TITLE: Benediction
AUTHOR: Lucy Van Pelt
PAIRING: Buffy and Spike
SUMMARY: Desperately in love, Buffy and Spike spend the holidays together, welcome a blessed event and contemplate normal domesticity, not realizing that underneath the white picket fence of their dream life, there are wounding spears. Part Four of the series that started with Protection.
SPOILERS: None.
DEDICATION: For Faith, Froggie, Kaitie, Amita and Lynn who, very gently, found ways to kick me in the butt and get me to the computer to write this fic. HUGE huggles for my Fly Girls!
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is the fourth and final installment of my series. Thank you all for the kind reviews. Maybe now I can start that Pokemon fic I've been contemplating.
CHAPTER ONE
The bed is quaking beneath her.
This is Buffy's first thought as she is instantly zapped awake in the early morning hours of a Sunday, late in December. The figure beside her shakes and trembles violently in his sleep. His limbs stretch out as his hands grasp at nothing, as though he is trying to strangle the air. Though it is always a shock to wake up and find him in this state, she is getting used to it; this is the sixth five a.m. she has greeted finding Spike wracked by night terrors.
"Sh…honey, it's OK," Buffy says softly. She is very cautious in how she wakes him. She remembers an old urban legend about waking people from nightmares. If it's done too quickly, the dreamer might die. But what if the dreamer is already dead? She shakes him gently by the shoulders. "Spike! Come on, honey. It's all right. You're just having a bad dream. That's all. Wake up, honey."
He springs to a seated position in a gasp as his eyes widen in confusion, looking at the darkness. He rocks back and forth as his eyes dart around until finally his shoulders untense and relax under her caress. His chest expands with breath he's not supposed to have and Buffy swears there are beads of sweat under her fingers.
"You OK, baby?" she asks, trying to guide him back down beside her.
"Yeah. Just give us a second," he says, tenting his hands over his nose and mouth as he rides out the remainder of the terror. He catches a glimpse of the clock. "Five o'clock," he notes, his words filtered through the spaces between his fingers.
"Yeah, like clockwork," she says, settling her chin down on his shoulder.
He finally molds himself back into her embrace, still flinching from the affects of the dream. Buffy strokes a calming hand down the length of his muscular arm. He can't quite return a similar touch. He is content to lie in her arms with her kisses on his still furrowed brow.
"Can you talk about it this time?" she asks, though she knows what the answer will be.
He stiffens. "I'm not ready to share just yet."
"If you tell me, then maybe you'll stop having them."
"Lovely thought, but no."
He swings his form around until his back is arched against her bowed body. Her fingers make deep trenches through his stiff hair. He holds his pillow, but he does not hold her. Her arms are around him; that is touch enough.
"Can you at least tell me something?" Buffy asks as her lover seems to be quieting down at last.
She feels rigidity in his muscles as he braces against her inquiry. "'Bout what? The weather? My opinion of George Bush? The incessant Gap ads on TV, yes. My dream, no."
"I just want to know…is it about me?" she whispers as her fingers play around the shell of his ear.
She knows about vampires and their hearing, how it's magnified ten times, maybe more, by that of human hearing. She wonders sometimes if he hears dog whistles, distant distress signals, her own heartbeat from miles away. She doesn't need vampiric hearing or any kind of telepathy to know the answer to her question. The reply comes in the form of tears, always. There is no audible sobbing. She can feel the moisture splat onto her knuckles as she holds him.
If only she did know, he thinks to himself. If only she knew how night after night he lies in secret torment. In his dream he stands at a precipice, with heat and flames surging all around him. He sees the tear-streaked face of his beloved, pleading with him, begging him for…something. He can hear the words as they tumble out of her mouth, but something is lost in the translation. It just sounds like noise to him and there is a great deal of sound all around. The earth is trembling and roaring from gaping holes all around. He takes Buffy in his arms. It has all the feel of an embrace, but it is more of a desperate clutch. It is a farewell. He bends his face close to her neck and he bites down. She does not resist. She wants this. She holds his head to her and he can feel her tensing against the injury and instinctively trying to fight for her life, but eventually she goes limp in his arms, all of her blood now flowing through him
And he isn't sorry.
