Ezekiel

Disclaimer: Do not own Buffy.

A/N: I began to write this story around two months before Pope John Paul II was taken up into the heavenly plain. I'd like to take this opportunity to say that I am deeply saddened by this news and that my prayers, while I am not Catholic, go with the Pontiff in the hopes that Christ shall receive his soul. Also, absolutely NO disrespect is meant towards the Pope or the Catholic church or the people which His Holiness so humbly served. I dedicate this story to him and to all those who feel the loss of such a noble man.

Megan Droplet had never even heard of Paradise, Oregon until she had found it on her tour of America. She was just out of high school, ready to see the country, be bohemian and all that jazz. Instead, she had made it to the Oregon coast from her small beginnings in Yreka, California. All in all, she had made it about eight-five miles away from her home. Not the best she could do.

Paradise was a city that could actually compare to Los Angeles. It was the only other city along the East Coast that could compete with LA in population…and gang violence. However, no one she'd ever met had ever heard of it. She had called her family once she had arrived at the dark city to learn more about it, but no one had ever heard of it. So, she had found a nearby bar to relax at. She wasn't of age, but no one checked for ID.

The loner teen had been easily picked up by a stunningly hot blonde guy in red leather. He had been helped by the large amount of alcohol within her system. He had taken her outside the bar and into the back alley, where things had become…physical. Then, as the blonde had groped her ample body, she had felt a sharp pain alongside her neck. She screamed, but the pain worsened.

Then, she felt something hard impact the man and he fell off of her. She slumped against the wall and looked up, feeling blood trickle down from her wound. Standing there was a tall man. She couldn't see him in the light, but she could tell that he was wearing leather and had gloves on. She turned to see her beau for the night. He had lumps on his forehead and fangs. Vampire, her mind screeched at her.

The creature charged at the man, but he sidestepped and it fell to the ground. The man slammed his foot into the creature's ass as it passed by, and it fell to the ground. The man then grabbed its head and pulled it up, then slammed his fist into its face. She smelled burnt skin as the creature hit the floor. The man slammed his foot into its gut, then thrust his fist into the creature's face. He reached into his belt and pulled out what appeared to be a wooden spike…stake. He plunged it into the beast's chest and…

She gasped as it turned into dust before her very eyes. The man turned back to her as he put his stake away, then he walked up to her.

"Are you well," he asked.

She didn't trust her voice to do any more than cry or yell, so she merely nodded her head. The man sighed, seemingly to himself, then turned back to her.

"Call the cops," he said.

With that, he stood up and walked down the street.

Detective Daniel Cohen sighed and pushed his thick, black glasses further up his face. The call to his house had come late in the night, even for him. He had only had time to throw on a pair of jeans, his gray trench coat, and his badge before he had to be on scene.

"Who is it this time," he asked the officer.

"Megan Droplet," answered the uniform, "From California. Same story as all the others."

"She get a good look at him?"

"Sorry, Detective."

"Danny," called a voice behind him.

"Over here, Miguel," called Daniel.

Detective Miguel 'Sparked' O'Hare was a rookie on the Paradise Police Department. He had just gotten out of college and had been assigned to Daniel for training. Then, this vigilante had moved into town and started saving people. Everyone on the PD had been grateful for any slowing to the dramatic, at its most mild point, death rate in the city. But, their asshole of a Commissioner had told them to nail the SOB or get new jobs. As it turned out, Daniel was the best detective on the whole force, so he had gotten short end, along with Miguel. The poor guy had enjoyed just a week an a half of the regular Hell everyone on the PD went through, just to get thrust into the seventeenth ring of it all.

"Hey, boss," said Miguel, "What's the situation?"

"Same as usual," said Daniel.

"Civilian saved; attacker disappeared; rescuer disappeared right along with him/her."

"…Yep. And you know what that means."

"About seventeen hours of horrifying paperwork."

"Makes me wish I were one of those assholes that this guy slays."

"You're getting in late," Whitney Marks said to the young man as he walked inside the apartment building, "So late…it's morning!"

The man nodded to her, not even hearing her.

"Any mail," he asked.

