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Ancient shades by Kur
 
10
 
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CHAPTER 10

Buffy stood under the shower like a blind robot. Her hand moved with a mechanical rhythm. Up and down. Side to side. The soap in her hand was a green, squashed lump. Each time the sponge ran along her body, a quivering cry clogged her throat and shot images in front of her swollen eyes. Spike’s hands on her hips, savouring her back, her shoulders, the nape of her neck. Her hands holding tightly the taps, all her spine arched to receive him and feel him pounding deeply inside her. Slowly, slowly. Faster, faster. His teeth nibbling her earlobes, his palms playing wise games with her breasts. Her lips tasting the hot water and the shampoo foam, mumbling whispers and moans. Blasting in a magnificent turmoil of comets and hurtling heartbeats. And that had been… what? Three hours ago? Ago... Three flashing letters in a neon sign. No tomorrow or later. A-g-o.

A knock at the door. Gentle, almost begging to be answered. Buffy kept on with the mechanic show. Wild, staring eyes focused on the white tiles. “I’m okay. Be out in a minute” A lie. A fortuneteller machine of some freak, old show. Fixed painted eyes and a fixed sinister smile telling big lies for a coin.

She rinsed her skin with a towel as blue as that she had used to ruffle Spike’s wet hair. Sexy curls she loved. Low growls she had turned into groans as her hands discarded the towel and went down, further, reaching his abs, his navel, his always-eager manhood.

A white shirt on one hook of the bathroom waiting for her. One male garment. Big and perfumed with a faded lavender scent. Her fingers brushed it and brought another rush of tears. It wasn’t Giles’s. It couldn’t be. He wasn’t dead. He was gone. Vanished. She put Spike’s coat on instead. His scent encased her and it had something soothing, hopeful.

As she finally came into the living room, she quickly noticed the subtle changes in the décor. The sofa wasn’t green but fawn. Squawking beige leather facing a glass and marble coffee table. A wooden chessboard with green stony pieces that looked aristocratic and expensive. Spike couldn’t have put his boots on that table without smashing all of it into pieces. The walls were light blue. Paper. Little frames of light coloured wood hung on them; all similar to those in some doctor’s office. Or some lawyer buffet. A deep blue carpet with red and green patterns. Four chairs. Six packed bookcases. A vase full with yellow pansies. No Xander, though. Only Oz and his sad smile, his sad eyes fixed in her more than ridiculous attire. A mourning bride with a too long leather dress.

“You shouldn’t be wearing that…” Oz regretted his words at the crushing pain carved in Buffy’s face. She looked like those weeping Greek masks. Full of grief.

“Why not?” She held the leather tightly to her skin. Spike’s hands were hidden there. In the soft inner fabric. Smooth and rather cold. In the pockets were her fingers found a crushed empty packet of cigarettes and something that felt like a cap of a beer bottle.

“Well, they’d know…” Her fuddled expression deepened the dark circles under her eyes. “I thought it was a secret… He’s with Willow, isn’t he?” So much hope in one single question. Please, say yes, was the silent prayer underneath. “He told me to wait before running after you two…”

Buffy realized that not only the furniture or the colour of the walls had changed. Changes were there, subtle and slightly different as if she were looking to an unfocused photograph. Her mind was beyond exhaustion but, even though, her senses were alert and clear.

“I’ll tell you everything if you take me home…” Her voice had become a whisper. Bloated, her throat didn’t want to work anymore. And yet, she could have torn the whole place to the ground only by yelling and screaming till she died by lack of air.

Oz gazed at her. Maybe confusion was a catching disease. He couldn’t frown more deeply. “Can’t do that. You know that you’re supposed to stay here when your mom is out of town…”

“My mom is…?” She remembered pretty well having left her in front of the TV watching an old movie. Cary Grant was looking at the blanket on Deborah Kerr’s legs and Joyce was furtively cleaning her eyes with a white handkerchief. “Why?”

“Mr. Wyndham-Pryce didn’t want you to stay alone in your house when…” The creases on Oz’s forehead could have held a pencil. “Don’t you remember that?”

“Mr. Who?” There was that look again. A mental institution. Poor, poor Buffy. “It won’t take long, I promise. I need some clothes and a moment… a moment… Please…”

Oz nodded and agreed with a sigh moved more by her obvious, raw pain than by his need of knowing what had happened in that dock. Fear was firmly rooted in his heart but there was something else. Some little flame in a too short wick, fighting against a storm. Still lit on. Still lightning one small corner. Willow was standing there with a shining smile and a sunbeam on her hair.


