chapter 4: deuteronomy, part II

Spike slapped his palms against the invisible barrier preventing him from entering Giles' apartment. “Invite me in!” he demanded. “It's almost bloody fucking sunrise and Anya said you could tell me about Dawn and Buffy. So let me the fuck in!”

“Well, I see your sense of tact hasn't blossomed beyond that of a hedgehog in heat,” replied Giles, who for an instant reminded Spike of one of the grizzled headmasters at the small boarding school in London he'd attended more than 130 years before.

“As you might imagine, I'm not the least bit compelled to invite you into my home, let alone have a conversation with you regarding the whereabouts of Dawn and Buffy.” Giles stood wide-legged, an arm braced on either side of the doorframe. His voice, cold and dismissive, hadn't wavered as he spoke. Still, to Spike's satisfaction, the Watcher hadn't slammed the door in his face.

"Well, at least not yet," he muttered aloud as he backed a few inches away from the barrier, his eyes studying the man in front of him.

Just like the town and Anya, something was off about Rupert thought Spike. He bit his lower lip to keep his mouth closed for a moment as he studied the Watcher's appearance.

Red-rimmed eyes peered at Spike over the edges of his black spectacles. And Rupert's jaw actually quivered under Spike's intense gaze. The dark gray shirt and black pants he wore looked wrinkled and his shirt was unbuttoned, exposing sallow skin and a few gray chest hairs. Obviously, he'd slept in his clothes noted Spike. Maybe for more than one night by the stale odor of dried perspiration he smelled. Although that scent wasn't as prevalent as the double malt Scotch seeping out of the Watcher's pores. Rupert had been drinking quite a bit for quite a few days in a row.

“Tell me what happened,” Spike implored, his voice striving to sound friendly, which wasn't that much of a stretch to him. That past summer the two Brits had managed to form the beginnings of something approaching a mutual understanding. At least, that's what Spike believed. After Dawn had gone to bed and fallen asleep, the two men, more often than Spike imagined possible, ended up sitting at the counter in the kitchen on Revello Drive polishing off a bottle of Rupert's good Scotch or a pot of fresh brewed tea. They talked about England, the Slayer, and her leap from the tower. Or more accurately Spike talked about Buffy, and Giles listened. After a time, they'd gotten somewhat comfortable around each other Spike liked to think. They even joked occasionally during patrols, sharing a chuckle in response to a remark or gesture that only two Londoners could thoroughly appreciate no matter what century they called their own.

Now as Spike searched Rupert's eyes, he saw despair and pain and guilt. He'd seen the same in Dawn's face that past summer and imagined he'd looked that way, too, especially when he allowed himself to dwell on what he hadn't been able to do for Buffy. One of the reasons he'd left Sunnydale after she returned to life was that he couldn't bear seeing his failures reflected in her eyes.

Spike's stomach muscles tightened as he forced his attention back to the impenetrable entranceway in front of him. He took a step toward Giles, leaving his hands at his side. He was so close to the barrier his skin was tingling and the blood was rushing up and down his spine.

“What happened?” Spike's tone pleaded. “Did the Council of Wankers get the Slayer into a jam?”

“Seems you've gotten your culprits twisted,” mumbled Giles, taking a step backward and breaking eye contact with Spike. “The Council is not involved in this debacle." He looked down at his hands. “Only Buffy's friends could make a deplorable situation this bad.”

Giles turned and walked toward the kitchen. Spike waited on the other side of the open door. Then he heard Rupert's dull voice above running water, ice cubes hitting glass and the clanking of dishes. “I invite you in.”

Spike stepped into the apartment but remained in the foyer.

“Come on in and sit down, Spike,” said Rupert moments later as he walked out of the kitchen carrying a tray with two steaming cups of tea, two tumblers (filled with ice) and a bottle of Scotch. He gestured for Spike to sit on the couch.

"When did you dis-invite me, Rupert?"

Giles glanced at Spike. "Didn't know I had until you came to the door."

Spike sat down on the couch and watched Rupert shake his head as he placed the full tray on the coffee table. He appeared to be warding off a memory as he sat down in the chair opposite Spike. If so, he must have succeeded. He reached forward quickly, grabbed the Scotch from the tray and tilted the bottle vertically over the glasses, sloshing the whiskey into both tumblers and filling them to the rim.

