FIC: The Crusader's Veil - Chapter 2.1
Apr. 28th, 2003 08:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
estepheiaTHE CRUSADER'S VEIL
PAIRINGS: canon
SPOILERS: themes up to season 6, set between "The Grave" and "Bargaining"
GENRE: novel, gen-fic, angst, comedy - WIP
RATING: PG-15 (for violence in later chapters)
SUMMARY: Buffy is dead, but the Scoobies carry on fighting. When the Crusader comes to Sunnydale Spike has to fight an old enemy...
Previous Parts:
Prologue
Chapter 1.1
Chapter 1.2
And here's the first half of the second chapter:
CHAPTER TWO
June 16th
It was still dark, when Dawn Summers woke with a start, all sweaty and with her heart hammering like mad. Just another nightmare. Dawn knew a lot about those. She couldn't remember this one, but obviously it hadn’t been of the screaming kind, because there were no worried friends standing beside her bed. This had been one of those silent leaden dreams that made breathing difficult and that left her almost paralyzed with unnamed dread. The screaming ones were better, at least they offered a kind of release. And it was nice to wake and find Tara or sometimes Willow checking on her and hugging her back to sleep.
The Willow-made Dreamcatcher that hung over her bed was not strong enough to keep the nightmares at bay, but it dulled them, made them fade fast. Dawn touched the fragile contraption, feeling the softness of the feathers, the roundness of the beads. Her heart was still beating too fast and she felt a crushing sense of foreboding. She slipped out of bed, tiptoed to her desk and turned on the lights. She took her diary out of its hiding place, opened it and slowly began to write, pouring her grief and anger onto the empty pages.
Buffy was dead because of her. No matter what the others said, it was the truth. Without Dawn Buffy would still be patrolling Sunnydale's cemeteries; she'd hang out at the Bronze; she'd mope about Angel and fight with Spike; she'd worry about university courses and be on the look out for Mr. Right. Without Dawn Buffy would still be alive. And who knows, if Buffy hadn't been so busy protecting Dawn from Glory, researching and what not, perhaps she would have been at home when that thing in Mom's head happened. And Mom would still be alive? Was that possible?
Her diary could not tell her the answer, but deep inside her heart Dawn knew it anyway: because of her, both her Mom and Buffy were dead. She had never asked to be created. It was all the monks’ fault. Couldn't they have turned the key into a nice glowing orb or something? Or some kind of animal? It would have been nice to be cat. It was so unfair! So unfair, that she added some more exclamation points.
She chewed on her pen, then absentmindedly drew a small cat. Too bad she couldn't do magic like Willow and Tara. It would be cool to be able to do spells and stuff, and turn into a cat, a gray one with stripes. But Tara said it was too dangerous. Everything was too dangerous in her eyes.
Dawn sighed, snapped her diary shut and hid it. She slid back between the covers and within a few minutes she was fast asleep. Outside her window the sky was already growing pale, anticipating the moment when the sun's rays would make it blush a fiery pink. It would be a beautiful dawn.
***
Konrad von Hohenfels tipped the sleepy bellhop and stepped into the elevator, his consort Natasha at his side. She was an elegant looking woman - thin and strong, but also graceful. She didn’t look out of place in the Sunnydale Four Seasons Hotel, the town’s most exclusive hotel, even at such a late hour. She took the key out of her purse and turned it in a lock that was labeled ‘Penthouse’. The elevator began its ascent.
“Get me Innokenti,” the old vampire said.
Natasha took a small cell phone out of her purse and dialled a number. She held it to her ear, listening, then passed it to her master.
“William the Bloody, a.k.a. Spike. Find his lair,” the Crusader spoke into the phone, without a word of greeting. “I want to know what he’s doing here. I want the whole story, Innokenti.” He listened for a few moments then passed the phone back to Natasha. She killed the connection and put the device back into her handbag.
They stepped out of the elevator. The corridor was guarded by two good-looking, strong and well-muscled men, carrying automatic handguns. A striking family resemblance pegged them as brothers. They moved like tigers on the prowl. When the lift doors opened, they trained their guns at the new arrivals, but they relaxed when they recognized their master. Both were vampires in human guise. Konrad greeted them with a curt nod and strode towards his suite. A dazed looking human opened the door for him.
There were half a dozen vampires present: four males and two females, all of them wearing their bestial faces. They hurriedly rose to their feet when their master walked in. Natasha closed the door behind him. Two very large dogs got up from a rug they had been lying on and whined in a expression of submission.
There were also six humans. They were naked, bound and gagged, lying on a bloodstained tarpaulin. Multiple bite marks blemished their necks, wrists and thighs. They were almost drained, but still alive. Their breathing was shallow and their heartbeats sluggish. The smell of their blood hung in the room. The Crusader studied the captives briefly.
“Any problems?” he asked.
“No, My Lord,” one of his minions answered with alacrity.
“Well done.”
No one in Sunnydale would miss them. They had been expertly snatched from night trains during their brief stops. Their missing persons files would litter police desks elsewhere, as intended. Their luggage had been taken, too. Suitcases, purses, coats and six neat piles of clothes were kept in an adjoining room. Several wallets, cell phones and other valuables were lying on a side table.
