PART TWO
The landscape of his mind had been black. The environment Rupert found himself in was bright and full.
The pocket dimension was small. Several kilometers away, on the edge of sight, the ground met the dome that formed the sky. Lights like stars and twinkling swirls like the dust of unformed galaxies formed a mural on the inside of the dome. The interior of the pocket dimension had assumed a cruel imitation of Rupert's own world. Several key details had been twisted or lost in the copy. Purple grass bent under the tread of his shoes. Each blade glowed the color of a black light. Spread thin throughout the meadow-like setting were twisted, wooden forms he assumed were intended to be trees. The not-trees reached for a sky that was not there. Their trunks and branches, devoid of leaves, were molded like statues into eerie, painful shapes of human-like figures and appendages. One tree seemed to be a gnarled, wooden hand, reaching up and begging the not-sky for supplication. Another tree might have been the upper half of a woman screaming, her visage twisted in grief.
That was the extent of the landscape. The electric purple grass stretched from the edge of the inferior dimension to the center, and every once in a while, the flat plain was broken by a tree-like form.
Shivers traveled down his spine. Every instinct within him screamed to leave, to return to the world of rationale and paranormal happenstance. He felt invisible eyes upon him in every direction, even from the grass beneath him.
Rupert had been raised in a family of sorcerers and champions for the side of the light. He had never taught himself to question the impossible. He had, however, been drilled in the rules of a world that were unalterable to any permanent extent by magic. Those rules wouldn't apply here. He wondered what he was breathing. How could the mock-ups of grass and trees produce oxygen?
He tried his best not to think too long about it. If he stayed here any length of time, he was certain he would go mad.
So intent was he on holding the memory of Watcher Headquarters in his mind that it took him a moment to register what was right in front of his eyes. There was the building itself, at the center of this improbable environment. It rose above head and almost seemed to touch the not-sky. Perhaps it did.
There was no sign that the building had once been reduced to smithereens. Every stone and every windowpane had been returned to their proper place. Any charred marks, any ash from burnt portions had been disappeared.
With a deep breath of the not-air, Rupert set a foot on the lowest step leading up to the entrance. It was solid underfoot. The portal at the top opened with a twist of the doorknob, and he stepped inside.
It was too quiet. It shouldn't have surprised him as much as it did.
His footsteps echoed across the marble tiles in the wide entrance hall. The interior of headquarters had been fairly modernized. Though old masonry, columns and ceilings had remained intact in many of the rooms, the walls on this floor were plain and flat except for the occasional painting.
The electrical cables strung outside connected to nothing at all, but the lights went on when he turned the knobs beneath the secretary's counter. The air was cool, leading him to assume the air conditioning was fully functional, as well. A telephone rested on the counter next to a typewriter. Many of Rupert's colleagues had shared his dislike of computers. It was just as well. Computers were too complex to function properly around high concentrations of magic. They had a tendency to explode, especially near the number of powerful artifacts the Watchers kept in the vaults down below and in the cataloguing and restoration chambers above.
Corridors to the left and right led into the two branches of the building, the south and east wings. A marble staircase beside and behind the secretary's counter ascended to the first floor. Weaponry, which he remembered was an assortment of decorative and battle-ready pieces, were arranged on the wall along the staircase.
In order to phase the building and himself back to proper reality, he needed to be at the exact center of the building. He crossed the echoing tiles to the foot of the stairs.
There should have been guards, posted at the main entrance and before the branching corridors. A secretary should have been sitting behind that counter, inquiring as to his reason for visiting Headquarters. None of them had desired to die. None of them had deserved that fate. It seemed rather unfair for them to suffer a bombing, be transported to a pocket dimension where they were healed and kept in limbo for four weeks, only to be lost, irrevocably, after that period of time. It baffled him; why keep the building intact, but hold onto its occupants for only a short period of time? What, exactly, happened when they were removed from this pocket dimension? It wasn't much of a protection spell, if it didn't ensure the safety of the very people who needed and used the building.
But, then, the Council had never taken a vested interest in keeping individuals alive. Slayers had oftentimes been considered expendable; why not treat Watchers with the same disregard?
The answers likely lay in the Library on the first through fourth floors. One of the Council's volumes was bound to contain all pertinent information on the Council's protective spells.
