The trip was relatively short. It was after sun down, though the crimson rays of the setting sun still shown brightly over the nearby hills. A bank of clouds had been moving in from the east all afternoon and was now beginning to settle in the sky above him. Traffic was light and after about twenty minutes of driving Richard pulled up in front of the hotel where his lead was staying. It was an economy hotel, nothing too fancy, but probably had the only rooms available on such short notice. Richard entered through the front doors and moved directly toward the front desk across from the entrance. Asking for directions to the room number he had gotten in his brief call, the nice uniformed lady behind the counter directed him to an elevator to his left. Once he reached the second floor, Richard began down the warmly lit hallway looking from side to side at each of the doors he past.
Near the end of the hallway, Richard finally spotted his destination. He approached the door and sharply knocked.
No answer.
After a few moments, Richard knocked again, this time a bit more insistent.
Still nothing.
Richard was about head back downstairs to the front desk when he heard the latch on the door release from the inside and saw the knob turn. The door swung inwards into the hotel room and Richard was met with the dark visage of the woman he had spoken to on the phone earlier. The first thing Richard noticed was her hair; it was black as midnight but tied back on her head, its length left in a pony tail extending from the back of her head down past her shoulders. Her face was slim and soft except for her cheek-bones which rose high and round on her face. A soft smile extended between her lips which Richard found pleasant. Her eyes were a sharp green, like flecks of glass from a stained window. She wore some plain blue jeans and a flower covered blouse. Colors of various shades of red and white speckled her most likely silk blouse.
"Come in, Mr. Bateman." She softly spoke, then turned from the door and walked back into her room.
Richard found himself hesitating slightly at her doorway, as if this was some threshold of no-return that he was about to cross. The thought suddenly striking him silly, Richard did his best to relax and stepped into the room, closing the door behind him.
"I realized on my way here," he began as he followed her into the room, "that I never did get your name, Ms?"
"Warring," she finished. "Jaclyn Warring." Her voice was still thick and reminded Richard of some of the Russian mafia characters he had seen in many movies lately. She had stopped at the foot of the room's bed. As she stood there, Richard noticed that her feet were bare.
The room was small. The short hallway leading from the door, held a bathroom on its left and a closet on its right. It then opened into a single room with bed on one wall, a dresser with mirror opposite the bed and a small desk in one corner. Across from the hallway into the room was a drawn curtain which no doubt hid a balcony behind it.
"Yes, well," Richard reached into the pocket of his black over-coat, standard issue for all FBI employees, and pulled out the brown bag containing the dagger. "Here is the dagger."
He then extracted the weapon in its plastic sheath from inside the bag and presented it to Jaclyn. Her eyes grew wide at seeing it. Richard rotated the dagger so that the pommel and handle faced her. He noticed her hesitate for a moment then reach up and clasp the handle in her hand.
"It's cold." She whispered.
"Yes," Richard responded, "it always seems to be cold."
She lifted the dagger from his hands and brought it up before her, gazing at the blade. She touched the plastic sheath with the other hand and gently pulled on it.
"Why the plastic covering?" she asked.
"Well," Richard began, a bit nervous with her pulling on the sheath, "the blade is extremely sharp and can pass through the toughest material with ease. We had a small accident earlier this morning and one of my team was, uh, cut quite badly. The sheath was then added as a safety measure."
She continued to appraise the weapon.
"I see." She finally stated. "I'll need to remove it to continue." With that, she reached for the metal clamps holding the plastic to the hilt and unclasped them.
Richard made a small step toward her.
"You should be able to see the symbols through the plastic. I'd rather you didn't remove the sheath unless absolutely necessary." Images of Jaclyn's left forearm on the floor of her hotel room flashed through Richards mind.
She turned her head and smiled at him.
"Don't worry, Mr. Bateman. I'll be careful."
With that, she grasped the end of the plastic and slowly lifted the sheath past the blade. She then stepped backward to the bed and sat down, dagger still held up before her, and set the sheath on the bed next to her. Then, taking the handle in both hands, her eyes slowly slid closed. She drew and released a long breath and calmly sat on the end of the bed, her mouth becoming a bit slack and opening.
For the next few minutes, she sat like this and Richard was beginning to become impatient. Finally becoming frustrated, after all, she wasn't even looking at the symbols with her eyes closed, Richard stepped toward her and was about to take the dagger from her. Just before he reached the blade, her mouth moved and she softly spoke a single word.
"Slay."
"What?" Richard blurted, startled by her sudden speaking.
"Slay." She spoke again, this time a bit clearer. He noticed her accent was missing.
"I will slay," She continued, "and with this blade I will vanquish them all." Each word escaped her lips with more strength and volume than the last.
Richard noticed that the muscles in her neck and face had begun straining. The look of anger slowly began to take hold on her face and the knuckles on her hands were becoming white with the intensity of her grip on the handle.
A wave of fear washed over Richard and he took a step back from her.
"Excuse me?"
Her eyes then popped open and Richard saw them glazed over, as if she were looking beyond the dagger in front of her and through the wall on the other side. Sweat began glistening on her forehead and the straining of her muscles soon started her trembling.
"I am the instrument of my own revenge! It was my blood that began the curse and it shall be by my blood and my own hand that I shall rid the world of my wrong doings!"
She was practically shouting and there was an anger in her voice that was fierce and lethal.
Richard wasn't sure exactly what was happening, but he was certain that the blade was the cause. He quickly reached forward and tried to the snatch the dagger from her hand but before he had touched it Jaclyn leaped to the side off the bed and landed out of his reach. She stood crouched, facing him, dagger held threateningly toward him as her eyes of fiery anger focused on him.
"You think you can stop me, Desruca?" The words tore from her throat with seething hate. "Not even the Conclave has that power any longer!"
The hairs on the back of Richard's neck stood on end and he took a step away from her toward the door. Before he could act, Jaclyn leaped toward him with a scream, dagger out stretched toward him. In panic, Richard flattened against the hallway wall away from her attack in time for her to barely miss him and slice through the side of his overcoat. With her continuing momentum, she slammed into the hallway wall beyond him and the dagger buried itself into the wood. Taking the opportunity, Richard pushed his weight toward her and rammed into her side, knocking both of them to the ground and way from the knife. Upon releasing the dagger, it slid down the wall, the blade slicing through the wood under its own weight. Finally reaching the baseboard, the hill struck the wood and blade angled downward until the hilt rested on the floor.
Richard sat on the floor of the hallway, panting with breath, next to the now unconscious Jaclyn. After a moment, he reached over and slid the dagger out of the floor. Standing, he walked over to the bed and picked up the plastic sheath. Carefully, he slid the plastic down over the blade and locked the clasps on to the hilt. He then stuffed the dagger into his coat pocket and then slumped down onto the end of the bed.
He looked over toward the hallway and Jaclyn still lying on the floor.
"What the hell was that?" he finally exclaimed.
After a few moments to catch his wits, Richard stood and walked over to the hallway. He reached down and grasped the still unconscious Jaclyn by her arm and lifted her. He then picked her up into his arms and carried her over to the bed. Richard could feel that she was still breathing as he crossed the room and laid her on the drab comforter.
"Now what?" he thought to himself. He didn't feel obligated to stick around, especially after she had attacked him, but he was still certain that the fault was not hers and somehow the daggers. She hadn't been the first to hold it, however. Richard now believed that this woman had no intention of trying to translate the glyphs on the blade. What she had been doing seemed more like some type of divination. Whatever it was, it had gotten out of her control.
He sat on the end of the bed for a few minutes, wondering exactly what should be his next move. Before he could decide, his cell phone chirped at him from his pocket. Richard jumped at the sound, then sharply reached into his pocket and pulled the device out.
"Hello?"
"It's me, Mr. Bateman, Jerry."
Anger grew in Richard; Jerry's continued mystery again irked him.
"Who the hell is this lead you asked me to meet? I gave her the dagger to examine and she attacked me with it!"
"I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Bateman. She's a seer. I wanted her to tell us the origin of the dagger." His apology seems rehearsed but not surprised.
"A what?" Richard asked, incredulously.
"A seer, Mr. Bateman. She has certain talents that allow her to divine the history of an item."
Richard couldn't believe his ears. Dr. Sorensen had a friggin PHD and had proven on several occasions to be a valuable asset and this Mr. Jerry decided to use this psycho hack instead. One that had put him into danger, no less!
"You mean one of those damn psychics off T.V.?" The contempt was not hidden.
"No, Mr. Bateman. She's not the host of some radio show, she's quite legitimate, I assure you." Jerry's voice was still calm and rehearsed, as if he's had this conversation a time or two before.
"Well, whoever she is she tried to kill me and got damn close!"
"I understand, Mr. Bateman. It sounds as if the dagger was a bit too much for her. I need to meet you immediately. Can you tell me where you are?"
Richard gave him the address and name of the hotel.
"What am I supposed to do with her?" Richard asked. "She fell unconscious on the floor after I got the dagger away from her."
"She should be fine, Mr. Bateman. I'll have a car waiting downstairs for you in a few moments. Just leave her on the bed and come meet me." His answer was curt and the call clicked once he was finished.
Richard pocketed his phone and stood looked about, checking that he wasn't leaving anything. He then checked Jaclyn again to be sure she was still breathing then made for the room's door. He had gotten outside the room and halfway down the hall to the elevator when he stopped.
"Just leave her on the bed and come meet me." Those were the words Jerry had spoken. Richard had never mentioned to Jerry that he had moved her to the bed. Perhaps it was just a logical conclusion on Jerry's part, or even just a suggestion from him.
Richard glanced about him, suddenly feeling quite paranoid. Shaking the feelings off, he continued to the elevator and eventually rode it down to the first floor. As the doors opened and he stepped off, two men stepped past him and into the elevator. They both struck Richard as odd since they both wore black suits of the same type. Before he could take a closer notice of them, however, the elevator doors slid closed.
Exiting the hotel from the front, Richard found a yellow cab waiting on the curb outside the door. Richard looked about for another car and, not seeing another, step up to the rear door of the cab and opened the door. Bending over to step inside, Richard noticed another occupant. He quickly recognized it as Jerry. He sat next to the far door legs crossed and was still in the black slacks and dark grey dress shirt he had been wearing during Richard's briefing this earlier today. Scowling, Richard stepped inside, sat down, and closed the door. Once inside, Richard looked in to the front seat and saw no driver.
