Snake In The Grass
I swore that I would never, in the rest of my unlife, ever wish to be back in Rupert Giles' flat in Sunnydale. That I would step outside at high noon to avoid the shelves of books and the Watcher's condescending attitude. As I left my twenty-fifth Magic Shop selling glass amulets and prettily packaged herbs I could find at the local market, I was beginning to miss the good old days. There were spell books that would have worked if I was looking for an April Fool's Day gift for Willow, there were books about auras and Feng Shui, and more voodoo dolls than even Dru could possibly want. All of it was bloody useless.
Crossing another name off of my list, I head back to Bourbon Street to check one last shop before going home. The only progress I've made was to discover that the vast majority of New Orleans magic was pure rot. Fortunately, I've only scratched the surface of the city's underbelly, where information would be harder to get but more likely to be valuable. In my present state of mind, the idea of knocking a few heads together would be a pleasure rather than a chore.
The clear jingling of a small silver bell sounded as I pushed open the door and stepped into the bookstore. Full Moon Rising Occult Books and Supplies. I didn't expect to find anything but it was on the list. Glancing around, I notice the smell of old books bound in leather and the faint hint of magic. Real magic.
"May I help you?" An older man, dressed in a carefully pressed oxford and trousers complete with suspenders, peers over the counter at me through round, owlish glasses. He reminds me a little too much of Doc, bringing back memories of stab wounds and Dawn.
With a grimace that has nothing to do with the shop, I make my way around the bins of books and glass jars. "Looking for information," I explain tersely, still scanning the titles on the shelves. Most of them are innocuous volumes of supernatural lore; a few are in languages I don't recognize.
"About your future perhaps? Wondering about money or a woman?" He smiles happily and I wonder if his tongue works like Doc's. For a moment I consider ripping it out of his cheerful skull to check.
Settling for something a bit more civilized, I slip into my gameface. "Not worried about my future, mate." He pales and pulls away from the counter, wringing his hands together nervously. Shaking off the fangs and ridges, I take another look around. "A girl. 'Bout thirteen. At least it looks like a girl. Evil. Maybe powerful."
He blinks with surprise but doesn't cower in fear. "Are you going to kill her?"
"Are you going to help me?" I counter threateningly.
"I-I can look," he stammers. "A little girl you say? I don't remember reading anything about evil little girls. Although you could probably argue that all teenage girls are most definitely evil." With a tense laugh he moves out from behind the counter and motions for me to follow him toward the back of the bookstore. "I have a few books of my own. Not available to the public. It's a hobby of mine." Through a heavy velvet curtain is a small library, all four walls covered floor to ceiling with packed bookshelves. A polished oak desk sits in the middle, buried under piles of parchment and notebooks. The smell of magic is stronger.
"Let's see. Incarnations of Evil. I have the whole set." He seems inordinately pleased with himself and begins to reverently pull a group of dark brown books from one of the shelves. "Would that be under girls or children, I wonder." He's lost in his own world as he begins to flip through the yellowed pages.
"How the hell should I know?" The tiny room is confining and the hum from the magic books is putting me on edge.
"Describe the being."
"'Bout this tall." I hold one hand up to the middle of my chest. "Wearing a blue overcoat, red hat and galoshes. Black eyes. Not even sure if she had eyes, just two holes in her head. Evil. And I know something about evil."
"Corporeal? Could you touch her?"
"Didn't try. She faded away like the bloody Cheshire Cat."
"Interesting. What did she want from you?"
"Wanted me to kill someone."
He glances up at me curiously. "Did you?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
Irritated, I shake my head and pull the chair away from the desk to sit down. "Made a deal. She scratched my back, I returned the favor. That's how it works."
"In spite of your soul?"
There's a long moment of silence and my eyes narrow. "How'd you know 'bout that?"
"I can see it." The shopkeeper smiles again. "That's why I was so surprised to see that you're a vampire."
"Yeah, well. Didn't stop me from keeping my end of the bargain."
"Quite." He picked up another book. "You're not at all what I had heard. The Vampire with a soul. I thought you were a great deal taller."
"I'm not Angel," I spit out angrily. "Name's Spike."
"That is very interesting." His eyes are shining with excitement. "Unprecedented even. The gypsy curses have been lost to us. Who cursed you? Do you remember any of the words?"
"Not a bloody curse. I won back my own soul." Crossing my arms across my chest I fix him with a cold glare. "Not that I want to be discussing my personal life with strangers who know a little too much."
