Please see chapter 1 for the disclaimers that apply to this entire work. This particular chapter is very loosely based on S5:E2, Real Me, with some dialogue respectfully borrowed from that episode.
Chapter 2: Buffy Summers Gets a New Perspective
"This inventory is surprisingly well organized," Giles exclaimed as though the late Mr. Bogarty had proved to be an unexpectedly apt pupil. Rather than, you know, a dead guy on the floor.
Buffy looked around the magic shop, which was unsurprisingly disorganized, searching for something they could drape over the body until Sunnydale's version of the Keystone Cops sauntered in. At least this time Giles was here, so she could maybe avoid the semi-annual interrogation about why she was found near yet another barbeque fork victim. The guys and gals in blue must think she was the world's most homicidal, free-range cookout chef.
She didn't see anything obvious to use. Well, that wasn't entirely true, but probably Giles would object if she just draped him with some of the copious books that were strewn about. Not that she was particularly squeamish at this point in her slaying career, but hiding the dead man might help if Dawn decided to dodge Tara and dart back into the store.
She found herself tapping her foot. Here she was, worrying about the darkening of her own Slayer urges that even Dracula had noticed, and now she apparently had to also worry about her sister's rebellious lurch into her terrible teens. She loved her sister; her deepest urge was to protect her. But sometimes… ugh!
It would be so much easier if this were a problem she could solve by just going out to punch something. A lot.
Meanwhile, Giles had wandered to a mostly empty shelf of books, inventory ledger in hand. "Buffy," he interrupted her musing, peering owlishly at her, "Unfortunately, it does appear that whichever vampires killed the poor shopkeeper here," he stepped gingerly over the dead man on his way back to the counter. "Well, they did manage to make off with the books I'd planned for you."
He set the inventory down and resumed his perusal. "At least, while we still have the chance, let's see if Shapur's Manichean Horologion is perhaps in the store's possession. Or whether it was formerly here, and now unfortunately in the possession of light-fingered vampires."
"Are we still looking for that?" Willow asked at the same time Buffy said, "I thought we weren't doing favors for the Council. Let alone finding unpronounceable books for them." They cast equally assessing glances at each other, and then both refocused on Giles.
"Yes, quite," he answered in a distracted tone. "But actually, the Devon Coven reached out, not the Watcher's Council. Apparently one of their seers had a vision of imminent and, erm, disruptive events that echoed passages believed to be in that book. There's only one copy known to exist. It's cloaked in some manner, but they can detect that it's somewhere in Sunnydale."
A slamming sound from the back of the store was followed immediately by a second British voice. "Oi, Watcher. Is that the book you've been nattering about for the last week or so?"
"Spike," Giles named the intruder in a tone of voice that was a Molotov cocktail of displeasure with a fuse waxed with menace. He palmed a handy stave of wood from a broken bookcase, while Willow visibly centered herself for a spell.
Buffy registered their defensive moves in her periphery at the same time she stomped toward the smirking vampire. "Why are you here?" she ground out, shoving the leather-coated menace against a bookcase. She ignored the set of Japanese waving cat statuettes that fell off a shelf from the force of her push, smashing to the ground. She likewise shrugged off a torrent of plastic eggs that bounced off her head and shoulders, though she did happen to see that they fell from a basket labeled "Eggs of Distraction." Huh, well that one almost worked.
With barely a second's delay, she focused entirely on Spike, ignoring the firm, defined feeling of his muscles under her hands. And most definitely not considering that he seemed as muscular as Riley but without all the extra-added Rileyness.
She'd had to ignore all of that quite a lot, recently.
Steadfast in her mission despite the insidious eggs of distraction invoked by Spike's musculature, she grilled him. "I repeat: why are you here? Did you have anything to do with this?" She tilted her head behind her toward the store and its unfortunate shopkeeper. Which shook loose a flashback to when Spike had appeared in town her senior year. The visit that had coincided with the death-by-vampire of one of Mr. Bogarty's predecessors. Pre-owners? Whatever.
The point was: some things— some vampires— never change.
Or maybe they did, she thought with an uncomfortable twinge as she remembered Spike's chip. He wouldn't have been able to bite Mr. Bogarty. Beyond that, Giles had said there were several vampires involved and Spike, lately, was a loner. Well whatever, she mentally shrugged. Spike showing up in the middle of the day at a murder scene was bad news, regardless of his chippy impotence.
"Did I have anything to do with what?" the platinum haired vampire echoed her question back to her in an incredulous snarl. "I bloody well just got here. If anyone did anything, Goldilocks, maybe it was you or one of your chums."
She stiffened her arms like firing springs to once again slam Spike against the bookcase. "None of us are in the habit of ripping out shopkeepers' necks." Her eyes narrowed. "Besides, we're not the ones who snuck in from the back. We came here to shop."
"Well, I came to shop, too. Just used a different door," he objected. His lips pursed mulishly before he looked over her shoulder. Within seconds, she felt the tension in his body shift as he took in the state of the shop. "Oh, I see what you're on about. No, I may love a spot of violence, but I didn't do this. And I didn't off old Bogarty."
