Fortress Around Your Heart - Part Six
DISCLAIMER: The title belongs to Sting. Referenced in this part is the Felder/Henley/Frey composition 'Hotel California'.
NOTES AND SUMMARY: Still the sequel to *Waiting on a Friend,* still set 5 years from now. When last we saw Our Heroes: Buffy and Dawn had bad dreams; the seduction of Key-power scared Wes; Spike and Buffy enjoyed a domestic interlude; Nanny Tina came back so Giles and Anya could get to work; Wes and Spike went off to patrol after a nice brotherly heart-to-heart. This part: Research, patrol, adventure, and pastries.
20 DECEMBER 2007. LONDON. EVENING.
"Hullo, Rupert. May I come in?"
Giles had to blink a couple of times to make sure he was focusing properly. Imran Cumberbatch had arrived unannounced, clutching something in his hand. Still: "Of course, of course." He stood aside to let Imran step into the hall. "What can I do for you?"
Anya's voice called from the study, "Come on back, Imran!" Curiouser and curiouser. Had she expected him?
Not even waiting for his host, Imran walked off. Giles rubbed at his forehead. Perhaps his headache was causing him to hallucinate, since Cumberbatch with less than perfect manners didn't fit into any reality he knew.
The guest in question was kissing Anya hello when Giles finally caught up. "Er, Imran. Not that I mean to sound rude, but- is there an emergency? You usually don't appear on the doorstep of an evening."
Imran handed over the sheet of paper he'd been grasping so tightly. "Sorry, sorry. I talked to Anyanka earlier, she said you both were researching. I know I could have e-mailed or faxed this, but... it's the prophecy. What I've got has been troubling me, even though the decryption isn't finished, and I'd like your input." He coughed into his hand. "Also, Rosemary said that I was driving her mad, and that I needed to check on you before I exploded."
Giles laughed. "Ah. Well, that explains everything." When he saw Anya's eyebrows go up, he added, "That you were kind enough to look in, I mean."
"Nice try, Rupie. I caught the insinuation about pushy wives." Anya motioned their guest to the couch. "While he looks at that, Imran, you can help me with some of the items Buffy took from the dusted vampire at the theatre. So far, we've come up with zero."
Giles took his chair beside the desk and stretched his legs out, the better to concentrate on the paper. He adjusted his glasses and read the first line: "The dead shall rise again, howling blood not breath."
Dead. Blood not breath. He flashed back to the would-be strangler that afternoon: odd clothes, 17th-century at a guess; strange smell of smoke; the lingering scream as it disappeared. Reflexively he wiped his hand across his face, as he had done after the creature had spat on him. It almost was a surprise not to see the blood and ash on his palm--
"Imran, this first line-- the description of a creature howling blood is too close for comfort to the hospital assailant," Giles said slowly.
"So the 'walking death' of the next line might not just be vampires, like the ones you dusted at Drury Lane." At Giles's nod, Cumberbatch took his first good look at the evidence Anya had given him. He swallowed hard, a rattle in his throat. "This card. Oh, dear."
"What is it, Imran?"
"Wolf, hart." Cumberbatch ran his finger along the tear. "I suspect what's missing is an image of a ram. Wolfram and Hart."
Giles and Anya exchanged glances. The name: no, he couldn't place it, but it sounded familiar. Cumberbatch prompted, "The law firm out of Los Angeles? The one led by denizens of hell? I can't imagine their hiring London vampires could be a good thing."
***
It was all wonderfully familiar: Buffy, Dawn and Willow in the Summers women's living room, ingesting sugary goodness Buffy had gotten at their favourite shop on the Brompton Road, giggling, and gossiping. In the past few years, they'd just accustomed themselves to Willow being there via speaker-phone. Dawn chose one of the sinful chocolate-and-cream pastries and bit into it. Mmmm. Tasted like- something she wasn't going to think about right now. Girl-bonding. That's where her mind should be.
"So Xander did what?" Buffy repeated through a mouthful of gateau.
"He yelled 'Give me the panic button, I'm ready to self-destruct!' and stormed off," Willow laughed.
Buffy said, "Xander as swing-guy in a love-triangle. Who knew," as she dipped her finger into Dawn's chocolate sauce. Bitch. Dawn gobbled another bite of chocolate and cream before it could be stolen. God bless Patisserie Valerie, she thought, I missed it so much.