"Are you all right, Mr. Bateman?" Jerry asked. He sounded genuinely concerned.
"Yes, fine, thank you." Richard responded a little sharply.
"Again, I'm sorry for what happened upstairs. Had I any idea, I wouldn't have sent you here alone."
Richard relaxed and tried to release his anger.
"It's all right." He stated. "No one was hurt."
"Good. Good." He placed his hands on the knee of his crossed leg. "I've spoken to the director. We both agree that the dagger is too dangerous to leave around here. We need to transport it to a more secure facility where it can be examined under more controlled conditions. We'd like you to take it there."
"Uh, me? If you think it's as dangerous as you say, wouldn't an armed escort be more appropriate?"
"That kind of activity would certainly be noticed. No," Jerry shook his head, "secrecy is our biggest asset right now. It would be best if you took it there yourself, less conspicuous."
Richard was again having that cornered feeling. He was used to taking instruction from his superiors, and travel was often a necessity in his job, but he felt ill-informed and manipulated.
"How is the dagger dangerous? Granted, its damn sharp, but I have a feeling that's not what you mean?"
Jerry chuckled at Richards comment.
"No, no," he answered, "you're right. Richard, why do you think Mrs. Warring attacked you upstairs? Did you feel that she was a violent woman when you met her?"
Richard shook his head. "No, she seemed genuinely interested in helping."
"And she was," Jerry stated. "As I stated earlier, Jaclyn is a seer. She has the ability to discover the history of an item through physical contact."
Richard frowned after hearing Jerry's words. He had been a research agent for several years now and a person ruled by logical thinking for his entire life, belief in the metaphysical didn't last long past its suspension needed for Hollywood movies.
"I understand your skepticism. I would certainly share it if we switched places. However, I don't have time to educate you on the many nuances in our world that live beyond the range of standard belief. You'll just have to trust me."
Richard's frown hung.
"At any rate, what you saw upstairs was something that I had never witness before. I believe that whatever the history of this blade may be, when Mrs. Warring tapped into it, it over-whelmed her."
"How do you know what happened upstairs?" Richard asked, his earlier suspicions being confirmed.
"Yes," Jerry responded, a bit impatiently, "I did have the room wired and everything that happened, I saw."
"So, she was over-whelmed by the psychic connection to the dagger and decided to attack me with it?" Richard was obviously not convinced.
"Yes."
"I see," Richard answered sarcastically.
"Well, what's your explanation?" Jerry was still calm; he seemed to have expected this. "You told me yourself she seemed genuinely eager to help. Why then, would she suddenly decide to spout nonsense and try to attack you? She quite a peaceful woman, but what I saw was a very violent change. Even her accent was changed? Can you explain that?"
Richard couldn't. He remembered being utterly shocked at the sudden change when he tried to take the dagger from her. He distinctly remembered the burning in her eyes as she menacingly waved the dagger at him. The look was heated and angry, completely different from the calm gaze that she greeted him with at the door.
"Alright," Richard conceded, "perhaps the dagger did have some type of effect on her, but she's the only one that has been effected. I and my entire team have been in contact with the weapon since we extracted it from the ice and none of us have reacted the same way."
"And I doubt any of you would unless you had made the same type of connection. Frankly, we can't be certain if those which Jaclyn's talents can be affected or not. Perhaps those of you in your team where just lucky, again, we just don't know. That's why the dagger is dangerous, and that's why we need you to transport it. You are obviously not affected and giving it to others to transport would just be risking a different result with every new person who came in contact with it."
Richard was beginning to feel that Jerry's reasoning made sense and the further information from Jerry helped clear some the fog of unknowns.
"Alright, I'll go." Richard felt the words leave painfully. "I suppose you need me to leave as soon as possible."
"Of course," Jerry responded, "we already have a flight picked out for you."
"Well, then, I'll just need to return to my apartment and pack a few items. Where exactly will I be heading?"
Jerry smiled. "Sunnydale," he answered.
The city of Sunnydale apparently wasn't large enough to have a major airport and instead only offered a small terminal. When Richard's flight finally landed and he stepped down the stairs from the plane, he began to feel weary. The night was almost over and he had gotten no sleep. He checked his watch as be stepped onto the asphalt of the runway and frowned. The sun would be rising soon. Still wearing the same clothes from his meeting with Mrs. Warring and Jerry, Richard made his way toward the terminal doors carrying only a single bag of luggage in his left hand and his briefcase in his right. Inside the nylon luggage on his left, the dagger was held snuggly in its plastic sheath and between a change of clothes.
It has been surprisingly easy to get the dagger through the terminal in Langley and on-board the airliner. Jerry had sent an escort with Richard back to his apartment from the hotel. The man had followed behind him in one of those infamous FBI black trucks on the way to his home and then had waited outside while Richard packed. After packing only essentials, Richard then made his way to the airport with his escort again close behind him. Upon choosing a parking spot somewhere in the vastness of the Langley airports parking lot, the black truck had pulled up next to him. The driver stepped out and introduced himself as Hank. He then handed Richard his ticket and informed him that Richard would not be entering the terminal via the front entrance. Hank then lead Richard in through a side entrance, which was locked via a keypad. Hank quickly punched on the keys and swung the door open. Their entrance was beyond the airport metal detectors and only a few steps away from airport security. Richard had followed Hank into the security office where Hank then spoke in quiet tones with the officer behind the desk. The officer checked something on his desk mounted computer terminal then had asked Richard for identification. After seeing it, the three of them had left the security office and the officer escorted the both of them to a boarding gate on the other side of the terminal. There, the officer had spoken with the gate attendant. Hank had then told Richard that he would be switching planes in Los Angeles but that he should have no problems. After those brief words, Hank simply left, walking off into the airport crowds. The gate attendant then waved Richard into the jet way and onto the plane. Richard's flight to L.A. had been uneventful and his landing and then boarding of the smaller plane bound for Sunnydale almost instantaneous. On both flights, Richard had been to only one sitting in his row so he had kept his luggage and the dagger in the seat next to him.
Now, as he approached the doors into the Sunnydale airport terminal, Richard was amazed at the small amount of time it had taken to make the trip. He stepped through the doors into the terminal and was happy to feel the warm air within. Looking about for the restrooms, he hadn't taken a piss since on the plane from Langley, Richard made his way over to doors to his left marked with the standard male and female stick figures. Before he reached the door, however, he heard someone call his name.
"Mr. Bateman?"
Stopping in his tracks, Richard turned around to face the male voice addressing him.
There were two men, both standing quite close to him. A bit closer than was comfortable, actually. Both wore jeans, one had a black shirt on under a worn leather jacket and the other was wearing a deep blue wool sweater. Each man had brown eyes and jet black hair, their features were so similar, in fact, that Richard suspected they were brothers.
"Mr. Bateman," the one in the sweater repeated. His voice was polite and calm. Their stance was definitely confident and their eyes didn't waver as they stared at Richard. Richard didn't think the two of them looked a day over twenty-one.
"Yes," Richard finally answered.
The man in the sweater grinned broadly. "Ah, good," He spoke. "I'm Art and this is my colleague Darrin. We spoke to Mr. Jerry not too long ago and he asked us to pick you up and escort you in."
"Ah," Richard responded, a bit warily. "I see."
Art looked down at Richard's luggage and then back up at him.
"Is it in there?"
Richard was startled by the question. Since leaving Jerry at the hotel, he had been growing a bit paranoid. He had kept a careful watch over the dagger, keeping it with him at all times. Even to the point of taking it with him into the cramped bathroom stall in the airplane from Langley to Los Angeles. Art's sudden, direct reference to the dagger was unnerving.
Richard glanced about before answering. "Yes," he answered, almost a whisper.
"Good." Art grinned again. "Come with us then, we'll take you right to the facility."
Richard hesitated for a moment. He then stepped forward toward the men, his need to use the restroom forgotten.
Both Art and Darrin fell in behind Richard. They directed him out the nearby side exit from the terminal. The three men then walked into the parking lot and the cool air of the night. Darrin pointed out their car. It was a large, light blue Cadillac with no plates on it. The car looked about ten years old but still in mint condition. Both Art and Darrin stepped into the front seats and Richard slowly climbed into the back seat. The interior was the cars original, a cream colored vinyl, also in mint condition. Richard sat on the right side and drew the belt across his waist. He sat his luggage and brief case in the seat next to him. Art started the car, its engine roared to life with an exuberant thunder, obviously modified in some fashion and definitely not the original. They then smoothly pulled out of the parking space and out a side entrance to the terminal parking lot. The car turned left onto the road and began out toward what looked like to Richard as dense wilderness. In the dark of night, the deep forest seemed quite forbidding and impenetrable.
After about five minutes out along the rood and away from anything that resembled civilization, Darrin turned around in his seat to face Richard, placing his right left arm across the backrest.
"So, found a man in an iceberg at the north pole, eh?"
Richard was a bit stunned. He didn't expect these two to know so much.
"Uh, yes," he stammered.
"And you found that dagger with him?" Darrin nodded down at the luggage sitting next to Richard.
"Yes."
Darrin's questioning was making Richard nervous. For wanting to keep this find a secret, Jerry seemed to be releasing a lot of info.
"That's a damn amazing find. Especially for as old as it's supposed to be. Wouldn't you say, Art?"
"Oh, yes," Art replied from behind the wheel. "Quite amazing."
Art swung the car to the right and off the road. The Cadillac began shaking as it left the pavement and began down a gravel road into the wilderness. The trees hung high over the car blocked the stars light and the night engulfed them. Only the glow of the cars headlights were visible.
Darrin pointed toward the luggage case. "Why don't ya take it out of there doc and let us take a look at it?"
The hairs on the back of Richard's neck stood on end.
"I doubt that would be a very good idea," he stated.
Darrin turned his head toward Art again.
"Ya know, Mr. Jerry said that that dagger could cut through anything!"
"You don't say," Art replied calmly.
"Oh yeah. He said anything." Darrin made a cutting motion with his left hand. "Like wood, plastic, iron, gold…anything!"
