Giles awoke choking, and rolled onto his side to spit a mouthful of blood onto the ground. He felt terrible. His throat was raw, his head ached, and his knuckles looked as though he had been beating on concrete for several hours. He put up his hands to cradle his head momentarily, and winced when his fingers brushed his left eye. By the feel of it that was one hell of a bruise. He indulged in a little moaning for a while, until he was sure that nobody was either going to commiserate with him, or hit him again. Then he sat up.
He was still in the rocky cavern, just as before, but this time the door was open. He didn't remember it being open before, although a distant part of his consciousness remembered Wesley shouting something, and some kind of a flash of light illuminating one end of the cavern. He frowned then. Where the hell was Wesley? He didn't seem to be anywhere around. He struggled to his feet, calling out for his colleague, wanting somebody he could yell at for his general feeling of discomfort. Had the other Watcher snapped off back to spirit land, or followed Forsythe and Lilah? Only then did he see the ghost lying on the ground, far paler than he should have been, so that the rocks that were strewn loosely about the cavern floor were visible through his slight frame. Giles reached out for him automatically, then muttered disparagingly at himself and raised his voice instead.
"Wesley!"
"Huh?" The colours within the ghostly figure strengthened and brightened, and finally the transparency was gone. He looked up then, blinking confusedly. "What?"
"You were out like a light." Giles stretched, wishing that his muscles didn't feel quite so uncomfortable. "You want to tell me how a ghost gets knocked out?"
"Lilah hit me." Wesley sat up, rubbing his head. "Although really that's not much of an explanation." He frowned suddenly. "The door!"
"Still open. I guess they went through it."
"But they left it open?" He stumbled to his feet, staring at the end of the cavern as though unable to believe it until he saw for himself. "Oh praise be. I really don't think I could have opened that again."
"Forsythe shouldn't have been in any state to go anywhere." Giles touched his head delicately. "Damn. I think I'm one big bruise from the waist up.
"Sorry." Wesley wanted very much to lean against the wall, but in his current state was ssure that he would just fall straight through it - which wouldn't have made him feel any better. "When it turned out that he was impervious to my bullets, I should have guessed that he would also be unaffected by your fists. I suppose he must have worked some kind of spell. To protect himself, but to make it look as though you were beating him - and to make you want to in the first place. Lilah said that he couldn't open the door. He used us both."
"That was no spell to make me attack him." Giles smiled ruefully. "That was all me. I couldn't resist it. Serves me right, I suppose. Now he's presumably not got so much as a scratch, and I feel like hell. How about you?"
"Tired. Faintly confused. And also very tired." Wesley also smiled ruefully. "And feeling like a complete idiot. I'm sorry, Giles. I tried to help when I realised what Forsythe was up to, but I just couldn't manage it. I was so drained after that spell to make the door open. Even if I hadn't been, I doubt I could have done any good. A lot of bloody use I am."
"We all have our uses. I probably wouldn't have got this far without you." Giles wanted to clap him on the back, but didn't think that letting his hand sail through the ghost's back was going to be making him feel any better about his ephemeral condition. "Although not getting yourself knocked out might have been good. Just how-?"
"She's Lilah." He said it almost fondly; goodness knew there was no point being angry about it. She was Lilah - and that just about said it all. "And we should be getting after her."
"Yes, I suppose we probably should." Giles went to the door and peered through it. "Guess what?"
"A choice of ways?"
"Yes. An easy one this time though." He walked through the doorway, and stood very still at the place where the tunnel forked. "Can you feel that?"
"I can't feel anything, Giles. I'm dead. The only thing I can feel is Lilah when she... plays games." He followed the other man into the tunnel. "What is it?"
"A yearning." Giles was silent for a moment, analysing the sensation as clinically as he could. "Desire. As though any question I've ever had might be answered. Any problems I have might be solved. The box, I take it."
"Or Corbio's tricks designed to play upon your desire to find the box. Which way does this instinct tell you to go?"
"Left. I'd suggest that means that we should go right instead, but in this case I'm not sure that we should. I think that's perhaps what we're meant to think."
"It could well be." Wesley tried to detect any sign of this strange yearning that Giles was experiencing, but failed. "Corbio probably felt that the people most likely to try to take the box, much less manage to get through even some of his labyrinth, would be Watchers. And Watchers are always trained to deny their desires. The first choice would always be to go away from this pull that you're feeling."
"Unless it's a double bluff."
"True. But I can't see any clues; any more riddles or pointers. We're going to have to go on instinct."
"So do we go right or left?"
"You're the one who feels the pull." Wesley folded his arms, frowned slightly as he looked one way and then the other. It bothered him that he couldn't feel the box calling to him. Was it because he was dead, or because he no longer had any desires? He was, after all, the man who had been unable to think of some way to use what was supposed to have been his last day upon the Earth. Giles saw the look in his eyes, and smiled.
"Be glad that you don't feel it. It's very... intense. It's as though something inside my head is stirring old longings, and making me feel them again. More powerfully than ever before. I can feel a desire to follow the yearning, with a promise of finding what I'm looking for."
"What are you looking for?"
"I don't know." He frowned. "It's like a suggestion that somehow, if I find the box, whatever is in it might contain the secret to banishing vampires from the Earth. So that Buffy would be safe. Even with all the Slayers that now exist in the world, our work is far from done, and her welfare is still a major concern. There are other things too. The promise of spells, and desires I had as a young man that I haven't thought about in years. Chaos, mostly. Dark secrets. Power."
"Then I don't think we need to wonder what desires Forsythe is following." Wesley started off down the left hand tunnel. "Anyway, their going first at least means that I can go before you. You should have some warning if there's anything unpleasant ahead."
"If there is, let's hope that it's already ripped off Forsythe's head." Giles followed the ghost, ducking his head to avoid the low ceiling. "There's not much room to fight in here."
"No, there isn't. That works against them though, as well as against you."
"Not if Forsythe is still waving guns around it doesn't. You know of any way to counteract that spell of his?"
"Possibly. He's powerful though, Giles. I admit that I'm no slouch, but if he's been dabbling in the dark arts since his expulsion from the Watchers, I don't know what he might have learnt." He smiled slightly. "I'm no Willow. I could only aspire to be that powerful myself."
"Right now you're the best I've got. I'm too out of practice myself; and if and when we run into him, I'll probably be a little too busy to try anything anyway. Just keep thinking, and if you get the chance, throw anything at him. Then at least I might be able to take him out."
"Deep down I think you like being the muscle of this operation." It was a small joke, but it was hardly familiar to hear any joking at all coming from Wesley; at least in Giles's experience. He smiled faintly.
"It's been a long time. You know what it's like playing second fiddle in that department to a small girl."
"Whatever else Faith may be, she's not small." Wesley's experience as Watcher was very different to that of Giles, but it did have its parallels. "But I know what you mean. For someone who can fight as well as you can, letting a little thing like Buffy do it all instead must be galling."
"Don't let Buffy hear you calling her that." Giles smiled. "But we each do what we're best capable of. And right now, I'm really hoping that I'm best capable of battering Anthony Forsythe into a nicely sticky pulp. If you can switch off his protection."
