CHAPTER TWO
June 16th
It was still dark, when Dawn Summers woke with a start, all sweaty and with her
heart hammering like mad. Just another nightmare. Dawn knew a lot about those.
She couldn't remember this one, but obviously it hadn't been of the screaming
kind, because there were no worried friends standing beside her bed. This had
been one of those silent leaden dreams that made breathing difficult and that
left her almost paralyzed with unnamed dread. The screaming ones were better,
at least they offered a kind of release. And it was nice to wake and find Tara
or sometimes Willow checking on her and hugging her back to sleep.
The Willow-made Dreamcatcher that hung over her bed was not strong enough to
keep the nightmares at bay, but it dulled them, made them fade fast. Dawn
touched the fragile contraption, feeling the softness of the feathers, the
roundness of the beads. Her heart was still beating too fast and she felt a
crushing sense of foreboding. She slipped out of bed, tiptoed to her desk and
turned on the lights. She took her diary out of its hiding place, opened it and
slowly began to write, pouring her grief and anger onto the empty pages.
Buffy was dead because of her. No matter what the others said, it was the
truth. Without Dawn Buffy would still be patrolling Sunnydale's cemeteries;
she'd hang out at the Bronze; she'd mope about Angel and fight with Spike;
she'd worry about university courses and be on the look out for Mr. Right.
Without Dawn Buffy would still be alive. And who knows, if Buffy hadn't been so
busy protecting Dawn from Glory, researching and what not, perhaps she would
have been at home when that thing in Mom's head happened. And Mom would still
be alive? Was that possible?
Her diary could not tell her the answer, but deep inside her heart Dawn knew it
anyway: because of her, both her Mom and Buffy were dead. She had never asked
to be created. It was all the monks' fault. Couldn't they have turned the key
into a nice glowing orb or something? Or some kind of animal? It would have
been nice to be cat. It was so unfair! So unfair, that she added some more
exclamation points.
She chewed on her pen, then absentmindedly drew a small cat. Too bad she
couldn't do magic like Willow and Tara. It would be cool to be able to do
spells and stuff, and turn into a cat, a gray one with stripes. But Tara said
it was too dangerous. Everything was too dangerous in her eyes.
Dawn sighed, snapped her diary shut and hid it. She slid back between the
covers and within a few minutes she was fast asleep. Outside her window the sky
was already growing pale, anticipating the moment when the sun's rays would
make it blush a fiery pink. It would be a beautiful dawn.
***
Konrad von Hohenfels tipped the sleepy bellhop and stepped into the elevator,
his consort Natasha at his side. She was an elegant looking woman - thin and
strong, but also graceful. She didn't look out of place in the Sunnydale Four
Seasons Hotel, the town's most exclusive hotel, even at such a late hour. She
took the key out of her purse and turned it in a lock that was labeled
'Penthouse'. The elevator began its ascent.
"Get me Innokenti," the old vampire said.
Natasha took a small cell phone out of her purse and dialled a number. She held
it to her ear, listening, then passed it to her master.
"William the Bloody, a.k.a. Spike. Find his lair," the Crusader spoke into the
phone, without a word of greeting. "I want to know what he's doing here. I want
the whole story, Innokenti." He listened for a few moments then passed the
phone back to Natasha. She killed the connection and put the device back into
her handbag.
They stepped out of the elevator. The corridor was guarded by two good-looking,
strong and well-muscled men, carrying automatic handguns. A striking family
resemblance pegged them as brothers. They moved like tigers on the prowl. When
the lift doors opened, they trained their guns at the new arrivals, but they
relaxed when they recognized their master. Both were vampires in human guise.
Konrad greeted them with a curt nod and strode towards his suite. A dazed
looking human opened the door for him.
There were half a dozen vampires present: four males and two females, all of
them wearing their bestial faces. They hurriedly rose to their feet when their
master walked in. Natasha closed the door behind him. Two very large dogs got
up from a rug they had been lying on and whined in a expression of submission.
