The Wind Beyond the Walls of the
Mind
Chapter 2
A Warning
by Gaius Petronius
Synopsis:
At the dawn of the new millennium, an ominous planetary
conjunction threatens to tear the fabric of space/time, opening a
passage between the Void where the evil Ancient Ones are
imprisoned and the present reality. Led by Nyarlethotep, "the
three lobed burning eye," the Ancient Ones threaten to break
loose, reclaim their old dominions and destroy the world. The only thing standing between them is a sole legendary Guardian. . . and
a prophecy about a Slayer who is doomed to lose her soul
to save the world.
DISCLAIMER:
Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all the characters that appear on
the show are the exclusive property of Joss Whedon, the WB, Fox
and Mutant Enemy, Inc. This story can be read on its own or as
a sequel to H. P. Lovecraft's "The Haunter of the Dark"
from which the Ancient Ones, the Shining Trapezohedron and the
character of Robert Blake are derived.
The Wind Beyond the Walls of the Mind is set
roughly in mid-season four shortly following the death of Doyle
but before the creation of Adam and the death of Maggie Walsh.
Rating PG-13 for language, violence and
a racy scene or two.
* * * * * * *
Cordelia Chase was busily buffing her fingernails with an emery
board. She examined the results of her work carefully, inspecting
each nail as if she were a diamond cutter crafting the perfect
angle on every facet. And she was bored senseless. The telephone
was still silent. It was always silent. No customers, no auditions,
no nothing.
The space occupied by Angel Investigations
in the dingy old building was dark and lifeless, the furniture
all second hand, the office itself paneled in some unidentifiable
wood composite that might have been popular in the 1920's. As
Cordelia glanced up from her nail work, she imagined that this
"suite," as Angel referred to it, must have been designed
and finished during an era when everyone in the world was at least
forty years old.
Angel remained out of sight behind the closed
door in his own wing of the office. Ever since Buffy had made
her unexpected visit to Los Angeles two weeks earlier, he had
been locking himself away for hours on end. Cordelia shook her
head in disgust. Angel was tough enough to deal with anyway, but
after Buffy returned to Sunnydale, he had shifted into full Brood
Dude mode.
Cordelia couldn't even strike up a conversation
with the vampire, much less squirrel a raise out of him. She stared
at the ceiling and sighed. She had been sitting behind the receptionist's
desk for hours.
Suddenly, the telephone rang, the sharp sound
piercing and grating. Cordelia jumped in her seat. For just a
second, she stared baffled at the phone.
"A customer!" she exclaimed as she
quickly attempted to compose herself. With lightning speed, she
pulled out her compact and examined her image in its miniature
mirror. She smacked her lips insuring her lipstick was even, inspected
her eye makeup and lightly fluffed the waves of her long brown
hair. Slipping the compact away, she straightened herself in her
chair and finally lifted the phone receiver.
"Angel Investigations," she crooned
to the telephone, "We help the hopeless. How may I help you?"
Cordelia struggled to concentrate on the voice
on the line, but within seconds her eyes glazed over. Her face
twitched as she felt waves of pain sweep across her forehead and
spread up into her scalp. "Oh NO!" her mind screamed
as realized she was experiencing the first throws of a vision.
"Damn it, Doyle!" she cursed under
her breath. "Not now!"
Battling to maintain her composure, she mustered
her best professional receptionist's tone as she responded to
the caller.
"May I put you on hold? Thank you. One
moment please."
As she pushed the hold button on the phone,
her body was racked with the convulsions that accompanied her
visions. The telephone receiver fell with a clang to the desktop
as she covered her contorting face with both hands and swayed
back and forth in the chair. In a moment more, she toppled over
out of sight behind the desk onto the floor, taking the chair
down with her in an enormous crash.
