He was standing outside a burger bar, listening to the chatter of the others passing by. Hardly the sort of place that he would usually go to. Why would it be? Wesley Wyndam-Pryce was not known for his patronage of fast food outlets. Tonight though; tonight he had purpose. Tonight he was here for a reason. He just didn't know what that reason was. There was a statue near him; a looming, grinning, manic statue of a burger in a bun, with arms and legs and big, domed eyes. For some reason it seemed familiar, although he couldn't imagine why. Flashes of foolishness interrupted his thoughts; what was he doing standing in front of this ridiculous thing, as though he were planning to start conversing with it? He turned away, and as he did so something else burst upon his thoughts. Something about earthquakes? About fires and blood in the sky? Old prophecies, probably. His mind was full of them. Things he had read about as a child, things he had studied recently. One thousand and one possible futures, predicted by one thousand and one liars, drunkards, fools and the honestly gifted. But blood in the sky? That was one that made no sense at all, save to the distant pocket of his memory that seemed to recognise it. He turned to wander away, feeling the eyes of the strange statue as it seemed to watch him leave. He glanced back at it once, from a long distance away, and it seemed to have grown to unimaginable proportions. It was towering above the asphalt, its eyes lit by red sparks, but there were neon lights around, and street lights, and he had walked some distance by now. It was an optical illusion, he told himself. Nothing more.
And so he walked on. Past the familiar landmarks of Los Angeles, all out of order, for some reason. Since when had the hotel been so close to the burger place? Why was Caritas within such short walking distance? Why was his apartment so nearby? He walked past them all, not quite understanding why he was seeing them, or why they were making him feel the way that he felt. The strange sense of longing that the sight of the hotel stirred within him. Why did he feel a sharp heat in his throat at the sight of the gardens outside his apartment building? It seemed to tie in with the vision he had had of the woman and the knife, when Drusilla had touched his head before, but that was just Drusilla and her games. Wasn't it? And why did he feel so cold, and so weak, and so distant and so disconnected, and--
You're dead! You're a dead man, Pryce! You're dead! The voice was Angel's, and there was a pressure he couldn't recognise on his face, and he couldn't breathe, and his head was starting to spin... None of it made any sense; but then dreams could be like that, he supposed. Certainly his relationship had been odd with Angel just recently. Perhaps his mind was just filling in the gaps in his fears, and toying with his own paranoia? Then why did the pressure feel so real, and why did it seem, in part at least, to be something he recognised? But that was just foolishness, like everything else that he was seeing and feeling. When had Angel ever attacked him like that? They had had their disagreements, certainly. Their mock fights - real fights even, when Angel had not been himself - but this? No, it made no sense at all. But the pressure was building, and he couldn't speak, couldn't breathe, couldn't hardly think anymore, and his consciousness seemed to be drifting away. He clung onto it, trying to fight, but unable to gather any strength in his limbs. What the hell was going on? What was he seeing? And why, beneath the panic, was there a sense of eternal sorrow? Angel was trying to crush the life within him, and a part of him; a deep, dark, sorrowful part that seemed more familiar than anything else; was accepting it, and acknowledging that it was only right. His life was Angel's. If Angel wanted to kill him, that was fair enough. He balked at the thought, but that deep, dark part of him was ready to accept it. He struggled, he fought, but he couldn't shake the feeling. He deserved to die by Angel's hand. He had betrayed Angel. He had... done something... Something he couldn't quite remember... But the pressure, and the pain, and the final, desperate need to breathe was crushing his chest with bands of steel that re-awoke the pain in his neck and brought the familiar taste of blood to his mouth, and Angel's voice was distracting him once again.
You're gonna die! You hear me? You're gonna pay! The voice grew louder; the blood pounded in Wesley's ears. What was going on? Why was Angel attacking him? What was all of this about? The words thundered on, and it made less and less sense all the time, but there had to be answers here somewhere, didn't there? Something that would tell him what all of this was about? All that he could really hear - really understand - was the venom. The hatred. The tumble of words that carried so much blame and vitriol, and made his heart sting and tremble. You're gonna pay for what you did! Still Angel's voice, still so hateful and angry. You're gonna pay! You took my--"
With a sudden jerk that made his whole body twitch, Wesley came awake and found himself gasping desperately for breath. It came in huge, shuddering lungfuls that made him feel as though he had been suffocating. It took some moments before he could bring his breathing under control; some moments before he could think about why his lungs seemed to be burning. He wiped cold sweat from his forehead, and closed his eyes for a second. Strange. He had thought that he had been dreaming; why else would he have awakened so shaken up? And yet he couldn't remember a thing. Cautiously he looked about him; at Collins, Weatherby and Smith, still asleep in their chairs at the other end of the table; at Drusilla, watching him with an expression of obvious interest on her face. Guarded interest. He knew then that she had been inside his head again. He glared at her.
"What the hell was all that about?"
"All what, dearie?" She was holding Miss Elizabeth in her arms, stroking the doll's hair as she had been stroking his on and off all along. He turned his glare up a notch or two.
"You know damn well. You were inside my head. What's going on? Did you make me have that dream?"
