Parts: 11 - 14
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
~Part: 11~ Definitions of Evil, Part 2
Approximately simultaneous with Part 1 of Definitions of Evil
Buffy sat, happily drinking a latte with Rochelle. London, she thought, agreed with her. They had come up to what some English people called ‘The Smoke’ the previous day, spent the night at the Carlton and had spent all day shopping. Rochelle had introduced Buffy to Portobello Road and open-air markets unlike any that Buffy had ever seen.
"So, you had fun today, Buffy?" Rochelle asked casually.
"That’s so of the yes," the slayer answered happily. She grinned openly at the woman who had become her best friend.
"Oh good," Rochelle’s smile was dazzling. "What do you want to do this evening?"
"Clubbing?" Buffy asked hopefully.
Rochelle raised an eyebrow, "Why?" She asked.
"Find guys, why else?" Buffy answered honestly.
"I’m not really into that whole meat market scene," Rochelle demurred gently. "But I guess I can make an exception. We’ve got adjacent rooms and a door, so it’s not like any harm can come to us if we actually get lucky."
"Actually?" Buffy’s voice crept up in pitch as she quoted Rochelle. "Ro, we’re both hotties, and here I’ve got this whole accent thing going for me. We’ll find a couple of hunks."
Rochelle smiled, and then rolled her eyes. "If we do," she continued, "mine’ll be a dud root anyway."
"A what?" Buffy asked, totally confused.
Rochelle giggled. "I meant he’ll be really lousy in bed. I’m sorry, I did my undergraduate work at the University of New South Wales, and a couple of terms sort of … stuck."
Buffy rolled her eyes. "Y’know, one thing I really wasn’t missing was Giles and Spike using their own version of American. And now I have to go through it again!"
Rochelle rolled her eyes. ‘My God this girl is so self-obsessed that it’s frightening. Fortunately, that obsession makes it easier for her to control and mould to our needs. Oh well, I think I could do with a bit of rough trade.’
"Okay Buffy. Why don’t we head back and get all glam?"
Buffy grinned. She knew Rochelle had to be over thirty but she didn’t look it and her chestnut hair offset her pale complexion really well. Buffy was thinking of how her friend would look, all dressed up in real clothes rather than those horrid Watcher suits.
* * * *
Rochelle and Buffy sat in a corner of the dark, smoky club and scanned the room. "Lots of talent out there Buffy," Rochelle said, smiling. "What’re you looking for?"
"Y’know, the usual. Fit, cute, heartbeat. That sorta thing." Buffy grinned and winked at her friend happily as Rochelle did her best not to nasally expel her Pink Gin. Buffy continued talking. "You look damn hot in that outfit, Ro. What’re you looking for?"
"A construction worker or someone else who doesn’t need lots of concentration. You know that old song, ‘I Like ‘em Big and Stupid’? Well, that just about sums it up." It was Buffy’s turn to stop herself from laughing so hard that she spilled her drink.
"My God! Ro! You go, girl!"
Rochelle smirked as she dryly answered, "So I’ve been told."
Buffy’s eyes almost popped from her head. "Gee, Ro, get a couple of drinks in you, and a whole new side comes out."
Rochelle just winked at her. "No, not really. The Council is very demanding of my time, and it’s the easiest way for me to get what I need. Needless to say, though, they have no idea."
"It’s cool. Your secret is safe with me. We’ll be ‘hos together and keep it all quiet."
"Hoes? What on earth do garden implements have to do with anything?" Rochelle asked, utterly confused.
"No, not hoes, ‘hos. Naughty girls."
"Oh! You mean we’re a pair of tarts!"
"If you don't mean the pastry, then yep!" Buffy answered, grinning.
Rochelle laughed. "I may see if we can set up some language classes when we get back. If I can get permission, I’ll have you run the American English, and I’ll teach them Australian English."
Buffy looked at her friend. "Bad Ro, bad bad girl. Work talk. Chug that drink."
Rochelle sighed. "Okay, but if I have to, I’ll finish my idea, and then skull," she smirked at Buffy before continuing. "My idea is pretty simple really. You told me about how much difficulty both Giles and Wyndham-Price had with your local slang. I’m going to suggest the courses so that a Watcher is ready to take over anywhere in the English speaking world as soon as possible. It’ll give us more flexibility and help you start to learn how to teach--because when you start to train future slayers, you’ll then have the rudiments in place."
Buffy looked at Rochelle, wide-eyed. "That’s a really good idea, and I’m liking the idea of me teaching the tweedy boys."
Rochelle grinned wickedly. "Gotcha! Chug together?"
Buffy glared at her for a moment. "Okay, let’s do it. Then we’ll hit the dance floor and I’ll show these Brits how to move."
* * * *
As the two young women moved rhythmically on the dance floor, Buffy noticed a rather handsome young man. He was tall, with jet-black hair and piercing ice-blue eyes. She moved over, dancing as she went, and also noticed Rochelle lining up a target. In the older woman’s case, it was a burly man with tattoos on both forearms. Buffy winked at her friend as she moved in for the ‘kill.’
Just as Buffy managed to reach the man she had been eyeing, her slayer sense alerted her to the arrival of one or more vampires in the building. She turned and made her way back to Rochelle, much more quickly than she had previously.
