I wake up to a feather in my mouth, and bird shit all over my leather jacket, both signs that I'm not alone in the crypt. Oh, this is bloody awful. Do you know how hard it is to clean leather that's almost thirty years old? This jacket is an antique!
I roar, "DRU!"
She prances out in Sunday best, and says sweetly, "I was waiting for you to wake up, darling. The cakes and tea will get all cold."
"I'm not hungry."
She slips closer, looking pale and wan and deliciously feminine. "Of course you are. You can't eat." She runs a hand down my shoulder, tickling my skin. I suck in a breath, grab her hand with one of mine and pull her roughly on the bed. She moans, and parts her legs, lifts her skirt up with one skinny finger. "You have to eat something."
And I do. I bend a head down to her thigh, fangs ready to pierce the vein I can see pumping below her skin, when she whispers, "You smell like you can breath, William. And she's written her name, all over your skin, so you can't even bite anymore."
I prove her wrong, and sink my teeth in. It's been so-- and she tastes so--
I take just enough to stop my stomach growling, and then stand up. Outwardly dismiss her from my thoughts. I'm not going to play tonight, Dru.
I can't take it anymore.
She mewls, soft in her throat. "You don't-- I-- Will."
For GOD'S SAKE. All the women around me are trying to drive me insane.
To prove it, Harmony comes in the door. She says, nose in the air, "I'm only here to pick up my stuff, Spike. And I'm going to pretend that *she* doesn't have her dress up around her waist."
I sense an opportunity to grab back some of my dignity, and - let's be practical here - eat. With ice in my tone, I say, "Stop."
She looks at me, overcome with stupidity. "What? You can't order me around--"
I silence her.
Walk over. She starts to mutter about life being unfair, but I clamp a hand over her mouth firmly. She starts to squirm, eyes and face getting wider and a little afraid. I sink my teeth into her neck, and take just enough to make her dizzy.
Then I throw her on the couch, and pick up my jacket, irritably brushing the little white clumps off. "Drusilla. No more birds. I'll kill any more animals I find you bring into the house."
I pretend I don't hear her whimper, but it follows me down the street.
~
I hit the cemetery; figure, what the hell. I need either the Slayer, or O'Reily, or a sharp kick. I'm easy either way. Something has to happen, though, and that itch in my fingertips says that it's gonna be tonight.
You don't hang out with a fortune-teller without picking up a few of the tricks.
I'm in luck: spy O'Reily leaning up against the crypt we met at before. "Mick!"
"That's me. Black as black Irish, my man."
I lower my voice in case anyone we know is out and about. "Any word about what I needed, mate?"
"I went in earlier today, while everyone was at work. Found this--" and he hands me a book with the right design on the cover. It's not three hundred pounds, either, and looks like it might have been written after the 1700s. I flip through it, check out the pages to make sure there's actually text on them. It's in modern Latin - as modern as Latin gets, anyway. Bonus. I won't even need a translator, hopefully.
I nod, and say awkwardly, "Look, about your brother--"
He interrupts. "It's being taken care of."
We start walking, back to his place. His dump, really. The building looks condemned, and I'm sure no one's paying rent to the proper owner. It looks a lot like Willie's bar. Now there's someone I'd like to kill; Willie. Haven't seen him around much lately, come to think of it. Maybe someone got there before me.
O'Reily invites me in for a beer, and I accept. "But only one, mate. It looks like I might be able to commit grand larceny tonight."
I've been flipping the pages of the book, my Latin, though rusty, easily deciphering the text. It's a catalogue of the whereabouts of several pieces of fine art, rare gems, and--
Bingo. There's my baby's necklace, laid out all pretty as you please. And the last place it was... Moscow.
"Fuck."
O'Reily hands me a beer - Corona. I try not to cringe, and drink it down quickly. "What, man?"
"Looks like I might have to go to Russia."
"Sucks."
I eye his desk, and see that he's got a computer set up, with a modem. Oh, and of course he would; O'Reily might act it, but he's not stupid - this reminds me of that, yet again. He uses all the resources available to him. And good for the Irish boy. "Mind if I borrow this for a minute?"
