Out of Joint -- Chapter 7 (Part 3)
May. 25th, 2005 06:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sharelleI wanted to get this last part of Chapter 7 up today, since I'm chaperoning the school trip to Hershey Park tomorrow and will be in Pittsburgh for a wedding this weekend. Hope you like! (Thanks again to the wonderful ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
makd!)
All previous parts are here.
(Chapter 7 – Part 3)
* * *
“Spike!”
Giles looked more than a little frazzled as he tried again to nudge the overly frisky creature away from his beleaguered shoes. At the same time he attempted to keep his attention on the vampire who was now at a much closer proximity. The dog refused to be dissuaded, however, apparently convinced that the shoving was all part of the game. As it pounced again, Giles glared at Spike. Spike, meanwhile, had perched himself casually upon the library counter, legs spread as though the vamp was lounging in his own living room, giving the Watcher a better look at the vicinity of his endowments than Giles would have preferred. He took the opportunity to clean his glasses, using it as an excuse to avert his gaze. “Would it be entirely presupposing of me to request that you direct your animal’s attention elsewhere?”
Spike scoffed and drew the cigarette back out from behind his ear, placing it between his lips. “Didn’t I say it’s your mutt now, Rupes?” he replied. “And what’s wrong? Thought you and your lot had barrels of patience for dumb animals.” He reached into the pocket of his duster and pulled out a cheap Bic lighter.
“I’ve put up with you so far tonight, haven’t I?” the Watcher muttered, not quite under his breath. “And put that away!” he added in a stern reprimand before Spike had the chance to act all affronted by Giles’ previous comment. “No smoking. This is a school, for God’s sake.”
Spike held up his hands with a conciliatory look on his face, displaying both the cigarette and the lighter a moment before pocketing them. Instead, he reached down to the Styrofoam cup at his side, lifted the lid and took a drink, coming away with a crimson moustache. The substance in the cup was unmistakable.
Giles appeared disgusted and he rubbed wearily at his forehead with the hand that wasn’t clutching the axe, his glasses pinched between his first two fingers as he did so. Then he placed them back onto his face. “So you were saying,” he prompted. “About this favor you wished to discuss.”
“Right,” Spike announced as he wiped his mouth, his voice moving into getting-down-to-business mode and his body shifting methodically upon the countertop. “It’s like this, Watcher: I need you to do a spot of research for me . . . .”
Giles interrupted with an abrasive chuckle. “Let me get this straight,” he droned, crossing his arms, but keeping the axe tight in one hand. “This ‘mutually beneficial’ deal we’re supposed to be making involves me researching God knows whatever type of devilry a vampire could possibly be interested in – for you.”
Spike placed one hand on his thigh as he leaned forward on the counter. “Look, I’d have gone to the guy who had given me the info before, but I can’t. And at this particular point in time, you’re the only bloke I know with the type of resources I need.”
“Which only goes to further prove that I’d be thoroughly daft to even entertain such a transaction.”
“Oh, come on, Watcher!” Spike groaned in frustration, casting his gaze to the ceiling. “It’s not like you’re gonna be losing out in this. I thought you library types always got all orgasmic over the prospect of cracking a book!” At Giles’ scowl of disgust, Spike added, “All I’m looking for is information on one measly bloody prophecy. Not a big hardship for you. And if you think about it, I’m the one who’s making big with the trust here since, if you don’t deem the info suitable for my eyes, you could just as easily not tell me what you learn.”
“Until you threaten to kill me, or those close to me,” Giles countered.
“Already said I wouldn’t do that.”
“You’ll forgive me if I remain unconvinced.”
“Unconvinced, maybe,” Spike grinned. “But that doesn’t mean you’re not curious as all hell.”
Giles regarded Spike through narrowed eyes and the vampire could see that he’d struck a chord in the man’s brain. One thing about the Watcher which had always held true, and would probably never change, was his intrinsic desire for knowledge, especially where the supernatural and the prophetic were concerned. With Angelus on a rampage and the Scooby Gang all stressed over what to do about it, Giles was probably more curious than ever. Trust issues aside, Spike had counted on the Watcher’s curiosity winning out before he’d even made up his mind to come over here. He was certain it was the only reason Giles hadn’t tried to take his head off. Yet.
When the Watcher didn’t respond right away, Spike took it as his opportunity to continue greasing the wheels of Giles’ mind. “So this is where the mutual benefit comes in,” he said. “I point you in the general direction of a particularly knotty prophecy, you all put your little research hats on, find out what you need to know to avoid complete creation meltdown, and voila . . . world safe again for the general clueless public.” Spike lifted himself up with his hands and pushed off, arching his body from the counter and landing closer to Giles who started a bit at the movement.
“All I’m asking in return, seeing as how I’m the one who’s coming forward with the pertinent info . . . ,” – and since I’m thinking part of it might apply to me, Spike thought additionally – “. . . is to get a heads-up on what you find out. That’s all. No tricks.”
Giles uncrossed his arms, bringing the handle of the axe down into the opposite palm and bouncing it there a few times, his motion casual but threatening. “Prophecies do have a nasty habit of not boding well for us,” he remarked, his words conversational, even if his tone was still a bit on the incredulous side. “Why come to me?”
Spike shrugged, not an indication that he didn’t know the answer, but one which implied that this had been the only logical and obvious choice. “You’re the Watcher,” he said. “You’re the bloke in the know. And most of the time you’re true to your word. In short, you’re probably the only one I can go to.”
Giles nodded, as though allowing the information to seep into his brain little by little for processing and rumination. Then he looked Spike fully in the face again. “I don’t always know everything,” he admitted with a kind of callused modesty. “In fact, there are several things I can think of off the top of my head that I’d like to know right now.”
“Such as?”
Giles was suddenly moving faster than Spike had ever seen. Maybe Spike had been distracted by the conversation, carefully considering his next words, or maybe he’d allowed his previous interactions with the Watcher to lull him into a false sense of security around the man. Either way, in a flash, Spike found himself bent backward over the library counter, Giles pressing heavily against him and the axe blade pushing dangerously into his throat.
Distantly, he could hear the dog barking shrilly, complainingly, scampering around at their feet like it was frustrated at being left out of some physical game. When the rush of movement ceased, Spike found himself pinned down and staring at the ceiling, Giles’ stony face hovering just inside his lower periphery. He was surprised for an instant, even a bit impressed.
