Chapter 20

The Tea

Mom led me through the silent, darkened house to a large provincial style kitchen.

I could easily make out the rooms beyond the hall in this level of darkness, even in the meagre amount of moonlight that crept past the dense foliage of the trees that bordered the house and in through the curtains. What I saw didn't sit right.

Joyce Summers never grew out of her art student days. Even when she took on the role of Hank Summer's socialite wife, she retained that flair for the expressive and unorthodox. The house I grew up in was cluttered with gaudy, passionate, challenging art that I mostly tuned out.

This house spoke of another woman altogether. It was spacious, expensive, spotlessly clean, painfully neat and tastefully decorated in a homely, conservative manner that seemed to leap from a homemaker magazine. So much beige.

That isn't to say there wasn't art; but the few pieces on display seemed muted and old. I could make out crude wooden masks, primitive effigies, polished puzzle boxes and framed yellowing pages scrawled with geometric designs in russet ink.

I tried to scan for anything familiar to me, anything at all to connect this woman before me to the woman I knew. To my discomfort, I found something.

The living room mantelpiece and the wall above it was a shrine entirely dedicated to me. All my trophies and ribbons from my ice skating and cheerleading days sat amongst candles and a large number of framed pictures and newspaper clippings. The photographs where a map of my life, from birth to… well, I guess my death, since I could see a clipping announcing the searches for my body had been called off.

I felt a cold, rolling sensation in my gut. I looked away and hurriedly followed Joyce into the kitchen.

Mom snapped on the harsh lights, making me wince at first, but she immediately dimmed them to all but a soft orange glow. She looked back at me questioningly, and I nodded my approval.

In the center of the kitchen was a spacious island, with several white wooden bar stools. Upon it was an artfully arranged bowl of fruit, some housekeeping magazines and an expensive looking block of knives in pale wood. Above this central feature was a metal frame from which copper pots hung on steel hooks.

Mom flipped the switch on the kettle and then leaned back against the counter, staring at me with a small grin.

I caught myself standing in that stiff, unnerving way vampires do, and I so I shifted uncomfortably, not really knowing what to do with myself.

"Oh, please, do sit" she gestured to one of the stools at the island, "do I have to invite you with that too?" She chuckled.

"Just doors." I said. "S'far as I know. Maybe windows too. Definitely doors." I said rubbing my aching face.

I took a seat at the island, furthest from mom and placed my forearms down on the table in my best impression of a relaxed slouch.

"I could hardly believe it when your father called late last night and told me they found you. I have been on cloud 9 all day." she said. "I was hoping you would be ready to call soon, but this? This is wonderful."

"I would have visited sooner, but, things got… well, complicated."

"So I see." She said.

I didn't know what to say, to be honest I was having a hard time processing the invitation, and everything that meant.

"Charlie didn't mention that you were… does he know? What you are?"

"I… uh… I mean he figured out The Slayer thing is true. Was true. You know Charlie, always the cop." I said, to which she let out a bemused snort. "But I am not sure if he knows about… the other thing. Suspects, maybe."

"Always the cop." She said.

"But you know… about…"

"The other thing?" She said; that little grin remained in place.

My undead ears could hear the kettle element heating up, the faintest squeal of the plastic, the click-click-clicking as the metal expanded. She kept staring at me with that little smile. I shifted and cleared my throat.

"For how long?" I said.

"Just after you… left." She said. "When did you...?"

"Uh, Not long ago. It was on St. Marcus day… so uh… April 25th. It's all still new." I said.

"So do we move your birthday? January 19th or April 25th?"

"I… hadn't thought about it." I said.

I could hear the water within rolling and hissing.

The kettle clicked off. As if a spell was broken, mom turned sharply, snatched the kettle from the cradle and poured the boiling water.

As she prepared the tea, I looked about the home she had made herself. She had changed dramatically since we said our goodbyes at the airport. I had too, but I had assumed my change would shock her, unnerve her, perhaps even hurt her. I wasn't prepared for the reverse.

My fingers traced over the patterns on my leather cuff, and I wondered if Alice had woken up yet.