Until he really wakes up and he feels her arms around him and he hears her voice. She calls him darling and sweetheart. She strokes his hair. She calms his fears. She's a lullaby in and of herself. But still…the dream…
"Just go back to sleep, sweetheart," she urges through tired lips.
The morning hides itself behind the guise of night at this hour. But things change quickly behind the scenes. The stage manager that is the dawn obscures the view of the stars in a violet rendering, the sun burgeoning against the arrangement of blinking sword carriers not ready to be issued off stage when the main attraction appears. The sun that rises, the sun that peeks with its "is it ok to come out yet?" teasing over the horizon. The sun he wishes would burn him whenever he has that dream.
He finds resistance against threats to his immortality in her embrace. And she seeks out eternity in his love for her, and just how far it will go, every time she lies beside him.
The mood at the Bronze is decidedly festive this night, its temper dictated by the presence of glowing white tree lights draping from the bar and plastic Santas and snowmen positioned strategically throughout the hulk of the space. It's Christmastime again in Sunnydale, though it may as well be the Fourth of July. The thermometer seems loath to edge below the upper 70's. The female patrons who swirl on the dance floor wear the brief tee shirts and halter tops of the summer over their tight denim blue jeans. The men jump around in their light cotton trousers and short sleeve shirts. All are sweaty in their continued grinding on the dance floor and, two by two, leave the crowded space to adjourn to their tables for refreshment. Water is the most frequently requested libation of the night, that and a relatively new concoction enjoying immense popularity with the young set; Red Bull and vodka. Buffy Summers has served this peculiar beverage quite frequently and knows what affect it produces: very annoying, alert drunks. She has overheard two guys approximately her age ramble on for about fifteen minutes about how they might build a replica of the Great Wall of China using matchbooks from the bar. When Buffy passed by their table last, they had begun their task, but seemed to have been distracted by two women who were imbibing the same drink and presently they are entwining their perspiring bodies in front of the band's massive speakers.
Buffy stands by the bar, her fist curled under her chin, staring wistfully at the dancers. This was supposed to have been her night off and she had so many things planned. But as always, work got in the way and she needed the overtime. It is going to be a very Spartan Christmas this year. The rent went up by $50 as of December 1, something she hadn't planned for, and Dawn has been asking for a laptop computer, something she can't begin to pay for. She is so desperate to make this a memorable Christmas for her sister that Spike's offers to "nick one at Best Buy" are becoming more and more tempting. "Good thing Little Bit just wants a laptop. They're a lot easier to slip under the old duster than a regular desktop," he told her just last night.
As she's standing there with her back turned to the rear entrance, she feels her bottom being grabbed roughly and spins around with a jab at the ready for the offender. The would-be molester ducks before her fist can connect with his face. It is a face she is quite familiar with, the first one she sees in the morning and the last one she sees at night. It's funny how he always seems to know when she's thinking about him and when she wants him around.
"Now, I ask you," Spike says in mock disgust, "is that anyway to treat the man you love?"
"Sorry, honey," she replies. "But that is my standard treatment for unknown ass grabbers." She steps forward and replaces a curlicue of hair that has fallen onto his forehead. "What are you doing here?"
He thinks the hair-tucking gesture is a silent entreaty for him to move a little closer and he encircles her waist with one arm. "Oh, I had some time to kill and nothing else to, so I thought I would see how my best girl was doing. And I needed to bring you this," he says, showing the small, silver purse in his hand.
She rolls her eyes. "My tip purse! Did I forget that thing again?"
"Obviously," he returns.
She takes the purse and snaps it to her belt. "Honestly, what would I do without you?"