For his part, he was also nervous, though he tried not to show as much of that. But as Giles’ eyes burned ruthlessly into his, Spike got the distinct impression that he was being introduced to Ripper, up close and personal. The thought made him a touch more uneasy than most vampires should ever feel around any human who wasn’t the Slayer. But in that moment, it was reaffirmed for Spike just why Rupert Giles, honorable and tweedy and bookish as he may be, was still one of the most dangerous men he knew.
“Such as the answer to one question in particular,” Giles finally said, his voice impossibly low and calm for all the force he was exerting against Spike’s supine body. “Something that’s been on my mind all day.”
Of course, most men in Spike’s position would be better served to do whatever the hell Giles wanted. Answer his questions, spill his guts, hand over his lunch money . . . . However, Giles’ familiar habit of always taking himself seriously left Spike wanting to do the exact opposite. He glanced down to where Giles was pressing against him, then raised his eyes with a smirk. “Least you could do is buy me dinner first, Rupert.”
Giles was not a bit amused by Spike’s propensity for snarkiness. He shoved against the vampire further and jammed the axe blade harder into Spike’s vulnerable neck. “Shut up,” he muttered coolly. “As I’ve said, there are things I wish to know. And make no mistake, I will get my answers. Right now.”
“Fire away, Watcher.” Considering the precariousness of his situation, Spike’s voice and face were an exemplar of composure, if slightly strangled from the pressure against his throat.
“How did you get into Buffy Summers’ house last night?”
Spike raised a scarred eyebrow. He should have been expecting that one. “Honestly? Wish I knew.”
“That’s not the answer I was looking for.” Giles’ features hardened even further and the blade quivered against Spike’s flesh.
“Yeah, well . . . ,” Spike scissored his legs together, effectively trapping the Watcher’s knees between them, and causing the man to lose the leverage that the floor had provided. He fell fully forward upon Spike, who latched onto the axe handle and wrenched the weapon from Giles’ grip, shoving him backward at the same time. Giles stumbled several over-balanced steps, his arms making small windmills until he came to an awkward halt a few feet away from where the vampire was now standing, clutching the weapon which had once been his, glaring at him fiercely. “. . . Thing is, that’s the only answer I have to give you.”
Giles stared in wide-eyed horror at the vampire who had effectively relieved him of his primary weapon. He still had the stakes, but he’d have to get close enough to use them, and an axe-wielding Spike didn’t present the most approachable target. He had the holy water as well, but Giles was certain Spike’s blade could be buried handle-deep into his chest faster than he would be able to retrieve the bottle from his pocket. His hands twitched at his sides like a gunslinger at high noon, and he waited for Spike to attack him.
Spike did make the first move. Just not the one Giles had been expecting. For a few moments, the vampire stood there, his shoulders rising and falling in large movements as he drew long steadying and unneeded breaths into his lungs, his eyes flashing in midnight blue rage. Then he raised the double-bladed weapon and flung it far to the right.
The axe made a loud clanging noise as it hit the floor beside the table; it skidded into a corner near the base of the stairs to the upper level of the room. The dog scampered after it like a thrown stick. The only sound heard was the sharp scraping of metal against the floor as the animal pushed against the heavy axe with its nose; the pup played with it, trying to get purchase on the handle with its little jaws. The two men continued to stare at each other.
Finally, Spike’s posture relaxed and he shook his head, casting his eyes downward, away from Giles. He raised a hand to his neck and dabbed the tips of his fingers against the front of his throat. They came away red from the thin slice the axe had created.
“Bloody hell,” Spike muttered under his breath as he rubbed his fingertips together. A strong metallic odor hit his nostrils, too strong for the blood beading thinly from his throat. A glance down at the floor revealed that the Styrofoam cup had been knocked from the counter during their struggle, its contents exploded across the linoleum.
"Damn." Spike shook his head gloomily, turning from Giles to pace the length of the library counter, digging the cigarette out of his pocket again. Giles was too thunderstruck to protest this time as Spike lit it.
After a tense moment, Spike turned back to Giles. The wheels in the man’s brain looked like they could have been spinning fast enough to cause smoke. Cigarette in hand, Spike crossed his arms over his chest, almost protectively holding onto himself. He sighed heavily. “I told you, I didn’t come here to hurt you, Giles. Kinda wish I’d asked for the same assurance before I walked in the door.”
Something about the way Spike used his name – not just a slandered title or a disparaging version of his first name, but the same familiar one his teenaged friends used when addressing him – gave Giles pause. Or maybe it was the vampire’s tone – softer, less abrasive than when he’d first arrived. Or the fact that Spike had, unbelievably, told the truth – he hadn’t tried to hurt him, even after being presented with a golden opportunity. Whatever the reason, it left Giles with an odd, uneasy feeling. Although he didn’t visibly relax, he stared at Spike with a mixture of confusion and curiosity.
Spike smirked blandly. Had the Watcher’s attention now, didn’t he? He took a long drag on his cigarette and dropped it to the ground, grinding the only partially-smoked fag beneath the toe of his boot. “You want an honest answer, Watcher, I’ll give you one. Truth is, I honestly don’t know. By all rights, I probably shouldn’t have been able to get into the Slayer’s house last night. Not at this particular point, anyway.”
“What do you mean 'at this particular point'?” Giles’ voice, when he finally found it, was softer too, steadier; more patient in its tone, though still demanding in its inquiry. “Has Angelus found a way to—?”
“It's got nothing to do with Angelus,” Spike interrupted. “Not really. Fact is, I’ve only seen the sodding berk once since I’ve been here. Though, it seems recent goings on have got a fair amount to do with Angel.” He crossed his arms over his chest again and stared past Giles toward the book stacks. “And with me.”
“I think you’re going to need to explain yourself.” Giles crossed over into Spike’s line of vision. “What do you mean you’ve only seen him once since you’ve been here? Haven’t you been staying at the factory during your recent . . . incapacitation?”
Spike tilted his head and sucked in his cheeks, looking pensive. “I think the information would come easier if you read up on this prophecy I mentioned earlier,” he said. “Better chance you might actually believe what I have to say, yeah? I’ll answer as many questions as I can then.”
Giles lifted his chin, a resolute movement of compliance. “This prophecy. Tell me.”
Spike placed his hands on his hips, sweeping the folds of his duster out of the way as he did so, giving Giles a nod. “I’ll be honest, I don’t know much by way of details,” he said. “I didn’t get to read the thing myself, so all I know’s what I’ve been told. Prophecy's called the Shanshu.” He waited for a reaction from Giles.
