Back from their shopping trip to Glasgow, Rowan and Wesley were relaxing in the former's room with Rowan's borrowed Nightwish CD playing in the background.
Wesley was leaning his shoulder against the wall close to the door with a glass of whisky in his hand, watching in amusement as Rowan tried to get a good look of his own behind in the full-length mirror fastened to the inside of the wardrobe door.
"They feel great," Rowan grinned and slid his hands up and down his thighs to get a feel of the smooth leather. "The fit is just right. I'm beginning to understand why Faith prefers them."
"For £350 a pair they'd better fit perfectly," Wesley chuckled. "I'd pay a considerable sum of money to be there when Travers gets the credit card bill."
"Our way of living tends to be quite hard on the clothes," Rowan shrugged. "Four pairs are just about the bare minimum. Besides, it was he who gave me a credit card without a spending limit, so he can't expect me not to use it." He accentuated his comment by waving the Platinum AMEX card in question briefly in the air before sliding it back into the front pocket of his new pants. "It's not that I'm going to buy a new car or a jet with it, or anything else like that. I know better than to bite the hand that lays the golden egg. If I keep my purchases reasonable, he probably won't even remember I have it in a month or two, and the monthly payments will get lost in the rounding error as far as the Council's overall financials are concerned."
"Devious," Wesley nodded approvingly and sipped from his glass. He frowned briefly as the sound of multiple doors slamming shut in succession in the corridor made him miss the ending of the current song. Just as the song changed there was a measured knocking on their closed door – one of the trainees by the sound of it. Laughing briefly at the thought of seeing their face when they got their first look of Rowan in black leather pants and a black silken shirt, he quickly opened the latch and pushed the handle down.
In the small moment between the knocking and Wesley opening the door, Rowan realized that while the knocking had been familiar, there was an almost imperceptible oddness in it. Something was not right, so he attempted to block the door with Air... but found a much stronger force resisting his attempts. He tried to counter it with Earth but was too late.
Rowan's sudden "Wesley, no!" made the Keeper freeze but the damage had already been done. The door was pushed forcefully open, and Wesley was thrown violently to the floor with the drinking glass smashing to pieces under his shoulder. He heard the tell-tale "thwip" of a silenced gun causing something heavy to fall to the floor outside his field of view. Rough hands grabbed both his arms and he screamed in agony as razor-sharp shards of glass cut deeply into his shoulder. He was thrown mercilessly against the back wall along which he slid down to sit on the floor holding his bloody shoulder. Next to him Rowan lay motionlessly with a spreading patch of dark liquid staining his new shirt.
Wesley had never been at the business end of a gun but now there were two silenced 9 mm pistols pointed at him and the unmoving Rowan. The two men with guns – Collins and Smith – if he recalled correctly, were from the Council's special operations unit and had quite a reputation for their effectiveness and ruthlessness.
"Doesn't look so dangerous with 124 grains of FMJ in 'im," Collins commented idly as he nudged Rowan's leg with his shoe. "Bit of a shame that. He looks fetching enough to shag."
"What about Wesley here?" Smith asked with the gun pointed directly between Wes's eyes.
"He's a harmless bookworm," Collins answered with a sneer. "Keep him covered, though. His bruised ego might compel him to attempt something stupidly heroic." With a lazy flick of his wrist another silenced bullet hit the CD player which disintegrated in a cloud of broken plastic. "Fucking screeching got to my nerves."
Smith nodded and called over his shoulder. "The room's secure."
Wesley ground his teeth together as Fergus McPherson entered the room carrying a laptop, tailed by a dejected looking Craig Fiennes. His colleague didn't pay him any attention as he started busying himself with the computer, so Wes fixed the young Trainee with a murderous gaze which the young man tried to avoid. Then Wes's mouth fell open as a dark-haired woman wearing a robe glided into the room with all the bearings of a Queen. His attention fully on the woman, he paid close to no attention to Craig who looked to be scared out of his wits and was trying to move as far away from the woman as the confines of the room allowed.
While Wesley was gaping, Fergus had opened the laptop and set up a webcam. There was a brief moment of static, and then a view of a room he knew well appeared on the screen.