Spike thinks a minute about this. "Probably masturbate a lot."
She slaps his arm playfully. "You're so rude!"
He grins naughtily and inches closer to her. "Yeah. You should slap me."
"I should. Every chance I get," she says, moving into his arms.
"Then why don't you do it, love?" he asks close to her face, letting the scent of his freshly sipped beer perfume the air between them.
"Because right now I want to kiss you," she smiles.
"What makes you think I want to kiss you?" he asks, returning the smile.
"You don't have a choice."
"How's that?" he asks, cocking his head.
"You're standing under the mistletoe."
Both look up. Tucked in the rafters, seemingly miles from there they are standing, is a sprig of green, really parsley, but from that great a distance, a perfectly believable stand-in for mistletoe.
His lips fuse with hers and she grasps the back of his head where his hair is fine and short like a soft bristled brush under her touch. His hands move across her back and for a moment she forgets where she is and begs him in her mind to pull up her shirt so that he can touch her. She knows this is what he wants as well, but he is showing tremendous, admirable restraint. As their bodies come together, she can feel him growing inside of his jeans.
Finally Spike breaks the kiss. He smiles as he finds her eyes darkening deeper and deeper with arousal and teases her by grinding against her, almost imperceptibly to the casual onlooker. "You know, you're standing in about the same spot as you were the first time I saw you."
"Really? You remember where I was standing?" she asks, still wanting his mouth.
"Well, the place has changed a bit since Anya's ex decided to give it a facelift, but, yeah. I think you were standing right about here. You were dancing, actually. You and Red. I thought to myself, 'That's her. That's the little minx I've come to kill.'"
Buffy chuckles. "Mmm…how romantic. I'll bet that's a How We Met story Ann Landers has never heard."
"Maybe we should write to her, then. It certainly puts all those soddin' World War II British-nurse-meets-nancy-boy-Yank stories to shame."
She looks at him thoughtfully before pulling him closer. "Because no one would ever believe it."
He chuckles throatily. "I think the roster of true believers begins and ends with you and me, pet."
As he gives into her embrace, she begins to sense that he is leaning on her more for support than out of affection. His chin droops lazily on her shoulder as she clasps her hands around the back of his head.
"Did you get some rest this afternoon after I left?" Buffy asks.
"Not a whole lot. The Nibblet invited over her coterie of chatty mates this afternoon."
"I told her to keep the noise down in the afternoons since you weren't sleeping through the night."
"No matter. I didn't catch up on my sleep, but I am now abreast of all the latest gossip at Sunnydale High." He draws a mock breath. "Did you know that Eric Daniels has dumped Jill Carlesco for new girl Natalie Simpson? And that Jill has started dating Michael Heslep, a boy she never would have talked to a year ago, but now finds fascinating because she's so hopelessly on the rebound?"
"You're kidding, of course? See? The things you miss when you let your subscription to the school paper expire."
"Don't worry. Your sister supplies me with the live feed every day. I'll keep you posted on any breaking news. Such as, on the homefront, Nibblet's going out with Travis tonight."
Buffy bristles a bit. "On a school night? I don't think so," Buffy says.
"Relax, Buffy. It's just a library date. I just dropped her off there. I told her I'd be back for her in about two hours."
"She's spending almost as much time in the library as I did when I was fifteen," Buffy says in dismay as she runs her thumbs along the stitching on Spike's lapels.
"Yeah. Loser!" Spike chides playfully, grabbing her nose between his middle and index fingers.
"Hey! She's just being Madame Social Butterfly. I was trying to save the world then."
"Oh. A Super Loser," he teases, extending the pointed tip of his tongue through gnashed teeth.
"You're really rackin' up the rotten points tonight, Spike," she says, teasing the tip of his nose with hers. "Big Bad factor in effect."
"Always."
