Thirty Eight
21 December, 2001, Sunnydale
Anya stretched the garland between her outstretched arms. It was no use. This garland was obviously defective. Xander would have to buy more.
“Anya?” Willow called from the bottom of the ladder. Anya looked down at the witch who, let’s face it, was doing very little to help with the decoration of the Magic Box. “There’s someone at the front counter looking for you,” she said nervously. “He – ah, he’s looking for Anyanka.”
“Describe him as I—” Anya got to the bottom of the ladder and turned. “Never mind.”
Derex looked back. “Hello, Anyanka,” he said, his tiny face showing no indication that he was happy to see her.
“Derex!” she said after a moment or two of staring. “Small head — I mean world! Small world, eh?” She clapped him on the shoulder, “though I suppose not from your perspective.”
“Anya!” Willow looked shocked at Anya’s candor.
Anya looked about, then nodded in comprehension. “Oh, right, the head.” She grinned. “You know, that’s not the only thing that’s tiny—”
“Anya!” Willow’s eyes were wide with embarrassment. “Do you,” she made a little polite cough, “do you know each other?”
Anya shrugged as Derex fumed. “We used to date,” she explained.
“We had one date,” Derex hissed, his fists clenched. “At the end of which you did this to me!” He indicated his shrunken cranium and its decrepit appearance.
“Well... you shouldn’t have been gawking at that other woman.” Anya turned to Willow, dropping her voice. “He had no idea how damaging it was to my self-esteem.”
“I barely glanced at her!” Derex defended, the volume of his voice reduced slightly by the tapering of his windpipe.
“She was barely clothed,” Anya retorted, her hands on her hips.
“It doesn’t matter now!” He shouted, raising the dagger from its place in his pocket. “I’ve come to kill you for what you did to me!”
“Well, hey,” Willow spoke up, seeing an entry, “come on — it’s not that bad...” her mind raced, thinking positively. “I mean, there’s no real harm done, right?”
“She ruined my life!” He bellowed, pointing the knife tip at the former vengeance demon. He advanced until the two women were backed up against a bookshelf.
“Oh, please!” Anya scoffed. “I gave you a career!” This made him pause in confusion. “What were you going to do with your life? Do you really thing marine biology would have made you happy?” She made an encouraging smile. “But now you’re an entertainer! ‘Come see man with extremely tiny head!’ I saw your show once in Europe.” Anya turned to Willow to continue. “They had these two chimps and they were wearing diapers. I mean – what’s that about?”
“Eough!” Derex shouted, raising his knife. “They stuffed me in a cage for display! I was a freak!”
“Hello, you’re still a freak,” the ex-demon answered bluntly.
“Anya!” Willow’s eyes were wide. “Ixnay on the eakfray,” the witch quickly turned to the outraged knife man. “You’re not a freak. You’re just different. We’re all different—”
“No, you’re a freak,” Anya continued, “I made sure you’re ego would suffer as much as mine did. And even if you kill me— kill us both— or even just kill Willow, you’re still a freak. Except then you’ll be a hunted freak. Like that Frankenstein’s monster. And let me tell you,” she held up a finger, “as fairy tales go, that one didn’t end very happily for the monster.”
Derex was considering this, his knife hand slowly relaxing, when a large plastic candy cane smashed into the back of his tiny head. He tumbled to the floor, unconscious.
Xander hefted the candy cane, looked down at the odd body and frowned. “You really have bad taste in boyfriends.”
She sighed. “I miss the days when I could have shrunken your head for that comment.”
21 December, 2001, Amsterdam, Netherlands
Loki slowly entered the collection room while Oz remained at the door. “I admit,” the conjurer said warily, “my collection includes the skulls of various early saints...” be breathed out. “But no full bodies... clothed and... and posing.” Me made he way past the rows of standing corpses, passing some far eastern ruler — completely frozen with silken gowns flowing about him and ceremonial sword extended. His face was a mask of anger and hatred, most likely preserved from the moment of death.
Without a response, he continued further into the room, past once living statues of witches and dignitaries and even a pontiff. There were demons and even a couple of vampires – their faces frozen in the inhuman snarl.
Oz remained standing by the door, examining the figures from a detached distance. His heightened sense of smell already told him the answer to the question he had to ask. “Tell me these aren’t real people.”
“Some were people,” Indris confirmed, “some were demons or warlocks or vampires. I even have a werewolf near the back.”
Oz looked away, disgusted. “All dead?”
“Not quite,” the necromancer replied. “All are on the point of death, frozen, if you will, between life and unlife. Obviously the vampires still have some kick in them, otherwise I’d be sweeping them up off the floor, wouldn’t I?”
“How is it done?” Loki asked, his voice disapproving but still fascinated. He had never concerned himself overmuch with manipulating the boundary of life and death. Killing had always suited his purpose. “How are they held so near death?”
Indris did not answer. He simply walked beside Loki as he glanced from one figure to the next. The next was clearly unique. A patched and sewed together assortment of different demon parts, with cybernetic components integrated with flesh. This demon had a large hole in its chest and its left arm was missing – surgically removed below the elbow. Loki looked down absently at the small brass plaque at the base of the pedestal. Adam.
“Where did you get them all?” Loki asked as they continued on. The room stretched on, seemingly forever. Loki noticed a pattern to the arrangement of the figures: On his left were the demons – the vampires and the classic creatures of evil. On his right, on the other side of Indris who walked beside him, were the humans, the lone pope, the kings and princes. Those who presumably fought the evil across from them. Where would he be placed in a room like this? Loki thought. “They weren’t volunteers.”
Indris made a small laugh. “No. Most of them were dead by the time my sources got a hold of them. I bring them back – just a little – so they stay... collectible.”
“So they don’t decompose,” Loki concluded.
Indris nodded. “Exactly. My network of sources is vast. I take my collection very seriously. I’ll pay top dollar for one of a kind people, demons and others. I even have an extra terrestrial demon. A Queller, it’s called. Quite unique.” He indicated the insect like thing on Loki’s side of the showcase room, but Loki’s attention was elsewhere.
Loki dashed down the line of heroes to one of the last figures occupying a pedestal. His mouth agape, Loki looked up at the familiar face.
With mouth open in a snarl and sword raised high, Alexius V looked ready for battle, as alive as ever. But from the scars on his brow and throat, Loki could guess how Angel had finished him off. “Who is your supplier in Los Angeles?” Loki demanded as Indris approached from behind.
“I only have one contact in America,” Indris said, looking up in admiration at his Knight of Byzantium. His holy warrior. “His name is Rack. Low profile magician who supervises the hands who actually do the work.”
“Where can I find Rack?” Loki pressed, never taking his eyes from the crusader without a crusade, frozen forever on his pedestal.
“First things must come first,” Indris replied. He bent low to rub a smudge from the shiny plaque, then straightened again. “We must do business before I can speak to you as a business associate, mustn’t we?” He slowly walked forward past the next figure to an empty pedestal. They were at the far wall of the room, several pedestals devoid of features. “Which means you must be able to pay me.”
“What did you have in mind?” Loki asked, still shaking his head at the odds of seeing Alexius again.
Indris raised an eyebrow. “Not what. Whom.” He indicated the already engraved brass plaque at the empty spot. “For a volunteer and information which might jeopardize my source’s confidentiality in America...?” Loki swallowed as he stared at the name on the plaque. “Nothing less than a vampire slayer will do.”
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