Sir Quentin Travers, Lydia Chalmers and Gwen were going through recent financial statements when the doors to the Head of the Council's private study slammed open with a force that made them crack against the stoppers.
The three Council members in the room had barely time to react before Roger Wyndam-Pryce marched into the room flanked by a tall, thin man wielding a silenced gun.
"Roger, you...!" Travers had time to speak before the headrest of his tall office chair exploded next to his head. The bullet had hit it an inch away from his ear. He fell silent immediately. Next to him Lydia cowered in fear in her chair with her hands pressed to her mouth. Gwen looked quite calm having raised her arms in the air.
"I wish it didn't have to come to this," Wyndam-Pryce tsk'ed with a regretful shake of his head. "Weatherby?"
Travers' heart skipped a few beats, expecting to be summarily killed, but the operative just laid a laptop he had been carrying in his other hand on the table. When the screen came to life, his heart almost did stop completely. The somewhat grainy picture showed a room in the Castle with two persons held at gunpoint against a wall by two more of the Council's special operatives. He immediately recognized the smaller one as the Lehaïr, who appeared to have been shot in his side. Next to him Wesley was holding a bleeding shoulder. What really got his attention after the initial shock was the robed woman who appeared to be watching the unfolding drama with a calm detachment.
"Roger, you'd associate yourself with her and turn against your own?" he gasped in utter disbelief.
"Desperate times call for desperate measures," Wyndam-Pryce answered calmly. "You let yourself be enchanted by the demon's honeyed tongue, and in time you'd have allowed this ancient institution be torn to pieces. I have now removed that temptation, for good. But, as it comes to you, Quentin. If you resign voluntarily, effective immediately, I will allow you to keep your life provided that you agree to stay under permanent house arrest, warded of course, in one of our more isolated safe houses far away from Britain. I think... Saint Helena. It has a nice ring of irony to it, wouldn't you agree?"
While palace coups were not unheard of in the Council's long history, there hadn't been one since 1653 when Cabinet members backed by the Army Council instigated one. But like everything else related to the Commonwealth of England, it had folded in 1660 with the restoration of monarchy.
There had always been factions with conflicting agendas within the Council, internal opposition in the Cabinet, etc. but changes in leadership had mostly been democratic and peaceful. If the Head of the Council lost a critical vote, they were expected to step graciously aside and retire. Travers had been one of the more successful Heads in recent history, despite the occasional setbacks as it came to the active Slayers and their Watchers. He had formed strategic alliances, always managing to turn one faction against another to prevent a unified opposition. Their coffers were overflowing, their finances solid, so Travers' position should have been secure despite Roger's frequent calls to replace him.
He had secured them the co-operation of the Lehaïr, an unparalleled fount of information short of having an Old One or one of the Powers working for them. So, why, when everything should have been close to perfect, did all he had so strenuously worked for suddenly teeter on the brink of an abyss? He should have foreseen this. He should have!
He was shaken back to the present when a desperate plea from Wesley echoed from the speakers. "Father, you don't know what you're doing! This is all wrong! You have no idea what..."
"On the contrary, my son," Wyndam-Pryce interrupted Wesley emotionlessly. "I know with perfect clarity what I'm doing. But you, Wesley... Unfortunately, it's you who have strayed from the path. Even more so than Quentin, you have been influenced by the demon. You may still be of use to me, though, but you will have to be purified first."
"Father, no!" Wesley practically screamed and moved to stand up. A pistol whip by Collins smashed his eyeglasses to pieces and made him collapse.
The elder Wyndam-Pryce didn't react at all to the way his son was treated. Instead, he addressed the woman with whom he had been forced to co-operate. But not for much longer.
"Witch! As agreed, the demon is now yours to take care of. Then it's my unfortunate son's turn."
Travers' pulse increased considerably as the High Priestess' eyes briefly found his through the remote link before the regal woman turned his gaze away and approached the prone Lehaïr.
"Today will be forever remembered as the day when the Council's return to its former glory began," Wyndam-Pryce pontificated with an almost rapturous look on his face. "All aberrations will be erased. All heretics will be exterminated, wherever they may be hiding. The Slayer line will be returned to the Council's full oversight with a new generation of obedient and fully-controlled Potentials."