"I didn't make anything." She smiled sweetly, with an innocence that it seemed unlikely any vampire could genuinely know. "Not inside you, my pet."
"But you saw?"
"Maybe." She shrugged, and smiled. "My Watcher boy is upset. Take deep breaths, dearie. Clear your mind. You'll need it wide awake and free."
"Yes." He nodded slowly, trying to get rid of the nagging concerns from a dream that he couldn't remember. It had left him highly unsettled, but he knew that he had to get past that. At the end of the day, it had been just a dream. No need to recall its details; he wasn't given to precognitive dreaming, as the Slayers sometimes were. Rubbing his face with both hands, and wishing for a shot of strong whisky, he stood up, and paced back and forth a few times to remove the stiffness from his legs. Everything began to slot back into place then, and he took a few moments to organise his thoughts. To exorcise the last whispers of a truly disturbing dream that he couldn't remember, and to get his mind back on track.
They had spent so long reading. Arguing. Making frantic notes, running back and forth to the bookcase, discussing half remembered lessons and ancient theories they had been schooled in decades before. Collins had come up with some fine ideas, and they had gathered about discussing them, and building on them, whilst Drusilla watched and smiled, and whispered things to her doll. It had been late afternoon before they had closed the last books, and smiled at each other across the tabletop with a triumph that came from hard work shared, and conclusions reached through long study. The satisfaction of a task completed, lasting for several seconds at least before they had remembered their differences, and the smiles had faded away. They had agreed to try to catch a few hours sleep then, since the human contingent at least had been without it for some time. Weatherby had wanted to go in search of food as well, but they had voted against him in the end. There was no telling how far they would have to go to find something edible, and they still had no idea where Beatrice was. Stopping for meal breaks in a building inhabiting a dangerous vampire was foolhardy in the least; though it could be argued that it wasn't as foolhardy as going to sleep all at once. So Weatherby had argued anyway, his stomach growling its agreement. They had both been shouted down. And now the sun was sinking, and the four Watchers were sitting, in clear discomfort with each other's presence, at opposite ends of the long table. Weatherby was glaring as only he could, Smith looked as vacant as usual, but with glitters in his eyes that Wesley definitely didn't like the look of. Only Collins was showing no active dislike, but Wesley was sure that that was not at all reflective of his mood. Here they were, and the time was approaching when they were going to have to do something decisive together, and there was enough ill will in the room to fry a dozen Angels. How was it that the only one who didn't look hateful was the evil one, sitting off to one side, with her eyes gleaming brightly? He wished that he knew what she had been doing inside his head, but felt sure that she would never tell him. She was thinking about it now though he could see, staring through him, as though still looking into his mind.
"We should get moving." He stood up, stiff and uncomfortable from sleeping in the hard chair. Drusilla caught his wrist as he moved past her, making a strange noise that might have been a purr or a growl.
"Can't trust the others," she told him. He stared back at her, trying to figure her out for about the hundredth time in just the last few hours.
"You care?" he asked her. She smiled, cattish, sharp and shameless.
"I care about Angel. You die, he dies."
"Yes, of course." He had been the outsider for too long to take offence at this open dismissal of his own individual worth. He merely nodded, and walked on past her. She let go, not bothering to try to hold him back, but watching him with such a sharp, hard stare that he felt her eyes on his back all the way to the other end of the table.
"We should get moving," he repeated meaningfully, staring straight down at Collins. The other Watcher looked up at him, his eyes lazy and mocking. He nodded though. However much Collins might want Angel dead, and however much he might dislike Wesley, he did at least want Beatrice stopped. He pushed himself to his feet.
"He's right. Come on." None of the others challenged his authority. Nobody had ever officially given Collins the position of leader of the little band, but the others obeyed him anyway. Some people were like that. His was an authority that Wesley didn't envy though; an authority that he didn't even respect. Collins had cold eyes, and an arrogance that came from his Watcher training, and that was something that Wesley had worked hard to overturn in his own make up. Seeing it in the eyes of the other man now merely made him understand all the more clearly why Buffy and Faith had so resented him back in Sunnydale. He turned away, and without preamble knocked over the nearest unoccupied chair, and kicked away one of the back struts. He had a stake now, of fine, lacquered wood, with a sharp, splintered end. He probably wouldn't get the chance to use it, but he felt better for having it. Drusilla appeared beside him, her superhuman speed showed off with her usual lazy, cat-like grace, for no other reason than that she was superhuman, and liked to be.
"Will it work?" she asked, as they headed together for the door. The five of them, in a bunch, probably the least willing union the Occult had seen in years. Wesley shrugged, well aware that, whoever the question might have been directed towards, he was the only one who would bother to answer it.
"Without trying it there's no way of knowing. We've been through that."
"True." She didn't care for his predictions, or for those of Collins and the others. Predictions meant nothing unless they were the ones she saw inside her own head. Her visions, that told her what was coming, in a series of broken pictures only she and Spike had ever seemed to understand. They were telling her nothing now though; had shown her nothing since the hint of new arrivals in the company of lurking Watchers. She took his free hand, wrapping her fingers around his, and leaning against him with her usual semi-sexual vibe. "But will it work?"
"You'll kill me if it doesn't, won't you."
