chapter 11: mary magdalene – part III

It wasn't going to be the way anyone expected vowed Anya as she tugged at the hem of her skirt. No, not what anyone would expect from her at all. There would be no running away too soon or disastrously inappropriate words falling out of her mouth too often. She'd make certain he understood right away just how important it was to her that a portal jumper—no, the portal jumper—had chosen her.

For the umpteenth time, she tucked in the shirttail of her bright white blouse and gave herself the pep talk. “Be strong, be brave and calm,” she chanted as she walked slowly across the lawn toward the man standing near the wooden bench.

He was leaning against the trunk of an old cherry tree in his pale seersucker suit and white gym shoes, casual and confident in his leisurely pose. He reminded her of the tailored young men she'd seen in New Orleans back in the 1930s, except for the shoes. Anya had spent quite a few vengeful nights in the South during that decade, frying the balls off frisky clergymen. Those soon-to-be neutered men had stood pontificating at the pulpit as she studied them, not knowing it would be their last sermon. Like them, the portal jumper looked quite commanding leaning against a length of wood. Too bad she couldn't wreak any vengeance against him Anya thought wistfully.

A band of laughing children, chased by their giggling moms and a trio of tail-wagging dogs, startled Anya. She stopped and nervously brushed the hair away from her face. He had to be able to see her eyes when they met. He had to see that she was not afraid.

Anya shook her arms at her side. They felt numb as if they needed blood pumped into them. She started walking again toward the trees and ignored the children in her path. She then scratched her forehead and wet her lips with her tongue. Her skin felt hot and her mouth was dry. She looked up, took another step forward and stopped in front of the slender man in the old-fashioned suit. He didn’t change his poise or adjust his clothing as Anya stood silently in front of him. He simply smiled and nodded all friendly-like.

“Did you ever travel to Rome?” he asked.

Anya stared at his lips as he spoke and tried to concentrate on his words, but she could barely hear his voice. She only felt his baritone vibrating inside her head.

“Of course, you've been to Rome. A vengeance demon teleports from place to place at a whim to levy her justice. You've definitely seen Rome.”

By his appearance, she guessed he'd been the same age as she a thousand or so years ago when fate changed their destinies. “Yes, I've seen Rome,” she found her voice. She was surprised she sounded so calm.

“Well, we won't see it again now will we,” he stepped away from the tree and extended pale thin fingers out to her. Without hesitation, she took his offered hand. He tucked her arm in his and pulled her to his side. Then he started walking toward a row of yellow and pink rose bushes at the far end of the park.

“What is it that you believe I want from you, Anyaka?”

“You said you wanted to talk.” Her voice felt small in her throat.

“I rarely talk to my prey.” He took his free hand and placed it on top of their joined hands and squeezed firmly. “But you aren't prey, are you?”

“What am I?” The words gushed out of her mouth and she bit her lower lip to stop it from quivering.

“My muse,” he smiled.

Anya looked directly into his eyes. They were the color of the ocean on a bright sunny day. She hadn't expected him to have such lovely eyes or for his skin to be porcelain cream or for his nose to be angled just so. She could sense so much about him from his eyes. He loved birds, plants and the sky. He didn't indulge in affairs of the flesh. They were foreign, evil, and intolerable to him. Still, he was impressed by her. He liked vengeance demons. A creature that credited its existence to the arbitrary twists and turns of physical love and romance intrigued him. But mostly, she was thinking that his eyes were incredibly lovely.

“Your muse? Me?”

“The Greeks worshipped a creature called Mnemosyne. She was one of Zeus' daughters and the goddess of memory.” He stopped walking and touched Anya's face, then brushed his fingertips over her lips. “You will keep my memories while I deliver my gifts.”

“What?”

“You will keep them, here.” He placed his hand on her chest.

“I don't understand.” Anya searched his face. “I won't help you kill my friends.”

“You don't have any friends.” His fingertips lingered on her lips. Then he grabbed her chin and held it firmly. “You are a vengeance demon. A thousand year old creature that has destroyed nearly as many lives as I have.” His voice became hard and the ocean blue of his eyes turned violet. “A year from now, the boy would have left you, and you would have wept. I've spared you that heartache.”

They came to a stop a few feet in front of the rose bushes. “These humans tricked you into becoming one of them. It wasn't your choice.”

