Mightier Than the SwordBy Barb C.
"You're kidding," I said. "We were just the subcontractors. They can't possibly hold us responsible." "Wish I were," Max's voice crackled in my ear. "They say we're liable and they're going to sue." I banged my forehead on the steering wheel. "Fine. I'll call Sidney first thing Monday." I'd barely closed my cell when it beeped again. The car behind me honked when I failed to immediately close up the six inches of space between my front bumper and the license plate in front of me. Closing a Hellmouth does great things for the real estate market, which does awful things to the traffic grid. "You hate me," Anya said, tearful through the cell phone static. "Uh...and what brought you to this conclusion?" "Why else would you force me to go to a party when I'm so hideously unattractive? I've tried on every single evening dress I own! Every one, and none of them fit yet. It's obvious that you want to expose my flabby post-partum body to public ridicule." "Ahn," I said soothingly, inching my way past an Aerostar full of screaming Cub Scouts, "Love of my life, mother of my child, and balancer of my checkbook--one, you are gorgeous. Two, every single person who's going to be there has seen you a dozen times since Molly was born and the ridicule level remains at zero parts per million. Three, I just thought you might like to get out of the house after being cooped up with the baby--" "Cooped up?!" The love of my life and balancer of my checkbook sounded less than soothed. Distinctly soothless, in fact. "Are you implying that it's a chore to spend time with your daughter?" Danger, Will Robinson! Abort, abort, abort! "No! Of course not! I only thought?" "I seriously doubt that," Anya replied, cold enough to freeze the phone to my ear--at least, if I hadn't fumbled and dropped it behind the brake pedal when the car behind me rear-ended me. The crunch of metal behind me was only slightly more alarming than the crunch of plastic underfoot. I stared at the endless line of cars in front of me, counting to five million by millions. New bumper for Mr. Car, and judging by the snap, crackle, and pop of my spine, another round of physical therapy for Mr. Harris. I already have more metal in my skeleton than Wolverine. I could feel the insurance premiums creeping skywards as I sat, and the still small voice of reason in the back of my head said, "Screw it." Always listen to the voices, is my motto. I hung a sharp right across someone's petunia bed and hit the gas.
Hellmouths are like zits: you can pop 'em, but they'll leave a scar. It's been two years since Buffy and Spike closed Sunnydale's, with some vital assistance from yours truly, but our one-Starbucks burg is still a prime piece of demon real estate, what with the miles of magic-soaked caves and tunnels. Just the place to raise the hellspawn. And the Alibi Room is still the place where the elite meet to eat and be eaten. The bartender, Willy, knows just about everything that goes on in Sunnydale's cobwebbier corners, provided you're willing to threaten him a little to keep up appearances. Imagine every seedy corner bar you're ever seen: painted-over windows, cracked vinyl upholstery, and the distinctive odor of spilled beer and despair, and that's Willy's place. But dark and dank fit my mood tonight, and I must have looked sour enough that even with my limp, the vampires in the corner booth took one look and decided that the herd was thin enough already. "You look down, Harris," Willy observed, pouring me another beer. "You got woman troubles?" I held my glass up spyglass style, but the view didn't improve measurably. "How'd you guess?" "It's always either women or money," Willy said, swiping a rag philosophically around an abandoned glass and sticking it back under the bar without any apparent intention of sending it to meet soap or water before it met the next customer. "And you ain't got no money." He nodded across the bar towards a huge, bronze-skinned, bull-headed thing wearing bronze greaves, studded leather kilts and a katana sheathed across its shoulders. Kinda like Brad Pitt with horns. Its hairy muzzle was buried in a tankard of paint thinner, or something that smelled like it. "That guy, now, his problems..." He trailed off, his eyebrows scrambling after his receding hairline. I knew the game. He hinted, I threatened, he weaseled, I punched some heads, he spilled, cash exchanged hands... OK, substitute "Buffy" for "I" and you've got the picture. Nostalgia for those good ol' high school days of world-saving washed over me like the smell of cheap beer. It wasn't like I regretted turning in my Scooby decoder ring. I'd served my time and I had the multiple fractures to show for it. I was a successful contractor and I loved my family. But it had all been so much easier when all I had to do to solve my problems was hit them with an axe. "Willy," I said, "Did you know that there was this one time when I stopped these zombies from blowing up Sunnydale High..." Willy's eyes glazed over and I laid my head on the counter with a moan. God, I was turning into Lance Brooks. I might as well give up and start mainlining Springsteen lyrics. "Pathetic mortal worm," the bull-headed demon rumbled, rising from his seat and looming over me with a manly creak of leather fetish-wear. "You obstruct Yiskok Eye-gouger, Envoy of his infernal Grace Duke Sebassis, most noble and puissant Hell-Lord of the City and County of Los Angeles, in his pursuit of what scant pleasures this impoverished hole has to offer. Remove yourself from my path to further refreshment, or I shall crush your skull and make of your entrails a feast for crows." He had two feet and two hundred pounds on me, and this was probably a bad night to play Rosa Parks. No one ever accused the Harris family of intelligence, at least not till Anya married into it. "Sorry, Ferdinand. This seat's taken." Yiskok snorted, spraying me with demon snot and baring square yellow teeth the approximate size of my palm. Our story would have come to a swift and painful conclusion then and there, but at that very moment the front door to the bar slammed open, and Spike swaggered in like he owned the place. I want to make it crystal clear that Spike and I are not friends. Many people seem to be laboring under the misapprehension that we can stand the sight of each other. I only invited him to my wedding because Buffy would have gotten pouty if I hadn't. And Thursday pool night at the Bronze? The cues are substitute stakes. I only listen to him and Max arguing about his stupid car on weekends on the chance that I can con them into working on Uncle Rory's monster on the day his liver gives out and I inherit it. (It will be mine. Oh yes, it will be mine.) And that one time? I had no idea he had that second ace up his sleeve. So, to review: Spikey me no likey, but you gotta admit that when you're being threatened with becoming the main course at the all-you-can-eat entrail bar, the appearance of a not entirely ill-disposed, super-strong creature of the night is a welcome distraction. Admittedly Spike doesn't cut quite as memorable a figure he did when he first rolled into Sunnydale seven years ago--no bleach, no leather duster, just a beat-up motorcycle jacket over the usual black tee and jeans and scruffy sandy-brown curls grown out an inch past the point where he and Buffy start arguing over whether he gets to buzz it off again. The whole bar turned to stare at him anyway. Spike returned the stare with change, shoulders thrown back, thumbs hooked into his belt, and a great big shit-eating grin on his lean face. It was the kind of grin that usually resulted in a few less droogs at the milk bar. Buffy has him better-whipped than a DEVO reunion tour, but outside of that, the Big Bad is in the house. Some of the demons cowered. A couple of them ostentatiously ignored him. The vampires in the corner booth slouched and snarled--they might acknowledge him as Master of Sunnydale these days, but they didn't like it, no sir, not one bit. Spike gave them a look that said they were lucky he wasn't going to make them eat his ring instead of kiss it, and they shut up. He tipped me a wink and sauntered over to the bar, brushing between me and Yiskok as if bull-breath didn't exist. "Drinks on the house!" he roared. "I'm gonna be a dad!" There was dead silence for a minute. Then the Alibi Room erupted into a hooting, howling, whooping demon-a-go-go of congratulations. Willy smiled weakly. "You mean drinks are on you, right?" Spike leaned over the bar, hooked a finger into Willy's lapel, and grinned fangily. "You heard me."