"I'll kill them. If it doesn't work you'll already be dead." She brushed her teeth, human for the time being, against his neck. "But the others won't outlive you for long. London itself may not outlive you for long." Her free hand stroked the back of his neck, causing Weatherby to make disgusted noises. Wesley almost smiled.
"We've done the best we can," he told her. "All that research has to have counted for something. I could never have done it on my own in time, but with Collins and his theories on magical weaponry, and the others to help read the source material, we might just have cracked it." He wished that she would let go of his hand so that he could rub his eyes, aching from too much reading and too little sleep. She let go of him then, reading his mind perhaps, and in the process unnerving him yet again.
"The best had better be enough. If Angel dies... all sorts of truths die with him. The whole of the world as it once was. Perhaps." She gave an oddly girlish shrug, and captured his hand again. "And Beatrice will be unfriendly, and all the pretty flowers will die."
"Well that's exactly why we're planning to fight her," growled Weatherby. "To save all the pretty flowers." The sarcasm was clear in his voice, but the sharp heat in his eyes vanished instantly when Drusilla looked up at him and hissed in sibilant rage. Her eyes flashed yellow, and Wesley felt his hand, in hers, pressed suddenly with real strength as the monster within her flexed its muscles. He winced. Weatherby just fell silent.
"Shut up, Weatherby," commanded Collins, unnecessarily as it turned out. He was on edge, and even though he shared his compatriot's opinion of all of this, he didn't want to think about anything save Beatrice just now. She had been amongst them; had mocked them for what she saw as their helplessness against her. She had been so strong, and so calm, and he could not forget her strength. He had been so powerless against her. Him, the great warrior of the Council, always so fearless and efficient - or so everybody thought. He couldn't deny a certain degree of trepidation now, though, as he left the library, and headed down unfamiliar corridors. Where was she? Hiding somewhere, ready to spring out at them? Lurking, intending to pick them off one by one? Drusilla would hear her coming, if she chose to sneak up - none of the rest of them would. And how trustworthy was Drusilla, really? She said that she wanted to save Angel, but he had no reason to suppose that she really did. A quick massacre would prove too much of a temptation for most vampires; they were famous for such acts, after all. They certainly weren't famous for their loyalty to each other, and their determination to save each other from harm. She had muttered things about Angel knowing some truth that had vanished, and how she wanted him to stay alive until she could discover it, but none of that made any sense to him. He only saw her, with her sharp eyes and evil nature; with her history of violence and brutality, and no reason he could think of for wanting to co-operate with humans. Her and her traitor friend, cosying up together in a way that made him sick to his stomach. No, he couldn't trust her; her or Wesley. He could trust nothing but his own instincts and his certainty that they were in the greatest of danger. Beatrice knew that they were going to try to stop her. She would be ready for them. It made him highly uneasy, and made him feel as though he were being marched to his own execution.
The cellar steps were broad and sweeping, more like the kind of grand staircase that might lead down into the entrance hall of an old mansion. They were uneven and roughly cut though, mere stone and uncarpeted. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling, and darkness loomed beyond. Wesley held out his hand, palm up, and let a ball of blue light form in the air just above his skin. It illuminated the steps, and the series of black candles that stood waiting in massive holders screwed to the wall. It was all like something out of a mediaeval castle, thought Collins, quite forgetting to glare in disapproval at Wesley's display of magic skills.
"Won't she see us coming now?" asked Smith. Wesley shot him a sidelong glance.
"You think she doesn't know already?"
"I can hear your hearts beating," purred Drusilla, reaching out playfully to touch the ball of fire in Wesley's hand. "I can smell each and every one of you, and hear every flutter of your lungs. So can she. She could five minutes ago. She can smell the blood in your veins, especially where it's been made to leak." She brushed her fingers very lightly over one of the injuries on Wesley's face, where the fresh blood had only recently ceased to flow. "A little light is no great give-away."
"Then let's just walk a little faster and get this over with, shall we?" Collins moved past Wesley, for the steps were more than wide enough to allow such passing. Ahead, in the blue light, he could see a domed doorway leading to the cellar. Stone flagging made a hard floor that they would have no hope of moving silently on - not that there was likely any point in trying. He could see the flicker of candle flames then, and knew that Beatrice had been hard at work. A moment later he thought he heard her laugh.
"She's waiting for us," he said, pulling a crucifix from inside his clothing, and holding it up like a shield. Such things were effective, generally, against lesser vampires; the ones with no brains, who were interested solely in food. The cleverer ones, the more agile ones, the generally more capable ones, were rather likely merely to bat it aside and attack anyway, but it made him feel better to have it. It might buy him a second or two of precious time. A second or two could often make all the difference, at least for a man like him, so he kept a tight grip on the crucifix, held it out at arm's length, and inched on down the stairs. The others followed him, and gradually the blue ball with its bright, clean light filled in more of the details of the underground lair they were approaching. He saw a large space, older than the building built above it; a hollow in the centre of the floor, bearing red embers that glowed very faintly, and surrounded by candles that had not yet been lit. There were markings on the floor; some kind of alphabet, or just drawings perhaps; spiky, pointed designs at any rate, painted neatly in a circle. There was a cauldron, too, just as Drusilla had described. A huge, bronze cauldron, standing on three stout legs, a massive handle adding to its height. Tendrils of smoke emerged from the top, curling upwards and turning yellow, then green, then blue, as they soaked up the light first of the candles, then of the blue ball. A dark shape moved leisurely around, lighting further candles, more and more of them until Wesley's unconventional torch was all but useless. It vanished with a sharp shake of his hand. Collins glowered. She was lighting candles, damn it. Not only had she shown no concern earlier, over their determination to stop her - now she was lighting candles and not even bothering to acknowledge their arrival. It made his temper boil. How dare she? He was no novice; no fool to be slighted. He was a professional.
