Mother's Curse - Adult Version
Julia L
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Disclaimer: I in no way own or claim to own anything to do with the Highlander
Universe, Panzer/Davis, Rysher Entertainment, and Gaumont Television seem to
have that honor with the possible exception of Richie, who I hear now belongs to
Clan Denial.
Disclaimer: Buffy, Willow, Xander, Giles, Angel, Spike, Drusilla, etc., not to
mention the vampire slayer concept, don't belong to me either. I'm pretty sure
they're owned by Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy *grrr arrrgh*, among others.
Warnings: It gets pretty bloody, and a couple of my favorite characters are
killed off (I'm cruel, yes), and I've twisted the shows' timelines a bit to fit
the story. Everybody magically springs back to life (or unlife) when you stop
reading, however. This is my universe, and if I want to have fluffy pink moo
cows holding the secret of eternal life, I can do that too, so don't flame me.
Nobody's making you read this.
No copyright infringements are intended, and I'm making absolutely no money off
of this story. Please don't sue me--I have no money anyway.
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***Comments, questions, praise, and constructive criticism always appreciated.
Flames used to roast marshmallows. If you'd like to archive this story
elsewhere, please email me first. silver_faerie@hotmail.com***
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Characters: Highlander--Duncan MacLeod, Tessa, Richie, Joe, Methos/Adam
BtVS--Buffy, Willow, Xander, Giles, Angel, Spike, Drusilla
Type: Crossover -- Highlander/Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Rating: Adult (Graphic Violence, language, m/f sex)
Symbols: Text in **'s are character thoughts and/or feelings. Text in < < > >'s
are overheard thoughts. Text in *** ***'s are transmitted thoughts.
Denials: I'm not in denial about the whole Angel's gone good again and is
stuck(for the moment) in Hell thing, but, well, I need Angelus bad and still in
Sunnydale for the story. I am, despite what some of my other stories might
suggest, in complete denial about Richie's 'death'. And now, for the story...
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,.`^`.,.`^`.,.`^`.,._Mother's Curse_.,.`^`.,.`^`.,.`^`.,
JuliaL
"Isn't she just adorable?" The woman, thick sable brown hair coiled neatly
into a knot at the base of her neck, tilted her head against her husband's
unyielding shoulder. Her accent was thick as her voice was gentle, and the
combination well suited her.
"Yeah, a little bundle of screaming joy I'm certain. Do all babies make
that truly hideous shrieking noise?" He replied, a note of thinly veiled
distaste in his words. Dressed in a business suit, somber-colored tie, and
white shirt of what was most undoubtedly of the highest quality, he looked out
of place and uncomfortable in his present environment.
"Oh my love, a baby is only a baby for but a short while. I can't bear
the thought of her growing up in a foster home, or worse. I knew she was ours
the moment I laid eyes on her."
The man knotted his brows together, and pursed his lips, resenting for
what must have been the millionth time since the tests had came back the fact
that he would never have children. It was not so much that he liked children--
or babies for that matter, in fact, he really did not like them at all. He
looked sideways at the woman leaning against him, the reason he was here today,
and his heart melted a little. He could never deny her anything, not live,
knowing her to be unhappy. As cold as he could be sometimes, he loved his wife
with every fiber of his being.
"She's my little angel, love.."
As if in answer to the woman's words, the tiny baby girl, fists waving
frantically, legs kicking in all directions, let out a small mew of protest.
The nurse, carefully holding her pink-clad bundle, looked up at the nice couple
on the other side of the glass. They seemed to be discussing something with
each other, but, with the soundproof glass blocking all noise except for that
from within, she could not tell what it was. The two moved apart for a moment,
and the man, broad-shouldered, good-looking, the nurse decided, took a cellular
phone from some inner coat pocket. He frowned, mouthing a few words into the
device, then kissed his wife on the forehead, scowled deeply, and strode quickly
from the room.
The woman sighed, her eyes, warm chocolate brown irises drawn sadly into
shadow, and stepped closer to the glass. She put her fingertips up against the
transparent barrier, and the nurse, sensing her cue, stepped forward and held
the wee babe up for another inspection. The two women smiled at each other for
a moment, then both looked down at the little girl. Teresa, as the baby had
been dubbed moments after her being found abandoned in a dumpster by a homeless
man intent on searching it for anything of value, calmed, her cries subsiding to
mere whimpers. Teresa she was, and would always be.
***********************************************************************
Don't stand beside my grave and weep,
For I'm not there, I do not sleep,
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond's glint on snow,
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn's rain.
When you awaken in morning's hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush,
of quiet birds in circle flight,
I am soft stars that shine at night,
Don't stand beside my grave and cry,
I am not there. I did not die.
Author still unknown, I did not die
***********************************************************************
"How are you feeling love?" The woman asked as she hurried about
the house. Her head was bent to one side as she inserted an earring
into the correct hole--two others remained as stubborn reminders of
more reckless teenage years. Coming upon a mirror, she bent forward
and adjusted the jewelry so that the small golden teardrop would hang
correctly from beneath its smooth amber crescent. She ran a quick hand
over her hair--still perfectly parted down the middle, then over the
front of her new burgundy velvet dress. A smile formed, she would be
ready whenever her husband was.
"Better than last night," he admitted with the small, silly grin
saved only for her, and only in the privacy of their own home. It
always made him look like a college kid, she thought, smiling back at
him, infected by his good mood--he was so rarely is such high spirits.
"I should remember that ice hockey is only for the kid in me."
One side of his face, near the cheekbone, still sported a rather
livid patch of blue and purple surrounded by angry red where it had
made direct contact with an opponent's hockey stick. He'd been
escorted home by his friends, all more worried than knowing what to do,
and a raging headache that promised to make the night a living hell.
Aspirin had helped some, sleep had been slow in coming, and he now he
did not want to take the effort to cover the bruise with anything more
than his own wounded dignity.
She moved away from the mirror just as he moved in front of it,
adjusting his tie much as she had done with her earrings, and on a
sudden whim she threw her arms around his warm shoulders. They so rarely
went out together since bringing Teresa home.
"Are you sure you're feeling alright? We don't have to go if you
still have a headache..."
"I'll be fine baby," he smiled, pulling her around and to his chest,
planting a lingering kiss on her smiling lips. She smelled heavenly--of
sandalwood and crushed violets. "I'm only a little tired, and I know you've
been looking forward to this for weeks."
"If you're sure." She didn't sound convinced, but time was ticking away.
From the family room, the enormous grandfather clock announced the hour as being
half past seven o'clock.
"I am," he reassured. "And though your parents would be glad to
take Teresa at any time, but I don't like to think of her being so far
away."
"And less than a year ago you seemed to have the exact opposite
opinion--"
"You know I love her now darling, as much as if she was my own."
They left the house peaceful, dark, and quiet. Small lights along the
walkway illuminated the rows of purple and tiny white flowers. Just before
reaching the car, the woman stopped, and turned her head, looking all around
the yard--her expression was searching, almost confused, and sad. A large maple
tree, leaves swaying in the absent breeze, creaked gently and then was still. A
few white lawn chairs had been left out from the day before. There were still a
couple of bundles of newspapers near the garage door.
"Something wrong?"
"No, no, nothing.. Sorry," she answered, hurrying around to the
other side of the car. As she stepped in, she cast one long look back
at the house. Her husband closed the door, then went to his own side.
"I just wanted to remember things this way," she whispered to herself.
------(*)------
"My but she's got a set of lungs to her, doesn't she?"
"Healthy as a horse," Teresa's grandfather snorted, and got back
to reading his newspaper.
"But she wasn't half so fussy this morning. I do hope she's not
come down with a fever..." Her grandmother came into the room, a look of
concern on her face as she held the screaming and kicking infant.
"Give her a bottle and put her in her crib. She'll calm down
soon enough," the man suggested, scratching at his beard.
"She's probably just missing her mother," the woman mused, trying
to comfort the little girl who's face had, by now, gone flushed and was
streaked with tears. As she entered the guest room where Teresa's crib
had been set up for the night, the baby quieted, screams subsiding to
huge gulping sobs.
"That's a good girl. Your mother will be here in the morning,
promise darling..." Teresa's lower lip quivered, threatening more cries,
but none came out. Her grandmother smiled fondly, tiredly, and gently
stroked the girl's shining black hair. Old cinnamon brown eyes
met eyes of deep midnight blue, and they comforted each other.
------(*)------
"You were right love, I'm glad we decided to come."
"We? As I recall it you were the one who almost didn't want to come, not
me."
"Well, alright. Dinner was lovely. The restaurant was beautiful, the
music superb, the..."
"Okay, okay..." He smiled, opening the car door for her. He leaned over
it for a moment. "I think you just might have to show me how much you
appreciate it when we get home."
Just before swinging into the driver's seat, the man pulled his coat more
tightly about his solid frame. Truth be told, he was exhausted--however, it
would take a direct order from God for him to reveal that. A chill breeze
whipped around his face, waking him up enough to smile softly as he pulled out
of the parking lot.
It was dark outside--too dark by half, and raindrops were beginning to dot
the car's windshield. Neither seemed inclined to say anything to the other at
first. The silence was soft, and warm, and it seemed a waste to spoil it with
mindless chatter. The woman settled herself against the soft leather of the
seat, content to rest until the roads grew familiar and she caught sight of her
home.. home. She closed her eyes, meaning to rest them only for a moment.
He blinked his eyes a few times, wishing dearly for something to muffle
the pounding drums inside his head. The combination of the weather conditions,
the silence, and the stress of keeping up appearances had brought back his
headache with reinforcements. Mile after deserted mile of highway stretched out
before them. As they neared the darkest section of a road surrounded by
towering pines, his vision failed him completely. One moment he could hear the
blood pounding behind his eyes, the next, the road became nothing but a
confusing blur. His soft breath of fear brought his wife fully awake for one
brief, terrifying moment. Within a heartbeat, without time to react or change
course, a tree came rushing up at full speed to meet the front end of the car.
A minute passed. She was alone, she thought. Her husband sat unconscious
or dead behind the wheel and she could feel the life slowly ebbing out of her
body. Fear choked her breath before the fluid that filled her lungs--she never
felt the bits of steel and plastic embedded in her skin.
Her last sight was clouded with tears, but dazzling. The night sky,
clouds gone--the bluish-silver moon was shining in all its radiant beauty, a
thousand stars each twinkling with its own light.
"Essere sicuro dalla nerezza, mia figlia," she whispered into the silence,
closed her eyes, and slipped away.
********************************************************************************
"Have the courage to live. Anyone can die." -- Robert Cody
********************************************************************************
"Oh Timothy, it's been so long..." Tessa, voice catching, wiped a tear
away before embracing her friend's husband. "I am so sorry. Rose was a..
she.."
Tessa felt Duncan's hand on her back, and she stepped away, another tear
falling, unbidden, down her cheek. She saw the two men look at each other, one
tall and tanned, with the body of a fighter, the other tall as well, but looking
more like a lawyer or businessman--though there were no tears, his eyes were
rimmed with red.
"Timothy, this is Duncan MacLeod. Duncan, Timothy Knight."
After a moment, Duncan put his hand out and it met Timothy's. "It's a
pleasure to meet you. I only wish it could have been under better
circumstances," he said.
Timothy opened his mouth, seemingly about to say something, to answer in
kind, but other couples, wishing to give their condolences, pushed in front of
him. Duncan did not feel up to chasing after the man. Tessa had cried the
entire night after learning of Rose's death. They had been good friends, she
said, had met at college.. After the flight from Seacouver, he had still had to
drive two hours in a rented car--this was the middle of nowhere, but he did have
to admit it was a rather beautiful middle of nowhere. The early spring air was
scented with wildflowers and freshly mowed grass; the sky was perfectly pale
blue--a few high, wispy clouds hung above. Somehow, he couldn't decide whether
the weather was inappropriate or absolutely perfect.
"It's alright Tessa," Duncan said as she sniffled, then put her head
against his chest. Despite the warmth, and his concealing long black coat, the
fine hairs on the back of his neck went suddenly into full alert, standing
straight up. A faint, electrical sensation pricked at his senses, not quite a
sound, not quite the spark of static, a pre-immortal was near.
Without moving his head, Duncan quickly scanned the area. It seemed that
most of the crowd he had already brushed up against without the same spark. He
saw an older couple--they had stayed yards away throughout the entire service--
coming closer. Both seemed in their late fifties and were well dressed.
Something told him, however, that it was neither of them. His gaze drifted down
to the baby carrier the woman held. The little girl inside looked to be about a
year old, maybe a few months more. Before he got more than a glimpse all three
had melted into the knot of bodies, but he had the feeling that he knew where he
would find them later. His attention was brought back to Tessa as she shivered
against him.
"Are you okay?"
"I'm just tired Duncan, and cold. Let's go back to the hotel."
Duncan managed to thread his way back to the car without looking as if he
were searching for anyone, but he did want to get close enough to that baby to
find out for certain if she were the pre-immortal--as well as find out who her
parents were. As his hand brushed lightly against the little girl's
outstretched arm, the barely perceptible buzz increased just enough to know that
it could be no other.
Once they were safely in the car and heading back to the hotel, Duncan
thought about asking. He turned slightly to look at Tessa, then decided that it
might be better not to. She looked withdrawn and small, crumpled into herself.
She was taking this harder than she wanted to let on. He turned his eyes back
to the road.
********************************************************************************
Reality is for people who lack imagination. -- Anonymous
********************************************************************************
"Look Teresa, I know you don't want to go, but you've already been kicked
out of three schools. This'll be a chance for a new life, a fresh start." She
still would not look at him. "Whether you want to or not," Timothy Knight added
on a darker note, then focused his attention on steering.
Teresa was curled up on the backseat of the car, her head pillowed by her
hands, the sound of rain gently hitting the windows calming her thoughts. It
wasn't as if what I want has the slightest bearing on what happens to me anyway,
she mused to herself, turning over so that she stared at the dark ceiling.
Despite the comfortable warmth, she shivered to herself. She looked through the
nearest window, and was less than overjoyed at seeing one enormous 'Welcome to
California!' sign. Teresa sighed, and pulled a pillow up over her head.
------(*)------
The house appeared fairly normal, at least from the outside. A fresh coat
of light blue paint had been hastily applied over some older vinyl siding, which
meant that it was already beginning to peel off. Cheerful white wooden
shudders, fixed permanently open, were mostly clean and neat. On both sides of
the door, large lights turned on at sensing the slightest movement. This meant,
of course, that even a cat scooting across the yard would be certain to flood
the nearer rooms with brightness. It had been a real deal--the previous owners
had moved away four months after moving in--minus one son and several large
dogs.
Teresa scowled fiercely at the first stirrings of daylight on the horizon,
and blinked her dry, scratchy eyes behind the dark sunglasses. It was only five
o' clock in the morning, and, despite having slept for a few hours in the car,
she had had less than ten hours of sleep in the past three days. She could
never sleep well under stress. Nightmares plagued her even in the best of
times--few as those were--leaving her drenched in sweat and waking up to a world
that usually did not seem all that much better than the terrors every one else
claimed she created in her own imagination. At their worst, she would stay
awake for days at a time, until sheer physical exhaustion claimed her body and
mind, and she slept without dreams.
"Are you sure you want to go to school tomorrow Teresa? Are you certain
you don't you want a few days to get settled in?" Timothy, lugging a few large
suitcases which had traveled in the car with them, entered the house as Teresa
stood in front of the door, just looking. She followed him in after a moment's
hesitation. Something about the house was missing, like a piece of it was gone,
but not quite--gone.
"I don't want to spend any more time here than I absolutely have to," she
answered quietly. The interior of the house was no more or less elaborate or
unassuming than the exterior, it was simply cooler and smelled oddly enough of
burned plastic and sunscreen. Most of the walls were a pale cream color with
winter white stenciling, but when she turned a corner toward what she assumed
was the living room, the furthest wall had been painted over with generic beige.
Teresa felt a chill in the small of her back, turned, and headed upstairs.
There was a large open space as she climbed; only a heavy wooden railing
would keep a person unsteady on his feet from falling into the entry room and
crashing into the large bookcase which had been set up a few days before with
the rest of the heavy furniture. Teresa noted that it was still dark upstairs,
but did not bother to turn on the lights. She carried only one small suitcase
and a ragged looking doll into her new bedroom. They'd moved quite a few times
before, and eventually she had whittled down exactly what she could not live
without. These things always came with her, never left her side. Teresa
quietly closed her bedroom door and sat down on the bed. It didn't matter a
great deal to her that there were neither blankets nor sheets on it yet, nor
that it had not been pushed up against the wall as it should have been.
Gently, she unwrapped a small picture of her mother--adoptive mother--she
knew that her true parents had never been found and were never likely to be,
then wrapped it again and put it back in the suitcase. That photograph never
saw the light of day. Next to come out were some brushes, and an antique hair
ornament made of ivory and silver. Teresa fingered her small box of metals;
none of them were for sports, she'd never even tried out for a team, but there
was a first place medallion for winning a state art contest, and a tiny metal
cup--the gold paint chipping off in places. She smiled, remembering how good it
had felt to see the looks on everyone's faces as she'd won the math league
competition--she'd been the first girl in eleven years. There were a few disks,
and a few CDs.. A dog-eared copy of 'Where the Red Fern Grows'.
Teresa pushed the suitcase and its contents away, and sat back against the
high wooden headboard of her bed. She barely noticed that she was still holding
the doll. She'd had it with her for more years that she could remember. It was
soft, and the face was basically dog-shaped, but most of the fur had long since
worn away--unlike most toys that'd gone through children's growing years, this
one had never received a name. Something crackled with annoyance at the edge of
her consciousness. With a sigh, she left even that behind and headed downstairs
to help her dad unpack. After awhile in any one location, she usually could
block out its impressions.
------(*)------
Angelus licked his full lips, swallowing the last few drops of warm,
thick, sweet liquid. Usually he preferred young girls as his victims, but the
old man had been in the right place at the right time--for his appetite anyway.
Sometimes neither age nor outside appearances could judge how the blood would
taste, with beggars and royalty as both as likely to be sweet as not. He
smiled, dragging the body further into the alley and dumping it behind a bunch
of trash cans. After brushing off his coat and pants, he started deeper into
the town.
This night was truly beautiful, or at least a great deal more enjoyable
than the day, Teresa thought to herself, slipping easily away from the high-
fenced yard that enclosed her new home. The crescent moon was a bare sliver in
the sky, but the stars were disappointingly dim for someone who was used to
seeing them in crisp country air. She'd only spent the sum total of eighteen
hours in Sunnydale, but what she'd seen had been enough to convince her to give
it a rather reluctant try. Out, alone, she'd find out if it was worth her
while--she needed to get a feel for the place.
It wasn't overly warm, and a nice breeze swept away any of the funk that
came with city life, even 'one-Starbucks towns'. Teresa still pulled her long,
black oilskin coat more tightly about her waist. The hem went down to her
ankles, just far enough that her equally black skirt and sandaled feet could be
seen. So far, so good, she allowed. This could be home. I could make this my
home. She began counting her footsteps, giving no indication that she knew she
was alone no longer.
Angel kept himself to the partial shadows cast by a row of neatly trimmed
bushes. He was some fifty yards behind the slim, dark figure, but even with his
augmented vampire sight, she was too far away to make out any details. Every
once in awhile she'd pass beneath a streetlight, but the image was still
confusingly foggy, like a shadow. He'd seen a lot in his nearly two and a half
centuries, and now anything new and more unusual than, well, usual, was worth
investigating. Though he wasn't particularly hungry, he began to stalk her.
Teresa continued walking in a straight line, never looking back, hardly
looking up. She could feel that someone was behind her, but did not smile.
There was something odd about the feeling--a small shiver ran from the base of
her skull to the backs of her heels. She took a deep breath, smelled nothing
unusual, and slowed down. Let whoever it was come to her.
"Damn," Angel muttered in annoyance. He couldn't imagine how the girl had
known he was following her--he had more than once gotten within a few feet of
Buffy before she had even known he was there--but she had slowed so obviously.
Something did not feel right about the situation, and he half-expected the
Slayer to pop out of the bushes at any moment. It wasn't like her to use bait,
though, he thought to himself.
Wondering if her persistent follower was going to appear any time within
the next few minutes, Teresa stopped walking all together. Anything short of a
machine gun or small nuclear device she could defend herself from, and had, on
occasion. With her back up against a sturdy wooden fence, she stuck her hands
in her pockets and waited patiently. Either he would show--she had decided that
the presence was male--or wouldn't, and either way made no difference to her.
Angel shook off the faint feeling of disquiet as he snuck closer, or
rather, he simply forgot about it. The girl was just that, a girl--his next
meal, he smiled warmly. She wasn't going anywhere either, simply standing.
Must be new around town, he thought. No one who'd been in Sunnydale for more
than a few days wandered the streets alone at night. With that thought in mind,
he stepped out of the shadows.
Teresa first thought to herself that he was closer than she had sensed,
and was caught in a neutral expression between smiling at his ability and
frowning at her own slip in observation. They were not near a streetlight, but
light from the nearby houses would be enough once he got closer. She neither
moved nor gave him a hint of recognition.