Several hours and a small forest of empty bottles later, the party had left shindig territory and was well on its way into the wilds of hootenanny. Our man in Sunnydale, Yiskok, had not joined the festivities. He'd retreated to a booth in the back with a pair of meek little Anamovic demons to regard the frolicking of the local yokels with big-city disdain, but he was about the only one. Over by the jukebox, a couple of Spike's minions were bellowing "For He's Jolly Good Fellow" arm in arm with the unallied vamps in the corner, and an opposing quartet composed of two Fyarls, Clem, and a land shark aptly nicknamed Teeth were warbling "She's Having My Baby," in five-part harmony (kind of scary, when you think about it). Random inebriated demons kept wobbling by to pound Spike on the back and congratulate him for whatever the heck it was he'd done. Which, come to think of it, was a really good question. "I still don't get it," I said. I should point out that I played very little part in emptying the forest of bottles between us. I learned a long time ago that trying to match a vampire drink for drink was a recipe for a quick trip to the emergency room. "I thought that skinny chick Willow's got the hots for ran all those tests back when you first got Pinocchio'd. And you and Buffy weren't..." I tried to lace my fingers together, but someone kept moving my hands. OK, I might have been responsible for three or four of the empty bottles. "...meshy, babywise. Heartbeat or no heartbeat, you demon, she human. 'S this some kind of prophecy thing, like Angel and Connor?" "Absholutely not!" Spike declared, slamming his blood-laced whiskey down on the table. The bottle forest clinked and quivered at the Tunguska impact. "No sodding prophecies. No fucking miracles." Someone had broken out confetti poppers, and a streamer of curly magenta crepe dangled festively from his right ear. "Jus' miracle fucking. What it turns out the trick of it is--" "Oh, no, no, no," I said, waving my hands. "Don't tell me about your perverted sex life." The smugness was hideous to contemplate. "'Fraid it'll give Demon Girl ideas?" I plunged knee-deep into gloom. There had been no perversion to speak of in Chez Harris since Molly was born--either Anya was too tired or I was. A cheering thought occurred to me. At least I'd soon have company in my celibate misery, unlike some other miseries I could name. (No, I am not even slightly envious that Spike and Buffy had the cojones to elope to Vegas instead of suffering the torments of Wedding Plan Hell. Cowards.) I elbowed Spike. "Hey! Just think of everything you've got to look forward to! Mood swings, weird cravings, violent outbursts--" "That's different how?" Spike countered cheerily. "--Everest-sized piles of dirty diapers, hospital bills--" "Always fancied myself a dad when I was alive the first time. Little tyke to fetch my pipe and slippers and bring me the Racing Forum--" "--obsessive baby-worship, romance totally out the window--" "--Sweet li'l bit with Buffy's eyes and my fangs," Spike said dreamily. He knocked back the last of his shot and his face lit up like the Las Vegas Strip. "Harris! I gotta get something for Buffy! Something..." He rocked back in his seat, windmilling both arms. "Something fanta... fantash... really good! To comem'rate th' occasion, like!" "In my personal experience, peanut butter and pickle sandwiches at two AM usually do the trick, but I'm told that flowers are also a front-runner." "Flowers, jewelry, s'all rubbish!" Spike waved these trifles aside. "'S gotta be somethin' perfect. Unique. Somethin' that epishmotises our love!" He stumbled to his feet and thumped his chest with a fist. "Don't you know anything about bloody symbolism?" He turned on one heel, clenched fist outflung for maximum dramatic effect. The fist slammed straight into the damp leathery nose of our old pal Yiskok, who was returning from the bar with a refill on his tankard (or considering the size of the thing, maybe 'tanker' is closer to the mark). Yiskok swung the tankard with a bellow of rage. Spike ducked, and the tankard went flying across the bar, spraying half a dozen partygoers with paint thinner and clonking one of the Fyarls in the back of the skull--if Fyarls possessed any brains to speak of it would have knocked him cold, but the Fyarl just rubbed its head, looking around with a puzzled and faintly aggrieved expression that someone would start a bar fight without letting him know about it. "Insolent half-breed!" Yiskok roared, grabbing Spike by the scruff of his neck and swinging him three feet off the ground. This was rendered easier than usual by the fact that Spike was doubled over laughing his guts out. With his free hand, the Envoy unsheathed the katana with a ringing clash of steel and swept it round to rest the blade against Spike's exposed throat. Wavy patterns glinted along the steel. "You dare strike the person of a demon of pure and ancient lineage with your tainted flesh? On your knees--" The demon's bruised nose twitched, and confusion clouded his big brown eyes until he decided that Spike smelled enough like a vampire for government work. "--vampire scum!" The whole bar fell silent in breathless, gleeful anticipation, and I realized I was holding my breath right along with them. Any second now Spike was going to do something like slither out of his jacket, roll between the Envoy's legs, and hamstring Yiskok with his fangs, and even those of us who normally hated his guts would cheer him on because Yiskok was a snooty jerk from Los Angeles, and maybe I'd get a chance to smash a chair over the bastard's head at an opportune moment, and just for a minute, just for tonight, it would be like old times. But it wasn't old times. I wasn't a high school kid with a dead-end life and the recuperative powers of a rhino, I was a grown-up with a wife and a job and a daughter and sixteen metal pins holding my shin bones together. And Spike, God help us all, was in pretty much the same boat, minus the sixteen pins part and any vestige of emotional maturity. Plus he was more plastered than your average flat of drywall at the moment, and seemed to be mesmerized by the shiny, shiny sword. The more likely scenario involved Yiskok demonstrating exciting new recipes for vampire pate. Spike had sorta kinda saved me from a similar fate earlier. I was obligated to save him back, damn it. I levered my unwilling body out of the chair and limped over to clap a hand over Spike's mouth. "I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Yiskok sir," I said. "My friend here's just a little over-enthusiastic. You know, when vampires sire they loose all that blood and it makes them light-headed..." I glared at Spike, whose eyebrows were wiggling a furious semaphore, and mouthed shut up. After a moment the Envoy sheathed his sword and dropped Spike to the floor in an inglorious heap. "Very well," he sneered. "I will not sully my blade with your inferior blood." I reached down to pull Spike to his feet. "Were you going to say something? 