chapter 7: leviticus – fools

The dark alley was lined with steel dumpsters overflowing with rotten fruit and filth so vile Spike thought he might heave. But as he looked at Buffy standing triumphantly with her arms crossed and chest heaving from the thrill of the kill, Spike decided that wasn't likely.

He had landed softly on top of one of the oversized wastebaskets and tumbled to the ground next to Buffy feet first. Now standing with his hands in his pockets, he waited patiently for the dust of a half-dozen vampires swirling in the air between them to settle. She had looked like a goddess as he’d watched her fight from the rooftops. Her body had moved effortlessly as she’d taken out one vampire after another. Now standing only a few feet in front of her, he stared at her glistening skin and felt as if he could see the heat of battle pouring from her body. She looked even more beautiful than he’d remembered. He then glanced at the stake she held clenched in her fist and smiled. She also was as dangerous as she'd ever been.

“Why are you here?” she repeated as Spike took a small step backward. “Did Giles send you?”

He cleared his throat. “Yes, he did send me. But not to bring you back to Sunnydale.”

“Why then?” Spike noticed her hand trembled as she pulled a few strands of dark blond hair from her face.

“Something went wrong with the spell.” Buffy's expression changed and she suddenly looked sad. She turned and walked stiffly to a stool-shaped canister next to one of the dumpsters and plopped down on the makeshift seat. She then looked up at him and raised an eyebrow, imploring him to continue.

“The spell had consequences. Changed the Scoobies…or at least Giles and Anya…quite a bit,” explained Spike. “Didn't see Xander or the two witches, but from what Giles and Anya said they're all pretty much running a tank short of something.”

“I haven't changed. Neither has Dawn. We're just fine, except for…missing our friends and things,” Buffy looked away from Spike and tightened the grip on her stake.

“You may be okay, but they're different, believe me,” he said. “It's as if they've lost their souls.”

“Are they evil?”

“Bollocks, Buffy,” exclaimed Spike. “Not evil, just different. Less than what they were and in some cases, more than what they should be.”

“Sorry." Buffy stared at her shoe and twirled the stake in her hand. “Dawn hasn't had a headache since the spell. She's been fine. We're both fine.”

“I can see that,” Spike hesitated. Had he heard her correctly? Had Buffy just apologized to him? If he could hear the scampering feet of the rats running behind the dumpsters on either side of him, he’d definitely heard Buffy’s voice and she’d said ‘sorry’. When was the last time Buffy had used that word in a conversation with him?

“I think the portal jumper is getting closer.” Buffy’s heartbeat accelerated. Spike heard it beating wildly in her chest.

“You're right. But Giles said the portal jumper doesn't know it's looking for Dawn. Not yet."

Spike gestured to the empty canister next to Buffy. She nodded and he sat down.

“How does it find its victims?”

“Through the thoughts of its last kill,” explained Spike. “Giles said that's why the thought spell was so important. I guess it works like a mask, hides the true face of a person. He didn't tell you?”

She shook her head. “How come it didn't take a thought away from me of Dawn, though? I mean it took away Dawn's pain, but nothing other than that from either one of us as far as I can tell.”

“So you don't remember what the spell took away from you?”

Buffy closed her eyes. “No,” she said slowly. “I can't remember.” She opened her eyes.

Spike felt the tension in his body diminish as he heard her heartbeat ease back into a normal rhythm. “Giles couldn't remember the thought either. None of the Scoobies can remember it, and that's something Giles hadn't counted on. So he asked me to tell you to take Dawn and move in with that Watcher friend of his, Bertram Ross. This chap will be able to help you keep the portal jumper off your trail.”

“Too late,” said Buffy, her eyes fixed on her hands. “He's dead. Found his head in his apartment about week after we got to New York.”

Buffy's lip quivered and Spike placed his hand on top of her hand. "Well, how 'bout if I just hang around for a bit?”

"You know, I can take care of me and Dawn,” she said slowly as he took in the fact that she hadn’t removed her hand from beneath his.

In the past, she hadn’t reacted well to him touching her. Her punching him in the face was about the closet physical contact they'd ever had, except for that time after Glory nearly killed him. Before that, they'd needed a spell to touch. Spike took a deep breath. He had to get over the shock of seeing her again and really look at her. There was something odd going on. Her eyes were bright and clear. The veil of sadness he’d seen in them after Willow had brought her back to life and before he’d left Sunnydale was gone. Her tone hadn’t included its usual disdain for him, and there was no sarcasm in her words or gestures. "You're the Slayer, love." He forced a smile on his face, which was not as hard as he thought it would be. “Guess you can handle whatever comes along. Just like you handled these vamps tonight.”

“You were watching me?” Buffy smiled at him sweetly. “I did sense another vampire, someone stronger than this pile of dusty fledglings.” She waved her hand over the dirt and added softly. "Maybe you could join me on patrol while you’re in town.”

His stomach flipped. Who was this girl who inviting him to join her on patrols?