They kiss again, their bodies moving roughly against each other, their mouths open and slanting over and over again. Buffy thinks that if they are careful, his duster may be enough of a shield for him to slip inside of her and if she sits just so on the stool beside her, no one will notice...She has to call a halt to this right away or she will lose all semblance of rationale and they will be making love in a public place, her workplace, and she will be fired. After all this time, he is still finding ways to kill her.
"Honey, honey…stop…stop!" she pleads with him breathlessly.
"Can't," he says, dragging his lips across hers, "We're still under the mistletoe."
Halfway across the room, a silent quartet sits at a table, watching the spectacle at the bar with open-mouthed stares. They just took their seats minutes before and it didn't take them long to zero in on their friend and fearless leader being heavily snogged by the demon they are still reluctant to identify as the Slayer's lover. For them, tonight's voyeurism is tempered by a heavy eww factor that some are better at suppressing than others. The most vocal critic is the first to speak.
"You know," Xander says, "I can get used to just about anything. New marshmallows in Lucky Charms. A new President Bush in the White House. Heck, I even got used to the taste of New Coke. But that…that…" His shoulders convulse in a mock dry-heave. "That's just insanely gross."
"They're still at the bunny stage," Willow remarks.
"Hey!" Anya interjects. "Like what we're seeing couldn't get any scarier!"
"What I meant was," Willow is quick to explain, "is that they're still at that if-we're-in-the-same-room-together,-we-have-to-be-making-out stage."
"Well, I hope they get out of it soon," Xander glowers as he crosses his arms across his chest. "Because I'm about to lose not only the lunch I had today, but the one from yesterday and the day before yesterday."
"They're really into each other. No doubt about that," Willow says.
"And, I think, really in love," Tara declares.
"Yeah, that too. I didn't really believe it until they were over at our apartment the other night—
"Wait, wait, wait…" Xander says, holding up his hand. "You guys invited them over to your apartment? Both of them? Together?"
"Well, yeah. Buffy had suggested that we do something, you know, couply, because since she's been dating Spike she's felt kind of isolated from us. So we rented a movie and ate dinner together. Well, we ate. Spike just kind of…slurped," Willow says.
"B-but he was really polite and nice and all," Tara says. "H-he asked us nicely to heat up his blood and afterwards rinsed out the mug."
"And he was really funny, too. What was that story he was telling? About the guard outside Buckingham Palace?"
"Oh, yeah! The Palace guard!" Tara says, catching a laugh with her hand.
"O.K….Spike jumped out at this Palace Guard one night. And you know how they're supposed to be all still and quiet all the time and not react to anything? Well, when he saw Spike in his game face, he didn't try to run or hide. He just stood there like he was supposed to---
"An…and Spike heard s-something falling on the pavement."
"The guy was so scared he peed his pants! And Spike was laughing too hard to bite him so he just walked away!"
"What did he yell up to the balcony before he left? Something like…"
"Oh, I know!" Willow cups a hand over her mouth. "'Hey, Vicki! You better get one of your nannies out here. Soldier boy needs a fresh nappie.'"
While Tara and Willow collapse on each other in a fit of giggles, Anya and Xander look on with parted lips and blank stares. When it is perceived that their audience is not as amused as they are, the two witches recover themselves.
"I guess it was the way S-Spike told it," Tara says sheepishly, playing with one of the tassels on her macramé purse.
"So, the moral of this story is, if you're ever cornered by a vicious, blood sucking vampire, just wet your pants and hope that the guy is a happy-go-lucky kind of vamp who will later relate the story in an amusing anecdote during a dinner party," Xander says.
"Actually, honey, you may have already done that. Remember last year when we went on Patrol with Riley?" Anya says, lowering her eyes.
"Huh? Anya!" Xander scolds.
"Well, honey, you had just had a Big Gulp and I warned you not to drink so much soda before Patrol. And there was just a little bit of leakage. Nothing too noticeable."
