Fic Update: Soul Searching Chapter 12
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gen_storytellerTitle: Chapter 12: His Soul Thou Canst Not Have.
Rating: PG13
Summary: In which we find out just who or what Wolfgang Hartram is, and Willow and Wesley discover the identity of the 'Dark Prince'.
Chapter 12: His Soul Thou Canst Not Have
Lord of himself, though not of lands; And having nothing, yet hath all.
The smooth stream of blue hummed softly against Willow’s skin. Azure currents flowed into hazy sky, collided, mingled and parted again. Deep aquamarine surged against sanguine, fought the dark undertow, finally giving way to the barrier blocking its progress. Willow ran her hands along the broad sweep of turquoise, following the contours of the channel, riding each wave as it swept alongside the snaking arterial conduits bordering its edge, shuddering to a halt at the cliff where terrazzo met carpet. Reflected lamplight glowed, pooling in mini swirls amid the flow and tow of the undercurrent. The young witch closed her eyes and followed the ocean blue streaming across the centre of the reception area, her breath escaping in short gasps as she fought the source of power.
“I know you’re here,” she ground the words through clenched teeth.
“Willow?”
She didn’t pause, her fingers buzzing at each marble chip beneath the deceptively smooth surface.
“Whoah!” She recoiled, shaking her hands. “There’s something here. I knew it! Memories in the fabric of the building,” she explained turning towards Wesley, “they sang to me.” She grasped his outstretched arm and stood up, brushing the dust from her skirt with her other hand. “. “I can feel the things that happened on the second floor. Maybe the walls can be persuaded to do the same.” She glanced towards the spot just inside the entrance and concentrated “There’s remnants of dark magic, very dark magic - there.” She pointed to a here. There's a pentogram for… ”
“For opening the portal to Quortoth,” Lorne finished breathlessly for her as he burst through the front door.
“Are you sure?” Wesley asked. “I don’t remember…”
“It all went horribly wrong. “You were busy having your throat slit at the time.” Lorne glanced nervously over his shoulder. “I feel a spot of déjà vu approaching.”
“Is Illyria with you?”
“She is.” Illyria appeared from behind Lorne her glacial gaze fixed on Wesley. “She feels the need to do violence against the traitorous minion who dared question her motives.” She tilted her head and looked from Wesley to Willow. “Which of you gave voice to such a calumny?”
“Neither of us.” Wesley’s cool reply met with a blink of surprise from Willow. “The Watchers’ Diary suggested the Dark Prince might be you. I presume we were mistaken in our interpretation.”
“Show me,” Illyria commanded. “I would know my enemy that I might remove the deceiver’s tongue from his head.”
Willow suppressed a giggle. “Strictly speaking, it’s his pen you should remove not his tongue. Or maybe his quill.” She turned to Wesley. “Did they have quills back when?”
“Illyria,” Wesley soothed, “the Watcher’s Diary was written by many scholars who sought only to bring light in a world of darkness born of fear and ignorance. Its earliest recordings were entered long after you were laid to your rest in the Deeper Well.” He thought for a moment. “And yet you may hold the key to our understanding of them.” He pointed at the objects in Illyria’s hands. “Just as you hold the key to our understanding of the secrets locked in the walls.”
Illyria studied his face. “Your apology is acceptable.”
“Um. Did I miss something?” Lorne cupped a hand to his ear. “Or is Little Miss Blue Eyes learning to pick up on subtext? I’m detecting a change of key and whole new musical repertoire with the lack of the royal ‘we’ in the lyrics.”
Wesley gave a small smile. “She’s adapting.”
------------------------------------------------------
Spike stopped alongside the Bentley’s rear window, took a cigarette from the pack and lit it.
The familiar smell of tobacco wafted in through the partially open rear door, mingling with the expensively fragrant aroma of new leather; a patina of power protected beneath pale layers of costly cosseting and lengthy lubrication processes. Buffy pressed a hand to the pristine, white side panel to steady herself, but slid slowly down the smooth, supple fabric. Her other hand gripped the edge of Angel’s coat which she’d grabbed to prevent herself falling out when he’d released the door catch. The surface bore witness to the life of the garment’s owner; rain, sweat, and blood, old stains maiming its hardened black exterior. The crazed grainy texture caught the skin on her fingertips, bringing memories of another leather coat to which she’d clung in an attempt to save herself.
Drusilla watched the lighter flame flickering in the slight breeze drifting in from the street, gazing at its centre as the colour fluctuated on eddies of air. She snapped her head towards the side window and snarled. "A Fiery Angel comes again."
"What's that, Pet? "Spike closed his lighter and fumbled the attempt to pocket it, allowing it to fall to the cement floor. It sounded a metallic note as it struck and bounced beneath the Bentley. He bent down to retrieve it, nudging the door closed with his head.
"The Angel Beast… " Drusilla's voice was drowned by the squeal of rubber on tarmac heralding the arrival of a black limousine followed by a sports saloon. They purred past the vampires and parked on the opposite side of the garage alongside the performance cars.
Spike scanned the line of vehicles. “An S Series Jag !" he whooped. "Now that’s more like it. C’mon Dru, you can play with the limo after we get you a driver flunky.” He gripped Drusilla's elbow and propelled her along in front of him.
