3002, fifteen minutes later
The body in front of us is burned beyond recognition, threads of clothing woven with blackened flesh. I squat near the lifeless form, balancing on my fingertips and studying the damage. Where tissue was once plump and probably soft, muscle is laid bare and cheekbones and teeth flash stark white like dominoes against charred, flaky black. Tufts of blond hair detach themselves in clumps from the destruction and float away in the breeze. My hand tentatively touches the corpse's arm, and I try not to flinch at the icy cold. The smell is horrendous. . . like rotten meat and is laced with. . .
"Magic," Spike supplies from directly behind me. He steps to the side and squats next to me, forearms on his knees. His elbow brushes my thigh, and I lean into his touch.
The sound of Reyni retching in the background is not unexpected. She's probably never seen anything like this in her young life, and I know I have to let her get the initial reaction out of her system.
"That's what we thought because there's no sign of flammable substances." Rhonda Zaiman, an international police investigator with cropped dark hair and petite frame, does not join us near the body but remains upright. As the youngest investigator on the team, she's the most ambitious. She's already been at the crime scene for three hours and probably doesn't need or want to re-examine the damage. "But I'm glad you're here to confirm."
Since the existence of vampires and demons has become public knowledge, the world government and criminal investigators have worked closely with the Watchers' Council. Hence, Spike and I occasionally assist in cases in which demon activity has been suspected. Rhonda is one of our favorite members of the force because she's the only one who takes our word, runs with it, and actually sometimes brings demons to justice.
"But what kind of magic would do all this?" Looking a little green around the gills, Reyni sways slightly next to us. She gestures at the artificial field around us. "And why?"
The two hundred bodies are strewn across the field, some in piles, some alone. All are human, and the only signs of life are the rescue workers who dot the carnage, bagging bodies to be brought to the autopsy scan and then the public incinerator. Reporter droids line the edge of the force field seal just beyond the reach of the victims. The international press is probably having a field day. Disasters of this magnitude are virtually unheard of nowadays.
"Lydia couldn't have done all this by herself," I speculate, giving Spike a glance.
"No." Spike and I rise. "She couldn't."
"Who's Lydia?" Rhonda asks, confusion playing across her features.
Reyni's eyes widen. "Don't ask."
Rhonda raises her eyebrows, demanding more from us. As a group, we start toward Rhonda's co-workers, lieutenants who work under her in investigating crime scenes.
Spike plays diplomat. "A vampire we knew a long time ago. Buffy and Reyni got a message from her this evening on a Council-chosen demon at our training camp. She gave us coordinates for this location."
"Really?" Rhonda pushes a button on her wrist computer, starting a recorder. "Tell me everything you know about her."
"Well, we don't know much," I reply. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Spike smirk at me. I bite back my temper. "When we were infiltrating Nabald's facility. . ."
"Nabald, the vampire?" Rhonda looks surprised.
"Yeah."
"That's interesting." She puts her index finger to her lips, deep in thought.
As we pass by a passel of as yet untouched bodies, Spike picks a stray vid-bulletin off one of the corpses.
"What do you mean?" I ask, my stomach churning with fresh nerves.
"The humans in this field. They were experts in demonology. They were meeting for their annual international convention. And the topic was. . ."
Spike interrupts, "Vampires with a particular focus on Nabald."
"Yep. Lydia definitely has something to do with this," Reyni states the obvious.
We reach the portable transport where Spike, Reyni, and I arrived. An officer hands Rhonda a tray with cups of coffee for all of us.
"Thanks," Rhonda flashes a smile at the equally young officer and takes the tray.
Spike adds sugar and cream from the condiments generator to coffee for Reyni and me, and I take the proffered mug gratefully. The wind is chilly, but the fear makes me shiver. The coffee helps me hide my feelings.