"Natasha?"
"My Lord?"
"The chalice."
The brunette vampire hurried over to the old-fashioned wardrobe trunk that stood in the corner of the room, took out an object and unwrapped the burgundy velvet cloth. The chalice looked quite old and it was slightly dented. It was actually quite unimpressive. Still, Natasha held it reverently.
Konrad cut his wrist with a sharp nail and let his blood drip into the chalice. When it was filled to about a third, he held his wrist out to her. Natasha smiled, delighted at the sign of his favor and lapped at the cut until it closed.
Then she knelt next to the first of the human captives, and cradled him in her arms, careful not to get blood stains on her expensive dress. She dipped her finger into the blood and smeared it on the man’s lips. He stirred weakly, then his tongue darted out licking up the potent drink, craving more. Natasha smiled and brought the chalice to his lips.
Meanwhile, the Crusader sat down in a comfortable leather armchair behind an antique desk. He snapped his fingers and the two gray hounds cowered at his feet.
He spent an hour talking to the other vampires, browsing through folders, looking at photographs, studying maps and charts and writing out checks.
One by one the other vampires were sent away on various errants, until only two remained: the blonde, spectacled computer specialist and a vampire in an elegant pinstripe suit. He wore glasses and looked every inch a lawyer. Which he was, or rather had been, when he was turned.
"Did you find out where she’s buried?" the Crusader asked.
“Yes, My Lord," The spectacled vampire nodded and handed him a sheet of paper with the address of a cemetery and a plot number written on it.
“What about the Council. Have you cracked their codes yet?”
“No My Lord,” she said, looking frightened.
The Crusader shifted his attention to his undead legal adviser. They finalized several purchases of land and houses with his signature. Suddenly there was a beeping sound, as a digital alarm clock went off, announcing the imminent sunrise. The old vampire rose. “Come with me,” he ordered the blonde hacker. Fear stood in her eyes but she followed him outside, onto the balcony of the expensive penthouse suite.
Konrad let his vampiric features come to the fore, relishing the heightening of his senses and the feeling of power that was the gift of his nature. He gazed at the eastern horizon. He had specifically asked for a balcony that was facing east, because he wanted to watch as the stars lost their sparkle and as the sky's velvety blackness dulled. He wanted to watch grays and pinks bleed into each other. To his vampiric senses the colors were even more beautiful and radiant. He could almost sense the great ball of fire and heat that was the sun, hurtling towards him at 1000 miles per hour, eager to ignite him. The Crusader chuckled.
The blonde vampire at his side reeked of fear. Every instinct screamed at her to take cover, to hide in the dark, where the sun couldn’t burn her. But a strange force had her enthralled.
“Stay,” Konrad said, his voice vibrating with power.
He turned around and went back inside just as the sun passed the horizon. Natasha had been waiting for him and wordlessly closed the French windows. She quickly pulled the curtains, but not quite fast enough. A thin shaft of sunlight seared her hand and there was a sudden smell of burning flesh. She hissed and adjusted the curtains.
Outside, the blonde vampire stood, as she was told. Her feet wouldn’t move. It was as if she was rooted to the spot. Before her she saw the sun rising into the sky and she screamed as bright rays of pain pierced her eyes and body. Within the blink of an eye she was ablaze, flailing her arms as if to ward off a blow. A moment later a gust of wind whipped her ashes away.
---
Tara loved watching the sun rise. It was like watching a new beginning, the rebirth of the world and even though it sounded sappy and corny in her mind, there was truth in the cliché.
She finished her yoga exercise, the greeting of the sun, glad that at least during weekends there was no morning rush getting everybody out of bed and making breakfast. There had been a lot more peace and quiet for her exercises before she met the Scoobies, but that was before she met Willow, and nothing on earth could make her pine for her pre-Scooby days.
She pulled the morning gown around her and padded into the kitchen to make coffee. Willow loved breakfast in bed, and with all the new responsibility she was now shouldering she deserved a special treat.
***
Butch Kendall was twenty-two years old, and he was sick of funerals. He’d been to six funerals in his life, already - including his sister's. He’d also attended the memorial service for the victims of Graduation Day 1999.
And now he and the other Sunnydale Razorbacks stood at an open grave waiting for yet another one of their team to be lowered into the ground.
He squinted in the bright sunlight. It was stiflingly hot, even though the sun hadn’t reached its highest peak, yet. The flowers on the wreaths were starting to look wilted. Butch felt hot and sweaty in his formal team blazer, the ones they wore for publicity photos or when one of them got married. Or buried.
The priest droned on an on, his voice flat, the words of comfort and hope hollow. To Butch he didn’t sound like he had a lot of faith left in him. Just going through the motions. Butch wasn’t a great academic, and he knew it, but he wasn't stupid, either. He knew that after dark Sunnydale turned into the Valley of the Dead.
The newspapers had a whole arsenal of explanations for the many deaths and disappearances in this town, ranging from seemingly rational to ludicrous to downright desperate. They blamed drugs, modern times, society, the proximity of L.A., geomagnetism, serial killers, even aliens from outer space.