“Are you giving me a choice?”

He chuckled softly. “Yes, if you'd like, you have a choice.”

“What's your name?”

"I'm the portal jumper."

"No, what's your real name. The one you were born with before you became what you are."

“My name is Lucretius,” he said. “But call me Luke and I swear by all that's right to protect what matters to you, if you agree to help me.”

Anya paused and tried to remember what was important in her life. "Nothing matters to me.”

“Good.” He grabbed her arm, leading her once again toward the bushes. “I'm glad you've made your choice.”

She'd never teleported when someone else was at the helm. Riding his wave, Anya was astonished by the portal jumper's movements through dimensions. They were much smoother than anything a vengeance demon could ever conjure. Even on her best days, she couldn't have pulled a relocation spell off as seamlessly.

“We're not in Kansas anymore, are we?”

“No, they call it New York City,” the portal jumper said as they came to an abrupt halt in the middle of a dark alley that smelled like burnt cooking grease. She couldn't see much, it was too dark. But she figured wherever they were, it was where the portal jumper needed them to be.


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Xander was running faster than he had in his entire life. The streets blurred as he raced toward Giles' apartment, which was at least a mile away from the park. But he was used to running. He'd spent the past six years being chased by demons and vampires. But then, he’d known that Buffy was waiting around the corner to save him. Now, she was in New York. Willow was in New York, too, and he was the last Scooby in Sunnydale. Was it his turn to save the day? He doubted it as his feet hit the pavement and pounded into the concrete.

His thoughts were racing as fast as his feet. He'd left Anya. Turned his back and ran away from her. He'd accepted what she'd said. The portal jumper wanted to talk to her. Okay, fine, he'd said and left her just like that. The rational side of his brain understood he'd had no other choice. But he wasn't used to dealing with that part of Xander Harris. His footsteps echoed in his head as he thought about Anya and the portal jumper.

Finally, he turned the corner onto Giles' block and practically fell into the courtyard on his way to the Watcher's front door. As he fumbled with his keys, he noticed the darkness and wondered why in the middle of what had been a bright sunny morning; the treeless garden was in shadows.

Xander unlocked the door and walked into the hallway of the apartment, calling out Giles' name. Then he saw him lying on the floor near the weapons chest. He laid face down, arms spread eagle. His glasses were clutched in one hand and the fingers of his other hand were wrapped around a book. Xander moved swiftly across the floor, and dropped to his knees.

“Giles?” He nudged the Watcher's body. It didn't move. “Giles.” Xander said again as he gently rolled the man over onto his back. But still there was no movement.

Jumping up, he ran into the kitchen, snatched a rag from the counter and picked up a pitcher already filled with water.

Giles wasn't dead. He couldn't be dead, thought Xander as panic churned in the pit of his stomach. No one was going to die. "No one," he said stubbornly.

Then he was at the Watcher's side, a pitcher of water in one hand and a damp cloth in the other. Perspiration rolled down Giles' face. Xander hadn't noticed that before. A sweating man was a breathing man. He was alive. Xander sighed, relieved.

“Come on, Giles,” he pleaded. “Wake up. Wake up.” He dipped the washcloth in the pitcher and wiped Giles' brow, squeezing a few drops of water onto his lips.

The Watcher groaned softly.

“What happened?” Xander looked around the room. He didn't see any signs of a scuffle. The only thing that looked out of place was Giles' weapons chest, which was open. Then there were Giles' hands that didn't seem capable of letting go of the book or the glasses.

Xander took a breath and examined Giles' appearance more carefully. He was dressed in plaid pajamas. A British thing, Xander imagined. His feet were bare, and there was blood on the floor near them. Not a lot, but blood nonetheless. Xander leaned forward and examined his feet. There were small cuts covering his bare soles and small pools of dried blood splattered on the floor.

He then looked at Giles' hand and the book he was holding. The name embossed on the back cover of the book caught Xander's eye. That's odd, he thought. Giles was clutching a copy of the King James version of the Bible.

Giles eyes fluttered open. “He was here," he whispered.

“He's still here,” replied Xander. He knew Giles was referring to the portal jumper.


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“Buffy love. Come on, wake up, pet.”

