The sound of voices from the second bedroom did nothing to ease his discomfort, nor did the curled lip of the female who half-sat, half-reclined on the paisley couch before him.
“Know what they’re doing in there?” T’Zia asked.
Even sarcastic, her voice was one of the most beautiful he'd ever heard, her tones making every word a song. If Lorne ever met her, he would swoon with delight. Or run screaming. A musical voice was a prerequisite to luring ships to crash on rocks, and he had no idea or desire to discover what lurked in the half-mer’s past.
“I thought Raindrop was helping Illyria finish packing,” he said neutrally.
Packing. Wesley thought he had accepted the changes that had occurred when Illyria and Fred blended consciousness, and perhaps he had intellectually. However, the realization that she now had belongings that required packing rather frighteningly crystallized the fact that she was no longer the furious waif patrolling the halls of Wolfram and Hart but someone with a life and possessions of her own.
T’Zia twisted her legs and feet together and curled them under her in a way that made him think of tails and smiled. “She’s doing that, but she’s mostly making sure going with you is what Lyr really wants.”
He could barely get his head around the idea of luggage. Nicknames were beyond him, as was her living in an apartment that smelled of incense and was filled with dried flowers, draped shawls, and roommates who liked her.
Confusion and nervousness made him defensive, and he returned her sneer with his own. “It’s been two days. Surely that’s enough time for you to determine my suitability and whether I’ve bought some sort of arcane pressure to bear.”
…such as a mindwipe…
Instantly, a kaleidoscope of images from the memories he ruthlessly repressed hit the forefront of his mind, and Wesley fought not to sway as he remembered Angel crushing the pillow down over his face or Fred turning away from him, angry and tearful.
…Fred…
“Raindrop doesn’t trust you,” T’Zia said, either not noticing or not interested in his sudden turmoil. “She says your aura’s dark and unstable.”
Interestingly so, no doubt.
Wesley kept his face expressionless, not letting her see that the words had stung. “Perhaps it has good reason to be. What do you think? Do you doubt Illyria’s ability to take care of herself?”
“No.” T’Zia uncurled and stood. “Raindrop worries more than I do. I’ll just leave it at this.” She gracefully crossed the room and stopped too close to him. “If you hurt her, don’t step in any body of water bigger than a bathtub.” And she smiled, showing a mouthful of pirhana-sharp teeth.
“As I said, I have everything,” Illyria said as she emerged from the bedroom, black duffel in hand. “And I am aware of my actions.”
Raindrop flushed and wouldn’t meet his gaze. “All right.” She smoothed the shoulders of Illyria’s jacket, then hugged her. “Be careful. Call us if you need us. We’ll bring you home.”
He watched as she returned the embrace. Her smile was so like Fred’s, was Fred’s, that his heart tried to break all over again.
“You were a friend,” Illyria said. “Thank you.”
She turned to T’zia, who flicked aquamarine eyes from Illyria to Wesley and then leaned in and kissed her on the mouth. She returned that farewell with the enthusiasm she had shown for the other, and embarrassment, and other emotions he couldn’t identify roiled in him. Given that she was an empath, he wouldn’t have been surprised if Raindrop panicked or seized a weapon, but to his surprise, her expression showed only sympathy.
“Don’t tease, Zee,” she said firmly, and the other backed away with a grin. Illyria seemed quite composed and even faintly amused. She certainly wasn’t surprised, and he found himself wondering just how close the roommates had been.
None of my business.
No more than it had been when Fred chose Gunn. Of course, this wasn’t Fred.
“We should go,” Wesley said. His voice sounded harsh even to himself, but he couldn’t bear it anymore.
Her expression closed down, and she nodded, following him to the door, with a last, regretful look back, and as they moved toward the stairs, he wondered why she had chosen to accompany him
The question continued to worry him as he watched her negotiate the airport, show the identification he had obtained for her under Fred’s name, check her luggage, and settle in her first class seat, all with cool efficiency and an air of command that had workers scurrying to meet her requirements. Now, she turned the pages in a Cosmopolitan magazine with the air of an anthropologist observing native ritual.
What she had said in the park was true: she didn’t need him. Fred’s consciousness provided the necessary information and Illyria’s nature let her shape it without shyness or hesitancy.
So, why…
“You have been silent for several hours,” she said, looking directly at him with eyes that were human but searching. “Do you regret asking me to accompany you?”
“No,” Wesley said quickly, unsure whether or not he was lying. “I’m tired, perhaps. It’s been a…hectic time.”
In truth, he couldn’t really recall the last non-hectic time he’d had. Perhaps back in the old days at the Hyperion, when they had all been friends and comrades together. Before Pylea. Definitely not since Connor.
He pushed the onslaught of memories away again, aware that her gaze was still trained on him.
“Are you troubled over going to England?” she asked.
“I’m not exactly looking forward to it,” he said in relief.
It wasn’t a lie. Dealing with his father, Giles, Council remnants and Slayers promised to be grueling both physically and emotionally.
Her hand twitched, and she almost touched his arm, before she caught herself and folded both hands in her lap. “You will not be without allies, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce,” she said gently. “Rest now.”
“Yes, right. I’ll do that.” He said with a sickly smile and leaned back against the cushions trying to catch his breath from the revelation.
So that’s why she’s going. To look after me.
Well, why wouldn’t she? He thought of how he must have appeared, seeking her out like a child looking for its mother, desperation ineptly hidden. She was going with him out of pity, the same way she’d saved him and the rest of the Angel Investigations team. Oh, God, he was like one of those baby ducks she’d protected in the park.
“What’s wrong with that? Baby ducks are cute.”
He looked up from his papers and Fred smiled at him from her perch on the corner of his desk at the Hyperion, her flowered dress bright against the dark green walls of the office.
“I have nothing against baby ducks as such,” he said with the calmness of dreams. “But it isn’t exactly the image I was hoping to project.”
“Not macho enough?” she asked with teasing sympathy and when he shook his head, she sighed and continued. “Right. You have to be the strong, silent type. The protector, never needing anything yourself.”
“I needed you,” he said truthfully and grief almost overwhelmed him. He knew this wasn’t real. She was gone, at least in this guise.
