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Part Eight“Buffy?” Xander said. “Is that you in there?”
“Is that me in where?” Buffy — Xander was so rattled he couldn’t figure out which one he was referring to — said, pressing the sides of the barrier. “What the hell am I trapped in?”
“A protective ward,” Regan said. “We weren’t entirely sure if you’d be hostile or not.” As she said this, Cordy began rooting through her purse.
“Well, then you were right to set it up,” Buffy answered, “because right now I’m starting to feel really, really hostile.”
Closing her purse, Cordy pulled out the mirror and showed it to Buffy. This brought her pacing to a rapid halt as she just stood there and looked into the mirror.
“That’s … not quite me,” she said softly. “It’s close, but it’s not me.” The anger drained from her face and she turned to face Regan. “You’re … Regan, right? I remember you …” With the point made, Cordy returned the mirror to her purse.
The Watcher nodded. “What is the last thing you remember?”
“Touching Cordelia’s stomach.”
At this Cordy’s head shot up. Regan asked, “What were the circumstances?”
His wife spoke before Buffy could answer. “In that rebuilt warehouse. Right before you told us all to leave and, and killed Angel and … exploded. No. We saw the warehouse burn. How is this possible? How can you still be here? How can you be in our daughter?”
Xander, alarmed at the anger rising in his wife’s voice, said, “Cordy —”
As Buffy stood there and blinked, Regan stormed around the barrier to face Cordelia. When Xander tried to move into Regan’s path, the Watcher didn’t even hesitate: she shoved him to the side and stood face-to-face with his wife. “You,” Regan said coldly, “have picked one hell of a bad time for an emotional outburst. Xander: Take your wife and calm her down.”
Again before Xander could say anything — since when had he lost the ability to speak before thinking? — Cordy spat out, “And what if I don’t want to calm down, you psychopath? You realize the amount of emotional strain we’re under? Oh, no, that’s right. You don’t feel emotional strain. You don’t feel anything! Not only is my daughter scheduled to die soon — your Slayer — I’ve just found out that Buffy Summers’ soul is in our daughter and probably made her what she is today. But to the almighty, omniemotionless Regan fucking Leary, it’s ho-hum, my Slayer’s going to die. Yawn. Wonder what’s on TV tonight —” She took a deep breath. “Look. I’ve been through this one, two, three times already, and I’m never going back again.”
Behind the ward, Buffy said, “This … is my fault?”
Simultaneously Xander said, “No,” while Regan said, “Too early to tell.” Then she turned her glare on Cordy, who flinched but didn’t back down. “Don’t think I don’t care,” the Watcher said. “Don’t ever think that. But I can’t let it come first. Even in a situation like this. Especially in a situation like this.”
And then Xander finally got the word in edgewise he’d been aiming for. “Look, Cor, that’s as close as you’re going to get to an apology.” And then he turned to Regan. “Look, now, Vulcan woman: Believe it or not, I respect your right to be as unemotional and pain-free as you want to. But would it kill you to be a little more considerate?”
“You, me, and maybe everyone. Look. I’d rather save the world and destroy feelings than save feelings and destroy the world.”
And then Buffy screamed wordlessly, and everyone faced her in sudden and silent concern. She exhaled slowly and said, “It’s like that old story of the man who hit the mule with a baseball bat. First you have to get their attention. Now. I’m not in my own body, Cordy’s angry at me for being in her daughter — who’s what, sixteen? Seventeen? And I swear, Xander, Cordy, I never thought anything like this would happen. When I had the power from the Hellmouth — I just felt the new life forming inside of you. And I knew it would never succeed unless I gave it a hand. You wouldn’t know this, but you couldn’t have children — at least, not until I gave you a push. I didn’t know my soul would end up inside her body, no idea at all.” Buffy’s voice nearly broke at the end.
“And —” Regan said slowly — “your soul couldn’t have left the body entirely. Because you blew up. And Angelus with you. We might’ve gotten a case of trying to split a soul. A soul, apparently, is like a starfish; cut it in two, both grow back.”
“That’s not the important thing right now, anyway,” Cordelia said. “God! What is it with Watchers and their theories? Okay. We know why our daughter’s the double Slayer, we know why she looks and acts like Buffy Summers. But now that we know this, what do we do?”
“I have a thought,” Buffy said. “Why not tell me what the hell is going on?”
* * *
Spike swore and stomped and cursed some more all the way to the Harris residence. To have been outthought by Siobhan, of all demons — well, let’s just say that it was a good thing Spike wasn’t particularly arrogant. He was angrier at himself for missing the obvious than anything else.
The Harris residence was basically dark, and seeing as how it was a crisis kind of night he doubted they’d decided to knock off early. Probably they weren’t home. Still, better to have a look-see.
If the entire system hadn’t been as designed to keep him out as anything, he could have really admired the work they’d put into it. There were crosses in the ironwork at random intervals all the way around. Your typical vampire blinded by hunger would give it a couple of tries and then wander off to find somewhere easier to tackle. He doubted they had garlic planted everywhere just for show, either.
