Chapter 8
It had been a long time since she had been in England, but Elizabeth was able to navigate her way around as though her last visit had been yesterday. She had been avoiding England like the plague ever since William had been turned.
Elizabeth made her way from the Council down some vaguely familiar streets before stopping in front of an old fashioned house. It was the house that she grew up in and she had bought the house when it came up on the market a few years after she had escaped from the council and although she hadn’t been back, she hadn’t been able to sell it either. William’s house, she noticed, was also untouched.
With a sigh, Buffy climbed the stairs and walked into the house.
“Blech,” she muttered at the sight of the dust that covered everything. With a wave of her hand, the house immediately looked a little more livable.
“You broke the agreement.” The soft voice was tinted with a Creole accent.
“He came to me,” she whispered without turning around. “He sought me out.”
“No, he didn’t. He came looking for a Slayer. He would have come whether that Slayer was you or not, ma Cherie. You could have sent him away, like the others, but you did not.”
“They promised me that I could have him if he ever came looking for me. They weren’t specific on the rest of the details!” Buffy yelled finally turning around.
There was no one behind her, but a resonating chuckle filled the air around her. “You are the cursed one, ma Cherie. They need not give you the details. They own you! I own you!”
“You do not own me! Until this moment, William owned me and now…now I own myself. You have merely cursed me,” Buffy spat. “I didn’t ask for this.”
“Neither did I. Minding my business I was when the Council came. They had me turned and set me loose on the Slayer…you.”
“You chose to curse me without knowing the details, so don’t blame this on me.”
“Yes, but you chose to kill me without knowing the details. Aren’t we a fine pair? Chosen by the Powers for our talents and trapped together by our ignorance…At least you had some ‘semblance of your love, someting to keep you going…I am merely a presence, not even enough for a spirit.”
Buffy sat on the floor, her back against the wall. “He came to me,” she repeated.
“I do not get to have opinions anymore, ma Cherie. I speak for those with no voices now.” There was a pause and when the voice came back, it was loud. As though the speaker had picked up a bullhorn and was yelling into it. “ELIZABETH SUMMERS, THE CURSED ONE, YOU HAVE BROKEN THE AGREEMENT. TWENTY FOURS HOURS IS THE ALLOTTED TIME.”
“Twenty four hours for what?” Buffy asked.
Silence.
“Twenty four hours for what?!”
XXX
The lobby was empty. Spike knew that before he even set foot in it, but the trunk was still there. Faith walked over and ran her hands over the carved wood, and Spike was tempted to smack her hands away. He watched as she tried to open it and failed. She put one foot on the lid and pulled on the locked, straining. The lock remained shut.
“She must have put a spell on it,” Faith said. “I’ll get Willow.”
“Get Willow for what?” Willow said, walking down the stairs with Angel in tow.
“This trunk, I can’t open it. I think that weird Slayer put a spell on it or something,” Faith answered.
“She’s not weird,” Spike growled.
“Yeah, and what’s with this thing you got for her?” Faith asked.
“You have a thing for a new Slayer?” Angel asked, sliding his arm around Faith’s shoulder.
Faith shifted her weight feeling suddenly uncomfortable. It was a feeling that she was used to whenever both Spike and Angel were in the room.
“That girl was pretty powerful,” Willow commented. “Spike, she didn’t put some sort of love potion on you or anything?”
“No, she didn’t put a love potion on me and she’s not bloody weird,” Spike ground out.
“Is this to get back at me for choosing Angel?” Faith asked.
Angel frowned. “He’s not normally one to play the jealousy route.”
“Stop bloody talking about me like I’m not here!” Spike yelled. “Red, open the bloody trunk already!”
Willow frowned and turned her attention to the traveling case. She ran her hands over it briefly and pulled back with a gasp.
“I can’t open it,” she said.
“What do you mean?” Faith asked.
“I mean, the spell that was set is a locking device, sorta like a magic way to lock your luggage. It can only be opened by the person or people who hold the key, usually the person who owns the luggage.”
“Well, I think that Buffy is long gone,” Angel mused. “I wonder if she’ll be back.”
“She left that ring,” Faith said. “I wonder what the significance of that was?”
Spike was only half listening as he walked toward the trunk. He ran his fingers over the lock, feeling the gold clasp before opening it with a snap.
“Spike, how’d you…“ Faith said at the same time Willow questioned, “It’s your trunk?”
“Our trunk,” he whispered more to himself than to anyone else.
“Elizabeth Summers!” Giles called, running into the room with an open book in his hands. “I knew something was off about her. Elizabeth Summers, Called in 1871, lived in London with her watcher, was engaged to one William Pratt. She was supposedly killed following a strange illness that she obtained through the bite of a Voodoo practitioner turned Vampire and came back not as a vampire, but as something else. The Council never figured out what she was and she disappeared in 1880, never to be heard from again.” Giles whipped his glasses off his face. “D-do you know what this means?”
“Research?” Faith guessed.
“Well…yes! We m-must talk to her, well find her first of all. We should study her-“
“NO!” Spike roared. “She is not a lab rat, and I will not allow you to treat her like one!”
“Of course she’s not a lab rat, Spike. She-she could be of great assistance here at the school…well, assuming that she isn’t evil,” Giles muttered.
“She’s not evil,” Spike said.
“How do you know?” Willow asked curiously, cocking her head to one side.
Spike reached into the trunk, yanking out the false bottom, and pulling out the engagement photo. He rubbed his thumb lightly over the picture. “I know,” he said softly.
“You’re William Pratt, aren’t you?” Willow asked, softly.
“Not anymore,” Spike replied, picking up the stack of journals and carrying them up the stairs. “The trunk is mine, don’t touch it.”
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