"Lydia couldn't have done this by herself," I summarize for Rhonda. "She had some kind of help with this. Although it's been over three hundred years,. . ." I earn a slight choke from Spike because he's mid- sip. "There's no way that she could have attained skills in magic this strong. She definitely has help in her endeavor, and for some reason, she wants us involved in this case. Spike and I'll put our ears to our demon contacts. You investigate what you can here. We'll check back in a few hours with what we find out."
"Sounds good." Rhonda nods.
"What can I do?" Reyni protests, cupping her cup in both hands. Her nose is red from the cold, and she seems to have gotten some of her bearings back even though she turns her head when the officers bring a body or two by.
"You can help Spike and I," I consent, brushing a stray hair out of my face.
"Phew. No more training? Real stuff now?"
Spike winks at her in big brotherly fashion. "Yeah, bit."
"Good. I was sick of the training."
"I could tell," he teases referring to her upset stomach from earlier, dodging her light punch as we enter the transport.
* * *
3000, twenty-two minutes later
The underground demon recreation bar is one of the most popular in the Western hemisphere. Their attractions include demon prostitution and orgies, high stakes blood gambling, fantasy vid-making, and mind-mutating combat. Dim lighting, thick crowds, and killer drinks (literally) brought in even the lowliest creatures. . . and also the most sinister. Tonight is no exception.
Spike and I left Reyni with Richard to explore some of the less dangerous demon haunts, taking on "The Blood Room" without them. Richard provided us with our demon personas as well as the matching mirage technology. The owner of the bar is no pushover like the human Willy from centuries ago. After two successful assassination attempts, he installed form transformation detectors in the entrances. If a demon or human attempts to enter in a magical guise, he or she is cut dead on the spot. Thus, we had to use guise-producing technology. Unfortunately, no such technology exists. . . unless one knows Richard.
Therefore, we enter the bar with ease disguised as Morna demons. The floor is slick with unknown liquid and various recognizable demon fluids that make me wrinkle my nose. . . if I had a nose. The entry room is fairly free of demons and cluttered with empty scuffed chairs and tables. The main area branches off into several hallways, and various demon languages and other bodily noises filter loudly from the hidden clusters of rooms. A bar lines the back of the main room, and various demon heads are mounted from above the mirror on the rear wall. A few of them are still moving as if they have been freshly slaughtered. However, the bartender is neat, and no demon corpses litter the place.
I glimpse myself in the mirror and bite back a gasp. . . partly because I haven't seen myself in a mirror in I don't even recall how many years and partly because. . . I'm extremely ugly.
Spike chuckles, and his voice emits in a rasp that does not fit his tone. "What did you think we'd look like, pet?"
My mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. I'm afraid to speak because I might sound as bad as I appear. Finally, I utter in a guttural whisper, "Morna demons aren't very attractive."
They aren't. Although my body is humanoid, my head is shaped like a large grey melon with scales. I have no nose because the large apparatus on either side of my head serves as my hearing and breathing organ. My mouth is a purple slash with swollen lips that when pressed together look like a plum, and my eyes are thumb-sized bulbs on the ends of thick stalks that protrude three inches off my face.
Spike's laugh raises an octave in Morna tone. "You saw me after. . . you know. Why are you surprised?"
"I don't know. I guess I thought the females would be prettier." I blink up at him, having no idea how I actually appear in his eyes. "And I didn't want to hurt your feelings."
"Ahhh."
A slender vampire, whom I estimate has been a demon less than one hundred years, slips behind the bar from one of the hallways. He palms a glass bottle and places one hand flat on the bar's surface. I know he is a vampire because he's not breathing and he casts no reflection. "May I help you? Would you like a Xartok slug sour?" he asks in a smooth international tongue, offering us a traditional Morna drink.
A bit jolted by his sudden entrance, I scoot behind Spike as a proper Morna female does with her mate.
Spike bobs his dastardly head, saying, "No, no drink. We're looking for someone actually."
Sliding the bottle back in place, the vampire hides his disappointment easily. "You sure you're not interested in the vid- fantasies? We just got a new one in with Wiglou demons."
I have no idea what a Wiglou demon is. Spike shakes his head.
