FIC: Perfect Vengeance -- Chapter Two
Mar. 10th, 2005 11:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shipperxThe Kink: Time travel, specifically S6 Spike and Buffy in 1880s London.
Three other requests: Spike has "replaced" William, but only he and Buffy know; Buffy acknowledges real feelings for Spike (happily or reluctantly; it's your call); and Cecily eats her heart out when she realizes what she could have had.
Previous Chapters Archived Here
Rating: Currently PG, Eventually NC-17
When the buggy ride from hell had ended in a quiet, upscale neighborhood, Buffy had jumped down and hidden in the well-groomed park that dominated the center of the square.
Halfrek had clearly committed herself to maintaining the illusion of being a proper Victorian lady, so Buffy had decided that it was pointless to confront the demon as long as there was anyone else around. Shivering in the bushes, Buffy had watched Desmond escort Halfrek into a five-story, white stone townhouse. A few moments later, Desmond had returned, but by the time his carriage left, Halfrek’s front door had closed.
Sitting in the dark, Buffy had wondered what to do next. Pounding on someone’s door in the middle of the night rarely led to the good; doing so in a time, place, and outfit where she had been repeatedly mistaken for a prostitute smacked of being a really bad idea. Ultimately, Buffy had decided to wait in the park until morning.
When the sun had risen, causing the dusting of frost on the grass to glitter like fairy lights, Buffy had decided that she had taken all that she intended take. After pausing long enough to study where Halfrek's townhouse stood in relation to the square, Buffy had walked down the street and around the corner in search of the alley that ran behind the houses.
Half an hour later she found herself standing on a second floor window ledge picking thorns from a climbing rose bush out of her skirts.
Using the garden trellis as a ladder had been her last resort, reached after looking into windows on the lower floor and finding bustling servants in every room.
Buffy shook her head with a mixture of disbelief and mild cognitive dissonance that she was in a place where someone had an entire staff of early-rising servants. One thing was for sure, with the snotty way that Halfrek had behaved last night, the demon would not be among them.
Now, Buffy shuffled sideways along the ledge while clinging to the building's Portland stone façade. She felt certain that she must look like a character from a sitcom, one that had probably starred people named Lucy and Ethel. Only she was seriously sans Ethel, looking ridiculous all alone.
Knowing that the longer she remained on the ledge, the higher her chances were of being caught, Buffy quickly sidled over to the nearest window. She pulled on the frame but --no luck-- the window wouldn’t move. Scooting further down, she tried the next window. This time a quick, superstrength-augmented jerk upward broke the latch, giving her a chance to open the window just as her foot caught on her hem, sending her tumbling to the floor.
Spike leaned closer to the mirror and stared at the reflection he hadn’t seen in well over a hundred years. He’d seen himself in pictures and on video, but this was different. This was immediate and alive.
Alive.
Suddenly, Spike became aware of the fact that he was standing in a shaft of morning sunlight, and, instead of incendiary heat, he felt only pleasant warmth.
Spike spun on his heel, inspecting the room where he had slept. This wasn't his crypt. Though a large, mahogany four-poster bed still dominated the room, this bed wasn’t draped in tattered synthetic satin. This one had hangings of Indian silk and Egyptian cotton Damask.
And it was all too hauntingly familiar.
Panic flooded him. =What the buggering hell is going on?=
His head still throbbed with the memory of bad pop music, Guinness, Budweiser, Cuervo Gold, and Stolichnaya. And something else. Something ...
“Cecily!” he growled.
Grabbing a pale grey coat off the back of an armchair, Spike charged through the bedroom door and bounded down the stairs. He was halfway across the entry hall before he heard the gasp behind him.
“William?”
There was no mistaking the soft, distressed female voice. It pulled him up short and dragged his emotions backwards across lifetimes. Shame, love, reluctance, impatience, and grief combined to choke him. And, though he recognized her voice instantly, his own sounded distant and strange as he turned to greet her. “Mother?”
Anne rushed across the marbled-tiled entry hall. “William, whatever is the matter? Where are you going in such a rush?” She gingerly touched his cheek, just below his left eye. “What has happened to you?”
Spike remembered the faint blue mark that he had seen in the mirror. It was a bruise left by the Slayer in her efforts to distance herself from him after being discovered in flagrante delicto by Captain Cardboard.
Self-consciously, Spike lifted his hand and covered the injury. “It’s nothing.”
“But, William—“
“It’s okay.”
She looked at him with a puzzled expression, and Spike realized that he probably should not have said ‘okay.’ It was an anachronistic hold-over from his Sunnydale vocabulary. If he wasn’t careful, he’d soon be adding Ys to the ends of words where they didn't belong.
