TriptychBy Medea
triptych, n. -
a set of three panels or compartments side by side, bearing pictures, carvings, or the like.
Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that. Hate multiplies hate, violence multiplies violence, and toughness multiplies toughness in a descending spiral of destruction... The chain reaction of evil -- hate begetting hate, wars producing more wars -- must be broken, or we shall be plunged into the darkness of annihilation.
--Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Strength To Love, 1963
Chapter One : The Cup of Death
1. The Father
Imagine my surprise when I realized that the representatives had been chosen, that the ritual had already begun, and my impulsive childe was committed to drinking cup after cup of blood until one of two things happened.
Either he died, or he was the only delegate left standing.
What the hell did Spike think he was doing?
I am the head of the clan. It should have been me out there. It should have been my existence on the line, not his. But here I am, in the kind of vast hall that's always used for rituals like this, standing along the sidelines with Willow. Too many candles in here. That's what I hate about rituals. Meanwhile, my boy waits in the inner circle with thirty other vamps...all but one of them doomed to die.
Since when did Spike sacrifice himself for anyone else?
Okay, that's not quite fair, I'll admit. I saw him place himself in harm's way -- in *my* way -- to protect Drusilla, time and time again.
If he survives this, I'm going to kick his ass.
This isn't a game. Dammit, he knows that.
Did he really think I'd want him to risk himself in my stead?
I'm too old for this...way too old. His lips close over the rim of the cup, the same cup that brought an ugly death to two of the five clan representatives who drank from it before him. The anticipation is more than my nerves can take.
I just got him back.
After a century of antagonism, betrayal, and abandonment...I'm not ready to lose---
Thank God.
He's still here.
The cupbearer moves on. Spike has survived this round. Which is more than can be said for the next representative, who turns a sickly shade of gray before disintegrating into dust.
Win some, lose some.
It's been ages since I've participated in any of the blood rites of my kind. Vampire culture in all its glory, where the weak crumble -- literally. Once upon a time, I would have reveled in the thrill and gloated over the fallen. Angelus loved this crap, loved flaunting his power in the vampire version of Russian roulette.
Now it just feels...off.
I don't belong here. It's been so long...so long...
You can read the anger and resentment on their faces. All the clans whose representatives couldn't withstand the first round glare at the survivors. It doesn't take much to guess what they're thinking -- they're wishing death on the survivors, and humiliation to their clans.
I don't belong here. These may be my kind, but I have nothing in common with them.
Yeah...
Yeah, it would be easy to let myself believe that.
It would be a lot easier to stomach than the truth.
Gunn's unimpressed, Who-The-Hell-Are-You-Kidding face looms large in my memories right now. He was never afraid to call me on my own self- denial. If he were still alive, he'd call me on this.
And he'd be right.
I'm scared as hell of how familiar this is -- and how tempting.
What is really terrifying about this ritual -- besides the fact that I could lose my childe -- is that the temptation to slip back into vampire society, and subject the clans to my dominion, is great. Power was the one temptation Angelus never could resist, and so help me, I feel the pull.
It would be so easy to give in.
To. Just. Give. In.
I can't lose my soul. There's no danger of that. I have Willow to thank for it, and I will never, ever be able to thank her as much as she deserves. But that doesn't leave me in the clear. If Spike survives, if we come out on top in this jockeying for status, I could get comfortable with the power. Really, really comfortable. The demon doesn't give up, either. It's bound, but it knows that I'm always listening.
<Give in.>
<Why not?...What's to lose?>
<Not your soul any more.>
<Think of all the *good* you could do, all the lives you could save, when all of L.A.'s vampires are under your authority.>
A seduction worthy of Lucifer himself: the end justifies the means.
Just another step toward hell.
And wouldn't it be easy to pretend I was doing it all for the well-being of others, and not because I enjoyed having the power...
The path to hell isn't paved with good intentions; it's paved with self-righteousness.