The carpet on the staircase muffled the tread of his shoes. If it hadn't, he wouldn't have heard the bolt behind him locking.
He looked back at the door. As he turned, something drifted by in his peripheral vision. He couldn't tell what.
Even as his brain whirled from surprise and puzzlement, he flattened himself against the wall. He should have been the only animate being in this miniature reality. Obviously, he'd been mistaken.
He stopped and listened, but heard no other sound. He had a stake in his jacket, but he didn't know if it would do him any good. He took a sword out of its wall bracket and studied the blade. It was blunt, meaning it was decorative. He replaced it and grabbed a nearby axe. This one was sharp.
He descended the steps slowly and peered down either wings. He saw nothing but architecture. This did little to reassure him. He tried to undo the bolt on the door, but it was thoroughly stuck. The doorknob wouldn't turn, either. In fact, the door wouldn't budge even a centimeter. It was as if something kept it in place. He had no idea what that something was.
"Wonderful."
He had two courses of action, locate the being hiding in the building or continue upstairs and get to where he needed to be to perform the second part of the retrieval ritual. There was the chance that if he phased the building back to Earth, whatever was inside might come along for the ride. That would not bode well.
He sighed. He'd really been hoping for something clean and simple. Well, perhaps not simple, but something straightforward. How hard could it really be, to retrieve a hundreds-of-years-old building from a pocket dimension?
He scowled, turned right and began a cautious walk down the south wing corridor, heading in the direction he'd seen the figment disappear.
Though he remained at alert, listening and watching out for anything odd, he felt a pang as he moved along the corridor. To either side of him were doors, all closed, which led to either offices or conference rooms. His lips pressed into a thin line as he scanned the names on the doors. He didn't recognize all of the names; he'd spent as little time as possible in London and at Headquarters in the past seven years, even while he was in England last year. Some members had retired and had been replaced by younger staff he'd never met.
The central corridor intersected with other corridors. He glanced down each branch but saw nothing out of the ordinary…except the view out the windows on the far walls. Each new glimpse of that purple and black landscape caused his grip to tighten on the axe's shaft.
The main corridor ended at a T-Junction. Directly ahead was an office door. The legend had been painted in gold, Q. Travers, H. C. W., or Quentin Travers, Head of the Council of Watchers.
Quentin. The other man's death had done little to stop the anger Rupert felt whenever Rupert thought about him. He felt an odd mixture of satisfaction and horror, as well. He didn't regret Quentin's passing, but no-one deserved to be erased from existence.
Unlike every other door he'd come across, the door to this office was open a crack. It was dark within.
He pushed open the door, and light from the hallway spilled into the room. He saw a hint of an old, floral rug, a tall and full bookcase he knew had been crafted in the seventeenth century and an ebony desk placed before the opposite wall.
The darkness behind the desk obscured the crossbow decorating the wall, except it wasn't darkness.
The creature, whatever it may have been, flowed over the desk and rushed him. Some details of the creature's form became clearer as it entered the light, but they were a blur as Rupert threw himself to the side.
He thought he saw something that looked awfully like tweed.
The creature flew into the corridor. Rupert pivoted and turned to face it. He froze.
The ghost of Quentin Travers said, "Rupert?" at the same time Rupert said, "Quentin."
What was left of the Head of the Council floated off the ground, as was standard with ghosts. Unlike a normal apparition, however, Quentin wasn't white and translucent. He was in colour. His checks were a normal hue for someone alive. Since he'd taken the position as Head in 1998, he'd proceeded to lose half of his hair. He wore a gray tweed suit and a brown vest, appearing the picture of propriety even in death.
One moment, he appeared solid; the next, he was somewhat translucent, and then he was solid again. The constant shift between the two was a little disorienting.
Rupert lowered the axe. "Trust if one of the Council survived, it would be you."
Quentin made an amused sound. "I wouldn't call this survival."
He shook his head. "Good God, man, what happened?"
"My own stubbornness, I'm afraid. One moment, the building was being blown up; the next, we found ourselves here. And we waited." Quentin's anger and disappointment bore into him, making him wince. "For four long weeks. Peters and Farian both lost their minds and attempted to injure other members of staff. They spent their last weeks of existence in the dungeons. I don't suppose you knew them, so it likely doesn't matter to you."
So, it was possible to go mad here. The knowledge wasn't comforting. "It does matter. I am sorry."
