Disclaimer: see chapter 1
Death Awaits: chapter 8 - Capture
I cross the street and recite the order to myself: two black coffees (one for me, one for Giles), one mocha with cream (Buffy), one caramel latte (Willow), one vanilla latte (Tara), and two cappuccinos (Riley and Xander). There is a small coffee shop across the way, busy at this time, but I don't mind waiting. I need a break from the research, and my head is spinning from the incense smell in the shop.
We have worked all afternoon researching spells, Willow and Tara and Giles conferring almost non-stop. The rest of us have been less enthusiastic, though diligent. Over the past hour we have been flagging, though. Xander's jokes have got worse, Riley has become more laconic, Buffy more fidgety. I remember to get cookies with the coffee for Xander, and muffins for Buffy who, as I was leaving, was dragging Riley into the training room behind the shop for a workout session.
I get to the counter and order, and collect one of those cardboard trays for the cups. I wait, watching the girl serving me hurry around making the coffee and filling paper bags with cookies and muffins, and someone slips into the gap next to me. I glance around, and my heart sinks.
"Fancy bumping into you again!" Luc Tarpeau says cheerfully. I manage a smile.
"Luckily not literally this time," I reply, and the vampire smiles. "Can I get you something?" I ask.
He considers the offer, and nods. "Double espresso. Thank you."
I call the girl, and add the espresso to the order. She looks faintly harassed, but surely cannot feel as harassed as myself at this moment in time. The Breton has exchanged his green velvet for a beautifully cut blue suit with a purple shirt, and, if he did not look so absurdly young, would pass for a businessman.
"So," I say, trying to make conversation, "are you a local here?"
He laughs. "Mon Dieu, no! No. I'm staying with relatives, who are here to see some old friends. You? I would guess perhaps not, from your accent."
"You've got me there," I say, and wish I'd tried at least to fake an American twang. "I'm visiting a friend too."
The girl puts my order into the cardboard tray, and I pass her a note. She hurries off to find me change.
"It seems the thing to do here," Luc Tarpeau says, and nods as I pass him his coffee. "Thank you. It is very amiss of me not to have introduced myself. Luc Tarpeau."
He holds out a slender hand, and I try to reduce the slight tremor in my own as I take it. I am sure he can tell that my heartbeat has accelerated, that my breathing is heavier.
"Mike Fletcher." I contemplate giving a false name, for a moment, but decide that we might as well be as open as possible about this whole affair. I let go of his hand to pick up the tray and the paper sack, and turn from the counter. "Nice to meet you."
He follows me, and now I really am worried. I wonder if I have time to throw the coffee in his face and run, or throw the coffee in his face and call Buffy. I can see the shop, two hundred yards away. Less than a minute's run, for me. "Are you going in this direction?" the Breton asks. "I am too. I'll walk with you."
It is not a question. I clutch my purchases and hope that he'll just walk away. I don't have a hand free to grasp my stake - I could drop the drinks, or the food, but that would give the game away. So I feign casualness and fall into step by his side. He walks lightly, gracefully, glancing around him with pleasure, sipping at the espresso. I cross the street. One hundred yards to the shop. We pass an alleyway, seventy-five yards to go.
Then he moves, fast, and the food goes flying. I try to throw the coffee at him but miss, and now he has both my arms in a steel hold and we are concealed by the darkness of the alley. I open my mouth to yell out, and it is covered by a cold, strong hand.
"I've got him, sire," the Breton says to the darkness, and I think that is when I faint.
* * *
It is no longer dark when I wake up, groggily pulling myself up through layers of mist to full awareness. Wherever I am is lit by firelight and candlelight, and there is a ceiling high above me. I am lying on cold stone flagstones, and as I try to move my limbs I realise they are tied - no, not tied, chained.
"Guys, I reckon he's waking up," a voice close by says, and a face looms into vision. I do not recognise this one, but from his complexion he appears to be the Breton's companion from the other night - Charles Gunn, was that what he was called?
There are two pairs of soft footsteps from opposite sides of me, and more voices.
"I may have hit him too hard," Luc Tarpeau says, in a worried tone. "They're so delicate, ces humains."
"So weak." There's a smile in this voice, and I fight the urge to faint again. "But you're right, Gunn, he is waking up." The face of the unknown vampire moves, and in its place there is a sideways view of aquiline features and deep brown eyes glinting with malice. "Mr Fletcher?" Angelus says.
The vampire called Gunn picks me up and heaves me into a sitting position against a wall, as cold as the floor. Now I can see a fireplace opposite, and some chairs, a stylish coffee table. Darla, in red, is reclining in one of the chairs and seems bored and not interested in me, for which I am momentarily grateful. Very grateful.