"I'll do my best."
"A few years ago that would have filled me with genuine dread." Giles moved into the lead so that Wesley couldn't see the smile that had warmed his eyes. "Best keep the noise down now. These tunnels could carry the slightest sound."
"I'm not the one whose footsteps sound like thunder." Wesley walked through him, emerging once again in the lead. "And keep back. I'm supposed to be checking the way ahead."
"If you like." Giles rubbed his head. "You still don't feel this thing? Like the box calling to you?"
"Like I said, I don't feel anything. I'm dead, Giles. What desires can a dead man have?"
"Not to be dead?"
"Touché. But maybe it can't work it's... mojo... on a ghost. Lilah would possibly be able to feel it. Whatever she is, she's solid."
"Yes, I've been wondering about her." Apparently happy to ignore his own advice to be quiet, Giles caught Wesley up again. He couldn't walk alongside him without walking in the ghost's body, which seemed somewhat impolite, so instead he settled on walking a short pace behind. "She's not a reanimated corpse. Not a zombie. There's no sign of decomposition, and she doesn't have the clumsiness usually associated with anything like that. She's not a vampire - or she doesn't behave like one, which doesn't necessarily mean anything. Are we sure that she's dead?"
"She was stabbed in the neck, and then I chopped off her head. That does usually result in death. It's a Wolfram & Hart thing, that's all. Contracts. Magic. They like to sign things in blood, and there are always consequences." He spoke as though it were something that weighed heavily on his mind - which it was. The attempt to free Lilah from her deathless contract had been his reason for going to Wolfram & Hart. Giles nodded.
"And these are the same people who might well have your body. Did you sign any contracts with them?"
"I'm not a fool, Giles." Wesley didn't add that Angel, however, had signed any number of contracts, bearing his own name and those of his friends and colleagues. Whatever Angel had signed away, was no concern of Giles's. Given the events of the last few years, whatever he had signed away - of Wesley's at least - was probably more than his by right anyway. So thought the ghost.
"Well. It's probably too late to worry now." There were always possibilities - but somehow Giles didn't think that a task force of young Slayers could really be sent to retrieve a dead body. Not when there were living targets to worry about.
"Far too late. And I didn't think we were supposed to be talking, anyway."
"Touché." He echoed the other man's response from earlier in the conversation, accentuating it with wry amusement. "But I don't hear anything yet. If we can't hear them--"
"Then they're being sneaky." Wesley quickened his step, taking full advantage of his lack of footsteps. The corridor was growing thinner, the ceiling lower. From time to time his head disappeared into the roof, and he had to duck to see where he was going. Giles stumbled along in the rear, jabbed by the rocks on either side, and tripped by those at his feet. Damn it, a man could wish that he was a ghost, struggling through a place like this. At least then there wouldn't be sharp stones threatening to cut his shoes to shreds, and jabbing at his arms and his head. There was just enough light to see by, from whatever source, but seeing the obstacles was not enough to stop him from colliding with them, especially when moving at speed. To add to the discomfort, the yearning that still spoke to him inside his head was growing stronger. He could almost hear voices now, snapping away inside his skull. Words of encouragement that he couldn't quite catch, stirring odd desires. The box, he thought, with more longing than he would have imagined. He had to get to the box. Get it before Forsythe did. Stop him from using it to increase his powers. If Forsythe got it, Giles would never be able to get Forsythe. He tried to imagine what might be inside the box; what could Philarbus possibly have found? Could it be worth all this interest, all this lusting, all this effort? But every time he tried to think of such things, the whisperings in his head grew louder, and he broke off his thoughts to try again to catch the words. They remained elusive, but every time they made the frustration and the anxiety increase. He had to get to that box. He needed to get to that box. All the aches from the fight back in the cavern grew stronger, throbbing with each beat of his heart. He could feel a pulse resounding in his head, sending new waves of discomfort through his skull, hurting his black eye and bringing the taste of blood afresh to his drying mouth. Find the box, end the pain. Find the box, deal with Forsythe. Find the box, find the box, find the box. He swore under his breath, and wished for an end to the tunnel. Just to get out of the echoing confinement, out of the constricting rock and stale air, and the annoying half light. He had been here long enough. Not just in this tunnel, but in the whole labyrinth. His watch no longer worked, and he had no idea how long he had been on this journey, fighting peculiarities. The watch probably wouldn't have given him a true answer anyway. What could?
"I think I hear voices." Wesley had somehow managed to get far ahead, although Giles hadn't been aware of him doing so. His voice came back through the tunnel in a whisper that carried well. "We must be getting close."
"About time." Knocking his head against numerous outcroppings, Giles hurried to catch up. "That box has got a very loud, very insistent voice."
"Fight it. You've got more chance of doing that than Forsythe has, if only because you're bound to have less desires in the first place." He smiled. "Of a sort, anyway."
"I'm not searching for power anymore, no. With luck we can use that." He thumped his head again and winced. "Damn it!"
"Ssh. If we can hear them--"
"Then they can hear us, yes. I know." Forcing himself to keep to a whisper, despite his irritation, Giles pushed on ahead, through the ghost and on down the tunnel. The voices were clear; sharp, angry voices. Forsythe's, raised in demand, wanting the box and asking for assurance that Wolfram & Hart would let him keep it. Demanding the right of ownership because of his work in getting Lilah through the labyrinth. For her part Lilah was angry, incensed at his demands, and at his peremptory tone. She had never liked it when people made demands. When they tried to exert authority over her. Giles was not to know that, but he did know that tempers were running high. He might have been in a similar state himself, had he been more the kind to be affected by the influence of the box.
"Wesley!" Keeping his voice to the faintest of hisses now, he waited for the ghost to catch up. "What about that counter-spell?"
"I can do it. I think. It depends on the strength of his own magic, but I should be able to break the enchantment. Ideally I'd have some arrowroot to shake over him, but I doubt he'd stand still for that anyway."
"Besides which, you wouldn't be able to hold the stuff, let alone sprinkle it." Giles nodded. "Forget the arrowroot. A good magician shouldn't need it."
"I hope not." It was impossible to converse any more quietly, so they both fell into silence now, walking slowly for the last length of the tunnel. It widened out a little, and the ceiling sloped gradually upwards, making the going that bit less unpleasant. Giles's head still ached, and his eye throbbed, but he found the voices easier to block out. They still called to him, playing on his desire to defeat Forsythe, but less persistently now. He shut his mind to them as much as was possible, forcing himself to breathe as deeply and as calmly as he could. Only then, when he was more or less certain that he was completely in control, did he edge slowly to the end of the tunnel, and peer into the space beyond.
He could see the box, or something that looked likely to be it; a wooden box about a foot long and roughly the same in height and width. It was enclosed in a case that looked to be made of glass, almost the size of a room, and built thickly enough to distort the image of the box placed inside. There were etchings in the glass that were clearly words, in yet another of Corbio's favoured uncommon tongues, and the whole rested in a rocky room almost as large as the cavern at the other end of the tunnel. Lilah and Forsythe were arguing together beside the glass, Forsythe growing increasingly irate. His voice rose in volume, and his body language suggested imminent violence.