The other day he’d caught his Mom watching a local talk show where a bunch of overpaid psychologists were busily sucking up to their viewers telling them what they wanted to hear: that whatever happened wasn’t their fault. If their children ran away or gunned down their class mates at school it was because of sex and violence on television and a general godlessness. Nice and simple. Much easier than facing the truth that in Sunnydale there really were monsters.
Hell, he and his parents had been there when during the Graduation presentation ceremony all hell had broken loose. The town mayor had turned into a giant snake demon and had begun to devour the class of 1999, starting with Principal Snyder but then picking off one student after another. And a bunch of vampires had attacked guests and students alike. If it hadn't been for that weird blonde girl with the silly name, Buffy Summers, everybody would have died, not just Harmony.
And what had the papers said? "Drug induced Mass Hallucination at Graduation Day Party" - "Mayor Wilkins Killed in High School Drug Craze" - "Drug Addicts Blow Up High School". What a big pile of crap! But his folks bought it. They always believed what the papers said. Even when their eyes told them differently.
He looked at Mr. and Mrs. Cleese, Patrick’s parents, the way they leaned on each other for support. Just like his own parents at his sister’s funeral. It came back to him with such force that it made his eyes sting.
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” The priest had finally come to the end of his sermon. Mr. and Mrs. Cleese gripped the shovel together and there was a hollow sound as the earth hit the coffin of their only child.
Butch swallowed. There was a lump in his throat. There were tearful embraces, as distant relatives and close friends expressed their condolences to the grief stricken parents. Butch saw his own Mom crying openly, as she and Dad shovelled some more earth into the gaping hole in the ground.
Coach Henderson shook Mr. Cleese’s hand. “He was a fine young man, with great team spirit, who will be missed by all,” he said pompously, sounding more like a politician than like a football coach.
Butch was next. He braced himself. He’d been Patrick’s best friend since second grade, they’d been room mates at college and in the same fraternities. They’d been so close, others had started to call them Butch Cassidy and Sundance Kid. Their fathers were golf partners. And there was a long running tradition of Cleese-Kendall family barbecues.
He offered his hand, but Mrs. Cleese embraced him with something akin to desperation. “You’ll still come and visit us, every now and then, won’t you, Butch?” she asked, reluctant to let him go because if she held him it was like having a bit of her son back.
He nodded, unable to speak. When he shook hands with Mr. Cleese, he appeared all manly and civilized, but deep inside he was smoldering with rage.
***
When Spike rushed into the Magic Box, covered by a smoldering blanket, it was afternoon and the Scoobies were already sitting at the Round Table, where all their research and their discussions took place.
A half-eaten box of donuts sat in the middle, surrounded by coffee mugs and the obligatory pile of dusty old tomes. Giles was on the upper level, browsing through the restricted section. He acknowledged the vampire’s arrival with an unintelligible mumble.
Spike ignored him. “Nibblet,” he greeted Dawn.
She looked up from her book. “Spike.”
“So, you’re getting into vampirology now?”
“You wish.” She lifted the book so he could see the cover. “Maths,” she grimaced.
“Yeah, I never got the finer points of geometry, either.”
He grabbed an empty chair, which happened to be the one next to Xander and sat down hugging the backrest.
Xander acknowledged his presence with a curt nod and dug into the donut box as if fearing the competition. He was reading a book on vampire history, without great enthusiasm. Spike smirked and took a donut just to spite him.
"Hi, Spike," Willow greeted him distractedly. She was busily typing something into her laptop computer " Now that you’re here, we can-“
"Will?" he interrupted.
The witch frowned "What is it, Spike?"
"Before we talk about the Crusader, could we just briefly deal with this?” He stuck his pale fingers through several holes in his T-shirt and wriggled them.
“Oh look, your T-shirt’s got holes in it. And you’re showing us this because?” Willow asked.
"Last night's crusade cost me another outfit.” He informed her. He put a booted foot on the table and fingered a gash in the fabric of his pants. “See? Got one more outfit at the crypt. If that gets torn as well, you'll all have to stare at my bare bottom."
Dawn giggled.
"Now, that's a dire threat, if ever I heard one." Xander proclaimed.
“I think it sounded more like a promise,” Anya said, not without interest. She didn’t notice the irritated look Xander gave her.
“What do you want me to do about it. Oh I know, you want me to do a spell to fix them? I never did a mending spell before but I’m sure it’s possible, with a bit of tinkering.”
Spike shook his head at the witch’s obvious enthusiasm. “No mojo,” he said. "Dough. I'm broke. Had to borrow money from Harris just to buy myself some smokes. You don’t want me to rob people, and I’m not getting a job or anything. And at night I’m patrolling instead of… well doing other… more lucrative things.”
The witches exchanged glances. "Hmm, yes, we have to find a solution to that... ah... problem." Willow agreed. "What did you have in mind?"
"Get the sodding Council to cough up a bit."
Xander laughed. “They wouldn’t even pay Buffy. The only thing you’ll get from them is a well-aimed stake and maybe, just maybe, a cardboard box to keep your ashes in. Hey, that doesn’t sound so bad! Go on, ask them.”