Andrew Murdoch is refilling the cup. I know his kind: shrewd enough to stay neutral while the rest of us hammer it out, then return to collect the benefit. The inner circle is down to twenty-three. Murdoch raises the cup to the first vamp's mouth.
Another survivor.
Then the blood in my veins runs cold, colder than usual even for a walking corpse. Spike is drinking again. It doesn't faze him. He even gulps down three swallows rather than the required sip. I shouldn't be surprised; once a cocky bastard, always a cocky bastard.
Meanwhile, I'm having a heart attack, which is a pretty neat trick for a dead guy.
Willow's gentle squeeze of my hand reminds me to keep my emotions in check. Great. Just great. I've been radiating fear and worry over my childe in a hall filled with the city's most powerful vampires, during a ritual intended to sort out the weak from the strong.
Great.
Murdoch moves on to the next representative.
So much for him. Vamp dust really stings when it gets in your eyes.
Willow is fascinated by all of this. When she's curious, Willow's face lights up and her eyes almost burn, they're so intense. This is yet another new experience. I wonder what's going on behind that furrowed brow. Her eyes track every move, and even though I'm watching the same events, I can't help feeling like her steady gaze is catching things I've missed.
I stop wondering when Murdoch completes his pass around the circle.
And then there were eighteen.
Oh....mother of God...not yet...this is hell. I should know, I've been there. Should I be grateful that Murdoch is filling the cup from the pitcher containing the mingled blood his minions collected from Spike, Willow and me? The suspense won't last much longer. This is it. Either Spike will be the only one left standing after this round, or he'll die in one of the later rounds. God, please don't let it be the second. I couldn't bear to watch him wait, condemned, as the cup made its way around until the fatal draught.
I've lost count of the number of times I've faced a 'moment of truth' since I pledged to serve the Powers that Be. So why doesn't it get any easier?
So far, so good. Every vamp before Spike has dropped, and he's savoring our heady brew. His eyes are closed and the look of sheer bliss on his face shoots straight to my groin. I can just imagine what our blood tastes like, laced with the ritual poison.
Intoxicatingly deadly. Spike loves the taste of risk.
Murdoch moves on, and I watch every tilt of the cup as if it were a stake poised over Spike's heart. Only Willow's presence beside me steadies me. I don't even want to think what I'd be feeling if she were out there. She and Spike complete me. Before Sunnydale, I never could have imagined myself as I've come to be, thanks to them.
At peace. Connected.
It should be me out there. Then I wouldn't have to worry about watching either of them die.
But I might not have to. Six vamps have tasted our blood since Murdoch passed Spike, and six have been reduced to dust. I can sense the tension in the room, and I know this particular mood well: it's the scent of dreadful realization. I used to be a connoisseur of this emotion, and how it gave just the right bitter edge to a victim's blood. The other clans must have expected this. The tension mounts as more and more of them begin to suspect that their worst fears are coming true.
Three more down as the cup continues its lethal journey around the circle. It's almost enough to make me hope--
No....God, please, no.
A vamp from one of the tougher clans in the Inglewood neighborhood has survived drinking our blood.
My childe won't emerge from the circle.
I see the subtle clench of Spike's jaw as he realizes it, too.
Why did I agree to this? Why didn't I just let the clans destroy each other? If I had been willing to let them all go to hell in their fight for dominance, I wouldn't have to watch my childe drink the Cup of Death. But they would have taken too many of L.A.'s unsuspecting humans down with them.
I hate the Powers right now. I can't remember the last time I felt rage this cold. I've done my duty, I've served them and saved innocent after innocent. I know I'm still paying for my sins as Angelus. The innocents I've saved are still far fewer than those I brutally tortured and slaughtered. But just when I think I'm doing what They want me to, and that maybe, *maybe* I'll have a chance to tip the scales, They strip me of something I care about. First Buffy. Now Spike.
Willow may have permanently fixed my soul, but it feels like the Powers are peeling it away, layer by layer. It hurts like hell.
Then I notice it.
The survivor from Inglewood isn't doing so well.