Then suddenly Spike sensed them. A dozen or so soon-to-be-dusted vampires, he decided, had crowded into the alley, blocking both entrances or exits, according to your perspective, Spike reflected. He and Buffy jumped to their feet simultaneously and spun to face opposite ends of the alley instinctively. Spike felt Buffy's back settle against his. Her entire body braced for battle.

“This is not all of them,” she whispered. “Look up.”

Raising his gaze toward the sky, Spike saw Jacob standing on the rooftop in the same spot where Spike had stood less than twenty minutes earlier.

“Come on man! What the fuck are you doing talking to a Slayer?” shouted Jacob. He then jumped from the ledge and appeared to fly through the air before landing a few feet in front of Spike. “What happened to killing the bitches, mate?”

“What do you mean, Jacob?” Spike said as Buffy whispered. “You know this vamp?”

“Yes, darling, we're old friends. Go way back,” responded Jacob, snarling.

“Thought you didn't care what a Slayer did in the Bronx, Jake?” interrupted Spike.

“Thought it would be like the old days, watching you take her out, man. But what do I find? Your Aurielian ass hugging our mortal enemy,” leered Jacob. “The portal jumper isn't going to like this, Spike. He expects more of his brethren.”

Spike felt Buffy move away from him and winced. Shit, he thought. He was going to have a hard time explaining this one.


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Giles heard a light knock on the front door of his apartment but continued to thumb through the pages of the second volume of the Zy Qasdor as he sat at his desk. He'd seen Xander out of the corner of his eye jump up from the sofa and scurry over to the door, pulling it open so quickly he caught Willow with her fist in mid-air. Giles shook his head and whispered, “She's finally here.” He knew it would be Willow at the door. He'd been expecting her.

“Good day, Willow,” he said. The fake graciousness of his greeting was obvious to him, but what Willow heard, he could only guess.

“Hey there, Giles,” she said, her voice bouncy as she strolled into the living room of the apartment, her dark eyes exploring the space thoroughly before resting their gaze on him. Giles noted she hadn't even acknowledged Xander. He chuckled at the perennial best-friend of all things Scooby, who had moved aside sheepishly after opening the door. Now he sat shoulders slumped and eyes downcast, huddled in a corner near the foyer in a half-witted attempt to keep out of harm's way Giles imagined.

Turning his head away from the boy, Giles gave Willow a bit of the once over she'd just extended his way. She appeared as she often did these days. Dark red hair curling gently around her face, her eyes were two big round disks that changed from green to black so quickly he had given up on using them as a barometer of her mood. There was too much to see when he looked at the new Willow. So he decided to focus on one aspect of her face. He fixed his gaze on her mouth. It was too big, he reasoned. Stretched wide and appearing like a gash cut lengthwise between her cheeks, it was always open as if she couldn't breathe through her nose. She had to gulp air through her parted lips. He admitted that he might be exaggerating the ferocity of her appearance. But she looked that foul to him any more.

“Giles, you can't keep avoiding this,” she began. “We've been hiding out in Sunnydale too long. We can't just leave Buffy and Dawn in New York, unprotected, forever.”

“Buffy does not need our protection, Willow,” he remarked casually. “She's the Slayer. Or have you forgotten that, too?”

“Let's not argue, okay?” Willow edged her way closer to Giles' desk.

“I've got something I want to tell you about the spell.”

“Then tell me, Willow.” He closed the book.

“I changed it. Before we cast it, I changed it. I mean seriously, Giles. A portal jumper that uses horrific pain to track its prey cannot be forgotten with the snap of a finger. So I tweaked it, just a little. The spell that is…I altered it.”

Giles stood slowly and took a cautious step toward Willow.

“You think I hadn't figured that out already?” He growled. “Look at Xander! Is he the same young man you loved? Where's Anya? Have you even seen her lately? And Tara ? Heaven help her,” he exclaimed and moved dangerously close to Willow. “And what about me? You sodding bloody fool! I research for hours all day long, every day since they left but I can't remember a word. Nothing. Everything about me that was a Watcher is gone!” Giles turned abruptly and slammed his fists on the desk before picking up the volume of the Zy Qasdor and flinging it across the room.

“Calm down Giles,” implored Willow.

“Don't you tell me what to do.” Giles countered.

“If you don't calm yourself, I'll do it for you,” she warned.

“No Willow, please don't,” Xander's soft plea stunned them both into silence as he and Willow turned to the man in the corner.

“Okay, Xander,” she said, her voice shaking a little. “I won't do anything. We'll just talk.” Willow looked at Giles sternly. “Let's sit down. We don't want to upset Xander.”

Giles was panting, his anger not nearly abated. But even with his nerves threadbare, he was thankful that Willow chose not to make Xander mad. One of the reasons he'd insisted on Xander moving in with him after Anya left was his effect on Willow. Whatever thought they'd taken, the change in Xander was the most perplexing to Giles. The boy appeared fearful and nervous most of the time, except when Willow used her threatening voice as Xander called it. And for some reason Giles couldn't comprehend, Willow didn't seem to want to use magic against Xander.