'Why, thank you, Xander, for saving my whiskey-soaked carcass' for example?" Spike ignored me. He remained flat on his butt on Willy's less than hygienic linoleum, gazing open-mouthed at the retreating Yiskok's broad hairy shoulders. His eyes shone. "That's it," he whispered in tones of awe and reverence. "What's it, and 'it' is what? Buy a vowel." Spike flipped to his feet with grace I couldn't have mustered stone cold sober, the gleam in his eyes growing positively unholy. "The sword, you git! Didn't you notice his sword? It's perfect! Buffy'll love it! You just sit tight while I go kill the bugger." I will admit, though not in public, that Spike has come a long way in the last few years. But there are times when the lack of soul is still painfully apparent. Or maybe it's just that he's a flipping idiot. I put a hand on his chest and shoved him down into his chair again. "Oh, no, you don't. You know, Spike, you have yet to fully grok the 'I can die now' part of being alive--" "Frailty, mortal coil, think I grasp the concept. I just don't give a toss." He shrugged his jacket straight and vamped out, fangs glinting in the Alibi Room's dim light like the edge of the sword. It's really hard to throw the fear of God into a guy by telling him that he's slightly less invulnerable than he used to be. "No, you don't get it," I snapped. "This rebel without a pulse act was fine when you didn't have any responsibilities, but take the brain cells out of storage and think for a minute. God knows how, but Buffy's pregnant. How long is she going to be able to keep patrolling? And once the kid's born you're going to have to take care of both of them--what's she going to do if you get yourself killed in a stupid bar fight?" Spike was scowling, doing that jaw-clenchy thing he does when he's pissed off that you're right and he doesn't want to show it. "And that's why you're out soaking up the ambience at Willy's instead of wallowing in the arms of your nearest and dearest?" When Spike starts resorting to personal insults, you've got him on the ropes. I went in for the kill. "Besides, Horn-head's not just some loud-mouth demon tourist you can slaughter for kicks, he's some kind of ambassador for Duke Something-or-other in L.A. If he disappears, there'll be hell to pay. Probably in a literal pitchforky sense." Spike's fist clenched and the tendons in his forearm twitched. For a second I thought he was going to knock me cold and go his merry way, but then his eyes narrowed and I felt his muscles go slack under my hand. He slumped back into the chair, rubbing his eyes, and I noticed the dark shadows under them for the first time. It occurred to me that I hadn't seen or heard from either him or Buffy for over a week, and I'd been too wrapped up in my own problems to notice. "If I had a tenner for every upstart demon who called itself a Duke, I'd be living on otter smoothies," Spike grumbled. "Oi, Willy, 'nother round here!" Willy obliged with a hang-dog expression--the tab for this party was going to be heroic. To my huge relief, Yiskok beckoned to his flunkies, and lumbered out with a snort and a tail-flip in our general direction. Around us the party started ramping up again, the participants a bit disappointed that violence had failed to break out in a sufficiently entertaining fashion, but still cheered by the hope that there'd be at least one dead body in the parking lot before sunrise. Spike lit a cigarette (he'd made a half-hearted attempt to quit after the little accident with the Mohra blood which had resulted in his current state, but after a few weeks of snarly, cranky, nicotine-deprived vampire, we all got down on bended knee and begged him to unquit before we killed him). He sat there puffing clouds of sullen blue smoke and fidgeting with his lighter. At last he flicked it off, shoved it into his jacket pocket, and stubbed the cigarette out in his whiskey glass. "Off to the gents'," he announced. "Right back." There's a common misconception which you may be misconcepting at this very minute, that vampires aren't subject to, uh, certain fleshly necessities. According to Spike, a lot of new vampires think so too, and are deeply disappointed when they find out it's not the case. Taking into account that most vampires exist on a purely liquid diet, the, uh, plumbing still works pretty much the way you'd expect, which is why they can still eat human food even if they don't get any nourishment from it. Spike disappeared in the direction of the restrooms, and I sat back to sip my beer and bask in the virtuous glow of virtue. I had Done Good. Xander the Peacemaker, that's me. I should call Anya, set things right. And call Sidney while I was at it, because the mess at the job site was bound to be a big misunderstanding. Remembering that my cell phone was currently a pile of scrap on the floor of my car took a little of the rosy glow off, but not much. I was feeling gooood. Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then...OK, granted the urinal in the Alibi Room can be an adventure in itself, but this was a bit much. I got up and edged my way to the back of the bar, hampered by the enthusiastic backslapping which, as Spike wasn't in evidence, I seemed to have inherited as an Official Pal of Spike. Which was annoying since, as I've mentioned, me and the pal of Spike thing? Not so much. When I finally fought my way to the end of the narrow hallway housing the restrooms, I hesitated for a minute (you don't touch those doorknobs without being in dire need) and then pounded on the door marked Demons. "Spike!" I yelled. "You fall in, or what?" I waited for another moment, and tried the knob. The door was unlocked. I expected to find Spike finishing up his business, or possibly passed out on the floor. What I actually walked in on was the last glimpse of Spike's denim-covered ass as he wriggled through the tiny, formerly-barred window he'd just finished tearing out of the wall. I ran to the window and peered down into the alley. Spike's pale face tipped up to grin at me, his pupils glowing red in the dark, and he pointed. I craned my neck out the hole in the wall, and at the end of the alley I caught a glimpse of the huge horned silhouette of Yiskok Eye-gouger. Spike tossed me a jaunty wave and jogged off in pursuit. Buffy asked me later why on earth I didn't just go back into Willy's and tell Spike's minions to follow him, and I stared at her and said, "They're vampires," which tells you something about where Buffy and I am these days. I almost yelled after him, but it occurred to me just in time that Yiskok might hear me, too, and That Would Be Bad. "Crap!" I hissed. If I tried to go out and around through the front door, I'd never catch up with them, not that there was much of a chance of that now. Cursing every possible combination of Spike's ancestors, I scrambled on top of the toilet and hauled myself up through the window. Now, I'm in pretty good shape for a guy who was in a wheelchair two years ago and on crutches for six months after that, but crawling through windows that are a tight fit for a guy two inches shorter and twenty pounds lighter than I am isn't part of my normal exercise regime. Dropping five feet onto concrete isn't my idea of a party, either. My knees don't bend that way anymore. Pain shot through my legs all the way up to my hips as I landed, and I said a prayer for every one of those sixteen pins. After a minute or two of silent tongue-mangling, I grabbed hold of the Dumpster handle and pulled myself to my feet. One foot in front of the other. Ow. Stupid feet. By the time I got to the end of the alley I was still limping more than usual, but I was moving along. It was a good thing Yiskok was so big, because I could still see the double crescent of his horns bobbing along head and shoulders above everything else, two blocks away. Popular opinion to the contrary, I'm not stupid, and I know when I'm in over my head. It's just that I'm almost always in over my head, so why panic about it? Still, calling in the cavalry was sounding really attractive right now, and I cursed my busted cell phone, while I was at it. But wait! I dimly recall these things called 'pay phones'... I called Anya from the next convenience store, before I even thought about calling Buffy. Which probably says something too, but you can figure it out. Voicemail picked up and I rattled off, "Anya? Hon? It's Xander. Strange things are afoot at the Circle K. I'm on Wilkins and Fourth, and I'm following Spike, who's following this big minotaur kind of guy who works for some L.A. demon bigshot, Count Basie or something, and I think he's bitten off more than he can chew, bitten, vampire, ha ha I slay me. Anyway, I gotta