Chapter 3
[Coffee shop, London]
Amy looked at the sign. "Devil's Advocate? That's original."
"I know it doesn't look like much," Wesley explained, "but perhaps we can learn something about Spike here."
At the front, there were couches, tables, a fireplace and a small counter where a few customers sipped their coffee. In the centre was a reception desk. The librarian -- a short, bald man -- stopped them at the desk. "Library card?"
"Huh? Oh yes," Wesley pulled out his wallet. "Right here."
The librarian typed on the computer. "It says you have an outstanding late fee. 10 pounds."
"Late?? Which book?!"
"The Powers-That-Be: 1945-1990."
Wesley shrugged and paid the fine.
Wesley and Amy settled down at a vacant table. "Alright, what do we know about Spike so far? Roughly a century old, give or take a few decades. Became a vampire during the latter half of the 19th century."
"He killed two Slayers – no easy feat," Amy added. "Hey, didn't you say he used to hang out with Angel when he was bad-to-the-bone Angelus? Maybe you could ask him ...?"
"I don't think Angel is in a mood to talk to me about now." Wesley dismissed the idea. Angel wasn't really that close to Spike anyway and rarely divulged much about his murderous past.
While Wesley buried his nose in some obscure medieval transcripts, Amy explored the shelves. Magic. The undead. Miscellaneous phenomena. She spotted a tiny shelf: herbs. Could be useful for spells, etc. She picked up an old manuscript – likely dating from the Elizabethan era.
"This might be helpful."
Wesley squinted at the small print. "There are hundreds of entries. It'll take me hours to go through them all."
Amy smiled. "Leave that to me!" She snapped a finger. The room seemed to spin. When it finally stopped, Wesley checked his watch. Ten minutes had passed.
Amy tapped her forehead. "It's all up here now! I've read through the entire manuscript. A little time-space magic. I guess you could say I'm a 'speed demon', huh?"
I'm impressed, Wesley nodded, we might as well use her abilities. "Any insights?"
"Mostly minor healing herbs, y'know, headaches, arthritis, but there is one herb that could be of use. Ever heard of the Arimathea Lily? Supposedly it could ward off evil spirits, and maybe ..."
"...it could ward off vampires." Wesley completed her sentence. Arimathea ... as in Joseph of Arimathea, the early follower of Christ who provided the tomb where He would later rise from the dead. He remembered the Arthurian legends describing Joseph's travels to Britain and persistent stories that he also carried the Holy Grail to England. Perhaps he also brought this lily.
"I'm not sure if it's still around. It may even be extinct." It had some possibilities, Wesley hoped, if we could only find one. "I'm afraid potions and spells aren't my forte."
"Hello?! Witch here! Ya gotta see the glass as half full, Wes! Let's go find this lily." Amy was already gathering some of the books.
"But we don't even know how or if this lily really works, or if it's just a pagan old wives' tale," Wesley began, but Amy was already at the book checkout desk.
"So where do we find this lily?" Amy asked.
"Southampton." Wesley answered. I haven't had time to catch my breath and Amy has me going off on some crusade for an obscure flower that may not even work properly in a spell – if at all.
"Make sure you bring these back on time," the librarian insisted. Amy and Wesley left the cafe and entered the London night.
[Country manor, northern England]
The raven returned to the chairman. "What have you learned?" the chairman asked.
"Giles and Roland are definitely up to something. They aren't pleased with your plans," said the raven.
"Giles – as in Rupert Giles?! He's still living in a dream world: trying to keep the supernatural world at bay, when he should be embracing it, as we are!" He looked over the book of spells, embossed with a pentagram.
"Is that ... black magic?" one of the Watchers asked.
"No, Thomas, it's a Martha Stewart cookbook. Of course it's bloody well a black magic book!!!" He turned to the chapter on 'Controlling the free will of others'.
Thomas scratched his head. "But I thought we were, you know, going to take over Britain by starting our own party, building a base of support and finally beating Blair in the next election."
"Well, that's the plan we have on the surface. Meanwhile, we're just going to help the public decide that the monarchy is long past its due date."
Thomas grinned. "Mind control."
The chairman stood up. "Yes. All we need is one ingredient. One ingredient ... and there'll be no turning back. England will be a republic by New Year's Day!"
"What's the ingredient?"
The raven squawked. "A relatively rare plant. A flower, actually. The Arimathea Lily."
The chairman gathered his papers and clutched the spell book. "Our chopper awaits us. To Southampton,
then? Not even Mr. Giles can stop this."
On the field, the pilot informed him that his contact in the Real IRA accepted the task.
I'd better check the telly tonight for the news, the chairman smiled.
[London, near St. James' Palace]
The motorcade of His Royal Highness, Prince William, sped past Giles as he walked down the street. A dozen police cycles trailed behind.