"So you would say after it is too late."
Rupert fought down a surge of irritation. It would do him no good.
"We tried to return to Earth ourselves, but of course, that is not how the retrieval spell works." Quentin looked away. "Why ever not is what I would have wanted to know."
"You don't want to know anymore?"
"I'm dead, or as near to it as I'm going to be. It wouldn't make any difference now." Perhaps out of habit, because he surely didn't need it now, Quentin took a breath. "After the four weeks were up, everyone simply began to disappear. The dimension would not accommodate us any longer, another condition of the spell that I would have changed if I'd been able to do so. Before it was too late, I cast a protection spell on myself." He sighed. "As you can see, it didn't work quite as I had intended."
It was the longest voluntary explanation the man had ever given Rupert.
"So," Quentin continued, after a moment of silence. "Here you are, come too late. I assume you still want to retrieve the building, to use the resources held here for your disposal."
There was something in his tone, though calm and business-like on the surface, that caused Rupert to tighten his grip on the shaft of the axe. "As the new Head of the Council, it is my right and my obligation."
Quentin laughed. "New Head of the Council? Surely you are not so naïve."
Rupert tensed. "I'm sorry?"
"I'm not dead. Not completely." He shrugged. "Part of me is, I will admit, but not all of me. Until that occurs, I am still Head. And I will not relinquish control of this building to you."
Rupert shifted his stance. "For what reason?" His eyes slid down the corridor, looking for any other apparitions. "The Council is not completely gone. We still have need of the research materials here, the weapons, the financial records."
"I do not care why you need it." Quentin's lips curled back into a snarl quite unlike any expression the Watcher had used in life. "The Council is gone. Those of our number who were not at Headquarters at the time it was sent into this hellish place failed to help us! They are traitors, all of them-including you, Rupert Giles!"
A number of feelings and thoughts passed through Rupert's mind.
First, came anger, which quickly became rage. The ghost of Quentin Travers had dared to call him-him!-a traitor. After everything that had happened…everything he'd lived through and done …
He fought with difficulty to suppress those feelings before he lost all control. And once he'd calmed down, another thought came to him.
He's completely right. Guilt rose again in his throat, and he squashed it back down with the rage.
He's starkers. What was left of Quentin Travers had lost its mind. There could be no reasoning with a madman.
If he wanted to get out of this place with his own sanity intact, or as intact as it had been before he'd come to this place, he had to get upstairs.
Now!
Rupert darted past Quentin's sputtering half-alive ghost and took off at a run down the corridor.
Halfway to the entrance hall, pain flared up in his knee. He lost his balance and nearly fell. His arthritis had never been so painful as now, but then, he hadn't done any serious running in months, perhaps not since Sunnydale's destruction.
A scream that was very human and full of rage echoed down the corridor in his wake. Rupert cursed his body's timing as he righted himself and kept going. The pain faded into the background as adrenaline flooded his body.
He skidded into the entrance hall and pounded up the stairs. Halfway up the first flight, hands wrapped around his ankles and pulled. Rupert cried out as he fell against the steps. His vision swam, but he twisted onto his side and swung the axe.
Quentin hovered in the air above him. Rupert could see the ceiling through his translucent form. The axe passed through the apparition. The blade lodged in the railing and wouldn't tug loose.
"Now, that is not fair," Rupert said.
Quentin's expression of absolute fury never wavered.
In desperation, Rupert's leg lashed out. It connected, and the not-ghost soared backward through the air. Rupert's mouth dropped open.
With a snarl, Quentin slowed and flew straight back.
"Bugger." Rupert scrambled to a standing position and hurried as fast as he could up the stairs. He didn't look back, but he heard Quentin's mad mutterings become louder and louder.
The corridor at the top of the stairs branched to the left and right. Rupert climbed up the last stair and threw himself to the left. Tweed-covered arms followed by legs soared through the space he'd vacated. Instead of slowing, Quentin kept going and flowed through a wall.
Rupert skidded around a forty-five-degree corner, hurried down the south wing corridor and entered the Library.
Instead of branching corridors, such as what could be found on the south wing's ground floor, the central nave of the Library rose four stories to a rib vaulted ceiling. A clere story near the top offered darkened views of the world outside. Electric chandeliers suspended from the ceiling offered the only illumination. Shelves filled the arcades to either side of him, and more were visible beyond the railings on the second, third and fourth floors.