go, they're moving. I love you. Bye." I was fibbing a little about the following Spike part, since I hadn't seen Spike since the alley. Which meant that he'd either taken off in some other direction entirely, or that he was doing that silent stalky predator voodoo that vampires do so well. Either possibility was nerve-wracking. I just kept following Yiskok and hoping for the best. We turned right on First, past the Cell-block #9 bulk of the Municipal Court building, past Social Services and Parks and Recreation, across the neatly trimmed lawns in front of City Hall. In the center of the square was a fountain. I couldn't remember ever seeing it running, and right now the pool was bone dry. If there'd ever been any coins in it, the homeless had scavenged them a long time ago. I cleverly concealed myself behind a fan palm and watched as Yiskok strode up to the fountain and stepped over the rim of the pool, his hooves clattering on the concrete. His entourage scrambled after him. He walked up to the statue in the center of the pool, a rearing horse and rider who'd gotten a few too many friendly visits from the local pigeons, and took hold of the horse's forefoot. The ground vibrated and a grinding, clanking noise drowned out the noise of traffic back on Wilkins Boulevard. Slowly, the base of the statue slid back. I couldn't see what it covered, but either Yiskok and his cronies were shrinking rapidly, or survey says... stairs! The idea that there were...well, I wouldn't exactly call something that noisy secret, but let's say private entrances to the building which used to be Mayor Wilkins's stronghold was new, but not startling. Most of the local demons and vampires avoided the tunnels around City Hall, since there were still some unpleasant surprises lurking around down there for the uninvited. Yiskok's horns disappeared below the rim of the pool. The horse began creaking its way back to the center of the fountain. I chewed on a knuckle and wondered whether I should follow or wait for reinforcements. And then out of nowhere Spike was standing in the fountain, feeling around for whatever button or lever worked the hidden door. Stupid vampire speed. I hobbled out from behind the palm tree. Maybe I should break down and start using the cane stashed in the back of my closet. Then if I couldn't think of a withering comeback, I could just whack people. "Spike!" I hissed. "What the hell are you doing?" I knew it wouldn't do any good to try and convince him that he couldn't fight the Colossus of Sunnydale by himself, because he'd do it just to tick me off. "This Duke guy--" "Can stay in L.A. and suck his own tiny withered cock. I'm getting that sword for Buffy," Spike retorted. He felt up the greeny-bronze hoof over his head. "If offing the kilted yak knots your knickers, I'll just nick it." Obviously he'd sobered up a good deal during the stalk across town. Stupid vampire constitution. There was a metallic snick. "Hah! That's got it." "This thing is in serious need of some WD-40," I muttered as the statue swung backwards with a groan of tortured metal. "Look, you want to get a sword for Buffy? Fine! Buy her a nice shiny new one. You can get them by the crate on e-Bay. Genuine semi-authentic re-creations of Excalibur with a sheath that matches your sofa." Spike bent over, hands braced on his knees, and peered down into the opening. Over his shoulder I could see a few shallow, slimy stair-steps leading down into darkness. "I don't want a sword, I want that sword," he said. "Now either give me a hand, or trot off home and knit your booties, and don't fucking lecture me on responsibility till you've spent a century shepherding Dru across six continents." With that he disappeared down the stairway. I made a Harris Decision and clomped down after him, pretty much wrecking his reputation for vampire stealth. The walls were slick with goo, and the steps were worn down in the middle, as if they'd been used for centuries and not just for the fifty years or so this particular fountain had been around. "A sword's a sword. They have a pointy end and a not-so-pointy end. What's so special about that one?" He turned on me, and tapped his temple with a forefinger, pointing to the three-cornered scar on his left eyebrow. "It's the sword that gave me this," he said, in a voice as hard and deadly as the blade itself. "So you see, by rights it belongs to her already." I stared at him. "Let me get this straight. Your idea of the ideal shower gift is the sword of the first Slayer you killed?" Spike cocked his head. "What? You don't think she'll like it?"
The Hellmouth came first. That's what Giles says, and he usually knows what he's talking about. One big-ass hole in the ground, surrounded by a web of fissures and cracks and lava tubes, and leading straight to perdition, or one version of it, anyway. The place where the lesser demons retreated, tens of thousands of years ago when mankind drove the last of the pure demons out of our existence. 'Course the satellite reception sucks, so the lesser demons came out again eventually. When the Spaniards moved into California, they expanded on the caves and built tunnels of their own. Don't ask me why, I fell asleep for that part. Mayor Wilkins took over Sunnydale at the turn of the last century, and added a huge web of sewer mains and storm drains and electrical access tunnels as Sunnydale grew, all laid out to channel the flow of power into and out of the Hellmouth for his Ascension. Why Sunnydale hasn't done a No-Name City I have no clue. Spike and I were slogging through one of the older sections of tunnel: vaulted ceilings, rusting sconces bearing the burnt-out stumps of torches and a much more recent string of burnt-out lightbulbs. Narrow walkways flanked either side of a canal of sluggish filthy water. The walls were damp ochre brick grouted with moss and slime. The occasional shaft of street light filtering down through drains in the ceiling gave the vampire in the party more than enough light to see by, but I was really missing that ring of infravision. We'd been trudging along for a good fifteen minutes. I was starting to get itchy flashbacks to the time we'd both been trapped down here in an infinitely looping section of tunnel, and I strongly suspected one of the wall sconces of following us. "Do you have any idea where you're going?" Spike looked irritated and pointed to his nose. Stupid vampire senses. "Are you even sure this is the same sword?" I asked. "It was a hundred years ago, after all." "Inscription on the blade," Spike replied. "You tend to notice things like that when they're coming straight at your face." A second later he'd shoved me into an alcove (damn thoughtful of the builders to include alcoves) and flattened us both against the soggy bricks. His shoulders, pressing hard against my chest, were as cold as the wall behind me, and I could feel the glacier-slow, inhuman bass line of his heartbeat under the hammering of my own. He held his breath--Spike needed to breathe now, but not very often--and I tried to. Nothing happened. I could feel a cramp starting in my left calf. Nothing kept on happening. I tried a small restless movement and Spike shoved back harder. And then I heard what Spike's ears must have picked up five minutes ago: footsteps. Not Yiskok's stompy hooves, but something closer to human size. A troop of a dozen or so extras from the demon version of Gladiator marched by, escorting something six-legged and shaggy and chained up in their midst. The shaggy thing lifted its tusked head and bellowed, and got poked with a few spears for its troubles. The whole menagerie rumbled on past without a glance for the human and the slightly altered vampire behind the curtain. Spike and I exchanged looks. Caution had just officially been thrown to the winds. We crept after the elephant act and poked our heads around a corner. Up ahead, the sewer line intersected three more tunnels at a huge vaulted crossroads. Gates diverted the flow of sewage into side tunnels, and the dry, open brickwork of the crossroads was lit up with torches and paper lanterns and crowded with demons: