Rating: NC-17 overall (some entries as mild as a G)
Disclaimer: While I have taken the liberty of adding a few characters of my own creation, all of the original BtVS characters and their world belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and The WB. All are used without permission (I'll return them all unharmed) and no copyright infringement is intended (like most who post, I'm broke, so please don't sue).
Summary: It's the year 2047 and Aishling Rosenberg has recently discovered that her grandmother left behind a vast collection of letters, stories, research notes, etc.
Distribution: You want it, it's yours, just let me know where it's going to be living.
Feedback: Beggars can't be choosey, and I'm begging, so. . .
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Entry No. 9
As I stepped out of the cab, the smells of New York assaulted me. Roasting chestnuts, sewage, the river, soot, urine, garbage, car exhaust, rats . . . so many smells, all blended together to form a scent that was uniquely "New York". And the scent carried with it a flood of memories from my time spent on the streets here.
<Home.>
Why the hell had I thought that? Perhaps it's simply because this is where I had lived for so many years after fleeing Europe. From 1898 until 1996 I'd lived in the streets and tunnels of this old city. I suppose that 98 years spent in one place did somehow qualify it as a "home".
And here it was, Thanksgiving Day in the year 2000 and I was back home, after having spent five years in what, to my kind, was horribly *Sunny* California.
I looked about slowly. The streets still looked the same. Dirty. And yet it was comforting to know that some things don't change too much with the passage of time.
Speaking of the passage of time, a quick glance up at the sky told me it was after six. A quick look at my watch revealed that it was 6:08pm to be precise. <Gotta stop wearing this damn thing.> The watch was a gift from Xander, who had not-so-jokingly told me that it was to help me know the exact time of the sunrise, if I ever needed it. The sunrise that it is, not the exact time of its arrival. My body told me that. Funny guy. But it was an expensive gift from a man whose friendship had been hard won, so I didn't really want to take it off. But I was becoming way too dependent upon it. And time marched on as I let my thoughts simply drifted about . . .
It still amazed me that just 15 hours ago I had been in L.A. Buffy was right. These "new fangled flying machines really are much safer than they used to be." Especially when you can afford to buy and custom fit your own plane. Which of course I could and did do. The flight from L.A. to N.Y. had, of course, only taken a few hours. I had waited out the rest of the daylight hours in my comfortably appointed (and need I say) windowless quarters on the jet.
Actually, I spent most of the day sleeping in the dark, quiet spaces. It had been an especially busy week in L.A. - supernatural activities at an all time pre-holiday high. Had it not been for Whistler's insistence that my presence was more urgently needed here in N.Y., I would not have left. But Whistler is not one to pull me away from an on going battle unless there is an actual war to be waged elsewhere. Whatever was up here in N.Y. must be big.
Damn, I looked at my watch again! But, it was only 6:11. If I hurried I could register and get settled into my rooms and still have a few hours to wander about my old home before I had to meet Whistler at midnight. I caught up to the bellhop just as he was pushing my luggage into the lobby.
Ah, The Roosevelt Hotel. Such a lovely old place. I remember watching it being built and then opening for business in 1924. I remember how I had longed then to be able to stay here. Not that I couldn't have, I just wouldn't. During that period of my immortal existence I wouldn't even allow myself a decent meal, let alone a place to live.
My self-imposed stay in a purgatory of my own creation denied me even the smallest of creature comforts - although it did include creatures since it featured a diet of nothing more than rats and whatever other street vermin I could catch. Just enough nourishment to insure my continued existence and never-ending self-flagellation. Coward that I was, I could not rise above my guilt or step out into the sun and be done with it.
So you see, as much as I had longed for the simple comforts of a soft bed and a warm room, during that stage of my life, the longing had to go unfulfilled. It was part of my punishment.