Then it struck him like a fist-to-the-gut, that he was in 1880, staring at his mother, and she was here gazing at him.
She looked tired. In his memory, she had glowed with an affection-endowed aura. But in the flesh, she appeared wan and frail, and her eyes were cloudy rather than a dazzling shade of blue.
Anne laughed gently. “I daresay, if you were set upon by ruffians you would not tell me.” She patted his cheek. “Dear boy, I am not made out of glass.”
But she might as well be. Even now, her strength seemed to visibly fade. And with a sense memory that lingered long after he had wished it dead, Spike felt the ache of helplessness that had haunted him in the final days of his life, as he watched his mother's glow dim day by day.
All the old feelings came flooding back the moment she touched him. When was the last time someone had expressed concern for him? When was the last time someone had cared? One hundred twenty and some odd years gone; and he was a man --or something like it-- and still, he missed her.
Anne straightened his tie.
=Bloody hell.= Spike realized with astonishment, =I’m wearing a tie.=
She smoothed the lapel of his grey morning coat. “That is better." Then, she smiled. It was a lovely, Madonna-like expression to his quite biased eyes.
“You must be mindful of your appearance. Dr. Gull is here, and you mustn’t forget that he is the Queen’s personal physician.” The arch way she said the words and the amused sparkle in her eyes reminded Spike that his mother had always found it humorous that Dr. Gull dropped that bit of information into every conversation.
=Braggart,= Spike thought, but found himself pleased with the rediscovery that, for all of her gentility, his mum was no stick-in-the-mud.
She placed her hand on Spike’s sleeve. “Let us go into the salon. The doctor is waiting.”
As they entered the sunlight-filled parlor, Spike began separating fact from fiction in his head. He had known the real Dr. Gull. But on pilfered HBO, he had recently watched the godawful Johnny Depp movie which claimed that the pompous-though-harmless royal physician had become Jack the Ripper as part of some bizarre Masonic Cabal.
=Bollocks.= Anyone who knew anything was aware that the real Ripper had been a Kra’lok demon who had run amok on the streets of Whitechapel.
Still, Spike thought there might be amusement in seeing the old man again. At least he thought so until he saw the doctor's face. Then, long buried memories coalesced, and Spike knew exactly what horrible day this was.
A girlish “eep!” greeted Buffy as she looked up to see Halfrek, swaddled in lace. The demon huddled beneath pristine white sheets with her hair drawn up in little twisty things that were supposed to work as curlers.
“Oh thank God.” Buffy climbed to her feet and dusted herself off. “Someone looks more ridiculous than I do.”
Halfrek pulled the sheets up to her chin and said, “Get out.”
“Not a chance. Not even if you repeated it three times in an ear-piercing shriek like my sister.”
“Who are you?”
Buffy rolled her eyes. “Like you don’t know.”
“I know quite well that you are the strumpet who accosted my person last night at Drury Lane. But who are you?”
Buffy crossed her arms. “Let me give you a hint: a birthday party where everyone came and no one went.”
Halfrek stared at Buffy mutely. She really appeared to have no idea what Buffy was talking about.
Buffy pointed to her hideous and now filthy dress. “Your not-so-friendly fellow bridesmaid for Anyanka’s extravaganza wedding.”
Halfrek blinked and looked confused. “Anyanka? Marry? A man?!” She covered her mouth with a ladylike hand and giggled. “That would be a sight to see.” She coughed and composed herself. “But it would never happen.” The demon climbed out of bed and straightened her voluminous white lawn nightgown. “I would suggest that you leave.”
A new thought came to Buffy, and she lunged for the pendant that hung around Halfrek’s neck. The delicate gold chain snapped easily, and Buffy threw the jewel-encrusted circlet on the floor, smashing it with her foot.
Nothing happened.
That is, nothing happened other than destroying the pendant.
Buffy turned and found herself confronted by a striated, demonic face. “What in the hell are you doing?” Halfrek demanded.
“Well, you know, destroy a demon’s token or whatever—“
“Talisman?”
“Yeah.” Buffy stooped, picked up the mangled necklace, and frowned. “That was supposed to work.”
Halfrek snatched the pendant from Buffy’s grasp. “This is not the only piece of jewelry that I own.”
Buffy began to search the room.
Hands on her hips, Halfrek looked irritated. “Do you honestly believe I would tell you where the rest of it is kept?”
Feeling discouraged, Buffy momentarily slumped, then visibly steeled her resolve. “I have one more clue to tell you who I am.”
“Oh, and what might that be?”