"Beatrice?" Drusilla moved into the lead, speaking in the childish voice that he had read about in her records. There was a lot of the child in Drusilla; something to do with the number of them that she ate, perhaps. Supposedly she often preferred them to adult victims. Their souls were less complicated. Maybe adults gave her psychic indigestion.
"Drusilla." Beatrice lit another couple of candles, then moved slowly over towards her guests. She didn't get very close; merely hovered, so that they were within easy reach of her inhuman speed if she chose to attack. "Were you wanting something?"
"We've come to see what you're doing."
"You've come to see if you can stop me." Beatrice's voice showed delight; as though this were some wonderful joke that she appreciated immensely. "You and your four humans. You've chosen an interesting bunch, my dear. I compliment you. Watchers are always so enticing."
"They taste nice." Drusilla sighed faintly, recalling the taste of Wesley's blood in her mouth; the heat and the sparkle of it. There was magic in Watcher blood; all Watcher blood, even if so many of them disapproved of all but the simplest of spells. Watchers were magical by their very profession; by their destinies; by the supernatural thread that tied them, like the Slayer, to the beginning of the great battle against darkness. She rather fancied tasting it all again.
"I'm sure they taste wonderful." Beatrice swept them all with her eyes, making no secret of the open hunger the sight of them awoke within her. It had been a while now since her last meal; the pair of young lovers she had interrupted huddled in a car in a little alleyway. They had tasted of each other, and of the joint they had just shared; usually the sort of meal that she relished, and savoured for hours. Watcher blood though; she was hungry for it now; hungry for the man she had wanted to kill hours before, but had been forbidden to touch. Drusilla's pet, intended for turning, supposedly. Her tongue flickered across her lips, and she put on her game face. It was unintentional, but she couldn't hold back the instinct to feed. Collins tightened his grip on the crucifix, and followed Drusilla through the big, domed doorway. They were in the cellar then; in the midst of all the candles. The tiny flames seemed to flicker and burn everywhere, disorientating in their constant motion; in their brightness against the dark. The words painted onto the floor of the room seemed to glow, and Wesley looked around at them, moving away from the others to make an examination of the room.
"The spell's begun," he said flatly, his voice showing no emotion. "Our coming in here must have started it, Drusilla. You or me."
"Those close to Angel, instead of Angel himself." Drusilla's eyes narrowed, and she glared at Beatrice. "Naughty naughty."
"And I get two for the price of one. I thought I'd only have you to make this work." Beatrice looked over to Wesley, prowling through the candles, reading the words on the floor and stopping to look at the cauldron. The smoke was hot, and he felt it dry the skin of his face, and threaten to singe the stubble on his jaw. "He's a friend of Angel's too? I'm intrigued. Do Watchers and vampires play together now?"
"Only some of them." Splitting up from the others, and trusting them to continue their advance in separate directions, Collins moved in on Beatrice. "The rest of us don't play at all. We all know why we're here. Let's just get on with it."
"So eager to die?" Beatrice shrugged, apparently unconcerned. When she moved it was so unexpected that Collins was helpless even though he had thought he was ready for anything. He had expected violence; a leap, a bound, a blow. Had expected the danger to come from Drusilla too, if she wasn't really on their side at all. He wasn't expecting a gun to suddenly appear in Beatrice's hand, drawn from who knew where. Wasn't expecting to hear the sharp crack of it firing, and feel the crucifix in his hand splintering into uselessness. He threw down the relics of it - broken wood, chewed and torn - and snarled his displeasure in a voice that seemed almost as bestial as the growls of the vampires. Beatrice laughed throatily, then clicked her fingers to make the candle flames leap a little higher. There was no denying now that the words written on the floor were glowing; dark red, brighter in the centres, and giving off a warmth that added to the heat from all the flames. Drusilla began to sway back and forth, touched by the warmth and the magic, and feeling a drain in her centre that could only be a symptom of the spell's use of her as Angel's surrogate. She saw Wesley wobble momentarily, then stand his ground with fierce eyes, and she gave a little smile. Her Watcher, ready to use his magic to fight somebody who would so surely swat him down. She felt almost regretful. Such a waste, to let him be killed now by Beatrice. He would have made such an interesting vampire. Such a strange one, with his darkness and his unexpected depths. There were such irregularities about him; such unpredictabilities. So sad to have to see his blood spilt and wasted. So sad to never get the chance to spill it herself.