Murdoch has almost completed the circle; aside from Spike and the Inglewood vamp, only two others remain. But the Inglewood vamp is swaying, and I'm not the only one who notices it now. I hear the murmurs running throughout the assembly, and Murdoch pauses to see what has caused the excitement.
As Murdoch turns, a trickle of blood seeps from the Inglewood vamp's nostril. Black, thick, and unclean, it drips over his lip and down his chin. He's spasming now, and more blood is oozing from his pores. With a jerk, he coughs up a spurt of poisoned blood. Suddenly, all that is left is a cloud of dust.
For a minute, I almost believe I can breathe again. My relief is that great. Two more contenders to go, and my childe will be safe. I start to hope again.
And then...
...there he is. The sole survivor. And damned if he isn't smirking, too -- as if he hadn't just escaped death by the skin of his fangs. I don't know whether I want to beat that smirk out of him for having deliberately ignored my instructions, or parade him before the others with pride.
Of course, due to the nature of this ritual, one urge overwhelms all others.
I want to drink him.
He's free to step out of the circle now, but far be it from my childe to do the expected. Never one to go quietly, he strides over to the table where Murdoch had set the accoutrements of the ritual. Before Murdoch can muster a protest, Spike is lifting the bowl of leftover blood to his lips and drinking it down. He's definitely given everyone a show tonight. As I scan the room, I can see more than a few vamps gaping at him as if he were drinking a vat of holy water.
Murdoch speaks, silencing the agitated, resentful muttering of the other clans.
"Order of Aurelius, Angelus, Sire of William, who stands as the only survivor of the Cup of Death, the challenge falls to your clan. What is your command?"
"Convene the clans in two nights. We'll make our decision known then."
It's the maximum delay I can take in this ritual, and as far as the decision is concerned, we don't really need it. Willow, Spike and I discussed every detail even before we called the challenge. But our decision will involve serious responsibility, the kind I'm not sure I'm ready for. I need to know that they both understand exactly what this could do to me.
That, and I owe Spike a serious pounding for pulling this stunt against my explicit orders.
Although...
"As you will. What location do you set for the gathering?"
"Willow tells me you have a board room that can accommodate sixty. Each challenging clan must meet us there, accompanied by no more than one second. I leave the other arrangements to you."
"My domain is at your service. It shall be arranged."
Murdoch is almost salivating. Fine. I don't want to be bothered with these details, and he's perfectly willing to enhance his clan's status by serving as my agent.
The challenge has formally established us as the most powerful clan in the city, so by right I close the ceremony.
Just before I speak, I catch my disobedient childe's eye and convey my displeasure at his stunt. He goes completely still for a moment -- he knows.
That's right, boy. The night isn't over yet, and I can still show you fear.
"The challenge is ours. Spike, Willow, come."
2. The Son
What the bloody hell am I doin' here?
I don't do selflessness; that's the Poof's gig.
So if anyone is surprised to see me step up for a ritual that'll leave all but one vampire dead, I've got 'em beat by a soddin' mile.
What the fuck am I doin' here?
Don't even need to look behind me to know what my sire's reaction is. I can feel it in my blood: confusion, rage...hang on, fear? Oh, bloody hell, *not* fear! He hasn't been out of the loop long enough to forget what rituals are for. We're all on stage here. He keeps that up, every vamp here'll laugh us out of the hall.
At least my Red knows how to command a crowd. Not a flicker of fear there. Like royalty, she is. From the minute we walked in, she's carried herself like she owns the room and every vamp in it. Granted, I caught her in a slight start when Murdoch read my name off the list instead of Angel's, but she covered it so fast I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who noticed.
This is the way it had to be, see? Don't care if my sire does beat the demon out of me later... if I'm still standin', that is.
I'm the right choice, right-of-sire be damned. Red's come far, but she's still young and knows sod all about blood rituals. Peaches may be older, but he spent a century hiding from himself. He's strong, but Red-Cross-in-a-ziploc and Cabernet Swine haven't left him much of a stomach for the likes of what'll be passed in The Cup. That leaves me.
