Title: In Diamond Light

Author: Ivytree

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: All characters belong to Joss Whedon, UPN, Mutant Enemy, etc.

Feedback: Please!

Summary: How will Spike get from "B" to "A"?

Setting: After "Chosen."

In Diamond Light

Part Three

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Fred, Gunn, Wesley, and Lorne exchanged glances of concern. In general, Angel wasn't a big laugher even at the best of times.

"Okay, now I get it," Angel remarked, between chortles. "'Butterfly,' huh? You can't say the Powers haven't got a sense of humor."

"Maybe you're just tired, Angel…" Fred began.

But Angel interrupted her, sitting up with a new air of resolve. "So, Wes, you found a prophecy? Right. And rites of transformation? Fine. Good. Why fight it? Let's just do it, okay?" He scrubbed his face with both hands. "Man, if this works, I KNOW I'll never hear the end of it."

"What are you talking about?" Gunn demanded.

"Wes was right," Angel said, rising and tucking the mysterious box under his arm. "Buffy was right. Wesley was right. Bring the stone, Gunn. I guess we've got some rites to perform, ladies and gentlemen. Downstairs, where we won't be disturbed." He faced them, his expression sardonic. "And then someone WILL be joining us."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Air, balmy and whisper-soft, stirred the hairs along his arms. Beneath his naked feet he felt a moist freshness; he curled his toes, and cool strands of—what?—threaded between them. A green, loam-y smell met his nostrils, pleasantly natural and somehow comforting. His body felt heavy, but relaxed, without a single ache, bruise, or hint of stiffness or fatigue, as though he had just emerged from a sleep sounder than any he had known in years. With mild surprise, he realized that he was sitting down, his bare back against a hard, sturdy seat.

A strange, but at the same time strangely familiar, fluttering, whooshing sound seemed to emanate from quite high over his head, and from directly before him came an odd swishing and gurgling, like—like—he knew what it was like, really. He was sure it would come to him in a minute. Some creature was there with him, too, he was certain; from above came a high-pitched "chee! chee!" and a "pwe-eet! Pwe-eet!" He knew what it was. He'd put a name to it soon.

And to himself. Though that really didn't seem to matter at the moment.

"Qwaah! qwaah!" and "chook, chook" calls sounded from a distance ahead. What WERE those noises? He began to feel exasperated, now, and frowned. Another thing he couldn't comprehend was the darkness. Was he blind? Involuntarily, he put his hands to his face, and chuckled aloud. Right. Not blind, then. His eyes were closed.

All he had to do was look about him, and these mysteries would be solved in an instant. Simple enough. But still he hesitated, and a bead of ice ran down his spine. He felt like the cartoon hunter, who never knew he'd run right off a cliff until he looked down (but—when, and where, had he seen a cartoon hunter?).

And—what if IT were there?

In fact, he was sure it was there, waiting for him. What he wanted to know was why it hadn't affected him so far. Had he changed—or had the rules of the universe? Did he dare look?

Well, sod that, he wasn't going to sit here cringing, or crawl off to hide until it went away again. Not anymore. Taking a deep breath, he dropped his hands, opened his eyes, and blinked away the sudden sting of tears against a blazing, unfamiliar golden light.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"I guess this is as good a place as any," Angel said. He had led his comrades to a dimly lit chamber with one easily defended door in the lowest sub-basement of the Hyperion. Each of them held a bag or bundle of some kind, and Angel still kept a firm grip on the box Buffy had handed him. Twelve white candles, as yet unlit, marked out a rough circle about eight feet in diameter.

"Well, the vibes around here seem okay, I guess," Lorne said. Then he shuddered theatrically. "Why does it always have to be so GLOOMY?"

"In this case, we'd better stick to the darkness, at least in the beginning," Angel said, his gaze fixed on the center of the circle.

Wesley, Fred, Gunn, and Lorne looked at each other, and then back at Angel. Their friend was still maintaining an unusual air of mystery regarding the whole operation.

"You're awfully tight-lipped about this," Gunn complained.

"Yes." Wes narrowed his eyes. "You're not telling us everything, are you?"

Angel glanced up. "Believe me, I don't know everything."

"This isn't—it isn't, well, dangerous, is it?" Fred said. "Wesley? Is what we're doing good, or bad? I mean, a prophecy should say that, shouldn't it?"

"It should," Wes sighed. "But somehow, they hardly ever do. Anyway, this isn't exactly a prophecy—it's a prediction. We have to do it. We're going to do it. It's fated."