The heavy sound of his footsteps echoed up to the high ceiling. He passed aisles upon aisles without stopping. The Library was the quietest it had ever been, for even a dozen studious Watchers could make noise. The feeling of solitude reminded him of the Sunnydale High Library during one of the many periods of the day when he'd found himself alone with his books. He would have loved to be alone now.
His eyes skipped over the labels on the side of each bookcase. He really hoped that Head Librarian Crampton hadn't decided to reorganize the Council's extensive collection and place the section he needed on another floor.
He breathed a sigh of relief, a difficult thing to do when one is panting, when he found the section he was after, 00043. He darted into the aisle. "Now what?" he murmured. Hundreds of titles lay before him on this aisle alone. He scanned the spines closest to him as he tried to remember the particulars of this category of the Council's Decimal System. He wasn't as familiar with this category, but then, Sunnydale had only occasionally dealt with apparitions of any sort.
"00043.27…" He let out a sigh of exasperation as his memory failed to yield the next decimal point. He stared at the books catalogued in the .27 subcategory of category 00043. It started partway down the aisle on the top shelf, some eight feet high, continued to the bottom shelf and back to the top in the next partition.
Giles blinked as he came to a realisation. The entire subcategory was about apparitions.
8 at the third decimal point of any category always held volumes containing defensive and offensive spells and advice. Much of it was rubbish, he knew, would prove to be rubbish. He needed to determine what was useable and what wasn't. He tracked the titles. "How to Combat Mental Projections of One's Opponents…The Ancient and Honourable Art of Defensive Projecting…"
"Rupert." Quentin's voice was low and distant, but it echoed in the chamber. "Do you know why you are so disappointing?"
Ghosts and How to Avoid Them by Agnes Nitt, Witch…Defensive, Enslavement and Binding Spells to be Used Only Against Incorporeal Forms…Yes.
"I've read the reports from your teachers at the Academy. They all say much the same thing, that you were a promising young man with the Council's best interests at heart."
Rupert snatched up the book and hastily flipped through the pages.
"Head Watcher Litterman's mistake was removing you from your position here as librarian and assistant trainer," said Quentin. His voice was a little louder. He was closer. "We should never have given you direct supervision of a Slayer.
"From what we'd been able to ascertain using the Third Entity, which as you know is no longer in our possession, and other resources, we thought she was a simple valley girl, engrossed in erroneous matters such as clothes and boys. Litterman assumed you would not have any trouble controlling her."
Quentin's hovering figure appeared at the end of the aisle. "As tragic as his loss was to the Council, it is perhaps fortunate his health failed when it did. He never learned of your failure."
"Finished?" Rupert asked. Quentin's figure faded into and out of solidity. Rupert continued to flip through the book.
Quentin's eyes fell on the book. He swooped forward.
Rupert hastily began the spell. "I Banish Thee, Creature of Air and Earth; I Banish Thee, Remnant of a Being Since Gone; I Banish Thee, from This-"
Quentin bowled him over to the stone floor. The page of the book disappeared from his field of vision, and the arcade's vaulted ceiling replaced it. Quentin's face appeared, blocking his view of the ceiling. Any semblance of sanity was gone from the deceased Watcher's eyes, along with any desire to make grand speeches.
Quentin's solidified hands wrapped around Rupert's neck. Rupert held the book where he could see it behind Quentin's left shoulder and continued the incantation.
"-Place, Until the World Around Thee Doth Crumble and-"
Quentin growled and pressed his fingers into Rupert's windpipe. Rupert desperately took a lungful of air and kept going. Purple spots appeared in his vision, threatening to obscure the page of the book.
"-Thine Existence hath been Extinguished!"
Quentin's growl became a scream of pain.
The fingers disappeared from around his neck, and his head thudded against the marble floor. He stared at the ceiling, took in a breath and then another as the screaming continued.
Glass broke, and Quentin's cry faded into the distance. Silence fell in the library.
Rupert's skull rang painfully and caused him to mutter a number of obscenities. He leaned against the shelves as he stood.
Glass littered the nave. One of the windows in the clere story had shattered, likely when Quentin was thrown through it. Wherever Quentin was, it would have to be within a radius of a few kilometers from the building, but it wasn't inside. Rupert was safe as long as he didn't leave headquarters.