He stopped. Angel had walked silently until he was directly in front of
the girl, and then.. he stopped. Something twisted within his gut. She was
watching him with an intensity that bordered on any vampire's gaze, but her eyes
were far from those of a demon. A black coat covered her from throat to ankles,
but it was her face that drew his attention in any case. The girl was easily as
pale as he, with a small nose and lips that looked soft and sweet. Ebony hair,
so dark as to have blue highlights instead of red-brown, fell unbound around her
shoulders and on down, he guessed, to below her slim waist. Eyebrows arched
over eyes set deep in her face--irises were the shade of midnight viewed on the
rippling surface of a clear stream. She turned her head, just slightly, to meet
his eyes. In spite of the incredible control she had shown before, she drew in
a quick breath. From the depths of his twisted self came a smile, a genuine
smile, and the girl matched it in kind.
Teresa could barely credit her eyes, though she would have liked to have
thought that she gave no indication of it. The man in front of her was easily
the most beautiful person she had ever seen. His hair was thick, warm, dark
brown, and carefully arranged to appear as if it hadn't been. Eyes were dark
and shadowed, and the sort of contained strength that she had sensed in only a
few others hung like an aura about his person. If only he were breathing, she
might have thought him human. When he smiled, she couldn't help but do the
same.
"This is a dangerous town," Angel said finally, stepping closer to the
girl. "Do you often wander around by yourself at this time of night?"
"All the time," she answered, and held up her hands just as he reached to
take them. The sensation of his skin against hers was tingling, electrical, she
thought--he was cold as death. The sensation of her skin against his was
faintly warm, and soft, he thought--he could feel her heart beating through the
thin skin.
"Most people call me Angel," he smiled, not letting go. He had barely
noticed at first, but something within him ached for her--needed her--some small
part of him knew that he would not be able to leave her alone. The screams of
people long dead surfaced in the back of his mind.
"Well, Angel, I'm not most people," she did not resist when he gently
guided her away from the fence. "But I think that's a fine name." Neither did
she pull away when he pulled her closer. "I am Teresa Knight."
"That," Angel smiled again. "Is a beautiful name." He started to lift
one of her hands and lowered his head to meet it. "But not nearly so beautiful
as you." He did not miss the slight increase in heartbeat as his lips touched
her skin, nor the fact that her fingernails were cut down to mere nubs. When he
would have dragged her back into the shadows right then, his finger came upon
something rough, unyielding in what should have been soft skin. Teresa's eyes
turned darker as he gently turned her arms so that her palms were face up,
knowing what he would find. He pushed up her sleeves. Twin scars, one running
vertically on each wrist, marred the ashen skin. His eyes narrowed.
Teresa said nothing, expecting any number of different questions, even
from him--she was doing her best not to Look.. She had been asked them all, she
thought, but instead of speaking immediately, Angel merely took her hands in
his.
"Why do you like the night, Teresa?"
"It talks to me. I can feel it without the burning.. I can't feel the
day. It screams and I go numb." Teresa meant every word she said--countless
hours in the psychiatrist's office had failed to get the woman to understand
what she meant. Angel smiled at her, and she saw that, somehow, he understood.
"What does it tell you?"
"I.." Teresa paused for the first time that night. "I can hear the
people dreaming."
Angel sensed the moment's hesitation, and took it as his sign to disappear
for the night. What he needed to do was find Drusilla. He had no doubts that
Teresa was telling the truth, but though he wanted so badly to drain her, he
knew that Dru's own gift, as unique as Teresa's, would tell him whether or not
to bring the girl into eternity. He kissed the back of her hand once more, then
backed away. "I'll be here tomorrow," he smiled, catching her eyes one last
time before walking off into the darkness.
"As will I," Teresa whispered, not moving for a few breathless moments--
the shock lasted only that long. She started back toward the house, her hands
again in her pockets and a small smile now on her face--the smile of one who has
stumbled onto a searched-for, priceless treasure when simply stopping to rest.
"And I think you will, my vampire Angel."
------(*)------
"Where is she lovely?" Drusilla asked in a soft, melodic voice the moment
Angel stepped into her view. She curled her arms around his waist, and ran her
head along his broad, powerful shoulders, stopping him momentarily.
"Where is who?" Angel asked lightly, feigning innocence.
"Your new friend, of course. I want to meet her," Drusilla pressed on,
nearly purring when Angel ran his hand along her exposed upper arm with a light
touch.
Angel smiled pleasantly to himself, and reached behind her to snag a bunch
of pale, velvety blossoms from their vine. "I'm saving her till later Dru," he
said, tickling her face with the soft petals and sparing Spike a passing glance
--he was sitting, unmoving, in the room's darkest corner, watching them both.
Drusilla moved away, to his surprise, and she smiled at him mischievously,
backing up a few steps.
"Naughty, naughty," Drusilla grinned, lowering her head but keeping her
gaze level. She began to wag her finger in front of him in a gesture of mock
discipline. When Angel growled lightly and smiled, taking the finger in his
mouth, running his tongue around it slowly, she only grinned more deeply. "One
shouldn't play with fire."
********************************************************************************
"Knowledge is power." -- Francis Bacon
********************************************************************************
Teresa found herself regretting her decision to plunge headlong into a new
school almost as soon as she woke up that morning. The viciously annoying buzz
of the alarm clock woke her at seven o' clock. Her mouth tasted like someone
had shaved the fuzz off of a rotting peach and applied it to her tongue--the
texture was about the same as well. She did not really want to open her eyes at
all.
"Somebody turn that damn sun //off//!" she hissed to nobody in particular,
rolling out of bed at the same time.
One of the few good things about the house, Teresa realized, was that with
only two people, each got a bathroom to him or herself. The carpet in the
bedroom felt oddly itchy against her bare feet, but once inside the bathroom,
the linoleum was cool and smooth. Her long nightgown fell unheeded, and she
kicked it aside, stepping into the shower and starting the water.
"Mmmm," she purred to herself, doing her best to block out thoughts of
anything except getting herself clean. The warm water mingled with traces of
tears on her face, and washed away the sweat from that night's awful dreams.
No, don't think about that, Teresa silently commanded herself, knowing that it
did no good to think about it and it did no good to try not thinking about it.
Teresa remembered everything that had happened last night so clearly. She
still felt the tingle of Angel's lips against her hand, the way he had moved,
even the intensity of his eyes as they fastened on her own. She had not read
him wrong. To her way of thinking, that he was a vampire should be plain to
anyone with eyes--she thought then that it was generally only those who are
really looking who see what is right in front of their faces.
Scrubbing at her skin until it smarted made her feel a little better, but
Teresa turned the knob till the water gushed out icy cold and let that flow over
her skin for awhile before stepping out of the shower. After a few minutes at
the sink, she felt almost alive once again. Teresa, back in her bedroom, sighed
softly. All of her cloths were still packed--she'd have to hurry or risk, of
all things, being late.
------(*)------
Things were going from slightly bad to mostly worse. Teresa wandered the
empty hallways, uncertain of where she was supposed to be. Though she'd
received a class schedule weeks before arriving, it seemed that it would take a
minor miracle for her to find the right room. She looked at the crumpled paper
again, then up at the numbers above the door she was currently moving past.
None matched--she kept going. The first bell had rung nearly five minutes ago.
Out of near desperation, she considered feeling her way through the building by
thought alone, but knew before she had taken another step that there would be no
help from that quarter.
Teresa sighed deeply as she passed another classroom and peered at the
numbers above the door. She did not even know where the principal's office
was--she'd prefer to act the fool for a few minutes and in front of only one
rather than risk having every single person in the school think her an idiot.
Not that it matters a great deal, she tried to assure herself, remembering even
as she thought that how hard it was to block out thoughts meant especially for
her. Especially nasty, stomach-churning thoughts that had more than once
brought her to tears for what looked like no reason at all. That was before she
had learned Control. On the other side of the hallway, she spied the door to
what could only be the library. As Teresa changed her course to enter its
quietude, she was forcibly reminded of what had happened to force the first move
away from the home she had known for so long.
*******1995*******
Teresa held the books possessively in the crook of her arm, all, that is,
but one. That book was balanced on her palms, it's musty, slightly yellowed
pages spread open to the start of the second chapter. She wrinkled her nose and
smoothed out a small crease. Completely oblivious to her own stiff neck and
aching arms, Teresa had been in the same position for nearly the entire period.
Honestly, she had only meant to gather the books, check out, and get back to
class. She had, in reality, gotten only to the small alcove just outside the
library doors before the lure of new information had gotten the better of her.
No one had bothered her studies in the small, rather dark corner. She was one
of the library's few frequent visitors in any case.
People began streaming out of the classrooms less than a second after the
bell. Some looked to actually have a purpose to their hurry, as they headed for
the restrooms or the cafeteria. Some exited later, in bunches and groups of
threes and fours and more. It was, more or less, the picture of an ordinary
high school in its corner of the United States. Teresa kept her thoughts
centered tightly about the text she was attempting to decipher--stuff was harder
than Shakespeare to read, so it did not require much effort to block the
confusing jumble without. Besides, she was in no rush. This was her lunch hour
and now she was truly free to enjoy herself. Without thinking, she slumped into
the corner away from the doors, never imagining that she'd be seen there.
Her reading came to an abrupt end as Teresa felt the book being knocked
from her fingers. She jumped to her feet in an instant.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Teresa shrieked over the sounds
of raucous laughter from the six guys in front of her. She recognized them all,
but knew none of them. All were dressed in some variation of jeans, t-shirt,
and ratty overshirt. It certainly was not necessary for her to open her mind to
sense their intentions: this had taken a terribly wrong turn.
"Did you know that you are one seriously weird girl?"
Teresa reached out a tendril of thought, and physically recoiled at the
contact. His name was Franklin, she remembered that much, and he had once
beaten a kid up simply for calling him that. His shoes were mud-splashed, and
his clothes smelled as if they hadn't been washed in at least a week, possibly
more. This alone was not enough to warrant her reaction--neither was his well-
built stature and sneering expression. It was the impact of six minds thinking
as one; all directed at her. Most of the underlings wore masks of near
indifference if not outright boredom, but she sensed that each wanted the same.
Before she could clamp down, a wave of churning emotion: lascivious, crude,
mocking, assaulted her senses.
"I'll be leaving. Now." Teresa fought the urge to gouge his eyes out
with her fingers, but was finding it oh so tempting. There was not a hint of
fear in her voice nor her manner--it was a command, not a request in any sense
of the word, though she hardly expected it to be obeyed. She started to move
toward her fallen books, but was pinned to the wall with one of Franklin's arms
on either side of her head. No matter. She was neither frightened nor
surprised by his actions. In fact, she had been expecting it.
One of the other boys, Justin Hooker, moved to pick up the topmost book--
the one she had been reading, Teresa realized, with complete disrespect for its
age or condition. Despite herself, she grimaced.
"'Vampyres and Daemons Around Us'? What kind of book is this?" *As if you
care half a whit, she thought.* "The title's not even spelled right." *So you
can read more than the road construction signs.* He started flipping carelessly
through the pages, then burst out laughing. "Hey guys, get a load of this!
It's a bunch of naked chicks dancing around a fire!" *You /would/ find that
first thing, wouldn't you?* Teresa rolled her eyes expressively as most of the
other guys turned to get a look. As much as she knew they could do nothing to
her here, the desire to inflict some sort of pain was growing. She hadn't
fought with complete abandon in a long time. Simply for cornering her like
this, she'd give any a black eye, but then, insulting and probably mangling her
books.. A sweet smile appeared on her face, almost shocking Franklin into
backing away.
"I think that you will let me go, now, give me back my books, now, or you
will regret it, now," Teresa said with perfect calm. Just as she had known he
would, Franklin let out a short bark of laughter and leaned closer.
"And just what," he whispered. "Are you going to do?"
"This," Teresa laughed outright, a decidedly delightful gleam in her eyes
as she kneed him with full force in the groin. He gave one startled groan of
pain before collapsing on the floor at her feet. She smiled evilly and kicked
him hard in the back and then the shoulder. All but one of the others were
staring, goggle-eyed and slack-jawed, at her. The book dropped from Justin's
hands with a resounding *thud*.
"I thought I said to give me my books back," Teresa scowled impatiently.
She crossed her arms over her chest, and tapped her heavily booted toe for
emphasis with each word. "Not throw them around. You have no respect for age
or wisdom."
"You bitch!" Erik Faulk, whose height was inversely proportional to his
intelligence, charged his much smaller intended victim. Teresa would have
giggled, had the situation been any different, at the boy's mind-voice.
< < Gonna kill 'er, gonna kill 'er, gonna kill 'er.. > > He sounded like a much
stupider version of the little engine that could.
"What is going on here!?" A single figure emerged from the library, his
hair graying, his cable-knit sweater a creamy color, just in time to see
something he would never have believed possible. He didn't notice the four boys
who had made a mad dash to the door the moment they had heard his voice.
Teresa neatly sidestepped her would-be attacker, who had the misfortune to
meet her fist on his way through. The combined force resulted in a painfully
cracked nose. Not a moment later, Teresa was behind him; she let loose with a
sweeping kick which caught the backs of his knees. They buckled under, and Eric
went down in a heap on top of Franklin. Both boys were moaning with pain, but
more of it was embarrassment, she almost laughed. They had deserved it.
"You are going to the principal's office right this second young lady!"
The librarian bellowed, shocked at the scene he had just witnessed. When Teresa
turned to face him, a small shiver when down his spine. Her hair was a mess,
and her light shirt was torn at the shoulder seam.. What were worse was the look
of her eyes, and the /smile/ on her face.
"Yes sir," Teresa said, her voice eerily calm as she knelt down to pick up
her books. "Of course sir." Books tucked safely beneath her arm once again,
she started for the principal's office. Indeed, she was one seriously weird
girl.
******Present******
It was cooler in the library than the hallway, Teresa sighed with
immediate relief. She was still not used to the intensity of the Californian
sun, and was sure she'd regret not slathering herself down with sunscreen before
leaving the house. She drank in the familiar scent of books, some new, but most
far older than herself. An older man was shuffling through some papers near the
back of the room. No time like the present, she decided, heading for him.
"Hello?" she asked, leaning across a low bookshelf.
"Buffy? Oh yes, hello there," the man said, turning to face her. A look
of concern was wiped from his face. "What can I do for you?"
Teresa drew in a quick breath, backing away, blinking. She'd been
careless, letting her mind open up in the comfort of what felt like secure
surroundings. So many images, thoughts, worries, frustrations.. It had been an
outpouring not intended for her, but for someone who would never be able to
sense it. Buffy's picture was now all but branded in her consciousness. She
opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Without looking back, Teresa
headed for the door and went down the hallway in a rush.
"Strange girl," Giles frowned. "Very strange girl." He shrugged, and went
back to his work.
********************************************************************************
"Ring around the rosey
a pocket full of poseies
Ashes, Ashes
We all fall down."
Children's song about the Black Plague during the Middle Ages
********************************************************************************
"So things have been rather quiet lately," Willow commented, working hard
to keep up with Buffy and review her notes for the next class at the same time.
"Yeah, too quiet," Buffy answered, looking a little agitated. "I don't
like it. No new vamps in almost three days. I think they're planning
something."
"You could be right, or, maybe they're just taking a little vacation,"
Willow observed, then immediately wished she hadn't. Looking up, the sight of
Giles was an unasked for godsend.
"Let me guess," Buffy asked as soon as she noticed where Willow was
looking and Giles was within hearing range. "There are no more vampires left,
no more demons, and I can go out and lead a normal life?"
"What?" Giles asked with his typical grasp of sarcasm. "Not exactly," he
went on, frowning. "Where's Xander? I think you all need to hear this."
"He's probably in class already, why? No, don't say it.. I'm feeling
there's a prophecy involved here." Buffy grimaced, then hit her forehead with
her hand when she heard Giles's response.
"How did you know?"
------(*)------
"And you were saying.." Buffy waved her hand toward the rather spaced out
looking Giles, wanting to see if that would speed his recovery toward reality.
"Oh yes.." Giles pushed his glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose.
"The prophecy." He pulled out a small, dusty volume, looking incredibly like
the rest of the small, dusty volumes he owned, from underneath a pile of
computer printouts. He opened it, then flipped quickly through until he came to
the right page. He opened his mouth to speak, but Xander beat him to it.
"Prophecy, prophecy.. Why must there always be some sort of prophecy? Did
those ancient guys know everything that would happen in the future? And if so,
why couldn't they have warned the us about useful things, like.." Xander,
having finally noticed that everyone present was staring at him, decided to cut
his speech short. "Or, I should be grateful that they only saw all the demons
and monsters and vampires.." Everyone was still staring. He stopped talking.
"Well, I for one think that prophecies are a good thing. I mean, what
would happen if we didn't know about these things before they happened at all?"
Willow piped up softly, then focused her attention back on the computer screen
in front of her. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, making an odd clacking-
echoing sound in the mostly quiet library.
"Yes, quite," Giles said, holding the book open with one hand. "Now back
to the matter at hand?"
Buffy straightened, managing to look moderately attentive from her perch
on the table.
"If my calculations are correct, the events written here should come to
pass in just over a week. I could, of course, be wrong," Giles began to muse to
himself, picking the book up and walking around with it. "This book is written
in some sort of archaic German dialect. It took me weeks to translate it. And
then there are all this small markings which I still haven't figured out.."
"Uh, Giles?" Xander had apparently been paying more attention than Buffy,
who tended not to listen until actual information came into the conversation.
Giles looked up at the sound of his name for a brief instant, then started
to slowly circle around toward the table again. "Yes? Sorry. Here we are..
The prophecy itself is written in verse form, though translated into English
there's a lot of it that doesn't make sense."
"There's actually a lot that doesn't make sense in the English language,"
Willow volunteered, not looking up this time.
"Like, why is soccer called soccer here and football almost everywhere
else," Buffy added helpfully, then shrugged as Giles gave her a decidedly
confused look. "Okay, so that's not the best example," she finished.
Satisfied finally that it was safe to read, Giles paced in front of the
table. He started out hesitantly at first..
"And one shall come from a peaceful land. She shall be one alien to
society, an outcast, and the taste of death has once filled her heart. With
mother's curse, the old soul shall be awakened within her breast." He paused
long enough that the silence was overwhelming.
"Go on.." Buffy urged, by now as intensely interested as Willow and
Xander.
Giles blinked a few times, then did as instructed. "To seek her, you will
not find. Better to wait upon her coming into the new land. On both sides of
the battle, she shall acquire friend and foe, but before the winner is declared,
one from the side shall turn to the other."
Willow had ceased her project to listen intently. She put her elbow on
the mousepad, and rested her head on her open hand. Nobody noticed that while
she was listening, she was watching Xander a great deal more.
"Her blood is none, but her blood is sweet as nectar to the dark ones."
"Her blood is none? What's that supposed to mean? And I'm assuming these
'dark ones' are vampires, right?" Buffy interrupted, brows drawn together
thoughtfully.
"Well, I'm still working on some of this you remember," Giles said. "I
think the blood in that first sentence is not literal blood. More like kinfolk,
relatives."
"That makes sense, a little," Xander said with more outright intelligence
than he usually showed. "'Her blood is none.' She has no relatives.."
"That's impossible," Buffy shot back, smoothing out a wrinkle on her new
blouse. She hoped this one didn't become bloodstained and unwearable as quickly
as her last couple had. "She's got to have relatives. Even if they're all
dead. I mean, she has to have parents unless I missed something in Biology 101.
Besides, it already said something about the girl being cursed by her mother.
Hence, she has at least one relative."
"We can come back to that part," Giles kept up his pacing, and turned a
page in the book. "And in answer to your first.. second question Buffy.
There's still a great deal more written. If you'd let me finish.." Hearing no
more arguments, he continued.
"And she must be taken by the vampires. Afterwards, she will not be one
of them, nor one of them, and never she was one of us, but like the power of one
of them and one of them combined. Two into the whole shall she be powerful."
"Yeah. Am I the only one thinking that this whole 'powerful' thing is
sounding bad?" Xander cut in and was basically ignored.
"Not be one of them nor one of them.. Well, that just clears things up,"
Buffy frowned deeply. "So, according to the prophecy, she absolutely has to be
turned into a vampire.. One of those 'thems' is probably vampire, right? So
she'll be a vampire, but not really a vampire?"
"Precisely," Giles nodded, overlooking the sarcasm. "I've yet to figure
out what the other 'them' is. The next part is actually a little more
interesting."
"You mean there's more?" Willow was looking a little nervous.
"The Slayer's second shall know her by sight of raven and flickering
candles, but the angel shall know her first by raven and scars. Before the
angel drinks, he shall make her drink of Hell."
"The angel," Buffy whispered, gone pale and quiet. "Angel. He's going
to..." Thoughts of what she had gone through after.. after.. she couldn't even
think it to herself right now. She wouldn't wish that sort of pain on her worst
enemy, and she hadn't even met this girl.
Nobody said anything after that, so Giles went on.
"Nine from the sides shall come searching for her, and the Watchers.
Three to darkness, three to light, three to the shades grey. With help from the
three to the shades grey, she must choose between the darkness and the light.
The will is hers, and hers alone. To rule in the darkness or make beautiful the
light. Two the same and separate and together at once, contained in one, her
choice will determine the fate of the future."
"I think we need to find this girl." Xander was the first to find his
voice, as usual, and he seemed to be on a course for setting the most amount of
logic expressed in a single day. "Are there any new girls coming here within
the next week?" He turned and asked Willow.