But not anymore. When I learned that I'd be returning to N.Y. it only seemed fitting that I stay here, at The Roosevelt. The hotel had fallen into a state of disrepair some years ago, but I remembered reading somewhere that it had been restored. Normally I let Whistler and Cordelia work out my travel plans, but now, looking about the beautiful lobby filled with its antique furnishings, a roaring fire in the large marble fireplace, and all the lovely Christmas garnishes, I was thrilled that I had insisted on having a room here. How unfortunate that the only "room" without a window was the master bedroom in the penthouse. Guess I'll just have to suffer. <Ha!>
As I approached the registration desk, I pulled out my wallet and withdrew the latest set of credit cards and ID which would be needed to facilitate my check-in. I cringed again when I saw the name embossed on the cards.
Angel Marfóir.
<Angel "Killer">
Whistler, that twisted little demon, always at it with the fucking name game!
This one was especially good, though. Gaelic. Sure, use my own long forsaken native tongue against me, you little shit. I'd see to it that he paid dearly for this insult! Tonight, after the official part of out meeting was concluded, I'd make sure that I used every single one of these cards to get that bastard so drunk, he'd be hung-over for a week! Oh, but we demons are so easily tempted and so very gluttonous by nature. It would be an easy task.
"Good evening, and welcome to The Roosevelt." The petite blonde behind the counter of the registration desk was way too perky for my liking. But, as I'd promised Cordelia that I'd work on my "people skills", I made a conscious effort to smile and reply pleasantly.
"Good evening to you and a Happy Thanksgiving." I flashed her one of my patented "make'm- weak-in-the-knees" smiles. It was sure to guarantee that all my needs would be met throughout my stay here. I can be such a rogue.
"Oh, Happy Thanksgiving to you, too, sir." The slight blush on her cheeks and her breathy reply proved that I still had it. <Whatever 'it' is these days.>
"How may I help you?" she gushed. <Oh, so eager to please . . . >
My registration went quickly and smoothly. Though I must admit that I was shocked when the desk clerk properly pronounced the Gaelic word Whistler had chosen to use for my last name. Based on the spelling, I had expected her to assume that it was a French name.
What I found most disturbing about it was I knew that while she could say the word correctly, she obviously had no knowledge of its meaning. That meant someone who actually spoke Gaelic had tutored at least one member of the staff. That person had to know what marfóir meant. What did they make of it being used as a part of my name? One more little mystery to be solved - add it to the list!
"All right, Mr. Marfóir, we're all done with the paperwork. Just let me check your box for messages and you're free to go to your rooms." She quickly walked off to the little mail room behind the counter area, returning moments later with a few small slips of pink paper and a manila envelope.
<Oh, God, not another one!>
"Here you are sir. Have a pleasant evening and enjoy your stay with us. If there is *anything* you need, please call down. Remember, I'm Laura and I'm here to help you in *anyway* I can." She spoke the last line with a sparkle in her eyes and an inviting smile on her lips. I don't think she even noticed just how reluctant I was to touch the envelope she held out to me.
But touch it I did. With a curt "Thank You" I took the message slips and the envelope from her hands and headed for the elevator that would lift me to my rooms.
While waiting for the elevator to arrive, I glanced at the message slips.
From Whistler: he'd meet me in the hotel bar at midnight.
From Cordelia: call and let her know I'd arrived safely. <Who'd have thought she'd be such a worry wart. Well, she cared, that counted for something.>
From Buffy: call if I got in over my head! <Always the Slayer . . . >
From Willow: she'd received my RSVP and "What do you mean you might be stuck in N.Y. for Christmas? You have your own damn jet and you can certainly fly back to Sunnydale and spend Christmas with your friends. We miss you, you big lug!" <Ah, Willow - just thinking her name eased some of my tension. She was a true friend. Maybe I should ask her opinion on the mysterious envelopes and their contents . . . >
So, pink slips having all been read and discarded, I was left with only the dreaded manila envelope. I was loathe to opening it. I'd already received a number of envelopes identical to this one. Each contained the same thing - a drawing done by an as yet unknown artist. A drawing of me!
