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.
Chapter Three
These boys need a life, stat, Faith thought to herself as Pete led them into the bar. To her eyes (and she had been in a lot of bars during the last few years) the place was as dead as the graveyards in which she had spent so much time. Called 'Ryans', it was a small, oak-furnished room, smoke-filled and dark, with a small bar, about twelve feet long taking up the far side of the wall. A solitary young woman was stood, hands desultorily placed either side of her head, elbows resting on the bar. Between her arms rested a glass half full with a dark liquid which could have been Coke but probably wasn't, and an overflowing ashtray. Other than this perfect image of lethargy, the bar was deserted. A small television, mounted in the corner on the wall adjacent to the bar, was showing Anne Robinson soundlessly insulting hapless contestants. There were half a dozen or so booths lining the walls, furnished with mahogany benches which seemed to absorb the light from the brass fixtures gamely attempting to illuminate the dank corners of the room. Faith had killed vampires with more life in them than this place.
"Let me guess," she said. "The Council's favourite hangout, right? I bet you hire this place out for your Christmas parties." Marcus gave her a rather reproachful look. Pete ignored her and strode to the bar and the lifeless barmaid. He turned. "What do you want?" he asked Faith with a smile. ""I don't suppose they have a cocktail list," she replied tartly, "so I'll just have a fruit juice, thanks." At this, the barmaid looked up, saw Pete, and life flowed into her features like wine into a glass. She regarded Pete with my-hero eyes. "Petey! How are ya, darlin?" "Fine thanks, Rosie," Pete replied with a rather harried look on his face. The girl had obviously set her cap for the Watcher a long time ago. "Pint of Fosters, Bells on ice and an orange juice, please." As Pete paid for the drinks and tried to extricate himself from Rosie's amorous gaze, Faith joined Marcus in the booth by the door. Marcus was trying to get sound on the telly with the remote control. He threw the remote on the table with a "Bloody thing," of disgust and sat down. He looked at the slayer. "Please, Faith, sit down." Faith did so. "I can understand what you're thinking," Marcus said. "We know that the Council haven't always treated you, erm, with, ah, " he completed his words in a rush, almost as one word, "theutmostofrespect!" He looked back to the bar, where Pete was vainly trying to leave with their drinks but seemed captured in Rosie's clutches. He looked back to Faith, who sat, quiet and intent. He shook his head, as if to clear his thoughts, and spoke again, more forcefully, and Faith began to see the determination and strength that lay behind his timid image.
"What I mean to say is that things have changed over here. The Council has realised its past mistakes, and has begun arranging its resources in a more efficient way. We are in a much more stable position now; our learning and research facilities are just that - geared to producing and training Watchers well versed in the arts and disciplines of our field. Our operations units are well-balanced, capable people. The rather bloodthirsty characters that populated what we called 'wetworks' have been weeded out. The mistakes that allowed rogue elements to filter through our ranks have been eradicated. I'm talking no more Gwendolyn Post, no more Ethan Rayne. no more Quentin Travers. Peter only mentioned the name to get your attention - "
"And I apologise for that," Pete said, returning to the table. He handed Faith her juice, Marcus the shot of whiskey, and took the pint for himself. "I can assure you, Faith, that Travers and his crazy schemes have gone from our organisation for good." Faith looked at Pete and saw that the friendly, carefree young man who could charm the ladies with a smile was gone. In his place was a hard, decisive man. He reminded her of Rupert Giles. He sat back, sipped his pint, and continued to regard her with his deep brown eyes, eyes, she realised belatedly, were the same colour as her own. Stop it! she cursed herself fiercely. Get your shit together, girl!
"Well, boys, that's just fine, but your Frasier and Niles routine still ain't answered the question, has it?" She allowed a sliver of anger to enter her voice, gauging their reactions. "What the hell do you want?" Neither flinched, she saw.
"We want nothing, Faith." Pete said. "I'll admit, I have trained as a Watcher for almost ten years" - he rather enjoyed the way her eyes flickered in surprise at that - " and you are still considered the Holy Grail for us. In truth, nobody is all that bothered about Buffy any more, not since she washed her hands of us, but you are, and always have been, something different." Marcus nodded, sipping at his whiskey. "That doesn't mean anything though. Not here, and not now. What do you want? Why did you come to London?" Faith stared at him, tried to find some smart arse comment, and couldn't come up with anything. She started to speak, stopped, started again, and came up empty. The two men waited, saying nothing, studying her. Abruptly, the television flared into full sound; "Well, team! Out of a possible one thousand poouundsss, you managed just twenty poouundsss!!! Hardly impressive, is it? I urge you to DITCH the DUNCE! It's time.. to VOTE OFF - the WEAKEST LINK!!!" Faith began to speak, faltering at first.