As Cordelia rolled on the floor, the front
door to the office opened and slammed shut. Wesley Windham Price,
dressed in an unmatched vest and frayed tweed jacket, his face
buried in a book and a manila folder clutched in his free hand,
paraded into the office. Oblivious, he swept by, dropping the
folder on the desktop where moments before Cordelia had been manning
the telephone.
"Good evening, Cordelia," he announced
perfunctorily, not looking up from his book, "Please add
this to the Manning file. It's some follow up material."
Hidden from view, Cordelia thrashed around
behind the receptionist's desk. Wesley marched up to the door
of Angel's private office and rapped on the opaque glass of the
door. There was no response. Wesley tapped again, a little louder
this time. Finally the door opened and a clearly annoyed Angel
stuck his head out.
"What is it now, Wesley?!" Angel
snapped.
"Just that I found some additional information
on the Manning matter that I think you really ought to . . ."
Before Wesley could finish, Angel knew something
was wrong.
"Where's Cordelia?" he almost shouted.
Then he saw a foot protruding from behind the receptionist's desk.
Cutting Wesley off, he pushed roughly by and
swooped over to Cordelia. Kneeling down beside her, he swept her
tall thin body up in his arms, pulled the chair upright once more
and sat her up.
"Cordelia! Are you all right?"
"Oh my goodness!" Wesley babbled
as he scrambled up to the vampire's side. "I didn't realize
. . ." He then glowered at Cordelia. "Well you must
speak up when something like this happens!"
"Shut up, Wesley," Angel growled
over his shoulder. He was getting really annoying. "Cordelia
. . . can you hear me?"
Very slowly, Cordelia began to throw off the
effects of the vision. She struggled to breath steadily once more
and looked up into Angel's eyes.
"Are you going to be okay?"
Cordelia just nodded. All of a sudden her eyes
widened in panic.
"Shit!" she exclaimed.
She leaned forward over the desk, grabbed the
loose telephone receiver and hit the hold button in an attempt
to retrieve the call.
"Thank you for holding," she struggled
to recapture the professional receptionist's voice. "This
is Cordelia Chase. How may I help you?"
Both Angel and Wesley could hear the buzz of
a dial tone. Cordelia slammed the receiver down.
"Damn! And that was a live one, too!"
she yelled.
"Cordelia, what was it? What did you see?"
Angel asked as calmly as possible.
Cordelia ignored him.
"This is getting more than inconvenient!"
she ranted. "Last week I spilled coffee all over the new
invoice forms!"
Angel waited patiently for the torrent of words
to ebb. Absentmindedly he mused at how Wesley babbled but Cordelia
chattered.
"Now we lose a paying customer!"
she continued turning in a panic to stare up at Angel. "What
if it happens while I'm in the middle of a big audition?!"
"If it's for a horror movie, you'll get
the part," he answered with a grin.
"This isn't funny Angel! These visions
are killing business, . . . what little business we have!"
"Cordelia, they're the reason we have
any business!"
"Oh . . . yeah."
"What did you see?" Angel asked again
gently.
"But what if it happens while I'm out
on a date!"
"You'll just make it an early night. Nothing
new, right?"
Cordelia scowled. Angel pressed on, his question
more insistent.
"Cordelia, what did you see?"
She didn't respond for a moment. Her frown
spread further up her face, so much so that Angel almost made
a remark about wrinkles but held his tongue. Then, suddenly a
look a fear washed across her face. She began to sway as if she
was about to pass out. Angel gripped the receptionist's chair
so that it wouldn't tip over again. At the same time, Cordelia
stared deep into the vampire's eyes but said nothing. He nodded,
encouraging her to speak.
". . . red . . ." she whispered
"And?"
". . . there was fire all around, flames
. . . and something in the middle," Cordelia answered, her
voice trembling. "It was like there were three eyes . . .
but they were one. And it was searching."
"Not too much to go on. Anything else
you can remember?" Wesley asked urging Cordelia to volunteer
more information to make his upcoming research a little easier.
Cordelia didn't respond at first as if she
were afraid of something else she had seen in the vision.
