TITLE: Protected
AUTHOR: illusion
POSTED: 11-28-2004
EMAIL: alliekat17@hotmail.com
RATING: R for language and violence.
CATEGORY: BtVS Season 3. Angst.
CONTENT: C/A. Maybe minor B/A? Hopefully not too much though, if any.
SUMMARY: People from Angel’s life before Sunnydale are threatened, and Angel will do everything in his power to keep them safe, with help from an unlikely place.
SPOILERS: Season 3 of BtVS, up to ‘Lover’s Walk’. B/A are broken up, C/X are broken up, W/O are sorting things out. Wes and Faith are non-existent. Sorry, I just couldn’t work them in. This story takes place AU a few weeks after the events of ‘Lover’s Walk’, after Cordy’s all healed.
DISCLAIMER: Unfortunately, they’re not mine. I can always wish… Where’s Anyanka when you need her?
DISTRIBUTION: Anywhere, just ask.
NOTES: This is just a silly little ‘what-if’ that popped into my head and refused to leave. Also, I’m going to alter the events in Angel’s history a little. I’ll go into more detail when it comes up – don’t want to spoil my evil designs.
FEEDBACK: Do I really need to ask? Okay. Pretty, pretty, pretty, PRETTY please?
AUTHOR’S THANKS & DEDICATION: Thank you so much to Amanda for all of your advice, patience and support, and for inspiring me and encouraging me to write again. It really means a lot to me. And thank you to everyone who has left feedback and asked for more.
Prologue
The Sunnydale High School Library doors flew open with a resounding crash against the walls that shattered the still night. A man that appeared to be in his early twenties ran through the swinging doors, two precious bundles cradled tightly in his arms as he looked about wildly. He was already aware though that this room, like the rest of the building, was empty.
Ineffectual moonlight trickled serenely through the large windows that bordered the room, oblivious to the man’s frantic dash around the front counter and through the open doors into the private office beyond. His hurried footsteps never faltered, regardless of the almost pitch black darkness.
Carefully he placed his burdens upon the well-worn brown couch positioned to his right up against the wall, and flinched as a soft moan sounded from the larger of his cherished load. He knelt beside the sofa, barely thinking to reach out to the desk beside him and flick on the lamp there.
Scooping up the smaller of his two treasures, he set his crying five-year-old daughter beside him, holding her close to his side with one hand, while the other moved to staunch the steady flow of blood that seeped from the through-and-through wound in his wife’s abdomen.
The cool fingers of her right hand caught his in a feeble grip before he could touch her though, and a choked sob escaped the man’s throat. She moved her other hand soothingly through his shoulder-length brown hair. Blood on her palm wet the messy strands, darkening them to black. “Shhh,” she murmured in a fragile whisper, bringing their entwined fingers to her lips and kissing his hand lovingly. Her husband cupped her middle-aged cheek, the pad of his thumb tracing the fine worry-lines that came from a life rich with smiles and laughter. Absently he brushed aside a few errant caramel tresses and tucked them behind the delicate shell of her ear. Still touching her limp hair, he didn’t notice the dirt or oiliness. None of them had been truly clean for days.
Gently extracting his fingers from hers, the man shrugged out of his black leather jacket, again attempting to tend to his wife’s injury, but she weakly shook her head. She dropped her already bloodstained left hand to rest over the wound, blocking him from it rather than applying pressure, before looking toward their young daughter. Obeying her unspoken command he wrapped his jacket around his little girl’s tiny shoulders, enveloping her completely. The heavy garment fell halfway below his daughter’s scraped knees. To generate some heat and warm her small shivering frame, he rubbed his hands rapidly up and down along her upper-arms. “I’m sorry, babygirl,” he whispered brokenly, eyes glimmering with unshed tears even in the dim glow of the desk lamp. He couldn’t let them fall. He couldn’t let his daughter see just how afraid he was.
The girl gave him a small lopsided smile despite her own fear and uncertainty, and her father managed a brief watery smile at her bravery, pressing a loving kiss to her forehead. Pushing her little arms into the overlarge sleeves of the jacket, the girl took a step closer to her mother. Large round blue eyes still leaked moisture as they came to rest on the older sweat- and dirt-streaked face before her, her mother’s head lying against the arm of the sofa. “Is Mommy gonna be okay?” she asked, her question directed to neither one of her parents, but both.
The woman forced a bright reassuring smile to her face that made her husband’s heart ache with longing and anguish. “Mommy’s… just tired, baby,” she told her daughter, her soft tone meant to comfort not only her little girl, but her husband as well. She knew he was terrified, for both of his girls. Knew he was distraught. But she wouldn’t tell him that her whole upper body was almost numb with a cold that had nothing to do with the chill night air. She wouldn’t tell him that long before the cold had begun to spread, she’d lost the feeling in her legs. She couldn’t tell him.