"Giles?" Willow asked. Everybody turned to look at the Watcher.
Rupert Giles's role in the Scooby meetings had changed, since Buffy's death. Without a live Slayer to watch over the man had lost his purpose in life. Sure, he was still there in the flesh, and he was still prepared to let the Scooby gang pick his brain, but something was missing. It was as if the fire had gone out in him. Even the shop, of which he had been so proud, didn't give him pleasure, anymore.
Spike was secretly wondering if the Watcher was planning on going back to England. Hell, he already seemed half gone.
Giles came down the ladder, balancing a small stack of books. “Truthfully? The Council may have turned a blind eye to the fact that none of us have put a stake into Spike’s heart just yet, but I seriously doubt that they’d be willing to consider a monetary recompense.” He put the volumes on the table and took off his glasses to polish them vigorously. "I can certainly ask on Spike's behalf. Personally, I find the idea of a vampire being on the Council's payroll ludicrous, but that is not for me to decide."
He put his spectacles back on. “If you all agree that the fight against evil takes precedence over the state of Spike’s wardrobe, then perhaps we can concentrate on our latest enemy.”
Everybody nodded. Everybody except Spike, so Giles continued. “Willow? What have you been able to ascertain?”
“I checked obituaries and police records and there haven’t been any more unusual occurrences than usual. I mean there are a few missing persons cases and there is at least one grave that we should check out tonight, that looks fishy, or rather vampy, but that’s normal, I mean Sunnydale-normal. Maybe he just arrived. If I knew more about him I might be able to check flight records and train reservations…”
“Yeah, give us something to work with, Giles,” Xander said. He shoved the book he’d been reading away from him. “Give us some facts. Narrow it down.”
“Certainly,” the Watcher agreed, smoothly going into lecture mode. He picked up a book from the table and opened it where a white piece of paper stuck out. "According to a this chronicle here, the Crusader’s real name is Konrad von Hohenfels. He would have eventually inherited a small Earldom in Western Germany, had he made it back from the Holy Land alive. He commanded a small unit of men-at-arms during the First Crusade, apparently with great success. It is believed he was turned before the turn of the century. He was the scourge of the newly formed Kingdom of Jerusalem. After killing his Saracen sire he turned other European knights and squires and they preyed on the indigenous population, like wolves on a herd of sheep." He put the open book on the table, and tossed his glasses on top of them.
He noticed Xander's half-raised hand. He sighed. "Yes?"
"That would have been the turn of which century?"
"The First Crusade took place 1096-1099," Willow said, smiling happily.
Giles nodded and picked up another volume. "This one gives us basically the same information," he said, without opening it. "But it also mentions that Konrad may have belonged to a legendary group of knights called The Tafurs, a particularly fanatical group of destitute crusaders who foreswore plundering but excelled at slaughter and rape. During the Antioch famine they are supposed to have, well... turned to cannibalism, eating the flesh of their dead enemies."
"Eow, gross!" Dawn exclaimed.
"I second that," Xander threw in.
"And, that was while he was still alive?" Tara asked with disgust. "Couldn't they have just slaughtered the horses? They did have horses, being knights and such?"
"Well, yes, I suppose they could have," Giles said while absentmindedly turning pages in yet another leather bound book.
"Good chargers don't come cheap," Anya explained, happy at being able contribute to the discussion. "Besides, I know I would not have been happy if I had to walk into battle."
Having found the paragraph he had been looking for Giles continued: "Anyway, Konrad stayed in the Crusader States until the late 13th century. Apparently he encountered some kind of opposition, because he returned to Germany without his entourage of minions."
"What happened?" Willow wanted to know.
"It doesn't say in these books. I’ve sent faxes to colleagues in Saudi Arabia and Israel," Giles continued, "asking them to check Arabic and Hebrew chronicles for more information on Konrad's activities in the Orient and on the reasons why he left."
"And his activities in Germany?" Willow asked.
"Not very well documented, I’m afraid. Just hearsay. We know he studied magic, but not where and when. He moved around a lot, effectively covering his tracks. But as far as we know he never went back to the Middle East."
"I don't see why anyone would want to," Anya commented.
Giles picked up his glasses and waved them around while continuing to sum up the results of his research. "After the Thirty Years War, Konrad moved eastwards. He stayed in Warsaw for several decades, before moving to Russia. That’s where you met him, Spike, isn’t that correct? So what can you tell us about him?”
"Where do you want me to start?"
"Try the opening credits," Xander told him.
"Right then. Once upon a time there was a dashing cavalier who loved a beautiful lady..."
Since I have a splitting headache, I will post the second half of this chapter tomorrow. I still have to make some changes.
PAIRINGS: canon
SPOILERS: themes up to season 6, set between "The Grave" and "Bargaining"
GENRE: novel, gen-fic, angst, comedy - WIP
RATING: PG-15 (for violence in later chapters)
SUMMARY: Buffy is dead, but the Scoobies carry on fighting. When the Crusader comes to Sunnydale Spike has to fight an old enemy...
