Chapter Fourteen

 

----====Giles====----

The Range-Rover cornered nicely, I observed -- especially when I whipped it round, cutting off another vehicle, and pulled onto St. Giles. Didn’t even stop to chuckle at the irony.

Wesley slung around in his seat and looked out the back window. "I don’t see any pursuers," he announced. "At least, none so far."

"Good." I gunned the engine, and we sped onto the A420, heading toward Cumnor Hill.

Wes turned back around. He looked at his hands, intent on his nails. When I glanced again, I saw that his scar flared red against his sudden pallor. Clearly reaction – to the morning’s reminders of what he’d been, of who his father was -- was setting in, and the omnipresent fear of Watcher pursuit wasn’t helping. We needed him less fragile.

I didn’t fancy hiding from the Council forever, in any event. A simple escape would do nothing but worsen our problems. The Watchers knew who at least one of my passengers was, and it wouldn’t take long before they figured out Spike’s identity. Something proactive had to be done.

It took me a bit of driving-time to organise what I had to do, to say. As we approached Faringdon, however, I had it clear in my mind. Seeing a nice patch of roadside grass, I slowed the car and pulled off onto it.

The other two started their expected protests. Wes’s was surface-polite, while Spike expressed more precisely what both of them were feeling: "You lost your bloody wits, old man?"

"Remember what I told you the last time you called me ‘old,’ Spike?" He subsided into a growl, and I added, "I have a plan."

"Four words to strike fear into anyone’s heart," Spike muttered.

"Only if you speak them." I turned off the engine, then said to Wes, "Could you hand me the mobile, please?"

He dug into the bag on the floor then gave the phone to me. His hand shook almost imperceptibly. I said, "Don’t worry, Wesley. Or you either, you undead prat. This is going to work very well."

Neither one seemed wholly convinced, I must say. Perhaps it would have been more persuasive if I’d believed it myself.

I got out of the car and walked off into the adjoining field. I wanted to be further away from the traffic noise, but more importantly, I wanted to be away from them for just a minute. Took in the late-summer flora, the meadow-scents rising into grey sky; took a few deep breaths. With each inhalation and exhalation, I recalled the poncy sod I’d been when first a Watcher, when I’d assumed the protective coloration of my surroundings.

And then I punched in Quentin Travers’s number.

Naturally it took a few rounds of speaking to boot-lickers and lackeys before I reached the man himself. Still, I got put through with relative ease. "Rupert, what a pleasant surprise," he said, sounding neither pleased nor surprised. "I do have a rather important staff meeting in a few minutes; what can I do for you?"

"Well, Quentin, you might explain why safe-house protocol has been breached this morning."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that Witherspoon, no doubt acting under orders, gave David Regier the phone number of the Marston safe-house in order to make what seemed to be a personal, non-urgent request of me. Further, two members of the Travers Collection security team threatened a guest of mine, who quite properly had not accompanied me into the Collection itself but had remained behind in my vehicle." Yes. Rupert the Poncy Sod was back.

There was a nice, significant silence; Travers had to figure out how to play defence. Finally he said, "Why would you come to me with these complaints?"

"Because you’re the man who made me a job offer, which I believe still is on the table. These incidents markedly decrease the chances of my acceptance."

An even longer pause. I kicked a stone away from my path, imagining that it was Travers’s head. "I haven’t withdrawn the job offer, Rupert. The Council needs your field-expertise and training skills, as we reposition ourselves in the...market." His voice dripped acid on the last word. "Yet should you rejoin us, we would expect you to abide by our few simple rules. As you recall, that has been a problem for you in the past."

"In what way is this relevant, Quentin?"

He cleared his throat. "You have not been forthcoming with Council members about, er, your companions at the moment."

"Has there been an official Council request for information? Because otherwise, I believe the word to describe my behaviour is ‘discretion.’"

"Then I ask you. Who are your companions?"

"Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, whom you already know about, brought me another souled vampire of the Line of Aurelius; I believe you’ve heard of William the Bloody. I’ve worked with him previous to his ensoulment."

There was a hiss at the other end of the line; even with all of his spies, he hadn’t known that was coming. "A second souled vampire," Travers repeated. I could hear the machinery whir into motion in his head: the prophecies having to do with a souled vampire, the power to be taken, the mistakes made with letting the first one alone. I’d been privy to at least one conversation where he’d bemoaned the Council’s lack of contact with the Powers’s champion. "He might be a source of useful information."