“I know,” Fred said. “You hid it pretty well for a long time, though.”
“Did I?” he said bitterly. “I thought it was obvious.” He studied her, trying for detachment. “Is this really you, Fred? Or part of my own mind?”
“Does it matter?”
He swallowed painfully. “Very much.”
She stood and circled the desk, kneeling before him to take his hands. “It’s me, Wesley, but don’t look for me to come to you this way much. I’m part of Illyria now, and she’s part of me.”
Her anguish and his helplessness played out in his mind with hideous clarity. “I’m sorry, so very…”
“Shh. It’s all right. Maybe this isn’t what I would have picked, but it’s how things are.”
“I know,” he said hoarsely.
“No,” she shook her head, sending the waves of her hair tumbling over her shoulders. “You don’t. You thought you did, but you’re only just starting to understand it, and so is she. So am I.” She rested one hand against his cheek. “Sleep my love.”
Illyria watched him settle into deeper sleep, body relaxing, frown lines smoothing out, and took her hand from his face. Night had fallen, and the Atlantic was a mass of darkness below. The other passengers slept as well, so she let her eyes silver and leaned back against the wall of the plane, setting herself to guard his slumber.
Despite her weariness, her own sleep had been uneasy, filled with dreams where she stood before a huge chalkboard covered in incomprehensible writing while hundreds watched and whispered, or wandered lost through the halls of Wolfram and Hart powerless against those who laughed at her or turned away.
It did not require a degree in the human science of psychology to understand the source of those dreams.
I fear what is to come.
One of the few things Wesley had said was that he had told the Council of her. He had sought the aid of Rupert Giles during her initial possession of Fred, and when he and the Slayers arrived at the Hyperion, there had been a full accounting. Illyria was glad that she would not have to assume Fred’s appearance, but she wondered how she would be treated. As a curiosity? As a monster?
There had been a time when what humans thought of her had meant less than nothing.
Wesley shifted, and her gaze sharpened, but he snorted and stilled again, and her thoughts slipped away.
He had been at the forefront of her dreams, on the front row of the crowd watching her at the board, closing his office door against her. The other members of Angel Investigations had been there as well, but his presence had been the clearest as it had been since her first awakening.
Why had he asked her to come with him? Why had she agreed?
Life in San Francisco had been pleasant. She had been accepted, and had even found occupation performing computer repairs and tasks for Raindrop’s acquaintances. There had been times when what had come before had been meaningless, when she was not a dethroned Old One sharing her consciousness with another. She was simply Illyria, or even Lyr, buying flowers at one of the markets on Sundays and developing a fondness for dim sum.
Then Wesley had appeared, and her quiet existence had taken on a sharper edge, and perhaps that was why she had agreed.
But why had he asked? He had seemed friendly enough in the park, but later, he had withdrawn again, and so had she in turn. Only his slumber had given her the courage for the earlier touch.
Illyria straightened. As she had told Spike, she would not be settled for. No matter that Wesley’s nearness gave her pain inside, she would not beg for his companionship, and she would not beg from others either. Let it be for them to please her.
She jumped as the voice came over the loudspeaker.
“This is your captain. We are preparing to descend.”
Roger Wyndham-Pryce was waiting for them in the terminal. Wesley stiffened at the sight of the upright figure, shadowed by a large black-clad man, but continued to walk forward steadily.
It wasn’t him, not really. He didn’t threaten Fred. I didn’t shoot him.
However, he couldn’t delude himself that the last part of his thought was anything other than a lie. He had believed the man holding Fred was his father and had emptied his gun without hesitating.
His ankle turned and the only thing that kept him from sprawling was Illyria’s instant iron grip on his arm. His father's companion, a member of the Council’s retrieval team given the size and the clothing, smothered a smile.
“Good to see you, boy,” Roger said coolly. “I gather you’re here to undermine the remnants of my authority, but good to see you nonetheless. Your mother is pleased as well. You may wish to condescend to visit her.”
“Father, that isn’t…”
Ignoring Wesley, he turned and bowed slightly. “I’m Roger Wyndam-Pryce. You must be Illyria. Dear lady, it is indeed an honor.”
The other man bowed as well, and Wesley's jaw dropped. He had been prepared to make clear that he wouldn’t tolerate any unkindness towards her, but his father’s voice was deeply respectful, almost obsequious.
Her face settled into satisfied repose as if the courtesy was simply her due that someone had finally recognized, and a chill touched him. He had stated she would never stop trying to conquer things but had never really considered what she would do if she won.
Roger held out his arm to Illyria. “I’ll escort you to the car. Brigham, fetch her luggage. Wesley can help you.”
“Yes, Sir.” Brigham jerked his head at Wesley.
“You may retrieve all of the luggage.” Illyria said. “Swiftly.”
He’d been glaring at Brigham, who obviously intended to place him toward the bottom of the pecking order, so he had an excellent view of the man’s face as it drained of color and a light sweat broke out along his hairline.
When he looked at Illyria, her expression was perfectly calm, even pleasant. Roger, however, had dropped his arm and backed away a step.
“Of course,” Roger said quickly, forcing a smile. “Come along, b…Wesley.”
She headed for the exit with a measured pace that managed to suggest that everyone should remove themselves from her path.
Which they did.
Illyria felt almost nostalgic as her peripheral vision provided a glimpse of Brigham racing toward the baggage claim area. Roger Wyndam-Pryce hurried slightly ahead of her, unobtrusively opening doors as she approached.
Ah, minions. It has been too long.
She expected the Fred portions of her consciousness to be horrified, but instead she had to stifle a snicker at the idea that she speed up and slow down at random intervals to see if Wesley’s father could keep up. Apparently, no one had realized that Fred had possessed an evil component to her own personality.
Her amusement faded as Wesley grimly caught up to her.
“Did you have any orders for me?” he asked in a tight, quiet voice.
That you not act like a jerk when I’m trying to help you?
And that was Fred as well. Illyria sighed, sharing the sentiment, if not the accent that colored the thought.
“Did you wish to help retrieve the luggage?” she responded quietly.
“No, but...” he paused, then took a breath. “Sorry. I know you're trying to help.”