Willow nearly banged her head against the side of the monitor as she
hurried to find out. Behind the screen, her face colored in a sudden blush--she
wondered if Xander had seen her staring. It took only a couple of clicks and a
few typed commands and all the office records were on display. She frowned at
what she saw.
"There's two new guys coming, brothers. One's a freshman and one a
senior, but there's no new girls scheduled until next month."
"Strange," Giles responded. "Try looking up any girls who have arrived in
the past month."
There were a few more clacking sounds, and Willow double-clicked on
something. "Four girls," she announced. "Two freshmen, one sophomore, and one
senior."
"I've already met the senior," Buffy offered, grimacing. "I really,
really hope she's not the one whose shoulders the fate of the world rests on.
'Hi,'" she began to imitate in a sickeningly perky voice, making Willow grin
despite herself. "'I'm Victoria Peters and I'm a Virgo and do you like my nail
polish and can I be your friend and I'm a big ditz.'"
"Wow Buff," Xander said. "Maybe you should try out for the school play."
"I resent that," Buffy crossed her arms over her chest and glared for a
minute. "Besides, Victoria came to school with her parents the first day."
"Alright, we can't rule her out, but assuming that this Victoria Peters
isn't," Giles stopped pacing long enough to read the passages over a few times.
"Isn't the one we're looking for, that still leaves three others. Willow?"
"Elizabeth Andrews, Crystal Diffie, and Teresa Knight--freshman, freshman,
and sophomore, respectively," Willow replied as if she had been waiting for a
chance to speak. She looked up. "All of them but one, Teresa Knight, have two
parents listed, and she's arriving.. today, actually." She clicked the mouse
button a couple of times. "Victoria and Crystal both have grandparents and
Crystal has an aunt listed as emergency contacts."
"That leaves Elizabeth and Teresa as our best bets," Giles remarked. "But
I'd still like to check on the other two."
"So I suppose we should, what, go talk to them? Try to figure out which
one is this week's prophecy girl?" Buffy asked, hopping down off the table; she
was frowning, remembering the last particularly nasty prophecy she had gotten
tangled up in that had nearly killed her. "'The Slayer's second shall know her
by sight of raven and flickering candles, but the angel shall know her first by
raven and scars.' Slayer's second?"
"It is a little odd at best. I think the best course of action at the
present moment would be to observe them, only. We don't want to risk one of
them finding out more than she needs to know," Giles finished just as the bell
rang. Xander, Willow, and Buffy filed out quickly, Xander mumbling something
about not being the one to 'observe' Victoria Peters. On their way out, none
noticed a dark-haired girl leaning against the wall nearby. Buffy tensed
briefly, blinking and scanning the halls, then shook her head and continued on.
Teresa quietly walked away, heading toward her first class.
********************************************************************************
"When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however
improbable, must be the truth." -- Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
********************************************************************************
"Are we there yet?" Methos whined with all the perfection of a six-year-
old who'd had five thousand years of practice. He leaned back against the
comfortable padding of the seat, grinning. He was being an ass, and knew it,
and was enjoying it simply because it annoyed the Highlander so much; that it
annoyed Richie was only an added bonus.
"Would you -shut- -up-?" Richie turned, and threw a candy-bar wrapper as
hard as he could at the ancient immortal. It fluttered and ended back in the
front seat.
Methos feigned absolute horror, hunching his shoulders up and covering his
head with his hands. "There's no need to get violent now, is there Richie?" He
straightened. "Besides, if you're going to throw things at me, it could at
least be food."
He was rewarded with a granola bar to his chest.
"Now that's more like it," Methos grinned, picking up the snack and
applying himself to it with enthusiasm. He noted MacLeod's hands tightening
about the steering wheel, and wondered if he should stop any time too soon.
That was one of the good things about having friends with a strong ethical
code--they generally would not kill you simply for annoying them. He looked in
the rear-view mirror and saw the large veins throbbing on Mac's forehead. Time
to stop.
Duncan MacLeod ground his teeth together, then forced himself to smile
pleasantly. He kept his eyes carefully to the road, not daring to look behind
him. What on Earth could he have been thinking? He knew what he had been
thinking. A quiet trip to a small California town, just the three of them, a
two week vacation.. Joe had assured him that there were no Immortals on record
living in Sunnydale. There was going to be a large art exhibit, open to the
public, for most of the first week. He had thought the culture would do Richie
some good, and then hadn't the heart to leave Methos back in Seacouver. But
driving? From Seacouver to Sunnydale? With three immortals in one car?
Silently, Duncan berated himself for not having taken Richie's suggestion that
they travel via the airlines. Really, he had had no idea that Methos could be
so terribly irritating when there was nothing else to do. And he was enjoying
it.
Richie sighed with relief as soon as he saw the small green sign.
Sunnydale, population.. It zipped by too fast for him to read it accurately--
unimpressive, in any case. "This hotel we're staying at.. It would by any
chance be built on holy ground, would it Mac?" he asked hopefully.
"I have no idea Rich," MacLeod answered, probably thinking the exact same
thing as his student. "Could be," he added, seeing the expression creeping over
the younger immortal's features.
The immortals settled into a more or less strained silence, watching the
small town speed by. They continued to pass street after street of small,
unassuming businesses, some looking closed and deserted, no lights on even
during what should be prime shopping time for the out of high school crowd. The
traffic was light, the pedestrians nearly non-existent. To their left, a small
diner that promised 24-hour service, to their right, a laundromat promising the
same. There were only a few cars in the parking lots of each.
"Is it just me, or is this town looking a little dead?" Richie asked as
they passed through a small residential district. Though there was nothing
really odd-looking about it, it just felt.. different, quiet. The others felt
it too, apparently, to judge by their expressions, but said nothing. He sighed,
then groaned as they pulled into the parking lot of a medium-sized but
respectful looking hotel. Nearly every space was filled, and nearly half of
those spaces with -mini-vans-. *Great, just great. I'm going to have to spend
two weeks with a bunch of screaming brats.* It was not that he particularly
disliked kids, it was just not his idea of great fun.
********************************************************************************
"There was never a genius without a tincture of madness." -- Aristotle
********************************************************************************
Buffy was bored out of her skull, as she usually was during history class,
but she forced herself to keep her eyes open, and focus in some direction
vaguely facing the chalkboard. Every once in awhile, she'd glance toward the
girl two rows in front of her, and three seats to the left. Elizabeth Andrews
had managed to get herself placed in this class by virtue of her old school
having conflicting views on what was to be studied from one grade to another.
She was rather tall, almost gangly, wore glasses, and her wavy cinnamon-brown
hair had been braided softly. Elizabeth was a nice enough girl, she thought to
herself, had almost instantly found acceptance among the school's thriving
'nerd' population and rejection from Cordelia's cronies. Buffy sighed silently,
scribbling something particularly crucial to today's lecture down in her
notebook.
------(*)------
Xander had yet to get anything more than a glance at his 'assignment',
Crystal Diffie. She was seated near the door of the classroom across the hall
from his, which meant that he was forced to crane his neck around rather
awkwardly to see her.
"Mister Harris? If you could please pay attention.."
The teacher's irritatingly grating voice, when used to call his name or
any version of it, always forced Xander to sit up straight in his seat and adopt
a properly neutral expression, which usually served to draw attention elsewhere.
Seeing her go back to writing out some enormous equation out on the board, he
sneaked another look at Crystal. Her head was bowed down over a large textbook,
and she looked as if she was actually listening to whatever the teacher was
saying there. Certainly uncommon, but not strange enough to draw his attention
for very long. *Nah, can't be her.*
------(*)------
Teresa found herself in the back row of a small, sunny classroom. A few
CDs had been attached somehow to a display board to the left of the door, and
there was a brief paragraph explaining the many uses of a CD-ROM next to each
one. On every desk there was a nearly new computer. *Some newer than others.*
Teresa noted, glancing at the more powerful model at the teacher's desk. And
teaching this particular class, one Willow Rosenberg. In point of fact, the
'teacher' was the last to arrive and looked more than a little flustered as she
entered just before the bell. Teresa caught quite a few snickers and rude
comments, both spoken, and, when they managed to slip through, mental, about the
probable cause for the delay. *So that's the principal.* The short, large-
eared man who had been discussing something with the smaller girl stalked away
after leaving something in her hands.
Willow hurried to get things started without any more delay. In her
experience if anything greater than two minutes elapsed between the bell and the
start of class it would be nearly impossible to teach anything afterwards. She
peered briefly at the clipboard Mr. Snyder had left her, and raised an eyebrow
at the new addition to the roster.
"Teresa Knight?" she asked, peering between the rows of familiar students.
In the back row, a hand was raised over the top of one of the computers. *Maybe
I'll ask her to stay after class.*
After that, the class was rather uneventful from Willow's point of view.
The programming that she was attempting to explain seemed to go right over the
heads of several of the students, as usual, though she found the exercises easy
to the point of being painfully dull. Since there was not a peep from near
Teresa, it was not until the bell had rung, dismissing all for lunch, that she
got around to heading for the back of the classroom. The sound of someone
tapping away at a keyboard ceased just before Willow received her first glimpse
of her new student.
Teresa had chosen the seat furthest back and furthest in the corner away
from the windows, casting her in as much shadow as the room allowed. Willow
blinked in surprise at the girl, who had seated herself legs stretched out and
arms crossed over her chest. The computer cast a slight, unsteady light across
her pale features and tightly tied back black hair. Willow peered at the
monitor, and raised her eyebrows at the complex fractal program that was being
run. The results were beautiful, colorful, and had absolutely nothing to do
with lesson she had just taught.
Willow looked back at Teresa, and caught the other girl's dark, incredibly
expressive blue eyes which were sparkling with amusement. She hadn't moved an
inch from the position she had taken up.
"Are you Teresa Knight?" Willow heard herself asking, more than a little
drawn to this proud, silent girl. She reminded her of Buffy, in an almost
completely opposite sort of way.
"As far as I know," Teresa answered, laughing inwardly and allowing a
small smile to grace her features. She did not need to open her mind and be
assaulted by the rush of emotions from those lingering in the halls less than
five feet away to know that she was affecting her 'teacher'. *Must be my
magnetic personality,* she thought to herself with a silent snicker. "Can I
help you with something?" she suggested more than asked, and reached over to
shut down the computer at the same time.
Willow caught herself staring, and politely averted her eyes as soon as
she realized what she was doing. A blush started to creep over her pale skin,
but the shirt that Teresa was wearing deserved a second look in a town like
Sunnydale. It was basically a plain black t-shirt, but printed in simple white
lettering on its front was the phrase 'bite me, please?'. She wondered if
Teresa had any idea how literally some of the town's residents would take that
message. *How could she?*
"Actually, I was wondering if maybe I could help you with anything... I
mean, you being new here and all." Willow decided that now would probably be a
good time to be direct and straightforward. "You probably don't have any of
your textbooks, do you? You have to get them at the library you know. If you'd
like I could show you the way there."
"I think I'd like that," Teresa smiled, standing. She and Willow were
actually not that different in height, Teresa having only an inch and maybe a
half advantage over the other girl, but something suggested that Teresa had a
much greater control over her body and movements, a sort of power all her own.
Willow found herself suddenly and inexplicably nervous, listening to the girl's
soft, deep voice. She shrugged off the feeling, reassuring herself with the
thought that there weren't many demons in human form who could walk around
during the day. "If you'd just lead the way..."
------(*)------
"Okay, she's in the library right now, and I don't think she knows
anything," Willow explained excitedly as she lead Buffy and Xander toward the
room in question. "I wouldn't have brought her, but.." She paused, then
shrugged, hugging her books closer. "I was just so sure that it was her.."
"Hey, no need to make excuses Will," Xander said, interrupting Willow's
vocal train of thought. "We all know what it's like to have a hunch and just
have to -go- with it, right then, don't we Buffy?" he asked, turning to face his
much more subdued companion.
Buffy didn't respond, instead, she grimaced, rubbing her hand along her
forehead which wrinkled from the expression. The sensation was disturbingly
powerful, and not all that much different from that she got when confronting one
of the fang gang. She'd already felt it once before, and not too far away from
where she was right now. Buffy peered carefully right and left, but there was
no shadowed corner or closet nearby for a vampire to hide in. She shook her
head, then blinked, realizing that Xander and Willow had both stopped in front
of her. "What?"
"Are you okay Buffy? Because for a minute there we thought you'd been hit
by a ton of bricks or something like that," Willow replied, echoed by Xander's
vehement head-shaking. "Something up we should know about?"
"No, no.. Just a little headache, nothing major," Buffy answered honestly
enough as the feeling gradually lost its intensity. With vampires, her
Slayersense usually stayed on full alert until the bloodsucker in question was
either dust or well out of range. There had only been one vampire she'd been
able to be with for very long... "Really," she insisted, hurrying past her
friends when neither moved.
Buffy didn't look up as she pushed aside the library door and stepped into
the relative quietude that marked the place, and she advanced a few steps more
before she realized that the odd *buzz* was increasing. A frown forming on her
mobile features, she caught Teresa Knight's eyes for the first time.
Something blistered between the two, twisting into a narrow-eyed glare
from each. Teresa imagined that, had she would have been more feline in nature,
the hair would be raised along her back, and she would have hissed a warning to
the Slayer that getting any closer would be detrimental to her health and well
being. The same feeling of something not quite right invading her space that
had gotten to Buffy had passed to Teresa at the same instant. She continued to
stare back at the girl, seemingly not much older than herself, who had become
her instant adversary. Something close to hatred burned in Teresa's eyes, but
she forced her body to maintain its relaxed position. It obeyed with one
failing--her fingers began tapping out a steady rhythm on the arm of the chair
she was seated at.
"Well, I suppose that pretty much confirms your suspicion Willow," Giles
whispered to the very confused looking two who had managed to push by Buffy when
the Slayer had stopped in her tracks. "I'd hazard a guess that this is not how
she normally greets newcomers to the school." He pressed his lips together
thoughtfully, wondering if he should do something to break the obviously hostile
stare-down going on between the girl he was sworn to guard and protect and the
one who quite possibly would be the key to keeping the world from falling into a
thousand years of darkness. From his standpoint, things were looking pretty
grim at the moment.
When it seemed like neither of the girls would back down, Willow finally
started to get worried, looking between them. She couldn't understand why Buffy
would be so horribly awful to Teresa when they hadn't even been introduced.
Xander and Giles were not doing much of anything, so she gathered up her courage
and stepped right between the two of them, breaking the eye contact and
resulting in both looking at her in the same instant.
"Buffy, this is Teresa Knight. Teresa, this is Buffy Summers," Willow got
the entire thing out in one breath. She swallowed, feeling the fine hairs along
the back of her neck standing upright. *Major wigguns..* They were both
staring at her now. Willow beat a hasty retreat to the relative safety behind
Xander and Giles.
"So you're the Slayer," Teresa drawled lazily, letting the words drip from
her lips as she steepled her fingers and lowered her head in a classic brooding
pose. A small, one-sided smile appeared, matched by a sudden dangerous gleam in
her eyes as she looked up.
Buffy was across the room in a heartbeat, literally, and had pinned
Teresa's forearms to the arms of the chair with unnerving strength, or what
would have been unnerving to any more well-adjusted person. "Give me one reason
not to ram a stake through your heart right this second." She demanded in a
harsh whisper and was more than a little perturbed when Teresa merely peered
curiously at the hands holding her down.
"Because you don't have one on you?" Teresa suggested flippantly enough to
anger Buffy into stepping away. "Or maybe that's not a good enough reason, is
it? How about because.." She smiled once more, cupping her chin in one hand
and putting a finger across her lips. *This is rather fun.* "I'm a human
being?" *This is going to be so much fun. They do say to kill two birds with
one stone...*
The three standing on the sidelines had yet to recover, and all were
staring on in greater or lesser states of shock, depending on how much they had
expected the little scene that had just unfolded.
Giles closed his mouth with an audible snap as soon as he realized that it
was open. *What in God's name is going on here? How could Teresa know that
Buffy was the Slayer?* He looked down at Xander and Willow, but from their
expressions he could tell that neither knew anything more about this than he
did. *And what is going on with Buffy?* Even if Teresa had somehow managed to
find out about Buffy, that was not reason enough to threaten her life. *Maybe
Teresa knows she's part of the prophecy?* That seemed like a likely enough
interpretation, for half of the situation anyway. "Buffy?" he asked, turning to
glance at the Slayer, to demand an explanation, any explanation.
Buffy turned on her heels and stalked out of the library without a word,
forcing Giles to follow behind with a glance back at Willow and Xander--they
seemed to be getting over things well enough, considering.
The sudden rush of quiet that followed Buffy's abrupt exit allowed Willow
to finally blink back to some semblance of reality. She shook her head,
glancing at Teresa and now beyond confusion. Xander frowned, torn between
following after Buffy, staying to protect Willow, and wanting to get a few words
to the rather good looking, albeit incredibly unusual behaving, girl in front of
him.
Teresa raised an eyebrow at the sudden departure, but no more than that.
Calmly, she picked up the paper and scissors she had been fiddling with before
the others had arrived. The ends of the rather wide band had been taped
together, but twisted instead of continuous to form a sort of Mobius strip. She
started to hum to herself, quietly, mindful of the eyes that were constantly
monitoring her movements. *snip* She made the first cut, precise, almost
surgical. *snip* She severed the loop directly down the middle, producing a
doubly twisted loop. Teresa noticed Willow watching closer.. *She's seen this
before.* *snip* Again, Teresa divided the loop into equal parts. *snip* It
fell apart in her hands, one strip of paper becoming two joined links. *I think
I'll keep her.* She smiled, and laid the scissors beside the roll of tape on
the table beside her, then settled back to examine her simple creation.
*Maybe.*
------(*)------
"Buffy, are you alright?" Giles asked, finally catching up with his young
charge. When she turned around to face him, he knew instantly how ridiculous a
question he had asked.
"She gives me the creeps Giles. I'm talking major bad vibes here," Buffy
said, rubbing at the back of her neck in a futile effort in calming down. "I've
never felt anything like that before."
Giles frowned thoughtfully, then let out a small sigh and ran a hand
through his ever thinning hair. "That still doesn't explain why you would jump
at her like that. You completely lost control over yourself."
"I know, I know," Buffy let out on an exasperated breath. "I guess I was
surprised. How on earth could she know I was the Slayer? I mean, now that I
think about it, somebody must have told her, right?" When Giles didn't answer
right away, she asked again in a slightly more choked town of voice. "Right?"
"To be perfectly honest Buffy, there's a good possibility that she knows,
because she knows she's part of the prophecy. You are certain that she's the
one?"
"Ooh, yeah," Buffy assured, leaning heavily against the wall behind her.
"If she's not the one we're looking for, my name's not Buffy Summers. There's
another thing about this that doesn't feel right. Doom and gloom aside, don't
you think that that was a little too easy, finding her?"
"Well, the prophecy does state that you will not find her, so the logical
opposite would be her finding you. Still, I can see where you're coming from.
If you are getting these ah.. 'bad vibes' from her, that's all the more reason
why we have to keep a close eye over her," Giles insisted.
Buffy sighed, closing her eyes for a moment. *Nothing's happened yet.
Nothing is set in stone. We just have to keep her from siding with Angel and
his friends.* Still, she couldn't help but thinking things had taken a serious
turn, for the worst.
********************************************************************************
"The greatest pleasure in life is doing what people say you cannot do."
--Walter Bagehot
********************************************************************************
Richie sighed, leaning against the cold brick wall that was the back of
the art gallery. He'd had about as much 'culture' as he could stand for the
moment, or the next two or three years for that matter. Duncan had seemed to
have been enjoying himself immensely, and Methos, though not incredibly
interested in the artwork, had managed to start up a conversation with one of
the gallery's female patrons. As for himself, Richie was seriously pondering
heading back to Seacouver.
This was in the older section of Sunnydale, and some of the other
buildings within Richie's field of view had obviously not had the same care as
the gallery had received. While they all looked more or less descent from the
front, back here he could see where the brickwork was crumbling and an old metal
fire escape was all but rusted away. He doubted it would hold the weight of a
small child, let alone somebody trying to escape from a fire. A few piles of
garbage, old newspapers and crates--cardboard and wood, made him remember not
too fondly his days on the street. It was nearly dark, the last few streaks of
golden light fading on the horizon.
The lone vampire kept cautiously to the shadows, out of sight, unwilling
to expose himself to even the slightest amount of sunlight. He had maintained a
close watch over the young, red-headed man that had stepped out of the gallery
some ten minutes ago. He hoped that he wouldn't go back in.. In just a few
minutes he could venture out... He was young, inexperienced, and the blood-lust
was screaming for him to simply jump at his intended victim. He licked his lips
with anticipation, then growled softly, no longer able to keep quiet. As soon
as he realized what he had done, he knelt further down in the darkness.
Richie felt a shiver creep from the base of his spine to spread across the
base of his scull. He frowned, suddenly uneasy at the feeling of being watched
and ready to all but swear that he had heard a growl from somewhere nearby. He
quickly scanned the narrow alleyway again, and again, found nothing. There was
no buzz, no warning of an approaching immortal, but still, he decided that
making a quick exit would be the better part of discretion.
"Damn," the vampire hissed to himself, watching the man, his prey, vanish
back into the gallery and finding himself still unable to go after him. He
glared at the dwindling sunlight, then turned his eyes away.
