Chapter Thirteen
----====Giles====----
The next morning, I remembered that it was hell to be middle-aged.
Woke up with a sore throat from the plunge into the Cherwell and the subsequent chilly walk back to Marston. My ageing bones creaked in protest whenever I moved. Still, work called. Duty.
After tea and toast, I collected Wes for our planned trip to the Travers Special Collection. Spike, alarmingly awake for a vampire in the middle of the morning, sprawled in front of the telly; he was sipping his blood and watching GMTV, of all things. "Are you sure you’re fine to stay by yourself, Spike?" I asked.
"Yes, Dad," he said, eyes never leaving the television. "I promise not to answer the door or the Watcher-phone, or cause any trouble, or try to off myself. I’ll just sit here and marvel at what a sad, sad git Eamonn is."
"Spike," I said warningly.
"That wasn’t at all amusing," Wes said.
"No, the sadness of Eamonn Holmes is nothing to bloody laugh at." Then he did look up. His blue eyes held a remembered pain that I was fairly sure had little to do with the dire state of breakfast- television presenters. "Sorry. Bad dreams. If I joke about it, won’t do it. The other, I mean."
"See that you don’t." I made it an order.
"Wouldn’t anyway. Made a new start last night." Spike made a point of staring at the clock on the mantel. "And speaking of starting, shouldn’t two layabout gits be on their way to the Great Hall of Books?"
I ignored the Ripper-voice, which urged me to dump the tosser’s mug of blood over his badly bleached head. Barely ignored it, that is: I had to roll my shoulders a couple of times, shrug off the attitude I’d unconsciously assumed. Luckily, at that moment the safe-house phone rang.
"Rupert Giles," I answered it.
A rather familiar voice drawled, "Good morning, Rupert."
Ah – "David." Wesley’s old Council instructor, David Regier, was calling me: how very interesting. And how useful to know that Witherspoon had given out my location, in contravention of Watcher policy. "What can I do for you?"
"A small favour. A very small one." He coughed. "I’ve been doing some cleaning out of files – shifting offices, you see. And I found a paper written by one of my old students, I think you know him. Wesley Wyndam-Pryce."
"Yes, I’ve worked with him." Wesley and Spike were staring at me; I realised that I’d clutched the edge of the table, hard. I let it go, and turned away from them. "And?"
"And I was wondering if you happened to know where he is. I’d like to send it on to him; it was a nice bit of work."
"I believe he’s fixed in Los Angeles, isn’t he? Should I give you his address?"
"Er, well – " David Regier might be a brilliant researcher, but he was an incredibly bad liar. "It’s just that I was hoping to perhaps speak to him about the paper, and he doesn’t seem to be answering his phone."
"I believe the person to ask would be his father, don’t you think?" An image of the last Council conference I’d attended was flashing: Regier talking with Quentin Travers and John Wyndam-Pryce before the two administrators stepped onto the dais. "I’m sure you know John."
The silence hummed: on the telephone line, in the room behind me. Spike had clicked off the television, I realised. Then Regier said, "Yes, I’ll try him. Hadn’t really thought – I understand that they’re not, er, close."
"I wouldn’t know," I said. "And, just for curiosity’s sake, David, why did you call me here?"
"Witherspoon gave the number to me, when I asked – "
"No, you misunderstand me. Why did you ask Witherspoon for my whereabouts in the first place? Beyond the fact that I haven’t worked with young Wyndam-Pryce for several years -- my home number in Bath is listed in the Council database, I’m sure, and I have an answer phone. This seems a bit above and beyond."
He stammered, repeated his line about wanting to get his office clear as soon as possible, then rang off immediately. Buggering hell.
When I turned back to face the two of them, Wes had frozen again. "My father is looking for me?"
"Not exactly," I said. "But the Council must have a very good idea you’re here."
"And if he doesn’t – I mean, they don’t -- know now, it’ll be obvious the moment I walk into the Bodleian."
"Yes." I waited. It would have to be Wesley’s decision.
Spike apparently didn’t share my view. He stood up, as if he wanted to pace but was restraining himself. "Then you shouldn’t go, Wes."
"And ignore one of the central possibilities of identifying the DH’s?" he said. There were shards of ice in his tone, as if he were already retreating from us back into some remote polar sphere.