He looked back at Buffy, his eyes stormy under straight brows. "I don't care what you lot think: the old man was actually a bit of alright. I didn't kill him. Wouldn't do."
"You came here to shop?" Giles asked skeptically from the counter, objecting to what he apparently found to be the most unbelievable part of Spike's story. Her eyes darted toward her watcher and then back to Spike. By this point, Buffy's instincts told her that he truly had played no part in trashing the store or killing its owner. But she knew that Giles wasn't ready for her to let off the pressure.
His chin jutted out. "Yeah. I came to shop. You know: that thing what I do with the money I get for the odd jobs I do." He shrugged. "If you must know, Bogarty there started giving me a discount on Burba weed after I rid his cellar of Glarx demons. Pesky little vermin, they are. We'd chat sometimes. He talked about the business, the profit margin for mandrake, the best source for crystal balls at wholesale, and whatnot. Sometimes he'd ask if I had any clues where some particular occult doodad could be found."
"Why Burba weed?" Willow asked. Obviously, she was a follower of the Rupert Giles approach of honing in on the least interesting information in Spike's unusual string of confessions. Adhering to the best-friend code of conduct, Buffy suppressed the urge to shake her head or telegraph her "you've got to be kidding me" sentiment with her eyes. Used to committing superhero feats, Buffy was nevertheless impressed with the effort it took.
Spike, under no such constraint, puffed air through his lips in obvious irritation. "Burba covers the flavor of my morning jus de Wilber enough so I can drink the bloody swill." No doubt seeing the confusion on Buffy's face, he lowered his voice to add, "Gives the pig's blood a bit of spice. Prolly a bit like how people cover the bitterness of coffee with cream and sugar and that flavoring shite that's popular now."
Fortunately, Giles spoke up at that point, interrupting her squeamish image of side-by-side comparisons of blood versus coffee flavorings.
"Buffy, I am utterly loathe to admit this," her watcher announced, "but Spike does have a point. I had no idea the profit margins on a shop like this were so high," Giles said.
Recognizing Giles' shift of attitude, she released Spike's shoulders and pulled back with just the barest hint of apology in her eyes. If she was any judge, the vampire's assessing blink was a sign that he recognized the look in her eyes.
Well, of course he did. If his late, not lamented arrangement with the Initiative's Adam had shown her anything, it was that he could read their body language and dynamics as well as she could read Dawn's moods. Possibly better, because he apparently understood what he was seeing, while Buffy was mostly baffled and irritated by her sister's stubborn temper.
She caught Willow's confused glance, returning it with a shrug. They both looked toward Giles as he murmured under his breath. Curiosity piqued, Willow sidled over to Giles and resumed perusing the inventory along with him.
"Look at this!" Giles practically crowed from the counter. Expecting a watcherly exposition about great evil— or about that Whore Low Jeans book for which Giles had been searching because apparently his coven friends couldn't get enough reading material on their own regarding whores and their lowrider pants— she was taken aback by his next words.
"Hmm, low overhead, out-of-state orders, international... it's no wonder there's never any trouble attracting new owners." He looked around. "A place like this is a virtual…."
"Deathtrap?" Buffy supplied helpfully, drifting closer to where he was standing.
"What? Well, uh, yes, there is that," he admitted, putting down the oversized inventory book on the counter. "But, erm, still…."
"Giles," Willow interrupted after having victoriously pulled the inventory away from the watcher's previously attentive gaze. "I hate to break it to you, but I don't see your Horologion book in here anywhere."
"Oh dear. That is rather a disappointment." His eyes sharpened, once again on Spike.
Still leaning against the bookcase where Buffy had slammed him, the vampire was now puffing on a cigarette. He apparently sensed the man's eyes on him and looked up. "Old Bogarty let me smoke in here. Seeing as how it's still his place, in a manner of speaking, I feel inclined to keep his custom."
Buffy noticed that, despite his objection, Spike was at least making an effort to direct his smoke away from the center of the room where she, Giles, and Willow were all clustered. Ignoring Giles' baleful glower, and the vampire's equally disdainful stare, she made the executive decision to let the nicotine addicted pest remain where he was.
After more than a moment of nothing happening, she cleared her throat. "Not to interrupt the whole British glaring competition," Buffy said, interrupting said glare-a-thon. "But there's something I don't understand. Giles, since the coven's seer had a vision and she thinks she knows what the book contains, why do we even need to find it?"
Her once and future watcher straightened his shoulders to something between his gentle yet firm correction stance and his explanatory lecture posture. As she watched him, she righted a chair from an erstwhile table. She had the feeling this might take a while
"As you may recall," he began, confirming Buffy's observation of his shoulders and bearing, "prophetically significant tomes often have a mystical value beyond that of their textual one."
By now he'd caught Willow's attention as well as Buffy's. "So, the book itself is like an uber magickal artifact on its own," the witch gushed.