“Here we are,” Roger said, watching them uneasily as he held open the door of a long, black car.
She slid into the back and made no protest when the older man joined her, leaving Wesley to occupy the front seat next to Brigham, who came panting up with the luggage. If he did not wish her aid, then she would not provide it. Instead, she graciously allowed Roger to point out the sights as they wove through the London streets.
“Although referring to these buildings as historical landmarks must amuse you,” he laughed.
Illyria smiled in return and ignored the boiling silence from the front. It was pleasant to have someone charm and entertain her after days of tension. If he hadn’t reminded her of almost all of the courtiers who had fought for favor in the days of her rule, it might even be effective.
As it was, his motives were obvious. Wesley intended to support Rupert Giles, so Roger was attempting to balance the equation by bringing her to his side. Not that Wesley wasn’t making it easy for him.
“The Council is no longer based in London?” he asked abruptly as the city began giving way to suburbs.
“Obv…No,” Roger answered, with a quick look in her direction. “Council quarters were destroyed, of course, two years ago, and it was felt that with the new Slayers, it would be better to have larger accommodations in case housing and training were necessary.”
Something brushed along the edges of her mind and she jerked upright.
…confusion…
“Illyria?”
She blinked and focused on Wesley, who was twisted around and staring at her.
“What is it?”
The concern in his voice warmed her, but she made herself consider his question without reacting. “I do not know. I felt something that seemed familiar.”
But the memory was already fading, too swift to trace, too vague to name.
“Perhaps you were here before,” Roger said heartily. “When you ruled as an Ancient.”
Before the Well, before she had returned at the cost of Fred’s life.
“Perhaps,” she said colorlessly as both she and Wesley drew back, looking away from each other, neither noticing Roger’s slight smile.
The remainder of the drive was quiet, and at last they drove up to a large building, half-house and half-castle. Illyria was tired and depressed and couldn’t even enjoy the way Brigham almost leaped out of the car to open her door.
Inside, the house was furnished in an odd combination of formality and comfort. Suits of armor shared room with stacks of books, and a cup of cold tea sat on an elegantly embossed table.
Roger glared at the tea and went to a door that opened off the hall. “We’re here, Rupert.”
Over his shoulder, she could see a dark, rumpled head bent over a book, and even before he looked up and blinked owlishly, she knew who was responsible for the comfortable aspects of the house.
“Oh. Yes.” He said, coming to his feet and crossing to the opening. “So you are. Hello, Wesley. Good to see you.”
“Giles,” he said quietly.
“And you’re Illyria,” he said, eyes lighting with eagerness. “I’ve been reading Shawcross’ Earliest Histories, and he has some very interesting things to say about the Ancients. I was wondering…”
“They’ve only just arrived,” Roger said repressively.
“Perhaps now isn’t the time…” Wesley began.
She barely heard them through the sense of peace that settled over her as she looked into the kindest eyes she’d ever seen.
“Of course, you’re right,” Giles said with some embarrassment. “I’m sure you’re tired.”
“No,” she said instantly. “I would be happy to answer your questions.”
He lit up in response, and she found herself smiling openly back at him.
“Well, if you’re sure. We can have some tea sent in.”
She followed him into the library without a backward glance.
“And so it goes.”
The words barely penetrated Wesley’s awareness, as he watched Illyria follow Giles into the library with a smile like a sunrise and without a backward glance.
But...
“What?” he asked.
Roger sighed and shook his head. “It’s been like that with all the girls. Even the ones with a stable family background trot after Giles as if he were their long-lost uncle. He’s the Pied Bloody Piper!”
“He seems to have a natural affinity for Slayers,” Wesley said carefully.
Ridiculous. That wasn't at all the way Fred smiled at Gunn.
“Natural indeed,” Roger snorted. “Certainly it’s nothing he worked for. Come, I’ll take you to your room.”
Wesley followed him up the staircase and tried in vain not to look back at the closed library door. “What do you mean, not worked for?” he asked to distract himself from wondering what was going on behind them. “Giles strikes me as a diligent Watcher.”
“According to him, he’s the only one worthy of the name!” Roger snorted. He continued up the steps and led him down a hallway. “Never mind that we were all vested in guarding the Slayer and the methods we’d used for centuries had proven effective at doing so. He had to overturn it all, with the help of that....” He paused. “With the help of Miss Summers.”
…cold, scornful looks, barely veiled sarcasm…
“I was a junior teacher when he was in school, you know,” he continued. “Giles was brilliant, I grant you, but never cared for his studies and had nothing but contempt for those of us who had to plod along and struggle for it.”
…always one step ahead, the correct answer at his fingertips while Wesley labored futilely in the background…
“Well, here we are,” he said more kindly. “Didn’t mean to bend your ear when you just arrived, boy. After all, Giles is the one who asked you here. To be honest, I didn’t think you’d be interested.” He rubbed at his eyes. “Just got to be a bit much all of a sudden.”
Wesley noted the dark circles under his eyes and the slightly stooping posture. He’d always seen his father as a larger than life figure, with unlimited power, but he was only an elderly, tired man.
… impact of bullets on flesh, as what he thought was his father’s body spun and fell…
“Giles may have asked me,” Wesley said. “And I’m interested in what he has to say. However, I’m not working for him. I’ll evaluate the situation and make my own decisions.”
He sounded slightly pompous, even to himself, but Roger smiled.
“That’s all anyone can ask, Wesley,” he said. “Good night. Oh. We’re putting Illyria in two doors down the hall. I assume that’ll suit her. Giles can show her up.”
“That should be fine. Good night, Father.”
Illyria’s closed bedroom door was uncommunicative, and Wesley refused to even contemplate knocking on it. She had the right to sleep in, having apparently been up quite late. He had lain awake for hours and fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion without hearing her steps in the hall.
He unclenched his teeth and descended the stairs to the dining area, nodding to his father, who was tucking into a plate of eggs. Brigham, pouring a cup of coffee by the sideboard, ignored him, and he was happy to return the favor. The sight of Giles exiting the kitchen with a cup of tea and a plate of toast both relieved and embarrassed him.
Had he honestly thought Illyria and Giles spent the night together after just meeting and when she had to be at least slightly tired from the journey? Well, no. Of course, they still could have been together, and then separated, and oh, for God’s sake….
