Seishi - Wednesday, September 19, 2001, 7:40 PM

-----------------------------------------------

 

The League has followed a trail of clues to London in trying to locate the location of the Legendary Fourth Nail, an artifact that is believed to have the power to break the Gem of Amarra. Nosing around through his personal connections, The Saint has learned that the rumored possessor of the Nail, a black marketeer named Viktor Balaton, is in the city, preparing to possibly sell the thing at a black market auction.

This auction is going to be held in the basement of the gambling den of British gangster 'Cardie' Cardigan, a notoriously brutal ex-footballer with his fingers in all sorts of underworld business. The den is inside of a building on the docks, appearing to the world outside as little more than a rundown warehouse. The Saint's been given a Password and been told to dress nice; the club caters to the wealthy and high up members of the criminal classes. Your mission, if you choose to accept it, is to get in contact with Balaton and find out if he really has the Nail then 'acquire' it.

 

Buffy

        The young woman standing infront of you is dressed to kill, or at least to level a city block on looks alone. Golden blond tresses have been perfectly curled and pulled back, half of it twirled into an intricate twist, the rest left as shining curls to frame her face. Blue-grey eyes have been carefully lined and touched up with dark blue eye shadow, a light sparkly shade touching her brows. Shades of red lipstick paint the perfect little pout that has been dressed up with just a smudge of lip gloss.

        But its the dress that is the eye catcher, molded to every curve of her body, it is a shining silver that looks almost molten, dissolving into hologram flashes of rainbow color whenever she moves. The front dips down, thin straps lacing behind her shoulders. The back is low, very low with lacing criss- crossing its way across bare skin, tying off in the small of her back. The dress is tightly fitted, slit in the front high up the thigh of her right leg. Strappy silver high heels give her stylish poise and a few more inches to her height.

 

Seishi

        The first thing one notices when they look at Seishi is that she is plainly of Asian descent. She stands only a little over five foot two and, though very fit, has a light, slender build. Her face is smooth and triangular with prominent cheekbones, a small and expressive mouth, and a stubborn jaw; her eyes are large and black and distinctly Oriental. She wears her gleaming hair sleeked back into a smooth, elegant knot at the nape of her neck, a few careful ringlets left to frame her face--it is the shade of black that holds subtle blue and purple shimmers in the right light.

        Her build is that of an athlete; she carries little extra weight, and though not exactly muscular, she is in remarkably good shape. Not only is she fit, but she moves with uncommon balance, as though constantly aware and in control of her own body. One would expect, looking at her, that she exercises religiously.

        She wears a tailored coat of dark green brocade, embroidered with flowers and strange creatures in dim, subtle colors, making it look like a garden of legends seen at night. The lapels and deep turned-back cuffs are black velvet, the buttons intricately engraved silver; she wears it open over a black satin waistcoat and a crisp white blouse, with white lace in tiers at her throat and frothing over her wrists. A sheath skirt of black satin ends several inches above the knee, displaying trim, athletic legs in sheer stockings. Her black suede boots are high-heeled and old-fashioned, with a great many small silver buttons.

        Her hands are deft, slender, and artistic, and she frequently uses them to emphasize her words. An experienced observer might notice that she keeps her fingernails trimmed neatly short, and that her palms and knuckles are callused from consistent and thorough work.

 

Holmes

        In height, he is well over six feet, and so excessively lean that he seems to be considerably taller. His eyes, a dark brown, are nonetheless sharp and piercing, and his thin, hawk-like nose gives his whole expression an air of alertness and decision. His chin is prominent and square.

        His hair is black, with a slight brownish hue, and he wears it slicked down very tight against his head, which further emphasizes his already tall forehead. His large hands have long, graceful fingers, although they are slightly stained with, at the very least, ink.

        He is wearing a rather simple and clearly relatively inexpensive tuxedo, obviously prepared with extra starch in the collar and cuffs. Dangling from his vest is a gold watch-chain, the watch nestled in the pocket easily, a gold sovereign also tucked away there. The tux is classic black-coat black-vest black-pants black-tie white-shirt, but nothing special. His voice, when he speaks, has a British accent, and alternates between ease and force, between crispness and gentleness, and sometimes lapses into morose silence or long, thoughtful pauses without warning.

 

Nicolas

         Nicolas Myra has what some might call a dignified air. His light blond hair is kept short, if a bit unkempt. A well defined jawline, cheekbones, and the mostly unlined face of a man who has just reached his mid-thirties. Dark brown eyes, and the first hints of smile lines lend are part of a dignified, if amused demeanor. His smile is partly hidden by a dark goatee.

         Nicolas stands at about 6'2, and looking to be some in the athletic area of 180 pounds. A tailor made tux, complete with bowtie (tied correctly of course), and patent black leather shoes make for a formal attire.