Previous Parts:
Prologue
Chapter 1.1
Chapter 1.2
And here's the first half of the second chapter:
CHAPTER TWO
June 16th
It was still dark, when Dawn Summers woke with a start, all sweaty and with her heart hammering like mad. Just another nightmare. Dawn knew a lot about those. She couldn't remember this one, but obviously it hadn’t been of the screaming kind, because there were no worried friends standing beside her bed. This had been one of those silent leaden dreams that made breathing difficult and that left her almost paralyzed with unnamed dread. The screaming ones were better, at least they offered a kind of release. And it was nice to wake and find Tara or sometimes Willow checking on her and hugging her back to sleep.
The Willow-made Dreamcatcher that hung over her bed was not strong enough to keep the nightmares at bay, but it dulled them, made them fade fast. Dawn touched the fragile contraption, feeling the softness of the feathers, the roundness of the beads. Her heart was still beating too fast and she felt a crushing sense of foreboding. She slipped out of bed, tiptoed to her desk and turned on the lights. She took her diary out of its hiding place, opened it and slowly began to write, pouring her grief and anger onto the empty pages.
Buffy was dead because of her. No matter what the others said, it was the truth. Without Dawn Buffy would still be patrolling Sunnydale's cemeteries; she'd hang out at the Bronze; she'd mope about Angel and fight with Spike; she'd worry about university courses and be on the look out for Mr. Right. Without Dawn Buffy would still be alive. And who knows, if Buffy hadn't been so busy protecting Dawn from Glory, researching and what not, perhaps she would have been at home when that thing in Mom's head happened. And Mom would still be alive? Was that possible?
Her diary could not tell her the answer, but deep inside her heart Dawn knew it anyway: because of her, both her Mom and Buffy were dead. She had never asked to be created. It was all the monks’ fault. Couldn't they have turned the key into a nice glowing orb or something? Or some kind of animal? It would have been nice to be cat. It was so unfair! So unfair, that she added some more exclamation points.
She chewed on her pen, then absentmindedly drew a small cat. Too bad she couldn't do magic like Willow and Tara. It would be cool to be able to do spells and stuff, and turn into a cat, a gray one with stripes. But Tara said it was too dangerous. Everything was too dangerous in her eyes.
Dawn sighed, snapped her diary shut and hid it. She slid back between the covers and within a few minutes she was fast asleep. Outside her window the sky was already growing pale, anticipating the moment when the sun's rays would make it blush a fiery pink. It would be a beautiful dawn.
***
Konrad von Hohenfels tipped the sleepy bellhop and stepped into the elevator, his consort Natasha at his side. She was an elegant looking woman - thin and strong, but also graceful. She didn’t look out of place in the Sunnydale Four Seasons Hotel, the town’s most exclusive hotel, even at such a late hour. She took the key out of her purse and turned it in a lock that was labeled ‘Penthouse’. The elevator began its ascent.
“Get me Innokenti,” the old vampire said.
Natasha took a small cell phone out of her purse and dialled a number. She held it to her ear, listening, then passed it to her master.
“William the Bloody, a.k.a. Spike. Find his lair,” the Crusader spoke into the phone, without a word of greeting. “I want to know what he’s doing here. I want the whole story, Innokenti.” He listened for a few moments then passed the phone back to Natasha. She killed the connection and put the device back into her handbag.
They stepped out of the elevator. The corridor was guarded by two good-looking, strong and well-muscled men, carrying automatic handguns. A striking family resemblance pegged them as brothers. They moved like tigers on the prowl. When the lift doors opened, they trained their guns at the new arrivals, but they relaxed when they recognized their master. Both were vampires in human guise. Konrad greeted them with a curt nod and strode towards his suite. A dazed looking human opened the door for him.
There were half a dozen vampires present: four males and two females, all of them wearing their bestial faces. They hurriedly rose to their feet when their master walked in. Natasha closed the door behind him. Two very large dogs got up from a rug they had been lying on and whined in a expression of submission.
There were also six humans. They were naked, bound and gagged, lying on a bloodstained tarpaulin. Multiple bite marks blemished their necks, wrists and thighs. They were almost drained, but still alive. Their breathing was shallow and their heartbeats sluggish. The smell of their blood hung in the room. The Crusader studied the captives briefly.
“Any problems?” he asked.
“No, My Lord,” one of his minions answered with alacrity.
“Well done.”
No one in Sunnydale would miss them. They had been expertly snatched from night trains during their brief stops. Their missing persons files would litter police desks elsewhere, as intended. Their luggage had been taken, too. Suitcases, purses, coats and six neat piles of clothes were kept in an adjoining room. Several wallets, cell phones and other valuables were lying on a side table.
"Natasha?"
"My Lord?"
"The chalice."
The brunette vampire hurried over to the old-fashioned wardrobe trunk that stood in the corner of the room, took out an object and unwrapped the burgundy velvet cloth. The chalice looked quite old and it was slightly dented. It was actually quite unimpressive. Still, Natasha held it reverently.
Konrad cut his wrist with a sharp nail and let his blood drip into the chalice. When it was filled to about a third, he held his wrist out to her. Natasha smiled, delighted at the sign of his favor and lapped at the cut until it closed.