Richard watched Darrin closely. The man had a sharp look in his eyes and a playful grin on his face, like a boy tormenting ants. Richard began to feel quite uneasy in the car with these two men as they drove farther into the forest and away from the road.
Darin turned his head back to look at Richard.
"You think it could cut through solid steel," he asked.
Darin reached inside his coat with his right hand drew something out. The light glinted momentarily on its shiny surface as Darin lifted it and brought it to rest on the back of his seat. Richard gasped as he found himself looking down the barrel of a gun. Richard had no idea what type of weapon it was, he wasn't a field agent. It was large, however, and Richard was fairly certain that whatever it shot would be enough to blow the back of his head all over the inside of the car.
"What do you think?" Darin asked again.
Richard was planted back against his seat in fear. He glanced over at Art in the seat next to Darrin, the man continued driving and seemed either unaware or uncaring that his colleague was holding Richard at gunpoint.
"I...I..." was all Richard could stammer.
"Why don't you take it out and let us see." Darin again suggested, this time a bit more forceful.
Hands shaking, still looking the gun down its barrel, Richard reached over and grabbed his luggage. Working the locks in front, Richard soon flipped the case open and began searching through the clothes found within. Finally placing his hand on the ever cold handle, Richard drew the dagger and its plastic sheath out from under his clothes and into the light of the car.
Darin's eyes sparkled upon seeing the blade. "Very nice. Give it to me."
Darin stretched his left hand out toward the dagger.
Richard froze. In that moment, he realized why Jerry had sent him with the dagger and not one of his own men. Richard had thought it was strange from the beginning and had been pondering it his whole trip. Now Richard knew why, because Jerry wanted to get rid of him. Obviously, Jerry thought he knew too much. It was clear that once Richard let go of the dagger, he was dead.
When Richard did not move, Darrin's eyes grew angry and his brow clenched. His mouth tensed and he was about to speak, but the car pitched to the left suddenly as it hit something in the road. All three of them were tossed violently to the side. Richard held onto the door next to him to steady himself. Darin, was forced to lower the gun and brace himself on the seat to stop from sliding to the left. In a moment of desperation, Richard grabbed for the handle on the door and swung it open. He then dove from the car.
Fortunately, it wasn't moving too fast after being jostled and Richard landed on his hands and knees. The gravel of the road cut into his palms, but he soon forgot the pain as a shot rung out in the car and glass exploded around him. Richard heard one of the men curse loudly and the car came to a sliding halt. Richard was about to leap up and run into the woods when he saw the dagger lying a few feet from him, its plastic sheath had apparently fallen off and its sharp edge gleamed in the starlight. Not sure why he still cared, Richard grabbed the dagger and took off into the surrounding trees. Another shot rang out behind him and Richard felt the bark of a nearby tree burst.
Richard kept running forward into the trees. Behind him he heard the two men pursuing him through the brush, shouting and occasionally firing. Every shot he heard made him cringe as he expected to be hit. Branches stung his legs and tripped his steps as he ran forward. Bringing the dagger up before him, Richard began cutting at the trees in his way, slicing through them without effort. The cold air stung his lungs as he rasped for each breath. The forest was almost pitch black and Richard hoped he was making his way toward the main road and not into the deep forest.
Suddenly, the trees fell away and Richard burst into a clearing. Before him stood a low iron fence set in a stone base, beyond that lay what looked in the dim starlight as a head stone. The wall didn't stand taller than Richard's waist so he quickly scaled it found himself in what looked like an old cemetery. The wilderness looked to be taking over this area as the grass and weeds all but covered the ground. Dozens of head stones could be seen in rows from where he stood and a shiver ran up Richard's back. The shouts of his pursuers came out from the forest behind him and his fear of dying over took his fear of the dead. Richard continued forward in between the graves.
After a few dozen meters, the thick grass and weeds lessened and Richard was able to pick up his pace. He heard Art and Darrin closer behind him than before, they were definitely catching up to him. Richard rushed forward through the graves, trying to stay low. A shot rang out behind him and he heard the snap of stone as the bullet hit a nearby headstone. Panicked, Richard dove behind a larger tomb, another two shots bursting through the wall next to him as he fell.
Richard's mind raced as he tried to figure out what to do. If he faced them, these men would definitely kill him. Running from them and into the forest was the only option. Richard stood from the wall and was about to race out from behind the tomb and toward the nearest forest edge when Darrin suddenly appeared from around the stone corner next to him. Richard felt a sharp, blinding pain in his head as the butt of Darrin's gun made contact with his forehead. He stumbled back and fell to the ground.
The world wavered around him and a fog blanketed Richard's mind. He tried supporting himself on his arm, but it was roughly kicked out from under him and Richard fell backward onto his shoulders.
"Sonofabitch!" he heard Darrin shouting. "Where the hell did you think you were going?"
"Calm down." Art this time, his voice was still calm.
Richard felt a sharp impact in his side and he curled in pain.
"God damnit!"
"I said, calm down."
Richard's mind began to clear and the fear of his situation flooded back in. The pain in his side began to dull. He still felt the cool of the dagger in his right hand.
"Just take the dagger, kill him, and let's go." Art spoke as if to a child.
"I'll blow his fucking head off!"
Richard felt new pain as someone stepped on his right wrist. He opened his eyes to see Darrin standing over him, the barrel of his gun pointed down at his head.
"Let go, asshole!"
Hopelessness washed over Richard, he realized he was at the mercy of these two men and that it didn't seem like these were the most forgiving people. Richard released the dagger which then slipped from his hand. Darrin was about to bend down to retrieve it when someone shouted out from behind them all.
"Hey! Get the hell out of my cemetery!"
Richard didn't recognize this voice. It was obviously angry, but it seemed to have a slight accent to it. Turning his head and peering back behind Art, Richard's spotted a new figure across the path standing by a headstone. Though Richard's view was upside-down, he could tell that this was a man dressed in black slacks, a grey shirt, and some type of a black overcoat.
Darrin stepped off Richard's wrist and turned to face the new gentlemen.
"Who the hell are you," he asked.
"I'm the man that lives here and you bloody well better get off the land before I feed that gun to you!"
Definitely an accent, Richard thought as he sat up and leaned against the tomb next to him. Definitely a British accent.
The pain in his side prevented him from standing, but from the corrected angle, Richard was able to get a better view of their new friend.
He also seemed rather young, perhaps nineteen or twenty. His hair was dyed blond with brown roots and spiked backwards across his scalp. His face was long with high cheek bones and currently clenched in anger. The man's face seemed quite pale, even in the faint starlight.
"Is that so?" Darin spoke.
He raised the gun towards the man, no doubt intending to shoot. The gentleman leaned toward Darrin and then was suddenly a blur as he rushed forward with incredible speed and snatched the gun right out of Darrin's hand. Startled, both Darrin and Art took a step back. The man then took the gun by the grip and pointed the barrel into Darrin's chest.
"Now, piss off," the gentlemen instructed.
A sneer twisted Darrin's face and he quickly grabbed for the gun and lunged at the gentlemen. Richard watched as both he and Darrin fell to the ground, gun held between them. As the two men fought for the weapon, Art reached under the back of this sweater and pulled out another pistol. This one black, and smaller than Darrin's. He then pointed it at the two men rolling on the grass.
The fight rolled about the ground with Darrin hitting and kicking the gentlemen with his free limbs. The gentleman took the hits easily but was surprisingly not striking back and was instead intent on controlling the gun still held between them. Suddenly a shot fired within the brawl and both Art and Richard jumped. After a moment, both of the men on the ground screamed in pain. They separated, rolling away from each other. Darrin held his left side, his hands covered in blood. The gentlemen rolled away holding his head in both hands and screaming. As soon as the too men separated, Art pointed his pistol at the unidentified man and fired several shots. Each bullet hit and the pale man twitched with the impacts.
Richard, his pains dulled, saw the dagger sitting at his feet. In hope of helping the gentleman who saved him from being killed, Richard lunged for the dagger then twisted around and with all his strength shoved it into the middle of Arts back. The dagger slid in to the hilt with no resistance. It was as if Richard was stabbing at the air. Art gasped in surprise then his gun slipped from his grasp and fell to the ground. His body gave a short spasm then toppled forward off the dagger and onto his face. Art then lay there unmoving.
Richard stared down at the Art's body and then at the dagger in his hand. He watched as a single drop of Art's blood ran off the steel of the blade and onto the ground. Richard dropped the dagger to his feet, unbelieving in what he had just done.
Another shot fired and woke Richard from his stunned state. He looked up to see Darrin leaning against a tombstone, his left hand covered in blood and pressing down on the wound in his abdomen. In his right hand he held his gun forward, pointing it at Richard. Apparently, he had missed.
Darrin's face crumpled in a sneer over his anger at missing and he pulled the trigger again. Richard dove to the side in time to dodge the round as it exploded from the barrel of Darrin's gun. From the ground, Richard looked over at Darrin. He was still aiming his gun at Richard and seemed about to fire at him again, a shot that would surely hit. However, before he pulled the trigger, Darrin's eyes glazed over. Slowly, his arm slumped to the ground and dropped the gun. Darrin, too, now lay there propped up against the headstone unmoving.
Richard lay on the ground next to the unmoving Art, his breath heaving out of him. His mind was still working on trying to grasp the reality of what just happened.
Suddenly, a roar rose from off to the right and Richard turned his head to see the gentleman rise to his feet in a shout of anger. He turned to face him and Richard was startled to see that his face had changed. His brow seemed clenched in a horrid almost Cro-Magnon snarl and his eyes had become overcast with a luminescent yellow. The most frightening change was the large canine teeth that hung like fangs from his upper jaw. The horrid face was shouting in anger as he stared before him. Upon seeing both men down and neither moving, however, the snarl dropped from his face. The bulge in his brow, the color of his eyes, and the fangs in his mouth remained.
He looked about a bit confused then saw Richard lying frightened next to Art's body.
"Oh," he said, "good job, then."
The gentleman then moved forward toward him. Richard saw the holes in the man's grey shirt made from Art's bullets, but there was no blood on him and the wounds were non-existent. The gentleman step closer to him. Richard could feel a presence about him, one that was certainly not human. Still shaken from the recent ordeal, Richard quickly stood and backed away from the man's menacing face.