“Something wrong?” Giles inquired mildly.
Wesley gave himself a mental shake. If he weren’t careful, his maturity level was going to receive another unfavorable comparison to a blueberry scone. “Jet-lag,” he said with a forced smile.
“Understandable,” Giles said, but something in his voice sounded as if he didn’t completely believe the explanation. However, before he could pursue it, a welcome interruption came.
“Yes, well, there’s no time for all that,” Roger snapped. “It's in a muddle, but we’ve basic information on all the Slayers we’ve identified, names, ages, skill levels and so forth. You can start by getting acquainted with all that. Then…”
Wesley could feel his muscles tensing at the old hectoring tone, but to his surprise, his father caught his eye, and made a visible effort to relax. “After breakfast, naturally,” he added. “And if you agree.”
The effort to treat him as an adult worth consideration touched him. “That seems very reasonable, Father.” He said gently. “Giles, did you…?”
“No,” Giles’ expression was neutral, but his eyes had narrowed. “It was what I would have suggested.”
“Splendid,” Roger said briskly. “Tell the cook what you’d like, and…”
The dining room door crashed open and Illyria stormed across the floor and stopped almost on top of Wesley. Only long exposure to demons and a need to outdo Brigham, who had dropped his coffee and flattened against the wall, kept himstill. Her eyes were crystalline and blazing, blue shadows strong across her hairline, and she seemed only a step away from grabbing him by the throat.
“Why,” she demanded, “Is it so cold in this house?”
Her tone implied that he was responsible, and Wesley felt first guilty, then annoyed. “It isn’t that cold,” he said reasonably. “Surely, no colder than you experienced in San Francisco.”
“Not like this,” she snarled. Her eyes swept the room, seeking another culprit. Roger stared at her, a fork full of eggs suspended in mid-air. Brigham tried to tunnel even further into the wall. A woman in a neat dark dress and apron who’d peered out at the noise, yanked her head back into the kitchen.
Giles sat down and sipped his tea, looking amused. Wesley supposed that after dealing with the Summers for years, nothing short of an immediate apocalypse affected him.
This was not Wolfram and Hart and Illyria didn’t rely on him; however, he had brought her here and was responsible for her, and she couldn’t simply revert to being an Old One every time she was angry about something.
His voice was cool. “You’ll have to become accustomed to it if you’re going to remain here. It’s going to become much colder than this and remain so for months, with snow and sleet.”
Something flashed across her face, and Wesley realized he’d hurt her. Before he could soften the statement, her chin raised and she glared at him.
“Ugg boots.”
Wesley saw her scowl fade to a puzzlement that he shared.
“What?” Roger asked.
Everyone’s gaze fastened on Giles, who was smearing butter on his toast.
“Ugg boots.” He repeated. “Dawn called yesterday and along with information regarding the latest Slayer activities, regaled me with stories of her new footwear. I gather these are both warm and fashionable.”
“And a type of troll,” Illyria said. She no longer sounded angry, and Wesley saw that she had resumed human guise. He sank into a chair, wondering exactly why he had thought coming here was a good idea or why Giles had thought he needed his assistance.
Giles shook his head as he chewed, then continued. “Not the same.” He frowned. “At least, I don’t believe so although I suppose they would be warm. In any case, we can go into town after breakfast. God knows, I’ve taken the Slayers and Potentials on enough shopping trips.”
“That is acceptable,” Illyria said graciously.
“You’re welcome.” Giles nodded at the kitchen. “Now, go and tell Mrs. Griffon what you want for breakfast, and apologize for frightening her.”
Illyria’s eyebrows shot up, and Wesley braced for the explosion. Then, she suddenly smiled and spun on her heel to head for the kitchen, pausing by Roger’s place.
“What food is this?” she asked.
“Eggs and kidneys,” Roger said faintly, still looking as if he couldn’t quite believe the conversation. Wesley suddenly wondered just how his father would have managed in Sunnydale.
When she looked speculatively toward Brigham, Wesley couldn’t help laughing. “They’re not his,” he said.
For a moment, her eyes warmed toward him, and then she turned away to go into the kitchen.
“You two certainly seem to be getting along,” Roger said repressively.
“She reminds me of someone I knew,” Giles said. He sighed and looked down at the table. “Anya had that same mixture of…directness and vulnerability. Drive you mad one moment, break your heart the next. I’ll be in the library when she’s ready,” he said quickly and left the room.
“That’s all very well for him,” Roger snorted, and to Wesley’s amazement he laid a hand on his wrist and looked at him sympathetically. “But she reminds you of someone too, doesn’t she, son? Poor Winifred. Such a horrible way to die.”
The Ugg boots would probably have been more attractive if they had been made from troll hide, but they were warm, and that was all that Illyria cared about. The same reasoning had guided her other purchases, and the back seat was now filled with shopping bags that contained long underwear, heavy sweaters, flannel pajamas, and thick socks.
A part of her yearned for the days when she had worn short flowered dresses and sandals, and another part yearned for the days when a thought was sufficient to adjust her surroundings as she wished, but she dismissed both desires. Those days were over, and now, she would at least be sufficiently clothed for as long as she remained in this ice hell.
“Quite a costly trip,” Giles observed. “Are you planning to continue taking money from Wolfram and Hart? What if they adjust their codes?”
“They did that once,” she said absently. “They regretted it and will not do so again.”
“But…”
“I have already removed a large quantity of money and deposited it into various accounts,” she said impatiently. “I require silence, please.”
Ignoring the muttered “I suppose ‘please’ is a good sign,” Illyria stared out of the passenger window and allowed the thoughts she had sequestered while shopping to return to the forefront of her mind.
From the kitchen, she had heard Roger speak of Fred’s death and took that as her starting point, not alowing herself to consider the way Wesley’s expression had tightened. Instead, she recalled the time Roger visited Wolfram and Hart, turning up the memories like cards to lie side by side with the memories of this morning and past day.
She had not consciously thought of cards before and was almost completely distracted by a separate memory of reducing an entire fraternity to nudity in an evening of strip poker that culminated with her sorority sisters bursting in with the camera.