A drop. Leaking from the tap of the kitchen sink. A drop like an elephant footstep. Buffy would have liked to shake Oz just to steal some word from him. Some movement and not that gape which constantly reminded her of iron bars and doctors and nurses and madness.

That fucking bastard had known so well what he was doing. Nobody would ever believe her. And that would mean that nobody would ever help her. Everyone she loved would be condemned to remain imprisoned because of her. Her eyes went to the stairs, to her weapon chest. Only the thought of grabbing an axe clamped her muscles in tired knots. But she should. She should be running back to that warehouse dragging the chest behind her and not only a crossbow. Dragging all the weapons in the galaxy. Dragging her wrath and her terrible despair to fuel her drained body.

“So you say that this… isn’t true. That you’ve got another Watcher and that he was vanished. In that warehouse. And Willow is…”

“She is alive. I know he said the truth about that. If not, he’d have bragged about it. He would have… You don’t believe me. Not even one single word.” It was so clear in the pitiful expression of his always expressive eyes. “Why do you think you were there, then? Waiting? For me and Willow to what? Steal some whisky bottles from an abandoned cargo? Smoke some pot? What?” Her pain was slowly simmering and turning into rage. Good. She thought she had forgotten rage on that filthy floor.

“I… I don’t know. Honestly. But I do know you went there to find some traces of energy. Of some spell or something like that.”

“Yes, the Angelus’ spell. Please, Oz, believe… Are you still a werewolf?” She asked suddenly.

“Yes. Guess some things don’t change, apparently.” It didn’t sound like the usual joke about his condition. In fact the whole phrase reeked of shame and… fear.

“Another secret?” So, how many secrets were they hiding and why? If that Watcher of her was so strict about everything he wouldn’t even begin to listen to whatever she had to say before sending her to a loony house. But she needed help… She needed… Alarming Oz, she jumped to her feet and ran upstairs. She crawled the final four steps when the coat entangled in her ankles, sending her to the floor. Okay, so she had to leave it. Somewhere nobody could find it. The chest in her closet. Under the stakes and the Holy Water and the crosses… Staring at the bottom of the chest for a moment, she pulled the coat out and wrapped it in two of her sweaters. Didn’t want it to be burnt or became extinct. She took an axe, the lighter one and was about to leave the room when she stopped at the threshold. On her bedside table, the same wood, small box called her as the song of a mermaid. Slowly, she opened the lid taking one quick glimpse inside. The glasses and the necklace shone under the ceiling lamp. Buffy cupped her eyes and took another quick look. Still there. How? How in hell…? So, some things hadn’t changed that much. She had to find out which ones. Later. She had more important things to do now.


Nothing had changed there. The same dirty lamp, the same putrid smell, the same wooden door. No, not the same. This time it had a defiant eye, a frightful appearance. She was sweating from head to toe. Icy drops of sweat glided down her spine. The handle of the axe was made of oil. Her legs ached as if she had been jumping over hurdles all night long. With a grim kick Buffy opened the door of the warehouse. Three lamps were turned on, showing a clean, empty space.

Oz followed Buffy in and stopped on his track, more scared and even more worried about her state. She was running around the big place like a madman in a whirlpool of insults, tears and screams. Finally she fell to her knees, a wild howl escaping from her frosty lips. She was the colour of ashes.

“No doors, no iron bars, no other rooms! Nothing! What is going on? What the fuck is going on?” A strangled breathe. And a roar. “SPIKE!!!”




Faith kicked a dustbin and a cat hissed to her before disappearing into the shadows. That last week had been like a dream. A dream came true. She felt like walking on clouds. Spongy, soft, full of air. A nice apartment, no one single night alone trying to cheer herself up with some pitiable and weak human that was no equivalent for her… They got tired so easy… A real counterpart walking by her side, wrapped in the same fulfilled silence.

Money to spend as she liked. In what she liked. New clothes, new shoes. Not stinking stained Tees anymore. Real perfumed laundry. An overload fridge. Ice creams and beers and nice, mushy carpets to roll and rock all night long. And payback. The sweet, sweet taste of revenge. First Giles and then Buffy. And that bitchy witch as well. Never liked red. At least when it came to hair colour. Too bright. And that feeble voice of hers, as if she was always asking for forgiveness… So smart and literate. So pure… Thanks Angelus they had taken that horrible potion! She had refused at first. Not too much trust in that vampire. But the Mayor had gulped it without hesitation. She had waited five minutes for further effects. No purple spots or wrinkling skin convinced her enough to give it a try. Worth it. In spite of the jumbled memories… So fucking worth it! Listening to Buffy running and screaming inside that “empty” warehouse had made her day. Her days. Her years. Her life. She had fidgeted for five minutes skulking outside the place. Hidden in the shadows waiting for the show to begin. Never a believer she was. A cloak spell they had said. Altered reality they had said. Show what we want them to see. But Buffy… She was a sneaky bitch.