------(*)------
Angel leaned at a precarious angle against the wooden fence that was
beginning to feel rather flimsy under his weight. The sun had set only an hour
or so ago, and the dark surface was still holding the day's heat. Despite
himself, he enjoyed it, and decided he would simply continue leaning until the
thin planks either began to crack or Teresa showed up. He thrust his hands deep
into his pants pockets and crossed one leg over the other at the ankle--the very
picture of nonchalance.
A group of four teenaged girls passed by on the opposite side of the
street, all chattering noisily between themselves like some particularly
annoying species of avian. He gave them only a passing glance; one of them,
sandy-haired, tanned, looked back at him, slowed, then hurried to catch up with
the others at his disturbingly toothy grin. He was not in a mood to be bothered
by anyone.
Just as Angel was beginning to wonder if Teresa would ever show up, and at
the same time was pondering whom to slowly torture for the delay, he heard the
slightest sound of footfalls from the alley some ten feet away. With only that
warning, the raven-headed form of his newest obsession stepped into the meager
light. *Better late than never,* he frowned darkly, daring her to come up with
a good excuse. Before Teresa had taken more than a few steps toward him, she
stopped, turning her head cautiously right then left to take in the entire area,
and let out a small sigh of what could only be exasperation.
*What the hell?* Angel scowled again, but rose, stepping away from the
fence which rattled slightly with the movement. He glanced around quickly, but
sensed nothing moving under the bare sliver of a moon. Teresa turned and bolted
for the darkness she had just left. Angel followed more slowly, a bemused
expression appearing on his face. *She obviously knows something I don't
know...*
Teresa grabbed Angel by the sleeve the moment he rounded the corner and
pulled him deeper into the alley, between the houses, and into the dark and
narrow one way street that ran behind this section of the town. When they were
finally in a relatively quiet corner beneath a streetlight, Teresa at last
slowed down, then stopped, looking at Angelus with a tinge of uncertainty
showing in her face.
"You were late," Angel chuckled lowly to the girl in front of him. He
walked over to the post that held up the dimly flickering orange light, and
leaned against it with a sideways glance. Her manner was enough to tell him
that Teresa was going nowhere. "Why?"
"I'm being followed," Teresa offered matter-of-factly, as if it should be
obvious. At Angel's suddenly upturned brow, she brushed a lock of silken hair
away from her face and sighed softly. "Willow and Buffy, they're both following
me. If they catch you with me.. Well, I don't want to take that chance."
She carefully opened her mind, exploring his in a way that was only
possible without outside interference. The anger, no, the -rage- that came to
dominate Angel's thoughts with the mention of the Slayer was delicious, as was
the unexpected protectiveness directed.. directed at her? She smiled, enjoying
the rare sensation, and took one of his hands in hers before the vampire could
do anything except glance around, expecting his mortal enemy to appear any
moment. The touch brought his attention, which had started to wander, back to
her.
"Not tonight. There is too much I must know, and too much you want to
know about me." Angel started to open his mouth. She silenced him with a
finger placed to her lips and a shaking of her head. "Don't even bother denying
it."
Since Angelus saw no reason to argue with what could prove to be himself
in the end, he shrugged and allowed himself to be led by this small mortal girl
--only once did he question his motives for not simply taking her right now, and
that was promptly forgotten. Her flesh was colder than Buffy's had ever been,
but eventually he could not help but begin to compare Teresa to his former love.
The most obvious difference was the hair--where Buffy's had always been a golden
shade, shadowed with richness and warmth, hers flowed smoothly with every step
and movement, a dark, ever-changing liquid, cold with reflected moonlight. How
much he would like to run his fingers through the soft strands, brush them away
from her face, her neck.. Her neck.. Sweet, salty under his tongue...
"All in good time," Teresa laughed softly in spite of herself, and then
looked back at the incredible force she was leading as obediently as any mother
might guide a small child. The expression of confusion, wonder, and urgency on
his face was delightful, and they were not far at all from her house.
"I suppose you'd like a little snack when we arrive, wouldn't you?" She
grinned, turning her eyes back to the twisting route she was attempting to
follow. "Of course you would."
Actually, he would. *I wonder just how much she can see?* the thought
came, mischievous.
"We're almost to my home. I'll tell you when we get there. Please, do
have a -little- patience, Angelus."
*So she can read my every thought. I never told her my full name. I
wonder...* Angel grinned, allowing himself to slip into his game face for a
fraction of a second, yet kept the pressure steadily normal on the hand he
clasped. He leaned forward, not an easy feat while walking, fangs reaching for
her neck...
"Don't you think that's tad premature?" Teresa said, amusement weaving
throughout her voice and his fangs a bare inch or so from the pulsing veins and
arteries that she knew to be easily accessible, lying just underneath the tender
skin of her neck. "I certainly do."
After that, he didn't bother to test her again during the entire eleven
and a half minutes it took to get to her house. Once, making a dash through an
undeveloped, open lot, Teresa started at something lurking in the branches of a
large tree, detouring around the spreading limbs. Angel sensed another one of
his kind only as they passed by, and raised the girl's senses another notch in
his estimation.
"Is there any particular reason we're in such a hurry?" Angel inquired as
they rounded a corner and Teresa stepped up the pace considerably. The long
folds of her coat whipped back around his legs with a sudden gust of warm air.
She didn't answer, but instead stopped suddenly in front of a modestly sized
house. He remembered it--the boy had proved quite successful, surviving his
first two encounters with the Slayer, and was still around somewhere. *I'll
have to remember to stop here more often.*
"Come in, come in," Teresa invited him, stepping inside at the same time.
"Curiosity killed the cat, and probably the occasional vampire, but if you don't
get in -here- I'm not going to be responsible when all your precious plans
crumble to dust."
Angelus snorted, and lowered his brows in a definite glare as he stepped
past the invisible barrier that had been destroyed with her words. *And which
of my plans would those be?*
"Teresa?" A weak baritone voice called out from near the back of the
house, and gained in volume with the sound of nearing footsteps. "Is that you?
Where have you been? I've been looking all over for you! Oh, hello there. Can
I help you?"
The man that stood before Angel now had the soft body of one who was
unused to physical labor of any sort. His sandy-colored hair was thinning on
top, but had been carefully brushed to make the most of what he still had. His
clothing was obviously of the best sort, probably tailored to fit, Angel took in
with a single calculated glance. He smiled, and licked his upper lip slowly as
he peered in Teresa's direction. A small grin and nod of her head told him all
that he needed to know.
"Why yes, I do believe you can," Angel answered, moving forward and
putting an arm over the man's shoulders. Timothy blinked, and flinched at the
contact, but didn't move away. He eyed his daughter questioningly, and found
nothing reassuring in her overly sweet and dangerously innocent expression. The
last time she had looked like that, he'd had to pay the hospital bills of two
rather beaten and bloody kids. "You see, I'm rather hungry, and I think I'll be
having you for dinner."
Timothy had time to utter one last low mutter of protest, still
uncomprehending, before Angel sunk his fangs deeply into the man's exposed neck.
Two sets of eyes, one clouded with panic, one gleaming with deadly mirth, turned
to Teresa. Both were met with the same small, nearly disturbing smile.
"T-Ter.. Teresa.." His voice was gruff, breathy. Timothy reached out for
his daughter with one hand, still trying his best to fight off the monster that
was quickly killing him with the other. When she stepped away from his fingers,
the last light of hope died in his eyes. They dimmed, the lids drooped, then
closed. Angelus continued to suck deeply until the man's heart ceased and the
body went completely limp in his arms. He let it drop with a heavy, thudding
sound as the skull hit the hard wooden floorboards.
"I trust he was up to standard?" Teresa queried, raising an eyebrow at the
vampire in front of her who licking the last of her father's blood from around
his mouth with a twisted smirk.
"Delicious. My compliments actually," Angel laughed, baring his cleaned
fangs at her. Quicker than any human could react, even one with advance warning
of his intentions, he crossed the slight gap between himself and Teresa,
gripping her neck with one hand and raising her up so that her only her toes had
contact with the floor. "Now tell me why I shouldn't do the exact same thing to
you."
Calmly, she ran her fingers along the firm muscles in the arm that was
holding her up. Her midnight eyes sparkled with the smile that did not show on
her perfectly composed face. Cold amber met equally cold, dark sapphire for a
moment before Angel felt a creeping, not entirely unpleasant sensation running
along the length of his spine. Something, some indescribable and minute
shuffling of reality, and the thought was inserted among his own, soft, higher
in vibration, not exactly words, not exactly impressions, alien yet
identifiable.. ***Because I'm -far- too useful.***
"Holy.." Angel exclaimed, blinking and backing away, dropping Teresa in
the process. It was one thing to know that she could read his thoughts,
entirely another to know that she could.. could.. He had no idea how to describe
it.
Teresa groaned slightly, rubbing at the back of her neck and her temples
at the same time. She cast one vicious glare at Angel and was rather glad when
he took another step away from her.
"God, that -always- gives me the worst headache. I trust you won't be
attacking me again?" She didn't have to wait for him to respond. "That's a
relief. Now, before any more damage is done, do you think you could deal with
that?" she questioned, shaking her head a little to clear it and gesturing
toward her adoptive father's dead body.
Angelus stared, open-mouthed, at the girl. Some part of him still wanted
to snap her neck like a brittle twig for the danger she presented, but that was
buried deeply enough away to realize that the potential was far greater. *What
was that Drusilla had said? One shouldn't play with fire.* "Of course."
When Angel came back a few minutes later minus one blood-drained body,
Teresa was seated at a large couch, her feet propped up on an unpacked cardboard
box. Another was on the cushion next to her, opened. He could see books of all
types and descriptions within.
"Sit," Teresa commanded, pointing to the chair opposite her. He did.
"Since this will make the whole exercise that much less painful for us
both, I'll explain first," she began, waiting for Angel's nod before going on.
"That little thought throwing trick of mine, is really only a new addition."
"For as long as I can remember, I've been able to read the thoughts of
those around me--or maybe picked up on would be more accurate. I can't just
rummage around through a person's mind and discover their whole life history.
There's a marked difference between thoughts and memories. When I was small,
maybe three or four years old, I realized that not everybody could do what I
did." Teresa sighed, rubbing at the side of her neck again. Angel frowned a
bit, noting that there was not a mark there. Hadn't he even bruised the skin?
"I heal fast," she noted absently, then brushed it off with a negligent wave of
her hand.
"At the time, I had no idea why I could do what I did, what exactly it was
I -was- doing, and, for the most part, I couldn't control it. Which meant that
normal human interaction was nearly impossible." She cast a level gaze at the
demon Angelus. "I would read anyone that came within my range."
*And just what is that range?* Angel pondered, glancing between the many
boxes scattered around the room. Some looked to have been partially unpacked,
some were still bound with brownish packing tape.
"It started out as about fifty feet, maybe sixty or sixty-five with a
clear field of vision, meaning no walls between whoever it was and myself."
Teresa frowned as Angel's face flashed briefly with irritation. "You'd like me
to stop doing that, wouldn't you?"
"Yes," Angel delivered flatly. She nodded, and ran her fingers over the
books in the box next to her.
"Alright," Teresa said softly, then paused long enough to get Angel's
attention directed completely on herself again. "I won't Look, not right now
anyway. When I was seven, I finally learned how to block out thoughts, when I
didn't want to hear them, with some success. That year I spent what seemed like
months in a psychiatrist's office, and I finally realized that I had to hide my
ability, that I scared people." She smiled at Angel's low chuckle.
"I won't bore you with the details. Suffice it to say that as of right
now, I could open myself up and read the thoughts of any person within about a
three and a half mile radius of this spot." She help up a hand when he started
to speak, knowing what he was about to ask without having to resort to peering
into his thoughts.
"But it's not that easy. Imagine yourself standing in the middle of a
busy shopping mall. Suddenly you can hear -everything- that those people are
saying, at the same time. It's nothing but babble for the first minute or so,
and not that much fun--in fact it's almost painful. Sometimes I can't break
free afterwards, and then I'm likely to sit in a daze, unable to think, unable
to do anything, until something or somebody wakes me up. To find any particular
person takes time and effort. Some are louder than others, some have a
differentt mind-voice, some seem to be harder to read while are all but
screaming at you. I see you understand and no, I'm not reading you." Angel
nodded, the practical difficulties of the situation becoming apparent.
"It's much easier when I'm focused on a particular person, or even a group
of people.. or vampires for that matter," Teresa added as an afterthought. "The
further away I am, the harder it is, but if I've met someone before, face to
face, I've gone as far as.. half-way across the continent."
"Yes, I imagined you might like that," Teresa laughed at Angelus's pleased
growl of appreciation, then sat up straighter, looking away and turning her
voice to a more serious tone. "There's more. I still find it difficult to
block the general mental drivel that surrounds me during the day. What I said,
last night, about the burning... It does. It's a constant barrage of images,
sounds, impressions, sensations. You could never hope to understand, and I
don't think you'd want to."
"One thing I noticed not long after.. after my eighth birthday.. I could
tell whenever someone was talking about me, no matter how far away, where I was,
what I was doing... I knew instantly. I've managed to avoid a lot of
unpleasantness by making myself scarce when necessary."
"And that little mind trick you pulled on me?"
"Like I said before, a new addition. I've managed to extend every one of
my capabilities beyond anything I ever imagined I could. In return, there's a
lot of people who call me insane." She met his eyes once again, locked them to
hers, and this time the distortion was not even the slight ripple it had been
before. ***Who am I to argue with them?*** "In any case, I have no idea how far
I can extend this. I've never had anyone to try it on who realized what was
happening, and I have to have direct eye-to-eye contact." She blinked,
chuckling deep in her chest and rubbing at the side of her head. "Did I mention
that it gives me a headache every time I try it?"
"Yeah, I think you did." *Insane isn't quite right. Different is more
like it.* "And that's all?" *She's holding something back.* Angel kept his
eyes level on her face, noting the complete lack of reaction to his comment.
She was a hard read, and he couldn't decide whether she really was, or had
simply expected him to except her to.. *I never did like sci-fi movies. Torture
is so much easier.*
"No, it's not all. But I'll tell you later. Right now..." Teresa's voice
picked up considerably, and she grabbed for the box next to her. Without
hesitation, she upended it onto the floor. "You're going to separate the fact
from the fiction."
Angelus raised an eyebrow, then both, as he spied the assortment of
volumes that had tumbled toward him. The very first thing he did was pick out
the two Anne Rice novels and shove them roughly toward her with a dangerous
snarl. "Take my advice. Burn these."
Teresa shrugged and took the books from Angel's hand, then tossed them
behind the couch where they landed with a few clunks on the way down. "Consider
it done. But since I'm guessing you don't generally discuss the alternatives
with those you've already focused on, it'd help me a lot more if you could
direct me to the reality."
*Perfectly logical, perfectly calm. She just watched me drain her father,
of all people, right in front of her, and she wants to discuss the realities of
becoming like me?* The demon within him was quickly growing weary of the
pleasantries. Kill her or turn her, the subtle urge crept constantly into his
thoughts. Angel suppressed it with the skill that had been lacking for the
first half-century of his being.
He picked up some of the newer books, turning them over in his hands. One
he didn't recognize at all.. Forever Knight something or other. He shook his
head, and tossed it aside. "Close, but no cigar." Next where the Clanbooks for
the Brujah and Toreador. *Kids playing at being vampires.* Angel chuckled,
holding them up. "Might be fun," he pondered aloud with a suggestive gleam in
his eyes.
Teresa rolled her eyes, leaning back and looking away. "Later."
After only a few minutes of noisily flinging books from pile to pile,
Angel handed her several large, obviously old, leather-bound books. Only one of
them had a title, which was simply 'Vampyr'. Teresa accepted them with a slight
nod.
"Now," Angel drawled, his eyes taking on a more feral glow. "What else is
it you had to tell me?"
"Remember how I told you the Slayer was following me?" He nodded, she
continued. "There's this prophecy..."
********************************************************************************
"You've got such a pretty smile/It's a shame the things you hide behind it..."
-- Jude, 'I Know'
********************************************************************************
"Mac, I don't care how 'enriching' or 'enlightening' this is supposed to
be. The next time you suggest anything like this, I'm running in the opposite
direction, fast."
"Come on Richie, it's not -that- bad."
"Oh, yes it is."
Methos, strolling a good ten or so feet behind the other two Immortals,
was doing his best simply to keep from laughing. As it was, a silly smirk
rested almost continuously on his features. For one who was as easily amused as
himself, the current situation was more than entertaining. The relatively small
museum that they were exploring at the moment was actually one of the highlights
of the vacation so far.
"Look at this. This is thousands of years old, made by a civilization
that no longer exists..."
"Mac, it's a rock."
"No it's -not- a rock!"
"Well it sure looks like a rock to me."
And life was.. uneventful.
------(*)------
Angel paced restlessly back and forth, one side of the room to the other,
and when that grew too tedious, he began to walk in slow, long circles around
the entire perimeter of the building. After nearly an hour or so of the same,
he stopped briefly to sit down. Five minutes later, Angel growled low in his
throat, stood, picked up the chair, and smashed it against a wall before moving
on. *Prophecy or no, I can't believe I let her go again. What if she's lying?
What if she's in this with the Slayer?* Every time he tried to turn his
attention to something else, thoughts of Teresa cropped up again.
"Would you like some tea, love?" Drusilla asked as Angel passed by for the
seventh time, her voice that of the perfectly innocent as she set a tiny teacup
of fresh blood before each of her dolls.
"No."
"Well then, this little one isn't going to drink her tea either," Dru
said, standing and sending one of the dolls flying with a glancing blow to its
painted porcelain face--it landed against the hard cement floor, shattering
instantly. She seated herself delicately, then held out an empty platter,
presumably of some teatime delicacy, before the other dolls. "She was a very
bad doll. She didn't want to drink her tea," Drusilla explained to them.
Spike watched protectively over Drusilla from his corner. He didn't make
a sound, merely studied the situation as best he could. Angel's restlessness
was beginning to be irritating, and the near-constant scowl was upsetting
Drusilla. Absently, he tested the muscles of his legs again, flexing them,
knowing that he was completely healed. All that he needed now was the right
opportunity... He had the feeling that there wasn't much time left.
------(*)------
Teresa slipped away from the shadow offered by one of the large trees just
outside Sunnydale High. She felt tired, her eyes scratchy from lack of restful
slumber. Some part of her, that which was still small and helpless, had started
plaguing her at the first contact with cold skin and dark eyes. Now it
dominated her thoughts whenever she allowed it--a last minute attack of
conscience, she told herself, not even worth taking seriously. She had watched
her father die, practically killed him herself, yet felt no grief for that, not
even the slightest tinge of sadness. Where inner voices battled against each
other, it was her future they bargained for, and all that reached the surface
was calm, collected, composed.
< < She's right over there... I've got to talk to her, make her see. Will
she listen to me? What if she won't? Should I kill her before she becomes a
vampire, just to have that one less? I mean, if they prophecy says she -will-
become one, no matter what, then what's the difference? What if I can't? > >
The girl Teresa focused on believed herself to be well out of sight,
hidden from view. She smiled softly, the edges of her mind burning with the
effort of keeping an entire school full of buzzing minds from interfering. A
few steps, then a few more, directly toward the Slayer.
< < Oh God. She's heading this way. Did she notice me? Maybe she's
willing to talk after all? > >
*Not likely.* Teresa increased her pace, keeping her eyes carefully
averted from where Buffy was hiding. It wouldn't do for her to guess too
quickly that she knew more than she was letting on. *I do so love games.*
Thinking that she could make it appear as if she had just come from class,
and hadn't, in truth, been watching her most of the day, Buffy stepped away from
her hiding place and forced a smile, seeing her.
"Hello Teresa," she offered as perky a greeting as she could muster, given
that as the girl approached, the same unsettling feeling, the distracting
buzzing that she had sensed before, washed over her again. It was only by sheer
willpower that she didn't pull out the stake that she had concealed up her
sleeve and do as she wished to. A large piece of wood rammed through the heart
would stop a human as surely as it would a vampire.
"Hello Buffy," Teresa smiled hollowly, finally allowing her expressionless
eyes to meet those of the Slayer's. Once again, she had managed to mask
completely that she had felt the same thing that Buffy had. This odd link they
had with each other could prove to be a nuisance.. or possibly an asset. A
vampire with advance warning of the Slayer's arrival...
"Teresa?"
"What?"
"How did you know I was the Slayer?"
*Should I tell her? It might be interesting to find out if she can do
anything about it. No, better just to let her figure it out herself.* Teresa
absently fingered her deep purple velvet shirt. It was long, and the sleeves
hung over her knuckles. "Guess," she smirked.
"You have -no- idea what you're getting yourself into," Buffy answered
through her teeth. She balled her hands into fists, trying to resist the urge
to pound Teresa into a small bloody pulp.
"On the contrary, I do," Teresa smiled lightly, lacing every word with
sweetness. She sensed that all that was keeping Buffy from attacking her was
the thinnest of threads, and enjoyed herself all the more for it. "And I know
exactly how much you'd give to keep me from doing it." She took a few cautious
steps around the Slayer, toward the inside of the school building, then turned
her head and ran her tongue along her upper lip with a vicious smile. "And by
the way, your ex is quite the kisser."
