Beheading the Hydra - Ripper
Part Three
Giles forced himself to smother his anger at the sight of John Wyndam-Pryce adjusting that grey Savile Row suit and brushing off a stray bit of dust.
Oh, he very much wanted to annihilate the evil bastard standing in front of him, just start a goddamn fire-fight and burn him down. Yet he’d chosen another way, hadn’t he – to "unmask the foe within," as the prophecy had said, "to find truth."
"Well, Giles, I must congratulate you. I’d hardly have thought you could have controlled me, even for that short time. Well done." John smiled.
Giles had seen that thin, hate-filled twist of the lips before – when Wyndam-Pryce had prepared to tongue-lash a hapless subordinate, or when he’d destroyed a man’s career or life with a slash of the fountain pen he always carried. He’d smiled like that in Inner Council, announcing the programme that took others’ souls, others’ lives. He had probably smiled like that when he’d beaten down his son.
But Giles couldn’t think about any of that now. In fact, he had to stop thinking of the man as even having Wesley’s last name. He had to detach, and he would.
The prophecy said that he was the King of Swords. He had come to judge.
The binding spell, that was what was needed, although a distraction for Anya and George’s escape was necessary first. Yes.
Giles clutched his staff a little tighter, and sparks rippled up and down his fingers. John’s eyes followed the magic, and he smiled again. "That’s quite impressive too. You’ve never done it in Council meeting, much as we’ve provoked you – although you slipped that once in private conference with me and the late lamented Travers."
"I’ve learnt a bit since then," Giles said. He concentrated on the top of the staff, where three circles were cut into the wood. The image of the ritual room, its tables and giant containers, flashed into his mind, and he focussed. Round and round, flame feeding on flame –
From the ground floor, faintly but distinctly, came the blast of furnace-hot fire and the screams of DH’s. That should get Anyanka some running room, Giles thought.
John shrieked, high and uncanny, and the screams from downstairs eased. Oh, buggering hell. That vocal skill hadn’t been exactly covered in any of the texts on sorcerers of illusion that Giles had researched.
Giles moved toward the door, and John said conversationally – his old Watcher voice again -- "Not bad for your opening move; you have learned indeed. For once you’re not lying, Rupert. Rare occurrence, of course, because you’ve been a liar since you arrived on the Council. Misrepresenting yourself."
"First time or last time?" Giles edged further toward the doorway.
"Either. Why hadn’t you confessed about your magic before this, hmm?"
"Why hadn’t you confessed about yours?" Just a few more steps – he had to get out of this confining room, give himself space in which to work --
"Mine is rather new, although it has been bought and paid for. Yours?"
"Hard to say, really." Giles sent another burst of concentration toward the ground floor. Another blast, another round of DH cries.
Ignoring this, John moved forward. His gaze were focussed, fang-sharp. If he let the other stare too long at his eyes, Giles knew, he might be pierced by a thrall of some kind. He’d better hurry -- he started the incantation to bind the other’s power.
But then John shifted his eyes to the left, just behind Giles, and laughed. "Ah, I thought I spied something. You’re the famous Anyanka. I wouldn’t have thought you’d have chosen a demon for a lover, Giles, but then you’re full of surprises."
Giles couldn’t finish the spell. Couldn’t breathe for a second. Oh dear God, she hadn’t left. Why the hell hadn’t she left? And why wasn’t he surprised that she’d stayed?
He damn well was going to shout at her for hours when this night was through.
"I’m not a demon any more. So what are you?" she said, speaking more precisely than usual. She was still in John’s line of vision, Giles feared. He couldn’t afford to turn around to check.
He could warn her, though: "Don’t talk to him, Anya. That’s his speciality. Talk." As he spoke, he moved to shield her. He didn’t like the way the other man had his tongue licking at the corners of his mouth. Didn’t like anything about the situation, actually.
