Chapter Six
Sunday, November 10, 2002 – Hyperion Avenue, a number of blocks from the Hyperion Hotel, Los Angeles; early evening:
"What's going on here?" one of the uniform officers demanded, as both cops undid the clasps on their holsters.
{ Holy crap, } Cordelia thought to herself in amazement, { you actually can find a cop when you need one! } "HELP! This guy's trying to kidnap me or something!"
Kicking him in the balls was apparently enough to make that Connor creep lose all sense of judgment. Unfortunately, it wasn't enough to put him down for keeps. Uncurling from his bent-over position, he lunged forward as Cordelia continued to head for the policemen.
"Stop that!" Connor grabbed her by the wrist again and said roughly, "You're coming home with me – "
"In your dreams, asshole!" she screamed, and then she yelled even more loudly, "LET GO OF ME!" She started struggling and kicking at him, cursing and unable to break his grip.
The two LAPD officers exchanged quick glances with each other, and then drew their handguns. "Hey!" the younger one yelled at Connor. "Let the woman go! RIGHT NOW!"
Connor glared at her, and then he glared at the cops. Which was exactly the opening that Cordelia needed – she brought her handbag around again in an arc that ended smack dab in the middle of Connor's face, and he flinched backward and away from it. "Hey!"
"Hey this, you creep!" Cordelia yelled, swinging at his head again.
Connor ducked under the swing, and Cordelia took advantage of her momentum and the distraction of his flinch to step in and bring up her knee between his legs – with her full weight behind it, this time.
It made for a loud thud that crossed Connor's eyes briefly, and even lifted him slightly off his feet. Seven yards away, both cops winced and clutched at themselves involuntarily, with their off hands...
The impact also caused Connor's steel grip to loosen completely, and Cordelia finally yanked her arm out of his grasp again. Spinning on her heel, she turned and ran full tilt for the police cruiser as Connor retched, groaned, and began to unfold himself painfully.
The younger of the two cops, a sandy-haired white guy in his late twenties with a mustache, trained his weapon on Connor and yelled, "Hands on your head! Down on your knees! Now!"
Cordelia reached the squad car, and the older, slightly overweight Hispanic cop put out his hand and guided her around and to the side while keeping her carefully out of reach of himself or his weapon. "Get down by the fender, lady! And stay out of the way!"
Nodding frantically, Cordelia crouched by the back of the car, white-faced. The older cop stepped out to where he could help his partner apprehend Connor, while still keeping one eye on her.
"You!" the younger cop yelled again, obviously talking to Connor. "Down! Hands up behind your head! Last warning!"
Straightening painfully, Connor groaned; wow, it sounded like she'd hit him even harder than she'd thought. He then unleashed a growling, exasperated sound, before she heard him take off running.
"Hey!" both cops yelled. Cordelia got up and looked as the younger policeman tried to draw a bead on him – but Connor ducked as he passed a parked car, and the LAPD officer was forced to yank his weapon up and offline.
"Stop or I'll shoot!" he yelled, as Connor broke from behind the car and pelted into the nearest alley a few yards away.
"Go! I've got this," the older cop called over to the younger one.
The younger cop nodded and took off for the alley, holding his weapon muzzle up as he ran, reaching up for his shoulder mike with his other hand. He disappeared into the alley that Connor had vanished down.
Shaking his head, the older cop then said, "Miss, are you all right?"
"Oh, do I look all right to you?!" Cordelia shot back angrily. "Ugghhh!"
"Are you injured, miss?" the Hispanic insisted, searching her with his gaze. "Do you need an ambulance?"
Cordelia took stock of herself quickly. Her wrist hurt where the Connor freak had grabbed it, but it didn't seem sprained or broken. As a cheerleader, she'd experienced enough strains, sprains, pulled muscles, and inflamed joints to know by now. So she shook her head, straightening slowly to her full height.
"No. I'm not hurt. I'm just angry, scared, and tired of all of this crap!" she said, glaring to the world in general. "Why does this stuff keep happening to me?" A memory of her saying something like that before and Xander giving her his lopsided grin and replying "*cough* Karma! *cough*" made her giggle, and then suddenly burst into tears.
"Hey," the older cop said soothingly. "It'll be OK, miss. What's your name?"