Then she knelt next to the first of the human captives, and cradled him in her arms, careful not to get blood stains on her expensive dress. She dipped her finger into the blood and smeared it on the man’s lips. He stirred weakly, then his tongue darted out licking up the potent drink, craving more. Natasha smiled and brought the chalice to his lips.
Meanwhile, the Crusader sat down in a comfortable leather armchair behind an antique desk. He snapped his fingers and the two gray hounds cowered at his feet.
He spent an hour talking to the other vampires, browsing through folders, looking at photographs, studying maps and charts and writing out checks.
One by one the other vampires were sent away on various errants, until only two remained: the blonde, spectacled computer specialist and a vampire in an elegant pinstripe suit. He wore glasses and looked every inch a lawyer. Which he was, or rather had been, when he was turned.
"Did you find out where she’s buried?" the Crusader asked.
“Yes, My Lord," The spectacled vampire nodded and handed him a sheet of paper with the address of a cemetery and a plot number written on it.
“What about the Council. Have you cracked their codes yet?”
“No My Lord,” she said, looking frightened.
The Crusader shifted his attention to his undead legal adviser. They finalized several purchases of land and houses with his signature. Suddenly there was a beeping sound, as a digital alarm clock went off, announcing the imminent sunrise. The old vampire rose. “Come with me,” he ordered the blonde hacker. Fear stood in her eyes but she followed him outside, onto the balcony of the expensive penthouse suite.
Konrad let his vampiric features come to the fore, relishing the heightening of his senses and the feeling of power that was the gift of his nature. He gazed at the eastern horizon. He had specifically asked for a balcony that was facing east, because he wanted to watch as the stars lost their sparkle and as the sky's velvety blackness dulled. He wanted to watch grays and pinks bleed into each other. To his vampiric senses the colors were even more beautiful and radiant. He could almost sense the great ball of fire and heat that was the sun, hurtling towards him at 1000 miles per hour, eager to ignite him. The Crusader chuckled.
The blonde vampire at his side reeked of fear. Every instinct screamed at her to take cover, to hide in the dark, where the sun couldn’t burn her. But a strange force had her enthralled.
“Stay,” Konrad said, his voice vibrating with power.
He turned around and went back inside just as the sun passed the horizon. Natasha had been waiting for him and wordlessly closed the French windows. She quickly pulled the curtains, but not quite fast enough. A thin shaft of sunlight seared her hand and there was a sudden smell of burning flesh. She hissed and adjusted the curtains.
Outside, the blonde vampire stood, as she was told. Her feet wouldn’t move. It was as if she was rooted to the spot. Before her she saw the sun rising into the sky and she screamed as bright rays of pain pierced her eyes and body. Within the blink of an eye she was ablaze, flailing her arms as if to ward off a blow. A moment later a gust of wind whipped her ashes away.
---
Tara loved watching the sun rise. It was like watching a new beginning, the rebirth of the world and even though it sounded sappy and corny in her mind, there was truth in the cliché.
She finished her yoga exercise, the greeting of the sun, glad that at least during weekends there was no morning rush getting everybody out of bed and making breakfast. There had been a lot more peace and quiet for her exercises before she met the Scoobies, but that was before she met Willow, and nothing on earth could make her pine for her pre-Scooby days.
She pulled the morning gown around her and padded into the kitchen to make coffee. Willow loved breakfast in bed, and with all the new responsibility she was now shouldering she deserved a special treat.
***
Butch Kendall was twenty-two years old, and he was sick of funerals. He’d been to six funerals in his life, already - including his sister's. He’d also attended the memorial service for the victims of Graduation Day 1999.
And now he and the other Sunnydale Razorbacks stood at an open grave waiting for yet another one of their team to be lowered into the ground.
He squinted in the bright sunlight. It was stiflingly hot, even though the sun hadn’t reached its highest peak, yet. The flowers on the wreaths were starting to look wilted. Butch felt hot and sweaty in his formal team blazer, the ones they wore for publicity photos or when one of them got married. Or buried.
The priest droned on an on, his voice flat, the words of comfort and hope hollow. To Butch he didn’t sound like he had a lot of faith left in him. Just going through the motions. Butch wasn’t a great academic, and he knew it, but he wasn't stupid, either. He knew that after dark Sunnydale turned into the Valley of the Dead.
The newspapers had a whole arsenal of explanations for the many deaths and disappearances in this town, ranging from seemingly rational to ludicrous to downright desperate. They blamed drugs, modern times, society, the proximity of L.A., geomagnetism, serial killers, even aliens from outer space.
The other day he’d caught his Mom watching a local talk show where a bunch of overpaid psychologists were busily sucking up to their viewers telling them what they wanted to hear: that whatever happened wasn’t their fault. If their children ran away or gunned down their class mates at school it was because of sex and violence on television and a general godlessness. Nice and simple. Much easier than facing the truth that in Sunnydale there really were monsters.