"Nope," she said, "Same as always. Want to come by my place tonight?"

"Same answer as always," he answered.

Whitney allowed her eyes to roam over his body. He wore moderate kaki pants, not too tight nor falling off his ass…an image that Whitney chose to file for later times. He wore a tight, black shirt with a brown leather jacket, along with combat boots to finish off the look. She sighed over him, then examined her own body. She wore a tight blouse that hugged her extremely large chest, a small skirt that could be considered a belt, and a small amount of makeup on her brunette face. She sighed to herself, wondering why he wouldn't join her for one night.

"Alright," she said, "You'd better hurry, though. You got school today."

"Damn school to Hell," he said as he walked up the stairs.

He walked upinto his room, a small living room with a bed in the back, and turned on the lights. They flickered, then turned off completely. He sighed and walked over to his TV. He flicked it on, but it didn't turn on. Sighing to himself, he walked away from it, then sharply turned around and embedded his boot into the glass. As sparks flew from it and fire cackled, he groaned and moved away from it. He grabbed a glass and filled it with water, then doused the flame with it.

He sighed to himself once more, then put his glass on the table. Then, he stiffened. He turned around and entered the bedroom, then grabbed the man hiding along the wall and dragged him over to the balcony, leaning him out over the air that led to the alley below.

"Angus," he growled, "What have I told you about entering my room without telling me!"

"Sorry, bro," said the black snitch, "Didn't mean to. Honest! Look, I got the goods for you, man. Just let me down, please."

"I'll let you down," he said, "All the way to the pavement unless you talk."

"Alright," said Angus as he felt himself get closer to the ground, "I'll talk! Look, bro, vampires are starting to migrate away from this town. But, many more are coming in than are leaving. I've heard rumors that there are already four hundred more within the city limits."

"Demons?"

"Same on that level, Zeke. I guarantee."

He sighed once more, then threw Angus back into the room.

"Get out," he ordered, "And my name is not Zeke. It is Ezekiel."

"Sure," groaned Angus as he sat up, "Ezekiel. Got it."

With that, the lowlife stood up and ran out the door. Ezekiel sighed and leaned against the bar, looking down upon the asphalt as he did so. He took in the toxic air, then went back inside. He walked over to his refrigerator and pulled out a six-pack of beer. He opened a can and started drinking his troubles away. As he drank, he let his mind wander back to the day when all this shit started. When he was barely three and his name had been Alexander LaVelle Harris.

Flashback

Alexander cried as they entered the vehicle. He heard his parents scream and shout against those nightmarish creatures, but they screamed to no avail. He saw them leech onto them, and heard the gurgle of the blood entering their systems. He stopped crying and, in an act that would later forge his life, grabbed a cross from his seat that he had been playing with. He hit the first creature with it, and it recoiled as steam rose from its ugly face.

Alexander then hit the other thing with his cross, and it too recoiled as its skin burnt. Then, they all heard the sound of sirens as they approached. The two vampires shared a look, then ran away from the scene.

Alexander sat inside the hospital, listening to nothing and everything. Then, he looked up as he felt a hand touch his barren back. He looked up into the face of a sorrow-filled doctor. He knew…he knew.

It was a little while later in the hospital that another hand grabbed his shoulder. Instead of the cold sterility that the doctor's hands had, this hand had a warmth and comfort all its own. He looked up at the man above him. He had pure, white hair and a small smile on his face. He had a beard and a glint in his eyes. He was dressed in a black suit and had a white band around his collar which signified his station.

"Hello, Father," said Alexander.

"Hello, son," he said, "I'm Father Albany. Did the doctors.."

"They told me."

"…I'm sorry for your loss, son. But know that the gracious Lord shall bless their souls as only He can."

The Father smiled at him, then sat down beside him.

"Alexander," he said, "You have lost your entire family today. I must ask you…to what?"

"…Monsters. Vampires."

"Son, you must be feeling a great amount of anger at those vile things."

"I do, Father."

"Social Services are trying to find a home for you. For the time, they have allowed my church to take you in. If you would wish, I could help you gain vengeance."