"Cordelia. Cordelia Chase," she replied, hiccupping slightly. She wiped angrily at her eyes with a hand.
"All right, Miss Chase," the Hispanic guy said. "Now, are you sure you're not injured?"
"Yeah, I'm sure," Cordelia replied quickly. "Just shook up, is all."
The older cop's partner came trotting back around the corner of the alley mouth, speaking into his shoulder mike. As he neared the car, the Hispanic scowled and asked, "He got away?"
"More like flew away," the other policeman replied disgustedly. "Dead end alley, no fire escapes – City Inspector musta been bought off again – no unlocked doors. Unless he's Peter Parker and ran straight up a bare wall, I don't see how the hell he disappeared!"
As the younger cop finished grousing and holstering his sidearm, the older one chuckled. "Lemme tell you about a detective I knew a few years back," he said, "and the type of cases she got. You run into some of the weirdest shit in this city, seriously."
"Tell me about it!" Cordelia agreed fervently. "Seriously – in the short time I've been here, it's been almost as bad as Sunnydale!"
Both cops started in astonishment, and then looked at her warily. "You're from Sunnydale, miss?" the younger cop asked. He then exchanged a quick look with his partner.
"Well, yeah," Cordelia replied, nodding. "I grew up there."
The older cop frowned at her. "Miss Chase? Do you have any identification? Driver's license, I.D. card, anything?"
Cordelia looked at him blankly, then shrugged. "Yeah, I should," she said. She slid a hand into her pocket, and pulled a small money clip with a thin fold of bills. "Crap. Hang on... " Cordelia opened her handbag. "Ah! Here's my wallet."
Opening the wallet, she held it out to the older cop. The Hispanic policeman shook his head and said, "Just take out the I.D. and pass it over, please."
Rolling her eyes, Cordelia did so. She frowned as he examined it, and then the uniform officer stepped back and turned away, speaking quietly into his shoulder mike again.
"OK. Do you wish to make a statement and press charges, Miss... ?" the younger policeman asked her. He drew a small notebook out of his shirt pocket.
"Chase. Cordelia Chase. And sure, if I even knew who that guy was," Cordelia sniffed. Then she sighed, "On second thoughts, no. I just want to go home." Hearing her voice threaten to break again, she swallowed hard.
"Where exactly is home, Miss Chase?" the blond cop asked, not yet putting away his notebook.
"Like I said, Sunnydale. And I swear, I just wish I knew what the hell I was even doing here in Los Angeles!" Cordelia complained, throwing her arms up.
"You still live in Sunnydale? Not just from there? That's at least eighty miles away," the man said, looking concerned. He frowned at her for a moment, seeming suddenly suspicious.
"Miss Chase?" the older cop rejoined the conversation. "Your driver's license lists a Los Angeles address at an apartment in Silverlake."
"It does?" Cordelia blinked at him, feeling more and more confused and weirded out.
"Uh-huh. Right here," the Hispanic police officer said, showing her the license. She looked at it numbly for a moment, and then he drew it back and returned to copying her information down in his notebook.
"God. And Bizarro World just keeps getting more so!" Cordelia said, shaking her head. "I swear, I don't know anything about any apartment here in L.A.! I live in Sunnydale, at Number 4 Parkview. I go to school at Sunnydale High. All I know is that I woke up recently in some weird hotel with a bunch of crazy idiots – " She hastily decided to edit out the stuff about Angelus and the Weirdo Brigade, "– ran out, got jumped by some thugs, and then that crazy asshole showed up and started insisting that I lived with him at some museum!"
"Some museum?" the older cop frowned at her, and then said, "Did he say anything else?"
"Uh... something about, uh... he thought we lived together – which is completely insane – and, um, oh! His name is Connor! Connor something!"
"Connor, right. And museum?" the younger cop asked again, scribbling down the other information in his notebook. "Anything else he mentioned about that?"
"Well... oh! Yeah: Natural History Museum, attic above it or something," Cordelia said, a bit angrily. "And seriously – do I look like I'd live in some creepy loft with a weirdo like him?"
"You said something about a hotel?" the older cop asked, his expression half-curious and half-skeptical.
