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I am certifiable, thought Faith.
She was over halfway through series of exercises Wesley had taught her. He said they toned muscle as well as built endurance. The first time Faith had done them her language had actually made her Watcher blush. By the time they were done she nearly expected the paint to peel off the walls. Over time she had come to appreciate them, realizing that Wesley had--in this case, anyway--been right. She could feel herself grow stronger and more limbre over time. Now, in the last stages of recuperation, Faith had found them a useful way to spend her time.
They nearly took her mind off her troubles. Nearly.
"Just a tick," Wesley was saying in the next room. He sounded intrigued or upset or maybe both. "Willow, what is that you're reading?" Uh-oh. Red's gonna get sent to bed without supper.
Bed. Damn.
"Well," Willow began with a breath (which meant she was guilty--of what god knew) "with some kind of evil-ness up and around and stuff, I thought we should be prepared just in case. You know, for whatever they might be planning."
"That's all very well and good." Go for it, Wes. Sick'er. "However," here it comes "without some specific reason, it is at risky at best--at worse spiritually dangerous in the extreme--to delve into those particular areas of knowldege."
"But that's why we need to know more about this kinda stuff!"
"And what, pray tell, has this to do the Prophecy of Aubergion?"
"It...it could have lots!"
"Such as?" Damn. Wes sounded ragged there.
"These could be powers...that whoever stole it...might use..." Red was such a lousy liar. Followed by the sound of a book snapping shut (by guess who?) and a semi-outraged huff. Then silence. An icy silence, which did the one thing Faith really, really didn't want right now. It left her along, with her thoughts.
I'm a Slayer. The Chosen One. The one girl in all the world...blah blah blah.
Blah.
One girl. She remembered the passionate vampire James, the one who chose death rather than life without his beloved. Then dared to mention...
That hurt a lot more than her leg. Oh, not physically. That she could take easily enough, but loss. Reminder of loss. Salt just shovelled into a wound she really wished would heal. Words that the vampire had tossed--no, bellowed--at her kept echoing inside her head. Just where covering her ears or running somewhere would do no good. Shut up, damn you. Oh yeah, you already are. Well, rot in hell, then. But with that thought came another--namely, that James was now with his Elizabeth. Could vampires really love? Evidently. Or close enough to make no difference. Look at them. Or that loser Spike, kidnapping Red for a love potion.
Faith did a series of kicks and spins, punching the air with abandon. She imagined it was James she pummelled, almost feeling the crack of bone under her fists. The words she swore he still whispered to her continued, until at last she nearly fell over. Unsteadily, she stopped. Deep breaths. Her fists shook, and the room spun. Not very much, but some.
Thankfully, silence from the memories of what James had said. She sat on the sofa. What now? In the silence she hadn't wanted--no longer filled with memories, anyway. Thank what-ever-is-up-there for that anyway.
Silence. Quiet. And now, of course, what will fill it.
I love you.
Oh gods.
Unbidden, Faith's eyes watered. Gods, she simply did not want to think about hearing those words. No, she longed to hear them. Or did she? Maybe she just wanted to say them? Both? And if so, why not indulge a little here and now, alone in her own mind?
Yeah, why not.
Closing her eyes, she leaned her head back against the sofa, deliberately unbending each tight muscle in her shoulders and neck. The sofa's material felt cool. Yeah, that felt good. She imagined for a moment the sofa was fingers, kneading her muscles gently. Pushing her lips together stiffled a tiny sob. If only. She pretended a cool hand pushed the hair from her forehead.
I love you, Faith.
Gods, if only.
She whispered back. "I love you, Tara."
* * *
Lilah woke with a start. She wasn't alone. Above her, with his nearly patented kindly expression, stood Holland. With a self-possession she distantly found somewhat impressive, Lilah did not sit up with a jerk or jump up as if at attention. Rather, blinking several times, she nonchalantly yawned and sat up at a straightforward pace.
"Good evening, Holland."
"Catching up on some rest?"
"I've found catnaps can be quite beneficial, yes. Thank you."
Holland nodded, still with hardly a shadow of any hint of a frown. Instead, he smiled gently and pulled up a chair. Sitting, he assumed a position neither threatening nor indulgent. Very, very neutral. This could be good or bad. Very. Or anything in between.
"Lilah, I don't want you to think I'm blaming you for grabbing the occaisional forty winks. Especially now, after regular hours and conflicting with nothing. Even more to the point, your work is not suffering. Quite the opposite. I've been authorized to tell you the senior partners themselves are quite satisfied with your performance."
"That's good to hear, sir."
"So," now he leaned back "your responsibilities are even going to be increased. At present the firm has several projects ongoing which involve the city's undead community. Several--well, in fact most of those projects are already part of your workload. Its been decided you will be our liason to the vampires. And with this new responsibility comes a fairly nice bonus." He didn't quite grin at her. That wasn't his style. But the corners of his lips did turn up. There was even crinkling around the eyes.
"Thank you." What else was there to say, really?
"You're more than welcome. The fact is, Lilah, this is quite a chance for you. " Oh god. He was almost winking. Lilah knew this was too good to be true. She smiled back, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
"I like to think that about all the work I do here, sir."
