Sang et Ivoire
By Holly
Chapter Four
The first year of any new adjustment was supposed to be the hardest, and in many aspects, it was. Settling in. Conforming. Surviving the first week alone nearly killed him. True, the general populace was educated and prim, but William tended to more manuscripts and questioning than he knew could exist. Books were not his forte; as a vampire, he had purposefully avoided ritual, trying to break away from the conformity that defined the demon moniker. Surrounding himself with dusty titles was new but liberating. He had even jotted a few verses of poetry into an empty notebook Giles provided him with in the instance that he found anything of use concerning the black vampire blood.
By the second week, Giles had arranged his schedule around library hours, performing his duties for the Council with less frequency. William came to understand them as loose ends. Tying up what he could while severing as many as possible.
Little by little, attitudes began to differ.
It amazed him that he hadn't found time for books as he did now. Every page of every volume was filled with fascinating information - things his black demon heart would have loved to attempt, once upon a time. It had nothing to do with ritual and everything to do with brazen fun. Never had he suspected the two could be combined with such beneficial consequences.
It's a good thing, he reflected late one evening, that I can't lose this bloody soul. Some of these things are just...neat.
He shuddered to think of how Angelus would have reacted to uncover such little treasures.
Above ground living was another adjustment that took getting used to. William could not recall the last time he slept comfortably in a regular bed. The curator's apartment was modest and efficient. He required little space and was rarely home as it was. The library demanded all his time. Many nights were spent in the solitude of the basement, pouring over passages and analyzing new threats of uprising evils. Cryptic hints of what was - or what could be - approaching.
Things were quiet, though. There was no mention anywhere of vampires that bled black blood, or the implications of what such could represent. William concluded it was an isolated incident and explained to a rather disgusted Giles that the blood of the undead could possibly tint to match a variety of colors. It depended on what they consumed, and if any other chemical imbalances were added to circulation.
"You think I'm the only chap who likes gettin' a little somethin' on the side, mate?" he had drawled late one night, kicking his feet onto a bare library table as he plucked an unlit cigarette from his lips, reminded of the strict 'no smoking' policy. "Don't fancy I ever told you that I fed off a flower child once. Cor - it was amazing! All the spinnies and sensations. Nothing like the smokes, though. As much fun as that was, I didn't like being out of control of myself. Everything we eat, or consume, you see, will affect us somehow. I remember Dru got sick - well, before she got sick - once after feeding on a bloke with sickle cell anemia. Didn't last, o'course. We feel the burn, but it doesn't bother us too long. Some vamps love it - the newer ones, especially. Those who were heavy on narcotics before they were turned, and even some who feed on druggies and get buzzed. I've seen my blood, Ripper, and I know it's darker than what's 'normal.' Dunno much about human blood, except that it's nummy, but I think it affects the undead differently. In the end, I'd wager that Buffy stumbled onto a vampire that enjoyed all shorts of illegal goodies, and that's that. Wouldn't make a big fuss unless it happens with more regularity.
It was information he couldn't locate elsewhere. Giles secretly congratulated himself on his new acquisition - the things he could learn from William! Things that exceeded the text, the real grub of vampiric existence. This new sliver of information was only the beginning: what didn't affect mortals could potentially advocate some irregular side effects for the undead. He related his discovery to Xander, cautioning Buffy to be watchful, but not to worry unless the episode gained numerical value.
Aside from the black-blood mystery, supernatural occurrences over the Hellmouth were surprisingly subdued. There were demons, of course - things to slaughter on patrol, things to research, but no outstanding mutinous evil that demanded instant investigation and a quick solution.
Contact was kept, of course. Giles managed constant communication with Buffy, careful not to speak with her when William was around. The vampire never again played houseguest but visited often, dropping off books and what-have-you, trading inside information and imploring for new projects. Most of their time was spent at the library, and homes were considered the break needed from shop. They were never what was conventionally thought of as friends, but understanding blossomed as time went on. Little by little, William stopped hazarding concerned glances at the Watcher, worried that he had put his foot in his mouth and cost him their alliance. With similar regularity, their discussions stopped visiting the terrain of the past and ventured to what the future held-rarely concerning Buffy even as her name hung above each conversation like a rain cloud willing to burst.
His suffering didn't alleviate, but his ability to tolerate it progressed by leaps and bounds. Soon he was able to smother it from his expression, tired of the people who approached and asked, "What's wrong?" in a manner that foretold nothing but meddlesome curiosity and the hope of good scandal.