The soft swish of leather, the familiar creak of boots, together with the echoing clack of heels, signalled Spike’s movement away from the Bentley towards the recent arrivals.
Buffy exhaled, pulled herself onto the backseat and squinted through the tiny, darkened rear window. "What now?" she whispered.
"We wait and see how this pans out before we make our move," Angel replied softly.
"And that would be…?"
"Shhh!”
Three burly figures, two tall, one much shorter, climbed out of the Jaguar. Their matching designer suits marked the vampires as members of the exclusive club of hired muscle beloved of the underworld. The short man took a briefcase from the boot of the limousine as the liveried driver opened the rear door and stood back, face impassive, keeping a watchful eye on Spike and Drusilla.
Wolfgang Hartram stared at his temporary replacement emerging from the back of the car. “Why are you here?”
“Breakfast meeting. You wished to be kept fully informed of our progress and," Sirk raised the briefcase he’d been handed, for examination, “security matters.”
Hartram frowned. “Breakfast meeting? It slipped my mind in all the excitement.” He gestured towards Spike and Drusilla.
“Don’t tell me the delightfully shallow Ms Kendal omitted to flag it in your diary.” Sirk smiled wolfishly. “I felt sure she’d cater it perfectly. I was looking forward to very best America has to offer, some nutritionally defective carbohydrate and caffeine.”
He turned his attention to Spike who was making slow progress towards them dragging a reluctant Drusilla behind him. “William the Bloody," Sirk called across the parking bays.
"The Fallen Watcher Bastard Misleader." Spike nodded in recognition.
"So we meet again. A little prematurely for the order of play.” Sirk shook his head at Hartram. “You really are out of touch.”
“You forget yourself Mr Sirk,” said Hartram.
“Really? Do remind me, for the sake of our guests. Just who exactly is it I went to all that trouble for? Three former powerful demons banished to another dimension with the fall of the Old Ones at the advent of man's supremacy in this one.”
"And now we are here. What's to stop us killing you where you stand and re-possessing our property?" Hartram adjusted the cufflinks beneath his sleeves, revealing a flash of crimson brilliance against pristine white crispness.
"Merely the fact that you're…" Sirk paused. "What's the quaint expression of which Americans are so fond? 'Out of juice'. All that dimension hopping. And the battle. Not to mention single-handedly rebuilding Wolfram and Hart headquarters - metaphorically speaking." Sirk raised an eyebrow at Spike. "They do know how to use metaphor after all, although I doubt they're aware of it."
"Ladybird, ladybird fly away home. Your house in on fire and your children are gone." Drusilla whimpered. "Daddy burned them."
"Whereas working with your paramour was a very interesting experience," Sirk observed. "She knows all about imagery. After all she is a metaphor."
He stepped towards Hartram. “You didn’t really think there wouldn’t be a price to pay for what I made possible do you?”
The suited minions moved closer together, forming a protective circle around Hartram.
"Relax boys. I hardly think Mr Sirk is here to cause us any real trouble. He merely wishes to barter a higher price for services rendered."
Sirk shifted the case from one hand to another. "Partly," he admitted. "And to ensure that things I contrived to put in place continue to operate smoothly until completion of the contract."
"You may have been invaluable in arranging our safe passage here, but we no longer require your presence for our continuing tenancy. We will have little trouble relieving you of our property which you held only temporarily to assist you in your work."
Sirk hugged the case to his chest. "My work," he sounded each word slowly, "is the result of decades of study and careful meticulous planning." He shot a suspicious look at Spike and Drusilla. "I'd hate for all that scholarly endeavour to turn to ash because someone didn't heed the warning about careful timing.”
"Time. All in motion. In the stars." Drusilla groaned.
“Quiet Dru. Want to hear what the man has to say.” Spike pulled her further away from the Bentley.
Hartram motioned the vampires away. “I’m sure we can come to an amicable arrangement.” He turned towards the door to the stairs, then stopped. “After I’ve rested. I think I’ll take the elevator.”
“And the books?” asked Sirk.
“Can wait.”
“My payment?”
“That too.” Hartram waved a hand in the direction of the cars. “There might be a bonus for a job well done. Have a look round. Pick something for yourself.”
-------------------------------------------------------------------
A slow grin spread across Wesley’s face as he watched Illyria and Willow, heads bent together over the Watchers’ Diary.
“Two powerful beings forming an uneasy alliance in search of the Truth. Fighting for the common good. Their only weapons their incisive intelligence and the ability to cut through the crap,” he quipped.
Willow raised her head and smirked at him. “Careful,” she said. “You’re beginning to sound like Andrew. And we all know where that leads.”
“Lunch bags with Union flags?”
Willow rose from her seat, her expression softening. “Feeling all redundant?” She gazed into his eyes. “Or just ‘beyond tired’? When did you last sleep?”
Wesley rubbed a hand across his eyes. “Feels like a lifetime ago.” He sighed and gestured at Illyria. “And, yes, feeling somewhat like the proverbial spare at the wedding.”
Illyria closed the book and looked at him. “You speak in riddles again.”
“I’m sorry. It’s a hard habit to break. I’ll try to cut down on the metaphor.”
“Metaphor. This is a beast with which I am familiar. The Witch and I wrestled with it continuously in the Codex.”
“As I suspected,” Wesley muttered. “The problem - was in the translation or my interpretation?”
“Neither, actually,” said Willow.