"I, I don't know. I just don't know, dammit!!" She looked up at them, eyes pleading. "Last I remember, I was in some crummy graveyard, waiting for some badass monster so I could get down to some ass kicking action, and I got hit on the head and I wake up in this, this, this shitty goddam alley! An' there's this girl, only she's not a girl, she's one of them, ya know? An' she's there, and she changes just like that, an' I barely got out of there alive, alright? So Iwas wandering around, looking at stuff, an' then you two show up, an' I'm still not thinking straight an' then you say 'Oh, Travers gives his regards an' let's go for a drink' - You ask me what I want. OK," she stopped, breathing hard, her dark hair falling across her eyes. She lifted her glass and polished off the juice in one draught. She smiled. It was a rather chilling smile. "I'll tell you what I want. I want some goddam booze."
Pete stood to go to the bar, and that was when the vampires attacked.
There were six of them, junior members of Lucius's crew, and they were bloodthirsty and eager to make an impression. All male, and all full of the power that made them so dangerous, the power of the demon that had infested them. They burst through the front door, and literally poured into the bar, one vaulting across the bar to fall on the hapless Rosie, clawed hands snapping her neck brutally, instantly. It happened so fast she died with her adoring my-hero eyes still fixed upon Pete.
The other five surrounded the table. One stepped forward, and pointed. "Slayer." He said, a sick grin crossing his face. The other five (Rosie's killer had now joined them) all produced that same smile. "You're more famous than Jesus Christ, you know. And soon, just as dead."
Pete clapped him on the back, his charming smile back on his face, and cried with hearty good cheer, "Danny! Good to see you, my man! How you been?" The vampire turned, smiling almost in spite of himself. "Yeah, not b- " he began, and that was as far as he got, because Pete slammed a broken chair leg directly into his heart, and the vamp became instant dust. "NOW!" Pete screamed, and, Marcus stood. Pete threw him the stake and Marcus launched his small frame at the nearest vampire, his fancy denim jacket covered with the dusty remnants of his leader. Faith, meanwhile, had leapt to her feet and jammed an elbow into the side of the nearest vamp's head, jarring his neck back. "I need a weapon!" she shouted, turning and launching a straight, flat forearm into the next vamp's windpipe. He went down hard, crumpled on the floor. Pete vaulted backwards, the vamp who had approached him somewhat taken by surprise, and landed next to a barstool. He quickly upended it, and shoved the stool's legs into the vamp's chest. As soon as it took, and the vamp expired, Pete snapped off two of the stool's legs. Taking one for himself, he threw the other in Faith's general direction -
Only for it to land in the outstretched hand of a very large, very heavy vamp who stood in front of the slayer.
"Looking for this, girlie?" he leered at Faith. He began to move towards her, just as the two she had already attacked got to their feet and began to cut off her line of escape. Marcus was pinned down with his vamp, and there was a bruise forming on his cheek, but he was holding his own, driving the creature backwards with fierce kicks to the head and body, so Pete went to Faith's aid. He realised four seconds later that she really didn't need his help.
Faith launched herself backwards and over the heads of the two vamps behind her; they were now in front of her, and they turned to each other, identical looks of bewilderment on their faces. She took one step forward and swivelled on her left foot, bringing her right up instantly. Pete heard the crack! As she made bone shuddering contact with the head of the left hand vamp, and he went down again, hard. Using the momentum her swivel kick had given her, Faith twisted and leaped into the air, and landed another right foot kick on the side of Right Hand vamp's head. He went down even harder. Finishing the movement, she leaped onto the bar, then, using it for leverage, jumped off the top of the bar and connected with a heavy boot to the temple of Vamp number three, dislodging the stake from his hand, and as he fell, she plucked it out of the air. Three quick stabs, and it was over, and the roars of the demons' passing was accompanied by the scream of Marcus as he plunged his own stake into the heart of his own opponent.
It was over. Faith rose, dropped the stake, and turned to Pete, who was regarding the fallen barmaid soberly. "Is she-" "Yeah. She never stood a chance." Marcus joined them, rubbing the bruise on his face. "We did, though. They weren't very good, were they?" he said. "Good enough," Pete replied sadly. He bent, lifted Rosie's body off the floor, and laid her on the top of the bar. "Goodnight, girl," he said, and closed her eyes. He straightened. Looked at the others. "Let's get out of here," he said. None of them noticed the figure stooped in the corner of the bar as they left. He raised his hand and sipped from a pint of bitter, drank long, and wiped his lips. He ran his tongue across his fangs as he said, "Bollocks."