“Does the word ‘Slayer’ mean anything to you?”
The word "Slayer” might as well be “mouse” because Halfrek gave another “eep!” and leapt onto the bed. For a moment, the demon looked terrified, but the expression quickly faded. “You're not French. I heard that the Slayer was French.”
“My mom was . . . third generation removed.”
Halfrek gathered her dignity, and the folds of her nightgown, before gingerly stepping off the bed. “You are not the Slayer.”
“Am so. Just not this century’s.”
“Pardon?”
“Time travel.”
Halfrek looked doubtful. "So the Council sends Slayers through time now?"
Buffy shook her head. "Not the Council. You."
“Me? I sent you forward in time?”
“Backwards.”
Halfrek's frown deepened as she considered what Buffy had said. “That would explain it." She cocked her head slightly to one side. “Are you sure that I did this to you?”
“I can’t say for sure. But you seem candidate most likely.” Now, Buffy frowned. “And why don’t you know this?”
“If you are claiming that I cursed you to go backwards in time, then it would be my future self who cast the spell. Clearly, I would have no memory of it as I have not done it yet.” She crossed the room and removed a royal purple dressing gown from her armoire.
“But, you can undo it,” Buffy insisted.
“Perhaps." Halfrek pulled on the dressing gown. "If you know the vengeance wish that I granted and who I granted the wish to.”
Buffy’s jaw dropped. “What?”
“If you know—"
Buffy raised her hand. “I heard you, but ...” Fear and outrage bubbled inside her. “Are you serious? I have to know what was wished and who wished it?”
“I believe that is what I said.”
“But I don’t!”
Halfrek tied the sash of her dressing gown around her waist and pulled her hair from beneath the collar. “That is unfortunate. Under those circumstances, there is nothing I can do for you.”
“Wait. Wait. Dawn. You granted a wish to my sister, Dawn, recently. Could you have cast another spell for her?”
“Double Indemnity applies. Have you done anything additional to her since the last vengeance spell?”
“I didn’t do anything the first time!” Buffy protested.
Halfrek sniffed. “So they all say. Clearly you did something or she could not have wished for the curse, and I could not have granted it. So, what did you do to her?"
"Nothing."
"Is there someone else who could legitimately claim that you have wronged them?”
A mental picture of a dark alley and a familiar male voice calling her name flashed through Buffy’s mind. She shifted uncomfortably. “Legitimately? No.”
“Then I cannot help you.”
“Wait! Legitimately, legitimately or he just has to believe that it’s legitimate?”
“Are you asking whether someone must have a valid grievance in order to be granted a vengeance wish?”
Buffy nodded.
Halfrek told her, “Then the answer is yes.”
“But it’s not legitimate! He’s a vampire. I’m a Slayer. I’m supposed to ...” Her voice trailed off.
“Supposed to what?”
“Nothing,” Buffy said defensively ... okay, she said it somewhat petulantly.
Halfrek waved her hand. “No matter. I could not grant the wish of a demon. For a wish to be granted, the wronged party must be human.”
“Oh, but ... ” Buffy felt a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. “There is no one else.”
“Then, yet again, I tell that I cannot help you.”
“But ... ” All Buffy could think of was a Richard Gere 'Officer and a Gentleman’ cry of “I have no place else to go!" Which was mostly true. And Buffy even admitted it to herself once she said it out loud.
Halfrek shook her head and drew a silver-backed brush through her curly, dark hair. “That is hardly my problem."
In a lightning-fast move, Buffy pulled Halfrek into a chokehold. “Lookit, Ms. Demon, one twisty move of my hand and --Anya-friend or not-- there’d be no more vengeance for you.”
A somewhat-less-than-fearful Halfrek pointed out, “And I daresay that you would be stuck in a century, which is not your own, for the rest of your natural life.”
=Okay, score one for the vengeance demon.= Buffy let go of Halfrek, but not of the fight. “I bet having your cover blown to your stuck-up human friends wouldn’t be so great for you.”
Halfrek’s hand fluttered above her décolletage. “Good lord, are you threatening me with extortion?”
Buffy smiled. “That’s a pretty way to say ‘blackmail.’ ”
=She’s going to die.=
As Spike watched his mother pour tea, that was all that he could think about ... which was ridiculous because, for him, she had been dead for well over a century. But she was alive now which made the knowlege fresh and painful all over again. It was the dire prognosis that he had remembered when he had seen Dr. Gull.
His mother had been ill for ...
Spike couldn’t remember the length of time his mother had been ill prior to her death. Those details were lost to the mists of time, but he remembered that it had felt like forever.