"Yeah. Some run-down, creepy old hotel, uh... that way, somewhere," Cordelia replied, gesturing vaguely. She didn't want to send the two cops to where they might find Angelus and get killed. Or get her killed, if they dragged her along with them. "I don't know! When I got out of there, I just ran, and ended up here." She suddenly decided to spill the beans about the Weirdo Brigade, just in case the police officers investigated that part of it. "See, there was this black guy, and some Susie Stoner girl, and a stuffy British dweeb... "
"Here?" the younger cop asked, blinking at her.
"No! At the hotel, duh. Here is where the street thugs were, and that Connor creep!" Cordelia said, stamping her foot.
The cops continued questioning her for a while, and Cordelia gave them descriptions (as best she could) of the thugs, the people at the hotel, and her waking up. Finally, the older cop sighed and handed her back her license, folding up his notebook.
The Hispanic then drew away a short distance with his partner, asking Cordelia to wait by the car, and the two of them engaged in a short, intense discussion.
Overhearing parts of the conversation, Cordelia couldn't help but smirk slightly as the younger cop stated that everything about her just screamed money, and it couldn't hurt having some rich father owe them one. Heh. Cops were cops the world over – Sunnydale or L.A., it seemed... The older one sighed again and said something about having a daughter her age, which caused Cordelia to raise her opinion of him slightly. He seemed a bit less mercenary than the younger one.
After a short time, they came back to her, and the older cop said, "Miss Chase? Are you sure that you don't want to make a statement and file a complaint against any of these people? That kid who assaulted you, or anyone else?"
"Would it actually do any good?" Cordelia asked bluntly, arching her eyebrows.
The younger cop snickered, shaking his head. "Honestly? Not that much. We could hold them, maybe, if we could find any of them. But in this neighborhood? Some scumbag lawyer from Wolfram & Hart would probably take the case – unless they were scum that even other scumbags wouldn't touch – and they'd walk. Assuming it ever even got to court."
The older cop scowled at him, but then nodded reluctantly. "Unfortunately he's right, Ms. Chase."
"Then no," Cordelia said, scowling. "I just want to go home and forget all this ever happened, damn it!"
"All right," the older cop nodded, his tone soothing. "Do you have a car you can use to get home?"
"No!" Cordelia yelled, feeling like she was going to burst into tears again at any moment. "If I had my car, would I even be here talking to you guys?" she demanded acerbically, before reluctantly apologizing. "Sorry, it's just – it's been a really bad night so far."
"We understand," the younger one said sympathetically.
"Huh. When I radioed it in, dispatch said there was a Jeep Wrangler Unlimited registered to your name and the Silverlake address," the older cop mentioned, frowning.
"Jeep?" Cordelia blinked at him, before shaking her head. "But... no. I have a red BMW Z9 coupé, registered to my parents' home in Sunnydale. I don't know anything about any Jeep... " She slumped against the fender of the squad car, feeling drained.
The older cop nodded, "The Jeep was found abandoned on the highway back in May. It's been in impound ever since." He gave her a skeptical, and yet somewhat sympathetic look. "You said you were a high school student? Your license lists you as being a personal assistant."
"It does?" Cordelia gaped at him, and then glanced down at the driver's license still clutched in her hand. Yup. Profession: Personal Assistant. And, wait... "What the hell? This was issued in 2001?"
Both cops glanced at each other, and then the younger one said, "Umm, Miss Chase? What year did you think it was issued in?"
"Nine-" Cordelia gulped fearfully. "1997. It's 1998 right now! Early May. School's out in a few weeks... "
"Rip van Winklette?" the younger cop said, before the older one shot him a quelling look.
Both cops shifted uncomfortably as Cordelia started to sniffle again, and withdrew a short distance once more for another brief, intense, and heated discussion. Cordelia sniffled again and re-examined the driver's license, feeling overwhelmed. It was a crappy picture, too – making her look years older.
After a few minutes, the older cop came back over, the younger one a few steps behind him. "Look, Miss Chase. If we call all of this in, and get the detectives involved, more than likely none of us will get out of here for hours. Most likely you'll end up being taken to L.A. County MHMR for evaluation, given the, uh... "
"Insane-o parts of my story?" Cordelia demanded, her eyes flashing. "Well, I'm not insane, let me tell you – I know my name, I know how many fingers I have, I know who the President is – "
"Hey!" the Hispanic cop held up a hand, adding, "Not saying anything like that, miss. Just letting you know the score."