Didn’t we sneak one of the posters we made into the campus time capsule?
She shook her head and returned to the issue, watching through her mind’s eye as the subtle digs and contemptuous smile reduced Wesley to fumbling and obviously familiar embarrassment.
Fred had been uncomfortable at their interaction, but secure in her own parents’ love, she hadn’t been able to understand the deliberate torture that was occurring and that had apparently been the norm between them. In her universe, someone’s Daddy didn’t behave that way.
Illyria, however, had ruled for centuries over a court where cruelty was an amusing game, and she saw Roger’s hatred for his son, and the way that Wesley had believed his father capable of the murder of a comparative innocent.
It was not important that the visitor had been a robot, but that Wesley had believed that it had, in truth, been his father, meaning the behavior on that visit had been what he expected.
What changed?
The obvious answer was that Roger was trying to persuade Wesley to side with him against Giles, but the two men had been in agreement that morning. Also...
“Does the Council rule the Slayers?” she asked.
Giles started, but responded calmly enough. “No. It used to be in charge of them, but that changed when Buffy refused to follow their edicts, and it’s no longer viable. The original Council was almost entirely destroyed, and there are too many Slayers and not enough Watchers. We’re training people, but consensus is required on administrative functions. We've also found that emergencies and apocalypses arise too quickly. The Slayers must be able to react on almost no notice, and there’s no time to check in and receive orders.”
So, there was no power base to build, at least not through the Slayers. Was there another that she was unaware of?
“What are you thinking?” Giles asked.
Illyria focused on him once more, noting his worried frown. Answering his questions was like having the machine that drained her power attached to her mind, but he only asked. He did not judge her from her answers. Every instinct said to trust him.
Another memory gave her pause, for although it came from an extremely unreliable source, Wesley’s reaction had been telling.
Maybe Mr. Giles was wrong about you after all.
“You disliked Wesley when you first knew him,” she said neutrally.
“Yes, I did,” he answered, back stiff and hands tight on the wheel. When she refrained from attacking him, he continued. “He was a pompous git whose pig-headedness endangered the Slayer.” He took a deep breath, relaxed his posture, and said carefully, “When I spoke to him in Los Angeles, it seemed as if he’d changed, gotten more of an open mind, and so on. It’s why I asked him to come out along with the fact that he is really quite intelligent.” He stopped the car just inside the gate and turned to face her. “If there’s a problem, Illyria, I’ll do my best to give it a fair hearing, whoever’s involved.”
She considered his words and believed them to be truthful, but the habit keeping her own council was strong. Finally, she said, “If I discover what the problem is, perhaps I will speak of it to you.”
He sighed, but started the car again, and continued toward the house.
“Surely, there’s no need for you to do the actual typing.” Roger asked. “Why not get Brigham to do it?”
“He is slow and inaccurate,” Illyria said. She completed the entry for Yukiko Suniyara and glanced up to note that a family resemblance did, after all, exist between the two Wyndham-Pryces. Wesley had worn the same shocked expression when she told him why Brigham wasn’t allowed near her computer.
For a race that considers lying to be wrong, humans become upset when questions are answered truthfully.
“Quite,” Roger said quickly. “It’s understandable that you and Wesley would want hands-off on your pet project. Which is an extremely good one, of course.”
She nodded in acknowledgement, for the project was a good one. A major difficulty for the new Council was keeping track of all the newly-called Slayers, so she had proposed a database that contained all of their information and could be sorted using any data point necessary.
Wesley had been enthusiastic about the idea and had offered a suggestion. Vampires were widespread and would be encountered by all Slayers. However, other creatures were indigenous to particular locations, as were items such as places of power or prophecies. These, he researched and entered (swiftly and correctly) into the database, correlating them with the Slayers for that area along with the titles of the relevant texts.
Illyria also set up a web server, secured it with protections both mundane and magical, and the database was now available to all Slayers and Watchers, although they were forbidden on the pain of slow death by torture from altering it in any way.
She was sorry to see the first phase of the project nearing its end as the work had given she and Wesley something safe to discuss. Watching him burrowed away in his books, tea at his side and pencil in his teeth, she had been reminded of the time Fred had first returned from Pylea, when he had been content to do research for Angel Investigations.
To her surprise, she also enjoyed the work for its own sake. Designing the database and creating the server had been child’s play, the commands and circuits comfortable under her hands and requiring nothing of her other than to be informed of her wishes.
Now, she moved her focus back to Roger, who was watching her closely, and smoothed her expression, unwilling to grant him insight into even the most innocuous feelings. He did want something of her, she knew, and busy with her work, she had not devoted much attention to finding out what it was. Although she had enjoyed the reprieve, perhaps it had been an error.
In an effort to keep him off balance and because she did need the information, she said “I do not have a file for Victoria Stevens. Is it in your possession?”
He looked around the room, piled with files, schematics, computer equipment, and tools. “Are you sure it isn’t in here somewhere?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry, I don’t have it. Perhaps you should speak with Giles.”
She shrugged it off and recalling what she had seen of human interactions, gestured toward a chair. “Sit if you wish.”
With a tight smile, he cleared off the handfuls of coated plastic wire and lowered himself into the seat. “I only came by to see how you were getting on, which you seem to be doing very well.”
The words were casual, but something about him made the hair on the back of Illyria’s neck rise.
“Yes,” she said again, and because it couldn’t do any harm and might serve to lower his defenses, added, “Thank you.”
She wished she could assume Fred’s guise, for the human’s fluttering eyelashes and demure smile had been an effective method of hiding her intellect, but the blending of their consciousness and the loss of her power prevented her from donning Fred’s personality the way she would don a sweater.
Thinking of a sweater made her shiver for even with her new garments, she remained uncomfortably chill most of the time as summer completed the turn to fall. Heavy curtains were drawn firmly across the window, hiding the rain that fell outside.
Roger saw it and smiled slightly. “Yes, other than a few discomforts, you’re settling in nicely. I’m a little surprised, I must admit and most impressed.”
What was he getting at? She wished she could strike the smirk from his face, quite literally, but that would not get her the answers she sought.
Not unless I could remove Wesley and Giles from the house for a time.
“Oh?” she asked.
