"We are the rejected!" Patrick shouted into his microphone, nearly gobbling the instrument in the process. "We are a standard of living. Think of your children, think of their future! I hear the Lord crying, crying out to you Sunnydale!" Patrick even managed a few tears for the occassion.
He was a fervent Espiscopalian minister. Most just read the texts and that was fine, Rev. Rayne supposed. His estranged cousin Ethan had begged him to come. At first, however, Patrick believed he had been called to Los Angeles. He had met the vampire there and entanglements had occurred. Angel believed him dead. Patrick believed you couldn't keep a good man down.
It was hot in the old stone building, one of the last secure relics of Sunnydale, impervious to the shaking evils of the rest of the city. It had been abandoned, Patrick had come in to perform a restoration job after several areas had collapsed. It seemed especially fitting considering the good priest excelled at exorcisms.
"Woe to you, oh children. Come and return to the holy hill of Zion!" Most of the congregation remained stoic, flipping their programs as fans to try and retain coolness. Patrick was grateful to wear black because it hid the stains. Sweat dropped down onto his podium, inches higher than the tallest of his small congregation of parents.
It had begun easily enough, the recruitment. The parents were all mortified, worried, blaming others. They had symptoms of regret, bias, and ultimately short memory spans. Patrick was no idiot; he could sense the evil exuding from the very ground. This was the holy place of the city; consecrated and fortified against evil. And wasn't he the very master of the domain?
It was with great pride he concluded the service with his own version of a baptismal communion. "The water represents our rebirth, our commitment to fight for truth and the love that is holy. Come and receive, ye rejected. Come and be clean." The chalice itself was different from any Roman architecture that Patrick had ever seen. Petals seemed to float from the solid brass of the cup, entwined with an odd strand of green thread.
Parents came down, some with tears. Most of the children were being hosted in a Sunday school class by his wife and so she rarely received the consencration of water, Patrick's own way of hosting communion. This no longer formally allowed him to claim Episcopalianship, but no one really argued the fact when he announced his allegiance.
He began to sprinkle water, but he felt something more coming through. It touched his fingers, through the forehead, straight to the mind and heart. It was this golden light, it moved through eyes and ears. He looked toward heaven, giving the blessed sign of the cross. The very rafters seemed to shift in song. Patrick looked down at his parish and heard a sweet whispered word. "Mine."
The new organ began to play the strains of an old hymn. The reverberation moved through the wooden pews, the dark designs twisting around the old stone columns, past the stained glass and heavy oak doors. It came to the ears of Willow and Tara as they passed the building on the way to Giles' old home. Dane sat in the backseat, uncomfortably ignored.
"Someone's bought the old church." Tara made the observation in passing.
"Sounds like they're having a good service," Willow returned noncommitadly.
"Churches are known as spiritual hotspots."
"I hate going in there," Tara shook her head as she reached for her thermos of lemon tea.
Dane tried once again to pipe in. "That doesn't surprise me. Anywhere humans feel spiritual activity is susceptible to..."
"Did you know that I met a preacher once at Starbucks that joked about keeping a fire extinguisher near the door?" Willow turned her eyes from the back mirror toward the locator spell that was running, keeping them out of the path of vampires and monsters. Xander may have guaranteed protection, however Dawn thought it was best to keep safe than sorry. Tara had been on the losing end of the argument, only tenuously agreeing to support Willow's decision.
"Are you going to continue ignoring me the entire way?"
Tara turned her head. "I think I speak for the entire Scooby gang when I say that none of us fully trust you."
Dane gave a quick wince of a smile. "Why would that be? Haven't I proven my loyalty even after Giles' passing?"
"That's just it." Willow piped in right before her cell phone rang. She didn't get a word in edgewise before she hung up.
"What is it?"
Willow's face brightened for a moment. "Xander needs some magickal expertise."
Tara shook her head, eyes pleading somewhere between Willow and her goddess. "You know how I feel about overuse of magick."
"This is different. This is an emergency."
Tara rolled her eyes. "The emergency you've wished for."
Willow stuttered a little. "It's just like the old days. Buffy on patrol, nights with Xander conjuring up snacks..."
Tara shook her head and Dane made a comment. "I guess it's just you and me at the crime scene." The eagerness in his voice made Tara incredibly nervous.
"Oh....yeah..." Willow gave the sad sounds of recognition, as though she were coming through a deep tide for water.