'sides, I've got an ace up my sleeve. With each vamp who steps into the circle, my chances get better and better.
Most of 'em are familiar faces, and the faces are perched above necks I know quite well.
That's why -- bugger it all -- I'm the right choice. Out of the thirty-odd vamps here, I've sampled twenty at least. Angelus didn't sire a fool. He was showin' me the tricks of the trade long before most of the sods in this room were made.
Trick Number One: know your competition.
Wankers. They never get it. They always think it's about sex.
This is probably their first crack at the Cup of Death. No idea what it takes to win; no long-term plan. Almost too easy, this lot.
Sure, I developed a rep as a horny bastard. Can't say I minded much. Probably helped. Made it easier when they all thought I was just after a quick suck. As if those few gropes and bites meant anything. I didn't lie to Meg when I told her there hadn't been any vamps for me other than Red and my sire. This was strategy, not sex.
If any of my clueless 'partners' had been around in the old days, they'd've thought a bit harder about why I wanted a quick nip-and-sip...and why they never got a taste of me.
I'm ready for 'em. Bloody hell, after three decades I've inoculated myself.
Murdoch's nearly finished the ritual rot. Some dust here, a few Latin verses there, and poof -- each clan's blood is deadly to vamps from weaker clans. Don't know how it works; don't care. All I care about is leaving this circle on two feet, not in a dust pan.
Like him there. Too bad, mate.
Too bad for *you*, that is. My odds look quite nice.
Two down. My turn. Not that I'm worried. Murdoch started with blood from one of the weaker clans here -- I'm damned surprised that any other vamps were dusted at all. I swallow a draught and he moves past me with the cup.
Crikey, for a challenge, this is boring.
'bout as riveting as listening to Wussley catalogue his latest demon research.
Time I showed these tossers how it's done.
Murdoch makes his way 'round the circle. First cup took out seven -- not bad. He dumps the remaining blood in a bowl, wipes the cup, and refills it. Round two is off, and the blood is from a clan I know...quite well. Rather tasty lot, they are.
More's the pity for them.
No question that I can handle this blend, so let's liven things up.
Alright, *shake* things up might be a better word.
I down my swig and Murdoch moves to pull the Cup away. Not so fast, mate. He's probably wonderin' if this is a breach of the ritual, but my grip is firm around his wrist as I take another couple of gulps.
Ahh...that's more like it. A little tremble in his wrist; every eye in the room riveted in bleedin' awe...yeah, now *this* is what a damned challenge is supposed to be like.
Oh...fuck no!
No, no, no...Satan's beard, Peaches! What a way to bloody ruin the moment. Put a fuckin' lid on that fear, already. I *had* this crowd, had 'em in the palm of my hand.
There. That's better...somethin's calmed 'im down. Number one guess is Red. That's my girl.
Augh! Crikey, the sod next to me was a dusty one. Just my luck I'll *sneeze* and come off like a damned wanker.
Wonder what Red thinks. Probably understands the magic involved a fair sight better than I do, and she saw her share of rituals when she was lookin' for a spell for my sire. But she hasn't really done the vamp ritual scene. We've kept to ourselves, Angel, Red and I; haven't really mixed with the other clans where politics were concerned. Wouldn't surprise me if she were drinkin' this up. Red always was curious about the ins and outs of vampire culture. Probably had a lot to do with her bloody worthless sire gettin' staked before he could teach her anything. It damn well should've been me who brought her over.
Well, well...looks like it's show time, kiddies.
Thought we ranked higher than that.
Maybe Murdoch's just gettin' impatient. 'Cos if he's makin' the rounds with *our* blood, this round'll be the last. Our clan may just be the three of us, but we're stronger than the lot of 'em.
We'd better be. Don't fancy leavin' here as a bit of dust in Red's hair.
Odds're fine so far. Murdoch makes his way from vamp to vamp, and they're droppin' like flies. 's almost hypnotic: sip, poof, sip, poof, sip, poof.