"So, do we need weapons, or what?" Gunn asked.

"Excellent point! Remember those Zoth demons I mentioned?" Lorne put in. "They've got particularly nasty tempers, and big poisonous fangs."

"I think we would be forewarned if we were to need weapons," Wes said. "If danger results from this, it won't take the form of immediate physical threat."

"Well, that's a big help," Gunn said.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

So many shades of green. Pale celadon, like barely nascent leaves; vivid emerald, like the expanse of a newly mown cricket pitch on a sunny day (now, why did he remember that?); deep, shadowy green, like the depths of a forest. An infinite array of hues washed over him like water, cool and restful, renewing and cleansing. Squinting, he held up a hand to shade his eyes. After so many years living as he had lived (he couldn't quite recall, just now, how that was—but it was not like this, not at all), the very intensity of color was almost a threat.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"However," Wes continued, "we had better go through the inventory for this rite, to be sure we have everything we need." He unfolded the paper he had consulted previously, and, clearing his throat, began. "Sixteen pomegranate seeds—we've got those…"

As he spoke, he took a handful of translucent reddish seeds from a paper bag, bent down, and placed them within the circle of candles. As he read through the list, each person did the same with the items they had gathered.

"…fourteen red rose petals…"

"Got 'em!" Fred said.

"Twelve basilisk scales—we have those; ten green bay leaves—easy enough; eight raven feathers…"

"I just happened to have them on me," Lorne said, scattering the inky quills with a dramatic gesture.

"Six juniper berries…" For some reason his companions couldn't quite grasp, Anger snickered as he placed the hard little berries, smelling faintly of gin, into the circle.

"Four bear claws…"

"I've got those—assuming they don't mean the pastry," Gunn said.

"Three golden threads…"

"Here!" Fred knelt and carefully arranged three long gleaming strands.

"Two goblets of wine…"

"Damn!" Angel exclaimed. "I got the cups, but I forgot the wine!" His brow creased. "Does it matter what kind?"

"As long as it's fermented grapes, I don't suppose it does," Wes replied. "But…"

"Wait, I'll be right back," Angel said, and sped from the room so rapidly he seemed to disappear in a puff of smoke.

The others stood aimlessly in place, and shuffled their feet. The solemnity of the occasion began to seem oppressive.

"Quite a wacky collection of arcane thingies," Lorne observed, breaking an uneasy silence. "At the rate we were going, I expected Wes to ask for a partridge in a pear tree any minute."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Greens, blues, browns and golds swirled against his consciousness, coalesced, and resolved into a scene that suddenly made sense.

Well, a surreal kind of sense.

He sat on a park bench quite near the muddy edge of a wide, placid pond, where a community of voluble mallards, teal ducks, trumpeter swans, black swans, and other waterfowl paddled in the sunlight. A swaying willow tree sheltered his seat, its boughs fluttering in the gentle breeze, and beneath his feet was a lawn as dense and closely trimmed as velvet. To the right, a path meandered off toward distant flowerbeds and graceful stands of trees. Above his head birds flickered noisily from branch to branch on business of their own, unaware of his attention.

As he gazed upward, a brilliant ebony-and-sapphire butterfly zigzagged by, surprising him into a laugh of sheer surprise.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Suddenly Angel was in the room again, with two orange-labeled wine bottles under his arm.

"Okay, ready," he said, twisting the stopper out of one bottle with a pop. "Wes—two cups of wine, right?"

"Well, as written, the ritual actually SAYS 'goblets,' but I imagine that's because they didn't have paper cups in the fourth century. I think this will do nicely. Place one in the circle, and the other will be poured over the stone as we chant."

Angel carefully poured two cups of wine, and placed one in the circle and one to the side.

"Now, all we need is the 'Star of the Muses,' and we're ready," Wesley said, looking hard at Angel.

"It's in the box," Angel said, avoiding his eye. "I, uh, got it before." He carefully unwrapped the mysterious box (whose side was even more mysteriously stamped 'Marty's Discount'), removed the lid, knelt, and poured the contents into the center of the circle. As he did so, Fred let out a gasp; the fabulous gem tumbled onto the floor, sparkling blue-white even in the meager light. Angel reached out and brushed some debris from the face of the stone.

"What's all that dirt and stuff?" Gunn asked.

"Dust," Angel replied. "Only dust."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

TBC