"Yes. But even ensouled, he’s as stubborn as he ever was. Neither torture nor threats would make him assist a Watcher, might I say. Further, he was in Sunnydale when Buffy Summers defied you; he knows about the bad faith the Council has displayed in the past. The only reasons he would, er, consult with the Council would be if he thought he could trust me as his liaison. Well, that and a substantial retainer."

"We do not pay vampires. As a rule, we stake them."

"Ah. Bad form – to use without recompense. Right, the chances of my accepting the job offer are slim to none, nor will Watcher endeavours benefit from William’s first-hand knowledge. Ever. And a good day to you, Quentin."

He said nothing. Hadn’t taken the bait, I thought. Swearing in my head at the way I’d cocked this up, I actually had my thumb on the mobile’s off button when he bit out, "Right. The job offer stands, along with a promise to, er, pay the vampire William the Bloody for occasional consultation with you as Council representative. Do you accept the job?"

"I’d like a bit more confidence in the organisation first; today’s events have shaken me somewhat. Shall we say that if the Council demonstrates its sincerity by, well, leaving me and William alone until I contact you – let’s say a week– I will have an answer for you?"

"Yes. Fine." Travers sounded positively livid. I must admit that I took the phone away from my ear just long enough so that I could pump my fist in the air -- yes! When I regained my senses and replaced the mobile, Travers was saying, " – and of Wesley Wyndam-Pryce?"

"What exactly are you asking, Quentin?" I said. When he harrumphed, I added, "Since young Wyndam-Pryce is an associate of William, I naturally expect that the same hands-off policy would be in force with him. Oh, as well as discretion, of course. Wouldn’t want his whereabouts to get out to the Council at large, would we? Even if these members are, uh, related?"

I thought Travers would choke to death. It was a wonderful sound. As he sputtered to a close, I said cheerfully, "A pleasure talking to you, Quentin. I’ll ring you next week sometime."

When I got back in the Range-Rover, I announced, "It’s all sorted." I threw the mobile to Wes, then started the car.

"What’s all sorted?" Spike demanded. It would have been quite menacing, had he not had a mouthful of blanket.

"The Council. No pursuit, no trouble for at least a week, I would guess." No traffic – I pulled back onto the road. "Oh, and I don’t think you’ll be hearing from your father, Wesley."

He sagged in relief, but said, "How can you be sure, Rupert?"

"Because you’re a friend of William the Bloody, the Council of Watchers’s newest consultant."

You know, Spike sounds rather girlie when he shrieks.

"You made me a Watcher?" were the first coherent words out of his mouth. When I told him not to be an idiot, that no power on earth could make him a Council member, it still didn’t shut him up. He didn’t stop complaining until we reached Swindon: "supercilious bastard," "wanker who thinks he can run my unlife," and "bloody senile fool" were the most repeated themes in his extended grumble. However, he finally did calm down and say, "So what exactly is the sodding deal?"

I explained the bargain, then added, "You would be a free-lancer, Spike, not within the system. I, and only I, am your liaison to the Council."

"But what does that MEAN, Rupert? What do I have to do?"

"Sod all, mate. You have to do sod all. I’ll keep them away from you, I promise."

"All right, then," he growled. He thumped at his blanket, then sighed. Stupid git. I was on the job.

Wesley was staring at me, had been since I’d gotten into the car. Now that he could get a word in edgewise, he said, "Rupert, do you think the Council can be trusted?"

"As a rule, no. For at least a week, however, it can be. We can figure out what to do then." I grinned at him. "Let the weight of the world go, Wes. You’re safe for the moment."

He smiled back. And within five minutes, the poor bloke was asleep. Exhausted by the worry, I expect. Oddly syncopated sleep-noises from the back seat, along with Wes’s little snores, kept me company all the way to Exeter.

It was a lovely afternoon for a journey. Clouds rolled in from the west, keeping it cool and hazy, but it never actually rained. Traffic was light, too, enough for me to be sure that we were not being followed. After all the storms of the past two days, there was something extremely pleasant in the simple task of driving -- even if it took all those miles, all those hours, for my stomach to uncramp from the knot of fear which had formed when I’d bargained with Travers.