Ahh, but then he comes to me...and my sip is greedy because there is no death for me in this cup, only pure, blinding ecstasy. I can feel Red and my sire burn along my veins and the fuckin' incredible rush as our combined strength mocks the effects of the poison and damnedifitdoesntbeateverysoddingthrillintheworldtostaredowndeathitself.
Damn, this challenge needs to end *now*; I'll crawl outta my bleedin' skin if I don't taste my sire, my Red -- and *soon*.
Fuck.
Fuckfuckfuckfuck. NO DAMNED BLOODY WAY! He's still standing...no... *sod* no, this ain't the way it goes, the bleedin' Fat Lady ain't singin' for me yet. Think, mate...I've sampled those goods, tasted him not ten years ago. Not to mention a few others in his clan. HOW THE FUCK CAN HE STILL BE STANDING?!?
Forgive. Me. Sire ... for I have fucked up royally...
Red...Willow...oh, God, luv...we didn't have enough time. If I'd known it'd come to this...
And I don't even get a bloody last request. No chance to ask either of you to TAKE THESE BASTARDS OUT IN A TRAIL OF BLOODY DEVASTATION. Pity. Always thought it'd be the kind of memorial I deserved.
Hold on...
What's this, then?
About. Bloody. Time.
So he hasn't got the stomach for us after all. Looks bloody awful -- would've been better for the sod if he'd been dusted straight off. His face is nothing but a mess of blood...eugh.
Hard luck, mate, but better you than me.
I've got this, nice and neat in my pocket. Those two at the end of the line know it, too. Ohhh yeaahh....smell that fear! Makes it all worthwhile. Puts a smile on my face, a spring in my step, and all that rot.
Didn't think we could pull it off, didja sods? Look at 'em, every vamp in this room is scowlin' 'cos they hate bein' shown up by a clan of *three*. Time to show 'em how it's done.
Murdoch hasn't a clue what I'm up to; wouldn't be surprised if the calculating sonofabitch had never been Master of a ritual before. That's certainly the least demonly gape I've seen on a vamp's face; he was probably expecting me to step out of the circle as soon as the others bit the dust.
That'd be boring. Much better to drain the surplus blood from the bowl he'd dumped it in. ... Sweet blood of the devil! That could leave a bloke three sheets to the wind. Strong stuff.
Doesn't take Murdoch long to recover his wits though. Always was quick to snap back; even after he lost his first-made.
"Order of Aurelius, Angelus, Sire of William, who stands as the only survivor of the Cup of Death, the challenge falls to your clan. What is your command?"
What idiot wrote the script for these rituals, anyway?
"Convene the clans in two nights. We'll make our decision known then."
Now that's unexpected.
My sire could hand down the decision right now -- he, Red and I went over everything last night. That's what this bleedin' ritual was all about: we divvy up Ramirez's territory among the clans, and what we say goes.
So why the delay?
And then I turn and look at my sire.
Shit.
So much for bein' the bloody conquering hero. He's gonna pound me within an inch of my unlife when we get home.
Nice night for it.
"The challenge is ours. Spike, Willow, come."
Party's over, boys and girls.
My sire turns on his heel and strides forth, knowing that Red and I'll follow. He's always had a way of leavin' a room like everyone in it was only so much debris in his wake. Red offers me a wink and a smile, and it *almost* makes the thrashing I'm bound to get at Angel's hand worthwhile. My girl loved every minute of the show. I can see it in those beautiful eyes of hers.
Tell me, what man wouldn't take a beating for that?
3. The Unholy Spirit
You know how one of the weird things about coming home from a trip is seeing how much has changed? Like how you can move away for a year or two, and come back to find your favorite bookstore has moved or there's a Thai restaurant where the corner grocer used to be? It's never that simple for me.
I go away on a trip and wind up with a major identity crisis.
All it took was a weekend conference in L.A., and that was the end of *one* Willow.
So then I wander the earth for twenty years, looking for a way to make Angel's soul permanent, and what do I find when I come back?
Another Willow.