He nodded in approval. "Which is one reason among many for this virtual promotion. Many congratulations." Now he stood. "Our new guest of course becomes your responsibility."
"So I assumed."
"Good girl. She shouldn't be too difficult after learning to navigate the shoals of Drusilla."
"Hopefully not." In fact she suspected it would prove harder. Drusilla, while unpredictable, had a side that could almost be called sentimental. Lilah, to her, could be something akin to a favorite doll. Their guest, on the other hand, came across as pure shark. Any human was purely and simply food, worthy of playing with sometimes but only as a prelude to a meal (as one security guard had already learned). Odds are she'd need the older, more powerful vampire to act as a protector eventually, but that brought another factor into the equation, one utterly unpredictable.
How would Drusilla and the vampire version of Rosenberg interact?
"I'm thinking" Holland continued, "the prestige Drusilla seems to enjoy might be turned to our advantage. Not too flagrantly, of course, but with the right nudges here and there." An eloquent shrug. Yes, that was easy enough to see. Never know when a small army of undead could come in handy. "Something for you to consider." Holland was headed for the door. Lilah watched him. She was eager--in her way--to get back at the paperwork waiting for her. She felt...not exactly refreshed, but better after the nap. Maybe a little sore in places. As Holland opened her office door (hadn't that been locked?) she was nearly back at her desk. But Holland stopped. Looked back. "You are going to need some help, of course. Not a lot, but some. Don't want you spread too thin. We'll just assign another associate to help with the Blimm business. Under your supervision." The smile again, and an exit.
Oh great. Another associate as in another rival, another lawyer doing his best to push her out of the picture, grabbing as much credit and contacts as he could with a Congressman. She knew the type. Hell, she was the type. Which meant--pleasing thought--she knew what she'd be up against. Not quite smirking (Lilah knew the expressions on her own face very well), she sat behind her desk to ready for the upcoming battle. She'd show them. Oh yes. Let them think her a frail little girl. What they'd discover was a queen, in an impenetrable castle of her own design.
Let them come.
* * *
Willow paced. She tried doing it quietly, but that was really hard after building up some steam and lets face some facts here that is what she'd been building for a while now. A whole mess of vaporized water, doing contruction-type stuff.
Not that it helped when both Faith and Wesley kept sneaking little peaks at her.
Did she feel guilty? No! Not really. She could tell they were planning something. Oh sure all this talk about someone stealing the Prophecies was real enough. Probably. But the two of them were just using this an excuse, that much was clear as...well, not crystal because actually lots of crystals were milky...but as a glass of water. That was clear right? Right. So it was decided, then. Faith and her Watcher had plans, plans they were keeping from her. And why would that be? Only one reason she could see.
Tara. Right?
She knew what to do. What she had to do.
"Willow," said Wesley as he hurried into the room. He must have realized she knew he was watching and decided to cover himself. "I may have found what I was looking for!" The books in his hands Willow recognized as diaries of several occult researchers. "There have been a small number of scholars who've actually seen the Prophecies of Aubergion over the years. However...scholars may be the wrong word. Adventurer might be more accurate. So, for that matter, might be Dangerous Renegade In Search of Forbidden Knowledge. But that is beside the point..."
As he put his books on the table, Faith came back in the room. Her limp was nearly gone. Not a good sign. "So Watcher-man. Whadya find?"
His hands were waving over the books, as if he couldn't decide which to touch. Slipping his glasses, he stood up. Willow thought he looked awful. Probably all that tension of making plans under her and Tara's noses, while he had to wait for his Slayer to heal. Now that she was nearly at full form, he had to throw up this smokescreen to keep Willow especially distracted. By now he had to have some sense of what she'd been studying on her own. He was nervous. And he was right to be.
Yes, he was.
"These three men," Wes was saying, "each saw--more precisely read--the Prophecies of Aubergion. Eleazar of Guttenberg, Sir Orson de Manderville, and Angelo Vizzini in the 18th century. They read the Prophecies. Portions of them, anyway. Even more to the point, these three also saw another document--one that according to them echoed the very sayings within the Prophecies!" He looked at them fever-eyed, expectation lighting up his face.
Finally, Willow said "Good for you, Wes." Best to play along.
"Yeah, Wes" echoed Faith. "Well done and all."
"Dont you see what this means?" His eyes were bulging at them. A little smile cracked his lips. "Don't you?"
"Tell us, why dontcha?" Faith sat and crossed her legs.
"But...but it is so obvious!" Wesley grabbed his books and turned them around, so they faced Faith. His head swung between Faith and Willow as he talked. "All three of these accounts mention a corresponding document, a complementary text if you will, to the Prophecies of Aubergion! That means by tracking down this other work we can double-check and perhaps learn for what reason the Prophecies were stolen! Rather that waste our time trying learn who might have the Prophecies now..."
"Kinda obvious, ain't it?"
Willow raised an eyebrow. "Obvious?"
"Two years ago," answered Faith, "me and Tara stole the damn thing from Wolfram and Hart. I just figured they stole it back."