“Consumption” was what Dr. Gull had called it. It was what tuberculosis had been known as in these times. And it was fatal. It had eaten away at his mother’s life and beauty. And this was the day Dr. Gull had arrived to tell William that time was growing short. His mother’s illness had entered the final stages.
“I am sorry,” the aging physician had said.
Spike’s gaze followed Anne as she dropped sugar cubes into a cup of tea, her every move measured and ladylike.
“Does she know?” Spike asked.
Dr. Gull shook his head. “I thought it best not to strain her delicate constitution. I find it is best to deal with the man of the house.”
Dawn would have leapt to her feet and yelled, ‘Sexist!’ but Spike knew this was a different age with different expectations.
“I think she may know,” Spike said quietly.
“She may suspect,” the doctor conceded.
=She knows,= Spike thought decisively as Anne handed the doctor a cup of Earl Grey.
And, in his former life as William, Spike had known that she had known. Yet both William and Anne had chosen not to speak of such dark things.
Spike stood and walked over to the mantelpiece, mildly surprised by the discreet expressions of wealth throughout the room. He had forgotten what to him had been a simple fact of life. Now, it struck him that the Gainsborough portrait above the fireplace would be enough to allow Buffy to quit the DMP and return to school. It would be enough to fund a college education for Dawn as well.
How strange that money had meant nothing to him then. Now. Ever, actually. As a man he had been privileged with inherited wealth. As a vampire, free to roam and to kill, he had simply taken whatever he wanted. It was only recently that money had become an issue.
If he had possessed this painting, there never would have been an agreement to harbor Suvolte eggs for the promise of a bit of ready cash ... cash for her. And if there had been no eggs, then maybe ...
“I’m using you. I can’t love you. I’m just being weak and selfish ... and it’s killing me. I’m sorry, William.
The china teacup’s handle shattered in his hand.
“William!” Anne hurried to his side.
“I—“ Spike tried to pull a proper response from his long-buried past, something appropriate to the timid, priggish man he had been. “I am sorry, Mother. I seem to be unduly clumsy today.”
She wrapped a napkin around his bleeding hand. “It happens to the best of us, dearest.” She took the damaged cup and set it on the tea tray. “Another?” she asked, and he nodded dumbly.
=What the bloody hell am I doing?= Spike asked himself. Better question, what the hell had he done to land himself in this mess in first place?
His memory of the previous evening in The Bronze had alcohol-obscured, fuzzy edges. He remembered tasteless American beer, anger, and Cecily. It didn’t take a brilliant man to suss out a connection between the arrival of the demonic version of his Victorian crush and his sudden relocation to the latter half of the nineteenth century.
Cecily had recently sealed the Slayer, himself, and others into Buffy’s interminable birthday party on little more than a slip of Dawn’s tongue. So, now the question was, what had his own reckless mouth gotten him into? Exactly what had he said, because with vengeance demons and lawyers, it always depended on precise wording.
Spike knew that he had been grousing about Buffy. He didn't remember it, but he knew it. What, precisely, had he said?
He was still pondering the question when his mother handed him a fresh cup of tea. “Biscuit?” she asked.
Spike nodded, suddenly aware of hunger ... and the scent of blood.
He placed the teacup on the mantle and examined his bleeding hand. He could smell the blood far too keenly to be merely human. Something deep inside him craved the crimson liquid, longed for it. He unwrapped his hand, staring at the scarlet wound between his thumb and index finger. After a surreptitious glance to assure himself that no one was looking, he lifted his hand to his mouth, extended his tongue, and licked it.
=Ugh!=
“William, what are you doing?” Anne asked.
Spike jumped, rattling the teacup on the mantle, which he grabbed before it crashed to the floor. Turning on his heel, he offered up the Wedgwood china as his somewhat comical defence. “Um ... tea ... “ He gulped down the lukewarm beverage. “Just savoring the tea.”
“But I thought you wanted a biscuit?” She indicated the tea cart.
“Oh, of course, of course.” But, as he reached for a cookie, she noticed ...
“The wrapping has come undone.”
“ ’s nothing,” Spike dismissed.
“So you always say.” She cast an appealing look at the physician. “Perhaps Dr. Gull can properly bandage your hand.”
The doctor nodded and patted his lips with his own linen napkin. “Happy to, dear lady.” He straightened his spectacles and moved to a patch of sunlight. “Now, young man, let me see what you have done to yourself.”
Spike reluctantly offered up his hand for inspection.
“How odd," the physician observed. " ‘tis barely a scratch.”
And it was --one that disappeared with preternatural speed.
