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Part SevenThe drive back to her bookstore went about as Regan had expected. Cordelia spent the whole trip whining, Xander’s complaints rapidly faded into an uneasy silence, and Buffy just sat in the seat, impatient to get on with this! so she could return to the business of killing vampires.
They pulled into the driveway of the converted house that held Regan’s bookstore. Regan long ago had thought to convert the upstairs into an apartment, and she made a point of staying there at least three times a week — thus rendering the entire building vampire-proof. And it wasn’t bothered by local troublemakers ever since the time six months ago when she’d caught two drunk teenagers trying to break through the front door. Calmly, she’d waited until a hand snaked through the broken pane to turn the knob, and then she’d taken the hand and yanked its owner hard as she could into the door, until he’d stopped resisting.
There had been some complaining from the boy’s parents, but she didn’t see what the problem had been; he’d regained almost full use of that arm, hadn’t he? And, of course, she’d saved his life, though there was no way for any of them to know that.
She unlocked the front door. Buffy wouldn’t have any problems, but she warned the Harrises — who’d never been inside the bookstore before after dark — to stay behind her and not say a word. As she walked in and turned out the lights, Nemesis jumped down from the shelf and meowed.
A bit wide-eyed, Cordelia said, “What a beautiful cat …” Nemesis, noticing strangers, immediately flared up to four times her size and began growling fiercely, her green eyes glowing in the dark. Cordelia and Xander both jumped backwards.
Regan briefly debated letting them suffer for a few more seconds, but then said, “Nemesis: Friends, Nemesis.” Immediately the guardian familiar shrunk back to the size of a normal feline, which she most definitely was not.
Xander gaped. “What … was that?”
“That was Nemesis, Dad,” Buffy said behind her. “She’s what you call a guardian familiar. Anyone comes into the store she doesn’t recognize, well, let’s just say it’s not pleasant.” Regan went over and scratched under the familiar’s neck, and then said, “Nemesis: Guard.” Immediately the cat jumped back up to the top of a low-lying bookshelf and perched there.
“What do you feed it?” Cordelia asked inanely.
“People who ask stupid questions. Now let’s all get the fuck upstairs, okay?” Despite the tenseness of the situation, Regan relaxed just a bit. Anybody or anything that could force their way past Nemesis was someone so tough that nothing the four of them did would make any difference anyway.
They all went up the tan-carpeted staircase and into the small apartment; no more than a large studio, really, with most of Regan’s collection of mystical books, although she did keep duplicates of some of the more useful at home. Regan turned and looked at Xander and Cordelia. “The book I’m looking for is called Terrelli’s Transposition. It should be in the back corner.” Then, as the Harrises rummaged through that stack, Regan went over to a small bureau. The bottom drawer contained clothing for her occasional stays; the rest was divided up into little compartments containing materials for various spells. She didn’t have the inner talent to be a witch, but rituals she could do.
“Found the book?” she called out behind her.
“Got it right here,” Xander said. Regan snapped her fingers and held her right hand out backwards. She could feel the dirty look on the man’s face, but the book plonked into her outstretched palm. Rapidly, she paged through it until she found the spell they needed.
“Harrises,” she said coldly. “Sides of the room. Buffy, sit down …” She picked up the throw rug and threw it into the kitchen, laying the hardwood floor bare. “… here. Cross your legs and don’t move.” Then Regan drew a small circle around Buffy on all sides with some specially prepared chalk, after which, mixing a few powders and some lemon juice together, she started to paint a far more complex pattern.
“Wait a minute,” Xander said. “Exactly how dangerous is this? And why is our daughter on the inside of the pentagram?”
Cordelia said, “Hold it. Pentagram? That’s what you keep demons trapped inside, right?”
Half point for both of them. Regan said as she carefully continued to inscribe the pattern, “Right basic idea, wrong in application. This isn’t a pentagram, though. Pentagrams are for demons; other patterns, other spirits. This one traps lost souls.”
Xander answered, “Like I said, exactly how dangerous is this?”
“Remember who I think this is,” Regan said scornfully, “and you tell me.”
It took another five minutes for Regan to finish the symbol. During that time, the Harrises asked several questions, some intelligent, some not, which was nonetheless well ahead of the average of most of humankind. Buffy spent the interval doing deep breathing and meditating, very carefully not moving. Again, she didn’t seem nervous at all. As though she knew what was coming — or, perhaps more dangerously, as though someone was repressing her fear instinct. Not that Slayers tended towards showy displays of panic — those that did tended to end up as vampire food, and good riddance — but Buffy Harris had been told that there was a possibility her antecedent had somehow taken up residence in her body and her only reactions were practical ones.
Regan gestured for the Harrises to come join her in sitting around the ward. They closed their eyes as she began chanting, exactly as she’d told them to do.
There was no mystical necessity for this; Regan just didn’t want them to see what was happening to their daughter. Buffy didn’t seem to be in pain as she slipped down into the trance Regan was putting her in, but the interplay of light beneath her skin was even making the Watcher a little uneasy. Finally, one last “Come forth,” and the ritual was done. The glow now surrounded Buffy like an aura.
Slowly, she stood up and walked forward towards Regan, only to crash into the outside of the ward. She pressed her hands against the barrier, first reaching up, then down. As she moved around the boundaries of the ward, she came to a dead stop when she got a good look at Xander and Cordelia.
“X-Xander? Cordy?” The Harrises stood up. “What the hell happened to you? You look so … old.”
Predictably, Cordelia began to sputter; to forestall the inevitable explosion, Regan said, “Who are you?”
Buffy blinked, and in great confusion said, “Buffy Summers. Who the hell are you?”