soldiers in leather armor and short bronze swords, bustling officials in many-layered kimono-style robes, scurrying slaves in loincloths and ankle chains. Rows of enormous, elaborate silk-draped tents lined the walls of the crossroads, filled with intricately carved sandalwood screens and cushions in patterns of blue and scarlet and gold. The air was heavy with the smoke of a dozen braziers and cookfires, and I hoped that whatever it was that smelled so good was something I wouldn't be committing a felony by eating. The soldiers we'd been following were transferring the shaggy thing to a big iron-barred cage on a wheeled platform with a lot of shouting and spear-poking. It was one of a dozen similar cages behind the row of tents, and each one held a very unhappy-looking demon, snarling or pacing or rattling the bars. Yiskok was standing by and supervising. "Poachers!" Spike snarled, surging forward, but before I could grab him, he froze. His brows knit. "No. Can't be." I didn't know a lot about Spike's demon-hunting enterprise beyond the financial stuff Anya took care of, but like most demon businesses, the motto of the Chamber of Commerce amounted to "Touch my stuff and I'll kill you." Spike had already fought off one major competitor for rights to the ex-Hellmouth hunting grounds, and with the prospect of another mouth to feed, I didn't expect he'd take the idea of yet another one cutting in on his profits very lightly. "Can't be?" I asked. "They look pretty bring 'em home alive to me." "Yeh, and that's the first clue," he said. "If they were poaching they'd've killed em and stripped the bodies already. And look at what they've caught--that's a Shaugruth, and those two are a Maq'avit and a Vrithlak. None of 'em worth killing to begin with, none of their bits used in any major spells, and none of 'em have any special powers that'd make 'em valuable alive." His frown deepened. "Suppose it could be a slave raid, but why the hell come all the way to Sunnydale for that when there's dozens of rival clans in L.A. he could hit?" He sat there, pondering. "Fuck. We need to know more. Sit tight." He rose into a lithe crouch and started for the nearest tent. He was ditching me, the bastard. Like hell. I couldn't manage the feline crouch, but I could imitate the cowed shuffle of the slaves and count on the fact that everyone in Sunnydale sees what they expect to see, including the demons. Spike glanced over his shoulder at me and instead of looking pissed, he gave me a smug little smirky look that made me more determined than ever to follow him just so I could beat it off his face. We worked our way around the back side of the tents, stepping over guy ropes and tent pegs driven into the cracks between the bricks. There were piles of bales and boxes heaped up between the tents and the walls of the sewer--some of them rough hand-made bundles, some obviously stolen from the back of a delivery van somewhere. Spike made no comment about that; his makeshift conscience didn't extend quite that far without prodding. Spike listened at each tent, finally beckoning me over to the largest and most impressive of the lot. He dropped to his knees beside the heavy silk wall and pried it up so that both of us could stick our heads inside. The inside of the tent was just as impressive as the outside. Yiskok had traded in the Agamemnon look for a kimono (my eyes, my eyes!). He was lounging on a divan piled with cushions, taking a drag from a jeweled hookah while the two Anamovic demons from the bar read him some kind of report. A low teakwood table (really nice workmanship) was piled high with pomegranates and figs and cheese and a roast of what I really, really hope was short pork. Several wicker-wrapped bottles of the paint thinner sat on the floor beside the table, and in the corner a trio of lugubrious blue demons were playing something twangy and off-key on a bazuki. The sword of contention was seated on one of those rack dealies, looking...well, like a sword which had spent the last hundred years killing things. "...none of the subjects confess to any knowledge of the matter, Your Lordship," the first Anamovic said. "And while all of them are unusual species in this part of the world, all of them are known to scholars." Yiskok set down his pipe and glared. "Then kill them and search again. Rumors have spoken for the past year of a new breed of demon in the world, and His Grace's augerer confirmed it was to be found in Sunnydale, over the Hellmouth that was. His Grace will not look kindly upon us if we return with nothing." "Surely one lone demon..." "Do you have any conception of how long it has been since a new breed of demon was spawned upon this earth?" Yiskok's hairy lip curled. "A new, clean breed, unsoiled as yet by the taint of humanity which tarnishes even the purest of our bloodlines? What insights into the ways of the Old Ones might they possess? What awesome abilities might they wield? And what power will accrue to the lord who controls such a resource?" The Anamovics (who, according to Anya, infallible source of demon gossip, were even more assimilated into human society than the Brachens and the Listers) did a sort of stiff-lipped, flinchy expression of disapproval, but didn't dare contradict their boss directly. "Even so, Lordship, perhaps if we contact the rogue Slayer? She still slays, I'm told, and surely she would be willing to aid us in ridding her town of such a creature. Sunnydale is not a large city. There are so many places a wholly new species might conceal itself." "Then search them again!" Yiskok roared, half-rising from his pile of cushions. "We will contact the Slayer only as a last resort. Go, and do not fail me or the Duke a second time!" As they reached the door, Yiskok bellowed, "Wait! What of William the Bloody?" "We've encountered no one who matches his description, my lord," Anamovic #2 said. "Frankly, all vampires look alike to me, but the hair and the mode of dress are reported to be quite distinctive." Yiskok grunted. "Inform me if you find him. He's known to have extensive contacts." The Anamovics scurried out. I looked at Spike, the living, breathing, blood-drinking, soulless not-quite-vampire-anymore, whose always-expressive face was going through a series of contortions impressive even for him, as he realized exactly who they had to be talking about. I snickered. Boy, was Duke Ellington in for a big disappointment. Talk about tainted with humanity. Spike met my eyes, his face gone grim. He jerked his head at me and backed out from under the tent wall. I followed suit. "We've got to get out of here," he whispered. "We're just getting to the good stuff!" I protested. He cut me off with a shake of his head. "You!" a voice roared behind me. "What are you two doing behind that tent?" OK, you know that scene in every martial arts movie ever made, where half a million ninjas come running at Our Hero one at a time and get turned into hamburger? In real life, that never happens. What does happen is that the half million guys with swords and spears take turns rushing forward in threes and fours, enough to keep Our Hero occupied no matter how good he is (and though it pains me to say it, Spike is good) especially when he's trying to protect a non-combatant with two bum knees. When one team gets tired, the next team moves in, and if this goes on long enough, eventually Our Hero slips up. Then we all end up in cages, yay! Yiskok wasn't skipping with joy about our capture. Not because Spike had killed four guards and wounded another six, or even because I'd given at least two of them something to think about myself. But because obviously some rival of Sebassis had sent us to spy on him and sabotage his mission. Spike wasn't happy because he didn't think that mere twelve to one odds should have been a problem. He alternated snarling at the guards and at himself. "Fucking hell. Never should have taken us. I've gone soft." I wasn't precisely joyful either. They'd taken away our clothes and given us each a pair of slave skivvies, and while Spike wasn't much affected, I was cold, and my knees were swelling up