 

 

A foghorn wails. Fog drapes the city silhouette in white mists. The Thames sloshes by somewhere nearby. It is a very cliché and very mysterious evening in London, England. The multi-storied warehouse where an illicit gambling den is rumored to be housed is a bit less dramatic, a simple brick and mortar structure with ancient, faded posters on the walls, and a sign advertising a Petrol company. A young man with a shaved head and black t-shirt stands outside, in front of a cargo loading door. There are few if any cars parked in the vicinity, implying that the place's parking is indoors. The man sees the limo approach, then presses a hand to his ear, muttering to a tiny mike at his collar.

 

To (Seishi, Indiana), Holmes pages: Holmes will be arriving in the guise of Michael Ashbury, a British gangster who used to be very big in Hong Kong before the Chinese hand-over. Nobody should recognize him except by reputation - Holmes has made inquiries to be sure of that. Seishi, naturally, is the beautiful enforcer Ashbury reportedly left Hong Kong with.

 

Nicolas is the first one out of the car, and he steps out with a tiny flourish, turning to extend a hand to his companion, his /date/ as it were, for the evening. "Don't let the appearance deceive you, it's really quite classy. Note the scary looking men talking to themselves."

 

Buffy smiles brilliantly at Si--er, Nicolas as she takes the offered hand and slides her way out of the limo and onto the sidewalk. You really do need help with things like standing up when you're in heels like this. A real London Society party. Its like, something Cordelia couldn't even boast about. The Slayer is more than pleased, attempting to slip her arm into Nicolas' to complete the 'date' look. "And when scary men talk to themselves you know it must be classy," she agrees with a grin. "I just like the fog."

 

A guard by the door mutters something and the cargo door rattles up, revealing an indoor parking garage. A thick-necked valet appears. He motions to the chauffeur of the vehicle, pointing to a parking space amidst the luxury vehicles lined up within. A door inside is flanked by two more guards. Voices and music can be faintly heard beyond it. Several swanky looking guests approach this door and the guard asks them something in a low voice. A phrase is whispered. The door opens, then close after.

 

An antique Rolls arrives a few moments after Nicolas' and Buffy's car, much shorter, black, with a very flat and angled roof. Holmes steps out and offers a graceful hand to Seishi. He indicates to his driver where to go, as if he's been here many times before. The driver nods and acquiesces. He gives Nicolas and Buffy a casually wide berth, just enough to show that they didn't arrive together - and that he thinks they're /far/ too small-time for his interest to be piqued.

 

Seishi would commit seppuku before she'd admit to anyone that her cool, regal poise is a direct result of having to be careful not to break an ankle in her high-heeled boots. She plays the smooth, controlled grace of a martial artist to the hilt, wearing a small, disdainful smile... and through that Mona Lisa smile, in a tone too low for anyone but the man beside her to hear, she murmurs, "I can't believe I'm doing this."

 

Nicolas looks mildly offended as Mr. Big Shot and company pass by him and Buffy. Well, it would be childish and undignified to walk quickly to get to the entrance first. Oh what the heck, let's do it. "Oh, we're all about the fog," Nicolas says, not without some good natured sarcasm. "Bollocks to the Turks," Nicolas says in an appropriately quiet voice when he gets near enough. Wouldn't want those behind him to hear the password and get in unfairly.

 

The guard nods approvingly, glancing to his associate. The door clicks and is opened for Nicolas and Buffy. Red carpeted steps lead upstairs.

 

Inside, 'Cardie' Cardigan's gambling emporium and den of vice takes on a much more swinging aspect. Red velvet and black shiny furniture seem to make up the majority of the decor, with the occasional baroque-framed painting or abstract art piece lined up on the walls. Men in casual but expensive attire stand at attention by the doors. A lounge band playing something by Henry Mancini can be heard through the doors.

 

Hey they walked right by us and even looked -down- on us. Buffy glances sidelong at Nicolas, then smiles brightly at him. John said the exact opposite. And so long as she's leaning on him, she can walk pretty fast in her shoes. "I thought you were all about boiling things and tea with crumpets?" at the password she presses her lips together tightly to not laugh. Laughing is undignified. Instead she raises her chin and does her best to exude riches. Basically, she looks like a blond Cordelia. Of course this all falls to pieces at the richness of the place inside. She doesn't exactly drop her jaw but she's not far off. "...forget the fog, talk about the wow."

 

Down the block, just far enough for the fog to obscure it, a cab stops and a sadly tuxedo-clothed man steps out. Tux or not, though, he's still smoking, and he sets off toward the warehouse at his usual careless pace. Arriving there on foot, Constantine sweeps a cursory glance around the room. The others are not, apparently, recognized, nor are they paid more than the most cursory of attention. Except the two women, who both get lingering looks in that impersonal, wholly sexual way. He follows the others, ignoring them except for a brief look of impatience. Never mind that internally, he is deeply pissed off at Simon for bringing Buffy. Oh, he'll get the Saint for that later. If they all survive, he reminds himself.