Watching people was still a favored pastime. Those numbered evenings when his presence was not required with books and prophecy were spent at the café - watching life pass before his eyes and jotting down a few stanzas at a time. It felt odd to want to write again. He didn't believe his ear for poetry had improved any, but experience was the best sort of inspiration. There was no mindless worry with rhyme schemes or technique; William discovered free verse and marveled in the ability to simply write and not worry with the mechanics of creativity.
The sense of satisfaction he received every time upon handing over his hard-earned wages in return for blood and Wheatabix never lost its stinging edge. Giles had long ago shared some tedious tale of his first job and how it felt to see his name on a paycheck, but there was nothing compared to actuality. The management was pleased with his work and efforts.
"It's not simple," he told them once, during a routine evaluation. "I dunno why I thought it would be. Seemed easy 'nuff at the time. Used to be a poet. Yeh - long willy time ago. It's comin' back to me as the days pass. Whatever's me and whatever's...whatever anymore is so loopy. Knew I loved books once - back when the blood actually pumped - but I spent a good century hatin' the sight of 'em. I mean, books and more books - sod 'em all, you know? Never thought I'd actually fancy a job where liking them's all important, but I do. Stake me, I love it 'ere. A lot more than I would've ever thought." Then he had chuckled, leaning forward to draw a hand through his almost fully brown hair. The tips remained highlighted, giving him reason to laugh at those who asked if he spent too much time in the sun. "Oh, bollocks. Look at this! Not even a year yet and you wankers have managed to pass me off as a sodding poof."
The administration, over time, grew to appreciate his humor and harmless name-calling, and a few even became comfortable with his indisputable demon nature.
He was definitely the least conservative curator the library had ever known, and he grew more popular by the regulars as days progressed. Female students swarmed to tend to their studies if only to bask in his company and implore question after question of information they already had memorized. Within the first two months, he had already memorized the layout of every skylight and recorded the times when the sun passed through with a direct beam. It made travel around the floor plan quick and simple.
Yes, the first year was the hardest. It was also the quickest. There was so much adjusting to do - so much to see and envelop. An entire existence he never believed possible was at his fingertips. Stacks of wistful sonnets and unfinished poems adorned empty closets and filled notebooks until the pages were worn and wrinkled. Writing was an escape he never before fathomed. He had enjoyed it long ago, yes - poured his worthless soul into poorly constructed cantos only to be mocked by society. Now it served as a break. Words no longer struggled for freedom; they came willingly, all the time, blasting him from place to place, rendering him powerless to do anything but obey.
However, with a relatively oblivious town resting atop a fiery Hellmouth, things could not hope to stay tranquil too long. The day inevitably arrived when Xander's phone call was tainted with panic instead of the customary sense of unneeded obligation. William was with Giles when the phone rang, cautious always to still to perfection in knowledge of whom the caller might be. He stood near enough to hear, though. It became habit. Should Buffy or one of the Scoobies arise a question that merited vampiric opinion, he needed to be close enough to avoid a repeat.
That day he could have been standing anywhere in the apartment and heard every word to eerie faultlessness. Any time her name was mentioned, he drew himself in and listened with ardor he didn't know he possessed.
"Listen," Xander was saying breathlessly, as though returning from a long jog. "Buffy wanted me to call you. I took her home a few minutes ago; she didn't want to upset Dawn. It happened again. That entire creepy: 'my blood is the essence of the dark side' thing. Two vamps this time. Scraped them both up before she got a chance to lay it to the ole stakey, and both of them just started...pouring this black goo everywhere." Nothing moved within the apartment. William was in the study researching, down the hall and a room away from the conversation, but he heard everything to painful articulation. He waited for Giles to speak, but Harris started again, voice more than panicky. "Here's the weird thing, G-Man, and let me know if it means anything to you. It won't come out. The blood. It got all over her clothes and we scrubbed it together but it's like...like it's apart of the design, or something. It...made a symbol."
"What?" There it was - the telling eruption from a concerned watcher. Impatience coated his tone. "A skull with crossbones? An 'x'? What?"
"Calm down. Trust me, we're freaked out enough. It's an upside down cross with three sixes covering the front." Several rooms away, and William could still see Giles's eyes widen as Xander exerted a deep breath and continued. "Unless I'm wrong - and, please...let's not rule that out. I'd be happy to be wrong - we're talking full apocalypse here, aren't we? Like God's wrath - 'ye unable to prevent'?"