Not that I mind...actually, it was one of the best surprises waiting for me. It made every fear I had about reuniting with Tara, Hannah, and Cyrene after so long just kind of go "poof". Well, okay, they'd already made me feel welcome when I called them up and they invited me over for tea and spells, even though it had been almost a full lifetime for them since last we'd seen each other. But that night at Hannah and Cyrene's place, I had one of those moments I'll never forget.
"Willow, can you give me a hand in here?"
Okay, I've been a vampire for over thirty years -- longer than I lived as a human. Yet somehow I manage to have just as many gullible, dorky moments as I did as a teenager in Sunnydale. Something about Hannah's request for help, as she steeped an infusion of rosemary and mint in her kitchen, was so casual and easy it made me feel all warm and welcomed-back. It was familiar. I felt almost like it hadn't been a whole two decades since I'd severed the ties with my coven.
Imagine my surprise when a girl with Hannah's eyes and Loïc's raven hair came down the hall, just as I was getting up to help, and asked, "Whatcha need, mom?"
I may have earned the nickname Netgirl, but I was also pretty good as Mathgirl. Two plus two equals me sniffling and blinking back tears that no other self-respecting vampire would be caught dead showing. Well, figuratively speaking.
They'd named their daughter after me.
And here she was, twenty years old, almost an identical twin the Hannah I'd left.
Cyrene told me it was their way of keeping me with them, at least in spirit.
Have I already mentioned the un-demonly blubbering?
Vampires just weren't meant to blow their noses. Lets just say our bodies are dead, so we don't make mucus or anything...but we *do* have one bodily fluid in abundance. Eww.
That's what got me here, standing in a grand hall that's decked out in full Goth for a ritual, trying to cover my surprise when the Master of the Ritual, Andrew Murdoch, reads Spike's name instead of Angel's from his list of delegates. Not the blubbering, I mean. That's not why I'm here. It was just the feeling of *that* moment, when I realized there was another, special Willow in the world, and she and I were connected to each other by some pretty amazing people, that brought me to *this* moment.
You see, Hannah and Cyrene's place...um, and I guess Loïc's, too, technically, since he took to spending six months out of every year with them after Willow was born...is in the middle of a war zone.
Apparently, Spike kind of eradicated an entire clan while I was away. Angel thinks it was a big one -- somewhere between forty and fifty members, but he's not sure. Spike says he lost count after thirty.
Well, at least he found something to do with his time.
But big clans mean lots of territory and power; no big clan where there used to be one means trouble.
Especially to the humans caught in the crossfire. Vampires don't like witnesses. It's basic survival rules. The human population outstrips the vampire population by far. If humans knew about us -- I mean all of them, not just the Watchers and victims -- they could clean us out systematically. One-on-one, a human is no match for a vampire. But a determined group of humans that knows our vulnerabilities and how to find our lairs could do a lot of damage. I should know, I used to be a Slayerette.
So when a vampire clan war begins, you can expect the human death toll to skyrocket. Sure, the vamps are more interested in taking each other out -- humans are insignificant bystanders. But the minute they become potential witnesses, they're more-than-potentially dead.
And the fighting isn't carried on behind closed doors, either. Some of the most violent streetfighting in a city goes on between vampires. Humans don't know this, because none who've seen anything live to tell about it.
Hannah, Cyrene, and Willow...and Loïc if it's between November and May...happen to live at ground zero.
Not good.
I couldn't let them get hurt. That just wasn't an option.
Spike thought they could all move in with us at the Hyperion until things settled down. I teased him about just wanting 24-hour access to Hannah's neck, and then felt horrible when he said he couldn't really give human necks more than a passing fancy any more, other than as food.
I think Megan will be with him for a long time.
He recovered quickly; Spike always does, at least on the outside. He teased me right back about thinking it was "as bleedin' simple as tellin' all the vamps to stop fightin' and go stand in the bloody corner like naughty boys and girls".
It probably wasn't intended as a serious suggestion. In fact, I think Spike was pretty surprised when Angel said it was a possibility.