 

Holmes gives the password and regards his companion with a slightly cool gaze - but bright eyes flash at her comment. Inside he and Seishi start to mingle a little bit. He greets a few 'distinguished gentlemen' by name, introduces himself curtly and briefly but not impolitely, playing the role of the reclusive and mysterious crimelord so perfectly that even the /actual/ reclusive and mysterious crimelords present seem slightly false in comparison. He never introduces Seishi unless asked, but never gets more than a foot away from her. He manages to get himself a little champagne. No drink for Seishi, not even when they're pretending to be bad. He appears to be trying to soak up as much of what his sharp ears and eyes can pick out as possible.

 

Seishi, for her own part, watches everything and speaks little, frostily polite and disinterested during the few instances she's introduced or spoken to. Aside from Holmes, to whose side she is attached, anyone who gets within arm's reach receives a calm 'touch and die' look from those dark Oriental eyes.

 

Cardigan's establishment seems to have attracted the shifty, mysterious, and wealthy from every corner of the Continent, and a few places beyond. Armani suits, exquisite dressing gowns, and cutting-edge fashion are the watchwords. Cigarettes and expensive drinks are lazily sported in the patrons' hands, most of them gathered around the second floor's assortment of gambling tables. Roulette, poker, baccarat, blackjack. High stakes, high life.

 

Most of the League likely note the guards in their simple suits and collarless shirt combinations, sporting headset radios. A few also are likely to note the flat eyes of partially concealed cameras in the upper corners.

 

"Consider the fog forgotten," Nicolas promises, as they enter the grandeur of it all. Much different from Holmes' portrayal, Nicolas is the wealthy son of an English lord. Flighty, self centered, rich and inconsequential, he's the playboy tonight. "What shall we do first?"

 

Buffy looks around with wide eyes "Is 'everything' too much at once?" just -lookit- this place. She does, after an initial ten minutes, adapt and take it all in. This is -great-. She hangs on Nicolas' arm, tilting her head back to look up at him with a dazzling smile. You are too cool, man. "What do you suggest? You're the English guy--English this Californian girl up!" there's a pause as she watches a tray with champagne go by "...only not with the tea. Tonight is definitely not a tea night."

 

Constantine tosses the password out and steps inside, scanning the crowd, then starting to weave through it. More than a few eyes pause on him: like Simon, he's notorious, but unlike Simon, he doesn't care for disguise. It takes away his reputation, and that's one of his favorite weapons. There are murmurs of conversation lifting briefly as he passes clusters of people, snide remarks both to and from him. He heads for the gambling tables, pausing only to pick up a glass of champagne. So he's here for the nail; why not get some money while he's at it? And besides, the kind of cheating he does can't be seen. The spell is already cast. Of course, the sensible types would know about the whole "never loses when he gambles" thing and keep him a minimum of twenty feet away from any sort of gambling.

 

Holmes goes to the baccarat tables briefly with some money...all right, some of Lara's money. He lays down an exorbitant sum and in the space of about nine minutes of play, he quintuples it, then collects his winnings and stands up. "M... Mr. Ashbury?" someone asks. He says with a /very/ faintly approving voice, "Your tables are excellent... considering that the relationship with the authorities here is not so convivial as it was in Hong Kong. Of course such opportunities only come once in a lifetime, and I cannot take all the credit for my good fortune." This little comment causes everyone to murmur rumors about how wonderful /his/ gambling pits were in Hong Kong, how beautiful and oh so dangerous. Holmes himself is already gone from the area. He'll come back to take the rest of their money later. Anything to get it out of the hands of these criminals, right?

 

As a roulette wheel rattles at a table, a man in a red fez stands, round sunglasses over his eyes, a thin goatee on his scrawny chin. He clasps his hands behind his back, watching the numbers, the chips, the white ball, all with a rather disaffected expression. He listens as a thickish set man with dark features whispers in his ear, then makes a dismissive gesture. He then glances over, noting the blonde man in the rumpled tuxedo. The one with the disapproving or awed crowd of fellow gamblers by his table. He walks to Constantine's table, a faintly amused expression on his face for what is likely the first time in the evening.

 

As the undercover association mingles in the crowd, a florid-faced balding blonde man with a stocky, broad-shouldered build approaches Holmes. He extends a hand. "'llo, Mate. Cardie Cardigan," he says in a gruff Cockney manner. "You're the bloke from Out East, right?" He smiles thinly. "Seems you almost cleaned me out. Now this other fella's giving me the business. Tell me, you plannin' to attend the night's other special event? Could be of interest to a smart chap such as yourself." There's a slight edge of challenge to his voice. The working class thug sizing up the elite gangster.

 

Holmes looks down his hawklike nose at Cardigan. "Yes." he says, apparently answering both questions, as he shakes Cardigan's hand as if he were grasping a dead fish. "There are several items which I have my eye on. Is there any hope that my associate and I could get a look at them beforehand?" He lets Cardigan see who he's escorting. Can't hurt.