"Just out of curiosity, Miss Chase," the white cop said, looking at her intensely. "Who is the President?"
"Clinton! Duh!" Cordelia replied. "Not that I care all that much for him, but – "
"It's George Bush, actually," the younger cop said, interrupting her. The two police officers exchanged questioning looks again, before he added, "He was elected after Bill Clinton's term ended."
"Huh? But... he's old. And Clinton beat him, didn't he? Or was it Perot?"
"Oh! No. George Bush Junior," the younger LAPD officer said, smirking slightly.
"Oh. Well, that's OK then," Cordelia said, a bit inanely. "Look, I don't care about any of that! I don't want to spend all night here... I want my parents. I want my boyfriend. I want all this insanity to end. I just want to go home, damn it!"
"It's OK, Ms. Chase," the older cop said, his voice soothing again. "Ah – do you have a phone number for your parents? One they can be reached at?"
Cordelia blinked at him, before rattling it off from memory. He looked at the younger cop, who nodded and stepped away, pulling out a cell phone.
Almost immediately, the police officer scowled and closed the phone, stepping back. "No good. Recording says that's no longer a working number. Do you have another one? Cell phone, maybe?"
Cordelia gaped at him, shaking her head numbly. "No. My parents don't like cell phones. Well, they have them, but... anyway, I keep those numbers in my own cell. Which I, like, don't have... "
"Do you have enough money for a bus ticket to Sunnydale? Or a train ticket?" the older cop asked.
"Uh... " Cordelia looked at him blankly, and then dug her wallet out of her handbag. Oh – a small gold watch, too. With a broken band, explaining why she hadn't been wearing it. Wow... only eight o'clock, almost. Still early evening.
Both cops tensed slightly again when she dug through the handbag, relaxing when she just came up with the watch and wallet. She opened the wallet, slipping the license into the holder and then digging through the money compartment, before withdrawing the money clip from her pocket.
"Yeah, I think so," Cordelia finally said, nodding. "Train. It's faster – and way less smelly. And a cab when I get there. And maybe something to eat... "
"All right," the older cop said, sighing. Pushing his cap back on his head, the Hispanic police officer glanced at his partner. "There's an Amtrak station not too far from here. It's within our patrol zone." Seeing the look his partner gave him, the older cop shot one back at the younger one, raising his eyebrows.
"Hey," the guy said, holding out his hands and smirking. "You want to play Good Samaritan, it's no skin off of my nose."
"You were the one who said it'd be good having a rich daddy owe us one, Hodges," his partner replied acidly.
"Well, I'm grateful, Officer... " Cordelia peered at the nameplate and added, "Castillo. Thank you."
"Hey, I have a daughter your age," Castillo said, shrugging. "She got stuck in something like this in the lower rent area of Downtown Somewhere, I'd like to see her catch a break." Reaching into his shirt pocket, he pulled out a card and handed it to Cordelia. "Cell number. You get back to your folks, have them call it. If they want to press charges, or get whatever information we have in our report so the Sunnydale PD can follow this up, they can get it from us."
Officer Hodges snorted at the mention of her home town cops. Given what she knew now as compared to back in sophomore year, Cordelia couldn't blame him... "If you would, please, Ms. Chase," Castillo's partner then said, holding his hand out. "I need to examine your bag before we let you in the back of the car."
Cordelia frowned, then nodded and handed it over, watching as he gave the handbag a brief, efficient, and thorough search before handing it back. Tossing the wallet and watch inside, she slung it over her shoulder and got into the back of the squad car after Officer Castillo opened the door for her.
The back seat smelled faintly of old vomit, and industrial-strength cleanser and disinfectant. Cordelia shuddered slightly, and then pulled out her compact and her makeup kit. Opening up the compact, she looked into the small mirror to see how badly the night's misadventures had messed up her hair and face...
"Blond? I'm blond now? Oh ye gods... Stoner Girl was right!" Cordelia wailed. "Oh, God. My hair. My hair! The government gave me bad hair?!" She started weeping in the back seat, causing the cops to exchange looks all over again –
A few moments previously – top of a tallish building a block or so away, Los Angeles; early evening:
Connor scowled ferociously, and impotently, as he watched Cordelia get into the back of the police vehicle. After the squad car killed its flashers and pulled away, heading off down the street, he straightened up from his kneeling position within the shadows at the edge of the building roof.