Except that he wasn't falling. He wasn't collapsing to the ground in a shower of his own blood. Smith was moving to cover him, a stake in one hand and a long dagger in the other. He looked as decisive as Drusilla had ever seen him, in all the time that she had watched the three of them in their lair. Behind him, beginning to chant, Wesley had summoned a ball of light to the palm of each hand. Orange this time; none of the blue he had called before. These were circular flames, rolling and twisting about themselves, the colours shifting and changing; perfectly round, larger cousins of the candle flames. Drusilla saw his lips move, and knew that he had begun to chant. She wasn't sure what he was saying. She didn't think that Smith and Weatherby understood that, either; it was as nonsensical to them as it was to her. Latin, the language of choice of so many spells, but despite the familiar language it was still all so much gobbledegook. Clearly she just didn't speak Magic. She could see straight away that Beatrice did.
The effect upon the other vampire was immediate. She had been circling Collins, toying with him since shooting the crucifix from his hand, and at the same time keeping an eye on the candles and the writing and the others in the cellar. She expected no trouble from Drusilla and Wesley, for her spell was designed to use their strength, drawing it in as a conduit to reach out to Angel. Wesley's chanting, a part of his own spell, was protecting him though, as surely as it was throwing its intended magical spanner in her works. Her yellow eyes snapped over towards him, focusing on his slight, stoic form, and a growl erupted from her throat. Drusilla would have smiled, but she no longer felt able; whatever Wesley was doing, it was having no effect upon her as yet. She still felt trapped; still felt herself swaying, lulled into dreamy detachment. Warm, relaxed, unable to transform. A part of her wanted to fight, but the rest of her knew that she didn't have a chance, and told herself merely to stand and endure. Stand and watch, as Beatrice did whatever she had to do next. Given that the other vampire was spitting flame and curses, it didn't take much imagination to guess what that next act was intended to be.
She leapt like any powerful hunter at her prey, though faster than any mortal animal could manage. Smith lashed out at her, ready to protect his fellow Watcher just as he had been assigned to do, but she bowled him over as though he were nothing at all. Wesley threw up a hand, palm out, words snapping from his mouth like whipcracks, and for a second a glow suffused the air. Drusilla thought that it was beautiful, though her own eyes were so coloured by the many, many candle flames that she was not entirely sure of her own vision. Something had happened though; something powerful; for Beatrice was brought up short, unable to reach her intended victim. Her teeth snapped and clicked on empty air, and her long nails swiped uselessly at nothing. Growls broke forth from her throat, as fearsome as any, and the sleek muscles of her arms tensed and coiled beneath her cold skin. Drusilla's eyes slid over to Collins then, for she knew what the next step of this little plan was, and she was eager to see it begin. This was when she should be freed, and she wanted so much for that. Wanted so much to be sure that she was no longer a conduit of death for Angel; wanted so much to turn her own teeth and nails upon Beatrice. Smiling grimly, enjoying the sight of Wesley's struggles just that little bit too much, Collins began his own part of the plan; the weapon.
He paced up and down, weaving his way through the candles, chanting aloud in simple, straightforward Latin. Beatrice snarled in fury, but when she tried to turn to attack him she found that she couldn't. Just as Wesley's chanting had stopped her from attacking him, so it also prevented her from turning away. She was caught, in classic attack pose, unable to move in one direction or the other. Her teeth gnashed the air, and her head tossed from side to side, causing her hair to lash like some maddened Medusa. Wesley closed his eyes, frowning hard, the strain clear on his face now as he fought to keep up the spell. Drusilla watched the single drop of blood that welled up in the corner of one eye, and trickled down the side of his face. She couldn't help but lick her lips as she watched its short voyage. The strain was too great, she thought. He wasn't merely fighting nature with his spell; he was fighting Collins as well, for the other Watcher's weapon was a simple bludgeon designed to attack all magic. Even as the heat was fading from Drusilla's limbs, and she felt her helpless swaying ease into stillness, so she saw Wesley beginning to tremble. Collins' voice grew louder, more forceful, more determined, for he could see that he was having an effect, and his confidence grew accordingly. He was no magician, and so far he had only thought of attempting such acts. Now he was doing it for real, and just like so many spellcasters before him, he was enjoying his new-found power. This, Drusilla knew, was the part he had been looking forward to; the part that would give him the greatest pleasure. This was when he turned everything on its head, and directed his strength no longer upon the candles, and the glowing words, and the spell that he didn't understand - but upon Wesley's own enchantment, breaking it to leave the other Watcher fully at the slender mercy of Beatrice.
It came with a sound like cracking ice - a flash of snow white light that made every candle judder and almost go out. Drusilla felt the last of the forces holding her slip away, although she knew that they had not gone. The spell was not broken; merely foiled. Bludgeoned to a standstill. It was enough for now though; enough for her to tense her own muscles, and turn to vent her anger upon Beatrice. Enough, also, to stop Wesley in his tracks.
Beatrice sprang the second she was free; the second Drusilla was free. Exhausted, Wesley could offer no resistance, even had such resistance been possible, as the furious vampire he had held at bay for so long hurled herself in an instant towards him. She hit him in the chest, sending him flying backwards through the air, to crash to a stunning landing in a heap of candles. He didn't move, and the flames licked appreciatively at his clothes. Drusilla intercepted Beatrice before she could move in to strike the next blow, and in a crescendo of growling, and a fierce snapping of teeth, they locked together in a furious battle.