 

Cardigan looks appreciatively at Seishi, his expression showing the impression the svelte Asian lady makes on him. He says "My pleasure," to her, reaching out to take her hand and plant a dry kiss on it. He then tears his eyes away to look back at 'Ashbury'. "Oh, ah. Well, there's some rules we've got to keep, mate. Just to keep the lot happy. Y'know how it is; I make one exception, I get the bloody bunch of 'em on my neck."

 

Seishi regards Cardigan with the same faintly haughty air she's presented to everyone else here, as though contemplating how quickly she could take him apart. She allows the kiss to her hand, inclining her head to him with great dignity and removing her hand from his reach as soon as is absolutely polite to do so.

 

Well he /must/ grab some champagne for the both of them. It's part of the disguise after all. "I suggest we gamble without skill or care for how much money we lose." A pained moment of silence. "Though if you decide to win instead of losing my money, Simon will be thankful." Nicolas a few moments later gently nudges Buffy, indicating with his chin towards Holmes. "That would be Mr. Cardigan, the owner." He knew it. He should have been the mysterious crimelord while Holmes was the carefree playboy. Nicolas glances at Buffy as he sips his champagne. Then again...

 

Champagne. Buffy feels so high life, sipping the world away as the rich and famous schmooze around them. She follows Nicolas' gaze with a slight smile. I know Holmes! Oh wait he meant the other one. "He's the one throwing the party?" a blue eyed glance around the room again. "Guy certainly has taste. I don't know about gambling though. Life and death situations fine but, I was never any good with money. Spending it, yes. Earning it is a little different. Especially when you're not really Luck's favorite person." she turns back to smile at Nicolas. "But I wouldn't mind watching you win, unless you'd rather dance?" she leans forward a little. Emphasis on the dance. Dance? Dancing is fun.

 

Constantine gets up from the poker table, sweeping in his winnings and grinning too amiably at the sullen faces around him. "Cheer up, mates, you can't win all the time." Unless you're John Constantine. He winks. Then he sees the fez, and he just can't resist. "Was it a bad haircut or is that thing glued to your head?" he asks, too pleasantly. He's still grinning. Although Cardigan, and the fact that he's talking to Holmes, has not gone unnoticed. Nor has Holmes's superb gambling. Now John just hates him even more. And Simon. Can't forget Simon. Especially what with Buffy being so *close* to him right now and all. Rrrr.

 

Holmes seems bored with Cardigan's problems, and evinces a slight air of surprise as Seishi inclines her head, as if rather expecting she would throw Cardigan through a window instead. But he noticed which way Cardigan's beady eyes glanced, and who and what he was looking at - he catalogues Cardigan's shoes, his cuffs, his hair, those watching him, those who are decidedly /not/ watching him. Getting a feel for the room. "Perhaps documents regarding the authenticity of some of the pieces, then?" he asks, attention already elsewhere, like he is starting to need to be impressed again.

 

The man in the fez smiles now, watching a blustery American playboy stumble off in a stunned daze. "Such a rare talent, my friend," he says in a thickly accented voice. "How is it they say...ah...'its better to be smart than lucky'." Eastern European, as near as John can figure.

 

As Constantine sweeps up more winnings, his eye likely catches the curvy expanse of leg across from him. The tanned, delectable leg belonging to an exotic looking and undeniably shapely woman in a sequined low cut green dress, a slit in it up to the thigh in question. With green, mischievous eyes, she smiles through a curl of jet black hair, held in place by a jeweled clasp. "Oooh, Lazlo," she purrs to the man in the fez. "Do introduce me to your friend."

 

Cardigan watches Holmes with a slightly more canny expression. A unpleasant smile forms. "Oh, authenticity is it? Well, I can tell you my people 'ave 'ad a good look at the selection. My people are very, very reliable." He sniggers in a self-amused fashion, then gulps down champagne as if knocking back a pint at the pub. "All but one item, but that's already been taken off the evening's list," he adds, looking with a faintly hooded expression towards Lazlo's place across the room.

 

Holmes tsks coolly. "I thought you were worried about your neck if you made any exceptions. /Cardie/." he says. "And here I was just thinking that it was a very wise policy. Now I hear you've already broken it." He regards Cardigan's thick neck appraisingly. "Unless..." he says, then breaks into a catlike and undeniably cold smile, adding delicately and very quietly, "...but of course. How stupid of me. You wouldn't tell me such a thing unless you meant me to know it. I accept your kind invitation to your...private auction. And you may rely on my discretion, sir. Nobody else will know." A little more steel now. "/Will/ they?"