But Angel just left it there. He didn't follow up until I pressed him; more than that, he seemed uncomfortable about it. He still seems uncomfortable, now that the die is cast and we're in the middle of the ritual.
The Cup of Death.
From what Angel explained, vampires developed it in the eighteenth century. The wars of religion were over, and open feuding was dangerously conspicious. Cities didn't quite afford the degree of anonymity that they do now. Fewer people, after all. Isolated duels could be explained; something like The Pit would be harder to cover up. So they found a more discreet way to sort out who was the most powerful.
Spike once told me that blood is our truth. The Cup of Death takes that literally.
We're all linked by blood, but the connection is especially strong between members of a clan, who drink from each other on a regular basis. The Cup of Death takes advantage of this by using a potion -- a mixture of mandrake, cinchona, Lamia venom, and a few other ingredients -- that transmutes the combined blood of a clan into a toxin that's deadly to vampires from weaker clans. It's almost like a litmus test. Although instead of a piece of paper that turns red or blue, you have a bunch of vampires that turn gray and dusty.
It's fascinating.
But the magic loses a little of its fascination when Spike is about to put our strength to the test. The prize is acknowledged dominion over the city's clans -- the Cup provides indisputable proof of which clan is truly the most powerful in the blood. However, the cost to all but one of the delegates is so high that clans don't undertake this ritual lightly.
Angel certainly wasn't eager for us to send out the call.
The fact that he did is another indication of how devastating he thinks a clan war would be for the human population of Los Angeles. This has got to be hard on Angel. He's distanced himself from vampire society for so long -- it's kind of hard to mingle with the same demons he kills as a champion for the Powers That Be. Slight conflict of interest there.
So I'm sure he's wondering how he'll juggle serving the Powers and ruling the clans when we win.
Not if, when.
You know....I wonder if I should have said something to Angel. He seems so nervous. Angry, too, but that I can understand. We all agreed last night that Angel would be the delegate from our clan, but Spike must have delivered a different message to Andrew Murdoch. This is a serious ritual, focused on establishing a clear hierarchy, which means that *all* aspects of status -- including sire-childe relations -- are more strictly observed. Angel is definitely not happy with Spike right now.
But why is he so worried? I mean, we're the strongest clan. It's not as if Angel really fears for Spike's survival...
Oh no...
Oh, I *should* have said something. I thought they knew! I thought it would have been obvious. Did they really think I spent two years with Anubis and Sahu without ever...without once...??
Oh, this is awful! Angel and Spike don't know. They really think Spike is at risk. He isn't. Even if one of the clans represented here had fifty members all over a hundred...which, by the way, none of them does.
None of them has the blood of two four-thousand-year-old vampires running through their veins. Oh, the actual blood cycled through my body long ago -- but the strength it imparted is still with me, and through me, it's with Angel and Spike.
How could they not have understood that?
Arrgh! I know why...and when we get home after this, those two are *so* going to get a piece of my mind.
They still see me as the junior partner, as theirs to protect. Oh, I know they don't think of me as the nearly helpless minion I started out as. But it doesn't seem to occur to them that *I* could be the one carrying us this time.
There isn't much use in brooding over that right now, though. Angel has the concession tied up. He and I are standing behind Spike, just outside the circle of delegates, in a palatial hall. It looks straight out of Tudor/Stuart England -- right down to the solid wood paneling, the tapestries on the wall, and heavy, iron chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. The only thing that gives away the contemporary time are the portraits of university professors.
You have to laugh at the irony. A reception hall in the alumni center at a small *Jesuit* college serving as the site for a vampire ritual.
Although I suppose with the number of candles that were lit for the ritual, it almost looks like a chapel. I wonder if that was intentional. They're mostly for show, since they don't seem to be arranged in any of the usual configurations for channeling natural magic -- no circle, no pyramid, not even a basic pentacle. Just...lots of candles.