Each picture had struck such a cord of fear in my heart that I was tempted to destroy this envelope and its contents without ever opening it. Yet each previous picture, once viewed, left me with such a sense of wonder that I knew as soon as I was alone, behind closed doors, I wouldn't be able to squelch my desire to tear the envelope open and gaze upon this latest drawing.
How many did this make now? Almost a dozen? No, thirteen. Don't think for a moment I wasn't really sure how many I'd received!
Thirteen pictures capturing moments in my history. Moments that I am certain were shared by no one other than me and, in some cases, the other person included in the drawing.
Darla and I in Budapest, caught in a sexual encounter. She was on her hands and knees before me as I took her from behind. Both of us were covered with the blood of our victims, blood that had still been wet and slick between us.
Me, in a confessional booth of a church in London. You can barely make out the woman behind the privacy screen, but I know it's Dru. I had lived that moment. I had lived them all.
But who else had been there to witness them? And how could I not have known they were there? It haunted me.
So many pinnacle moments in my life permanently recorded on paper. By whom?
Each picture was different in style and/or technique and yet they all seemed the same. They'd been coming for so many years now but I still didn't know if they were the work of one artist (perhaps some obsessed vampire?) or of many (some renegade arm of the Watchers' Council?).
I had each work of art catalogued in my mind. Which is the only place they'd ever be catalogued as long as I survived. I kept them well hidden. Some were just too personal to ever be viewed by another. I shuddered at just the thought of someone having seen me doing what I was doing - or perhaps it was just having to actually look upon myself doing what I was doing . . .
Like the drawing of me with Spike. Spike had just joined our little "family” and I was in the process of teaching him just who was the Master of our clutch. He was laid out before me in much the same position Darla had been in Budapest. Except that not only was I driving into him from the rear, sexually, but I was using a fist full of his long blonde hair to pull his head back and up, allowing me to drive my fangs into his neck at the same time. My face was, for the most part, obscured, but the hatred was clearly visible on his and had been preserved forever. There were times in my life when I may have displayed this picture with pride. Now, it made me sick.
Why don't I just destroy it?
It's a part of whom I am. And it's a part of a collection. I could not destroy one work without destroying them all. And there were many I wanted to keep.
I'd been given a picture of that damned gypsy camp. I was laying alone beside a roaring open-air fire, weeping as my newly restored soul was absorbing the memories of all the horrendous things I had done since becoming a vampire.
One of me sleeping on the floor beside Buffy's bed. Ever the Slayers lap dog . . .
Me and Buffy in my bed, she sleeping soundly, me sitting bolt upright as my soul was ripped away again.
Me being drawn into the vortex created when I'd awakened Acathla. It's hilt having been filled-in with silver and gold gilt, the sword Buffy had driven into me was gleaming in the center of the drawing.
A hillside in Sunnydale on that fateful Christmas morning as I stood waiting for a sunrise that would never come.
These were memories that I wanted to keep. So, it's a trade off. You can't have the good without the bad.
They came sporadically. Unpredictably. I hadn't received any after leaving Sunnydale in early 1999. Which really shouldn't have been noteworthy. I didn't receive a single one the entire time I lived here in N.Y. But I'd received four while living in Sunnydale, the most I'd even been sent in such a short time.
I hadn't received any, that is, up until six weeks ago, when a drawing had arrived at my home in L.A. Then last week another was delivered to my office.
I had them with me now, buried in a trunk. I wasn't done studying these latest additions to my private gallery. They'd be hidden away with the others, eventually. But, I wasn't ready to part with them, yet. There was something about these two new drawings that I couldn't quite figure out. It was like they held some secret, some mystery to be solved.
I must have been on auto pilot because I was suddenly aware of the fact that I was standing in the entrance hall of the penthouse and the elevator key was being pressed into my hand by the bellboy. I don't even remember getting on the elevator! The bellhop was going on about the key . . . don't need room key . . . must have elevator key . . . blah, blah, blah.