He shrugs, all hospitality. I turn it on, and check the Moscow museum online. It seems like they've got contacts on the West Coast of the States, so it's worth looking up more. Eventually, I'll hit paydirt. I don't actually doubt that, through some twist of fate, the bauble's in Sunnydale right now. I mean, my baby's never wrong.
Dru. Dru's never wrong.
Ryan gets me another beer, and says casually, "You know, you kinda owe me one."
Instantly, I'm suspicious. "Yeah. I know."
"You know what I want?"
I have a very good feeling that this might have something to do with his brother, but I don't really want to know. "Um. Not really, no."
He puts both his hands on the desk, and leans in to my face, really close. I try and ignore him, keep typing. "Vern Shillinger's bones."
I've heard that name; last time I was at the warehouse. Ugly bastard with a nasty scar over one eye. I turn off the computer, having memorized both the address of the Sunnydale museum, and how to get there. I lean back, as casual as O'Reily is threatening. "Don't you mean ashes?"
His features darken, and he grins. "Tomayto, tomahto."
I stand up, effectively pushing him off me. "Right. You want ashes, I want a necklace and a ride. You got a car?" He shakes his head. "Oh well. Have to steal one."
"I can hook you up, ten minutes, tops."
Oh, that's useful to someone who lived through the seventies. Like I couldn't smash and grab any car I put my mind on. "We both can do that, mate. What I'm looking for is someone who's interested in carting away a lot of very expensive stolen things."
I want to make sure that anyone seeing the robbery won't be able to track the importance of what's really been taken, and if O'Reily comes along for the general pretties, my real intentions should be masked.
Barring my luck staying the same.
His eyebrows raise, and I can see the greed light up behind his eyes. I can also see the calculation, and it reminds me not to forget how intelligent this son of a bitch is.
But what the hell. I like the bastard. "Interested?"
He holds the door open for me. "You first."
~
I look up at the Sunnydale Museum - barely a two story building - and suddenly get very, very depressed. I went from stirring up chaos and madness in a rebellion, to this. Robbing people in a one-horse town.
And the one-horse is about 5'1", blond hair, and currently hates my guts.
He puts on gloves - I don't bother - and looks at me. "How are we gonna do this?"
I hand him a sack that I filched from the docks a while ago. Figured it might come in handy some day. He looks at me. I pick up a brick, and lob it through the big window leading into the gift shop. From deep within the building, an alarm sounds.
He looks at me, anger and amazement in his eyes. "You fucker! You brought every cop within ten miles right on top of us!"
I look around, and spread my arms wide, stepping back. "And if you think there are any cops anywhere in Sunnydale that will answer an alarm after sunset..." I start moving towards the window, and kicking the rest of the glass out so we can get inside. "You haven't been paying attention."
Glass shatters as we make our way inside, and finally, we can get in without any problems. Not that I really care whether O'Reily gets cut, but keeping his blood at bay will stop the growling in my stomach. "Okay. I'm looking for a bright green necklace, square stones. You find anything like that, it's mine. Got it? The rest, I couldn't care less about."
That's not entirely true; I intend to pick up a few things aside from the gem. But only a few. I don't want to draw attention to myself trying to sell them, and it's not like I have anyone to give them to.
Or, I do, but. But.
It doesn't take long to find the room where the necklace is being held - turn left and check the display cases. There are only about four gallery sized rooms on the bottom floor, and those are the only large exhibits. Pathetic, really, that an artifact so important in magic circles is being gawked at alongside pictures of surfers at Monterey.
Not that I have anything against surfing. It's just the principle of the thing. Something this fun should be worth more.
I smash my hand into the case, and grasp it. I feel a tingle, but dismiss it quickly as I drop it in the pocket of my jacket, then sweep the rest of the gems in that case the same direction.
I holler, "O'REILY! We're--"
He appears at my side. "I've got enough. Let's get the hell out of here."
I don't say a thing on the drive back to my place, and my hand strays to my pocket the entire time.
~
O'Reily and I part ways at home, after I promise to try and find Vern for him. It'll take a little while, though, unless I can rope someone else into killing him for me. And Adebisi looked like he might have planned just that, but it won't do any good unless O'Reily knows it.
