The sound of them as she shuffled was almost mesmerising. They sang to her, the magic in them crying out for solace. They instinctively recognised her true leanings in the occult, and a darkness that they had never experienced in their former users. Their previous guardians had been generational, a line going back to their maker.

Rhiannon had been the first one – the one to create them with her artistry, magicks and blood. Each of them hand painted and infused with her power as she chanted blessings over them. The paints used diluted with her lifeblood, forming a bond with her that was unbreakable even beyond death. Instead they had been passed down to the next in line, the one with the power and respect needed for them to be used properly.

Each card carried a series of images unique to itself, the power soaked in the ancient deck of cards sustaining their quality and decay was turned away before it even had a chance to take effect. The colours were as bright as the day they were mixed – over five hundred years of history had borne witness to them. The myth of the blessed pack of Arcania had been whispered about for decades but never proved. Their accuracy in their predictions unparalleled and the power within them could be tempered and used in spell casting; each card offering its own distinctive pattern to a spell. If the caster wanted power and glory then the Chariot was invoked and used as a component in the spell, and so on. Slowly their mythos built and treasure hunters, both good and evil, had searched the dimensions for the Vacani pack. But never discovering their location, or indeed if they were real and not just a folktale told around gypsy encampments. The Vacani clan guarded their most treasured possession with a fervour that only zealots would have recognised and understood.

It was only because she’d married one of their own that the current possessor of the magical pack had managed to glean any information about them from her now dead husband. Her bloodstained hands were the instruments of his destruction and had then been able to take possession of the most powerful deck of Tarot in existence.

She crooned in avaricious delight over the scattered cards, her fingers clawing at them and petting them. Greed and evil burning brightly in her stone heart. They were hers to use, hers to benefit from and hers to steal ideas, hopes and dreams from her customers as they sat there in her darkened room begging for readings.

The cards silently called for their true owners – begging to be released form the evil that had them in her possession.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

He watched aghast as she inhaled the food that the waitress had dropped in front of her. "Er, not to be rude or anything. But when exactly was the last time you had a meal?" Wesley's jaw dropped as Diana devoured a handful of chips and then slurped down half of her strawberry milkshake.

The redhead flushed pink, and hastily wiped the back of her hand over her mouth and tried to conceal the small burp that erupted from her. "Sorry. Its just teleportation kinda takes it outta you."

"Hmmm," he raised a brow over his glasses and frowned. He knew there'd been a flash and the scent of burnt ozone, but to have his suspicions confirmed so casually was startling and he was intrigued. He’d read much about spell casting and teleportation, and had only been able to hypothesize about after effects, having never attempted such himself or met anyone who had. And here she sat blithely chattering away about something so powerful as if it were as easy as pulling on your socks. He sighed, knowing he’d never have that sort of power, but was moderatly relieved as well.

“Cheer up, Brit, I’m about to make your day,” Diana grinned at him revealing an interesting melange of half chewed chips and burger. “Whoops, not a good look for me! Sorry.” She gulped and wiped her mouth, ignoring the lewd jokes being thrown around by the two truckers who walked in to hear her talking. One of them grabbed his crotch and gestured at her, shouting out she could make his day anytime. This set Wesley’s hackles on edge and he half rose from his seat and glared at the two roughnecks. “Oh, ignore them, he’s impotent,” she pointed at the heckler and then at his friend “and he’s gay and wants to screw him!” She pointed back at the now slack jawed trucker and then waved at him.

“Ed, seriously man I don’t wanna screw you, she’s just playin’ with yah!” he blustered and tried to look away from his friend’s horrified gaze.

Wesley hunched his shoulders, waiting for the two of them to turn and attack. He really was starting to regret picking the odd girl up, even if her tattoo was now currently staring at him and giving him the dragonish equivalent of a smile. It was utterly fascinating and also at the same time terrifying, as far as he could tell she was human. Powerful wiccan but human, with body art that was now curling its neck around her wrist and resting its chin on the back of her hand. “Good lord,” he pointed at the dragon tattoo and blinked.