Looking about the suite, I realized we must have been up here for quite some time. My luggage was no where to be seen. As the bellhop gave me a quick guided tour of the rooms, I saw that the items from my garment bag had been carefully hung up in the closet and my toiletries were already in the bathroom.
Wow, I must have been really lost in space!
All I wanted now was to be alone with this godforsaken envelope and it's contents.
Upon our return to the front hall, I mumbled my thanks, pressed a fifty-dollar bill into the bellboy's hand, and sent him on his way with a smile on his face.
No sooner had the elevator door closed than I made a mad dash for the security of my bedroom -shredding the sturdy hemp paper like a madman, leaving a trail of tiny manila scraps throughout the suite. I was desperate to reach the treasure within.
Once inside the bedroom, I slammed the door shut and threw the lock. Not that I really needed to lock myself in to insure my privacy. I knew no one would dare come up the elevator without being announced. That was one of the benefits of excessive wealth.
<Excessive wealth, HA! That was an understatement if ever there was one. Hadn't the Scooby Gang been shocked when they'd learned poor, old Angel was anything but poor? The old might still apply but . . . oh, don't let me stray from the current tale; that's another story.>
I kicked off my shoes and tore off my socks. I think it's the beast in me that loves to be barefooted whenever possible. Hell, I love to be completely naked whenever possible!
Clutching to my chest the large leather folder I had extracted from the envelope, I flopped down on the bed.
Honestly, I had locked myself into the windowless room in an attempt to find some comfort, some safe haven where I could face the fear I had for the, as yet, unseen new drawing.
Laying on my back in the middle of the large antique bed, I stared up at the clean white ceiling for a long time before closing my eyes.
I began to gently caress the cover of the folder as it continued to rest upon my chest. I could smell the newness of the leather. The feel of the grain beneath my sensitive fingertips told me that it was expensive - very expensive. Oh, but I was sure the jewel held within the case was more than worthy of the cost of its setting. At least to me it was. And obviously to the artist as well.
The fear began to recede and my curiosity continued to grow.
With my eyes still closed, I pulled the folder up toward my nose and began to sniff at it the way a blood hound would sniff out a hidden scent. Only I drew in *much* less air - just little tiny wisps. My vampire's acute sense of smell picked-up even the faintest of odors that lingered on the folder and its contents.
I could smell the tanning agent and oils that had been used on the leather. I could smell the chlorine that had been used to bleach the paper on which the drawing was done. Ink. A strong smell of ink. <So, this one's different again.>
Different , that is, from the latest two pictures that I'd received. The first had been done in charcoal and chalk. The second was a pencil sketch. This one, I was most certain, had been done with pen and ink.
My curiosity was definitely winning out over my fear now.
A few more strokes on the leather and another quick sniff.
Soap. Crisp, clean Ivory soap. I'd know that smell anywhere. It's one of my favorites. Whoever the artist was, they'd taken the time to wash their hands before touching the bare white paper on which they would work.
<Okay, that's enough!>
My eyes flew open. I swung my feet over the edge of the mattress and quickly sat up. Moving up the bed and closer to the lamp on the night stand, I gently laid the folder down in my lap.
It suddenly felt very warm in this room. Yah, hot and stuffy. I absent-mindedly undid the buttons of my shirt as I continued to stare down at the folder resting on my thighs. I tugged the shirt tails out of my pants in order to reach the last few buttons, then pushed the shirt away from my lap and the folder within.
I placed the palms of both my hands upon the cover for just a moment. Then with one fluid motion I pulled them away and threw open the folder.
And there I was. Now fully exposed, so to speak. <Ha, I was right!>
This time I had in fact been rendered in ink. I was trapped forever on snow white paper, drawn with a pen in pitch black ink.
I'd been captured by the artist's eyes and hands, frozen there in the act of striding across the lobby of this very hotel!
A growl rumbled deep in my chest. <The son-of-a-bitch had been in the lobby when I arrived!> But as quickly as that thought came to me, I dismissed it. That was impossible. A light sweep over the picture with my fingertips told me that the ink was well dried. And I knew for a fact that envelope had already been waiting for me before I checked-in. I'd seen no one other than perky little Laura, the desk clerk, enter the mail room.