Angelus squats down and stares at me with the clinical interest of a scientist studying a laboratory guinea pig. "Does Buffy know you're here?" he demands, after a moment.
"Who?" I say. "I don't know a Buffy."
The blow snaps my head to one side and I see stars again. "Don't lie to me," Angelus says. "Luc tells me you had a tray of coffee for seven - let me guess . Buff, Rupert, the witch, Xander . that idiot who thinks he's the Slayer's boyfriend, the vengeance demon, yourself? Research party at Rupert's new shop?" He leans in, closer, fixing me with a stare. "Who are you working for?"
"Wesley Wyndham-Pryce," I say, trying to stare back at him. It is difficult. I am chained against a wall in some old building, a foot from the most feared vampire in the history of the last half-century, and all I really want to do is wake up from my nightmare. "I'm working for Wesley," I repeat, affirming the statement to myself.
"Wes is dead," Angelus replies.
"And I'm looking for vengeance," I manage.
He laughs, and the others all join in, even Darla. "Wes wasn't worth vengeance," he says, after a moment. "He tasted good - lots of fear. That moment when he realised what had happened was priceless."
"Magnifique," agrees the Breton.
"You know what I think?" Angelus continues, standing up but still staring down at me with that calculating gaze. "I think that the Council sent you. You smell like one of their stooges, the sort of person I used to tear apart in the old days."
"That time in Paris?" Luc Tarpeau asks, pronouncing 'Paris' the French way. Angelus sends him a look that in a human would be affectionate, and in him is ghastly.
"That time in Paris." He turns back to me. "Do you want to know what happened?"
I am fairly sure I know this one. I think it dates from when the Breton was still human, working for Angelus. I don't think I want to hear it from the Scourge of Europe himself.
"Luc here," Angelus says, gesturing towards his childe, "informed on me to a priest. Not a very clever thing to do, in retrospect. The priest told the Council. The Council sent a couple of men to get rid of me." He shakes his head, smiling a devastating lopsided smile that would almost be charming if it weren't also full of evil. "They jumped me early one evening near the house. They weren't bad, made a good effort, but in the end ."
"Pieces all over the street," Luc Tarpeau concludes.
"He looks kinda pale," Gunn comments, examining me with his head on the side.
I think I try to smile confidently, but it must be more of a grimace, and everything fades to black.
Death Awaits: chapter 8 - Capture
I cross the street and recite the order to myself: two black coffees (one for me, one for Giles), one mocha with cream (Buffy), one caramel latte (Willow), one vanilla latte (Tara), and two cappuccinos (Riley and Xander). There is a small coffee shop across the way, busy at this time, but I don't mind waiting. I need a break from the research, and my head is spinning from the incense smell in the shop.
We have worked all afternoon researching spells, Willow and Tara and Giles conferring almost non-stop. The rest of us have been less enthusiastic, though diligent. Over the past hour we have been flagging, though. Xander's jokes have got worse, Riley has become more laconic, Buffy more fidgety. I remember to get cookies with the coffee for Xander, and muffins for Buffy who, as I was leaving, was dragging Riley into the training room behind the shop for a workout session.
I get to the counter and order, and collect one of those cardboard trays for the cups. I wait, watching the girl serving me hurry around making the coffee and filling paper bags with cookies and muffins, and someone slips into the gap next to me. I glance around, and my heart sinks.
"Fancy bumping into you again!" Luc Tarpeau says cheerfully. I manage a smile.
"Luckily not literally this time," I reply, and the vampire smiles. "Can I get you something?" I ask.
He considers the offer, and nods. "Double espresso. Thank you."
I call the girl, and add the espresso to the order. She looks faintly harassed, but surely cannot feel as harassed as myself at this moment in time. The Breton has exchanged his green velvet for a beautifully cut blue suit with a purple shirt, and, if he did not look so absurdly young, would pass for a businessman.
"So," I say, trying to make conversation, "are you a local here?"
He laughs. "Mon Dieu, no! No. I'm staying with relatives, who are here to see some old friends. You? I would guess perhaps not, from your accent."
"You've got me there," I say, and wish I'd tried at least to fake an American twang. "I'm visiting a friend too."
The girl puts my order into the cardboard tray, and I pass her a note. She hurries off to find me change.
"It seems the thing to do here," Luc Tarpeau says, and nods as I pass him his coffee. "Thank you. It is very amiss of me not to have introduced myself. Luc Tarpeau."
He holds out a slender hand, and I try to reduce the slight tremor in my own as I take it. I am sure he can tell that my heartbeat has accelerated, that my breathing is heavier.
