Chapter 1
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Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary…
Edgar Allen Poe
The Raven
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The unsteady clink of
bottle against tumbler was appropriate background music to accompany Giles’
fragile mood. How many years had
passed since his Ripper days and the dark deeds of his youth; years spent
burying memories so deep that he’d actually convinced himself that his
recollection of that time was flawed. He
was Rupert Giles, upstanding member of society, librarian, moderate of habit and
opinion; any similarity to the reckless young man with a penchant for summoning
demons was entirely coincidental.
“Nice try, Giles,” he
slurred as he knocked back another shot of Irish whiskey.
“Bloody Ripper, always lurking in there.
I’m sure you want a drink?” he questioned his alter ego.
“No? Jolly good.
More for me then….” More
clinking, more gulping.
He grabbed at his notebook
and tugged it across the desk, inadvertently knocking the now empty bottle
clattering to the floor. Glancing
at the names written across the page, he drained the glass in his hand.
He ran his finger down along the lines, remembering the first time the
group had got together in London all those years ago.
Ethan Rayne had introduced
him to the band of misfits after spending a drunken night in a pub close to the
university listening to his tale of woe; Giles was disillusioned with his life
and had no intention of obeying his father and following him into the
Watcher’s Council. There’d been
a huge row, they’d both said things they really shouldn’t have and Giles had
stormed out, slamming the front door behind him.
He was sick and tired of the endless rules and regulations – don’t
wear that, don’t say this. He was
a free spirit…he needed room to express himself.
Bloody aged git of a father didn’t like it…he could stuff it!
So, cradling his pint of
lager to his chest, Giles had listened with interest as Ethan laid out his plan
for fun and frolics, the summoning of a demon and the orgies of sex and booze an
added bonus – exactly what he was looking for.
“Ok, mate.
Count me in.”
“Delighted to!
And your name is?”
A beat.
“Ripper. Just…Ripper.”
And that had been that.
A maniacal demon-worshipper with kohl-rimmed eyes and a sideline in hot
tunes was born. From thereon,
Ripper took over his persona completely. He
dropped out of university, cut himself off from his parents and long-standing
friends and severed all ties with the Watchers Council.
Soon his days were passing in a blur of drugs, mind control, magic and
demonology. The greater the risk,
the more intense the kick. He
became the main protagonist in the group, urging them on to darker magicks, even
as some were starting to feel uneasy at the way things were going.
So when he’d suggested Eyghon as their next project, there’d been
whisperings of discontent.
Eyghon was a demon of
great power that could inhabit the bodies of sleeping or dead humans and thereby
gain some measure of appearance in this world.
It was a mind-blowing experience for the recipient of the demon, the
feeling of euphoria eclipsing any drug trip and then some.
There was a catch, as always; the demon was strong and difficult to
handle. There was a ritual
involving a tattoo, the mark of Eyghon, then chanting, potions, a trance.
The sexual energy surrounding the group as they summoned the demon for
the first time had been electrifying. It
was then that Ripper had truly come into his own.
Giles chuckled mirthlessly
to himself as he went in search of a fresh bottle – scotch this time –
unsteadily banging against furniture as he lurched around the room.
“Bloody good times … great shagging… that Dierdre…nice pair of
tits on her…” He dissolved into
a fit of giggles, gripping the bottle and flopping down on the couch.
“Glass…no glass…sod
it…” he muttered as he upended the bottle and took a healthy swig of the
single malt.
The sudden rapping on his
front door jolted him from his drowsy musings.
The door handle was tried to no effect; unusual for Giles, he’d
actually locked it in an effort to isolate himself from the world outside. The
knocking got louder, the female voice hollering in accompaniment.
“Oh, piss off.” he
muttered, his eyes closing as the alcohol took hold. The knocking became pounding, the door now shaking with the
force applied to it from outside. “For
god’s sake…coming…I’m coming…stop that bloody racket…”
He got to his feet and staggered to the
door. Opening it slightly, he was
faced with an obviously pissed off Slayer.
“Buffy. I…it's late.
Uh, are you alright?”
“I was gonna ask you the
same thing.”
“Don’t I look alright?
You look lovely, all pink and pretty…I'm, uh, I'm rather busy a…at
the moment, so, uh, I'll see you on Monday at… at school.”
Buffy was looking at him
incredulously; she leaned in closer trying to force the door open.
She recoiled as the smell of the drink hit her.
“Giles, did you forget?
The hospital, vampires, handy carryout packets of blood?”
He laughed, a low bitter
sound that chilled her. “No, I
didn’t forget. I had other things
on my mind…like dead friends, poor dead friends…” He took another long
pull from the bottle. Buffy made to
snatch it out of his hands.
“Now, now – you get
your own. This is mine – now piss
off!”
“GILES!
What is wrong with you? Give
me that.” She finally made it
through the doorway, nearly falling as Giles crumpled in a heap on the floor,
catching her feet with his tangled limbs.
“Wrong?
What could be wrong? And
hands off my scotch!”
Buffy knelt down beside
him, concern written all over her face. “Giles.
Please, give me the bottle. This
isn’t like you. Tell me what’s
wrong. Let me help.”
“See, you don’t know me
at all…not really, nobody knows me…poor Ripper.”
He swigged more scotch, ignoring Buffy’s sanctimonious look.
“Who’s Ripper?
What’s happened, Giles?”
There was no reply; Giles
had slumped to the floor still clutching the bottle and was snoring gently.
Buffy shook him roughly. “Giles
– you are not getting away with it that easily…wake up.
WAKE UP!” she shouted in his ear.
The watcher sat upright and
regretted it instantly. His head
was spinning, making the contents of his stomach swirl unpleasantly.