By the dim light of the bedside lamp, I continued to study my latest . . . what should I call it - "gift"?
I was once again awed by the artist's talent. The painstaking attention to detail. The mantle clock had what was surely the correct time drawn on its face - 6:12. How could they have known that I'd be walking threw the lobby at exactly that time? Was the artist a soothsayer perhaps, or omniscient? Ominous is probably a better word for the whole situation.
Looking at this drawing was almost like looking at a photo or a still frame from a surveillance tape. Every minute detail was there, right down to a smoldering cinder trapped in the fire place screen. Even the tiny shaving nick on the bellboy's jaw had been caught. And I know for a fact that was there and relatively fresh because I'd smelled the blood beneath the new scab as he'd led me on the tour of the penthouse.
A chilling sense of déjà-vu slowly crept over me. But it was not caused by viewing the picture I now held in my lap. It was the dawning awareness that I had seen this all before. This room, this bed, me in this room sitting on this bed staring intently down at something in my lap . . . the second picture! The second picture was a pencil sketch of this very scene.
Quick as a flash I was across the room and digging through my large trunk, in search of the two folders buried deep within. Clothes flew about the room as I pulled them out and tossed them wildly over my shoulders.
<Damn, why the hell do I pack so much shit!>
After years of living a rather Spartan existence, I had recently slipped right back into my *very* old habit of traveling with trunks and trunks full of "stuff" - "things" I just felt I could not be without. Most all of it was completely unnecessary, but I was compelled to pack it up anyway! Darla had quickly forced me to give up this bad habit. She said it was stupid to be so attached to human things. We didn't need them and they just held us back, slowed us down. God, did I now regret having given in to this old compulsion as I continued to hunt for the two leather folders that I knew must have settled to the very bottom of the damn truck!
As I dug in deep with both hands, something hidden below all the clothes bit me! No, "bit" wasn't right - "burned" - something was burning the palm of my left hand!
Pulling both hands back out of the trunk, I looked down to see that shape of a small cross burned into my flesh, glowing bright red and already blistering.
<Now why the hell did I pack that thing - that's it! Never again! I will never again travel with this much shit.>
I carefully pushed aside a pile of clothing, so as not to get burned again. Dumping the pile unceremoniously over the side and onto the floor, I uncovered a section of the long gold chain that held the offensive little cross. Tugging violently on the chain, I yanked it out of the trunk and threw it across the room with such force that the cross ended up embedded in the wall.
<Good, let the damn thing hang there!>
At least I'll know where it is. It's not like I ever wore the thing anymore. I used to wear it to help me keep my demon in check, to help me resist the temptation to feed on humans, but I hadn't felt the need to wear it in quite some time.
Finally I'd had enough with the digging. I pushed the entire trunk over, then up ended it and proceeded to dump all of its contents out onto the floor of my room. As I'd suspected, the two folders were the last items to land atop the pile.
Choosing to ignore the throbbing pain in my left hand, I grabbed the two folders and strode back toward the head of the bed and the only lit lamp in the room.
Now, sitting down on the floor, my back against the bed, I laid all three folders out on the floor in front of me and opened each one. I quickly re-closed the cover on the charcoal and chalk work - I'd been studying that one for 42 days now. And while it still disturbed me greatly, it was not the picture I was currently most interested in.
Right in front me lay the pencil sketch that had showed up at me office last week. There lay the miniature version of this very room, the scene in fact stolen from that moment in my life which had occurred only minutes ago.
How? How had the artist been able to capture the event before it had ever transpired? It was mind-boggling.
Just like the ink drawing I'd received today, the details were so precise. The clothes I was wearing; the single rose in the bud vase set upon the night stand which was on the opposite side of the bed from where I sat; my shoes and socks carelessly discarded on the bedroom floor, each drawn in the picture exactly where they'd fallen in real-life. Every single piece of fruit in the basket on the dresser was just as it should be. Remarkable.