Spike and Wes didn’t wake up until I stopped at a large market on the outskirts of Exeter. Willow and I had always bought our supplies for our coven visits here; the witches were perfectly lovely women, but after one meal of their vegan cuisine, it became clear that the better course would be to provide our own. Also, I knew that the butcher shop here was full-range, which was necessary for at least part of my shopping. I took in my large cooler, and brought back enough for a couple of days, for both men and vampire.

When we got underway again, Wesley asked, "Where are we going, exactly?"

"The sacred space is actually out by Widecombe-in-the-Moor. The coven’s home is in a wooded valley, close to a stone circle on the upland. We’ll have to cross a small river to reach it."

"Is the place close to any tors?" Spike asked. He was sitting up, uncovered; not only was it almost sunset, but the clouds had dropped lower, and gusts of rain-soaked air had begun. There would be no more sun today. I flicked on the Range-Rover’s headlights.

"What do you know of the tors?" Wesley asked.

"Had to read the sodding guidebook while you two played Watcher, didn’t I." And Spike tossed said book – gently – at Wesley’s head.

I tried to ignore both idiots, and I urged the Range-Rover up an incline. At the top of the rise a blast of wind buffeted the car, and the two of them quieted. The wind hurled gravel as we passed.

A chill ran up my spine, and my hands itched on the steering wheel.

Spike said, "No buggers after us, are there, Rupes?"

"No. I’ve been keeping an eye out. Nothing since – " And then headlights flashed behind us as a car pulled onto the road. It sped, trying to catch up. "Since that."

Spike must have turned back to look; he said, "I spy, with my little eye, something that begins with D."

"And ends in H?" Wesley said, attempting to be cheerful.

"Got it in one."

"I always was skilled at that game."

Judging by the landmarks, we were only a mile and a half from the coven’s grounds. I could sense that they had raised the barrier – later I would worry about the fact that I could feel it at all.

We turned onto an almost imperceptible lane, which took us bumping down into the valley. The woods began here. The framing tree branches outlined the deeply rutted track in even more darkness. Behind us, the headlights came closer.

"Put your hands on my and each other’s shoulders," I gritted out, fighting the wheel.

"What the –" Spike began, but Wesley collared him with one hand and brought him closer to us both. With his other hand, Wes gripped my shoulder nearest to him. Spike grabbed my other shoulder, then reached out to Wesley.

Sparks flew in the interior of the car.

"Right. Now say, ‘Open, we implore you.’" I spun the wheel hard, to avoid ramming a rock which thrust out into our path.

The following car was almost upon us.

Wes and Spike intoned, "Open, we implore you."

And then Spike whispered, "God, I can feel it now. The power."

A rickety wooden bridge loomed before us, and I said, "One more time." I lifted my voice with theirs, and we repeated, "Open, we implore you." For just a second, I lifted my hands off the wheel and extended them, palm upward.

A gust of rain slammed into the car as we hit the planks of the bridge, and I held my breath --

But we were through. We’d passed the boundary.

I grabbed the steering wheel again, and punched my foot on the brake. The car slithered sideways but slowed, then skidded to a halt.

Behind us in the lane, there was the sound of breaking glass, crunching metal. The pursuing DH’s had crashed into the witches’s barrier.

Spike moved to open the car door, saying, "Let’s go get the bastards."

Wes, staring ahead into the forest, said slowly, "Oh, I think we probably should stop."

"Why? Sods are just waiting..." then Spike trailed off. He saw her too.

Regan, the coven’s healer, shimmered into view. The lights from our car caught and reflected off the staff she held. It might have been wood. It definitely was magic.

I turned off the engine, but left on the Range-Rover’s lights. Then I got out of the car and walked to her. She said, "Hello, Rupert. You’re bang on time."

"Hello, Regan. Thank you so much for inviting us in." She allowed me to kiss her on the cheek, then I turned. Spike and Wes had stumbled out of the car too.

She smiled at them, and I said, "Regan, may I present Wesley Wyndam-Pryce and, er, Spike. We’ve come to help."

At the barrier, the DH’s car engine gunned, and with some difficulty it reversed and went back up the lane, away from the coven grounds. Regan watched it go, then returned her attention to us. "Welcome, Wesley. Spike. We have much to talk about, and much to do."

 

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