Leaning forward, the little girl kissed her mother’s cheek, just like her mother kissed her every night after tucking her into her bed at home. That bed, that home, that life, was so far away now. Head turned away, the youthful-looking man squeezed his eyes shut against the burning tears. He sucked in a long ragged breath and forced them open again, the salty liquid kept at bay for the moment.
He returned his gaze to his wife of nine years, his best friend for almost twice that, blue eyes meeting her deep jade, and he saw the truth there. He saw the acceptance. He saw what he wouldn’t let himself acknowledge, even now. Drawing his daughter back to his side, he held her tightly, desperately, trying to shelter her. “Em…” he cried, pleaded, one saline droplet escaping his eye and running down his ageless cheek.
Emily just smiled, a smile as peaceful as the moonlight outside. Her eyelids fluttered for a second as tears slipped out the corners of her eyes to fall down the side of her face onto the threadbare couch-arm. Following the actions of his daughter, the man leant forward, brushing a kiss against his wife’s cheek, then the faint crinkle at the corner of her eye, kissing away her tears, even as more fell down his own face unbeknownst to him.
He choked back another sob as Emily’s cold hand reached up to his cheek, her thumb weakly but tenderly brushing away the moisture coursing down his face. “Emily…” His lips met hers, moving against them so softly, so sweetly, Emily’s determined composure wavered slightly, and she had to turn away after a moment. She couldn’t let her husband see her as anything but calm, and at peace. She knew what needed to be done to protect him, as well as their daughter.
She felt her husband’s forehead rest against hers and turned back, nuzzling his wet cheek, running her fingers through his tousled straight hair. His face dropped down beside hers to nestle in her hair in reply, and she could hear him sniffling as he tried to regain control of himself. “It’ll be okay,” she murmured. “He’ll find us here. T-the Watcher… will come. And the Slayer… He’ll find us,” she promised her despairing husband as his face finally drew back to look into hers once more. It was only that hope that made it possible for him to do what he had to do.
One hand still firmly holding his daughter, the man trailed his free hand down his wife’s older-looking face, fingertips skimming the fine column of her unblemished neck down to the delicate dip where it met her collarbone. Resting in the hollow there, on a strong silver chain, was a small pendant of the same metal, slightly bigger than a quarter. His fingers traced its familiar raised surfaced, elegantly decorated with a sun and three stars encircled by an ancient rune that symbolized fidelity.
It was a token not only of loyalty and belonging, but also of protection.
Both his wife and daughter wore the tokens. They signified that protection was granted to the people he loved by someone far more powerful than him. It was the one reason for which he could feel some small measure of relief. He pressed his open hand over the pendant, over her chest, feeling the slow throb of his wife’s heartbeat beneath his palm, and knew his girls would be safe here, under this being’s protection.
But he had to leave.
Her confidence strengthened his resolve. It always had. Finally drawing back, the man allowed himself one final caress of her lovely face. She was beautiful, in spite of everything. In spite of the tears, the dirt, the fatigue, the years. The past four days on the run. He loved her with everything he had. “I love you, Em,” he whispered. “I’ll always love you.”
“I love you too,” she replied, smiling again, and closed her eyes peacefully. After a moment, they reopened, and fell upon her daughter. At once the five-year-old lunged back to her mother, wriggling her arms around her neck, the supple leather of her father’s jacket flapping below her hands. Despite her waning strength, Emily wrapped her daughter in a fierce hug. “I love you, sweetie,” she told her baby. “Make our guys smile a lot for me, okay?” She wouldn’t ask anything more than that of her daughter – it wasn’t her daughter’s responsibility to take care of them. She already knew that they would take care of each other.
Her husband couldn’t help but smile softly at the request, even as their daughter promised that she would and returned her mother’s words of love. The smile disappeared as Emily looked over her daughter’s shoulder to her husband. “T-Take her out of here…” she told him firmly, leaving no room for argument. Though the command was steadfast, her voice was breathier, faint. “Make sure… she’ll be safe…” Unable to deny her, knowing she was right, but also unable to find his voice, he nodded once sharply. Reluctantly he slipped his hand around his baby girl’s waist, drawing her back to him and turning her in towards his chest. He felt her tears pool in the threads of his shirt, wetting the dark blue fabric against his shoulder. The bottom was already soaked with his wife’s blood. The man comfortingly caressed the soft curls of her caramel brown locks, the same light brown locks she had gotten from her mother. His other hand gripped Emily’s tightly, almost to the point of painful, but neither let go.