The artist must surely be clairvoyant. They had even caught me with my toes curled, digging deep into the plush carpet of the room, which is something I tend to do unconsciously when lost deep in my own thoughts.
I couldn't believe I had been so quick to dismiss this sketch when it had arrived. It was the first of all the drawings to depict an event that had not yet taken place. I should have known better, after all these years.
But, I had still been obsessing over the first picture, the cover of which I now reopened. The charcoal and chalk drawing was obviously very old, although well preserved. The paper was yellowed and cracking along the edges, but the picture was still unsmudged. Not a single stroke had been smeared over time.
It was a drawing of just my head and bare shoulders, encircled in what appeared to be an oval picture frame. In this picture, as if proof of its age, my hair was long, the loose wavy locks falling just below my shoulders. And while the rest of my face was very clean shaven, I did wear side burns, which were of course the style in the early 1750's. I held a devil-may-care smile on my lips and a twinkle in my eyes. If I had only known then what awaited me . . .
<Now what made me think that?>
I slammed the cover shut once again.
I picked up the pencil sketch to study it more closely. Judging by the angles, the careful shadings and shadows, the areas of the room that fell within the artists line-of-sight, I was quite certain that they had to have been sitting on the floor, just like I was now, but with their back pressed-up against the wall which was directly in front of me. I crawled across the rug, dragging the picture with me, and sat down in the space I was sure the artist would have occupied, if in fact they had ever actually been in this room.
I glanced down at a part of the picture, then I let my eyes drift over to the corresponding area in the room itself. Granted, things were no longer quite as they were in the drawing, the contents of my trunk having been strewn about the room. And I was certainly no longer seated on the bed. But, for the most part, the details were so accurate that I knew this was exactly how the scene did look just a short time ago. My eyes kept going from picture to room to picture to room. Then suddenly, as if it hadn't been there before, the one detail in the drawing that was so *very* wrong came clearly into view.
The mirror above the dresser.
The mirror held the reflection of my back. And that was wrong. No, that was impossible. I'd not cast a reflection on any surface for 247 years!
Oh, but of course, the artist did not know that I was a vampire! They had drawn the reflection because it should have been there, had I actually been the man they had mistaken me for!
A second look at the picture of me in the lobby revealed that the artist had made the same mistake there as well. Sure enough, there was a reflection of me in the mirror above the fireplace. I was even reflected in some of the larger shiny ornaments on the tree!
This led me to believe that there had to be more than one artist, because my true nature was readily apparent in earlier works.
And then, as though a fuse had been lit and was slowly setting off one explosion of thought after another, I became aware of what was wrong with the first picture - what I'd failed to see and what was in fact missing all together.
On my hands and knees, I scrambled back over to where the folder containing the old drawing laid and tore open the cover.
As I stared back down at the soft charcoal and chalk picture, long forgotten memories from a night centuries ago came back to me.
That was not a picture frame drawn about my countenance, it was the frame around a mirror. It had been a beautiful silver frame, curving gracefully around the oval mirror which held my reflection.
This was in fact the last time I had looked upon my own reflection in any mirror, the last time I had seen my face with my own eyes and not through the eyes of another.
Well, only through the eyes of one other, really. There was only one artist. I now knew that. How did I know? I can't say for sure. I just knew. And they'd deliberately put my reflection in the new pictures. Why? Now that's a good question . . . let's add it to the list, too.
But in a way, weren't all the pictures like reflections? Hadn't the artist simply cast back images of me as seen through their eyes? And this one mystery person had chosen to share with me these versions of myself. They were acting as my mirror. These pictures were the first "reflections" I'd seen of myself since I became a vampire.
So how, after the countless hours spent gazing upon this picture, had I failed to recognize that moment in my history that had been capture here? Why had I forgotten this part of that fateful night in 1753 when so many other events from that evening played themselves out over and over again in my mind? And what was it that my heart was now telling me was missing from this old drawing?
End
Entry Nine