Part Two
Giles had recommended that she dress sensibly—meaning in case she came across trouble of the fanged kind—but without strength, dressing sensibly meant dressing for an outing, and not patrol. Since the sated state of her worn strength didn't reveal signs of improving within the new few hours, she figured it was safe to cash in her chips and thoroughly isolate herself from the Slayer-persona. After all, without the power, acting the part seemed rather futile. And if she was going to be average-citizen Buffy from now on, she might as well get into the swing of the 'damsel in distress' routine.
The thought gave her chills, but Buffy forced her mind elsewhere. There would be no doom-and-gloom over her uncertain future tonight. Tonight, she was determined to forget that demons existed; that she had been hand-picked by the Powers to stop them, and that her demon-slaying abandoned her. Tonight was about the all-around birthday celebration. Once again, her dad had cancelled, but it didn’t matter because Giles was there. Giles, her surrogate father and so much more deserving of the title, would save the day. As it was, Giles’s were too difficult to fill. Hank Summers would be fortunate if she ever wanted to go anywhere with him again.
Her mom flashed her a smile as she gracefully descended the stairs. “Are my eyes deceiving me?” she asked. “Or is my daughter wearing a skirt?”
Buffy rolled her eyes but grinned just the same. “I have been known to dress girly, you know.”
“It’s just such a rare occurrence.”
“Hey, you’re the one that told me to stop patrolling in skirts.”
“Well, honey, those kicks you do leave little to the imagination.” She crossed her arms and smiled fondly. “You look lovely, Buffy. I just know you’re going to have a great time tonight.”
Buffy nodded. “Well…ice. Skating. Pretty regular, if you consider the full. I just…I'm glad he's coming.”
“He's like a father to you,” she observed. “You deserve this. One night from slaying demons.”
The smile on her face faded sourly. “Yeah. One night.”
Given her recent disability, Buffy had yet to confide her fears in her mother. The woman was still reeling from the bombshell that was Slayerhood—to take it back now was borderline cruelty. Joyce had seen so much in just a few weeks. Furthermore, she would consider the disorder a blessing in disguise—a chance for normality—and would never understand why the loss of such strength would be anything but a blessing.
The thought sent cold shudders up her spine, and she flexed her shoulder experimentally. No change.
The foyer suddenly filled with headlights. “Ohhh…that's Giles! Gotta jet.”
“Have fun, sweetie!”
“Will! Love you!”
Before Joyce could get another word out, Buffy pecked her on the cheek and bolted out the door.
*~*~*
There was something funny about this.
Aside his quiet, there was something generally fidgety about his mood. He had hardly said a word since she got into the car. Nothing aside an initial, “Good evening,” and an irritated, “I told you to dress sensibly.” The trip was awkwardly silent. Something was on his mind, she knew, but she didn't want to ask. Tonight was not about shop. Tonight was about enjoying herself to the fullest. Plus, birthday fest. Tonight was definitely about the birthday fest. Reality could check-in tomorrow, she had tonight called for ice-fantasy of the much-deserved kind.
However, that nagging feeling refused her a moment’s rest. Perhaps her Watcher had discovered something that he was afraid to share.
A few minutes later, and any lingering doubt was thoroughly vanquished. Giles brought the car to a stop somewhere that was definitely not the ice show. For a minute, she thought he had lost his sense of direction. It didn't seem very characteristic, but again, she rather doubted he made regular habit of visiting the rink. In retrospect, perhaps it would have been wiser to drag Angel to this thing. Wiser, but somehow, sharing the experience with a non-father figure seemed sacrilegious.
The spider-sense of panic didn't start screaming until he killed the engine. There they sat still for a few minutes, encompassed in shadows and tempered with silence. It wasn’t until he turned to face her that Buffy realized the fullness of her anxiety. This was not like him at all. This was serial-killer-patchety-murdery behavior. If were anyone but Giles, she would be pounding on the door and practicing her damsel-scream.
But it was Giles. It was—as in not Hannibal Lecter. Whatever was troubling him, she could handle it. She and Giles could handle it. That was what they did, after all. They handled things—world saveage, ancient prophecies, research papers, and midterms—they had everything covered.
