Twenty Five
9 July, 2001, Los Angeles
“You sold it?” Loki shoved the girl against the wall of the motel. Her things were packed and she was dressed as though she was leaving town. “You told me you lost it,” he said slowly, deliberately, angrily. “You told me it was stolen. Now I find out you sold your soul, and the creep to whom you sold it, from whom you had me steal it, is now after me!” Her shoved her against the wall again, harder.
She bit her lip, caught in a lie. “I— I was high,” Stephanie made a weak shrug. “I don’t remember what happened.”
“What did you get for it, Stephanie?” he glared at her, his eyes deadly enough to melt sheet metal. “A hundred bucks? Another ten grams of shit?” Her expression told him he was close enough to the mark. “And now you thought you’d just skip out and let me handle it?”
“You can handle yourself,” she sneered, shouldering his bag again and starting past him. It was already late afternoon and her flight left in a few hours. “And if you can’t–” he slammed her back against the wall, making the window panes rattle, “–then that’s one less sadistic freak Specter.”
“As opposed to one less gutless crack whore–” she slapped him so fast he didn’t have time to blink. He had deserved it. Not for his comment, but for allowing himself to get so carried away by his emotions.
Loki clenched his jaw and buried the impulse to strike back at her. “I can handle myself,” he said evenly. “But what makes you think you can?” Somewhere in the back of his mind he noticed the squealing of tires to his right. “You think he couldn’t find you? You think you’d be safe from him?” A sudden impulse made him glance at his watch, his fingers tightening on her shoulders. “Well,” he said, the anger dropping from his voice, “it doesn’t really matter now.” A vicious little smile took one corner of his lips. “He’ll never get a chance to kill you-”
Stephanie’s look of confusion was soon replaced by one of terror; she gave a small yelp as his strong arms pulled her from the wall and shoved her away from the motel. She stumbled backwards onto the sidewalk, looking at his leer as though he had grown a third eye. His look kept her distracted as the Lincoln Towncar jumped the curb and slammed into the girl, throwing her body down the street.
Loki glanced down at his watch as it began to beep frantically that it was five o’clock. He gritted his teeth, the leer turning into a snarl. He threw his fist towards the sky with a shout. “How’s that for fucking Destiny!?” When there was no response, just the shouts of onlookers and the shattering of automotive glass, Loki turned from the scene and headed for home.
10 July, 2001, Sunnydale
Dawn strode easily into Spike’s crypt where he lay sleeping. Clothes, some of which were hers; tools; magazines and movie cases all lay in a mess around the stone floor. “Spike!” She called loudly, grinning as he jumped from the middle of some dream he was having. “Wanna come steal stuff?” she asked eagerly, “or... burn stuff anyway?”
Noticing it was only his apprentice delinquent, the vampire settled back on his stone slab. “Sorry, luv,” he mumbled, “Spike’s all tuckered out.”
“Well, what about tonight?” she pressed, hopefully. She pushed aside some jeans and a pair of cable cutters, sitting down near the coffin.
“We’ll see,” he promised, then opened one eye, “if you’re good, that is.”
She made the sign of crossing her heart and took on a completely innocent look. “I can be good,” she insisted, sitting straighter amid the heaps of garbage. “Well,” she amended, “I can be okay.”
10 September, 1173, Myriocephalon, Byzantine Empire
Alexius II frowned, his face now quite used to the configuration. “I don’t think we can deny,” he said at last to those assembled there, “that there is some... link to evil and this, our good kingdom.” There were several nods from the knights and clerics around the table. The monks said little and made little known about their thoughts. “The question remains—”
“The Key is that link!” one of the knights shouted, pounding his goblet upon the table top. There was an uproar from around the table as cups were banged in agreement. “It chains this kingdom to the works of Satan,” the knight persisted, “we must sever the link to let the evil fall away!”
“Aye!” others shouted, “the link must be severed.” The banging of the cups increased, even as the monks shook their heads. “Sever the link!” the chant rose.
Alexius calmed them with a gentle hand. “Clerics,” he said, turning to the priest who stood behind, to his left. The man stepped forward. “Is it the will of God that this device be destroyed?” The mutters and clatter of cups ceased abruptly.