“Then I don’t understand.”
Illyria nodded her assent that Willow explain further.
“I’m not sure I do, completely. But the Cliff Notes’ version? The Watchers’ Diaries were written over time. What came as news to me…” Willow bounced excitedly from foot to foot. “And this is so cool – each time a passage is interpreted, it is literally re-written in light of the ‘time’ in which it’s being read.”
Wesley frowned and picked up the Diaries. “You mean, re-interpreted?”
“No. Re-written. It’s like a historical document chronicling events and when someone from a later era reads it, they perceive those events through the filter of the age in which they live. You know, like ‘slavery is bad’ nowadays so the President apologises to the Africans who were brought here centuries ago.”
“Judging earlier generations’ behaviour by today’s standards? But that’s just bad history!”
Willow glared at him. “Don’t make me repeat the ‘Indians’ – ‘Native Americans’ discussion I had with Giles. I’m trying to explain what Illyria knows about the texts.”
“Sorry,” Wesley apologised again. “Where does that lead us?”
“Apart from opening all sorts of interesting doors on how to approach prophecies? Not a lot.” Willow smiled weakly. “There was a passage indicating the Dark Prince might be Spike. Or Drusilla. Not sure which.”
“We have deciphered a passage pointing to the White Haired One,” said Illyria
“Uh oh.” Lorne peered over the rim of his cocktail glass. “Do I detect a return of the Royal Deity?”
“We, as in Illyria and me,” Willow explained handing Wesley a sheet of paper.
"Though much was taken, much abides; and though
He has not now that strength which in old days
Moved heaven and earth, that which he is, we are –
Champions of the Light, one equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield."
Wesley considered the translation. “Not the Dark Prince,” he concluded. “But leading the way to what we seek.” He pulled Lorne’s glass from his reach. “What did Angel say was happening over there?”
The phone on the reception desk began to ring.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hartram held the lift’s ‘door open’ button as he listened to the conclusion of Sirk’s summary.
“The second stage went without a hitch. The boy’s safely tucked up.”
“Safe? Angel’s already looking for him,” Spike scoffed.
“He can’t possibly know that….”
“Witnessed the whole snatch ‘n’ grab scene.”
“That’s not possible, you were all in the alleyway when…”
Hartram stepped back out of the lift. “Yes. Let us in on how precisely that could have happened.”
“Whenever the Ice Maiden’s around, time goes all wonky. We got the action replay a couple of hours ago.” Spike released Drusilla and moved closer to Sirk. "Seems your calculations were a little off," he challenged.
“It’s of no consequence. He’ll not find the boy.”
“What? Puttin’ him in my old basement flat’s hardly the work of the Brains’ Trust, “ Spike jeered. “First place he’ll look now that I’m here getting the temptation on the mountain treatment.”
“Give me some credit for having input into selecting a secure place, “replied Hartram. “He’s not at your apartment.”
“Looked like it to me. Same ‘this-isn’t-a-home-it’s-just-a-room’ décor.”
“Appearances can be deceptive. You should know that. It’s near enough for frequent family visits, far enough to let one of the cars show you what it can do.” Hartram eyed Drusilla maintaining her watch on the Bentley. “Take the lovely Drusilla for a short family visit.”
Drusilla scowled and continued to stare at the rear window. The darkened security glass revealed nothing of the interior. "One fine day in the middle of the night, two dead men got up to fight," she chanted.
Spike scrutinised the group of vampires lounging on the bonnet of the Jaguar. “I thought you said no trial run ‘til I’d signed up for the duration.”
"Back to back they faced each other. Drew their swords and shot one another." Drusilla continued the children's paradox rhyme and gave Sirk one of her vacant smiles. "I think the boys are going to fight," she said cheerfully. "But I know how this ends. If you don't believe the story's true Ask the blind man, he saw it too."
Sirk watched Spike nervously, and began edging towards the bodyguards.
Spike tilted his head at Sirk. “You sure Drusilla was the right one to recruit me?”
"I can't begin to tell you the pleasure I had working with your lady, William," Sirk began unctuously.
"It's Spike. To you." Retorted Spike. He pulled Drusilla into his arms. "What does he mean 'working with you'?" he growled. “Since when?”
“Done it before.” Drusilla said as she wriggled free. “Not with him. Dry old stick.”
Spike snorted. “Not exactly known for your good taste, love.” He glanced at Sirk. “S’pose he’s not too bad, relatively speaking. Seem to remember a Chaos Demon listed on your bedstead notches.”
“She never learned to distinguish business from pleasure, our little Drusilla.” The First-Dru materialised beside Hartram. “Such a precious one. We’re…” She paused, searching the neon strip lights for inspiration. “So completely compatible.”
Drusilla cocked her head to the side and approached her mirror image. She prodded First-Dru’s chest with her index finger, watching in fascination as the digit disappeared. “It’s me. And it’s not me.” She clapped her hands excitedly. “Oooh, a riddle me ree!”
“Is this thing really necessary to the next stage?” asked Sirk. “She’s hardly reliable. I recall that leading to some very nasty consequences involving many of your key players last time. Had it not been for Angel’s timely intervention…”
Drusilla lunged at Hartram, talons flashing, slicing through his jugular. “You!” she shrieked. “You made him do it. Setting us all aflame.”
Spike gripped her arms and pulled her off.
