Out of Joint -- Chapter 3 (Part 3)
Nov. 18th, 2004 07:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sharelleI seem to be on a bit of a role these last few weeks in terms of my writing. Not usual for me of late, but since it seems to be coming I'll be happy and hope it stays that way. *G*
Once again, if my Latin is abysmal, any pointers -- or willing suspension of disbelief -- are appreciated! (There will be one more part to Chapter 3 after this. I'm going to try and have it polished up before Thanksgiving next week.)
Hope you like (and psst . . . the beginning chapters are this-a-way! *VBG*)
(Chapter 3 – Part 3)
* * *
“Here. Right here.”
Wesley Wyndam-Pryce rose to his feet, as if being out of his chair would better help him to communicate what he had found, though he remained hunched over the large book which was spread open on the boardroom table. His index finger glided smoothly down the page until it landed on the significant paragraph, then pressed down, as though sticking a pin in the information to keep if from eluding him again.
“What’s the word?” Gunn leaned closely over Wesley’s shoulder and the former Watcher had to gently grasp his friend’s hand and guide it away from the valuable text, lest the teriyaki beef between his fingers drip onto the passage.
“First off, it explains my proclivity to the term ‘Eternal Torment,’” Wesley answered as the remaining members of the research party gathered around his corner of the table. “Defeci Aeternum – roughly translated: ‘eternal extinguishing of a flame.’ Commonly, a metaphor for the flame of ‘life’ extinguished by ‘torment,’ ‘hell,’ or ‘death.’”
Fred recognized the text he was using – one of the template books, which were linked to all the reference material in Wolfram & Hart’s extensive archives. But there was something strange about the passage he had accessed. She looked from the tome up into Wesley’s face. “Your name is in here,” she said.
“Yes,” he replied. “It's one of mine. I had researched this particular artifact before, years ago. Though I hadn’t realized the Cup you found might be the object in question until now.” He cleared his throat and referred back to the pages that had appeared within the book. “This is a copy of one of several theses I had written when I first started working as a Watcher following my graduation from the Academy. I had a hunch Rutherford Sirk had taken more than just the Devandiré Sibylline Codex when he left the Council, so it stood to reason that Wolfram & Hart would have access to many of the Council’s other papers and findings.”
“What does it say?” Angel asked, tilting his head at the upside-down script, which probably wouldn’t have made much sense had it been right-side-up anyway. He exhaled forcefully, his lips creating an annoyed flutter. “And in 200-plus years on earth, I opted not to study ancient Babylonian, why?”
Wesley glanced up, unable to suppress a small smirk. “Originally ancient Babylonian, yes. Though portions of this particular translation are a cross between Gaelic and an archaic Latin.”
“Of course.” Angel shook his head with listless mirth. “All Greek to me anyway.”
Wesley managed a sober smile at Angel and turned the page. “My English translation begins here,” he said, pointing. Angel leaned in closer. “According to this,” Wesley continued, “the artifact in question was a thing of myth. It also went by many names – practically a different one for every possible version of its legend. The one I settled upon for my thesis was this: Aurum Defeci Aeternum.”
“So this ‘Deficit Atrium’ thing actually stands for ‘Cup of Eternal Torment,’” Gunn mused.
Wesley scrunched up his face a bit and cocked his head vacillatingly. “Not exactly,” he said. “Though it was commonly accepted that documentation about the object made reference to an ‘eternal hell’ or ‘eternal death,’ it was never wholly agreed that the reliquary was, indeed, a cup.” He pointed to the page and everyone’s gaze followed his finger. “The word ‘aurum,’ after all, can refer to anything made of gold. A cup is a possibility, but there were far more scholars who felt the object may have been a ring, a pendant, or even a coin. The terminology was very vague.”
Angel crossed his arms. “I’m starting to learn that about magical lingo.”
Fred leaned across the table, eyeing the book with interest. “What did Scholar Wesley think?” she asked.
Wesley pursed his lips together briefly, a little derailed by the sweetness in Fred’s voice. Not unusual for her, but he had thought things would have been exceedingly awkward between them. Especially after all that had happened, what he had done, before he left. And they were awkward . . . for him. But she . . . . She was the very same Fred. It left him momentarily flustered.