"It's okay," Angel said as he hovered
protectively over her. "We'll get right on it." He slid
a blank pad of paper and a pencil over in front of her.
"Here. You start sketching what you saw,"
he said as he turned to Wesley. "Wesley I want you to . .
."
"No! It wasn't here in LA!" Cordelia
cried out. "It was back home . . . in Sunnydale!"
Angel froze in his tracks, and Wesley drew
in a sharp breath.
"And It wasn't just searching for something . . ." Cordelia's
voice began to quiver under the strain. "I think it was also
after . . . someone . . ."
Angel was silent, for the first time fearful
of what he was about to hear.
"Do you know who?" Wesley finally
asked after a pause.
Cordelia spoke as if she were recounting something
from a nightmare.
"It was looking for someone with power
. . . like a Slayer. Angel, I can't be sure, but it felt like
. . . it was coming for Buffy!"
Angel stood immobile, his eyes widening as
the impact of Cordelia's vision sank in. He stepped back from
the desk and stared out the window over the Los Angeles streets
bathed in artificial light.
"Perhaps . . ." Wesley offered sheepishly,
"We should call Giles and warn him?"
"That's the first good suggestion you've
had all evening," Angel said, and he realized why he still
tolerated Wesley. Sometimes he just stated the obvious.
Wesley smiled at the compliment.
"You want me to call?" Cordelia suggested,
sensing the vampire's discomfort at the prospect of phoning old
haunts. "Just in case you-know-who picks up?"
"No, . . . that's okay. Thanks anyway,"
Angel responded flatly.
Immediately sensing an opening, Cordelia turned
on her perky voice.
"You're the boss . . ." she said
brightly. "Now how about that raise?"
"Cordelia . . . just draw."
"Pooh!"
Cordelia scowled again as she picked up a pencil.
Slowly Angel lifted the telephone receiver on the desk, took a
deep breath, paused and dialed Giles' number in Sunnydale.
The lights were low in Giles' apartment. Illuminated
by a single floor lamp, Giles and Spike sat around the coffee
table by the sofa. Giles nursed a glass of neat single malt scotch.
Leaning forward from the sofa, Spike nervously sipped from a large
pint pub glass filled with a dark liquid that, in the dim light,
could have been mistaken at first for Guinness except for its
deep crimson hue. Every few moments rolling dice clinked on the
glass top of the table. Spike muttered whispered oaths, but Giles
wore a self satisfied smile.
Spike tossed the dice across the coffee table,
cursed under his breath and scribbled something on a small pad
of paper at the same time as he set his glass down on the table
top.
"Please, use a coaster," Giles begged
as he slid across the table one of Spike's cheap cork cutouts
imprinted with the logo of a sleazy topless demon bar.
Spike only growled in response. Giles reached
out, collected the dice, shook them in a small cardboard rolling
cup and tossed them back out onto the table. Seeing the result
of the roll, Spike's eyes blaze with fury.
"Bloody Damn Hell!"
"Yahtzee!" Giles announced smugly.
Spike swung his arm out in a fury scattering
the dice and score pads off the table. He flopped back onto the
sofa and sipped his drink in sullen silence.
"No reason to lose your temper, you know"
Giles lectured as he collected the score pads and pencils off
the floor. "Clearly games just are not your forte. You're
no good at Bridge. Not much better at Cribbage and Backgammon.
Xander beat you at War and if I hadn't stepped in and stopped
that game of Strip Poker between you and Willow, she would have
left you with little more than . . .
"Shut up! Just shut up!" Spike snapped.
This was the third week Spike had been holed
up at Giles' apartment, and both were clearly getting on each
other's nerves.
"We'll just have to find some other way
to occupy your time until we can determine what The Initiative
has done to you," Giles said, all the while trying to control
his temper. "This afternoon's All My Children tape is over
by the VCR."
Spike sighed as if Giles' suggestion were his
last resort for any kind of entertainment.
