Chapter 12
Glasgow, 8 June 2004
It's been a busy few days. Once I'd told Gus about the Fyarl demons, and quashed the panic caused by his Watcher training being limited to the fact that Fyarls are big, strong and very violent, he seemed more hopeful. I pointed out that they're often used as hired muscle, and that if they'd wanted Fiona and the rest dead, there'd be so much blood around that there's no way I'd have missed it. Of course, he then insulted me by insisting on having the samples sent to London so they could be checked out, but I bit my tongue. He's come a long way from his junior Giles impression that first night, and I don't suppose it's fair to expect him to just trust my judgement without corroboration.
Anyway, once that was done, I turned my attention to setting myself up in my new home. I found out where Gus got the blood, and it turns out that, for a regular order, they're willing to deliver, so that's one less thing to worry about. I managed to get to the bank and change my stash from LA into pounds. While I was there, I arranged to have internet access to the bank account Giles set up, so I don't have to worry about being set alight during banking hours.
I reckon I've got just enough to buy myself a car and some black paint for the windows. Scuppered again by the long daylight hours (and only another two weeks until they start getting shorter again) I became a pretty much permanent fixture in Gus' office checking out what's available on the net. And that's where I fell in love.
Well, maybe not. That's when I could see the potential. If you're looking for a classic car, there's not much more classic than a Jag. And there, among the dross, was a 1987 Jaguar XJS convertible in a green so dark as to be almost black. I managed to persuade the owner (who's in Glasgow) to let me take it for a short test drive late at night, and that's when I fell in love.
By then, the auction was down to its last two days, so I put in my bid, and I've spent the time since then biting my nails and irritating Gus with my frequent visits upstairs to check the status. In an effort to get out from under his feet, I did spend some of the time checking out the other Glasgow Slayer's shop. In a nice spot of serendipity, it's actually located underground at one of the stations on the subway. Getting there was easy, and I was pleased to note that it was open.
I spent some time looking around, interested in seeing for myself the sort of merchandise that she carries, and for the most part, I was disappointed. Apart from some rather rare and potentially powerful crystals - they were flawed, and therefore of less value - most of it seemed to be rather uninteresting. Her assistant, who I did manage to chat to, has been opening the shop each morning, but couldn't really tell me anything I didn't already know about Morag's disappearance. She worked late the night she disappeared, but the shop was found locked up the next morning, so it's assumed that she left there as normal. There was no sign that she had ever reached her home just two miles away. Her car was found parked outside her home and the best guess is that she'd been taken from the street. I did go and take a look last night, and the fact that no one heard anything actually makes a bit of sense.
The road where Morag lives only has houses on one side, and on the other, there's a high hedge and fence beyond which is the Botanical Garden. It's a pretty nice neighbourhood, and, like a lot of central and west Glasgow, it was built in Victorian times. When they built then, they built substantially. They used stone blocks and the walls are very thick, and now, with the addition of replacement windows with double and triple-glazing, they're pretty much sound-proofed – especially if it was very late at night, because most of the residents would have been at the back of their homes rather than in the front-facing public rooms.
There's nothing in common with the scene at the cemetery – and it's unlikely that this Slayer would have fought the way Fiona did, untrained and all – but search as I might, I couldn't spot any Fyarl residue. In the end, I had to cut short my search since one of the neighbours came home, looked suspiciously at me, and then peered out of a front window, checking up on me, so I left before he decided to call the police.
And, now, this morning, I'm again wakened by Gus hammering on my door. I stagger up, pull on a pair of jeans, and open the door, not even bothering to wait for him to speak, just turning my back and walking into the kitchen. He follows me, and I know he's eager to share something with me, but since I know that the auction on my car's not over for another hour, I doubt it's going to be as interesting to me as it is to him.
Once I've put on the kettle, and set my blood to warm – still no microwave, must do something about that – I turn to face him, wondering what's got him so excited.
"They've found her!" he exclaims as soon as he catches my eye.
"Who? Who've they found?" I ask, trying to remember if I was drinking before I went to sleep. I decide that, no, I wasn't, but that it wasn't very long ago that I went to bed.
"Jean. They've found Jean." Ok, I was wrong. It is important.