Mom sat down opposite me. She hummed a little tune as she set down her mug of tea and a small plate of gingerbread cookies. Then, to my surprise, she placed a mug before me.

"Mom, I can't drink… " I paused as the smell hit me. It was faded, with little life force, but unmistakable.

"Mom. This is blood."

"Well, I assumed you wouldn't want tea" She said, and nipped at a cookie with little white teeth.

"Mom, this is human blood." I said.

"Mmm hmm" she said, swallowing her cookie. "AB negative, under 20 years. The good stuff, I am told." She said with a wink.

"Mom, why do you even have this?"

"A good hostess should always keep a well stocked pantry."

"Human. Blood."

"Yes, well, politics in Sunnydale being what it is, entertaining guests can be a rather… interesting experience."

"Politics? Mom… what happened to you?"

She chuckled brightly and then sipped from her mug as she considered the question.

"I guess, I grew up." She said. "Had to happen sooner or later." Her brow furrowed "Do you need me to heat that up a bit more for you?"

My attention turned back to the mug, which I realized I had taken hold of. The aroma was growing, opening out, softly stroking my sobriety.

"Don't be ashamed." She said. "I have seen it all before."

"I… I…" I swallowed, my fingers curling around the mug, which seemed to be growing in my hands.

I don't know where the words came from, but I heard myself shakily say "I am a vegetarian. I mean… I don't drink human blood. Animal only." I pushed the mug away. Not far away, mind you, but in the vague sense of away.

"Oh, I didn't know, I am awfully sorry." She said, snatching it up. "I have pig. Just give me a moment."

The thick splattering sound as she emptied it down the sink made my mouth fill with venom. I closed my eyes and fought the urge to claw my way over the counter.

Joyce retrieved a thick plastic bag from the refrigerator, like one of those designer soup bags. She read the label and slipped it into the microwave.

"A lot really has happened since you… while you were away. A few months after I arrived, I found two little children. They had been ritualistically murdered. No one in authority seemed to want to do anything about it. I had to do something, so I started MOO."

"Moo?"

"Mothers Opposed to The Occult. Looking back, I should have given the name more thought. We campaigned against the Mayor, made sweeping changes, confiscated many dangerous magick books and artifacts, we got things done."

"Wow. That sounds… great."

"Actually it was a disaster. It got way out of hand. But, I learned a lot. And it felt good, empowering, like I made a difference. I liked that. After the divorce and what with you… uh... well…It felt good. I realised there was more to life than art."

"That's great mom." I managed. There was something sobering about the casual way she talked about it all- demons, murders, blood.

"As it turns out, the children weren't children at all, but a creature mentally manipulating the townsfolk- myself included. Still, my campaign, and my speeches impressed, and, well, you know the old adage, "if you can't beat 'em…". He showed me the whole truth of what was going on here, the inner workings, what lies beneath."

Her eyes sparkled in the dim orange light, and a small, knowing smile crawled across her beautiful features. A smile filled with secrets. I felt a shudder travel down my spine, and there it was again, that dark molasses feeling creeping along my nerves. Inside of me.

"He?"

"Richard Wilkins, The Mayor."

"You work for The Mayor?"

"Mmm hmmm." She said. The microwave pinged. Joyce reached out again and placed her hand reassuringly on mine.

"Did you know the Deputy Mayor?"

Her little grin crawled into a wide, wide, knowing smile.

"I know the Deputy Mayor very well."

A new mug of blood was set before me.

The scent had a sharp tang, similar to human but thinned, less salty, less appealing. I cautiously took a sip. It had a plasticy taste, followed by weird greasy aftertaste, but it wasn't entirely unpleasant. It reminded me a little of bacon fat. Despite the taste, it felt good going down.

Mom seemed pleased that I had accepted her hospitality, and I thought it best to keep overly full as I would be around humans, so I gulped down more.

Mom returned to her mug of tea, completely unphased.

"Mom, were you dating the deputy mayor?"

Joyce let free a peel of laughter and shook her head.

"No, just sleeping with them." She said, eyes glittering with mischief as she sipped the tea.

"Mom?"

"Buffy, I am the deputy Mayor."