"You want to watch it with me?" Spike
asked, his voice dripping boredom. "That Alex is a foxy bird.
I give her less than a week before she's in the sack with Edmund."
Suddenly, the door to the apartment flew open,
the inside handle hitting the wall with a crash. The noise caused
Giles to nearly leap out of his chair. As he jumped, his knee
hit the edge of the coffee table, spilling the glass of single
malt scotch across the table top. Buffy Summers stormed in.
"Giles! Giles!"
Giles stared at the spreading puddle of ten
year old scotch.
"Did you hear someone knock?" he
announced sarcastically.
Spike shrugged his shoulders as if to say "Not
me."
"Giles! I just came from the cemetery
. . . !"
Giles raised his hand for silence, interrupting
Buffy's outburst. He glared at her for a moment, then turned and
walked over to the door. As he pulled the door shut, he revealed
a hole punched by the door handle in the wallboard where Buffy
had slammed it open. Instantly, Buffy's bravado wilted when she
saw the damage.
"Oops . . ."
"How good are you with spackle?"
Giles dead panned.
"Sorry . . . but Giles I saw it again
tonight!"
"Your 'thing' in the cloud of red flames?"
Giles asked as he started to wipe up the spilled scotch with a
dishcloth. For an instant he entertained the wild idea of bending
down and slurping up the precious amber liquid off the glass but
shuddered at the crudity of the thought. "That's three times
in the last week?"
"Yeah," Buffy answered with a touch
of fear in her voice. "Giles, . . . you haven't found anything
yet about what it is?"
"Nothing specific, no," Giles said
as he headed into the kitchenette and squeezed the cloth out into
the sink. He watched mournfully as a thin trail of scotch, the
result of a decade of careful aging in oak barrels in the Scottish
Highlands, now trickled down the drain. He sighed deeply.
"Your description is not really much to
go on. I have been looking . . ." Giles glared over at Spike
who answered with a snotty face in return, ". . . when I
haven't been preoccupied baby sitting!"
"I don't have to stay around here and
take this muck from you!" Spike snapped as he made a move
to get up from the sofa. "I could walk out that door right
now!"
"Do it! See how long you last!" Buffy
snarled.
His bluff called, Spike turned away and muttered
more oaths to himself. At the same time, the telephone rang.
Slightly surprised, Giles looked over at the
phone. "Who would be calling at this hour?" he mused
to himself. Slowly he stepped over to the telephone stand and
picked up the receiver. He listened for a moment and then, as
he began to speak, his eyes fell on Buffy.
"Angel . . . ?"
Buffy squirmed on hearing the first word of
the conversation.
"Good to hear from you . . . I see . .
. When? . . . yes . . . no she's fine although we have had a run
in or two with something similar to what you've described. I'm
checking into it now. I'll let you know what I find. And Cordelia's
all right?"
Giles grinned slightly as Angel described how
Cordelia was holding up under the visions. At the same time, Buffy's
gaze was riveted on Giles. On the sofa, Spike sat straight up,
relishing the building tension in the apartment.
"You're right," Giles continued with
a smile. "She may not be half demon like Doyle but you'd
never know it. You'll let me know if anything else develops on
your end? . . . Good. . . . Buffy?"
Buffy's eyes widened, and she drew in a small
sharp breath at the mention of her name.
"Yes, she's right here . . . Would you
like to speak with her?"
Giles held the phone out to Buffy. At first,
she started to shake her head, begging Giles not to make her talk
to Angel. However, a quick glance over to the sofa revealed Spike,
who was smirking evilly, about to make a crack so quickly she
gulped and took the phone.
". . . Hi . . ." she said uncomfortably
into the receiver. "Yeah, I'm okay. No, really. It hasn't
done anything yet."
In the office of Angel Investigations, Angel
wanted to lower his voice so Cordelia and Wesley couldn't overhear
the conversation. The attempt was futile. He could see out of
the side of his eyes the others were drinking in every word.