“Oh, him, you’ll get used to him, don’t worry your pretty English head over Oscar. Here, have some of these,” she pushed her basket of fries over and waited for him to take some. “Seriously, eat. You’re too skinny.”

He really tried not to bristle at her casual comment - he knew he wasn’t heavily muscled but had always thought he’d a dapper figure. Wesley’s shoulders slumped even further, ‘It was the leathers, it had to be. Not only are they rubbing me raw but they make me look stunted...’

“Trust me, it’s not the leathers,” her eyes were sharp and intent on his.

“If you wouldn’t mind, please get out of my head, it’s scrambled enough as it is and I doubt you slipping in and out helps much.” Wes winced at his ungallant attitude and tried to give her a small appeasing smile to soften the sting of his words.

“Yeah – I saw – that hit you took during the fight at graduation was a bitch wasn’t it?” she added conversationally.

“I am sorry but do you have telepathic Tourette's syndrome?” he asked dryly. Wes had realised no matter how frosty he got the irrepressible girl in front of him was not going to change to please him. He sighed and then mentally slapped himself; if he were indeed going to become the rugged Rogue Demon hunter he aspired to then something such as this situation would be normal. ‘Just try and be cool, man.’ It was hard to achieve when his inner thighs and bits and bobs were screaming in agony from being rubbed raw, but he was determined to change – even if it killed him.

Diana threw back her head and roared with laughter – what disturbed Wes even more was that Oscar did too. She pounded the sticky Formica table top with her hand and giggled quietly, shaking her head and smiling at the befuddled ex-watcher. “Sorry, my bad, I guess the fam got used to me – I’ll have you broken in soon enough,” she drawled suggestively as she said ‘broken’ and comically waggled her eyebrows at the uptight man in front of her. Whom, she suspected, was getting prissier and more wound up by the second.

“Well, that could be interesting,” Wesley gritted his teeth and arched a brow at her, determined to give as good as he got.

Diana nodded her head and smiled, she refrained from saying anything but a twinkle in her eyes said it all.

Good for you, Watcher Man.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Madame Zorahia? Sure, come on up,” there was a tinny sound and then the gates swung open.

Her first true victim using the cards was a foolish woman, married into money, bored and wanting to play at being dark. The call had come through a few minutes earlier and Zorahia was already there standing at the imposing gates that lead to the mansion tucked away in the hills – far enough from the small town not to be associated with it, and near enough for the woman to know about her reputation as a reader.

Sighing, the old woman began to trudge up the tree-lined drive, the beauty of the day was meaningless to her – all she wanted was the power from the woman’s death. Ahead of her the Adobe style mansion appeared all terracotta paint and shining glass windows, an incongruous setting for something dark to happen.

“There you are!” High heels clattered as a plump middle aged woman teetered around the corner of the house; she was dressed in a gold bikini that didn’t conceal the stretch marks or incipient rolls of fat developing around her thickening waist. Her face was heavily made up and her hair teased into a mass of brassy gold curls held off her discontented countenance with a pink ribbon. Mutton dressed as lamb, Zorahia grinned; ‘More like lamb to the slaughter…’

“Come, let us sit so we can begin.” She reached out and plucked a hair from the woman’s head. “We’ll need something of yours to use as a focus.”

“Surely, now you come on through I’ve got a nice jug of Mohitias mixed up. You can drink while doing your stuff, right?”

The crone nodded, the woman was a fool but her life-force would taste all the better with a nice drink to ease it down. As the two women, victim and predator disappeared into the house the grounds fell into silence, as if the birds and animals recognised the incipient stench of death.

A few minutes later there was a scream – a long unearthly scream that shattered the peace. A death knell for the woman and then a bright burst of white light flashed and silence.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Come on, let’s go sit somewhere less with the ears,” she cupped her hands to her head and waggled them in demonstration, “and I can explain what I want from you.” Diana stood and laid some bills on the table to pay for her food and reached over to pull a bemused Wesley to his feet. A wave of nausea rushed through her and sweat beaded on her upper lip, she shivered and pressed one hand to her stomach as a burning pain shot through her.