Abruptly the man pulled his hand back and stood. The movement wrenched a cry of protest from his daughter as he held her effortlessly in his arms, taking her away from her mother, but she kept her head buried against his chest. Emily closed her eyes once more while a peaceful contented smile graced her lips. He switched off the desk lamp, and stopped. For the longest while he just stood there, gazing at the still lithe and trim body of his middle-aged wife, his sight ignorant to the slowed bleeding of her stomach wound. He watched her chest rise and fall with her deep steady breathing, eyes following the single last tear that escaped beneath her eyelid and rolled down her temple, but the woman he loved never opened her eyes again.
He turned and left the office.
Closing the door with a soft click behind him, he strode with purpose toward the opposite side of the library. Even as he approached the caged section, his eyes assessed its strength and capability for concealment. The bars of the door were thick and narrow, the preexisting wide mesh having been replaced with a heavier, denser one. Hinges were reinforced and bolted. Darkness hung thickly in the spaces between the shelves of rare and important books, enough to hide a small child. The access slot on the front was large enough for a book or a hand, maybe a slim wrist, but not an arm, and there was more than an arms-length between the door of the book cage and the enclosing walls. He knew that it was strong enough to hold the werewolf.
It was the safest place for his babygirl until she was found.
Reaching the cage door he found that the keys were nowhere in sight though. He cursed under his breath and crossed quickly back to the bench, reaching over it with a fumbling hand. Anxious fingers danced over the dusty surface of the shelf below the countertop until they stumbled across the hard jagged metal edges of small objects that clinked lightly on their smooth metal loop. Snagging the ring of keys in relief, he quickly moved back to the book cage, inserting the right key after a couple of failed attempts, and swung the door open with an eerie creaking of metal.
He deposited his daughter gently on the floor and crouched down before her. “I want you to stay here, princess,” he told her, swallowing hard. “Stay hidden, and stay quiet.” He pressed a long desperate kiss to her forehead. Then, he pulled her close, hugging her ardently, dropping another kiss to her hair. “I love you, and I’ll be back as soon as it’s safe. I promise.”
“I love you too, Daddy,” the little girl responded. Her father wiped at his eyes vigorously, before he pulled back and forced himself to move away. He grabbed the cage door as he moved quickly back over the threshold. “Daddy!” Even as she ran forward the door slammed closed with a heavy clang between them, masking the man’s distressed sob. One shaking hand shoved the key back into the lock and twisted until he heard the click of the lock engaging. Fingers laced through the small holes in the mesh wiring, he rested his forehead against the cool metal. He looked down into the watery blue eyes set in his daughter’s pretty face and again saw none of the tearstains and smears of dirt and blood and grime. She was just as beautiful as her mother. Just as innocent.
Reaching his hand as far as he could through the access niche, he took her small hand, drawing it up to the opening. He pressed the ring of keys into her soft palm and closed her little fingers around it. “Don’t make a sound, and don’t come out,” he beseeched her again. “Don’t open the door for anyone but him, babygirl. And don’t trust the Slayer or the Watcher. Stay away from them. Don’t give these keys to anyone but Angel.”
“I won’t, Daddy,” she promised him, nodding her small brunette head in understanding. He released her hand and nodded his head encouragingly towards the shelves along the back wall of the enclosure. Clutching the keys tightly to her body, the little girl walked across the small dark cage to the deeper shadows between two of the furthest bookshelves. She slipped between them, pressed her back against one, and slid down it to sit on the cold linoleum floor, her knees tucked up to her chest. Unmindful of the intense darkness surrounding her, her wide azure eyes sought out her father once more, and again saw him nod reassuringly. The dark didn’t bother her, despite her very young age.
“I love you,” the man whispered again. Then he pushed his body away from the metal door and turned away, booted feet carrying him swiftly away from both his wife and daughter – his life – and out into the empty night.
Complete silence returned to the deserted high school building for several endless moments. The little girl did everything her daddy had told her, keeping her petite frame pressed back against the shelves and the wall, enshrouded protectively in deep obscuring shadow, not making a sound. After a few minutes, her tiny round ears caught the sweet sound of a gentle breathy voice singing.
“Sleep O babe, for the red bee hums the silent twilight's fall,
Aoibheall from the gray rock comes, to wrap the world in thrall.
A leanbhan O, my child, my joy, my love my heart's desire,
The crickets sing you lullaby, beside the dying fire.”
A soft smile danced across the little girl’s lips as she listened to the familiar lullaby. She felt her tears cease falling though her eyes were still wet, and a warm feeling spread throughout her tired cold body.