 

Nicolas puts his half empty (and half full, sorry Holmes) glass down on the tray of a passing waiter. "Money can buy many things, including taste. But not class." There is a distinct air of haughtiness as the man speaks of Cardigan. "A dance would be lovely," Nicolas says, ready to lead her towards where other couples are dancing. "It is good to see that John is busy making new friends, isn't it?" the Saint asks cheerfully.

 

Buffy hmmms as she's lead to the floor, sliding her hand up on Nicolas' shoulder and glancing John's way. Which causes her to first stare, and then blink and stare some more. Oh my GOD. Look at him! He's--there's no trenchcoat! And he's all...wow. And that girl that--hey wait a minute. The hand isn't the only thing that's touching Nicolas now, Buffy steps a hell of a lot closer. "Yeah. New friends. Lets dance." he's allowed to have fun I mean, fun. But he didn't take her to this party! She didn't know he'd be -at- the party. She presses closer to Nicolas almost absently, before looking up at him. "...you have money, and taste." she finally points out for his first few comments. I can flatter too. "And I think you're one of the classiest people I've ever met." is that a real word? "Besides, you have something other people don't." she smiles at him.

 

Cardie looks at Holmes with a slight scowl, the pretensions fading, the red face getting redder. "Wh...what? Now, look 'ere, mate. I know your reputation, and I know what you bring to the table." He jerks a thumb angrily at his broad chest. "But this 'ere's my manor." He then sips his drink again, adding "Bloody Turk. Knew he'd go blabbing 'bout it. 'enry!" He motions to a thug, then points towards Lazlo. "Tell our 'esteemed guest' that we've got a problem. We'll meet 'im upstairs. Got it?" The thug nods, then moves towards Constantine's table.

 

Cardigan looks back to Holmes and Seishi, lowering his voice in a low growl "Anybody else know?"

 

Constantine keeps a bit of attention on Cardigan. Oh no. Has this Lazlo guy already nailed the nail? Not that it's necessarily the nail, but John is a cynic and often a pessimist as well (when he can afford to be, anyway). He figures he might as well keep talking to the man. "Oh, lucky's good, too. And I can charm Lady Luck with the best of them." Speaking of ladies. His eyes fall on the woman. Hel-lo there. He holds out a hand, the other holding the champagne glass and a cigarette. "John Constantine," he offers with a grin that is, yes, charming. Don't worry, Buffy! He won't sleep with this woman. She'd probably try to stab him when he fell asleep. Hey! Why are you that close to the damn Saint? This is unfair.

 

Holmes smiles delicately, "One cannot rely on the discretion of foreign persons. They must always be watched." A little glance to Seishi. "But neither I nor anyone....associated with me....have told anyone else. I dislike people in general, Mr. Cardigan..." (Ah, so it's back to Mr. Cardigan now - soothing the savage beast) "...and I am not one to drop intimate secrets in small talk."

 

The Woman in the Green Dress returns Constantine's smile with a predatory one of her own. "I am Mileena. It is my most profound pleasure." She slinks over to a chair at John's side, making herself comfortable. Lazlo watches with a slight smirk. He says something in Magyar to the lady, and she casts him a cool, cutting frown. He shakes his head, then turns as "'enry" appears at his elbow, whispering Cardigan's message.

 

Mileena casually rests her hand on John's as he draws his next hand. She whispers huskily into his ear "I'm well acquainted with Lady Luck, John. Very, very well acquainted." She smiles smoothly as the cards once more go in Constantine's favor.

 

Cardie runs a hand through the thinning blonde hair atop his head, gritting his teeth. "Right, right. I believe you, Ashbury. But..." Two large men with impassive features flank Seishi and her escort. "...business is business. Follow me." He slaps down his empty glass on a passing server's tray, then moves for a back stairwell, loosening his tie.

 

Poor Nicolas, caught up in the jealous little games of lovers. Oh yeah, this is really tough, he muses, as he dances gracefully with the slayer. He laughs lightly under all the praise as they turn, putting his back to John for the moment. "And what would that be, a good sense of rhythm?"

 

Seishi merely arches a brow, slanting a brief, poisonous glance to her side. Her grip on Holmes' arm tightens subtly--you had /better/ know what you are getting me into.

 

Holmes coughs slightly louder than is really necessary as he passes the dance floor. Heads up, lovebirds. Action coming soon. Unfortunately he's not going to be able to do the same for Constantine. He appears cool, calm, collected and confident.

 

Buffy isn't jealous! She's just having -fun-. Like John is having -fun- at the party he never told her he was going to. Why didn't he tell her? Was it--did he not think she was society material? Was it her hair? Her accent? Was her dress not sparkly enough? She knew she should've bought a green one. She tries to ignore all that spinning through her head and smiles up at Nicolas. "Magic. Anyone that can pull flowers from thin air is something special." there's a less serious pause. "And have you done this before?" she asks him mock-suspiciously, "How many women have you swept off their feet on the dance floor?"

