Two Ladies of Quality
Author's Website: http://www.angelfire.com/rebellion/riani1/
Feedback: riani1@yahoo.com
It's been a quiet summer, since they defeated Glory. The quiet of waiting for the other shoe to drop. And some new shoes are heading for the floor.
Los Angeles in summer. Asphalt swelling in the sun. Brown-outs when the city power grid couldn't handle the drain of millions of air conditioners any longer. Angel could feel the heat through the walls of the Hyperion. He supposed the heat should have felt oppressive even to a vampire, but a few decades in hell did have a way of resetting a person's internal thermostat.
It had taken Cordelia to remind him that he didn't live alone any longer. Fred never complained about the heat, but she never complained about anything. Maybe to a Texan, LA in summer was a cakewalk, but Angel noticed she'd greeted her new window air conditioner with a small bounce of delight.
He heard it running even as he finished his morning tai chi exercises. Have to see about getting her out of that room later. Unless . . .
"Angel! Fred! Breakfast!"
Nailing her cue the way she never could on stage, Cordelia entered the lobby below. The Sunday morning ritual continued.
"You've got a housemate who needs to eat, Angel," had been another of Cordelia's lectures on Fred-care, this one delivered over a box of doughnuts and a tray of coffee. She had found a coffee shop that had a blend so dark and strong that a vampire could appreciate it. She showed up mid-Sunday mornings and made sure that Fred came out into the open for at least a couple of hours, and Angel discovered he didn't have the nerve to bow out.
Two weeks later, Wesley appeared on Sunday morning, towing the Sunday LA Times. The next week, Gunn showed up, saying he just wanted to make sure everyone was alright after whatever events had happened the Saturday night before. He stayed to read the sports section of the newspaper and argue soccer vs football with Wesley.
Angel listened to Cordy bustling around downstairs as he dressed. Fred wouldn't go down until she heard Angel was already there. It was kind of like being followed around by an adoring puppy that couldn't quite bring itself to be in the same room as you. On Sundays, though, Fred would manage to sit on the steps with everyone else in the room. She was slowly working her way lower and lower, and in a few more weeks she might even sit on one of the plush sofas in the lobby.
As he headed down the staircase, Angel heard Wes' motorcycle and Gunn's truck pull up. He wondered which of them this week would be the one to lurk in the courtyard for ten minutes so no one would think they'd arrived together.
Cordelia was setting up on the main desk: doughnuts, cinnamon rolls, orange juice, milk, coffee, and a red plastic pitcher that no one was going to mistake for human friendly again.
"Morning, Angel." She poured him a glass of blood and held it out to him, smiling brightly.
He accepted it, smiling back. "Good morning, Cordy." She went right back to setting up her buffet, but Angel watched her a moment. He had never known a human who not only took his being a vampire in stride but who even went so far as to serve him his blood. Wes and Gunn still twitched just a little at the blatant reminder of what he was, but Cordy didn't seem to care. At this year's Fourth of July party, she'd even put a little flag in his glass, like all the others.
"Good morning, all," Wes announced as he strolled through the doors. Angel raised a brief eyebrow at Gunn walking in right behind.
"Hi, guys," Cordy said. She wrestled with the cap on a glass jar. "Angel, come here and be useful." Sighing ostentatiously, Angel obeyed.
Wesley brought the Sunday paper to the desk and helped himself to a cinnamon roll. He smelled like Gunn's usual brand of soap, Angel noted as he twisted off the stubborn cap on the bottle of salsa.
"Why salsa?" asked Gunn, who leaned on the desk next to Wesley. "Hey, English, hand me one of the glazed."
"Certainly." He handed the doughnut to Gunn, a procedure which seemed to involve more finger contact than Angel assumed was strictly necessary. Wesley caught the faint smile. "What's so amusing, Angel?"
"Nothing. Cordy, why is there salsa?"
"For the nachos, silly." She emptied a bag of chips into a large bowl.
"Nachos for brunch," Wesley commented. "I suppose it makes sense to a Californian."
"It's for Fred. Familiar food, to make her feel more comfortable."
Gunn grabbed a chip and sampled the salsa. "Well, it won't go to waste either way."
Angel heard the faint footstep on the stairs behind him, but he didn't turn too quickly. "Hi, Fred," he said over his shoulder to the wraithlike girl, who had managed to come two-thirds of the way down the stairs.
Cordy gave another bright smile. "Good morning, Fred. Would you like orange juice or milk?"
Fred sank slowly to a step. "Um, juice?"
"Coming right up."
They settled into their Sunday morning routine, sharing the sections of the paper out. Angel took the want ads, but more for something to hide behind as he studied his friends. Cordelia had the entertainment section, Gunn had sports, Wesley was working through the international news, and Fred was giggling faintly to herself over the comics. Angel took a swig of cold, disgusting pig's blood to remind himself not to get too content with his lot in life.
"Who's got the want ads?" Cordelia asked.
