Wesley smothered a yawn as the plane descended. He'd packed his things, thankful that he'd been staying in a furnished apartment. Using the meager amounts of magic that he'd learned, he'd vindictively packed all of the weapons and the shelves full of books that he'd brought with him as a Watcher. Perhaps the Council had declared him disgraced and dead, but those book and the full sets of prophecies and the compendiums of demons and the histories of vampires hadn't been bought with Council funds. He'd spent his own money on them, and for the love of God, he was keeping them. He'd used his magic to seal the shelves and shrink them, to secure and reduce the trunks of weapons.
Granted, they were now the size of matchboxes, and the swords could almost double as toothpicks and sewing needles, but they were small enough to put in his carry on luggage. It had taken a two hour ritual to shrink them, and it would take an hour long ritual to restore them to their proper size, but they could safely be transported. He had clothing, two sets in the carry on and the rest in a trunk. He had proper English tea, and Grandmother's tea service, regretfully packed in his luggage as well, and hopefully well padded by his clothing and the towels.
Even with magic, it was rather depressing that everything could fit into a total of three pieces of luggage. None of his former associates would still talk to him, unless it was some of his non-Council contacts. They might not talk to him anymore either, depending on how much contact they had with other Council sources.
He needed this job with the Frost Academy. Even if he wound up trying to hammer Latin into the thick and sleepy skulls of teenagers. He was well and truly out of other options. What else was there, getting some form of transportation and roaming the countryside as some sort of independent demon hunter? The very idea was laughable.
The airport was crowded, but not as bad as it would have been if his flight had arrived earlier. Wesley managed to find the luggage pick up, and dragged his two trunks off of the conveyor. They didn't appear to have picked up any serious damage, though the corner of the smaller trunk had picked up some scuff marks. Sighing, he strapped the smaller trunk to the larger trunk, and set off for the main doors. He had a simple plan: a taxi, a hotel, and then several hours of blissful sleep before he had to figure out his interview. One with little room for errors.
An hour later, as Wesley surveyed the hotel room, he sighed. "Dear God, I need a job. I can't keep running on hope and desperation, and I can't go home. I'm not asking for a luxurious idyll, I'm not asking for lovely young women to feed me grapes and libraries full of first edition texts. Just a decent place to stay, and a job to pay for it. Please?"
Wesley sagged onto the bed, looking at the bland walls with the poorly done paintings. The bland, uncomfortable furniture, and the television with six channels, none of which were interesting. "This can't be my life for the next twenty years…"
Tucking himself into the bed, Wesley sighed. Hopefully his meeting tomorrow with Headmistress Frost would go well. He wanted, needed a job, and he was starting not to care where. Or maybe she could point him towards an opportunity, even if only a job in a bookstore or something. Sleepily, he wondered just what she'd be like.
End part 3.
Morning didn't improve the hotel room, nor did it give Wesley a clearer idea about Ms Frost. Even her first name, Emma, didn't help. One of his grandmother's dearest friends had been named Emma. He'd had a primary school instructor named Mrs. Emma Rutlidge, and a girl named Emma Daily in his grade. He'd had a disastrous date with a woman named Emma in college. There were simply too many ages that she could be.
"Don't panic," he told himself. "If Emma Frost is an older woman, I'll try to look earnest, charming, and in need of a little mothering. For someone closer to my age, charming, and I'll try to come across a bit older than I look. A plan will make things go more smoothly."
It didn't take much longer before Wesley was cleaned up and ready to go see Ms Frost. To his frustration, it took longer to get a taxi to take him there than to get ready to go somewhere. As the driver took off, presumably towards the address on the envelope for the Frost Academy, Wesley grumbled, "Note to self, if I'm going to be staying here, purchase some form of transportation instead of depending on bloody taxis all the time."
The Frost Academy was a collection of pale classical buildings, with lush shade trees, beds of brightly colored flowers, and a pond with several swans gliding over the surface. All in all, a gorgeous and undoubtedly expensive campus that whispered of excellence and exclusivity. It took him several minutes to find the executive building, though he was pleased to see that there was a directory just inside the double doors. The office for Ms. Frost, Headmistress was on the third floor.
Closing his eyes, Wesley took a moment to try to calm himself. He was a qualified, capable man, well educated in literature and languages, and he wasn't going to let an ornate and elaborate campus intimidate him. Now, to find the blasted stairs…
The stairs located, Wesley began the climb. It wasn't difficult to go up the three flights, and he certainly didn't feel winded, but it did give him a bit more time to try to organize his thoughts and calm himself in preparation for his interview.
By the time he reached the office, his hand wasn't shaking at all. Two raps on the door, just below the name plate, and he waited to see if Ms. Frost was in and had time to see him.
"Come in," a woman's voice, not old, not flighty sounding. Firm, calm tone of voice with an educated American accent.
