The Vampire as Metaphor...Book III of the (Semi) Complete Works of William Soames Walthrop...
PG-13
Summary: A lost work of one William Soames Walthrop (...aka Spike) as it was delivered at one of Cicely Addams' house parties, shortly before Will's demise. See the reference to it in "Drusilla"...
Disclaimer: All BTVS characters remain the property of Josh Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and all other owner/creators of the Buffy the Vampire Slayer series...
Part II...
The young man...Englishman? The blonde young woman pondered, eyeing his dropped letters and papers as she scooped them up about her. Had managed to press his way down the ship's ramp to the dock where she now knelt...
"Miss?" he hurried over. "Many thanks..." he bent to take his papers...
Definite Brit...She thought. Even given my limited experience...
"Elizabeth...Anne...Springs." she nodded. Standing and handing him what she had in hand...
"A pleasure...And again." He began. And paused in pulling his material together, staring at her...
Hmmn...She stared back. Maybe...
"Elizabeth...Springs?" he eyed her...
Hmmn-hmm...She nodded. Looking him over...
Short, bespectacled, thin in the kinda runty way...Polite enough...Books...And poetry...on him...
Bout what I'd expect. Uh-oh...A vague presentiment washed over her and she whirled round with simply incredible speed. Before he could register that she'd turned from him to...
"Miss Springs...This is the oddest luck. I have..." he started thumbing through his letters...
"Down!" she yelped. Pulling him violently to the ground as a huge crate flew just where his head would have been and smashed into the stretch of dock beyond them. "Hey!" He cried.
"You ok, sir?" she looked down at him...Now beneath her.
"My God!" he gasped, eyeing the broken crate. Now being vigorously looted of its contents by some of the urchins...And a few of the more disreputable adults hanging round the dock.
"Where the devil…Deuce…" he eyed the young lady before him. "Did that come from?"
She shrugged. Again looking him over...
"Excuse me, sir!" He called to a heavy-set brutally official-looking fellow now strolling over, brandishing a short, stout club at the looters...
"Ght yer asses outta here!" the man hollered at the looters who feld. "Sir..." he turned to the young man, changing his manner with surprising agility. "What can I do for ya...?" He eyed the couple, the young woman still perched on top of her new acquaintance.
"That crate nearly killed us..." the brown-haired man replied...Er, pardon, Miss?...he looked up politely...Oh, yeah...Sorry. She got off him.
"Are you a policeman?" he looked at the large man...
"Dick..." the man shook his head.
"I beg your pardon?"
I had heard Americans were rather quick to get on a first name basis…Refreshing, I suppose…
"Detective...For the Docks of the City of New York." the detective replied proudly. A slight twang in his voice...
"Alex Harris..." he offered a large paw. Which the young man with slight trepidation took...
Justified trepidation as the genial detective crushed his hand in a hearty shake...
"What seems to be the trouble, sir...miss...?"
"I think Mr..." the blonde woman paused.
"Potter...Peter Potter." the young man replied. Smiling a bit at her...
"Mr. Patter'ed like to know why the crate there." she pointed... "Nearly took his head off..."
"Potter...Miss..." he politely corrected. "Yeah, Patter...I got it..."she twanged back, glaring slightly.
Detective Harris gave a thoughtful look at the crate, then Mr. Potter...Then the ship from which the young man had just disembarked. The only one nearby...He pondered a moment...
"Don't know...I'd kinda like to know that myself. That one wasn't unlading' freight..."
"I said git the hell away!..." He suddenly turned and threw a stone at a couple of the returned looters as they tried to snatch a bit more from the crate.
"If I didn't know better..." he scratched his head, eyeing the crate and its remaining spilled contents... "I'd say it was off the Marie Louise. Which it can't be, the Marie being on the docks down there..." he pointed off in the distance. "And I'd say...It was picked up and tossed this way. Like it warn't nothin'..."
"Not very likely..." the young woman smiled. No, he shook his head in agreement...
But it don't look right...he sighed deeply. Clearly, Potter noted to himself, a man who objected to things not looking right in his corner of the universe.
But Detective Harris was not a man to be weighed down by the illogic inherent in the universe. He switched manner yet again, now all business...
"Names and addresses, folks. Please..." he whipped out a small book...Fer the record...he explained. "Yer may be needed as witnesses if action's taken on the damages..."
"I don't expect to be in the city very long..." Potter hastily noted...
"Me neither..." Miss Springs eyed Potter. Leaving soon, eh...For? She wondered ...
Could be...she thought...
Fer...The record...Harris sternly replied. Taking them both in his steely gaze...
"Peter Potter...Well, formerly...London, now." Potter hesitated. "A bit uncertain as to final destination..."
Harris stared...Tapping pencil...