“There is something I need to tell you,” the Watcher said softly. The edge in his voice unmasked her confidence, and without warning, she felt like a lost child. “It…it came about…I am sorry to deceive you. Understand that this has been one of the most trying times for me. Buffy…I—”
Without realizing it, she had backed against the car door, hand fighting to find the handle. Great. Let’s really get into the part. Maybe my boobs will bounce when I run up the stairs. “Let me go out on a limb and say we're not going to the ice show tonight,” she ventured slowly, her tone deliberately tempered.
This is Giles. Old, tweedy, British, Giles.
“The very position of my…the duty I perform as Watcher, as well as your continued training…depended on what I am about to tell you.”
Who was scaring the shit out of her, and the sensation was so foreign that she had to tell him. Tell him that he was scaring her so he could call her ridiculous and they’d both get a kick out of it.
No such luck.
“Giles…you're scaring me.”
“It's a test, Buffy. It's all a test.” At last, he looked at her, eyes burdened. “Your sudden ailment. The loss of your powers. All of it. A test each Slayer is to perform when she reaches her eighteenth birthday. The Council…I've been…”
Her world fell apart without warning. Every fundamental understanding on which she had based her belief system shattered into a thousand shards of deceit. More than abandonment seized her; every whim she trusted was suddenly put into irrevocable question. There were no words to describe betrayal. There was nothing to trust if not the man sitting beside her. There was simply nothing.
“You knew,” she said at last, doing her best to keep herself from lashing out in fury. The calm collectiveness strained in her voice would not last—not with the outrage pumping through her veins. “You knew the entire time. You knew what was happening to me. You saw what it was doing to me…and you…”
God, this was not happening.
“I wanted to tell you,” he said desperately, twisting to face her. The saddle of release weighed heavily behind his eyes, but she did not care to see it. “Believe me. I wanted nothing more in the world. Hiding this from you…it was reprehensible. I understand. But…there was no way I could tell you. What you're about to endure is something that has been…these are the ethics of the Council. I had no personal say—”
“But you saw what it was doing to me!” Her rage refused to be contained; she kicked the glove compartment and ignored the foreign pain that shot through her body at impact. Pain. The pain was Giles’s fault, because he had betrayed her. “God, Giles, you stood right there and watched! You watched as it drained me! You saw my head spinning…you saw my pain! How could you…how could you not…how could you do this to me?!”
“Listen, I have no time to explain myself now.” The Watcher exhaled deeply and glanced to the building just outside her window. “Your test will begin shortly. They…the Council…is relying on you to use cunning and…well, everyday skills to defeat the vampire they obtained for the event.”
Her insides froze. “What event?” she demanded coldly.
“A test of cunning, like I said. I—”
“What vampire?”
“The vampire that Quentin Travers captured for the test.”
“No, Giles. Tell me straight. What vampire?”
At that, he sighed, removing his glasses and consigning them immediately to the hem of his shirt. “I was under the impression that it would be a vampire called Kralik—clinically insane and very powerful. However…something unfortunate happened. I tried to get Travers to call off the whole thing—”
“What happened?”
“Kralik was killed. Evidently…another vampire got wind of the test and seized the opportunity.” The Watcher glanced at her, though she knew his vision was nothing without his bifocals. He did not wish to see the look on her face, and for the world, she did not blame him. “Travers did not share with me who, but I have an intuition…” He sighed heavily. “Buffy…you have every right to…I know what you must be thinking—”
“You. Have. No. Idea.” Before she knew it, tears had welled in her eyes. She made no move to draw them away. “I thought…how could you do this to me? I thought I was losing everything…I thought—”
“Your powers will return.”
“That's not the point. You betrayed me!”
Another sigh hissed through his teeth. “Now is not the time for this,” he said softly. “You're going to have to face whatever is in that house. There are vials of holy water, crosses, and a few stakes in the glove compartment.” A short pause. She did not offer a reply. “I will wait here—”
“Don't bother.” With an angry huff, Buffy pried the glove compartment open and seized a stake. “So much for a quiet, normal night, huh? Not so in this universe. Not if you're me. Thanks for the great birthday present.”
She didn’t miss the flash of hurt that colored Giles’s eyes, but remained unmoved. And he didn’t say a word.
The march to the old house was slow. When she reached the doorway, Giles's car was still there.
“Of course,” she murmured. “Don't bother ever listening to me. It'll get you killed, but hey, what's the big?”