The gentleman stopped and frowned upon seeing Richard's frightened reaction to him.
"Are there any more," he asked finally, his accent quite apparent.
Richard shook his head and began to inch away from the gentleman, meeting the tomb wall behind him with his back.
"I'm not going to bite you," the man said. "I wouldn't have let these bastards shoot me if I could." He pointed down at Art's body.
Richard continued to move away from the gentleman, his nerves still on the edge from his encounter with almost being killed. The man before him frowned again, shrugged and then suddenly lunged forward with a vicious growl. Richard's nerves finally broke and he launched himself off the tomb wall and took off running. He made for the forest as quickly as possible, feeling that in-human figure still right on his heels. Running through a break in the cemetery wall, Richard finally made it in to the forest and the pitch dark of night.
Dropping his vampiric face, Spiked watched the frightened stranger run from him. He chuckled to himself. Granted, the damned chip the Initiative planted in his head stopped him from killing, but simply terrifying them was almost just as fun. After the stranger disappeared into the forest, Spike turned back to the men on the ground. It was quite a mess.
The one in the sweater that his frightened friend had killed lay before him. Spike could see that his blood was running into the grass. At the sight of the blood, Spike's breath quickened. He hadn't fed on humans in a while. It's difficult to get them to die for you when you can't kill them. Crouching next to the corpse, Spike reached down and placed his fingers on the wound in his back. The blood was warm and thick. Bringing his blood soaked fingers to his lips, Spike inhaled a deep breath. His stomach lurched and air erupted from his lungs in a sharp cough. He quickly moved his finger from his face then proceeded to wipe them clean on the corpse. The blood was tainted with something.
Disgusted Spike stood and walked over to the other in the leather jacket. On closer inspection, he found that this corpse's blood was also tainted.
"Damnit!" he shouted in anger, feeling his hunger ache inside of him.
Still upset at being denied dinner, Spike lifted the corpse off the ground and removed the leather jacket. It was black leather, just like his coat and Spike hoped it might be able to buying a pint or two of blood in town. He was again disappointed as he found that the earlier accident with the gun which had cost his assailant his life had also ruined the man's jacket. A large blood soaked bullet hole had been blasted through the leather.
With a snarl he tossed the jacket to the floor. Dejected at the entire experience, Spike turned to leave when a shimmer of metal glinted in the corner of his eye. Looking over toward the corpse in the sweater, Spike saw something metal lying in the brush at the corpse's feet. Spike stepped over behind the corpse and crouched in the grass and weeds. Laying half buried in the ground, Spike found the hilt of an ornate dagger. Grasping the hilt he found the wood cold and its scale-like carving smooth. He lifted the blade from the dirt. It was curved and jagged and looked quite keen. Engraved on the blade where several illegible symbols.
"Well, then," Spike mumbled, "this should be worth a pint or two."
Standing with dagger in his left hand, he lifted his right finger and touched it to the blade edge, testing its sharpness. Upon the slightest pressure, the blade passed into his finger. A small drop of blood dripped from the wound and Spike snatched his hand away from the blade in pain. Once away from the dagger the wound quickly sealed closed and the pain ceased.
"Damn," he commented. He looked down at the corpse next to him. "That must have hurt, eh?"
He kicked the corpse. "Thanks chap."
Spike again turned to leave. Walking away from the corpses, he began to hear a nagging buzz in his head. Ignoring it and continuing forward through the rows of headstones, the buzzing grew louder. Spike stopped to look about, not quite certain any longer that the sound was just in his head. His vampiric eyes saw nothing.
Glancing down that the blade in his left hand, Spike saw it glimmer in the starlight. Suddenly, a feeling of calm washed over him. Not an unfamiliar feeling, but one that he hadn't felt in a long time. The calm settled into serenity. Spike suddenly felt at peace, as if he had been struggling with himself for almost an eternity and finally had become complete. All his life, he had been angry. Even as a mortal, before Angel had found him and Drusilla, Spike had been upset at the world. He couldn't understand why now. It seemed that the world was working as it should, that just living and dying was enough to be complete and that selfish pursuits are what made life unbearable. He had been tricked out of completing that calm cycle of serenity by Angel and now, more than one-hundred years later, he was still angry and upset. Finally, however, he had made his peace with the world and he was ready to end it all. His cycle on this world was complete and all he wanted was the calm peace of oblivion. Feeling that he was finally able to end his own suffering, Spike decided that it was time for him to die. Too bad, Buffy couldn't understand this peace, having been pulled from her own oblivion and back into this world by her selfish friends.
Thoughts of Buffy flooded his mind with images of her. The golden locks and soft smile which he had dreamed about almost daily flashed before his mind's eye. The memory of their recent coupling brought an ache to his chest as he remembered the night they had spent together in the almost demolished house. She had been so abashed and angry the next morning. Of course, that didn't matter now since he was ready to go and would lose her forever.
Loss suddenly welled up and exploded within Spike. His love for Buffy and the pain at the thought of loosing her broke him from his trance. The night and its cool air rushed in around him and he staggered back as his mind returned to the cemetery. Thoughts of peace, serenity, and the sweet oblivion of death quickly melted away. Spike's head was full of fog and his thoughts jumbled. The buzzing sound still lingered in his ears and he felt it pushing and trying to invade his thoughts.
Looking back down at the dagger, he found that at some point he had raised his left hand and brought the blade to his chest. Its pointed was hovering over his heart and he felt the buzzing in his head twinge and flare at the site. The idea of the calm and serenity again washed over him and he suddenly had the inclination to drive the dagger into his heart and end his suffering.
With a panicked gasp, Spike jerked the dagger from his chest and threw it into the grass in front of him. With an almost painful pull, the fog in his head instantly cleared. The thoughts of calm and of killing himself evaporated.
"Bloody hell!"
His body was shivering and his brow pouring sweat. Realizing that he had been just a moment or two from killing himself, Spike's knees grew weak and he leaned on a nearby headstone for support.
His thoughts began to race, trying to uncover what had just happened to him. It was the dagger. That much was certain. It had felt as if something was controlling his thoughts, making him feel the strange unfocused calm. He didn't want to die. Spiked loved his life and loved being a vampire. Despite the fact that the Initiative had all but removed his fangs, Spike was confident that he would somehow get rid of it and one day resume his pillaging and plundering as normal. The buzzing in his ears, which even now continued though dimmed and no longer trying to force its way into his mind, had been the beginning.
"Where the hell did that thing come from," his breath was still running quick and the question came as a rasp from his throat.
As a preternatural creature, a vampire is able to sense, almost smell magic when near to it. Most definitely, they can feel it when touched. Spike, however, had felt nothing from the dagger. It gave off no "scent" nor did it feel out of the ordinary. For Spike, that ruled out magic. Perhaps it was the chip in his head. Spike cursed the damned thing in his skull, as he often did. If this was somehow an Initiative issued weapon, perhaps it was somehow designed to react with his chip if he tried to use the dagger. Spike shook his head. He wasn't certain and doubted that he was smart enough to figure it out on his own.
After a bit of thought, Spike finally decided to take the dagger to the Magic Box and see if Anya had any ideas. He wished that Giles was still in Sunnydale as Spike was certain he would have better luck discovering the dagger's origins. Its not that he doubted Anya's detective abilities, but Xander's little minx was a tad flighty and not all there.
Spike stood up off the headstone. His head was now completely clear and he felt his strength had returned. The buzzing still fluttered in his head, but it was quieter and easily ignored. Spike took a few steps toward where the dagger now lay. As he stepped closer, the buzzing grow louder. Every step toward the dagger the buzzing became stronger and more insistent, pushing its way into his thoughts. Once he had moved to stand over the dagger, finding it buried to the hilt in the base of a headstone, the buzzing in Spike's head almost drowned out all other thoughts. He felt it's prodding into his mind increase to a steady push and it was all he could do to keep it at bay. Crouching to pick up the dagger, its buzzing rose to a deafening crescendo, Spike pulled his right arm into his coat and picked up the dagger with his sleeve.
His forehead was drenched in sweat and he began grinding his teeth. The push of the buzzing in his head was almost unbearable. Spike stood from the ground and began running with the dagger held by the sleeve of his coat. Certain of his course, having taken it on several occasions, Spike moved as fast as possible through the broken cemetery. When he finally entered the forest, the trees blurred past him with the intense speed of his running. Every step was in pain as the buzzing remained unwavering in his head, trying to push into his thoughts. After several minutes, the lights of the town came into view and Spike ran head long as fast as he could through the streets. People and places where only momentary flashed in his vision as he passed them. He vaguely recalled screeching brakes and shouts as he darted unerringly across busy streets. Finally, a good twenty minutes from his crypt at the cemetery, Spike turned onto the street where the Magic Box stood. He felt as if his head were about to split in two. A roaring headache had begun to form behind his eyes and the buzzing had not diminished. His teeth hurt and his brow ached from the clenching of his face.
He reached the door of the Magic Box and found it locked. The lights were out and the store beyond was dark.
"Of course," he spoke. It was still early morning, the sun would be rising in less than and hour and no one would be here for at least three.
Spike became desperate, almost frantic. The buzzing in his head continued and gave him no reason to believe it would be getting weaker. Looking about, Spike grabbed the handle on the shop's front door and gave a quick, sharp push. He heard wood crack and the door moved inward. He swung the door open and rushed into the store. In the cool darkness inside, Spike lurched over to the nearby counter and dropped the dagger next to the old cash register. He then collapsed to the floor. The buzzing died off a bit and its edge subsided. The sound was still painful in his ears and only fueled his throbbing headache. Pushing himself up onto his hands, Spike half crawled for the door. Upon reaching it, he flung it open and fell out the doorway and onto the outside concrete, barely managing to hold on to the door and slam it closed on his way down.
The buzzing was all but gone. It still lingered in the back of his mind but he could now think straight. He lay there on the cool concrete for several minutes catching his breath and trying to regain his composure. Finally, opening his eyes, Spike saw that the sky had grown lighter with the approaching dawn. Spike had little more than half an hour to get underground before the sun rose.
