He sniggered to himself as he jotted notes down. The quill scratched steadily in the candle-light as he recalled the look on her face. Utterly priceless . Obviously the chit was young, but there was a lot of potential for her to become something quite extraordinary. There was so much to do and not enough time to do it all. A year and a day may be the mythical standard but hell if it didn’t tighten the schedule to breaking point. You could only stretch the temporal cloth so far before it tore, and he still had to keep things on the other side from unravelling.  With a sigh he put aside his pen and sanded the sheet.

 

What did Mother think she was doing anyway? If she wasn’t careful, she’d give the game away before it began, and who knew what would happen then. Fine- fine, tell her she’d died. It was necessary after all- but really, it was as if she took the girl at face value, accepting her apparent lack of sense without question. Which was not only silly, it was bloody dangerous. They had a mission that went far beyond merely giving the girl some pointers, and he for one could not afford to lose this gambit. The other side had almost all of the pieces and none of the vulnerabilities. Time to reinforce the prophecy and re-educate his friend.

 

 

---

 

 

Gile picked the phone up on the second ring. He’d been pacing by the wall where it hung now for a good half-hour, waiting for this call. ‘Hello? Morgan?’

 

‘Yes old chap, it’s me. I think I’ve got something for you. Know those verses you sent me? It’s interesting. Is that all you’ve got with you?’

 

‘Quite. My welsh isn’t excellent, but even I had picked up there were some pieces missing.’

 

A snort was audible over the crackle of the transatlantic call, ‘Pieces? Try nearly the whole thing, mate. Which codex did you translate from?’

 

‘Telcham’s Minutes. I only had one book on hand with anything from the 11th century. Left most of my library across the pond with you. Remember that shipment you got six years ago?’

 

‘No wonder. Look, Telcham was a nit. He only did previews of this stuff. There’s some really important bits you aren’t seeing. This is enough to go on for the ritual, but you’re gonna need to come over to my place when you get here and do some proper bloody research before you start messin’ with this business. She’s already gone, I take it? You’ve lost the White Queen?’

 

Giles inhaled and replied miserably, ‘Yes. Buffy’s gone. We’re not sure who it was but it had to have been a Master-strength vampire, she was exsanguinated and quite bloodless when I found her.’

 

‘Before you start trying to find out who it was, you better hear this mate, I have a piece I found just before I called.’ There was a pause, as Morgan cleared his throat, then he spoke with a lilting accent, ‘Ganwyd gan olau i wynebu'r tywyll

'r Brenhines Gwen gweithfa ar ei ben ei hun

Dan Orfod gan ffawd i rannu yn dau

Mae'r llinell o ryfelwyr unigol Golau yn

Bannau hun at Dynged , a hun at arwain pawb

Nawr tynged twyllo, ymgais droi

Setiau ddua farchog erbyn 'r ddiwrnod

Annwfn s rhyfelwr ymddengys, eiddo ddyled amlyma

A chwblha 'i 'n gariadlawn.

Dan 'r fiswrn 'r caethesau asgre gwylmabsantau,

llychwinedig gwynnwy ydy 'n frith.

 

That’s just the part that confirms for sure the identity of the White Queen. Did you or anyone close to her get anything besides that scrap of ritual?’

 

‘Ah, yes. her mother has known of her Calling since last summer. She apparently received a note which used chess terms to tell her Buffy was gone. I believe it was; “Black Knight takes White Queen” and it was rather upsetting for her.’

 

‘No kidding. Nothing else? Ok. The reason I asked was because you need to know this; the Black Knight is central to this whole saga, and not just because he cuts her down. There’s more to it than that. Listen, I’ll give you the translation;

Born by light to face the dark

The White Queen works alone

Forced by fate to split in twain

The line of Light’s lone warriors

Branches one to Destiny, and one to carry all

Now fate deceived, attempts recourse

Sets black knight against the day

Hell’s hero appears, his duty clear

And he fulfils it lovingly. Beneath the mask

The Thrall’s heart wakes, tarnished white is grey’

 

‘Now fate deceived… is that referring to there being two Slayer lines? Or that Buffy cheated death, yet allowed another to be Called?’ Giles frowned as he tried to tease the essential parts of the verse into a recognisable pattern.