"Well, maybe I can help you. Who?"
"Prenwick. We're looking to talk with Prenwick," Spike asserts confidently.
Run of the mill demons don't know about Prenwick, so the bartender's frown deepens as expected. He throws aside a towel that he was using to wipe the bar down. "All right. Follow me."
The vampire leads us down one of the quiet hallways. No demons line the halls and no recreation rooms are present. The hallway seems to be a dead end, but the vampire pauses in front of the stone and does not move, apparently engaging in some sort of mind data transfer. Spike and I glance at each other. Demons in possession of such technology are virtually nil, especially in a context such as "The Blood Room."
The stone disappears effortlessly and then reappears as we cross the threshold. The area on the other side of the stone is a stark contrast to the atmosphere of the bar. . . clean and technologically sophisticated. I file the information away for later. We follow the bartender wordlessly, and I evoke the mind technology the Watcher's Council has us testing.
"Spike," I mentally transmit. "You notice how advanced this place is?"
Spike reaches back and squeezes my hand tenderly. I feel the uncertainty about our situation in his grip. Maybe that is why his voice came clear as a bell in my head. "Yeah, pet, I do."
"What are we getting ourselves into?"
The bartender stops when we reach a small room, decorated in the current trends in interior design in human homes. He sits in a chair in the center of the room and motions for us to sit across from him. Spike and I hesitate but settle down.
"Before you meet with Prenwick. I'm supposed to ask some questions. Don't worry. They're standard questions to screen for those who might be playing games with Prenwick."
Alarm swirls in my abdomen, but I don't dare look at Spike, much less send him a mind message.
He crosses his legs and rubs his hands together. "Now. What is your business with Prenwick?"
Spike lifts his wrist, showing his wrist computer. "May I?"
"Of course." The vampire brandishes his own computer to accept the information.
The vampire scans over the information Spike gives him. . . some old Watcher's Council data that appears legit and fresh but is actually quite dated and unusable. Richard says that no one should be able to tell the difference. Apparently, the false information does its job because a slow smile spreads over the vampire's face, revealing his pointed teeth.
Spike snaps his wrist back before all the data can be processed. "Prenwick gets the real stuff. This is just a sample."
The vampire is disappointed. "What do you want from him?"
Here's where we try the alibi. Spike takes a deep breath. "We want to be in on whatever he's planning. We heard from a reliable source that he's got several people working on a something big, and we want to offer our aid in exchange for a piece of the action."
Luckily, Morna demons are known for their love of, no, need of action and physical fights. The vampire buys the story. I read the acceptance in his eyes.
"All right." He leans back in his chair, boldly placing his feet in my lap. I am annoyed but merely place my hands to the side. Morna women are known for their passivity in social circles. . . but oddly enough not on the battlefield. "I'm Prenwick." He flashes his demon verification. . . taken as proof in the demon world.
"What?!" I shout in Spike's head.
Luckily, Spike is unruffled. "Great. So, you can help us. What can we do to get more actively involved?"
"Go to this location." He transmits some coordinates to Spike's computer, simultaneously receiving the Council information. "Wait for more information." He removes his feet, allowing Spike and I to stand. "And, by the way, I know you're vampires. Nice disguises."
My heart plunges, and now I find my voice, "So, how did you know?"
Prenwick winks at me. "Morna females never sit beside their mates. Only behind. And I have created similar technology myself. Yours is good. I almost didn't catch it."
"How do vampires have this kind of technology?" my mind asks Spike's. Spike doesn't respond.
Prenwick bounces up and guides us back toward the bar area. "What are your names?"
Spike issues the backup names we chose, "I'm Justin, and this is Amber."
Prenwick smiles. "Nice to meet you."
In silence, Spike and I exit the bar. I'm numb with shock at the turn of events. What are we mixed up in now?
TBC. . . still 3000. Okay, I promise this will make sense soon! It's more complicated than it looks! *g* I hope you're still enjoying! Keep reading. . . more twists to come! Thanks again for the lovely reviews! You guys are great!