As hard as it was for Spike to remain silent, he didn't ask Giles why he was pouring Scotch at dawn. Instead, he nodded as Giles gestured to him to select from the beverages offered. Giles picked up a tumbler for himself, settled back in his chair and gulped down his drink. Following Giles' lead, Spike reached for the other glass, lifted it to his lips, threw back his head and poured the brown liquid down his throat.

Then Spike's patience dissolved and he slammed the glass down on the table. “Rupert,” he growled. “Where are they?”

Looking intently at the melting ice in the tumbler, Giles spoke slowly. “New York City".

“Where?” Spike's eyebrows knitted together.

“New York City,” repeated Giles.

“You used a spell to send them to New York City?”

“What?”

“Anya said you and Tara, but most likely just Willow, performed some kind of spell because of Dawn and a portal jumper." Spike rubbed his tongue over his front teeth and felt his jaw muscles clench. "But apparently, something went bloody wrong?"

“Yes,” Giles whispered.

“Yes, there was a spell, or yes it went bloody wrong?” The Watcher didn't seem to notice the irritation in Spike's voice as he lifted the tumbler deliberately to his lips.

“Yes…a portal jumper and a spell.” Giles looked surprised as he noticed the empty glass in his hand. He snatched the Scotch from the tray, refilled his glass quickly and then repositioned himself against the cushions of the chair.

“Rupert! Snap out of it!” Spike grabbed the Watcher's wrist hard as a spasm of pain ripped through his head from the chip. Rupert jerked his hand away, spilling half the contents of his glass on the table.

“Put the drink down, please.” Spike stood up and walked away from the sofa. He began pacing in front of the fireplace, and then stopped. “How long have Buffy and Dawn been in New York?”

“Two months.”

“Two months?” Spike repeated. “So the spell didn't send them to a demon dimension or alternate universe, but to New York City …two months ago?”

“The spell didn't send them to New York. They took a plane,” corrected Giles.

Spike shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his duster to stop himself from punching the Watcher in the jaw. "Okay, let's forget about New York.” He glared at Giles. “Anya said a portal jumper was after Dawn. That's why you performed the spell. To protect her, right?”

“Not a portal jumper, Spike. The portal jumper,” interrupted Giles. “And yes, it came after Dawn, and gave her headaches. Devastating headaches.”

“Did the spell stop the headaches?”

“Pain is just the means by which the creature prepares its quarry,” began Giles. “The portal jumper tracks its prey through the thoughts of each of its victims' friends and loved ones.”

“I ask again, Rupert,” Spike spoke through gritted teeth. “Did the spell stop Dawn's headaches or not?”

“Yes, it did.”

“Still, the damn spell went bloody wrong, though?”

“Yes, horribly wrong,” whispered Giles as he slowly rose from the chair and stepped toward Spike. “The spell was more than a cure for a headache. It was meant to keep us from helping the portal jumper find Dawn. So, we cast the spell on each of us. Me, Tara, Willow, Xander, Anya and, of course, Buffy.”

“You all had headaches?”

“No, damn it!” Giles shouted. “Listen to me, Spike. We had to make certain that the portal jumper couldn't find Dawn. We figured out that if we could just take away one thought, we'd be able to keep the creature away from her. And it worked. The spell took away one thought from each of us. And we haven't seen the portal jumper.”

“So, what was it?” Spike asked as the two men stood facing each other. “The thought. What was it?”

“I don't know,” said Giles, his eyes suddenly filled with tears. “None of us can remember what it was.”


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Buffy scrutinized Dawn's face as she lay sprawled on the sofa bed. She had to be joking. “No, you can't.”

“Why not?”

“Well, there's this whole thing having to do with sixteen year old girls and almost eighteen year old boys that spells trouble with a capital ‘T', which rhymes with no freaking way.”

“God, Buffy. You're such a prude.”

“Huh?” she scowled. “Don't think so.”

Dawn rolled onto her side so that she was facing the bay window in the small apartment's living room area that also served as her bedroom. “Jeez Buffy, I mean Carlo is like the perfect guy. His parents own the restaurant where I work, he's one of your students and you like him. You said so yourself.”

“Yeah, well sure. But liking him and allowing you to date him are way major different.”

“You just don't change, do you?” sighed Dawn as she swung her legs onto the hardwood floor, pulled her nightshirt over her head and headed for the bathroom.

“Wait a minute, Dawn,” yelled Buffy. “You can't just get up and walk away from me in the middle of a conversation.”