like cantaloupes. And besides... there was a reason I didn't visit the beach in the daytime any longer. I told myself that none of the demons gave a damn about the twisted white scars that zippered down my legs and across my belly, my final souvenir from the Hellmouth. Spike got beat up pretty bad in that last battle, too--but on him, two years later, the scars were barely visible. Stupid vampire healing. They'd given me a bowl of gruel and Spike a dead rat, to fortify us for the upcoming torture, I guess. Neither of us were anywhere near desperate enough to eat them. I sat in the corner of the cage with my legs drawn up as far as they'd go and an iron bar digging into my spine and watched Spike pace. "Why don't you just tell him who you are?" I asked. "Or ask them to contact Buffy--" Spike shot a wary look at the guard. "Not a bloody chance!" he growled, low enough not to be heard. "They think I'm one of a kind--what happens if they find out about the sprog? They'll be after Buffy, that's what. Won't have it, not right after--" He broke off and I wondered what had happened in that week we'd been out of touch, but didn't ask. Sometimes you just know when a guy's not going to tell. "All right, no Buffy," I said. "Are you sure he doesn't know already? He did kinda walk out in the middle of a party. If he didn't notice who it was for, the lightbulb in his thought balloon needs changing." "You're forgetting that vamps are almost as insignificant to a demon as a human is to us. Catching the name of a vampire who doesn't match the description in Debrett's is beneath blokes like Yiskok." He gazed though the bars at the spires of the envoy's tent, the flickering blue and gold of his eyes reflecting the brocade of the silk. "He'll remember me when I string a necklace from his balls." "That speech would be a lot more inspiring if you weren't the one in the cage. What we need is a brilliant plan. We don't have a holocaust cloak or a wheelbarrow, but if I can mold a copy of the lock out of gruel, and you can carve a key out of rat bones--" Spike rolled his eyes and resumed pacing. Back and forth, back and forth, insert the usual big cat metaphors here--and then he stopped, mid-pace. "Harris, I hereby apologize for all the times I've called you a drooling lackwit." He pounced on the rat carcass, vamped out and ripped the skin open with his teeth, flinging it aside like OJ's glove. Dark, half-congealed blood smeared his face and hands as he used his fangs to part muscle and sever tendons. Spike disjointed the long bones of the rat's hind legs, the delicate curves of its ribs, and stripped the excess scraps of flesh away, licking up the blood absent-mindedly as he worked. He studied each bone critically, and snapped the end off one or two with his teeth to make a sharper point. When he was done, Spike had a set of half a dozen tiny white needles, some curved, some straightish. He looked up at me with a blood-streaked smirk and popped the rat's liver into his mouth like it was candy. "Not a key," he said. "Lockpicks." Do Bertie Bott's came in rat liver? It's trying questions like this that occupy me in crisis situations. "I'm not trying to downplay my own brilliance here," I said, "but how are you going to pick the lock in the plain sight of half a dozen guards?" I waved at the torches. "It never gets dark down here." "That's where your distraction comes in," Spike replied. "Distract them with what? Like they care if I get sick, or there's a spider in the chamber pot? Do we even have a chamber pot?" "You'll come up with something." Spike went back to licking his new picks clean, an operation I really didn't want to get a detailed look at. Hanging out with a vampire is a little like having a dog: even if they're not eating cat poo in front of you, you just can't think too hard about what they had for dinner. Distractions. Whatever it was had to draw the guards away from the door. I scooted across the cage floor to the wall opposite the lock. "Hey!" I yelled at the nearest guard. "Have you ever seen any Road movies?" The guard, a demon with a piggy snout and grey, leathery armadillo-style hide, gave a contemptuous snort. Damn. I think he was comparing me to Hope. I grabbed the bars and mashed my face up against them. "Yo! Prostetic Vogon Jeltz! Your boss wants the skinny on the new demon in town, right? Well, I can deliver him with a big red ribbon on top." I dropped my voice. "Yeah, you heard right, I'm ready to squeal like one of your prettier relatives. And you, yes, YOU, can be the lucky little duckling who brings it to the Envoy's attention. In fact, if you come a little closer--" At this point the second-nearest guard's ears pricked up, and he shouldered in front of the first one. "It's easy to say that now, human. If you're faking it--" "If he's faking it Yiskok will find out when he's interrogated," the first guard interrupted. "Hey, no skin off my nose who gets the info as long as I'm set free," I said. How long did it take to pick a lock, anyway? On TV the answer seemed to be 3.5 seconds, but if previous experience with Spike was any guide, ten minutes and a lot of swearing was closer to the mark. "If you just happened to take it to someone who pays better than Yiskok, who am I to judge?" Guard the second pondered this, his piggy little eyes lighting up with the sublime, transcendent emotion that binds us all together, demon and human alike--greed. Guard the first put a hand to the scabbard of its gladius. "Get back to your post!" "Yeah? Maybe some of us are interested in what the hoo-mon has to say!" a third guard opined. "If he's telling the truth, what's it going to hurt for us to pick up some inside information?" "The hurting part is what I'm trying to avoid--" I started, just as Guard the First's chin flew up as if some very strong, very speedy person had hooked an arm around his neck, grabbed him by the bristly black topknot, and yanked backward. Perhaps unsurprisingly, that was exactly what had happened. I waved. "Hi, Spike." Spike drew Guard the First's sword at "Hi," and plunged it into its owner's chest before I got to "Spike." Demon blood spurted all over. Spike heaved the still-twitching corpse at the remaining guards, sending them staggering into the cage. Guard the Third opened its mouth to yell for help, and I scooped up the bowl of gruel, reached through the bars and conked him on the head. Two shakes later Spike had broken both their necks. "Took you long enough," I grumbled, climbing out of the cage and accepting the kilt he'd stripped off the tallest guard. "Shut up and slink." The guards were built a little shorter and squatter than human average, but the Spartacus getup was a little less noticeable than the loincloths. Not any more comfortable, though. What is it with evil and leather? I scratched at the blood and sweat-soaked breastband, kept my hand on the hilt of my sword, and followed Spike across the encampment as quickly as I could, which wasn't very. Spike wasn't exactly unscathed; he was covered in bruises and cuts and was favoring his right leg, but he still moved a hell of a lot faster than I did. Stupid vampire stamina. Halfway across the compound, my right leg gave out-just folded like a bad poker hand, and took me down with it. I lay there on the sewage-crusted bricks with a red and black lava-lamp going behind my eyelids, and I did not cry, damn it. Spike heard me go down and turned around with a snarl of "Stupid fucking human!" grabbed me under the arms and dragged me behind the concealment of a bale of, uh, let's say cotton (Look, I don't know what it was a bale of, OK? Work with me here.) So: middle of a demon encampment, no cover to speak of, A. L. Harris hors de combat. Spike could have carried me, but I strongly doubted that onlookers would buy that we were just re-enacting the staircase scene from Gone With the Wind for our high school talent show. "Get on out of here and warn Buffy about these bozos," I said. "I can hold out here." "Don't be daft. They'll find you in fifteen minutes and next time it'll be torture first, gruel after." "Considering the quality of the gruel, I think