And got none.
The Watcher raised an eyebrow. “That’s all?”
“Uh – no,” Spike stammered a bit, surprised by the man’s complete lack of concern or acknowledgement. “Sorry. I – I guess I just thought you’d’ve heard of it. From what I understand, it’s a big honkin’ deal.”
Giles shook his head with a mild shrug. “Can’t say that I have. And the Watchers’ Council does have access to most of the prophecies which are, as you say, 'big honking deals.' Perhaps it would help if you told me where you learned of this.”
“Well, that’s just it,” Spike said, starting to pace again. “Bloke who knew all about it is a Watcher. Or was a Watcher.” His face screwed up in irritated confusion. “Or a future-ex-Watcher. Or . . . something.”
“Dear Lord, is he dead?” Giles looked horrified. “A turned Watcher?”
“No!” Spike’s eyes widened as he processed the conclusion to which Giles had jumped. “God, no. Guy’s a White Hat, I just don’t happen to know his life history, so I don’t know where to look for him. Hence, my coming to see you instead. I figured all you Watchers were privy to the same facts and figures.”
The utter incredulity was beginning to seep back into Giles’ demeanor. “A member of the Council willingly shared information . . . with you?”
“Well,” Spike shrugged, “not necessarily with me, per se. He was more one of Angel’s boys. I just happened to be, um, ghosting through the room.”
“So you’re saying a member of the Council is in league with Angelus.”
“No!” Spike was frustrated now. “I bloody told you! Not Angelus! Angel.” He ran a hand roughly through his platinum shock of hair, taking a deep calming breath. Giles had him talking in circles, and he had yet to get to the sodding point! This was getting to be like trying to explain – well, anything – to Harmony. “Look, Rupert, my concern is the prophecy, but if you want to play bloody vet dentist and check out the horse’s mouth for yourself, then the bloke’s name is Wyndam-Pryce . . . Wesley . . . roguish Watcher-type-turned-paranormal-paralegal.”
Giles looked thoughtful. “I can’t say that I know him,” he said. “Though I admit the family name sounds vaguely familiar.”
“Oh, yeah,” Spike muttered. “Your age, you’re probably more familiar with his pop.”
“I beg your pardon!”
“First-name-wise, I don’t really recall that one,” Spike continued, ignoring Giles’ sputtering and playing up the mock sheepishness. “And, apparently, I met the bloke twice – now that’s embarrassing, innit?” He flashed Giles a snarky smile. “Anyway, he’s about yea-tall, bearded, pompous, runs on a battery?”
Giles narrowed his eyes to mere slits, removing his glasses as wave upon wave of confusion crashed over him from the utter nonsense the vampire was spouting.
Spike seemed to notice this. “Never mind, Watcher,” he muttered. “Must be ahead of your time.”
He crossed to the table at the center of the room and threw himself into one of the chairs that surrounded it, tossing his feet upon the table’s surface and draping one arm over the back of the seat. Giles kept his distance from him, backing toward a nearby book cart. Sunshine, abandoning the axe by the stairs, scuttled over to Spike and nudged its tiny head against his dangling fingers. Giles watched as the vampire absently scratched at the back of the dog's neck until one of its rear legs began to reflexively twitch. He replaced his glasses, murmuring something about needing a very strong spot of scotch by the end of the night.
“Anyway,” Spike continued as though he hadn’t noticed, “it’s sonny-boy’s name that’s important, if you feel so inclined to look him up. But as far as the prophecy goes, I can tell you what I know for now.”
Giles nodded and leaned back slightly against the cart, arms crossed.
“According to what I learned, it says something or other about a coming apocalypse,” Spike began. “And a vamp’s role in it. Thoughts were, it was all about Angel -- although the great Poof doesn’t like to admit to the fact that it could apply to me, too. Y’know, since we both . . . .”
Spike stopped. Giles had been more than incredulous and wary of him throughout his entire visit. Considering the incarnation of Spike that this Giles had come to know, the Watcher had good reason for his behavior. Something told him that springing the whole soul issue on the man now was akin to asking for him to automatically dismiss the entire story as an utterly fantastic lie. Not to mention the whole ‘oh, and by the way, I come here from the future’ nonsense. The story was bloody ridiculous, even to Spike, and he was sodding living it! No; best to deliver the details of this one in manageable doses. First, see what Giles can dig up on the Shanshu and the Cup of Perpetual Torment. Then, when the details won’t seem quite so unbelievable, hit him with the rest.
“. . . Since we both fit the requisite description,” Spike concluded vaguely.
“And because Angel is your sire?” Giles asked.
Spike shot him a confused look.
“It was my theory that this was also the reason you were able to enter Buffy’s house after Angel was evicted. A tradeoff with shared bloodlines,” Giles explained, his fist tightening around one of the stakes just in case he said too much and the vampire should decide to rush him.
Spike however, did nothing of the sort, except perhaps chuckle a little. “Bloodline, yeah,” he said. “But Peaches isn’t my sire. Well, not directly, anyway.”
Giles took a step away from the cart. “He isn’t? Xander heard you say . . . that first night . . . .”
Spike grinned reminiscently. “Oh, yeah. I’d forgotten that.” He removed his feet from the table and sat up straighter in the chair. “Okay, Watcher, to clear things up: Angelus is Dru’s sire, yeah. Dru is mine. It’s just that, vamp bloodlines being all extensive and wonky like they are, using a simple title’s just easier than trying to match up everyone’s exact relations. Anybody who comes before you along the same lineage can be considered a sire, even if they didn’t necessarily do the begetting themselves. Hell, I could’ve called old Batty my sire if I’d ever felt so inclined, and I’ve only ever met the smarmy leather-lovin’ git a few times.” His face broke into an appreciative smirk. “But then the Slayer dusted him right and proper, didn’t she? Last year, was it?”
Giles parted his lips in realization. “The Master.”
"So he said." Spike shrugged. "Anyway, my being able to enter the Slayer’s abode has nothing to do with you locking Angel out. Best I can figure, my own invite must still be good. I wouldn’t have thought it would be, but seems life’s full of surprises, innit?"
Giles caught his breath.
"‘Course,” Spike lowered his eyes, “I won’t be going back there. But if it’d make her feel better to un-invite me, too . . . .”