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.
Chapter Three
These boys need a life, stat, Faith thought to herself as Pete led them into the bar. To her eyes (and she had been in a lot of bars during the last few years) the place was as dead as the graveyards in which she had spent so much time. Called 'Ryans', it was a small, oak-furnished room, smoke-filled and dark, with a small bar, about twelve feet long taking up the far side of the wall. A solitary young woman was stood, hands desultorily placed either side of her head, elbows resting on the bar. Between her arms rested a glass half full with a dark liquid which could have been Coke but probably wasn't, and an overflowing ashtray. Other than this perfect image of lethargy, the bar was deserted. A small television, mounted in the corner on the wall adjacent to the bar, was showing Anne Robinson soundlessly insulting hapless contestants. There were half a dozen or so booths lining the walls, furnished with mahogany benches which seemed to absorb the light from the brass fixtures gamely attempting to illuminate the dank corners of the room. Faith had killed vampires with more life in them than this place.
"Let me guess," she said. "The Council's favourite hangout, right? I bet you hire this place out for your Christmas parties." Marcus gave her a rather reproachful look. Pete ignored her and strode to the bar and the lifeless barmaid. He turned. "What do you want?" he asked Faith with a smile. ""I don't suppose they have a cocktail list," she replied tartly, "so I'll just have a fruit juice, thanks." At this, the barmaid looked up, saw Pete, and life flowed into her features like wine into a glass. She regarded Pete with my-hero eyes. "Petey! How are ya, darlin?" "Fine thanks, Rosie," Pete replied with a rather harried look on his face. The girl had obviously set her cap for the Watcher a long time ago. "Pint of Fosters, Bells on ice and an orange juice, please." As Pete paid for the drinks and tried to extricate himself from Rosie's amorous gaze, Faith joined Marcus in the booth by the door. Marcus was trying to get sound on the telly with the remote control. He threw the remote on the table with a "Bloody thing," of disgust and sat down. He looked at the slayer. "Please, Faith, sit down." Faith did so. "I can understand what you're thinking," Marcus said. "We know that the Council haven't always treated you, erm, with, ah, " he completed his words in a rush, almost as one word, "theutmostofrespect!" He looked back to the bar, where Pete was vainly trying to leave with their drinks but seemed captured in Rosie's clutches. He looked back to Faith, who sat, quiet and intent. He shook his head, as if to clear his thoughts, and spoke again, more forcefully, and Faith began to see the determination and strength that lay behind his timid image.
"What I mean to say is that things have changed over here. The Council has realised its past mistakes, and has begun arranging its resources in a more efficient way. We are in a much more stable position now; our learning and research facilities are just that - geared to producing and training Watchers well versed in the arts and disciplines of our field. Our operations units are well-balanced, capable people. The rather bloodthirsty characters that populated what we called 'wetworks' have been weeded out. The mistakes that allowed rogue elements to filter through our ranks have been eradicated. I'm talking no more Gwendolyn Post, no more Ethan Rayne. no more Quentin Travers. Peter only mentioned the name to get your attention - "
"And I apologise for that," Pete said, returning to the table. He handed Faith her juice, Marcus the shot of whiskey, and took the pint for himself. "I can assure you, Faith, that Travers and his crazy schemes have gone from our organisation for good." Faith looked at Pete and saw that the friendly, carefree young man who could charm the ladies with a smile was gone. In his place was a hard, decisive man. He reminded her of Rupert Giles. He sat back, sipped his pint, and continued to regard her with his deep brown eyes, eyes, she realised belatedly, were the same colour as her own. Stop it! she cursed herself fiercely. Get your shit together, girl!
"Well, boys, that's just fine, but your Frasier and Niles routine still ain't answered the question, has it?" She allowed a sliver of anger to enter her voice, gauging their reactions. "What the hell do you want?" Neither flinched, she saw.
"We want nothing, Faith." Pete said. "I'll admit, I have trained as a Watcher for almost ten years" - he rather enjoyed the way her eyes flickered in surprise at that - " and you are still considered the Holy Grail for us. In truth, nobody is all that bothered about Buffy any more, not since she washed her hands of us, but you are, and always have been, something different." Marcus nodded, sipping at his whiskey. "That doesn't mean anything though. Not here, and not now. What do you want? Why did you come to London?" Faith stared at him, tried to find some smart arse comment, and couldn't come up with anything. She started to speak, stopped, started again, and came up empty. The two men waited, saying nothing, studying her. Abruptly, the television flared into full sound; "Well, team! Out of a possible one thousand poouundsss, you managed just twenty poouundsss!!! Hardly impressive, is it? I urge you to DITCH the DUNCE! It's time.. to VOTE OFF - the WEAKEST LINK!!!" Faith began to speak, faltering at first.