"I do." Angel took the section over to her. "What are you looking for?"
"Oh, this and that," she shrugged. "The personals are a hoot."
Angel picked up the entertainment section as he poured himself another glass of blood. As he started scanning the front page, he noticed Cordy turning to the Help Wanted section. He was ready to ask her if she really was looking for a new job when he saw she was looking over the audition announcements. He tried to remember when she'd last been out on an audition, much less had a call back.
"When did this happen?" Wesley suddenly said, looking at his section of the paper.
"When did what?" Angel asked.
"Hector Ramierez is dead."
Cordy shook her head. "Who's Hector Ramierez?"
Angel folded up the entertainment section. "The car collector?" He ignored Cordy's smirk. Cars were a perfectly acceptable thing to have an interest in.
Wesley re-read the story. "Yes, he. Oh, dear. 'Ramierez was brutally murdered Thursday night when he interrupted burglars who had broken into the garage where his car collection is stored.'"
Gunn snorted. "'Brutally murdered.' Cop talk for he was beaten to death or something equally messy."
"This looks like merely a filler story. It seems the police have brought in his grandson for questioning. Apparently they had a fight not long before Mr. Ramierez died."
Angel drained his glass. "You said burglars. How many cars did they get?"
Cordy poked his arm. "Maybe you can find them, get to keep one as a reward."
Wesley scanned the story one more time. "Just one, it looks like. It was apparently driven away."
Gunn looked over Wes' shoulder. "What kind of car, does it say?"
"Yes, a rare De Soto Fireflite Sportsman."
They all jumped when Angel's glass slipped out of his hand and shattered on the floor. Silent Fred gave a squeak and moved up a step.
"What color is it?" Angel asked in a tight voice.
"It doesn't say. Angel--"
"Cordy, I need you to get me the police report on this. I need to know about this car and exactly how Mr. Ramierez was killed."
Cordy put down her orange juice, but she looked doubtful. "What are we looking for? Why does it matter what color it is?"
"It's a rare car. I'll just feel better if I know what color it is. Especially if it isn't black."
She folded her arms. "It easier to find information if I know why I'm looking for it."
Wesley put the paper aside. "Angel, who do you know who drives a black De Soto Fireflite?"
He sighed. "Spike."
He hadn't admitted it at the time, but Angelus had admired the old car his obnoxious descendent drove--when Spike wasn't wheelchair bound, that is. He was never able to find the keys to the thing, though. Not even Drusilla would cooperate.
"Oh, no, Daddy, the car is my Spike's darling. I think it talks to him," she confided, "like Miss Edith speaks to me. I put its eyes out once, because it was watching me and whispering terrible things." She shivered at the memory. "Spike was terribly cross."
Wesley frowned. "It might have nothing to do with Spike. There must be thousands of those cars out there, and we are in Los Angeles, where the car is king."
"They made a little over two thousand of them. I know it doesn't make any sense, but--that particular car, violent death, it makes me nervous, is all."
Cordy, bent over the computer, shook her head. "Well, score one for the big guy's hunches, then. The car is, indeed, a black 1959 De Soto Fireflite Sportsman. And as for the cause of death?" She looked up. "Severe laceration of the throat resulting in extreme blood loss. Very little blood spatter evidence at the scene of the crime."
"Damn," Angel muttered.
Wesley shook his head. "But Spike has the Initiative chip in his head. He couldn't have killed Mr. Ramierez."
"He might have had help," Angel said. "He loved that car nearly as much as he did Drusilla."
"But why now? Cordy, when did Mr. Ramierez acquire the car?"
She scrolled through the records. "About two years ago, according to the records the police have. He bought it at an auction of seized property. Damn it," she muttered.
"What?" Angel asked.
"I get visions for everything else, why wasn't Mr. Ramierez important enough for the Powers that Be to clue me in that he was going to get munched on by a vampire? Especially one working for Spike."
Gunn interrupted. "We don't know that this Spike character was the one that jacked the wheels."
"True enough," Wesley said. "It could be a vampire who was wanting some means of influence with Spike."
Cordy shook her head. "I don't know, bribing a vampire with a car? What am I saying, this is Spike. You could probably bribe him with a bottle of whiskey and a candy bar."
Angel almost smiled at that, but he was still worrying at the puzzle. "Why now? What's changed? Cordy, when's the last you talked to anyone in Sunnydale?"
She frowned. "You know, it has been a while. The Glory thing worked out all right because, well, here we are. I think Willow sent me a couple of emails at the beginning of the summer, but there wasn't much in them."
Wesley chuckled. "What, only three pages worth of gossip instead of five?"
"Not even that." She looked at Angel. "Do you think something's wrong?"
"I think I ought to head up there tonight and check on Spike. I should have been doing it anyway. God knows what he might have gotten up to by now."
"Do you want one of us to come with you?" Wesley asked.
"No, I can deal with Spike." He looked down at the broken glass on the floor. "I'd better get that cleaned up." Cordy helpfully handed him the broom and dustpan.