“Dusk is drawn and the Green Man's thorn is wreathed in rings of fog,
Siabhra sails his boat till morn, upon the Starry Bog.
A leanbhan O, the paly moon hath brimmed her cusp in dew,
And weeps to hear the sad sleep-tune, I sing O love to you.”
Her mother’s voice drifted pleasantly on the still air to the girl’s keen ears, muffled only slightly by the closed office door. She closed her eyes, suddenly less tired despite the soothing melody. Memories rose behind her eyelids.
“Faintly sweet doth the chapel bell, ring o'er the valley dim,
Tearmann's peasant voices swell, in fragrant evening hymn.
A leanbhan O, the low bell rings, my little lamb to rest,
And angel-dreams till morning sings, its music in your breast.”
Her mommy’s tender smile. Loving green eyes. Her daddy’s shy lopsided smile, and twinkling cerulean blue eyes that matched her own. Safely wrapped within the warm covers of her bed at home, her parents whispering that they loved her as they tucked her in. The sweet rose perfume as her mother leaned down to kiss her cheek, and her father’s strong sandalwood and masculine scent, making her feel so safe, as he pressed a kiss to her forehead. Rose and sandalwood.
“Sleep O babe, for the red bee hums the silent twilight's fall,
Aoibheall from the gray rock comes, to wrap the world in thrall.
A leanbhan O, my child, my joy, my love my heart's desire,
The crickets sing you lullaby, beside the dying fire.”
The singing continued as the old lullaby began to repeat. It comforted the young girl, even as the voice grew fainter and fainter.
And after a while, the singing stopped.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Pronunciations and definitions:
Aoibheall - (EE-val) Meaning: the name of the queen of the northern fairies
leanbhan - (LYAN-uh-van) Meaning: little child, baby
Tearmann - (CHAR-uh-muhn) Meaning: tearmann = sanctuary, refuge, or church land, name of village near Lough Gartan
Siabra - (SHEE-vra) a prankster class of trooping fairies, also spelled Shefro or Siofra.
The lullaby is “The Gartan Mother’s Lullaby”, lyrics by Seosamh MacCathmhaoil (Joseph Campbell). See end for pronunciations. For more information, please visit this wonderful site: http://my.montana.net/aliceflynn/gartan.html.
~*~*~*~*~*~Part 1
Cordelia let her heels drag as she wearily followed her equally exhausted companions down the hall towards the library. It was two in the morning, almost abnormally cold, and her Manolo Blahniks were covered in various shades of demon goo, irreparably damaged. She didn’t even want to think about the dirt and demon blood that covered her slacks and cashmere sweater, and was embedded under her fingernails, which were now in desperate need of a manicure.
Ahead of her, a disheveled and slightly limping Giles pushed open the swinging doors, holding them wide until all of his young charges had filed in. Buffy headed over to switch on the overhead fluorescent lights, and they flickered to life, illuminating the expansive library, but doing nothing to heat the frigid room.
Playful tired banter had been passing between Buffy, Willow, Oz and Xander ever since they’d killed the Chyai’ark demons they’d been hunting earlier that night. Cordelia ignored them, shivering and stalking her way towards the long rectangular center table where she slumped down into one of the uncomfortable wooden chairs. With a pronounced sigh she removed one of her ruined heels, intent on treating her cramping toes to a short massage. Cordelia rubbed the dainty digits vigorously between her hands in an effort to warm them, and decided she definitely deserved a pedicure after this, as well that manicure.
“When did demons stop going ‘poof’?” Xander complained, hopping up onto the counter of the front desk, much to Giles’ chagrin. Oblivious to the annoyed look, he tossed his shovel to Buffy who caught it with ease. “I liked it better when they went ‘poof’. No messy clean up jobs post-slayage. Nope, just kill ‘em and dance the Snoopy-dance among their ashes. Now it’s all shovels and digging and burying. Could demons be a little more considerate?” he grumbled. He grimaced as he reached over to knead the aching muscle of his left shoulder, having jarred it during the earlier fight.
Cordelia allowed herself a small amount of satisfaction at his pain as she slipped her heel back on. It couldn’t begin to compare to what he’d done to her in recent weeks, but it was something. Just nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine shoulder twinges to go and they’d be even. She continued to watch in silence as the Slayer made her way over to the book cage where all of her weapons were kept, a heavy mace swinging lazily down at her side, while Willow and Oz walked in her direction.