Spike gazed at his hand, holding it aloft in the sunlight. What kind of freak was he?
CHAPTER THREE
Three other requests: Spike has "replaced" William, but only he and Buffy know; Buffy acknowledges real feelings for Spike (happily or reluctantly; it's your call); and Cecily eats her heart out when she realizes what she could have had.
Previous Chapters Archived Here
Rating: Currently PG, Eventually NC-17
CHAPTER TWO
When the buggy ride from hell had ended in a quiet, upscale neighborhood, Buffy had jumped down and hidden in the well-groomed park that dominated the center of the square.
Halfrek had clearly committed herself to maintaining the illusion of being a proper Victorian lady, so Buffy had decided that it was pointless to confront the demon as long as there was anyone else around. Shivering in the bushes, Buffy had watched Desmond escort Halfrek into a five-story, white stone townhouse. A few moments later, Desmond had returned, but by the time his carriage left, Halfrek’s front door had closed.
Sitting in the dark, Buffy had wondered what to do next. Pounding on someone’s door in the middle of the night rarely led to the good; doing so in a time, place, and outfit where she had been repeatedly mistaken for a prostitute smacked of being a really bad idea. Ultimately, Buffy had decided to wait in the park until morning.
When the sun had risen, causing the dusting of frost on the grass to glitter like fairy lights, Buffy had decided that she had taken all that she intended take. After pausing long enough to study where Halfrek's townhouse stood in relation to the square, Buffy had walked down the street and around the corner in search of the alley that ran behind the houses.
Half an hour later she found herself standing on a second floor window ledge picking thorns from a climbing rose bush out of her skirts.
Using the garden trellis as a ladder had been her last resort, reached after looking into windows on the lower floor and finding bustling servants in every room.
Buffy shook her head with a mixture of disbelief and mild cognitive dissonance that she was in a place where someone had an entire staff of early-rising servants. One thing was for sure, with the snotty way that Halfrek had behaved last night, the demon would not be among them.
Now, Buffy shuffled sideways along the ledge while clinging to the building's Portland stone façade. She felt certain that she must look like a character from a sitcom, one that had probably starred people named Lucy and Ethel. Only she was seriously sans Ethel, looking ridiculous all alone.
Knowing that the longer she remained on the ledge, the higher her chances were of being caught, Buffy quickly sidled over to the nearest window. She pulled on the frame but --no luck-- the window wouldn’t move. Scooting further down, she tried the next window. This time a quick, superstrength-augmented jerk upward broke the latch, giving her a chance to open the window just as her foot caught on her hem, sending her tumbling to the floor.
Spike leaned closer to the mirror and stared at the reflection he hadn’t seen in well over a hundred years. He’d seen himself in pictures and on video, but this was different. This was immediate and alive.
Alive.
Suddenly, Spike became aware of the fact that he was standing in a shaft of morning sunlight, and, instead of incendiary heat, he felt only pleasant warmth.
Spike spun on his heel, inspecting the room where he had slept. This wasn't his crypt. Though a large, mahogany four-poster bed still dominated the room, this bed wasn’t draped in tattered synthetic satin. This one had hangings of Indian silk and Egyptian cotton Damask.
And it was all too hauntingly familiar.
Panic flooded him. =What the buggering hell is going on?=
His head still throbbed with the memory of bad pop music, Guinness, Budweiser, Cuervo Gold, and Stolichnaya. And something else. Something ...
“Cecily!” he growled.
Grabbing a pale grey coat off the back of an armchair, Spike charged through the bedroom door and bounded down the stairs. He was halfway across the entry hall before he heard the gasp behind him.
“William?”
There was no mistaking the soft, distressed female voice. It pulled him up short and dragged his emotions backwards across lifetimes. Shame, love, reluctance, impatience, and grief combined to choke him. And, though he recognized her voice instantly, his own sounded distant and strange as he turned to greet her. “Mother?”
Anne rushed across the marbled-tiled entry hall. “William, whatever is the matter? Where are you going in such a rush?” She gingerly touched his cheek, just below his left eye. “What has happened to you?”
Spike remembered the faint blue mark that he had seen in the mirror. It was a bruise left by the Slayer in her efforts to distance herself from him after being discovered in flagrante delicto by Captain Cardboard.
Self-consciously, Spike lifted his hand and covered the injury. “It’s nothing.”
“But, William—“
“It’s okay.”
She looked at him with a puzzled expression, and Spike realized that he probably should not have said ‘okay.’ It was an anachronistic hold-over from his Sunnydale vocabulary. If he wasn’t careful, he’d soon be adding Ys to the ends of words where they didn't belong.
