Beheading the Hydra - Ripper
Part Two
The music had lost its cheering power before they’d gotten out of London, long before they’d reached this deserted Surrey lane. His brief certainty of success had been replaced by a nasty sense of dread. But no matter, he needed to get to work.
Staff, check. The magic he’d prepared earlier, check. The – well, damn it. "Anya, where did I put, er...?"
She slid one hand into his front pocket, lingered, in a move that at any other time would have led to her being stretched out on the car bonnet, with him on top. God, how he wished it was any other time. She extracted his keys and said, "I’m beginning to think you should seek professional help, Rupert. I’ll just give these to –"
"– Me, I’ll take ‘em. After all, I’m supposed to bring the vehicle around later." George slammed the car door shut, the clunk echoing through the night.
"I think the goal here, George, is to be quiet and NOT alert the super-strong demons who also carry guns. We don’t want to fight our way in, remember."
"Right. Of course, Giles, so sorry." After taking the keys from Anya, George bowed his head: the picture of abject apology, hair falling into his eyes, shoulders sagging. The penitent-schoolboy act might work on susceptible women, Giles thought, but it wasn’t going to bloody work on him. Not alpha-Watcher Rupert Giles, not at all –
Yet somehow he found himself saying, "Don’t worry about it. Just stay quiet, right?" Well. Perhaps he was underestimating the sneaky little shit again, he thought.
Anya stood in the lane beside him, swinging her sword from hand to hand. She looked nervous, but she said, "Shall we stop the chatter and get going?"
"You’re exactly right, darling." He walked forward to the hedgerow along one side of the lane. Dead leaves crushed under his boots, and he briefly considered but discarded the possibility of a silencing spell.
Shouldn’t waste magic, when so much of it would be needed.
He closed his eyes, murmured "Break," and felt the perimeter barrier snap, just in front of him. He shifted his staff to his off hand, and then took Anya’s hand in his other. After some fumbling with his own cudgel, George followed right behind her. The three plunged into, then through, the shrubbery.
They were on the grounds of Security Answers.
In a hushed voice he said, "Remember. No speaking until we’re on the third floor, no letting go of each other." She opened her mouth to say something, but compressed it tightly at his look. "Right then. Anya, keep hold of me, and take George’s hand. If anyone breaks contact, the spell breaks."
The three linked. He murmured, "We are invisible." A spark flared, then sputtered out in the chill He looked down and couldn’t see himself. Couldn’t see the others.
Good, then.
He called up the second layer of the spell, the erasure of any trace of magic. The breeze stirred around them, swirled over invisible forms. Time to go.
Three sets of footsteps trailed over the heath, tall grasses brushing against what must have seemed like solid air. Manicured grass on the front lawn received the impression of invisible feet as they walked on. The gravel in front of the house crunched when they passed. He flicked a pebble away with his staff, watching the rock propelled by an unseen force skim across the surface.
Somehow, in the intermittent moonlight, their shadows still followed them. He looked back to see long black shapes snaking behind, broken by stones and clouds.
He shouldn’t have looked back, he thought.
He paused right by the front door. Two DH’s stood sentry, one on either side. There seemed to be enough room between them, however. He squeezed Anya’s hand, then stepped lightly onto the flagstones before the door.
The sentries tensed at the soft footstep, but he didn’t stop. He could feel Anya pressing behind him, George behind her, and he moved faster.
"What’s that then?" The first sentry coughed, then went for the inhaler. Giles could hear the hiss, hiss, a repeated blast of strength. Damn it. He lengthened his stride.
"Yeah, something’s off," the second one said, and the click of his gun echoed in the entryway.
But it was too late. They were well inside by that time. Giles didn’t stop moving until they reached the central staircase.
There wasn’t much activity on the ground floor. He could see through to the ritual room, where empty surgical tables shone in fluorescent light: five or six figures (either human or DH) moved around, but as he’d thought, tonight wasn’t a night for turning. Stood to reason, of course, since the next night would see the big change-over to the super-DH’s. The security presence was actually less than he’d observed on his previous visit.