“Well, it must be difficult for you. You were a god for all intents and purposes, and now…” His gesture took in her layers of clothes, the stacks of papers and wire, the half-eaten sandwich shoved to the corner of her desk. “As I said, I’m impressed. I thought for sure you would attempt to regain your powers. I’d even developed several plans to stop you.”
Illyria knew she was being manipulated, but couldn’t help remembering the way it had been, the way she had been before mortals had gained the ability to affect her. In those days, if one entered her presence, it was face down and groveling, and none dared speak without her permission.
“Did not Wesley or Giles tell you?” she asked tightly. “This form cannot contain the powers of an Old One, and those powers hold the Wolf, Ram, and Hart at bay.”
“Oh, yes, I know all about it,” Roger said. “Very unselfish of you, my dear. Still, I’m surprised you haven’t tried to find a way around it. I would have thought you’d be off to the Deeper Well first thing.”
It was suddenly hard to breathe. “The Well?” she asked, hoping her voice remained steady.
“Certainly. It’s a strong power source and should be attuned to you. There’s no Guardian any more, nothing to prevent you drawing from it.” He stood. “In any event, it’s good that you’ve been able to forget what you were. I’ll keep an eye out for that file, but you have a look round. I’m sure it’ll turn up. Good afternoon.”
The rain was lashing down on her before she realized she was outside, and she ran until she was out of sight of the house. For once, she didn’t feel the cold as she turned her face to the grey sky.
There was a time when, she could have dismissed the storm with a thought, made it dance with a gesture, ridden it as if it were a placid pony. Had she forgotten what she was? And what was she now?
Why did I not seek the Well?
She had known it was there but hadn’t considered the fact, occupied as she had been with concerns over things like databases and radiators. Mortal concerns. Now she could feel it in her blood and bones, calling her to come and take what was hers. Except they weren’t her blood and bones. And it wasn’t her power anymore.
The situation crashed down on her, and she felt the way she had at Wolfram and Hart, trapped in the skin and surroundings she wore, unable to breathe. From far away, she could feel Fred’s thoughts trying to reach her, shouting that this was what Roger had meant to happen, but she couldn’t gather enough of herself together to listen.
She wanted to flee, to die, to rip this hated shell away and be free. At the moment, if she could reach the Well, it would only be to leap into its comforting emptiness.
“Good God!”
Giles was beside her, rain dripping from his hair as he shrugged out of his coat and settled it around her shoulders. “Illyria, what is it? I saw you running. What’s happened?”
Aching with cold, she stared into his face. There was kindness and concern there, but for the moment, he was as unbearably alien to her as everything else.
She stumbled to her feet, clutching the coat. He didn’t ask anything more, only put an arm around her shoulders and half-guided, half-carried her back to the house.
Wesley was crossing the hall as they entered, and he dropped the book he was holding. “What the hell…”
He hurried to her, a hand outstretched, but if she couldn’t speak to Giles, she couldn’t be in the same room with Wesley as her feelings and Fred’s collided with and bounced off of each other. Dragging the remnants of the Old One around her, she made her face into an icy mask and jerked away from both men. A shrug of her shoulders sent the coat to the floor behind her, and she walked stiffly up the stairs to her room.
She huddled on the bed for hours, eyes closed and a pillow over her head, ignoring the murmuring voices in the hall, and the light knock that sounded once at her door until at last, the tumult of emotions quieted.
Illyria rolled over, rubbing her hands wearily across her face.
Damage had been done today. She had played into Roger’s hands, but at the moment, she was too tired to worry about it or even to wonder too much why he had planted the idea of returning to the Deeper Well in her mind.
He had an agenda, as she has suspected. Now, she must discover what it was and defeat it, preferably with as little pain to Wesley as possible. Tomorrow.
She looked at her reflection in the mirror, frowning at the dark circles under her eyes. No more of that. Her eyes glowed silver and blue shadows obscured the remnants of emotions. To defeat Roger, she must be as cold and calculating as she had ever been. There was no place, now, for emotion and hesitancy.
There was no place for sleep either, as tense as she was. Illyria silently left her room and slipped through the darkened house to her office, hoping to find solace and calm in the work.
She switched on a lamp, preffering its soft light to the harsh overhead. A stray beam illuminated the hard drive and the corner of a file protruded from beneath it. She picked it up with ice cold hands. Victoria Stevens.
Simple enough to see how it had happened – pushed off by the brush of an elbow or jarred from the desk when she moved the equipment into place. But she had looked under the hard drive before, and the file hadn’t been there.
“Kirima Slayed an Abominable Snowman in Denali. She gets extra points both for using her portable blow dryer and for saving a seriously cute baby moose. Yay for Kirima!”
Applause sounded over the conference call and Wesley used its cover to slide his gaze around to Illyria. She was looking over her notes as calmly as if her breakdown of last week had never occurred.
It apparently hadn’t occurred as far as she was concerned. She certainly wasn’t allowing any discussion of the matter. He had tried to speak with her several times and practically bounced off the emotional and verbal shield she’d thrown up.
After several repetitions of “I am well”, “I am busy”, and “Do you not have work to do?” he had - not given up, but retreated to consider his options. No one else seemed to know what had happened. Brigham avoided her, his father looked distressed but didn’t know anything, and she hadn’t spoken to Giles about whatever was upsetting her.
Wesley was embarrassed over being pleased at that last. If Illyria could confide in Giles and he could help her, it would, naturally, be a good thing. It would be selfish to think otherwise. But he was still pleased.
He refocused on the call for a moment, but they were discussing whether home-school or public school was best for one of the youngest Slayers, and he allowed his mind to return to the problem.
Theoretically, he could wait for Illyria to bring up the issue. She seemed calm again and was working diligently…very diligently. To the point of staying up all night, and he knew all about hiding in your work so you didn’t have to think about other things.
“Illyria?”
He snapped out of his thoughts to see Giles repeat a question about a feature of the database, and frowned as she answered. She was concentrating on something too, something that was eating at her. He knew about that too and once again pushed away the memories of stealing Connor.
No, there was something wrong, and by God, he was going to get it out in the open if he had to sit on her until she talked. True, she could throw him across the room if she wanted, but that wasn’t going to stop him.