Wesley opened the door, and froze. Emma Frost… not at all like he was expecting. The woman was young, with a face that could have been his own age, or ten years either way, with ash blond hair falling just past her collarbones. A white jacket was unbuttoned over a white corset that made no secret of a glorious figure. Pale eyes measured him, showing less emotion than Quentin Travers at a budget review.
Boyish charm would not help against this woman. He would have to be calm and competent. Blast, he was much better at boyish charm than calm competence.
"Good morning, Ms. Frost," Wesley offered. "I received your letter about my application."
"Mr. Wyndham-Price. Have a seat," one pale hand gestured at a chair, gleaming in steel and white upholstery. "I've been checking your references and your history."
"Quite understandable," Wesley nodded, trying to swallow with a throat that suddenly felt very dry. "Your letter mentioned finding discrepancies? I was unaware of any discrepancies or oddities in my history."
"The first discrepancy is regarding a history class at Oxford," Ms. Frost began. "Despite a listing of students and guest lecturers, I have been told that no such class was ever offered at the college, and that Oxford has no knowledge of several of the guest speakers in question."
Wesley blinked, suspecting that she must mean one of the classes in prophecy interpretation, or perhaps demonology. "What conclusions have you reached about that discrepancy, and the others that you've noticed?"
"Eighteen classes that allegedly never took place, half of them given by people who are supposedly not affiliated with the college. An internship with the British Museum with a man who seems to have some rather curious blanks in his memories, all connected to the time you were there. Several men who claim not to have the faintest clue who you are, despite their tax records," Emma's smile held no warmth.
Wesley only nodded, unsurprised at the lengths to which the Council had gone to ruin his chances and blacken his name. "Let me guess, they told you that I must be a crazed, delusional loon to make such claims about classes that don't exist and people who don't know me."
"Very close, Mr. Wyndham-Price. You seem unsurprised by these discrepancies. Should I assume that you have an explanation?" one pale brow arched at him, and she leaned closer.
For a moment, Wesley's thoughts had absolutely nothing to do with Oxford, Watchers, or employment. They focused entirely on Ms. Frost and her lovely corset, and the idea of Ms. Frost out of her corset. Trying to force such thoughts away, he could feel himself turning red. "I'm not certain that you'd believe me if I tried to explain, Ms. Frost."
"If you could explain exactly what this 'Council of Watchers', sometimes referred to as a 'Watcher's Council' is, I would be most interested," Ms. Frost spoke with arctic tones. "I've run into repeated difficulties that originate with one Quentin Travers."
"The short version, Ms. Frost, is that the Watcher's Council is an old, semi-secret organization based in London. They seldom reveal their true purpose, and the recent centuries have seen politics take a greater and greater precedent over the stated purpose. My family has been involved with the Council for over six centuries, and I was… I was recently cast out. That would be why you are getting very unhelpful reports," Wesley sighed. It would have been very nice to get a job, especially one working with such a beautiful woman. "The Council is currently run by Quentin Travers. He likes to view it as his own personal empire."
"And what exactly does this Council watch?" Ms. Frost spoke again, her words insistent.
"Demons. Vampires," Wesley sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose, "And potential Slayers. Also the active Slayer."
"I recognize the terms demons and vampires, but what is a Slayer?" this time her voice held puzzlement.
Wesley took a deep breath and decided to go for it. The worst that would happen was that he'd wind up in some sort of institute, drugged to the gills with things that made life simple and happy. "A Slayer is one girl or young woman in the world chosen by destiny to fight the vampires and demons. She is mystically empowered, giving her enhanced strength, speed and healing, and sometimes prophetic dreams. She fights against the forces of darkness until she dies, and then another is Chosen."
"And Travers wants this Slayer to be his obedient little tool?" Ms. Frost scowled, "Somehow I don't think things would be that easy for him."
"The current Slayer is rather independent, and resisted efforts to be placed under Council guidance," Wesley chose his words carefully. He didn't know if it mattered that he'd been the chosen Council pawn to try to bring the Slayers under control, or that he'd failed due to their stubborn independence combined with his own youthful inexperience.
"What else have you been taught, besides literature, French, Greek and Latin?" Ms. Frost spoke again, her tone suggesting that her mind was spinning several different plans at once.
"German and Sumerian, I can read Arabic and old Egyptian Hieroglyphs, and I know fencing and archery as well as some unarmed combat techniques. Unfortunately, most of my skills have only been tested in controlled circumstances," Wesley admitted.
"Would you be willing to teach fencing and combat as well as languages?" Ms. Frost spoke again, her attention focused on him.
"Yes," Wesley spoke quickly, hope flaring in his stomach.
"You're hired. Officially you will teach literature and Latin, there will also be some students for you to give fencing lessons. Some of the students here are special, and have unique abilities," she smiled.
Wesley blinked, part of his mind focused on those first two glorious words – you're hired. Another part wondered about these special students. Instead, he smiled, and whispered "Thank you, Ms. Frost."
"Call me Emma," her smile still lacked warmth.
End part 4.