Given all that, he rather wished that his intuition hadn’t started shrieking at him. Something was wrong; he just wasn’t quite sure what. Turning, he pulled Anya into him and kissed her forehead. It was their signal for "help me."
Never breaking their link, she interlaced her fingers with his. Her thumb reached up to caress the pulse-point at his wrist. At her touch, it was as if the universe coalesced into a unified pattern that he could almost decode. It stole his breath, but then he made himself focus.
Something was indeed wrong, but it wasn’t on that level. He gazed upward. Two guards stared impassively from a landing two floors above.
Ah. There. Although that was their path, that was going to be the problem. However, he couldn’t see any way around it.
Even with Anyanka’s help, he couldn’t quite see everything.
He squeezed her hand again, and she removed her finger from his pulse. The heightened awareness faded away; he was in control again.
He took the first step onto the staircase. Anya and George were right behind him. The three climbed as silently as they could; Giles held his staff like a lantern, the magic guiding them past the creaks in the stairs, the weak spots.
The staff began to vibrate in his hand, the closer they got to the guards on the second floor. He passed it through the air – yes. The guard on the left. Not right.
He shifted, just a bit, so that he would be on the left side when they reached the landing.
The guard’s eyes seemed to fix on them as they got closer. It was as if he could see through the shield. Yet he didn’t move, didn’t say anything to the other sentry. He just watched.
As Giles led the others past the guard, though, he could hear a soft exhalation. It sounded like a snake’s tongue flicking out to taste the air.
They were halfway up the last flight of stairs before Giles took a breath of his own.
The last bit of the journey was before them: the executive level. Travers’s floor-plan showed that the records room was at the back of the house. When he’d been here before, the third floor had harboured a very serious security guard.
Look, it still did.
Half in shadow, an enormous DH sat on a tiny chair, his bulk and outstretched legs taking up almost all available space. He was idly cleaning a large sword; the cloth swept back and forth over the silver, never obscuring the notches in the blade. Very serious indeed.
Giles stepped forward with caution, lifting his feet high so as not to step on the DH’s ankles as he went by. His coat brushed against the wall, however, and the DH’s head snapped up at the sound.
The sword lifted.
Oh, bugger. He didn’t want to have to terminate anything yet; guards could be missed, alarms sounded. Still, couldn’t be helped. He raised his staff and aimed carefully with its end, then struck.
The creature’s nose collapsed, the body fell –
And George flashed into visibility as he leapt forward, catching the sword before it could clatter to the floor. The now broken spell meant that they all were visible now.
Giles reached back, grabbed Anya and George, and pulled them into the hallway’s shadows. He only hoped he’d been fast enough.
"Sorry," George mouthed, and Giles nodded. Of the two alternatives, better to see a blur in the hallway than hear the sword fall. Besides, they were only two steps away from the records room.
He tried the doorknob – locked, unsurprisingly. One quick spell, though, and he could hear the deadbolt shoot back into the door.
Time to get down to the real work.
He just wished that his intuition hadn’t started shrieking again.
***
Well, she was glad that long, unnerving walk was over. Now for the unnerving job at hand.
Rupert shepherded her and George into the room. It was lined with file cabinets, and two computers held pride of place on the desks set in the middle of the space. The computer was her task.
She sat down at the first one and booted it up. George walked behind her, finding the file cabinet that Travers had indicated held the most sensitive material.
"Security Answers" flashed on the screen, and she quickly muted the volume on the computer. A phone consultation with Willow had given her a quick overview of what she needed to do.
Besides, she had passwords, as stolen by her husband. She smiled a little at the idea of Rupert Giles, Master Thief. Perhaps they’d have to play that sometime soon; it had definite possibilities.
He wasn’t playing at the moment, however. Rupert stood at the door, staff poised and head tilted, listening. He seemed a bit jumpy somehow –
And then in a blink, he was gone. Just dashed off down the hall.
"What was that?" George whispered.
"I have no idea."
A slight thud came from not very far away. But at that moment the screen Willow had told her to find came up, and Anya had to focus. She entered the first password, which was accepted.