"Buffy, I'm guessing from Cordelia's vision, this entity
needs the power of a Slayer for whatever it's trying to do,"
Angel said, trying to keep the conversation all business. "That's
why it's stalking you. It's sizing you up, checking you out for
any weakness. Until Giles finds out what we're dealing with, we
have no idea what it's capable of. Please . . . be careful."
"I will," Buffy said softly. "Angel.
. .?"
Buffy paused as she weighed whether she should
say some of the zillions of things she had on mind. There was
so much she wanted to say, so much she wanted to share. She almost
blurted everything out right then and there but she glanced over
her shoulder towards the sofa. With Spike and Giles glaring at
her, she decided otherwise.
". . . I . . . I'm sorry . . . about Doyle,"
she stammered. "How's Cordelia holding up? . . ."
Angel's answer made her grin, and Giles sighed
as the tension eased somewhat.
"Yeah, she's strong," Buffy replied.
"It's the bitch factor. . . . Look, I gotta go. Thanks for
calling. . . Yeah, you too. Take care."
Buffy slowly replaced the phone receiver in
its cradle. There was a long pause. As Spike was about to open
his mouth, Buffy turned and cut him off with a voice like a razor.
"Don't even say it!"
At the same time, Angel slowly lowered the
phone. Both Cordelia and Wesley waited anxiously for him to speak.
"Well? . . ." Cordelia asked, the
anticipation bringing the color back to her face.
"Huh?" Angel responded blankly, looking
up at her.
"How is she?"
"Buffy?"
"No! Brittany Spears!" Cordelia snapped.
"Of course, Buffy! Geez! You gotta get outta the office once
in a while!"
"She's all right," he sighed, realizing
that there was no way he could escape Cordelia's interrogation.
"That's a relief!" she smirked and
turned to Wesley. "Every time 'stake girl' gets in trouble,"
Cordelia thumbed at Angel, "he gets all like . . . 'ggrrr!'"
Cordelia made a snarly face and wiggled her
fingers in front of her mouth like fangs.
"You notice," she continued, "how
we haven't gotten crap done around her for over two weeks!
"Oh, I'm sure it's not all that bad,"
Wesley said coming to Angel's defense. "These things take
time you know and . . ."
Cordelia suddenly interrupted Wesley before
he could continue his dissertation on the vagaries of romance.
She was frowning again as if the impact of the vision were about
to return.
"Angel," she said ominously.
"What is it?" he asked.
"I suddenly realized . . . ," she
answered as she stared around the office. She looked like her
eyes were searching for something lurking beyond the shadows or
just outside in the dark hallway. "Angel . . . That flaming
thing I saw. . . 'it' knows I've seen it."
Angel didn't respond but turned to stare out
the window at the blanket of night spread over Los Angeles.
"I'm afraid. Take me home," Cordelia
whimpered.
"Sure. You need a hand up?"
"No, I can manage."
Cordelia stood up from the chair. For a moment
she swayed unsteadily on her feet. Angel put his arm around her
shoulder for support and led her out the door. As they passed
in front of the desk, Angel spoke quickly to Wesley.
"Man the phones. I'll be right back,"
he ordered as he and Cordelia headed for the door.
"But . . . but . . . what do I do?"
Wesley asked in a panic as he stared at the now ominous three
line telephone.
"If we get any calls, just punch the button
for line one and take messages," Cordelia called out over
her shoulder as she and Angel left the office, the door slamming
behind them.
Wesley was on his own. As the impact of the
situation began to sink in, he stood bewildered for a moment and
then slowly sat down in the receptionist's chair. He stared at
the phone in front of him on the desk as if it were rigged with
explosives, ready to detonate if he should so much as breath on
it.
"This shouldn't be too difficult,"
he muttered to himself. "After all if Cordelia can handle
it . . ."
Suddenly a loud ring cut him off in mid sentence.
