CHAPTER THREE


"Say Giles, if this Crusader guy is old enough to be Dracula's granddad, how come you have so little on him?" Xander asked, balancing a pizza slice with two hands so the extra cheese couldn't slide off.

"Yeah right," Willow agreed. "The books are unusually vague about him. I mean there's plenty of information about Angelus's activities or Spike's," she shot the vampire a glance. He sat on the floor, cross-legged, far away from the garlic fumes, his nose buried in a brand new looking book and was snorting repeatedly. Willow pointed at a large volume that was lying on the table: "This one's supposed to be a compendium on all the notorious vamps in history, a who's who of those with fangs if you like. It's got like 20 pages on the Master, and did you know his name was Joseph Nest?"

"I did," Spike said, without looking up from his book.

"As did I," Giles said, averting his eyes from the greasy pizza boxes, hoping the children would wipe their hands before touching his books. He mentally promised himself a nice ham salad for when he came home. He was pretty certain that for the rest of his life he'd always associate pizza with Sunnydale and late night research on monsters.

"There's more than 30 pages on Angelus and Darla," Willow continued, ignoring the interruption. "On how they escaped some kind of vampire hunter and about all the victims they turned into vampires, and let me just say ew…"

"How about Spike?" Xander asked with his mouth full. "How many pages is he worth? I bet Dru's got more than him."

"Eight," the indignant answer came from the floor. "Only goes to show that the author's a complete and utter moron who doesn't know what he's talkin' about."

"So, how many pages are there on the Crusader?" Tara asked, bringing the conversation back on track.

"Five," Willow and Giles said simultaneously.

"Five pages? That's not much," Dawn chipped in.

"Basically, all the books we've perused so far give us the same basic facts, we have yet to find sources that are more detailed," Giles felt the need to elaborate. "There are still quite a few volumes we haven't checked. I'm pretty positive it's just a matter of finding the right book."

"Mr. Giles?"

"Yes Tara?"

"I was wondering… I mean, I thought the Council were good at this kind of thing, research and stuff?" Tara said hesitatingly. Finding herself uncomfortably the center of everybody's attention she blushed but bravely stammered on, "Many of these books are written by people working for the Council, right? Do you think the Council knows things, but doesn't want anyone else to know? You know, covering things up? I mean, it's not like I want to suggest they're doing something wrong, maybe they're just trying to, um, keep things under wraps."

Willow gave Tara's hand an encouraging squeeze. "Good thinking, baby," she said and looked at the Watcher. "Tara's right, there may be a reason why the books have been so unhelpful. Remember all the info on Glory they kept from us?"

"I will endeavor to look into the matter. If the Council is truly hiding something, it might not be a good idea to alert them to soon to our object of research. I will contact one of my friends and see if I can find out more." Giles looked at his watch and worked out the time difference, then walked into the office to make a phone call.

***

"Good Lord," Giles exclaimed more to himself than in order to elicit attention. He was reading a long fax printout that trailed behind him like a well, long paper trail.

"What's it say, Leporello?" Spike said smirking at the ridiculous sight.

But Giles wasn't going to be distracted, not even by the somewhat staggering revelation that Spike of all people was referencing Mozart operas.

"Good Lord," he repeated. "According to this, the Council issued orders that the Crusader is not to be interfered with."

"What? Diplomatic immunity for vampires?" Xander's jaw dropped.

"It would seem that way," Giles mumbled, still scanning the printout.

"That's kinda weird," Willow said.

"That's not weird, that's daft." Spike muttered. "Since when does the Council make exceptions? With the Crusader's body count, taking him out should be top priority."

"Apparently, the Council did indeed try to eliminate the Crusader," Giles said. "The first recorded attempt was made in 1702, They sent the active Slayer and her Watcher to Warsaw to take him out. It is known that they reached Warsaw safely, but then they disappeared without a trace and shortly afterwards a new Slayer was chosen."

"The first attempt? There were others?" Willow asked.