“Wesley—” he started, before blubberingly backing up. “Me – I mean – I gave some credence to the cup theory. I make note here –” He pressed his finger to a paragraph at the bottom of the page. “– of the several references I’ve found to words that resemble an antediluvian root to the Latin word ‘scyphus,’ which indicates a goblet or some other type of drinking vessel.”
“Hence, a Cup of Eternal – or Perpetual – Torment,” Gunn summarized.
Wesley nodded. “Unfortunately, an artifact whose legend predates much of our official record-keeping -- one reason why this particular paper of mine was so difficult to research. Though there are theories.”
“It didn’t look that old,” Angel commented, still swiveling his neck to glance at the upside-down page. “The Cup, I mean. Just kind of gold – grail-like.”
“It did look a little church-ish,” Fred noted, sitting back but leaving her arms resting on the table. “I didn’t get to examine it very closely before coming back down here, but it looked like it could have been any number of religious chalices.”
“If that’s what it is, I’m surprised the big guy here could touch it,” Gunn said. “If it was supposed to be some kind of holy artifact, that is.”
“It’s not believed to be religious at all, actually,” Wesley answered. “It’s only the evolved dogma of many cohesive churches that make it seem that way. Using a chalice-like cup for religious ceremony is a tradition created by men, not through divine intervention.” He shook his head. “No, if this Cup is capable of what I learned during my research, I’m sure you’ll find that this is your basic, run-of-the-mill magical artifact that someone has apparently decided to use to create a very large problem.”
“What do you mean?” Angel was standing straight now, looking down at Wesley with a mix of anger and worry. “How large?”
“Yeah,” Lorne agreed. “I thought our ‘large problem’ was the bleeding-eyed insanity and the general universal brouhaha. That, and we also seem to be out of copier toner. You’re telling us it gets bigger now?”
“First, answer me this,” Wesley replied, flipping the page and turning the book so that it was now facing Angel. “Are you certain this is the Cup you found?”
The vampire glanced down at the page and noticed an intricately-drawn coal sketch of a chalice near the bottom, most likely illustrated by the young Mr. Wyndam-Pryce at the time to accompany his thesis. Beneath the image, written in an elegant script, which curved undulatingly across the page, was the name of the artifact. But this time with the word Aurum replaced by Scyphus -- the Cup. Even without color, Angel recognized the drawing for what it was. He had certainly gotten a close enough look at the real deal as it sat on the desk in his office, practically calling for him to use it.
The Cup of Perpetual Torment.
Angel’s desire to compliment Wesley on his hidden artistic ability was swallowed as he answered, “Yeah. That’s it.”
“Then I’d say apocalyptically-large,” Wesley grimly confirmed the answer to Angel’s last question, turning the book back in his own direction. “Though there is no proof that this literal Cup is in any way connected to the Shanshu Prophesy, it seems that someone has gone to great lengths to make sure the two became linked. Forcing the hand of destiny, if you will.”
“What does that mean?” Fred asked.
Wesley picked up a pencil which had been discarded upon the table, worrying it between his fingers. “It means the ‘Cup’ that Sirk mentioned in the Shanshu verses could still be nothing more than a metaphor. But by introducing this new element into the prophesy, it may bring about the need to ‘save creation’ just the same.” He ran one hand through the chaotic tips of his hair as he eased back down into his chair, looking apprehensively at Angel.
“Based on what you told me about what happened at the opera house, I was willing to bet that the magic in the Cup you found there had simply drained Spike’s soul, just as you had suggested.” Wesley shook his head. “Then after what Fred learned, I thought perhaps Spike had simply been replaced. Doppelgängers and interdimensional travel are fairly common effects of certain artifacts, and usually easy to set right with the appropriate spell. But this . . . .”
Wesley placed his hands directly over the book, his fingers framing the sketch of the cup, and looked Angel dead in the eye. “If this is actually the Cup of Perpetual Torment, then its effects are a bit more delicate, and much more far-reaching, I’m afraid; possibly devastating.”
“Wes . . . ?” Angel prompted.
“According to the legend, the Cup is a powerful vessel, designed to create temporal folds. But while other artifacts, even spells, exist which can have similar results across other dimensions, or even alternate versions of our own, the Cup of Perpetual Torment was created to operate over linear time only.”
“Meaning what, exactly?” Lorne ventured.