He hadn't expected the spell to be that helpful. Considering his luck, it wouldn't last until "the world around doth crumble" but for only a handful of seconds, then Quentin would be back. He'd stay on his guard.
He tucked the book under his arm and jogged to the Library entrance. He ascended the stairs up to the second floor, which was roughly halfway up the building and would have to do as the location of the building's exact center.
The second floor was decorated much the same as the first and ground floors. An old, creaking wooden floor with a richly embroidered rug terminated at the base of walls decorated with tapestries and carved wood paneling.
The south wing corridor would quickly bring him to the second floor of the Library. The east wing corridor, to the right, would direct him to recreation and exercise rooms, the latter used typically and by the senior staff but by Academy novices and the youngest Watchers.
Directly in front of him, instead of a sharp ninety-degree corner where the two wings met, there was a door. Rupert pressed his back to the wall, reached over and turned the handle. He didn't need any more surprises.
The parlour on the other side had the shape of a cut diamond, with the door in the fifth wall. Windows in the two walls directly opposite would have afforded views of the Thames and the opposite bank; instead, they reminded Rupert just what lay outside, as if he needed any more reminding. He'd never realised how many windows could be found at Headquarters. He wove around high-backed chairs, footstools and little tables and came to a stop before one of the windows. He stared out at the bright violet meadow and twisted flora, but he couldn't spot Quentin.
It was ironic that the center of the building was the very room where Council members retired to have a smoke. There were brandy and sherry bottles and, curiously, one bottle of coke on the tables. One bottle had shattered on the rug before a chair. Rupert tried not to wonder who had held it. Perhaps it was a good thing, indeed, that Mark Litterman hadn't lived long enough to be killed in a place so far from his beloved home country.
It took a few moments to drag the heavy chairs away from the center of the room. He ached from various bruises, and another minute passed as he lowered himself to the floor and arranged his protesting legs in a lotus position.
He closed his eyes, surrendering his vision to darkness, and focused inward. Now that he was concentrating, he could feel the power he'd borrowed from Xander. It was still there, and still strong, but it wasn't as strong as before.
He frowned and opened his eyes. He'd used a significant portion of the borrowed Potential Entity power when he'd phased here, more than he'd expected. What he had now would not be enough to phase both him and the building back to Earth.
He'd failed.
He propped `his elbows on his knees and dropped his head in his hands. The madness would probably set in any time now. He wondered if the spell would erase him from existence if he stayed here for four weeks. He might just find out.
There had to be something he could use. He needed a certain kind of magical power. Perhaps the Council had something stored here that would prove beneficial.
In the days when he'd worked here daily, he'd divided his time between the Library and the training facilities. He'd set foot into the vaults no more than twice, and it hadn't been to help catalog the magical objects and weapons that were a part of the Council's collection. He'd have to familiarize himself with the cataloguing system Charles, Johnson and Petrov had used, then he'd have to sort through the collection to see if there was anything useful.
That would take far more time than he was willing to spend here. The only alternative was… "Quentin."
Quentin was a being caught between life and death, or between two planes of existence, if his explanation had any semblance of truth. Rupert's encounter with him seemed to support his claim.
The energies Quentin used to maintain that balance between planes might just be the kind Rupert could use to phase the building to Earth.
There was only one problem with that. That same energy was likely keeping Quentin intact. If Rupert took that energy, it was possible Quentin would not survive the transfer.
-----
The local radio stations and news programmes gave the same baffled report. Storm clouds had gathered over the Thames for a day. No one could say for certain from what direction they had come. The clouds had appeared out of nowhere. London's citizens and tourists waited for the downpour that didn't seem to be coming.
Willow folded her arms and studied the weather. Xander placed his hands in his pockets and stared up with her. They stood within the L-shaped pit. The enchanted candle hadn't been moved from its spot and stood at their feet.
It was just past noon, and many commuters were out on the sidewalks on either side of the pit, heading toward the local cuisine. Xander's stomach growled. He ignored it in favor of studying the passersby. Not one of them glanced at the pit. They didn't even seem to realize it was there. According to Willow, a Masking Spell was responsible, meant to conceal the Watchers' Council from public scrutiny. Apparently, the spell had been placed on the location and not the building, if it was still intact with the building gone.