Cursing again, Spike jumped to his feet. The headache induced by the buzzing was still with him and a short wave of nausea washed over him. Walking causally at first, Spike tried to make his way down the streets toward the edge of town. The lighter the sky became, however, the more his pace increased. Finally, reaching the outskirt of Sunnydale, Spike broke into a run. He had only a few moments to reach his cemetery and the safety of his crypt below.
Near the end of the hallway, Richard finally spotted his destination. He approached the door and sharply knocked.
No answer.
After a few moments, Richard knocked again, this time a bit more insistent.
Still nothing.
Richard was about head back downstairs to the front desk when he heard the latch on the door release from the inside and saw the knob turn. The door swung inwards into the hotel room and Richard was met with the dark visage of the woman he had spoken to on the phone earlier. The first thing Richard noticed was her hair; it was black as midnight but tied back on her head, its length left in a pony tail extending from the back of her head down past her shoulders. Her face was slim and soft except for her cheek-bones which rose high and round on her face. A soft smile extended between her lips which Richard found pleasant. Her eyes were a sharp green, like flecks of glass from a stained window. She wore some plain blue jeans and a flower covered blouse. Colors of various shades of red and white speckled her most likely silk blouse.
"Come in, Mr. Bateman." She softly spoke, then turned from the door and walked back into her room.
Richard found himself hesitating slightly at her doorway, as if this was some threshold of no-return that he was about to cross. The thought suddenly striking him silly, Richard did his best to relax and stepped into the room, closing the door behind him.
"I realized on my way here," he began as he followed her into the room, "that I never did get your name, Ms?"
"Warring," she finished. "Jaclyn Warring." Her voice was still thick and reminded Richard of some of the Russian mafia characters he had seen in many movies lately. She had stopped at the foot of the room's bed. As she stood there, Richard noticed that her feet were bare.
The room was small. The short hallway leading from the door, held a bathroom on its left and a closet on its right. It then opened into a single room with bed on one wall, a dresser with mirror opposite the bed and a small desk in one corner. Across from the hallway into the room was a drawn curtain which no doubt hid a balcony behind it.
"Yes, well," Richard reached into the pocket of his black over-coat, standard issue for all FBI employees, and pulled out the brown bag containing the dagger. "Here is the dagger."
He then extracted the weapon in its plastic sheath from inside the bag and presented it to Jaclyn. Her eyes grew wide at seeing it. Richard rotated the dagger so that the pommel and handle faced her. He noticed her hesitate for a moment then reach up and clasp the handle in her hand.
"It's cold." She whispered.
"Yes," Richard responded, "it always seems to be cold."
She lifted the dagger from his hands and brought it up before her, gazing at the blade. She touched the plastic sheath with the other hand and gently pulled on it.
"Why the plastic covering?" she asked.
"Well," Richard began, a bit nervous with her pulling on the sheath, "the blade is extremely sharp and can pass through the toughest material with ease. We had a small accident earlier this morning and one of my team was, uh, cut quite badly. The sheath was then added as a safety measure."
She continued to appraise the weapon.
"I see." She finally stated. "I'll need to remove it to continue." With that, she reached for the metal clamps holding the plastic to the hilt and unclasped them.
Richard made a small step toward her.
"You should be able to see the symbols through the plastic. I'd rather you didn't remove the sheath unless absolutely necessary." Images of Jaclyn's left forearm on the floor of her hotel room flashed through Richards mind.
She turned her head and smiled at him.
"Don't worry, Mr. Bateman. I'll be careful."
With that, she grasped the end of the plastic and slowly lifted the sheath past the blade. She then stepped backward to the bed and sat down, dagger still held up before her, and set the sheath on the bed next to her. Then, taking the handle in both hands, her eyes slowly slid closed. She drew and released a long breath and calmly sat on the end of the bed, her mouth becoming a bit slack and opening.
For the next few minutes, she sat like this and Richard was beginning to become impatient. Finally becoming frustrated, after all, she wasn't even looking at the symbols with her eyes closed, Richard stepped toward her and was about to take the dagger from her. Just before he reached the blade, her mouth moved and she softly spoke a single word.
"Slay."
"What?" Richard blurted, startled by her sudden speaking.
"Slay." She spoke again, this time a bit clearer. He noticed her accent was missing.
"I will slay," She continued, "and with this blade I will vanquish them all." Each word escaped her lips with more strength and volume than the last.
Richard noticed that the muscles in her neck and face had begun straining. The look of anger slowly began to take hold on her face and the knuckles on her hands were becoming white with the intensity of her grip on the handle.
A wave of fear washed over Richard and he took a step back from her.
"Excuse me?"
Her eyes then popped open and Richard saw them glazed over, as if she were looking beyond the dagger in front of her and through the wall on the other side. Sweat began glistening on her forehead and the straining of her muscles soon started her trembling.
"I am the instrument of my own revenge! It was my blood that began the curse and it shall be by my blood and my own hand that I shall rid the world of my wrong doings!"
She was practically shouting and there was an anger in her voice that was fierce and lethal.
Richard wasn't sure exactly what was happening, but he was certain that the blade was the cause. He quickly reached forward and tried to the snatch the dagger from her hand but before he had touched it Jaclyn leaped to the side off the bed and landed out of his reach. She stood crouched, facing him, dagger held threateningly toward him as her eyes of fiery anger focused on him.
"You think you can stop me, Desruca?" The words tore from her throat with seething hate. "Not even the Conclave has that power any longer!"
The hairs on the back of Richard's neck stood on end and he took a step away from her toward the door. Before he could act, Jaclyn leaped toward him with a scream, dagger out stretched toward him. In panic, Richard flattened against the hallway wall away from her attack in time for her to barely miss him and slice through the side of his overcoat. With her continuing momentum, she slammed into the hallway wall beyond him and the dagger buried itself into the wood. Taking the opportunity, Richard pushed his weight toward her and rammed into her side, knocking both of them to the ground and way from the knife. Upon releasing the dagger, it slid down the wall, the blade slicing through the wood under its own weight. Finally reaching the baseboard, the hill struck the wood and blade angled downward until the hilt rested on the floor.
Richard sat on the floor of the hallway, panting with breath, next to the now unconscious Jaclyn. After a moment, he reached over and slid the dagger out of the floor. Standing, he walked over to the bed and picked up the plastic sheath. Carefully, he slid the plastic down over the blade and locked the clasps on to the hilt. He then stuffed the dagger into his coat pocket and then slumped down onto the end of the bed.
He looked over toward the hallway and Jaclyn still lying on the floor.
"What the hell was that?" he finally exclaimed.
After a few moments to catch his wits, Richard stood and walked over to the hallway. He reached down and grasped the still unconscious Jaclyn by her arm and lifted her. He then picked her up into his arms and carried her over to the bed. Richard could feel that she was still breathing as he crossed the room and laid her on the drab comforter.
"Now what?" he thought to himself. He didn't feel obligated to stick around, especially after she had attacked him, but he was still certain that the fault was not hers and somehow the daggers. She hadn't been the first to hold it, however. Richard now believed that this woman had no intention of trying to translate the glyphs on the blade. What she had been doing seemed more like some type of divination. Whatever it was, it had gotten out of her control.
He sat on the end of the bed for a few minutes, wondering exactly what should be his next move. Before he could decide, his cell phone chirped at him from his pocket. Richard jumped at the sound, then sharply reached into his pocket and pulled the device out.
"Hello?"
"It's me, Mr. Bateman, Jerry."
Anger grew in Richard; Jerry's continued mystery again irked him.
"Who the hell is this lead you asked me to meet? I gave her the dagger to examine and she attacked me with it!"
"I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Bateman. She's a seer. I wanted her to tell us the origin of the dagger." His apology seems rehearsed but not surprised.
"A what?" Richard asked, incredulously.
"A seer, Mr. Bateman. She has certain talents that allow her to divine the history of an item."
Richard couldn't believe his ears. Dr. Sorensen had a friggin PHD and had proven on several occasions to be a valuable asset and this Mr. Jerry decided to use this psycho hack instead. One that had put him into danger, no less!
"You mean one of those damn psychics off T.V.?" The contempt was not hidden.
"No, Mr. Bateman. She's not the host of some radio show, she's quite legitimate, I assure you." Jerry's voice was still calm and rehearsed, as if he's had this conversation a time or two before.
"Well, whoever she is she tried to kill me and got damn close!"
"I understand, Mr. Bateman. It sounds as if the dagger was a bit too much for her. I need to meet you immediately. Can you tell me where you are?"
Richard gave him the address and name of the hotel.
"What am I supposed to do with her?" Richard asked. "She fell unconscious on the floor after I got the dagger away from her."
"She should be fine, Mr. Bateman. I'll have a car waiting downstairs for you in a few moments. Just leave her on the bed and come meet me." His answer was curt and the call clicked once he was finished.
Richard pocketed his phone and stood looked about, checking that he wasn't leaving anything. He then checked Jaclyn again to be sure she was still breathing then made for the room's door. He had gotten outside the room and halfway down the hall to the elevator when he stopped.
"Just leave her on the bed and come meet me." Those were the words Jerry had spoken. Richard had never mentioned to Jerry that he had moved her to the bed. Perhaps it was just a logical conclusion on Jerry's part, or even just a suggestion from him.
Richard glanced about him, suddenly feeling quite paranoid. Shaking the feelings off, he continued to the elevator and eventually rode it down to the first floor. As the doors opened and he stepped off, two men stepped past him and into the elevator. They both struck Richard as odd since they both wore black suits of the same type. Before he could take a closer notice of them, however, the elevator doors slid closed.
Exiting the hotel from the front, Richard found a yellow cab waiting on the curb outside the door. Richard looked about for another car and, not seeing another, step up to the rear door of the cab and opened the door. Bending over to step inside, Richard noticed another occupant. He quickly recognized it as Jerry. He sat next to the far door legs crossed and was still in the black slacks and dark grey dress shirt he had been wearing during Richard's briefing this earlier today. Scowling, Richard stepped inside, sat down, and closed the door. Once inside, Richard looked in to the front seat and saw no driver.
"Are you all right, Mr. Bateman?" Jerry asked. He sounded genuinely concerned.
"Yes, fine, thank you." Richard responded a little sharply.