"You need my blood to open that vault." He slammed one hand against the glass. "Just like you needed me to solve the puzzles to get you here. Wolfram & Hart can't be all that powerful if they needed me to help them, so they can't stop me from seeing what's in that box. And don't think that you can either. I've been practising magic since you were still in school."
"Magic isn't everything, honey." Lilah was smiling, although her eyes were empty of expression. To anybody who was not as monumentally self-obsessed as Forsythe, that should have been a danger signal. "I need your blood to get to that box, and you have to be alive when it happens. But only when it happens."
"And you think that you can kill me? Wolfram & Hart need me. They'd never let that happen."
"You believe that?" She was laughing at him, which would have been enough to drive him to fury even without the box whispering in his ear. "You're a means to an end to them. They needed a Watcher. They don't have great plans for you, and they're not going to let you take whatever is inside that box."
"Once I've opened it they won't have a choice. I'll be more powerful than they can imagine. Whoever and whatever these 'Senior Partners' are, I'll be more than they'll ever be. Can't you hear it speaking to you? Or isn't it even bothering to try? It's telling me how powerful it is. All the things that it can do for me. Once I've opened it, I'll be the greatest sorcerer who ever walked the Earth."
"You'll be a dead man. Because even the greatest sorcerer who ever walked the Earth wouldn't be a match for the power behind Wolfram & Hart. I know. Believe me, I have every reason to know how powerful they are. Now do what you were brought here to do, and open that vault."
"You sound like you're trying to save my life. But you couldn't give a damn about it, could you. What is it? Are you after the box yourself? What do you think you'll find inside it?"
"Never you mind." Her eyes were colder than ice. "Just spill your blood, before I spill it for you. You're not taking that box."
"And you're not stopping me." He raised a hand, and the light that illuminated the room shone on the blade of a knife. "You try, and it'll be you spilling your blood."
"Really." Lilah laughed at him. "I think you'll find yourself being very surprised if you try that. I'm not exactly what I appear to be."
"You're real enough. And what's real can cease to be." The knife glittered as he moved it slightly to-and-fro. Wesley made a move to start forward, and Giles grabbed at him, cursing in frustration when his hand fell straight through the passing arm.
"She's dead!" he hissed. "What the hell do you think he's going to do to her?"
"We have to get to that box first." Wesley had seen Lilah's eyes flicker at the sound of Giles's voice. They had lost the edge of surprise, but Forsythe did not seem to have noticed anything as yet. That at least was something; he didn't think that she would alert a man with whom she was evidently at odds. Not that you could ever be sure with Lilah. She didn't say anything, and her eyes remained focused upon Forsythe, inviting him to continue with his threats and demands. Wesley walked out of the tunnel to stand behind the other Watcher, a frown darkening his brow, and Giles sighed. Admittedly the confrontation had to come at some point, but he would rather have liked some say on when. Wesley rested far too much faith in Lilah. The woman was evil, and it was quite obvious that she had no intention of allowing anybody to take the box away from her and her inhuman employers. Giles would feel a lot better if she was knocked out and tied up, or better still sent back to whatever hell had granted her a temporary release. Counting on her not to give the game away smacked of insanity to him; but what the hell. The damn box was talking almost as much as Forsythe, and they might as well get this over with. Just as long as Wesley managed to make himself useful, and do something about the renegade's protection charms before Lilah decided to join the fight. Giles had no illusions about which side she would turn out to be on. Stepping out of the tunnel, he straightened his back, ignored the throbbing in his head, and took a deep, determined breath. He really wanted to have another go at beating the living daylights out of Forsythe, but he wanted it to have real effect this time.
"Forsythe." He kept his voice steady, almost conversational. Forsythe's stream of invective ground to a halt, and he turned around slowly, eyebrows raised in surprise.
"Rupert. I wasn't expecting you to recover so soon. You look... battered."
"And you don't. Nice trick."
"I like it. I think you'll find its effects are lasting. Long lasting."
"And I'm rather hoping you might be mistaken." Giles didn't look at Wesley. He didn't want to attract any attention to the thoughtfully pacing ghost. Lilah was watching him, an expression of fond amusement on her face, but Forsythe was not watching Lilah. He looked only at Giles, his own amusement anything but fond.
"I'm never mistaken. I have the kind of powers that see to that. Now what exactly was it you were wanting?"
"That box." Giles took another step forward, wishing that Wesley would stop pacing, and do something rather more inspiring. Like casting spells. "I'm claiming it. You must know that I can't let you have it."
"Oh. The box." Forsythe smiled at him. "You want it for yourself, perhaps? What do you think it'll give you, Giles? All those things you gave up to become a good little Watcher?"
"I didn't give anything up." Feeling the fury spur within him once again, Giles took another step forward. Forsythe's smile was enough to bring out the fires inside him, and he had to struggle to quell the desire to let loose with his fists there and then. "You might be about to find that out."
"Oh I don't think so, Rupert. I think you'll find that I'm a lot more powerful than you are, and that I'm going to be the one leaving here with that box. You're not getting it, she's not getting it, and Wolfram & Hart aren't getting it. I won it. It's mine by rights."
"It belongs to Philarbus. He's the only one who knows what's in it, and the only one who knows what it's supposed to be used for. The only reason any of us are here is because of him, and because the intolerant world he lived in sent him to a cruel death. It's no more yours by rights than it was Corbio's."
"Well Philarbus isn't here to stop me from taking it. Just you, some woman who seems to think she can stand up to me, and a ghost. That's not a trio that fills me with fear, especially since one of you is on a different side to the other two. And especially since one of you is dead."
Lilah held up her hand. "Two of us, actually. So whatever spells you think you can throw at us, you might want to have another think about. You can't hurt somebody who's dead."
"No?" Forsythe smiled unpleasantly. "So you're dead. Well then you're easily dealt with, Miss Morgan. I can just send you back to wherever you came from." He muttered something harsh and sharp, and in a flash of blue-white flame, Lilah disappeared. She went with a yell, her body twisting, and Wesley stepped forward in shock.
"Lilah!" He stood where she had been, eyes wide. "What have you done to her?"
"Sent her back. By the look of things, not to heaven or to hell." Forsythe looked him up and down, apparently seeing him for the first time. "I know you. Oklahoma, wasn't it? I met you at a train station. Offered you the chance of a lifetime. The Purple Iris is a very exclusive organisation, you know. You should have accepted."
"Yes." Wesley's voice showed sarcasm, and a light touch of anger. "But then I'd have had to kill you all, so it would hardly have been worth my while paying the subs, would it."
