Web of Deceit
Summary: AU in the BTVS, Neo-Noir. Part 3 in the casebook of Alexander Harris, PI. Xander finds that things are not always what they seem and memories can be tricky things
Rating: R naughty language/violence; archaic actions and reactions to be expected.
Disclaimer: ALl characters, living & undead, property of Joss the Great and Powerful, ME, WB, Fox etc. Just for fun, honest. Shouts to Firesign Theatre and Raymond Chandler and a few other folks.
Sequel to: Dangerous Curves (2) and Demons Are My Business (1)
Within the dark underbelly of the city lies a singular place. A place hidden away from the light in the dimmest recesses of the back alleys, far from the friendly reach of the sun, wrapped in the velvet darkness of Film Noir. Shadows hold friends and foes, creatures blessed and damned. It is the Big Nowhere, sordid and enigmatic. Put on some cool jazz, fix a dry martini and fall into the alternate reality of Sunnydale after dark.
Prologue---Night Train to Sunnydale
Monday early morning--2:00 a.m.
December 18th
Trouble always seems to find me. That's what my clients pay me for. It says so, right there on my business cards.
I kind of wanted something classy in Latin with a spiffy magnifying glass logo, but my usual clients weren't going to impressed, so I stuck with simple:
Alexander Harris
Confidential Investigations
Your Eye For Trouble
Sometimes life is just one damned thing after another and all you can do is catch a fast train to somewhere that's not here. That's what I'd done.
I told my girl I was taking the case up in the north because it paid well, but the truth was, I just needed to get the hell off the Hellmouth for a while. Nothing had been the same since we'd gotten back from Arashmahar, and there were things that needed thinking about..
Things like whether I could could face living my life with a sweet canary like Anyanka. Sweet yeah, but she wasn't going to stop being what she was--a vengeance demon. Things like whether I wanted to keep putting my life on the line for people who weren't really people at all. Protect and serve, that used to be our motto, back in the P.D. I mean, I started out as a pretty square copper in L.A., then things started getting screwy. It hasn't stopped either.
Back in November, for instance. Zombies, mad scientists, hell dimensions. One damned thing after another, see? Too much.
I decided the smartest thing to do was to take this little out-of-town job just outside of Visalia running down some missing jewelry for a sweet little old lady. A normal job for a regular shmoe like me. Just get away from this godforsaken place. Do a little thinking away from everything and everybody.
I did get the diamonds back and a nice little bit of cash from a grateful dame, but there's always a monster in the picture somewhere, even away from home sweet hellmouth.
Long story short, the little old lady forgot to mention the brownies. Oh no, not the cute kind and I've got the bite marks to prove it. Nasty little shit- colored brutes swarming on me like piranhas in a feeding frenzy. But like I said, that's a whole nother story.
About the time I was mashing the last of the brownies back into a greasy smear on the pavement, I realized that it didn't much matter whether I was in Visalia or Los Angeles, because trouble was going to find me wherever I was. I bought a ticket on the night train and started for home. I'd done a lot of hard thinking while I was up north in between chasing that flock of sewer rats around town.
. I'd figured out between the bandages and the iodine was that the great philopher was right--no matter where you go, there you are. I also knew where I was needed. Home, on the Hellmouth, again.
I must have dozed off for a while, because when I opened my eyes the train was rattling to a stop at the Sunnydale station. Didn't look any different than it had three weeks ago.
I didn't figure Sunnydale had changed much. Same old Hellmouth. See, I should have known better than to even think that. I should have known things were off the second I stepped down from the train onto the empty platform. That's part of my job. To notice things.
At the time, all I noticed was the ice-cold wind creeping under the tail of my overcoat. A damned cold wind. Frosty enough for a little Christmas snow. There were colored lights decorating the palm trees and big red bows on the parking meters. Extremely festive. The station was locked up tight and there were no phones anywhere outside. I threw an ineffective curse in the direction of Rob's Auto Service. Rob was holding my beloved DeSoto for ransom. Jeez, I only owed him a measly couple of of hundred bucks.
I shivered and pulled my fedora down and overcoat tighter and wondered if I'd ever had a muffler. No sense kicking about hard luck and busted transmissions. There wasn't a cab to be seen anywhere around. Not too surprising, considering it was after two a.m. on a Sunday night.
My valise felt like it was loaded with bricks instead of my dirty underwear. Not a creature was stirring. Even the Boogie Man is Californian. Probably all the bad little monsters were snuggled up in their cozy little crypts with visions of Sandy Claws in their evil little heads. Standing around moping wasn't gonna get me home though. It was gonna be a long, cold walk home.
I'd trudged six blocks toward my apartment with my valise dragging me down like a sea anchor. My knees hurt, my back was killing me and my ankle ached from a nasty brownie bite. I could seethe corner of my block just up ahead. And that the street lights were going dark, one by one.
That's when I realized I wasn't alone, and around here, that's never a good thing.
Music: Harlem Nocturne David Sandborn from