Paradise - Act 4
Pearce was stretched out on his king size bed, the newly decorated gothic interior was lit only by candle light. There were two things a vampire sought. Blood and style. The vampire looked down at the silver bracelet on his wrist which glinted in the candles’ glow. That ensured him blood. And now he had style. Cemeteries were for saps. Condos were for dinks. Fortunately, with the help of the seemingly unlimited funds from the Watcher’s council, Pearce had managed to transform his palace into a respectable and stylish pad.
He was just curling up with some Merlot when the phone rang. With a sigh he lifted the receiver and set the bottle on the table. Seconds later, he lifted it to his lips and took a long swig. “Uh huh,” he nodded. “Uh huh.” He looked vaguely into the dark distance of the bedroom for a long moment. “Yeah.” And the phone gave a little ring as he dropped the receiver back into its cradle. Exhaling the pleasant taste on his breath, the vampire took another swig. Always trouble with those two.
He stood and jammed the cork back into the bottle when a woman stepped through the threshold of his bedroom, wearing very little. “Do you want her here?” the demon pimp asked, gripping the woman’s arm stiffly.
Pearce sighed. “No, I’ve got something... yeah, sure.” There was still time to mix a little of the real stuff with the wine. He smiled as the woman was led, dazed, into his midst and he uncorked the bottle again. There really was nothing Addison wouldn’t do for him, provided the vampire asked politely.
The red-clad demon with gold teeth released her arm with some amount of satisfaction. “Where do you want the others?”
It was two and a half hours before Niki heard Pearce knock on the apartment door. She let him in with some impatience. “What the hell took you so long?”
Pearce frowned, insulted. “Excuse me if I don’t come running every time you and lawyer-boy have an extramarital spat.”
“I’m worried about him,” the Slayer began to pace, clutching something in her pale hands. It was only then that Pearce noticed her breath was fogging up.
“Shit, why is it so cold in here?” He moved to where his vampire senses told him was the coldest and closed the window in her bedroom. She had followed him as far as the doorway and still looked worried sick.
“Did you know about this?” she showed him the book Logan had been reading.
“Yeah,” Pearce took the Dark Arts from the Slayer’s hands. “He might actually be useful now. He managed to not get the crap beaten out of him by that chameleon demon.”
“But it’s not right,” Niki protested urgently. “It’s not perfect, it isn’t supposed to have him yet, it—”
“Hey,” Pearce frowned, approaching her. “Are you okay?”
The Slayer threw up her hands. “Why does everyone keep asking me that? I’m not the one who’s screwed up here.” She began to frantically pace the living room, her hands shaking involuntarily. “I told him he had to go back to his family — but he got angry...” she stopped, facing the vampire and her worry transformed into anger. “Pearce, is that blood on your shirt?”
The vampire slowly lowered his gaze to the front of his shirt. There was a distinctive red stain on the dark grey fabric. “No, it’s wine,” he said in complete honesty. He heard her noticeably sigh with relief. “The blood came out with club soda.”
“Dammit, Pearce!” Niki said with exasperation. “You can’t do this! It’s not right, it’s not... it’s not perfect!”
Pearce scratched the back of his head. “Just a minute...” he thought very seriously, considering her distraught form shifting from foot to foot in front of him. “I think I know what’s wrong.”
“It’s all wrong!” she blurted as he walked past her. “I looked out the window and I saw someone J-walking! Can you believe it?” She rushed over to her window and shoved it open to shout into the chilly air. “There’s a reason we have crosswalks!”
Pearce seized the book from the kitchen table containing the dream quest revival spell. He snatched the phial containing the spring water and the leather pouch with the incense. “I know what it is—” he said with satisfaction, “we forgot to dip your—” hearing the crash he turned to see Niki crouching on the window sill, the screen on the floor, the wind blowing through the ninth story window.
“Knicks...” Pearce said with a growing hint of worry. “What are you doing?”
“It’s so wrong it’s not even possible... It’s not even close to perfect,” there were tears in her eyes and her shivering form was leaning farther out the window. “It’s so wrong.”
“Niki, come down,” Pearce was edging towards her, the spring water in his hand. With his thumb, he flicked the stopper out and readied it to douse her bare feet. “Whatever’s wrong, we can work it out. We can make it perfect, okay?”