“Don’t think she won’t,” Giles said, his voice harsh, though it almost seemed to him, based on the sudden change in Spike’s aspect, that it had actually pained the vampire to suggest his own eviction. If he hadn’t known better, he might have even sworn that the creature flinched at Giles’ promise that the spell exiling him from the Summers home would undoubtedly be performed. There were many new revelations that confused Giles even more than he’d been before. One in particular. He’d opened his mouth to ask, ‘what invite?’ when Spike suddenly clambered back to the original topic.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “You help me with this little prophecy problem, and neither you or the Slayer’ll have to worry about this ol’ Spike clogging the wheels of your collective lives.” He leaned forward on the chair, arms resting upon his thighs as he met Giles’ gaze. “According to what I know, the Shanshu’s all about this cryptic apocalypse and a particular vampire who’s supposed to have a hand in destroying or saving creation.”
“Do I even need to ask where you’d fall?” Giles asked snidely, and Spike could sense the preconceived theory in his tone.
“You think you know what I’d do, Watcher?” he spat angrily. “Always thought you knew so bloody much, but trust me, you know sod all about me. Truth is, I can’t think of too many vamps who'd even want to see the world destroyed. Too many things here worth stickin’ around for. You might be surprised at what we’d come to care about.”
“Don’t want to cut off the hand that feeds you, I suppose,” Giles surmised.
“Yeah,” Spike grated – a hint of challenge to his voice as he rose to his feet. “Got a thing for people, I do.” Buffy, Dawn, sodding Scoobies, even you, sometimes – you worthless pillock.
“So, it seems this chosen vampire has to pick his side, drink from some golden-y Cup of Perpetual Torment, and after a limb-binding, bone-grinding frolic in Hell, creation's either saved or destroyed.” Spike brushed his hands together as though cleaning them of so much dust.
Giles was silent for a moment. Then all he could say was, “Good Lord.”
“Doesn’t sound too pleasant, Rupes, I admit,” Spike said, stepping toward Giles and circling predatorily around the unmoving man. “I’d wager it kinda makes you want to read up on the whole thing. Am I right?”
Giles turned a hardened glare in Spike’s direction. He held it for a moment before speaking. "If you’re right, and I’m not saying I believe you, but if you are telling the truth, I’ll have to contact the Council immediately."
"You do that," Spike muttered coldly as he finally turned and began striding across the room for the door. He stopped abruptly by the library counter, regarded several card catalogue drawers lined upon its surface for inventory and plucked a loose index slip from one of them. He grabbed a pen and hastily scrawled something across the paper, then slid it across the countertop so the writing was facing Giles. The Watcher was still too far across the room to read it, but he squinted at it nonetheless.
Spike pulled his box of cigarettes from his pocket and removed another fag, placing it between his lips and producing his lighter. He tilted his head down toward the index card on the counter as he lit the cigarette. "I'd appreciate a heads up when you learn something. Now, if you'll excuse me, Watcher, since you've decorated the floor with my dinner, I've got another stop or two to make before I turn in."
Giles opened his mouth to speak when a sudden startling clank echoed from behind him. He turned his head quickly to see that Sunshine, who had apparently gone back to playing with the axe, had gotten it turned over to make a loud clatter against the floor. The puppy sprang back from it as though expecting the weapon to play in return, hunkering down onto its front paws and barking challengingly.
Whipping his head back to the front, Giles asked, "And just how do you expect me to contact—?" But the space where the vampire had been was now empty – the library door swinging shut in his wake.
Giles sighed heavily, removing his glasses again and giving them a hearty, if completely unnecessary, cleaning. His heart was still hammering against his chest and he could feel each of his muscles twinge and protest as they finally loosened. It was as though his entire body had been a tight, rigid coil throughout the entire encounter, only now able to relax. Strange how there had been so much adrenaline rushing through him, he hadn't even noticed the intense stiffness in his limbs.
In fact, his numb, over-processed brain wasn't fairing much better. Giles didn't know what to think. Apocalyptic prophecies aside, the very thought of William the Bloody coming to him for . . . well, for anything that didn't involve a hefty withdrawal from the Rupert Giles Blood Bank, had left him more than a little thunderstruck. But if this Shanshu Prophecy was bad enough to prompt an evil creature like Spike to seek the help of the Vampire Slayer's Watcher, there must be something noteworthy about it. And yet it didn't sound the least bit familiar. The implications of it were beyond dire. Just the thought of the fate of the world in the hands of a vampire was enough to send a dreadful shiver down Giles' spine. Perhaps if it had been Angel . . . before. But now . . . .
Giles couldn't understand how he had never heard of such a prophecy. Something so momentous should have been documented by the Council long ago, and instantly recognizable to all the Watchers.
But Spike had mentioned a Watcher who knew of it – a Wesley Wyndam-Pryce. Giles would certainly waste no time finding out what he could about this man, as well as his apparent connection with Angel.
And a Cup, Spike had said. Perpetual Torment, was it?
Running his hand through his hair, Giles turned back to the stack of texts upon the table. Of course, this could all be an elaborate plot for Spike, or even Angelus, to gain access to the information they needed to bring about a catastrophic disaster. Though intrigued by the prospect of researching a potentially significant prophecy, Rupert Giles was no fool. He would have to be very careful in how he approached this.
He began to absentmindedly leaf through some of the books on the table and noticed that the dog had given up coaxing the battle axe into a game and was now simply standing there staring at him with its large brown eyes. Of all the absurd gestures Spike could have chosen to pander to Giles' sense of morality, this had to be the strangest. Giles raised his eyebrows resignedly. "I would imagine you'd be thirsty," he said. He picked up his coffee mug from the table – the only thing on hand able to function as a suitable bowl for the animal.
He also picked up the large Styrofoam container that had spilled its gory contents onto the library floor. Holding it away from himself with two fingers, Giles grimaced distastefully. He'd have to get that all cleaned up as well, he supposed as he headed for the back washroom of the library office.
Strange, Giles thought. Spike had been so insistent about us disclosing the information that we learn about this prophecy to him, yet he gave no way of communicating—
He stopped, remembering for the first time the index card Spike had left on the countertop. Giles detoured on his way to the office, put the coffee mug down on the counter's surface and tossed the Styrofoam cup into the trash. He picked up the card. Placing his glasses back on, Giles studied the words there as they came into focus.
The first line of the card was nothing more than the corresponding book's author, title, and call number. It read:
Faulkner, William; As I Lay Dying; 810.q22 07
It was Spike's own writing, however, which scrawled in a surprisingly elegant hand across the novel's synopsis and copyright information that caught Giles' eye. Two simple words:
Restfield
ALPERT
* * *
To be continued . . .
makd!)All previous parts are here.