"Well..." And that was it. An unspoken cue for the vampire to evacuate his post and join the Watcher in the kitchen. They stood opposite each other. It astonished him to see Giles as concerned as he was. They had survived a number of things - more end of the world prophesies than anyone could count, and he voiced his sentiments to the concerned man on the other end, not at all convincingly.
Anyone within a ten-mile radius could hear the falsity in his tone.
"Yeah," Harris agreed. "But this is different, right? I mean - you have seen The Omen, haven't you? That entire triple six thing is just...creepy and...biblical. We can't stop anything biblical, can we?"
A hefty silence and the tension rolled off Giles's shoulders, his body relaxing into a helpless sigh. "I don't know how to prevent the end of the world, should it be by heavenly means," he acknowledged. "But I'm not entirely convinced that this...symbol is an indication of the approaching Antichrist. There are a number of demons that enjoy masquerading by old text prophecy. Buffy and I have stopped several. Whatever this...thing is...it might be using biblical references to induce this sort of panic. These indicators are easily recognized by the public. On the whole, I would say it's more likely." The Watcher glanced to William in silent offer of an opinion, but he had nothing to add. "Believe me, I will be on the first plane to Sunnydale if anything else of a similar nature occurs. I don't believe that the end of the world would be spelled out in the random killings of your ordinary vampires. They were newly risen, correct?"
"Yeah. That's what had us wigged out. It wasn't like they had done anything apocalypse-worthy, or anything. I mean, bad vampire: kill kill, sure. But as soon as they got roughed up a bit, on came the black blood in spurts. But...no. They were newbies."
"Then we're likely not dealing with an unpreventable day of reckoning," Giles reassured him, though he was sweating bullets. "I don't believe you could elicit such a reaction from the newly risen unless he was significant in life, somehow. Was it anyone you know?"
"Yeah..." Little by little, Xander's voice was relaxing. "It was a coworker. Real brain-dead guy. The other was a chick we knew back in high school. Neither of them struck me as 'Big Bad of the Year' material."
A sense of unspoken relief spread through the room. The Watcher shook his head heavily, tossing a fleeting glance to William, who was staring at him in wonder. "Now...Xander...listen to me. This is important. If there are any other indications...you know the routine. Call me and I'll fly out immediately. This report still seems a bit too vague to draw any radical assumptions." Without ceremony, he hung up, heaving another deep breath. "Right..." he said to no one in particular, though there was only one other occupant in the room. A minute passed before he had gathered himself, looking up with dead fast seriousness. "We have work to do."
The next few weeks were spent buried in ancient text. Demons were investigated and consequentially dismissed. There weren't many demons Giles was aware of that would go to such extents to conceal themselves. The foes she had faced in the past were never shy with exercising their powers or announcing various intentions. A year had passed since the last report. Whatever it was definitely wanted attention. Attention, but not to be identified. It had patience - a great deal of patience - and was waiting for the perfect time to strike.
Research was tedious and ineffective. Book after book studied, analyzed, and discarded.
There were demons of every sort. Demons that exaggerated their powers and used their various talents to attempt to bring about the end of the world. Buffy had defeated a variety of those, and Giles would not be concerned if he thought it was nothing more. However, such creatures had never hid before. Had never waited the time span of a year before making a second and more ambiguous attack. Similarly, there were demons that lived lives as regularly as any human - looking to both cause and receive no trouble. Such were numbered, of course, but not nonexistent. There were others like Whistler - those sent to correct various wrongs. And yes, even biblical demons. Creatures out to condemn mankind for multiple sins.
There was only one consistency. Behind every demon was the slayer waiting to kill it if it so much as twitched in the wrong direction. The slayer and the slayer alone.
Unless that slayer was Buffy Summers, in which case, exceptions were always made.
There were volumes of books the Watcher had never seen before, never even heard of. Night after night was spent locked in solitude, pouring over one page after the other. Reading. Digesting. Research meetings stretched into the wee hours of morning - leaving William to slumber until sunset and Giles to tend to the curator duties. Eventually, they traded off nights of rest. The vampire had experience going prolonged periods without sleep and understood that he would be the first to relinquish, should the situation fester to that degree.
"There's a demon that specializes in biblical prophecy," the Watcher noted one evening. It wasn't the pinnacle of all discoveries; William always knew when the old man was on to something - despite if the resolution turned out to be another dead-end. Giles's eyes alighted with intensity and he would begin speaking with such haste that it was difficult to keep up. "But it's not hostile. More, it researches to prepare for Judgment Day while warning mortals of its imminent loom. Some even use the guise of being Mormon to get their point across."