"Speaking of that 'lerve' thing- Buffy, have you gotten the identity of Dawnie's true love out of her yet? She was secret-girl when she was here, and I'm frantic in a tell-me-now sort of way."
Buffy looked at her. "There's a 'Dawnie's true love'? Why haven't I been told? Oh, you're in big trouble, Summers the Younger."
Dawn said, "Willow, I hate you." Giggles bubbled out of the speaker-phone. She took another bite, then said, "Alright then. Wesley."
Shrieks in stereo came from Sunnydale and the next cushion over on the couch. "Wesley Wyndham-Pryce?!"
"No, an entirely different Wesley whom I've known and adored for years. Geez, what's wrong with you guys?" Dawn licked a drop of chocolate off her lips. Yep, her taste-comparison held.
"That was sarcasm, wasn't it. Oh. My. God," Buffy said.
"Dawnie, that's just- well, let the minutes show I'm seconding Buffy's Oh. My. God."
"Well, you both can hold off on the squeals and questions, because he's being all brooding 19th-century hero at the moment. You know, 'leave me alone lest I jump you, my innocent treasure', that sort of thing. However, we do have definite momentum. And kissage, which I won't describe 'cause some things are sacred." She took another bite of pastry.
Buffy jumped off the couch. "But-- and--were you up in the loft this afternoon? Of course, the whole 'you know where she is'-- oh damn it, Spike!" She stopped pacing and looked at Dawn. "Spike knows! Well, he knows something. And the jerk didn't tell me."
Dawn carefully set down her plate. "Spike. Knows. How is this possible?"
Willow's voice crackled. "And if he does, is there any way Wesley's pretty English ass can be saved? I'm thinking Spike could go paternal, fraternal, one of those 'ternals', in a big scary-fangy way."
The heavy-father routine was horribly plausible. And Spike and Wes were off researching together. The thought caused Dawn to do her own jump off the couch. "I don't mean to panic or anything, but I have to go find them. Buffy, your stupid husband can't be allowed to hurt him."
"He didn't seem upset, but you know-- Spike. Mood swings. And anyway, I want to chat with Wes myself about trifling with my baby sister." Buffy already had pulled on her trainers. "Willow, talk to you later. Dawn, I know where the guys went, and I can probably catch up." As Dawn looked for her own shoes, Buffy's hand went to her shoulder. "No, no, stay here. They were going to Muskat's for info-gathering, and it's not a particularly safe place for you."
"In what way is any of that supposed to make me feel better?"
***
"Oh no, mate. That's the wrong door." With a hand grasping the back of Wes's coat, Spike pulled his partner out of the green-canopied doorway to Joe Allen's. It definitely was a better class of establishment than Muskat's, but tonight they weren't scouting for theatre stars.
Wes straightened his tweed. "I know that, thank you. I was just hoping for a quick drink to collect myself before we had to brave the hellhole. It's been a stressful hour or so." When Spike raised his eyebrows, Wesley sighed. "All right. Muskat's."
They paced the few steps down Exeter Street- which was no more than a glorified alley, 'Street' be damned, Spike thought- to a much less posh hole in the brick wall. The wooden nailed door hung halfway off its hinges. Through the cracks the sounds of growling, grunting and conversation spilled out into the Covent Garden street, as did a crap dance-mix of "Hotel California." Bloody hell.
Well, needs must- Spike pushed Wes inside.
The first thing one noticed upon entering Muskat's, Spike thought in the manner of a detached David Attenborough narration, was the immense number and variety of demons who did not embrace a personal hygiene regime. Or if they did, it was to roll about in filth regularly in order to enhance their stink, and to call other like creatures to bathe in the smell of rot. Luckily he didn't have to breathe except to talk.
Poor old Wes had turned green, though, and it was going to take a minute or two for him to acclimate. Spike took over, leading them back through the darkened grime to the bar area. Pete, the Alle demon who owned and operated the hole, er, bar, pushed his cowboy hat off his forehead and greeted them with a sour, loud "Oh, look, if it isn't two of the Watcher Gits."