"Your demon speculation seems like a real stretch to me, mate. On the other hand, we know that the Council is a power-mad pack of old, bitter, posh gits – oh, sorry, Rupert. No offence."
"Offence taken nonetheless. But never mind." I looked at my watch. "My suggestion is that we go ahead now, load up the car and the bloody irritating vampire. I know of a special parking garage near the Bodleian. Wes and I do a very short spot of research, then we head off for Devon as soon as we’ve looked at the books."
Wes didn’t say anything; his body eased, though, as if tension was melting away. Spike of course said, "You’re one sodding mean bastard, Rupes – you just want me to bore myself to skin and bone, don’t you?"
"Absolutely. Learn from your mistakes, tosser, and don’t insult me again," I said. "Now move, the pair of you. Work to do."
It didn’t take too long to get organised, rubbish thrown out, bags packed. Wes moved more slowly than the two of us, but he managed to throw off his bleak mood by the time we smuggled Spike (wrapped in a blanket) into the back seat of the car. It was cloudy, but we didn’t feel like taking any chances with inflammability.
Didn’t see any mysterious figures on bicycles as we left, even though I looked. I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.
The short ride into Oxford was enriched by the running, albeit muffled, commentary of one brassed off vampire. Lucky he didn’t have to breathe because he couldn’t if he wanted to, more torture than five minutes spent with Harris, etc etc.: typical Spike nonsense. Well, I rather thought he was deliberately over-doing it, trying to amuse Wes who sat in silence in the front seat.
I pulled into the Watchers-only parking garage by Blackwell’s, and as soon as we were in the dimly lit interior, Spike poked his head above the back seat. "Right then. How long you wankers figure on reading?"
"As long as it takes," I said. Then I rummaged around in my backpack on the seat beside me and pulled out a paperback. "Here. Guidebook to Devon. Read. Be quiet. Stay out of trouble, if you possibly can."
He flopped back onto his seat, groaning. But I noticed that he took the book.
Wesley and I went out into the gloomy day and headed across Broad Street. He had his head down, gazing at his shoes intently. "You all right there?" I asked.
"Yes." As if he’d come to a decision, he raised his head and looked at me seriously. "I need to thank you, Giles. For all you’ve done for me, and for Spike, since we arrived –"
"No need at all," I interrupted.
"No, really. We had no call on you, yet –"
"Wesley. Shut it."
He heaved a sigh. "You’re not very gracious in accepting your rightful th –"
"Well then, you’re welcome. Now don’t bloody mention it again. Time to work" And with that, I steered him to the Bodleian admissions entrance.
He muttered, "It’s truly alarming how much you sound like Spike sometimes," but he followed me.
I walked to an almost hidden door in the base of the Sheldonian Theatre, and punched in a number on the keypad beside the entrance. I’d been here just a few weeks ago, part of the Willow-recovery effort, so I remembered the sequence fairly easily. The door swung open, and I pulled Wes into the subterranean space, down the flight of stairs to the Travers Collection.
Two low-level Council members sat at the admissions desk. The one I knew, Gillespie, said, "Rupert! Didn’t expect to see you here." He seemed straightforward enough, so Witherspoon’s leaks must have been localised. Actually, that worried me more.
"Hullo, Randolph." I flashed my Watcher identification card, just for form’s sake, then said, "This is Wesley Wyndam-Pryce. He has been affiliated with us, and still has ties to the organisation. Family ties."
Wesley presented his old card, and Gillespie inspected it carefully. "Of course, I know your father, Wyndam-Pryce. So I suppose I’ll let this irregularity pass as long as you sign in."
"Thank you, I appreciate it." Wesley said. He bent down to sign the admission book, his pen scratching across the page. His hand shook, but only a little.
The Travers Collection was housed in a special set of rooms, underground between the Sheldonian and the Bodleian proper. Unlike the rest of the Oxford libraries, which relied on staff to fetch requested books, the Collection actually had its texts available on open shelves. Well, it wasn’t as if there weren’t safeguards for entrance, even if the safeguards were not as stringent as they might be.