The body in front of us is burned beyond recognition, threads of clothing woven with blackened flesh. I squat near the lifeless form, balancing on my fingertips and studying the damage. Where tissue was once plump and probably soft, muscle is laid bare and cheekbones and teeth flash stark white like dominoes against charred, flaky black. Tufts of blond hair detach themselves in clumps from the destruction and float away in the breeze. My hand tentatively touches the corpse's arm, and I try not to flinch at the icy cold. The smell is horrendous. . . like rotten meat and is laced with. . .
"Magic," Spike supplies from directly behind me. He steps to the side and squats next to me, forearms on his knees. His elbow brushes my thigh, and I lean into his touch.
The sound of Reyni retching in the background is not unexpected. She's probably never seen anything like this in her young life, and I know I have to let her get the initial reaction out of her system.
"That's what we thought because there's no sign of flammable substances." Rhonda Zaiman, an international police investigator with cropped dark hair and petite frame, does not join us near the body but remains upright. As the youngest investigator on the team, she's the most ambitious. She's already been at the crime scene for three hours and probably doesn't need or want to re-examine the damage. "But I'm glad you're here to confirm."
Since the existence of vampires and demons has become public knowledge, the world government and criminal investigators have worked closely with the Watchers' Council. Hence, Spike and I occasionally assist in cases in which demon activity has been suspected. Rhonda is one of our favorite members of the force because she's the only one who takes our word, runs with it, and actually sometimes brings demons to justice.
"But what kind of magic would do all this?" Looking a little green around the gills, Reyni sways slightly next to us. She gestures at the artificial field around us. "And why?"
The two hundred bodies are strewn across the field, some in piles, some alone. All are human, and the only signs of life are the rescue workers who dot the carnage, bagging bodies to be brought to the autopsy scan and then the public incinerator. Reporter droids line the edge of the force field seal just beyond the reach of the victims. The international press is probably having a field day. Disasters of this magnitude are virtually unheard of nowadays.
"Lydia couldn't have done all this by herself," I speculate, giving Spike a glance.
"No." Spike and I rise. "She couldn't."
"Who's Lydia?" Rhonda asks, confusion playing across her features.
Reyni's eyes widen. "Don't ask."
Rhonda raises her eyebrows, demanding more from us. As a group, we start toward Rhonda's co-workers, lieutenants who work under her in investigating crime scenes.
Spike plays diplomat. "A vampire we knew a long time ago. Buffy and Reyni got a message from her this evening on a Council-chosen demon at our training camp. She gave us coordinates for this location."
"Really?" Rhonda pushes a button on her wrist computer, starting a recorder. "Tell me everything you know about her."
"Well, we don't know much," I reply. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Spike smirk at me. I bite back my temper. "When we were infiltrating Nabald's facility. . ."
"Nabald, the vampire?" Rhonda looks surprised.
"Yeah."
"That's interesting." She puts her index finger to her lips, deep in thought.
As we pass by a passel of as yet untouched bodies, Spike picks a stray vid-bulletin off one of the corpses.
"What do you mean?" I ask, my stomach churning with fresh nerves.
"The humans in this field. They were experts in demonology. They were meeting for their annual international convention. And the topic was. . ."
Spike interrupts, "Vampires with a particular focus on Nabald."
"Yep. Lydia definitely has something to do with this," Reyni states the obvious.
We reach the portable transport where Spike, Reyni, and I arrived. An officer hands Rhonda a tray with cups of coffee for all of us.
"Thanks," Rhonda flashes a smile at the equally young officer and takes the tray.
Spike adds sugar and cream from the condiments generator to coffee for Reyni and me, and I take the proffered mug gratefully. The wind is chilly, but the fear makes me shiver. The coffee helps me hide my feelings.
"Lydia couldn't have done this by herself," I summarize for Rhonda. "She had some kind of help with this. Although it's been over three hundred years,. . ." I earn a slight choke from Spike because he's mid- sip. "There's no way that she could have attained skills in magic this strong. She definitely has help in her endeavor, and for some reason, she wants us involved in this case. Spike and I'll put our ears to our demon contacts. You investigate what you can here. We'll check back in a few hours with what we find out."