Wesley jumped at the noise and stared for a moment at the ringing
phone. Gingerly he picked up the receiver, put it to his ear and
punched a button on the telephone panel.
"Angel Investigations," he said hesitantly.
"We help the hopeless. How may we help you?"
Instead of an answer, Wesley only heard a dial
tone. At the same time, the telephone continued ringing. Flustered,
he punched another button.
"Angel Investigations. We help the hopeless."
Still only a dial tone. Nevertheless, the phone
continued to ring. Reaching the verge of exasperation, Wesley
punched a third button, this time with a little unwarranted force.
The ringing suddenly ceased.
"That's better," he thought, confident
he finally had the hang of the miserable communication device.
He announced the name of the company to the caller with supreme
self confidence.
"Angel Investigations. We help the hopeless.
How may we help you?"
Wesley listened to the response and a puzzled
look crossed his face.
"Well . . . I suppose we could deliver,"
he sputtered in confusion ". . . but . . . 'take out?' What
number are you calling?"
* * * * * *
Angel and Cordelia sped down the freeway in
his black '67 Belvedere GTX. With any luck, he could have her
at her apartment and then be back to the office in less than fifteen
minutes. The thought of Wesley manning the phones was more than
a little disconcerting.
Angel squinted behind the wheel as they approached
a stretch of several hundred yards of highway construction where
the overhead street lamps were burned out. All at once, the night
seemed to swirl in around them, and details of the highway itself
appeared to vanish in the intensifying darkness. Cordelia stared
straight ahead as the night virtually swallowed up the headlight
beams of the GTX. She fidgeted in the seat and Angel sensed her
uneasiness.
"Cordelia? . . . What is it?" he
asked, recognizing the fear that now swept over her again.
She didn't answer but only stared straight
ahead. Suddenly her face convulsed in terror, and she grabbed
the steering wheel, yanking it to the right as she screamed at
the same time.
Caught by surprise Angel struggled with the
wheel.
"Cordelia! What the Hell are you doing!"
he yelled.
The car lurched wildly to the right. In the
same instant, from out of the inky void in front of them, an orb
of red light hurtled towards the convertible in a blazing arc.
It struck the pavement just yards away from where Cordelia swerved
the car to the side and exploded in a burst of flames.
Angel immediately realized he wasn't able to
see what had them under assault but Cordelia, for whatever reason,
could. Without relinquishing the wheel, he allowed enough play
so she could turn the speeding car. Cordelia screamed again and
yanked the wheel to the left.
The Belvedere swerved into the high speed lane,
cutting off a passing BMW behind them. A horn blared and brakes
shrieked as the BMW skidded against the Jersey barrier and spun
out, barely avoiding hitting the GTX. At the same time, a second
blazing orb exploded in the middle lane only a few feet beside
them. The flash of red light illuminated the black interior of
the convertible.
And then, as quickly as it had begun, the threat
vanished as the Belvedere passed beyond the darkened construction
zone and out onto a fully illuminated stretch of freeway. Cordelia
slowly regained her composure and began breathing at more regular
intervals as she released her vice like grip on the steering wheel.
Angel wiped his brow and glanced over at her.
"Fancy maneuvering," he said coolly.
"What the hell was that?"
". . . a warning . . ." Cordelia
answered quietly.
Angel suddenly jerked the car sharply down
an exit ramp, drove across the freeway on an overpass and entered
by an on ramp going in the opposite direction.
"Hey! What gives?" Cordelia called
out. "My place is the other direction!"
Angel didn't reply but only glared straight
ahead at the highway. He punched the accelerator hard, and the
Belvedere GTX surged as if the eight cylinder muscle car relished
Angel's heavy foot on the pedal. The black convertible roared
headlong in the night down the virtually empty freeway.
"Oh no! You're not! Angel! Where are we
going?" Cordelia shouted over the blare of the engine. It
was a useless gesture since she already knew the answer.
" . . . Sunnydale . . ." he said
grimly.
* * * * * *
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