I might prefer that." I raised my head enough to realize that what Spike was scoping out all squinchy-eyed and predatory wasn't the exit, but Yiskok's tent. "No!" I whispered furiously. Some days it's a full-time job, not screaming. "You are NOT going to try to sneak in there and steal the sword! It's too dangerous! R-E-S-P-onsibility, tell us what it means to me!" "'Course I'm not going to sneak in there," Spike replied scornfully. "What kind of thickhead do you take me for?" He stood up, strode out from behind the Generic Bale, and flung the flap of the tent open wide. "Yiskok, you scabby ring-nosed cow-tipping peckerhead! Got a message for you!" Inside the tent there was a crash and a curse, and Spike stepped nimbly aside, twirling the tent-flap like a bullfighter as Yiskok charged the door, katana in hand. The envoy's horns caught in the fabric of the tent and ripped a huge patch free, effectively blinding him. Spike dodged, drew his own sword, and spun to face his opponent. "GUARDS!" Yiskok bellowed, shaking his head and sending flurries of shredded tent-turban to the ground. "Who's a big man, then?" Spike taunted. "Yeh, call your Oompa Loompas--must running a bit short by now. Look, you bloody great stupid ox, you want to know who sent me? I'll tell you: the Slayer. She knows all about your pathetic little fishing expedition, and she sent me down here to see if you were worth her valuable time to kill in person, and so far I've got to say the answer's no. I've not seen such a pack of incompetent gits since the old Master kicked the bucket, and that's saying something. But seeing as she's a busy woman with better things to do than kicking your sorry arse back to L.A., she's giving you the option of packing up and leaving now with no lingering hard feelings." Yiskok studied Spike with a labored scowl. "It is known that the Slayer consorts with vampires, but what proof do you have that you speak for her? And even if you are, why should I fear what you or she can do and not slay you where you stand?" Spike laughed. "Bollocks to that, All-Beef Patty--we're not the ones with anything to prove. You count up everyone else who's gone up against the Slayer in the last eight years and tell me where they are now. You prove to me you're a worthy front man for this Duke. Let's have us a scrap, you and me. I win, and you're out of Sunnydale by sunrise. You win, and I'll consider setting up a meeting with the Slayer for you." He crossed his arms over his chest, the gladius dangling negligently from one hand. "Of course you can try having your guards kill me right now, though the last time was a bit of a cock-up for you." While all this was going on, your narrator was lying low, listening to the remaining guards poking through the supplies, getting closer and closer. None of them seemed really anxious to storm Spike and save their noble master; way more fun to hunt the crippled human. I felt around for my sword, clamped it in my teeth, and began to inch towards the supply tent on my belly. One of the robed Anamovic demons had gone pawing through the tent where they'd stored our clothes, and now it came out with Spike's motorcycle jacket draped across one arm and his wallet clutched in one hand. "Your Lordship--" it squeaked. Yiskok almost backhanded it away, but the Anamovic waved the open wallet in front of his face, almost hopping up and down. Yiskok stared at the bleached-blond photo on Spike's driver's license (best fake ID money could buy). His head came up, and went down, and went up again, comparing real to Memorex. "You--!" the envoy roared. "You are the traitor, William the Bloody!" "Comes the sodding dawn." Spike twirled his sword. If the revelation of his secret identity fazed him he wasn't going to show it. "You going to fight, or am I just going to tan your hide and make a saddle of you?" Yiskok stood there with his head lowered and his eyes blazing red, a long string of slobbery froth dripping from his bared teeth. Slowly, he raised the katana--a human would have needed two hands, but in his huge hoofed paw it was like a rapier. "This blade was a gift for the Slayer, if need be, to buy her cooperation," he rumbled. "I think I shall deliver it to her buried in your gut." He swung. Air screamed as the sword sliced through it, but Spike wasn't there anymore. Yiskok recovered fast, letting his own momentum carry him into the next slash. Spike soared over the whistling blade in one of those impossible weightless vampire leaps and drove the point of his sword at Yiskok's eye. Yiskok dodged the blow and head-butted Spike into the ground, his horns gouging a pair of brick-dust furrows an inch to either side of Spike's ears. Spike curled into a ball and rolled, snatched his dropped gladius and bounced to his feet. "Get the crossbows, get the crossbows!" the courtier in the gaudiest kimono yelled. The guards abandoned their search for me and thundered off to the armory. Damn it, and I'd almost had them exactly where I wanted them. Like I said, Spike's good. Trouble was, so was Yiskok--and Yiskok was also twice Spike's size, frighteningly fast, and swinging the bigger and better sword. Plus Spike was already wounded and tired and coming down off what had probably been a several-days-long bender. Sebassis's right-hoof man let loose with an entire John Woo movie full of flashy slashes and thrusts. Spike Captain Jack'd like crazy, dodging around guy ropes and doing runs up piles of crates where Yiskok was too heavy to follow, but he couldn't get back on the offensive. Every time he parried one of Yiskok's blows you could see him take it all the way down to his toes. He was limping almost as badly as I was now. Every inch of ground he gave up he made Yiskok pay for in blood and bruises, but he kept giving up ground. Yiskok threw his head back with a roar of triumphant laughter as he realized he had Spike backed up against the circle of stones surrounding the biggest cookfire. Spike threw a desperate look over his shoulder at the bed of glowing coals--being alive and all now, he wouldn't go Human Torch at the first touch of fire or sunlight; oh no. Fred and Willow's best estimate was that it would take about five really ouchy minutes for him to charbroil now. (Maybe ten. Spike, oddly, was unwilling to gather the empirical evidence.) The envoy chuckled and smacked his rubbery black lips, sword raised high. Spike whirled round, bent down and thrust the blade of his sword into the coalbed, scooping up a fiery red heap of embers on the flat. He came out of his crouch with savage grin, vamping out for the first time, and flung the embers straight into Yiskok's eyes. The other thing I forgot to mention about Spike? He fights dirty. The branding-iron stink of burnt flesh and singed hair filled the air and Yiskok's laughter turned into a bellow of pain. He dropped the katana to claw at his eyes, and it fell ringing to the flagstones. Spike lunged up with his short blade; Yiskok caught the gladius on one horn and wrenched it from Spike's hand with a circular twist of his head. Thrown off-balance, Spike grabbed the opposing horn and hauled down with all his weight, dragging Yiskok's massive head floorwards. Spike's other hand got purchase on Yiskok's other horn, and the two of them staggered in an awkward circle, Spike's bare feet skidding over the uneven bricks and the muscles in his arms and thighs quivering like high-tension cable as he threw every ounce of strength into bulldogging the envoy. We will now leave behind the bland and unedifying spectacle of a half-naked, sweaty vampire wrestling a bull-demon to the death, and concentrate on something more interesting: me. While Spike and Lover Boy were doing the Greco-Roman two-step, I was crawling my way closer to the huddle of guards, who'd returned with the crossbows and were just waiting for a clear shot. Being alive and all now, a crossbow bolt through the heart wouldn't turn Spike into a pile of dust immediately. Of course it would still be a crossbow bolt through the heart, which isn't terribly healthy for the metabolism-enabled the last time I checked. In any case, I wasn't