A hand appeared cautiously from behind the staircase bannister. "Excuse me?" whispered Fred.
"Yes, Fred?" Wesley asked.
She looked carefully from person to person. "Who's Spike? And who's Willow? What's Sunnydale?"
"That's a long story," Cordy said. "Fresh drinks all around for this one."
Angel debated calling someone in Sunnydale, but he was reluctant to get into everything with the folks up there. Besides, Spike might be innocent of involvement in the murder--
He paused to boggle at thought processes that could ever conceive of putting the words "Spike" and "innocent" together in a sentence that didn't end with a sneer.
Still, a quick there and back again, no one the wiser. Simpler all round.
Wesley volunteered to go out to the Ramierez house and see what there was to see. Angel was not surprised when Gunn went with him. Fred disappeared back to her room, and Cordelia began searching the net for more information about Hector Ramierez and rare De Sotos. Angel went to do more tai chi to calm himself before dealing with his most obnoxious family member.
The late summer light was still in the sky when he drove into Sunnydale. Each time he came here he swore it would be the last. You'd think he'd learn.
It occurred to him that he wasn't sure where Spike was. Willow's communications, while vague, had mentioned he was still in town, but the last Angel knew, Spike was living in Xander Harris' basement. When he'd first heard that, he'd had to go for a long walk in the sewers so that his chortles of evil delight wouldn't make people nervous. It was just so perfect, two of his least favorite people in the world, forced into a perverted buddy movie, sneering at each other, sharpening their admittedly quick wits on each other, taking out their frustrations . . .
Angel paused, then made a mental note to stop listening to Cordy pointing out hidden sexual tensions on TV shows. Better to think of something more pleasant, like seeing if he could make Willie actually wet himself in fear.
Still a scummy little hellhole of a place. Lorne would be mortified to know Angel had even stepped into such a dive as the Alibi Bar. He went to the back door, just in case there was anyone in the bar he didn't want to deal with just yet.
The shadows gave him a place to lurk while he observed the barroom. An average crowd, with an average mix of species. No one he knew. He slipped out and took a seat at the end of the bar. A minute later, Willie jumped quite satisfactorily when he turned and saw Angel. He walked slowly down, a sickly smile on his face.
"He--hey, Ang--"
Angel put up a finger to interrupt him. "Don't say my name. How you doing, Willie? How's business?"
"O--o--okay. What can I get for you?"
"A beer," he said after a moment's thought. "Beer would be good."
Willie hesitated, waiting for the next request, then he hurried off. "Beer. Comin' right up."
Angel sipped his beer for a few minutes, observing the crowd in the mirror. He saw a few curious glances thrown his way, but no one seemed inclined to check further. Finally, he raised a finger when he saw Willie look his way. The barkeep took a deep breath and came slowly down the bar.
"Yeah?"
"Whiskey," Angel said. "I'd like a whiskey with my beer."
Willie hesitated again, then scurried off to fill the order. He paused only a few seconds after dropping off the glass, obviously waiting for more, but Angel only tossed back some whiskey with his beer and continued gazing into the mirror. Willie left quickly for the other end of the bar. When both glasses were empty, Angel raised his finger again. Willie approached cautiously. "Hit me again," Angel said, indicating both glasses. Willie nodded and obeyed. "Oh, and where's Spike?"
Willie hesitated. "Spike?"
"Spike." Angel smiled genially. "And don't ask which Spike."
"Oh--Spike!"
"Yeah. Where is he? And while you're thinking, bring me my booze."
Willie hurried off to get the whiskey, a job that seemed to take a long time. When he glanced down the bar, Angel smiled back pleasantly. Well, pleasantly if you were Angelus, that is. Angel folded his hands on the bartop, giving every air of a man in absolutely no hurry to be anywhere else.
Slowly, Willie came back down, holding a bottle. He filled a glass and set it before Angel.
"Thank you, Willie." He took a sip, then looked at the barkeep expectantly. Willie made a show of putting the whiskey bottle away. "And the rest of my order?"
"I don't want--"
"If you say you don't want any trouble, I'll smash every piece of furniture in here. Where is Spike? That's all I want. Where can I find him?"
Angel knew that, even with the chip, Spike was not someone you wanted to get on the wrong side of. But surely terror like Willie's was new. Didn't matter, Willie's terror of Angel was there first.
Finally Willie sighed and nodded. "East side of town, a housing development that didn't make it. He's holed up there."
"Thank you." Angel drained the whiskey, dropped a bill on the bar and stood to go.
"What are you going to do?" Willie asked nervously.
Angel smiled again and enjoyed Willie's flinch. "I thought it was time for a family reunion. You won't let him know, will you? I want it to be a surprise."
Willie shook his head quickly, and Angel went out the back door..
He debated his approach as he drove across town. Maybe Spike was holed up in the dilapidated buildings nursing his helplessness in solitary exile. And maybe he'd found some kind of community, allies who might help he reclaim his beloved car. If Spike was out there drunk and depressed and alone, Angel could sneak up on him and smack him sillier before Spike knew he was there. But if he wasn't alone . . .