"Quite chilly, tonight, isn't it, Rupert," Capt. Williams of the RAF asked.
"A bit brisk," Giles replied, "Thanks again for the lift."
"Not a problem. It's been over 20 years, hasn't it? Since ..."
"Yes. Since ..." Giles remembered parachuting down onto the Falklands that night, so long ago.
Williams was the pilot. "Expect heavy artillery near the town. MI6 says it's heavily fortified. Good luck, Giles." Giles and his company descended on the island, not knowing about the hellfire they were about to face. Such wasted life.
They approached the defense department building. "Give my regards to Tricia and the kids." Giles shook his hands. Captain Tony Williams opened the door slightly. Giles heard a click. Dear god. The blast of the explosion shattered glass windows down the street. Giles crouched behind a parked car. Another blast. The building's entrance was now a black, smoke-filled chasm. Laying on the steps, Williams coughed.
Wesley and Amy just turned a corner. They ran towards Giles, who clutched his friend's body.
"We're going to get you to a hospital. You'll be home in no time," Giles pleaded, "Hang on, Tony."
Dozens of constables swarmed the area. Amy clutched Wesley, who was absolutely horrified at the inferno engulfing the defense department building.
"Tell my wife ... the kids ... I ... love them," Williams gasped, then slipped into eternity. Giles tried to give him CPR. "One one-thousand. Two one-thousand. Three one-thousand." He held Williams and tried – again and again – to breathe life into him.
Wesley stepped over to Giles. "Rupert. Rupert!! He's gone." Giles swatted aside Wesley's hand. No. Tony did nothing wrong. Why him? Why?
"I'm sorry, sir," a police officer tried to console Giles.
"With a blast of this size, it can only mean one thing ..." Wesley began.
"The IRA," an officer cursed as he looked around at the debris." "Bloody hell!"
"The bomb wasn't meant for your friend," Wesley said, and looked over at the motorcade down the street.
A few blocks away, a royal assistant talked to Prince William. "There's nothing you can do, Your Highness. I know you want to help, but it's not your responsibility. You are the heir to the throne of England. You know as well as anyone the price of your role."
Prince William looked at the devastation and shook his head. He saw Giles wiping his eyes as the coroner claimed his friend's body. He entered the limousine and picked up the phone. "Get me the Prime Minister." There must be something I can do.
[Coffee shop, London]
Amy looked at the sign. "Devil's Advocate? That's original."
"I know it doesn't look like much," Wesley explained, "but perhaps we can learn something about Spike here."
At the front, there were couches, tables, a fireplace and a small counter where a few customers sipped their coffee. In the centre was a reception desk. The librarian -- a short, bald man -- stopped them at the desk. "Library card?"
"Huh? Oh yes," Wesley pulled out his wallet. "Right here."
The librarian typed on the computer. "It says you have an outstanding late fee. 10 pounds."
"Late?? Which book?!"
"The Powers-That-Be: 1945-1990."
Wesley shrugged and paid the fine.
Wesley and Amy settled down at a vacant table. "Alright, what do we know about Spike so far? Roughly a century old, give or take a few decades. Became a vampire during the latter half of the 19th century."
"He killed two Slayers – no easy feat," Amy added. "Hey, didn't you say he used to hang out with Angel when he was bad-to-the-bone Angelus? Maybe you could ask him ...?"
"I don't think Angel is in a mood to talk to me about now." Wesley dismissed the idea. Angel wasn't really that close to Spike anyway and rarely divulged much about his murderous past.
While Wesley buried his nose in some obscure medieval transcripts, Amy explored the shelves. Magic. The undead. Miscellaneous phenomena. She spotted a tiny shelf: herbs. Could be useful for spells, etc. She picked up an old manuscript – likely dating from the Elizabethan era.
"This might be helpful."
Wesley squinted at the small print. "There are hundreds of entries. It'll take me hours to go through them all."
Amy smiled. "Leave that to me!" She snapped a finger. The room seemed to spin. When it finally stopped, Wesley checked his watch. Ten minutes had passed.
Amy tapped her forehead. "It's all up here now! I've read through the entire manuscript. A little time-space magic. I guess you could say I'm a 'speed demon', huh?"
I'm impressed, Wesley nodded, we might as well use her abilities. "Any insights?"
"Mostly minor healing herbs, y'know, headaches, arthritis, but there is one herb that could be of use. Ever heard of the Arimathea Lily? Supposedly it could ward off evil spirits, and maybe ..."
"...it could ward off vampires." Wesley completed her sentence. Arimathea ... as in Joseph of Arimathea, the early follower of Christ who provided the tomb where He would later rise from the dead. He remembered the Arthurian legends describing Joseph's travels to Britain and persistent stories that he also carried the Holy Grail to England. Perhaps he also brought this lily.