"Just so. It's additive, taking on power from the characteristics of the underlying prophecies and/or spells. In addition, as they use the book and pass it along, the practitioners adept in the arts impart their own power signatures to it. This particular book, Shapur's Manichean Horologion, is truly ancient, being the earliest known Persian compendium of daily meditations, foretellings, and rituals invoking Manichean duality. It has, indeed, passed through many hands and acquired much power of its own."
"In English, please?" Buffy said.
Giles, resigned to that phrase, almost reflexively answered. "It's a very old book about the fundamental conflict between good and evil. Or, better said, between the light and darkness that permeate all of existence, according to those who subscribe to the belief. Through time, some have attempted to harness the power of that duality, using prophecies and scriptures within the book."
He glanced at Buffy, making sure she'd followed. After she nodded, he added, "Those people, in using the book, have added their powers to it. Of course, it's currently lost. Somewhere in Sunnydale, it appears."
"Watcher, as a matter of fact…," Spike began, only to have Giles gesture dismissively.
"Not now, Spike."
This time, Buffy shook her head for real because they were back to the British glare-a-thon. At least this time there were words involved.
The main door to the shop banged open, interrupting her thoughts as well as the British stand-off. She turned to see Xander striding over broken merchandise while Anya followed more daintily.
"G-Man, Buffster, Will," he called out with exuberance. "And… whoa. Chips A-Hoy. What's he doing here?" His voice trailed off as he acknowledged Spike with notably less enthusiasm.
"Standing right here, Droopy Boy," Spike muttered so low that probably only Buffy's Slayer hearing could pick it up.
Meanwhile, Xander continued to pick his heroic way to the counter, trailed by Anya. "We were driving by and saw Tara outside with the Dawn-meister. So of course we had to stop to find out what's the what." Pointing his thumb over his shoulder behind him, he said, "Does the owner know about the break-in yet? That's going to need a fair bit of carpentry and a whole new door set. I can hook him up."
"He's also going to need to remove the dead body," Anya helpfully added as she toed Mr. Bogarty's prone form in the ribs. "I've noticed that people seem less interested in handing over their money for trinkets when in the presence of the dead."
"Huh. Dead body," Xander's expressive face moved through the five stages of "what the heck" before settling on "it must be Tuesday." He slowly sat on what looked like an unpacked box of merchandise, pulling Anya to sit at his side.
"Hey Xan." Willow's eyes were puppy wide with excitement of the nerdly variety. "You're just in time for more backstory on that book that Giles has been looking for."
"Oh yay," Anya cheered with enthusiasm that was only a little more energetic than that of the late Mr. Bogarty at her feet.
Before Xander could leap to an exit strategy, Giles had continued speaking. "As I was saying, I was able to trace the ownership of the missing Horlogion from the fifteenth century onward, using texts in my own possession." His eyes sparkled with librarian pride. "It's last known sighting was in Romanov Russia, when Rasputin gifted it to Tsarina Alexandra, the queen. After that, and the Russian Revolution, its location has been hidden."
Barely waiting for Giles to finish, Willow asked, "So, if even the coven can't find it, why do they think we can?" She pronounced "coven" with a reverence that reminded Buffy of the near-worship in Xander's voice when he talked about having touched original Superman comics.
"The book is cloaked from divination, but may still be visible to the physical eye."
"Speaking of physical eyes," Spike said while grinding out his cigarette. "Assuming it's finally time for audience participation, I'm pretty sure I've seen that book." He crossed his arms, head held high with his scarred, sardonic eyebrow canted as though he were watching a tiresome drama for the umpteenth time.
"You what?" Giles rounded on the vampire, hands on the counter as though holding the overly large wood and glass cabinet from flying into the air. Possibly right at Spike's head.
"It was a long time ago, but I'm pretty sure I saw it over at Crawford Street, if you bloody well must know."
"And you couldn't tell us that before because….?" Buffy tapped an imaginary stake along the outside of her leg.
"Well, did you lot bleedin' ask me? Or even listen to me? No, of course not. Don't ask the century-old vampire anything that might intersect a time when he might actually have been there and know something." He sucked in his cheeks in the manner that, to Buffy's practiced eyes, made him look especially vampiry. Vampirish? Vampiresque? Whatever.
Huffing, he added, "'Sides, I didn't know what you were looking for until today, did I? Since you cleverly failed to name the bloody thing any time I was in the room. Last I checked, 'old book' covers a lot of territory." He made a show of looking around at the collection of books and other reading material strewn around the shop.
Following the direction of his gaze, Buffy had to admit that he was kinda right. Her eyes narrowed as she processed Spike's comment that they'd avoided naming the book in his presence until now. He was right about that, too. Since Adam, they'd become much more circumspect about what they said when he was around.
But surly as he often was, the British vampire seemed to be trying to help lately. Perhaps it was genuine. After all, being majorly tricked by Adam had been a big gut punch to the former Big Bad. She made a mental note to talk with Giles about trying to initiate a new, better relationship with Spike over time. He might never be a Scooby, but he could maybe be an ally.
"Yes, well, regardless of all those mitigating factors," Giles looked sideways at the vampire. "Now that you know what we're looking for, is there any chance you could be more, erm, helpful on the matter?"