Hartram took a handkerchief from his top pocket and pressed it against his bloody neck. “Thank you. But there was no need. Really.”
“What were you sayin’ about weapons backfiring? You really should have done your homework on this one. It’s not so easy to pull her strings.” He turned Drusilla to face him. “What’s it feel like bein’ a puppet Dru?”
Drusilla went limp in his arms. “Need a Knight to cut my strings.”
“There are no puppets here.” Hartram dabbed his wound, wincing slightly.
Spike narrowed his eyes. “It was you in the dragon suit then? Why didn’t you finish Angel off?”
“There were other matters demanding our attention – that now require my presence again.” He stepped into the lift. “Don’t let the vampire leave until you’ve signed him up,” he ordered.
“What am I signing up to – exactly. Not going blindfold down the same road Angel did. Need the fine print spelled out.”
“There have been various translations of the Shanshu prophecy. All of them wrong,” began Sirk. “The interpretation of one word ‘iri’ – ‘becoming’ – or ‘made manifest’. Wyndham Pryce was mistaken not once, but twice. It can, indeed mean ‘live’ but his interpretation of ‘become human’ is, like so much of his work, flawed. The true meaning of ‘become’ carries the same significance as the Biblical reference written long afterwards.”
Hartram held out a hand towards First-Dru. “And the Word was made flesh.”
“You quoting scripture again?” Spike sneered. “Must be a little of the pain-in-the-arse padre left in you after all.”
“Nothing at all actually,” replied Hartram. He offered his arm to First-Dru. “Come, my dear. It’s time to have a little more of you inside.”
“Still don’t know what I’m expected to do,” Spike told the closing doors.
“Angel unknowingly signed Connor away in his misguided attack on the members of the Blackthorn,” continued Sirk. “He merely removed the middlemen. And he provided the means by which the Senior Partners could take a more hands-on approach in this dimension. In effect, he fast-tracked their plans for the vampire with a soul.”
“Angel?”
“He made it possible for them to take it to a new level. But it’s no longer all about him.”
“You walk in worlds others cannot comprehend,” Drusilla crooned stroking Spike’s face.
“Angel made it possible,” Sirk continued. “You re-wrote history when you fought for your soul.” He stepped further away from Spike. “I’m surprised Giles didn’t take a greater interest in it, but then as far as I know, he wasn’t aware of the Shanshu Prophecy. Whereas Wyndham Pryce really should have known better.”
“Prophecies. Nothing but chimera.”
“You may be right. But others believe differently,” said Sirk. “And belief is a very powerful motivator. It can make people behave quite irrationally at times.”
“Like me not buying anything that I’ve heard since this place swallowed me into its belly?” Spike laughed.
“Something like that,” agreed Sirk. “You needed much more work. Weren’t nearly ready to be seduced. Pity” He shrugged. “Boys!”
Drusilla’s head snapped round towards the sound of Angel and Buffy bursting from their hiding place as the vampire bodyguards leapt to attack Spike. “Angel,” she snarled. “Come to spoil. Come to take what’s mine. Why won’t you stay with me Spike?”
Spike grabbed Sirk’s briefcase and walloped him hard with it, sending him flying into the nearest minions.
“You just don’t get it do you, Dru? I never wanted what Angel had. I only ever wanted what was mine.” He leapt the fallen bodies and sprinted towards the Jaguar.
Buffy took out the third vampire, dusting it with one flowing sweep of her arm. Angel lunged at the driver, sending him sprawling against a pillar. The man curled protectively, clutching a broken wrist and whimpering softly.
“Human!” Angel backed away.
“Still needs immobilising,” said Buffy, knocking the man out.
“Angel. Get Dru,” Spike called as Drusilla disappeared through the exit door to the stairs. “Too late!” He jumped into the Jaguar, threw the case on the passenger seat and gunned the engine.
Sirk and his companions struggled to their feet.
“Well get in!” yelled Spike drawing alongside Buffy and Angel. He slammed the gearshift into drive as they tumbled in and floored the accelerator, scattering the minions as the car roared out of the garage and into Washington Boulevard.
“Oh well,” Sirk grumbled, brushing dirt from his trousers. “Time for Plan B.”
“You thought I’d gone over, didn’t you, you Git!” Spike snarled at Angel. I could feel you. So could Dru. Just when I was getting your boy’s location out of Sirk. Your timing always was lousy.”
“What? My timing is not lousy…” protested Angel. “And I didn’t think you’d…” He pulled the briefcase out from underneath him and passed it to Buffy. “ Why’d you grab the case?”
“Dunno. Something needing security at Evil Inc? Figured it’d be useful.” He checked the rear view mirror and jumped the red light at the junction. “Better get on the blower, Slayer, and have the Witch work a locator spell.”
Buffy flipped open her mobile and hit a speed dial key.
“Willow? Buffy. Need you to do something.”
Spike checked the rear view mirror again. “So far so good,” he murmured.
“Hang on, I’ll pass you to Angel.”
“You need something of Connor’s?” Angel thought for a second. “Closet in my room. You’ll find a dismantled crib. And there should be some stuffed toys. Will that do?”
Spike looked under the sun visor towards the sky as the whirr of helicopter blades grew louder. “Anyone see something we should be worried about?”
Angel closed the phone, reached over Spike’s shoulder and grabbed the wheel, steering the car onto the pavement.