"The Mormons are demons?" The vampire snickered his amusement. "I've been around for a while now, Ripper, and that's a new one by me."
"Not all of them," the Watcher amended quickly. "But...ummm...for demons such as these," he gestured broadly at the text, "it makes for a good cover."
"Hmph. I always guessed there was something wacky about those blokes," William huffed. "Demons get their jollies with whatever they do best - even if it is act as a sodding televangelist. Had to be a reason they stand at those bloody corners all the-"
"Will. Please. On topic."
Lead after lead withered. The library books proved interesting but not useful, and the newness soon wore off. After thoroughly investigating every last page of the Watcher's private collection, Giles implored other libraries to lend their manuscripts. He even approached the Council's aid while somehow maintaining the secrecy of his motives.
Every clue directed them to a blind alley.
"You know," William said one day as he made a grab for Giles's Wheatabix. "I'll bet your Council has full lot of books full of gibberish even they can't make out. They don't want you to, either. You're not with 'em anymore, and I bet they know you're the chap who could make all the little funny words make sense."
Serious allegations once upon a time, and without thought, the Watcher considered and offered a shrug of concession. "It is a possibility," he agreed, standing to pour himself some more coffee. "Though I doubt they would go to such extents. The Council strives for the exposure of knowledge. I have deciphered a lot of text in my day, but the ancient volumes-those that predate the books I possess that already predate history-might be a stretch. It would take a..." He looked up suddenly, eyes shining with recognition. "Those...pricks." The word was comical, rolling off the old man's tongue, counterpoint only to the fire behind his gaze. William bit back a smile. "They know."
"Know?"
"They must. The Council's policy on human interaction with vampires is...stringent. It's their only regulation that exceeds the quest for knowledge." Giles's eyes darkened in frustration and he slammed his mug ceremonially into the sink. A perceptible flinch shuddered through both as the glass shattered into a thousand shards. Violent temperament was rarely exhibited by either of them - William hadn't vamped since his interview the year before. Neither wanted the reminder of where they came from. "Dammit! If those imbeciles would...it nearly killed Angel once, despite the special circumstances of his nature. I'm sure that doesn't mean a lot to you." The Watcher glanced upward, reflecting his surprise when William's demeanor had not changed. Over the past year, they had not discussed the grand-sire to any extent, and small changes in behavior still had the potential for an all-around shock. After years of knowing Spike, it was understood that it would take a considerable amount of time to grow fully accustomed to his new and improved mannerisms. Much had changed since they met that first day at the café, and still they inwardly referred to old battles and conclusions for guidance. However, they were beyond analyzing every whim; replacing lengthy discussion with a mutual smile of embarrassed acknowledgment before continuing. "Anyway, I'm willing to guarantee that they have been to the library while neither of us were acting particularly observant. It was bad enough that Buffy was involved with the enemy. I'm supposed to know better."
The Watcher scoffed heartily, ignoring the minor flinch that resounded immediately after her name. Amongst other things, William's reaction to anything associated with the Slayer had progressed to the point of barely noticing his slip-ups. No longer could he be manipulated simply by mentioning that Buffy would like this or Buffy would find that droll. Giles used it occasionally to test him but not often. Their discussions rarely progressed over that dangerous terrain unless the topic was shop.
"So," William drawled after pouring a mouthful of Wheatabix down his throat. "These gents would keep books from being read just because of my skin condition and special diet? That's not right, Ripper. That's-"
"Precisely one of the reasons my work for the Council decreases by the year." He sighed. "But they're the only way to keep a steady lookout on Faith. Establishing our connection is painfully essential. No, the Council would not meet my requests if they thought it helped you in any way, and the fact that I am asking for ancient manuscripts of demon ritual doesn't assist our plight."
"Why not just tell them the world's about to end...again?"
"We have no concrete proof. Black blood is odd, I grant you, but it doesn't exactly spell out apocalypse."
"Yeah, but the upside down crucifix thingy can't be all sunshine and daisies. It's important, mate. Has to be if you can't find it in your home library." Irately, William pulled himself to his feet. "And what about mine? We've searched every inch of that place. Nothing about black blood."
"That might mean that it's not important enough to document," Giles observed.