"Oh, very good. So the two of you are going to try to distract me, are you? Play little tricks to make me look away, so that one or the other of you can spin some pathetic spell that you hope will lose me my protections? Well it's not going to work. Neither one of you could possibly have what it takes. I learnt my craft from books that no other living person has read. I've practised spells that other human magicians could never dream of accomplishing. That box is mine. And neither one of you is going to take it away from me." He waved a hand, muttering a basic incantation, and in a flicker of white light, like static on a television screen, Wesley was frozen in place. His eyes moved, and his lips moved soundlessly, but the rest of him appeared to be paralysed. Giles was no lip-reader, but he recognised some of the words that were spitting themselves out of Wesley's mouth. They certainly weren't spells.
"So now it's just the two of us." Forsythe's voice was polite. Almost friendly. "It's been a long time, Rupert. 1989, I think. Or was it 1990?"
"It was 1989." Giles kept his own voice low, and as steady as he could make it. It still sounded gruff, as though he were on the point of an explosion of rage - but since they both knew that that was indeed the case, there seemed little point in making a great effort to hide it. "And you damn well know that."
"1989. Ah yes. A good year. A vintage year. Been back that way since? Fair Okhotsk, the not so sparkling jewel of the East."
"I've had no reason to go back. The only reason I was there the last time was because of you." Giles let the glare take over his face. "Now I didn't come here to talk, Forsythe. Why don't we just get on with this?"
"You're really that desperate to die? I wouldn't have thought so, myself, given how energetically you've always fought in the past. Like in Okhotsk, when between us we managed to destroy that hotel. The locals seemed to think it was some kind of localised earthquake."
"They weren't far wrong." Giles had gone to Okhotsk on the word of a weather-beaten old sailor, who had claimed to have seen Anthony Forsythe skulking there looking for oddities to use in his various spells. It had been a very long, very hard journey, and a very long, very hard fight, which had left two locals dead, several dozen wounded, and Giles under threat of serious disciplinary action from the Council. Forsythe, needless to say, had escaped, although only just. Fifteen years had passed since then though - and fifteen years could mean a lot to a man who spent his days studying all manner of magical arts.
"And now it's about to be over. We go back a long way, you and me. Back to the days when we were completing our training. Back to the days when I was still the good guy, and you were the one nobody trusted. Twenty-five years, Rupert. Twenty-five long, eventful years."
"Yes, I know. I can count. Always could. Now like I was saying, neither of us is here for the conversation. Why don't we just get this thing started?"
"I could blast you to smithereens with one word, Rupert. One little word. Are you really so--" He broke off, looking back at Wesley. "What was that?"
"He's dead, remember? A ghost. No threat to you." Giles hadn't heard anything, for as far as he could tell Wesley was no longer capable of audible speech. He merely stood frozen to the spot, muttering words through his barely moving lips. His expression showed strain and anger, but he didn't look like a threat. Not to anybody or anything. Forsythe glared daggers back at Giles.
"Yes he's dead. And trapped in there he should be as harmless as a cloud. Which is all he is, in essence. But there's something fighting back. Something inside him. I can feel it pushing against the barrier."
"He has powerful allies." Well, he has Cordelia, anyway. That's bound to mean something. Forsythe shook his head.
"He might be here at the say so of powerful allies, but it's not them fighting back." He smiled suddenly. "I have to hand it you, Giles. You always do manage to throw an interesting party. This might even be worth savouring for a little longer, if I wouldn't much rather be getting that box, and getting the hell out of here." He drew in a deep breath, regaining the control that his growing ire and the voice of the box had conspired to make him lose. "Now. Mr Pryce, isn't it? You'd oblige me by shutting up, and stopping whatever it is that you're trying to do." He waved a hand, much as he had done before, and Wesley's form blinked and bent the way it had when he had been fighting to open the door in the previous cavern. "I never did thank you for getting me in here. Couldn't for the hell of me work out the key to opening that door. But you did it, didn't you, and by the look of things it took a fair bit of magic to get it done. Maybe I should be paying you a little more attention."
"Leave him alone, Forsythe. The man's dead, there's no point in trying to make things even more unpleasant."
"Shut up." With a wave of his hand, Forsythe sent Giles flying over backwards, where he crashed to the ground with an impressive thump. He groaned. Why did his enemies have such a marked fondness for hurling him into things? It was getting to be as common as bashing him over the head. He struggled to his feet, muscles protesting, the thumping inside his skull now reaching mammoth proportions. Next time he went on holiday he was not only bringing all of his weapons, but he was bringing a family sized box of aspirin as well.
"Forsythe!" He hoped that it had sounded suitably dramatic. Looking and sounding the part was all that he could do, really, so he might as well do that much right. The renegade turned to look at him, smiling faintly.
"Am I slipping, or are you getting tougher in your old age? Play nicely and lie still, Rupert. I'll get back to you in just a moment. For now I'm more interested in your little dead magician here."
"Wesley?" Giles advanced slowly, cautiously. "He's no magician. Wesley is a walking disaster area, everybody knows that. Why do you think he's dead? Slipped up fighting somebody he didn't have a chance in hell of beating, because he was willing to follow a friend into death to make a point. He didn't get sacked from the Watchers for being a worthwhile magician."
"Then he's grown since then more than they'd ever imagined." Forsythe was not in the mood to be bluffed. "Shut up, Giles. Stay out of this. Or are you still magician enough yourself to play a part?" He snapped his fingers and muttered a few words of Latin, and Giles was suddenly standing beside him, blinking in surprise. "Here's a challenge for you, Rupert. I have a spell that I can finish in three words. If I say them friend Pryce here will vanish out of this room for good and all. And when I say 'out of this room', I also mean out of this world. Out of this plane of existence. He might fight his way back out of whichever hell he ends up in. One day he might. But being dead, I doubt it. Lost and wandering souls are like meat and drink to the creatures that live in some dimensions. Chances are he wouldn't last five minutes."
"And?" Deliberately choosing not to look at Wesley, Giles kept his eyes fixed upon Forsythe. "I take it that you're expecting me to do something to stop you?"
"You're the Ripper. Or at least you used to be. Show me your 'rip', Rupert. Stop me before I can banish your friend."
"He's not my friend." Giles's eyes were as cold as he could make them, his voice several shades colder than that. "We hate each other. He was sent to replace me when I was fired from the Council. His actions sent a Slayer over the edge. Almost stopped her from ever being brought back. He annoys me, and quite frankly I wouldn't care if you sent him to any damn hell dimension you choose. All I care about, Anthony, is getting that box before you do. And killing you in the process, if at all possible."
"Really? We'll see about that." Forsythe turned slightly, looking towards Wesley once again. The ghost was almost translucent, just as before, his image flickering and fading, snapping back into full colour only occasionally. His lips were still moving, but Giles could no longer tell what words he was saying, or trying to say. "Mr Pryce? Your colleague here appears to care little for you. Perhaps we should meet his bluff? Any preference on hell dimensions? Anywhere you've ever especially wanted to see? No?" He laughed shortly at his own joke, then raised one hand, ready to bring it down to trigger the spell. He was already beginning the three words that were all he needed to say when Giles, taking full advantage of his distraction, drove his dagger deep into the side of his neck. It stuck there, looking faintly ridiculous, as Forsythe turned about to face him.
