Chapter 1

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Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary… 

 

Edgar Allen Poe
The Raven

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The unsteady clink of bottle against tumbler was appropriate background music to accompany Giles’ fragile mood.  How many years had passed since his Ripper days and the dark deeds of his youth; years spent burying memories so deep that he’d actually convinced himself that his recollection of that time was flawed.  He was Rupert Giles, upstanding member of society, librarian, moderate of habit and opinion; any similarity to the reckless young man with a penchant for summoning demons was entirely coincidental. 

“Nice try, Giles,” he slurred as he knocked back another shot of Irish whiskey.  “Bloody Ripper, always lurking in there.  I’m sure you want a drink?” he questioned his alter ego.  “No?  Jolly good.  More for me then….”  More clinking, more gulping. 

He grabbed at his notebook and tugged it across the desk, inadvertently knocking the now empty bottle clattering to the floor.  Glancing at the names written across the page, he drained the glass in his hand.  He ran his finger down along the lines, remembering the first time the group had got together in London all those years ago.   

Ethan Rayne had introduced him to the band of misfits after spending a drunken night in a pub close to the university listening to his tale of woe; Giles was disillusioned with his life and had no intention of obeying his father and following him into the Watcher’s Council.  There’d been a huge row, they’d both said things they really shouldn’t have and Giles had stormed out, slamming the front door behind him.  He was sick and tired of the endless rules and regulations – don’t wear that, don’t say this.  He was a free spirit…he needed room to express himself.  Bloody aged git of a father didn’t like it…he could stuff it! 

So, cradling his pint of lager to his chest, Giles had listened with interest as Ethan laid out his plan for fun and frolics, the summoning of a demon and the orgies of sex and booze an added bonus – exactly what he was looking for.   

“Ok, mate.  Count me in.”   

“Delighted to!  And your name is?” 

A beat.  “Ripper.  Just…Ripper.” 

And that had been that.  A maniacal demon-worshipper with kohl-rimmed eyes and a sideline in hot tunes was born.  From thereon, Ripper took over his persona completely.  He dropped out of university, cut himself off from his parents and long-standing friends and severed all ties with the Watchers Council.  Soon his days were passing in a blur of drugs, mind control, magic and demonology.  The greater the risk, the more intense the kick.  He became the main protagonist in the group, urging them on to darker magicks, even as some were starting to feel uneasy at the way things were going.  So when he’d suggested Eyghon as their next project, there’d been whisperings of discontent.   

Eyghon was a demon of great power that could inhabit the bodies of sleeping or dead humans and thereby gain some measure of appearance in this world.  It was a mind-blowing experience for the recipient of the demon, the feeling of euphoria eclipsing any drug trip and then some.  There was a catch, as always; the demon was strong and difficult to handle.  There was a ritual involving a tattoo, the mark of Eyghon, then chanting, potions, a trance.  The sexual energy surrounding the group as they summoned the demon for the first time had been electrifying.  It was then that Ripper had truly come into his own. 

Giles chuckled mirthlessly to himself as he went in search of a fresh bottle – scotch this time – unsteadily banging against furniture as he lurched around the room.  “Bloody good times … great shagging… that Dierdre…nice pair of tits on her…”  He dissolved into a fit of giggles, gripping the bottle and flopping down on the couch. 

“Glass…no glass…sod it…” he muttered as he upended the bottle and took a healthy swig of the single malt. 

The sudden rapping on his front door jolted him from his drowsy musings.  The door handle was tried to no effect; unusual for Giles, he’d actually locked it in an effort to isolate himself from the world outside. The knocking got louder, the female voice hollering in accompaniment. 

“Oh, piss off.” he muttered, his eyes closing as the alcohol took hold.  The knocking became pounding, the door now shaking with the force applied to it from outside.  “For god’s sake…coming…I’m coming…stop that bloody racket…” 

He got to his feet and staggered to the door.  Opening it slightly, he was faced with an obviously pissed off Slayer. 

“Buffy. I…it's late. Uh, are you alright?” 

“I was gonna ask you the same thing.” 

“Don’t I look alright?  You look lovely, all pink and pretty…I'm, uh, I'm rather busy a…at the moment, so, uh, I'll see you on Monday at… at school.” 

Buffy was looking at him incredulously; she leaned in closer trying to force the door open.  She recoiled as the smell of the drink hit her.   

“Giles, did you forget?  The hospital, vampires, handy carryout packets of blood?” 

He laughed, a low bitter sound that chilled her.  “No, I didn’t forget.  I had other things on my mind…like dead friends, poor dead friends…” He took another long pull from the bottle.  Buffy made to snatch it out of his hands. 

“Now, now – you get your own.  This is mine – now piss off!” 

“GILES!  What is wrong with you?  Give me that.”  She finally made it through the doorway, nearly falling as Giles crumpled in a heap on the floor, catching her feet with his tangled limbs.   

“Wrong?  What could be wrong?  And hands off my scotch!” 

Buffy knelt down beside him, concern written all over her face.  “Giles.  Please, give me the bottle.  This isn’t like you.  Tell me what’s wrong.  Let me help.” 

“See, you don’t know me at all…not really, nobody knows me…poor Ripper.”  He swigged more scotch, ignoring Buffy’s sanctimonious look. 

“Who’s Ripper?  What’s happened, Giles?” 

There was no reply; Giles had slumped to the floor still clutching the bottle and was snoring gently.  Buffy shook him roughly.  “Giles – you are not getting away with it that easily…wake up.  WAKE UP!” she shouted in his ear.   