He lurched to his feet and made it to the couch, sinking into the
cushions with a sigh. Looking
up, he was met by the Slayer standing disapprovingly in front of him.
Hands on hips, head tilted, she glared down at him.
“Have you always been
such a bitch, Buffy? Ha!
Bitch Buffy…funny.”
“Giles!
That’s enough. You think
you’ve got problems? What about
me, standing out in the hospital parking lot, waiting for you to show up and
help me? Do I have to do everything
myself? What were you thinking?
If Angel hadn’t showed up we might have had a vamp feast on our hands.
Do you even care?”
“Do I care?
No…not really, not anymore.” He
laughed again, dark and mirthless.
“That’s not good
enough. You’re my Watcher; ergo
you should be watching me. I
haven’t got the time to deal with your imagined problems.
What happened – a book get torn or something?
Delivery of your stuffed shirts been delayed?
Quit feeling sorry for yourself and help me!”
“Buffy, Buffy… you do
realize there are other people in the world apart from you? …forget I said
that…of course you don’t…I need a drink…”
“The last thing you need
is a drink, Giles. You’re
disgusting! How could you let
yourself get like this? I thought
you were different, all British and stuff.
You’re a mess. And you
stink of booze!”
She walked over to the
door, stepping over the empty bottle, and turned back to face him all the while
continuing her monologue.
“I don’t know what your
problem is, and frankly I don’t care. I
can’t talk to you like this. I
don’t want to be in the same room as you because…ewww!
I’m going to where the clean people are.
Take my advice – lose the bottle, take a shower, and get a grip.
I’ll speak to you tomorrow. You
know -- if you can be bothered!”
With a flounce of blond
hair she was out of the door, taking her moral high ground with her.
“That’s right…bugger
off!” he shouted to her retreating back, wincing as the door slammed behind
her. “Oh, Giles – you naughty
boy. She’ll make sure you pay for
that…” He collapsed in a fit of giggles.
“M’ book, need my
book.” He rose to his feet
unsteadily and stumbled towards the table.
The notebook was lying open, the names stark against the white of the
page. Thomas Sutcliff, Philip Henry, Dierdre Page, Ethan Rayne, Rupert Giles.
Sobering slightly as he
read the names, he struck through the first two with a black pen stroke.
He needed to know. Picking
up the telephone he dialed England.
“Yes, I'm… I'm sorry to
disturb you. It's, uh... I…I realize it's, uh, five in the morning there,
um... Uh, I-I'm trying to reach Dierdre Page. My name is Rupert Giles, uh, uh,
she knows me. It's… it's very important.”
His face blanched as he
listened to the clipped English tones on the other end of the line.
“I'm terribly sorry.
I... I-I didn't know. W-when did she, uh, pass away? Ohhhh -- that
recently?”
His legs were suddenly
unable to support him as he realized the impact of the news coming through over
the line. He sat down heavily on
the hard chair besides the desk.
“Um, yes, yes, um, we
were friends when we were young. My condolences.”
Giles managed to get the
receiver back on the cradle at the third attempt; he was staring ahead but
seeing nothing. He removed his
glasses, habits of a lifetime taking over as his mind raced.
Placing them on the desk, he reached for the scotch again and drank
straight from the bottle – his throat muscles working vigorously.
He picked up the pen and
notebook and struck through another name – Dierdre Page.
The remaining names leapt off the page, burning into his brain:
Ethan Rayne and Rupert Giles.
Despite the very real dread
that coursed through his veins, other feelings simmered below.
In fact, there were a number of sensations racing through his body.
Excitement, anticipation, arousal, curiosity.
The dread was still there, well-anesthetized now and being beaten into
complete submission by Ripper’s eagerness to revisit the place of his birth.
Eyghon.
As he drank, Ripper’s
thoughts began to overcome the genteel and reserved Rupert Giles.
Why did he let the Slayer speak to him like that? A snotty-nosed kid not
yet seventeen years old and so full of herself!
She needed to be taught a serious lesson -- the whole bloody lot of them
did. The Slayer, her friends, hangers on – they thought they were so
essential, indispensable. They were
fucking idiots, and he was sick to death of their whinging.
‘Time to fix things, mate, you let them treat you like a door mat.’
Ripper wouldn’t have put up with it; he’d chew them up and spit them
out. The longing that flooded his
being at the thought of such violence shocked him.
How could he have forgotten the euphoria to be experienced by doing what
you want, when you want. For too
long he’d stifled his true nature beneath layers of tweed and etiquette, in a
vain attempt to make amends for the death of Thomas Sutcliffe all those years
ago.
He thought about that
night, when Thomas had been taken over by the demon Eyghon and lost his life.
He should feel guilty. He
should feel remorse. He should feel
as though he’d never be able to make amends.
He didn’t.
Ripper felt exhilarated as
he recalled the ecstasy that flowed through him when Eyghon had had responded to
their call. The sucking of the
life-force from the prone form of Thomas Sutcliffe was unexpected, but you got
what you paid for and Ripper wouldn’t have missed that
buzz for anything: unlike Giles’ with his flagellation of anguished guilt.
Ripper and Rupert Giles
battled for supremacy. The figure
of the watcher rose and staggered to the bathroom, feeling the need to wash away
the thoughts clouded by all the alcohol he’d imbibed.
Standing in front of the mirror, he rolled up his shirtsleeves revealing
the mark of Eyghon inscribed on his left arm.
Noting the tattoo, which he usually disregarded, he stroked it pensively,
contemplating stark black ink against white skin.
Shaking his head, he leant
over the sink and cupped his hands to splash his face with water.
His head began to clear some and he rested his hands on the edges of the
basin and stared at his reflection.
It was Ripper looking back
at him. With an entirely evil
smirk, he spoke.
“So. You’re back.”