“Everybody out. Now!”
Previously on Soul Searching
Rating: PG13
Summary: In which we find out just who or what Wolfgang Hartram is, and Willow and Wesley discover the identity of the 'Dark Prince'.
Lord of himself, though not of lands; And having nothing, yet hath all.
The smooth stream of blue hummed softly against Willow’s skin. Azure currents flowed into hazy sky, collided, mingled and parted again. Deep aquamarine surged against sanguine, fought the dark undertow, finally giving way to the barrier blocking its progress. Willow ran her hands along the broad sweep of turquoise, following the contours of the channel, riding each wave as it swept alongside the snaking arterial conduits bordering its edge, shuddering to a halt at the cliff where terrazzo met carpet. Reflected lamplight glowed, pooling in mini swirls amid the flow and tow of the undercurrent. The young witch closed her eyes and followed the ocean blue streaming across the centre of the reception area, her breath escaping in short gasps as she fought the source of power.
“I know you’re here,” she ground the words through clenched teeth.
“Willow?”
She didn’t pause, her fingers buzzing at each marble chip beneath the deceptively smooth surface.
“Whoah!” She recoiled, shaking her hands. “There’s something here. I knew it! Memories in the fabric of the building,” she explained turning towards Wesley, “they sang to me.” She grasped his outstretched arm and stood up, brushing the dust from her skirt with her other hand. “. “I can feel the things that happened on the second floor. Maybe the walls can be persuaded to do the same.” She glanced towards the spot just inside the entrance and concentrated “There’s remnants of dark magic, very dark magic - there.” She pointed to a here. There's a pentogram for… ”
“For opening the portal to Quortoth,” Lorne finished breathlessly for her as he burst through the front door.
“Are you sure?” Wesley asked. “I don’t remember…”
“It all went horribly wrong. “You were busy having your throat slit at the time.” Lorne glanced nervously over his shoulder. “I feel a spot of déjà vu approaching.”
“Is Illyria with you?”
“She is.” Illyria appeared from behind Lorne her glacial gaze fixed on Wesley. “She feels the need to do violence against the traitorous minion who dared question her motives.” She tilted her head and looked from Wesley to Willow. “Which of you gave voice to such a calumny?”
“Neither of us.” Wesley’s cool reply met with a blink of surprise from Willow. “The Watchers’ Diary suggested the Dark Prince might be you. I presume we were mistaken in our interpretation.”
“Show me,” Illyria commanded. “I would know my enemy that I might remove the deceiver’s tongue from his head.”
Willow suppressed a giggle. “Strictly speaking, it’s his pen you should remove not his tongue. Or maybe his quill.” She turned to Wesley. “Did they have quills back when?”
“Illyria,” Wesley soothed, “the Watcher’s Diary was written by many scholars who sought only to bring light in a world of darkness born of fear and ignorance. Its earliest recordings were entered long after you were laid to your rest in the Deeper Well.” He thought for a moment. “And yet you may hold the key to our understanding of them.” He pointed at the objects in Illyria’s hands. “Just as you hold the key to our understanding of the secrets locked in the walls.”
Illyria studied his face. “Your apology is acceptable.”
“Um. Did I miss something?” Lorne cupped a hand to his ear. “Or is Little Miss Blue Eyes learning to pick up on subtext? I’m detecting a change of key and whole new musical repertoire with the lack of the royal ‘we’ in the lyrics.”
Wesley gave a small smile. “She’s adapting.”
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Spike stopped alongside the Bentley’s rear window, took a cigarette from the pack and lit it.
The familiar smell of tobacco wafted in through the partially open rear door, mingling with the expensively fragrant aroma of new leather; a patina of power protected beneath pale layers of costly cosseting and lengthy lubrication processes. Buffy pressed a hand to the pristine, white side panel to steady herself, but slid slowly down the smooth, supple fabric. Her other hand gripped the edge of Angel’s coat which she’d grabbed to prevent herself falling out when he’d released the door catch. The surface bore witness to the life of the garment’s owner; rain, sweat, and blood, old stains maiming its hardened black exterior. The crazed grainy texture caught the skin on her fingertips, bringing memories of another leather coat to which she’d clung in an attempt to save herself.
Drusilla watched the lighter flame flickering in the slight breeze drifting in from the street, gazing at its centre as the colour fluctuated on eddies of air. She snapped her head towards the side window and snarled. "A Fiery Angel comes again."
"What's that, Pet? "Spike closed his lighter and fumbled the attempt to pocket it, allowing it to fall to the cement floor. It sounded a metallic note as it struck and bounced beneath the Bentley. He bent down to retrieve it, nudging the door closed with his head.
"The Angel Beast… " Drusilla's voice was drowned by the squeal of rubber on tarmac heralding the arrival of a black limousine followed by a sports saloon. They purred past the vampires and parked on the opposite side of the garage alongside the performance cars.
Spike scanned the line of vehicles. “An S Series Jag !" he whooped. "Now that’s more like it. C’mon Dru, you can play with the limo after we get you a driver flunky.” He gripped Drusilla's elbow and propelled her along in front of him.
The soft swish of leather, the familiar creak of boots, together with the echoing clack of heels, signalled Spike’s movement away from the Bentley towards the recent arrivals.
