracken to the ground. The Senator grunted in pain as his back slammed against the dirt, and the naked man tugged violently on the lapels of his suit. The man was actually no man at all, bearing his fangs, the shadows dancing off his face from the flames making the ridges on his forehead even more menacing.
The vampire's nostrils flared, and he lowered himself even closer to Bracken until the Senator could smell the rotting flesh. Bracken turned his head with a disgusted grunt, his hands balling into fists.
"Back off, Spike!"
The vampire looked up at the sound of Lindsey's voice, just in time to feel the unlit end of the torch smack against his jaw. Spike tumbled to the ground, releasing his grip on Bracken. The Senator stumbled back to his feet, straightening his tie and glaring at Lindsey before both men towered over the disoriented monster.
"So," Bracken mused with an arched brow, "this is William the Bloody."
Lindsey shrugged. "He's more impressive when he's dressed."
Recognition flared in Spike's eyes as his face morphed back to its human mask. He gathered himself back up enough to sit, a trail of blood trickling from his chin and down his neck. He glanced at his surroundings with a furrowed brow before staring at the two well-dressed men standing over him.
He then glanced down at himself and sighed.
"Oh, bugger."
Los Angeles, 2004…
Of course it would be pouring down rain. It wouldn't be a final apocalyptic battle if there wasn't a giant rain storm. Angel stood with what was left of his crew – Spike, a mortally-wounded Charles Gunn, and reluctant ally Illyria – sword in-hand as he watched the minions of hell swarming in on them.
The Circle of the Black Thorn had been every bit as formidable as they had expected, to the point where one of their own had already fallen. The four of them mourned the death of Wesley Wyndham-Pryce in their own way. Angel and Gunn were filled with sorrow for the loss of their friend, Spike lamenting the fact that their numbers had been reduced by one.
Illyria? Well, that was much more complicated. She said she wished to do more violence, and as the monsters closed in, it was becoming clear the weakened Old One would get her wish.
"In terms of a plan?" Spike shouted over the pouring rain.
Angel kept his gaze skyward. "We fight."
"Bit more specific."
Angel hoisted the sword in his grasp, twirling it in his hands. "Well, personally, I kind of wanna slay the dragon." One more twirl of the sword, and Angel stared into the sky, directly into the rain pouring down on them. "Let's go to work."
Much of the fight was a blur. Swords clashed together, generating sparks that died out as soon as they came about because of the rain. Illyria made up for her relative lack of strength with a fury and a pain none of them had seen, using her grief over the loss of her reluctant mentor to unleash untold bloodshed on the masses.
But for every demon Illyria dismembered, that many more spilled into the alley. Gunn had been cornered by a hulking beast with tusks the size of his waist, the black man's weakened state making it far too easy for the demon to finish the job.
Angel got his wish, whether he wanted it or not, hitching a ride onto the dragon and trying to hang on for dear life as the beast soared through the air, dipping and rolling in a complete circle in an attempt to throw him. Angel had been so busy trying to hang on that he couldn't use the sword in his grasp.
In fact, when the dragon swiped along the side of a skyscraper, Angel lost his grip on the weapon.
His face already bloody and battered, Spike fought with every ounce of strength he had. His second apocalyptic event in the past year, it seemed, Spike lamented the fact that he didn't have a magic amulet around his neck this time, one that could incinerate his foes without him lifting a finger.
Never mind the fact that the amulet also incinerated him.
But the monster with the tusks had turned its attention to Spike, Gunn's blood caked into its scaly fingers. Spike dodged the first blow, but in his weakened state, the vampire couldn't dodge the next, as he took a massive fist to the side of his head that knocked him to the ground and dislodged the weapon from his grasp.
Before Spike could get back to his feet, the demon grabbed him, both hands on either side of his face. Spike, now wearing the face of the demon within, snarled and swung his fists at the monster – only to realize his arms weren't long enough to reach.
The demon growled, tightening its grip on Spike's head to the point that he could feel his own skull cracking and digging into his brain. Spike grunted and howled in pain, before the demon tossed him against a brick wall and pinned him there by wrapping a hand around his neck. Blood trickled out of Spike's ears, and he closed his eyes in resignation.
This was really it this time. No more spells, no more rituals. Spike was going to die much the way he had lived for the last century and a half.
When the demon ripped off Spike's head, and his body disintegrated in the rain, he never even had a chance to scream.
London…
Faith Lehane's latest correspondence filled Rupert Giles with a dread he hadn't felt since returning to his native country. In fact, such dread had been in short supply since his permanent return from Sunnydale, California – in large part because whenever something massive threatened to come to pass, they had the Slayers and resources they needed to stem the evil.
But this…if there was another Ascension in the works…
Things were much worse in New York than Giles had feared. It was bad enough that there had been a Slayer in the Big Apple who had no guidance, no Watcher, and was on Wolfram & Hart's radar. The fact that Kate Beckett was now staring at a potential apocalypse, with nothing more than Faith by her side, gave Giles pause.
Not that Faith was incapable, but two Slayers weren't enough to avert an Ascension. As it was, the only reason the Ascension in Sunnydale had been thwarted was because they somehow managed to get their hands on a shitload of explosives.
Giles snatched a copy of The New York Times, heaving another sigh. Further complicating Kate Beckett's life was the fact that she now had a shadow. Giles had regretted telling Richard Castle the story of the First Slayer; he should've known the mystery writer's rampant curiosity would lead him to find answers any way he could.
Sure, the article only mentioned Castle shadowing a detective with the NYPD, but Giles knew enough about the man to know that it probably went a little further than that.
The last thing he wanted was a civilian in the middle of this.
Removing his glasses, Giles reached for his phone and swiped at the screen. Shaking his head, he called up the Skype app on his device, making a series of gestures with his thumb before a call went out.
Once connected, he was face-to-face with Buffy Summers.
"Hey, Giles," she said in a cheery tone, though her expression immediately hardened. "Okay, what's wrong? You've got scowl-y face."
"I need you to go to New York."
Buffy frowned and glanced over her shoulder. "Why?"
"Things are worse than we thought," he said. "We have reason to believe there's an Ascension brewing."
Buffy visibly paled. "Ascension."
"Yes." Giles removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I have Faith on the ground, and there is another Slayer."
"Beckett, I know." Buffy sighed and shook her head. "I gotta deal with the writer too?"
Giles sighed. "I hope not. The sooner you can get to New York, the better. Faith has already provided me with intel. I'll forward it to you."
"What about you? We gonna have a big Sunnydale reunion in the Big Apple?"
"If that's what it takes to avoid another Apocalypse." Giles put his glasses back on. "Let me know when you've landed. I'll hit the books."