"Like maybe the Buffster could drag you off your undead duff to go over there and get it for us," Xander shared his straightforward plan with the room.
"Far as I can see," Spike snapped back, "I'm standing up while you're the one sitting on your ample duff." His emphasis on duff was the dried fruit of superiority rolled around a pit of obvious dismay at having to even say such an insipid word. Jaw muscles tight, he added, "So if duff-sitting is a key criterion, are you volunteering to give it a go, then?" His narrowed eyes focused on Xander.
"No." Anya put her fists on her waist, practically elbowing her boyfriend off their shared packing box. "My Xander has to stay safe and out of creepy old houses with broken stuff on his day off. Or at any time. Good health, cleanliness, and lack of body casts are vital to ensuring orgasms according to Cosmopolitan."
"Thanks, Ahn. No creepy houses or body casts for the Xan-man. So I guess it's back to you, Evil Dead. You can go with Buffy and point out where it is. You know, 'cause you said you've actually seen it."
After a theatrical, expressive exhale— and why did the undead, unbreathing guy sigh more loudly than anyone else in the room— Spike offered, "If it's still there, the book is against the rear wall, by itself, in the attic." He paused as something obviously occurred to him. A glimmer, quickly suppressed, appeared in his blue eyes and immediately pinged Buffy's "up to no good" detector. A slight tip to his lips and a calculating expression solidified her suspicion.
"I'm not going there with Spike," she announced.
Almost simultaneously, Spike retorted, "I'm not going over there with you, either. Got bad memories and whatnot." He glared at Buffy. She glared at him. It was a whole glaring thing.
"Well, I certainly have no desire to go to that ostentatiously gloomy mansion," Giles said. "I rather considered smashing Acathla to be my swan song. But, bad memories aside, I'll go if I must."
After a moment of silence, and general looking at one another to see who might metaphorically draw what was apparently the short straw, Willow spoke up.
"I'll go with Buffy," she volunteered, eyes wide with an overflowing brimful of borrowed courage. "Tara has another class at the end of the day but I'm free. And, you know, I was never there during the bad Grrr-Argh days. No bad memory-ing here."
"Grrr-Argh? Are you people all twelve?" Spike patted his coat for another cigarette.
"Says the vamp who also refuses to go to Crawford Street." Xander said.
"Says the former pizza delivery boy who himself refuses to go to Crawford Street," Spike immediately countered.
That was it. Buffy stood up in action-girl mode. All this talking and snarking was driving her around the bend. "Oh for Pete's sake," she snapped while wondering who the heck Pete was, anyway. "I'll go and I'll take Willow. We have a couple more hours of daylight, so we'll be able to reduce the creepy factor. Because who knows if the power is even on there, anymore.
"Thank you," Giles murmured in long-suffering relief. Spike lit his cigarette with a flick of his lighter and then leaned back against his bookcase. Anya nodded emphatically at Xander as though he'd accomplished something important by remaining on his over-discussed duff. Which Buffy decided was a word that never again needed to be said. By anyone.
"You gonna pick up Riley on the way there?" Xander asked.
Buffy frowned, not sure why Xander had brought up the very not-here Riley. She also wasn't sure why Riley hadn't even entered her mind as a companion for this mission. Maybe it was because she'd blown off his boyfriendly plans this morning, so it felt awkward to reach out to him as mere backup muscle. Also, as she felt Spike's eyes drilling into her, she realized she just wasn't comfortable taking her Angel-hating boyfriend to Angel's former digs.
Looking at Xander, she said, "No. Riley's busy." Then she turned her attention to Spike. "So, what am I looking for in the attic?"
He took a hefty inhale from his cigarette, then blew it out. Finally with everyone's attention on him, he said, "What I remember is that it's a compendium of bound and folded scrolls, so more like an atlas in size than a regular book. It's like that drawing that Rupe's showed around a couple nights ago, but bigger than you probably imagined. You'll find it inside a big, ornate presentation case about the size of that trunk you keep your weapons in. It's all metalwork, if I remember right, but the top is cloudy-like; more like tortoiseshell than glass."
"Okay," she said. That was actually helpful. "How do we open the tortoise thingie?"
His lip pulled into one his pursed smiles after mouthing something that looked suspiciously like "tortoise thingie." After a pause, he pointed his chin in Willow's direction. "There's a latch on the front that might have a light 'don't touch' spell on it, but with Red there, you shouldn't have any problem. Dru could open it and she's not particularly strong at practical magicks."
"Sounds do-able." Buffy glanced at Willow, who nodded in agreement. She was about ready to leave, but then Giles spoke up.
"If I may ask, how did a tome like that get to Crawford Street?" His question was casual but his eyes were narrowed in doubt.
"Don't know for sure, but I do know Darla was in old Russia a few years before the Revolution, so she might've nabbed it then."
Anya nodded as Spike finished. "That makes sense. There were rumors at the time that one of the Aurelians was snuggling up with that warlock, Rasputin. Maybe she stole the book when he got offed."