“Maybe we’re doing something wrong?” Willow suggested as she took a seat opposite Cordelia, next to Oz. “We could have done some more research before going after the Chyai’arks. I could take another look… Or maybe there’s a special potion we can make that will disintegrate demon remains? Or… or maybe Buffy should have used a bigger mace?” she babbled. The redhead then directed her ramblings to Buffy’s Watcher. “Do we have a bigger mace? You never did tell me why it’s called a mace…”
Willow trailed off when Oz lightly took her hand, squeezing gently. “I think Buffy killed them good,” he assured her, as always his face deadpan. The young Wicca grinned shyly at her laconic boyfriend, before her body tensed with guilt and she drew her hand back. The couple had tentatively begun to give their relationship another chance, and she didn’t want to push things.
Noting her friend’s discomfort, Buffy quickly picked up the conversation. “It’s not the size of the mace that matters, but how you use it,” she quipped with a sly grin. “And besides Will, with all the practice we’ve had killing demons, I think we’ve got it just about right,” she said, dropping the dirt encrusted shovel and swinging the aforementioned weapon in a slow but deadly arc through the air as if to demonstrate.
“Yep. Shark demons ain’t getting any deader. Point, set and match to the Scooby Gang!” Xander added.
“Chyai’arks,” Willow corrected automatically, though her efforts were in vain when Xander merely shrugged indifferently. Still, she was smiling again. The redhead seemed a little more at ease with their slaying accomplishments that evening.
Cordelia rolled her eyes at the whole exchange, blowing a stray strand of chestnut hair that had fallen out of her ponytail from of her eyes. She was tired, sore, dirty and messy. Cordy just wanted to go home, enjoy a nice long soak in her bath, slip into her bed, and pretend this whole sorry evening had never happened. Two and a half hours of trudging through cemeteries, sewers and woods, in heels, followed by a measly five-minute fight, in which the only way she’d managed to contribute was to get in the way of Willow’s fall when one of the demons had shoved the redhead. How did she let herself be talked into these things? Making a vow to never let a certain stake-happy blonde and her cheating band of misfits drag her demon slaying again, she was relieved when Giles called a ceasefire to the pointless argument.
Giles cleared his throat to pre-empt any more sad attempts at wit as he moved behind the counter. “As enthralling as this conversation is, I think we are all in need of hot showers and warm beds. You all have school tomorrow,” he reminded them as he began to gather his belongings, intending on heading straight home himself. As he passed by, he gave Xander a pointed look. The teenage boy didn’t take the hint. In fact, when none of his charges gave any indication of leaving, Rupert Giles lifted his head from his task of collecting his personal books and papers, giving all of the children a stern glare. “I do believe I told you all to go home.” His voice held a note of frustration.
“Sure thing, oh brainy Watcher of mine,” Buffy retorted good-naturedly, eliciting an exasperated sigh from the man in question. “Just gimme the key to the weapons cage so I can put away all my toys and we’ll be on our way,” she finished with a smirk. Her slim fingers gripped the mesh and rattled the door to underscore its locked condition.
“Ah,” Giles exclaimed, somewhat embarrassedly, and began patting his pockets in search of the elusive keys. Coming up empty he began searching the counter and under-shelf, shuffling papers and opening draws. When he was still strangely unsuccessful in his hunt the Watcher concluded that they had to be in his private office, and turned toward the small room. When he reached out to grasp the door handle though, he was suddenly stopped short, a flash of memory informing him that something was odd. “Oh my…” he muttered absently, hand falling back to his side.
Buffy’s senses immediately went on alert at the concern she heard in her Watcher’s voice. “Giles?” she asked, getting a firmer grip on the mace still clutched in her hand. “What is it?” she continued when the older man offered up no immediate explanation.
For a moment Giles still didn’t answer her, looking between the closed office door and the front entrance of the library. He took a couple of steps away, mumbling something to himself, then made a motion like putting one thing down before reaching to pick up something else to his left. Xander spun around on the desktop to watch the curious behavior. Mimicking the action of putting on his coat, Giles took another few steps towards the entrance, stopped, and walked back, his attention once more focused on the closed door to the office. He nodded once curtly, as if satisfied, and then began shaking his head in confusion.
“Giles?” Buffy said a little louder, suddenly beside him. Only the counter separated them.
The unexpected close proximity of her voice startled him out of his thoughtful reverie. “Ah, yes… Well, I’m certain now that I left the door to my office open when we left. I came out after checking some last minute details,” he told them, and again made the action of setting down the volume he had been using for his research. “I set down the text, then collected my axe and coat,” his hand moved to the side again, “put my coat on, then we headed out to hunt down the Chyai’arks. I didn’t close the door be--”
“Giles!” the blonde yelled this time.
“Someone’s been in my office, Buffy,” Giles finally stated simply.