I'll have to talk to Adebisi tonight, too, then. Bugger. Maybe one of his men will be outside the warehouse, and I can tell them.
But I'm in luck, which should alert me that something is going to go desperately wrong... I realize only that Poet is waiting for me inside.
Under my breath, I mutter, "Doesn't anybody knock anymore?"
"Got a message from Adebisi, white boy. He says he's gonna move soon, and he's expecting your advice before that."
I open the fridge, and pull out a blood bag, pour it in a mug. You know, there are things worse than cold blood to eat, I'm sure. Seal eyes, for example. I've been watching a lot of Discovery Channel lately, and there was a program about the Inuit. They ate seal eyes.
But cold, partially congealed blood, is not high on my list. Still, I take a long drink before I answer him. "Fine. Tonight's really bad, though. It can wait."
Mate, you do not know how bad a night. I committed the theft, alright, but the hard part comes in the giving of the gift.
Poet shrugs, in agreement, sits himself down. "He's at the zoo again. It can wait."
I feel a muscle beside my eye twitch. "You know, your boss, he's not--"
"No, he ain't."
I think to myself, And that's enough about that. "So, your name."
"Cause I write poetry, yo. It got me outta prison. But then I hadda kill a guy, and got sent back."
I make a face. Poetry is for sniveling little men that can't get by without saying things in pretty words. Though this guy's tough enough; I guess the Beat generation changed the way things go down in literary circles. Whatever. "Listen. I hate to be rude, and all, but can I kick you out about now? It's nothing personal. Just, I have things to do, tonight..."
He stands, and scowls. "Hey, I get it. I should probably get to the--" and a look crosses his face, "-- lion cage, anyway."
I mutter sourly, thinking about stomping to the Bronze, "Me too, mate. Me too."
~
She's not at the Bronze. She's not in the cemetery. She might be at home,
it's not much past midnight. I find myself staring up at her house under that
ugly tree, and wondering how many times Angelus found
himself here.
Oh, do you even want to think about it, William?
I pull out the emeralds, feel them, their shape in my palm. I could wear it, just for a minute. Maybe she wouldn't hate me if--
There's a door slam, round the front of the house, and I move quickly to meet whoever it is. Her, of course, and in a bitch of a mood. "Whatever it is, I can't. I don't have time--"
I easily match her stride. "Where you off to, Summers?"
"The - nowhere."
We walk in a few seconds of silence. I say, "On patrol?"
"Just out."
"Bronze? The band's good tonight."
She stops, and faces me. Her cheeks are red, her lips are red, her blood pulses deep and slow through her whole body. I look down on her, and she's more testy than normal. She snaps, "What do you want?"
"You need my help."
That's not what I wanted to say.
I can feel the limb I'm climbing out onto, the dangerous way this is headed. Last night, Dru told me that my fortune was unsure, and the Queen of Swords was around my neck. Now, signs and portents are all well and good, but tarot reading for Buffy Summers isn't what I want to hurt about.
The branch shakes, as she stares at me, the disgust lurking in her face for anyone to see. "Why?"
She's blunt. I'll give her that much. I say, "Because. Tonight, you don't want to die." She gapes at me, and I continue, "That's what you have to get around, Summers. And I know how you can."
"And what if I don't believe you? You told me yourself, we aren't on the same side, here."
My shoulders slump, in the least. The traffic out on the highway buzzes past, dimly, in the depth of the night.
"You and Angelus weren't on the same side, either, and he helped you become stronger than you ever were." She grabs me painfully around the neck, and squeezes my windpipe. "It's true, and you know it."
She lets me go, suddenly and more painfully than when she grabbed me. She starts walking, and I follow, my steps just a little more unsure than before. "You have to face these things, Slayer. No one else has the balls to hit you until you figure it out, but I do. I'm on the level, here. It's not like I have anything better to do, right?"
She opens her mouth to speak, but we're interrupted by the sight of Dru in a playground, storming towards us.
Motherfucking god in HEAVEN, can't I get a break?