"Sounds good." Rhonda nods.
"What can I do?" Reyni protests, cupping her cup in both hands. Her nose is red from the cold, and she seems to have gotten some of her bearings back even though she turns her head when the officers bring a body or two by.
"You can help Spike and I," I consent, brushing a stray hair out of my face.
"Phew. No more training? Real stuff now?"
Spike winks at her in big brotherly fashion. "Yeah, bit."
"Good. I was sick of the training."
"I could tell," he teases referring to her upset stomach from earlier, dodging her light punch as we enter the transport.
* * *
3000, twenty-two minutes later
The underground demon recreation bar is one of the most popular in the Western hemisphere. Their attractions include demon prostitution and orgies, high stakes blood gambling, fantasy vid-making, and mind-mutating combat. Dim lighting, thick crowds, and killer drinks (literally) brought in even the lowliest creatures. . . and also the most sinister. Tonight is no exception.
Spike and I left Reyni with Richard to explore some of the less dangerous demon haunts, taking on "The Blood Room" without them. Richard provided us with our demon personas as well as the matching mirage technology. The owner of the bar is no pushover like the human Willy from centuries ago. After two successful assassination attempts, he installed form transformation detectors in the entrances. If a demon or human attempts to enter in a magical guise, he or she is cut dead on the spot. Thus, we had to use guise-producing technology. Unfortunately, no such technology exists. . . unless one knows Richard.
Therefore, we enter the bar with ease disguised as Morna demons. The floor is slick with unknown liquid and various recognizable demon fluids that make me wrinkle my nose. . . if I had a nose. The entry room is fairly free of demons and cluttered with empty scuffed chairs and tables. The main area branches off into several hallways, and various demon languages and other bodily noises filter loudly from the hidden clusters of rooms. A bar lines the back of the main room, and various demon heads are mounted from above the mirror on the rear wall. A few of them are still moving as if they have been freshly slaughtered. However, the bartender is neat, and no demon corpses litter the place.
I glimpse myself in the mirror and bite back a gasp. . . partly because I haven't seen myself in a mirror in I don't even recall how many years and partly because. . . I'm extremely ugly.
Spike chuckles, and his voice emits in a rasp that does not fit his tone. "What did you think we'd look like, pet?"
My mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. I'm afraid to speak because I might sound as bad as I appear. Finally, I utter in a guttural whisper, "Morna demons aren't very attractive."
They aren't. Although my body is humanoid, my head is shaped like a large grey melon with scales. I have no nose because the large apparatus on either side of my head serves as my hearing and breathing organ. My mouth is a purple slash with swollen lips that when pressed together look like a plum, and my eyes are thumb-sized bulbs on the ends of thick stalks that protrude three inches off my face.
Spike's laugh raises an octave in Morna tone. "You saw me after. . . you know. Why are you surprised?"
"I don't know. I guess I thought the females would be prettier." I blink up at him, having no idea how I actually appear in his eyes. "And I didn't want to hurt your feelings."
"Ahhh."
A slender vampire, whom I estimate has been a demon less than one hundred years, slips behind the bar from one of the hallways. He palms a glass bottle and places one hand flat on the bar's surface. I know he is a vampire because he's not breathing and he casts no reflection. "May I help you? Would you like a Xartok slug sour?" he asks in a smooth international tongue, offering us a traditional Morna drink.
A bit jolted by his sudden entrance, I scoot behind Spike as a proper Morna female does with her mate.
Spike bobs his dastardly head, saying, "No, no drink. We're looking for someone actually."
Sliding the bottle back in place, the vampire hides his disappointment easily. "You sure you're not interested in the vid- fantasies? We just got a new one in with Wiglou demons."
I have no idea what a Wiglou demon is. Spike shakes his head.
"Well, maybe I can help you. Who?"