Teresa found herself thrown roughly against the hard brick wall before she
could do more than brace herself for the impact. Buffy's hands were wrapped
around the collar of her shirt, holding her a few inches above the ground. She
nearly laughed outright, but contented herself with enjoying the newfound hatred
in the Slayer's mind. Her own tone remained light, amused, as she stared deeply
in the other girl's eyes. "I seem to find myself in this position a lot
lately." ***Let me down.***
"Buffy! Buffy, what are you doing?" Willow raced toward the two just in
time to see a look of utter shock and disbelief replace the boiling rage. With
only that warning, Buffy backed away from Teresa, letting her drop back to the
ground. Willow blinked a few times, pausing, then forced herself between the
two for the second time. Buffy cast her one startled look before running into
the school building.
"Is she always like that, or only to new people?" Teresa asked, her eyes
misting over with what would look to anyone else as genuine tears of distress.
She sniffed once, and brushed the nonexistant dust from her clothing. "It's not
like it's -my- fault that I'm part of this prophecy thing. I never asked for
anything like this to happen."
"I'm sorry," Willow looked back at where Buffy had gone, but the Slayer
was long out of sight. "She's just a little out of it lately. I think she was
pretty shocked that you knew.. knew so much."
"Yeah, it's every little girl's dream to find out that she's destined to
become a bloodsucking creature of the night," Teresa sniffed again, allowing
Willow to hover over her like a nervous mother bird as she headed for the
relative coolness inside the school building.
"Well, it does say that you won't -exactly- be one of them. It says that
you have a choice after you've been.. You become.. One of them. Hey, maybe
there's even a chance that it won't happen. I mean, prophecies can be wrong.
And there's always a chance that we can stop it from coming true. It's been
done before..." Willow hardly realized that she was rattling on. Sure she had
known that Buffy was the Slayer, and sure she knew that she was part of the
prophecy, but like she said, that wasn't her fault.
"You really think so?" Teresa's voice held the smallest of margins of
hope, and Willow latched onto that enthusiastically.
"Of course I think so. The prophecy even has a certain time that all this
is supposed to happen.. If we can just keep you away from vampires until
then..."
Teresa turned her face away from Willow for a second, unable to conceal
her smile. *Hook, line, and sinker.*
********************************************************************************
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
and things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal
Dust thou art; to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul."
-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
********************************************************************************
There was a faint trace of moisture on the air, and a steady breeze was
pushing the low, puffy clouds quickly across the nighttime sky. Where there
weren't clouds, however, brilliant stars twinkled like dewdrops spread across
the heavens. The moon hung high, a silvered crescent with darker gray craters
marring its surface. Angel noticed none of this as he walked through the open
gate at the back of Teresa's yard which normally would have been locked and
bolted. It was not so much that leaping the fence would have been hard--or
ripping the gate from its hinges for that matter. The obsession was burning--a
longing which he could no more ignore than he could stop his lust for blood.
The yard was only a small patch of dried grass and scraggly bushes, and
small at that. Angel laughed silently as he reached the back door. It was
closed and locked tight. For a moment, he considered simply tossing it aside as
another annoyance. A gust of wind raked across his cheek and forehead, and he
looked up, scowling, at the sky. The clouds had gathered together, and in the
process blotted out the thin moonlight. He stepped back a few paces, and looked
up to the dark window to Teresa's bedroom. It was open wide, the flimsy
curtains wafting lazily in the idle breeze.
Angel's altered vision took nearly no time to adjust to the suddenly
lessened amount of light. The room was small, and would have been eerily still
to anyone else. He took in the bulk of a large wardrobe, a bookcase--volumes
piled haphazardly on its shelves, a desk with the computer already set up upon
it, but with none of the rest of the clutter that usually marked a study space.
His eyes turned to the wide double bed, and the figure that occupied it.
Teresa slept restlessly, uneasily, even under his sight she fidgeted and
twisted. The remains of a worn blanket and sheets were knotted at the foot of
the bed, and her long white nightgown was covering only the upper portion of her
thighs. Angel gazed up and down the lengths of her long legs appreciatively.
His hands still curled around the wooden window ledge, he suddenly grew uneasy
again with what he was about to do. He frowned, shaking his head with wonder
that this was any different than any other time, and then his nostrils flared
wide. Any lingering doubts were banished from his thoughts at that sensation--
the scent of fear filled his senses.
His first reaction was to search the room once again with his piercing
gaze--attempt to find the danger that would prompt such a reaction, other than
himself. When finally he admitted that there was nothing, he looked back at the
source of the scent. Teresa's skin had taken on an unhealthy gray tinge, and
her lips were parted slightly--a thin film of sweat covered her forehead and
chest. Angel stepped forward, looming just at the side of the bed.
*Must be one hell of a nightmare. Something else she didn't mention?*
Angel thought to himself, frowning, as the scent increased. The girl was
fighting back panic, her heart was racing, her breath coming in small gasps that
ended in an odd rattling sound. A small cry of terror was the last warning
before Teresa sat bolt upright in her bed, choking and clawing at her eyes and
throat in absolute hysteria. *No wonder she keeps her nails chopped like that.*
A gurgling sound echoed deep in her chest, and she looked right at him, standing
beside her, but Angel knew that she was seeing nothing from the glazed over
stare in her eyes.
"The gas.." she shrieked, thrashing her head from side to side and
violently trying to rip her own throat out. "I can't breath.. I can't breath!
Help me! My eyes.. it's eating my eyes! I can't see.. burning.. Help, please
help me.." That last came as a child's whimper, and her arms went suddenly lax
at her sides. Teresa rocked back and forth now, breath coming in deep choking
sobs. "The guns.. are coming.. coming closer.. The ground.. it's red. I didn't
want to! The ground is red with their blood.."
He was suddenly behind her, strongly supporting her, and he could feel
through the light cloth that every muscle in her small body was taut and
strained.
Teresa awakened as she always did after a nightmare, crying and drenched
in sweat, but she was cold with fear at the same time. She closed her eyes and
shuddered, breathing in tiny, quick breaths until some sense of solidarity
returned. She was still alive, still in her own bedroom, she had seen the
nearly familiar shapes clearly in the low light. Her neck and shoulders, her
back, felt tensed to snapping at the next movement. The sensation of a hand,
soft and chilled against the base of her neck, caused her eyes to fly wide open
and she gasped in shock. Instead of snapping her spine, Angel began to press
his fingers firmly against the tightly drawn flesh, and slowly worked his way
up, gently massaging along the hairline.
"Angel." She let the name out on a gentle whisper, and resumed nearly
regular breathing. Teresa's mind would always slam tightly shut the moment
consciousness returned, so now she relaxed into his vampire hands, completely
without fear. She allowed her thoughts to open entirely to the creature behind
her. Hunger, burning desire, and beneath the surface the demon's barely
controlled rage.
"I shouldn't.." Teresa whispered, closing her eyes as Angel leaned forward
and left a trail of light kisses along the back of her neck. The token
resistance was all that she offered; she was as hungry for this as was he.
*Hurry. Do it now before I start to fight it.* His touch was feather soft,
delicate, almost at complete odds with his mental voice.
"Tell me you don't want to," Angel half-growled, grinning evilly. One
hand snaked down, across her stomach, brushing her inner thigh, underneath her
silk panties, and his fingers probed deeply between the moist folds of flesh.
The gasp as he began to tease her clit brought a smile to his face.
Teresa's body jerked in response; Angel only held her tighter, keeping her
full warm length completely against his body. When she felt his chin graze
lightly against her shoulder, and his tongue darted out to trace the edge of her
earlobe, she moaned and opened her mind yet again, and let herself drink in
Angel's passion, his craving--for her. She let her body be taken over by the
immediate animalistic reaction, overriding the growing screams of warning in the
back of her mind. *Now, it has to be -now-.*
Angel felt Teresa's hands battling ineffectively against the light gown
she wore. He ceased his ministrations long enough to strip it from her body,
over her head, in one fluid motion. He flung it aside to land in a heap in a
dark corner of the room. The sudden rush of air against her burning skin did
little to cool it. Angel ran his broad hands firmly along the front of her
body, from the points of her shoulders, down her chest, briefly cupped her small
breasts, fingers lingering on the hardened nipples before caressing her smooth
stomach. The chill of his cold flesh against hers made elicited a small moan of
pleasure. At last his fingers found soft cloth, and he ripped the underwear
from her body.
Teresa suddenly twisted in Angel's grip to face him. Her lips met his
with a crushing intensity that neither questioned. Her right hand gripped
tightly the back of his neck while the left worked to undo the buttons of his
shirt. With one hand already twined in her long, silky hair, Angel unzipped the
fly of his pants with the other. They hardly paused at all, and the shirt
landed directly on top of the white scrap of nightgown, the jeans fell short
with a heavier sound.
Teresa's hands reached further downward, and she swallowed back
apprehension as she began to strip off the thin cotton cloth that was the last
barrier between them. *Don't think, just do.* She eased the elastic band down
over the hard bulge slowly at first, then all at once as Angel's tightening grip
on her scalp became painful. Teresa stared at his large erection for a moment,
then brought her mouth back up to Angel's. She wrapped her hands along the back
of his head, silently demanding more, demanding everything. No longer gentle,
he forced her down into the soft blankets and pillows.
Her face so immediately close to his, Teresa felt it the moment Angel's
features began to twist out of proportion. His body was so heavy on top of
hers, so fitting, she could not bring herself to care about that. Her thighs
spread, allowing complete access. Angel was not expecting the sort of
resistance he met, and Teresa could not quite restrain the sound of pain she
made as he forced himself deeply into her with one thrust.
The scent of blood, warm, rich, overtook Angel's mind. She tore her mouth
away from his, needing the oxygen for now as he did not, freeing his for other
uses. He did not bother to fight the urge at all, but immediately extended his
fangs and bit into the warm skin before him. The taste of her was exhilarating,
delicious, uniquely powerful, almost electrical, and he barely tracked the
seconds melting into minutes. Teresa gasped something wordlessly under the
multiple onslaughts her body was enduring. Through her blood, he caught some of
the unique gift that had made her such an attractive possibility--he saw her
mind, open, and through that his own. The sensation drove him nearly mad with
its concentrated intensity, and he spilled into her with a moan muffled by a
mouthful of blood and flesh. When he felt Teresa's heart begin to slow, it was
agony pulling away in more ways than one.
Angel rolled away from her unwillingly and heard nothing in response--he'd
almost drained too much. Teresa lacked the strength to do anything except
breath and attempt to keep her eyelids from closing shut forever. In her head,
blood pounded against her temples, and left her dizzy and nauseated as her heart
fought to circulate what little remained in her body.
"Drink," she heard a voice command, only vaguely aware that it was Angel's
and he was speaking aloud. She found her head lifted up, and her mouth pressed
against his broad chest. She tasted something sweet, salty, metallic, spreading
across her tongue, and she parted her lips further to take in the life-robbing
liquid. For only a moment, she felt the breath heaving in her chest as she
suckled fiercely, her fingers digging into the flesh of his back. Then the
demon began its work, killing her body, robbing her of all that she was--she
struggled away from Angel, shaking, fighting the monster that she was becoming
despite herself. Teresa felt the air leaving her lungs, and her eyes darkening
over--one last thought filled her mind before succumbing entirely. *Thank you.*
With Teresa's mortal body dying beside him, Angel stretched luxuriously.
There were hours left until sunrise, and he felt no hurry. Her bed was
wonderfully soft, he did have to admit that with a smile. He turned his head
toward the wardrobe. Unpacked boxes, bits of crinkled tissue paper sticking
out, littered the top and were scattered near its foot. A stack of CDs caught
his eye, and he stood curiously. His fingertips grazed over the first in the
pile. The 'City of Angels' soundtrack, he noticed, and grinned.
Angel turned back to look at Teresa with a smile still on his lips, then
knelt down. Lodged between a small nightstand and the bed was an oversized
artist's sketch pad. He pulled it carefully from its resting place, and gently
peeled back the cover. The first picture--a brilliant sunset, warm, glowing
colors melting into and swirling around each other before disappearing into the
dark line of the horizon--had been abandoned half-finished. He couldn't care
less for the sight. The second was more simple, a wide field of waving golden
wheat under a cloudless blue sky done in soft oil pastels. Angel stopped at the
third rendering, the shock would have forced the breath out of a living person.
His fingers hovered centimeters over the paper's surface, not wanting to smudge
the soft charcoal. Illuminated only by moonlight, he recognized the clothing
that he had worn the night before down to the last detail. One hand held the
pad securely while another reached up to feel his face in disbelief. *So this
is what I look like..*
He flipped to the next page, and found another. This time it was rough
ink pen, the image of himself walking away that first night that they had met.
Angel frowned at the bleakness, the scratchy lines--with a low growl, he tore
the sheet from the pad and crumpled it before throwing it to the floor. Here
were more, more pictures of him. He flipped ruthlessly through the partially
completely sketches and abandoned drawings before coming to the last completed
piece. He blinked in surprise, once. Infinite care had been lavished upon
every detail; every tenderly done shading made him half-expect that it was the
picture that was reality, and not the real world. His image, again, jumped
forcefully into his sight, kneeling next to Teresa's. Their knees were just
beside a small pond, shimmering softly and reflecting the light of the moon and
stars and trees above. Teresa held a handful of water in her cupped palm, and
was looking into it, her raven tresses blowing gently about her face in an
imaginary breeze. Neither he nor Teresa created a reflection on the water's
surface.
"Do you see the future too?" Angel asked into the silence.
"I don't need to." The answer was soft, deadly sweet, and Angel turned to
meet Teresa's grinning vampire face with a smile. She was sitting up in her
bed, her weight balanced on one arm and her head tilted invitingly, her
beautiful silky tresses were a tousled mess. "I'm hungry."
He should not have been surprised that she would rise within less than an
hour. Angelus grinned right back at her.
********************************************************************************
How embarrassing to be human. -- Kurt Vonnegut
********************************************************************************
"The Bronze? Do you think there will be a lot of people there?" Teresa
asked, leading the way despite her lack of previous experience in navigating the
streets of Sunnydale. She could smell a thousand new delicious odors on the
night breeze that she had never imagined existed, could see into the shadows
where previously there had only been inky blackness. Her newfound strength
coursed through veins and led to fingers itching to wrap around some smooth,
soft throat...
Angel's lips curled up in a twisted smile at the girl's youthful
exuberance. She was a true beauty to behold, her hair whipped up and her
clothing swirling with every graceful step. A light shirt, only two buttons
done, and a long, silky skirt of navy with large silver flowers were topped with
her black coat which somehow concealed and encouraged the imagination at the
same instant. A silvery pennant with a black onyx disc on the lower end rested
at her breast, suspended by a smooth leather cord wrapped three times around her
neck.
"If you're all that eager, why should we even bother to go that far?"
Angelus chuckled gruffly, turning his head to glance at down a long alley that
lead to the street behind the Bronze. The rear entrances to several small
restaurants and stores, as well as Sunnydale's only popular teen hangout, opened
onto that street, which meant that at any given time the chance of finding
someone there was fairly good.
As if reading his mind, which, indeed, she was, Teresa changed course mid-
stride, and ducked between the buildings. The air was somehow moister there,
and she wrinkled her noise as the scent of rotting garbage. She had to step
carefully, or run the risk of appearing at her first kill less than perfectly
dressed. That simply would not do, even if she did feel as if she were starving
to death.
------(*)------
"I don't see why you can't just part in front of the building like a
normal person. I mean, even if someone did manage to scratch your precious car,
you've got enough insurance on it to buy two more," Richie tried to reason with
the absolutely unreasonable MacLeod, who merely looked away and continued to the
back of the restaurant.
"I really don't think he's listening to you," Methos commented softly, not
looking toward Richie. Really, he was starting to wonder if the boy would catch
a cab to the nearest airport and head back to Seacouver. The alternative, of
course, was quickly becoming trial by combat--winner would get use of the car.
"Tell me about it," Richie grumbled underneath his breath, following
MacLeod out the door and into the fairly well lit and quiet back-street. When
he tried to continue a fairly steady forward motion, he found himself very
suddenly running up against MacLeod's immobile body. "Hey, you think you could
go a little bi.."
The buzz hit him and Methos at nearly the same instant, to judge from the
simple fact that the oldest immortal didn't run into him. Only Methos managed
to keep from looking around in the stereotypical announcement of his
immortality.
"Boy I love unexpected company in dark, unfamiliar places," Richie sighed,
reaching underneath his jacket for his sword. MacLeod had already done the
same, and was heading for the source of the sensation--most likely not all that
far away. Since it was plain that there was no way for the other Immortal to
have missed their presence, MacLeod still had the car keys, and waiting by the
rear entrance of an old restaurant wasn't exactly his idea of a good plan,
Methos rolled his eyes, and, checking his sword, trailed a cautious distance
behind the two much younger Immortals.
Richie had not imagined the scene they came across could ever be possible.
He blinked his eyes a few times, wondering if it was some sort of hallucination.
A chill crept over his skin when the figures remained solid.
Two.. two -creatures- were staring directly at him, their faces wrinkled
and twisted, their eyes glaring, demonic. The girl, female, whatever it was..
Hissed at him, a sound human vocal cords were incapable of producing. Half of
the shock was from realizing that she was the Immortal, the other was watching
as a pale, lifeless body dropped from her arms.
Though not usually one to take in all the details of a situation before
barging in, Richie noticed that the corpse was that of a teenage boy, probably
not all that much younger than himself. A shock of slightly curly dark brown
hair matched tanned skin and a fairly well developed physique. Where the body
was touching the ground, a tiny trickle of blood was running along the side of
its neck. He looked up, and swallowed at the girl's expression, her face now
that of a particularly elegant girl that was staring, wide-eyed, at the sword in
his hand. *She doesn't know she's Immortal?*
When Richie would have stepped forward, the natural urge to do something,
anything, rising in him, he felt a strong hand gripping at the back of his
jacket, preventing any movement. He looked back, surprised, and saw MacLeod
with Methos not a step behind him. It seemed at first that both of them where
attempting to say something, when the buzz from yet another Immortal tickled at
the edges of their senses. *Great, just great.* Richie thought to himself.
*Can trip -possibly- get any worse?*
Teresa's face froze for an instant in confusion as she tried to cope with
the sensation emanating from the three Immortals in front of her, the newfound
knowledge that not only were they something entirely different, but she was like
them in a way, and the fact that Buffy had managed to get this close her and
Angel without her realizing it. *I guess I was hungry,* she thought, glancing
down at the body without a hint of regret.
Buffy felt as if her head was going to split open at the next available
moment, though she managed to hide it well enough as she dropped down between
the two groups, stake in hand. Every protective instinct in her told her,
screamed warnings for her to turn away, but she knew that at least two of them
were vampires, and if the others weren't.. well, then they would be in serious
trouble.
Teresa glanced between the Slayer and the Immortals, then over to Angel
and saw the fighting fire building in his eyes. To everyone else's surprise,
she grabbed him by the arm and pulled him after her as she ran in the opposite
direction. "Not yet. Not tonight Angel..," she whispered hoarsely, low enough
so that only herself and he could hear more than a mumble. Though he refused to
move his legs, and his face was set in astonishment, she found the strength to
overpower him, drag him against his will. Before Buffy could react, the two
were out of sight.
"What the hell was that all about?" Richie found his voice first, though
the words that emerged were high-pitched and incredulous. He looked back at
MacLeod, still preventing him from moving forward, then at Methos, then at the
girl in front of him, staring just as unknowingly at his sword as the.. the
creature had.
Duncan stepped back from Richie, letting go of his jacket to look at
Methos. "I've only seen one or two real ones before, how about you?"
"Oh, I've met a few in my day. Usually they don't turn and run though."
The oldest Immortal stepped slowly forward a few paces, not intent on following
the vampires, but to get a better look at the remaining girl. He noted the
stake in her hand, and the determined look in her eyes. "Are you the Slayer?"
he asked, and her widening eyes spoke for her. *An Immortal Slayer.. When was
the last time I met a Slayer?* he tried to remember, but it had been several
centuries, at least. *Elizabetha Muset,* the memory came at last. *Troyes,
1251.*
"You know, it's getting harder and harder to keep a secret identity around
here these days," Buffy let out, blinking. *How on earth do they keep finding
out?* "Don't tell me, let me guess. You're another order of assassins, come to
kill me and leave my bones out for the birds to pick at, aren't you?" she stared
plainly enough at their drawn swords.
As one, the three returned their weapons to their coats, and Buffy lowered
her stake in return.
"Richie, those creatures you saw were vampires. The actual kind as
opposed to the Hollywood kind," he explained quickly before facing the Slayer.
"I think we have a lot to talk about," Duncan said levelly, nodding at Buffy.
"You really have no idea why we were carrying around swords, do you?"
"You were planning to kill someone?" Buffy guessed, still uneasy with
their presence and her hand tightening around the stake. Angel was still out
there, and, though she hadn't gotten a very good look at the other vampire, she
knew somehow that it was Teresa. *I saw her less than eight hours ago. How
could she have risen already?*
"My name is Duncan MacLeod, this is Richie Ryan, and this is Adam
Pierson," MacLeod introduced them. "And you are?"
"Buffy Summers," she answered warily, backing up a step for every one that
they took toward her. The unnerving buzz that she had first felt around Teresa
was stronger with them, though she was gradually growing accustomed to it.