"Now that I could get used to." Flushed with his success, Collins was standing in the middle of the room, feeling the tingle of fresh magic that was spread throughout his body. His eyes were bright with excitement. "Put the candles out. I'll see about the cauldron." He laughed darkly. "We didn't even need him. The great magician, and he was just a distraction."
"A dead distraction." Smith's smile was cold and hard, though bright with his own satisfaction. He began to kick at the candles, knocking them over, and grinding their glowing wicks into the stone floor. There were many of them, but he was fast and efficient; it shouldn't take him long, especially with Weatherby to help. Taking care to avoid the yelping, snarling morass that was the two struggling vampires, the pair moved across the floor, stamping upon the candles. It was easy; peculiarly easy. And, as it turned out, with good reason. Something was clearly wrong.
"I thought I told you to put out the candles?" Frustrated by his colleagues' inability to perform such a simple task, Collins bit back a curse. There was no time to tell them what he really thought of them; he had no way of knowing for how long Drusilla would manage to keep Beatrice occupied, and he had no wish for a return match with an indestructible vampire.
"We did put the bloody candles out!" Smith looked around, back at the sea of wax through which he had so recently stamped his way. Every candle was lit again; some lying on their sides, but their flames still burning strongly. He gaped. Further away, roused by the burning sensation against his skin, Wesley stirred and began to rise.
"Forget the candles." His voice was hoarse, his vision blurred, his skin dancing in pain from the many candles stinging at him, but he focused as best he could upon the other three as he forced himself to his feet. "I told you, you idiot. You couldn't stop the spell with that child's play magic of yours. Just break what was already underway." He flexed his arms, wondering just how much of himself had been broken alongside the spells. Still - it had been necessary, he told himself. That was how he had rationalised it when they had first came up with the idea, and it was what he was going to continue telling himself now. Beating out the last few flames that were trying to take hold upon his shirt, he stumbled over to the fire in the centre of the room. It was larger now than it had been, the bright letters around it pulsing in tandem with the rise and fall of the leaping flames. Standing as close to it as he could, so that the heat seemed to sear his eyebrows, he reached out with both his hands. Nobody moved, and he growled under his breath. "Come on!"
"Do as he says." Sulkily Collins stepped up to take one of Wesley's hands. Smith took the other, and together they reached around the fire to take Weatherby's hands as he came to complete the circle. Wesley closed his eyes then, momentarily struggling against the desire simply to relax and give in. He hated to have his eyes shut with so many enemies in the room, but he had to concentrate to make this work. Had to focus every last piece of his strength upon the flames, and upon Collins by his side. Together then, in an attempt to utilise Wesley's magical abilities, and Collins' knowledge of magical weaponry, they began to chant in ragged unison. All of Wesley's strength went into the spell; into focusing his own powers upon Collins, and allowing him to use his theoretical skills for a more practical purpose. The air around them trembled. The flames rose, shrank, shuddered. The ground shook, though faintly, and Wesley felt his whole body shiver as well. He was not strong enough for this; he knew that. Had known it all along. He was no Willow; no true magician. Perhaps, in time, he could be; and certainly he had real powers; but he was not strong enough for this. His legs wobbled, and waves of blackness seemed to crash down upon his skull. It was working though. One by one the candles began to go out.
"No!" With a scream of pure rage, Beatrice threw herself towards the ragged circle, caught at the last moment by Drusilla renewing her hold upon her rival. They crashed to the ground again, tearing at each other with their teeth, snapping and growling and scrabbling for purchase on the stone floor. Very slowly, starting at the heart and spreading upwards and outwards through the flames, the fire began to change colour. Beatrice wailed in fury and disbelief, but even as she fought to reach her persecutors, the fire split down the middle. As though suddenly it were solid it broke in half, broke open, fell apart. Like stone then, the flames shattered into tiny splinters of themselves, and dissolved into the flags of the floor. The cauldron cracked, the sound like a pistol shot, and suddenly it was pitch dark in the cellar. Only Drusilla and Beatrice could see, and of the Watchers only Smith and Weatherby were in any position to try. Gathering up their exhausted comrade, knowing him by his shape and his weight, they dragged him to where they thought the stairs awaited, stumbling over candles, splashing through the leaking contents of the cauldron. Beatrice watched them go, and her eyes burned with hot yellow fury. She threw Drusilla aside then, able to shake her off at last, and hurled herself at the one Watcher who remained within her immediate reach; Wesley, abandoned predictably enough by the others, and slumped upon the floor in utter exhaustion. He could do nothing to defend himself when she caught him up; would as like as not been helpless anyway, even had he not been so weak and tired. He felt her arms around him, smelt the old blood on her breath, and knew from the sheer brutality of her touch that this was not Drusilla. Like a rag doll he was dragged upright, jerked about, thrown back against the broken metal of the cauldron. He felt its heat as he felt the pain of its hard contact, but he was too tired to groan. He was too tired even to know of the total darkness, and a part of him was wondering about his colleagues. He was not fool enough to expect their help, but he did wonder if they were watching this. A hand caught hold of his hair, dragging his head to one side, and he knew what was coming then. Bent backwards over the cauldron, he could do nothing at all to defend himself. Couldn't move so much as a muscle. He felt the fangs pierce his skin, and for a moment, as the blood began to flow, he caught a brief, brief glimpse of the picture he suspected Drusilla had put into his mind before. A woman, a knife, a sudden, brutal slash. This time he thought there was a name to go with the woman; a reason behind it all; behind her attack, behind her reason for meeting him in an unnamed dark place that seemed so familiar. The flow of blood seemed to bring all manner of pictures into his head then, reawakening thoughts of a recent dream he had thought he had forgotten; another vampire, pressing down on him, and him helpless against that superior strength. Another time when he couldn't see, couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything save wait for the blackness that had to be coming; was, in so many ways, already there. Then there was ash in his mouth, and dust settling over his face, and every picture in his mind, and thought in his head, and bizarre, unintelligible hallucination behind his eyes exploded into maddening nothingness. One minute groping at what felt like the truth; the next forgetting he had ever tried to strive for it. Had ever believed it even existed. That was where reality hit him, and with it the pain of every fibre of his being. Perhaps fortuitously there was nothing at all after that.