"Again, I'm sorry for what happened upstairs. Had I any idea, I wouldn't have sent you here alone."
Richard relaxed and tried to release his anger.
"It's all right." He stated. "No one was hurt."
"Good. Good." He placed his hands on the knee of his crossed leg. "I've spoken to the director. We both agree that the dagger is too dangerous to leave around here. We need to transport it to a more secure facility where it can be examined under more controlled conditions. We'd like you to take it there."
"Uh, me? If you think it's as dangerous as you say, wouldn't an armed escort be more appropriate?"
"That kind of activity would certainly be noticed. No," Jerry shook his head, "secrecy is our biggest asset right now. It would be best if you took it there yourself, less conspicuous."
Richard was again having that cornered feeling. He was used to taking instruction from his superiors, and travel was often a necessity in his job, but he felt ill-informed and manipulated.
"How is the dagger dangerous? Granted, its damn sharp, but I have a feeling that's not what you mean?"
Jerry chuckled at Richards comment.
"No, no," he answered, "you're right. Richard, why do you think Mrs. Warring attacked you upstairs? Did you feel that she was a violent woman when you met her?"
Richard shook his head. "No, she seemed genuinely interested in helping."
"And she was," Jerry stated. "As I stated earlier, Jaclyn is a seer. She has the ability to discover the history of an item through physical contact."
Richard frowned after hearing Jerry's words. He had been a research agent for several years now and a person ruled by logical thinking for his entire life, belief in the metaphysical didn't last long past its suspension needed for Hollywood movies.
"I understand your skepticism. I would certainly share it if we switched places. However, I don't have time to educate you on the many nuances in our world that live beyond the range of standard belief. You'll just have to trust me."
Richard's frown hung.
"At any rate, what you saw upstairs was something that I had never witness before. I believe that whatever the history of this blade may be, when Mrs. Warring tapped into it, it over-whelmed her."
"How do you know what happened upstairs?" Richard asked, his earlier suspicions being confirmed.
"Yes," Jerry responded, a bit impatiently, "I did have the room wired and everything that happened, I saw."
"So, she was over-whelmed by the psychic connection to the dagger and decided to attack me with it?" Richard was obviously not convinced.
"Yes."
"I see," Richard answered sarcastically.
"Well, what's your explanation?" Jerry was still calm; he seemed to have expected this. "You told me yourself she seemed genuinely eager to help. Why then, would she suddenly decide to spout nonsense and try to attack you? She quite a peaceful woman, but what I saw was a very violent change. Even her accent was changed? Can you explain that?"
Richard couldn't. He remembered being utterly shocked at the sudden change when he tried to take the dagger from her. He distinctly remembered the burning in her eyes as she menacingly waved the dagger at him. The look was heated and angry, completely different from the calm gaze that she greeted him with at the door.
"Alright," Richard conceded, "perhaps the dagger did have some type of effect on her, but she's the only one that has been effected. I and my entire team have been in contact with the weapon since we extracted it from the ice and none of us have reacted the same way."
"And I doubt any of you would unless you had made the same type of connection. Frankly, we can't be certain if those which Jaclyn's talents can be affected or not. Perhaps those of you in your team where just lucky, again, we just don't know. That's why the dagger is dangerous, and that's why we need you to transport it. You are obviously not affected and giving it to others to transport would just be risking a different result with every new person who came in contact with it."
Richard was beginning to feel that Jerry's reasoning made sense and the further information from Jerry helped clear some the fog of unknowns.
"Alright, I'll go." Richard felt the words leave painfully. "I suppose you need me to leave as soon as possible."
"Of course," Jerry responded, "we already have a flight picked out for you."
"Well, then, I'll just need to return to my apartment and pack a few items. Where exactly will I be heading?"
Jerry smiled. "Sunnydale," he answered.
The city of Sunnydale apparently wasn't large enough to have a major airport and instead only offered a small terminal. When Richard's flight finally landed and he stepped down the stairs from the plane, he began to feel weary. The night was almost over and he had gotten no sleep. He checked his watch as be stepped onto the asphalt of the runway and frowned. The sun would be rising soon. Still wearing the same clothes from his meeting with Mrs. Warring and Jerry, Richard made his way toward the terminal doors carrying only a single bag of luggage in his left hand and his briefcase in his right. Inside the nylon luggage on his left, the dagger was held snuggly in its plastic sheath and between a change of clothes.
It has been surprisingly easy to get the dagger through the terminal in Langley and on-board the airliner. Jerry had sent an escort with Richard back to his apartment from the hotel. The man had followed behind him in one of those infamous FBI black trucks on the way to his home and then had waited outside while Richard packed. After packing only essentials, Richard then made his way to the airport with his escort again close behind him. Upon choosing a parking spot somewhere in the vastness of the Langley airports parking lot, the black truck had pulled up next to him. The driver stepped out and introduced himself as Hank. He then handed Richard his ticket and informed him that Richard would not be entering the terminal via the front entrance. Hank then lead Richard in through a side entrance, which was locked via a keypad. Hank quickly punched on the keys and swung the door open. Their entrance was beyond the airport metal detectors and only a few steps away from airport security. Richard had followed Hank into the security office where Hank then spoke in quiet tones with the officer behind the desk. The officer checked something on his desk mounted computer terminal then had asked Richard for identification. After seeing it, the three of them had left the security office and the officer escorted the both of them to a boarding gate on the other side of the terminal. There, the officer had spoken with the gate attendant. Hank had then told Richard that he would be switching planes in Los Angeles but that he should have no problems. After those brief words, Hank simply left, walking off into the airport crowds. The gate attendant then waved Richard into the jet way and onto the plane. Richard's flight to L.A. had been uneventful and his landing and then boarding of the smaller plane bound for Sunnydale almost instantaneous. On both flights, Richard had been to only one sitting in his row so he had kept his luggage and the dagger in the seat next to him.
Now, as he approached the doors into the Sunnydale airport terminal, Richard was amazed at the small amount of time it had taken to make the trip. He stepped through the doors into the terminal and was happy to feel the warm air within. Looking about for the restrooms, he hadn't taken a piss since on the plane from Langley, Richard made his way over to doors to his left marked with the standard male and female stick figures. Before he reached the door, however, he heard someone call his name.
"Mr. Bateman?"
Stopping in his tracks, Richard turned around to face the male voice addressing him.
There were two men, both standing quite close to him. A bit closer than was comfortable, actually. Both wore jeans, one had a black shirt on under a worn leather jacket and the other was wearing a deep blue wool sweater. Each man had brown eyes and jet black hair, their features were so similar, in fact, that Richard suspected they were brothers.
"Mr. Bateman," the one in the sweater repeated. His voice was polite and calm. Their stance was definitely confident and their eyes didn't waver as they stared at Richard. Richard didn't think the two of them looked a day over twenty-one.
"Yes," Richard finally answered.
The man in the sweater grinned broadly. "Ah, good," He spoke. "I'm Art and this is my colleague Darrin. We spoke to Mr. Jerry not too long ago and he asked us to pick you up and escort you in."
"Ah," Richard responded, a bit warily. "I see."
Art looked down at Richard's luggage and then back up at him.
"Is it in there?"
Richard was startled by the question. Since leaving Jerry at the hotel, he had been growing a bit paranoid. He had kept a careful watch over the dagger, keeping it with him at all times. Even to the point of taking it with him into the cramped bathroom stall in the airplane from Langley to Los Angeles. Art's sudden, direct reference to the dagger was unnerving.
Richard glanced about before answering. "Yes," he answered, almost a whisper.
"Good." Art grinned again. "Come with us then, we'll take you right to the facility."
Richard hesitated for a moment. He then stepped forward toward the men, his need to use the restroom forgotten.
Both Art and Darrin fell in behind Richard. They directed him out the nearby side exit from the terminal. The three men then walked into the parking lot and the cool air of the night. Darrin pointed out their car. It was a large, light blue Cadillac with no plates on it. The car looked about ten years old but still in mint condition. Both Art and Darrin stepped into the front seats and Richard slowly climbed into the back seat. The interior was the cars original, a cream colored vinyl, also in mint condition. Richard sat on the right side and drew the belt across his waist. He sat his luggage and brief case in the seat next to him. Art started the car, its engine roared to life with an exuberant thunder, obviously modified in some fashion and definitely not the original. They then smoothly pulled out of the parking space and out a side entrance to the terminal parking lot. The car turned left onto the road and began out toward what looked like to Richard as dense wilderness. In the dark of night, the deep forest seemed quite forbidding and impenetrable.
After about five minutes out along the rood and away from anything that resembled civilization, Darrin turned around in his seat to face Richard, placing his right left arm across the backrest.
"So, found a man in an iceberg at the north pole, eh?"
Richard was a bit stunned. He didn't expect these two to know so much.
"Uh, yes," he stammered.
"And you found that dagger with him?" Darrin nodded down at the luggage sitting next to Richard.
"Yes."
Darrin's questioning was making Richard nervous. For wanting to keep this find a secret, Jerry seemed to be releasing a lot of info.
"That's a damn amazing find. Especially for as old as it's supposed to be. Wouldn't you say, Art?"
"Oh, yes," Art replied from behind the wheel. "Quite amazing."
Art swung the car to the right and off the road. The Cadillac began shaking as it left the pavement and began down a gravel road into the wilderness. The trees hung high over the car blocked the stars light and the night engulfed them. Only the glow of the cars headlights were visible.
Darrin pointed toward the luggage case. "Why don't ya take it out of there doc and let us take a look at it?"
The hairs on the back of Richard's neck stood on end.
"I doubt that would be a very good idea," he stated.
Darrin turned his head toward Art again.
"Ya know, Mr. Jerry said that that dagger could cut through anything!"
"You don't say," Art replied calmly.
"Oh yeah. He said anything." Darrin made a cutting motion with his left hand. "Like wood, plastic, iron, gold…anything!"
Richard watched Darrin closely. The man had a sharp look in his eyes and a playful grin on his face, like a boy tormenting ants. Richard began to feel quite uneasy in the car with these two men as they drove farther into the forest and away from the road.
Darin turned his head back to look at Richard.
"You think it could cut through solid steel," he asked.