inclined to depend on the kindness of demons. I rolled over and checked out the tangle of tent ropes. I tested my sword with a thumb; not promising. It was designed for stabbing, not cutting, but it was better than playing beaver. I went to work, hoping no one would notice the ropes twitching. Over in the center of the encampment, the envoy was flat on his stomach, with a wild-eyed, snarling vampire kneeling on his shoulders in the process of hog-tying his hind legs to his horns with his own kimono sash. Yiskok flopped and bellowed, and Spike jumped clear of the flailing hooves and horns. Spike wiped the blood from his eyes, chest heaving, and bent to pick up the katana. For a long minute he communed with the steel, running eyes and hands along the edge, and then he laid the blade against Yiskok's throat. "I think this counts as a win," he said. "I'll expect you lot to be gone by tomorrow. And if you--" "SHOOT HIM!" Yiskok roared. The guards raised their bows, and I sawed down hard. The last frayed thread of rope parted with a tiny ping! and there was a WHOOMPH! as the whole damn supply tent collapsed. Half the guards were buried in acres of billowing blue silk, and the other half shot wildly into the air. One of the bolts caught Spike in the shoulder, but he held onto the sword like it was part of his arm. The caged demons along the wall howled and hooted and screamed. The guards still free to move milled around for a minute, then drew their swords-- A gunshot rang out over the huhbub. "NOBODY MOVE!" And the love of my life stepped out of the nearest tunnel opening, armed with a very stylish little pearl-handled pistol and the Glare O' Vengeance. The guards froze in awe and horror. Oh, yeah, sure, Buffy and Dawn and Willow were there too, and half a dozen of Spike's minions and the crowd from Willy's--dozens of humans and demons and vampires who might or might not hate Spike's guts, but who sure as hell weren't going to stand by and let some L.A. jerkwad mess with a local boy. But I'm pretty sure it was Anya who stopped 'em in their tracks. I mean, that look works wonders on me. Buffy picked her way across the compound, weaponless, dramatically lit, and intimidating as hell. She sniffed at the kilted guards, turned up her nose at the kimono'd courtiers, and nudged the stolen crates with the toe of her boot, taking in all the details. She came to a halt in front of Spike, crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. "Well?" Spike yanked the crossbow bolt out of his shoulder, wiped the blood off the katana on Yiskok's kimono, and dropped to one knee with a brilliant smile. He gazed up at Buffy with stars in his eyes and held the sword out to her like an offering. "I got it just for you, pet. Like it?"
"God, I love a woman with big guns," I said. Anya gave my bandaged knee a poke. "Does that hurt?" "Ow! Yes!" "Good." But she was smiling. I lay back to enjoy being horizontal on something other than sewage-crusted bricks for a change. Anya had commandeered Yiskok's tent and ordered the cavalry to lay me out on the divan. Comfy pillows, cold compresses, fevered brow-soothing--give me some Percodan to go with the slightly squashed figs, and I could get used to this. Spike had accepted to minimal first aid and a medicinal swig of paint thinner and bounced out to supervise the minions. "Did they find my clothes yet?" I asked. "I'm getting tired of looking like the director's cut of 'I, Claudius.'" "No, but--" She held up a flimsy silk affair of blue and pink flowers enticingly. "I am NOT wearing a kimono." "Coward. Spike's wearing a kimono." "If Spike jumped off a cliff would you want me to do that too?" I grumbled. Outside the tent, Yiskok's minions were breaking camp and packing everything up in the now-empty wagon cages--or almost everything; the local demons felt that as they outnumbered and out-gunned the interlopers, that gave them first choice of the loot. The demon equivalent of a wedgie, I guess. Buffy was turning a blind eye to that, but she'd drawn a line the stolen merchandise and called the police and left a tip. "Just put it all over there," she directed. "They'll come get it eventually." "This is an intolerable insult!" Yiskok fumed, as piggy guards and grey-skinned courtiers scurried around him, dismantling tents and packing wagons. He'd been hauled upright and tied to a tentpole, and was practically snorting steam. "Duke Sebassis is not a being whom it is wise to antagonize!" Buffy polished her nails and smiled sweetly. "Neither am I. Spike just kicked your ass. I can kick Spike's ass. So bellowing? Counterproductive. As for your demon Star Search, all I can say is, you've wasted a trip. If there were spanky new monsters in town we'd know about it. Spike and Anya run a demon-hunting business and I'm the Slayer--don't you think we'd have noticed?" She tapped his nose with the flat of her new sword. "Run along back to Los Angeles and tell Sebaceous that Sunnydale is off-limits for headhunting. And if he doesn't listen..." she gave him her biggest, brightest smile. "Well, we've already kicked out the Watcher's Council and the vampire ganglords, and I'm starting to get a little bored." "Scorn His Grace at your own peril," Yiskok growled. "There cannot fail to be flame where the smoke is thickest, and when the Old Ones' newest spawn rises ravening in your midst--" Buffy looked at Spike, (who had bogarted the cool black kimono with gold dragons and was wearing it with an eye towards displaying as much bare chest as possible) and Spike looked at her. She laid a hand on her stomach. "I think we have a handle on any rising demons that may come our way. Toodles." They uprooted Yiskok, tentpole and all, and loaded him onto the last of the wagons. Somehow I think that it was going to be a good while before the guards dared to untie him. The whole circus lurched into motion in a barrage of shouts and whip-cracks. Spike whispered low-voiced instructions to four of the minions, who ghosted off to escort the departing caravan out of town. "Well, that's that," Anya said. She put the finishing touches on my bandages and stroked the hair off my forehead. Then she lunged at me and hugged me so hard that my ribs creaked. "Whoa--no, it's OK, don't stop. Honey, it's fine. I'm fine." I wrapped my arms around her. "What's the matter?" "You stupid, stupid man," she gulped into my chest. "You're so breakable!" "No breakage. Honest. The contents just settled a little in shipping." I lay back against the pillows and pulled her with me, stroking her hair, twining my fingers in the little waves at the base of her neck. "You're sure Molly's OK?" "Hm? Oh, she's fine. I told you Sandra's looking after her." She lay quiet against me. "Xander... do you want to go back to...well, to this? Because I don't want you to hate your life. I've hated my life, and it was very unpleasant. Of course it was very unpleasant, what with the endemic childhood diseases and the rampant infidelity and the goats sleeping in the kitchen, but if you really need--" she swept an arm at the departing demons. "No, no--I don't. Really." I glanced over at Buffy, who was cooing over her new sword while Spike gazed down at her adoringly. Some people were born heroes, some people achieved heroism, and some had heroism thrust upon them--and none of those people could change a diaper worth a damn. Hah. They had no idea what they were in for. "I just need to know I'm doing the right thing." I captured her chin in my hand. "And if it involves you? I'm pretty darn sure it's the right thing." Smiling, she nuzzled against my neck. Mmm, Anya nuzzles. "That's why I married you. You're a very intelligent man." "I'm smart enough to know when my ass needs saving." "It's a very nice ass, and I'm fond of it." She patted the object of her affection and put an arm around my waist. "Come on, if you can walk now I'll help you to the car. Oh, and honey...?" Anya paused, looked me up and down, and her tongue flicked over her lips for just a second. She put a hand on my chest, and her palm was oh, so blissfully warm. "Forget finding your clothes. Just keep the kilt on."
END |