“Meaning,” Wesley said, “that, theoretically, the Spike in the med lab is not simply the same vampire we had known from before who had been stripped of his soul. Neither is he a creature from an alternate reality. He is from this plane of reality, just not from our immediate time. From some point in the past, most likely, when he was still without a soul. Also,” he continued, “since the Cup of Perpetual Torment functions under the assumption that the same life-force cannot inhabit two entities in the same plane, a switch had to be made.”
Angel rubbed hard at his forehead. “So what you’re saying is, wherever this Spike came from . . . .”
“Wherever and whenever this Spike came from,” Wesley corrected, “that is where our Spike will be.”
“A-and the ‘apocalyptic’ part?” Fred tentatively asked.
“Changing anything in alternate realities normally has no effect on the world around us,” Wesley answered. “But changing the past along this linear plane could destroy creation as we’ve come to know it. The term ‘defeci’ in the Cup’s name signifies torment and death -- the dousing of a flame. Using it causes something to go out.” He paused as he regarded them all, allowing the information to sink in.
“. . . Until he saves creation . . . or destroys it,” Angel murmured, his features as hard as granite.
Wesley released a deep breath. “And if Spike is back there somewhere, anything he does, as well as any interactions he may have, will very likely have serious consequences for the here-and-now. What’s worse, we have no way of letting him know.”
Angel’s hand still clung to his forehead, his eyes unfocused slits of concentration, as he addressed the former Watcher. “Wesley, what does that mean for us?”
Wesley glanced around for a moment before answering. “You know,” he said, the timbre of his voice raising to something that almost sounded cheerful. Decidedly inappropriate, considering the direction in which the conversation had been progressing. “We’ve been at this for hours and it’s looking to be a very nice evening. We’ve already gotten quite a bit of food here, and it’s been some time since we’ve been on a picnic.”
* * *
He wasn’t certain how long he’d been standing there. Minutes, probably, though it felt like hours. Hours where every moment brought with it a fresh stab of anguish as he surveyed just what he had run into.
The room was dark and crowded; filled with boxes of varying sizes, piles of papers, even a crate or two. There was a desk and a chair, buried several framed-pictures-deep against the far wall. A bed with no linens had been pushed to one side, serving no purpose, it seemed, other than to hold more cardboard boxes. There were some clothes in clear plastic garment bags hanging on a portable metal rack, some of which looked rather old and dated while others seemed more functional for the occasional drop in Sunnydale temperature. He hadn’t bothered to count how many shoeboxes lined the floor and tumbled out of the slightly-open closet.
Spike looked at the clutter around him and suddenly felt claustrophobic, as though he was suffocating, which was saying quite a bit coming from a creature who had no real need to breathe and who had, on occasion back at his old crypt, even taken refuge in the tight confines of a sarcophagus. He hadn’t bothered with the lights. His eyesight was tuned to the dark, not that he wanted to see any more of this. Not that he needed to see anything at all. He could feel it, and the sensation went through him like the unrelentingly slow press of a stake through his heart. Not merciful enough to kill him, though.
He could sense it before he had run in from outside. Before he burst through the front door, his stilled blood pounding somehow in his ears and his nerve-endings screaming as they reached out, searching, only to find nothing. Before he had even moved, he had known. But he still had to see for himself.
It was lucky that the house had ultimately been empty at the moment. He hadn’t even thought of what it must have looked like from the perspective of someone sitting in the living room, or even in one of the other bedrooms of the house. A slam and a crash as a blur of leather and night air hurtled through the entrance and took the stairs two or three at a time, not stopping until it reached the door at the very top, and the small room beyond. He hadn’t thought of how the Slayer might have taken his sudden intrusion, had she, in fact, been home. It was probably fortunate that she wasn’t, as such an invasion could have earned him the business end of a stake before he had even made it this far. Before she even had time to realize who he was. But Spike hadn’t thought about that either.
He hadn’t thought much of anything. After what he had sensed, or rather not sensed, from the lawn, 'Thought' had been beaten to a bloody pulp by 'Instinct,' and he could register nothing except reaching this one room. And now that he was here, he wished to whatever god would bother listening to a vampire’s prayers that he had considered his actions first.
Because his worst fears had been confirmed in the most brutal way imaginable. And there was no way to take it back.
After what felt like an eternity of motionless shock, an eternity filled with too many thoughts and too many questions with too few answers, Spike allowed Instinct to take over once more. The vampire fell to his knees on the floor of what used to be Dawn Summers’ bedroom, and he wept.