Darin reached inside his coat with his right hand drew something out. The light glinted momentarily on its shiny surface as Darin lifted it and brought it to rest on the back of his seat. Richard gasped as he found himself looking down the barrel of a gun. Richard had no idea what type of weapon it was, he wasn't a field agent. It was large, however, and Richard was fairly certain that whatever it shot would be enough to blow the back of his head all over the inside of the car.
"What do you think?" Darin asked again.
Richard was planted back against his seat in fear. He glanced over at Art in the seat next to Darrin, the man continued driving and seemed either unaware or uncaring that his colleague was holding Richard at gunpoint.
"I...I..." was all Richard could stammer.
"Why don't you take it out and let us see." Darin again suggested, this time a bit more forceful.
Hands shaking, still looking the gun down its barrel, Richard reached over and grabbed his luggage. Working the locks in front, Richard soon flipped the case open and began searching through the clothes found within. Finally placing his hand on the ever cold handle, Richard drew the dagger and its plastic sheath out from under his clothes and into the light of the car.
Darin's eyes sparkled upon seeing the blade. "Very nice. Give it to me."
Darin stretched his left hand out toward the dagger.
Richard froze. In that moment, he realized why Jerry had sent him with the dagger and not one of his own men. Richard had thought it was strange from the beginning and had been pondering it his whole trip. Now Richard knew why, because Jerry wanted to get rid of him. Obviously, Jerry thought he knew too much. It was clear that once Richard let go of the dagger, he was dead.
When Richard did not move, Darrin's eyes grew angry and his brow clenched. His mouth tensed and he was about to speak, but the car pitched to the left suddenly as it hit something in the road. All three of them were tossed violently to the side. Richard held onto the door next to him to steady himself. Darin, was forced to lower the gun and brace himself on the seat to stop from sliding to the left. In a moment of desperation, Richard grabbed for the handle on the door and swung it open. He then dove from the car.
Fortunately, it wasn't moving too fast after being jostled and Richard landed on his hands and knees. The gravel of the road cut into his palms, but he soon forgot the pain as a shot rung out in the car and glass exploded around him. Richard heard one of the men curse loudly and the car came to a sliding halt. Richard was about to leap up and run into the woods when he saw the dagger lying a few feet from him, its plastic sheath had apparently fallen off and its sharp edge gleamed in the starlight. Not sure why he still cared, Richard grabbed the dagger and took off into the surrounding trees. Another shot rang out behind him and Richard felt the bark of a nearby tree burst.
Richard kept running forward into the trees. Behind him he heard the two men pursuing him through the brush, shouting and occasionally firing. Every shot he heard made him cringe as he expected to be hit. Branches stung his legs and tripped his steps as he ran forward. Bringing the dagger up before him, Richard began cutting at the trees in his way, slicing through them without effort. The cold air stung his lungs as he rasped for each breath. The forest was almost pitch black and Richard hoped he was making his way toward the main road and not into the deep forest.
Suddenly, the trees fell away and Richard burst into a clearing. Before him stood a low iron fence set in a stone base, beyond that lay what looked in the dim starlight as a head stone. The wall didn't stand taller than Richard's waist so he quickly scaled it found himself in what looked like an old cemetery. The wilderness looked to be taking over this area as the grass and weeds all but covered the ground. Dozens of head stones could be seen in rows from where he stood and a shiver ran up Richard's back. The shouts of his pursuers came out from the forest behind him and his fear of dying over took his fear of the dead. Richard continued forward in between the graves.
After a few dozen meters, the thick grass and weeds lessened and Richard was able to pick up his pace. He heard Art and Darrin closer behind him than before, they were definitely catching up to him. Richard rushed forward through the graves, trying to stay low. A shot rang out behind him and he heard the snap of stone as the bullet hit a nearby headstone. Panicked, Richard dove behind a larger tomb, another two shots bursting through the wall next to him as he fell.
Richard's mind raced as he tried to figure out what to do. If he faced them, these men would definitely kill him. Running from them and into the forest was the only option. Richard stood from the wall and was about to race out from behind the tomb and toward the nearest forest edge when Darrin suddenly appeared from around the stone corner next to him. Richard felt a sharp, blinding pain in his head as the butt of Darrin's gun made contact with his forehead. He stumbled back and fell to the ground.
The world wavered around him and a fog blanketed Richard's mind. He tried supporting himself on his arm, but it was roughly kicked out from under him and Richard fell backward onto his shoulders.
"Sonofabitch!" he heard Darrin shouting. "Where the hell did you think you were going?"
"Calm down." Art this time, his voice was still calm.
Richard felt a sharp impact in his side and he curled in pain.
"God damnit!"
"I said, calm down."
Richard's mind began to clear and the fear of his situation flooded back in. The pain in his side began to dull. He still felt the cool of the dagger in his right hand.
"Just take the dagger, kill him, and let's go." Art spoke as if to a child.
"I'll blow his fucking head off!"
Richard felt new pain as someone stepped on his right wrist. He opened his eyes to see Darrin standing over him, the barrel of his gun pointed down at his head.
"Let go, asshole!"
Hopelessness washed over Richard, he realized he was at the mercy of these two men and that it didn't seem like these were the most forgiving people. Richard released the dagger which then slipped from his hand. Darrin was about to bend down to retrieve it when someone shouted out from behind them all.
"Hey! Get the hell out of my cemetery!"
Richard didn't recognize this voice. It was obviously angry, but it seemed to have a slight accent to it. Turning his head and peering back behind Art, Richard's spotted a new figure across the path standing by a headstone. Though Richard's view was upside-down, he could tell that this was a man dressed in black slacks, a grey shirt, and some type of a black overcoat.
Darrin stepped off Richard's wrist and turned to face the new gentlemen.
"Who the hell are you," he asked.
"I'm the man that lives here and you bloody well better get off the land before I feed that gun to you!"
Definitely an accent, Richard thought as he sat up and leaned against the tomb next to him. Definitely a British accent.
The pain in his side prevented him from standing, but from the corrected angle, Richard was able to get a better view of their new friend.
He also seemed rather young, perhaps nineteen or twenty. His hair was dyed blond with brown roots and spiked backwards across his scalp. His face was long with high cheek bones and currently clenched in anger. The man's face seemed quite pale, even in the faint starlight.
"Is that so?" Darin spoke.
He raised the gun towards the man, no doubt intending to shoot. The gentleman leaned toward Darrin and then was suddenly a blur as he rushed forward with incredible speed and snatched the gun right out of Darrin's hand. Startled, both Darrin and Art took a step back. The man then took the gun by the grip and pointed the barrel into Darrin's chest.
"Now, piss off," the gentlemen instructed.
A sneer twisted Darrin's face and he quickly grabbed for the gun and lunged at the gentlemen. Richard watched as both he and Darrin fell to the ground, gun held between them. As the two men fought for the weapon, Art reached under the back of this sweater and pulled out another pistol. This one black, and smaller than Darrin's. He then pointed it at the two men rolling on the grass.
The fight rolled about the ground with Darrin hitting and kicking the gentlemen with his free limbs. The gentleman took the hits easily but was surprisingly not striking back and was instead intent on controlling the gun still held between them. Suddenly a shot fired within the brawl and both Art and Richard jumped. After a moment, both of the men on the ground screamed in pain. They separated, rolling away from each other. Darrin held his left side, his hands covered in blood. The gentlemen rolled away holding his head in both hands and screaming. As soon as the too men separated, Art pointed his pistol at the unidentified man and fired several shots. Each bullet hit and the pale man twitched with the impacts.
Richard, his pains dulled, saw the dagger sitting at his feet. In hope of helping the gentleman who saved him from being killed, Richard lunged for the dagger then twisted around and with all his strength shoved it into the middle of Arts back. The dagger slid in to the hilt with no resistance. It was as if Richard was stabbing at the air. Art gasped in surprise then his gun slipped from his grasp and fell to the ground. His body gave a short spasm then toppled forward off the dagger and onto his face. Art then lay there unmoving.
Richard stared down at the Art's body and then at the dagger in his hand. He watched as a single drop of Art's blood ran off the steel of the blade and onto the ground. Richard dropped the dagger to his feet, unbelieving in what he had just done.
Another shot fired and woke Richard from his stunned state. He looked up to see Darrin leaning against a tombstone, his left hand covered in blood and pressing down on the wound in his abdomen. In his right hand he held his gun forward, pointing it at Richard. Apparently, he had missed.
Darrin's face crumpled in a sneer over his anger at missing and he pulled the trigger again. Richard dove to the side in time to dodge the round as it exploded from the barrel of Darrin's gun. From the ground, Richard looked over at Darrin. He was still aiming his gun at Richard and seemed about to fire at him again, a shot that would surely hit. However, before he pulled the trigger, Darrin's eyes glazed over. Slowly, his arm slumped to the ground and dropped the gun. Darrin, too, now lay there propped up against the headstone unmoving.
Richard lay on the ground next to the unmoving Art, his breath heaving out of him. His mind was still working on trying to grasp the reality of what just happened.
Suddenly, a roar rose from off to the right and Richard turned his head to see the gentleman rise to his feet in a shout of anger. He turned to face him and Richard was startled to see that his face had changed. His brow seemed clenched in a horrid almost Cro-Magnon snarl and his eyes had become overcast with a luminescent yellow. The most frightening change was the large canine teeth that hung like fangs from his upper jaw. The horrid face was shouting in anger as he stared before him. Upon seeing both men down and neither moving, however, the snarl dropped from his face. The bulge in his brow, the color of his eyes, and the fangs in his mouth remained.
He looked about a bit confused then saw Richard lying frightened next to Art's body.
"Oh," he said, "good job, then."
The gentleman then moved forward toward him. Richard saw the holes in the man's grey shirt made from Art's bullets, but there was no blood on him and the wounds were non-existent. The gentleman step closer to him. Richard could feel a presence about him, one that was certainly not human. Still shaken from the recent ordeal, Richard quickly stood and backed away from the man's menacing face.
The gentleman stopped and frowned upon seeing Richard's frightened reaction to him.
"Are there any more," he asked finally, his accent quite apparent.
Richard shook his head and began to inch away from the gentleman, meeting the tomb wall behind him with his back.