He awoke to find himself in the arms of a woman, gently cradled and utterly relaxed. It wasn't a familiar sensation. The last time had been... Virginia? He had awoken in Lilah's arms more than once, but somehow it had never been terribly gentle, even if it had been relaxing once or twice. He almost smiled, for she was a good memory, even if he hadn't always been sure of that. The smile never happened though, for he realised all too soon whose arms must be supporting him now, and the pleasure of it all vanished in the ice that crept up to take the place of the earlier contentment. A cold hand touched his brow.
"You're awake. I heard your heart beating, so I knew that you weren't dead. It almost stopped though. I heard it flutter and waver. You have a very stubborn heart, Watcher."
"Be a shame to still it then." His voice felt heavy, and it didn't come easily. She laughed at him.
"It might be stilled, but it would at least be preserved forever. A stubborn little heart. It wouldn't be any more cold than it is now."
"Touché." He sat up, half expecting her to stop him. She didn't, but she continued to hold his hand, apparently loosely but with enough force to stop him from breaking free. He didn't try. "What happened?"
"I killed Beatrice." She said it without emotion; she cared nothing for the fate of her 'sister'. "Angel will still be alive, and probably won't know anything. Perhaps he never will."
"I wasn't planning to tell him." He rubbed his head which, like much of the rest of him, throbbed painfully. He must look like hell - certainly he felt like it. He was used to patching himself up though; used to cleaning the injuries, and making them look less than they were. Used to carrying on regardless. It had been a long time since anybody had really stopped to commiserate with him. Cordelia, he thought, trying to remember how long ago that might have been. When had they all stopped sharing smiles and jokes and kindnesses? It was probably immaterial. Very slowly, he looked around to see where he was. Sudden movements seemed to make his head spin, and his muscles protested as well. Slow, then. He could cope with slow.
They were in the library, where they had spent so much time together, both with and without Collins and the others. Those three worthies were nowhere to be seen, and he hadn't really expected to see them. They would have escaped at the first opportunity, no doubt certain that they were leaving him to his death. That might be to his advantage, at any rate. If they all now thought that he was dead, they might not be trying to make him that way themselves any time soon. He was fairly certain that they had decided to kill him, at some point. That was an annoyance, but not an insult, or a real problem. His shaky memory of what had happened in those last few moments of his consciousness suggested to him that they had run off before their mission had been completed anyway. Drusilla had killed Beatrice; the legendary Watcher assassins had already gone by then. They had run away in fear, and destroyed their own reputation in the process. Not that anybody else would ever hear of it, but it amused him at least. The great assassins, fleeing from Drusilla, and her no longer indestructible 'sister'.
"You think anybody else will try the spell?" he asked in the end. He didn't want to destroy the book; such things were against his training and his beliefs. Books were almost sacred objects. She shrugged.
"Doesn't matter." She meant it, too. Saving Angel was all that had interested her. He suspected that the only reason she had disliked the idea of a powerful Beatrice was because it had been Beatrice who would be getting the power. Any other vampire was probably welcome to it; just not one that Drusilla herself disliked. He sighed. There were so many reasons why it did matter, but there was no point arguing that. She wasn't human, as he had been all too often reminded. She didn't have any morals, or any conscience, or any sense of responsibility to the world or the creatures in it. He nodded slowly.
"Yes, I suppose you would see it that way. You've saved Angel, so your truths you swear blind that he's hidden might turn up again." He couldn't keep the scepticism from his voice. She tugged gently on his hand, pulling him back down beside her, and rubbing the back of his neck with her strong hands. A vampire made a good masseur, he couldn't deny that. With her strength she was perfect for the task, though the coldness of her hands made it a strange experience.
"You don't see," she told him, without reproach. He nodded, glad that her apparently skilled work on his neck meant that that simple gesture no longer hurt.
"True. I thought I saw something, earlier, but it was just you, wasn't it. Putting pictures in my head."