The call was winding up, the younger Slayers dropping out until only the section heads remained.
“Any problems?” Giles asked.
Buffy’s voice came back over the phone, and Wesley wondered idly how she and Spike were getting on. “Vicky Stevens missed her call in. It’s not like the first time it’s happened, so I’m not too worried, yet, but someone’s checking on her.”
“I get misses all the time,” Faith sighed. “Plus, nobody wants to stay with her Slaying Buddy on patrol.” After a brief pause, she added grimly. “And I’m still a bad-ass rogue Slayer even if I just said ‘Slaying Buddy’.”
“I’ll bet you were being ironic,” Buffy offered.
Even Wesley started to chuckle, but the impulse died when he saw that Illyria was staring at his father.
Roger raised his eyebrows. “You were looking for Victoria’s file the other day, weren’t you? Did that ever turn up?”
“Yes,” she said tonelessly.
“Ah, good.”
Buffy promised to call in with a status report on the absent Slayer as soon as possible, and the meeting adjourned, with Illyria the first out of the door.
Wesley went after her and caught up with her at the door to her office. “Illyria,” he began firmly.
She grabbed his arm, yanked him into the office, and kicked the door shut. “I wish to speak with you.”
Perhaps this would be easier than he’d thought.
“Good,” he said in his calmest, most trustworthy voice. “I want to speak with you too. Last week…”
A file smacked into his chest. “Victoria Stevens’s file was missing then.”
“Yes,” he said, confused. “I heard you in the meeting. It was missing, but you found it.”
“In a place I had already looked,” she insisted.
He looked around the office, which looked like the aftermath or possibly the center of an apocalypse. “Are you sure you couldn’t have mislaid it?”
“I know where everything is in this room,” she said impatiently. “The file was not here and then it was.”
“You think there’s a connection with the missing girl? What could it be?”
She turned away abruptly. “I do not know. It seems a large coincidence.”
“Not really.” He propped a hip on the corner of the desk and watched her in concern. “Not if you simply overlooked the file and the girl missed her check-in because she was out with friends or some such, which happens fairly often as you heard.”
“I did not overlook the file,” she said flatly.
“No, of course not,” he said, annoyed. “That would be a human error, and you’re above those. So, who do you think took it? Giles? My father?”
Illyria, turned to face him, hands in her pockets in a way that reminded him of Fred so strongly that it hurt. “I asked your father about the file before it was retuned.”
Annoyance turned to anger. “I see. You think my father is behind this…what? Kidnapping? Murder perhaps?”
He had thought his father capable of murder once, had killed to prevent it. The thought was clear in her face, but she only sighed and said “I do not know.”
“No, because there’s nothing to know! All you’ve got is a mislaid file and an irresponsible girl. You’d have to search…” He stared at her. “Except you’ve already done it, haven’t you? Searched his rooms?”
It might have been better if she’d shown any sign of guilt or even discomfort, but she only said “And Giles’ and Brigham’s. I found nothing.”
The fear he had felt that his father was involved with something and the subsequent relief made him even angrier. “What, you didn’t search mine as well? That was sloppy. Perhaps I’m in on the plot.”
“It was an error,” she agreed. “Not wishing to suspect you is a weakness.”
“My God.” He stared at her. She watched him quietly, not protesting, but not backing down either. “I don’t even know what to say to you, Illyria. I thought your time here…the blending with Fred… all of that would teach you how to act.”
She straightened proudly. “I do not require your instruction Wesley Wyndham-Pryce. And all portions of my consciousness agreed with my actions.”
All of her. Meaning Fred. He stepped forward, but she slashed her hand down in negation. “Go. There is nothing in me wishes to speak with you.”
The knock at his door made his head snap up from the book he was staring at without reading. “Come in,” he said quickly
Perhaps she’d come to apologize. Or talk. Or even yell. Anything was better than silence.
He quelled his disappointment when his father entered the room and despite his disquiet he was warmed by the other’s smile. “Yes, Father? Is there a problem?”
“No, no.” Roger waved him back into his chair. “Just thought I’d stop by. Productive meeting, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” he agreed. “I think the Slayers are coming together as a unit.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Roger snorted. “Better to say that they aren’t an immediate threat.”
“A threat?”
For a moment, his father looked at him with all the old contempt. “Use your head, boy! A flock of silly girls suddenly acquiring powers they haven’t been trained to control? You saw what happened when just one of them went bad a few years ago and Watchers were assigned one to one in those days! Of course, how well it worked depended on the Watcher in question.”
His shoulders tightened at the implicit criticism. He had been Faith’s sole Watcher.
Before he could respond, Roger continued. “No, it was better in the old days, when the Slayers lived in the Council building and were only sent out with their Watchers on patrols. We could control them then. Much safer.”
Wesley frowned as he remembered what he had read of those days. “But the girls were isolated with no contact with family or friends. That’s no way to live.”
“Slayers, Wesley,” he sighed. “Not girls. They were and are weapons, and now they are weapons aimed and loosed upon the world. Look at this Victoria Stevens. God knows what she’s up to.” He folded his arms. “Illyria still upset about that missing file?”
“A bit,” Wesley said, flushing as he remembered their conversation. How would he have explained it if she’d been caught searching the rooms?
“Give her some time. Women get these notions. There’s your mother, off to the doctor for the least trifle.”
He’d visited his mother once since his arrival, a small bird-like woman who was content with her gardening, social circle, and bird-watching, who had no idea what he or his father did. Comparing Illyria to Ellie Wyndham-Pryce was like comparing a pterodactyl to a partridge. Both might be birds, but…
“I don’t believe it’s the same,” he said faintly.
“In principle if not particular,” Roger said. “She’ll be fine. I’m surprised she’s done as well as she has. It’s got to be quite a comedown, don’t you think, from what she used to be?”
He remembered her rage from her first days, remembered the way she’d made the sacrifice to save them, and his voice softened. “Yes, she’s done quite well.”
“I wondered why she came with you,” Roger said, watching him with bright eyes. “At first, I thought you were lovers, but that’s not the case, unless you’re being extremely subtle.” He held up a hand. “Not my affair. Then, I wondered if she might not be up to something about the Deeper Well, use it as a power source or so on.”