"A knife? You think a knife can stop me? I'm impervious to damage, Rupert, or had you forgotten? Didn't my little lesson back in that other cavern teach you anything?" He shook his head. "The great Ripper - not a magician at all really, are you. It's all just about violence. Quite frankly I'm disappointed." He pulled the knife out of his neck, well aware that he had Giles's full attention as he did so. "Pryce can wait, it seems. Time to get you out of the way instead." He stepped forward quickly, slashing with the knife and making Giles jump back. It was a pointless endeavour to try to avoid the assault however, for with a word Forsythe had him frozen, immobile, his muscles straining to move bones that could not move at all. "Such a disappointment, Rupert. To find you to be nothing but a cold blooded killer at heart. Where's the finesse? Where's the intelligent strike against a worthy foe? Where's--" He broke off, the knife a mere inch from Giles's throat, a frown beginning to take over his face. "What--? What's--?"
"Never take your eye off your enemy, Mr Forsythe." Wesley sounded as though he had been running a marathon, uphill and against a raging gale. For the first time in a long while Giles allowed himself to look at the other man, and saw him on his hands and knees, barely visible, image still flickering - but free of Forsythe's bonding spell. It looked as though he was smiling, although it was hard to be sure with the constant fading and fluttering. Forsythe spat out a vicious insult, but with the words came a trickle of blood. He put up his free hand to his neck, and it came away soaked in red. The blood was falling fast now; the knife had missed the artery, but it had done damage enough to bleed a copious amount. His protection charm had gone. The knife fell from his hand.
"Bastard." For the first time he didn't sound like a lord of the manor. For the first time his egotistical self image had broken. He was no longer the aristocrat, better than everybody else. He was a wounded, furious man put suddenly on the defence. "You bastard. I'll get you for that. Three words, I--" He coughed, and it was blood rather than words that came from his mouth. "Bast-- I... I can't--" He staggered then, and shook his head slowly and heavily. Giles tried to catch hold of him, unsure whether he wanted to steady the man, or take him out with a brutal punch. He chose the first option; stabbing the poor sod in the neck was probably doing damage enough, all things considered. Forsythe pushed him off though. He was unable to summon the magic to save himself, but apparently he still had his ambitions. Side-stepping Giles he made a beeline straight for the glass vault, smearing his blood over the door in a crude symbol taken from the many etched into the glass. The ground shook.
"Oh hell." Giles ran forward, but Forsythe was already staggering into the vault. "What if he gets hold of that box?"
"I don't know." Wesley, who couldn't reasonably do anything to stop the renegade, at least that he could think of, was standing back and expecting Giles to do something instead. "I don't know what's in there, remember!"
"Oh... bloody hell." Bursting into the vault on Forsythe's tail, Giles seized the other man around the neck. "Get back, damn it. I can't let you--" He broke off when an elbow collided sharply with his ribs. Forsythe, weakened and speechless, was still not giving in without a fight. He was struggling with the box, smearing his blood all over it, choking on the spells he was trying and failing to say. Giles could feel his desperation, for it mirrored his own - the box was screaming inside his skull now, telling him to open it, promising such riches of magic and power that he had never hoped to possess even in his most power-hungry days.
"Watcher blood! And I couldn't have spilt it better myself." Lilah's voice snapped out of nothingness, and in a second she was there, in the glass vault, looking none the worse for her trip to wherever Forsythe had sent her. She sounded hungry, as affected by the box as the rest of them, clawing at Giles, Forsythe, and at the box itself. "This belongs to Wolfram & Hart. You'll never get it away from here. You'll never keep it from them."
"Lilah!" Wesley came running up, or staggering rather, still exhausted from his struggle to counteract the magic of his renegade colleague. "Lilah, you have to let Giles take it. Wolfram & Hart can't be allowed to have that kind of power!"
"Keep back, Wes." She looked feverish, her eyes hot and excited. "I have to see what's inside that box. I have to see what kind of power it really has. You're not going to stop me, and neither are these two." She pushed Forsythe, and he tumbled backwards, groaning and growling and unable to right himself. Blood continued to flow from the hole in his neck, and his skin was increasingly pale. All trace of the aristocrat in his bearing had now gone. He was nothing more than a desperate, dying man, scrabbling about in the dust in his attempts to reach his goal. Giles grabbed at a strong, deceptively slender wrist, and tried to pull the dead lawyer away.
"Your boyfriend might go easy on you," he growled, deliberately trying to pitch his voice so that Wesley wouldn't hear him. "I won't. Get back."
"Or what? You'll kill me?" She laughed at him. "I'm already dead, and it can't get much worse. A puppet on its strings, waiting to be operated by Wolfram & Hart. This box might just help me to escape from that, and I won't let anybody stop me from trying to win it." She broke free from his grip and tried to hit out at him, but he blocked the punch easily and pushed her away. He might have succeeded in making it to the box then, but Forsythe's fingers clawed at his ankles, and dragged him back. He stumbled and almost fell. Wesley tried to catch him, with predictably little success, then went after Lilah instead. She at least he could touch.
"Lilah." He was so tired. The struggle against Forsythe had come too soon after the harder fight to open the enchanted door. "Lilah... I can't let you have that box."
"After you risked everything to try to save me from my contract with Wolfram & Hart? Would you really stop me from trying to do the same thing now?"
"Like a shot." He caught her arm. "That box belongs with somebody who'll do the right thing with it."
"And you think that he will?" She nodded at Giles. "You can't trust him with something like this, Wes. You don't know what it's like, the way it screams inside your head. Telling you all the things it can give to you. If he can't fight it, like I can't fight it, like Forsythe can't fight it. Like Corbio couldn't. If he can't fight it then he'll use it - and then you'll never be able to trust him. It doesn't exactly bring out the best in any of us." She tried to twist free, but couldn't. "Gonna play it rough with me, lover? Because if you're going to get that box away, you're going to have to play far, far more roughly than you've ever played with me before."
He let her go then. "You'll never open it. Even Corbio couldn't. Giles won't either, so whether or not it can bring out his dark side, it won't be getting the chance. We're just here to deliver it to people who can see that it's put somewhere where nobody will be able to use it. I don't doubt that Wolfram & Hart could find a way in. But not you."
"Then why not let me try?" Her eyes were flashing with something akin to desperation, and he sympathised. She was right; he had risked a great deal in trying to find a way to free her from her contract with Wolfram & Hart. A way to let her die in peace. Now it seemed that that was what she sought for herself, and a part of him wanted very much to let her do just that. As usual, though, duty won out, calling him back onto the straight and narrow.
"Just get her out of the way." Taking hold of the box, Giles began to drag it towards the door of the vault. It was heavy; far heavier than it should have been, given its size. Whatever was inside it had to be of immense weight. Forsythe didn't help, snatching at the box as it inched its way past, clawing at the wood and trying to choke out his last few desperate spells. Lilah, with a powerful wrench, pulled free of Wesley and hit him hard. The ghost fell backwards, through the glass, his form fading and losing colour as he struggled to retain consciousness - or whatever the ghostly equivalent. Giles swore under his breath, and as the frenzied woman came at him, he hit her squarely on the jaw. It made him wince, though only in a very small part from guilt, but it dropped Lilah to the ground. Wesley went to her, bending down to be sure that she was okay.