* * *
To be continued . . .
Once again, if my Latin is abysmal, any pointers -- or willing suspension of disbelief -- are appreciated! (There will be one more part to Chapter 3 after this. I'm going to try and have it polished up before Thanksgiving next week.)
Hope you like (and psst . . . the beginning chapters are this-a-way! *VBG*)
(Chapter 3 – Part 3)
“Here. Right here.”
Wesley Wyndam-Pryce rose to his feet, as if being out of his chair would better help him to communicate what he had found, though he remained hunched over the large book which was spread open on the boardroom table. His index finger glided smoothly down the page until it landed on the significant paragraph, then pressed down, as though sticking a pin in the information to keep if from eluding him again.
“What’s the word?” Gunn leaned closely over Wesley’s shoulder and the former Watcher had to gently grasp his friend’s hand and guide it away from the valuable text, lest the teriyaki beef between his fingers drip onto the passage.
“First off, it explains my proclivity to the term ‘Eternal Torment,’” Wesley answered as the remaining members of the research party gathered around his corner of the table. “Defeci Aeternum – roughly translated: ‘eternal extinguishing of a flame.’ Commonly, a metaphor for the flame of ‘life’ extinguished by ‘torment,’ ‘hell,’ or ‘death.’”
Fred recognized the text he was using – one of the template books, which were linked to all the reference material in Wolfram & Hart’s extensive archives. But there was something strange about the passage he had accessed. She looked from the tome up into Wesley’s face. “Your name is in here,” she said.
“Yes,” he replied. “It's one of mine. I had researched this particular artifact before, years ago. Though I hadn’t realized the Cup you found might be the object in question until now.” He cleared his throat and referred back to the pages that had appeared within the book. “This is a copy of one of several theses I had written when I first started working as a Watcher following my graduation from the Academy. I had a hunch Rutherford Sirk had taken more than just the Devandiré Sibylline Codex when he left the Council, so it stood to reason that Wolfram & Hart would have access to many of the Council’s other papers and findings.”
“What does it say?” Angel asked, tilting his head at the upside-down script, which probably wouldn’t have made much sense had it been right-side-up anyway. He exhaled forcefully, his lips creating an annoyed flutter. “And in 200-plus years on earth, I opted not to study ancient Babylonian, why?”
Wesley glanced up, unable to suppress a small smirk. “Originally ancient Babylonian, yes. Though portions of this particular translation are a cross between Gaelic and an archaic Latin.”
“Of course.” Angel shook his head with listless mirth. “All Greek to me anyway.”
Wesley managed a sober smile at Angel and turned the page. “My English translation begins here,” he said, pointing. Angel leaned in closer. “According to this,” Wesley continued, “the artifact in question was a thing of myth. It also went by many names – practically a different one for every possible version of its legend. The one I settled upon for my thesis was this: Aurum Defeci Aeternum.”
“So this ‘Deficit Atrium’ thing actually stands for ‘Cup of Eternal Torment,’” Gunn mused.
Wesley scrunched up his face a bit and cocked his head vacillatingly. “Not exactly,” he said. “Though it was commonly accepted that documentation about the object made reference to an ‘eternal hell’ or ‘eternal death,’ it was never wholly agreed that the reliquary was, indeed, a cup.” He pointed to the page and everyone’s gaze followed his finger. “The word ‘aurum,’ after all, can refer to anything made of gold. A cup is a possibility, but there were far more scholars who felt the object may have been a ring, a pendant, or even a coin. The terminology was very vague.”
Angel crossed his arms. “I’m starting to learn that about magical lingo.”
Fred leaned across the table, eyeing the book with interest. “What did Scholar Wesley think?” she asked.
Wesley pursed his lips together briefly, a little derailed by the sweetness in Fred’s voice. Not unusual for her, but he had thought things would have been exceedingly awkward between them. Especially after all that had happened, what he had done, before he left. And they were awkward . . . for him. But she . . . . She was the very same Fred. It left him momentarily flustered.
“Wesley—” he started, before blubberingly backing up. “Me – I mean – I gave some credence to the cup theory. I make note here –” He pressed his finger to a paragraph at the bottom of the page. “– of the several references I’ve found to words that resemble an antediluvian root to the Latin word ‘scyphus,’ which indicates a goblet or some other type of drinking vessel.”