Travers gaped at the obviously insane man. If things had been serious before, now the whole situation had potential to explode into a full-blown Armageddon.
With his head feeling like it had been split, Wesley watched in horror as the awe-inspiring woman kneeled in front of Rowan and raised his upper body to her lap. With a hungry grin on her sensual lips, she lowered her head until her mouth made contact with the Lehaïr's unprotected neck. Grounding his teeth together, he could only watch helplessly as Rowan twitched in the woman's embrace.
When he had first seen her enter the room, it had taken only a few seconds for him to identify her based on Rowan's description – Morgaine, the legendary High Priestess... a vampire if what Rowan had told him was correct. And she was working with his father? That made no sense... nothing made any sense.
'M-Mistress?' Rowan thought weakly and dizzily as he felt a light contact on his skin.
'You were shot,' Morgaine's thought echoed in his mind. 'I have removed the bullet and staunched the internal bleeding. That will have to do for now.'
'Why?' Rowan asked, knowing that the Priestess would understand what he meant.
'Events are unfolding, events in which you play only a small part. So far everything has gone according to my plans. I have to thank you, though. Your unwitting participation has made everything so much easier.'
With that the connection was broken.
Roger Wyndam-Pryce watched in grim satisfaction as the detestable Witch took care of the second-most important hurdle in his way to the top. He barely paid attention to the sobbing Gwendolyn who was biting the knuckles of her only hand hard enough to draw blood. He was still contemplating whether the woman would be more trouble than worth if left alive.
When the Witch stood up, he nodded at the screen like complimenting a servant for a job well done. "Good. Now my son." He made a small gesture with his right hand which was the pre-arranged signal for Collins and Smith to get ready. The two operatives didn't twitch an eye, to which he smiled internally. They were really very professional.
He frowned briefly when, instead of turning to attend to his son, the Witch faced the camera with that intolerable, regal haughtiness prominently on display in her features.
"Didn't you hear me, Witch? Do as you're told!" he commanded in irritation.
"You have outlived your usefulness, little man," Morgaine addressed the camera calmly, the tone of her voice making Roger's spine run cold. "For all your pathetic little scheming, all your pointless machinations, you never knew what any of this was all about; what was really going on."
"How dare you!?" he snapped, rightfully offended that such a... creature had the audacity to address him like that. "Collins, Smith! Take care of her."
The two men stayed like they were, like statues.
"They cannot hear you," Morgaine stated, not even bothering to look at the two assassins. "Actually, they are not much good for anything anymore."
An awful realization was slowly making its way to his conscious mind. "You... you betrayed me?" he gaped, not fully able to grasp the full implications yet. "This cannot be! Fergus, do something! I order you to do something!"
He lost the control of his bladder when McPherson came into view and bowed respectfully to the woman. "What do you wish me to do, Mistress?"
"These two men," Morgaine indicated with her head. "They will follow your commands; that is all minds are capable of anymore. What is to become of them is no longer our concern."
"Yes, Mistress," Fergus nodded and ushered the two unblinking operatives out of the room, first having divested them of their guns.
In London, Roger Wyndam-Pryce was opening and closing his mouth without sound. He was drooling slightly. He got one final surprise and shock when the Witch spoke a name.
"Weatherby?" Morgaine requested.
He had just enough time left in this world to see the gun in Weatherby's hand rise to point at his forehead.
"It's done, Mistress," Travers barely heard Weatherby's acknowledgement of Roger's murder.
"You have done well," he saw the Priestess nod at the camera. "Take the body and the woman with you. We will have a talk with the Head of the Council and his assistant."
Taking Wyndam-Pryce's body to a fireman's carry and grabbing the arm of the unresisting Lydia, Weatherby left the room and closed the slightly damaged doors behind him.
Facing the screen once again, Travers licked his lips nervously.
"Erm... Your Grace, I believe thanks are in order."
"You can keep the thanks to yourself, Consul, they matter less than nothing to us," The Priestess replied loftily. "However, you will remember how very close to ending your leadership came today."
"So, what will happen now?"
The Priestess stood silent and still for a long time before answering.
"First. Weatherby and McPherson were working under our orders, and nothing is to happen to them. We have little care whether the events of today will set a wider purge in motion within your Council but those two will not be touched.