{ Blast. And damned, } he thought to himself viciously. Immediately, Connor mentally chastised himself – his father, Holtz, hadn't approved of cursing and blasphemy.
His other father.
Still, it was the only thing that really fit the situation. Plus Holtz had never really been his father, anyway, and he was dead now – victim of his own insane revenge scheme.
Sighing, Connor shook his head at the wash of emotions that always came over him when he thought of his adopted father and his birth father – anger, hate, sadness, love, resentment, bewilderment, longing, and confusion – and turned to go. Too confusing. Best to deal with the things at hand.
The things he could deal with, maybe.
Time to go find the others at the hotel, and figure out what was going on.
One thing was for certain –
The entire situation was seriously messed up, and Connor was sure that if nothing else, something was very wrong with Cordelia.
A while later – demon bar, southwestern Idaho; night:
He was extremely tall, and broad across the shoulders and chest, and his intense blue eyes were not quite human. He had a shock of unruly black hair, and wore a classic leather bomber jacket over a white shirt, and a pair of dark brown leather pants with hiking boots.
His name was the Groosalugg, or Groo for short – and he had once been the Champion of Pylea, the Undefeated Gladiator of the Scum Pits of Ur, and one-time ruler of that demon dimension.
He had also once been the consort of the Princess of Pylea – Cordelia Chase.
Currently, though, he was neither consort nor gladiator, nor associated with Cordelia – by his own choice. And he was having a drink in this underground tavern located within what the locals called the Treasure Valley, even if it lacked anything that he personally would consider a treasure.
The only treasure he had ever truly wanted had rejected him and chosen another, many months ago.
The sound of someone sitting on the barstool next to his and clearing his throat gave him pause, and Groo turned slowly to face the source of the noise.
He saw a medium-sized man wearing an old jacket over a truly hideous shirt, and a battered pork pie hat, attempting to catch the attention of the demon bartender.
"Hey! Could I have an American Amber Ale?" the man requested loudly, before turning slightly and saying politely, "Hi. How ya doin'?"
"I am – well, thank you for asking. Who are you, stranger?" Groo asked, his tone curious and unconcerned.
"Name's Whistler, bub," the man replied. "Pleasure to meetcha."
Groo cocked his head further, studying the new arrival. After a moment, he said, "You are a demon."
"Hey, you're good," Whistler nodded. "I'm impressed, really. And yeah, I am, on my mother's side – and so are you. What's the appropriate term where you come from? Life-giver, or something like that; am I right?"
{ This one is more than he appears. Perhaps some caution is warranted. } "Indeed. And I sense that you did not come to this place merely by chance, nor did you choose to sit next to me simply on a whim. What is it that you wish of me, Demon Whistler?"
"Hey," the newcomer said, holding his hands up. "It's not about what I want from you, it's what's needed of you."
"Which is?" Groo raised an eyebrow, looking at the man curiously. He had nothing tying him to any particular place, not anymore, and if an adventure was in the offing...
"Your Pylean princess has need of a Champion again, big guy – " Whistler began his speech.
But Groo shook his head, and turned away immediately. He made a curt, dismissive gesture that masked the pain which the mention of Cordelia had sent through him, and swallowed a big gulp of alcohol before saying, "She is no longer mine. She chose another, and he is her Champion now."
"Yeah, well, things have changed since you wandered off that night in L.A.," Whistler said patiently. "OK," he continued as Groo looked back, "maybe 'your' wasn't exactly the right choice of words. I mean, you don't own women like that. They're like a hawk or an eagle or whatever that chooses to land on your wrist, and then fly off again. Or, if you're lucky, they choose to stay with you. You weren't lucky – but it ain't your fault that deep down, your ex-girlfriend's heart always belonged to someone else."
"You are telling me nothing that I am not already aware of, Demon Whistler," Groo replied mournfully, before gulping down more of his drink.
"Yeah, whatever. Point is, you left your fair princess behind for her own good," Whistler shrugged. "Hey – like the old saying goes, if you love someone, set them free. Even though my opinion, if they come back to you... well, usually means that they're broken, somehow. Only problem is – you still love the woman in question, don't you?"
"My feelings are none of your concern," Groo said angrily, before he sent an annoyed look in Whistler's direction. "Why are you not speaking of this with the Champion Angel, instead of myself?"