She reached out and pulled at the brunette. "Ro," she hissed. "Bathroom, now!"
Rochelle looked annoyed for a moment, until she saw the urgency in the blonde girl’s eyes. As soon as they entered the bathroom, Buffy whispered, "There’re vamps in here. Slayer sense."
"Oh good Lord, here? What should we do? I’m afraid I’m not very … skilled at fighting them."
Buffy thought for a moment, then answered, "Call the Council on your cell. I know about the stake squads. I’ll lure the vamp or vamps outside, and if I need back up, then the squad can move in too."
"I will. Just make sure no-one comes in while I call."
Rochelle’s call took less than a minute. "We’re lucky. They can be here in about half an hour. So, what do we do until then, oh glorious leader?"
Buffy looked at her strangely for a moment. "Are you channelling Xander?"
"What?"
"I meant, that last comment was very Xander-esque, that’s all. As for what we’re going to do, you can hide while I lure the vamps outside."
"Alone?"
"Well duh! They’d eat you in a heartbeat."
"Okay, what are these boys you’ve called armed with?"
"Stakes, what else?"
"I was hoping for some ranged weapons, preferably super-soakers full of holy water."
Rochelle blinked. "Why did none of us ever think of that?"
"Because you’re all tweed wearing stick-in-the-muds who have no idea of fun?" Buffy asked. Then she grinned and poked her tongue out at Rochelle who was, in equal parts, fighting off apoplexy and laughter.
"I’ll have to remember to make the recommendation to the Council Board. It’s a very fine idea."
"Well, I’m off to ‘dance’," Buffy said quietly.
"Be careful, please. I don’t want to lose you," Rochelle said just as quietly.
* * * *
Buffy moved through the club, knowing that when she got close enough, the vampire or vampires would detect and follow her. She methodically covered the whole club, thankful it was only a single story, before she headed outside. She looked back casually to notice at least seven men and three women following her. ‘Shit,’ she thought, ‘this is gonna be tough.’
She looked behind her again as she exited the club, noticing that the vampires following her were spread out. She turned and walked down Regent Street, and ducked into a small side street, knowing that the leading vampire would see her and follow.
As the leading vampire turned the corner, the last thing he ever saw was a piece of wood hurtling at his chest before he exploded into dust. Buffy then peered cautiously around the corner, to see three more vamps, all now in game face, heading towards her. She moved out onto Regent Street, looked at the trio and then ducked back into the dark side street. This time she moved further down the small road, and crouched in a pool of darkness between streetlights.
The three vampires, two male and one female turned into the side street and, unable to see Buffy, began to run down the road, hoping to catch her. As they passed her, she threw a stake that caught the trailing vampire in his back and he cried out as he became dust floating in the light breeze. ‘Two down, eight to go,’ thought Buffy. As the other two turned to face her, she heard the sound of more vamps coming up the street from behind. "Okay, who want’s to try and take the Slayer first?"
The vampires halted momentarily. Then one drawled out, "So, tart, you’re the Slayer? Pull the uvver one! Ev’ryone knows the Slayer’s over the bloody pond."
Buffy rolled her eyes. "What did I do to deserve this? It’s Spike without the bleach job." As she finished the comment, she threw a second stake, which hit the mouthy vamp full in the chest, instantly reducing him to dust.
By now, Buffy saw that all seven remaining vampires had entered the street, and she had only a single stake left to dust them with. ‘Okay, one to my left and six to my right,’ she thought quickly and suddenly cartwheeled left and twisted, delivering a roundhouse kick to the lone female vamp’s temple. As the woman staggered and reeled from the impact, Buffy quickly staked her and turned to face the six oncoming vamps.
Buffy scanned the six vampires who were cautiously approaching. Then, behind them, she saw Rochelle appear at the street corner. Seeing Buffy facing six vampires, she hastily ducked back, out of sight.
The blonde breathed a sigh of relief before taking a moment to focus herself for the oncoming onslaught. The vampires came at her in a single group, moving at a dead run, while Buffy moved backwards and to one side. She suddenly sprinted forward and staked the vampire to her left, leaving five. She continued to run forward before turning and the remaining five had to slow and turn to follow her.
The slayer was now standing and facing the remaining five vampires, with her back to the Regent Street end of the small road they were all silently fighting in. The remaining vampires were now much more cautious as they slowly advanced. "Let’s see," Buffy said reasonably, "so far the score is Slayer five, bad guys zip. Are you sure you want to keep playing the game?"
"Slayer?" Asked one of her opponents. "Yes, you are the Slayer," he nodded to himself. "That was what I was sensing, why I followed you. Your presence is not desired here. Go now, but if I see you again, I shall kill you. Tell your watcher that Tarquinius the Damned vows this."
Buffy backed away. She was well aware that she had been lucky, and the fact that they had been unaware that the she was in England had worked in her favour. Her luck, she knew, couldn’t continue. As she slowly moved towards Regent Street, the remaining vampires turned and ran in the opposite direction.
* * * *
Rochelle sat in one of the chairs in the hotel room, while Buffy just flopped on the bed. "That was nasty, Ro. All the training doesn’t really help with the real thing."
Rochelle nodded. "The heavy boys weren’t really happy about you working alone. I suspect I could be in trouble for that."