"Maybe." She was smiling, but since she was behind him, he couldn't see it. The pictures remained in her own head, even though they were now gone from his. Angel's fury, his insistence that Wesley had taken something. A woman with a knife, and blood to make Drusilla's mouth water. Interesting pictures, filling holes in her Watcher's enchanted head. Or was it the whole world that had been enchanted? She didn't know; she only knew what her second sight told her, and that was as confused as everything else.
"And what happens now?" He leant forwards as he spoke, to break the contact between them. Drusilla smiled at his back. She wanted so much to kill him. Wanted so much to drain his body of every drop of that sparkling blood. He was close to Angel though, and she knew that that was important. Whatever confusion had done strange things to her memories, she knew that it was centred upon Angel; and that meant that this slight, dark figure, with his oh-so-desirable blood, was a part of it too, in some way at least. She wasn't sure that she could kill him. Not until she knew more. Not until she understood more, and had had time to think about the pictures she had seen inside his head. She reached out to stroke the back of his neck.
"You helped me save Angel," she told him, making her voice as honeyed as she could; as sweet and as warm as she could. No sense in letting her true self come out now. She wanted him to trust her, even if only slightly. She might be able to us that, another time. "I think that deserves a lengthening of the truce."
"It does?" He had expected to be killed. Had expected never to wake up at all, and certainly not to live long after awakening. She smelt his confusion, and wanted so much to taste it as well. To tear open his throat and taste everything else. Instead she let him go, and rose to her feet.
"Maybe I'll find your three friends, and eat them instead."
"I think you might find that rather hard, but I wish you luck anyway." He was frowning, part scared, part disbelieving. She didn't blame him for his disbelief - she didn't really believe that she was letting him go, either. Softly she trailed her fingers across the back of his neck one last time. It would be so easy, and he wouldn't have a hope of defending himself... but no. Let the lie stand. Let him leave here thinking that he was taking her goodwill. One day she might be glad of it. She caught his shoulder, though, before he could go very far away.
"Next time we meet..."
"Yes?" This time he really did know what was coming.
"Next time, Watcher, you're mine. I'll have that blood yet."
"You'll kill me."
"I'll make you wish I would." She smiled, and the expression was so innocent, so beautiful, and so very, very dangerous that for a moment he almost smiled back. If his blood hadn't been turning so surely to ice, he probably would have done. Instead he merely nodded, and turned away. It took every bit of his concentration and his courage to keep walking away from her, his back to her lethal presence, and at every step he expected her to spring; expected to feel her teeth sinking into his neck. The holes left by Beatrice burned in sympathy with his fears, but the attack never came. He still waited for it though - even after he had left the library, and the building, and walked out once again into the sun. He had a feeling he would be expecting it for months to come.
"Hello Mother." He kept his voice light. There were too many other people within earshot for him to allow any emotion to seep into the exchange - and besides, his mother would hardly expect profuse warmth. She never did. "Is Father in?" He laughed at her response. "Yes, I know I just spoke to him recently, but I thought-- Well no, fair enough. No, no, I quite understand. There's a lot to be done, with the Council being... gone. No, it's perfectly alright." A further comment made him smile again, though this time rather oddly, with a dullness in his eyes. "What do you mean I sound different? Well I suppose the line must be better. Something to do with the weather I expect. No, mother, it's quite alright that he's away. It's not as if I'm planning to drop by and visit, after all. Why would I?" This time the expression in his eyes was more than merely dull, and an odd kind of pain showed in his face. "I'm half the world away, like always. No, everything is fine at work, mother. Really. I just--" Just what? Wanted another go at apologising for my attempt at patricide? Wanted to talk to somebody about all that had just happened? Needed somebody to talk to, and didn't have anybody else? He couldn't talk to Angel about all of this, and Cordelia was still in a coma. Gunn was... different, Fred was... Fred. And Lorne was loud and colourful and loving and caring, and everything Wesley didn't feel up to facing. It was just the sort of time when it might be nice to turn to a father, and share the experience; discuss the situation. He smiled bitterly. Even if his father had been available, he knew exactly how the interview would have gone - and it would have been an interview, never a conversation. The greeting, the ice that would come at the mention of Angel. The glaring, the discomfort, the shuffling, the reprimand. He was a fool for even considering it, really. Something in his mother's tone of voice made him jump, and he almost turned to look at the telephone in response.
"Yes, Mother. I'm still here. No, I just... I've been called to a meeting. Yes, I know - still, it was nice to talk to you. Tell Father I... Well, tell him I called. Better not tell him I said 'Hi' or he'll only moan about me turning American. No, I wasn't being sarcastic. I... I'll speak to you soon. No, I don't know when I'll make it over to England. Things have been crazy lately. There's never any time to take a break, and England's such a long way away. I'll... I'll think about it." He nodded. "Yeah. Yes, Mother. Goodbye." Slowly he lowered the phone, then pressed the button to break the connection. Well that had been a waste of time; but then when had such things ever been anything else? Here he was, back at home, and still thousands of miles away from it. Still thousands of miles away from anywhere, and from anyone, whilst around him the crowds of London heaved and swelled. Still, the holiday was over now, and with it the time for reflections such as these. It was time to go home. Nice, perhaps, to think that he had such a thing, somewhere. Some day he might even find out where it was.