"Thanks for the announcement, you stupid Alle- we hate to come in unnoticed," Spike said. "A couple of tequila shots, mind it's the good stuff, and then a moment of your time." He pulled a twenty out of his duster pocket, fingers toying with its edges.
Wes sagged onto an empty bar stool. Spike hopped up on the next one, and then shot a glare at a vamp eying his partner just a bit too hungrily. "Neck-biter at two o'clock, old boy. Sit up and look intimidating," he whispered.
A stake slammed onto the bar, and the vampire slunk away into the near shadows. "How's that?" Wes said, and Spike grinned.
Pete slid the full shot-glasses across the bar, then folded two of his three arms. "There ya go. Now what brings the sodding Forces of Light to Muskat's? And it'll be twice that for information, you ensouled bastard."
"Certainly, Peter." Spike flashed the brow-ridges and fangs, and Pete took a step back. Nice to know that the Big Bad still lurked somewhere inside the Watcher. Oh right, on task- Spike pulled another twenty out of the duster. He dangled it in front of the Alle, then yanked it away at the first hint of a grab. "When you tell us what we want."
"Yeah, what?"
"Seems as if Watcher-Slayer United was ambushed by a crowd of vampires last night-"
"All now dust," Wesley interjected.
"Exactly, mate. Ambushed by a kitten-weak crowd of vampires, all now dust-- right around here. Since none of them had the brains to rub two sticks together to make fire, much less try to take us on, we were wondering if you knew who was running the bloody show."
"Heard that your team suffered some losses in the ambush. That right?" Pete countered.
Spike's hand shot out and latched on Pete's third arm, then twisted. The bartender stumbled back, biting off a whimper. "Nope. No losses. All safe and accounted for."
"Good to know," Pete managed. "What I also heard? It's an out-of-town group, um, interested in you dead, dust, or distracted. Humans have the cash, demons have the muscle. Been hiring off the streets."
Wesley had shifted on his bar-stool, so that he could keep an eye on the rest of the room-- he laid a hand on Spike's shoulder. "However, I rather suspect they've come inside." Chairs and tables scraped behind the, and the ambient growling increased to a roar, then died away.
Slowly Spike turned. The Muskat's patrons had pulled the furniture to the wall, leaving a wide open section of floor. In the doorway two Nullat gits stood in front of a gang of four vampires, a Tallent demon, and two Fyarls. Oh balls.
"Ah, Watchers, you can check out but you can never leave," chortled Pete from behind them. Without taking his eyes off the doorway crowd, Wes threw his tequila shot into Pete's eyes. The resulting scream gratified Spike no end.
The two Watchers stood and brought out weapons. Spike said casually, "Nice trench-coats, don't you think, Wesley?"
"Impressive. Shame about the lack of personality, though." Smoothly, the way they'd done it a hundred times, the two of them grabbed their bar stools and hurled them at the Nullats's crew. The baddies surged forward, screaming for blood.
Might not have been a terrible idea to stop for that drink at Joe Allen's after all, Spike thought as he leapt into battle.
***
Anyanka tried to stop pacing, she really did. But her feet kept moving as she listened to the phone ring. One, two, three- "Dawn Summers."
"Dawnie, is Buffy there?"
"Anya! No, she went out after Spike and Wes. Why, is there something wrong?"
"There might be," Anya said. She glanced at Rupert and Imran, who bent over the prophecy as if getting closer to it meant, well, getting closer. "Rupert is a little worried about the guys; new information suggests that tonight might be more dangerous than they first thought, and-"
"Anya, are you at home? In the study?"
"Yes," Anya began, then looked up as energy swirled and Dawn appeared next to her. "My, sweetie, you really improved while you were in California."
"Uh-huh. Handy for emergencies." Dawn didn't seem interested in discussing her progress in the use and/or rearrangement of energy, space and time; Anya couldn't really blame her. "What's going on?"
Rupert came over to them. His hand reflexively went around Anya's waist, and she wrapped it more closely to her. "Dawn, my dear. Where's Buffy?"
"She went after Spike and Wes, about twenty minutes ago. For a reason not connected to whatever's going on here. So let me repeat the question- what IS going on?"
