Forty One
30 January, 2002, Sunnydale
Willow sat perfectly still on the couch in Buffy’s living room. Across the room, on the small table by the door, lay a small book, quite inconspicuous under normal circumstances. But not here and not now.
Awakening
and other
Dark Arts
Willow blinked. Her eyes were locked on the book. The Arts she had given up. Dawn still hadn’t completely forgiven her for that night at Rack’s. For the demon and the car crash. Willow herself could barely conceive of forgiving herself.
Dawn walked into the room without so much as a second glance at the former witch. She did give a glance to the book, however. Then, though she had looked to be going out —right; going out to Janice’s again— she put the book uneasily in a drawer and sat down on the couch. It was the other end of the couch from Willow, but the gesture was obvious.
Willow slowly dropped her gaze from where the book had been. “Thanks,” she mumbled. Dawn slowly rose and moved to the door, giving not a backward glace as she exited, headed towards the waiting car. Willow closed her eyes for a long moment. That wasn’t the end of it, she knew.
3 February, 2002, Sunnydale
Loki stretched his arm out between the two trees. They stood like sentries near the front of the large abandoned lot. At least, it appeared to be abandoned. To his relief, Loki’s hand rippled and disappeared.
Loki had spent weeks trying to find Rack’s dwelling. After several tips which led him to different alleyways and empty lots, Loki had begun to think about a cloaked hideout. A trace spell had led him on a wild goose chase around the city before finally landing him here — naturally with a terrible headache.
No headache, however, could stop him now. Not because of determination, not because of the quickening he felt at being close to the end of this journey. It was elation. He had learned something, in these last weeks; something that he had never even considered possible before. Something was on his side. Whistler was dead. As dead as Loki could make him, and still Loki lived. He lived and breathed and continued on his business. No greater affront to the Powers That Be could Loki think of than killing their emissary, but still he lived. Something was on his side. And it was powerful.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Loki stepped forward into the invisible building. Immediately there was a smell. The common smell of long unwashed clothes covered by a variety of cheap incense and cigarettes. The musty smell of old furniture and old carpets lingered about those who sat or lay around the room.
Loki stood still for a moment, savoring the neglect. It was refreshing, almost, in its purity. Then he approached the nearest man. “Which one of you is Rack?”
The man’s vague expression slowly focused on the conjurer in the silk shirt. “Nah,” he said, distantly, “get lost, I’m next.”
Loki frowned and looked about the room again. Near the back was a curtain covering a doorway leading to another room. He turned and started forwards, but the junky rose unsteadily to his feet from the couch and took the conjurer’s arm. “Nobody goes in there,” he said angrily, his words slightly slurred, “unless Rack says... and Rack says I’m next.”
Loki licked his lips. Turning slowly from the curtain, he gently pried the man’s hand from his arm. His expression was so gentle and his gestures so slow that they surprised and confused the junky, who just stood there frowning. Loki delicately placed a hand on the man’s chest, reluctantly touching the pungent T-shirt. After looking calmly into the man’s eyes for a moment and seeing only confusion and distrust, his hand slid quickly up to grip the junky’s throat, lifting him off the ground. Holding him there for a moment, his muscles burning and his headache worsening, Loki finally let the man down where he gasped and sputtered and fell back to the couch.
Satisfied, the conjurer turned back to the curtain to find his way blocked by yet another greasy, stringy haired man. “Excuse me,” Loki said coldly, brushing past the new bottom-feeder.
Suddenly he felt the man’s hand touch his chest and rush of ecstacy drove into him. He groaned and immediately fell backward onto his backside, noticing the man stumbled backwards as well.
Slowly, they both rose and glare at each other. Loki was preparing for another assault when the man slowly smiled. “You taste like salt; like tears.”
Loki hesitated, then realized with some disappointment that this must be Rack. “You taste like shit,” the conjurer said candidly. He looked the warlock up and down, then raised an eyebrow. “And you don’t smell so good, either.”
Rack laughed gently. He raised his hands and pink electricity danced between his fingers. He made a step forward and all the junkies retreated behind him, away from Loki.
Loki merely scoffed. “I can do that,” he shrugged, throwing his hands out to the sides, a massive, twisting column of red and orange energy strung up before him. The junkies retreated now from Rack’s end of the room, several leaving the building altogether.
The two magicians squared off for a long moment, sizing each other up. Finally, Rack clapped his hands together and his light show ended. After a moment, Loki did likewise. The warlock grinned easily, showing lots of teeth. “Shall we go somewhere more... private?” He gestured towards the curtain and back room beyond.
Once inside, Loki found himself confronted with a whole new set of smells. He didn’t have time to analyze them, however, since Rack began speaking immediately. “Dutch man sent you, eh? To check up on me?” The warlock turned away and lifted a stoned girl from a chair in the corner, towing her to the door and shoving her out through the curtain. “He gets what he asks for and I haven’t been hearing more than the usual complaints, so what’s he checkin’ for?”
“He didn’t send me; I made him tell me where you were.” Loki remained perfectly still as Rack moved about the room, adjusting pillows and straightening an ugly lampshade. “I’m looking for your provider in Los Angeles. The one who gave you the knight.”
Rack stopped and frowned. “Armored fellow, tattoo on the brow. I was paid handsomely for him.”
Loki blinked patiently. It was clear that this low life was stalling. Loki let the uneasy silence turn against the warlock, letting it drag on until he was certain he had established himself as a patient man. “I’m going to do you a favor,” Loki said at last, his voice courteous. “I know you don’t deal in money or relics —which is too bad, since I have plenty of both— you deal in souls and magicks and death and...” he made a small nod, “lives.” He took a slow step forwards and Rack took a step back, readying his hands for any kind of attack.
“Well, I have a life that’s very precious to you,” Loki took another step forward and this time Rack stood his ground. “One that you value more than all the corpses of the world.”
“Oh?” Rack was trying to appear nonchalant, but his hands were trembling.
“Yes. Yours.” In the blink of an eye, Rack found himself pinned high up on the wall, his head bent awkwardly to the side and his ear pressed up against the ceiling. He groaned weakly and tried to raise his hands but found they were bent up behind his back – out of harm’s way. Loki paced back and forth patiently, below.
“Now, to be honest,” the conjurer went on, “this life I’m talking about is really quite worthless to me, so I could just give it to you—” Rack sighed with relief as he slid a few inches down the wall, relieving the pressure on his neck. “—On the other hand I could just throw it away—” There was a moan as the warlock was forced back up to the ceiling, his head bending sharply to one side with a crack. “But it occurs to me,” Loki said calmly, still pacing, “that this life might be have some value to you, and so an exchange might be to my benefit.”
“What do you want?” Rack croaked, breathing fast and shallow.
“Who in Los Angeles deals in souls? What demon, who hides in a church? What church does he hide in?” Loki allowed Rack a free breath of air, sliding him down until his feet were just off the ground.
“Our Lady of the Angels,” Rack gasped, struggling against the invisible grip. “Disguised as a priest —I don’t know his name— he’s the one you want.”
After a long moment, Loki let the man down. “Quite true, quite true.” He smiled benevolently. “He is the one I want. And I give you—” the conjurer took a long step back towards the curtain, “—that life you find so precious.” He held up a cautioning finger. “Don’t spend it all in one place.”
The instant Rack’s hands were freed from behind his back, he shot them forward, red energy striking the far wall, where and instant before, the conjurer had been standing.
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