"Mike Fletcher." I contemplate giving a false name, for a moment, but decide that we might as well be as open as possible about this whole affair. I let go of his hand to pick up the tray and the paper sack, and turn from the counter. "Nice to meet you."
He follows me, and now I really am worried. I wonder if I have time to throw the coffee in his face and run, or throw the coffee in his face and call Buffy. I can see the shop, two hundred yards away. Less than a minute's run, for me. "Are you going in this direction?" the Breton asks. "I am too. I'll walk with you."
It is not a question. I clutch my purchases and hope that he'll just walk away. I don't have a hand free to grasp my stake - I could drop the drinks, or the food, but that would give the game away. So I feign casualness and fall into step by his side. He walks lightly, gracefully, glancing around him with pleasure, sipping at the espresso. I cross the street. One hundred yards to the shop. We pass an alleyway, seventy-five yards to go.
Then he moves, fast, and the food goes flying. I try to throw the coffee at him but miss, and now he has both my arms in a steel hold and we are concealed by the darkness of the alley. I open my mouth to yell out, and it is covered by a cold, strong hand.
"I've got him, sire," the Breton says to the darkness, and I think that is when I faint.
* * *
It is no longer dark when I wake up, groggily pulling myself up through layers of mist to full awareness. Wherever I am is lit by firelight and candlelight, and there is a ceiling high above me. I am lying on cold stone flagstones, and as I try to move my limbs I realise they are tied - no, not tied, chained.
"Guys, I reckon he's waking up," a voice close by says, and a face looms into vision. I do not recognise this one, but from his complexion he appears to be the Breton's companion from the other night - Charles Gunn, was that what he was called?
There are two pairs of soft footsteps from opposite sides of me, and more voices.
"I may have hit him too hard," Luc Tarpeau says, in a worried tone. "They're so delicate, ces humains."
"So weak." There's a smile in this voice, and I fight the urge to faint again. "But you're right, Gunn, he is waking up." The face of the unknown vampire moves, and in its place there is a sideways view of aquiline features and deep brown eyes glinting with malice. "Mr Fletcher?" Angelus says.
The vampire called Gunn picks me up and heaves me into a sitting position against a wall, as cold as the floor. Now I can see a fireplace opposite, and some chairs, a stylish coffee table. Darla, in red, is reclining in one of the chairs and seems bored and not interested in me, for which I am momentarily grateful. Very grateful.
Angelus squats down and stares at me with the clinical interest of a scientist studying a laboratory guinea pig. "Does Buffy know you're here?" he demands, after a moment.
"Who?" I say. "I don't know a Buffy."
The blow snaps my head to one side and I see stars again. "Don't lie to me," Angelus says. "Luc tells me you had a tray of coffee for seven - let me guess . Buff, Rupert, the witch, Xander . that idiot who thinks he's the Slayer's boyfriend, the vengeance demon, yourself? Research party at Rupert's new shop?" He leans in, closer, fixing me with a stare. "Who are you working for?"
"Wesley Wyndham-Pryce," I say, trying to stare back at him. It is difficult. I am chained against a wall in some old building, a foot from the most feared vampire in the history of the last half-century, and all I really want to do is wake up from my nightmare. "I'm working for Wesley," I repeat, affirming the statement to myself.
"Wes is dead," Angelus replies.
"And I'm looking for vengeance," I manage.
He laughs, and the others all join in, even Darla. "Wes wasn't worth vengeance," he says, after a moment. "He tasted good - lots of fear. That moment when he realised what had happened was priceless."
"Magnifique," agrees the Breton.
"You know what I think?" Angelus continues, standing up but still staring down at me with that calculating gaze. "I think that the Council sent you. You smell like one of their stooges, the sort of person I used to tear apart in the old days."
"That time in Paris?" Luc Tarpeau asks, pronouncing 'Paris' the French way. Angelus sends him a look that in a human would be affectionate, and in him is ghastly.
"That time in Paris." He turns back to me. "Do you want to know what happened?"
I am fairly sure I know this one. I think it dates from when the Breton was still human, working for Angelus. I don't think I want to hear it from the Scourge of Europe himself.
"Luc here," Angelus says, gesturing towards his childe, "informed on me to a priest. Not a very clever thing to do, in retrospect. The priest told the Council. The Council sent a couple of men to get rid of me." He shakes his head, smiling a devastating lopsided smile that would almost be charming if it weren't also full of evil. "They jumped me early one evening near the house. They weren't bad, made a good effort, but in the end ."
"Pieces all over the street," Luc Tarpeau concludes.
"He looks kinda pale," Gunn comments, examining me with his head on the side.
I think I try to smile confidently, but it must be more of a grimace, and everything fades to black.