"Isn't vengeance a sin, Father?"

"When it is brought against your fellow man, yes. However, these things are not men. They are demons which must be fought."

Ezekiel awoke to a knocking against his door. Groaning to himself, he stood up and walked to the door. He opened it to reveal a thirty year old balding man in a white undershirt that was about four sizes too small for his beer belly.

"You're rent's due, prick," said Renaldo.

"Sorry, Rena," said Ezekiel, "It should be here by tomorrow."

"Tell whoever's covering your ass that you owe another twenty in late fees."

"…Fine. Go."

Renaldo snarled at him, but backed away and walked out the door. Ezekiel closed his door, then put both hands on his head to block out the sunlight. He glared at the battery powered clock on his desk. It was noon, and he was about four hours late for school. Oh, well. They didn't care so long as he showed up once a week. Sighing to himself, he grabbed a second can of beer and started to drink again.

Daniel groaned aloud as he leaned back in his chair. This guy was really getting on his nerves. Commissioner Wilks was a real hater when it came to vigilantes, earning him the animosity of nearly every cop in the whole city. There was a pool out on how long Wilks had left to live. Daniel had five hundred on three months. Already, two months had gone by since this guy had pushed his way into town. Maybe he might win.

He sighed to himself once more and scratched his brown hair where it itched, then looked up as Miguel walked inside his off and sat down across from him and dropped off two cups of coffee and a box of bagels on his desk.

"You know something," said Daniel, "You're my trainee. You do all this paperwork."

"Then you don't get any of the coffee or sugar-filled delights," said Miguel.

"…I sincerely hate you. You better hope I don't win that pool or get Chief of Detectives, then your ass will be busted back to uniform so fast you won't feel it for a month."

"Threats are nothing, boss. I hail from New York."

Daniel sighed to himself, accepting that his 'partner' would never respect his authority. Miguel smiled and sipped on his coffee, then put it down on the desk. As he took his hand away from the metal, he jerked back suddenly, shaking his hand.

"Damn," he muttered, "Why do those things always bite me?"

"Because you're nickname's 'Sparked.'"

Alexander yelled out as he pushed his body up off the ground. He gritted his teeth against the scars and bruises that covered his body. Those same bruises and scars had covered his body ever since he had accepted Father Albany's offer to learn how to fight demons when he was three. Now, ten years later, he was at Vatican City, undergoing the church's worst levels of physical training.

Over his decade of learning and pain, he had learned everything about demons, vampires, and weaponry that the church could teach him without violating sacred orders from the Pope himself. He had grown to neither believe what they believe, nor to disrespect their beliefs. All he had to do was play along for the Fathers and the monks and the Cardinals and Bishops and he'd live to see tomorrow. Officially, none of them cared what he believed so long as he did his job. Unofficially, everyone knew that if you didn't believe in the Catholic faith here that you wouldn't live to see tomorrow.

He shouted with all his might as he felt the whip strike his knee, sending a deep slash of pain up his body and staining the floor with his blood.

"Dig deeper, boy," said Father Straughts of Germany, "If you cannot take a little whipping, then how can you stand against a demon?"

"Dig deeper, Father," he said.

"The Lord God of Hosts hast given you a task, boy," growled Father Straughts, "And even if you are an undeserving lad, the Lord is perfect and chooses those who will be useful in the cause."

He sighed as he lifted himself up once more, forcing himself to not yell to the Father that he had been chosen by Father Albany for this, then the Pope had selected him for training. If God had placed him into that position just so he could forbear pain at the hands of His own church, then he thoroughly believed that God had it out for him.

He groaned as blood leaked from his wounds, then pushed himself up once more. Finally, the Father took pity on him and poured holy water upon his body. As it had before, and possibly always would, it stung every wound upon his body.

Ezekiel pushed the sudden memory away as he entered the local demon bar. Singe was the most popular demon bar on the East Coast, second only to every single demon bar inside of some small Californian town called Sunnydale. Ezekiel vaguely recalled the Fathers telling him that his parents had come from there.