Buffy smiled back at the older woman. "Don’t worry. I’ll simply point out what ability any watcher would have to stop me if I chose otherwise … none."
"That’ll infuriate Peter," Rochelle observed as Buffy rolled onto her side so she could look directly at her friend.
"And this should worry me why? It’s not like you can advertise for Slayers in the paper, right?"
Rochelle giggled in spite of herself. "I can understand some of Giles’ early reports much better now, but he was wrong. It’s not that you have no respect for authority, it’s that you think respect should be earned."
Buffy blinked. "Damn, Ro, I hate it when you do that. No secrets around you, are there?"
The brunette grinned at her. "No, none at all. But it’s our secret, right?"
"Deal." Buffy answered firmly.
"Good, now we should get some sleep and head back to Devon tomorrow. Night Buffy."
~Part: 12~ Definitions of Evil, Part 3
2 days after Part 11
Rochelle looked at her superior, thinking before continuing her report. "Frankly, Peter, she's better than any slayer I've ever seen or read about. She faced ten vamps, alone. Ten. She dusted five of them, scared off the rest, and didn't even get touched. Talking of which, have you ever heard of a vampire called Tarquinius the Damned?"
"No, but I can get it checked for you." Maugham pressed the intercom and spoke. "Mr Jeffries, could you see if we have any record of a vampire named 'Tarquinius the Damned'? And let me know if you discover anything.
"So, Rochelle, what were we talking about?"
"Buffy. Have you ever seen her fight? I mean for real, not in training."
"No, but I can imagine she'd be an awesome and frightening sight."
"She is. But that's not the really important thing. There's something about her ." Rochelle paused, trying to order her thoughts. "She seems to have a peculiar ability to make friends, to enable people to care about her, somehow. I know that when I started talking to her it was part of the plan, but she's really my friend now."
"That's not a problem, but I think I should examine this . ability of hers in our sessions. I wonder if it's unique, or if it's an as yet unknown capability of all slayers."
Rochelle nodded. "Just don't hurt her, Peter."
"Au contraire, I want to make her as happy as I possibly can. She's already rejected her former allies. Now is the time to build new alliances."
Rochelle nodded. "Good. Now, what do we do with Dawn?"
"Ah, that's an interesting point you raise. While you were in London with Ms Summers, the young Miss Summers received a telephone call. Unfortunately we were unable to intercept this one, however, Mr Harris received a verbal barrage that left him in tears. I'd say things are looking healthy on that front. After all, she had a year's worth of pent-up hostility to release."
Rochelle smiled. "Good. We really do need to bring the Slayers back under control. All else aside, without the Council, how can we guarantee that the current slayer will be sent where most needed?"
"Very true. Now, fill me in on everything else that happened."
* * * *
"Dawn, are you okay?" Buffy asked, concerned.
"No. And no, I don't want to talk about it."
Buffy rolled her eyes. "Fine, don't then."
Dawn stalked off, visibly fuming.
* * * *
"I think that's brought us completely up to date, hasn't it Rochelle?"
The brunette just nodded in response to Maugham's question. Then, just as the head of the Council was about to dismiss her, the intercom activated.
"Dr Maugham?" Jeffries voice reverberated tinnily in the intercom's speaker.
"Yes, Mr Jeffries?"
"I have the information you requested a little earlier, on Tarquinius the Damned."
"Go ahead, please."
"Very well, sir. Tarquinius the Damned is the name of a London-based vampire with a small coterie of followers. Before his death, he was Dr Edward McCubbin, Professor of Classics at Essex University. He was turned in 1987, making his vampiric existence some sixteen years in total."
"Thank you Mr Jeffries."
Maugham looked at Rochelle and chuckled. "He sounds very . ostentatious for a mere fifteen year old fledge."
Rochelle smiled back. "He does, but he's obviously got a following. He was one of ten when Buffy encountered them. I can't see him being a particular danger to Buffy though."
"Well, I wouldn't make that an iron-clad rule, Rochelle. After all, William the Bloody, with whom we're depressingly well acquainted, was only nineteen or twenty when he killed his first slayer."
"Very true. I'll left Buffy know what we discovered though. After all, it's obvious that she's . errr," Rochelle reached for the word she wanted, "rejecting the wishy-washy philosophy of Giles and the other . renegades."
Maugham nodded. "Good, good. I think that we're on track then to bring the slayers back into the fold, one way or another."
* * * *
Buffy was cleaning the small apartment that she and Dawn shared, as she waited for her sister to return. For some reason that she had not as yet discovered, the British called apartments 'flats'. She was, she admitted to herself, worried. The exchange with Dawn was far too reminiscent of what had happened before they defeated Glory, and after the improvements that Dawn had made in the past year, the last thing Buffy wanted was for her to revert to her previous behaviour.
She looked out occasionally, waiting to see Dawn coming along the street. As time passed, however, she began to worry. Where was she? Eventually, as night was falling, she saw Dawn trudging resignedly up the street.
As Dawn entered, Buffy almost leapt at the younger girl, a volley of questions pouring from her lips. Dawn stood and waited as the deluge washed over her. Dawn had deduced that the gist of Buffy's questions related to one thing, 'Where had Dawn been?'
"I needed to think. You wouldn't listen earlier, so after school I went to Wimpy's and pigged out and thought a lot."