"I, I don't know. I just don't know, dammit!!" She looked up at them, eyes pleading. "Last I remember, I was in some crummy graveyard, waiting for some badass monster so I could get down to some ass kicking action, and I got hit on the head and I wake up in this, this, this shitty goddam alley! An' there's this girl, only she's not a girl, she's one of them, ya know? An' she's there, and she changes just like that, an' I barely got out of there alive, alright? So Iwas wandering around, looking at stuff, an' then you two show up, an' I'm still not thinking straight an' then you say 'Oh, Travers gives his regards an' let's go for a drink' - You ask me what I want. OK," she stopped, breathing hard, her dark hair falling across her eyes. She lifted her glass and polished off the juice in one draught. She smiled. It was a rather chilling smile. "I'll tell you what I want. I want some goddam booze."
Pete stood to go to the bar, and that was when the vampires attacked.
There were six of them, junior members of Lucius's crew, and they were bloodthirsty and eager to make an impression. All male, and all full of the power that made them so dangerous, the power of the demon that had infested them. They burst through the front door, and literally poured into the bar, one vaulting across the bar to fall on the hapless Rosie, clawed hands snapping her neck brutally, instantly. It happened so fast she died with her adoring my-hero eyes still fixed upon Pete.
The other five surrounded the table. One stepped forward, and pointed. "Slayer." He said, a sick grin crossing his face. The other five (Rosie's killer had now joined them) all produced that same smile. "You're more famous than Jesus Christ, you know. And soon, just as dead."
Pete clapped him on the back, his charming smile back on his face, and cried with hearty good cheer, "Danny! Good to see you, my man! How you been?" The vampire turned, smiling almost in spite of himself. "Yeah, not b- " he began, and that was as far as he got, because Pete slammed a broken chair leg directly into his heart, and the vamp became instant dust. "NOW!" Pete screamed, and, Marcus stood. Pete threw him the stake and Marcus launched his small frame at the nearest vampire, his fancy denim jacket covered with the dusty remnants of his leader. Faith, meanwhile, had leapt to her feet and jammed an elbow into the side of the nearest vamp's head, jarring his neck back. "I need a weapon!" she shouted, turning and launching a straight, flat forearm into the next vamp's windpipe. He went down hard, crumpled on the floor. Pete vaulted backwards, the vamp who had approached him somewhat taken by surprise, and landed next to a barstool. He quickly upended it, and shoved the stool's legs into the vamp's chest. As soon as it took, and the vamp expired, Pete snapped off two of the stool's legs. Taking one for himself, he threw the other in Faith's general direction -
Only for it to land in the outstretched hand of a very large, very heavy vamp who stood in front of the slayer.
"Looking for this, girlie?" he leered at Faith. He began to move towards her, just as the two she had already attacked got to their feet and began to cut off her line of escape. Marcus was pinned down with his vamp, and there was a bruise forming on his cheek, but he was holding his own, driving the creature backwards with fierce kicks to the head and body, so Pete went to Faith's aid. He realised four seconds later that she really didn't need his help.
Faith launched herself backwards and over the heads of the two vamps behind her; they were now in front of her, and they turned to each other, identical looks of bewilderment on their faces. She took one step forward and swivelled on her left foot, bringing her right up instantly. Pete heard the crack! As she made bone shuddering contact with the head of the left hand vamp, and he went down again, hard. Using the momentum her swivel kick had given her, Faith twisted and leaped into the air, and landed another right foot kick on the side of Right Hand vamp's head. He went down even harder. Finishing the movement, she leaped onto the bar, then, using it for leverage, jumped off the top of the bar and connected with a heavy boot to the temple of Vamp number three, dislodging the stake from his hand, and as he fell, she plucked it out of the air. Three quick stabs, and it was over, and the roars of the demons' passing was accompanied by the scream of Marcus as he plunged his own stake into the heart of his own opponent.
It was over. Faith rose, dropped the stake, and turned to Pete, who was regarding the fallen barmaid soberly. "Is she-" "Yeah. She never stood a chance." Marcus joined them, rubbing the bruise on his face. "We did, though. They weren't very good, were they?" he said. "Good enough," Pete replied sadly. He bent, lifted Rosie's body off the floor, and laid her on the top of the bar. "Goodnight, girl," he said, and closed her eyes. He straightened. Looked at the others. "Let's get out of here," he said. None of them noticed the figure stooped in the corner of the bar as they left. He raised his hand and sipped from a pint of bitter, drank long, and wiped his lips. He ran his tongue across his fangs as he said, "Bollocks."