NEW TOWN, OLD PROBLEMS
PROLOGUE
"... so then I said to him, I said to him, 'Look, Jim, if it doesn't fit, then take it back! I mean, what's the problem?..."
"....then he turns inside Carr, and BANG!! Top left corner, keeper no chance, GET IN HENRY!!! 2-1!...."
"....no, no, you'll have to move it back. I'm free Monday? Sweet. Let's say, twelve at Mario's? Great, I'll see you then..."
Voices intruding on the quiet. Who were all these people? Where was she? For that matter, who was she?
She got up, slowly, shaking her head to clear the sleep and the cobwebs from her brain. She looked around to get her bearings. She seemed to be in a small alleyway, just off a main street. It was dusk, and a light rain was falling. Detritus; rubbish bags, overflowing, fast food cartons and an overturned table filled the alley. The girl's nose wrinkled in disgust as she realised she had been lying next to a used condom. Hope I get my deposit back, she thought wearily. She looked towards the mouth of the alley and that was when the voice, more strident and persuasive than the phantoms she had heard before, spoke to her from the shadows behind her.
"Hey, babe, got a cigarette?"
She turned, putting out one hand to the rain-slicked wall to steady herself, and saw a woman, perhaps a few years older than herself (it was all coming back to her now, yes! All but who she was), sitting on a crate at the end of the alley. The woman rose with a feline grace, and swiftly moved to stand in front of her. Her pale skin seemed to glow in the darkness. "Got a fag I can ponce off you, love?" she crooned. Her accent seemed strange, somewhat coarse. Nevertheless, it was an accent the girl recognised. Sunnydale, her mind whispered. "I don't smoke", she said. The woman laughed: it was a beautiful, chilling sound. "Well, if I can't suck on a cancer-stick, what can I suck on then? Got any ideas, sweetie?"
And suddenly, it all came rushing back as the woman's face changed, grew elongated and ridged and formed itself into the monster's visage, it all came screaming back: the horror, the pain, the killing. The vampire lunged for the girl, and she swayed back instantly, long forgotten reflexes and training clicking back into action. She flipped backwards onto her hands, held the pose for a split-second, and whirled to strike the vampire full in the face with her left leg, spinning the creature backwards onto the ground. Whirling around again, the girl saw the upturned table, and snapped a leg off as the vampire recovered its feet.
"I don't smoke, and neither should you," she said, and plunged the makeshift stake deep into the vampire's heart.
"You know those things'll kill ya."
In an instant, the vampire was dust, and the girl turned to the mouth of the alley and the main street, brushing off the mud and dirt from her leather trousers. With the violence had returned her memory; she remembered that accent now, knew where she was now.
"Spike," she murmured softly, and turned her face into the softly falling rain. "So, I'm in London." A tight grin crossed her face. "Well, that's five by five."
Faith joined the throngs on Oxford Street, unaware that her presence had already been noted.
Chapter one
Pete McCafferey was not your usual Watcher, but then the Council had undergone some rather stressful changes in recent times, and a change of direction was being sought. The 'quite insufferable girl' (in Marcus's terms) running the show in the US had brought some rather harsh truths home to the Council leadership - namely that the Council was a little out of touch for the 21st century. So (Marcus had said) there was now a conscious change of direction in place, leading away from the somewhat stuffy old guard (Pete's words) to a new, street-smart generation of Watchers. Pete was very confident that, within five or so years, he would be able to call himself 'a usual Watcher'.
Twenty-three years old, tall and slim, with shoulder length blonde hair, Pete looked more at home in a rock band or on the football field than as a research fellow for the University of Westminster, and his looks and general behaviour had earned him the nickname 'Becks' among the Council's trainees, one that publicly irked him but privately delighted him. Marcus, who had absolutely no knowledge of football - he was a cricket man - professed absolute ignorance as to why Pete was called so. Indeed, Marcus Brigstoke was quite the opposite of the ebullient, outgoing Pete. Small, and younger than he looked, Pete had given him the nickname Denholm, as he looked pretty much the spit of the actor Denholm Elliott. Among the students of Westminster University, where Marcus also worked, they were looked on as chalk and cheese. In reality, they were an excellent partnership, for both the university and the Council.
It was Marcus who had spotted the Slayer, walking down Oxford Street with her eyes full of wonder, but it was Pete who approached her. Both men felt this wise, with their knowledge of Faith's temperament. Just at the corner of Oxford and Regent Street Pete caught up with the Slayer and asked cheerfully, "Christmas lights are nice, aren't they?" Faith turned, and the wonder dropped abruptly from her eyes. Wariness and danger filled them instead. "Who are you?" she asked. Marcus looked to Pete and almost seemed to quiver with fear. Pete was unperturbed, however. "Oh, sorry, I should introduce myself. I'm Pete. This" waving a hand in Marcus's general direction "is Marcus. What's your name?" He started to ask Faith if she wanted a drink but was cut off. "I'm not in the mood for dancing. Boys, and you don't want to push it. Got it?"