There were also six humans. They were naked, bound and gagged, lying on a
bloodstained tarpaulin. Multiple bite marks blemished their necks, wrists and
thighs. They were almost drained, but still alive. Their breathing was shallow
and their heartbeats sluggish. The smell of their blood hung in the room. The
Crusader studied the captives briefly.
"Any problems?" he asked.
"No, My Lord," one of his minions answered with alacrity.
"Well done."
No one in Sunnydale would miss them. They had been expertly snatched from night
trains during their brief stops. Their missing persons files would litter
police desks elsewhere, as intended. Their luggage had been taken, too.
Suitcases, purses, coats and six neat piles of clothes were kept in an
adjoining room. Several wallets, cell phones and other valuables were lying on
a side table.
"Natasha?"
"My Lord?"
"The chalice."
The brunette vampire hurried over to the old-fashioned wardrobe trunk that
stood in the corner of the room, took out an object and unwrapped the burgundy
velvet cloth. The chalice looked quite old and it was slightly dented. It was
actually quite unimpressive. Still, Natasha held it reverently.
Konrad cut his wrist with a sharp nail and let his blood drip into the chalice.
When it was filled to about a third, he held his wrist out to her. Natasha
smiled, delighted at the sign of his favor and lapped at the cut until it
closed.
Then she knelt next to the first of the human captives, and cradled him in her
arms, careful not to get blood stains on her expensive dress. She dipped her
finger into the blood and smeared it on the man's lips. He stirred weakly, then
his tongue darted out licking up the potent drink, craving more. Natasha smiled
and brought the chalice to his lips.
Meanwhile, the Crusader sat down in a comfortable leather armchair behind an
antique desk. He snapped his fingers and the two gray hounds cowered at his
feet.
He spent an hour talking to the other vampires, browsing through folders,
looking at photographs, studying maps and charts and writing out checks.
One by one the other vampires were sent away on various errants, until only two
remained: the blonde, spectacled computer specialist and a vampire in an
elegant pinstripe suit. He wore glasses and looked every inch a lawyer. Which
he was, or rather had been, when he was turned.
"Did you find out where she's buried?" the Crusader asked.
"Yes, My Lord," The spectacled vampire nodded and handed him a sheet of
paper with the address of a cemetery and a plot number written on it.
"What about the Council. Have you cracked their codes yet?"
"No My Lord," she said, looking frightened.
The Crusader shifted his attention to his undead legal adviser. They finalized
several purchases of land and houses with his signature. Suddenly there was a
beeping sound, as a digital alarm clock went off, announcing the imminent sunrise.
The old vampire rose. "Come with me," he ordered the blonde hacker. Fear stood
in her eyes but she followed him outside, onto the balcony of the expensive
penthouse suite.
Konrad let his vampiric features come to the fore, relishing the heightening of
his senses and the feeling of power that was the gift of his nature. He gazed
at the eastern horizon. He had specifically asked for a balcony that was facing
east, because he wanted to watch as the stars lost their sparkle and as the
sky's velvety blackness dulled. He wanted to watch grays and pinks bleed into
each other. To his vampiric senses the colors were even more beautiful and
radiant. He could almost sense the great ball of fire and heat that was the
sun, hurtling towards him at 1000 miles per hour, eager to ignite him. The
Crusader chuckled.
The blonde vampire at his side reeked of fear. Every instinct screamed at her
to take cover, to hide in the dark, where the sun couldn't burn her. But a
strange force had her enthralled.
"Stay," Konrad said, his voice vibrating with power.
He turned around and went back inside just as the sun passed the horizon.
Natasha had been waiting for him and wordlessly closed the French windows. She
quickly pulled the curtains, but not quite fast enough. A thin shaft of
sunlight seared her hand and there was a sudden smell of burning flesh. She
hissed and adjusted the curtains.
Outside, the blonde vampire stood, as she was told. Her feet wouldn't move. It
was as if she was rooted to the spot. Before her she saw the sun rising into
the sky and she screamed as bright rays of pain pierced her eyes and body.