"Very fascinating." He looked up from his book. "You deliberately obtained your soul and yet you agreed to kill again. A very complex creature." I'm getting the impression that I'm going to be examined like some sort of animal in a zoo, about to be poked and prodded by scientists and small children.
"That's me. Complex." With a shrug, I look away, searching the shelves for something interesting.
"What did this little girl offer you that was worth a life?"
"You seem to know a lot. Figure it out yourself."
"Well, you still have your soul." Dark eyes regarded me thoughtfully. "Something else then. Freedom. Free will, perhaps."
"After a fashion." This guy is creepy. Beyond creepy. Maybe I will dissect him after all. At least it would shut him up. Frustration is making me short-tempered and his perceptiveness is landing pretty high on the wiggins scale. Wiggins. Damn Scoobies and their sodding language deficiencies. "This isn't about me, mate. It's about a little girl. A very evil little girl."
"Are you sure it was a little girl?"
"I don't know what it was. Something playing at being a little girl." I suppress the urge to hit something until my knuckles bleed. "I just have to find it."
"Have you considered witchcraft? Perhaps it was a spell, to hide the true appearance of the being."
"Thought about it. Are there spells for that?"
"Quite a few. This doesn't sound like a typical glamour. The eyes. I think that is important." He starts into another pile of books, muttering as he searches through the titles, finally pulling out a large green volume. "Index of Illusionary Spell Casting. Quite rare. Found this copy in Syria in the forties."
"Bully for you." I can't keep the sarcasm out of my voice.
"It was quite a find." He hums softly as he begins to search. Tapping lightly on one of the pages, he looks up at me with the curious expression that I am beginning to intensely dislike. "This being did not sense your soul?"
"No." It's my turn to watch him thoughtfully. "Knew my name. Knew about the chip. But not the soul."
"The chip?"
"Bloody government chip in my head. Kept me from hurting anything human."
"And she removed this chip? That was the bargain."
"Yeah. That was it." How did this rotten little man manage to get information out of me so easily? I wasn't even sure if he was human. All I could smell was musty books and magic.
"How long did you have the chip?"
"Soldier boys caught me in '99. Bitch zapped it out of my head three years ago. Spring 2003."
"And others knew of this chip?"
"Whole goddamn world knew about it. Couldn't go anywhere without someone throwing it in my face." I was getting worked up just thinking about my years as a neutered vampire. "Demons. The Slayer. Poor Spike. Can't hurt anything. He's harmless."
"Who knows about your soul?"
"Slayer. Probably the Scoobies by now. Guy I work for down on Bourbon. That's all." I watch him turn back to his book, half expecting another barrage of questions.
"Interesting."
"I got that part." Scowling, I pick up one of the books and glance at the words on the spine. "I'm complex and interesting. Is this interrogation going anywhere useful?"
His eyes meet mine for a moment. "There are always six questions that need to be answered. Who, what, where, when, why, how. In those questions lie all the answers you need."
"Right. Who. A little girl without eyes."
"Who knew about the chip and what you would be willing to do to get it out."
That made me uneasy. It implied a Big Bad who was possibly closer to home than I had thought. "I'll bite. Figuratively of course. Next question. What?"
"Action. What did it want?"
"The Slayer. Dead and buried."
"The Slayer." He frowned and turned a few more pages.
"Not unusual. Always a few baddies out for the Slayer. One of 'em at least. And both sides took turns trying to off Faith."
"There's more than one Slayer?"
"Two. Don't ask. Might be another now."
"Another?"
"One dies, another gets Chosen. Not sure how that works exactly." I'm trying to read something about a demon who either eats raw fish or uses them for interior decorating, the passage isn't too clear.
"Then there are three Slayers." He smiles at my unintentional slip. "The Slayer you were sent to kill still lives."
"Yeah. Long story." I shift uncomfortably in the chair, any attempts at being frightening now thrown out the window.
"But the being who sent you doesn't know?"
"No. You read minds too? Like the soul thing?"
"Even if I could, it doesn't work with vampires." Still intent on the book in his hands, he searches absently for a something in the pile of papers on his desk. "It could have been a projection." He slides an open book toward me. "An illusion of a being that can be cast from a distance. The being you see may not even be the one casting the spell but a decoy. It's not a difficult spell but it requires a great deal of power. Very draining."
"Then it could be anyone. Anything."
"I'm afraid so." He fiddles with his suspenders for a moment. "Menejar projection is the most common. Menejar was a powerful sorcerer in the twelfth century. He was rumored to have been able to be in many places at the same time."