(Chapter 7 – Part 3)
“Spike!”
Giles looked more than a little frazzled as he tried again to nudge the overly frisky creature away from his beleaguered shoes. At the same time he attempted to keep his attention on the vampire who was now at a much closer proximity. The dog refused to be dissuaded, however, apparently convinced that the shoving was all part of the game. As it pounced again, Giles glared at Spike. Spike, meanwhile, had perched himself casually upon the library counter, legs spread as though the vamp was lounging in his own living room, giving the Watcher a better look at the vicinity of his endowments than Giles would have preferred. He took the opportunity to clean his glasses, using it as an excuse to avert his gaze. “Would it be entirely presupposing of me to request that you direct your animal’s attention elsewhere?”
Spike scoffed and drew the cigarette back out from behind his ear, placing it between his lips. “Didn’t I say it’s your mutt now, Rupes?” he replied. “And what’s wrong? Thought you and your lot had barrels of patience for dumb animals.” He reached into the pocket of his duster and pulled out a cheap Bic lighter.
“I’ve put up with you so far tonight, haven’t I?” the Watcher muttered, not quite under his breath. “And put that away!” he added in a stern reprimand before Spike had the chance to act all affronted by Giles’ previous comment. “No smoking. This is a school, for God’s sake.”
Spike held up his hands with a conciliatory look on his face, displaying both the cigarette and the lighter a moment before pocketing them. Instead, he reached down to the Styrofoam cup at his side, lifted the lid and took a drink, coming away with a crimson moustache. The substance in the cup was unmistakable.
Giles appeared disgusted and he rubbed wearily at his forehead with the hand that wasn’t clutching the axe, his glasses pinched between his first two fingers as he did so. Then he placed them back onto his face. “So you were saying,” he prompted. “About this favor you wished to discuss.”
“Right,” Spike announced as he wiped his mouth, his voice moving into getting-down-to-business mode and his body shifting methodically upon the countertop. “It’s like this, Watcher: I need you to do a spot of research for me . . . .”
Giles interrupted with an abrasive chuckle. “Let me get this straight,” he droned, crossing his arms, but keeping the axe tight in one hand. “This ‘mutually beneficial’ deal we’re supposed to be making involves me researching God knows whatever type of devilry a vampire could possibly be interested in – for you.”
Spike placed one hand on his thigh as he leaned forward on the counter. “Look, I’d have gone to the guy who had given me the info before, but I can’t. And at this particular point in time, you’re the only bloke I know with the type of resources I need.”
“Which only goes to further prove that I’d be thoroughly daft to even entertain such a transaction.”
“Oh, come on, Watcher!” Spike groaned in frustration, casting his gaze to the ceiling. “It’s not like you’re gonna be losing out in this. I thought you library types always got all orgasmic over the prospect of cracking a book!” At Giles’ scowl of disgust, Spike added, “All I’m looking for is information on one measly bloody prophecy. Not a big hardship for you. And if you think about it, I’m the one who’s making big with the trust here since, if you don’t deem the info suitable for my eyes, you could just as easily not tell me what you learn.”
“Until you threaten to kill me, or those close to me,” Giles countered.
“Already said I wouldn’t do that.”
“You’ll forgive me if I remain unconvinced.”
“Unconvinced, maybe,” Spike grinned. “But that doesn’t mean you’re not curious as all hell.”
Giles regarded Spike through narrowed eyes and the vampire could see that he’d struck a chord in the man’s brain. One thing about the Watcher which had always held true, and would probably never change, was his intrinsic desire for knowledge, especially where the supernatural and the prophetic were concerned. With Angelus on a rampage and the Scooby Gang all stressed over what to do about it, Giles was probably more curious than ever. Trust issues aside, Spike had counted on the Watcher’s curiosity winning out before he’d even made up his mind to come over here. He was certain it was the only reason Giles hadn’t tried to take his head off. Yet.
When the Watcher didn’t respond right away, Spike took it as his opportunity to continue greasing the wheels of Giles’ mind. “So this is where the mutual benefit comes in,” he said. “I point you in the general direction of a particularly knotty prophecy, you all put your little research hats on, find out what you need to know to avoid complete creation meltdown, and voila . . . world safe again for the general clueless public.” Spike lifted himself up with his hands and pushed off, arching his body from the counter and landing closer to Giles who started a bit at the movement.
“All I’m asking in return, seeing as how I’m the one who’s coming forward with the pertinent info . . . ,” – and since I’m thinking part of it might apply to me, Spike thought additionally – “. . . is to get a heads-up on what you find out. That’s all. No tricks.”
Giles uncrossed his arms, bringing the handle of the axe down into the opposite palm and bouncing it there a few times, his motion casual but threatening. “Prophecies do have a nasty habit of not boding well for us,” he remarked, his words conversational, even if his tone was still a bit on the incredulous side. “Why come to me?”
Spike shrugged, not an indication that he didn’t know the answer, but one which implied that this had been the only logical and obvious choice. “You’re the Watcher,” he said. “You’re the bloke in the know. And most of the time you’re true to your word. In short, you’re probably the only one I can go to.”
Giles nodded, as though allowing the information to seep into his brain little by little for processing and rumination. Then he looked Spike fully in the face again. “I don’t always know everything,” he admitted with a kind of callused modesty. “In fact, there are several things I can think of off the top of my head that I’d like to know right now.”
“Such as?”
Giles was suddenly moving faster than Spike had ever seen. Maybe Spike had been distracted by the conversation, carefully considering his next words, or maybe he’d allowed his previous interactions with the Watcher to lull him into a false sense of security around the man. Either way, in a flash, Spike found himself bent backward over the library counter, Giles pressing heavily against him and the axe blade pushing dangerously into his throat.
Distantly, he could hear the dog barking shrilly, complainingly, scampering around at their feet like it was frustrated at being left out of some physical game. When the rush of movement ceased, Spike found himself pinned down and staring at the ceiling, Giles’ stony face hovering just inside his lower periphery. He was surprised for an instant, even a bit impressed.
For his part, he was also nervous, though he tried not to show as much of that. But as Giles’ eyes burned ruthlessly into his, Spike got the distinct impression that he was being introduced to Ripper, up close and personal. The thought made him a touch more uneasy than most vampires should ever feel around any human who wasn’t the Slayer. But in that moment, it was reaffirmed for Spike just why Rupert Giles, honorable and tweedy and bookish as he may be, was still one of the most dangerous men he knew.