The spell had worked. Had worked so well that her face had refused to erase the happy grin even after she thought her whole features were going to stay that way forever. A girlie Joker with a little bit more of style. A grin that flickered only when his name was yelled in an agonic yowl. His name… Faith had kept on smiling in response to Angelus quick glance. Her ultimate prize was trapped there. Under Buffy’s perfect nose. Waiting for his true Slayer. Waiting for her to complete her dream.

She remembered pretty well the exact moment she had discovered another mistake in the Slayer’s universe. They had invited her to the Bronze. A gang of happy friends gaping at her as she bragged about half-true stories. Till the spots converged in one single creature. The world shrunk to one single floor tile. A white devil was standing there. A cigarette was hanging from one corner of that perfect mouth, half curved by a wry smile. All dressed in black, a Tee tightened above a muscled, obviously hard, flat stomach; the most perfect pair of legs clad in black jeans… A rush of heat wetted her panties and blushed her entire skin. As if the armchair in which she was sitting had been suddenly girdled around by a bonfire. Never in her life had she felt such lust for a man, a boy or a guy. They were just toys to be forgotten the next second she ordered them to leave. Or as soon as she got into her jeans again and stormed away. But this vamp… Her whole being was aware of that fact and that only aroused her even more. A powerful, deep feeling hatched out from her most inner corner. She was the gaping one now. She was drooling and trembling and was about to jump from the armchair when he did it. He stood next to Buffy’s chair and bent forward, whispering something clearly naughty in her ear. She giggled quietly and followed him among the crowd. Xander’s face had been a mask of disgust. Willow had squeezed the hand of that tiny, inexpressive boyfriend of hers and they had smiled conspiratorially. Faith had been left out. So out that even the leather duster looked like a drawn curtain. That had been the night she had sworn to herself that curtain would be hacked away by her fingers. Only two or three more nights to fulfil another of her dreams. Two or three more days to fix another mistake. One crumbling Slayer, one raising one. Like a new Queen.



Buffy felt as if she had fallen down into the deepest and most hopeless well. A tourniquet
was tightly twisted round her throat, round her ribs, stopping the normal flow of blood to her heart and brain. The air in the room was thick and swampy. She hadn’t closed one eye the past night, not even under Oz watchful eye. She was devastated. More. Drained. Empty. Dead. Cornered in the most infamous and dreadful dead alley of hell. No escape from there.

She wondered for the tenth time why she had let Oz drag her to school in her state. Her head had that weird way of struggling, though. Books everywhere to look for a spell. Books to find some clue, some helpful hint. Books. Giles would have found something useful in them. And her current Watcher… A prim, well-attired man with a patronizing and toffee-nosed accent, a black tie around the pristine neck of his white shirt. To strangle him with. To squeeze and squeeze till his head would pop out from his neck like a chewing gum bubble.

“We know we are dealing with powerful forces here but what you did yesterday was absolutely unacceptable.” He tugged at the lapels of his dark coat. “Taking your friends with you… How many times have we discussed about this matter?” He tilted his head a little waiting for her to say something. “Now Willow is in extreme danger or dead under Angelus’ maw. Due to your reckless behaviour. What’s more, you spent the whole night at your house when I clearly…”

“Who was Mr. Giles?” Her mind had been replaying Angelus’ words. ‘You know who is this?’ Maybe that could be a clue. A lose end of the rope to disentangle the tight loop. “A keeper… No, a Guardian of treasures…”

“Don’t change topics, little girl.” Buffy shuddered at the two last words. “You should be punished… Don’t look at me like that. We don’t want to repeat another distasteful incident with another Slayer.” He sat down next to her and something in his voice turned softer. “You don’t want to be sent to a Council reformatory as she was, do you?”

“Faith? You mean Faith?” Her bitter laugh sent a rush of something sour to her throat. She swallowed so hard that she bit her tongue. “Faith isn’t locked in any Slayer’s jail. She is out there with Angelus. She works with him. And the Mayor.”