"Ye-es," Wesley not only stretched out that one word he managed to turn a simply nod into a drawn-out jerky movement, "that remains a viable theory. However--and this is my central point--instead of trying to recover the Prophecies, we might focus instead upon this!" His finger hit a page, drumming away. "The Nyazian Scrolls," he proclaimed.
Silence.
"You want us to go find some Nazi something-or-other?" Faith's expression was such Willow couldn't quite decide whether she was acting or really had misheard what Wesley said. Not that it mattered.
"Ny-a-zi-an" Wesley intoned. His glasses came off. There was a knock at the front door. Heading for that door, he put his glasses back on. "The Nyazians were a sub-cult of mystics in Cappadocia."
"Oh! Those Nyazians! Why didncha say so?"
"Faith..." Whatever he was going to say next vanished as the door swung open. From where she was, Willow could see the detective who'd given Tara a hard time--Kate. She had someone with her. A man. He looked familiar. Middle-aged. Ascetic. Thin lips and very short hair. Where had she seen him before? She had feeling this was important since obviously Kate was here at Wesley and Faith's behest. They must have realized just how powerful the magicks she'd been studying really were, and called her in for backup. So who was the man? Willow knew she'd seen him before. Somewhere.
"Ah Detective Lockley," Wesley did an excellent job of pretending surprise, even annoyance at his accomplice's arrival. "To what do we owe this pleasure?"
"Not pleasure." Kate Lockley's voice was clipped. "Purely business. As it happens, police business." She turned and indicated the man beside her.
Willow gulped. She recognized him.
Oh hell.
* * *
Tara mulled over the Host's words as she headed back to Faith's apartment. She had a lot to think about. Certain facts increasingly gnawed at her, making her worried and tense. Although a vampire--and although she had been alone even as a mere human--she found the thought of endless years alone unbearable now. In theory she was immortal. Unaging and with nothing to fear from any disease. Yet without Willow, the thought of centuries ahead were not exciting for her, but terrifying.
And the Host's words after her song had helped not at all.
"Remember when I said you were a creature out of legend," he'd asked.
She had nodded.
"Well, that's only increased of late. In fact, what's really weird is how simply huge amounts of fate and karma as well as all kinds of top-knotch destiny stuff keep gathering around you. I kid you not, hon--it was like choirs of angels were singing up there with you. Now, you're good. Real good. But not that good."
"Thanks."
"Just calling them like I see'em, doll."
Destiny. What did that mean, anyway? She had studied the occult and philosophies most of her life, and by now had had first-hand experience fighting the forces of hell. Too bad that didn't really give her any answers about fundamental questions.
"You've got a destiny" the Host had said.
"Okay."
"Not too impressed, huh?"
"Isn't everybody supposed to have a destiny?"
"Almost. What everybody has is a place, in the chorus mostly. Destiny means your particular part in the song is a solo. And you do have the lungs for it."
"Fine." It was nice to be appreciated, after all. "Don't suppose you have any idea about the tune?"
He'd looked at her, long and hard. When he spoke, his voice was low. "Its a duet. You and that red-haired witchling. A love song unless I'm very much mistaken, but its part of something a lot bigger. We're talking like major opera about big issues. Richard Wagner territory--maybe even Andrew Lloyd Webber. But as a rule, those stories don't have easy rides for the lead characters."
"Tell me something I don't know."
"Fair enough. How about this--you're about to meet a tall dark not-so-stranger who's going to challenge you and everybody you like. But what happens at the end--how this show turns out--all depends on you. On what you want."
"Me."
"Oh yeah."
Great. And just what Tara wanted to hear, something to contemplate as she made her way back. She forced herself instead to dwell on what she'd learned from the demons she'd been chatting with. More of the same, pretty much. A mysterious female oracle among the vampires, encouraging all the bloodline of The Master (later, The Apostate) to gather. Why? Best guess was something mystical about rising up and smiting their enemies. The usual. For some reason Tara doubted that was it, though. It felt more nebulous than that. And there was also the interesting fact that, other than Harmony, none had tried to contact Tara herself.
Why not?
As Tara approached the apartment, heading up the stairs, she caught snippets of conversation. Or maybe argument. No, definitely argument. Wesley and Faith and Willow all had raised voices, along with another woman's voice. It sounded familiar. For a few moments Tara listened, then realized it must be that cop from when they arrived. The one who know what she was. She recalled what Wesley had said--that her father had been killed by vampires and how she blamed Faith. What was she doing here? Now?
"Its not like you have any official business..." Wesley's voice, fairly stressed. As usual, lately.
"You should just, just, just get out..." Lovely Willow.
"Hey, that's my vote!" Faith.
"What makes you think you get a vote?" The detective.
Rather than wait, Tara simply opened the door and walked in. Sure enough, the blonde she remembered was there--facing a half-circle of Wesley, Faith and Willow. Interestingly, she wasn't alone. A tall man with close-cropped hair was at the detective's side. He looked a little familiar.
Then he turned.
And took a step forward.
"Tara?" he said, his eyes quietly ablaze.
She said nothing for almost three full seconds. Then...
"D-d-dad?"