As she worked, she also listened for Rupert. Another thud came from the corridor.
George crossed in front of her, ostensibly to pick up a box for the files he was liberating. However, she could tell that what he really wanted was to run outside and check. She bent her head back to the computer screen, forcing herself to think about information retrieval, and clicked on the folder for Contracts.
She would not think about whatever the hell Rupert was doing, she would not think about –
But he was back, filling the doorway. One hand was wrapped around a security guard’s throat. It was one of the guards from the third floor. No, second floor, she was in England.
Rupert threw the guard into the room, and then pressed his boot into – ow, ow, that must have hurt, even if the recipient was a nasty DH tool. The guard whimpered a little, and curled up into a ball.
"You will be silent until I allow you to speak," Rupert said, his hand passing over the guard’s face. She saw the guard’s jaw work, but no sound came out.
"Giles?" George coughed. "Why have you brought in this guard? And, er, why didn’t you terminate him?"
The guard on the floor stirred at the question. He made little gagging noises, as if he wouldn’t be able to live if he couldn’t speak. Rupert looked down. "Found him patrolling upstairs. And yes, George, you’ve raised an excellent point."
The guard twitched.
"I should kill you, you know. But you may breathe, just long enough to answer my question." He waved his hand once more, and the guard sucked in a lungful of air. "Will there be anyone expecting you to check in?"
"Yes. Twenty minutes. Head man." The guard’s face twisted in a weird smile, Anya thought.
"Really? Perhaps we’ll find out a bit more about this head man then." Rupert whispered a word she couldn’t catch, and the guard went rigid.
Okay, Rupert clearly had everything under control. So why did he had that deep furrow across his forehead, the one that meant ‘You could worry for forty days and nights straight, and I’d still be worried more’?
She couldn’t let herself think about that now. She turned back to the monitor, saw the page that had just loaded. Her stomach twisted.
There, indisputably, was the name of John Sacheverell Wyndam-Pryce, Managing Director of Security Answers.
Mr. Wyndam-Pryce had signed off on contracts to supply DH security staff to several members of the European Union and four European-based multi-nationals, at least one of which she was a shareholder. Security Answers was relying on Sunnydale’s Boca Services as suppliers, she also saw, but it was Security Answers who offered the muscle.
She paged on and found the description of what that DH security force entailed -- specifically, what its purpose was, the ways it could target "troublesome" humans and kill or transform them. She was kind of surprised that even after a thousand years of vengeance, she still could be nauseated by what people would do to each other.
"I think this is what we’re looking for," she managed.
George left his files and came over to look. His hand grasped the edge of the desk convulsively when he saw the screen. "So it is he. My God. He’s going to do – " His hand left the desk and ploughed through his hair. "Sweet God."
"You found evidence we can use?" Rupert’s voice was calm.
"Anya found it." George looked at her. She must have looked as sick as she felt, because he said, "Do you want me to download this for you? I could burn it on a CD."
"That would be nice, thank you," she said. After she’d handed him the empty disk she’d brought, she pressed a hand to her stomach. Wesley’s father was just as bad as they’d feared. She had known it ever since the night she’d returned to London, but this – this was real. What scared her was that Rupert would have to confront him, and maybe not in a tidy Council conference room, either. She felt sicker.
She swayed, unsteady, and George caught her shoulder. "Are you all right?"
"Fine. Fine. I’ll load the box of the files you found; you might see if there are any other disks floating around which might be useful," she said. She got up from the chair, a bit dizzy, and walked to the file cabinet.
"Darling?" Rupert said, and she turned. He was crouching beside the guard, holding a communication device of some kind that he’d clearly taken from the captive. But he looked at her, all love and concern. The worry-crease cut even deeper across his forehead now.
"I’m just – it really is Wesley’s dad. It really, really is."
At her words, he nodded. His eyes flashed that anger-blue.
She looked at the file cabinet. Personnel Records, it said. She picked up a fistful of the folders that George hadn’t taken and started shoving them into the box. The movement was soothing, and her stomach seemed to ease with each repetition, each file shoved into cardboard.