Hell, he and his parents had been there when during the Graduation presentation ceremony all hell had broken loose. The town mayor had turned into a giant snake demon and had begun to devour the class of 1999, starting with Principal Snyder but then picking off one student after another. And a bunch of vampires had attacked guests and students alike. If it hadn't been for that weird blonde girl with the silly name, Buffy Summers, everybody would have died, not just Harmony.
And what had the papers said? "Drug induced Mass Hallucination at Graduation Day Party" - "Mayor Wilkins Killed in High School Drug Craze" - "Drug Addicts Blow Up High School". What a big pile of crap! But his folks bought it. They always believed what the papers said. Even when their eyes told them differently.
He looked at Mr. and Mrs. Cleese, Patrick’s parents, the way they leaned on each other for support. Just like his own parents at his sister’s funeral. It came back to him with such force that it made his eyes sting.
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” The priest had finally come to the end of his sermon. Mr. and Mrs. Cleese gripped the shovel together and there was a hollow sound as the earth hit the coffin of their only child.
Butch swallowed. There was a lump in his throat. There were tearful embraces, as distant relatives and close friends expressed their condolences to the grief stricken parents. Butch saw his own Mom crying openly, as she and Dad shovelled some more earth into the gaping hole in the ground.
Coach Henderson shook Mr. Cleese’s hand. “He was a fine young man, with great team spirit, who will be missed by all,” he said pompously, sounding more like a politician than like a football coach.
Butch was next. He braced himself. He’d been Patrick’s best friend since second grade, they’d been room mates at college and in the same fraternities. They’d been so close, others had started to call them Butch Cassidy and Sundance Kid. Their fathers were golf partners. And there was a long running tradition of Cleese-Kendall family barbecues.
He offered his hand, but Mrs. Cleese embraced him with something akin to desperation. “You’ll still come and visit us, every now and then, won’t you, Butch?” she asked, reluctant to let him go because if she held him it was like having a bit of her son back.
He nodded, unable to speak. When he shook hands with Mr. Cleese, he appeared all manly and civilized, but deep inside he was smoldering with rage.
***
When Spike rushed into the Magic Box, covered by a smoldering blanket, it was afternoon and the Scoobies were already sitting at the Round Table, where all their research and their discussions took place.
A half-eaten box of donuts sat in the middle, surrounded by coffee mugs and the obligatory pile of dusty old tomes. Giles was on the upper level, browsing through the restricted section. He acknowledged the vampire’s arrival with an unintelligible mumble.
Spike ignored him. “Nibblet,” he greeted Dawn.
She looked up from her book. “Spike.”
“So, you’re getting into vampirology now?”
“You wish.” She lifted the book so he could see the cover. “Maths,” she grimaced.
“Yeah, I never got the finer points of geometry, either.”
He grabbed an empty chair, which happened to be the one next to Xander and sat down hugging the backrest.
Xander acknowledged his presence with a curt nod and dug into the donut box as if fearing the competition. He was reading a book on vampire history, without great enthusiasm. Spike smirked and took a donut just to spite him.
"Hi, Spike," Willow greeted him distractedly. She was busily typing something into her laptop computer " Now that you’re here, we can-“
"Will?" he interrupted.
The witch frowned "What is it, Spike?"
"Before we talk about the Crusader, could we just briefly deal with this?” He stuck his pale fingers through several holes in his T-shirt and wriggled them.
“Oh look, your T-shirt’s got holes in it. And you’re showing us this because?” Willow asked.
"Last night's crusade cost me another outfit.” He informed her. He put a booted foot on the table and fingered a gash in the fabric of his pants. “See? Got one more outfit at the crypt. If that gets torn as well, you'll all have to stare at my bare bottom."
Dawn giggled.
"Now, that's a dire threat, if ever I heard one." Xander proclaimed.
“I think it sounded more like a promise,” Anya said, not without interest. She didn’t notice the irritated look Xander gave her.
“What do you want me to do about it. Oh I know, you want me to do a spell to fix them? I never did a mending spell before but I’m sure it’s possible, with a bit of tinkering.”
Spike shook his head at the witch’s obvious enthusiasm. “No mojo,” he said. "Dough. I'm broke. Had to borrow money from Harris just to buy myself some smokes. You don’t want me to rob people, and I’m not getting a job or anything. And at night I’m patrolling instead of… well doing other… more lucrative things.”
The witches exchanged glances. "Hmm, yes, we have to find a solution to that... ah... problem." Willow agreed. "What did you have in mind?"
"Get the sodding Council to cough up a bit."
Xander laughed. “They wouldn’t even pay Buffy. The only thing you’ll get from them is a well-aimed stake and maybe, just maybe, a cardboard box to keep your ashes in. Hey, that doesn’t sound so bad! Go on, ask them.”
"Giles?" Willow asked. Everybody turned to look at the Watcher.
Rupert Giles's role in the Scooby meetings had changed, since Buffy's death. Without a live Slayer to watch over the man had lost his purpose in life. Sure, he was still there in the flesh, and he was still prepared to let the Scooby gang pick his brain, but something was missing. It was as if the fire had gone out in him. Even the shop, of which he had been so proud, didn't give him pleasure, anymore.