"Well, hey. Stink Guy has his own problems right now. Not the least of which is his kid practically hating his guts," Whistler replied, smirking. Groo found that he could truly get to dislike that smirk... "Besides which, according to the new game plan – Rat Breath is gonna lose his connection to that particular Seer, soon enough. The Powers went 'n issued the orders for me and my assistant to make it so."
Groo tried to ignore the momentary spark of hope in his heart after hearing that. "Assistant?"
"Kid's not here right now. You'll be meeting her later on, at some point," Whistler shrugged slightly. "Well, I think so, anyway. Powers didn't let me see that far ahead, for some reason."
Groo snorted, shaking his head. "You still have not explained why I am needed?"
"Yer a Champion, aren't ya, fella?" Whistler asked, giving Groo a penetrating look. "Not one of our Champions, of course, but still a Champion. The type chosen to defend and protect, yadda yadda yadda."
Inclining his head, Groo replied, "Yes?" He'd already decided that he wasn't going to argue the description. A Champion was someone who championed those who needed a defender against the forces of evil, and he had no false modesty – it was a role that fit him well.
"So, bottom line – your princess and her old boyfriend are gonna be having a whole lotta bad stuff to deal with, in the days and weeks to come," Whistler said. "They're gonna need a Champion to help ensure their survival – someone who has the gal's best interests at heart, and who's able to put his own petty feelings aside. Even if there's certain people who'd prefer you not to get involved."
"And you believe that I should be involved in this matter, correct?" Groo observed, eying the half-demon carefully.
"Well, yeah. Like I said; you still love her, right?" Whistler asked.
Groo said nothing, merely regarding his companion carefully.
Whistler shrugged, and drank down his entire bottle of ale in one, long gulp. The demon then reached into a one of his pockets and pulled out a large, round bronze disc, before placing it on the bar in front of Groo. He picked it up and said, "What is this?"
"Something you'll need, once you set foot outside this bar." Whistler replied cryptically, placing the bottle down on top of the bar.
Groo examined the talisman carefully. It looked like – well, it resembled some sort of coat of arms, something which the demons who used to run the Covenant of Trombli in Pylea would use. "I do not understand, what – "
But then he noticed his companion was no longer present. Whistler had disappeared, vanished into thin air.
Frowning, Groo stuffed the talisman into one of his pockets, paid for his drink, grabbed his pack and then ventured out onto the streets of the Boise-Nampa metropolitan area.
Less than a minute later, though, three huge stone thrones occupied by black-robed figures erupted out of the ground. The figures were not human, even if their faces were masked such that all he could see were their eyes and a little bit of their foreheads. "What is this? And who are you?"
"We are the Cahair Binse, the Chair of Judgment," one of the black-robed demons replied.
"A tribunal of sorts," another of the masked demons added.
"Your fate is the topic of contention. Two must meet in combat; that is the ancient law," said the third demonic judge.
"I do not understand – what crime have I committed? And since I am not of this realm, why should I be subjected to your judgment?" Groo asked in confusion.
"Your questions are irrelevant. Where is your coat of arms?" the first demon demanded.
Groo brought out the disc Whistler had given him. "Do you mean this?"
"Well, I surely don't think they mean the picture engraved on that there shield on the middle throne, do you?" a voice with an odd accent spoke up, before a man dressed in black with a white collar around his neck appeared out of the darkness. He then tossed a bronze disc of his own down onto the ground.
{ This one is evil, } Groo thought to himself, as he threw his coat of arms on top of the other. { His eyes contain nothing but pure hate and darkness – }
"I'm here on a mission, son," the stranger said, coming closer. "The holiest of missions, tell ya the truth. Now, there's gonna be a killing here tonight – on account of out of all the true Lord's servants, I was chosen for this particular task. And you wanna know why? Because my strength lies in my conviction. Amen!"
"You are correct that one of us will die this night. However, it will not be me," Groo replied, taking a step back from the man's suddenly-black eyes. "What is your name?"
"You can call me Caleb," the evil creature grinned. "And you remember that name, 'cause when you get to your heavenly reward? They'll ask you who sent ya there, and I don't want no misunderstandings to occur – "
"ENOUGH!" one of the Cahair Binse judges suddenly shouted. "No more chatter. The trial by combat will begin!"