"Don't worry, we're not here to hurt you. Buffy, you are Immortal."
------(*)------
After dragging Angel a few blocks away from the unconventional grouping of
three Immortals and a Slayer, Teresa finally let go of his arm. Immediately
after they had gotten out of sight, he had stopped resisting her pull and simply
ran with her, though he had no idea why he was doing so. She stopped them
behind some nondescript brick building, and the light was low enough so that
only another vampire would be able to observe them.
"Angel, listen to me," Teresa said on an urgent tone. With growing
annoyance, he waited for her to say something more. Nearly a minute passed,
without a word.
"Well?" he growled, looming over her in a position that would have
intimidated anyone else. He's slipped into his game face again, and snarled as
she reached for him.
"No! Listen!" she ordered in a low hiss, making a point of grabbing his
hand. Angel paused briefly as something pulsed against his skin. His sensitive
ears picked up the sounds of breathing, and a heartbeat--Teresa's heartbeat. In
shock, he dropped her hand and backed away.
"It's impossible! I killed you! I sired you! How can you possibly still
be breathing? You're still alive!" The words were out less than a moment before
he realized that her eyes had gone unfocused, turned inwards. Angel's centuries
old senses picked up what his mind nearly refused to register, as her body went
cold, her heart ceased beating, her breath stopped, and then she looked up with
the countenance of a full vampire.
"Not exactly alive," Teresa answered, her thoughts turning almost giddy
with glee. "Better than alive! This makes so much more sense now," she
blinked, looking up at her still disbelieving sire. "I'll explain later.. Show
me your place. I want to meet your friends." A small smile played across her
features as they returned to human. The sensation of power, of largeness, of
being able to tackle any pitiful creature that would stand in her way filled her
mind. *I feel so much /more/! Thoughts, memories..* Her Angel turned, heading
for the house that he shared with Dru and Spike.
***I want to play.***
Angel looked over his shoulder at the girl behind him at the thought. She
was so beautiful, so elegant, and somehow she had managed to retain the illusion
of innocence about her features. Only her eyes gave her away, and those only to
someone actually looking. They were cold, dark, lethal--more eerie than
Drusilla, as it was not a simple shattering of reality that had formed them--a
predator's power, as unconquerable as time, flowed through their vastness. And
she could read his every thought.. His, his fledgling, his child, his daughter.
He smiled, offering his hand. She accepted, gracefully, and they disappeared
into the darkness.
------(*)------
When Angel appeared with his newest creation, it was to Spike's utter
incredulity and Drusilla's absolute bewilderment that she came dressed in style
and hand-in-hand with her sire--only a few hours after his leaving. *Damn,* he
cursed to himself. *As if today wasn't going badly enough already.* He'd had
the car packed with supplies, several underlings posted as guards, and had
simply been looking for the right moment to lure Drusilla with the promise of a
ride. *How the Hell?*
"Well let's not everybody talk all at once," Teresa quipped, seeing for
the first time in the flesh those closest to her sire. Her eyes first caught on
Drusilla, the silky locks of soft hair, the flashing intelligence reflected in
those eyes, but shattered somehow, beauty viewed through a prism, distorting the
original view. Her mind-voice was child-like and intense at the same time,
refusing to be reigned or controlled.
Spike was another matter entirely, his body strong and lean despite the
apparent disability. A moment's searching and Teresa smiled to herself with
narrowed eyes at the peroxide blonde vampire. *So upset. The best laid plans
of mice and men... Or vampires, for that matter.* A few seconds too long her
gaze lingered, and Angel started to pull her forward.
"You'd swear they'd never seen a newly vampire before," Teresa said
lightly, not liking the sudden change in the atmosphere. It seemed to eat away
at her thoughts, her power. The urge to show up the others was replaced by a
completely unexpected wave of nausea. Brief confusion was followed by the
knowledge that not only did Angel and Spike not particularly care for each
other, they loathed each other. Grimacing, she shut her mind to all but Angel,
keeping his mind the constant companion that it had been since her awakening.
"Can't say as it's a pleasure meeting you," Spike muttered under his
figurative breath before pointing his wheelchair toward the back of the house.
"You coming Dru?"
"You're going to be our friend, but somebody tells me you're going to not
like us very much," Drusilla said on a sweet, singing note, but she still
frowned with confusion. She brought her hand up and traced along Teresa's
cheekbone lightly--she didn't flinch or even blink. "And you can't do anything
about it..." With that, Dru turned and followed Spike, glancing at Angel just
before leaving his sight.
"That was.. weird," Teresa grimaced, pulling away from Angel. "Any idea
what she was talking about?"
"You're supposed to be the mind-reader here, why don't you tell me?"
"She's warped.. And I wasn't Looking."
"Maybe it has something to do with the prophecy?"
"Maybe."
Teresa glanced around the large house, always with Angel a step or two
behind her. *Still protective. He knows, but he doesn't believe.* Eventually
she rounded a corner, coming to the large, open sunroom, velvety flowers and
slick vines wrapping around outcroppings in the walls. She stopped, examining
the flawless glass panes.
"Angel, come look.." she smiled.
Angel stepped closer to her, putting a hand on her shoulder as he looked
not through, but at the windows, and the reflection cast there--Teresa's. Where
his hand overlapped her shoulder, there was not even a distortion to mark his
presence. Curious, she changed into her game face--the image remained clear,
perfect.
"I should get some sleep," Teresa said, reaching her hand up to gently
overlap his.
"Why? It's hours till dawn," Angel frowned, but didn't pull away from
her. The light pressure of her fingers was uncertain, hesitant.
"Because I have to go to school in the morning," Teresa grinned, turning
around quickly so that she caught both of his hands in hers. "I know it sounds
like a tired cliché, but in a few days, Sunnydale will be ours. After that,
there'll be nothing to stop us."
Angel laughed, leading her toward one of the two guest rooms. Usually the
newly made slept wherever they could--the sewers, in abandoned buildings, in
basements--but Teresa was going to have only the best. She was, in her own way,
as powerful as the Master had been. *I wonder what she has in mind.*
"The less you know of it now the better," Teresa reminded as they came to
a large room, windows painted black. "You might want to take Spike's example,
and get yourself something to eat," she whispered. "You could have warned me
about him."
"I didn't think about it. You really think you can fool Buffy?" Angel
asked, taking her advice and heading for the door.
"Not Buffy. Have a little patience, you'll see tomorrow," Teresa
answered, sitting on the edge of the mattress. She waited for Angel to leave
before kicking off her shoes and laying her coat across the end of the bed.
Quietly, she ran her fingers through her hair, and closed her eyes, allowing her
mind free reign to search the town. She knew what she was looking for, and
where to find it. There were many to choose from, but Buffy, Methos, and Rupert
Giles were the ones she selected eventually.
The heated discussion in the library was quite informative to listen to,
Teresa realized. It often amused her how people could be thinking the same
thing at the same time, then say exactly the opposite and create utter
confusion. Buffy was accepting her immortality fairly well, but Giles was dead-
set against it, insisting that there was some sort of mistake. Methos was the
most interesting. His mind was so rich and thick, with ages upon ages of
memories to come to the surface given the slightest trigger. When she sensed
him grow quiet, she focused almost entirely upon his mind, carefully pushing,
encouraging. Teresa opened her eyes, blinking. She'd seen enough, more than
enough. They were starting to talk about Buffy's role as the Slayer, and she
already knew all about that. With a small smile resting on her lips, Teresa
laid down, curling her fingers around the blanket. Again, she closed her eyes,
and settled herself into the first restful sleep she'd had in all her remembered
life.
********************************************************************************
"Live as if your were to die tomorrow. Learn as if you were
to live forever." -- Gandhi
********************************************************************************
Buffy yawned hugely, sniffed, and rubbed at her eyes. *I can't believe I
spent the entire night at school. Oh well, I've done without sleep before, I
can do it again. I hope I don't have anything important to learn today.* She'd
used the school locker room and changed into a spare set of clothes she kept in
case of any ghoulie getting in a few too many slashes. Giles, however, was
still wearing the same clothing he'd had on since four am the previous morning.
"So how long until first period and how many classes can I get out of
today?" Buffy asked perkily enough that Duncan, Richie, and Adam all gave her
sidelong glances of annoyance.
She'd managed, after about an hour and a half of practice, to best all
three of them one on one. Duncan and Richie coming after her together she could
deal with, and Richie and Adam, but Duncan and Adam together were still a little
bit beyond her. Some time around four that morning, Duncan had taken upon
himself to call Joe Dawson, and the Watcher had made arrangements to be on the
next available flight--he'd be in Sunnydale by mid-afternoon.
"T-twelve minutes until school starts, Buffy, and if I have anything to
say about it you'll be staying here all day. You should have been able to d-
deal with them easily. Besides, I still say that they are part of the
prophecy," Giles said, coming out of his office and gesturing at Methos, Duncan,
and Richie, a slightly steaming mug of tea in his hand. He ran a hand over his
face, then, realizing his glasses were missing, turned back into the office.
"Three to the darkness, three to the light, and three to the shades grey--not to
mention the Watcher. It makes sense But we've got to come up with some
excuses.. your mother, your teachers, Principal Snyder.."
"My mother's out of town until next Monday; she thinks I'm staying with
Willow. Principal Snyder's at some big convention, thank God. That guy gives
me the creeps, among other things." Buffy stood, and pushed in her chair. "I
don't know about the teachers.. Maybe a research project that you need me for?"
"No, we've done that already. Filing? No.." Giles frowned, pushing the
glasses into place and sipping at the tea. He grimaced. *Time to clean the pot
again.*
"I've got an idea," Richie offered, sighing when everyone turned to look
at him. "We," he gestured back at Methos and MacLeod. "Can be representatives
from.. From some college a few thousand miles away, and we have today and only
today to speak to Buffy."
"Hey, that's pretty good. Thanks Richie," Buffy grinned, heading for the
filing cabinet to get the passes. "Now which one of you is going to sign?" She
held out the papers toward the other three Immortals. "And what college am I
going to?"
After a few minutes it was decided that Buffy was being visited by the
University of Georgia, city unspecified, and Ryan Richardson was going to be
busy interviewing her for the entire school day. She hurried off to hand the
passes to the any and all teacher she could find, and got back to the library
before the first bell had rung. *I wonder where Willow and Xander are. They
should hear this--they're part of the prophecy too.*
------(*)------
"I wonder where Buffy is. She wasn't at the Bronze last night that I saw.
Did you see her?" Willow asked, forehead creased with wrinkles of worry as she
walked next to Xander.
"No, no Buffy. She said she was going to patrol last night, nothing about
coming to the Bronze. I bet she's in first period already," Xander answered
absently, leafing through the papers in the folder he was holding. *I -know- I
did the homework for this class last night. What class is this?*
"Still, she usually meets us by now." The bell for the beginning of class
started to ring just as they stepped into the classroom together. They both
took their usual seats, quiet among their mostly rambunctious and disorderly
classmates. Five minutes after the second bell, with Buffy still a no-show,
Willow leaned over to Xander. "Library, fourth period?"
"Definitely," he nodded, just beginning to catch some of Willow's
uneasiness.
The teacher stepped up in front of the room, scrawling something on the
blackboard with wide, sweeping script. She turned to face the rest of the room,
and glared until everyone quieted down. "I hope everyone remembered the
assigned reading for today..."
------(*)------
Teresa watched Xander and Willow, always from the shadows. She had
managed to secure herself a pair of dark sunglasses and was wrapped in her long,
black oilskin coat despite the heat of the day--the sunlight wasn't lethal, but
it was certainly uncomfortable. That morning had certainly been amusing, to say
the least. Twice Angel and Drusilla had tried to pull her back before reaching
the door. Finally Spike had convinced them to let her go, *He was hoping I'd
crumble into a pile of ashes, but still..* and she'd shaken the more protective
two away. After only a second's hesitation, she'd stuck her hand into the
direct rays of the sunlight, and waited.. Two minutes later, and with Angel
satisfied that she was committing suicide, she'd left for the school building.
Now it was second period, and she'd managed to avoid tripping the senses of the
other Immortals in the building.
"Four minutes," Teresa mumbled under her breath, stepping into the utility
closet she'd spied across the hall from Willow's class and down three doors from
Xander's. She peeled the coat from her shoulders and left it in a ball on a
shelf. The sunglasses were set on top. *This'll be a breeze.*
Teresa let her bookbag drop to the floor, and knelt down beside it. From
the bottom, hidden under a t-shirt and two empty folders, she took a bag of
assorted candy and bubble gum. A grin spread over her face as she popped a
stick of gum into her mouth that she'd kept in her pants pocket -- every piece
in the large bag had been injected with a drug that would have no lasting side
effects and would slowly take effect a few minutes after ingestion.
Blinking and forcing a small, situation appropriate smile on to her face,
Teresa stepped out of the closet just as the bell began to ring. Kids streamed
out of classrooms on both sides of the hallway, heading in all different
directions at once with only a small amount of order to the madness. Willow was
the last to emerge from her class, and her eyes met Teresa's almost as soon as
she was out the door.
"Hey Teresa!" Willow grinned, hugging her books closer to her chest. *She
looks.. different somehow, but a good kind of different. I can't understand why
Buffy doesn't like her.* "I didn't see you in class this morning."
"I think the only class I'm in with you is the one you're teaching,"
Teresa laughed, stepping closer to Willow as people continued to move from
around them. The plastic and paper of the candy crinkled noisily.
"Willow!" Xander called over the heads of seven or eight people between
himself and his best friend. He waded through the stream, managing to keep
sight of her red hair the entire time, right next to someone else. "Teresa?"
His eyebrows tried for his hairline as he saw the other girl.
"Have a piece?" Teresa smiled at him, holding out an open bag of candy.
Willow was already working on a miniature candy bar, and nodded
enthusiastically, swallowing. "It's really good Xander."
"Well, I've never been one to refuse food," Xander grinned, reaching in
and taking the largest piece his fingers touched upon. "Any reason for the
delicious consumables?"
"I just thought I'd be sociable, you know," Teresa hid her wicked smile
behind a facial shrug. "I'm not very good with most people, but you guys were
so nice to me and all..."
"Well, that's what we're here for, isn't it Willow?" Xander chuckled,
gnawing on the rather gummy candy. He blinked open his eyes, feeling a little
sleepy. *School. It's a school equals sleep thing.*
"What? Yeah. Nice very," Willow smiled, nodding toward Xander. She put
the last bite of the candy bar into her mouth, chewed a few times, then
swallowed. *I sure wish I would've gotten a little more sleep last night.*
"Hey, I've got an idea," Teresa smiled, looking between the two. "You
guys want to see my car? It's brand new, black, convertible.. I promise it'll
only take a minute. You won't even miss class."
"You've got a car?" Xander drawled, feeling his eyelids grow heavier. He
smiled, enjoying the oddly detached sensation he was feeling.
"Let's go see," Willow smiled, following after Teresa and Xander as they
started down the halls. She couldn't think of any reason why not to go, so
according to her fuzzy brain, trusting Teresa entirely was the next logical
step.
Teresa took her two new captives by the hands, gently leading them down
through the hallways. Only a few people gave them odd looks, but there were few
enough that she wasn't concerned at all about word getting back to Buffy
prematurely. Getting to the doors, she grimaced as the bright sunlight hit her
face. Even with her heart beating, lungs drawing breath, and every trace of
vampiric tendencies buried as deeply within herself as she could possibly
manage, her exposed skin burned within minutes.
"Mmm, car nice there yup," Xander muttered as they approached what looked
to be a fairly nice car. Actually, he couldn't tell much about it, since it
seemed to be in several different places at the same time. He didn't notice as
Willow slumped into Teresa's waiting arms, and the immortal girl half-dragged
the unresisting hacker into the car.
"Let me help you inside," Teresa suggested helpfully, smiling down on the
sluggish boy. She held open the door, and helped him inside when he couldn't
quite maneuver himself past that tricky last step. Once inside, he collapsed
against Willow's softly snoring form. With a smile, Teresa withdrew two pairs
of handcuffs from her back pocket and snapped them onto Willow's and Xander's
wrists.
"And another job well done," Teresa grinned to herself, buckling the belts
over the two unconscious forms before settling herself into the driver's seat.
It wouldn't do for either to die before she could use them.
********************************************************************************
"Oh, you can't help that," said the Cat:
"we're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad."
"How do you know I'm mad?" said Alice.
"You must be," said the Cat,
"or you wouldn't have come here." --Lewis Carroll
********************************************************************************
"Tell me where they are!" Buffy howled, her voice briefly rivaling
Teresa's own nearly-ear shattering laughter. Just as Methos was beginning to
assume that his ears would start to bleed, the noise stopped. "And tell me HOW
YOU DO THAT!"
"With all do respect Buffy, if you kill her now, Willow and Xander will be
in even greater danger," Giles said, watching calmly as Buffy pounded an
unresisting Teresa against the wall. That she wouldn't fight back was beginning
to be a serious concern for everyone but Buffy, who seemed to be taking out her
considerable aggression.
Methos turned away from the sight before him. He didn't care much for
violence in any form when he could possibly avoid it, but even when it seemed
for the best, he still didn't have to enjoy it. For some reason, he couldn't
force himself to look at Teresa with the same animosity that the others in the
room seemed to be experiencing. He'd used far more brutal tactics to force a
fight before.
"Listen to your Watcher Buffy," Teresa sing-songed, and was rewarded with
her ribs nearly being cracked against the hard metal cage bars behind her. She
smiled playfully, entirely content with the situation.
After waiting a few hours, till school had gotten out, she'd entered the
library and proceeded to tell them exactly the who, what, when, and where of
things. Buffy slapped her across the cheekbone. Where the blow had fallen, the
skin colored briefly, then paled again.
"And I've told you before, it's very, very simple. You four," she pointed
at the other three immortals, then Buffy. "Fight us, and win, you'll get them
back. If you don't fight us, we kill them. If you fight us and lose, it won't
really matter now will it?" *And the plan works perfectly.* She started
grinning, remembering exactly how well things had gone...
**************
"How.. How? And why the Hell would you bring them here if you don't
intend to kill them?"
"Listen, Spike, I know what I'm doing and I don't need any lip from you if
you don't plan to help," Teresa hissed at the older vampire as she dragged
Xander into the room and propped him up against Willow. "Oh, oops, nevermind.
You have that pesky little spontaneous combustion problem."
"What is going on here?" Angel snarled, hair still messed up from sleep.
"It's 11:45 in the morning!" He blinked, making out the two human figures
resting against the near wall. "And we really don't need anybody for breakfast,
we're quite capable of doing for ourselves."
"Not breakfast. Bait," Teresa said nonchalantly, coming into the house
again and this time closing the door behind her. Held in each hand were two
gleaming swords, their blades looking as if they'd never seen action. "Take a
closer look."
Angel stepped forward a few paces, so that he could see exactly who it was
Teresa had brought home. When he finally realized *Willow and Xander* he was
almost startled by the sudden addition to his thoughts. ***They won't wake for
another four or five hours.*** With a smile, he turned to his daughter; and the
smile vanished when she pressed one of the swords into his hand.
"We fight the Slayer tonight, and her friends," Teresa nodded, handing one
of the swords to Spike and the other to the just arrived Drusilla.
"Now just one bloody minute here!" Spike burst out, not taking hold of the
blade that lay across the arms of his wheelchair. "How can you guarantee that
the Slayer will fight, let alone her friends? And how do you expect me to fight
when I can't even walk? And what about Drusilla? You can't expect her to fight
with a sword! Where did you get them? And why swor.." He flinched back,
feeling an uncomfortable, nearly painful invasion into his mind. He fought
against it, and the more he tried, the worse it felt. ***Liar. But don't you
worry about that.*** Spike grimaced, looking up to see Teresa staring directly
at him.
"I've already picked the fight. They'll come." She turned her head to
glance at the unmoving figures to her side. "Tonight, the cemetery--they have
this thing against fighting on Holy ground, in fact it's in direct violation of
their 'rules', so I thought that'd shake 'em up a little bit, give us an
advantage. I picked them up at the museum. Don't worry, I asked the curator
just before I killed him. They'll hold their own against any other blade.
Swords is because I say so, the only way to kill them, Buffy included, is
decapitation, and it's the weapon of choice among their kind."
"And you expect me to fight like this? You're out of your bleeding skull!
Just what is -their kind-?" Spike growled, using every bit of his considerable
willpower to keep from jumping out of the wheelchair and putting the weapon at
his hand to good use.
"Spike.." Drusilla smiled, her lips curling up in a childish giggle as she
wrapped her fingers around the sword's dark green velvet covered hilt. She held
the blade up carefully, running her fingertips along its length. "The sword is
whispering to me Spike. It whispers. It tells me that this is what we're
supposed to do. We get to be together after this."
Spike swallowed, stopped in his literal and mental tracks by Drusilla's
premonition. If that were true.. *Together, and no Angel..* He looked toward
Teresa, suddenly very willing to go along with whatever she had in mind. "The
problem still remains.. My legs.." He narrowed his eyes, wondering how she
intended to get around this.
"You remember how you thought my blood was oddly powerful, Angel?" Teresa
glanced at him, pulling her hair back from her neck with a smile, and she didn't
miss his longing gaze toward her pale skin, or the affirmative nod. "That's
because it was. I would have been Immortal whether you sired me or not." She
laughed softly, pressing her fingers against her neck and feeling the warm pulse
that beat there. "You're all going to feed from me, then I'm going to make sure
they all know where to be."