Then it struck him like a fist-to-the-gut, that he was in 1880, staring at his mother, and she was here gazing at him.
She looked tired. In his memory, she had glowed with an affection-endowed aura. But in the flesh, she appeared wan and frail, and her eyes were cloudy rather than a dazzling shade of blue.
Anne laughed gently. “I daresay, if you were set upon by ruffians you would not tell me.” She patted his cheek. “Dear boy, I am not made out of glass.”
But she might as well be. Even now, her strength seemed to visibly fade. And with a sense memory that lingered long after he had wished it dead, Spike felt the ache of helplessness that had haunted him in the final days of his life, as he watched his mother's glow dim day by day.
All the old feelings came flooding back the moment she touched him. When was the last time someone had expressed concern for him? When was the last time someone had cared? One hundred twenty and some odd years gone; and he was a man --or something like it-- and still, he missed her.
Anne straightened his tie.
=Bloody hell.= Spike realized with astonishment, =I’m wearing a tie.=
She smoothed the lapel of his grey morning coat. “That is better." Then, she smiled. It was a lovely, Madonna-like expression to his quite biased eyes.
“You must be mindful of your appearance. Dr. Gull is here, and you mustn’t forget that he is the Queen’s personal physician.” The arch way she said the words and the amused sparkle in her eyes reminded Spike that his mother had always found it humorous that Dr. Gull dropped that bit of information into every conversation.
=Braggart,= Spike thought, but found himself pleased with the rediscovery that, for all of her gentility, his mum was no stick-in-the-mud.
She placed her hand on Spike’s sleeve. “Let us go into the salon. The doctor is waiting.”
As they entered the sunlight-filled parlor, Spike began separating fact from fiction in his head. He had known the real Dr. Gull. But on pilfered HBO, he had recently watched the godawful Johnny Depp movie which claimed that the pompous-though-harmless royal physician had become Jack the Ripper as part of some bizarre Masonic Cabal.
=Bollocks.= Anyone who knew anything was aware that the real Ripper had been a Kra’lok demon who had run amok on the streets of Whitechapel.
Still, Spike thought there might be amusement in seeing the old man again. At least he thought so until he saw the doctor's face. Then, long buried memories coalesced, and Spike knew exactly what horrible day this was.
A girlish “eep!” greeted Buffy as she looked up to see Halfrek, swaddled in lace. The demon huddled beneath pristine white sheets with her hair drawn up in little twisty things that were supposed to work as curlers.
“Oh thank God.” Buffy climbed to her feet and dusted herself off. “Someone looks more ridiculous than I do.”
Halfrek pulled the sheets up to her chin and said, “Get out.”
“Not a chance. Not even if you repeated it three times in an ear-piercing shriek like my sister.”
“Who are you?”
Buffy rolled her eyes. “Like you don’t know.”
“I know quite well that you are the strumpet who accosted my person last night at Drury Lane. But who are you?”
Buffy crossed her arms. “Let me give you a hint: a birthday party where everyone came and no one went.”
Halfrek stared at Buffy mutely. She really appeared to have no idea what Buffy was talking about.
Buffy pointed to her hideous and now filthy dress. “Your not-so-friendly fellow bridesmaid for Anyanka’s extravaganza wedding.”
Halfrek blinked and looked confused. “Anyanka? Marry? A man?!” She covered her mouth with a ladylike hand and giggled. “That would be a sight to see.” She coughed and composed herself. “But it would never happen.” The demon climbed out of bed and straightened her voluminous white lawn nightgown. “I would suggest that you leave.”
A new thought came to Buffy, and she lunged for the pendant that hung around Halfrek’s neck. The delicate gold chain snapped easily, and Buffy threw the jewel-encrusted circlet on the floor, smashing it with her foot.
Nothing happened.
That is, nothing happened other than destroying the pendant.
Buffy turned and found herself confronted by a striated, demonic face. “What in the hell are you doing?” Halfrek demanded.
“Well, you know, destroy a demon’s token or whatever—“
“Talisman?”
“Yeah.” Buffy stooped, picked up the mangled necklace, and frowned. “That was supposed to work.”
Halfrek snatched the pendant from Buffy’s grasp. “This is not the only piece of jewelry that I own.”
Buffy began to search the room.
Hands on her hips, Halfrek looked irritated. “Do you honestly believe I would tell you where the rest of it is kept?”
Feeling discouraged, Buffy momentarily slumped, then visibly steeled her resolve. “I have one more clue to tell you who I am.”
“Oh, and what might that be?”
“Does the word ‘Slayer’ mean anything to you?”