"Thought about what?" Buffy asked, taken aback by Dawn's answer.
"Xander called yesterday."
"Why? They haven't called or written since we came here."
"But that's not what Xander said. He said they've tried to call and never got through, and they've all written a lot of letters."
"Yeah, sure," Buffy scoffed. "Willow and that monster she's fucking won't let them call or write. You know that as well as I do, Dawnie."
"I thought I did, but Xander sounded so sad. It sounded like he was really upset when I told him to get lost."
"They're just messing with you, Dawn. They all hate us both. Why else haven't we heard a word in almost a year?"
"I dunno. I just know Xander didn't sound like he hated us."
"Let me think about it a bit Dawn, and I'll talk to Ro as well. She's good."
Dawn nodded, already distressed that Buffy was going to go to any member of the Council about this.
* * * *
Maugham smiled coldly as he listened to the conversation between Buffy and Dawn. At its conclusion, he turned to the Council Executive, seated around the boardroom table. The five compatriots who had gone to California with him were all there, the final, seventh, seat was held by Erherzog Karl-Heinz Gustav Schelling von Salzburg, the only non-British representative present on the Executive.
Maugham's selection of the Arch Duke as a member of the Executive had been deliberate and political. Although very learned and pleasant, Karl-Heinz was in all other respects a non-entity. However, Maugham mused, his selection was a sop to the non-British members of the Council at large, his lack of ambition ensured that Maugham had the ability to rule a united executive where almost all votes were unanimous.
"It seems, then that Ms Summers has definitely turned against her former allies. Do any of you disagree?"
"Well, I assume you speak only of the slayer," Marcus Adair sought confirmation from Maugham.
"Yes. In all honesty, Marcus, I don't think that the younger Miss Summers is really an issue. Whether she supports Buffy or not doesn't really signify."
"She is the Key," von Salzburg said, quietly articulating the question that had been on the minds of all the Executive members. "Is it possible that such an . entity could possibly be irrelevant?"
Maugham nodded in response to the question. "I understand your concerns, Karl, but all the research that has been done seems to indicate that the Key has but one function. And that's to open a gateway between dimensions on behalf of one of three specific Hell-Gods. One of those three is dead, thanks to Ms Summers; while the other two are in their own dimension. I somehow doubt that young Dawn Summers will become an issue."
The Executive members all nodded, pleased that from their point of view, Dawn was really no more than a 'normal' young girl, and not something they had to take a careful account of in their planning.
"The development of Ms Summer's abilities under our tutelage has been exceptional," Maugham continued, "We've never been able to assess and retrain such an experienced slayer before. Her abilities are no different, per se, to any other slayer, but the level of training and combat that she has experienced make her completely unlike anything we've had experience with. It seems to me that, if there is some way to do it, we need to be able to pre-prepare potential slayers. The skills that Ms Summers has make her an invaluable asset to the Council."
Featherstonehaugh cleared his throat. "So, would Ms Summers be more or less amenable to our needs, goals and philosophy if her younger sister were to leave?"
"To be honest," Maugham began, "I'm not entirely certain. The relationship that Ms Summers and her sister share is almost a maternal one but, as we all know, maternal links are often stressed during a child's adolescence."
Rochelle cleared her throat slightly, and began to speak. "If I may make an observation ."
"Of course," Maugham said courteously. Even though he ran the Council like a personal fiefdom, he was well aware of the need for diplomacy and politics.
"Working under your instruction, Peter, I began to befriend Buffy; become her confidante."
Maugham chuckled. "Oh, I know. The Council's still paying off your shopping binges."
Rochelle gave Maugham a definite look before continuing. "Over time, this false friendship became real. Buffy is my friend now, a real friend. For us to be speaking about her as if she were simply an experiment or object of study is profoundly wrong, Peter. She's a human being. Living, breathing and with genuine emotions." She drew breath before continuing.
"We shouldn't be assessing her emotions based only on their benefit or drawbacks to us. Any planning we carry out has to include Buffy's emotional well-being. In my personal opinion, to do anything else could be potentially catastrophic for both the Council and our long-term aims." Rochelle ran her fingers through her short dark hair, rapidly mapping out what she would say next.
"I'm certain that Buffy now fully subscribes to the truth regarding demons of all forms-that they are either actively or passively inimical to the survival of humanity-and that she will work tirelessly with us to save the human race from either extinction or enslavement. However," she paused, letting the sudden silence become pregnant with meaning, "we must never forget her upbringing. The United States has always made a cult of personal freedom. To in any way force or manipulate Buffy into working for us will be self-defeating. To that end, we cannot either force Dawn away or make her stay against her will. Any decision that Dawn makes must be her own, and Buffy has to be aware that it's Dawn's free choice. If anything else eventuates, Buffy will simply consign us to Trotsky's dustbin of history. Again."
Rochelle was in full flight now, and she continued before anyone could ask any questions. "I would also suggest that negative commentary and opinions of her former friends not be permitted. Buffy's demeanour has improved markedly since she and I became friends, and I simply portrayed Giles and the so-called 'Scooby Gang' as being not wrong-or evil-but merely seeing things differently.
"Our objective has always been," Rochelle concluded, "the protection of humanity from forces that most believe to be fictional. Let's not lose sight of that amongst all the other issues. Buffy is a fundamental part of that objective, and we need her."