Xander wondered, idly, what would happen if he climbed out and jumped in front of one of the passing Londoners. Not that he would try to find out just for laughs. He knew how people in Sunnydale and Cleveland would behave. In the former, they'd scream and run. In the latter, they'd scream and run, spray mace in his only good eye or beat him senseless.
He turned his attention back to the sky. If anything, the clouds had grown darker. "I'm thinkin' the darkest cloud up there is right on top of us," he said. "I'm also thinkin' it's gonna be a really big storm, like fill-the-giant-hole-in-the-ground-with-a-neverending-torrent-of-rain kind of storm."
She didn't look away. "I'm thinkin' you're right."
"What should we be expecting here? All this for the Council building?"
Willow shrugged. "I'm not too familiar with the specifics of the spell that sent the building into the pocket dimension, but the Retrieval portion of a lot of powerful Transportation Spells tend to cause a reaction in the elements of the reality in which the Retrieved object will manifest."
Xander blinked. "Wills. You know to dumb down to Non-Wicca-speak for all us Regular Joes."
Still not looking down, she reached over and shoved him. "You're no Regular Joe, Mister, so don't let me hear you talking like that." After a moment, she continued, "The clouds are drawn here by the Council Building's imminent return. As soon as it appears in this dimension again, it'll rain. A lot. It might rain regular old water. It could be something more mystic-y, like a Rain of Ice Cream Sundaes, or a Rain of Frogs." She made a worried face. "I hope it's not frogs."
Xander smiled. "In that case, let's rally for the Sundaes." He checked his watch and sighed. "It's been two days since we did the spell. Giles should have been back by now."
Willow frowned and looked down at the candle. "Yeah. He should have."
Xander shivered. "The protective pouch isn't helping as much anymore." He held up the amulet he still wore around his neck. "I'm thinking the magical levels have increased past its protection."
Willow quirked an eyebrow. "Impressive Wicca-speak, Xand. What was that about dumbing down?"
He smiled back. "Hey, hanging out with you, I'm bound to pick up something. Rest assured, you would still whoop my butt in a magic book quiz."
"Darn tootin'." She became serious. "What do you sense, exactly?"
Xander shivered again and buried his hands back into his pockets. "The same sense of wrongness I felt before Giles and I did the first stage of the Retrieval Ritual. Like something's tried to phase that wasn't supposed to, or it's trying to phase right now but it's not having much luck."
-----
The thought of having to face a crazed poltergeist a second time didn't thrill him. He was tired and hungry. Rupert found a few things that hadn't gone bad in the ground floor pantry, next to a kitchen with dishes still in the sink. He prepared his meal quickly and steered clear of that part of the kitchen.
Anywhere he went, he was reminded of just how empty it was. He did his best to ignore it as he sat in the dining room. Of course, the only other thing on his mind was Quentin. By the time he'd finished his meal, he'd made up his mind.
He had done horrible things in his time. He'd suffocated a man to ensure a goddess's death. He'd fed power to demons that had used their newfound strength to perform evil acts.
In the case of the former, it had been necessary to ensure the continuation of the multi-verse. In the case of the latter, it had been due to his stupidity, anger and desire for power.
He stood on the steps outside the entrance and stared at the edge of the universe, a handful of kilometers away. He could just make out a small, gray figure floating over the grass before a background of stars. Defensive, Enslavement and Binding Spells to be Used Only Against Incorporeal Forms was open in Rupert's hands.
"I Summon Thee Who hath been Banished. Thou Shall Return to This Place from Whence Thou hath been Cast Out, but Thou Shalt Not Return Freely. Three Times Thine Caster Shall Speak: Thou Shalt Be Bound. Thou Shalt Be Bound. Thou Shalt Be Bound."
The gray dot on the horizon was still a gray dot, but as he watched, it grew closer until he could distinguish arms and legs.
As Quentin rushed through the air with limbs wheeling, Rupert heard his scream. He came to a sudden stop two meters above the steps.
Rupert winced but forced himself not to look away. He'd brought this about. He would see it to its end.
Quentin's glare was as icy as an apparition could manage. "Damn you to the Fourth Hell of Izelbaum!"
He didn't seem manic, just angry. It was an improvement. Rupert hesitated, then began. "I need to borrow magical energy in order to work the second stage of the Retrieval Ritual.