"Wesley, damn it. Forget her for five minutes and help me with this thing. Cast a spell, try something. It weighs a bloody ton."
"I'll try." He was just about running on empty, but he focused on the box as best he could, and with a muttered incantation managed to get it to hover slightly in the air. It moved a little closer to the door, then crashed heavily to the ground again. Wesley almost followed suit. "Sorry. Too tired. Maybe I can rustle us up some help."
"Well then make it quick." Giles was in pain, from both of the tussles with Forsythe, and increasingly now from the influence of the box. Its persistent voices were like knives stabbing at his head, tempting him with things that he was no longer sure he didn't want. Power, chaos - all of that. He had wanted it before, so why not now? It had been his life's goal, his joy. He and Ethan, with their magic and their sheer unadulterated badness. What made him think that that wasn't still what he was after? The box filled his vision even when he closed his eyes, and he wiped his face with hands stained with Forsythe's blood. On the ground Lilah stirred, looking up at him with undeniably beautiful eyes that made the box start promising many more such women, if he would only listen to it more closely. Damn it, maybe it hadn't just been acquisitiveness and jealousy that had made Corbio hide the box away. Maybe it had been the only way he could get the thing to shut up. Giles wanted to hit it, although he knew that that would be more than merely senseless. The wood would damage his hands, and then where would he be? Unable to move it, then, and unable to do anything much of use except stand here and listen to it jabber at him. Much like now, he thought; only with broken knuckles.
"They're coming." Lilah didn't sound angry or threatening anymore. She didn't sound frightened either, or tired, or worried. She just spoke with an even voice that might have hidden any number of emotions. "Wolfram & Hart. They're coming for the box."
"Oh, you're kidding!" Giles looked over at Wesley, still far too faint, and still juddering and flickering on occasion. "I thought you said you were going to rustle up some help?"
"Maybe there's nobody to help. I don't know, Giles. It's not like The Powers That Be have ever been quick to jump into the breech before."
"Right." If there was one thing Giles could do, it was take charge. He had been trained for it like any Watcher, but with a rebellious Slayer and her tag-a-long gang of equally rebellious school friends to contend with, he had come to be very good at command; although admittedly it helped when there were no rebellious teenagers to talk back. "Wesley? Take care of the box. Open it, disappear it, get it the hell out of here, I don't care. Lilah? You and I will take care of whatever's coming. I don't give a damn whether or not you work for them; if there's a struggle it'll blast you along with the rest of us." He looked over at Forsythe, but if the other man was not dead yet, he soon would be. He would be very unlikely to be of any use in a fight. "Alright?"
"I'll do what I can." Wesley turned his attentions to the box without needing to be asked again. Giles wasn't sure that the ghost really had enough left in him to do anything decisive, but they had to try something. Lilah merely looked mutinous.
"I need that box," she muttered, and her eyes lingered upon it. Giles shot her a poisonous glare.
"Fine. Take the box. But you said yourself that Wolfram & Hart are on their way - or one of their emissaries, at any rate. You think they'll let you take the box? They'll have you burning in hell first."
"True." She couldn't tear her eyes away from the object of her desires, and Giles in all honesty couldn't blame her. Power, chaos, magic, excitement, thrills - the voices echoed in his head even now that he had turned away from the box himself. His pulse raced even faster, and he turned his back on the chest, making Lilah do the same thing. "What's coming?" he asked her, desperate to keep his own mind focused on other things, no matter how bad. She tried to glance back over her shoulder, but he caught her chin and held her head still. "What will they send?"
"I don't know. One of their enforcers. One of their beasts. They have creatures from a hundred worlds, who work for them in one way or another. The intelligent ones are offered deathlessness and any manner of other incentives. The non-sentient ones are used to fight wars, and to kill and destroy." She pulled her head away from his hand. "And what do we have to fight it with?"
"This." Somehow his dagger was back in his hand, although he didn't remember ever taking it back from Forsythe. It had become a sword once again, as long and as impressive as before. This time, however, the blade flickered and shortened as he watched. It was as though it had to fight to retain its borrowed length, and every few seconds changed back to its previous size. Evidence of Wesley's exhaustion, presumably. Still, it was better than nothing.
"How very swashbuckling." Lilah pulled a huge gun from the air. "Not that any of it is likely to do much good."
"Just remember who you're supposed to be shooting at." He took a deep breath, aware now of a rushing in the air; a sound like beating wings. Something was on its way. He had wondered if perhaps Lilah had made the claim merely as a distraction, but clearly she had not been lying. A moment later, when the glass vault exploded into a shower of mighty shards, he knew that she had most certainly been telling the truth. Heat washed over him, and he looked up into a cloud of dust and shattered rock blown from the earth by the arrival of their latest foe. Dragon or griffin, he couldn't tell. Probably neither, if it came from some other dimension. It had a pointed head, and bright, black eyes, and its feet bore twisted claws that bit into the rocky floor of the cavern. At the sight of the four human figures it roared with breathtaking force, and set the ground trembling faintly. Giles swallowed hard. Near to his feet he thought that he heard Forsythe laughing, and was sorely tempting to give the dying man a good kick.
"That looks like fun." Lilah's voice was heavy with sarcasm, and he fully expected her to disappear. That she didn't either meant that Wolfram & Hart controlled her movements, and wouldn't allow her to leave, or that for some reason she was interested in staying. Maybe she sill hoped to make a play for the box. Maybe she enjoyed a good fight. Either way, Giles still wasn't happy about her having a gun.
"Take the right." He was running already, as well as he could given the pain in his head and his ribs. He had absolutely no idea what he was going to do; the thing was twice his size, and had claws that looked like they could fillet him with one blow. All the same, it was quite clear that if he stood still and did nothing, it would kill him just as surely. It had not come here to talk, or to make deals. It had merely come to clear the way to the box.
He swung the sword with all his might, just as a feint this time, for the creature could not have failed to see him coming. It growled and turned to face him, and Lilah, taking advantage of its distraction, played some small part by firing several shots at it. It failed to have an effect, but the bullets did not seem to glance off the thing's hide. Instead they stuck there, black and smouldering with their own heat, just within the scales.
"Maybe they need to be silver." She didn't sound too worried about their failure to have any effect. Presumably such things took a back seat when you were already dead. Giles tried taking a blow at the place where the bullets had lodged, in the hope that it might increase any discomfort they had caused, but the creature, whatever it was, merely growled again and took a swipe at him with one foot. He leapt aside, slashing at one of the wings as he passed, and trying to take some small measure of triumph when the blade cut through the taut skin. A minor victory perhaps, but better than nothing. Apparently his morale didn't agree. Stumbling into the rocky wall, he ducked the lashing tail, and came back for another assault on the wings. Lilah meanwhile had abandoned her gun, and had taken to hurling lumps of rock at the animal's head. Giles could almost have smiled. Apparently she did have some reason for fighting after all, and whatever it was it inspired her to struggle on with true spirit. Maybe she just liked the exercise. Her efforts were having no real use, but then neither were his own, so he wasn't about to complain about the pointlessness of her involvement. Let her hurl rocks. There was always the chance that one might strike a chance flaw in the creature's armour; just as one of his own desperate slashes with his flickering sword might also find some fatal weakness. Slim chances were better than no chances, even when you had no strength left, and your head was filled with razorblades. Maybe especially then.