“Oh…no…” she staggered and fell into his arms, her face ashen. “Get me outta here, quick.” Her freckles stood up in stark relief to her waxy skin, her full lips pale and tight as if she were suppressing a scream. Her entire body shook, the tremors starting small and building to a crescendo.

“Good lord, are you…?” Before he could complete his question her eyes rolled back in her head and Diana slumped in his arms, her body heavy and limp. All Wesley could do was pull her into his arms and walk out of the truck stop, ignoring the two truckers’ questions and heading for the run down motel across the forecourt.

“I say,” he glanced down at his right wrist and to his surprise there was a series of small red pinpricks. Wesley glared at the tattoo, “Did you bite me?” his mind stunned that the artwork had managed to do so. If he’d not been so shocked he may have dropped the redhead in shock and run screaming from the damned thing. Instead he hoisted Diana closer and made sure to keep a suspisious close eye on the smirking dragon. He really was beginning to wonder about his sanity and whether or not he was being punished by the Powers for using the Council money to fund his new look. The girl had dropped out of nowhere so maybe she was an imp or something sent to cause him chaos? Or maybe she was truly his first case as a Demon Hunter – he might be able to help her - well, if he ever managed to find out why she’d picked him that was…

It had taken a few minutes to rent a room; Wesley gently placed her supine form on the double bed and then nipped out to collect their bags off his bike. He needed his medical kit, not just for the unconscious girl but also for his bits and pieces.

Slowly, Diana managed to regain her consciousness, battling through the grey mist in her head and the miasma of pain that throbbed in her temples. She could sense her familiar’s concern as he coiled around her neck and nuzzled her ear. In the distance she could hear the sound of water and something being wrung out, ‘Oh, a cloth’ she sighed as the Watcher gently mopped her brow and called her name softly. ‘Sheesh, give me a moment already…’

“Just keep your nashers to yourself. I must say I really would love to know more about how you came to be. Fascinating manifestation – an animated tattoo – utterly ingenious.”

“He’s my familiar not a tattoo,” Diana levered her eyelids open with a groan and stared up into the bespectacled face of her saviour. “Ow, everything aches – damnit, mom, you coulda warned me.” Diana shot an angry glare upwards and then her thin freckled pale hands cradled her head shakily.

“Oh, you’re awake, excellent. Now could you kindly explain WHAT ON EARTH IS GOING ON?” He handed her the damp cloth and crossed his arms over his chest. He winced at the angry high pitched and slightly nasally tone of voice; his mother would be ashamed of him for bullying the poor girl. “M’ terribly sorry, my dear, but you have to admit it has been a dashedly odd day…your so-called familiar bit me!” He held out the wounded appendage with an added dash on male neediness, “look he broke the skin.”

“And yet we seem to have forgotten about the fits and passing out I went through,” Diana snorted wryly and levered herself up to rest on the head board. She squinted at him and offered him a half hearted there, there, “jeez the male ego hear me roar!”

A faint red coloured his cheekbones. “Well…really…” he stammered and hated himself for doing so. Wesley took a deep breath and then pushed his glasses up his nose, the contacts abandoned for now as his eyes were bloodshot and dry, “I’m sorry, I am an unreserved cad.”

“Hardly. Lighten up for Hecate’s sake,” she patted the mattress. “Here, sit down and listen to me.”

And so he did, and for the first time since his initial reaction to his transfer to the Hellmouth and becoming a Watcher to the active Slayers, he felt a purpose in his life. As the irrepressible Wiccan told him the tale of the missing pack of Tarot, he was hooked. He had a purpose beyond the amorphous idea that he had, a Rogue Demon Hunter, he could add Relic Hunting to his résumé. Now, he could add to that finder of missing arcania and also possibly a knight rescuing damsels in distress. His self esteem was finally rearing its head and giving him a much needed boost.