"I'm not going to bite you," the man said. "I wouldn't have let these bastards shoot me if I could." He pointed down at Art's body.
Richard continued to move away from the gentleman, his nerves still on the edge from his encounter with almost being killed. The man before him frowned again, shrugged and then suddenly lunged forward with a vicious growl. Richard's nerves finally broke and he launched himself off the tomb wall and took off running. He made for the forest as quickly as possible, feeling that in-human figure still right on his heels. Running through a break in the cemetery wall, Richard finally made it in to the forest and the pitch dark of night.
Dropping his vampiric face, Spiked watched the frightened stranger run from him. He chuckled to himself. Granted, the damned chip the Initiative planted in his head stopped him from killing, but simply terrifying them was almost just as fun. After the stranger disappeared into the forest, Spike turned back to the men on the ground. It was quite a mess.
The one in the sweater that his frightened friend had killed lay before him. Spike could see that his blood was running into the grass. At the sight of the blood, Spike's breath quickened. He hadn't fed on humans in a while. It's difficult to get them to die for you when you can't kill them. Crouching next to the corpse, Spike reached down and placed his fingers on the wound in his back. The blood was warm and thick. Bringing his blood soaked fingers to his lips, Spike inhaled a deep breath. His stomach lurched and air erupted from his lungs in a sharp cough. He quickly moved his finger from his face then proceeded to wipe them clean on the corpse. The blood was tainted with something.
Disgusted Spike stood and walked over to the other in the leather jacket. On closer inspection, he found that this corpse's blood was also tainted.
"Damnit!" he shouted in anger, feeling his hunger ache inside of him.
Still upset at being denied dinner, Spike lifted the corpse off the ground and removed the leather jacket. It was black leather, just like his coat and Spike hoped it might be able to buying a pint or two of blood in town. He was again disappointed as he found that the earlier accident with the gun which had cost his assailant his life had also ruined the man's jacket. A large blood soaked bullet hole had been blasted through the leather.
With a snarl he tossed the jacket to the floor. Dejected at the entire experience, Spike turned to leave when a shimmer of metal glinted in the corner of his eye. Looking over toward the corpse in the sweater, Spike saw something metal lying in the brush at the corpse's feet. Spike stepped over behind the corpse and crouched in the grass and weeds. Laying half buried in the ground, Spike found the hilt of an ornate dagger. Grasping the hilt he found the wood cold and its scale-like carving smooth. He lifted the blade from the dirt. It was curved and jagged and looked quite keen. Engraved on the blade where several illegible symbols.
"Well, then," Spike mumbled, "this should be worth a pint or two."
Standing with dagger in his left hand, he lifted his right finger and touched it to the blade edge, testing its sharpness. Upon the slightest pressure, the blade passed into his finger. A small drop of blood dripped from the wound and Spike snatched his hand away from the blade in pain. Once away from the dagger the wound quickly sealed closed and the pain ceased.
"Damn," he commented. He looked down at the corpse next to him. "That must have hurt, eh?"
He kicked the corpse. "Thanks chap."
Spike again turned to leave. Walking away from the corpses, he began to hear a nagging buzz in his head. Ignoring it and continuing forward through the rows of headstones, the buzzing grew louder. Spike stopped to look about, not quite certain any longer that the sound was just in his head. His vampiric eyes saw nothing.
Glancing down that the blade in his left hand, Spike saw it glimmer in the starlight. Suddenly, a feeling of calm washed over him. Not an unfamiliar feeling, but one that he hadn't felt in a long time. The calm settled into serenity. Spike suddenly felt at peace, as if he had been struggling with himself for almost an eternity and finally had become complete. All his life, he had been angry. Even as a mortal, before Angel had found him and Drusilla, Spike had been upset at the world. He couldn't understand why now. It seemed that the world was working as it should, that just living and dying was enough to be complete and that selfish pursuits are what made life unbearable. He had been tricked out of completing that calm cycle of serenity by Angel and now, more than one-hundred years later, he was still angry and upset. Finally, however, he had made his peace with the world and he was ready to end it all. His cycle on this world was complete and all he wanted was the calm peace of oblivion. Feeling that he was finally able to end his own suffering, Spike decided that it was time for him to die. Too bad, Buffy couldn't understand this peace, having been pulled from her own oblivion and back into this world by her selfish friends.
Thoughts of Buffy flooded his mind with images of her. The golden locks and soft smile which he had dreamed about almost daily flashed before his mind's eye. The memory of their recent coupling brought an ache to his chest as he remembered the night they had spent together in the almost demolished house. She had been so abashed and angry the next morning. Of course, that didn't matter now since he was ready to go and would lose her forever.
Loss suddenly welled up and exploded within Spike. His love for Buffy and the pain at the thought of loosing her broke him from his trance. The night and its cool air rushed in around him and he staggered back as his mind returned to the cemetery. Thoughts of peace, serenity, and the sweet oblivion of death quickly melted away. Spike's head was full of fog and his thoughts jumbled. The buzzing sound still lingered in his ears and he felt it pushing and trying to invade his thoughts.
Looking back down at the dagger, he found that at some point he had raised his left hand and brought the blade to his chest. Its pointed was hovering over his heart and he felt the buzzing in his head twinge and flare at the site. The idea of the calm and serenity again washed over him and he suddenly had the inclination to drive the dagger into his heart and end his suffering.
With a panicked gasp, Spike jerked the dagger from his chest and threw it into the grass in front of him. With an almost painful pull, the fog in his head instantly cleared. The thoughts of calm and of killing himself evaporated.
"Bloody hell!"
His body was shivering and his brow pouring sweat. Realizing that he had been just a moment or two from killing himself, Spike's knees grew weak and he leaned on a nearby headstone for support.
His thoughts began to race, trying to uncover what had just happened to him. It was the dagger. That much was certain. It had felt as if something was controlling his thoughts, making him feel the strange unfocused calm. He didn't want to die. Spiked loved his life and loved being a vampire. Despite the fact that the Initiative had all but removed his fangs, Spike was confident that he would somehow get rid of it and one day resume his pillaging and plundering as normal. The buzzing in his ears, which even now continued though dimmed and no longer trying to force its way into his mind, had been the beginning.
"Where the hell did that thing come from," his breath was still running quick and the question came as a rasp from his throat.
As a preternatural creature, a vampire is able to sense, almost smell magic when near to it. Most definitely, they can feel it when touched. Spike, however, had felt nothing from the dagger. It gave off no "scent" nor did it feel out of the ordinary. For Spike, that ruled out magic. Perhaps it was the chip in his head. Spike cursed the damned thing in his skull, as he often did. If this was somehow an Initiative issued weapon, perhaps it was somehow designed to react with his chip if he tried to use the dagger. Spike shook his head. He wasn't certain and doubted that he was smart enough to figure it out on his own.
After a bit of thought, Spike finally decided to take the dagger to the Magic Box and see if Anya had any ideas. He wished that Giles was still in Sunnydale as Spike was certain he would have better luck discovering the dagger's origins. Its not that he doubted Anya's detective abilities, but Xander's little minx was a tad flighty and not all there.
Spike stood up off the headstone. His head was now completely clear and he felt his strength had returned. The buzzing still fluttered in his head, but it was quieter and easily ignored. Spike took a few steps toward where the dagger now lay. As he stepped closer, the buzzing grow louder. Every step toward the dagger the buzzing became stronger and more insistent, pushing its way into his thoughts. Once he had moved to stand over the dagger, finding it buried to the hilt in the base of a headstone, the buzzing in Spike's head almost drowned out all other thoughts. He felt it's prodding into his mind increase to a steady push and it was all he could do to keep it at bay. Crouching to pick up the dagger, its buzzing rose to a deafening crescendo, Spike pulled his right arm into his coat and picked up the dagger with his sleeve.
His forehead was drenched in sweat and he began grinding his teeth. The push of the buzzing in his head was almost unbearable. Spike stood from the ground and began running with the dagger held by the sleeve of his coat. Certain of his course, having taken it on several occasions, Spike moved as fast as possible through the broken cemetery. When he finally entered the forest, the trees blurred past him with the intense speed of his running. Every step was in pain as the buzzing remained unwavering in his head, trying to push into his thoughts. After several minutes, the lights of the town came into view and Spike ran head long as fast as he could through the streets. People and places where only momentary flashed in his vision as he passed them. He vaguely recalled screeching brakes and shouts as he darted unerringly across busy streets. Finally, a good twenty minutes from his crypt at the cemetery, Spike turned onto the street where the Magic Box stood. He felt as if his head were about to split in two. A roaring headache had begun to form behind his eyes and the buzzing had not diminished. His teeth hurt and his brow ached from the clenching of his face.
He reached the door of the Magic Box and found it locked. The lights were out and the store beyond was dark.
"Of course," he spoke. It was still early morning, the sun would be rising in less than and hour and no one would be here for at least three.
Spike became desperate, almost frantic. The buzzing in his head continued and gave him no reason to believe it would be getting weaker. Looking about, Spike grabbed the handle on the shop's front door and gave a quick, sharp push. He heard wood crack and the door moved inward. He swung the door open and rushed into the store. In the cool darkness inside, Spike lurched over to the nearby counter and dropped the dagger next to the old cash register. He then collapsed to the floor. The buzzing died off a bit and its edge subsided. The sound was still painful in his ears and only fueled his throbbing headache. Pushing himself up onto his hands, Spike half crawled for the door. Upon reaching it, he flung it open and fell out the doorway and onto the outside concrete, barely managing to hold on to the door and slam it closed on his way down.
The buzzing was all but gone. It still lingered in the back of his mind but he could now think straight. He lay there on the cool concrete for several minutes catching his breath and trying to regain his composure. Finally, opening his eyes, Spike saw that the sky had grown lighter with the approaching dawn. Spike had little more than half an hour to get underground before the sun rose.
Cursing again, Spike jumped to his feet. The headache induced by the buzzing was still with him and a short wave of nausea washed over him. Walking causally at first, Spike tried to make his way down the streets toward the edge of town. The lighter the sky became, however, the more his pace increased. Finally, reaching the outskirt of Sunnydale, Spike broke into a run. He had only a few moments to reach his cemetery and the safety of his crypt below.