"See, like I said." He nodded toward Anya, who beamed in return. "Lots of stuff in that attic," he admitted before taking another puff from his cigarette. "That mansion's been in Aurelian hands for over a century, since before Angelus got his soul stuffed up his bunghole. It was one of Darla's little safe havens. A place to retreat and enjoy the healthy spa effects that only a hellmouth can offer."
"Wait, Darla owned Crawford Street? I didn't know vampires did real estate." Buffy blinked as though assimilating this new thought.
"Don't know if she bought it proper or whatnot. Darla said it was hers when we stayed there for a couple years around the turn of the century. That was after Dru had a vision of destruction calling us to the land of the goldrush. Alas the pixie GPS was on the fritz and that turned out to be the San Francisco earthquake up north. I saw myself that the Crawford mansion was in Darla's name, all official like at the registry, when she called us back to Sunnyhell sometime after old Batface cleverly managed to trap himself underground. What a load of bollocks that was."
He took a final, deep draw from his cigarette before stubbing out the end. "I also know that the inside's a lot older and more decrepit than the swanky outside and modern electricity would let on." He shrugged before adding, offhand, "A lot like the bitch herself. Must've eaten an architect or maybe a building contractor."
"Eww."
"Whatever Blondie. You're the one what asked. What you care about is that, in the center, the rooms are old and separate staircases, behind some doors I think, go to the original cellar and attic." He shrugged. "I'd stay out of the cellar if I were you. But the attic, it's mostly gewgaws that favored members of the Aurelian clan dropped off there to save for a rainy day, or sommat."
He lowered his voice; his eyes watched her with an expression she couldn't interpret. "Interesting bit of info for you, Pet. Darla was living at Crawford Street when you first rolled up into Sunnyhell. She always liked fancy digs, and I'm sure there wasn't nearly enough swanky space in her sire's damp grotto." Looking forward again, he added, "Am just surprised the Great Forehead didn't go there right away when he followed your sweet Slayer self to town. White hat and all, the first week he was here he could've taken her out of your way in one heroic swoop of hair gel. Which also would've removed one of Nest's primary lieutenants right off the top."
"Huh." Buffy thought about how surprised Angel had seemed when Darla had crossed their path. But if Spike was right, he'd known she was here all along and did nothing until Darla had nearly killed Buffy's mother. And Buffy herself. He'd only managed to kill his sire when Buffy was watching.
"Huh," she repeated.
"Buffy?" Willow had left the counter and was now standing next to her. Buffy blinked; when had that happened? Meanwhile her concerned, chirpy friend asked, "You ready? Should we go? I found a bag we can carry it back in." Buffy looked down and, sure enough, somewhere between the counter and here Willow had picked up a rather huge canvas bag.
"Yeah," she agreed and then hit her forehead with the palm of her hand. "Crap. No. I'm supposed to be taking care of Dawn today until Mom gets home from the gallery." And what a great job she was doing of it, Buffy thought as she realized that she'd abandoned her outside since they'd first arrived, leaving her caretaking duties to poor Tara.
"Hey Buff, we'll hang out with the Dawnster," Xander volunteered. Anya did a quick double-take and then flashed a happy girlfriend expression over her previously dissenting face.
"Thanks, you guys." Buffy practically gushed in her enthusiasm. She turned toward the front door, then looked quickly back at Spike. "Thank you, too." The surprise in his eyes was a bit off-putting as she realized that thanking him was obviously not something they regularly did. Something else to discuss with Giles.
In a blink, Spike had slipped away and Giles had picked up the phone, finally calling the police. Almost as one, Buffy and the rest of the Scoobies headed outside to rejoin Tara and Dawn. After regrouping, they all started off on their separate ways. Fortunately, though it was a tight squeeze, Xander was able to drive Buffy and Willow to the mansion. Seeing the grimace on her friend's face as he dropped them off, she was glad that he hadn't decided to accompany her. He didn't need the stress and she didn't need the time-outs for emotional support.
With a big inhale, Buffy opened the door, stepped inside, and flipped the light switch. And, wow, there was still electricity. Creepy, abandoned vampire house with utilities; go figure.
Vampire house with no vampires. Another "go figure" moment.
In the main room, as usual, there was little to see other than the massive furniture and occasional dusty, pretentious novels by long-dead people. Appropriate, she guessed, as reading material for the long undead, although as she thought that she visualized Spike and his punk rock obsession.
Different strokes for different un-folks.
Buffy led them to the main, central hallway while Willow's eyes were like lenses of a tourist's camera, taking in the sights and recording them for later examination. It was clear that, in usual Willow fashion, she had about a million questions. Yet, to Buffy's relief, she was obviously holding them for later.
In the hallway itself, faux torches along the hallway illuminated motes of dust that Buffy's and Willow's movement startled into the previously undisturbed air. A series of paintings along the wall were signed by Angelus. Of course, she didn't need to see his name since she'd encountered enough of his artistic styling before now. She repressed a shiver, thankful that these were just depictions of people going about their days or evenings while awake and covered in foofy, old fashioned clothes.
Uncomfortably, however, they were mostly petite, blonde teens. Willow's pursed lips and sideways glance toward Buffy told her when her friend had also noticed that unsavory detail.