Marcus's heart sank, but Pete just smiled. "Got it in one, my love. We'll just give your regards to Travers, shall we?" And he took Marcus's arm and turned, knowing she would call them back. Which she did.
"Wait a minute. You can't be from the Council!" "Perhaps not," replied Pete, "but he is." He pointed to Marcus. Faith sighed, looked down at her feet, and seemed to consider for a moment. Then she looked up. When she did, Pete thought his legs would dissolve; she was beautiful when she smiled. "Let's go and get a drink."
Chapter Two
Lucius smiled as they took the boy, fed upon him, and cast his body aside. It was always the babies who tasted the best, their fear mingling with their wonder and producing blood so rich, so fresh, that a man could almost drown in it. They were like those Big Macs the adolescents of his brood loved so much - they were just moreish!
His crew (Cosmo had gotten the word from the Ocean's Eleven film they had watched not so long ago) numbered fourteen, a powerful number, overpowering unlucky thirteen. They had accepted no new members for over sixty years. Other vampire factions in London numbered into the hundreds but none touched Lucius's members, or his territory. As much as any vampire can be scared, they were scared of Lucius. They were scared of him, because frankly he was crazy. The vampires of London still remembered the time he had attacked the Mayor, Ken Livingstone, in bright sunshine on the banks of the Thames, his bloodlust merging with his hatred of what he called the 'bastard Commie'. After two minutes of frenzied feeding, with his skin smoking and smouldering and armed police pouring bullets into him, he had dived off the Mayor and into the river. He needed three months to recuperate from the pain and the madness, and his skin still seethed whenever they were out at night and ran afoul of what he called 'the congestion charge'. In the community of vampires, madness reaches a certain point, and then it is respected. Lucius had passed that point long ago.
The tranquillity of the den was shattered when Laverneus stormed in, shuddering. "Master!" he shrieked. "Master!" "What is it?" asked Lucius mildly, stirring from his place of repose. "trouble, boss," replied Morse, who had just followed Laverneus in. "Britney has gone."
A look of mild consternation crossed the face of Lucius. "Gone? What do you mean gone?"
"She has been slain, Master." The words rippled through Lucius's head. Slain! Slain! "So we have-" "Yes boss," replied Morse, showing a calmness he did not feel. "She took Britney with one blow." Lucius smiled. This was good news! A Slayer in London.
PROLOGUE
"... so then I said to him, I said to him, 'Look, Jim, if it doesn't fit, then take it back! I mean, what's the problem?..."
"....then he turns inside Carr, and BANG!! Top left corner, keeper no chance, GET IN HENRY!!! 2-1!...."
"....no, no, you'll have to move it back. I'm free Monday? Sweet. Let's say, twelve at Mario's? Great, I'll see you then..."
Voices intruding on the quiet. Who were all these people? Where was she? For that matter, who was she?
She got up, slowly, shaking her head to clear the sleep and the cobwebs from her brain. She looked around to get her bearings. She seemed to be in a small alleyway, just off a main street. It was dusk, and a light rain was falling. Detritus; rubbish bags, overflowing, fast food cartons and an overturned table filled the alley. The girl's nose wrinkled in disgust as she realised she had been lying next to a used condom. Hope I get my deposit back, she thought wearily. She looked towards the mouth of the alley and that was when the voice, more strident and persuasive than the phantoms she had heard before, spoke to her from the shadows behind her.
"Hey, babe, got a cigarette?"
She turned, putting out one hand to the rain-slicked wall to steady herself, and saw a woman, perhaps a few years older than herself (it was all coming back to her now, yes! All but who she was), sitting on a crate at the end of the alley. The woman rose with a feline grace, and swiftly moved to stand in front of her. Her pale skin seemed to glow in the darkness. "Got a fag I can ponce off you, love?" she crooned. Her accent seemed strange, somewhat coarse. Nevertheless, it was an accent the girl recognised. Sunnydale, her mind whispered. "I don't smoke", she said. The woman laughed: it was a beautiful, chilling sound. "Well, if I can't suck on a cancer-stick, what can I suck on then? Got any ideas, sweetie?"
And suddenly, it all came rushing back as the woman's face changed, grew elongated and ridged and formed itself into the monster's visage, it all came screaming back: the horror, the pain, the killing. The vampire lunged for the girl, and she swayed back instantly, long forgotten reflexes and training clicking back into action. She flipped backwards onto her hands, held the pose for a split-second, and whirled to strike the vampire full in the face with her left leg, spinning the creature backwards onto the ground. Whirling around again, the girl saw the upturned table, and snapped a leg off as the vampire recovered its feet.
"I don't smoke, and neither should you," she said, and plunged the makeshift stake deep into the vampire's heart.
"You know those things'll kill ya."