"Prenwick. We're looking to talk with Prenwick," Spike asserts confidently.
Run of the mill demons don't know about Prenwick, so the bartender's frown deepens as expected. He throws aside a towel that he was using to wipe the bar down. "All right. Follow me."
The vampire leads us down one of the quiet hallways. No demons line the halls and no recreation rooms are present. The hallway seems to be a dead end, but the vampire pauses in front of the stone and does not move, apparently engaging in some sort of mind data transfer. Spike and I glance at each other. Demons in possession of such technology are virtually nil, especially in a context such as "The Blood Room."
The stone disappears effortlessly and then reappears as we cross the threshold. The area on the other side of the stone is a stark contrast to the atmosphere of the bar. . . clean and technologically sophisticated. I file the information away for later. We follow the bartender wordlessly, and I evoke the mind technology the Watcher's Council has us testing.
"Spike," I mentally transmit. "You notice how advanced this place is?"
Spike reaches back and squeezes my hand tenderly. I feel the uncertainty about our situation in his grip. Maybe that is why his voice came clear as a bell in my head. "Yeah, pet, I do."
"What are we getting ourselves into?"
The bartender stops when we reach a small room, decorated in the current trends in interior design in human homes. He sits in a chair in the center of the room and motions for us to sit across from him. Spike and I hesitate but settle down.
"Before you meet with Prenwick. I'm supposed to ask some questions. Don't worry. They're standard questions to screen for those who might be playing games with Prenwick."
Alarm swirls in my abdomen, but I don't dare look at Spike, much less send him a mind message.
He crosses his legs and rubs his hands together. "Now. What is your business with Prenwick?"
Spike lifts his wrist, showing his wrist computer. "May I?"
"Of course." The vampire brandishes his own computer to accept the information.
The vampire scans over the information Spike gives him. . . some old Watcher's Council data that appears legit and fresh but is actually quite dated and unusable. Richard says that no one should be able to tell the difference. Apparently, the false information does its job because a slow smile spreads over the vampire's face, revealing his pointed teeth.
Spike snaps his wrist back before all the data can be processed. "Prenwick gets the real stuff. This is just a sample."
The vampire is disappointed. "What do you want from him?"
Here's where we try the alibi. Spike takes a deep breath. "We want to be in on whatever he's planning. We heard from a reliable source that he's got several people working on a something big, and we want to offer our aid in exchange for a piece of the action."
Luckily, Morna demons are known for their love of, no, need of action and physical fights. The vampire buys the story. I read the acceptance in his eyes.
"All right." He leans back in his chair, boldly placing his feet in my lap. I am annoyed but merely place my hands to the side. Morna women are known for their passivity in social circles. . . but oddly enough not on the battlefield. "I'm Prenwick." He flashes his demon verification. . . taken as proof in the demon world.
"What?!" I shout in Spike's head.
Luckily, Spike is unruffled. "Great. So, you can help us. What can we do to get more actively involved?"
"Go to this location." He transmits some coordinates to Spike's computer, simultaneously receiving the Council information. "Wait for more information." He removes his feet, allowing Spike and I to stand. "And, by the way, I know you're vampires. Nice disguises."
My heart plunges, and now I find my voice, "So, how did you know?"
Prenwick winks at me. "Morna females never sit beside their mates. Only behind. And I have created similar technology myself. Yours is good. I almost didn't catch it."
"How do vampires have this kind of technology?" my mind asks Spike's. Spike doesn't respond.
Prenwick bounces up and guides us back toward the bar area. "What are your names?"
Spike issues the backup names we chose, "I'm Justin, and this is Amber."
Prenwick smiles. "Nice to meet you."
In silence, Spike and I exit the bar. I'm numb with shock at the turn of events. What are we mixed up in now?
TBC. . . still 3000. Okay, I promise this will make sense soon! It's more complicated than it looks! *g* I hope you're still enjoying! Keep reading. . . more twists to come! Thanks again for the lovely reviews! You guys are great!