Angel parked his car a quarter mile out and walked into the abandoned development. The air stank of all kinds of demons and of recent traffic. He crept through the backyards of the half- built lots, keeping every sense alert for possible trouble. There was a vampire wandering around with something approaching a sense of purpose, but the music playing on his headphones had to be distracting him from his guard duty. Angel shook his head. Mr. Music better hope Spike didn't come out and find him slacking off. Angelus had demonstrated many ways of punishing minions who fell down on the job.
The building in the middle of the development showed activity. Angel circled it carefully. Light showed out of half-blocked windows, and another guard, female this time, leaned in the front doorway. A well-organized group, by the look of it.
A car engine and loud music warned him to duck behind some rubble. A black De Soto squealed tires around the corner and screeched to a stop in front of a set of garage doors. The horn beeped twice, the garage doors rolled up, and the car pulled in.
A male vampire strolled up. "Hey, boss!"
The driver's door opened with a blare of punk rock from the stereo. Spike leaned out and tossed a can of beer over.
"Thanks!"
When the song ended, Spike killed the stereo and climbed out of his reclaimed car, carrying several grocery bags. "Anything fun happen while I was out, Sammy?"
"Sorry, no."
Peeling the wrapper off a pack of cigarettes, Spike nodded at the empty side of the garage. "Where's he taken himself off to?"
"Book shipment, he said."
"Yeah, right," Spike laughed. "He's probably trolling the bus station, with his 'I'm so respectable, look at my shiny foreign car, can I give you a ride, little girl?' routine. Or little boy, depending on his mood."
The easy arrogance, the casual confidence. This was a vampire in the fullness of his power, experienced and cunning, dependent on no one for his survival. The predator scanning the herd for prey, not the scavenger looking for leftovers.
The chip had to be out. Angel was surprised at the intensity of dread he felt. Angelus, once freed from his confinement, had been a mad, ravening monster. What revenge might Spike be plotting against the humans that had neutered him? Angel had to act quickly, if nothing else but to spare the people who would be Spike's meals.
He hesitated, though. It wasn't from any twisted remnant of family feeling. Drusilla and Darla and a pool of gasoline could tell you how little that mattered if he decided it was time for a descendant to die.
Art appreciation stopped him. It had been a long time since Angel could observe Spike just being Spike without the whole history of hatred, betrayal, challenge and soul getting in the way.
Spike was a good leader, when he cared to make the effort. He had the charisma to attract followers and the strength to keep them. He inspired loyalty, too, from the way that underling, Sammy, kept one eye on him, ready to jump whichever way Spike said. Vampires, like wolves, functioned best with a clearly defined hierarchy. Spike was obviously at the top of this pecking order.
The dread Angel felt at what unchipped Spike might do was real. But so was the pride, no matter how much Angel wanted to deny it. Obnoxious, maddening, infuriating idiot he might be, but he was of Angel's line. Deny it, fight it, interfere with it as he might, his "children's" twisted talents always brought a secret, shameful rush of gratification. That was why he wanted to destroy them so much, because they were so good at what they did.
With Spike there was the added pride in his survival. The Initiative cut him open, made him their lab rat, but he never stopped fighting. To be honest, Angel half wanted Spike to find the Initiative. It might be just a little fun to watch those mad scientists get a taste of their own medicine.
In the garage, Spike gathered up his groceries and headed for an inner door. With a word and a nod, he sent Sammy to close the garage door. Angel knew he should rush in, use the surprise to remove Spike before the job got harder. The safety of the world and his own soul's urgings said this was what needed to be done. But a balls-out frontal assault was such a Spikean thing to do. Might work, might get his face kicked in. He had no idea how many underlings Spike had at his command or of the layout of the building. Spike would keep, and Angel would just have to accept the guilt for the people who died to keep Spike alive.
He headed back through the decaying buildings towards the car. Halfway there, he caught the scent of humans. Four of them, all male, no longer young. No one he recognized. He changed direction to intercept one that was on his own.
The man with the crossbow that he found smelled of tea and beer, and nervousness. Angel made sure to kick a pebble before moving any closer. The man turned in his direction, crossbow ready.
"Easy, easy, just me," Angel said, stepping closer with his hands up.
"Just you, eh?" said the man, with an English accent. "Who are you and what are you doing here?"
Englishmen with crossbows near a vampire's lair. Now, whoever could this be? Angel made sure his smile looked harmless. "I'm a detective from L.A. I'm up here tracing a stolen car."
The man frowned. "A stolen car? Here?"
"Which I spotted down there." He nodded towards the occupied building.
More footsteps approached, and two more men appeared, also with crossbows. The oldest of them frowned. "Dodgson, who is this?"
"Detective from L.A., tracing a stolen car."
"Here?"
