Forty Seven
10 June, 2002, London, England
She didn’t make more than a muffled squeak as he brought his fangs into her neck. He held her partially undressed body against the wall of the bathroom stall, drinking her in with long, hungry gulps.
Just then there was a pounding on the stall door. A few seconds later, another impatient pounding and an irritated voice. “Right, get out o’ there! There’s other blokes waitin’ to use the loo!”
“I’m nearly through,” the vampire growled, taking his lips from the succulent meal. He lowered his head again, just as the woman’s body was going limp, when the pounding on the door resumed. “I said I’s nearly through,” the vamp shouted, wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. “Piss off!”
“I’ll piss all over you if you don’t get your sodding ass out o’ there!”
“There’s other bleedin’ toilets!” The vamp challenged, letting the body of the woman slump to the toilet seat.
“They’s all backed up!” the angry man retorted.
Charlie thought about this for a moment as his face reverted to human form. “Go fuck yourself!” he answered, opening the stall door. Some skinny git waited for him outside. But not with balled fists and a curse on his lips: Unconscious on the floor.
A blond haired chap with a poncy white shirt stood over the body, dusting his hands together, satisfied. Charlie looked from the ponce to the git and back again. “Erm...” he murmured, a little thrown.
The blond looked about himself distractedly, ignoring Charlie completely. Finding what he was looking for, he laid his hands on the faucet. Charlie half expected him to begin washing his hands, so normal and unhostile were his gestures.
But he didn’t turn on the faucet. It didn’t work anyway. With some unseen source of superhuman strength, he tore the stained steel tap from the sink. Holding it as if examining a firearm before buying it, he shifted it from hand to hand, closing one eye and looking down its length as if testing for straightness.
Charlie opened his mouth, flabbergasted. He tried to think of something to say; some way to catch this bloke’s attention, but the blond haired man was silent and ignored the vampire completely.
Right, Charlie ol’ boy, the scruffy brit thought, he can’t go on pretendin’ he don’t know you’re a bloodsucker, so you’ll have to off the bugger. He took a hesitant step forward, exiting the stall completely. As he did, he heard the body of the woman sink to the floor. Distractedly, he turned to see what made the sound. He looked for a long moment at the body on the floor, one of her hands still draped across the toilet seat. The universe was slowly ceasing to make logical sense. On an impulse, he strode back into the stall and flushed the toilet. The sound of the water being swept away seemed to stir him back into reality. Turning, his eyes didn’t register the faucet until it had already struck his skull. By then, consciousness was already beyond reclamation.
12 June, 2002, Los Angeles
“You asked for me?” the man sat down across from the conjurer. “I’m a very busy man, so if you’d like representation, I can put you in touch with—”
“I’d like a translated copy of the prophecy of Aberjian. I was directed here.” The conjurer was in no mood today for dancing or boxing. Time was short. He could not draw out his plan forever, nor postpone his ‘final task’ indefinitely.
Things had been put into motion. All of it was moving much quicker than Loki had anticipated. Not that it wasn’t moving according to plan — it was just moving faster.
Tory had been good to his word: He had offered no future deals. After he had lessened the conjurer’s wounds and provided him with the incantations necessary, Loki had done his bit – had killed Warren. If the Powers that manipulated this world wanted the Tara witch alive, there must be some reason for it. Some reason why Willow was not meant to become so powerful. What these reasons were was beyond Loki’s comprehension, and likely beyond even Tory’s. But for once, Loki didn’t question. Killing evildoers was his talent, perhaps even as great a talent as helping the soulless. At the time of the final deal, killing was his only bargaining chip.
The man across the desk frowned. “I would be very interested to know who it was who gave up that information.”
Loki made a little shrug. “A very unfortunate man of the cloth,” Loki answered, “whose life insurance policy was terminated.”
The man’s stern facade broke with a smile. “Oh, him. And that would make you the infamous Loki of Tibet.”
“Loki of many continents,” the conjurer replied. Was this Wethrin’s boss? One of his bosses? A far reaching reputation might end up as a liability. “Do my actions, then, curry favor with you?”
The man laughed. “Not enough for Aberjian, I’m afraid. The translation is still a work in progress.”
“I gather he talks about two ensoulled vampires — which is exactly my difficulty.” Loki shifted in his seat. “I need to know the specifics of these vampires. Are there any defining characteristics which set them apart from other vampires — besides their souls?”
The man had grown quiet and his smile was gone. After a long moment, he spoke again, quietly. “Who told you there were two vampires with souls?”
Loki mentally winced. He spread his hands as a kind of shrug. “Am I not infamous?”
The man remained silent for an even longer moment. “Much of the prophecy remains, as I said, untranslated.” He paused, folding his hands on the desk. “One of the vampires is described as a champion — one who averted an apocalypse.”
Angel, Loki thought. “What does it say about the other vampire?” the conjurer asked. Reaching into the lawyer’s mind, he saw the man had no idea. He was obviously working hard to contain his surprise that Loki knew somewhat more about the prophecy than he did. Two vampires? Maybe Whistler had simply been lying, just to protect Spike. The thought made Loki shudder. If that was true, then Whistler had died for that lie.
“Just that he has a soul,” the man lied. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a great deal of work to do.”
Loki made a small nod. “You have been most helpful.” He stood and without a second’s hesitation, left the office. A few moments later found him walking briskly out the front of the tall building, past the large sign.
Wolfram & Hart
Attorneys at Law
16 June, 2002, 60 miles West of Chamdo, Tibet
Charlie rolled over onto his side. The deal did not sound good. Any way he sliced it, it was bad news. Not that he could refuse the deal. It simply wasn’t possible. Death or damnation? Wonderful options. The former allowed him to feed on humans one last time before he was dusted and obliterated completely, the latter forbade him from ever eating humans again, lest he be dusted and sent straight to hell.
The vampire groaned as the dim light from the distantly shrouded sun entered the window. He needed rest. He needed blood. He’d do anything for blood. Well... almost anything. “Five more days?” He said from dry and cracked lips. “If I’s can go five more days, then I’s can have something to eat without you’s dustying up them floors?”
“You can drink pig’s blood to your heart’s content,” the man in the white shirt assured. “Five days of tests. Not a single drop of blood is to be spilled in this room, or you’re chopped up into many tiny pieces with metal instruments before wood ever enters your heart.”
The brit groaned. “Yeah, sure. You sing the bloody song, I might as well dance to it.”
Loki smiled gleefully. “Excellent. You have no idea how happy you’ve made me.” Charlie merely looked back at him forlornly and without a single kernel of the conjurer’s glee. “I can see that you really don’t have any idea.” He turned to go and only glanced back when he reached the door to the small cell. “Buck up, old chap,” he said with a mockery of the vamp’s accent, “just keep a stiff upper lip and keep those fine teeth behind it and everything will work out just fine.”
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