"Is there a way to find out for sure?"
"The ritual required is quite involved. It would be difficult to conceal and would cause unusual phenomena in the immediate vicinity. Temporal disturbances, flashes of light or heat. It varies." Shifting a few books, he perches on the edge of the desk, folding his hands in his lap. "I believe this is your best possibility. It is widely accepted that the eyes are windows to the soul. Even the new age rubbish nowadays is full of bits of the old truths. A projection has no soul. The eyes would then be windows into a void, into complete emptiness." He pauses for a moment. "They can be cast across large distances, even through different dimensions if the wielder is strong enough. They can also embody some of the traits and abilities of the caster. You said that she 'zapped' it out of your head. Most likely a relocation spell. I wouldn't be surprised if, had you looked, you would have found the chip not far away from where you were. It's simple but quite advanced for this day and age. Most of the powerful m agic is long gone from this dimension."
Rubbing my forehead, I wonder if painkillers work for vampires with stress induced migraines. If there wasn't an evil demon out there who looked like a little girl, then I was looking for a needle and the whole world was my haystack. "Why are you helping me?"
"I enjoy a good puzzle. And you are most puzzling."
"Glad to amuse." I'm tired of wandering around in circles trying to figure out what had been playing with my head. "Thanks, mate." With a sigh, I escape the confining walls of the room, past the velvet curtain and through the maze of bookshelves.
"Answer the questions, vampire," he calls. "The being behind your little girl knows you. Or believes that they do."
With a sigh, I head out of the shop into the night, hearing the bell jingle behind me. Sounds of engines and people looking for a good time fill my ears, unable to capture my attention. As flattering as it is that someone took the time and effort to track me down after I left Sunnydale and send me cryptic care packages with strings attached, I feel out of my league trying to fathom the mind behind the curtain. They had patience I could never dream of and no compulsion at freeing a serial killer from his prison. Taking the chip from my head without knowledge of my soul meant that they were willing to sacrifice innocent lives to get to Faith. It also meant that they couldn't kill her directly. They needed a go-to guy. Me. It was a logical choice, the vampire who had already killed two Slayers.
Horns honk loudly as I cross the street, not registering in my brain as I struggle to fit the pieces into a picture. Who, what, where, when, why, how. I couldn't answer any of them. Could the shopkeeper with suspenders and Doc-like inquiring eyes be wrong? Should I believe him? There was no reason not to.
Who knew that I killed two Slayers? Knew about the chip, knew possibly everything I had done and been up until I left Buffy on her bathroom floor four years ago. Who had Faith betrayed? Near as I could tell, she'd pissed off the entire western hemisphere during her little joyride into evil. I should have asked her about it. I should have stayed in Sunnydale where I could protect her.
That thought almost stopped me in my tracks, to the annoyance of a silver Toyota waiting for me to leave the street. I'd run back here because I wanted to take my beating for the past. I'd been liberated when eternal torment had been rescinded, finally in complete control of my own life and destiny. The old me would have seized the opportunity to live it up. I was a free man. Why was I spending my nights off searching through charlatan magic shops and listening to creepy bookworms? Why not wash my hands of the whole affair and let Faith and the Scoobies muddle through on their own? After all, I hadn't bothered to stick around and help with the fight against the First Evil.
I wince as I head down Bourbon Street. Maybe if I had, Anya would still be alive. Maybe I could have saved her. Or Tara even. Clem said a lot of people had died. People I didn't know or care about. I could have saved some of them. If I had been there. With a discouraged sigh, I push through the doors of the club and head toward the bar.
"Spike. What are you doing here?" Charlie asked as I sat down. "Drink?"
"Whiskey."
"Bad day?"
"Not blood and peaches, that's for sure." I tip the glass to him in a mock salute and down my shot, savoring the burn of the liquor down my throat.
"This ought to cheer you up. Woman came in looking for you about an hour ago. Good looking, great body." He caught my look and held up his hands in surrender. "I know, I know. You don't like me meddling. But give this one a chance. She was different. Spunky. Not the usual brainless bimbo in off the streets looking for a roll and tumble."
"She leave a name?" I'm not sure why I'm interested. Maybe because the idea of me being a bloody Champion of the fucking people is a little too disturbing. I am not Angel. I will never be Angel. I'm not even two hundred yet, I should be having a good time instead of brooding about evil and its sinister plots. God. I'm brooding. How pathetic.