“Such as the answer to one question in particular,” Giles finally said, his voice impossibly low and calm for all the force he was exerting against Spike’s supine body. “Something that’s been on my mind all day.”
Of course, most men in Spike’s position would be better served to do whatever the hell Giles wanted. Answer his questions, spill his guts, hand over his lunch money . . . . However, Giles’ familiar habit of always taking himself seriously left Spike wanting to do the exact opposite. He glanced down to where Giles was pressing against him, then raised his eyes with a smirk. “Least you could do is buy me dinner first, Rupert.”
Giles was not a bit amused by Spike’s propensity for snarkiness. He shoved against the vampire further and jammed the axe blade harder into Spike’s vulnerable neck. “Shut up,” he muttered coolly. “As I’ve said, there are things I wish to know. And make no mistake, I will get my answers. Right now.”
“Fire away, Watcher.” Considering the precariousness of his situation, Spike’s voice and face were an exemplar of composure, if slightly strangled from the pressure against his throat.
“How did you get into Buffy Summers’ house last night?”
Spike raised a scarred eyebrow. He should have been expecting that one. “Honestly? Wish I knew.”
“That’s not the answer I was looking for.” Giles’ features hardened even further and the blade quivered against Spike’s flesh.
“Yeah, well . . . ,” Spike scissored his legs together, effectively trapping the Watcher’s knees between them, and causing the man to lose the leverage that the floor had provided. He fell fully forward upon Spike, who latched onto the axe handle and wrenched the weapon from Giles’ grip, shoving him backward at the same time. Giles stumbled several over-balanced steps, his arms making small windmills until he came to an awkward halt a few feet away from where the vampire was now standing, clutching the weapon which had once been his, glaring at him fiercely. “. . . Thing is, that’s the only answer I have to give you.”
Giles stared in wide-eyed horror at the vampire who had effectively relieved him of his primary weapon. He still had the stakes, but he’d have to get close enough to use them, and an axe-wielding Spike didn’t present the most approachable target. He had the holy water as well, but Giles was certain Spike’s blade could be buried handle-deep into his chest faster than he would be able to retrieve the bottle from his pocket. His hands twitched at his sides like a gunslinger at high noon, and he waited for Spike to attack him.
Spike did make the first move. Just not the one Giles had been expecting. For a few moments, the vampire stood there, his shoulders rising and falling in large movements as he drew long steadying and unneeded breaths into his lungs, his eyes flashing in midnight blue rage. Then he raised the double-bladed weapon and flung it far to the right.
The axe made a loud clanging noise as it hit the floor beside the table; it skidded into a corner near the base of the stairs to the upper level of the room. The dog scampered after it like a thrown stick. The only sound heard was the sharp scraping of metal against the floor as the animal pushed against the heavy axe with its nose; the pup played with it, trying to get purchase on the handle with its little jaws. The two men continued to stare at each other.
Finally, Spike’s posture relaxed and he shook his head, casting his eyes downward, away from Giles. He raised a hand to his neck and dabbed the tips of his fingers against the front of his throat. They came away red from the thin slice the axe had created.
“Bloody hell,” Spike muttered under his breath as he rubbed his fingertips together. A strong metallic odor hit his nostrils, too strong for the blood beading thinly from his throat. A glance down at the floor revealed that the Styrofoam cup had been knocked from the counter during their struggle, its contents exploded across the linoleum.
"Damn." Spike shook his head gloomily, turning from Giles to pace the length of the library counter, digging the cigarette out of his pocket again. Giles was too thunderstruck to protest this time as Spike lit it.
After a tense moment, Spike turned back to Giles. The wheels in the man’s brain looked like they could have been spinning fast enough to cause smoke. Cigarette in hand, Spike crossed his arms over his chest, almost protectively holding onto himself. He sighed heavily. “I told you, I didn’t come here to hurt you, Giles. Kinda wish I’d asked for the same assurance before I walked in the door.”
Something about the way Spike used his name – not just a slandered title or a disparaging version of his first name, but the same familiar one his teenaged friends used when addressing him – gave Giles pause. Or maybe it was the vampire’s tone – softer, less abrasive than when he’d first arrived. Or the fact that Spike had, unbelievably, told the truth – he hadn’t tried to hurt him, even after being presented with a golden opportunity. Whatever the reason, it left Giles with an odd, uneasy feeling. Although he didn’t visibly relax, he stared at Spike with a mixture of confusion and curiosity.
Spike smirked blandly. Had the Watcher’s attention now, didn’t he? He took a long drag on his cigarette and dropped it to the ground, grinding the only partially-smoked fag beneath the toe of his boot. “You want an honest answer, Watcher, I’ll give you one. Truth is, I honestly don’t know. By all rights, I probably shouldn’t have been able to get into the Slayer’s house last night. Not at this particular point, anyway.”
“What do you mean 'at this particular point'?” Giles’ voice, when he finally found it, was softer too, steadier; more patient in its tone, though still demanding in its inquiry. “Has Angelus found a way to—?”
“It's got nothing to do with Angelus,” Spike interrupted. “Not really. Fact is, I’ve only seen the sodding berk once since I’ve been here. Though, it seems recent goings on have got a fair amount to do with Angel.” He crossed his arms over his chest again and stared past Giles toward the book stacks. “And with me.”
“I think you’re going to need to explain yourself.” Giles crossed over into Spike’s line of vision. “What do you mean you’ve only seen him once since you’ve been here? Haven’t you been staying at the factory during your recent . . . incapacitation?”
Spike tilted his head and sucked in his cheeks, looking pensive. “I think the information would come easier if you read up on this prophecy I mentioned earlier,” he said. “Better chance you might actually believe what I have to say, yeah? I’ll answer as many questions as I can then.”
Giles lifted his chin, a resolute movement of compliance. “This prophecy. Tell me.”
Spike placed his hands on his hips, sweeping the folds of his duster out of the way as he did so, giving Giles a nod. “I’ll be honest, I don’t know much by way of details,” he said. “I didn’t get to read the thing myself, so all I know’s what I’ve been told. Prophecy's called the Shanshu.” He waited for a reaction from Giles.
And got none.
The Watcher raised an eyebrow. “That’s all?”