 

‘The auguries show there’s only one Slayer line, and besides, Council Heads don’t know she’s dead because no new Slayer has been called after that one in Jamaica. I’d say it was her cheating death. Given that line though; “forced by fate to split in twain”, I’d venture a guess that she’ll head a new line, of Champions most like, given the prophecy’s contents. I’d get back to you with whatever else I find in the next week, but chances are I won’t have anything and you’ll have to wait until you get back to England to catch up with me.’

 

Morgan smiled as he planted the subtle suggestions in the head of his colleague. He knew that Rupert would worry at them and form theories of his own, and for now at least he’d distracted him from hunting down whoever had slain his little girl. He looked down at the pages before him, line after line of predictions, that for all their apparent age hadn’t existed even a week before.

 

Damn he was tired of this leapfrogging. Scrabbling to prevent paradox and apocalypse together, inducing visions and holding the hands of beings who should really know better than to delegate to sub-par subordinates. He set the circle to take him a month into the past and sideways, and slipped into some less anachronistic clothing before stepping into the glowing centre.

 

 

---

 

Miss Edith is a dreadful liar, always telling us the pixies mean no harm. Malicious tricksy creatures, stealing all my cake, and how's a girl to have a proper tea with no cake? It was hardly a picnic without sunshine, but unless the White gambit paid off it would only be moonlit strolls for Miss Edith. Nasty creatures, scrabbling and skittering like hungry rats. Scritch Scritch in my skull- Scritch Scritch, until I think that my hair shall fall right out and leave me bald. My sweet poet tells me it shall never happen but even he doesn’t know the terrible things the moon whispers to me.

 

It is nearly time to set the doggy free. He has been such a loyal pet, but he belongs to another, and my time with him is almost done. I can feel it getting closer… closer to the time… Daddy’s nearly home. And his little girl shall be there in a pretty dress to greet him!

 

My poet wishes to keep me, but William strains at the leash to be free. Find the spark, ignite the flame.

 

 

---

 

Bursting into the mansion, Spike grinned as the doors bounced off the walls with a satisfying crash. He eyed them critically as they swung back. The one on the right wouldn’t last much longer if he were any judge, the top hinge was loose. He could hear Dru off in the bowels of the dwelling, and the screams of one of her ‘toys’. He made sure to keep a handful of minions around, no-one too independent, just someone who wasn’t him to do the domestic. Like fix the doors, let Dru express her artistic side. She was a dab hand at torture thanks to good ol’ Angelus, but her favourite pastime was to paint. Great swirls of dusty red on canvas, murals of violence. She’d bleed a minion out slowly, using its’ blood to lay down the base-coat, then when they were nearly dry she’d dust them and mix it in for a greasy texture that dried not unlike oil-paint. Sure the colours weren’t all that varied, there were only so many shades of red in blood, but he loved how she managed to make it seem fresh and new every time.

 

He strolled up to her and grabbed her by the back of her skull, twirling her into his arms, heedless of the stains that crawled up her arms like evening gloves. ‘What’s my Plum painting for us, hmm?’

 

‘Miss Edith insists it’s the night sky, but the pixies tell all. Souls are crying, pinned to the wall like lovely…’ she turned her face up for his kiss, chaste on her nose, ‘lovely...’ dragging his lips down her cheek, he nuzzled into her throat with tiny nips and licks, ‘butterflies. Am I a pretty butterfly, my poet?’

 

‘The darkest, prettiest one of all, my sweet. Have you had anything for tea?’

 

‘Only a lonely turtledove. She cried for her love, but he’d flown quite away. She tasted of tears and despair, so sweet.’

 

He looked at her with a slight frown. ‘That was two days gone love, did you eat anything tonight? Or yesterday? I’ve been a bad, rude man ignoring you like this. Here, have some of mine.’ He turned his head to the side in a submissive gesture for his Sire, inviting her to take. Drusillawrinkled her nose, almost as if in disgust, and turned away. He looked gutted for an instant, then his face turned to stone. ‘Did I do something my sweet? Are you angry at your Spike, Dru- baby- are you feeling ok?’

 

*Sodding ponce. You just crawl back every time she kicks you, innit?* His fey lover looked at him with hollow eyes. ‘Can’t taste you anymore, my poet, sunshine has quite burnt your taste from my lips. Only ashes for princess. Sunshine and regrets for you.’