With her eyes stubbornly held closed, she raised her arms and groped the air, blindly searching until she found the offensive party's hand. She then grabbed it and pulled its owner close. “Go away,” she whispered. She pushed the arm away gently and nuzzled deeper into the cushions of the overstuffed chair, burying her face in the crook of the armrest.

“Buffy!” At the sound of Dawn's shrill voice, Buffy's eyes snapped open and she jumped from the chair in one smooth motion. She knocked Spike backward and into Carlo, who was standing behind him.

“Carlo?” she opened her eyes wider. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Calm down, Buffy. You were dreaming, love.”

She turned her head sharply and glared at Spike.

“Hey Buffy,” said Dawn. “How was your nap?”

A violent scenario played itself out in Buffy's mind as she imagined herself smacking the grin off her sister's cheery face. “I'm not dreaming. I'm wide awake.” She said pointedly to Spike. Then swiveling her head slowly, she leveled her gaze at Carlo. “And again, what the hell are you doing here?”

“Well, ah—just dropped by for dinner.” He stammered as he inched toward the front door.

“What do you mean dinner? It's barely dawn.”

“Actually, love, it's more like dusk,” said Spike. “You slept all day. Kind of like a vampire, wouldn't you say?”

Her eyes narrowed at Spike. He was smiling as broadly as Dawn had been an instant before.

“Just saying, you were really out of it. But it gave us all a chance to get to know each other better, learn a few things 'bout who we really are? Right, Carlo?”

Carlo swallowed and took a step closer to Dawn. “Yeah, I mean, you being a vamp and all was kind of weird. You know, that shit is pretty out there man. But I can deal with it.”

Buffy couldn't believe she'd slept through all of the introductions. She had been exhausted, but she didn't really think she was that out of it. Wasn't like her to sleep so soundly.

“Well, glad everyone has had a good day, chatting and the like, but Spike and I have some business to take care of since you say it's dusk.” She turned to Spike. “You ready?”

“Always, love.” Spike strode out of the living room and headed for Buffy's bedroom.

“Hey, where you going?” said Buffy.

“Get my coat.” He jerked his head and gave her a ‘what the fuck' look.

“What's it doing in my bedroom?”

“Brought me home last night, mended my wounds, gave me some nourishment,” he smiled. “Let me sleep in your bed. You don't remember?”

She smacked her lips. “Oh yeah, I d-do," She stuttered as she recalled a little more than just having tended his wounds.

“Where you guys off to?” asked Dawn. She and Carlo were no longer hovering over Buffy. They'd moved to sit on the sofa in the living room. “Going after some big baddies like back in the old days in Sunnydale?” Dawn sounded giddy to Buffy.

“This is serious business, Dawnie,” she snapped. “Spike and I have to find and kill this portal jumping guy before he can hurt you, or any of us.”

Pausing, Buffy looked at Spike, leather duster swirling behind him, as he strolled into the room. "We'll be back soon.” She turned and grabbed her coat from the hallway rack, flung open the closet door and bending down, pushed boots and clothing aside until she found what she was looking for. As she stood up, she threw an ax at Spike, which he snatched from the air, and then she pulled out a sword for herself.

“Where we headed, Slayer?”

“To that alley, where we ran into Jacob.”


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The heat followed him everywhere. Even in what should be a cold, chilly alley in the middle of a city made of brittle stone, he couldn't hide from the scorching heat. That's why he jumped so often. He wanted to feel cool, crisp air and soft gentle breezes. But those only existed for him in the void between dimensions. The nature of things wouldn't allow him to escape from the heat of Earth. He had to sweat. He had to be wet. He had to be the portal jumper.

Luke glanced at his muse. She was standing next to him, her eyes fixed on his face. Thankfully, she was pretty. A small ancient soul. She didn't really understand why she'd come with him. He knew that. But all that really mattered was that he knew. Besides, he'd tell her later, if he remembered. He might even try to explain everything to her. Then again, he might not.

He pulled Anya to him and hugged her to his chest. She returned his embrace and buried her face against him. He always loved this part of the game. The hours before he gave away his gifts were the most pleasant, especially with his muse in his arms. He might not even jump tonight. He'd stay here and let them come to him. Let the alley fill with fools and vampires.

He tightened his arms around Anya. Then he inhaled deeply and coughed. The air was putrid. The stench curled the hair in his nostrils.

They'd better arrive soon, he thought. He missed the smell of roses.

to be continued…