For better or for worse, it looks like things are starting. It's strange to see Andrew Murdoch prepare the ritual. Nadia and a few of his minions already collected blood from each of the clans under the watchful eyes of all present, and he's transmuting it with the prescribed ingredients and an incantation. He's not doing a bad job of it -- although his Latin is pretty shaky -- but I guess I'm just more used to seeing him in an office than at an altar.
He's also going a little heavy on the mandrake. I would have added less. Not that it will affect the transmutation of the blood, but Spike will probably be a little drunk when this is all over.
The first round is pretty uneventful. So tame, in fact, that my beloved monster is about to test the limits. I can tell -- I've seen that look in his eye before. This isn't interesting enough for him.
Yup, there he goes. It's all I can do to keep from giggling. What a show-off! "I'm the Big Bad, so I'll bloody well take three gulps, ya sods!"
Uh-oh...okay, maybe it's not as funny as I thought. I keep forgetting, Angel is honestly worried about Spike. He's letting everyone else in the room know, too. I'll just give him a little squeeze to remind him to keep it down. I certainly don't want to deal with a sulky Spike if he thinks Angel ruined his big moment.
That's better.
Although I think I'll keep holding his hand. Angel has such nice, strong hands...
Oh, thank goodness! Now we can get this over with and go home. Murdoch is making the rounds with our blood and, sure enough, every delegate that has tasted it so far is now turning the carpet a dull shade of gray. Funny...I never noticed how much vampire remains look like kitty litter...
And that is probably the most bliss I've seen on Spike's face in a long time. Even if the blood of one's own clan can be an aphrodisiac, I *still* think it's the mandrake. Murdoch used at least two pinches too much.
Wait a second...hold it, this doesn't make any sense. Why is that one still standing? He's the one from Inglewood, I think -- and none of the clans in that part of the city even comes close to having a tenth of our strength. This isn't good.
In fact, this is so not good that it's really, really bad.
I can feel Spike through our bond. It's a toss-up as to which emotion is stronger, his shock or his anger. Whoa...okay, that last wave was definitely anger. And poor Angel! Ow...ow ow ow, actually, my poor hand. I think Angel has forgotten he's holding it...or, rather, crushing it.
This shouldn't be happening. Their blood *can't* be stronger than ours...unless...are there really other four-thousand-year-old vampires hiding out somewhere in L.A.? But I still would have felt something distinctive about this one -- I would have recognized the aura of extreme age. Unless...what if magic is involved? The ritual forbids it, but when have rules ever stopped a really determined vampire?
There's only one way to find out, I just hope nobody notices my--
Oops, too late. If he *was* using magic, it wasn't very effective.
Eww, that's gross. Blood in itself doesn't usually hold an "ick" factor for vampires, but there's blood and then there's...ick! It's tainted...foul...
...and gone, now. Nothing left but dust.
Wow.
It's over. So that's the Cup of Death.
Huh.
A lot of ceremony for such a short ritual.
That was a little more tense than I'd expected it to be. And this nagging suspicion just got worse, mostly because a minion from the Inglewood clan keeps shooting nervous glances my way. Something is fishy. It's almost like he's worried that I know something; he's clearly concerned about *me*, and not just anyone. The one thing I can think of that sets me apart from all the others here is my connection to magic.
This adds a new twist to our plans.
I only hope that Angel doesn't spend so much time dealing with Spike that we don't have time to talk.
Dear Spike, you *did* enjoy this, didn't you?
He looks so pleased with himself, I can't resist. We both know he's in for it when we get home, but he played this so well that I can't help smiling. Just a quick wink to let him know that I, at least, appreciated it.
For all his bravado, his cool nonchalance, Spike tries *so* hard...
I'd say "it's in his blood", but now isn't really the time for sly wit; gotta keep the look of dominance on the face. It's what's expected, and Spike reveled in this so much that I don't want to ruin his final moment of glory for the evening. Angel will bring him down from his high soon enough.
So I fall in step alongside him as we sweep out of the room.
Elvis, eat your heart out. Angel, Spike and Willow have left the building.