 

His head jerked back as if slapped. *There it is again. What sunshine? I haven’t regretted anything since I woke up dead. What the buggering fuck is she on about?! And she’s fading again. Dammit, I fixed this! I drained that slayer dry to FIX this, what’s bloody wrong with her?*

 

‘Sugar-plum. Dru- darling. Thought we healed you. Why’re you off your feed again? You’re fading like you did after Prague. Wasn’t that Slayer enough? Should we go find you another?’ *Gods he hated feeling helpless like this. It was as bad as when he watched his mother coughing her lungs red from consumption, and he knew as little about how to fix this as he had back then.*

 

Dru just shook her finger at him in reproof. ‘Sweet cake will fill but not nourish, you naughty boy. Mustn’t eat our pudding before our meat. How can I have any pudding if I don’t eat my meat?’

 

‘And what meat is this, my princess? Shall I find a strapping lad for you to sup on? Some beef-head with no neck and broad shoulders?’

 

She giggled at his ire, which succeeded in bringing out the tic in his clenched jaw. ‘Blood of stone, my love. Blood of the fallen. Blood makes and breaks and binds. In the Vale, ‘neath Heavens’ Eye. In Darkness it winds, and though sparks light the path they’ll soon be snuffed out- Poof- into the night with Princess.’ Twirling away, her hair flared out like thistledown as she spun, faster and faster. Just before he stepped forward and caught her, she sank down prettily on her knees in a move that The Head Wanker had taught her to please him.

 

He dropped his head in his hand and scrubbed his face with it. Blowing through his fingers, Spike thought long and hard. His head snapped up again. He hated to remember what an utter ponce Pratt had been, but it looked as though he’d no choice. He shuddered. It was time to hit the books. And he knew just the place to start, the largest comprehensive collection of tomes on magical phenomena and demonology on this side of the pond. He just hoped that The Wankers Council hadn’t called their resident berk on the ground back to the Homeland as soon as they found out his little girl was dead. God, not Sunnyhell again.

 

Nothing had tasted the same since he’d blown through that demon infested burg with Dru. He’d tried everyone; dark girls, white girls, rich, poor, homeless, drug addicts (and besides the roulette of what drug he’d ingest with them, malnourishment on top of blood poisoning was gross), sodding men. Not only did it all taste like that one time he’d tried pigs blood on a dare, he’d found that his new lack of appetite meant he wasn’t even killing anymore. The rush was gone. It was too much like work. Sheer habit had him draining the first few meals he’d taken after leaving Sunnydale, but after that it just seemed too easy.

 

There was no challenge in slaughtering these cattle. Hell, he’d taken to wandering about at night, trawling demon bars and stirring up fights just for some entertainment. He’d play games with his food sometimes, looking out for specific types. There was a certain satisfaction in hunting those who thought themselves predators. Teaching them the errors of their ways, before draining them to the point of death. Leaving them to live or die on the kindness of others. Kindness. He’d seen Fyarls with more kindness than your average city-dweller. Especially here in the ‘Land of Opportunity’.

 

*Wonder if Dalton stuck around the Hellmouth? Maybe I c’n offload some of the research onto him. Little berk had a nose for learnin’* Coming to a swift decision, he strode into his and Dru’s room and started throwing the clothes and music tapes that lay everywhere into a duffel from the corner. Once he had his gear packed, he went over to the closet. Removing the trunk he’d found within when he’d liberated the place, Spike proceeded to fold and carefully pack Dru’s frocks and fripperies. Hesitating only for a moment, he swept all the books they’d collected in the last fortnight into Dru’s trunk before shutting it and packing it and the duffel into his DeSoto. He’d cleaned out a few nights ago at poker, so he had enough to ship his baby back to California, but it burned that he had to lay out so much cash for it. Problem was if he tried cheaper avenues he stood a good chance of losing the car and that was not an option. Only the best for his girls. Almost absently he dusted any minion he came across on his way back to Dru, but he was too proccupied to notice if he'd missed one. It was surprisingly easy to lure Dru out to the car, she was almost eager to get going.

 

 

---

 

 

I can see Daddy smiling. The sunshine tries to scorch him but he’s leaping back into the shadows like a good boy. No sunshine for Daddy. I can see Her smiling like a snake. Slither closer on your belly, serpent. Sink your poison deeply, drown his spark. Such pretty lies to snare a Champion.

 

Dark knight shadows her heart, the bright queen-in-waiting prepares a feast, but who is coming to the party? A dance, a dance with pretty dresses and flowers and messes. Masks that shift, inside to outside and back again. It’s cold in the dark, sometimes, but my puppy warms me whilst I have his poet’s heart. Soon all the family will be together again and Miss Edith will have her tea and biscuits.