"Second. The Lehaïr apparently holds your assistant in great esteem. You will name her your deputy with all the responsibilities previously held by our late... associate.
"Third. The Fiennes boy." With that she turned her head around slowly to fix the cowering Trainee with an icy gaze. Craig whimpered pitifully under her scrutiny. "We mark him ours. Make of that what you will.
"Fourth. The Lehaïr is no longer your concern. Other tasks call him elsewhere, and we will send him on his way. Where? We are certain you can make an educated guess.
"Fifth and last. You will not hear from us again once these proceedings are concluded. We accomplished what we set out to do and now we will return to our realm in the mists and shadows. Neither the Council nor the Order will attempt to move against us or ours while your leadership lasts."
"And... after?"
Gwen flinched as the eyes of the woman turned briefly to her. "We are certain your eventual successor will see all the benefits of maintaining the status quo. However, any truce – whether formal or informal – is hereby terminated. What remains is merely an... understanding."
"I... I understand," Travers responded weakly. Beside him Gwen was trembling violently from head to toe.
"See that you do, Consul. Our reach is long."
With that the screen went blank.
After the connection was terminated, Gwen burst into tears, all her swirling emotions finally surfacing. Next to her, Travers moaned weakly and buried his face in his crossed arms on the table.
When Gwen was again able to think somewhat coherently, a million questions started surfacing in her mind. 'The woman... who? What did she do to Rowan? And she basically blackmailed Travers. Me... a deputy? What "Order" was she talking about?'
"Quentin?" she asked hesitantly when she saw that his superior's shoulders were shaking. To her surprise she started hearing the sound of quiet, mirthless laughter instead of crying as she had originally thought.
"Well, Gwen, I guess congratulations are in order," Travers addressed her, raising himself back upright in his chair. "Your nomination will have to be ratified by the Cabinet, of course, but as of now you will be the acting Deputy Head of the Watchers' Council in charge of all our Potentials. The position of the Deputy has officially remained vacant for a long time, but it traditionally carries with it the title of Legatus."
"Quentin!" Gwen gasped in shock. "Just because that... woman made you agree to her demands, you don't have to..."
"Gwen!" Travers interrupted her with a raised hand. "The Council will be severely weakened for a long time after the fallout from Roger's deranged actions fully lands. To be able to face these turbulent times, I need someone I can fully trust as my right hand. Even without her interference I cannot think of anyone else I would trust more to hold that position. I may have been too complacent and passive in the past but all that will now have to change, starting with our core functions. You will oversee the finding and training of Potentials, and Rupert has the active Slayer-s acceptably covered – either directly or through... intermediaries. We will also need someone to restructure our special operations. I'm thinking McPherson is long overdue a promotion."
"What about Wesley?"
"I'm going to ask for his resignation," Travers answered flatly. "Sacrifices will have to be made and I've long suspected that his... heart and mind are not fully in his current job anymore."
"That's harsh, Quentin."
"I know," Travers nodded. "But I'm not going to cut the tether totally on him. You have... contacts in a certain detective agency specialising in the supernatural in Los Angeles. Maybe once I've recalled Wesley to London, you might make a roundabout suggestion of a trip to California to him."
"I see," Gwen mused in sudden understanding. "Keep your friends close, but..."
"Precisely."
"Quentin, if I'm going to be your deputy, I need you to come clean – on everything. Starting with the woman."
"You're right, Gwen. You deserve that and more. That... woman is the High Priestess of Britain. You already know of her, in a way. Her name is Morgaine of Cornwall, and in addition to her title as the High Priestess she is the suo jure Duchess of Cornwall. Many supernatural beings in Britain and Ireland regard her as their Queen..."
After the video link to London was terminated, there was a long silence in Rowan's room. It was finally broken by Craig Fiennes who was close to hyperventilating.
"You... why did you... Now no one will..."
Morgaine silenced him with an icy gaze. "Boy, you will learn your place and how to address those above you. You will call us 'Your Grace' or 'Mistress'. As to 'why'... In your ambition you chose a side which ultimately lost, and now you must live with the consequences. Maybe, in time, you will find your way back to us. Now, begone!"