Two horses appeared out of nowhere, and Groo quickly mounted the horse and took up the shield and lance; just as Caleb did. { It is a good thing I became familiar with the sacred joust, back in Pylea – }
Once the middle judge dropped a red cloth, Caleb kicked the horse's sides with his heels as the steed charged forward.
{ May the Powers That Be favor me in battle! } Groo spurred his own horse forward. They charged at one another and the lances clashed, before both riders were knocked off their mounts.
{ That actually hurt! } Groo thought to himself painfully, as he landed flat on his back on the street. Disregarding that thought immediately, he picked himself up and hurried back to the horse to retrieve the sword from its scabbard.
"Well, now! Ain't this a hoot?" Caleb crowed, and they continued fighting on foot, sword to sword.
{ How can this be? His sword arm has the strength of twenty men! } "What foul magic is this? You are far too strong for a cow," Groo sneered at his opponent, indulging in a bit of psychological warfare as the combatants paused for a moment.
Immediately, Caleb's eyes went pitch-black again. "Is that what you think I am?" He went on the attack once more, even more viciously than before. "Son, you couldn't be more wrong. I'm strong right hand of the one who'll separate the righteous from the wicked, and burn the righteous eternally. The cleansin' fire that'll sweep through this world, and hallelujah – for I am its herald! I'm – "
"The simple-minded cow who talks too much," Groo interjected, abandoning strength for speed and dodging out of the way of Caleb's attacks. He was counting on his opponent getting angry and making a mistake –
"You think your insults have any power over me? HA! You can't stop me, ya filthy half-breed! You understand NOTHING! You-" Caleb roared, moving in for the kill but dropping his guard slightly.
That tiny mistake was all that Groo needed to ram his sword through Caleb's stomach. The black-eyed preacher merely growled, instead of dropping dead; so, reacting on instinct, Groo pushed the enemy away, yanked the blade out and then – moving as fast as he could – he chopped Caleb's head off with one mighty swing.
The decapitated head and body fell to the ground. Groo huffed and puffed a little from the exertion before he said, "I am the one who kills you." He then lowered the sword, turned to the three members of the Cahair Binse and said, "May I ask what happens now?"
"You are victorious, and thus free to go," the main judge said unemotionally. "Head south and your new destiny shall be revealed, in the fullness of time." With that, the Tribunal vanished back underground and Groo was left all alone on the city street.
{ A new destiny? } Groo thought to himself in confusion, before quickly deciding to pick up his backpack and leave the scene of battle. { There is no point risking the authorities coming to the wrong conclusion, were they to find me here alongside the body. And I wonder what awaits me in the kingdom located south? }
A while earlier – Union Station, Los Angeles; early evening:
Cordelia Chase turned away from the ticket counter, scowling. The trip to Sunnydale had cost quite a bit more than she'd thought it would. Still, she had enough money left for a taxi ride home once she reached her destination, assuming she could find a cab this late at night. Not to mention a bite to eat, even if she didn't have enough time for a proper meal before her train arrived.
Glancing at the clock, she figured that she'd probably be back home before ten. Possibly even by nine-thirty, maybe...
Spying a bank of phones along one wall, Cordelia headed over that way, digging for some change in her handbag. The cost of a call gave her pause, also, but she pushed past it. Higher than she remembered... oh well, never mind.
And, damn it. Just like that police officer had said, there was nothing but a phone company recording for her home number saying that it was no longer in service. Even her room phone got the same result. The hell?
No answer at Xander's house either, damn it. She figured he was probably out patrolling with Buffy. Or at the Bronze. Cordelia entertained a brief fantasy of him running around frantically, searching for her. Heh. Not likely, if it was no longer 1998... he might even have given up on her long ago. Given her up for dead.
No! Not Xander. He wouldn't give up on her – ever. The others, maybe, but not him.
Oh! The high school – Giles might still be at the library, waiting for Buffy's patrol to be finished and his Slayer to report in. Assuming he was still employed there, anyway.
And... crap. This number is no longer a working number. Please check the number and try your call again. She did so, just in case... but, no go. Dead number. What the...
Double crap. She couldn't remember Willow's number. Or Aura's. Or Buffy's. She'd always had her cell phone for that.