"I gave her your number. And your address. Told her to wait for you if you weren't there."
"Great. Thanks a lot. Isn't that against the bloody law?" The angry glare I'm giving him doesn't even faze him.
"Go home, Spike. Get laid. It'll do wonders for you."
Tapping the shot glass on the counter, I open my mouth to say something sarcastic about humans and their uncanny ability to get their noses so far into other people's business that they're in danger of it being cut off. Two seconds into that train of thought, I realize he's right. If for no other reason than to prove to the universe that I'm not Angel, I can do the one thing he can't without losing his precious soul.
"Thanks, Charlie."
His grin is wide enough to split his face and he's probably doing some sort of victory dance as I head out of the club. I've never shown any interest in a woman before and he's bound to consider this a coup d'etat of a monumental scale. Meddlesome Americans. Never know when to leave a bloke in peace.
There's a new sense of urgency in my step as I twist through the streets toward home and I have to admit that it's been a long four years since my last night with Buffy. Vampire or no, I'm still a man. I take the stairs three and four at a time, mind spinning with the possibilities. Who was she? What did she want? It wasn't the first time Charlie had tried to set me up with a woman asking about me. I'd flatly refused all his previous attempts. This was the first time he'd practically thrown a woman into my bed.
I'm tense as I round the corner and start down the hallway, keeping my footsteps light so as not to wake the other tenants. Am I nervous? Is that what this is? Charlie was right. I do need to get laid.
The door to my loft is slightly ajar, setting off alarm bells and whistles in my head. Creeping forward silently, I squint through the crack. There isn't any movement but there's light coming from the bedroom. I push the door open slowly, waiting for an ambush. There is nothing.
With one cautious step, I enter my apartment and look around in dismay. Broken furniture lies scattered across the floor in pieces. Lamps are smashed and bent, the television lying in a pile of sparks and wires with a gaping hole in the center. The windows have been destroyed, glass strewn over the floors. There are holes in the walls from fists or feet and the bedroom has been torn apart. I can smell blood. And dust.
Glancing at the floor, I catch the telltale patterns of what had been half a dozen vampires. A snapped chair leg appears to be the murder weapon. There's blood on the wall in the living room and on the kitchen floor. Whoever it was put up a hell of fight. Human blood. Fresh. Barely an hour old and frighteningly familiar. Stepping into the kitchen, I catch the scent I'm terrified to find. Magnolias.
Faith.
The pounding in Faith's head was only exceeded by the aching of her sore muscles and the sting where the tranquilizer dart had embedded itself into her side. Stifling a moan, she opened her eyes slowly, adjusting to the darkness around her. Her movement was constrained by chains around her wrists and ankles.
"This had better not be someone's sick idea of foreplay," she muttered, testing the strength of her bonds and using her legs to push herself painfully into a sitting position. She was in a cage. Heavy chain link surrounded her on all sides and a dark cloth, possibly a tarp, was draped over the top. She felt like an animal on the way to the vet. Not a good mental image considering how many trips to the vet ended with a sharp needle and the great playground in the sky.
Her last memory was of Spike's apartment, sitting on the couch waiting for him to come home. The guy at the club had given her the address. For a vampire, Spike wasn't hard to find. Ask any single female in the New Orleans city limits and they could tell you about the blond bartender at 735 Bourbon Street who mixed wicked drinks and remained, perplexingly, unattached. They even seemed to know he was a vampire or at least that he was different somehow. It all added to the sex appeal. When Faith had asked the older guy behind the bar, he had supplied the information with only a moment's pause and a definite look of appraisal. Faith got the impression that she wasn't the first woman to be asking, but possibly the first to get the information.
Nearly a dozen vampires crashing through the windows and kicking open the front door was the last thing Faith had expected. They'd come prepared with chains and tranquilizer guns and apparently they had instructions not to kill. That didn't keep Faith from taking out most of them before the dart found its mark.
Bruises ached and she could feel the burn where glass had cut her forehead, spilling blood down her temple and cheek. At least Spike would know she'd been there. If he was still alive. She didn't want to know who he'd pissed off to earn this welcoming committee.
The sound of voices broke through the darkness. One of them was English, much more polished than Spike's accent but not as much as Giles or Wesley. She frowned, straining to hear the conversation.
"I sent you for a vampire. One William the Bloody. Also known as Spike. You brought me a girl."
"She was strong. She killed half of us."
"Even better. You brought me the Slayer. Do you have any idea what a bitch Buffy Summers is? Any idea?" The Englishman sounded furious. "You have ruined three years of careful planning and work, you idiots. I ought to stake you all myself."