The priest strode forward, making a small bow. When he looked up again, he shot a look of utter contempt at Tarnis, who sat near the end of the table, neither food nor drink set before him. The priest spoke, his tone level and his eyes on the prince. “This device of infidel sorcery,” he cast a glance at Tarnis, “is of course no threat to the armies of Christ,” he and the other clerics crossed themselves, “—but I would recommend that it be destroyed, with all deliberate haste, as to possess it is to invite the devil into our hearts, and the Saracen into our lands.” There were nods of agreement from the knights and poisoned looks directed towards the monks.
“You are certain, then?” Alexius stroked his short beard, thoughtfully. He had nothing against Tarnis, aside from his complete inability to communicate with the more educated man, but since the supposed battle, remembered only by Tarnis and his order, satanic occurrences had begun to plagued the company of knights. Many had begun to suspect that Tarnis himself was in league with the Saracens, or the devil himself, and something had to be done.
The priest nodded his head curtly. “It is certain,” he said with a cold look in his eyes. “It is the will of God.” His eyes darted back to the table as Tarnis stood stiffly and after a burning glare at the cleric, turned and stormed away. The other monks followed.
11 July, 2001, Los Angeles
“But Tarnis and his monks disappeared,” Alexius V finished, tearing a piece of bread into chunks and tossing them to the ducks. He and Logan sat quietly on one of the park benches surrounding the large duck pond. Logan had convinced the crusader to wear a trench coat over his battle gear, since he could not be convinced to change his clothing altogether.
“That is why evil continued to plague my ancestor’s knights. We were unable to fulfill the wishes of God.” The knight tossed another piece of bread into the water. It was quickly snapped up by the birds. "And so my ancestor ordered the company to depart from Byzantium, commanded by his son, partly to search for the Order of Dagon and partly to draw the evil away from the Empire."
“The Key is the link,” Logan said quietly, almost sadly. So that was the holy quest. To sever the link.
“And the link must be severed,” answered the knight from tradition, “such is the will of God.”
The wind picked up for a moment and some combination of the smell of wind and water and the sounds of the ducks made Logan, for an instant, feel as though he were back in Central Park, sitting calmly beside the Werlech demon; the General— and for a moment, he was not a Specter at all.
“But I was distracted,” Alexius said, almost regretfully, throwing the last of his bread into the water. “I learned of the presence of the General and sought him out, finding him dead but weeks ago at the hands of the Beast.” His voice now became distant and Logan could tell he was having a difficult time with it. “Now it comes to my ears that the company —the Knights of Byzantium— were destroyed at the hands of the Beast as they sought to fulfill their holy quest...” There was a long pause. “And so I am left alone, the importance of the link now fading and even the Order of Dagon gone from importance, both for the same reason. I am a crusader without a Crusade,” he looked sadly into Logan’s eyes. “Tell me, wizard, where is my Holy Land?”
Logan took a deep breath. And what is a crusader without a Crusade, he thought to himself as he stared at the knight in the trench coat beside him. A Templar? He suppressed a sardonic chuckle: A problem. Obviously Alexius could not be allowed to learn of the whereabouts of the Key; not with his ‘sever the link’ attitude. Things were too delicate now, emotions, conditions... futures. Logan blinked, thinking of Whistler for the second time in months. He wouldn’t... The conjurer dismissed the notion.
Perhaps, however, this knight could be used to flush out this new common foe of theirs. Considering the knight was the only one of the two of them who had actually seen this foe, and had apparently spent some time tracking him, it seemed unlikely Logan would be able to finish this without the horseman’s help... at least, not before one of the two of them was picked off by a gang of vampires.
Logan sighed at long last. “Then let us be partners,” he said at last, staring out at the circling ducks. “We will forget our past lives of tragedy and conquer this new foe as if we were old allies.”
Alexius looked up from his sad remembrances and nodded, evidently pleased. “Thank you, my lord Logan,” he said wholeheartedly. “I was in need of a path for my spirit and a foe for my sword, and trustworthy allies outside of my company have been too few.”
Logan nodded, not entirely sure this was a good idea, but at least it was one element working for him and not against him for once. “Well then,” he said, standing from the bench, brushing the breadcrumbs from his khakis, “great battles shall we have tomorrow, but tonight,” the conjurer’s eyes glimmered, “we party.”
Alexius stood and followed Logan uncertainly from the duck pond. “Party?”
Logan patted the knight on the shoulder. “Like it’s eleven ninety nine, my friend.”
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