Nearby Wesley wasn't sure what to do. He wanted to help his friends, but he had neither the energy as a magician nor the solidity of a corporeal being to be of any use. Giles had charged him to take care of the box, and that responsibility he took as seriously as he took all such charges. He couldn't move it though; that much was clear. He couldn't make anybody hear him, although he wasn't sure what Cordelia could do to help anyway. He wasn't sure yet what she was allowed to do. The Powers The Be were fickle and strange, and played by their own, changing rules, and if they chose not to offer their assistance, he had to put up with that. As far as he could see he was left with only one option - and that was one that seemed impossible. How could he open the box? How could he accomplish something that one of the greatest human magicians ever to have lived had been unable to achieve?
It was speaking to him now. Now that he was crouched beside it, staring at Forsythe's bloody handprints smeared across the lid. It was only quiet - like a rustling of leaves in the distance, perhaps, but nonetheless still speech. It was offering him his life back. His life, his solidity. Live, breathe, feel, touch, taste - offers of reality echoing in the furthest reaches of his brain. Fine offers, perhaps - but there was one thing that the box couldn't give him; couldn't ever give him; and that was the one thing that he seemed to have wanted more than anything else for so long now that it was hard to remember the days when it had not been a part of his mind. Fred. That was one thing that was certainly beyond the abilities of even the greatest powers to grant. She had gone; gone completely; gone forever; gone, totally and utterly. And as such there was nothing that the box could offer to him. Not that really meant anything. The thought made the quiet whisperings in his mind flare up for a brief moment; trying again harder than before. Then they were gone. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, staring at this wooden creation of a long dead man, and thought about all of the opening spells that he knew. He knew that none of them would be any good, even if he had been sure that he possessed the strength to attempt them. They were simple stuff; basic stuff. The kind of thing that Corbio would have tried many times. He considered pushing his hands through the wood, and seeing if he could access the contents that way, but somehow he didn't believe that that would work. It would probably turn out to be very dangerous indeed. Instead, muttering at himself to focus, he gathered his returning scraps of strength, and did all that he could to touch the box. He had to get a grip on its lid, on its latch, on any part of it that might allow it to open. The voices sparked back into life inside him, but he ignored them more readily now. He knew that they could offer him nothing. Their whispered promises meant nothing at all. And then he realised that that was exactly what they were whispering; that that was the one advantage he had over Corbio. He was the only one to try to open the box who wanted nothing from it himself; who couldn't be tempted by its offerings. Knowing what he had to do then, and following the lead of the far greater magician, Forsythe, who had tried this before him, he placed his hands over the two bloodied prints on the lid, closed his eyes, and listened to the voices inside his head. They were muttering words now, in old, archaic French, and he echoed them slowly. His hands were still without substance, but whether through his own concentration, or through the power of the box instead, for a moment he felt them make contact; felt smooth, seasoned wood; smelt dust; felt heat and power spark through his fingertips. The lid of the box sprang open.
"My box!" It was a hoarse cry that came with a rush of blood that Forsythe could not afford to lose. Wesley turned towards him even before he had had a chance to see into the box, seeing the renegade Watch stumble towards him with a strength and a speed that he should no longer have possessed. They tried to grapple together, but Wesley's hands went through the other man's wrists, and Forsythe did no better. Robbed of that fleeting moment of solidity, the ghost could no nothing but fumble and snatch, uselessly, at the desperate, hopelessly bewitched man. From within the box came a flash of white light; a light so brilliant, so hot, and so intense, that Wesley could not look at it. Forsythe did - and in that instant he screamed; threw up his hands to protect his eyes; tried to back away. It was impossible. The light was all about him, blasting up out of the box in a pillar of blue-tinged ferocity that splayed out and latched hold of him where he stood. He screamed again, fighting against nothingness, trying to catch hold of Wesley as an anchor, but failing utterly. For his part Wesley tried to catch hold of him as well, but his own attempts were just as hopeless. As the light flashed upwards, blasting through the ceiling of the cavern, Forsythe gave a final wail and was gone. The light disappeared; the glow and the heat dissipated. Wesley was left standing alone, staring down into an empty wooden box.
"Well that was pretty." Lilah's voice made him jump, and he looked up almost in shock. Lilah. Giles. The dragon thing. He had to help them if he could. Apparently there was no need. He saw Lilah standing in the middle of the cavern, a long shard of broken glass from the vault gripped in one hand like a dagger. He clothing was immaculate, her hair perfect, her face glowing with apparent enjoyment. Giles was nearby, his dagger in his hand, blood on his head, gasping for breath in utter exhaustion. Of the beast there was no sign.
"What-?" the other Watcher was trying to ask, but he lacked the strength to manage it. He wanted to collapse, and would have done so if the mass of broken glass and rock at his feet hadn't looked so damned uncomfortable. Lilah smiled brightly.
"Fireworks," she said, as a completely unhelpful response. "Just as well, Mr Giles. That thing was about to bite your head off."
"Wasn't." He still had his pride, and his ability to flirt at least faintly with a woman like her. "I had it just where I wanted it."
"If what you wanted was for it to bite your head off then yes, you certainly did. Well done." Grinning so merrily that he didn't know whether to grin back or contemplate hitting her, she turned about and went over to Wesley, peering into the box. "It's empty. I suppose that's why I don't feel it talking to me anymore."
"Yes. I'm sorry."
"Don't be." Her smile was as strong as always; Lilah was good at having no regrets. "It wasn't going to make good on any of those promises, was it."
"It might have done." Wesley went over to help Giles, and received a predictable glare when his helping hand passed straight through the other Watcher's arm. "I rather think that that was Philarbus in the box. Whether or not he tried to take refuge when he was murdered, and became trapped there, I don't know. I got the feeling that it was him though."
"Makes sense." Giles always had the energy to ponder and speculate. "It would have been his powers as a remarkable sorcerer that we could feel through the box. The things that we felt we were being offered were the things that we might have been able to accomplish if those powers were ours."
"Which is why I managed to open it." Wesley couldn't quite keep his eyes from the box. "It had nothing to offer me. Nothing that mattered." He sounded sad, and Giles chose not to ask why. Instead he merely shrugged.
"Well it's a nice box, anyway. I prefer to buy these things at market stalls myself, but I'm sure that nearly getting killed half a dozen times today as I've struggled through a labyrinth, was more than worthwhile to get hold of this one. Cheaper, certainly."