"I'm not sure if it's still around. It may even be extinct." It had some possibilities, Wesley hoped, if we could only find one. "I'm afraid potions and spells aren't my forte."
"Hello?! Witch here! Ya gotta see the glass as half full, Wes! Let's go find this lily." Amy was already gathering some of the books.
"But we don't even know how or if this lily really works, or if it's just a pagan old wives' tale," Wesley began, but Amy was already at the book checkout desk.
"So where do we find this lily?" Amy asked.
"Southampton." Wesley answered. I haven't had time to catch my breath and Amy has me going off on some crusade for an obscure flower that may not even work properly in a spell – if at all.
"Make sure you bring these back on time," the librarian insisted. Amy and Wesley left the cafe and entered the London night.
[Country manor, northern England]
The raven returned to the chairman. "What have you learned?" the chairman asked.
"Giles and Roland are definitely up to something. They aren't pleased with your plans," said the raven.
"Giles – as in Rupert Giles?! He's still living in a dream world: trying to keep the supernatural world at bay, when he should be embracing it, as we are!" He looked over the book of spells, embossed with a pentagram.
"Is that ... black magic?" one of the Watchers asked.
"No, Thomas, it's a Martha Stewart cookbook. Of course it's bloody well a black magic book!!!" He turned to the chapter on 'Controlling the free will of others'.
Thomas scratched his head. "But I thought we were, you know, going to take over Britain by starting our own party, building a base of support and finally beating Blair in the next election."
"Well, that's the plan we have on the surface. Meanwhile, we're just going to help the public decide that the monarchy is long past its due date."
Thomas grinned. "Mind control."
The chairman stood up. "Yes. All we need is one ingredient. One ingredient ... and there'll be no turning back. England will be a republic by New Year's Day!"
"What's the ingredient?"
The raven squawked. "A relatively rare plant. A flower, actually. The Arimathea Lily."
The chairman gathered his papers and clutched the spell book. "Our chopper awaits us. To Southampton,
then? Not even Mr. Giles can stop this."
On the field, the pilot informed him that his contact in the Real IRA accepted the task.
I'd better check the telly tonight for the news, the chairman smiled.
[London, near St. James' Palace]
The motorcade of His Royal Highness, Prince William, sped past Giles as he walked down the street. A dozen police cycles trailed behind.
"Quite chilly, tonight, isn't it, Rupert," Capt. Williams of the RAF asked.
"A bit brisk," Giles replied, "Thanks again for the lift."
"Not a problem. It's been over 20 years, hasn't it? Since ..."
"Yes. Since ..." Giles remembered parachuting down onto the Falklands that night, so long ago.
Williams was the pilot. "Expect heavy artillery near the town. MI6 says it's heavily fortified. Good luck, Giles." Giles and his company descended on the island, not knowing about the hellfire they were about to face. Such wasted life.
They approached the defense department building. "Give my regards to Tricia and the kids." Giles shook his hands. Captain Tony Williams opened the door slightly. Giles heard a click. Dear god. The blast of the explosion shattered glass windows down the street. Giles crouched behind a parked car. Another blast. The building's entrance was now a black, smoke-filled chasm. Laying on the steps, Williams coughed.
Wesley and Amy just turned a corner. They ran towards Giles, who clutched his friend's body.
"We're going to get you to a hospital. You'll be home in no time," Giles pleaded, "Hang on, Tony."
Dozens of constables swarmed the area. Amy clutched Wesley, who was absolutely horrified at the inferno engulfing the defense department building.
"Tell my wife ... the kids ... I ... love them," Williams gasped, then slipped into eternity. Giles tried to give him CPR. "One one-thousand. Two one-thousand. Three one-thousand." He held Williams and tried – again and again – to breathe life into him.
Wesley stepped over to Giles. "Rupert. Rupert!! He's gone." Giles swatted aside Wesley's hand. No. Tony did nothing wrong. Why him? Why?
"I'm sorry, sir," a police officer tried to console Giles.
"With a blast of this size, it can only mean one thing ..." Wesley began.
"The IRA," an officer cursed as he looked around at the debris." "Bloody hell!"
"The bomb wasn't meant for your friend," Wesley said, and looked over at the motorcade down the street.
A few blocks away, a royal assistant talked to Prince William. "There's nothing you can do, Your Highness. I know you want to help, but it's not your responsibility. You are the heir to the throne of England. You know as well as anyone the price of your role."
Prince William looked at the devastation and shook his head. He saw Giles wiping his eyes as the coroner claimed his friend's body. He entered the limousine and picked up the phone. "Get me the Prime Minister." There must be something I can do.