Within the blink of an eye she was ablaze, flailing her arms as if to ward off
a blow. A moment later a gust of wind whipped her ashes away.
---
Tara loved watching the sun rise. It was like watching a new beginning, the
rebirth of the world and even though it sounded sappy and corny in her mind,
there was truth in the cliché.
She finished her yoga exercise, the greeting of the sun, glad that at least
during weekends there was no morning rush getting everybody out of bed and
making breakfast. There had been a lot more peace and quiet for her exercises
before she met the Scoobies, but that was before she met Willow, and nothing on
earth could make her pine for her pre-Scooby days.
She pulled the morning gown around her and padded into the kitchen to make
coffee. Willow loved breakfast in bed, and with all the new responsibility she
was now shouldering she deserved a special treat.
***
Butch Kendall was twenty-two years old, and he was sick of funerals. He'd been
to six funerals in his life, already - including his sister's. He'd also
attended the memorial service for the victims of Graduation Day 1999.
And now he and the other Sunnydale Razorbacks stood at an open grave waiting
for yet another one of their team to be lowered into the ground.
He squinted in the bright sunlight. It was stiflingly hot, even though the sun
hadn't reached its highest peak, yet. The flowers on the wreaths were starting
to look wilted. Butch felt hot and sweaty in his formal team blazer, the ones
they wore for publicity photos or when one of them got married. Or buried.
The priest droned on an on, his voice flat, the words of comfort and hope
hollow. To Butch he didn't sound like he had a lot of faith left in him. Just
going through the motions. Butch wasn't a great academic, and he knew it, but
he wasn't stupid, either. He knew that after dark Sunnydale turned into the
Valley of the Dead.
The newspapers had a whole arsenal of explanations for the many deaths and
disappearances in this town, ranging from seemingly rational to ludicrous to
downright desperate. They blamed drugs, modern times, society, the proximity of
L.A., geomagnetism, serial killers, even aliens from outer space.
The other day he'd caught his Mom watching a local talk show where a bunch of
overpaid psychologists were busily sucking up to their viewers telling them
what they wanted to hear: that whatever happened wasn't their fault. If their
children ran away or gunned down their class mates at school it was because of
sex and violence on television and a general godlessness. Nice and simple. Much
easier than facing the truth that in Sunnydale there really were monsters.
Hell, he and his parents had been there when during the Graduation presentation
ceremony all hell had broken loose. The town mayor had turned into a giant
snake demon and had begun to devour the class of 1999, starting with Principal
Snyder but then picking off one student after another. And a bunch of vampires
had attacked guests and students alike. If it hadn't been for that weird blonde
girl with the silly name, Buffy Summers, everybody would have died, not just
Harmony.
And what had the papers said? "Drug induced Mass Hallucination at
Graduation Day Party" - "Mayor Wilkins Killed in High School Drug
Craze" - "Drug Addicts Blow Up High School". What a big pile of
crap! But his folks bought it. They always believed what the papers said. Even
when their eyes told them differently.
He looked at Mr. and Mrs. Cleese, Patrick's parents, the way they leaned on
each other for support. Just like his own parents at his sister's funeral. It
came back to him with such force that it made his eyes sting.
"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust." The priest had finally come to the end of his
sermon. Mr. and Mrs. Cleese gripped the shovel together and there was a hollow
sound as the earth hit the coffin of their only child.
Butch swallowed. There was a lump in his throat. There were tearful embraces,
as distant relatives and close friends expressed their condolences to the grief
stricken parents. Butch saw his own Mom crying openly, as she and Dad shovelled
some more earth into the gaping hole in the ground.
Coach Henderson shook Mr. Cleese's hand. "He was a fine young man, with great
team spirit, who will be missed by all," he said pompously, sounding more like
a politician than like a football coach.
Butch was next. He braced himself. He'd been Patrick's best friend since second
grade, they'd been room mates at college and in the same fraternities. They'd
been so close, others had started to call them Butch Cassidy and Sundance Kid.