All the while Wes was thinking he had forgotten Diana and her abilities, until he looked up and she gave him a sympathetic and sphinx like smile, for once not saying a word. Which was a relief; he was tired of having clucks of sympathy directed at him by women - the nurses of Sunnydale Memorial had nearly broken him with their cooing and fluttering. It had been hellish and, at the same time, a salve to his wounded dignity.

“One thing before I lighten up, Diana, your seizure and collapsing.” He rubbed his bitten wrist and managed to refrain from shrieking at the top of his lungs that her familiar had bitten him. “What on earth was that all about and are you sure you are quite recovered?” He peered worriedly at her pale skin and chapped lips. She looked a shadow of her former ebullient self and it was discomforting – he was used to robust women such as his former charges, the Slayers protecting the Hellmouth, and this wan faced girl was starting to make him panic.

“Oh, that…” she picked at the worn comforter that he’d covered her with, the brightly coloured coils of her dragon wrapped around her shoulders in a comforting embrace trying to soothe her in his own inimitable style.

“Yes, that,” Wesley pushed his specs up his nose and waited patiently, something he’d only recently learned how to do. Being in hospital immobilised by back pain and in traction, you learned to be patient. As there was nothing else to do – other than go barking mad from boredom and the inability to scratch various itches. Sheer purgatory, and he wasn’t going to even allow the mortifying memories of bed baths and bed pans to scar him anymore.

“That would’ve been Zorahia using the cards for evil; I sensed something vague before I collapsed. I have a nasty feeling she maybe invoking blood magicks, and if she is then…”

“Then we are up against a formidable foe.” With those eight words he committed himself to the battle for her family’s honour and an unspoken promise to ensure the return of the stolen cards. “So where do we go from here?” He returned her hopeful smile with small twitch of his lips.

“I think I have everything we need in my rucksack, could you?” She gestured to her bag with one hand and pulled herself up and sat cross legged on the bed. Wesley rose and lugged the bag over – his face curious with interest as she began to pull out familiar looking spell components. “Mom said you’d be the one, she saw potential in you that would eclipse all your peers in the Council.”

“Council? Your mother could sense what I was?”

“Was? Naahhh, still is even with the leather and stubble make over, Once a Watcher always a Watcher, Mr Wyndam-Pryce.” Diana winked at him and pulled put the map her father had given her and opened it up.

“Oh ingenious, a tracking spell of sorts?” The combination of the map and spell components had confirmed his suspicions. “And as kind as those words are, Diana, unfortunately I am no longer a member of the Council.” He found the twinge of pain and shame associated with those words were not as harsh as they’d felt only a few hours before. She’d managed to intrigue and distract him within minutes of their meeting. He had a feeling that this mission would be a good change and maybe he would succeed and finally win back some the self esteem his father and his cronies had robbed from him with one brutal telephone call.

“Kinda,” she reached for the chain around her neck and pulled it out from under her tank, revealing a heavy quartz dowsing crystal mounted in silver. “I’m going to scry for it.” She spread the detailed ordinance map out and then began to scatter various dried herbs around it, all the time muttering under her breath. “The power that Auntie Z is expending is more than enough for me to spot and the cards will call to the familial signature that is me.”

“I beg your pardon? Auntie Z?”

“Oh – crap I forgot that didn’t I? Well she kinda married my Uncle Barty to get an in with us, all of the fam were fooled by her – hell, we all were so glad he’d found someone to love him and then…then…it was too late and she,” Diana’s hand shook as she swung the crystal over the map and tears welled in her eyes.

“What on earth did this unspeakable woman do?”

Instead of vocalising what she’d seen Diana reached over and placed her free hand on his temple and let him see what had occurred in the past few days. Slowly her tattoo glowed as the magicks were channelled through Oscar and into the frozen Englishman as she allowed him to witness the horrors the crone had inflicted on the peaceful Vacani clan.

The bloodstained study was an image he would carry to his grave.

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