At eight o’clock that evening, Buffy, wearing a blue evening dress, arrives at Christian’s apartment building, a tall, twenty-first century slab. She has to ascend twenty-one floors in a high-speed elevator that oddly gives her so little sense of motion that she can hardly believe it when she reaches his floor. The hallway, brightly lit with white wainscoting and flaming yellow wall paper, leads to Christian’s corner apartment at the end of the hall. Buffy presses the buzzer and listens as footsteps inside the apartment grow louder.
“Ms. Summers?” asks Christian’s voice, muffled behind the featureless white door.
“Good guess,” replies Buffy.
“Oh, it isn’t a guess,” he replies. “I saw you on the monitor in the elevator and the hallway.
Buffy searches about her until she spots a small white camera perched in the corner to the ceiling to her right. Grinning mischievously, she wiggles her fingers in a coy wave.
“Yes,” says Christian. “That’s where I’m seeing you right now.” He opens the door, looking upon Buffy in the flesh for a long moment. “You look stunning this evening, Ms. Summers.”
“It’s ‘Buffy’,” she reminds him.
“Yes, of course. Come in, Buffy.” He steps aside, holding open the door so that Buffy is able to enter the spacious flat, first presenting a large living room with plush white carpeting, beige furniture and an entertainment center made of various gray and brown components. On the walls are reproductions of French and Italian masters, mainly from the Renaissance. A darkened hall to the right probably leads to the bedroom. Meanwhile, luscious odors and sizzling sounds come from the well-lighted kitchen on the left, which is separated from the living room by a partition that allows not only for a doorway but a opening above waist level so that whoever stands in the kitchen can serve drinks at the bar on the living room side.
“Forgive me,” says Christian. “I must get back to my cooking. Please have a seat at the bar, unless you must powder your nose, in which case you will want to go down the hall—first door on your left. If you go too far, you will be in my bedroom, which I do not recommend since it is a dreadful horror at the moment.” He turns and goes into the kitchen to take up where he evidently left off upon Buffy’s arrival. He stirs pans, checks two different ovens, and readjusts temperature settings.
Buffy glances about, taking in the apartment as she makes her way toward the bar where two cushioned stools appear slightly out of place, as if they originally belonged to a real bar or café somewhere. Before taking the one slightly closer to the cook and his range, Buffy satisfies herself that Christian’s apartment is genuinely lived in, not one of those rich boy pads with little or no furnishings or furniture, full of boxes of expensive toys that have never been unpacked. “Notwithstanding your warning about the bedroom, you have a beautiful apartment.”
“Do I have…what you call in America… “the Good Housekeeping seal of approval’?”
“Yes, and may I say that you have walked the fine line between tasteful-yet-masculine and Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.”
“It is a relief to know that,” says Christian, beaming a quick smile at Buffy before he returns his concentration to the scallops he is sautéing in real butter. Buffy watches and breaths deeply, her mouth watering.
“I hesitate to bring up….” Christian begins but lets his voice trail off.
“What?” asks Buffy.
“Your missing friends, has there been any news?”
“Today I spoke with the last people to see my friend, Xander, before he disappeared,” says Buffy. “Funny thing is, the fellow Xander was with—Bob Lefcourt, who is missing, too, of course—but he wasn’t actually supposed to be at that excavation site. Nobody knows who he is—or was. The engineers thought he came with the archeologists and the archeologist thought he was with the engineers. The truth is that no one knows where he came from or how he got past security. Doesn’t that sound strange?”
“So, you must be thinking that someone has deliberately kidnapped him,” says Christian. Buffy notices that he pronounces the word “kidnapped” with the emphasis on the second syllable, which she can’t help but think is cute.
“Yes.”
“But why would anyone do that?” Christian asks.
“The mind boggles,” Buffy replies. “We have no clue who it could be. No ransom note. Nothing.”
“And there is a little boy missing as well?”
“Yes. His father is frantic, and I am pretty worried myself.”
“I am sorry to bring up such an unsettling subject. Would it be better to try not to think about this for a while?”
“Maybe we could set it aside for the evening, since there is nothing we can do about it right now.”
********
Over after-dinner drinks, Buffy and Christian listen to his collection of Charlie Parker—on old-fashioned platters—which Buffy insisted he break out when she learned that the Bird is Christian’s favorite musician.
“You see,” says Christian, “if you had turned me down, we never would have learned that we both like jazz.”
“Let’s not think about that alternative,” suggests Buffy.
“Who is your favorite?” Christian asks.
“Well, I love instrumental jazz, but….”
“Ah, do not tell me,” says Christian excitedly. “You have a favorite jazz singer, yes?”
He smiles. Buffy smiles back.
“Yes,” says Buffy.
“No, no. Don’t tell me. I will find it for you.” with that, Christian goes to the cabinet where he keeps his ancient platters. Buffy marvels at the number of them which she guesses to be at least fifty. Christian also owns a tower of about seventy CDs, but the turntable, set up in the middle of the entertainment center, appears to be favored.
Christian seems to have found what he is looking for. The album cover is so worn that Buffy cannot tell what it is, but she enjoys the anticipation. It dawns on her that rather than only showing her what he is interested, Christian has shown an interest in what Buffy likes. Score several points for Christian, thinks Buffy. As he puts the record on the turntable, she further thinks that he will score even more points if he has actually chosen someone Buffy actually likes.”