Rupert stood, his hands wrapped around his staff. "I think I’ll make one more pass through the hall. You two should be all right alone – but call me if you need me."
"We’re fine," she said, and he smiled at her. If he meant that to be encouraging, it damn well wasn’t working.
He disappeared out the door, and she returned to her task. Files into box, files into box, files into box. Behind her she could hear George working with the second computer. He muttered, "Ah hah. Backup files. That seems rather sloppy, don’t you think? "
"Well, yes, although they might think they’re secure enough for it not to matter," she agreed.
"The good news is that it shouldn’t take much longer to get what I need," George said.
That was good news indeed. She put the last folder into the almost full box, then had to clutch at the box as a wave of dizziness overcame her. Sharp cardboard edges pressed into her hand, bringing her back.
It was the guard. Something was wrong with the guard.
"Rupert?" she said, and suddenly he was there. One big hand lifted her up, and she clung to him.
"What, Anya?"
"We need to get out of here now. It’s him. I don’t know what or how, but it’s him," she said, pointing to the guard. The captive was shuddering now, no longer completely controlled by the immobilising spell.
Rupert said, "Right. George, how much longer?"
"Almost done. I found labelled backup disks with most of the necessary information."
"Good." He stood, putting his boot in the centre of the guard’s chest, and then he froze. His head tilted, his mouth tightened. Sparks escaped his fist, wrapped around his staff.
"Rupert. Are you okay?"
"To win is to lose," he said in a strangely distant voice. Then he blinked. "Anya, could you come here please? I’d like a little more information."
She walked over to him, and he wrapped his free hand around the back of her neck. One finger caressed her hairline, and she couldn’t repress a pleasure-shiver. That wasn’t what was called for at the moment, however; she lifted her own hand to his wrist, finger to pulse, and –
She felt the world go black for just a second. Cold, very cold, acid-drops of sleet, howling of winds in deepest winter, hissing of adders even in frozen wastes –
And then she felt nothing.
Rupert did, though. He stepped back from the guard, pulling her with him. "Oh, bugger," he said.
The guard’s arm lifted as he spasmed. He looked like he was going to come apart.
"George, is everything ready?" Rupert said.
"Yes, yes." He took out the last zip disk and threw it into the box, on top of the other information. "Just let me get my cudgel."
"Hurry. We don’t have much time." Rupert’s hand was tight on hers, and she could feel the strain in him, the pull of fire.
George stood, juggled his stuff for a second, then said, "Ready."
"Love." His hand caressed, just for a second, but then he pushed her away. "You two go now. Use your atomiser if you have to, but I’ll try to create a diversion so you can get away."
"But –"
"I said, go." It was that deep, stern voice she found it very difficult to argue with, and she obeyed despite her own instincts. George was already in the corridor, shifting his weight from foot to foot as if ready for a race. Before she reached the door, he was gone.
She couldn’t just leave like that, though. Shaking off the power of his voice, she looked back from her place in the hallway.
The guard, still shaking, had developed a nasty, almost triumphant smile. But he was on the floor, seemed like he was helpless. Anya couldn’t understand it.
Rupert loomed over the guard, his boot once again in the guard’s chest. "I don’t think I should terminate you without knowing the truth, do you?"
He dug his free hand into his coat pocket and brought out a handful of dust. When he tossed it into the air over the guard, the motes became sparks, drifting down as Rupert sang, "Won’t you come and join the party, dressed to kill...."
The guard shimmered, lines of power cracking – oh, it was an illusion of some kind, and she’d helped Rupert to see through it. And if she’d felt even a fraction of what he’d seen, this was going to be a world of bad.
The facade of the guard wafted away with the dust. A tall, thin, extremely well-dressed man lay on the floor. He spat at Rupert, who leapt back just in time.
And then he twisted, retreating with a speed she was fairly sure wasn’t human. He smoothed back silver hair, narrowed cold blue eyes. "Hello, Giles," he said in a voice that she thought dripped ice-water and blood.
Rupert nodded, more to himself than in greeting. "I rather thought it was you. Hello, John."