“Hence, a Cup of Eternal – or Perpetual – Torment,” Gunn summarized.
Wesley nodded. “Unfortunately, an artifact whose legend predates much of our official record-keeping -- one reason why this particular paper of mine was so difficult to research. Though there are theories.”
“It didn’t look that old,” Angel commented, still swiveling his neck to glance at the upside-down page. “The Cup, I mean. Just kind of gold – grail-like.”
“It did look a little church-ish,” Fred noted, sitting back but leaving her arms resting on the table. “I didn’t get to examine it very closely before coming back down here, but it looked like it could have been any number of religious chalices.”
“If that’s what it is, I’m surprised the big guy here could touch it,” Gunn said. “If it was supposed to be some kind of holy artifact, that is.”
“It’s not believed to be religious at all, actually,” Wesley answered. “It’s only the evolved dogma of many cohesive churches that make it seem that way. Using a chalice-like cup for religious ceremony is a tradition created by men, not through divine intervention.” He shook his head. “No, if this Cup is capable of what I learned during my research, I’m sure you’ll find that this is your basic, run-of-the-mill magical artifact that someone has apparently decided to use to create a very large problem.”
“What do you mean?” Angel was standing straight now, looking down at Wesley with a mix of anger and worry. “How large?”
“Yeah,” Lorne agreed. “I thought our ‘large problem’ was the bleeding-eyed insanity and the general universal brouhaha. That, and we also seem to be out of copier toner. You’re telling us it gets bigger now?”
“First, answer me this,” Wesley replied, flipping the page and turning the book so that it was now facing Angel. “Are you certain this is the Cup you found?”
The vampire glanced down at the page and noticed an intricately-drawn coal sketch of a chalice near the bottom, most likely illustrated by the young Mr. Wyndam-Pryce at the time to accompany his thesis. Beneath the image, written in an elegant script, which curved undulatingly across the page, was the name of the artifact. But this time with the word Aurum replaced by Scyphus -- the Cup. Even without color, Angel recognized the drawing for what it was. He had certainly gotten a close enough look at the real deal as it sat on the desk in his office, practically calling for him to use it.
The Cup of Perpetual Torment.
Angel’s desire to compliment Wesley on his hidden artistic ability was swallowed as he answered, “Yeah. That’s it.”
“Then I’d say apocalyptically-large,” Wesley grimly confirmed the answer to Angel’s last question, turning the book back in his own direction. “Though there is no proof that this literal Cup is in any way connected to the Shanshu Prophesy, it seems that someone has gone to great lengths to make sure the two became linked. Forcing the hand of destiny, if you will.”
“What does that mean?” Fred asked.
Wesley picked up a pencil which had been discarded upon the table, worrying it between his fingers. “It means the ‘Cup’ that Sirk mentioned in the Shanshu verses could still be nothing more than a metaphor. But by introducing this new element into the prophesy, it may bring about the need to ‘save creation’ just the same.” He ran one hand through the chaotic tips of his hair as he eased back down into his chair, looking apprehensively at Angel.
“Based on what you told me about what happened at the opera house, I was willing to bet that the magic in the Cup you found there had simply drained Spike’s soul, just as you had suggested.” Wesley shook his head. “Then after what Fred learned, I thought perhaps Spike had simply been replaced. Doppelgängers and interdimensional travel are fairly common effects of certain artifacts, and usually easy to set right with the appropriate spell. But this . . . .”
Wesley placed his hands directly over the book, his fingers framing the sketch of the cup, and looked Angel dead in the eye. “If this is actually the Cup of Perpetual Torment, then its effects are a bit more delicate, and much more far-reaching, I’m afraid; possibly devastating.”
“Wes . . . ?” Angel prompted.
“According to the legend, the Cup is a powerful vessel, designed to create temporal folds. But while other artifacts, even spells, exist which can have similar results across other dimensions, or even alternate versions of our own, the Cup of Perpetual Torment was created to operate over linear time only.”
“Meaning what, exactly?” Lorne ventured.