"Well, got to hand it to these witches. Where is she? Are we going to mount a rescue?"
"No, you don't understand. The Coven hasn't found her. In fact … no, the police found her. She was in Dumfries, wandering around, apparently lost her memory."
"So, what, she just turned up and they recognised her from a missing person report?"
"Sounds like it. Her parents are driving down to the hospital there to collect her."
"So why didn't the Coven pick her up? They were supposed to be keeping a look out for her, weren't they?"
"They were, but then, they were looking for a Slayer."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, I've spoken to Giles, and he's been onto the Coven. There aren't any Slayers within fifty miles of Dumfries. If she's there, then she's not a Slayer any more."
"You mean someone just took away her Slayer powers?"
"Looks like it. From what Giles said, the other Slayers seem fine, so it's just her – or maybe her and the others who were taken. We'll just have to wait and see if they turn up too."
I think about that for a moment while I make Gus some tea and pour my blood. If someone's gone to all the bother of kidnapping three Slayers, only to let them go again without their powers, it stands to reason that they've got something to gain from it. I remember last year, when Angel became a puppet. And how funny was that? That's one story I must tell Gus some time. I just wish I had photographs. Anyway, those demons, they had that 'nest egg' thing – they were storing what they stole from the children in it. What if someone's able to store Slayer power, or maybe just keep it for themselves? It's bad enough there're Slayers turning up willy-nilly all over the world with the accompanying danger of some of them being less than altruistic in the use of that power, but to have someone able to steal it – someone who was never meant to be a Slayer? That's scary.
"How do you know?"
"Giles rang. I don't know how he found out – I assume the Council monitors police reports or something."
"I always suspected the Council had official recognition – even if the ordinary folks've never heard of it. So, what now?"
"Well, unless we get more from Giles, then all we can do is wait for Fiona and Ms Kirkpatrick to reappear."
"Yeah," I agree. I suppose it's logical that they'd reappear soon – unless this one girl managed to escape or something. But surely, it'd be Fiona, the one active Slayer in the mix, who'd be most likely to escape.
Gus is nervous, and it doesn't take vamp senses to work that out.
"She'll be fine," I reassure him. We both know that I don't know that, but there's no doubt who I mean. The other two Slayers are names to him – Fiona's, … well, he knows her.
The tea seems to have its expected calming effect on Gus, and when he's finished, he goes back upstairs and leaves me to shower and get ready for the day – even if it's starting earlier than I'd have liked. By the time I get upstairs, it's almost time for the end of the auction, so I sit at the computer, and check the status.
And at last, there it is – my car, and I've got it. Bloodyawfulpoet gets the car. I grab the phone off Gus' desk and call the seller, arranging to be there later tonight with the cash, and immediately start to consider where to take it for a run. Maybe even take the boy with me – take his mind off things.
It doesn't take me long to realise that I'm not welcome in the office. Gus is working on some very big words in some even bigger books, and I've got too much energy to sit still. I go downstairs, intending to consult my maps and plan a day out underground, but as I get to my door, there's Moira at hers, and she invites me in.
"Hope you don't make a habit of inviting vamps in," I say, following her inside.
"No, I can't say I do," she answers, making for the kitchen. Her flat is a mirror image of mine, so the lay-out is obvious. The state of decoration is different, though. Where my flat has the bare essentials, hers is crammed with a lifetime of possessions.
She makes a pot of tea, and then ushers me into the living room. There, there are photos all around, and I take a look, wondering if I'll recognise anyone. Apart from one photo of Rupert and a couple of other young men I don't know, the one that attracts my attention is of an older couple, standing together and smiling. It's obviously Moira, and, I assume, her Duncan.
"That was taken on our fortieth wedding anniversary – just two weeks before he died," she informs me, and I turn to see her eyes misting slightly. Instinctively, I put a hand on her arm, and she covers it with her own hand before shaking it off impatiently.
She gestures at me to sit, and she sits opposite. Despite the cup of tea she put in my hand, I feel like I'm about to be interrogated.
"Tell me about her," she demands, without preamble.
"Her? Who?"