* * *
Spike swore. Spike cursed. Spike stomped up and down the streets of New Glenbury. Spike killed five young punks who thought they were gang members, hiding out in the ruins of a K-Mart long since abandoned, and Spike was as noisy as he could be about it. If anything would attract the Slayer, he’d figured, a brutal massacre would.
Instead, he got nothing but five dead humans and nothing to show for it. By now both this new Slayer’s Watcher and Xander Harris had to know he was in town, and they were doing nothing about it. They’d either called his bluff and didn’t believe he had the Orb of the Savior, or they’d decided to come at him indirectly and he was flailing away for nothing.
Either way, it wasn’t bloody well working, and Spike wasn’t much on berserk killing sprees. Oh, no moral objection or anything, but it was too much of a waste of energy. So Spike made his way back to the graveyard behind the church of St. Germain, stomping and cursing all the way at Slayers who just wouldn’t do what they were expected to.
Siobhan looked up at him as he entered the graveyard. He stopped and took a quick look around. A good third of the graves had been opened, including —
“What the bleeding hell is this?!” he demanded.
“What are you talking about?” Siobhan growled.
“You and this brilliant pack of vampires have spent the last hour and a half digging up the recent graves. Look at this one,” Spike said, pointing to a random nearby headstone. “Nelson Alpaugh, 1937-2011. I’d say the odds are greatly in favor of this being not the person we’re looking for.” The far corner of the graveyard had the older plots; the few gravestones still standing bore death dates quite in keeping with the time of Wilhelm Gruber’s demise. “Over here,” Spike sneered. “Over here’s where you bloody lot of buffoons should have been digging.”
“I was just getting my army set up, boyo,” Siobhan said. “When I get to use the stone I’m going to want to have a lot of people ready at a moment’s notice.”
Patience rapidly wearing thin, Spike said, “You don’t need to have ’em dug up, love; you could call Adolf Hitler to where you were if it strikes your fancy. Or bring back Iron Maggie just to torture and kill her again and again.”
“You didn’t tell me any of this — and you know too much thinking makes my head hurt.”
“Yes, you’re right there. I didn’t think I’d have to. You knew how important the Orb was — in fact, if we don’t find it and perform the ritual, we’ve spent the whole night digging up a graveyard just for the exercise. Now,” he continued in a slightly calmer voice, “can I trust you to do your digging over here from now on? I still have a Slayer to catch and it looks like I’m going to have to change tactics.”
“Tactics, lad? What use does a vampire have for tactics? Just find her, conk her over the head, and drag her back here.” Then she said, “All right, fellows. Fearless leader here says we’ve been digging in the wrong places. Over here — and hop to it if you don’t want to find yourself missing a head.”
“So, just march up to the Slayer, hit her over the head, right? Wonderful bloody idea,” Spike snarled. “And would you happen to know where she is or is it your suggestion that I just clobber everyone in New Glenbury in the hopes that sooner or later I’ll hit a chain of luck and get her?”
“I’d start with her home — or maybe her Watcher’s bookstore,” Siobhan said sarcastically. “Or is that perhaps too simple for a genius vampire like yourself?”
Spike stormed off into the night without saying another word, Siobhan’s laughter echoing behind him.
* * *
Emily Harding opened the door to Galen Petrillo’s hotel room, with Willow right behind her. Almost immediately they both squinted from the glare. Galen Petrillo himself, visible only in silhouette, stood at the far end of the room.
Willow shaded her eyes and took a step forward. Galen held out a hand and said. “You can close the door behind you, but please, don’t come any further into the room until I ask you to.” Nodding, Willow stepped to the side to let Emily shut the door. There was something odd about the voice, though Emily couldn’t quite place it at the moment.
“Well,” Willow commented, “I can see why the prophecy calls you the Invisible …”
“Far greater reason than that, Willow Rosenberg. A lot of people know my face, and even more know my name, but there aren’t more than a half dozen who can put the one to the other.” A brief, mostly humorless chuckle. “Not that some haven’t tried …” Indeed, not. The National Enquirer had a million-dollar bounty standing for one clear shot of Galen — and a million more if they got a face-to-face interview. No one had collected in fifteen years of trying. For just half a second Emily wished she had a camera with her. Then the gravity of the situation set back in and she resumed paying attention to the conversation.
Willow was saying, “… it still fits.”
“Now why the Unforgiven?” Emily asked, blinking. At first she’d thought that the light was giving her a headache. But it was a headache she only felt at certain times. Not good times, either.
Galen answered, “Almost eighteen years ago I caused the death of the woman I love through my own stupidity. Even though I lived — when I had no real right to, in fact, she saved my life — I have never stopped blaming myself for her death. And neither has anybody else. And in my studies of the prophecy of Dark Judgment, if the side of good is to win I must forgive myself. And to forgive myself — there are others I need to be forgiven by.”
“I forgive you.” Willow said this firmly and sincerely.
Again Galen held up a hand. Emily’s headache increased, and she was beginning to have a horrible suspicion as to why. Meanwhile, the recluse said, “No, you don’t. Not yet, anyway. There’s so much more you need to know — and I know, not much time to say it in. So there’s no easy way to do this …” He began to reach for a light switch.
Emily whispered, “Willow, no time to explain. Get behind me.” Puzzled, her friend did so, and Emily shouted out, “Hey, Galen!” She finally knew what was causing her headache. When Galen turned his head to look at them, she took out a cross and tossed it to him.
Instinctively, he caught it, and then dropped it as though his hand was on fire. “Okay, Willow,” she said. “Get out of here. Galen’s a vampire.”