**************
"Why? Tell me why Willow and Xander?! I would've fought you without
dragging them into this mess!" Buffy nearly screamed, and was nearly glad when
Teresa frowned instead of smirked, her eyes set with a serious light.
"It wasn't you I was worried about," Teresa said, softly, no longer intent
on annoying the already enraged Slayer. She cast her eyes toward the other
three Immortals--the only ones who would have any chance against the vampires
once the Slayer was dead. Sure, there were other Immortals in the world, but
these were the immediate problem--and threat. "It was them. I had to know they
would come. You will come, won't you?" she smiled sweetly at them.
"Of course we'll fight!" Richie shouted, pacing across the floor behind
Buffy. He stopped only long enough to speak, then started again. Half of him
was ready to take the girl's head given half a chance, half wanted to drag her
death out slowly.
"We'll be there, but not Holy Ground! We can't fight on holy ground.. You
have to pick somewhere else. It's against the rules," Duncan said with only a
little more restraint evident than his student.
"I'm not following anyone's rules but my own," Teresa smiled lightly,
noting that Buffy was no longer attempting to crush the breath of out her lungs.
Since she wasn't breathing at the time, the effort was wasted. She looked over
at Methos, the only one not speaking, and carefully scanned his thoughts.
< < ...I don't fight, they'll spread across the globe. It would be worse than..
than Kronos winning the Prize. > > A wave of fear, and shock, mixed with
surprise, colored his thoughts, followed by gruesomely realistic images of the
possible future. *My, my. He's got it about right.* "And those rules say you
will be there, where I say, when I say. You have my word that if you win,
Xander and Willow will be unharmed -if- you find them."
Teresa was thrown roughly through the suddenly opened door to the metal
cage behind her. Since she'd been concentrating on Methos, the movement came
nearly as a surprise. Not a muscle twitched to show that she hadn't anticipated
the move. When Buffy thrust a cross into her face, she frowned, but didn't move
back. "You know, that's really pathetic, resorting to cheap symbolism." In
exasperation, Buffy threw the cross to nearest table.
Managing to startle everyone, Teresa included, the telephone started to
ring in Giles's office. *Afternoon already. Who would have guessed?*
"H-Hello?" Giles mouthed into the receiver, blinking. He'd been sitting
on the periphery of the group, leafing through volume after volume, trying
desperately to find any way to give the forces of good a much needed edge. The
only slim shred of hope he'd found yet he was loathe to even discuss. *The
prophecy says it's Teresa's choice. We'll simply have to work around that.* He
glanced out at the rather mismatched group. "It's Mr. Dawson; he says he's at
the airport..."
"Tell him I'll be there in fifteen minutes," Duncan said, reaching for his
coat and striding from the room before anyone had a chance to object. With the
doors swinging shut behind him, Richie and Methos glanced at each other, then
toward Buffy, who was still staring steadily at the completely unconcerned
Teresa.
"I think this is the point where the bad guy is supposed to do something
utterly awful and unspeakable, that causes the good guy to do something
pointless and stupid so that the who audience can yell 'no, don't do that'," the
raven-haired girl smiled, straightening from her slouch against the far wall of
the cage. Buffy didn't move back as they came within a foot of each other.
Cracking a decidedly stomach-churning smile, Teresa leaned her forehead against
the cold bars.
"Neener, neener, neener!"
No sooner were the words out, then Teresa barely avoided Buffy's fist
through her gut. Only the same bars that kept her locked in *Wouldn't they like
to think so? I almost feel sorry for them..* prevented the Slayer from snapping
limbs like dry branches. With a cry of rage, disgust, and utter hostility,
Buffy stepped back from the cage and ran out of the room.
*Childish, immature, and damned effective,* Methos sighed to himself,
standing before Richie or Giles could get more than a few steps. "I'll go after
Buffy." *She certainly does know how to push a person's buttons.* "Try not to
listen to anything she says." He glanced at them before looking once more at
Teresa. Her midnight blue eyes were glittering with amusement. *Amusement, not
malice.* Not waiting for them to say anything, he followed after the Slayer.
Richie shifted position awkwardly, still refusing to move any further away
from Teresa. He looked over at Giles, sitting so intently studying his books.
"Tell me one thing. If you win, what do you intend to do afterward?" he asked,
stepping forward so that his harshly whispered words were audible only to
himself and the -creature- in front of him.
Teresa smiled for a moment, coming forward again so that she and Richie
were nearly touching. "When I win, I'll be the one to drag this world into
Hell. Just remember this one thing for me."
"What's that?" Richie muttered, his eyes glassy as he stared into hers.
***You can join us.*** Without time to blink, or react to the thought
inserted so clearly into his own, yet not his own, Richie felt at hand at the
back of his neck. Teresa had snapped the bars of the door like he would snap
toothpicks, and just as easily. Giles jumped up at the sound, in time to see
Teresa completely vamped out and sinking her fangs into Richie's throat. The
Watcher stepped back, his hand searching for something, anything.. a stake, a
pencil, a crossbow bolt...
Teresa let Richie's temporarily dead body drop to the floor, and licked
her lips clear of the traces of blood that had managed to escape her questing
fangs. "Tell them to come!" she laughed at the stunned Watcher, and within a
heartbeat, had disappeared through the stacks, away from the school. *Tonight
is a play, to a full audience. It will be a show never to forget.*
------(*)------
"But you can't!"
"I didn't live with gypsies for years and not learn anything.." Duncan
noted, glancing down at the book on the table in front of him. Where even Giles
had been unable to interpret the centuries old text, he had done so within
minutes.
"If this will give us anything, any tiny edge at all, we have to try it,"
Methos said, trying to get Buffy to see some reason. There had been near chaos
as people had struggled back into the library, and Richie had yet to revive from
the attack. *There'll probably be no time to tell him.*
"The ritual takes two people to do properly.. Ther--"
"Giles and I can do it," Joe interrupted Buffy, and was rewarded by an icy
glare, which he ignored as best he could. "As long as Duncan and Adam get the
translations done, and we can prepare the room--"
"I still say--"
"Buffy, if we don't do this, they'll all be at full strength. Do you
really think we can beat all of them?" Methos sighed, doing his best not to
think too much about why all this was necessary. *I'm never again going
anywhere with Duncan MacLeod by my own free will.*
"Yes!"
"Even so Buffy," Giles said, the calmest of the bunch. "I think this has
to be done. Like Teresa said, if you don't win, it won't really matter."
********************************************************************************
"Let there be light!" said God, and there was light.
"Let there be blood!" said man, and there's a sea.
George Gordon, Lord Byron
********************************************************************************
The tension between the figures was a tangible thing. The air hung heavy
and thick above the graves. Despite last night's brief rain, the grass crackled
and snapped, dry. The moon hung low on the horizon, it's silver-blueness
overcast with a tinge of rusty red-orange--the color of dried blood. A breeze
whipped in from the west, setting leaves and hair flying. Stars in their
thousands decorated the heavens, unchanged. There was not a cloud in the sky.
In the nearby houses people slept soundly, blissfully unaware that this could be
the last night before the Armageddon began.
Four figures on each side. Power, rich and heady, rippled around them
all. Where one might be a step to close to another, a near visible barrier kept
them apart. Four wore the faces of demons, ridged and befanged, their eyes
sparkled with intense black-blue light. Four wore the faces of humans, but each
could claim that he or she was not exactly of that sort--their eyes were set
with a glowing intensity. Each held still as death under the other's gaze.
Eight of the figures held swords in their hands, and the weapons glistened
silver in the sickly moonlight. Four held stakes in their hands, and the simple
wooden instruments seemed absurdly useless against their victims. There was no
fear left for any of them. The staring could go on into eternity, it seemed. A
light wind tickled along the back of Methos's neck. He licked his dry lips.
After five thousand years, he found that he still did not want to die--he was
not ready to die. He had spent the past two thousand years avoiding danger. To
be here was madness. And yet, as his fingers tightened securely around the hilt
of his sword, he knew that to abandon this fight would be madness. To save all
of humanity.. For that, he was willing to risk his life. If there was no other
choice, for that he would be willing to die. His thoughts turned to Alexa. She
had been so strong, so brave, even in her last days. *If we loose this fight, I
will be with you soon my love. If we win, the sun will rise again tomorrow and
the world will never know.*
Buffy eyed the vampire in front of her without a trace of regret for what
she was about to do. He was not the one who had loved her, had held her close,
had made her smile and laugh and cry. This was not her Angel. This was just a
thing, another demon to be dusted. She had done it often enough. There was no
hesitation in her manner now--no wishing for things to be different--she would
kill him tonight. I wish's and if only's were things of the past.
Duncan remembered once before, during the dark quickening, how he had
enjoyed the feel of killing, had delighted in it. The woman--vampire--before
him was slight, willowy, dark. Her eyes glittered with the same evil joy. But
there was no holy spring to help her, nothing could change her back into the
person that she had once been so long ago. Much as he knew what he had to do,
he took no pleasure in the knowledge. He shifted his weight securely against
the ground.
Richie felt the comfortable pressure of the cross against his chest. It
was small and silver, hanging from a plain black cord. As little good as it
would do against the girl in front of him, he felt better simply by its
presence. *I'm going to help save the world,* he said silently to himself. *If
only the reality was more like the fairy tales--good would always win and the
hero would get the girl.* Teresa smiled at him, though her vampire features.
*I remember what you did to that boy. I remember what you did to me.* Richie
thought at her, never caring that she heard it all. *For that, you will die
tonight.*
Breaking the dangerously strained silence, Teresa took a step forward.
"You are the lucky ones, all of you," she said, slowly swinging her free hand,
sculptured, refined, in a broad arc. Another chilly blast of wind hit the
eight. Two shivered. "As are all those who will die this night around the
world. Or," she paused, smiling lightly. "Drop your swords, drop your stakes,
and you can join us." Her vampire features were not as pronounced as any of the
other three, and her voice was a siren's--tempting, dangerous, sibilant with the
fragile jewel she offered. To give up the fight, to rule in Hell on Earth..
"Never," was whispered into the darkness.
"Then fight!" Teresa screamed, face slipping into its pure demonic aspect
as she charged forward. The shriek of metal against metal sounded four as one
as the others did the same. Where the blades met, fiery blue sparks flashed and
sizzled. She was strong, Richie realized almost too late. His arm was jarred
with the first stroke, and he almost lost hold of his sword. With the second
slice, his fingers, numbed, loosened their grip on the stake.
Teresa laughed, and bared her fangs in an evilly childish smile of glee.
Less than a second it took as she danced out of the way, the sweet smell of
blood slick on her sword. Crimson poured from the long gash to Richie's left
forearm. She resisted easily the vampire's urge to leap and drink the life from
his body. The boy was a mouse to her feral cat, and she wanted to play with her
food.
"You know, it's a pity we're mortal enemies now--or should I say immortal
enemies? I think we could have been such good friends," Spike said, carefully
circling his prey. He saw very little in the way of an opening, even with his
vampiric senses extended to their fullest. When Methos suddenly pressed
forward, slashing for his abdomen, Spike easily avoided the attack, stepping
aside with preternatural speed. Teresa had been more than right about the power
in her blood. For his effort the Immortal barely avoided the vampire's blade.
His oversized sweater and coat were not so lucky. Spike leered at his
adversary. *All this work certainly gives one an appetite,* he thought,
hearing, almost feeling the man's quickening heartbeat.
Drusilla was utterly entranced with the man in front of her. He was so
beautiful, so strong. Something small in her said to look at the stake he held,
at the sword. She'd hardly held a sword before in all her years, yet it
mattered less than nothing as she brought her own weapon singing down on his and
danced out of the way of the stake at the same time. "Naughty, naughty," she
purred to Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, who had the grace to look
astonished that he had missed her. "Let's all play nice now." With that, she
knocked the stake from his left hand with a negligent swat and pinned the katana
between her blade and the dry ground.
"I've been waiting for this for way too long," Angel smirked, jumping away
after the first contact of his sword with Buffy's. She had barely blocked his
strike, and narrowly avoided loosing her footing on a patch of loose earth
directly next to a freshly dug grave. "What did you think you were going to
do?" he snarled, lunging forward, pressing the moment's advantage that Buffy's
sudden lack of balance offered. "Keep me as a pet?"
Buffy said nothing, but grunted as she blocked the savage blow that would
have gone right through her heart. He was stronger than she remembered him,
much, much stronger. Before he could move again, she snapped her wrist back,
bringing the sword with it. Angel hissed, stumbling backwards and griping his
stomach tightly with his free hand. "Well, well, well, first blood goes to the
Slayer after all," he said as Buffy fought to regain her breath.
"You don't know the half of it," Buffy managed to get out before she
charged forward. Just before reaching Angelus's looming form, she slipped again
in the grass, and gasped, the sword and stake falling away from her hands.
Angel howled victoriously, bounding ahead without another thought. She was
completely helpless, she was his--or so he thought. To late he realized the
slip for the deception that it was, too late, he tried to stop himself. But his
momentum would not allow him that, and Buffy jumped to her feet just in time to
knock him off of his with a vicious flying kick and a chop to the back of his
neck. The lip to the open grave was unsteady already, and under his weight, it
crumbled.
Methos was sweating profusely, but had refused to shed his jacket for
whatever slim protection it offered. His sword connected once again with
Spike's, edge on edge, and he felt his teeth grit together with the vibration
that traveled from his hands to the base of his spine. The damn vampire was not
giving him a moment's leeway nor time to breath. *And why should he? Vampires
don't have to breath.* A breeze cooled the drops on his forehead, and ruffled
his hair slightly. *And to think, all's I wanted was a vacation.* He leaned
precariously against a solid granite slab behind him, then jumped backward,
landing at the foot of an angel frozen in stone as Spike continued to press
forward--when he jumped away, crimson from half a dozen unhealed cuts colored
the grave marker. *I'm going to die tonight,* Methos thought to himself with
sudden clarity, barely finding the strength to defend himself as steel arced
just inches from his neck.
Duncan knew that he was loosing. He felt his quickening locked with the
weak imitation that flowed within the veins of the creature before him. She
could be beautiful, he thought appreciatively, she probably had been at one
time. *You were somebody's child once. You had a family, a home, people who
loved you..* "No," he whispered hoarsely, savagely, cutting that line of
thought off. He countered her next thrust with a fierceness that surprised even
himself, and Drusilla was forced back a few precious steps.
Teresa was enjoying herself thoroughly, delighting in the amazing power
that flowed unendingly into her step and her movements. This fight was no more
than a child's summer dance. *I could reach up, pluck the very stars from the
sky. I will rule all that there is, at that there will be.* She could see,
could feel, could sense in many more ways than mere mortals would dream possible
that Richie was tiring; his parries were weak, his attacks ill-chosen. When
another gust of wind, angry, threatening, interrupted her thoughts, Teresa
looked at him with sudden annoyance. With an idle sweep of her light sword, she
knocked the similar weapon from Richie's hand. Another, and fire sliced deep
into his abdomen in a mortal wound. His knees bucked under, and he fell with a
small groan of fear and pain--his clothing was shredded to little more than
ribbons in some places, and soaked with gore.
*So this is what it's like to die,* Richie thought to himself, quietly,
closing his eyes against the pain to await the inevitable.
The feeling of a soft hand against his cheek was an unexpected shock.
Richie opened his eyes, and saw before him a face that could never be called
demonic. It was so human, so beautiful. She tenderly stroked his jawline and
neck. He shivered, feeling the life leave him, gazing into eyes that could see
through his soul as easily as through a pane of glass.
"Join me. Join us. You don't have to die tonight.. I never wanted to
hurt you, you know. Please, don't make me do this.." Teresa's softly spoken
words echoed inside Richie's mind. He looked deeply into her eyes of midnight,
and lost the will to fight. *Forgive me, Mac, if you live through this.*
"No," he whispered, a tear rolling down his cheek.
Teresa stepped back, resigned. She had known that he would never join
them, but had needed to hear it from his own lips. "There can be only one," she
whispered, and drew her sword back for the fatal blow.
Her scream was primal, nerve-shriveling, the cry of a tortured prisoner
who's found that merciful death is denied yet again as some new cruelty is
introduced. It froze the combatants in a deadly tableau for one horrific
instant.
Methos broke free of the hold as only one with thousands of years of
listening to the cries of the innocent being slaughtered could. His aching
muscles responded to impulses long buried, and his fight was over with nothing
but a cloud of dust to mark the victory.
Drusilla's scream carried no less in volume, but the shriek was one of
hopeless rage and loss, of an animal cornered and caged as she watched her lover
disintegrate. "SPIKE! Spike, lovely come back to me! Spiiiiiike!!" Eyes
flashing with the rubied hue of insanity, she leapt away from Duncan's blade.
Between one heartbeat and the next, she had Methos pinned to the ground, sword
and stake knocked away. "YOU!!!" Her sword was at his throat, drawing a thin
line of blood.. Then clattered to the ground. Drusilla uttered one last
startled cry, then was dust. Methos swallowed, closed his eyes, and willed his
chest to stop heaving. The stake that had been concealed within the folds of
his coat throughout the entire fight was now clutched tightly in his left hand.
A golden light, a warm glow, flashed briefly in Angel's eyes. The snarl
died on his lips, unheard, barely started. His hands lost their grip; the sword
dropped to the soft ground, unnoticed. A small moan came from deep in his
throat, and he slumped against the wall of earth with his hands against his
forehead. Buffy felt the air leaving her lungs as she watched on in
fascination. She was paralyzed, unable to think as her eyes locked with his, no
longer in control of herself. *They did it.*
"Angel?" she whispered, the name barely forming on her lips.
Angel felt his throat closing up, choked with the burning of unspilled
tears. Twice he tried to speak, and could not. "Bu--Buffy.." he barely got
out, his lips dry, his voice cracked. Moonlight sparkled against the metallic
length of the sword held limp and still in her hand, and in a sudden rush the
memories of the past months came back. His head swam with horror as his eyes
with tears. *No, please. No. I..* The cold damp behind him was a comfort as
he squeezed his eyes tightly shut, unwilling to look at her. *No.. Why? What
have I done?*
"Angel..."
The word was so much a cry, so plaintive that it would have taken a heart
of coal to refuse it. Angel looked up, unable to do anything but. Buffy was
crying.. Crying? He didn't deserve her tears--he deserved nothing--he deserved
to be beaten, tortured, killed slowly for the monster that he was. But she was
crying. She could never forgive him, he knew that, but maybe.. maybe he could
do something? He had to get to her, comfort her. Hold her.
Angel felt keenly the abuse his body had suffered as he grabbed tufts of
tough sod to pull himself from the empty grave. Once he nearly slipped, loosing
his footing against the earthen wall, but it delayed him for less than a moment.
Then, he was standing next to her, their fingertips pressed together, twined
together, then embracing.
He held her to him, her head against his shoulder. She was weeping, her
body, so strong and so delicate at once, racked with sobs that threatened to
tear her apart. He stroked her hair, gently, almost afraid. "Buffy.. Buffy,
please, please don't cry. I'm sorry.. I'm sorry. Please.." Her arms curled
around him fiercely, never wanting to let go.
Duncan stood perfectly still, eyes closed, head bowed, katana loosely in
hand, savoring each sweet breath. The Healing was certainly taking it's own
precious time, and blood still flowed from his wounds, stained his shredded
clothing. When at last small flickers of blue-white lightning began to dance
over his flesh, he winced and gasped at the familiar feeling. Every muscle,
every strained sinew cried out. *I feel like I've fought a war single-
handedly.* He first looked over at where Methos was sprawled, clutching the
simple weapon that had saved his life. *Not single-handedly.*
"Feeling alright?" Methos heard the voice of his friend ask, and he moaned
weakly in response. "Never better. Help me up."
He did not even bother to muster the strength to open his eyes, simply
held out his free hand. MacLeod apparently had more energy than he, and Methos
was in no position to question why or even care. The Highlander gripped
Methos's shoulders tightly and hauled him up against the granite gravestone
behind him. Standing, healing began more rapidly. Within a minute, his wounds
where closed and all that was left was a dull ache throughout his entire body.
Methos gulped in air to his starved lungs, and finally opened his eyes. There
was something, or rather somebody,
missing. "Richie..?"
MacLeod's warm chocolate brown eyes were dull already, and darkened
momentarily with apprehension. "I didn't see a Quickening.." By some mutual,
unspoken command, they pushed away from their small safe haven, tripping in the
darkness and shadows cast by tombstones and bushes. The fight had separated the
groups, taken them away from each other 'til the unfamiliar ground became a
maze. Methos stumbled over Richie, literally. "Mac!"
"Richie?" MacLeod picked his way carefully back to where Methos was
kneeling next to the limp body. The ancient one had already rolled him over,
exposing the smooth slice through shirt and jacket--the damage was already
healed on the outside. Duncan swallowed his relief just in time to see Richie
sit bolt upright, gasping in breath. The three looked between themselves for a
second, each too tired or too overwhelmed to speak. Finally, Richie looked
beyond them, and stood up swiftly, nearly tripping himself. "Buffy?" His voice
raised to some impossible octave at the scene.