 

Constantine's eyes narrow a little as he catches sight of Cardigan as he heads toward that stairwell. "Bet mine is profounder, love," he tells Mileena, easily switching back to a lighter mood. Or at least, the appearance of a lighter mood. "Are you, then?" It's a straight flush, on the cards. He finishes his cigarette, then his champagne.

 

Seishi and Holmes move up the spiral staircase with their escort in Cardigan's wake. Passing a darkened hallway, a ceiling fan lazily cutting through the beams of light from a ceiling skylight, they arrive in a large loft room. The skylight here is broken up by panels, shafts of moonlight mingling with the cool blue spot lighting on the walls. A large desk, presumably Cardigan's, sits in one corner. Pictures of football players and a few glass trophy cases harken back to Cardie's past. He walks past it all heedlessly, slouching onto the corner of the desk. The two goons flank the exit. Another appears from a side door.

 

"Now. Let's see what our Turkish friend 'as to say for himself," Cardie says, smiling unpleasantly.

 

Mileena whispers closer to Constantine's ear. "Oh yes. Tell me, after this auction of theirs....would you like to Get Lucky?" Subtle she is not.

 

Lazlo looks at her pointedly. More Magyar, and the name 'Balaton' mixed into the string of words. A command of some kind. Mileena sniffs a little, shrugging to the man in the fez. He turns and moves with 'enry for the same stairs Seishi, Holmes, and Cardie took.

 

Hey, maybe Buffy won't be around! "Sounds good," John tells Mileena, grinning. He ups the ante smoothly, then pauses as he hears that name, then sees the movement. He stands, flipping the hand of cards down on the table, faces up. There's more grumbling as he pulls in the money, then turns to follow Lazlo.

 

Holmes finds a seat where the light is behind him. It's just so unfair that he gets to be so undeniably dramatic. He lights a cigarette of his own - an English brand. Seems impassive. Uncaring, almost.

 

Mileena watches Constantine move off, raising a delicate hand to chew on her pinkie fingernail in slight vexation. She then turns to move towards the bar.

 

The stairwell upstairs is currently guarded by a disapproving man with a fat build and a tattoo of an eightball on his right hand. He holds up a hand like a traffic warden to John. "Ey, what's your business upstairs, mate? Auctions starting downstairs."

 

Constantine lights another cigarette. It's an English brand, too. He would be happy to have that back, at least, were he not involved in worse business. "I've business upstairs," he says simply, fixing the man with a *look*. Someone like him doesn't go to this kind of affair without a suggestion spell or two on him.

 

Cardigan rests his hands by his hips on the edge of the desk, smiling. "Cool as a cucumber. We'll see how that holds up when Kzec gets 'ere." As if on cue, the door opens, 'enry pushing the man in the fez ahead of him into Cardie's office. "And here's the Turk now. My my my. How convenient. Please, Lazlo, 'ave a seat." 'enry 'assists' Lazlo into a chair with a push of a meaty palm.

 

Fatty Eightball regards Constantine with suddenly blank, vacuous eyes. Blinking a few times, he says "Ooor ah. I...you're with Ashbury, ain't you?" He steps aside, looking faintly perplexed. "You are, right?"

 

Seishi refuses to sit, chin lifting slightly. She takes up position instead just at Holmes' arm, watching the goings-on coolly, spine straight, shoulders squared. Of course, that's really because she's scared stiff, but nobody has to know that. Except, of course, Holmes, who knows everything anyhow.

 

"Course I am," John assures Fatty Eightball. "Why else would I be coming up here?" With that, he heads for the room the rest are in.

 

Holmes exhales smoke and says nothing at Lazlo's approach, carefully looking the man over. Seishi appears to have been forgotten for the moment.

 

Constantine finds himself in the noir-lit hallway, the door to Cardigan's office at the end of it.

 

Nicolas turns as they dance to follow the movement of Holmes and company, keeping his face appropriately banal. "The dancing part, surely, the rest of it, never." Honest. "Buffy, I think it's time you and I went out the back for a romantic interlude. The auction is about to begin."

 

Auction? There's a pause as Buffy looks up at Nicolas strangely. "Oh." there's a beat. "Ooooh." wait a minute. So this isn't just a high societ--she feels really stupid and for a minute, it shadows her face. But she follows Nicolas, pursing her lips. "I think its all happening upstairs. That's where John went anyway." and Holmes and Seishi a few minutes before. Dammit, she said -no- auctions! She doesn't want to be stabbed. Romantic interlude. A Look up at Simon "And here I thought you cared." she's rather annoyed.

 

Constantine leans against the door for a moment, trying to overhear. Then he tugs the door open and...steps out of the shadows, of course. What else? "Room for another?" He's perfectly poised, leaning on the doorframe, smoking and watching the others in the room with cool and utterly unreadable blue eyes. The magically induced luck is only a bonus to ensure his poker wins; he could get them anyway with that face.