"Your Slayer. I know how fond Rupert is of her, and I know she's achieved a lot since she was called, but I want to hear your story of her. Tell me everything."
And to my utter amazement, I do – not the expurgated version I save for when I've had to discuss her before, like with Fred – this is the whole story, the whole moving from stalking her through reacquainting myself with human values, to realising that the chip alone wasn't enough. I know I could stop if I really wanted to, I'm just not sure I do. I tell her everything, even the bits I'd prefer to forget, and even though I know she's somehow directing me, making me talk, I don't resent it. It actually feels good – sort of like I needed to sort through all of it, but I would never let myself.
When I finally get to the present day, I stop, and the compulsion to keep talking falls away. Moira has been sitting, giving complete attention as I spoke, and now that I've finished, she smiles.
"Thank you, William. I'm sorry I had to give you a nudge, but I sensed that you needed to talk, and I very much wanted to hear the story. Having said that, I couldn't have made you talk if you'd resisted. If you feel I've overstepped my … rights, then I apologise."
"Not going to make a habit of it, are you?" I ask, my voice suggesting more irritation than I actually feel.
"Not unless I feel it's important," she answers. "For what it's worth, I think you were wrong to let her think you were gone. She deserves to know that you're alive, and to choose her future for herself. You've denied her that right, and while I understand why you did that, I still think you were wrong."
"And now I've burned my bridges, because if she finds I'm alive now, she'll really hate me."
"Perhaps," she answers. "But then, if she can't forgive, then she can't truly love. But enough of this. I hear one of the Slayers has reappeared, minus her strength."
"Yes. Her parents are bringing her back. I don't know where they live …"
"Edinburgh," she answers for me. "They'll take her there, I assume, until she's recovered. Rupert's arranging for someone to visit the hospital in Dumfries before she's discharged, to try to find out what happened to her."
"Not much point in that if she's lost her memory."
"Not much point in an interrogation, I agree. But he's going to send someone who can try to discover the source of her amnesia, and see if there is any mystic involvement in the matter. It will be quite painless for the child, I assure you."
"Not sure it's ever painless having someone poking around in your brain."
"It is if you're unaware of it, and I would trust Rupert to choose someone who would not abuse their gift."
"Oh, right, because Rupert's so straight down the middle these days, isn't he? Not about to try some ducking and diving if it'll get him what he needs."
"Sometimes he has to, I know that. But I also know that Rupert would only do that if he felt he had no choice."
"Yeah, like setting me up to get staked."
"I … did hear about that. But, from Rupert's point of view, you were getting in the way of Buffy making the right decisions. He felt justified, and he suffered a great deal of guilt when you proved instrumental in the defeat of the First."
I could argue some more, point out that I didn't see any guilt when he was arranging my new life, but I haven't got the heart for it. Moira's going to defend Rupert to anything I say, yet she's managing to do it without outwardly criticising me, so I suppose I'll deal for now.
"Is there somewhere around here I can get some black paint?" I answer her, completely changing the subject.
She looks bemused for a moment, and then gasps in shock.
"You're not going to paint your flat black, are you? I mean, … it'll be so difficult to get rid of …"
"Relax, Mrs. M. It's for my car windows. I've bought myself a car, and I'm picking it up tonight, but I'll need to black out the windows so I can drive it in the daytime."
"And how long do you think you'll get away with that before the police stop you?"
"Oh, I think it'll take a while. The windows on my new baby are so heavily tinted that I doubt anyone'd spot the painting unless they're looking for it."
"You really have adapted to the human world, haven't you, William? And I do believe I told you to call me Moira."
"I know you did, but I think Mrs. M. sounds better – unless you'd really prefer Moira."
"My first name has a certain … formality about it. I can't say that anyone's ever called me Mrs. M. before, but it has a nice, friendly tone to it, so by all means."
"Thanks for the cuppa," I say, getting up from my chair. "And the chat. It'll give me some things to think about, but I reckon I'm stuck with my decision. If I go and contact Buffy now, I think Rupert'd have me staked right quick, and I don't think I'd have the heart to take on the Slayers he'd send after me."
"If you decide to tell her, just leave Rupert to me," she promises, and I leave her flat feeling lighter than I went in.