"I DID NOT wet my pants on Patrol," Xander expostulates angrily. "Not then or ever!
"OK, honey. Must have been the moonlight shining on something…shiny. I didn't mean to make you angry." Anya strokes her humiliated boyfriend's arm.
"Look, can we talk about something not related to public urination and Spike? Seems like whenever we get together these days, we're always talking about Spike and Buffy, Spike and Buffy, Spike and Buffy. There has to be something else to talk about. Anya and I are getting married in the New Year."
"Oh! Wedding! We can talk wedding," Willow brightens. "Have you decided what the bridesmaids are going to wear yet, Anya? Because I think the last time I talked to you, you had picked out some gowns that you thought were too Buffy-friendly."
"Yeah, I scrapped those dresses. Back to square one. Can't have Buffy looking better than the bride. As it is now, everyone's going to be looking at the best man's hair. Do you think if I asked him nicely and maybe slipped him a little cash, Spike might tone the color down a little? Just for the ceremony?"
"Spike's going to be your best man, Xander?" Willow asks.
"No! No! Absolutely not! Anya, where in the hell did you get that idea from?"
"Well, he's the only guy you know. Except for Giles. And I've already asked him to escort me down the aisle. He can't do both. That would make it even more glaringly obvious that you don't have any male friends."
"I do so have male friends. There's…there's…" He thinks for a minute. "Oz! I could ask Oz to be my best man. I'm sure he'd come back to Sunnydale to be in my wedding. He'd be a great best man…" He watches Willow's expression crumble before his eyes. "But I'm not going to ask him because…that would be awkward, wouldn't it?"
"God…we're all so inter-related. We're like some dangerously inbred clan of hillbillies," Willow notes.
"I think Spike would make a nice best man," Anya says. "Buffy says that he has his own tuxedo. Armani, even."
"I'm not asking Spike to be my best man. PERIOD! I'll ask someone from work. Joe, maybe."
"Joe? Who the hell is Joe?" Anya asks pointedly.
"I don't know his last name. We're not that close. I think it might be Ramstein. Or Flores."
"They're both so similar," Anya says with a devious smile.
Buffy comes up for air from Spike's kiss, feeling a little light-headed. She slowly begins to realize that someone is speaking to her.
"Uh…Buffy…before your boyfriend suctions off the rest of your face, could you take some time out of your fevered embrace to go over to table five?"
Buffy grins. "Do you hear someone talking?"
"Yeah. I think it's wanker boy behind the bar," Spike replies, kissing her softly down her cheek.
"Thought so," Buffy says with a note of dismay in her voice. "Honey, I gotta work."
"I know. It's always work, work, work with you," he says, reluctantly relinquishing her to her duty.
"All play and no work makes Buffy a dead girl," Buffy reminds him, trailing a finger down his ultra-sensitive neck. "Hey. The gang's here. Why don't you go over to their table and have some quality Scooby time."
"Oh, great. And perhaps at some point you can serve me a Scotch and holy water." He picks up his beer from the bar and takes a lengthy swig.
"Go easy on those, OK? I don't want you driving my little sister around with a buzz."
"Not to worry, Buffy. This is the one and only of the evening. I promise. Got a flask of fresh piggy blood for back-up. I watched the butcher drain the sow myself."
"That's entertainment."
He smiles as he thinks to himself, "That's what passes for entertainment in Spike's world since you stole my heart, you little demon."
As Spike strides over to the Scooby table, Xander is the first to notice is impending arrival.
"Oh, God. Here comes Slim Shady now," he glowers, hunching his shoulders.
"Hello, all," Spike says, swooping down among them in a flourish of black leather. "What are we on about tonight?"
"We were just talking about you being Xander's best man in our wedding," Anya announces.
"Anya! You know, sometimes I think that vengeance demon quirk of yours never really went away," Xander says.
"Harris!" Spike says in mock jubilation. "I never knew you felt that way about me! I'd be honored to stand up for you at your nuptials to Chatty Kathy Capitalist. I've even got my own penguin suit."