 

Holmes leans forwards lazily and says in Serbian, << Good day to you Mr. Kzec. I hope this wholly unbearable racist has not soured you on the country of my birth. >> He eyes Cardigan sidelong as he speaks, almost daring him to say something.

 

"Bloody hell!" Cardie says. Whether this is directed to Holmes addressing Lazlo or Constantine's sudden appearance is up for debate. "Henry, what the hell is Fatty doing down there? Who's this tosser? Friend of yours Ashbury? Lazlo?" His paranoia rating has leapt to the red line now.

 

Lazlo looks coolly between Holmes and Cardie, then over a shoulder at Constantine. "Never seen either of them before. I assumed they were your friends. Mr. Balaton's going to be very disappointed."

 

'enry turns and rubs a fist with a hand, looking down at John. "What should I do wiff 'im, Cardie?"

 

Cardie waves an exasperated hand. "Show him the way out, 'enry." He jerks his head to the side, raising his glass. "The back way."

 

Constantine is more than a little pissed off now. "My name is John Constantine," he says, voice edged. He's not really scared. He doesn't seriously believe that Cardie would throw him out. After all, John just flashed his reputation at him.

 

"I care more than someone should who is being used to make Mr. Constantine jealous," Nicolas says, good natured about the whole thing. "And if everything goes smoothly, we can finish our dance afterwards." He pushes open a side door, stepping out into the night air and looking for an appropriate window upstairs.

 

"You want me to climb in this dress?" Buffy asks incredulously, but colors appropriately considering what he said. "I wasn't--" well no, actually, you were. A little. "He wasn't even watching," she complains somewhat, watching the Saint do his thing and folding her arms. "...you're a good dancer. I don't even know if John dances." I just wanted a party, no heroics. She eyes the building. "Why don't we just take the stairs?"

 

Holmes speaks up, still confident and cool. He doesn't leave his seat, doesn't even bother to do anything more than just flick a bit of ash off his cigarette. "It is true that I have never seen Mr. Kzec before today, and naturally you and I have not met before, Mr. Cardigan. But are you prepared to tell Mr. Balaton of your decision? Surely he will be very displeased if he learns you were attempting to narrow the field unfairly. We do not have to like each other's presence - it is Mr. Balaton's business, is it not? We only have to understand each other." He looks at John. "As for this gentleman, I know him by reputation - he is John Constantine, an...occultist of some renown. Given the nature of the auction I would be surprised if he did not appear. But we also have never met. Mr. Balaton's reaction to him may be different. On the other hand, he might be useful to you as an independent appraiser. Such judgments I leave in your capable hands."

 

"Because the stairs are guarded. Besides," Nicolas says, looking away from the windows to grin at Buffy. "What fun would that be?" Nicolas removes his wristwatch, and quite improbably a tiny tiny grappling hook fires from it, snagging a ledge above the window. "I assure you he was watching, and if you didn't overdo it too much will be quite amorously jealous. Hold this please," he says in a businesslike manner, offering the watch. "Tightly." It's about to retract whomever's grabbing on to it all the way up. Nicolas starts climbing up an adjacent water pipe, towards the empty room above.

 

"Well I don't see ho--" Buffy manages, and luckily has a good grip, before the watch does its thing. Its not until they're both inside, in the dark, that she mentions. "You know, if you wanted to take advantage of me, usually you'd do it with a flower, and not a fast watch."

 

"Oh, well, then. Constantine's here to settle the score. John Constantine. Everythin's luvverly jubberly," Cardigan says with exaggerated sarcasm. "Well, my old china plate, you've been disavowed. Out with him, 'enry. Out!"

 

A large fist like a hamhock comes down onto John's lapels, and 'enry smiles sinisterly, pushing him back into the hallway. The door shuts behind the two men.

 

Lazlo watches this all behind his sunglasses, blank faced. "How very unsettling. But Mr. Ashbury is correct. Mr. Balaton must be made aware. And he must make a decision about our continuance of any dealing given the circumstances"

 

Cardie rubs his face, mumbling. "Right right right. Alright! Go get 'im, Kzec."

 

"You'll excuse me, gentlemen. Miss," the Turk says politely. Lazlo is escorted by one of Cardigan's men as he exits into the hallway. He pays little attention to Constantine being dragged into a darkened, empty room to one side of the corridor. He walks to a doorway near the end of it, rapping lightly with his knuckles. He calls in a clear voice, speaking Magyar. The name 'Balaton' is heard again.

 

Holmes just exhales smoke lazily, seemingly unconcerned. To Seishi, in flawless Japanese, he says, << Watch the side door. If I didn't mention it before, you look quite lovely this evening. >>

 

Cardie gets another drink, shaking his head in faint disbelief.

 

Seishi murmurs a smooth reply in the same language: <<Thank you. If you try to leave me alone with him, I'll break your arm.>> And her gaze drifts disinterestedly towards the side door.