“Well, I just did,” shouted Dawn from the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

“You're turning into quite a bee-atch, Dawn." Buffy stomped the three feet out of the living room to the kitchen and flung open the miniature refrigerator door in frustration. The rush of cool air made her moan as it hit her damp skin, calming her almost instantly. For early December, it was freakishly hot in New York City, or was it just the Bronx that was too hot? Or was it the fourth floor walk-ups two-room apartment's heating system, automatically turned on by the landlord October 1, that made her skin all wet and sticky. “Too many options,” she muttered to herself. Buffy shrugged as she eyed the contents of the refrigerator. There had to be an egg or slice of bread, something that might pass for food. But she saw nothing she felt like eating, as per usual.

“Damn!" She slammed the door shut and called to her sister. “Hey Dawn, hurry up. I've got to get ready for work, you know.”

Walking into her bedroom, which happened to be the largest room in the apartment, Buffy glanced around, searching for a pair of clean tights and the company T-shirt she had to wear. Working six days a week out of seven as a personal trainer to neighborhood moms, unemployed actors and soon-to-be next year's professional sports sensation (that would be Dawn's Carlo, she smiled) wasn't the best choice for a young woman who didn't like to do laundry on a regular basis. Her room was beginning to smell like her locker at the gym, especially with these maddeningly weird hot days.

“Throw in vampire slaying and demon hunting and you wonder when a girl has time to have a life." She snatched a hopefully clean pair of tights from under a stack of gym shorts and jeans, brushed the garment in front of her nose and smiled. “Yep, these will do.”

Buffy hurried out of the bedroom and down the hall to rush Dawn out of the bathroom.


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“Give me four double cheese burgers rare, fries on the side, and three extra tubs of hot sauce,” barked Dawn over the counter as she placed her order sheet in the miniature turnstile. She smiled at the cook as he placed his hand on her hand as it rested on top of the counter. He gave her a quick smile and then spun around to shout at the fry guy to turn down the grease before he toasted the joint.

“Man, you'll piss off my Mom if her place burns down,” joked Carlo. “And you know she can kick your ass.” He laughed as he seemed to bounce from one foot to the other. Which he probably was, thought Dawn. Bouncing, that is. He was a boxer. One of the most promising talents in the city or so he'd told her a number of times. He was some kind of weight class Dawn couldn't remember, but it sounded like how he looked. Sleek, tall, dark and really hot. Well, not that tall, Dawn amended herself. At least he was taller than she was, which meant he wasn't short since Dawn had grown at least another inch since her and Buffy had left Sunnydale.

“Dawn, you gonna take these cops their drink orders or just stare at the cook,” grinned Tommy, the other evening shift waiter and a classmate of Dawn's from Christopher Columbus High School.

“I've got it,” she answered, filling a tray with two cups of coffee, two diet cokes and four plastic glasses filled with tap water.

As she walked over to their table, the four police officers stopped talking and turned to greet her. “What's up, blue eyes,” winked Darnell, an African-American beat cop from the 43rd Precinct. He ate dinner at Mom's Restaurant every day when he was on duty as far as Dawn could tell. Well, at least for the past month that Dawn had worked at the restaurant. Nonetheless, a few days earlier, he'd gotten into the habit of teasing her about Carlo. It couldn't be that obvious, she thought, pursing her lips in mock annoyance as she placed the drinks on the table.

“Sorry, Dawn,” said Darnell. “But you kids crack me up with this lovey dovey, shit.” The other three cops at the table laughed.

“Leave the children alone, Darnell,” said the female cop. “Your old butt is just jealous.”

“Could be,” smiled Darnell. “Hey, Carlo.”

“Yeah, man.”

“Walk your lady home tonight, okay?” Darnell made it sound like an order.

“Her sister walks her home and believe me, her sister can take care of both of them,” said Carlo as he pushed four plates filled with burgers and fries to the top of the counter.

Quickly, Dawn caught his eye and gave him a ‘shut-up now' look.

“Seriously, some bad shit happening over in Fort Lee,” warned Darnell. “Got what looks like a serial killer.”

“Hey, don't say that,” said the female cop, tapping Darnell on the arm. “We don't want to panic the community, you know.”

“Yeah, right?” said Darnell as he continued. “Now, what was I saying? Oh yeah, this killer is real nasty, boy. A fucking lunatic from what we can tell.”

“How many bodies?” asked Carlo, walking two plates over to the table and placing them down as Dawn delivered the other two plates.

“No bodies, man,” said Darnell, shoving a half dozen French fries into his mouth. “Just heads.”

to be continued…