"Well, yes. And I am sorry to say, they were all rather unsuccessful. Quite catastrophic, in fact. In each instance Slayer and Watcher just vanished, and another Slayer was called. The last time it took six years until the new Slayer was chosen. Six years in which the world was without a chosen defender! Finally, the Council received a letter. It was written in her blood and read: 'Should you persist in your attacks on me or my vassals, you will come to know my wrath. Should you send another Slayer, she will be the only one in history to die of old age. I strongly suggest you turn your attention elsewhere.' It was simply signed Konrad von Hohenfels and bore his seal." That was the day the new Slayer was called."

Giles sat down, feeling the humiliation of the Council, as if it was still fresh. "That was when the Council admitted defeat. Not our finest hour, to be sure."

The Scoobies sat in sad silence, moved by the deaths of these young girls whom they had never known. They didn't know what to say. Even Xander had no sarcastic comment to make.

"How many Slayers did they lose?" Spike asked, when the silence became oppressive.

"Four. Over a period of 200 years."

Spike cocked his eyebrow in surprise. There were not many vampires who could claim to have caused the death of a Slayer or more than one. Sure, Slayers died all the time, but usually against overwhelming numbers or because they were already weakened by previous battles. The ones Spike had fought and killed had been in their prime, and the fact that he had bested them had earned him a reputation as bad ass fighter, greatly increasing his standing among vampires - not to mention in Dru's eyes.

Spike found it hard to believe that the Crusader had caused the death of four Slayers and never bragged about it. "During one of the Crusader's parties the subject of Slayers came up. One of the other guests wanted to know how I killed my first Slayer, you know, the one in China. Konrad was there, too, but he never mentioned the four he had under his belt."

His choice of words earned him disgusted looks from everybody around the table.

"Oh, so you met the Crusader more than once?" Anya asked.

"Oh yes. Dru liked his parties."

"What happened?" Giles asked matter-of-factly, all set to take notes.

"Dawn? Can you give me some paper and a decent pencil, luv?" Spike asked. He pushed some of Giles's books away to make room on the table.

"Sure." She rummaged among her school books and came up with a typical college pad and an assortment of ball pens and pencils.

"That'll do. Thanks, morsel." He opened the pad, chose a pencil and began to make a sketch. Meanwhile he continued his narration:

***

Moscow 1910

When Spike came back to from the hunt, he heard the all too familiar sounds of glass breaking: Large shards falling to the floor and exploding into smaller pieces that ricocheted across the polished parquet floor of the ball room like skittering vermin; small shards crunching under foot. He also heard his love wailing and screaming insults like a Banshee. He realized that Drusilla was in the process of smashing each and every mirror in the house.

He propped his unconscious captive, a very slender dark-haired girl, on a chaiselongue and rushed over to embrace his love. She was standing in a beautiful ballroom, with sparkling chandeliers and expensive wood paneling. The heavy curtains were drawn. One wall of the room had been covered with huge mirrors, but Drusilla had shattered them all. She was bleeding from a few shallow cuts that were already healing.

"It runs away from me, hiding in one of those looking glasses. One day I'll catch it. I'll smash every mirror and then it will have no place to hide. And then we'll sew it back on, won't we, Spike?"

From time to time Drusilla became obsessed with the desire to see her own image. It became all she could think about. She needed to be reminded of what she looked like, of who she was. During these moods she would look into every possible mirror, hoping to catch a glimpse of her reflection. Eventually, like tonight, she would fly into a fit of rage and destroy every mirror she could lay her hands on.

Spike had given up on trying to tell her, that it was impossible to sew a reflection back on, or to catch it in mousetraps baited with blood coated biscuits, or to lure it into a particular mirror by singing the same bloody nursery rhyme to it for three days and nights in a row: "Mirror, Mirror, tell me, am I pretty or plain? Or am I downright ugly and ugly to remain?"