Their fathers were golf partners. And there was a long running tradition of
Cleese-Kendall family barbecues.
He offered his hand, but Mrs. Cleese embraced him with something akin to
desperation. "You'll still come and visit us, every now and then, won't you,
Butch?" she asked, reluctant to let him go because if she held him it was like
having a bit of her son back.
He nodded, unable to speak. When he shook hands with Mr. Cleese, he appeared
all manly and civilized, but deep inside he was smoldering with rage.
***
When Spike rushed into the Magic Box, covered by a smoldering blanket, it was
afternoon and the Scoobies were already sitting at the Round Table, where all
their research and their discussions took place.
A half-eaten box of donuts sat in the middle, surrounded by coffee mugs and the
obligatory pile of dusty old tomes. Giles was on the upper level, browsing
through the restricted section. He acknowledged the vampire's arrival with an
unintelligible mumble.
Spike ignored him. "Nibblet," he greeted Dawn.
She looked up from her book. "Spike."
"So, you're getting into vampirology now?"
"You wish." She lifted the book so he could see the cover. "Maths," she
grimaced.
"Yeah, I never got the finer points of geometry, either."
He grabbed an empty chair, which happened to be the one next to Xander and sat
down hugging the backrest.
Xander acknowledged his presence with a curt nod and dug into the donut box as
if fearing the competition. He was reading a book on vampire history, without
great enthusiasm. Spike smirked and took a donut just to spite him.
"Hi, Spike," Willow greeted him distractedly. She was busily typing
something into her laptop computer " Now that you're here, we can-"
"Will?" he interrupted.
The witch frowned "What is it, Spike?"
"Before we talk about the Crusader, could we just briefly deal with this?"
He stuck his pale fingers through several holes in his T-shirt and wriggled
them.
"Oh look, your T-shirt's got holes in it. And you're showing us this because?"
Willow asked.
"Last night's crusade cost me another outfit." He informed her. He put a
booted foot on the table and fingered a gash in the fabric of his pants. "See?
Got one more outfit at the crypt. If that gets torn as well, you'll all have to
stare at my bare bottom."
Dawn giggled.
"Now, that's a dire threat, if ever I heard one." Xander proclaimed.
"I think it sounded more like a promise," Anya said, not without interest. She
didn't notice the irritated look Xander gave her.
"What do you want me to do about it. Oh I know, you want me to do a spell to
fix them? I never did a mending spell before but I'm sure it's possible, with a
bit of tinkering."
Spike shook his head at the witch's obvious enthusiasm. "No mojo," he said.
"Dough. I'm broke. Had to borrow money from Harris just to buy myself some
smokes. You don't want me to rob people, and I'm not getting a job or anything.
And at night I'm patrolling instead of… well doing other… more lucrative
things."
The witches exchanged glances. "Hmm, yes, we have to find a solution to
that... ah... problem." Willow agreed. "What did you have in
mind?"
"Get the sodding Council to cough up a bit."
Xander laughed. "They wouldn't even pay Buffy. The only thing you'll get from
them is a well-aimed stake and maybe, just maybe, a cardboard box to keep your
ashes in. Hey, that doesn't sound so bad! Go on, ask them."
"Giles?" Willow asked. Everybody turned to look at the Watcher.
Rupert Giles's role in the Scooby meetings had changed, since Buffy's death.
Without a live Slayer to watch over the man had lost his purpose in life. Sure,
he was still there in the flesh, and he was still prepared to let the Scooby
gang pick his brain, but something was missing. It was as if the fire had gone
out in him. Even the shop, of which he had been so proud, didn't give him
pleasure, anymore.
Spike was secretly wondering if the Watcher was planning on going back to
England. Hell, he already seemed half gone.