"I somehow doubt that," said a new voice coldly. Another man came into view, older than the others, not dressed for sneaking, using a walking stick to balance on the rubble. He kept his distance and glared at Angel, who smiled back.
"No, really, I'm tracing a car. And I found it, too." He shifted slightly, putting himself between at least one crossbow and the new arrival, who sneered just a little.
"Oh, yes, the detective agency. Through which you try to atone for the incalculable evil you' ve inflicted on the world."
Angel shrugged, never taking his eyes of the man who was obviously in charge.
The senior of the three crossbowmen blinked. "Mr. Travers? Do you know this man?"
"He's not a man. He's a vampire. Angelus."
As the others gasped, Angel smiled. "I'm between you and them, and if I hear one click of a crossbow starting to fire, I'll duck, and you'll be a pincushion. Just a thought." He lost the smile. "So, Travers. Would that be Quentin Travers, the head of the Watchers Council? What brings you to Sunnydale? Did you find a new test for Buffy?"
Travers stood even straighter. "Our purpose here is none of your business, Angelus."
"The name is Angel. Or didn't you get the report from those idiots who were around last time? I'm not surprised, they weren't very bright."
"I'm more concerned about your presence here," Travers said. "Specifically in this part of Sunnydale."
Angel allowed himself a faint smile. "I heard some rumors I wanted to follow up on."
Travers tensed slightly. "What rumors?"
"Family things. You wouldn't be interested."
"On the contrary, the Council is always interested in matters involving your . . . family."
Angel glanced at the crossbowmen again. The only reason he could think the Council would send a hit squad to Sunnydale was that they'd heard Spike was back to what passed for normal. "Why now?"
Travers' hands shifted on his walking stick. "What do you mean?"
"Why the goon squad now? I imagine you're here to make sure they don't screw up everything again, but why come after Spike now? The Council didn't seem in any hurry to send in backup for Buffy when he was wandering around loose before." He blinked at the way Travers' shoulders relaxed, though the man's voice stayed as cold as ever.
"William the Bloody is not a vampire who should be allowed to run around loose." Travers' lip curled just slightly. "Failing the effective efforts of those who say their only concern is the welfare of the innocent, the Council has no choice but to act ourselves."
Angel studied the Councilman closely. He was nervous about something, but he'd lost some of his anxiety when Angel had mentioned Spike. "Does Buffy know you're here?"
"Yes, she does." Travers was definitely smug. "We are working closely with her on this project."
That hurt, in a weird way. But really, who else should a Vampire Slayer go to for help when dealing with an especially notorious and dangerous vampire, her own Watchers Council or someone who had just proven to himself he would let prime opportunities slide by?
If Buffy was part of this, though, that put a different perspective on certain matters. "You don't have enough people, not to take out Spike and whoever he's got with him."
"What do you mean?" Travers snapped, suddenly tense again.
"He's a cocky idiot, but he hasn't survived this long by being a complete moron. You'll have to take him by surprise and finish it quickly, because if he has a chance to get his feet under him, he'll take you all. I've seen three others around here, and he mentioned someone else. That's four, plus Spike, plus God only knows how many. Even with Buffy, you're outnumbered." He glanced in the direction of the lair, than back. "Remember who trained him, Mr. Travers." He didn't even try to stop the faint, menacing, Angelus smirk that flickered out.
Travers fidgeted with his walking stick a moment. "Who have you seen?"
Angel shrugged. "The usual underlings keeping watch. And you do know that it's not just vampires around here, don't you?"
"We've seen the signs." He looked very thoughtful, then met Angel's eyes. "Thank you for the warning," he said grudgingly. "We'll definitely keep it in mind."
Angel nodded. "Good night, then." He took one step away before using vampire speed to vanish into the darkness, leaving the humans to jump and gasp. He stayed within earshot though.
"Sir," said the chief goon, "we didn't really factor William the Bloody into the battle plan. We thought we could do this with a quick in and out."
"Yes, I know," Travers said. "And if he is here, we'd have to get into that lair and find him. If they are keeping the kind of security Angelus says, that would be no easy task."
"Sir," another said, "are we going to believe him? A vampire? Even if he is supposed to be on our side now?"
Travers was silent for several minutes. "I don't trust him. He has fallen from grace before. But I don't disbelieve him, either."
"Should we have told him--?"
"No. Absolutely not. There's no need for this to become gossip for the riff raff of the night."
Angel bristled silently. Riff raff?
"We should leave," Travers continued. "We don't want to risk getting caught by anything else."
Angel listened to the men depart, wondering if anything was going to jump out at them and what he'd do if something did. Nothing happened, and he was very thoughtful as he headed for his car. Who were the Council people looking for if not Spike? Was it whoever Spike had been asking about, the one who was out hunting in a shiny foreign car?
He debated going back to Willie's for more information, but another visit would require more forceful persuasion. It was just possible that Willie might tell Spike about Angel's visit in an effort to curry favor with the vampire who seemed to be in charge of such things. Maybe Giles would know something. The last Angel had heard, relations between Giles and the Council weren't overly cordial, and the ex-Watcher might be willing to say why the Council was wandering around Sunnydale.