“Meaning,” Wesley said, “that, theoretically, the Spike in the med lab is not simply the same vampire we had known from before who had been stripped of his soul. Neither is he a creature from an alternate reality. He is from this plane of reality, just not from our immediate time. From some point in the past, most likely, when he was still without a soul. Also,” he continued, “since the Cup of Perpetual Torment functions under the assumption that the same life-force cannot inhabit two entities in the same plane, a switch had to be made.”
Angel rubbed hard at his forehead. “So what you’re saying is, wherever this Spike came from . . . .”
“Wherever and whenever this Spike came from,” Wesley corrected, “that is where our Spike will be.”
“A-and the ‘apocalyptic’ part?” Fred tentatively asked.
“Changing anything in alternate realities normally has no effect on the world around us,” Wesley answered. “But changing the past along this linear plane could destroy creation as we’ve come to know it. The term ‘defeci’ in the Cup’s name signifies torment and death -- the dousing of a flame. Using it causes something to go out.” He paused as he regarded them all, allowing the information to sink in.
“. . . Until he saves creation . . . or destroys it,” Angel murmured, his features as hard as granite.
Wesley released a deep breath. “And if Spike is back there somewhere, anything he does, as well as any interactions he may have, will very likely have serious consequences for the here-and-now. What’s worse, we have no way of letting him know.”
Angel’s hand still clung to his forehead, his eyes unfocused slits of concentration, as he addressed the former Watcher. “Wesley, what does that mean for us?”
Wesley glanced around for a moment before answering. “You know,” he said, the timbre of his voice raising to something that almost sounded cheerful. Decidedly inappropriate, considering the direction in which the conversation had been progressing. “We’ve been at this for hours and it’s looking to be a very nice evening. We’ve already gotten quite a bit of food here, and it’s been some time since we’ve been on a picnic.”
He wasn’t certain how long he’d been standing there. Minutes, probably, though it felt like hours. Hours where every moment brought with it a fresh stab of anguish as he surveyed just what he had run into.
The room was dark and crowded; filled with boxes of varying sizes, piles of papers, even a crate or two. There was a desk and a chair, buried several framed-pictures-deep against the far wall. A bed with no linens had been pushed to one side, serving no purpose, it seemed, other than to hold more cardboard boxes. There were some clothes in clear plastic garment bags hanging on a portable metal rack, some of which looked rather old and dated while others seemed more functional for the occasional drop in Sunnydale temperature. He hadn’t bothered to count how many shoeboxes lined the floor and tumbled out of the slightly-open closet.
Spike looked at the clutter around him and suddenly felt claustrophobic, as though he was suffocating, which was saying quite a bit coming from a creature who had no real need to breathe and who had, on occasion back at his old crypt, even taken refuge in the tight confines of a sarcophagus. He hadn’t bothered with the lights. His eyesight was tuned to the dark, not that he wanted to see any more of this. Not that he needed to see anything at all. He could feel it, and the sensation went through him like the unrelentingly slow press of a stake through his heart. Not merciful enough to kill him, though.
He could sense it before he had run in from outside. Before he burst through the front door, his stilled blood pounding somehow in his ears and his nerve-endings screaming as they reached out, searching, only to find nothing. Before he had even moved, he had known. But he still had to see for himself.
It was lucky that the house had ultimately been empty at the moment. He hadn’t even thought of what it must have looked like from the perspective of someone sitting in the living room, or even in one of the other bedrooms of the house. A slam and a crash as a blur of leather and night air hurtled through the entrance and took the stairs two or three at a time, not stopping until it reached the door at the very top, and the small room beyond. He hadn’t thought of how the Slayer might have taken his sudden intrusion, had she, in fact, been home. It was probably fortunate that she wasn’t, as such an invasion could have earned him the business end of a stake before he had even made it this far. Before she even had time to realize who he was. But Spike hadn’t thought about that either.
He hadn’t thought much of anything. After what he had sensed, or rather not sensed, from the lawn, 'Thought' had been beaten to a bloody pulp by 'Instinct,' and he could register nothing except reaching this one room. And now that he was here, he wished to whatever god would bother listening to a vampire’s prayers that he had considered his actions first.
Because his worst fears had been confirmed in the most brutal way imaginable. And there was no way to take it back.
After what felt like an eternity of motionless shock, an eternity filled with too many thoughts and too many questions with too few answers, Spike allowed Instinct to take over once more. The vampire fell to his knees on the floor of what used to be Dawn Summers’ bedroom, and he wept.
To be continued . . .