"As the appointed Head of the Council, elected by voting members of the Watcher's Council, it is my duty and my obligation to provide for whatever needs we may have by any means at my disposal. I have come here to retrieve the rightful property of the Council. Now that I have bound you to this location, I expect your full cooperation. If you do not cooperate, then you will be made undone."
That was how binding spells worked. If a bound spirit or being absolutely refused to follow commands, it would become steadily weaker with each ignored command until it died. Because Quentin was already half-dead, refusing even one order would likely destroy him.
Quentin's face turned a deep shade of red. His shoulders shook.
It had been impossible to ruffle the man in life. Rupert hoped Quentin wasn't slipping into another manic episode. Though, if he thought of it, it would make some things less difficult. It was easier to harm something that was trying to cause him harm in return.
"I know the sort of energy required to perform the ritual, Rupert," Quentin said through gritted teeth. "It is the very energy keeping me in this state."
"Do you really wish to continue like this forever?" Rupert tilted his head and lowered his voice. "There's nothing here for you anymore."
"That is not for you to say!" Quentin stretched out his arms and swooped down. Rupert raised an arm and dodged to the side.
Quentin didn't get near. He screamed and landed, hard, against the steps and slumped across them, clutching his head.
"You're only make things worse for yourself, Quentin! I have bound you; you know full well you can't harm me or attempt to harm me without hurting yourself instead."
Quentin stood and faced him. His half-alive feet seemed to touch the steps. "Damn you…Master." He spit out the word.
Rupert did not flinch. He held Quentin's gaze. "If you're quite finished. Follow me."
He turned and strolled up to the open door. He did not check if Quentin was floating along behind him.
An inner calm settled within him. The old rage of his youth would not control him. The indifference and determination he had learned to summon since that period of his life was at the fore.
He tried his utmost not to acknowledge this part of his psyche, but the piece he'd allowed to surface was ample proof he was already quite mad without the assistance of this place. Buffy and the others did not know how deeply his personal madness ran. He wondered what they would think if they learned of what had and would happen here. They would not hear of it from him. The knowledge would do them no good, and it would not be the worst secret he would take to the life after.
He led the way up the stairs and into the parlour and bade Quentin hover in the center.
He positioned himself on the ground before the half-alive spirit and set a candle on the floor between them. He'd found it in the magic supply vault. He lit the wick. "The position you hold, between life and death, is unnatural," said Rupert. "When the Council building is removed from this reality, the reality will collapse, and nothing within it will survive. You must move on, either now or later."
"Do not try to bury what you are about to do in righteous excuses," Quentin snapped. "If the Council building remains here, so will I. I will not assuage your guilt for doing something so selfish."
Rupert looked up sharply. "As if you are free of the same behavior. You have no need of this facility any longer, and yet you assume a claim over it out of a pitiful attempt at revenge." His voice hardened. "Watch the candle." Just as with the first part of the ritual, the candle was needed to help the participants focus.
Their gazes locked. Quentin grimaced but didn't look down.
Rupert glared. "Quentin Travers, I command you!"
Quentin began to shake. "If it means my death either way…" He sneered. "…I will not assist you."
"You will obey-" Rupert stopped. His mouth dropped open.
Quentin's features, clothes, and skin transformed into a solid black form bereft of details. The dark humanoid shape changed back into Quentin.
It was happening; the madness was setting in. But, no, Quentin screamed before the transformation occurred a second time. His voice faded with his form. When the black blob became Quentin again, he wasn't screaming anymore. Instead, he gurgled, as if drowning. Drool frothed down his chin.
Horrified, Rupert surged to his feet. He knocked over the candle and hastily stomped out the flame that spread to the floor. Smoke rose from the charred rug, but not enough to obscure his view as Quentin convulsed. "Quentin! Stop!"
Quentin's eyes rolled back into his head. A moment later, the whites of his eyes turned black. Dark gray smoke drifted in swirls from the his nose and mouth. The smoke cascaded to the floor and spread, quickly covering the space around his feet, then the rest of the floor in the room.
Rupert backed away. Bile rose in his throat. He'd seen countless bodies in his career, but this was different. He felt it in his stomach. No living thing, man or creature, should ever witness this.
Quentin's features took on a pasty gray tone that spread to his clothes and shoes. More convulsions racked his body. He made no noise.