Buffy exhaled, pulled herself onto the backseat and squinted through the tiny, darkened rear window. "What now?" she whispered.
"We wait and see how this pans out before we make our move," Angel replied softly.
"And that would be…?"
"Shhh!”
Three burly figures, two tall, one much shorter, climbed out of the Jaguar. Their matching designer suits marked the vampires as members of the exclusive club of hired muscle beloved of the underworld. The short man took a briefcase from the boot of the limousine as the liveried driver opened the rear door and stood back, face impassive, keeping a watchful eye on Spike and Drusilla.
Wolfgang Hartram stared at his temporary replacement emerging from the back of the car. “Why are you here?”
“Breakfast meeting. You wished to be kept fully informed of our progress and," Sirk raised the briefcase he’d been handed, for examination, “security matters.”
Hartram frowned. “Breakfast meeting? It slipped my mind in all the excitement.” He gestured towards Spike and Drusilla.
“Don’t tell me the delightfully shallow Ms Kendal omitted to flag it in your diary.” Sirk smiled wolfishly. “I felt sure she’d cater it perfectly. I was looking forward to very best America has to offer, some nutritionally defective carbohydrate and caffeine.”
He turned his attention to Spike who was making slow progress towards them dragging a reluctant Drusilla behind him. “William the Bloody," Sirk called across the parking bays.
"The Fallen Watcher Bastard Misleader." Spike nodded in recognition.
"So we meet again. A little prematurely for the order of play.” Sirk shook his head at Hartram. “You really are out of touch.”
“You forget yourself Mr Sirk,” said Hartram.
“Really? Do remind me, for the sake of our guests. Just who exactly is it I went to all that trouble for? Three former powerful demons banished to another dimension with the fall of the Old Ones at the advent of man's supremacy in this one.”
"And now we are here. What's to stop us killing you where you stand and re-possessing our property?" Hartram adjusted the cufflinks beneath his sleeves, revealing a flash of crimson brilliance against pristine white crispness.
"Merely the fact that you're…" Sirk paused. "What's the quaint expression of which Americans are so fond? 'Out of juice'. All that dimension hopping. And the battle. Not to mention single-handedly rebuilding Wolfram and Hart headquarters - metaphorically speaking." Sirk raised an eyebrow at Spike. "They do know how to use metaphor after all, although I doubt they're aware of it."
"Ladybird, ladybird fly away home. Your house in on fire and your children are gone." Drusilla whimpered. "Daddy burned them."
"Whereas working with your paramour was a very interesting experience," Sirk observed. "She knows all about imagery. After all she is a metaphor."
He stepped towards Hartram. “You didn’t really think there wouldn’t be a price to pay for what I made possible do you?”
The suited minions moved closer together, forming a protective circle around Hartram.
"Relax boys. I hardly think Mr Sirk is here to cause us any real trouble. He merely wishes to barter a higher price for services rendered."
Sirk shifted the case from one hand to another. "Partly," he admitted. "And to ensure that things I contrived to put in place continue to operate smoothly until completion of the contract."
"You may have been invaluable in arranging our safe passage here, but we no longer require your presence for our continuing tenancy. We will have little trouble relieving you of our property which you held only temporarily to assist you in your work."
Sirk hugged the case to his chest. "My work," he sounded each word slowly, "is the result of decades of study and careful meticulous planning." He shot a suspicious look at Spike and Drusilla. "I'd hate for all that scholarly endeavour to turn to ash because someone didn't heed the warning about careful timing.”
"Time. All in motion. In the stars." Drusilla groaned.
“Quiet Dru. Want to hear what the man has to say.” Spike pulled her further away from the Bentley.
Hartram motioned the vampires away. “I’m sure we can come to an amicable arrangement.” He turned towards the door to the stairs, then stopped. “After I’ve rested. I think I’ll take the elevator.”
“And the books?” asked Sirk.
“Can wait.”
“My payment?”
“That too.” Hartram waved a hand in the direction of the cars. “There might be a bonus for a job well done. Have a look round. Pick something for yourself.”
-------------------------------------------------------------------
A slow grin spread across Wesley’s face as he watched Illyria and Willow, heads bent together over the Watchers’ Diary.
“Two powerful beings forming an uneasy alliance in search of the Truth. Fighting for the common good. Their only weapons their incisive intelligence and the ability to cut through the crap,” he quipped.
Willow raised her head and smirked at him. “Careful,” she said. “You’re beginning to sound like Andrew. And we all know where that leads.”
“Lunch bags with Union flags?”
Willow rose from her seat, her expression softening. “Feeling all redundant?” She gazed into his eyes. “Or just ‘beyond tired’? When did you last sleep?”
Wesley rubbed a hand across his eyes. “Feels like a lifetime ago.” He sighed and gestured at Illyria. “And, yes, feeling somewhat like the proverbial spare at the wedding.”
Illyria closed the book and looked at him. “You speak in riddles again.”
“I’m sorry. It’s a hard habit to break. I’ll try to cut down on the metaphor.”
“Metaphor. This is a beast with which I am familiar. The Witch and I wrestled with it continuously in the Codex.”
“As I suspected,” Wesley muttered. “The problem - was in the translation or my interpretation?”
“Neither, actually,” said Willow.
“Then I don’t understand.”
Illyria nodded her assent that Willow explain further.