Not needing anything more, she hefted the mace and easily leapt the counter, landing between her Watcher and the closed door, while Xander slipped off the counter behind Giles. Buffy dropped one hand from her weapon to check that Mr. Pointy was still tucked into the waistband of her jeans, and then placed the hand on the doorknob. Her senses gave her no hint as to what to expect within the darkened room, if anything. Whoever or whatever had been here could have been long gone by now, but she was cautious anyway.
Firmly clutching the handle in one hand, mace in the other, she flung the door open abruptly to surprise any intruders. The sharp metallic tang of blood instantly flooded her nostrils as she quickly returned her spiked weapon to a two-handed grip and lifted it above her head…
Her blue eyes widened as they fell upon the scene within the room. Buffy lowered the mace, arms dropping to her sides, and it slipped from her limp fingers to the linoleum floor with a heavy thud. She didn’t even notice. “Oh God…” Wood scraped harshly across linoleum as the others leapt out of their chairs and rushed over to the bench to find out what was wrong. Buffy stepped over the threshold but remained there just inside the doorway, wrapping her arms tightly around herself.
Giles pushed passed her while everyone else peered over the counter and Xander peeked around the doorframe. Willow cried out and turned to her boyfriend, burying her face in his chest. Oz held her, a look of distress in place of his own usually stoic expression. “Oh man,” Xander exclaimed quietly. He moved to Buffy’s side and took her in a tight hug.
Cordelia was numb. Unable to say anything around the hitch in her throat she just watched with rapidly moistening eyes as Giles knelt beside the body of the woman on his sofa. Her skin was a creamy white, even paler against the dark brown material of the couch. Drying blood covered the hand resting on her belly, where a large bloody wound had bled heavily through her white blouse and around down her sides. A dark congealing stain had spread out from beneath her back on the cushions. The hole in her stomach clearly went right through. Her eyes were closed and a peaceful look graced her dirt-smudged, almost elfin features.
Even as Giles checked for a pulse, Cordy knew that the woman was dead.
“Dammit,” Giles muttered. He sighed heavily, leaning back and removing his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. “She’s dead,” he informed the teenagers needlessly. “I don’t recognize her.” His voice was sad, weary. They’d all seen too much death in their lives. Replacing his glasses and moving his hand again, he pressed the backs of his fingers against the woman’s cheek. “She’s still slightly warm. I doubt she’s been here more than an hour.”
Willow lifted her head, wet eyes wide in alarm. “What are you saying…?! Could she…?! Would she still be alive if we’d gotten back sooner?!” she asked hysterically, tears streaming down her face.
Giles at once shook his head. “We can’t blame ourselves, Willow,” he told her. “I don’t think there’s anything we could have done for her. Whatever did… this,” he gestured towards her fatal wound, “to her, is the one responsible for her death.” His trained eyes looked over the body, letting the rational side of his brain take over so that he didn’t give in to his agitation and dismay. He didn’t know this woman, and had seen many – too many – nameless bodies during his career as a Watcher to normally feel shocked. But to find her dead in his office disturbed even his carefully controlled emotions. Wanting to protect the children from any more grief, Giles nodded his head toward the outer room. “I think perhaps you should all wait outside.”
Oz immediately agreed, leading a trembling Willow back to their seats at the table, but Buffy resolutely shook her head. Swallowing the bile rising in her throat, she said insistently, “I’m okay.”
“Me too,” Xander said, not quite as firmly. He wasn’t about to leave Buffy though.
The librarian’s gaze slipped passed them to Cordelia who still stood on the other side of the counter. A shaking hand pressed against her mouth, eyes leaking silent tears, Cordelia finally noticed Giles’ stare, now accompanied by that of Buffy and Xander. “I’m staying,” the cheerleader choked out in response to the questioning looks. Wiping away her tears, Cordy then dropped her hand and crossed her arms over her chest, hugging her upper arms. Her chin rose defiantly. “Don’t even try,” she said, cutting off Giles’ attempted protest as she moved around the bench. “I wanna know what bastard did this to her.”
The venom in Cordelia’s voice surprised Giles for a moment, so unused to seeing this depth of concern from the girl, but he forced himself to ignore it. Knowing it was useless to argue with the determined teenagers, he returned his attention to the woman’s body, hoping to discover something that might lead them to whatever had done this.
Firstly, Giles checked her pockets for any identification. He found nothing, not even loose change.
He looked at the body next. Blood covered her hands and drenched her shirt. Between her splayed lifeless fingers, the edge of the tear in her shirt was visible, hinting at the injury hidden below. The material of the sofa beneath her had soaked up the blood seeping from the wound in her back, creating a relatively small puddle of darkening blood that had spread out passed her slim jean-clad hips. Beneath the curtain of wavy light brown hair falling across her neck Giles could just make out another bloodstain, possibly a vampire bite.