"I know. Armani," Anya says with a grin.
Spike raises his bottle to Anya and takes a hearty swig.
"Spike, you're not going to be my best man. You're not even invited to the wedding!"
"Xander!" Willow chides, her eyes telegraphing a warning glare.
"Oh, really? Well, perhaps I'm not on the guest list per se, but I'll be there's an invitation just waitin' to be addressed to Buffy Summers and guest. And guess who that guest will be?"
"Well, Buffy must like her guests extra crispy. Because it's going to be a daytime ceremony. In the park. Out under the blazing hot sun."
"No! Not a daytime ceremony," Anya says. "At night. In St. Catherine's Chapel."
"Since when?" Xander asks.
"I saw the place a few weeks ago. It's charming, kind of rustic. Not too many religious icons inside that scream, 'You're in a church. Get out your rosary beads and pray, you heathen.' And it has a wide center aisle that's big enough for the train on my gown."
"I-it's a nice chapel," Tara says. "It would be really pretty at night. All lit up with candles."
"Oh, I agree," Willow remarks. "I'm not much on the Christian symbolism myself. I mean, hello, Jewish Wiccan lesbian here. But that place is sooo pretty. Kinda secluded. Just the right mix of Gothic elegance and modern functionality."
"I don't want a church wedding," Xander opines with a frown. "If we're going to do the church thing, I'd much rather just show up at the house of the Justice of the Peace at 2:00 in the morning, dressed in our pajamas and with the ink on our license still drying as we say our 'I do's.'"
"Why don't we go the whole romantic route and fly to Vegas. Find one of those those drive through chapels where people make it legal talking through the speaker of a fat Elvis sculpture." Anya says through gnashed teeth.
Spike sits quietly in wonder, looking at his beer, wishing that there were ten more in front of him. As the bickering couple's talk swells around him, blocking out even the music being piped in from the speakers overhead, he thinks about why he's there. He has been included in this exclusive circle of Buffy's friends for over a year now. The transaction from arch enemy to comrade in arms was not an easy one and still his loyalties are questioned, he is certain. Even he has to ask himself sometimes, "Do I really belong with these people?" He feels very distant from their talk, from their troubles, from their nonsensical observances of daily minutia. Often there is in him some urge to stand up and scream and break away. This can't be his life now. William didn't become a vampire, get corralled by a government-implanted chip and fall in love with the Slayer just to sit and hear a former demon and a current window licker squabble about a wedding that has doom written all over it in permanent magic marker. Hasn't he been punished enough?
While he's sitting there, he feels slender arms embrace him from behind. He catches a hint of vanilla scent in the air, more pungent than the smell of stale beer and long-spent cigarette butts. A warm, sweet kiss is delivered beside his ear.
"How's my baby doing?" Buffy purrs into his ear.
He gathers her arms around his aged leather coat. "Baby's doing fine, love. Just talking about Xander and Anya's wedding."
"Oh!" Buffy says brightly. "Have you guys thought about St. Catherine's Chapel. I love that place."
"We were just talking about that. Your Spidey senses must have been working a minute ago," Willow says.
Buffy laughs from a secret joke in her head. "Oh, God…I was just thinking about when we were planning on getting married, Spike."
"What?" Xander says.
"Huh?" Willow asks.
"Pardon?" Spike spits out.
Buffy rolls her eyes. "Silly! Willow's spell. You and me all snuggly in Giles' living room? Plastic bride and groom who were the perfect little us?" she says, smoothing his hair back.
Spike takes a breath. "Uh…yeah. I remember."
"Spike lips…lips of Spike…" she says breathily, giving him a quick smack on the mouth.
"Hmmm…Buffy taste in my mouth…" he smiles, returning the kiss.