He exploded. Black and gray particles flew in all directions, backed by a shock wave of energy, the same energy that had kept his form intact.
The wave knocked Rupert onto his back. His head hit the edge of a table, and everything faded out.
-----
"It's coming," said Willow.
"Oh, yeah." Every area of Xander's skin itched, and the sensation had brought friends armed with feathers and other torture implements. He squirmed and grasped the amulet around his neck. Relief flowed down his fisted hand to the rest of his body.
The clouds overhead were as dark as night, darker than any regular storm clouds. Xander would have thought the clouds had vanished and a blanket of stars had arrived, except for two things. One, there were no pinpricks of light identifiable as stars. Two, on the horizon in any direction was a streak of blue, evidence that daylight could be found in other parts of the hemisphere.
Headlights of cars turned on hastily. Tires squealed and metal, plastic and flesh tore apart as land and water vehicles collided. In the Thames, a restaurant boat blew its whistle as a tour boat veered off course. Pedestrians froze on blackened sidewalks unlit by timed streetlights. Midnight had fallen over the wide city of London.
Over the tops of the buildings and into the mostly empty street came the shouts of confusion and screams of people for blocks around. There must have been a ton of panicked people to be heard where Xander and Willow stood, on the sidewalk beside the pit.
They winced and turned away as bright daylight, suddenly and inexplicably, shined down upon them. More shouts and more sounds of crashes reached their ears as the darkness vanished, along with the clouds. Blue skies stretched overhead.
Through the gaps in the buildings, Xander watched a few more cars ram into each other and the railing on the closest bridge.
He patted his arms and chest. He felt odd, and it took him a minute to realize he felt normal. The sensations he'd experienced in the past few days around the empty pit had disappeared. Weary, he pulled the talisman's leather thong off his neck. Nothing changed. He felt no itching, no sudden bouts of unconsciousness, and no other unpleasantness.
"Something went wrong," said Willow, worried.
The pit was empty. Watcher HQ hadn't reappeared.
"Where is it?" Xander looked behind him, but the rest of the street hadn't altered. "Did it go somewhere else?"
-----
With a shout, Rupert regained consciousness and sat up. He looked around, and for one crazed moment he didn't know where he was.
The smoke was gone. Any trace of Quentin Travers was gone. The upturned candle next to a darker, torched section of rug remained. That was all.
Had he lost his senses? Had he imagined the whole thing? He shook his head. No. It had been all too real.
Unease settled in his stomach. He stood and called, "Quentin?" He received no answer.
He'd failed. He slumped forward and caught his balance on a chair. He could feel the leftover energy he'd borrowed from Xander still inside him. It was enough to get him back. It wasn't enough to move the Council building.
After everything he'd done to get here, after all that happened once he'd arrived, after what he'd been willing to do…he'd still failed. It was impossible. After all the times he'd pulled through, that they'd pulled through, this shouldn't have happened.
He stared around, taking in the high backed chairs, side tables and liquor cabinet. He thought about the weapons, the shelves, walls and cages of them, in the east wing of the building. He thought longingly, mournfully, about the largest collection of mystical tomes in the world. He thought about the bank locations, account numbers and accounting books in the offices in the west wing, locked in safes he didn't have the time or the skill to open. They were lost forever now. This little venture of his had gained them absolutely nothing.
Hubris was a word he'd believed hadn't applied to him in any way that counted. Oh, how wrong he was.
"Damnit!" He kicked the chair. Rage, unlike anything he'd felt in a very long time, overcame him. He ceased thinking. He acted.
He took out his frustration and his shame on the furniture around him. He didn't stop until his shoulders and hands ached from overuse. He rarely lost his temper. Even when he did, he never resulted to violent behavior except for a handful of times. They were more secrets he would take with him when he left this life.
As he assessed the destruction, he remembered why he avoided slipping into that special kind of rage. Two chairs had lost their legs and one table lay in pieces. He found he could remember only snapshots.
No, this place, no matter how much longer he would be there because of Quentin's sacrifice, wouldn't drive him insane. He didn't need to be driven.
With a heavy heart, not relishing the news he'd give the only friends he had who were still alive, he left the sitting room the way it was. He'd go on one last walk through the building. Then he'd go. There was nothing else he could do.
THE END