“I’m not sure I do, completely. But the Cliff Notes’ version? The Watchers’ Diaries were written over time. What came as news to me…” Willow bounced excitedly from foot to foot. “And this is so cool – each time a passage is interpreted, it is literally re-written in light of the ‘time’ in which it’s being read.”
Wesley frowned and picked up the Diaries. “You mean, re-interpreted?”
“No. Re-written. It’s like a historical document chronicling events and when someone from a later era reads it, they perceive those events through the filter of the age in which they live. You know, like ‘slavery is bad’ nowadays so the President apologises to the Africans who were brought here centuries ago.”
“Judging earlier generations’ behaviour by today’s standards? But that’s just bad history!”
Willow glared at him. “Don’t make me repeat the ‘Indians’ – ‘Native Americans’ discussion I had with Giles. I’m trying to explain what Illyria knows about the texts.”
“Sorry,” Wesley apologised again. “Where does that lead us?”
“Apart from opening all sorts of interesting doors on how to approach prophecies? Not a lot.” Willow smiled weakly. “There was a passage indicating the Dark Prince might be Spike. Or Drusilla. Not sure which.”
“We have deciphered a passage pointing to the White Haired One,” said Illyria
“Uh oh.” Lorne peered over the rim of his cocktail glass. “Do I detect a return of the Royal Deity?”
“We, as in Illyria and me,” Willow explained handing Wesley a sheet of paper.
"Though much was taken, much abides; and though
He has not now that strength which in old days
Moved heaven and earth, that which he is, we are –
Champions of the Light, one equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield."
Wesley considered the translation. “Not the Dark Prince,” he concluded. “But leading the way to what we seek.” He pulled Lorne’s glass from his reach. “What did Angel say was happening over there?”
The phone on the reception desk began to ring.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hartram held the lift’s ‘door open’ button as he listened to the conclusion of Sirk’s summary.
“The second stage went without a hitch. The boy’s safely tucked up.”
“Safe? Angel’s already looking for him,” Spike scoffed.
“He can’t possibly know that….”
“Witnessed the whole snatch ‘n’ grab scene.”
“That’s not possible, you were all in the alleyway when…”
Hartram stepped back out of the lift. “Yes. Let us in on how precisely that could have happened.”
“Whenever the Ice Maiden’s around, time goes all wonky. We got the action replay a couple of hours ago.” Spike released Drusilla and moved closer to Sirk. "Seems your calculations were a little off," he challenged.
“It’s of no consequence. He’ll not find the boy.”
“What? Puttin’ him in my old basement flat’s hardly the work of the Brains’ Trust, “ Spike jeered. “First place he’ll look now that I’m here getting the temptation on the mountain treatment.”
“Give me some credit for having input into selecting a secure place, “replied Hartram. “He’s not at your apartment.”
“Looked like it to me. Same ‘this-isn’t-a-home-it’s-just-a-room’ décor.”
“Appearances can be deceptive. You should know that. It’s near enough for frequent family visits, far enough to let one of the cars show you what it can do.” Hartram eyed Drusilla maintaining her watch on the Bentley. “Take the lovely Drusilla for a short family visit.”
Drusilla scowled and continued to stare at the rear window. The darkened security glass revealed nothing of the interior. "One fine day in the middle of the night, two dead men got up to fight," she chanted.
Spike scrutinised the group of vampires lounging on the bonnet of the Jaguar. “I thought you said no trial run ‘til I’d signed up for the duration.”
"Back to back they faced each other. Drew their swords and shot one another." Drusilla continued the children's paradox rhyme and gave Sirk one of her vacant smiles. "I think the boys are going to fight," she said cheerfully. "But I know how this ends. If you don't believe the story's true Ask the blind man, he saw it too."
Sirk watched Spike nervously, and began edging towards the bodyguards.
Spike tilted his head at Sirk. “You sure Drusilla was the right one to recruit me?”
"I can't begin to tell you the pleasure I had working with your lady, William," Sirk began unctuously.
"It's Spike. To you." Retorted Spike. He pulled Drusilla into his arms. "What does he mean 'working with you'?" he growled. “Since when?”
“Done it before.” Drusilla said as she wriggled free. “Not with him. Dry old stick.”
Spike snorted. “Not exactly known for your good taste, love.” He glanced at Sirk. “S’pose he’s not too bad, relatively speaking. Seem to remember a Chaos Demon listed on your bedstead notches.”
“She never learned to distinguish business from pleasure, our little Drusilla.” The First-Dru materialised beside Hartram. “Such a precious one. We’re…” She paused, searching the neon strip lights for inspiration. “So completely compatible.”
Drusilla cocked her head to the side and approached her mirror image. She prodded First-Dru’s chest with her index finger, watching in fascination as the digit disappeared. “It’s me. And it’s not me.” She clapped her hands excitedly. “Oooh, a riddle me ree!”
“Is this thing really necessary to the next stage?” asked Sirk. “She’s hardly reliable. I recall that leading to some very nasty consequences involving many of your key players last time. Had it not been for Angel’s timely intervention…”
Drusilla lunged at Hartram, talons flashing, slicing through his jugular. “You!” she shrieked. “You made him do it. Setting us all aflame.”
Spike gripped her arms and pulled her off.
Hartram took a handkerchief from his top pocket and pressed it against his bloody neck. “Thank you. But there was no need. Really.”