As she settles into his arms under the watchful eyes of the embarrassed quartet, he nestles his nose in her floral-scented hair and wraps his arms around her as tightly as he can. His whole universe in contained in this little person. She seems so fragile, yet as she returns the embrace, he feels the strength flowing through her. The strength that used to send him flying into brick walls and once put him in a wheel chair. It's that same strength that seems to carry him from day to day, that lifts him out of the rubble his life once was and makes things right, day after day. He loves her with his entire being, so much so that he swears his heart sometimes jumps in his chest. He feels something move in him whenever she's around, something that reigns over all other feelings he keeps deep inside of him. It's something he has never felt before and it's something that tells him he really never loved anyone until he loved Buffy Summers.
A stiff breeze rattles the small stained glass window on the wall overlooking the cramped meeting space in the basement of St. Catherine's Chapel. Around a rectangular table, a group of a dozen parishioners sits, armed with Styrofoam cups of tepid coffee, date books and well-sharpened number two pencils. The group consists mostly of women, all wearing non-church, but still respectable relaxed casual ensembles. The men still wear their after church football watching uniforms of jeans and sweatshirts. A small artificial Christmas tree blinks its multi-colored lights cheerfully in the corner. On the wall beside it hangs a picture of Jesus sitting on a rock, his hands clasped, his face hopeful, yet full of fear.
"New business," Mr. Chapman announces. He recognizes a stocky, red-faced gentleman sitting in the corner. "Yes, Stanley?"
Stanley Walliston stands, notebook in hand. "The youth group still needs chaperones for their ski trip to Big Bear on the 7th of January. If anyone is interested, there's a sign-up sheet in the vestibule."
"The car wash must have been a success, then," Mr. Chapman notes.
"Tremendous," Mr. Walliston says with great pride. "We raised over $500 in one afternoon."
"And are you planning another one before the trip?" Mr. Chapman asks.
"It depends on how dirty the cars get between now and then," Mr. Walliston replies.
There is a slight tittering of laughter among the parishioners. Mr. Chapman resumes the meeting with a smile.
"Anyone else? New business?"
A woman in a teal sweater set raises her hand.
"Phyllis?" Mr. Chapman nods.
Phyllis Wright clears her throat. "The Women's Club will be asking for Campbell's Soup labels again for the local food pantry. And it's hard to think about this now, with it being so early in the holiday season, but we will be taking the Christmas tree down on January 6, so we'll need some of the sturdier men in the congregation to help out."
"Fine. I will see if anyone is available at the next Pastor Parish meeting," Mr. Chapman says. "Anyone else? New business?"
Again, Phyllis Wright raises her hand. Timidly, she begins, "Yes. Can we talk a little about the sesquicentennial?"
The room is suddenly prickling with a certain discomfort that everyone can feel, as though an uninvited guest has just made his presence known.
"I know this isn't something we like to talk about, but…if it's going to happen—
"Well, the church will mark its 150th birthday next year. That is certain. But if you're referring to the events surrounding the sesquicentennial, we have it all in writing. The earth will open and all of us will perish," Mr. Chapman says softly.
The parishioners look down in their collective doom as silence descends on the gathering. For a few minutes, the blinking Christmas lights are louder than anything in the room.
"But the child?" Mr. Walliston asks.
Mr. Chapman's lips form a straight line. He looks over at the stern-faced woman to his left who has dutifully been recording the minutes of the meeting since the first official word was spoken. "Perhaps Mrs. Singleton can shed some light on this."
Mrs. Singleton flashes an assured smile as she looks confidently about the room. "The child will be delivered to us in plenty of time for the sacrifice."
"It has to be soon. That thing is only going to get bigger," Mrs. Wright says worriedly, looking at the saucer-sized hole in the middle of the parquet floor. Soon all eyes are on the hole as well. A curl of smoke twirls menacingly in the air above the opening as a gurgle is heard from down below.
"The child will be conceived and will be born," Mrs. Singleton says sharply. "I have my sources."