"Probably San Francisco...Somewhere in California, in any case. It's just a bit up in the air right now..."
Good enow...Harris waved a hand. And turned to the lady.
"Elizabeth Springs...Los Angeles..."
Harris blinked. Lost Angels?
"California..." she smiled.
Okee-dokey...Harris clapped his book closed and put it away in a cavernous right pocket. Suddenly whistling with both forefingers in his mouth. Several men and boys emerged from the crowd...
"Secure the goods, boys..." he waved at the broken crate. "Dismissal for anything found on yer or yer family's persons."
He offered a hasty nod to the couple. Potter staring at him...
"So..." Miss Springs began. It taking a moment to register that Potter was not finding her the sole object of his attention... "You're bound for Cal..."
"Just a mo..." Potter called to Detective Harris. Who gave him a full-faced stare...Well?
"That's all...? Aren't you going to try and find who let that crate fall?..."
A slight frown on Miss Springs' part. Hey, there limey-boy...A young and not unattractive lady here givin' you the time of day...
"Couldn't've fallen from that boat..." Harris shrugged, noting Potter's ship again. "And no other way for it to get over here..."
"It might not be probable that it fell from a boat..." Potter nodded. "But one might argue there may be no other explanation. And if the impossible has been excluded, however unlikely it may be...Only the improbable remains..."
Sounds like something my fellow should say. Elizabeth...Beth to friends and family...Bess to intimate living acquaintances...Miss to strangers...and holy hell to the Undead...Thought...
And he wouldn't risk being exposed here...
…..
"Well...?"
The tall figure in dark cloak was silent. Stiffly removing said cloak to reveal a rather well-sealed suit of armor underneath...Covering every conceivable area of skin...Dark glass even in the narrow visor...
Well...? The impatient smaller figure...A rather Napoleonic little fellow, complete with strut...Eyed his agent. Returned from a rather vital pre-emptive mission...
"Urrghh..." the tall figure fumbled at its sealed helmet. An awful nuisance and hot as the old stomping grounds of Hell. But allowing the wearer within an unusual freedom of movement by day...
The helmet came loose with a rush. Revealing a rather hideously twisted, grey-faced creature's bald head...With huge, black doll's-eyes, now blinking as they adjusted to the light of its master's lair...
"Love dead...Hate living..." the foul Undead creature groaned...
"Yes, yes...As we all do, Gregor..." its master nodded, tapping fingertips as he stood by the creature.
"But did you do what is likely to bring us one step closer to eliminating those hateful Living?"
"Is the Slayer's new Watcher finally dead? Once and for all? And did our people get his information...?" "Napoleon" stared into his minion's hideous face...
"Better yet...Is the Slayer herself dead?"
"Me see Slayer..." Gregor nodded. "Man with Slayer. Me throw big box. Boom..." he paused, rather eloquently. His master hanging on the rather efficient narrative...
One never wastes words in conversation with a fully demonic vampire. As opposed to his wordy human-vampiral hybrid offspring...
"Love Dead...Hate Living..." Gregor tried to sound enthusiastic.
Hmmn...When Gregor tries to avoid an unpleasant subject...his master thought.
"You failed, Gregor? Did you at least get the Watcher's documents?"
One look at poor embarrassed Gregor's face told all...
Lovely...Just lovely...Three agents dispatched to kill that damned Watcher. With what should have been plenty of time available during an Atlantic sea crossing. Three failures...
Though, of course...Dear Olive has not reported in yet. Still if the Slayer has made contact in New York, she must have failed ...
My demon lord...Heinrich Nast, Grand Master of Vampires. Well, would-be Grand Master...Pending success in this endeavor...Sighed to himself. Brushing back the black hair on his head, his handsome face...Which but for a slight physical disfigurement elsewhere, related to his former, human, profession as the Pope's favorite singer, famed throughout mid-18th century Europe, would have won the hearts of many young women like Miss Springs... twisted by disappointment.
Still...He eyed Gregor's sheepish face…Was a rather complex assignment for the poor fellow. Which he'd attempted on very short notice, after word that the Slayer still seemed to be planning on making contact in New York had been passed on...
And a pure-bred demonic vampire was such a valuable asset. Irreplaceable, really...
"Well...There, there...A good try..." Nast shook his head. Gregor hanging his... "We'll deal with the Slayer and her Watcher later..."
But we really must get the location of that potential Hellmouth Gate. Hmmn...Perhaps we should try another approach...
Miss Springs being merely a human female in the final analysis after all. Well...
"Don't worry. We'll think of another way, Gregor. And you will have a fine role in the Slayer's destruction..." Nast beamed.
"You will give it your best effort, won't you Gregor?"
"Love Dead..." Gregor insisted firmly. "Hate Living..."
That's the spirit...Nast nodded.