Spike was secretly wondering if the Watcher was planning on going back to England. Hell, he already seemed half gone.
Giles came down the ladder, balancing a small stack of books. “Truthfully? The Council may have turned a blind eye to the fact that none of us have put a stake into Spike’s heart just yet, but I seriously doubt that they’d be willing to consider a monetary recompense.” He put the volumes on the table and took off his glasses to polish them vigorously. "I can certainly ask on Spike's behalf. Personally, I find the idea of a vampire being on the Council's payroll ludicrous, but that is not for me to decide."
He put his spectacles back on. “If you all agree that the fight against evil takes precedence over the state of Spike’s wardrobe, then perhaps we can concentrate on our latest enemy.”
Everybody nodded. Everybody except Spike, so Giles continued. “Willow? What have you been able to ascertain?”
“I checked obituaries and police records and there haven’t been any more unusual occurrences than usual. I mean there are a few missing persons cases and there is at least one grave that we should check out tonight, that looks fishy, or rather vampy, but that’s normal, I mean Sunnydale-normal. Maybe he just arrived. If I knew more about him I might be able to check flight records and train reservations…”
“Yeah, give us something to work with, Giles,” Xander said. He shoved the book he’d been reading away from him. “Give us some facts. Narrow it down.”
“Certainly,” the Watcher agreed, smoothly going into lecture mode. He picked up a book from the table and opened it where a white piece of paper stuck out. "According to a this chronicle here, the Crusader’s real name is Konrad von Hohenfels. He would have eventually inherited a small Earldom in Western Germany, had he made it back from the Holy Land alive. He commanded a small unit of men-at-arms during the First Crusade, apparently with great success. It is believed he was turned before the turn of the century. He was the scourge of the newly formed Kingdom of Jerusalem. After killing his Saracen sire he turned other European knights and squires and they preyed on the indigenous population, like wolves on a herd of sheep." He put the open book on the table, and tossed his glasses on top of them.
He noticed Xander's half-raised hand. He sighed. "Yes?"
"That would have been the turn of which century?"
"The First Crusade took place 1096-1099," Willow said, smiling happily.
Giles nodded and picked up another volume. "This one gives us basically the same information," he said, without opening it. "But it also mentions that Konrad may have belonged to a legendary group of knights called The Tafurs, a particularly fanatical group of destitute crusaders who foreswore plundering but excelled at slaughter and rape. During the Antioch famine they are supposed to have, well... turned to cannibalism, eating the flesh of their dead enemies."
"Eow, gross!" Dawn exclaimed.
"I second that," Xander threw in.
"And, that was while he was still alive?" Tara asked with disgust. "Couldn't they have just slaughtered the horses? They did have horses, being knights and such?"
"Well, yes, I suppose they could have," Giles said while absentmindedly turning pages in yet another leather bound book.
"Good chargers don't come cheap," Anya explained, happy at being able contribute to the discussion. "Besides, I know I would not have been happy if I had to walk into battle."
Having found the paragraph he had been looking for Giles continued: "Anyway, Konrad stayed in the Crusader States until the late 13th century. Apparently he encountered some kind of opposition, because he returned to Germany without his entourage of minions."
"What happened?" Willow wanted to know.
"It doesn't say in these books. I’ve sent faxes to colleagues in Saudi Arabia and Israel," Giles continued, "asking them to check Arabic and Hebrew chronicles for more information on Konrad's activities in the Orient and on the reasons why he left."
"And his activities in Germany?" Willow asked.
"Not very well documented, I’m afraid. Just hearsay. We know he studied magic, but not where and when. He moved around a lot, effectively covering his tracks. But as far as we know he never went back to the Middle East."
"I don't see why anyone would want to," Anya commented.
Giles picked up his glasses and waved them around while continuing to sum up the results of his research. "After the Thirty Years War, Konrad moved eastwards. He stayed in Warsaw for several decades, before moving to Russia. That’s where you met him, Spike, isn’t that correct? So what can you tell us about him?”
"Where do you want me to start?"
"Try the opening credits," Xander told him.
"Right then. Once upon a time there was a dashing cavalier who loved a beautiful lady..."
Since I have a splitting headache, I will post the second half of this chapter tomorrow. I still have to make some changes.
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Date: 2003-04-28 08:59 pm (UTC)I always feel awkward commenting on livejournals, though, because it seems like everyone who comments also writes or betas. Whereas I'm just a lazy ass who likes to read and not contribute at all. :) Oh well, any feedback is good feedback yes?
So...I love it.
Thanks
Date: 2003-04-29 01:35 am (UTC)That's true. It's impossible to tell how much traffic a certain post gets, so it sometimes feels like nobody reads the stuff at all.
Big fan, huh? Well, thank you, Rachel, for letting me know. Your feedback put a big smile on my face this morning.
You shouldn't feel awkward about posting feedback in Livejournals. I can tell you for a fact that ALL AUTHORS LOVE FEEDBACK IN THEIR JOURNALS. Trust me. It has nothing to do with whether you write or beta yourself. You're a reader. Writers LOVE readers. :-D
Anyway, I'm glad you enjoy the Crusader.
Cheers.