"Oh, do you have some prejudice against the concept of talking? Understandable – you stammer, you hesitate. You lose." His tongue flicked out, and he hissed. "I’m poised for greatness because of talk, Giles. Oh, and – "
Giles was watching the other man’s hands, not listening to his poison. When the fingers lifted, Giles mentally directed a blast of his magic at them.
Blue-and-red fire enveloped John’s fingertips. He hissed again, stopped talking for just a heartbeat. Yet he shook the fire out, and then: " – As I was saying, magic." He speared his hands forward, muttered something Giles couldn’t hear, and blasted forth a curse of dark ice-matter.
Giles used his staff like a cricket bat, smashing the ice-curse back. The magic rebounded, but the trail the chill left behind seared his hands, and he bit back a cry. He could feel the billows of hell-cold shoot up his arms, toward his face. Inhaling, he closed his eyes, and the dark trails dissipated into the air like frost on a warm morning.
Giles opened his eyes to see the ice-wave take form, wrap around his opponent’s neck and begin to choke.
Instead of fighting the magic, though, John opened his mouth and swallowed; he took the cold darkness into himself. His eyes went black, his skin rippling blue, green, purple, back to white. And then he screamed again, that death-wail.
"Run, Anya," Giles snapped. He finally stepped outside into the corridor, but it was so dark, he couldn’t see properly.
She didn’t move, why wasn’t she moving --
He managed to look, just for a second, and his heart stopped. She couldn’t move; that was the problem. She was frozen to the point of barely breathing. That bastard’s gaze had touched her with its evil.
Giles clasped her immobile hand, linking to her. His touch was enough: she shuddered back into life. She was pulling at him even before she caught a full breath. "Rupert, we need to go --"
"I don’t think so." The hiss came from John, who took a step forward and spat out a drop of acid-green. The liquid hung in the air for a second, then flew toward them.
"Return," Giles said, sending it back. And finally he got out, "Bind him who brought evil forth."
The drop elongated into a rope of deep-ice green and whipped around John’s arms. He screamed again, but this time no answering sounds came from below. The rope stayed taut around his body.
Secure enough for the moment, Giles thought. It wouldn’t hold for long, though.
Anya was still pulling at his arm. "Rupert, please. He’s not safe. You shouldn’t be this close to the thing."
"I know he’s not – Anya, what are you talking about, ‘thing’?"
"He’s not human. He’s not demon. He’s ... something else."
"Daemon, actually. Slightly different from the common sort of trash you’ve dealt with, like the kind hanging on your arm," John said.
Giles stopped. The green wound more tightly around John, frost-burning through the expensive wool and onto skin below. The spell gave them a minute or two, Giles knew, and he said quietly, "‘Daemon’? Is this the Greek or Judeo-Christian version of the concept?"
"Typical Watcher, questioning that which will kill you. I allowed you back on the Council so that I could watch you fail – and that sort of pedantry is exactly why you will."
"You’re not answering my question. I was under the impression that a daemon also could be an informing spirit?"
"True enough." John rolled his shoulders, trying to get out of the green bonds. Clearly he was talking as an attempt to divert Giles from his struggle to free himself. "I made a bargain with something rather special. Transformation of the potential that always dwelled within me, the ‘informing spirit’ as you say. I gained power and magic, to combine with the position and intelligence I already had. I made the connections. Simple enough for even a Giles to understand, I’d have thought."
"A bargain to release the devil inside. I see."
John tried to throw off his bonds one more time. Giles could see that they were loosening; he took a step back, one hand still in Anya’s.
"You’re being rather reductive, Giles. Yes, I’ve called power to myself. Not supernatural power alone, of course: that’s just a method, like any other. I live in this world, and that’s where I will make my name."
Giles raised his staff, a ward against the darkness. "Seeking immortality, are you?"