In an instant, the vampire was dust, and the girl turned to the mouth of the alley and the main street, brushing off the mud and dirt from her leather trousers. With the violence had returned her memory; she remembered that accent now, knew where she was now.
"Spike," she murmured softly, and turned her face into the softly falling rain. "So, I'm in London." A tight grin crossed her face. "Well, that's five by five."
Faith joined the throngs on Oxford Street, unaware that her presence had already been noted.
Chapter one
Pete McCafferey was not your usual Watcher, but then the Council had undergone some rather stressful changes in recent times, and a change of direction was being sought. The 'quite insufferable girl' (in Marcus's terms) running the show in the US had brought some rather harsh truths home to the Council leadership - namely that the Council was a little out of touch for the 21st century. So (Marcus had said) there was now a conscious change of direction in place, leading away from the somewhat stuffy old guard (Pete's words) to a new, street-smart generation of Watchers. Pete was very confident that, within five or so years, he would be able to call himself 'a usual Watcher'.
Twenty-three years old, tall and slim, with shoulder length blonde hair, Pete looked more at home in a rock band or on the football field than as a research fellow for the University of Westminster, and his looks and general behaviour had earned him the nickname 'Becks' among the Council's trainees, one that publicly irked him but privately delighted him. Marcus, who had absolutely no knowledge of football - he was a cricket man - professed absolute ignorance as to why Pete was called so. Indeed, Marcus Brigstoke was quite the opposite of the ebullient, outgoing Pete. Small, and younger than he looked, Pete had given him the nickname Denholm, as he looked pretty much the spit of the actor Denholm Elliott. Among the students of Westminster University, where Marcus also worked, they were looked on as chalk and cheese. In reality, they were an excellent partnership, for both the university and the Council.
It was Marcus who had spotted the Slayer, walking down Oxford Street with her eyes full of wonder, but it was Pete who approached her. Both men felt this wise, with their knowledge of Faith's temperament. Just at the corner of Oxford and Regent Street Pete caught up with the Slayer and asked cheerfully, "Christmas lights are nice, aren't they?" Faith turned, and the wonder dropped abruptly from her eyes. Wariness and danger filled them instead. "Who are you?" she asked. Marcus looked to Pete and almost seemed to quiver with fear. Pete was unperturbed, however. "Oh, sorry, I should introduce myself. I'm Pete. This" waving a hand in Marcus's general direction "is Marcus. What's your name?" He started to ask Faith if she wanted a drink but was cut off. "I'm not in the mood for dancing. Boys, and you don't want to push it. Got it?"
Marcus's heart sank, but Pete just smiled. "Got it in one, my love. We'll just give your regards to Travers, shall we?" And he took Marcus's arm and turned, knowing she would call them back. Which she did.
"Wait a minute. You can't be from the Council!" "Perhaps not," replied Pete, "but he is." He pointed to Marcus. Faith sighed, looked down at her feet, and seemed to consider for a moment. Then she looked up. When she did, Pete thought his legs would dissolve; she was beautiful when she smiled. "Let's go and get a drink."
Chapter Two
Lucius smiled as they took the boy, fed upon him, and cast his body aside. It was always the babies who tasted the best, their fear mingling with their wonder and producing blood so rich, so fresh, that a man could almost drown in it. They were like those Big Macs the adolescents of his brood loved so much - they were just moreish!
His crew (Cosmo had gotten the word from the Ocean's Eleven film they had watched not so long ago) numbered fourteen, a powerful number, overpowering unlucky thirteen. They had accepted no new members for over sixty years. Other vampire factions in London numbered into the hundreds but none touched Lucius's members, or his territory. As much as any vampire can be scared, they were scared of Lucius. They were scared of him, because frankly he was crazy. The vampires of London still remembered the time he had attacked the Mayor, Ken Livingstone, in bright sunshine on the banks of the Thames, his bloodlust merging with his hatred of what he called the 'bastard Commie'. After two minutes of frenzied feeding, with his skin smoking and smouldering and armed police pouring bullets into him, he had dived off the Mayor and into the river. He needed three months to recuperate from the pain and the madness, and his skin still seethed whenever they were out at night and ran afoul of what he called 'the congestion charge'. In the community of vampires, madness reaches a certain point, and then it is respected. Lucius had passed that point long ago.
The tranquillity of the den was shattered when Laverneus stormed in, shuddering. "Master!" he shrieked. "Master!" "What is it?" asked Lucius mildly, stirring from his place of repose. "trouble, boss," replied Morse, who had just followed Laverneus in. "Britney has gone."
A look of mild consternation crossed the face of Lucius. "Gone? What do you mean gone?"
"She has been slain, Master." The words rippled through Lucius's head. Slain! Slain! "So we have-" "Yes boss," replied Morse, showing a calmness he did not feel. "She took Britney with one blow." Lucius smiled. This was good news! A Slayer in London.