The word "Slayer” might as well be “mouse” because Halfrek gave another “eep!” and leapt onto the bed. For a moment, the demon looked terrified, but the expression quickly faded. “You're not French. I heard that the Slayer was French.”
“My mom was . . . third generation removed.”
Halfrek gathered her dignity, and the folds of her nightgown, before gingerly stepping off the bed. “You are not the Slayer.”
“Am so. Just not this century’s.”
“Pardon?”
“Time travel.”
Halfrek looked doubtful. "So the Council sends Slayers through time now?"
Buffy shook her head. "Not the Council. You."
“Me? I sent you forward in time?”
“Backwards.”
Halfrek's frown deepened as she considered what Buffy had said. “That would explain it." She cocked her head slightly to one side. “Are you sure that I did this to you?”
“I can’t say for sure. But you seem candidate most likely.” Now, Buffy frowned. “And why don’t you know this?”
“If you are claiming that I cursed you to go backwards in time, then it would be my future self who cast the spell. Clearly, I would have no memory of it as I have not done it yet.” She crossed the room and removed a royal purple dressing gown from her armoire.
“But, you can undo it,” Buffy insisted.
“Perhaps." Halfrek pulled on the dressing gown. "If you know the vengeance wish that I granted and who I granted the wish to.”
Buffy’s jaw dropped. “What?”
“If you know—"
Buffy raised her hand. “I heard you, but ...” Fear and outrage bubbled inside her. “Are you serious? I have to know what was wished and who wished it?”
“I believe that is what I said.”
“But I don’t!”
Halfrek tied the sash of her dressing gown around her waist and pulled her hair from beneath the collar. “That is unfortunate. Under those circumstances, there is nothing I can do for you.”
“Wait. Wait. Dawn. You granted a wish to my sister, Dawn, recently. Could you have cast another spell for her?”
“Double Indemnity applies. Have you done anything additional to her since the last vengeance spell?”
“I didn’t do anything the first time!” Buffy protested.
Halfrek sniffed. “So they all say. Clearly you did something or she could not have wished for the curse, and I could not have granted it. So, what did you do to her?"
"Nothing."
"Is there someone else who could legitimately claim that you have wronged them?”
A mental picture of a dark alley and a familiar male voice calling her name flashed through Buffy’s mind. She shifted uncomfortably. “Legitimately? No.”
“Then I cannot help you.”
“Wait! Legitimately, legitimately or he just has to believe that it’s legitimate?”
“Are you asking whether someone must have a valid grievance in order to be granted a vengeance wish?”
Buffy nodded.
Halfrek told her, “Then the answer is yes.”
“But it’s not legitimate! He’s a vampire. I’m a Slayer. I’m supposed to ...” Her voice trailed off.
“Supposed to what?”
“Nothing,” Buffy said defensively ... okay, she said it somewhat petulantly.
Halfrek waved her hand. “No matter. I could not grant the wish of a demon. For a wish to be granted, the wronged party must be human.”
“Oh, but ... ” Buffy felt a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. “There is no one else.”
“Then, yet again, I tell that I cannot help you.”
“But ... ” All Buffy could think of was a Richard Gere 'Officer and a Gentleman’ cry of “I have no place else to go!" Which was mostly true. And Buffy even admitted it to herself once she said it out loud.
Halfrek shook her head and drew a silver-backed brush through her curly, dark hair. “That is hardly my problem."
In a lightning-fast move, Buffy pulled Halfrek into a chokehold. “Lookit, Ms. Demon, one twisty move of my hand and --Anya-friend or not-- there’d be no more vengeance for you.”
A somewhat-less-than-fearful Halfrek pointed out, “And I daresay that you would be stuck in a century, which is not your own, for the rest of your natural life.”
=Okay, score one for the vengeance demon.= Buffy let go of Halfrek, but not of the fight. “I bet having your cover blown to your stuck-up human friends wouldn’t be so great for you.”
Halfrek’s hand fluttered above her décolletage. “Good lord, are you threatening me with extortion?”
Buffy smiled. “That’s a pretty way to say ‘blackmail.’ ”
=She’s going to die.=
As Spike watched his mother pour tea, that was all that he could think about ... which was ridiculous because, for him, she had been dead for well over a century. But she was alive now which made the knowlege fresh and painful all over again. It was the dire prognosis that he had remembered when he had seen Dr. Gull.
His mother had been ill for ...
Spike couldn’t remember the length of time his mother had been ill prior to her death. Those details were lost to the mists of time, but he remembered that it had felt like forever.