When Angel reached Giles' complex, new residents were in his apartment, and they didn't know where he had gone when Angel asked. Maybe he'd finally decided to leave a place with so many bad memories. Maybe he'd been evicted after one too many damage-causing incidents, Angel thought with a smile that quickly disappeared after remembering his own incident. Still, he needed to talk to someone. The power structures of the Hellmouth had shifted, and he had too many ties to the place to ignore the situation.
Revello Drive was painfully familiar, peaceful and prosaic on a summer night. Lights were on all over the Summers house, and through the dining room window Angel saw Joyce, Dawn, Willow and Buffy sitting around the table talking and sipping from mugs. A girl he didn't recognize sat very close to Willow. The talk seemed cheerful enough, but with an underlying melancholy. If he'd tried, he probably could have heard their words, but he found himself content to simply watch.
Buffy looked tired. She always seemed to, whenever he saw her these days. As he watched, though, he saw her look at Joyce with an expression of uncomplicated love and happiness. She looked almost sixteen again.
He turned around and went back to his car. Tonight, for whatever reason, she was happy. If she saw him, she wouldn't be happy anymore. Information was everywhere, but there was very little peace for Slayers, and he wasn't going to be responsible for taking it away when he knew she wouldn't get to enjoy it for long.
***
In a lonely part of France was a very ancient cave. Painted on the walls were pictures hidden away from the world's eyes for millennia, strange scenes of hunters in pursuit of their prey. Unlike the mysterious caves of Lascaux, however, it was not only the hunters in these scenes who went on two legs. In this cave, the humans fled from fearsome creatures with long, clawed fingers and hungry fangs. The ancient vampires ran down their prey, ravaged and fed and gloried in their mastery over the world.
In the deepest cave, other pictures told another part of the story. A human figure fought back, attacking with a long spear as another group of human figures stood by. The warrior was smaller than the observers, as if the human who dared defy the vampires was a youth, or even a girl.
The only lights permitted were small lanterns barely capable of breaching the primal dark. The only vampire who usually occupied the caves was one so ancient he'd forgotten what his human face had looked like. He tended the paintings, speaking to them as old friends. Every few hundred years he added new ones in his own private section of the caves.
Tonight he had more mobile company, important company. Or, at least, important to themselves. The elders of the Order of Aurelius met in council, to discuss who would become their new leader.
Male and female vampires from around the world had gathered in the largest cave, where concessions to civilization had been made in the form of comfortable chairs and couches. The elders were attended by minions, and more than one had brought a private supply of humans. Debates could be thirsty work.
The vampires mingled quietly, greeting others they hadn't seen in centuries. Most eyes followed one particular female, who made sure she greeted everyone.
She had last seen the bright sun of her African homeland over two centuries ago. Her black hair hung unbound to the floor, where a human slave crouched behind her, carefully holding the hair clear of the floor and keeping the strands untangled with a golden comb. Her champagne silk gown had been made for her in 1952 by Dior himself. Her name was Fleur de Mal, and she was widely considered to be the primary candidate for leadership of Aurelius.
When the ancient vampire caretaker entered the chamber, the others ceased their conversations and bowed. He gestured them to the seats and waited till they were silent again.
"Our Master has fallen. Prophecy was fulfilled. He rose from his prison, but his reign was brief."
"Slayer," came the hiss from several portions of the chamber.
The guardian glared at his audience. "The Slayer fell. Prophecy was fulfilled. But she rose up as well, outside of all prophecy, and battled with our Master and threw him down."
"Revenge," muttered several.
"To what end?" the guardian challenged. "There are always Slayers. If not this one, then another. And that is not why we are here. Our Master has fallen. Aurelius is without a leader. You all know this, and in the time that has passed, you have discussed this. Tonight we decide."
Fleur de Mal rose to her feet. Her slave hurried to pull her hair out of the way as she stepped forward.
"I claim the leadership of the Order of Aurelius, by right of lineage and deed."
The guardian bowed in acknowledgement. Fleur de Mal gazed around at the others, waitng for the response.
On the far side of the chamber, a male vampire in impeccable Georgian court garb stood. "I challenge the lineage." He bowed to Fleur de Mal, then gestured to the minion behind him, who handed him an ornate snuff box.
Fleur de Mal inclined her head. "I am pleased, Magus, that the reports I heard of your grievous injuries were exaggerated."
The Magus smiled. "The stake bounced off a rib. Good assassins are so hard to find these days, aren't they, Fleur?" He inhaled a small portion of snuff.
The guardian frowned. "Challenge has been made to your candidacy, madam."
Fleur nodded. "On what grounds, Magus, do you challenge my lineage? My sire was begotten by the Master himself. How thin is the Master's blood in your veins?"