"No, not entirely. I simply knew that I would need to make alternate arrangements if I wanted my name to live on. It wasn’t as if that little misbegotten ape I once called my son was going to accomplish anything. I hear you’ve been infected by his failure, by the way. You’ve been associating with abominations like that latest souled vampire and the Slayer who should be dead. Or like those bitches out in Devon – I’ll have to do something about them." The thin smile twisted again, just as John burst out of the magic bonds. He said lightly, "Dagger to the heart," and out of the air spun a shining blade.
Knocking aside the dagger, Giles put up a quick barrier spell. Anya stretched up and whispered into his ear, "We’ve got to get out of here. He hasn’t finished changing, can’t you tell?"
She shifted position, her hand going around his wrist. He could feel his power billow, as if oxygen was feeding his fire. It might be enough to try.
"You shouldn’t tell secrets, my dear." John paced forward and then shrieked, higher than before. The sound echoed in the darkened corridor.
The barrier went down.
Using the power-surge Anya had given him, Giles managed to envision a fold in space, a slip between Here and There –
And the two of them collapsed onto the floor of the ritual room on the ground floor. Flames chewed at the vats of Boca Services liquid. The fire wasn’t to the walls yet, but it was only a matter of time.
Giles landed on one arm, the crack of the bone audible over the blaze. Hurt like fire, too. He buried his head on his other arm, trying to muffle the cry of pain.
"Rupert, my God, you can’t teleport at all. What the hell were you thinking to even try?" Anya said fiercely. Her hands were gentle, though, as they lifted his wounded limb.
The bones shifted, and he felt like he was going to fall apart. But he had to get her out of there. "Anya, go find George. John’ll be here any second."
"Listen. It’s like ascension, what he’s doing, and it’s really destructive horrible badness. You’re going to have to change him back," she said, completely ignoring what he said.
"Anya, please –"
"You have to change him back," she said, looking him in the eyes. "Unmask the human within." And then she touched her hand to the pulse at his neck.
The words he needed wrote themselves in the air, blue against the fire. They were very clear. He just needed to say them.
Ignoring the pain, he twisted just enough to kiss her hand. "Thank you, darling. I see. Now –"
And one of the ritual tables smashed down within an inch of his head. She fell away from him, sprawling onto flooring soaked with the remains of DH’s.
John glared down at them. "A bad job, sneaking away like that. Do you know what I do to sneaks?"
"Make them your allies and honour them with riches?" Giles managed to say, pushing himself up with his good arm. "Like calling to like, of course."
"Very amusing. No, they’re locked in the cupboard to starve for a day, perhaps two. Perhaps forever. You could ask Wesley how it is in there, Giles." Illuminated by the flames from the DH containers, he moved forward. "But oh, right, you won’t be able to. I’ll dispose of you and your demon before you can."
"You don’t have a son named Wesley," Giles said. His good hand reached out, went to Anya’s, and their fingers intertwined.
"Well, I no longer publicly claim that abortion, certainly –"
"You stupid bastard. Wes has made himself; he’s a good man, strong." Anya helped him get to his knees. "He doesn’t need a father. But if he ever does, he has one."
John wavered, his hands falling for an all-important moment. "What–"
"And your power-madness must end. You’re a disgrace to the Council and its traditions. You’ve lost." Giles stood. God he hurt, just pain everywhere. But with an effort he lifted his broken arm to point at his opponent. The magic coursed through him and out into the room, a clear blue light, and he spoke the words he’d seen in fire: "The bargain is broken. Return to what you were."
John shrieked again, the hell-sound louder than the flames now licking at the ceiling behind him. This time nothing happened. "You can’t, it’s too late to change back!"
"The bargain is broken. Return to what you were." Giles’s words came louder, fiercer, even through the pain. The light poured into the space, filling it.
John began to crack. The skin on his face and hands flaked off, scales of red and green. He screamed, his head thrown back, and fell back against one of the ritual tables. He seemed to be shrinking before their eyes.
Once more, quietly, Giles said, "The bargain is broken. Return to what you were."
"You’re too late, too late, too late. You bring only death and pain to the ones you love." The rasping voice came out of John’s mouth, but Giles felt his heart seize.