Footsteps approached the cage and light flooded in painfully, leaving Faith blinking and trying to shield her eyes. When she could see, she looked up at her captors. Three of the vamps that had survived their botched kidnapping were watching her warily. The Brit was an attractive older man, salt and pepper brown hair and cold brown eyes. Thin lips curled into a vicious smile as he stared into the cage.
"My, my...this is very interesting." The light in his eyes was frightening as he crouched down to look at Faith on her level. "You're supposed to be dead."
"Sorry to spoil your plans. You'll get used to me fucking things up." She smirked as she tried to find a more comfortable position against the wire.
"I hear you've reformed. Such a pity." He tipped his head to one side. "Care to explain the reason you're alive? Your death has been recorded, another Slayer called."
"Fuck you."
"A dirty mouth for such a pretty face." Standing up, he shrugged and started away from the cage. "You'll talk soon enough. Get her out and tie her up."
One of the vamps was watching her with trepidation. "Boss?"
"Shoot her first if you're all cowards."
Faith winced as the hiss of the gun sounded and a dart buried its needle tip into her thigh. A few seconds later the world was spinning and she was fighting for consciousness. She needed to get out of the cage and warn Spike. She needed help.
The squeal of brakes cut through the exhaust heavy air of the Sunnydale bus depot. Two black, military style boots stood at the edge of the platform for a second before starting purposefully down the street.
She was tall, with dark hair cropped into a masculine style that was more practical for her line of work. Dressed all in black, a matching knapsack slung over one shoulder, she moved quickly and easily through the night. Once out of sight of the people at the bus station, she paused briefly and removed her weapons from the bag.
A leather holster wrapped around her waist, holding two semi-automatic pistols that fired bullets of metal and wood, and two wooden stakes. She quickly strapped a dagger to her right calf and a sword onto her back. Fully armed, she continued her trek through the streets of Sunnydale. Every street and alleyway had been memorized on her trip from the Slayer Academy in England. She had even calculated the quickest route to her destination in the quiet residential area of town.
Arriving at Revello Drive, she glanced up at the bungalow home where the former Slayer, Buffy Summers, lived. Silently, she strode up the walk and knocked loudly on the front door.
After a moment, a young woman answered the door. "Can I help you?"
"I'm looking for Buffy Summers?"
"New Slayer?"
"Yes."
The girl opened the door and motioned for her to come in. "What's your name?"
"Cara."
"That's pretty. I'll get Buffy."
Cara waited in the foyer, standing stiffly at attention as she glanced quickly about the rooms. The young girl must be Dawn Summers. The Key. Strange, she looked human enough. Further proof that appearances could not be trusted.
"Hey! Cara, right? I'm Buffy." A petite blonde appeared, wiping her hands on a towel. "Welcome to Sunnydale. You should have let us know when you were getting in. We could have picked you up. Well, Xander or Willow could have picked you up. Or Dawn. I'm not much with the whole driving thing."
Cara didn't respond, hearing nothing that required feedback on her part. This woman was part of the old regime. She didn't even have a Watcher. "Xander and Willow are your human friends."
"Yes." Buffy looked puzzled.
"I need to meet them."
"They're stopping by tomorrow after they pick up Gi...giant size cereal. You know, king size, giant size. Things just keep getting bigger and bigger. But they'll be here and they're great." Buffy smiled brightly. "Do you need a place to stay?"
"I was instructed only to make contact with you." Cara turned and stepped back through the doorway. "I will return tomorrow to meet your friends."
"Great. Tomorrow then!"
Boots clicked as she pivoted and started back down the walkway, into the night and toward the center of town. Seeing a payphone, she stopped long enough to retrieve a phone card from her knapsack and dial a series of numbers.
"Contact has been made with Buffy Summers and Dawn Summers," she reported into the phone. "The humans will be approached tomorrow. I believe that Rupert Giles will arrive in Sunnydale tomorrow as well. Surveillance of the targets will continue until further orders are received." The phone settled back into the cradle and she left the phone booth, heading toward one of the many cemeteries Sunnydale had to offer.
It was a waste of her talents to be stuck in the small town. She should be pursuing demons instead of waiting for them to come to her. She was the Slayer; her calling was to hunt and kill demons. It was very simple. However, the Sunnydale threat had to be eliminated first. Once the Hellmouth was rid of uncontrollable elements, she would be free to perform her duty as it was meant to be.