Imran waved them over. "I have a horrible thought about the third line. Oh, pardon me, Dawn; we're looking at a rather nasty prophecy which might be coming into play, and we have possibly unrelated concerns about a Los Angeles law firm, which Wesley might be able to help us with."
Giles said, "The third line again?"
Anya tried to clear her mind, the way she did when she first read a company's annual report or looked at a spreadsheet; patterns popped out when she was receptive, ready to make connections. Imran coughed, then said, "'She-wolves return to bite the hands that hurt one solstice eve.'"
And it came to her. "Rupie, what did you call the Lady of the Fissure? That was right before our wedding-- right before the winter solstice."
"The Lady? Will called her the Wolf of the Deep." His eyes met hers, and their fingers caught and clung together. "Could it be possible that someone wants us out of the way so that they could resurrect the Lady? No, it sounds absurd."
"Besides, if the prophecy has been translated right, it's plural. She-wolves," Dawn said.
Imran's hand went to the torn card, and he traced a finger over the image of the wolf. "Do you think that could be a reference to the law firm as well? It wouldn't have anything to do with an actual female wolf, one assumes."
***
Buffy's hands shot out as she vaulted over the turnstile that barred her way out of the Underground station. She was in a hurry.
It had hit her at Hyde Park Corner. As the Tube train jolted to a stop she'd breathed in, trying to calm a deepening unease, and she'd connected to Spike. He was fighting enemies: she felt the surge of dark joy he got whenever he allowed himself to let the beast loose. This wouldn't have bothered her, except that she also caught a wave of fear. That emotion in her insanely brave husband was never a good.
So once she got out at Covent Garden, Buffy ran. She sprinted down James Street, avoiding the weeknight party people, the tourists, the homeless sleeping rough. The Piazza was like an obstacle course, her path never straight. She could hear her footsteps ringing on the cobbles and the pounding of her breath.
She could hear herself screaming for him, but only inside.
Muskat's was on Exeter. Close, so close. She dodged a couple of cars, ignoring their horns, and powered around the corner-
In time to see Spike fall out of the door of Muskat's, his hands around a Fyarl's neck.
Idiot, idiot, idiot. There was no way his wrist could be completely healed, she thought, yet there he tried that damn move which required both hands. This made her so angry that she long-jumped the remaining distance. Her trainer connected with the Fyarl's head, making a pleasing thud. "Let go, Spike," she panted.
"Thanks, love." He rolled off, then charged back into Muskat's.
"Man, that is SO like him," she said, and the Fyarl looked up at her. "Oh stop it, I'm not talking to you." To prove it, she slipped out her silver dagger and slammed it into its heart.
"Buffy!" Spike bellowed from inside, and she burst through the doorway. The bar was almost empty; he had only one vampire left. Why on earth was he shouting, he could take this vamp with the only working hand he had-and then she heard him say, "Wes. Taken, I think. Don't know."
Red rage washed behind her eyes. She ran toward the bar, casting a glance at the dead Alle demon slumped over the liquor supply. Nothing, nothing-the back door was open.
She emerged into the night air, in a tiny passageway which barely gave enough room for her to stand. Traffic on Burleigh Street zipped by, half a block away. "Is he here?" came Spike's voice from behind her.
He sidled into the passageway and, as she was doing, looked at the dirt and trash. The emptiness. His hands went to her shoulders, and she clutched at him. Her own fingers traced his long, elegant ones: they reassured her that at least Spike was here. "We have to find Wes, love. For Bit," he said.
"I know, honey. And we have to find him for us. He's family."
***
Wes felt groggy, a little nauseated. Perhaps he'd blacked out after the Fyarl had hit him the third time; honestly, he couldn't remember.
So where was he? He seemed to be sitting down somewhere-the chair was cold metal against his back and thighs. Or was the metal solely the chains that wrapped around him from elbow to ankle? He tensed his muscles as an experiment, and links scraped against links. Tied down tightly, it seemed.
Right. Better to do this in stages. Ever so slowly he opened his eyes-
And saw Lilah Morgan, perfect and perfectly cold, outlined against a black wall of glass. "Hello, darling," she said. She walked forward, her heels scuffing against the carpet.
When she stood in front of him, she caught his chin in her hand and stroked, once, twice. Then she cracked her palm against his cheek, snapping his head back.
"Told you I wouldn't forget."