Giles came down the ladder, balancing a small stack of books. "Truthfully? The
Council may have turned a blind eye to the fact that none of us have put a
stake into Spike's heart just yet, but I seriously doubt that they'd be willing
to consider a monetary recompense." He put the volumes on the table and took
off his glasses to polish them vigorously. "I can certainly ask on Spike's
behalf. Personally, I find the idea of a vampire being on the Council's payroll
ludicrous, but that is not for me to decide."
He put his spectacles back on. "If you all agree that the fight against evil
takes precedence over the state of Spike's wardrobe, then perhaps we can
concentrate on our latest enemy."
Everybody nodded. Everybody except Spike, so Giles continued. "Willow? What
have you been able to ascertain?"
"I checked obituaries and police records and there haven't been any more
unusual occurrences than usual. I mean there are a few missing persons cases
and there is at least one grave that we should check out tonight, that looks
fishy, or rather vampy, but that's normal, I mean Sunnydale-normal. Maybe he
just arrived. If I knew more about him I might be able to check flight records
and train reservations…"
"Yeah, give us something to work with, Giles," Xander said. He shoved the book
he'd been reading away from him. "Give us some facts. Narrow it down."
"Certainly," the Watcher agreed, smoothly going into lecture mode. He picked up
a book from the table and opened it where a white piece of paper stuck out.
"According to a this chronicle here, the Crusader's real name is Konrad
von Hohenfels. He would have eventually inherited a small Earldom in Western
Germany, had he made it back from the Holy Land alive. He commanded a small
unit of men-at-arms during the First Crusade, apparently with great success. It
is believed he was turned before the turn of the century. He was the scourge of
the newly formed Kingdom of Jerusalem. After killing his Saracen sire he turned
other European knights and squires and they preyed on the indigenous
population, like wolves on a herd of sheep." He put the open book on the
table, and tossed his glasses on top of them.
He noticed Xander's half-raised hand. He sighed. "Yes?"
"That would have been the turn of which century?"
"The First Crusade took place 1096-1099," Willow said, smiling
happily.
Giles nodded and picked up another volume. "This one gives us basically
the same information," he said, without opening it. "But it also
mentions that Konrad may have belonged to a legendary group of knights called
The Tafurs, a particularly fanatical group of destitute crusaders who foreswore
plundering but excelled at slaughter and rape. During the Antioch famine they
are supposed to have, well... turned to cannibalism, eating the flesh of their
dead enemies."
"Eow, gross!" Dawn exclaimed.
"I second that," Xander threw in.
"And, that was while he was still alive?" Tara asked with disgust.
"Couldn't they have just slaughtered the horses? They did have horses,
being knights and such?"
"Well, yes, I suppose they could have," Giles said while
absentmindedly turning pages in yet another leather bound book.
"Good chargers don't come cheap," Anya explained, happy at being able
contribute to the discussion. "Besides, I know I would not have been happy
if I had to walk into battle."
Having found the paragraph he had been looking for Giles continued:
"Anyway, Konrad stayed in the Crusader States until the late 13th century.
Apparently he encountered some kind of opposition, because he returned to
Germany without his entourage of minions."
"What happened?" Willow wanted to know.
"It doesn't say in these books. I've sent faxes to colleagues in Saudi
Arabia and Israel," Giles continued, "asking them to check Arabic and
Hebrew chronicles for more information on Konrad's activities in the Orient and
on the reasons why he left."
"And his activities in Germany?" Willow asked.
"Not very well documented, I'm afraid. Just hearsay. We know he studied
magic, but not where and when. He moved around a lot, effectively covering his
tracks. But as far as we know he never went back to the Middle East."
"I don't see why anyone would want to," Anya commented.
Giles picked up his glasses and waved them around while continuing to sum up
the results of his research. "After the Thirty Years War, Konrad moved
eastwards. He stayed in Warsaw for several decades, before moving to Russia.
That's where you met him, Spike, isn't that correct? So what can you tell us
about him?"
"Where do you want me to start?"
"Try the opening credits," Xander told him.
"Right then. Once upon a time there was a dashing cavalier who loved a
beautiful lady..."
TBC