Giles sat opposite Willow on the sofa as Xander retreated back into his corner.

“The original spell took away any thought of the portal jumper's existence,” said Willow. “I just upped the ante a bit by changing that thought to fear.”

Giles glared at Willow. But he remained silent and waited for her to continue.

“Think about it. We remember the monster but aren't afraid to fight it,” she explained. “The portal jumper thrives on fear. Without it, it can't find us or Dawn.”

“If the spell took away our thoughts of fear Willow, why are we all so afraid?” Giles reached up to pull his glasses from his nose, but then remembered he didn't wear them anymore.

“I'm not afraid,” she said.

“You're afraid of Xander,” he glanced at the corner.

“Well, I can't quite explain that, right now,” she mumbled. “But I do know about the Jumper. I know what he is, and how we can stop it.”

“How?”

“Well first, Tara and I have got to go to New York.”


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Carlo's morning run always started on the track at Christopher Columbus High School. His coach had given him a key so that he could get into the gym at 5 a.m. He was up at 4 a.m. every morning so it was never a hassle for him to get there to do what he needed to do. He believed that hard work always paid off. He changed into his special sweats, extremely stinky special sweats according to Dawn, and his favorite pull-over hoodie – the one with the letters USA emboldened in bright blue on the back and given to him by Mohammad Ali at the Olympic camp the summer before – and he was ready to rumble, as he liked to say.

God, he loved running at dawn nearly as much as he loved boxing. The ache in his thighs, the hardening of his calves and the tightening of his forearms as he pumped the air while sprinting over the hard concrete, wet mud or slippery streets and alleys of New York was heaven on earth to Carlo. Wherever he tread he devoured the path with winged feet, rushing blood and a focused mind. He was a contender. He thrust his shoulders up and down from side to side, fast, fast and faster. Fists pounding against the wind as he ran. "This is all good, man. All good," he laughed.

Today, he felt better than good. He felt unstoppable. Dawn had promised him she'd get out that weekend. Sneak away from her overly protective but definitely cute big sister. They were going to a club in Harlem. It wasn't just a date. It was going to be a first. He was going to kiss her. Yeah, it sounded lame. A freaking kiss. That's all he wanted from her right now. She was that kind of girl. You didn't jump the bones of a girl like Dawn. You worked for it. Since he believed in hard work, she was his perfect prize.

He'd been running for at least an hour. Circling the neighborhood and catching his second wind a few blocks from the alley behind the apartment building where he and his Mom lived. She'd be awake by the time he got back. A pan of bacon, scrambled eggs and a large tumbler of fresh-squeezed orange juice waiting for him on the kitchen table.

He reached the alley in what felt like seconds. Bent forward, his hands tugging at the fabric of his sweatpants, he inhaled, sucking the cool morning air into his lungs.

He heard a thud behind him. Spinning around, he snapped into his boxing stance and peered into the blackness. In mid-winter it was very dark at 6 a.m. Eyeing the shadows, his fatigue forgotten, he held his fists up in front of him, loosely clenched. He was ready to fight.

“Carlo,” a familiar voice came from the darkness. “What's up, kid?” It was Darnell, the cop from the 43rd Precinct.

“Hey man, what you doing in the hood at the crack of dawn?” asked Carlo, relaxing instantly.

The cop took a step forward, putting him in the spotlight of the beam shining down from street-lamp onto the pavement.

“G-got some news,” Darnell stuttered.

Carlo looked up at the kitchen window of the apartment where he and his Mom lived. He could see a light on, saw a body move past the window and he sighed. His Mom was fixing his breakfast. She was okay. He looked back at Darnell. Whatever the cop had to say, Carlo could deal.

“Your boy, Tommy Dugan," began Darnell. "He's dead."

Carlo shook his head as if his hearing had suddenly gone bad. He took a step backwards, putting some distance between him and the cop.

“What the hell are you talking about, man?” he asked. Tommy dead? That was some bullshit. “What happened?”

“Serial killer got him,” said Darnell. “This fucking bastard is doing his thing in the Bronx now and he doesn't care who he tags. Teenage boys, old men, they even say some dead ten-year old farm boy in upstate New York has the same M.O.”

“Is this the one with the...”

“Yep. All he leaves is the head.”

“Tommy, dead. Man, my Mom's gonna be upset." Carlo leaned against the side of the building. "Damn, he's worked for Mom since we were kids."

"You're still a kid," Darnell pointed out, quietly.

"You got any leads?"

“We're working on the answers, boy," said Darnell. “In the meantime, this bastard is getting awfully close. You and yours just be careful, okay?”

“Sure man, I'm all about careful,” said Carlo. He headed toward the front of the building, but then he paused. “Hey Darnell, thanks for telling me about Tommy. Would've hated to hear this shit on the nightly news.”

“No problem.”

Carlo walked into the building and ran up the four flights of stairs to his apartment.

to be continued…