They passed a broad set of stairs that Buffy remembered led to a hall full of bedrooms, but no further upward. The hallway narrowed and Buffy could tell they were entering the older part of the house that Spike had described. Floorboards creaked and spider webs shuddered in corners between the ceiling and walls.
Willow elbowed her as they reached a row of three wide-planked doors next to each other. Oddly, they were each only about five feet tall and slightly different sizes from each other. Her inner Xander was considering whether a normal person would've replaced them with standard hallway doors. But yeah: vampire house.
"Um, should we…?" Willow asked. "It's a bit like the Three Bears, which is actually disturbing given that we know Hansel and Gretel was real, in a much nastier-than-expected way.
"Yeah. I'd say 'welcome to my world' except you're already here with a return address and everything," Buffy replied. "Here goes," she said with a shrug. She grabbed the ancient metal knob and opened the first door with a mighty squeal of unoiled hinges. Then she blinked. Of all the things she'd visualized, she hadn't imagined that she'd be face-to-face with an antique toilet sitting all by itself. Not wanting to, she nevertheless found herself leaning forward to peek. Huh, there was still about an inch of brackish water in the bowl. Good to know. Kinda.
She pulled back and said, "Well, unless we're supposed to flush our way into the attic, I think that's a 'no'."
Willow sniggered in amusement next to her while she closed the first door and then reached for the second doorknob. Inner-sanctum groany sounds followed, and they were faced with a dark opening and a set of narrow, plank stairs headed downward. Irregular stains on the first few steps, visible from the hallway lights, could have been anything but Buffy was willing to bet they were looking at old, dried blood.
"Okay, stairway down to hell. Check. That's also a 'no'." She backed up and pushed that door closed in a hurry.
"For which I'm really grateful," Willow breathed, "But that leaves us with door number three. I really hope this one is better."
"You're not alone on that. I'm starting to wonder if this is Spike's idea of a practical joke," Buffy muttered as she gamely reached for the final doorknob. More unoiled and stubborn hinge noises followed, but finally there was a staircase headed upward.
And… no light switch. "I guess I didn't really think this through," she said. "Do you have a flashlight, by any chance?"
"No, but I have this," Willow said as she conjured a ball of light in her upturned palms.
"Whoa, look at you with the witchy stuff."
Willow just smiled in reply and gently tossed her witch-light to lead the way up the stairs. They followed in single file, since the stairway was narrow. The walls were crumbly, like the old horsehair and plaster walls she'd seen in a pioneer house on some youthful field trip. The air was stale as though humans hadn't breathed here, perhaps since the house was built. It was possible, Buffy supposed.
The staircase turned, leading them up another storey. Then, they finally reached a landing that ended in another, age darkened doorway. Under the quivering witchlight, Buffy steeled herself and then opened this door.
Finally! The opened attic doorway revealed a wide room under a relatively low ceiling. She pushed forward but was stopped by an invisible barrier. She was a human unable to enter a vampire's threshold. What the what?
Seeing the problem, Willow mumbled something about Janice and some Latin-y words while waving her hands. When the barrier poofed out of existence, Buffy practically fell as she stumbled into the attic. Willow's witchlight sped forward to the center of the space, illuminating the expanse under the beams and peeling wood of the attic ceiling.
Frowning as her brain caught up with her ears, realizing that Willow had no reason to name Dawn's friend, she asked, "Willow, did you just invoke the god Janus?" An unpleasant, Ethan Rayne shaped memory of that name poked her in the brain and tingled like freeform electricity along her skin.
"Mmm hmm," the redhead nodded absently. "The Latin name for 'door' is related to Janus because he has power over doors and thresholds. Hermes kind of does, too, but the magic on that doorway felt more subterranean somehow. Ergo, Janus."
"Ergo, huh," Buffy said, still feeling the odd, tingling energy along her skin. She started to ask Willow if she felt it also, but her friend had moved off to the left side of the space.
"Wow," the redhead breathed as she took in the jumble in front of her. Half-opened steamer trunks revealed piles of a prior century's clothing. There was an umbrella stand full of walking sticks with hilts of glimmering stone or carved finials, and one with a disturbingly realistic miniature skull. Shelves were covered with jewelry, silver serving dishes, gold baubles, and taxidermy. The glass eyes in one of the dead, furry things were glaring at Buffy in the witchlight.
"Okay then." Buffy straightened. Just another day on the job. She walked forward into the other half of the attic, finding a row of creepy dolls. "Oh goody, Drusilla stores stuff here, too." There were tiny clay dolls, bigger porcelain ones, and a few plastic dolls in various states of undress and staged obscenity. And— joy of joys— there was a naked, life-sized store mannikin fondling itself with knives stuck in various locations. And another mannikin topped with a shrunken head.
"Jeez, could the woman be more morbid?" She was ever more grateful that the common rooms downstairs were sans decoration. Her eyes began scanning the attic's outer walls, since that's where Spike had said to look.