But though there was a lot of blood present, there wasn’t nearly as much as there should have been. There was also no sign of a struggle in the meticulous office, nor on the woman’s body.
“She wasn’t attacked here,” he quietly informed the teenagers behind him. After all, they had remained to hear this. Even so, he kept his voice soft and soothing so as not to startle them further. “There’s not enough blood. If the culprit knew that this was my office, she may have been attacked elsewhere, then left here specifically. Perhaps for the purpose of a warning, or to throw our emotions. She might have been… arranged here, to mock us…” Giles added. His tone was colder now, breaking. Anger and grief rose inside him as his mind flashed back to last year, when he had found his beloved Jenny’s body arranged on his bed, surrounded by a sea of rose petals. Her eyes staring up at him, lifeless… Giles shook his head forcefully to shake away the bitter memories of what Angelus had done to Jenny. To him.
“You… You said, ‘attacked elsewhere’,” Cordelia realized, stunned. “Not ‘killed’. She died here, didn’t she? She was left here… alone… to die.” Fresh tears slipped down Cordelia’s smooth cheeks as Giles looked up at her and merely nodded his confirmation, and her heart cried out to this woman. She knew what it felt like to be alone. Hurt. Abandoned.
Cordelia had never truly hated anyone before, not even Xander. Even after he’d broken her heart and betrayed her trust. She had thought that she hated him, with every fiber of her being. But this woman had been attacked, taken to a strange place, and left to slowly die alone. Cordy wondered if the woman had a family. A family that would be worried about her, wondering where she was, or when she would be coming home to them. And she felt pure icy hatred for whatever had done this to her and her family.
Giles watched the myriad of emotions visible in the young brunette’s eyes for a moment. Fear, anger, empathy, sorrow, hatred… He was beginning to understand that there was more to the sharp-tongued girl than he would ever know. Again though he had to force his attention back to his unpleasant but necessary task.
Aside from the blood, her skin was marred by smears of dirt and sweat, her hair dull and slightly tangled. She didn’t appear to be a homeless person though – her hair was too well kept despite its current unclean state, her clothing was too nice, her skin soft and her figure trim and fit, even toned from training. At a guess he’d take her age to be in the mid-thirties, maybe even older if the years had been kind to her. She was also wearing a silver necklace and a wedding ring, the gold metal of the band barely visible beneath the blood staining her hands. Giles noticed the ring was of an intricate Celtic design. Her eyes were closed, her face quite serene in death. She looked angelic.
Finally, carefully, Giles reached out to gently cup the woman’s jaw, turning her head aside to examine the mark he had originally thought to be a vampire bite. Her head moved easily, rigor having not set in yet. Instead of two punctures neighbored by shallower abrasions from the other teeth, like he had expected, there were merely two small smudges of blood. No wounds to explain their curious presence, other than perhaps she had brushed a bloodied hand against her neck.
He next turned to the wound in her abdomen. Gently taking hold of her left wrist, he lifted her hand away from the injury to get a better look. Again, he was able to move her arm with little resistance.
“Oh dear Lord!” He leapt to his feet, releasing her arm as if it had burnt his hand, hastily backing away from the woman’s body.
The hole in the flesh beneath her blouse was ragged, but roughly round in shape and smaller than what he had imagined. Due to the nature of his lifestyle, his Watcher-trained mind had automatically assumed her death was supernaturally related – maybe the claw of a demon, a horn. Talons, barbs, spines, or some other bony protrusion, depending on the physiology of the particular demon involved. Maybe even a weapon like a sword or staff or spiked club.
He was genuinely shocked to recognize the bullet wound in the woman’s abdomen.
Buffy had instantly taken a step closer to the shaken librarian at his alarmed exclamation, but he held out an arm, preventing her from moving any nearer. He was shocked to realize that he allowed these children to witness horrific demonic acts, confronting them with evil and the supernatural every day, involving them in a world and a war that would terrify not just others their age but anyone, and yet he was trying to protect them from what was this time most likely a result of human immorality.
Because this scared him.
Stunned by the reaction of her usually imperturbable Watcher, Buffy pushed her way passed the flustered man, heedless of his attempt to hold her back. She stopped just beside the woman’s body, and stared in astonishment at the bullet wound in her abdomen. “She’s been… shot?!”
Giles tried to shepherd the startled teenagers behind him from the room even as he addressed her. “Buffy, we should leave. I think that… that in this particular situation, we should call the police.” His Slayer didn’t move, her gaze still intent upon the woman. “Buffy! We need to leave!” Giles’ raised voice and uneasy tone barely elicited a start from the girl.