"Or unheard of in all senses." The vampire arched his brows meaningfully as a sigh rolled off his body. "Listen: how do you think all those bloody prophesies got written in the first place? Someone got an idea and someone got stopped. The idea was recorded in the theory that a more powerful bloke would try it again someday. Some of it's real - yeah, I get that. But consider this, Ripper...sometimes these hoity toity prophets just sit there and belly out a bunch of nonsense that just might come true if some wanker reads too much into it. Vamps study prophecy just as much as you bloody watchers do. Where there's a will, there's a way. And where there's a way, there's a good idea how to get there the quickest. Then there are the demons that want to make their own history by doing things their way. I don't know about you, mate, but I don't wanna sit around on the off chance that this is a bunch of unrelated humbug. I don't think you wanna, either. Better safe than sorry. Better sorry than dead."
And thus they delved into more research. Neither were terribly talented at operating a computer, though given the definite lack of Willow, Giles grudgingly conformed and began exercising the power of search engines and the alike. He was never good at it, though, never grasped where the right spots were and accidentally found himself on more porn sites than he would like to admit. The other links were likewise ineffectual. Somewhere between the cynical and the psycho prophets, to whom every day is the last of the world.
The vampire in question could not be found anywhere.
However desperate the situation could have become, it all abruptly ended one day with another phone call from Xander. They had killed a demon, they said. A big nasty demon with an upside down crucifix branded into his chest. It didn't bleed-rather dissolved-but everyone was fairly confident that the link had been made and that the situation was resolved. His description didn't heighten much in the fervor. The demon was dead, after all - why identify it? Should an army of a thousand attack Sunnydale, then they could fill out a profile sheet. As of now, it was unimportant.
Giles was more than a little peeved with the news and refused to let Xander off the phone without quizzing him thoroughly, receiving further questions rather than answers. He was in the middle of growling how the youth had no respect for the efforts put out by others as long as the pieces fit together in the end, and looked ready to give the man an ocean away a good scolding when his expression suddenly softened and the fire left his eyes. William stood a few feet away, ignoring the conversation for his own minimal exasperation, but he detected the attitude change as though someone had switched the music from heavy metal to contemporary.
It was Willow. Nothing she had said or done, just hearing her voice on the other end. Broken but mending. Surviving as warriors do. The sound brought a quaint smile to his face. It was not nearly as painful as it would have been a year before. Voices of home.
Then shop talk was over. Though still notably aggravated, Giles enjoyed his exchange with Willow, promising to visit sometime soon and imploring her to give his love to the rest of the gang. He hung up and stuffed his cell phone back into his slacks, his face adapting a neutral tenor, as though unknowing what to think.
There was a long silence.
"Well," he decided finally. "I suppose...our efforts were..."
"I don't believe it for a sodding second," William offered, kicking his feet back onto the library table, spreading the newspaper wide before him. When the Watcher stared, he rolled his eyes and sat up. "Oh, not that they didn't kill a demon. I believe that. But...it's...them! Nothing is ever that simple. It's not just 'oooh, cryptic message, slash/kill/end of story.' The Scoobies always 'ave someone after their hides - somethin' that isn't killed with a simple roundabout slaying."
"Can't we believe in good luck?" Giles did sound tired, leaning against an aisle of books. Then he frowned, as though realizing his words. There was one thing he did not believe in, and that was luck. Frustrated, he shook his head and continued: "I understand the improbability, but we can't presume on the information we have - or lack thereof. They killed a demon with related markings that had been getting away with this sort of thing for a year. There. End of story."
William scoffed at him disbelievingly. "Can it be true? Did the Watcher just boohoo the chance that something is conjuring up some serious mojo? I'm shocked. After all, you all have thought you killed something before only to have it come back and laugh at your blind arse. Rupert, I never thought I'd see the day. Brush it off all you like. I have these tinglies that won't go away, and I don't care what you or Harris says - I trust my tinglies."
Giles rolled his eyes and edged away from the book stack. "We cannot be sure of anything, Will. However, I think it rather foolish to spend time researching a demon we still know nothing about - other than the fact that it appears to be very much dead. We'll just have to assume for now that our worrying was in vain. Buffy handled the situation without encumbrance."
The vampire arched his brows and fought off another scoff. "Feeling useless?"
"No. It's good. She's finally..." the Watcher grinned tightly to himself. "Grown up."
And so the days returned to their monotonous beat, passing with regularity, spent day in and day out in the library. Everything back to its mind-numbing normality. The simplicity of life without life.
A small apocalypse to start out a new year. Yes - the world was as it should be.