He really knew that one by heart. He had also given up on taking her to painters to have her portrait commissioned. His wicked love tended to eat the artist before he was finished. Instead Spike had taken up drawing again, something he had learned during his breathing days.

"Shhh, my sweetheart. Would you like me to catch it on paper?" He was surprised when she shook her head.

"These mirrors are wrong. Paper is wrong. All wrong!" She touched her temples with her spidery fingers and Spike knew she was having some kind of vision. "But Konrad, he will make it right."

"What does the bloody Crusader have to do with mirrors?"

"You'll see, you'll see!" Drusilla exclaimed, suddenly happy again.

"If you say so, pet," Spike said, slightly peeved. He led Drusilla out of the ballroom, then he locked the door and pocketed the key. Something he should have had the foresight to do when they had moved in three weeks ago. He picked up the unconscious girl, careful not to ruffle her clothes too much. Ignoring the sickly stench of dead bodies in the cellar, the two vampires ascended the stairs to the main bedroom.

"Oh, you brought me a new dress!" Drusilla observed. "How nice, I shall wear it tonight at the ball!"

"What ball?" Spike asked, while undressing the unconscious prey with practiced ease.

"Oh, the invitation should be there somewhere. It came a few weeks ago, while you were out hunting." Drusilla pointed one of her perfectly manicured slender fingers at the dressing table. Needless to say, the mirror of the dressing table was smashed. There were glistening shards strewn all over the table surface and the carpet. Spike draped Dru's new clothes over a chair and searched the drawers. He came across an unopened envelope addressed to The Beauteous Drusilla. The red blot of sealing wax bore the imprint of a stylized sun, the Crusader's seal. Spike tore the envelope open and took out the invitation. It differed from the ones they had received before. The text was in Latin, and it was written in brownish ink - obviously dried blood. *Pretentious bastard.* Spike growled, squinting at the tiny letters.

"So, the high and mighty Master of Moscow is inviting you to bear witness to his latest arcane accomplishments. Whatever those may be. Let me guess, that's posh for I-want-to-show-off." He let the invitation flutter to the floor. "Looks like I'm not invited."

"But of course you are, Spike. I am not going without you."

"Well, at least he's sending a carriage to pick us up."

He watched as Drusilla sat down on the bed and took the warm body of his captive into her arms. The young woman shivered. The touch of Drusilla's cold hands on her bare skin seemed to wake her.

"Do you want to play, Spike?" Drusilla asked.

"I've eaten. She's all yours. I'll just watch."

Drusilla giggled.

"Do we really have to go to that party, luv? We could just stay in and I could make a drawing of you," Spike suggested, when Drusilla had proclaimed that her tummy was all full and warm.

"I like Konrad's parties very much," Dru announced. "I like the way the world spins when the music stops."

"I'll need a new suit," Spike grumbled. "The other one's got too many stains." He picked up the dead woman and carried her downstairs to join the others in the cellar.

Drusilla had her mind set on going, so he helped her get ready. He was by now as adept at getting a lady dressed as at getting her out of her clothes, even though the tiny hooks and buttons tried his patience. When Drusilla was ready in her new emerald gown she sat down on a stool and took out her tarot cards. Using the bed as a table she started on a divination. Meanwhile, Spike hunted through drawers and wardrobes. The original owner of this house had had roughly his size, so there were plenty of clothes to choose from.

*Not as good as tailor made, but it will have to do,* he thought while fastening the cuff links. Suddenly he realized that Dru had been quiet for a long time. He looked at her and saw that she was still looking at the cards spread out in front of her. "Well, luv, what do the cards say?"

"The cards say one thing, but the pixies say another."

"And?"

"The cards say that you will die."

Spike blinked. He had come to rely on Drusilla's divinations. Therefore, he found that prediction rather unsettling. "Oh? When's that then? And what do the pixies have to say about this?"

"I'm not listening to them," Drusilla said indignantly. "I don't like their stories. They say electricity will teach you a new dance." And that was all she would say.

TBC