He sighed once more and sat down at the bar next to a pockla healer who was sipping on his drink. Ezekiel nodded to him and the healer nodded back. Ezekiel then turned his attention to the bartender on duty, Angus.

"What'll it be, Z…Ezekiel," said the snitch.

"Usual," answered Ezekiel.

Angus nodded, then turned away from him. Ezekiel sighed and turned around to look at the room which was filled with demons. Most of them shied away from him, save the few who were new in town. He had only been around for a few months, two at the most, but he had already made a very excellent reputation for himself.

"Ezekiel," said Angus.

Ezekiel turned away from the crowd and took the drink away from the snitch. He downed it in one gulp, then handed the glass back to him. Angus nodded, knowing the procedure by heart, as Ezekiel did. He would come to Surge every night, get hammered, then either find a girl and commit a few sins or find a demon and do a service for God; it all depended on what mood he was in.

Deciding that he needed to take some frustration out on a demon rather than make some poor girl cringe every time she walked, he stood up and left the bar. The main rule at Surge was that no one fought and anyone who did would get kicked out for life. And Angus was too good a source of information to be left. He walked out into the night air, then reached inside his jacket. He put on his brown leather gloves and examined them for any rips or tears.

These gloves had been given to him, along with several other gifts, from the Pope himself on his sixteenth birthday, his final day of training underneath Vatican law. They were designed by the best glove makers in the world for the specific purpose of hunting demons. They each had been blessed by every Father, Cardinal, Bishop, and Arch-Bishop in the Vatican, even by the Pope himself. They had golden crosses attached along the knuckles and a huge, silver cross alongside the back and the palm contained a stitching of the cross. An excellent weapon for hunting vampires and some demons.

He sighed to himself once more as the memory of just how much it had taken for him to obtain those gloves intruded upon his mind.

Flashback

Alexander ducked down as the vampire thrust his fist at his face. He jabbed a bladed hand into the demon's jugular, then kicked his kneecap and shattered it into a thousand pieces. He then dodged a blind strike at his cheek and embedded another bladed hand into the demon's throat, hearing a satisfying snap as he did so.

The vampire collapsed to the ground, clutching his broken neck and whimpering at the pain he was in. Alexander drew out his stake and embedded it within its chest, causing all its moisture to evaporate into the Vatican air. He crossed his body, whispering in Latin, then turned back to his spectators. He had no love of the ritual for the killing of demons and vampires, but he would oblige the Pope if it meant he could leave sooner.

"Very well done, my child," said Cardinal Zax of Russia, who was one of the greatest authorities on demonic energies the church had to offer and who was also the Pope's main advisor on matters of the other world, "You have done well. The Holiness is pleased with your work."

Cardinal Zax turned away from him, then whispered a few things into His Holiness's ear, then backed away. The Pope rose from his seat, then stood before him.

"On this day," he said, "When you hath turned to the age of sixteen, by laws as old as our church, we must release you out into the world so that you can discover your chosen place in it. We give you, on this day, three gifts."

The Pope turned away from the pit which contained Alexander and was given a box by Father Straughts. He Father bowed down before His Holiness and the Pope then stepped onto a metal plank. The plank descended down slowly as the mechanical whirring filled the pit, then it stopped once it reach ground level. Alexander bowed down before the Pope.

"Rise, my child," he said, "And accept your first gift."

Alexander rose and accepted the box from the Pope, then bowed once more in gratitude. Knowing what was to be expected of him, he opened the box and gazed down upon the leather gloves. He took them out of the box and then placed them upon his hands. Then, he felt two pairs of hands grab him and force him down to the floor, their gloves abusing his bare back as they did so.

"And so," said the Pope, "As it has been done for years, you shall receive the mark that you were destined for."

Alexander gritted his teeth. The mark that the Pope spoke of was the cross which would be branded into his back. It served two purposes: it would remind him of what it was to be a servant of God and a sinner at once and it would defend him from unholy terrors, for the brand itself was covered in the holy water that the Pope himself had blessed. Any monster which touched it or looked upon it would be driven away.