Duncan and Methos turned, feeling the approach of another Immortal, and
found themselves staring. MacLeod, despite the pounding he had just received
from Angel's comrades, found himself breaking into a small smile. *It worked.
Dear God, it worked.* Methos grinned unabashedly, the expression lopsided. *By
the Gods..* When Richie would have rushed forward, stake in hand, Methos held
him back, looked at him. 'Don't,' he mouthed silently.
Buffy and Angel were walking side by side, arms entwined, faced streaked
with dirt and tears. Leaves and grass tangled through Buffy's hair, and blood
colored their tatters of clothing. Neither carried a weapon, both looked
completely and utterly exhausted. Twenty feet away, they stopped, Angel
stepping slightly in front of Buffy, protectively. Richie ceased struggling
against Methos's iron-fisted grip, just looking at the pair.
"Mac? Methos? Explanations anyone?" Richie blurted out after a few
minutes of silence that was uncomfortable only to him. When he'd woken up, he
had barely had the time to notice Joe's presence. There hadn't been time to go
over the entire plan again.
"I never thought it would work," MacLeod admitted, facing the creature
that, only a few moments before, *I thought I didn't believe in magic, and fate.
Was it only minutes?* had been his adversary. He looked the vampire over,
noting that the wounds were beginning to heal already.
"What? What would work? How long was I out? I didn't think it was all
that long. Somebody? Please?!" When that last expression came out sounding
more than a little aggravated, Methos looked at him slowly.
"We cursed him again," the oldest immortal said, as if it were something
that he did every other day. "Or rather Dawson and Giles did, I imagine."
Richie continued to stare, uncomprehending. "A vampire doesn't have a soul,
Richie, it's only a demon in human form, we told you that already. We gave it
back to him."
The Look that passed between him and Angel as the much younger immortal
turned away from Methos suggested that it would be a long while, if ever, before
Richie accepted such a nebulous reason not to rip the vampire's head off with
his own hands.
"But it's not the same curse, is it?" Angel asked softly, startling just
about everyone. "Is it?" He glanced between the two older immortals before
him, already knowing the answer. Buffy tightened her grip about his arm, and he
returned the comforting pressure gladly.
"No, it's not actually," MacLeod answered. "The first time you were
cursed, it was done in hatred. It was weak, too easily breakable, dangerous.
This time.." He paused, fumbling over the words. Sometimes there are things
better left unsaid. "We used a much stronger force than hate, you might say."
"You know, I hate to interrupt this wonderful little family gathering
you've got going on here," Richie butted in, glaring at one and all equally.
"But how many of us are here and how many of us are dead?"
Methos frowned deeply, muttering something beneath his breath about the
impatience of youth. "Spike and Drusilla are dust, I made sure of that." The
stake that had finished off the second of the pair was still clenched in his
fist. "They bloody nearly got me first, though."
"You mean they're actually dead?" The look of relief on Buffy's face was
nearly comical, or it would have been under any other circumstances.
"So where's Teresa?" Richie nearly growled. "She was less than a second
away from making me her first Quickening."
"Oh God, Teresa," Angel blurted out suddenly, shocked into using the
Lord's name despite the pain it caused his kind. If Teresa had run away from
killing Richie.. He looked at Buffy, his eyes wide with fear, and the two took
off at a fast trot without another word. *The scream..* Methos and Duncan did
the same less than a moment later.
"I can't wait to hear this entire story, in detail," Richie grumbled,
running to catch up with the others and trying not to trip over anything in the
dark at the same time.
By the time that Richie had caught up with the others, they were already
standing in a half-circle around a small, black headstone and whatever was next
to it.
Angel hung back, uncertainly hovering a foot or two away from the body.
Teresa was curled up against herself in a fetal position, but with her hands
protectively covering her head and her eyes wide open, staring into nothingness,
vacant. She didn't move at all when Buffy knelt with one hand on the gravestone
behind her. There was no breath, no heartbeat when Buffy placed her fingers
against the side of the girl's throat, and her skin was cold as the dirt below
it. She looked back at Angel and Methos, frowned nervously, then sought out the
comfort of Angel's arms. "If I didn't know better, I'd swear she was dead," the
Slayer commented softly, looking around for confirmation. "I'm not getting
anything from her, either vampire or immortal."
"I'm not sure, but.." Methos shook his head, unable to get rid of the
feeling that, despite all evidence to the contrary, the girl was still there.
Cautiously, he crouched beside her, and pushed the raven black hair away from
her face.
Teresa's features were set in a look of absolute suffering, a rust colored
smudge beneath the lip she had bitten. He took her chin between his fingers and
turned it slightly so that the teeth were no longer piercing the flesh. Almost
instantly, without a spark to be seen, the tiny marks healed themselves shut.
"She's not dead," he said, running his hands underneath her body. She was so
stiff and curled so tightly that picking her up was awkward at best, but Methos
barely felt her weight.
"So what are we going to do with her, since you're so obviously not going
to kill her like you should?" Richie muttered darkly.
Every last one of the group looked at the others before Angel finally
spoke up. "My apartment from.. from a few months ago. She'll be safe there."
Buffy nearly spoke, looking up at her Angel, her love, as his words fell
on overly sensitive ears. *He's in love with her?* She wanted to cry, to
scream, but his arm tightening around her stopped her frenzied thoughts from
spiraling out of control, and she looked at him.
"I love you Buffy, but I can't leave her now. I hope you can understand..
I don't love her, Buffy, I love you," he whispered as if reading her thoughts.
She pulled him closer, squeezing until she could no longer feel the pain.
"Buffy, I'm so sorry..."
********************************************************************************
"Hope is the denial of reality." -- Anon
********************************************************************************
It was nearly four days later that Methos and Angel were more than a
little startled at the small shuffling sound behind their backs. After bringing
Teresa to Angel's apartment--dusty, but not much the worse for months of
desertion--they'd taken to watching her constantly, wondering when, if ever,
she'd wake from the coma-like state she'd entered.
Willow and Xander had been much relieved, to say the least, when Buffy had
kicked in the door to the residence that Angel had formerly shared with Drusilla
and Spike. Neither had remembered much of the ordeal except a great deal of
jostling around and a general feeling of dread once they had woken up. While
Willow had cried at seeing Angel again, instead of Angelus, Xander seemed to
share Richie's belief that allowing either Angel or Teresa to continue living
was a dark smudge against the general peace that had been restored to Sunnydale.
Every time that Buffy had caught even so much as a glimpse of Angel, one of them
would be lurking not very far away.
"Water," Teresa requested hoarsely, through lips gone dry from lack of
moisture and nourishment. Without water and food, her heart had ceased to obey
her commands to beat, and her lungs the will to breathe; she would have been
declared dead by anyone but the unique group the town had to offer--the human
part of her had been, at least temporarily.
Methos handed her a half-full glass of tepid tap water, and, grimacing,
she accepted, drinking carefully, in small sips. She had taken the time to get
dressed, he noted, and neither of them had heard a whisper of sound until she'd
wanted them to.
It had taken Buffy and Methos all their powers of persuasion and hours of
simply sitting and taking between vampire and Slayer to convince Angel not to
walk into the sun that first morning.
Shuddering, Teresa glanced between the two men who had looked after her.
Whether they realized it or not, she'd heard every word they'd spoken,
remembered their every thought. *And the theatre burnt down during the last
act, the star running off the stage.* She glanced long enough at Angel that he
realized what she was asking for. Silently, he took one of the many bloodbags
from the refrigerator, and handed it to her. Almost crying, looking away,
Teresa sunk her extended fangs through the thin plastic, sucking in the
nourishment she had denied herself for far too long.
The second morning, without Buffy there to help him, Methos had barely
stopped the vampire's attempt at suicide. *A century and a half of killing
every poor soul he came across, he had said. And I told him everything. Not
even MacLeod knows the entire story, how it began, how, in the end, I ran from
it.. There was no comparison between us. Killing was all I knew, and there was
no excuse for me.* If it did nothing to ease Methos's own regrets, his guilt,
it had shown Angel that the greater evil would be to leave Buffy. That evening,
just before sunset, Angel had told him about Teresa's singular talent, how she
had known exactly how to defeat them, but he couldn't explain how Teresa hadn't
sensed before they cursed him again.
Teresa turned back, forcing herself to Look, and to look. She let the bag
drop softly to the table, sucked dry, and paused, her fingertips brushing over
the polished surface. *Maybe, if they can hate me...*
< < Why? > >
It took only that single thought for Teresa find her excuse to launch
herself with a snarl at the nearest sentient form. Her body coursing with the
same irrepressible power that had filled her days ago, she forced him against
the wall. The quiet that had filled the house for days was violently split, and
the rawness drove her on.
"You know about the dreams. The dreams that make you wake up in the
middle of the night, drenched in sweat, shivering--the ones that make you so
sure that there's no more Godly reason to go on with life. You know what it's
like to hear the screams and the cries, to feel blood on your hands. You've
seen the ground run red with the blood of the innocents you've slaughtered, and
their souls cry out at you in your nightmares. I know what it's like. When you
hear those screams, they're your own, your own," she hissed, pounding his head
against the wall. "Or those of your victims. But I.. I was forced to suffer
the agonies of every single tormented soul on this damned planet. I never did
anything to anyone, I never hurt anyone, until it started driving me insane."
She started pounding his entire body against the wall in an echo of her words,
and Methos grimaced as her hands began to slowly crush the bones in his arms.
Completely without warning, Teresa leapt away from the most ancient of
Immortals, pinning Angel against the wall in the exact same manner as she had
done with Methos. "You think I didn't try?!" she shrieked, her face
transforming into that of the demon contained within her. Angel tried to squirm
away from her, feeling the hate burning to close too the surface for comfort,
but found himself outmatched; he opened his mouth, about to say something, and
was cut off again. "The first time I was eight. Eight God damned years old! I
was a baby, just a baby..." Teresa growled, her fangs inches away from Angel's
exposed chest. "That was with pills. The next time it was the car in the
closed garage. Then I tried to drown myself in the neighbor's pool. Then I
threw myself off a couple of nice, high cliffs.. I broke my arm, once. Again
and again and again and again..." She snarled, bashing Angel's back against the
wall.
"You see these?" Teresa questioned, jumping away from Angel with
incredible speed and holding up her scarred wrists for him to examine. He
looked at them, feeling his heart sinking. "Eighteen months ago I took a walk
in the woods behind my house. It was quiet, it was peaceful, it was beautiful.
I never thought anyone would find me. I remember thinking that this time it
might actually work. It was quick, it didn't hurt all that much either, I did
it with a hunting knife. Hikers." She spat the word out, now pacing in front
of the door like a caged animal--or was it simply to keep her listeners?
"Hikers found me and took me to the hospital. I lived.. Again, I lived."
Teresa licked her lips, and raised her hand to her forehead to gingerly
trace the deep ridges with a smile. "Six months ago. The dreaming.. was awful.
I woke up, but the nightmare wouldn't stop. I had no control over it, I
couldn't do anything to block it out. Do you," she paused for a moment in her
pacing to fix each with a stare that left a spot of cold in the room. "Have any
idea what it's like, to feel your flesh rotting from your bones?" She giggled,
high-pitched, unnatural. "To feel yourself trapped in some decomposing body?
You feel the worms, and the maggots, and all the tiny bugs feasting on you, and
you look down at yourself.." She held up her hands, and examined her palms
slowly. "And there's nothing there? I wish it had all been real. You can
fight with reality, do something about it.. I know what it's like, to kill, to
die, slowly, painfully, to torture, to be tortured, to burn to death, slowly,
hearing yourself scream, to rape and be raped, to wake up, and have to go to
elementary school the next day," she laughed once, roughly. "I know," she
turned her eyes away. "I know, I've felt the pain you go through." She looked
at Angel, then at Methos. "And you, for what you've done. No one should have
to go through any of it, much less all of it." She raised her hand and tapped
at her temple with one long finger.
"It's all up here. None of it's real, but it is. Six months ago--that
nightmare.." Teresa lowered her voice to barely more than a whisper, and
vampire and immortal were more than happy for the unyielding strength of the
structure they pressed up against. "When it wouldn't stop, I ran from it, or I
tried. It wasn't even dawn yet. The sky was so beautiful, smoky blues and
greys, and tinged with pink on the horizon where the sun was just coming up. I
took the gun out of my father's dresser drawer, and walked miles in my nightgown
to my mother's grave." The vampire mask was fading, slightly, to be replaced by
tears--tears of remembrance, rage, fear.. neither of them could tell. "I laid
down, and put the gun to in my mouth, and pulled the trigger." She was silent
for a few chilled seconds, looking down. "And I'll bet you'll never guess what
happened after that.."
"You woke up," Methos provided softly, swallowing and looking away. He
couldn't look at her, not knowing that she knew every detail of his life,
everything that he had been. He knew torture, too, that there are some kinds
that leave scars well below the surface, and knew that a person could only take
so much before breaking entirely. He had broken, once, a long time ago.. *Never
again.* He silently promised himself.
"Then you know." Teresa's tone turned darker, foreboding, dangerous. "I
was to be given no peace. For whatever sin I had committed against God, He
would not even allow me the mercy of death. I would have preferred eternal
darkness to this living hell." Her face changed again, and she took the
entirety of her body with it--no heartbeat, no regular breath. "When I came
here, I found something I had been looking for since the first moment I set eyes
upon their story. If I could not stop the gift," and she twisted that word
between her fangs. "I would use it. No conscience, no cares, no rules, no more
fears." Her gaze drifted towards Angel.
"Vampire," Angel whispered, battling against the thought. His stomach
twisted painfully with the realization. *I should never have done it. I made
her. If I hadn't..*
"I would have found someone else who would have," Teresa said matter-of-
factly. "I heard your thoughts from the first night I met you, and I knew there
were others then." Her fists began to clench, tighter, drawing blood. Calmly,
she opened her hands up, and licked the fluid away. "I knew that you were
different from the others as I." She stood perfectly still, eyes cold,
emotionless. "Only now.. It's worse, isn't it? I'm the only one of my kind,
alone. I deserve no forgiveness, for I never asked it; all the knowledge of the
ages, and I still cannot imagine why you don't loathe my very presence."
Yet another form, Teresa assumed, with human face but lacking in vitals.
"I'm not going to Look into either of you now. Your thoughts are your own.
Since it's plain that there is only one method remaining of.. ending this, I
think you know what must be done. Perhaps what I'm asking is the most selfish
thing that could ever be asked of another person, but I must. The nightmares
are back, will not stop until it is done, and I can no longer end it myself."
Carefully, she crossed the few steps between the door and the bed--gently, she
knelt and picked up the sword that had gotten shoved underneath. When she
straightened, there was a sort of peace about her features as she caressed the
steel blade. A small smile formed, and she turned the sword in her grip,
holding it at arm's length, the handle halfway between the two men, both of whom
had gone quiet in mind and body. Teresa looked at both of them, fondly.
"Angel," she spoke first, and the vampire found it impossible to look away
from her. "When I drank of your blood, I accepted the demon into me. It didn't
take my soul, but perhaps that's the worst part of it. What I did, I did
knowing completely, and completely uncaring. The last thing I thought before I
died under your fangs was how glad I was that it was finally over. Everything I
know about you says you should simply hate my all the more for that." She held
the handle within his easy reach, but received no response. She closed her eyes
for a moment, then moved on.
"You were Death," Teresa turned to Methos, who gazed back into eyes sadly
like his own, hardened. "Killing me should be no problem, should it? There can
be only one, in the end, and you know it. I'm faster than you, stronger than
you, and, since I can read your every thought, smarter than you, should it come
down to a fight between the two of us. And now I'm offering you my head--no
fight, no problems. A free quickening." She reactivated her heart, and warmth
coursed through her veins once again, so that Methos could feel exactly what it
was she offered. "Please?" She held the sword almost against his fingers, but
he found his hands suddenly numb, and he couldn't.
Teresa nodded, slowly, backing away from them both. She slipped the sword
beneath her coat, concealing it from prying eyes. There was nothing else to be
done, as she started for the door, face resigned. Or perhaps there was one more
thing? Just before she reached for the knob, Teresa stopped, and turned. There
was not much space at all between her and Angel, and the suddenness with which
she closed that gap and reached up to kiss him with a fiery intensity left him
blinking and speechless in its aftermath. They peered into each other's eyes
for a long moment afterwards.
"You know, there's something good about this whole mess too. You didn't
think I knew, when you were plotting to curse him again?" She spared one glance
at Methos before turning back to Angel. "True love.. doesn't burn, isn't a
flame that dies when the winds of trouble try to stamp it out. It.. it glows..
It's the most amazing thing." Teresa smiled a little, backing toward the door.
"Show her how much you love her, and she'll show you the same. This, this is
not a curse that can be broken. Show her."
The girl, silent, opened the door and left without interference. Neither
Methos nor Angel could find words fit to break the impact of Teresa's parting
message. They both felt rooted to the spot, unable, or unwilling, to do
anything but stare at the spot she had left vacant. Finally, they looked at
each other, and the room grew dark and empty again, the magic fleeing in the
face of rationality.
"I've.. Never, met.. Why couldn't we?" Angel's mind was a confused blur.
Half of him knew that one of them should have, if only to end her suffering, or
to protect those that she might destroy in the future. Half was still warring
with the knowledge that if one of them had, he would never have known.. Yes, he
would have known, eventually, but the truth would have come much later, and much
more painfully. "All she asked for was mercy."
Methos squeezed his eyes shut, and drew in a long, sweet breath. He knew
that he should have felt like a fool, for not taking her offer. He might never
get the chance again, and if it meant his death... He was not ready to die yet,
not for that. The immortal shook his head slowly, and opened his eyes.
"Nothing like her is created without a purpose," Methos said quietly. "And
whatever, whatever that purpose is.. I don't think she's finished with it."
"Methos?"
"Yes?"
"Do you think she'll..."
"I don't know if she can anymore."
There was a hollow, where the words had dropped, and they both felt it,
and they both stayed where they were for a long while, not saying anything.
********************************************************************************
There are many things I find sadly lacking in real life:
magic, music, mystery--dramatic lighting--the feeling
of a lover's gentle touch wiping away the tears...
--Anonymous
********************************************************************************
Teresa curled her fingers over the smooth wood railing and pressed her
forehead up against it, looking out over the Bronze. It was hot with the press
of bodies below--youth all, or at least those with the look of youth--there were
only a few who seemed more out of place. She shifted, and her coat rustled
slightly; one raven tress slipped over her shoulder.
Methos and Duncan sat together at a small table, their far away gaze
marking them as being apart somehow. Nonetheless, a group of teenage girls was
already gathered around them, intent on getting them to dance. Teresa couldn't
help but smile somewhat sadly at the contrast--none of them knew, there was so
much that most of the world could not see.
Her gaze drifted to a head of strawberry-blonde curls. Richie was out on
the floor, dancing with a girl who looked about seventeen years old--her hair
was rich honey brown and hung in soft waves about her shoulders. Over the
crowd, Richie's laugher reached her ears, and the girl looked down, only to have
her head tilted up by Richie's gentle hand. She smiled.
Willow had finally coaxed Xander to dance with her, Teresa saw. She
wondered what it would take for that boy to finally see how much Willow loved
him, if their both coming a fang's breadth from death wasn't enough. They
looked so happy together, and so joyously alive in their happiness.
Joe Dawson and Rupert Giles were together at a table in a far corner of
the room. Each had a glass of something in front of him, but neither looked as
if it had been touched. They seemed to be having some sort of lively
discussion--she didn't even stop to think before touching their minds--the ages
of immortals and vampires, which was likelier to live longer and why. Nobody
was bothering them at all; to most, they were simply two old guys probably
debating what sort of denture paste to use. Teresa sighed softly for them.. to
grow old.. to know that someday, somehow, the inevitable would overtake them.
For herself--she had cheated fate, but not in the way she had expected or really
wanted.
The band paused, and Teresa felt the mixing emotions of those below as the
started a soft, slow tune. She didn't hear the words this time, only the
feelings--warmth, comfort, life. Angel and Buffy looked at each other for a
long moment before rising as one from their table. A spot on the floor opened
as if by magic just for them. The light was low, the beauty absolute, the music
made her heart stick somewhere in her throat. The pair began swaying, their
movement supernaturally graceful, their bodies held apart only by Angel's velvet
dress shirt and Buffy's light silk dress. Teresa looked with her whole heart,
and saw the love between them as something more solid than physical reality
could ever tear apart again. She saw their faces, their eyes, as the rest of
the world dissolved around them. She knew then that she could no more be a part
of that world than any other. Her vision grew misty. "Love seeketh not Itself
to please." Teresa felt her heartbeat slow as she stood up and started for the
back door. "Nor for itself hath any care, but for another gives it ease." She
slipped out as unnoticed as she had entered. "And builds a Heaven in Hell's
despair."
"For love, then," she whispered.
Teresa drank in the beauty of the darkness, the stillness of complete and
utter isolation. A soft breeze, laden with moisture, caressed her skin as if in
apology for having to make itself known. She stuck her hands deep into her coat
pockets and shivered. The heavy weight of her sword was a comfort against her
thigh. Her footsteps were even, soft, but heading in only one direction--away,
away from memories, away from the Hellmouth, away from anyone she knew would
know her for what she truly was. *For love, this.* Two blood-tinged tears
rolled down her marble cheeks as she faded into the night.
Alone.
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