“I know this,” she murmured distractedly. Giles paused in his efforts to remove the children from the office. Curiosity at Buffy’s statement was quickly overruling his better judgment and the instinct to protect Buffy, Xander and Cordelia. He watched the blonde teen crouch down next to the sofa, her small hand reaching out to pick up the pendant that lay against the woman’s skin, scrutinizing it closer.
“What is it?” Giles asked her. He hadn’t taken any notice of its design previously. He’d only paid attention to her wedding ring because it signified that she was married, which was information that might have aided him in discovering her identity.
Buffy angled the small circular accessory so that her Watcher could see it. “A sun and three stars…” she described.
There was a lurch in Giles’ chest as her words triggered his memory. He stepped closer to her and the token, already knowing what he was going to see emblazoned on its surface. “Surrounded by the rune for ‘fidelity’,” he finished for her. “The Order of Aurelius,” he whispered uneasily.
Buffy gently brushed aside the woman’s hair, moving to take the necklace from around her neck.
“Don’t!” Giles shouted, surprising her so much that she instantly pulled her hands back away from the chain, holding them up beside her head as if in surrender. “Step away from her, Buffy. Right now,” the Watcher instructed her in a quieter but no less commanding voice. The Slayer finally did as she was told without argument.
Giles wordlessly ushered the children from the office, absently closing the door behind him. Sensing his worried contemplation, they allowed themselves to be herded back out to the main area of the library where Oz still sat at the table comforting Willow, both of whom looked up as the others approached. Before they could ask what they had learnt, they noticed the agitated Watcher still standing by the counter, and their concern was turned towards him.
Clearly deep in thought, the older man began to pace across the floor as Buffy, Cordelia and Xander moved to take seats at the table. After several long moments, the library eerily silent but for the scuff of Giles’ shoes on linoleum, Buffy couldn’t take the suspense any more. “Gi--”
“I’m sorry, Buffy. All of you,” he interrupted. “But this… This disturbs me greatly,” he muttered, again becoming lost in his thoughts. Just before the room threatened to descend into tension-filled silence again, Giles turned vaguely to face them. His eyes remained unseeing though. His mind was focused elsewhere. “Buffy, I need you to go and see Angel. Bring him here.”
Buffy looked at the man in disbelief, but he remained oblivious to her shock and merely resumed his pacing. It had been only a matter of weeks since her Watcher and her friends had learned of Angel’s return from Hell, and by no means had that relatively short amount of time eased their fears or anger. Especially for Giles. Angelus had murdered Jenny, and tortured him for hours, for pleasure. Buffy didn’t expect Giles to ever trust Angel, or forgive him, so she was surprised that he would even request the vampire’s presence. “Um, Giles…?” she began, only to be cut off once more.
“Now, dammit!” Giles shouted again. His roiling emotions already had him on edge, but even so he was ashamed at his outburst. Buffy was not to blame for what Angelus had done, nor did she or her friends deserve to bear the brunt of Giles’ temper. They were all shaken as it was by the evening’s events, and they didn’t need to witness his own mounting distress. He forced his feet to stop pacing, removing his glasses from his face and rubbing the bridge of his nose again. Giles took a moment to calm himself by vigorously cleaning the lenses of his glasses, before he finally lifted his apologetic gaze to the group of stunned teenagers. “I… I-I’m sorry. Please, Buffy, just bring Angel here. I need to speak with him,” he told her, his voice gentler and forcibly calm. Still, he was troubled by the presence of a token of Aurelius on this woman’s body, and how the vampire might react to it. “Just… Do not tell Angel anything about what has happened,” he added.
Not wanting to upset her Watcher again, Buffy simply nodded her response without protest, and Giles’ attention immediately returned to his thoughts, seeing her agreement. The blonde bit her lip nervously at the thought of having to see Angel. She was concerned for her Watcher, the man who was like a father to her, and how he would deal with being face-to-face with her ex-boyfriend, since he was already uncharacteristically jittery at just the thought. She was also concerned about seeing Angel herself. It had only been three weeks since she had made the decision to stop going to see him at the mansion, and she was trying to keep her distance, for both their sakes, and it still hurt so much. Her duty came first though, and if Giles could set aside his anger and grief to ask for Angel’s help, then she could push down her own pain.
Buffy drew herself up from her chair resolutely and turned toward Cordelia. “Would you mind driving me over to Angel’s please?” she asked the brunette.
Still too stunned by what had happened already that evening, and Giles’ recent outburst, the most scathing rebuff Cordelia could come up with was, “Just let me grab my keys.”
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