Still, not much of a problem for him, interested in surveillance more than food. A quick look around the grounds satisfied him that no one was home, and so he moved on, heading for Regan Leary’s used bookstore. He wished he’d thought to steal a car before now; not that running three miles was any great chore to the vampire, but Spike did feel kind of pressed for time.
So he moved quickly and quietly across the Pennsylvania countryside, an area that was still fighting to maintain its small-town aura as the large cities slowly crept in from all directions. Here a 200-year old bank, there a McDonald’s, et cetera. In its own way, Spike supposed, a far more charming little burg than dear old long-vanished Sunnyhell, not that he planned on making any vacation plans here or anything.
A mile to go. Right then, enough with letting his brain wander amuck. What was he going to do if they were actually in the bookstore? Right now he was in the mood for a straightforward smash and grab, but he doubted the Slayer would be inclined to go along with it. And no Watcher was defenseless, either, and Regan Leary less so than any he’d known in his 250 years of life. And even the Harrises weren’t total wankers.
An ambush? Maybe. Trickery? Also maybe. Nothing too complex, though, the complicated things almost always collapsed under their own weight.
The hell of it was, he couldn’t do anything more than vague planning until he actually saw the building. Over one more rise, past the ruins of an abandoned complex of some sort, and across a drainage ditch, and then he saw the bookstore across the street — or the entrance, anyway. It was surrounded by trees to both sides, and only the sign was visible from the street. A narrow driveway led into a moderately spacious yard; this had clearly once been someone’s house.
Spike dashed over the pavement and crept around to the back door of the building. He pulled open the storm door and wrenched open the inner back door … and then two things stopped him. The first was … a barrier?
Since when did you need an invite to get into a bloody bookstore?
The second was the thing that looked like a cat that padded silently towards the back door on his approach. It grew as it came nearer until, it was the size of a wolf, then came to a stop and just stared at the vampire, apparently content for the moment that he couldn’t get inside the shop.
Spike made a mental note to never underestimate Regan Leary, if the woman had the brains and talent to call and bind a guardian familiar. He looked around the building — small, unprepossessing, a bit secluded at dark — and came to a decision. Quietly, he closed both doors, and then ran out to the main road and lay down in the middle of it.
This part took some guts; there was always a chance the next driver would be drunk, stupid, or both. But luck was running Spike’s way, and within two minutes some kind-hearted soul slammed on their brakes. Ah, the kindness of strangers, on which Spike so rarely relied.
Why, this one was so generous that she quite graciously collapsed when Spike broke her neck — and gave him the use of her pickup truck in the process. Then he jumped in and drove back to the church of St. Germain.
You know what they always say. If Mohammed won’t go to the mountain …
… then the Orb will come to the Slayer.
* * *
Galen caught what Emily had thrown, then dropped it instinctively when he realized it was a cross. Then Emily said, “Okay, Willow,” she said. “Get out of here. Galen’s a vampire.” They both backed slowly towards the door, Emily yanking out a stake.
Damn! He’d been hoping that Emily’s Slayer senses would have dulled a bit after eighteen years. A vain hope, apparently. “Wait,” he called out. “Please. Don’t leave.” He hesitated. The next thing he said was the single most important thing he’d said in a long time. If it sent them fleeing — then he’d lost his chance at forgiveness. “Emily’s right. I am a vampire. But — you know you can trust me. Look at the good I’ve done since I’ve known you. All the lives I’ve saved. If you run out now — then I stay Unforgiven, and Spike and Siobhan bring about the day of Dark Judgment. Trust me. Stay here just a little while longer.”
They both glared in his direction angrily, but Willow at least stopped edging for the door. “Why?” Willow asked. “You have to realize how betrayed I — we — feel. To find this out now — do you realize that Emily thought you were in love with me?”
What? He would have never given those signals out. He didn’t trust himself enough to love another woman.
Hell, he shouldn’t have trusted himself to love the one he betrayed.
There were good reasons he called Willow, but attraction wasn’t one of them. He liked the ex-Watcher, but —
“Something else, as well,” Emily commented, not noticing his stunned reaction. “We only have your word to go on about the Unforgiven. How do we know you’re not making it up? Maybe you want to get to the Orb of the Savior yourself and build your own army.”
Had the situation not been so dire he would have laughed. “An army? I don’t want an army. I don’t want the Orb’s power to go to anybody, human, vampire, or otherwise. I don’t want to see an–… a Slayer die.” Looking at Willow, he said. “This is why I told you not to forgive me so quickly earlier. Not until you knew all of my sins. Until you knew everything about me. Please stay there for just a minute.” They didn’t move, but they both now had anti-vampire ordnance out and ready. He could hardly blame them.
He still couldn’t forgive himself. But now came the first step to that self-forgiveness that he so desperately needed.
One by one, he turned off the lights until all but one was dark. It lit the room dimly — but it would no longer blind Willow and Emily.
Then, taking a deep breath, he turned around.
It was time to stop playing at being Galen Petrillo, reclusive billionaire.
Emily gasped. Willow stood there with her mouth open. “No,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper. “My God, no …”
Time to be the man he truly was.
Not Galen.
Angel.