Rochelle looked up and then added one more comment. "There's one other issue we haven't addressed yet either. Buffy is twenty-one now, and a legal adult both here and also in the United States. Additionally, because she was never identified as a potential slayer, she has strong views about her 'right' to a normal life. To deny her that 'right' would only result in her turning away from us again. Therefore, we should encourage her to develop a relationship with an ... appropriate suitor."
Part 13 – Definitions of Evil, Part 4
Approximately three days after Part 12
Anya came into the small private departure terminal, dragging seven suitcases behind her. Following in her wake was Xander with another eight cases of various kinds.
Willow looked at the parade and then rolled her eyes at her friends. “C’mon guys, this isn’t a jumbo jet— it’s little. We can’t carry that much stuff!” She realised, though, as soon as she had uttered the words, that neither Xander nor Anya had heard her. Before she could speak again, however, she was interrupted.
Spike thrust his head out of the hatchway and called to Willow, “Pet, look what I found!” He was almost bouncing in excitement at whatever it was.
“Be right back, guys,” Willow said as she went to see what had so captured her lover’s imagination.
Willow entered the small Westwind jet that Spike had managed to rent, and saw him standing near a door at the rear of the aircraft. She followed him through the door to see an incredibly decadent bedroom. There was a massive circular bed, covered in a black satin comforter. The walls were a muted pink, and almost covered with explicit engravings and lithographs, showing everything sexual that the mind could conceive of, and more. The ceiling was fully mirrored, and the one part of the walls not covered in engravings had a state of the art video system fitted. It took no imagination to know what sort of videos would be available. There was a final touch that astonished Willow. There was a swing, covered in a soft fur and suspended from the ceiling.
“Spike, it’s a flying whorehouse!”
“Yeah! It’s just … neat.”
Willow’s lips quirked repeatedly at Spike’s enthusiasm. “Um … just one thing, Spikey. How on earth are we going to keep Xander and Anya out of here?”
“Why do you have to?” Both turned at the unfamiliar voice.
“Hi, I’m Greta, your flight assistant.” The young lady speaking was petite and had the standardised Movie Star look that so many in Los Angeles affected.
“Are you Mr Blood?” She asked Spike.
Spike nodded distractedly as he continued to look around the aircraft’s main bedroom. “Do you know anything about this?” He asked.
“What I was told was that it used to belong to some kind of Arab oil prince, who was murdered years ago. The company bought it as is from the estate.”
“Pervy git, wasn’t ‘e,” Spike observed superfluously.
“That doesn’t begin to describe it, from what I’ve been told,” Greta stated bluntly.
“So why did a staid and upright charter company like yours buy it then?” Willow asked.
“I’d guess because it was cheap. Let’s be fair here. His family probably wanted to get rid of something as incriminating as this as quickly and quietly as possible,” Greta answered.
“Good point,” Spike acknowledged, “but that still doesn’t answer the problem of avoiding hearing Chubs and Ms Former Demon by Appointment shagging all flight and thereby forcing us to hear them.”
“Oh, that’s not a problem, sir,” Greta said a little doubtfully. “The bedroom suite is completely soundproofed.”
“Bugger it! Look ducks, can you stick up a sign that makes the damn place out of bounds or something?”
Willow looked at Spike strangely. “Why do you want the room to be unused?”
Spike smiled lopsidedly. “Pet, there’s three couples on this flight, plus Weasley Wyndham-Price, and only one bedroom. If it’s available, there’ll be rows about who uses it for the whole trip.”
Willow cocked an eyebrow. “Weasley?” she asked. “You’ve been reading my Harry Potter books on the sly, haven’t you?”
Spike looked strangely abashed. “Well … yeah pet. But you have to remember that there’s a long English tradition of ‘Boarding School Adventures’, for want of a better term. Hell. I read ‘Tom Brown’s School Days’ only about ten years after it was published. And, of course, since I was at a boarding school, I sort of empathise with some of the stories. I still like the ‘Just William’ stories.”
Willow just shook her head. “Why, every time I think I know you, do you surprise me? It’ll be Biggles next!”
“Nah pet, I still gotta read the Enid Blyton collection.” Spike’s eyes twinkled as he made the comment, and he grinned openly at Willow before continuing. “The originals of course, not the revised politically correct version available now. We should get back now though, before anyone else explores this bloody room.”
The couple headed back to the hatch to try and convince Anya that she only needed perhaps two suitcases of luggage. Willow was, once again, bewildered by Spike. She was surprised he even knew Enid Blyton’s name, let alone the fact that much of her work had been re-written in the eighties and nineties to reflect a less intolerant culture.
* * * *
Giles looked exasperatedly at Cordelia. “No dear, we won’t have time to see the Tower of London. Or Tower Bridge. And London Bridge is in Arizona, so that’s really not on the agenda at all.”
“But … but it’s so long since I’ve been able to go overseas! If I don’t come back with photos no-one will believe me!”
“Cordelia, don’t worry. Given what we’re likely to be doing, the very last thing you’ll want is for anyone to know you’ve been in England. After all, do you really think that the Council will object to charging us with kidnapping, should Dawn return?”