Before she finished her perusal, she spotted Willow flipping through a stand of more framed, painted canvases. She hurried over, worried about what her friend might see.
"Oh, this must be Darla. Ah, Drusilla and some other… um… ladies. And nipple rings," Willow announced. She flipped past what Buffy's brief glance had registered as a full-on nude scene with unexplained blood.
"Wills," she said, about to pull her away from her stunned perusal when.… Oh. My. God.
It was another nude, this time a man.
"Whoa," Willow said.
"Yeah. Whoa," Buffy repeated as she braced her hand on her girlfriend's shoulder.
Her eyes took in the full view. The man in the painting was reclining on his side, languid on a Turkish carpet, one hand under his head and the other splayed sensually along his naked flank. He was gazing, heavy lidded, toward the painter from under shoulder-length, brown and tousled hair. Despite the hair and the unaccustomed naked-body-ness, she'd know that full lipped, come hither expression anywhere.
Spike Lips. Lips of Spike. And… wow. Other things of Spike. Other larger than expected things. Of Spike. Ready for action. Spike.
"Oh. Oh!" Willow exclaimed as though just figuring something out. "That has got to be artistic license. I mean, not that I have a lot of, you know, comparative experience because not that kind of gal. Or, oh! No specific experience either with evil boy parts. And I'll say now that neither bottle-in-face nor chip-attack moment ever got that far. But, like, uncircumcised."
By this point, her witchy friend was practically hyperventilating.
"Wills, calm down," Buffy said gently, though her thoughts were otherwise occupied. In fact, her mind was busy serving up a heaping physical memory of lots of sitting on Spike's lap and, well, squirming during the My Will Be Done spell. Before Buffy Brain managed to censor her lips, she'd confessed, "But, um, from what I remember I think it's, um, really, really accurate."
"Oh." Willow turned her widest eyes toward her, although her gaze kept drifting back to the painting. Nibbling her lower lip, she darted a glance toward Buffy, "So, I guess it's a good thing you didn't invite Riley to help out here. You know… after the whole, 'I'm marrying Spike, no I'm not' confusion."
For some reason, that was what made Buffy's face finally erupt in a rosy flush.
"No kidding," she agreed as her imagination now insisted on picturing Riley in the frame, which was weird. And it wasn't that her boyfriend was so much taller, such that her mind helpfully imagined his calves and feet being outside the frame of the picture. It was that Riley, corn-fed and militarily sharp, wasn't ever sensual like this. Not even when they were making love.
And now her mind was not-so-helpfully comparing their, um, man parts. It was clear that the measuring tape of manhood was not in Riley's favor.
Now she was absolutely sure that Spike had pulled a practical joke on her. She squinted; that damned Whore's Jeans book better be here.
She pulled Willow away from the paintings, ignoring that the next one also seemed to be a nude Spike, this time highlighting his other, shapely buns-of-steel side. Ugh, Focus!
She finally managed to drag herself and Willow to the far wall where, amazingly, they found the metal case that Spike had described. With another hand-wavy incantation, her witch friend opened the box and they saw the leather-and-wood bound, parchment book within.
"That's it. That's Shapur's Manichean Horologion. I can just make out the name in the old Persian script, which now I'm really glad Giles suggested I learn." She surprised Buffy by retrieving a couple pairs of much-too-large white gloves from the canvas bag she'd brought from the magic shop. Probably seeing the psychic question mark pulsing from Buffy's forehead, the witch mouthed "Giles."
Buffy nodded because his name fully explained every fussy, antiquarian mystery in their lives.
Then, between them, they reached into the case to remove the book. Buffy blinked. Even through the cloth gloves she felt an almost electric tingle run from her fingers up her arms when she touched it.
"Wills, do you feel that?" She looked up. Willow met her gaze with the facial expression that gently conveyed "I have no clue what you're talking about but will support you to the death."
Aloud, the witch said, "Feel what? The bumpy tooling on the cover or something?"
"Nah, it must just be me," Buffy said as, together, they hoisted the book from its case into the waiting canvas.
"It's in the bag," Willow said with a snicker. "I've always wanted to say that."
Buffy was torn between rolling her eyes and joining Willow's laughter. Choosing the latter in a happy reminder of their younger, highschool days, she giggled while saying, "Go on with your crazy self, Wills."
She took a last look around to see if there was anything else they should grab. Other than nude Spike, which… just no. Seeing nothing new of particular import to them, she picked up the canvas bag and, with a nod to her friend, walked back to the exit door. Willow directed the witchlight to go in front of her as she started gingerly down the stairs.
It was purely a coincidence that, while the redhead was focused on the stairs in front of her, Buffy paused briefly and backed up, discovering that the attic's threshold was apparently no longer spelled against her entrance. And that was a good thing if, for example, she ever needed to return to check out anything else in the attic. For Giles. Because it was important.
She and Willow wound themselves down and out, emerging from the mansion with perhaps an hour before nightfall. It was enough time to deliver the Whore's Jeans to Giles at his condo and watch both him and Willow geek out over the book. And still, even after the Bookish Geekfest, there was ample time to get back to her house before her mother returned home from the gallery.