He yelled out as he felt the burning against his left shoulder, the hissing of the burned skin as the red hot brand desecrated his flesh. After about a minute, the pain was taken away. No breeze came forward to ease his suffering as the two Fathers let him go, then backed away and crossed themselves. Alexander bit his lip until there was blood as he rose, then crossed himself as best as he was able.

"As your final gift," said the Pope, "We shall bestow you with your name. As it is tradition for every hunter who has trained underneath the laws of the Vatican, it falls to His Holiness to bless you with your new identity in penance for the one you hath forsaken to come here and train. For you, Alexander LaVelle Harris of Sunnydale, California, United States of America, the last remaining son of your family's bloodline, I have chosen your name with great deliberation. Your story is a unique one, for no warriors like you have ever come from such a Godforsaken place as Sunnydale, which we once believed was the Hellmouth but have been proven is not.

"I have chosen your name to one of the priests and prophets of the Old Testament. A man who preached the gospel of the Lord during Judah's darkest hours of Babylonian captivity. He spoke of the blessings of the God, our God, to His exiled people. The name Yehezke'l, a name from the Hebrew language, means 'Strengthened by God.' As you were strengthened in your quest for the purification of the Earth from all evils of Hell by His church, you have been strengthened by God.

"On this day, Alexander Harris is not more than dust upon this good Earth. Let it be known to all from this day until the End of Days that his name be Ezekiel!"

Ezekiel waited outside the club known as Noctem which, if his memory served him well enough, was Latin for 'Night.' He found it ironic that nearly every vampire in town frequented this club, along with many vampire groupies who were more than willing to bleed so they could satisfy their urges. Noctem was also known as the place to go if you wanted some directions.

Noctem appeared to be any normal club on the front, but what went on in the back rooms was not anything any normal human would want to get in on. Only those vampire groupies wanted in and that was so they could get bled or sexed up. He sighed to himself as he wondered how humans could be their own worst enemy in so many ways.

He looked up as he heard a shriek come from inside the club. He pushed himself off the wall as he saw a sight he was extremely familiar with. He watched a lone woman walk out the club, followed by not one, but three vampires.

"Come on, baby," said one, "Chill out. We just wanna hang out."

"I don't want to hang out with you," she said, venom within her voice.

"Well," said another one, "If you don't want to hang-"

"Then I guess you can bleed," said the last one.

All three of them vamped out. Ezekiel walked forward, but then stopped as he surveyed her reaction. Her face held no fright nor any worry, but it was laced with pure annoyance.

"Why is it that every town I travel to has to be plagued with vampires," she shouted to them, "Why can't you guys go suck on some other town?"

Ezekiel watched as the vampires shared a confused look amongst themselves. Then, the one up front shrugged.

"So she knows about us," he said, "But, she can't stop us."

"Want to bet," she said with a smile.

Ezekiel watched as her hands were surrounded with a brilliant, white glow. He watched as she thrust both her hands out and consumed the entire street with flame. Ezekiel dived into the nearby alleyway for cover, feeling the hairs on the back of his head stand up on end at the heat that came his way.

Cautiously, he stood up and walked from the alley. There was nothing left of the vampires bust ashes, as was expected. However, nothing else was on fire. He turned his attention to the woman. She was just standing there, not moving. Then, she collapsed into a heap on the ground.

Ezekiel ran forward to her. He knelt down and placed his index finger upon her pulse point and, after confirming that she lived, began to check her over for injuries. She was dressed in red tank-top with gray fur covering her chest, had on tight fitting gray pants, and wore heels. She had long, blue hair which looked odd against her pale skin. She also had a necklace. It was a dragon with flames as its flesh. There was an inscription on it. It said 'Divinus Incendia.' It was Latin, albeit not in its correct form, which meant 'Divine Fire.'

Ezekiel began to wonder just who this woman was. She could create flames from her hands and could even send them out against those who oppose her, but the flames do not harm anything aside from those she wants. He would have to discover exactly who, or what, she was. He looked up as he heard the familiar sound of sirens. If he stuck around, he would be questioned and he would not be compliant. However, he'd much rather not deal with cops tonight. Sighing to himself, he picked her up and disappeared into the night.