Wesley went off into the demon-reference section, telling me that he wouldn’t take very long. He pulled out his list of reference texts and dove into the stacks. For the first time that day, he seemed excited.
I, on the other hand, was seeking one special source. It had been in use the last time I was here, but I found it back in its place in the Magics room.
The incunabulum had been prepared centuries ago. Using the gloves provided, I lifted The Art of the Mage from the shelf, and opened it on the special tabletop cradle. I turned to the passage I’d seen vaguely referenced in later works. Illuminated in blue and red, the words sparked off the page. In modern English: "One who holds magicks for another, can do so if properly lent the power. Yet to be the vessel, one must be wary. The Touch can break the unsound vessel."
Inside the gloves, my hands tingled. I closed my eyes, willing away the fire. When I felt in control again, I gently closed the manuscript and put it away.
My throat hurt. Probably had been a bad idea to jump into the Char last night.
Wes was engrossed in the last of his texts when I found him. He had angled the shaded light onto the white page, and it reflected brightness onto his face. "Oh hullo, Giles. So far, I’ve managed to eliminate the Prantha, the Xith, and the Rourak demons; just one more to check."
He flipped through one more section, reading quickly. I replaced the books he’d already inspected, then found him frowning at a page in a clearly new book. "What is it, Wesley?"
"Nothing." He looked at the page again. "It’s just – David Regier’s new edition of Demon Physiology seems to have some basic errors. I don’t remember these before."
He shook his head as if to clear away a fog, then shut the book. He smiled. "Shall we go?"
When we passed back by the admissions desk, Gillespie’s pleasant demeanour had darkened. He nodded, unsmiling, as we walked by. "Have a safe journey, Giles. Wyndam-Pryce." I could feel his eyes on my back as we went back up the stairs to the door.
"He contacted my father, didn’t he," Wesley said as soon as we were out into the fresh air.
"I think so." Our feet crunched on gravel as we walked; we dodged several tourists as we exited onto Broad Street. "No time for lunch, then."
"Spike has probably chewed his fingernails off by now, at any rate. He’s not the most patient of fellows," Wes said.
If only it had been that easy. When we walked into the parking garage, I could hear a low, Big Bad voice. "Now, then. I wouldn’t do that if I were you."
Two Watcher-security types had pulled Spike out of the Range-Rover and were looming over him. "You’re trespassing on Council property. What’s going to stop us?" one said.
Spike clearly had exhausted his limited conciliation skills. Every tensed muscle spoke of his rage. "Rupes, Wes, would you tell these gits to back off?"
"Gentlemen, what’s the problem?" I asked.
One of the suits turned to me. "Unauthorised personnel in a private enclosure, sir." Ah. I was fairly sure that they hadn’t figured out yet that they were harassing a vampire.
"Of course." Wes nodded. "Yet we have been using Council facilities, and our friend has been waiting for us." And the two of us flashed our identification again.
The suits inspected the cards, then stepped back. "That seems in order," the second man said. "But it still is against Council policy for unauthorised individuals to linger on private grounds."
"And I feel just terrible about it," Spike said. "But since my Watcher mates have returned to take me off this hallowed space, I’d say let the sodding matter go."
Wes and I got between Spike and the security types. "We’ll leave at once," I said, trying to unobtrusively push Spike into the back seat. "Sorry for any inconvenience."
"Yes, we apologise for the misunderstanding," Wes said. He shut the door on Spike. We both got into the car, cold eyes watching us go.
I started the car engine with a roar. "Spike, be ready to duck down as soon as we pull into the sunlight," Wes said in a voice just audible over the revving engine.
"Thanks, mate. Been a vampire for over a century, would never have thought to avoid the sun," Spike said testily. But he leaned back, his hands going for the blanket.
Wesley and I acknowledged the suits one last time, then I shoved the car into reverse. With indecent speed I got out of there; Spike dove into safety just as we pulled out into the gloom.
I sped down Broad, narrowly missing a couple of tourists. Wes didn’t even notice. "They’ll report the incident, I’m sure. It’s distinctly possible that we might have Council pursuit."
"Yes, I know. We’ll have to take the long way to Devon, I suspect."
And from the back seat came a long-suffering sigh. "Oh, please. When the hell do we do anything any other way?"