Cordelia looked shocked at the thought. “But they couldn’t, could they? I mean, Dawn’s an American citizen and she’s returning to America.”
“Doesn’t work that way Cordy. There’s an international convention that basically means that Buffy has custodial rights, wherever Buffy is. What I hope to do is to get Dawn to the US Embassy so that she can ask them to get her home. We will, of course, indicate that we can support her once she’s in the US.”
Cordelia nodded, unsurprised by Giles breadth of knowledge. The more she thought about it, the more she realised that it was one more reason both Giles and Wesley were opposed to the policies of the Council. From everything that she had seen and heard over the years, it was obvious to her that the Watchers Council was far too focused, and took into account very little of the realities of the mundane world in which they operated. Giles and Wesley, being more involved in the real world, and willing to examine all sorts of issues, developed an attitude that was, in some areas, almost diametrically opposed to that of the Council.
* * * *
Wesley finished his packing, surprised at how little he had to take with him. Looking at the half empty suitcase, he decided that he may as well take some mementos for his parents. He honestly doubted that it would help, but if he didn’t make the effort, he would never hear the end of it.
He looked around, and then realised a perfect selection for his father. It was a colour print of a soldier of the First Maryland Regiment, Continental Army of the United States circa 1780. He was wryly amused by what he had selected as his father’s gift, considering that the man still referred to the United States as ‘the colonies’.
For his mother, he selected a small cast model of a California style ranch house. It was hardly compatible with the Meissen porcelain that she collected, but it was similar in nature and, he hoped, would make her happy.
Wesley looked around once again, wondering if he had forgotten anything. All of his research volumes were packed in a proper transportation crate. He had liased with Giles extensively so that no duplicates were taken with them. His one suitcase was now packed and locked. For the seventh time, he checked his jacket pocket for his passport. He was as ready as he would ever be to return to England.
* * * *
Anya glared at Xander. “But you said, Xander! You said there wouldn’t be weight and bag limits like on a normal flight!”
Xander sighed. He loved his wife, but at times her literalness could drive him to distraction and well beyond. “I know baby, but I didn’t actually mean you could bring everything you own. This isn’t a really big airplane, so why don’t we just work out what you need, and then get Will to translocate the other stuff back home?”
“But this is my stuff! I need my stuff; my possessions, earned by the work of my body, my sweat. It’s my patriotism in a suitcase.”
Xander blinked and looked at Anya. “So, if I—or anyone else—doesn’t let you take all your suitcases, we’re being … unpatriotic?”
Xander sighed. “I’ll talk to Spike about it An, hon,” he said with a long-suffering look on his face.
* * * *
Spike and Willow were sitting in the large reclinable seats in the forward cabin of the aircraft, they were childishly spinning in the seats and laughing happily as they did so. Willow looked up to see Xander walking down the narrow aisle that bisected the aircraft. “Hey Xan, what’s up? Isn’t this just the coolest?”
“We’ve got a small problem, Will,” Xander began tentatively.
“What’s wrong?” Willow’s concern was self-evident.
“Anya. She insists on bringing just about everything she owns on this trip. She’s got fifteen cases with her, and says that not letting her take them all is somehow unpatriotic. I’m confused.”
Spike smiled wickedly. “So, what you really want is someone else to tell her she can’t take everything, right, Chubs?”
Xander nodded ruefully. “Yeah,” he admitted, “I know, I’m totally whipped, you don’t need to say anything.”
“Whipped huh?” Willow asked innocently.
“Not like that!” Xander protested.
Willow winked at her friend and reassured him. “I’ll have a word with her, Xand, don’t worry.”
* * * *
Once everything had been loaded onto the aircraft and, in Anya’s case, convinced to return the unneeded clothing and suitcases, it was nearly midnight. Embarking was a simple process, and, in only about fifteen minutes, the small Westwind took off, heading for Washington and the first stop over on the way to England.
Part 14- Definitions of Evil, Part 5
Nineteen hours after Part 13
As the Scoobies disembarked from the jet, they followed the clearly marked lines and signs toward British Immigration. On their arrival, Giles and Wesley separated from the rest, heading towards the “British Subjects” line, while everyone else waited in the significantly longer “Foreign Nationals” line. The line crawled forward as everyone made small talk, shuffling and uncomfortable as people always are in unavoidable queues.
Eventually, Willow reached the head of the line, with only Spike behind her. Everyone else had already passed through and were awaiting them. The official, dressed in a deep blue uniform, looked up at the little redhead. “Miss Rosenberg,” he began, “I’m afraid that before you can enter England, you need to speak to some people.” He indicated a pair of chairs to Willow’s left. “Could you take a seat, and I’ll arrange your meeting.”
Willow looked very surprised, but nodded, and indicated, with a helpless shrug of her shoulders, to a very worried Spike that she had no option other than to comply.
Spike advanced confidently to the counter and proffered his passport. The entry officer took one look and immediately asked Spike to join Willow. Realising he had no other real option, Spike nodded curtly and went to sit next to Willow.
* * * *
Both Willow and Spike were very confused. They had been greeted within five minutes of taking their seats, immediately escorted to a Jaguar with dark tinted windows and driven into London. Now, Willow saw, they had stopped in what appeared to be a junkyard. Perhaps most disturbing of all to her was that, when she woke Spike, he didn’t react as expected when she said they were in a junkyard. Instead of the usual expostulations and complaints that she had grown to expect from him, he had simply asked, in a frighteningly quiet voice, if she had seen a sign with the company name at all. After her negative reply, his face became completely blank.