It was the voice of the dragon.
Even as Giles lifted his arm once more, John pulled himself up. "To win is to lose, fool. Death and pain to the one you love," the dragon-voice repeated, and from John’s withering hands came a burst of darkest magic.
It was squarely aimed at Anya.
Time slowed, froze. Giles remembered the end of his test --
In the darkness he had stood over the corpse of the dragon, and then he had lit the end of his staff to make a torch. In the crimson light he had fallen on his knees beside his beloved, so cold so broken, and into his head had popped a fragment of song. "And if I only could make a deal with God, and get him to swap our places," he had sung into the darkness. The song echoed into emptiness.
And he shouted with what felt like his last breath, "To me! My choice!"
The magic struck like a dagger, over his heart.
***
Anya felt the impact, as close to him as she was. He sagged against her, dead– no, not dead, couldn’t be – weight.
"Oh no, oh no. Rupert?" she said, her free arm going around his waist. He hadn’t let go of her other hand.
"Beloved." Turning his head on her shoulder, he coughed up blood. Together they slid to the floor.
When they fell, she cradled his head, turning it to the side. He might choke on the blood, her practical mind told her, she couldn’t allow him to choke. He was still breathing, barely.
"What did you do to him?" she screamed at Wesley’s evil father.
The reduced, destroyed human licked his lips. "It was supposed to be you, of course. Vengeance."
So this was what her former work felt like: knife-thrusts in her gut, acid-tears in her eyes, worse than when she’d become human again. She’d thought she’d known how wrong it was. She had had no idea. "But Rupert doesn’t deserve it."
"It’s immaterial now." The creature slumped against the ritual table. One cracked hand tried to hold him up, but he failed. As he coiled in on himself on the floor, he said, "Vengeance is justice, wouldn’t you say, demon?" And in the sudden silence, she remembered --
"A justice-gift." D’Hoffryn rose to his feet, robes swirling. "You will discover its nature, Anyanka, when it is most required."
"But I don’t know what to do!" she whispered. She brushed Rupert’s hair off his forehead. He was going grey at the temples, she noticed absently. His skin was fading to grey too.
She was losing him.
And she found herself imploring someone, anyone, "Please, I need to know what my gift is. I need to help him. Won’t you please tell me?"
The flames against the wall leapt, now a cleansing blue instead of orange-red. From one corner of the room came a female voice, "You want him to live, don’t you? To drink wine, and sing, and cook eggs, and save the world and take care of all his children? You have to fix him."
"Yes, but how?" Anya said. She didn’t know how to speak to the disembodied. She didn’t know how to make this right.
A pillar in the dark, the fire burned higher, stronger, tossed by a sudden wind.
"Heal him, sweetie. He’s done it for you, you can do it for him. He’s your family." The second voice came through the open doorway, on a breeze that brought warmth and cinnamon and goodness into filth and smoke.
"But still, how –"
"Yeah, just do it already." The third female voice was sharp, oddly familiar. "Use your gift, use your hands. How big a push do you need? Do you need a wish? Okay, whatever. I wish you would heal him."
Fix him, heal him, they said. She could do it, they said. "Can you tell me what it will cost?" she whispered.
The voices didn’t answer. She noticed that the orange and crimson flames was coming back.
Rupert lay still in her lap. She worked one hand under his shirt, just where the dark magic had hit him. There was no rip, no tear of the skin. The wound was deeper.
It was inside. It was killing him.
And she knew it didn’t matter what the price was. She took a deep breath, and then kissed his lips. He tasted of blood and cold, as if he had slipped away already. "Mine forever," she said. "You promised, Rupert."
He didn’t move.
She flattened her palm against her husband’s heart. That strong beat had slowed, almost stopped. It was getting very late, she thought.
She breathed in, out, in, out. And then she pressed down. "To me. My choice."
Sharp, colder than death, the pain came. It struck like a dagger.