“Logan’s gone,” Niki cried. “I don’t know where he’s gone, but it wasn’t to his family.” Her hands were white as they gripped the edges of the window, her slim body crouching almost completely outside the window’s frame. There was a gust of wind which threw her hair away from her face.
The vampire frowned. “Logan’s not gone,” he said, puzzled. He confirmed what his acute sense of smell told him. “He’s in the other room.” As he sorted through the smells in his mind he cocked his head. “And I think he’s bleeding.”
Niki was down off the window sill in an instant. She dashed past the vampire in the living room and with a tremendous kick, knocked in Addison’s old bedroom door.
Logan’s pale form lay on the floor in a pool of his own blood. There was a distant look of terror on his face. The Slayer fell to her knees and lifted him into her arms, tears streaking down her face.
“Okay...” Pearce said delicately. “Time for some delicious spring water...” and the tiny droplets splashed over the Slayer’s feet. Within seconds, she was unconscious beside Logan.
Logan awoke with a scream. He was breathing hard and his brow was suddenly cold with sweat. For an instant he retained the terrifying image which had been playing behind his eyelids for the past eternity. Then it was gone, leaving only the feeling behind.
Soon he noticed Niki’s comforting hand on his shoulders, holding him down in the soft bed. Her bed. There was still the sting of the cut on his chest and his toes were cold. And wet.
“Don’t mind the spring water,” he heard Pearce say. “It’s doing the whole mystic cleansing of the effects of your trip to happy-land.” He gave the now cynical Slayer a knowing look. “No dementia and emotional breakdowns for you.”
Logan could already feel the terror abating. The spring water did nothing, however, to eliminate the memory of the feeling. He had never been so scared in his entire life. Whatever hell this blade brought people to, it was beyond evil by any definition. Soon, the feeling was completely replaced by the warm feeling of coffee in his stomach and the Slayer snuggling up to him. He couldn’t help but notice how completely clothed they both were.
Pearce nodded satisfactorily. Yet again, the undead Watcher saves the day. “Now, tell me something,” he directed the question to either of them, “how are things? Perfect?”
Niki shrugged. “They suck. But I’m good with it.”
Logan was a little longer in answering. “Things...” he took a sip of his coffee, feeling himself drift away from the woman beside him, “things have never been better.”
The doorbell rang. There was no guilt in the ring. Uncertainty — sure. The finger depressed the small key again, moving quickly back to the necktie to ensure it was straight. He heard footsteps inside and straightened, taking a breath. His hands gripped the bouquet with nervous white knuckles. There was a nervous cough from behind him, but he ignored it.
The door opened and Rachel’s slightly skeptical face appeared. There was a moment as she looked to him and then past him. “Are those for me?” she asked indicating the dozen white roses he held.
Logan looked down at the bouquet, as if suddenly realizing what he was holding. “Uh... yeah. They’re for you.”
Her unimpressed exterior not seeming diminished, Rachel nodded towards the figures beyond the man on her porch. “Who are they?”
Logan half turned, a worried expression playing across his features. “Well... I couldn’t carry them all.” The nine tuxedo-clad men produced nine more dozen-rose bouquets, varying in color from dark red to yellow to white. The ten dozen roses didn’t seem to sway the woman in the doorway and Logan felt his palms grow clammy. Way to go, Kilpatrick, he cursed himself silently. ...Beyong all repair...
Rachel took a deep breath. It wasn’t so much the nervous man standing awkwardly on her doorstep like a teenager that did it. It wasn’t the nine handsome men in tuxedos offering her flowers that did it. It wasn’t even the overwhelming scent of roses wafting across the neighborhood that made her smile. It was that between all the impeccably dressed flower-bearers, the one in the center —the one who wanted her love back— was wearing his outdated brown blazer and matching khakis and holding the most dilapidated dozen roses of the whole bunch, no doubt passed anxiously from hand to hand in the van on the way here. His tie was also comically crooked.
For whichever reason Rachel did it, her smile at that moment was the greatest victory Logan had ever experienced. His face lit up brighter than heaven itself and he smiled wider than he felt his face could support. At the same time he brought his arms around his wife, his exuberance making her smile all the more. Somehow he had done it. Again.
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