“Uh – no,” Spike stammered a bit, surprised by the man’s complete lack of concern or acknowledgement. “Sorry. I – I guess I just thought you’d’ve heard of it. From what I understand, it’s a big honkin’ deal.”
Giles shook his head with a mild shrug. “Can’t say that I have. And the Watchers’ Council does have access to most of the prophecies which are, as you say, 'big honking deals.' Perhaps it would help if you told me where you learned of this.”
“Well, that’s just it,” Spike said, starting to pace again. “Bloke who knew all about it is a Watcher. Or was a Watcher.” His face screwed up in irritated confusion. “Or a future-ex-Watcher. Or . . . something.”
“Dear Lord, is he dead?” Giles looked horrified. “A turned Watcher?”
“No!” Spike’s eyes widened as he processed the conclusion to which Giles had jumped. “God, no. Guy’s a White Hat, I just don’t happen to know his life history, so I don’t know where to look for him. Hence, my coming to see you instead. I figured all you Watchers were privy to the same facts and figures.”
The utter incredulity was beginning to seep back into Giles’ demeanor. “A member of the Council willingly shared information . . . with you?”
“Well,” Spike shrugged, “not necessarily with me, per se. He was more one of Angel’s boys. I just happened to be, um, ghosting through the room.”
“So you’re saying a member of the Council is in league with Angelus.”
“No!” Spike was frustrated now. “I bloody told you! Not Angelus! Angel.” He ran a hand roughly through his platinum shock of hair, taking a deep calming breath. Giles had him talking in circles, and he had yet to get to the sodding point! This was getting to be like trying to explain – well, anything – to Harmony. “Look, Rupert, my concern is the prophecy, but if you want to play bloody vet dentist and check out the horse’s mouth for yourself, then the bloke’s name is Wyndam-Pryce . . . Wesley . . . roguish Watcher-type-turned-paranormal-paralegal.”
Giles looked thoughtful. “I can’t say that I know him,” he said. “Though I admit the family name sounds vaguely familiar.”
“Oh, yeah,” Spike muttered. “Your age, you’re probably more familiar with his pop.”
“I beg your pardon!”
“First-name-wise, I don’t really recall that one,” Spike continued, ignoring Giles’ sputtering and playing up the mock sheepishness. “And, apparently, I met the bloke twice – now that’s embarrassing, innit?” He flashed Giles a snarky smile. “Anyway, he’s about yea-tall, bearded, pompous, runs on a battery?”
Giles narrowed his eyes to mere slits, removing his glasses as wave upon wave of confusion crashed over him from the utter nonsense the vampire was spouting.
Spike seemed to notice this. “Never mind, Watcher,” he muttered. “Must be ahead of your time.”
He crossed to the table at the center of the room and threw himself into one of the chairs that surrounded it, tossing his feet upon the table’s surface and draping one arm over the back of the seat. Giles kept his distance from him, backing toward a nearby book cart. Sunshine, abandoning the axe by the stairs, scuttled over to Spike and nudged its tiny head against his dangling fingers. Giles watched as the vampire absently scratched at the back of the dog's neck until one of its rear legs began to reflexively twitch. He replaced his glasses, murmuring something about needing a very strong spot of scotch by the end of the night.
“Anyway,” Spike continued as though he hadn’t noticed, “it’s sonny-boy’s name that’s important, if you feel so inclined to look him up. But as far as the prophecy goes, I can tell you what I know for now.”
Giles nodded and leaned back slightly against the cart, arms crossed.
“According to what I learned, it says something or other about a coming apocalypse,” Spike began. “And a vamp’s role in it. Thoughts were, it was all about Angel -- although the great Poof doesn’t like to admit to the fact that it could apply to me, too. Y’know, since we both . . . .”
Spike stopped. Giles had been more than incredulous and wary of him throughout his entire visit. Considering the incarnation of Spike that this Giles had come to know, the Watcher had good reason for his behavior. Something told him that springing the whole soul issue on the man now was akin to asking for him to automatically dismiss the entire story as an utterly fantastic lie. Not to mention the whole ‘oh, and by the way, I come here from the future’ nonsense. The story was bloody ridiculous, even to Spike, and he was sodding living it! No; best to deliver the details of this one in manageable doses. First, see what Giles can dig up on the Shanshu and the Cup of Perpetual Torment. Then, when the details won’t seem quite so unbelievable, hit him with the rest.
“. . . Since we both fit the requisite description,” Spike concluded vaguely.
“And because Angel is your sire?” Giles asked.
Spike shot him a confused look.
“It was my theory that this was also the reason you were able to enter Buffy’s house after Angel was evicted. A tradeoff with shared bloodlines,” Giles explained, his fist tightening around one of the stakes just in case he said too much and the vampire should decide to rush him.
Spike however, did nothing of the sort, except perhaps chuckle a little. “Bloodline, yeah,” he said. “But Peaches isn’t my sire. Well, not directly, anyway.”
Giles took a step away from the cart. “He isn’t? Xander heard you say . . . that first night . . . .”
Spike grinned reminiscently. “Oh, yeah. I’d forgotten that.” He removed his feet from the table and sat up straighter in the chair. “Okay, Watcher, to clear things up: Angelus is Dru’s sire, yeah. Dru is mine. It’s just that, vamp bloodlines being all extensive and wonky like they are, using a simple title’s just easier than trying to match up everyone’s exact relations. Anybody who comes before you along the same lineage can be considered a sire, even if they didn’t necessarily do the begetting themselves. Hell, I could’ve called old Batty my sire if I’d ever felt so inclined, and I’ve only ever met the smarmy leather-lovin’ git a few times.” His face broke into an appreciative smirk. “But then the Slayer dusted him right and proper, didn’t she? Last year, was it?”
Giles parted his lips in realization. “The Master.”
"So he said." Spike shrugged. "Anyway, my being able to enter the Slayer’s abode has nothing to do with you locking Angel out. Best I can figure, my own invite must still be good. I wouldn’t have thought it would be, but seems life’s full of surprises, innit?"
Giles caught his breath.
"‘Course,” Spike lowered his eyes, “I won’t be going back there. But if it’d make her feel better to un-invite me, too . . . .”