The door of the Jaguar opened silently and a well-modulated English voice said, “Please step out and follow me.”
Spike and Willow complied, simply not knowing what else to do. They followed the large, well-set man who had already turned away to lead them deeper into the junkyard. Willow looked around curiously, while Spike scanned everything in detail. They turned a corner, and ahead was a sign that read: “C. Hunter & Co., Pty. Ltd. Scrap metal Merchants.” As soon as Spike saw the sign he started to swear under his breath.
Willow looked at him, shocked. Not by the profanity but simply because she could see no reason for it. “Spike, what’s wrong?” she asked him.
“Pet, if I told you, you wouldn’t believe me. But it won’t be long before you find out. I think we’re about to meet Charlie.”
“Who’s Charlie?”
“A cold hearted bugger who would make Angelus look like a new-born innocent.”
“A vampire?”
“No kitten, a human.”
Willow’s eyes bugged out. “A human worse than Angelus?”
“You’ll see, luv.”
By the time they had been led inside, Willow had moved past cautious, through apprehensive and nervous and had reached scared. Then, just to totally confuse her, a door opened and they were ushered into a beautiful Victorian-era wood panelled room. The furnishings matched the mahogany panelled walls beautifully; although the elderly woman sitting at a nineteenth-century desk loaded with two computers and seven telephones initially appeared out of place.
“Spike! It’s been so long! How wonderful to see you!” The elderly woman almost squealed as she rose from the desk and walked briskly over to the bemused blond vampire.
He looked carefully, and then broke into a smile. “Liz? Are you still here? Bloody hell, luv! Give us a hug.” So saying, he embraced the woman fiercely and kissed both cheeks.
“Er … Spike,” Willow began, “who’s this and what’s going on?”
Spike sighed. “This’ll take a while, kitten, but it’s like this. First, this is Liz. I knew her about … oh … thirty years back. As for the rest … it’s bloody hard to explain properly.”
Liz chuckled quietly and then spoke. “So finally you saw that sanity is far more pleasant than lunacy. It’s well past time you did, young man.”
Spike grinned. “Allow me to introduce you. Willow; meet Liz, who I worked with briefly. Liz, this is Willow, who’s taken far more of my heart than Dru could ever have done.”
Willow and Liz smiled at one another, Liz openly and Willow in nervous puzzlement. “You worked in a junkyard?”
Liz was openly surprised by Willow’s question. “Spike, I’m impressed. You’ve kept security for all these years?”
Spike just nodded.
“Security?” Willow was completely bewildered.
Just then, a door opened and an exceptionally slender man of about sixty walked into the room. He was impeccably dressed in a Savile Row suit, and wore a Marylebone Cricket Club tiea rather hideous combination of maroon and amber diagonal stripes. “Good evening,” He said before anyone could speak. “My name is Hunter, but my friends call me Charlie.”
Spike just sighed, as Willow stood, and quickly said, “Hello Mr Hunter. Could you explain …” Her question was cut off by a raised hand. “Please, Miss Rosenberg, call me Charlie. And yes, I can see I need to explain, since Mr … Blood has been far more reticent than we expected him to be. Now, I assure you that I’ll explain everything quite clearly. For now, though, would you care for tea?”
Spike grunted, and then added grudgingly, “Least your manners are a bloody sight better than some of your predecessors. ‘Do It!’ was their motto.”
Hunter smiled. “I think you’ll discover we’ve become far more civilised in the last few years. Now, I suppose I should explain myself to you both. Now, Miss Rosenberg, I may digress onto tangents at times with your friend, Mr BloodI like that name, it’s so appositebut I will make sure that you understand everything. Is that acceptable?”
Willow nodded uncertainly.
“Well … how can I explain this … the scrap metal business is really just a cover, although it does generate some revenue, our real job here is to … lubricate the wheels of government. Let’s assume for a moment that an unfriendly diplomat is doing something inappropriate. The government of the day will call us in to … discourage that diplomat. Using whatever means may be needed.”
Willow nodded, concentrating on what Hunter was saying.
“In the past, we’ve had a few occasions to call on William’s specialised services, so we tend to keep ourselves abreast of his location and circle of friends.”
“You spy on us?” Willow was shocked. “Like the CIA?”
“That would be making a bit much of it all, Miss Rosenberg. We simply have a friend bring us up to date from time to time.”
“So who is bloody reporting back to The Section?” Spike demanded. “I bet it’s that young idiot.”
“William, we’ve never kissed and told before, so I’m unlikely to start now. I’ll just say that it’s no-one in your little group. Let’s leave it at that and move on. Now, you’re here not to reminisce but because we need some assistance.”
Spike stood up and began to pace. “It was the same thirty bloody years ago! You lot haven’t soddin’ well changed a bit!”
“Please! William, sit down. There’s no use in getting distressed. You’ve known that we may wake you up. Ever since you helped us the first time.”
Spike slumped back into the chair. It was his almost instant compliance, more than anything, worried Willow. Just who were these people, she wondered.