Tara shook her head, resigned. She cared about Willow, the old Willow, but now they all had brave enough to face reality and do the actual detective work necessary. Tara was more willing than anyone, save Dawn, to just touch and feel reality. The realm of magick was alluring, that was sure, but found itself often enough unstable and dangerous. Willow loved the danger, the tumultuous waves of passion and energy. "We'll be fine." Tara knew she was setting herself up for a lie.
Willow dropped them at the house, making a beeline for Xander and humming a jaunty tune to herself. Tara made sure to keep an eye on the distance between herself and Dane. They remained silent as the foreboding entrance to Giles' house stood in the foreground. "Are you ready?"
Tara didn't hear Dane for about a moment. "No, but this is something I have to do. For myself, for them."
She hesitated for just a moment before stooping down for the key under the mat. She examined the key as if hoping it would give her the answer to his death. Nervous wasn't the correct term. Tara was somewhere between nervous fear and dread. Dane breathing down her neck didn't help much either. "We should go in."
Tara nodded. "If I don't now, I may never be able to." The key groaned and the door creaked as they opened the house to a deathly silence. All the lights that had been on the night of his death were burnt out, the only light cast by the hall bulb.
Dane walked towards the bookcase, picking out a facade book that revealed a decanter of scotch. He showed the scotch to Tara and then preceeded to turn his back towards her while pouring two drinks, one of which fizzled a bit more than the other over the rocks.
"How about a drink, love?" He saluted Tara while downing one.
Tara shook her head. "You're so callous. And I don't drink on the rocks, frozen or neat only."
"He's dead. What's a scotch with such a great anniversary going to do with him in heaven?"
Tara shook her head again. "Well, I suppose that means you don't think he was poisoned by the scotch."
Dane chuckled. "If he was then I also wish to join him in that form of death."
"Let's start by reconstructing the events. Where did you find him?"
Dane nodded towards the stairs. "Bathroom. Let's go forward, then."
Tara noticed how closely behind Dane walked. An unobservant viewer might think he were frightened, but Tara wasn't fooled. Her heart beat a little harder than normal in her chest, a delicate sixth sense for evil sounding alarms all over her body.
The bathroom was a cold tomb, matching the eerie feel of the rest of the house. There was a strange lack of mess to it all, as though someone had deemed it necessary to do a little spot cleaning around the crime scene. Things seemed all in place for a murder, but more was amiss than just a death.
"Did you bring gloves?" Dane interjected her thoughts as she surveyed the scene.
"Didn't think I would have to. The case has already been closed by the detective handling the case. They ruled it a suicide, yet I don't remember you interjecting."
Dane shrugged. "There was no reason to."
"I can think of a few."
"You don't trust the police either." Dane pointed out.
"They set a historical precedent for their inabilities. Where did you find him?"
"He was bent over the sink, as though he were ill. I just assumed it was delayed from the flight. He'd been in the country long enough that he was acclimated to California still. But when he didn't come for breakfast half an hour following I called the police."
Tara turned from the dripping faucet back to him. "Why didn't you call Buffy if you didn't trust the police?"
"Well, you're all biased. Did you think I'd want to start you on a wild demon chase?"
The bitterness in Tara's voice surprised even her, the wound still slightly fresh in her mind. "Better a wild demon chase than the jailers. What are you trying to hide Dane?"
"Me?" Dane chuckled. "Dear girl, aren't you exceedingly paranoid? No...if I wanted Giles dead, which isn't the case considering he brought me from England, I would have done it a different way."
"Oh?" Tara's voice fluttered a bit as his facial malice became evident just slightly.
"You see, it's so much easier to bludgeon than poison. Poisoning is a messy affair. Did you notice the towel rack?" Dane picked up the rack in an almost swinging motion.
"So...you would have beat him over the head."
Dane sighed happily. "But I'd have no reason to."
"Unless he discovered something, a secret perhaps."
"Or maybe he got in my way."
"Why don't you put the towel rack down? I brought some swabs for the inside of the sink in my bag..."
"The towel rack's got a pretty good weight."
Tara grimaced, feeling her internal heartbeat drum up to a higher level than she enjoyed. Pretty soon, her magickal basis of protection from her mother would take over and it wouldn't be pretty. Clearly, she was in danger with Dane and her sixth sense served her well just as the towel rack was positioned to swing against her skull.