The Sick Rose
by Pandarus
15. Blood and magic
The witches had placed a
touching faith in their reputation and in the power of the protection
spell over the building's entrance, but it still astounded her that the
items were just lying around on shelves and stacked on tables and
chairs, even piled haphazardly on the floor. She was slightly shocked
by the casualness with which they treated these things. Men and women
and demons had died for the treasures in this room; empires had fallen,
battles been lost and won - and now all these objects of desire sat
gathering dust in a store-room. Gwendolyn Post didn't know whether to
be impressed or appalled by such a lack of respect for power.
She had done her research well, but there were still dozens of
artefacts that the Watcher didn't recognise in the slightest from any
of the countless Histories, Memoirs, Grimoirs and Catalogues she had
ploughed through over the past months. This was frustrating. The
Hapsburg Medallion she recognised immediately, and was careful to
avoid. Similarly the glittering Midas armband and the deceptively
innocent-looking fifteenth century treasure chest with its lid left
tantalisingly half-open - these she knew for the honey-traps they were.
There were perhaps a dozen similar items that she knew by reputation
and, much as she might like to command their power, she wasn't about to
touch any of them with a bargepole - because there simply wasn't time
for the sort of ceremony required to render touching any of them safe.
An amateur would have seized upon the glistening knickknacks arrayed
near the door; but she was no amateur, and she wasn't about to risk
blowing herself to kingdom come by stuffing two mutually incompatible
magical artefacts side by side in her shoulder bag. Gwendolyn Post
picked her way past the more obviously appealing items, her eyes
narrowed and her shoulders squared as she unzipped the bag.
The Golem loomed at the door-that-was-not, with strict instructions
regarding the fate of anyone foolish enough to enter.
* * *
Shit! Shitshitshit! Cursed with a soul? Turned to a frog? Incinerated
in one brief and dazzling pyrotechnical display? Spike dangled
disgustedly between cause and effect, waiting.
...nothing.
Cold fingers closed around the glass ball in his pocket, his lucky
charm, and Spike snarled; he was not going down like this. If he had
only a matter of seconds before he turned into stone or sprouted
donkey's ears, then he was going to make those seconds count. He threw
himself straight at the nearest witch and dashed her stocky body to the
ground. Her skull cracked like a soft boiled egg. Blondie gaped at him
and he wondered when her spell was going to take hold even as he
cannoned into the next girl and ripped her throat wide open. Still
nothing. The witches were scattering like hens in a hurricane, half of
them abandoning their singing altogether. He smiled savagely as he took
down the fourth woman, pouncing on her as she ran and breaking her neck
before the curls of light snaking from her fingertips had the chance to
turn into serious mojo. These witches were pretty over-rated, as far as
he could see. Drusilla thrashed like a trapped wasp in her prison of
marmalade light, and he caught the tiniest slices of her furious voice
strobing out of nothingness as the spell faltered. Nearly there.
And still Blondie's abracadabra had not taken effect. He could feel the
magic crawling over his skin but it didn't seem to be actually doing
anything. Curiouser and curiouser.
Felt another spell hit him from behind and he hadn't even heard this
one being cast. He snapped around to see a little brunette thing with
her hands outstretched and her brow furrowed in concentration. Tears
had smudged her mascara and she stank of fear, but she was still grimly
standing her ground and muttering in Latin. An instant later he heard
another voice raised, and a third impact broadsided him; magic slicking
his skin in layer upon layer. And still nothing actually happened.
From the expressions on their faces the witches were quite as
astonished as he was himself by this turn of events. Spike shot a feral
grin at Blondie and sprang towards her, snarling; she kept her cool
admirably and hurled spell after spell at him, but they did nothing
worse than fill his clothes with static electricity and make his skin
smell of ozone. She still didn't seem to believe it when he seized her
around the waist and slammed her back against one of the columns.
"If there's one thing I can't stand, it's pushy little blondes," he
told her conversationally, covering her mouth with one hard palm to
pre-empt any further witchcraft and biting into the base of her throat.
He'd had his fill of pushy little blondes during his years with Darla,
thank you very much. Spike felt another magical blow and then another
slamming into him, but he ignored them and cleaved to the warm body
struggling ever more weakly against him. He downed enough of her blood
to feel certain she wouldn't be causing any more trouble before he let
her slide limply to the ground and rounded on the remaining witches.
"Who's next, then?"
* * *
She hadn't even noticed the door set into the wooden panelling - not
that it was shrouded in a web of see-me-not spells, just hidden by the
mundane magic of good carpentry - and so Gwendolyn Post was most
surprised when the wood slid away and several dishevelled women
suddenly spilled into the back of the room. One of them had a splatter
of blood darkening her sweater and they all bore expressions of shock
and incredulity. Two were crying. Mrs Post took in these details in a
matter of seconds, powerfully conscious of the satchel in her arms that
was now bulging with stolen artefacts, and of the sheathed Tak Horn
dagger in her hand. She slipped the dagger nonchalantly into her pocket
and stepped forwards with an expression of concern before they could
catch their balance and start to wonder what the hell she was doing
there.
"Are you all right? What has happened?" she asked in impeccable Czech,
radiating competence and reassurance and defying anyone to ask her who
she was or what right she had to be in this place. Gwendolyn Post did
not lack gall.
"Vampire," said one of the women, wild-eyed. "Spells bounced off him
like water. I don't...where did he come from? How did he get in? Jana
is dead. I watched her die." There was an edge of hysteria in her
voice. "And Agata, Miriam, Olinka... Jesus Maria! He came from nowhere,
this demon."
Damnation. Who would have guessed William The Bloody would last five
minutes against this much-vaunted Order of Libushe?
"She told us, Agata told us this could happen," one of them sobbed. A
teenager, this one, trying to look American but not quite succeeding.
Pretty girl, but her face was red and blotchy, makeup smeared with snot
and tears. "We should have turned the other cheek. We have dishonoured
this place with this night's work."
"She was a demon."
"She was a woman. We have dishonoured our vows and we have been
punished. "
"Shut up," snapped the older witch.
"Agata told us! We have dishonoured ourselves. We have dishonoured our
vows. We tortured her, Maria. We tortured her, and that is against
everything we -""
The girl's ragged voice broke off quite abruptly when the older woman
slapped her. They all stared then, dumbfounded and lost. This Maria
looked quite as shocked as the other witches and stared at her guilty
hand as if it belonged to someone else, her expression suddenly
pitiful.
"I'm sorry. Tina, I'm so sorry," she said brokenly, but the teenager
sent her one righteous wounded-puppy glare and then stared away,
hiccupping through her sobs.
And these were the witches who had terrorised the city's demon
population for centuries? Good grief.