Wesley froze. He’d known the well was there in the back of his mind, but it was too intimately associated with Fred’s death for him to be able to think about it much. Had Illyria realized its potential? It was hard to believe she had not. She was so…practical.
His father’s voice was soft. “Don’t worry about it, Wesley. I’m sure everything will be all right.”
The following day, it actually wasn’t raining, and Giles almost threw her into the yard.
“I don’t know what’s going on between you and Wesley,” he’d said. “But I do know that I’m tired of you crouching in your room like a dragon in a cave, and you are getting some fresh air.”
She hadn’t wanted to go, but it was simpler than arguing with him when he took that tone, so she obediently walked along the driveway refusing to admit that it was more pleasant than being indoors where she was all too aware of Wesley across the hall. Every so often, they caught sight of each other, and would almost speak, then turn away.
Remembering their last encounter gave her an odd urge to stick out her lower lip.
Stupid human, not admitting when he was wrong, especially since Victoria had yet to be found. Well, so be it.
I do not care.
Illyria folded her arms, pulled her lip back in, and frowned as a woman in a blue uniform turned her bicycle in through the gates. Seeing her, she braked and dismounted, removing her helmet as she did so.
“I’m WPC Parrish, Miss. Are you Miss Winifred Burkel?”
Not really.
“Yes.” She said, not understanding why deep inside something began to curl up in horror.
“Your parents are Roger and Patricia Burkel?”
The something inside began to wail.
“Yes. What has happened?”
The woman laid a gentle hand on her sleeve. “I’m terribly sorry, Miss Burkel. It was their plane you see. There’s been a crash…”
The shriek of pain and rage echoed through the house. Wesley dropped his book and leaped for the door, almost crashing into Giles, his father and Brigham, and then they were all boiling into the front yard to confront a startled looking police officer and a mutilated bicycle.
“My God,” she was white-faced, staring in the direction of the garage. “My God, she…”
“What?” Wesley snapped.
“It’s her parents, you see. They’ve been killed, and I was sent to tell her, and she…Oh my God!”
He met Giles’ eyes, and the older Watcher jerked his head toward the garage, putting his own arm around the woman’s shoulders.
“There now, everything’s fine. I don’t think it happened quite like…”
That was all he heard as he raced for the garage, then had to fling himself aside as the car blasted through the entrance, Illyria at the wheel. He rolled and came to his feet. Seeing that there was no point in dashing after her, he reached for his power.
The motor stopped with a screaming grind of gears and the car bucked like a wild horse, not flipping over only by the barest piece of luck. The door slammed off its hinges and Illyria leaped out, snarling. She didn’t bother speaking, but started to run, and Wesley summoned all his courage and every last bit of skill he’d acquired, and tackled her.
If she’d been at her former strength or even enough in control to plan her attack he wouldn’t have had a chance. As it was, she got in a blow to his head that made his ears ring before he pinned her hands down.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he demanded while she hissed at him like a mad cat. “What are you going to do?
A tranquilizer dart shot past his ear, and he instinctively dropped forward to shield Illyria. Brigham brought the rifle up again, hands shaking so badly, it was hard to tell his intended target.
“Get back inside!” Wesley roared, and white-faced the man dropped the rifle and fled. His distraction had given her time to regroup, and she flung him away from her and came to her feet.
“The Well.” She gasped, chest heaving.
“And do what?” he demanded, through the fear that was coursing through him. He had been wrong about her, wrong to trust… “Draw power so you can open a portal through time and stop the crash?”
“Yes!” She spun but he caught her arm and whirled her back to face him.
“No!” He shook her or tried to. “Their deaths were natural. You can’t go around altering timelines when something bad happens! It interferes with the natural order, and there will be a price.”
“Then I shall pay it!” She wrenched away from him.
“You aren’t the only one that pays. History itself will pay. Or don’t you care about that? You aren’t a god anymore. You can’t save your chosen few!”
“You did not mind when it was you that I chose!”
He couldn’t hold her with words much longer. If he tackled her again, she’d probably kill him. “You probably shouldn’t have saved us, but you stopped an Apocalypse, so maybe it evens…”
“DON’T LECTURE ME!”
Rage was boiling off of her and his own rose to meet it. His gaze slid to the side, looking for the rifle and she followed it and started to back away, breath catching on….
A sob.
He stared at her, now seeing through the rage to the grief behind it, suddenly remembering Roger and Trish and their love of their daughter and their friendly acceptance of him, remembering the grief he’d known over the years and how there had never been any comfort.
He took a step and caught her in his arms.
“I’m sorry.” He whispered, rocking her gently back and forth. “So sorry.”
She was absolutely rigid for a moment, then clutched at his arms and began to cry furiously, almost convulsing with her agony. Words were mixed with the crying and muffled against his chest, but one sounded suspiciously like “Mama”, and he held on to her, ignoring the rain that started to fall and the bruises that were forming on his arms.
“It’s all right. Don't fight it. Grieve for them. Let it go, sweetheart…”
He wasn’t aware of the words, just knew he had to say something, the way he wished someone had spoken to him in his times of sorrow. He didn’t know if anyone came to the door behind them, and didn’t care.
At long last, she quieted and her grip loosened, although she still clung to him.
“They are together,” she said wearily. “They would like that.”
“They would,” he agreed.
Illyria moved her head back against his shoulder and looked up. He looked down and noted with slight confusion that her face was very close and her eyes were very blue and seemed gentler than usual.
“You are very wet,” she said.
“It’s raining,” he pointed out, and immediately felt very stupid.
She almost smiled and her hands tightened a little, as she pressed closer to him. His arms tightened in response, and in spite if the rain and wind, he felt rather warm.
Then her eyes went huge. Wrenching out of his grasp, Illyria turned in a circle, almost scenting the air.
“Sorchalle?”
“What are you…” The word was familiar somehow and his mind struggled to find the connection.
“Sorchalle, is it you?”
A name. He saw it written in a book at Wolfram and Hart. A name he had found when researching…
She faced him, dawning horror on her face. “I can feel his essence. Somewhere, someone is waking another Old One.”