“So, William, as I was explaining to your charming companion, we are used by our government to carry out those tasks which they need to be able to distance themselves from.”
“Yeah, pet,” Spike interrupted. “Normally that means killing people.”
Willow looked at her lover, startled, as Hunter continued. “Sometimes, unfortunately, yes, it does mean that. Much more often though, we simply convince people to change their minds about something, or carry out functions that the government wishes to be able to openly deny.”
“So,” Willow asked, “what do you want us to do?”
“It’s really very simple. There is a gentlemanand I use that term advisedlywho wishes to leave the employ of his country. Since they are opposed to that, we have to make sure he can do so clandestinely. Oh, he continued, you mentioned your CIA earlier Miss Rosenberg.” In response to Willow’s nod, he continued. “Well, every nation has their own version of the CIA and also the FBI; but they also each have their own version of my little clan. In general, we’re tucked away in a very obscure government ministry. Some years ago, we were part of the Pensions Office. We aren’t any longer, of course.” Hunter laughed at that legal fiction, and even Willow’s lips quirked at the perhaps deliberate irony there.
“Now, William, I suppose I should bring you up to speed on your contemporaries.” Spike looked surprised as Hunter opened a yellow manila folder. “Ah, yes. Of course. Firstly, Toby Meres. Well, dear Toby has passed over. Shot in Washington by a cuckolded Nicaraguan with diplomatic immunity. Such a waste, really. James Crossalso dead, but in the line of duty. Killed by a Ukrainian cousin who was hunting a defector. David Callan …” Hunter sighed. “Well, David was always the best of all; and he’s still alive. He owns a little militaria shop now. He’s still asleep of course, and we did have to re-activate him once. He was not best pleased, shall we say?”
Spike laughed. Given his previous demeanour, Willow was quite shocked, until she realised that the laughter had little, if any, mirth in it. “Yeah,” Spike acknowledged, “he’d just love being brought back into the family after getting out. Militaria huh? So he’s still wargaming then.”
Hunter laughed. “Oh yes. I can’t imagine anything other than death would stop David doing that. And you were right; he hated my predecessor for waking him up. So, that’s you all caught up on the gossip. I read the files, of course, and may I say that your current … friend appears much nicer than that other lass, Drusilla.”
Willow straightened and spoke. “Mr Hunter, I don’t understand why you want us to help; and I for one have no intention of doing so. I suggest that you let us go about our business immediately and then I won’t have to get nasty.”
Hunter just sighed. “Miss Rosenberg, you are an exceptionally powerful sorceress. Do you really think we would have invited you in without taking suitable precautions? I can assure you that none of your spells, either stored in those little crystals you use, or cast from memory, will be effacious here.”
Willow blinked. “How did you know about the crystals, and how do I know you’re telling the truth?”
Willow decided, then and there, to call his bluff. She slipped a crystal containing a truth spell into one hand, and dropped it, murmuring the trigger phrase as she did so. Instantly, her head felt like it was on fire, and savage lancing pains surged through her brain. She slipped from her chair, screaming so loudly that she tore some of her throat tissue. Spike was up in a flash and heading towards Hunter when he too collapsed, screaming in pain.
Hunter watched impassively as both Willow and Spike slowly recovered from the inexplicable attacks, ignoring completely Liz’s horrified looks. As they began to recover enough to regain their feet, he said. “I’m sorry that became necessary. Let me explain. Miss Rosenberg, the whole of this complex is encompassed by what my technical staff call a null-mana field. I think of it as a magical burglar alarm. Until just then, however, I was quite unaware of its effects on a sorcerer. William, I used this on you.” In explanation, he held up a small black box. “It triggers the chip that is connected to your limbic system.”
Spike nodded groggily. “Well, mate,” he began venomously, “I think you’ve put paid to any chance of either of us co-operating with you.”
Hunter merely chuckled. “I really think not. You see, if you and Miss Rosenberg don’t co-operate, then your friend Miss Summers will have a very unfortunate accident.”
Willow came very close to losing her temper completely, but managed to hold it in enough to snarl, “And if you do that, Hunter, I’ll hunt you down and do things to you that you can’t imagine.”
Hunter looked at the angry witch with complete equanimity. “Perhaps, but Miss Summers will be no less dead, will she? And there will always be another Hunter. Can you say the same about Buffy?”
The cold and ruthless logic completely undid both Willow and Spike. Sighing, Spike asked the question that he had feared above all others. “What do you want us to do?”
“Well, its like this …” Hunter began, “there is a chappie in the Kirghiz Embassy who would like to stay in London after his tour of duty here ends. Can’t blame him at all, Frunze is a ghastly place. Shocking weather, dreadful architecture, abominable food. Be that as it may, his government want him back desperately, so they won’t allow him to leave. And the ‘bodyguard’ they have with him is magically capable and also non-human; which really is cheating. So we need a pair of people with your particular skills to … assist both he and his family in achieving what they want.”
“What’s the pay?”
“Pay? Really, William, surely the grateful thanks of Her Majesty would be more than enough? It always has been in the past, after all.”
“But I’m a semi-married man now Hunter, I have responsibilities. And she’s never been My Majesty. My Majesty died back in 1901, and was succeeded by Bertie the Bounder!”
Hunter rolled his eyes dramatically. “All right, I’ll see what I can do.”
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