If she had slapped his face or spat one of his serious eyes he wouldn’t have been more startled. So that was the way somebody looked at you when they thought you had lost all the screws in your brains… With horror and pity and a little amount of fear.

“I see all this has upset you more than I expected. You should rest a few days. It has been long, frantic days after all.” Pulling out a handkerchief, he swept the few pearls of sweat on one of his temples. “I’m absolutely sure you’ll want to be hundred per…”

“All I want is to know who that Mr. Giles was.” Buffy shot out in a coarse, demanding voice. “’Cause those treasures, whichever they were, they have them now.”

Mr. Wyndham-Pryce cleared his throat walking into his office and coming back after long ten minutes with a thick volume. Some yellow papers fell from it. He didn’t bother to pick them up but reached the pine wood table instead, opening the tome at random. “Here is an awful selection of what happens to a Slayer when she is not capable of performing her duty. Or, just like Faith, she misleads her path. You do remember those nights you spent locked up in the cellar… After the William the Bloody affair…”

Buffy took a quick look at the drawings on the page. A woman was hanging from her feet, her head touching the floor. All her hair had been cut; snipped would be more accurate, and her clothes were nothing but rags. There was a puddle of something dark at her feet and another figure was lapping at it with extreme delight. A dreadful perspective despite the low quality of the sketch. She had fallen into the Middle Ages, apparently.

“I didn’t want them to do that to you. But I’m only a Watcher. I can’t disobey the rules and neither can’t you. I was punished as well as you might remember…” There was a sad veil on his eyes. Buffy didn’t dare to ask. “So we solved that little W.T.B. issue and you accepted you had been wrong. Angel had a soul and he willingly had accepted to be tested by the Council just to be with you. Of course, till we had to kill him after that soul problem. But William the…”

“I got it, okay?” She lied, unable to hear his name one more time. The dam she had built around her heart was starting to crack and the waves of tears were going to flood her entirely. “Please tell me who this Mr. Giles was…” She begged once more.

He went out again, and this time it took him a little longer to come back. Buffy could hear a clattering sound of keys and a lid squeaking. He returned, one hand patting the dust of his coat, the other one holding a mildew book which he placed in front of her eyes. It looked like it had been rescued from a catacomb. And it smelt. Awfully.

“There.” He impeded her hands to touch it. “You’ll be able to take a look at it after your punishment.”

Buffy jumped up. “What? Are you freaking nuts? I’ve told you…”

Mr. Pryce shook his head with regret. “You don’t know what you’re saying. We, you and me, took Faith to the plane in which the Council would take her to England. The Mayor… he has been an extremely helpful ally in these demons matters. He’s even contributed with generous funds to build a secret prison for some of them.”

A shaking, horrid tremor ran through her body. The “W.T.B. issue”, as he had put it, was solved in that way? The stale whiff of the book crept up her nostrils making her cough. Her palms, resting flatly on its cover, were coated in a thin, cold sweat. She was trying, only trying not to think in him trapped in a prison. Here or there. Or maybe it would be better if she concentrated in the Mayor’s prison. There would be no Faith’s hands there. Or Angelus’s. He couldn’t be locked up, though. What about Oz’s words? The duster and the secrets… So lost in her thoughts she was that she almost lost the sound of clinking metal. A pair of handcuffs shone scornfully under the library lamps.

“Get off me!” She shoved him backwards and grabbed the book.

“Buffy, this is for all our sake. Believe me.” Slowly, he walked round the table.

“No, you fucking freak!” Buffy kicked the chair that was in her way.

“You know I wouldn’t do this if…”

“No! I don’t know anything! I don’t fucking know YOU!” She screamed, kicking him in the guts. He flew like a dead, huge bat over the table. Whirling around, the book crushed against her chest, Buffy ran out of the library, through the school corridors, out to the yard. She didn’t feel the floor under her feet. She was flying, spinning in the air like an air diver with no parachute. Turning around a corner she bumped into someone and fell to her knees.

“Well, you have never been very normal, have you? And look at you… Even more horrid than usual. You certainly need…”

Buffy could have never believed she was going to thanks the gods for Cordelia Chase. She was a big mouth as usual. Some things never changed. “I need your help, Cordelia. Do you still have a car?” She begged still on her knees.

“As much as I’ve always wanted to see you crawling it isn’t a pleasant sight, you know…”

“Cordelia, please, I’ll do whatever you…”

“You could start by taking your hands off my Prada.” Stepping back, her eyes looking at the sky as if she were praying, Cordelia finally asked. “Where do you want to go?”

tbc...









 
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