A sigh rolled off her shoulders, then she disappeared inside.
Buffy shuddered as she crossed the threshold into pure darkness. She was surprised but pleased when her eyes complied to adjust quickly, even if there was nothing to see. No members of the Council—nothing to suggest controlled conditions. Her breaths were harsh against the cold silence, and every step she took betrayed her location.
Her slayer tinglies might have been out of commission, but she felt the vampire. The knowledge sliced her to the core. What would happen if this thing bested her? Would the Council simply stand aside and allow her to die?
She’d experienced death once. She wasn’t eager to do it again.
It took a few minutes, but she ultimately conceded the fact that she wasn’t going to surprise anyone, and instead of creeping around and pretending to be stealthy, she decided to throw all her cards on the table. After all, aside her life, there was nothing to lose. The vampire could sniff her out, as it was. The unexpected surge of her spider senses had dwindled again. There was nothing left to do. She wasn’t going to make it if she didn’t think on her feet.
Take away her strength and her skill, and all that was left was her mouth.
“Yoo hoo?” she called softly. “Big Bad Vamp. Paging Mr. Big Bad Vamp. Come out, come out, wherever you are. Let's just get this damn thing over with.”
She didn’t sound confident. Four years of making insidious commentary had left her splendidly dry—and even that was fitting. Her powers were gone; why not the annoyingly obvious barbs as well?
Her voice rang in mocking echo for a few seconds before dying altogether. Buffy heaved a sigh, and a few minutes of silence followed. Nothing. Nothing at all. The house moaned a little—the way old houses were prone to do, but betrayed nothing. The vampire could be anywhere—waiting for her anywhere. She was marching the parade route to her own execution, and she couldn’t do a thing to save herself.
How could Giles do this to her?
A part of her expected to wake up and find herself in the safety and comfort of her bed. The day had been so surreal that anything, even pipe dreams, seemed feasible. However, her gut knew differently. This was reality—cold, hard reality. She was really here, lurking in the dark of an old abandoned house, searching for a vampire whose silence would put any mime to shame. She was stripped and powerless. And the walls betrayed nothing.
Nothing.
An instinctive twist in her gut told her that the game was nearing its end. She tensed slightly; aware that every hair on her arm was sticking up. She shivered hard despite the unforgiving heat, and bit her lip as she crossed to a separate hallway.
It took every ounce of her resolve to avoid cursing Giles for not packing a flashlight—for not giving her anything at all aside his apologies. Her anger with him had already reached immeasurable heights, and there would be plenty of time to scream at him when she was home and not-dead. Whatever she could have done to alter the outcome of the evening was out of her hands now, and she refused to dwell on what couldn't be changed.
Still, a flashlight would be nice.
Steadying her breathing, Buffy decided to attempt opening the lines of conversation once more. It couldn't hurt. At this point, really, nothing could hurt. Either the vamp showed itself or didn’t—either she lived or died. She didn't know how much longer she could take the wait.
Turning her eyes back to the hall, Buffy raised chin slightly and called out, “All right. Enough. Come on.”
Nothing.
“Hello?”
Silence.
“Heeeellllo?”
Silence.
“Well, for Pete’s sake, are you a scaredy vamp? ‘Cause if you think this is how I wanna spend my birthday, you’ve gotta—oaf!”
It happened so fast. So freaking fast. The sensation of being dragged off her feet commenced a dizzy spell…then the room was spinning. In a fury of quick movements, she felt her stake arm twist behind her back. The cold flesh against her sweaty, clammy skin made her shudder. She could see nothing, but her other senses were going haywire. The smell of wafting nicotine tickled her taste buds. The harsh breath at her ear smelled of cheap brandy. He said nothing, still, but she sensed his amusement—his excitement, and it made her insides tremble.
The vampire twisted her stake-arm furiously, and in a flash, she found herself weaponless. He roared in victory and spun her around to face him. Their eyes met—a clash of violent blue—and she felt a something hard fall within the pit of her stomach.
The impression was brief. Buffy had time to fight, but the thought never surfaced. She was only aware of Spike's grasping her wrist as he pulled her roughly to his chest. A flash of fangs, then his hand closed over her mouth, and he rolled them against the wall.
“Well,” he drawled, his breath hot at her ear, “looky looky at what I found.”
TBC |