Good times.
Of course, Buffy luck being what it was, a couple hours later Buffy found herself steaming about how Harmony Kendall getting an invite to her house was not part of those good times. As she stomped toward Spike's crypt in her stylish yet inexpensive platform sneakers, she realized that the fact that Harmony Frigging Kendall actually kidnapped Dawn from her house while Buffy was away had her emotions teetering between humiliation and horror.
She was responsible for Dawn. She was supposed to have protected her. She'd failed.
As she approached Spike's door, she felt his vampire signature and heard his voice raised. Was he with Harmony? Her Slayer essence rose in a howl at the thought. Seconds later, she realized that she didn't sense any other vampires, so no Harmony. Beyond that, if she really was going to work with Giles on giving Spike another chance, she needed to stop always assuming the worst from the peroxide pest.
She needed to try treating him like… something other than an enemy. She'd have to figure that out.
Pushing open his door, she heard him cursing about satellite dishes, of all things.
He looked up. "Well, speaking of dishes, to what do I owe this unpleasant…."
"Don't finish that sentence if you value your unlife, or at least your nose." She grabbed his shirt when he seemed ready to step away from even the possibility of her fist.
"Well well," he said, his glance morphing into a leer. "Need a little piece of the action, do we?"
Before he could say anything else, she shook him. "I don't have time for banter, Spike. Where's Harmony's lair?"
"Haven't seen her in months. How should I know?"
"Try harder. She's got Dawn." She squinted, once again finding herself pushing the vampire against a wall. And there was that weird tingling up her arm, like she'd felt before. Fortunately, before she could embarrass herself by asking if Spike felt it too— and she could already imagine his off-color responses— he spoke.
"That's odd." he paused. "But she's got the Nibblet? How the hell… Oh never mind."
"Nibblet? What?" Buffy gave him a halfhearted shake in case it returned his mind to reality-land.
"Your sister. You know, yea high," he waved his hand at roughly chest level. "With long hair and a running diary of slights."
"Slights?" She blinked as his words caught up with her. "Wait, how do you know about her diary?" She tensed up, ready to work him over if her instincts had been off.
His demeanor changed and suddenly he looked disconcertingly human. "Well, she told me, didn't she? She worries about Big Sis and writes everything down like a regular Harriet the Spy." He inhaled. "Anyhow. Back to Harmony." His brows pulled together in thought. "Used to have a cave in the North Woods. About forty meters past the overpass construction site. I bet that's where she is."
"Okay," Buffy nodded, pushing him against the wall again as she released his shirt. Then, remembering her new resolve, she said, "Thanks.
He blinked, blue eyes peering into hers. Apparently he saw enough to say, "Don't worry, Pet. It's Harmony. The most dangerous thing about her is her sodding unicorn collection. You'll get the Nibblet back. Right as rain."
"I don't know what rain has to do with it, but I darned well am getting my sister back. Harmony's going to pay for this." She turned toward the door, ready to stomp to the cave that Spike had described.
He caught up to her at the door. "I'll come with you. Not like you need the help," he added after probably sensing her hesitation. "But I'd just like to watch you trounce her minions." He said the last word with barely suppressed humor.
As they stepped into the night, she was again overcome with the ridiculousness of Harmony Kendall with minions.
"I know." She started to giggle. "Harmony Kendall with minions. Xander told me. I almost snorted apple juice out of my nose I laughed so hard." After a couple moments of shared laughter, which got them all the way to the cemetery gate, she glanced his way. "By the way, I still owe you a big punch in the nose."
"Why? I told you what I know." He objected, sounding oddly injured.
"Yeah, but earlier today you didn't warn me about Angel's…," she paused for a breath and then another. "About Angel's paintings," she finished, spitting out the words.
"Ah. Well you know. Last time I was up there, you wouldn't have found anything scandalous-like unless you went off-mission and peeked behind the picture in front."
"Mmm hmm, that's what I thought." She looked his way, seeing that scarred eyebrow of his raised in a dare that his lips, pursed in amusement, were more than willing to try.
"But. fair is fair," he said, his voice still dripping with humor as his long legs matched her pace, step-for-step. "But first, we find Harmony."
"You got that right," she agreed. They flitted quickly at Slayer and vampire speed toward the cave where Harmony and her unicorns— and, oh my God, her minions— were about to have a very bad night.
To be continued...
END NOTE:
This chapter fulfills the following Challenge Prompt 2 of the 2021 Elysian Fields Mystery Fic-a-Thon Challenge.
YOUR FIC MUST INCLUDE THE LOCATION OF AN ATTIC
Proof of prompt usage:
Finally! The opened attic doorway revealed a wide room under a relatively low ceiling. She pushed forward but was stopped by an invisible barrier. She was a human unable to enter a vampire's threshold. What the what?
Seeing the problem, Willow mumbled something about Janice and some Latin-y words while waving her hands. When the barrier poofed out of existence, Buffy practically fell as she stumbled into the attic. Willow's witchlight sped forward to the center of the space, illuminating the expanse under the beams and peeling wood of the attic ceiling.