Sighing, Cordelia looked around, and then began to head toward the sign that said 'Restrooms'. Passing by the gift shop along the way, a magazine rack caught her eye, along with a cold drinks cooler – so she wandered inside.
At the magazine rack, she nearly fainted. Cordelia recognized the titles, of course: Vanity Fair, Vogue, Cosmopolitan, News Week, L.A. Times, L.A. Daily News... but the date...
According to the newspapers, today's date was November 10th, 2002.
{ No way, that can't be right! I mean, if it is – that means I've lost over four years! } Cordelia felt the world spin under her feet, and reality spin away inside her head. Oh ye gods – what the hell had happened to her? A part of her, a huge part, wanted to sit down then and there and start bawling like a little girl.
Instead, she grabbed a copy of the Times and the Daily News, went over to the cooler and grabbed a Diet Pepsi, and then headed over to the counter to pay for them.
And from there to the bathroom where she stood for many long moments, staring at her crappy short blond hair and her twenty-one year old face. { Twenty-two in another couple of months, apparently. Oh. My. God! }
"This is so unfair! I'm a semi-ancient twenty-something now? What happened?!" Cordelia wailed, oblivious to the stares of the few other women in the restroom. They finished up hastily and left her to her own devices. "Oh, God – did Xander take some skanky bitch to the Prom instead of me? I bet he did – I'll kill him!"
Trying to calm down – and eventually succeeding – Cordelia examined her chest, and then cupped her breasts briefly. "Hrmm. Well, I kinda have filled out a lot more. Should make getting Drooler Boy back a lot easier, if nothing else."
Sighing, Cordelia took out a comb and brush and her compact, and set about repairing her crappy hair and her makeup as best she could. Then she departed the restroom to sit and read the Times and the Daily News, and catch up a bit while waiting for her train.
At least Amtrak was a straight shot from L.A. to Sunnydale's railway station. No traffic or traffic jams to slow it down.
A while earlier – foothills of the Santa Ynez mountains, south of Solvang; just after sunset:
Xander was deep in thought as he drove along the Interstate-101, heading back to the Hellmouth. Unsurprisingly, he was thinking about Faith, and their conversation earlier today. Because despite the Slayer's words to the contrary, he still couldn't help wondering whether he could have done something different, all those years ago –
{ What, though? } an annoying inner voice asked snidely, as he switched off the radio in annoyance, not wanting to listen to the latest hit from Beyoncé. { OK, maybe you could have phrased things differently that night you confronted Faith in her motel room – but odds are she'd have still tried to strangle you, whatever you said. What else – followed her and Dead Boy to that mansion, tried to help during that so-called 'intervention'? Wes and his goon squad would have still showed up and kidnapped her, and ruined things the same way. Anything after that, she wouldn't have listened to anything you had to say – well, until after the coma, maybe. And even there, trying to convince her to return to the straight and narrow before she stole Buffy's body – she'd have never taken you seriously, even if she had listened to you! }
Reluctantly, Xander had to admit that Faith had been right – there was nothing he could have done to prevent her falling from grace. At best, he might have delayed the inevitable for a short while, but that was all. { Probably better to focus on the future. Including the whole conjugal visit thing. }
Heh – even though it sounded nice in theory, Xander wasn't sure he could actually go through with that. Sure, he'd let go of his sexual hang-ups a long time ago. Plus, sex with a Slayer was something in a league all of its own, and this particular Slayer had been his first – kinda weird but true – but it hadn't even been a year since –
"No. Don't think about that," he growled to himself, instantly switching the radio back on. To his surprise and delight, Xander heard Frankie Laine singing the classic lyrics of Rawhide –
Ka-pow!
The car swerved violently, before Xander slammed down on the brakes and brought the Ford Taurus to a halt. And he never saw Amy and Whistler vanish into the shadows, afterwards –
TBC…
A/N: A virtual cookie to anyone who can spot the quote from the movie Grosse Pointe Blank, and truth is...we kinda had to mention the classic song from the Blues Brothers movie as well; the whole "mission from God" from thing :) Anyway, we hope you liked the chapter, especially the fight scene between Groo and Caleb - hey, we wanted to show that there was a reason why the Groosalugg was the sole undefeated warrior of Pylea, namely that he had brains as well as brawn! So please tell us what you thought of the latest chapter - and to quote Buffy back in season one, have a killer weekend!