“What were you sayin’ about weapons backfiring? You really should have done your homework on this one. It’s not so easy to pull her strings.” He turned Drusilla to face him. “What’s it feel like bein’ a puppet Dru?”
Drusilla went limp in his arms. “Need a Knight to cut my strings.”
“There are no puppets here.” Hartram dabbed his wound, wincing slightly.
Spike narrowed his eyes. “It was you in the dragon suit then? Why didn’t you finish Angel off?”
“There were other matters demanding our attention – that now require my presence again.” He stepped into the lift. “Don’t let the vampire leave until you’ve signed him up,” he ordered.
“What am I signing up to – exactly. Not going blindfold down the same road Angel did. Need the fine print spelled out.”
“There have been various translations of the Shanshu prophecy. All of them wrong,” began Sirk. “The interpretation of one word ‘iri’ – ‘becoming’ – or ‘made manifest’. Wyndham Pryce was mistaken not once, but twice. It can, indeed mean ‘live’ but his interpretation of ‘become human’ is, like so much of his work, flawed. The true meaning of ‘become’ carries the same significance as the Biblical reference written long afterwards.”
Hartram held out a hand towards First-Dru. “And the Word was made flesh.”
“You quoting scripture again?” Spike sneered. “Must be a little of the pain-in-the-arse padre left in you after all.”
“Nothing at all actually,” replied Hartram. He offered his arm to First-Dru. “Come, my dear. It’s time to have a little more of you inside.”
“Still don’t know what I’m expected to do,” Spike told the closing doors.
“Angel unknowingly signed Connor away in his misguided attack on the members of the Blackthorn,” continued Sirk. “He merely removed the middlemen. And he provided the means by which the Senior Partners could take a more hands-on approach in this dimension. In effect, he fast-tracked their plans for the vampire with a soul.”
“Angel?”
“He made it possible for them to take it to a new level. But it’s no longer all about him.”
“You walk in worlds others cannot comprehend,” Drusilla crooned stroking Spike’s face.
“Angel made it possible,” Sirk continued. “You re-wrote history when you fought for your soul.” He stepped further away from Spike. “I’m surprised Giles didn’t take a greater interest in it, but then as far as I know, he wasn’t aware of the Shanshu Prophecy. Whereas Wyndham Pryce really should have known better.”
“Prophecies. Nothing but chimera.”
“You may be right. But others believe differently,” said Sirk. “And belief is a very powerful motivator. It can make people behave quite irrationally at times.”
“Like me not buying anything that I’ve heard since this place swallowed me into its belly?” Spike laughed.
“Something like that,” agreed Sirk. “You needed much more work. Weren’t nearly ready to be seduced. Pity” He shrugged. “Boys!”
Drusilla’s head snapped round towards the sound of Angel and Buffy bursting from their hiding place as the vampire bodyguards leapt to attack Spike. “Angel,” she snarled. “Come to spoil. Come to take what’s mine. Why won’t you stay with me Spike?”
Spike grabbed Sirk’s briefcase and walloped him hard with it, sending him flying into the nearest minions.
“You just don’t get it do you, Dru? I never wanted what Angel had. I only ever wanted what was mine.” He leapt the fallen bodies and sprinted towards the Jaguar.
Buffy took out the third vampire, dusting it with one flowing sweep of her arm. Angel lunged at the driver, sending him sprawling against a pillar. The man curled protectively, clutching a broken wrist and whimpering softly.
“Human!” Angel backed away.
“Still needs immobilising,” said Buffy, knocking the man out.
“Angel. Get Dru,” Spike called as Drusilla disappeared through the exit door to the stairs. “Too late!” He jumped into the Jaguar, threw the case on the passenger seat and gunned the engine.
Sirk and his companions struggled to their feet.
“Well get in!” yelled Spike drawing alongside Buffy and Angel. He slammed the gearshift into drive as they tumbled in and floored the accelerator, scattering the minions as the car roared out of the garage and into Washington Boulevard.
“Oh well,” Sirk grumbled, brushing dirt from his trousers. “Time for Plan B.”
“You thought I’d gone over, didn’t you, you Git!” Spike snarled at Angel. I could feel you. So could Dru. Just when I was getting your boy’s location out of Sirk. Your timing always was lousy.”
“What? My timing is not lousy…” protested Angel. “And I didn’t think you’d…” He pulled the briefcase out from underneath him and passed it to Buffy. “ Why’d you grab the case?”
“Dunno. Something needing security at Evil Inc? Figured it’d be useful.” He checked the rear view mirror and jumped the red light at the junction. “Better get on the blower, Slayer, and have the Witch work a locator spell.”
Buffy flipped open her mobile and hit a speed dial key.
“Willow? Buffy. Need you to do something.”
Spike checked the rear view mirror again. “So far so good,” he murmured.
“Hang on, I’ll pass you to Angel.”
“You need something of Connor’s?” Angel thought for a second. “Closet in my room. You’ll find a dismantled crib. And there should be some stuffed toys. Will that do?”
Spike looked under the sun visor towards the sky as the whirr of helicopter blades grew louder. “Anyone see something we should be worried about?”
Angel closed the phone, reached over Spike’s shoulder and grabbed the wheel, steering the car onto the pavement.
“Everybody out. Now!”
Previously on Soul Searching
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