“Consumption” was what Dr. Gull had called it. It was what tuberculosis had been known as in these times. And it was fatal. It had eaten away at his mother’s life and beauty. And this was the day Dr. Gull had arrived to tell William that time was growing short. His mother’s illness had entered the final stages.
“I am sorry,” the aging physician had said.
Spike’s gaze followed Anne as she dropped sugar cubes into a cup of tea, her every move measured and ladylike.
“Does she know?” Spike asked.
Dr. Gull shook his head. “I thought it best not to strain her delicate constitution. I find it is best to deal with the man of the house.”
Dawn would have leapt to her feet and yelled, ‘Sexist!’ but Spike knew this was a different age with different expectations.
“I think she may know,” Spike said quietly.
“She may suspect,” the doctor conceded.
=She knows,= Spike thought decisively as Anne handed the doctor a cup of Earl Grey.
And, in his former life as William, Spike had known that she had known. Yet both William and Anne had chosen not to speak of such dark things.
Spike stood and walked over to the mantelpiece, mildly surprised by the discreet expressions of wealth throughout the room. He had forgotten what to him had been a simple fact of life. Now, it struck him that the Gainsborough portrait above the fireplace would be enough to allow Buffy to quit the DMP and return to school. It would be enough to fund a college education for Dawn as well.
How strange that money had meant nothing to him then. Now. Ever, actually. As a man he had been privileged with inherited wealth. As a vampire, free to roam and to kill, he had simply taken whatever he wanted. It was only recently that money had become an issue.
If he had possessed this painting, there never would have been an agreement to harbor Suvolte eggs for the promise of a bit of ready cash ... cash for her. And if there had been no eggs, then maybe ...
“I’m using you. I can’t love you. I’m just being weak and selfish ... and it’s killing me. I’m sorry, William.
The china teacup’s handle shattered in his hand.
“William!” Anne hurried to his side.
“I—“ Spike tried to pull a proper response from his long-buried past, something appropriate to the timid, priggish man he had been. “I am sorry, Mother. I seem to be unduly clumsy today.”
She wrapped a napkin around his bleeding hand. “It happens to the best of us, dearest.” She took the damaged cup and set it on the tea tray. “Another?” she asked, and he nodded dumbly.
=What the bloody hell am I doing?= Spike asked himself. Better question, what the hell had he done to land himself in this mess in first place?
His memory of the previous evening in The Bronze had alcohol-obscured, fuzzy edges. He remembered tasteless American beer, anger, and Cecily. It didn’t take a brilliant man to suss out a connection between the arrival of the demonic version of his Victorian crush and his sudden relocation to the latter half of the nineteenth century.
Cecily had recently sealed the Slayer, himself, and others into Buffy’s interminable birthday party on little more than a slip of Dawn’s tongue. So, now the question was, what had his own reckless mouth gotten him into? Exactly what had he said, because with vengeance demons and lawyers, it always depended on precise wording.
Spike knew that he had been grousing about Buffy. He didn't remember it, but he knew it. What, precisely, had he said?
He was still pondering the question when his mother handed him a fresh cup of tea. “Biscuit?” she asked.
Spike nodded, suddenly aware of hunger ... and the scent of blood.
He placed the teacup on the mantle and examined his bleeding hand. He could smell the blood far too keenly to be merely human. Something deep inside him craved the crimson liquid, longed for it. He unwrapped his hand, staring at the scarlet wound between his thumb and index finger. After a surreptitious glance to assure himself that no one was looking, he lifted his hand to his mouth, extended his tongue, and licked it.
=Ugh!=
“William, what are you doing?” Anne asked.
Spike jumped, rattling the teacup on the mantle, which he grabbed before it crashed to the floor. Turning on his heel, he offered up the Wedgwood china as his somewhat comical defence. “Um ... tea ... “ He gulped down the lukewarm beverage. “Just savoring the tea.”
“But I thought you wanted a biscuit?” She indicated the tea cart.
“Oh, of course, of course.” But, as he reached for a cookie, she noticed ...
“The wrapping has come undone.”
“ ’s nothing,” Spike dismissed.
“So you always say.” She cast an appealing look at the physician. “Perhaps Dr. Gull can properly bandage your hand.”
The doctor nodded and patted his lips with his own linen napkin. “Happy to, dear lady.” He straightened his spectacles and moved to a patch of sunlight. “Now, young man, let me see what you have done to yourself.”
Spike reluctantly offered up his hand for inspection.
“How odd," the physician observed. " ‘tis barely a scratch.”
And it was --one that disappeared with preternatural speed.
Spike gazed at his hand, holding it aloft in the sunlight. What kind of freak was he?
CHAPTER THREE