"Y-yes, Mistress. Thank you, Mistress," Craig stammered and staggered out of the room like a drunk.
Next Morgaine turned her attention to Wesley. "You will go too, young Wyndam-Pryce. We suggest you start soon packing for a return trip to London. Whatever the Consul and his new Deputy have in store for you, obey it."
"Yes, Your Grace," Wesley agreed emotionlessly. "And if I may be so bold, what are your intentions with Rowan?"
"Wes, I'll be fine," Rowan told him quietly from the floor where he had been lying all this time. The gunshot wound was still bleeding and hurt like hell. He could suppress the sensation somewhat, but it was still agonising.
Wesley crouched down next to his friend, grimacing from the pain in his shoulder. "Are you sure? I'd hate to lose my driving student." He grinned somewhat sadly at Rowan's roll of eyes.
"Whatever happens, I'll keep in touch," Rowan promised. "Please also tell Shinzo that I regret having to interrupt our training, for a short while at least."
"I will."
"Lean in a bit closer and I'll give you a goodbye kiss."
Wesley did just as Rowan asked and then left the room without a word. The slight smile on his lips didn't vanish for a long time.
Taking support from the wall Rowan raised himself slowly to his feet. With Morgaine watching him calmly, he ripped the sheets in his bed into bandages and tied them tightly around his abdomen.
"Extracting the bullet from your body and taking care of the internal bleeding pushed your body to the limits, so the rest will have to heal on its own," Morgaine explained. "You should not even be standing."
"I know," Rowan nodded. "But that's not an option. I need your help, Mistress."
Rowan knew very well that the currently transpiring events were orchestrated by the Priestess according to some master plan only she knew. Her actions had put Buffy and Faith in possibly mortal danger, or at least she had allowed that to happen, but there was no point or time to start fighting over a fait accompli. The only things that mattered now were those he might still be able to influence through his own actions.
"Yes," Morgaine nodded. "And I am willing to consider it... for a price. What you are asking will be very tasking, depleting almost all my reserves."
"Anything," Rowan said simply. He went slowly to his wardrobe and pulled out a large duffel bag.
"Anything?" Morgaine asked with a raised eyebrow.
Rowan stayed silent for several long moments, allowing the Priestess to briefly assume that he might be a fool after all. "Anything, with the caveat that Faith has to agree to it first."
He threw his extra pairs of new leather pants into the bag and then proceeded to fill it with his jeans, training gear, shirts, etc. Some of his stuff he would have to leave behind, but they could be sent to him later by courier. He was almost finished when the Priestess finally spoke.
"A clever move," Morgaine smiled appreciatively. "Yes, very clever – forcing me to accept or lose face. I will agree to these terms without reserve. Now, take my hand. The first jump will be short but, in your present condition, fairly painful."
"I will take my sword with me. If that is not acceptable, all bets are off." He fastened the scabbard to his back with a wince. The sudden movement made him see black spots.
"I will bind the blade to the scabbard," Morgaine told him the conditions for allowing him to bring a weapon on holy ground. "Any attempt to break the binding while within the borders of the site will be regarded as sacrilege and dealt with accordingly. It will dissipate on its own before you reach your destination."
"Yes," Rowan nodded in agreement and waited until Morgaine had woven a magical net around the sheathed sword. Then he took the Priestess' outheld hand and the room faded to black.
They materialized on top of Earl's Seat, some fifty yards away from the round tower. Rowan fell gasping to his hands and knees and almost blacked out. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to stand up.
"Your dedication is admirable and your attention to details commendable," Morgaine commented as they approached the tower. "Many would have demanded to be sent immediately without any consideration of the consequences. I would have liked to meet those who trained you."
"It took me all of three minutes to get ready. Should I be too late after that, the three extra minutes without preparation would have made no difference."
On top of the tower Morgaine made him sit in the stone chair with his duffel bag in a tight grip while she drew a glowing circle around it with a pointed finger. She chanted rapidly for almost two minutes in what sounded like half-Celtic and half-Latin. "Now, focus on the Slayer through the connection you share," she ordered Rowan, almost panting in exertion. Rowan nodded and winked at the Priestess for good measure. Then her final command word hit him like a truck, and he toppled over backwards and fell... and kept on falling... and falling.