The watcher sat upright and regretted it instantly.  His head was spinning, making the contents of his stomach swirl unpleasantly.  He lurched to his feet and made it to the couch, sinking into the cushions with a sigh.   Looking up, he was met by the Slayer standing disapprovingly in front of him.  Hands on hips, head tilted, she glared down at him.   

“Have you always been such a bitch, Buffy?  Ha!  Bitch Buffy…funny.” 

“Giles!  That’s enough.  You think you’ve got problems?  What about me, standing out in the hospital parking lot, waiting for you to show up and help me?  Do I have to do everything myself?  What were you thinking?  If Angel hadn’t showed up we might have had a vamp feast on our hands.  Do you even care?” 

“Do I care?  No…not really, not anymore.”  He laughed again, dark and mirthless. 

“That’s not good enough.  You’re my Watcher; ergo you should be watching me.  I haven’t got the time to deal with your imagined problems.  What happened – a book get torn or something?  Delivery of your stuffed shirts been delayed?  Quit feeling sorry for yourself and help me!” 

“Buffy, Buffy… you do realize there are other people in the world apart from you? …forget I said that…of course you don’t…I need a drink…” 

“The last thing you need is a drink, Giles.  You’re disgusting!  How could you let yourself get like this?  I thought you were different, all British and stuff.  You’re a mess.  And you stink of booze!” 

She walked over to the door, stepping over the empty bottle, and turned back to face him all the while continuing her monologue.   

“I don’t know what your problem is, and frankly I don’t care.  I can’t talk to you like this.  I don’t want to be in the same room as you because…ewww!  I’m going to where the clean people are.  Take my advice – lose the bottle, take a shower, and get a grip.  I’ll speak to you tomorrow.  You know -- if you can be bothered!” 

With a flounce of blond hair she was out of the door, taking her moral high ground with her. 

“That’s right…bugger off!” he shouted to her retreating back, wincing as the door slammed behind her.  “Oh, Giles – you naughty boy.  She’ll make sure you pay for that…” He collapsed in a fit of giggles.   

“M’ book, need my book.”  He rose to his feet unsteadily and stumbled towards the table.  The notebook was lying open, the names stark against the white of the page. Thomas Sutcliff, Philip Henry, Dierdre Page, Ethan Rayne, Rupert Giles. 

Sobering slightly as he read the names, he struck through the first two with a black pen stroke.  He needed to know.  Picking up the telephone he dialed England.

“Yes, I'm… I'm sorry to disturb you. It's, uh... I…I realize it's, uh, five in the morning there, um... Uh, I-I'm trying to reach Dierdre Page. My name is Rupert Giles, uh, uh, she knows me. It's… it's very important.” 

His face blanched as he listened to the clipped English tones on the other end of the line. 

“I'm terribly sorry.  I... I-I didn't know. W-when did she, uh, pass away? Ohhhh -- that recently?” 

His legs were suddenly unable to support him as he realized the impact of the news coming through over the line.  He sat down heavily on the hard chair besides the desk. 

“Um, yes, yes, um, we were friends when we were young. My condolences.” 

Giles managed to get the receiver back on the cradle at the third attempt; he was staring ahead but seeing nothing.  He removed his glasses, habits of a lifetime taking over as his mind raced.  Placing them on the desk, he reached for the scotch again and drank straight from the bottle – his throat muscles working vigorously.  

He picked up the pen and notebook and struck through another name – Dierdre Page.  The remaining names leapt off the page, burning into his brain:  Ethan Rayne and Rupert Giles. 

Despite the very real dread that coursed through his veins, other feelings simmered below.  In fact, there were a number of sensations racing through his body.  Excitement, anticipation, arousal, curiosity.  The dread was still there, well-anesthetized now and being beaten into complete submission by Ripper’s eagerness to revisit the place of his birth.  Eyghon. 

As he drank, Ripper’s thoughts began to overcome the genteel and reserved Rupert Giles.  Why did he let the Slayer speak to him like that? A snotty-nosed kid not yet seventeen years old and so full of herself!  She needed to be taught a serious lesson -- the whole bloody lot of them did. The Slayer, her friends, hangers on – they thought they were so essential, indispensable.  They were fucking idiots, and he was sick to death of their whinging.  ‘Time to fix things, mate, you let them treat you like a door mat.’  Ripper wouldn’t have put up with it; he’d chew them up and spit them out.  The longing that flooded his being at the thought of such violence shocked him.  How could he have forgotten the euphoria to be experienced by doing what you want, when you want.  For too long he’d stifled his true nature beneath layers of tweed and etiquette, in a vain attempt to make amends for the death of Thomas Sutcliffe all those years ago.   

He thought about that night, when Thomas had been taken over by the demon Eyghon and lost his life.  He should feel guilty.  He should feel remorse.  He should feel as though he’d never be able to make amends.   

He didn’t. 

Ripper felt exhilarated as he recalled the ecstasy that flowed through him when Eyghon had had responded to their call.  The sucking of the life-force from the prone form of Thomas Sutcliffe was unexpected, but you got what you paid for and Ripper wouldn’t have missed that buzz for anything: unlike Giles’ with his flagellation of anguished guilt.  

Ripper and Rupert Giles battled for supremacy.  The figure of the watcher rose and staggered to the bathroom, feeling the need to wash away the thoughts clouded by all the alcohol he’d imbibed.  Standing in front of the mirror, he rolled up his shirtsleeves revealing the mark of Eyghon inscribed on his left arm.  Noting the tattoo, which he usually disregarded, he stroked it pensively, contemplating stark black ink against white skin. 

Shaking his head, he leant over the sink and cupped his hands to splash his face with water.  His head began to clear some and he rested his hands on the edges of the basin and stared at his reflection.   

It was Ripper looking back at him.  With an entirely evil smirk, he spoke. 

“So.  You’re back.”