"With the prices some markets charge for hand-made boxes, you're probably right." Lilah pushed the lid shut. "Well, you're welcome to it. I can't see Wolfram & Hart disputing ownership of a large wooden shoe box. Now has anybody got any idea how we're going to get out of here? If Wolfram & Hart couldn't magic me in, I'm doubting they'll be able to magic me out again."
"They didn't send you back after Forsythe banished you?" Giles was dusting off the box, genuinely interested in taking it as a keepsake. Lilah shook her head.
"That was my Wes, fighting back against Forsythe." She ruffled the ghost's hair. "Never did stop to thank you for that."
"It was entirely unintentional, I can assure you."
"You charmer." She grinned at him. "So. The getting out of here part. Any ideas?"
"Yes." Giles was looking up at the ceiling, where the towering column of light had blasted through the roof. The rock was crumbling now, either through sheer force of gravity, or perhaps by the influence of someone or something else. Daylight gleamed through. "Wherever the rest of the labyrinth was, I think this cavern is in the real world. Or at least, it is now."
"Great!" Lilah grinned happily. "Well, love to stay and chat. And fight my way up what looks like one hell of a climb, but - wait, no I don't." She favoured Giles with a particularly warm and flirtatious smile. "It's been... something approaching a pleasure. If we meet again... don't expect to win." And she vanished. Giles shook his head wearily.
"Remind me never to ask how you two got together."
"I wouldn't answer, anyway." Wesley looked up at the little circle of daylight above them. "Um..."
"Yes, I know. I'm on my own." He heaved a heavy sigh. He had used to love rock-climbing. Right now it didn't look nearly so much fun. "Do I take it this is goodbye?"
"I hadn't thought about it." There seemed little point, certainly, in hanging about to wait whilst Giles climbed up the jagged walls of the cavern. Not when he himself could disappear out of this place without even trying. "It's a bit sudden. Sort of."
"Yes, it is. I feel that I'd only just got to know you." Giles smirked. "And I confess I've definitely enjoyed the experience rather more than before."
"Me too." Wesley hung his head, the embarrassment of the way he had once been temporarily robbing him of his ability to meet the other man's eyes. "Listen, Giles--"
"Forget it. Forget all of it. Wesley, we'd probably still annoy the hell out of each other, even if we were doing it all over again today. We're two very different people, and that's probably a good thing. We lead two very different lives. Or... sort of lives. You've changed. That's good. Actually it's very good, or I'd have found some way to strangle you by now even if you are already dead. But I have, in some very strange way, rather enjoyed all this. So good luck. With whatever it is you're doing now. Maybe we'll meet again."
"Probably." He smiled sheepishly, looking endearingly young to Giles's somewhat jaded eyes. "Are you sure you're going to be alright getting out of here? I might be able to manage a spell by now. A net? Or a rope? You'll need one to get the box out of here."
"I'll come back with one later. Anyway, if your ropes are anything like your swords, it would disappear in ten minutes, and then where would I be? You still have a lot to learn."
"Yes." He considered offering his older colleague a hand to shake, but didn't think that he would be able to manage it. Another time maybe. He was getting the hang of this all the time, after all. "Well... goodbye then."
"Goodbye." Giles offered him a slightly stiff smile, and watched as the ghost disappeared. Maybe he should have accepted the offer of some magical help; after all, it was going to be a long, hard climb; but somehow, even after everything they had just been through together, he still couldn't quite bring himself to put that much faith in Wesley Wyndam-Pryce. Some first impressions couldn't help but last. And drawing in a deep breath, and thinking fine thoughts of a long, long sleep, he started to climb up the wall. It might be a long climb, but he didn't envy the dead their shortcuts. Such things came at far too great a price.
On a picturesque Spanish hillside somewhere secluded, the sun was shining down, although of the two people standing in its brightest glow only one of them was capable of enjoying its warmth. In her still perfect red dress and matching scarf, Lilah Morgan exuded a glow that suggested satisfaction at a little chaos well created. Corbio had her respect. He certainly knew how to throw a party.
"That was more entertaining than I'd imagined," she admitted, throwing a glance at her companion. He nodded.
"Somehow I thought you'd say that. It must be nice, not caring about anybody or anything."
"Oh Wes." She turned to him, standing as close as physics would allow. "You know how your little flashes of morality turn me on. Anyway, it doesn't matter. The good guys didn't lose. You can breathe easy. Or, you know, you could if you actually did breathe."
"You don't have any regrets then?"
"About not being able to use the box for my own naughty little desires? Maybe. But if there's one thing dying young teaches you, it's never to have too many regrets. There's always next time. Besides, I got something out of all of this. I have to say, lover boy, I'm impressed. I knew you were dabbling in the magical side of things, but I had no idea you'd come so far. Just look at you! Ghost Boy strikes back."
"Yes." He smiled, looking faintly awkward. "Maybe I'm finally starting to get the hang of this. Maybe it's not so bad after all, being a ghost."
"You're still dead." She brushed some imaginary specks of dust from his clothes. "And at the end of the day, that's really not so great."
"Maybe. Maybe not. But I can actually be useful like this. I can do useful things. And maybe if I... if both of us... can learn to live with being dead... so to speak... then it's not going to be so bad."
She lowered her head for a moment. "I don't think I've seen you this happy in a long time, Wes."
"Maybe you haven't." He sighed. "Life was complicated. Death is... also complicated. But in a different way. I think I can make this work. Don't you?"
"Oh Wes." Her eyes were sad now, and weirdly gentle. She reached up to stroke his face. "Nothing lasts forever. Haven't you learnt that by now? Not even death."
"What do you mean?" His eyes narrowed, but she was smiling again, and she squeezed his hand in farewell.
"See you, lover. Here, there, anywhere." For a second the smile faltered. "Whatever happens... Just be careful. And be you."
"Lilah--" But she was gone. He scowled. Blasted woman, she always had been annoying. And evil, he reminded himself automatically, although with something approaching a smile.
Stop gazing after the evil bitch queen from hell, Wes. Cordelia, the world's most unlikely angel, was demanding his attention as always. Literally from hell, in her case. Get back to the hotel.
"Another job?" he asked the ether. Employment was good, after death. They didn't have to wait to be hired these days either, and being paid no longer mattered.
You could say that. Angel needs a hand.
"Angel the angel." Well that should be interesting, in any case. A ex-vampire angel, in search of his wings - metaphorical or otherwise - and his spell-casting ghost of a companion. Never let it be said that life didn't get interesting after moving to LA. "I'll be right there." And he vanished, in the blink of an eye.
Giles arrived back in London half asleep, just as he had arrived, and found a message waiting from Willow. Trouble, it said, in faintly jaunty Willow-style. Come to Rio. Weather's great. He sighed. So much for the break. After calling the airport to check on flights, there was just enough time for a shower, a change of clothes, and a quick hunt for Olivia's letter, still unread, and filed away by Rosie the aggravating housekeeper. Then off to catch a plane, and hopefully a little sleep on the way. There truly was no rest for the wicked; or even the only slightly wicked. Which was probably just as well, he conceded ruefully, all things considered. Holidays were damned hard work.