“Don’t think she won’t,” Giles said, his voice harsh, though it almost seemed to him, based on the sudden change in Spike’s aspect, that it had actually pained the vampire to suggest his own eviction. If he hadn’t known better, he might have even sworn that the creature flinched at Giles’ promise that the spell exiling him from the Summers home would undoubtedly be performed. There were many new revelations that confused Giles even more than he’d been before. One in particular. He’d opened his mouth to ask, ‘what invite?’ when Spike suddenly clambered back to the original topic.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “You help me with this little prophecy problem, and neither you or the Slayer’ll have to worry about this ol’ Spike clogging the wheels of your collective lives.” He leaned forward on the chair, arms resting upon his thighs as he met Giles’ gaze. “According to what I know, the Shanshu’s all about this cryptic apocalypse and a particular vampire who’s supposed to have a hand in destroying or saving creation.”
“Do I even need to ask where you’d fall?” Giles asked snidely, and Spike could sense the preconceived theory in his tone.
“You think you know what I’d do, Watcher?” he spat angrily. “Always thought you knew so bloody much, but trust me, you know sod all about me. Truth is, I can’t think of too many vamps who'd even want to see the world destroyed. Too many things here worth stickin’ around for. You might be surprised at what we’d come to care about.”
“Don’t want to cut off the hand that feeds you, I suppose,” Giles surmised.
“Yeah,” Spike grated – a hint of challenge to his voice as he rose to his feet. “Got a thing for people, I do.” Buffy, Dawn, sodding Scoobies, even you, sometimes – you worthless pillock.
“So, it seems this chosen vampire has to pick his side, drink from some golden-y Cup of Perpetual Torment, and after a limb-binding, bone-grinding frolic in Hell, creation's either saved or destroyed.” Spike brushed his hands together as though cleaning them of so much dust.
Giles was silent for a moment. Then all he could say was, “Good Lord.”
“Doesn’t sound too pleasant, Rupes, I admit,” Spike said, stepping toward Giles and circling predatorily around the unmoving man. “I’d wager it kinda makes you want to read up on the whole thing. Am I right?”
Giles turned a hardened glare in Spike’s direction. He held it for a moment before speaking. "If you’re right, and I’m not saying I believe you, but if you are telling the truth, I’ll have to contact the Council immediately."
"You do that," Spike muttered coldly as he finally turned and began striding across the room for the door. He stopped abruptly by the library counter, regarded several card catalogue drawers lined upon its surface for inventory and plucked a loose index slip from one of them. He grabbed a pen and hastily scrawled something across the paper, then slid it across the countertop so the writing was facing Giles. The Watcher was still too far across the room to read it, but he squinted at it nonetheless.
Spike pulled his box of cigarettes from his pocket and removed another fag, placing it between his lips and producing his lighter. He tilted his head down toward the index card on the counter as he lit the cigarette. "I'd appreciate a heads up when you learn something. Now, if you'll excuse me, Watcher, since you've decorated the floor with my dinner, I've got another stop or two to make before I turn in."
Giles opened his mouth to speak when a sudden startling clank echoed from behind him. He turned his head quickly to see that Sunshine, who had apparently gone back to playing with the axe, had gotten it turned over to make a loud clatter against the floor. The puppy sprang back from it as though expecting the weapon to play in return, hunkering down onto its front paws and barking challengingly.
Whipping his head back to the front, Giles asked, "And just how do you expect me to contact—?" But the space where the vampire had been was now empty – the library door swinging shut in his wake.
Giles sighed heavily, removing his glasses again and giving them a hearty, if completely unnecessary, cleaning. His heart was still hammering against his chest and he could feel each of his muscles twinge and protest as they finally loosened. It was as though his entire body had been a tight, rigid coil throughout the entire encounter, only now able to relax. Strange how there had been so much adrenaline rushing through him, he hadn't even noticed the intense stiffness in his limbs.
In fact, his numb, over-processed brain wasn't fairing much better. Giles didn't know what to think. Apocalyptic prophecies aside, the very thought of William the Bloody coming to him for . . . well, for anything that didn't involve a hefty withdrawal from the Rupert Giles Blood Bank, had left him more than a little thunderstruck. But if this Shanshu Prophecy was bad enough to prompt an evil creature like Spike to seek the help of the Vampire Slayer's Watcher, there must be something noteworthy about it. And yet it didn't sound the least bit familiar. The implications of it were beyond dire. Just the thought of the fate of the world in the hands of a vampire was enough to send a dreadful shiver down Giles' spine. Perhaps if it had been Angel . . . before. But now . . . .
Giles couldn't understand how he had never heard of such a prophecy. Something so momentous should have been documented by the Council long ago, and instantly recognizable to all the Watchers.
But Spike had mentioned a Watcher who knew of it – a Wesley Wyndam-Pryce. Giles would certainly waste no time finding out what he could about this man, as well as his apparent connection with Angel.
And a Cup, Spike had said. Perpetual Torment, was it?
Running his hand through his hair, Giles turned back to the stack of texts upon the table. Of course, this could all be an elaborate plot for Spike, or even Angelus, to gain access to the information they needed to bring about a catastrophic disaster. Though intrigued by the prospect of researching a potentially significant prophecy, Rupert Giles was no fool. He would have to be very careful in how he approached this.
He began to absentmindedly leaf through some of the books on the table and noticed that the dog had given up coaxing the battle axe into a game and was now simply standing there staring at him with its large brown eyes. Of all the absurd gestures Spike could have chosen to pander to Giles' sense of morality, this had to be the strangest. Giles raised his eyebrows resignedly. "I would imagine you'd be thirsty," he said. He picked up his coffee mug from the table – the only thing on hand able to function as a suitable bowl for the animal.
He also picked up the large Styrofoam container that had spilled its gory contents onto the library floor. Holding it away from himself with two fingers, Giles grimaced distastefully. He'd have to get that all cleaned up as well, he supposed as he headed for the back washroom of the library office.
Strange, Giles thought. Spike had been so insistent about us disclosing the information that we learn about this prophecy to him, yet he gave no way of communicating—
He stopped, remembering for the first time the index card Spike had left on the countertop. Giles detoured on his way to the office, put the coffee mug down on the counter's surface and tossed the Styrofoam cup into the trash. He picked up the card. Placing his glasses back on, Giles studied the words there as they came into focus.
The first line of the card was nothing more than the corresponding book's author, title, and call number. It read:
Faulkner, William; As I Lay Dying; 810.q22 07
It was Spike's own writing, however, which scrawled in a surprisingly elegant hand across the novel's synopsis and copyright information that caught Giles' eye. Two simple words:
Restfield
ALPERT
To be continued . . .
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Date: 2005-05-26 01:48 am (UTC)