The Magus, six vampiric generations removed from the fledgling created by the Master in Renaissance Florence, twitched very faintly. "Your sire, yes. An interesting story, that. He was destined to be a meal, was he not? Except that he somehow managed to grab the Master's wrist and begin feeding himself. Quite tenacious of him. I believe the Master compared him to a rat."
"My sire served the Master for nearly two hundred years," Fleur said calmly.
"True, true. He cared for those little dogs, didn't he? The Master was still amused by human foibles then."
"Yes, my sire and the Master spent a great deal of time together. So many of his other children had to be summoned back to their place at his side."
The Magus brushed away a few remaining grains of snuff from his upper lip. "Yes, they were out in the world, tending to a vampire's business of blood and death, when they weren't forwarding the purposes of our Master. Still, someone had to stay behind and clean up after the little monsters."
The look she gave the Magus suggested that new and more capable assassins might be making their way to him in the near future, but Fleur de Mal's voice was calm. "Does the manner of my Sire's service reflect on the quality of the blood he received and passed down to me? I know there are vampires here who are older than I or who have a closer relation to our Master." She bowed to one corner of the chamber, where sat several vampires who were no longer able to differentiate between their human and demonic faces. "I would, of course, step aside for any of those who wished to claim the leadership."
No one in the room believed her, but it was a politic remark to make. The Magus could only smile and accept it. None of the older vampires had shown any urge towards leadership. They were content to live their lives in isolation, occasionally going out and wreaking localized havoc. The swiftly changing world baffled them, and they muttered frequently about how things were done in their day. The Master had been exceptional in his ability to adapt and accept the changes.
"You spoke of deeds," the Magus said. "Would you mind speaking of them? I sometimes lose track of what others get up to, and I do enjoy hearing tales of mayhem and adventure."
Fleur shook her head. "My deeds are known. I would hate to waste the assembly's time."
"I ask only to make sure that Aurelius has the best qualified leadership." The Magus sighed sorrowfully. "The Master's chosen, Luke, was killed by the Slayer, and none of his descendants survive. The others who served the Master during his confinement, those closest in his counsels, are also lost."
"Not lost, not all." In a far corner, one of the elders rose to his feet slowly, supported by one of his minions. He seemed swamped by his Cardinal's robes, and the scarlet biretta was perched awkwardly on a head beginning to shift permanently into demonic angles. His minion wore the robe of a Benedictine monk.
The Magus and Fleur glanced at each other suspiciously, then frowned at seeing they were both equally surprised. Fleur recovered first. "What do you mean, Your Eminence? Not all lost?"
Cardinal Fortezzi had been corrupt and venal in life. His smile still held much of its old lasciviousness. "The exquisite Darla survives.
The Magus managed not to sigh audibly. "Your Eminence, Darla was killed by Angel before we lost the Master."
Fortezzi chuckled nastily. "I'm not that old yet, Magus. I know what goes on in the world." He laughed again as the Magus shifted uneasily and Fleur smirked. "If I say Darla survives, then Darla survives. He Who Keeps knows this as well."
Everyone turned to the guardian. "Is this true?" Fleur asked. The guardian nodded. "And you never said?"
He smiled very faintly. "No one ever asked."
The Magus muffled his impatience with difficulty. "One does tend to assume that if someone is dust then they are not coming back. How, then? And where is she?"
"Where?" Fortezzi said. "I do not know. How? I do not know that either, but I know Who. Those meddlers currently calling themselves Wolfram & Hart."
A knowing whisper went round the chamber. "But why?" the Magus asked.
"Why? Why is the easiest of questions, child. To torment her lover and killer, Angelus, of course."
Fleur de Mal shook her head. "As interesting as this is, why is it relevant? Darla was a faithful servant of our Master, but she is not here to claim any rights or to present her opinions."
"True, true," Fortezzi nodded. "Still, her line is one with much potential, and she was one of the Master's favorites. He was most intrigued with Angelus, as well."
"Angelus is gone," Fleur said firmly. "Darla's line contains no one we need concern ourselves with. Darla shows no interest, Angelus is gone, Drusilla is mad, and William the Bloody is reduced to begging for his meals."
"Don't be so quick to judge, child," Fortezzi said, grinning maliciously. "That line has a remarkable ability to bounce back from their misfortunes. Darla has returned, Angelus is retrievable, Drusilla has sufficient moments of clarity to make her very dangers, and . . ."
Fleur sighed impatiently. "Yes, and? What of William the Bloody, who managed to fall foul of humans and was made helpless for his pains?"
For all the frailty of his body, Fortezzi's malice was as lively as ever. "He's not."
"Not what?"
"Helpless. He hunts again. The humans' chip is gone."
The whisper was louder this time. The human's Initiative against the demons had caused much talk and concern. A demonic jihad had been contemplated to stop them. One of the other vampires leaned forward.
"How was the chip removed?" she asked. "Most of the victims destroyed themselves, but there are still several about. Such knowledge would be very valuable."