“In my solitude,” sings a familiar, mellow voice, “you haunt me….” Christian seats himself on the couch near Buffy and smiles, raising his eyebrows inquisitively.
Buffy smiles. “Yes, Billie Holliday is my favorite,” she admits.
“Then I have passed the test I set for myself.”
“With flying colors,” says Buffy.
“And if I had not picked Lady Day, would you have been terribly disappointed in me?”
“Maybe a little,” Buffy says. “I’m not a tough grader, though. If you had picked Chet Baker or Ella Fitzgerald, I would have been very impressed, but Billie Holliday is, indeed, my all time favorite.” She sat back and took a sip of her cognac, listening to the melancholy strains. Then she opens her eyes to look at Christian. He is looking steadily at her. He sets his drink on the coffee table and Buffy follows suit. They embrace and begin the dance of the kiss, sliding lips over lips from every angle, gliding tongues tasting each other, two people thrilling as their hands fan over each other’s bodies.
********
Xander hates himself for being grateful for the new boy helping to stir the cauldron. The other boy, Tommy, had been so exhausted that Xander is now exhausted himself after about ten hours of stirring, holding up more than his end of the work. He wonders where the Crone took tommy and what they did with him. In spite of this new boy’s initial resistance to the task, he is now taking up the slack for Xander. Eyeing the boy, Xander is surprised by his energy. And his courage. Xander wouldn’t have had the pluck to kick that tank-sized vampire in the shins when it chained the boy in place at the cauldron.
The boy peeks cautiously at Xander. “What happened to your eye?” he asks finally.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Xander replies. “I lost my eye a long time ago, and it was replaced by a bionic eye. The Crone knocked it out, though. I guess she knew that I can see things she might not want me to see with it.”
The boy stirs for a moment. “You’re wrong,” he says.
“How’s that?” asks Xander.
“It is as bad as it looks.”
Xander chuckles in spite of himself. “What’s you’re name?” he asks
.
“Rupert. Who’re you?”
“My name’s Xander. Are you English?”
“Yes. You’re American, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.” After a pause, Xander adds, “I had an English friend named Rupert a long time ago.”
Rupert stops and looks at Xander from across the cauldron. “I met a lady on the train who knew somebody else named Rupert, and she was an American, too. She saved me from monsters.”
“Was her name Buffy Summers, by any chance?”
“Yeah, are you a friend of hers?”
“I guess we both are,” says Xander.
“She’s going to rescue us, isn’t she?” says the boy with a conviction that surprises Xander.
“I am sure of it,” says Xander, although he isn’t entirely certain.
Rupert stirs the cauldron, staring thoughtfully into it. “She made me promise not to tell anyone about that, but I guess it’s all right to tell you, since you’re a friend of hers and all.”
“Yes, it’s O.K. to tell me. In fact, when we get out of here, I’ll tell you about all the times she rescued me. It will take a long time to tell.”
“You might as well tell him now,” chortles the black-clad Crone standing in the doorway to their dungeon. “You’ll never be rescued by your friend Buffy, I assure you.”
“Oh, yeah. Well, don’t be too sure,” Xander shoots back.
Rupert rolls his eyes. “Utterly brilliant,” he mutters.
The Crone cackles and then says, “I have put obstacles in the paths of all of your friends. They will be too late to save either of you.”
“You’re a wicked old witch!” says Rupert between closely set teeth.
The Crone cackles some more. “I am far more than just an old witch my boy, far more.”
“You some kind of goddess?” asks Xander almost casually.
For once, the Crone is astonished. “It has been a long time since I have been seen for what I am by so puny a mortal as you. How do you know?”
“Even with one eye, I can recognize you for what you are. Seen one has-been evil goddess, seen all has-been evil goddesses.”
“Ah, but you are wrong,” says the Crone. “I was not always a harsh goddess. Once, when mortals gave me my proper due, I granted them prosperity, abundance, and fertility. It is only since they stopped propitiating me that I have become as I am, forced to seize my due from no-longer-willing mortals.”
“How come you sound like an American?” asks Rupert boldly; however, it strikes Xander that the question is as beside any point as it is impertinent to ask it of a goddess. He had long since ceased to wonder why all of the demons he met in Sunnydale had American accents even if they originally came from somewhere else. He had once asked Angel why he didn’t have an Irish accent and the vampire had simply said, “You ask too many questions, kid.”
“You ask too many questions, kid,” says the Crone. “Keep stirring the pot, that’s a good lad.”
“Well, how about this question,” says Xander, “what did you do with Tommy? Where is he.”
“Tommy? Oh, him. You needn’t worry about him. He has his reward.”
“What do you mean?” asks Xander.
“Well, let us see,” said the Crone, taking and old watch on a gold chain from under her dark robe. It’s ten p.m. now; so it’s been two hours since my boy, Affoggy, had your friend Tommy over for dinner. Now, Affoggy is a slow eater, but I’m sure that by now Tommy is in the process of digesting—or, should I say, in the process of being digested.” With that the Crone begins a loud cackling. She turns and leaves the dungeon, closing the door with a metallic slam, thereby muffling her nonetheless audible laughter, which echoes down the corridor outside.
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