Chapter Four--Down on Crawford Street

Late Afternoon, Monday December 16

Buffy'd had a real run of bad luck with the men in her past, poor girl. But Andrew did have a point, even if it was just to save his own worthless hide. The Slayer needed to know what the score was.
The cabbie dropped me off in front of the house on Crawford Street. I wondered why she still hung on to this reminder of the late, unlamented Mr. Giles. Maybe she liked it.

The house was spectacular. It was one of those palatial Hollywood Moderne, nouveau riche mansions. An odd, cantilevered building, all long lines and terraces, it sat way back off the street, hidden from the prying eyes of the curious, sprawled behind a screen of live oaks and manicured hedges. It took a pile of mazuma and a good deal of hired help to keep a place this size running. Her late husband must have been rolling in it before he came over all demony. There was a cream colored Rolls Royce parked in the driveway and something sleek and foreign being polished to a mirror finish by a lanky guy in a gray wool chauffeur's uniform. I gave him the high sign, but he ignored me.

I leaned on the button again. A smart looking maid with a twinkle in her eye answered the door and took my hat and coat. The interior was all big, open spaces with spectacular skylights that drenched the house with winter sun. Pale modern furniture scattered around the rooms, wall-to-wall white carpeting that looked like fresh snow in Aspen. Gold rimmed mirrors reflected the pale sea of creamy ivory and tables full of fresh flowers in crystal vases--it looked like a showcase. Stark and cold, really, like a museum. I wondered how she could stand it.

I followed the maid's swaying uniform through the sunny hallways and high-ceilinged rooms to a conservatory in the far reaches of the house. I felt myself breaking into a sweat as soon as I stepped through the doors. The glass house was steamy and full of soft green ferns and orange trees in planters. Orchids and fleshy exotic plants nodded in brick niches along the wall, perfuming the room with a sickening kind of musky perfume. I pushed through the jungle to a little clearing bathed in light.

Mrs. Giles was sitting on a low lounge chair overlooking a sunken pool area. She was wearing creamy silk trousers and a pale cashmere sweater that matched the blue stuccoed walls. Her sister, Dawn, was swimming laps around the turquoise tiled perimeter of the pool. Buffy glanced at her sister and smiled.

I hated to disturb such a pleasant scene.

Mrs. Giles uncrossed her legs and turned to me with a question in her eyes.
December is a cruel month.

Mr. Harris. Xander...won't you have a seat? She motioned me to another rattan lounger upholstered in a muted tropical print. Would you like a coffee or...

My mind was blank. I really didn't have much to go on except an overactive case of nerves and a two-bit warlock's case of the shivers. I took the coffee she handed me and stirred it just to get a long second to think it over.

Listen, Mrs. Giles, we need to talk. Her face froze in a rictus grimace pretending to be a smile. I hated what I was doing, but it had to be done. Mrs. Giles--Buffy--I've got bad news.

She made a faint sound, almost like a laugh and shrugged her shoulders, Is there any other kind?

Look, there's no easy way to say this. It's Spike.

I floundered around trying to cushion it a little. The perfume from the orchids was suffocating me. Have you seen him? Last night, maybe?

She leaned her head back against the soft cushions and whispered, I haven't talked to him in nearly a month, Xander. Not since...

I finished. She nodded once and stared into the pool. Her sister methodically stroked laps in the heated pool, her lithe body flickering through the blue water. Buffy shifted toward me, a shaft of sunlight illuminating her hair, turning it to gold. Her eyes were strained and dark-shadowed under the porcelain glaze of her careful makeup.

Walk with me, please. She led me through the glass doors into the cold afternoon gardens, down a raked sand pathway toward a dry fountain where mermaids and naked cupids frolicked with dolphins.

I hate this place. I'd like to burn it to the ground and salt the earth. She looked around the decorative hedges trimmed into fantastic shapes and the long rows of now-brown flower beds blindly, as though she were seeing into the gates of Hell itself.

I wondered if she ever went back to the little house on Revello Drive. I didn't know what to say, so I kept my trap shut and kept walking beside her. She stopped and looked up at the cavorting putti with something like resignation.

He seemed all right at first,but then it was like he'd forgotten everything about who he was. Who I was. He didn't know Dawn. He ignored her, like she didn't exist. I haven't even seen him in weeks.

That, in itself was wrong. He'd never strayed far from the Slayers high heels, even when her hellish husband was hot on their trail.

I remembered how he acted right after the resurrection in Arashmahar. Chilly, polite and violent. At the time, I'd written it off to D'Hoffyrn's magic or being doped up with poison by the zombie's master. Now, I had to wonder if my little warlock pal was on the right track. Something was hinky, all right. I plunged on and told her everything about last night. Her eyes flashed angrily, but when I showed her Andrew's little collection, she was in a fury.

She was trying to be matter of fact about this, but it was affecting her.

I'd planned on calling you this morning anyway, Xander. I want to show you something I found this morning.

The sunny gardens seemed to get dark all of a sudden, like a cloud was passing overhead, but the sky was clear California blue. Next to the fountain was a small shape, covered in a dark cloth. She strode toward it, her heels leaving sharp hollows in the sand of the pathway. And pulled the cloth away like a conjurer.

Today's gift.

Oh God. Andrew's poodle. Well, most of it. It wasn't missing anymore.


tbc
Music: Vangelis, Blush Response from the Bladerunner soundtrack