Fortezzi shrugged. "That I do not know. My information extends only to the fact that William the Bloody is himself again."
Fleur remained unmoved. "While I rejoice that there is a way to undo the humans' atrocity, I still do not know the relevance to the current discussion, which is the leadership of Aurelius."
The Cardinal's look of unassuming concern was nearly perfect. "Aurelius is not only those of us who tend our machinations. Aurelius is also the wild ones in the night, the ones who think of us as calcified fossils who have forgotten what our fangs are for." He considered his own hands for a moment, studying the claws he could no long will away. "They may be right. William the Bloody has a reputation that appeals to the wilder vampires, the ones who dismiss us if they think of us at all."
"He is foul, unprincipled, and uncouth," Fleur snapped. "He cares nothing for the traditions of our order. His grand-sire rejected the Master and took Darla away, and he himself--" She had to steady herself. "He destroyed the Anointed One."
"Yes," Fortezzi said, all mocking gone. "The Anointed One. Who sat at the left hand of the Master, who provided the key to his release, who would have guided Aurelius in the ancient ways. But who was not strong enough to resist destruction at the hands of--" He nodded at Fleur "--an uncouth, unprincipled rogue with no appreciation for the way things have always been done." The Cardinal looked around at his fellows. "So perhaps it is time to reconsider the ways things have always been done."
Fleur de Mal could only gape for several seconds as talk broke out around her. "Your Eminence, are you suggesting--what are you suggesting? That we consider that--that barbarian for--for anything?" No one was paying attention any longer, so she strode to the Cardinal's side. Her slave scurried after. "Fortezzi, you said you were on my side," she said quietly. "What are you doing? How do you even know these things?"
"It has never been my habit to ignore those who might be rivals, even if their only seat of power is a garbage heap. Fortuna turns, and her favor falls where it was refused before. The wheel has turned for our unmannered friend. Fleur, he holds the Hellmouth, he helped bring down the Hellgod Glory, and he destroyed the Anointed One. He cannot be dismissed."
She shook her head in distaste. "But he's--have you ever met him?"
Fortezzi grinned. "Yes, I have. He and his lady, Drusilla, in Rome about ten years ago. Such an interesting pair. Yes, Spike is everything you said, uncouth, unpleasant, uncivilized--though if you get him drunk enough, he can speak quite knowledgeably about grand opera, and in the proper languages. I must admit, however, that he threatened to pin me to St. Peter's Dome with several railroad spikes if I ever mentioned Rossini or Mozart again."
"And you wants us to court him."
"He is unique, Fleur. For millennia we have followed the prophecies, the ancient courses. Our Master believed in the old ways, but he was never afraid of change. Spike is chaos personified. I believe we need a touch of chaos. We are as much a part of this world as the humans, and the world does not turn on her way immutable and unchanging. Too many of us think if we cling to the traditions that we will triumph. The humans adapt. So must we."
Fleur de Mal reserved her opinion. Enthusiasm was disconcerting, especially in such a one as Cardinal Fortezzi. She paid attention to the conversations around her. The disgusted mutters of "no dignity" and "so horribly human" and "all Angelus' spawn are mad" were met with "holds the Hellmouth" and "quite surprisingly clever" and "I don't know how well I would have survived being starved for so long."
It was breaking down along age lines. Perhaps, just perhaps, she had spent too much effort shaping her campaign to suit the oldest and most influential. The younger ones had voices, too, and there were more of them.
"He could never lead the order," she stated.
Fortezzi shrugged. "I doubt he'd want to. But I would be careful of touting your deeds and lineage just yet, with everyone thinking of Spike."
"I am only one generation removed from the Master! This--Spike has three between himself and the Master."
"But everyone knows the names of the vampires in those three generations. You're probably the only one, dear Fleur, who even remembers the name of your Sire. The one with the dogs, is how we remember him. One only has to say the word Angelus, and everyone begins telling the tales. And many of those tales include the name William the Bloody. The Master's blood is powerful, but it improves with reinforcement."
Fleur studied the old vampire, thinking of all the centuries of plots he'd concocted, living and dead. "You want him for leader. Instead of me."
Fortezzi shook his head. "The true elders would never accept him. They will accept you. But such a one as William the Bloody would be a very useful ally--if not something closer."
As she considered and watched the crowd, Fleur spotted the Magus deep in conversation with two of his own supporters. He glanced up and caught her watching, and his automatic smile and bow were a few seconds behind the thoughtful look he sent her way.
She disliked having new playing pieces appear on her gaming board, no matter how potentially useful this new piece might be. Still, even pawns were useful for getting in the way of more powerful pieces.
"It sounds worth investigating, at the very least," she said cautiously to Fortezzi. "The entire line sounds like it needs to be re-evaluated. As you said, there is potential there. Perhaps it is time for the Order of Aurelius to see to its neglected children."
Especially if it turned out that the best way Darla's line could be greatest help was to stop clouding the issues of Fleur's ascension by being dead.
End of Reorganization