 

"You've already seen the flower trick," Nicolas protests, retrieving his watch. He got to use it, excellent. Then he freezes next to Buffy. Someone else is in the room.

 

Lazlo knocks again. No reply.

 

'enry stands in the darkened room, holding up Constantine, heedless of the newly arrived Buffy and Nicolas. There's a thudding noise. A groan. Another thud. John seems to have gotten on 'enry's bad side. The big goon looks at his handiwork with a snarl of a grin, dusting his hands.

 

Someone else is in here! Someone who probably wouldn't like people sneaking around. Buffy's hand lashes out way too quickly for Simon's shirt to pull him in for a kiss. Nothing to see here, we just escaped the party for a Heavy Romantic Interlude, we just--hey wait a minute. Abruptly the Saint isn't being kissed anymore. "Is there a problem?" the Slayer doesn't wait for an answer, there's two quick steps forward and then she jumps, both feet--heels and all, aimed straight for Henry's chest. Hey, she's American, she says the H. If that works, she's gonna end up on the ground on her back. She's gonna end up there anyway. She saw this move somewhere once, it seems like the place to try it out.

 

Holmes leans forwards in his chair slightly, tilting his head curiously towards the hall where Lazlo cannot raise Balaton. Obviously he thinks something is up, and he isn't hiding it from Cardigan.

 

'enry takes the heels to his chest with a wheeze and a surprised bugging of his eyes. He falls back against a table in the room, clutching a hand to his front, breath knocked out of him. He gulps for air, stunned.

 

Almost simultaneously....

 

Cardie's busy looking into his glass when he catches Holmes' look. He blinks, looks up sharply. Then it happens. There's a rattle of a door being forced open in the hallway. Then, a sharp intake of breath and an oath in Hungarian. A quick, harshly whispered discussion. The thug moves briskly up the hallway to Cardie's office, throws open the door. "Boss! It's...he's dead! Balaton's dead!"

 

A very vicious and uncharitable kick to the temple of the stumbling 'enry is offered by the Saint, a few moments later when he catches his breath. "Who's sweeping who?" he asks, ready to hit the big guy till he stays down. And he's slightly breathless from the climb, and that's all.

 

Holmes leaps to his feet. "What's your game, Cardigan?" he says in an accusing tone. Now it's not funny anymore. He moves for the hall, clearly intending to brush right past the thug, and if someone lays a hand on him? Well. That's what Seishi's there for.

 

'enry collapses, now quite, quite unconscious, face down. Luckily for Simon and Buffy, there's enough shouting and movement in Cardigan's office to distract from their minor fracas.

 

Seishi stays right at Holmes' elbow, and oh God her heels had damn well better not trip her up...

 

The thug moves past Holmes towards the pale-faced Cardigan. Cardie snarls "Watch the girl!" to his three remaining goons in the office, then moves after Holmes to Balaton's room.

 

Inside the room, Lazlo stands, looking grimly down at the lifeless form slouched in a chair. The old black marketeer's bald pate is turned toward the ceiling, eyes staring wildly up at some distant point, permanently transfixed. His mouth is opened in a surprised sort 'o' shape. A cigar lies on the floor, as dead as its owner. A box lies on the table the man was seated at. A black box. Empty. The foam inside is shaped with the contours of a now missing object - a long, slender object. A Nail.

 

Holmes looks over the room with a critical eye.

 

Buffy gives Nicolas a grin before its wiped out by the fact that John hasn't gotten up. She kneels down beside him, a hand going to his face. "John?" she asks softly, even though its quite apparent that he's quite out. She looks up at Nicolas, and she's annoyed again. "A big party huh? We were going to a big party that'd be a lot of fun and 'really English'." she turns away from John, standing, and her hands slides along her thigh, flipping back the skirt a little. How good are his eyes? Its dark. From the garter she draws a small, slim dagger. "I think we can all thank my paranoia. You wanna let me in on the scoop now, or after we all get taken out one by one?"

 

"...we're here for the Fourth Nail," Nicolas says, he seems stunned. "I thought John told you." He seems really sincere about that. "You mean he didn't?" Well, what a rotten thing for John to do! And he sees quite well in the dark. Nicolas crouches next to John, a hand checking the man's pulse. "Not to worry. He'll live for you to be upset with." Then Nicolas is moving towards the door, and opening it quickly whether it's locked or not.

 

Cardigan says "Boys. Cover Ashbury and 'is tart. And the Turk while you're at it. Nobody leaves until we figure out who did this. And where It's at." What he means by 'it' is obvious.

 

Seishi hangs a bit back, letting Holmes do his thing, and keenly aware of the thugs behind her--anybody who touches her will most likely get bones broken. Anybody who tries to touch Holmes will get worse.

She'd be offended by the 'tart' thing if she weren't so damn wired.

 

Buffy frowns undecidedly. John's in here. But John's in here and he won't be hurt, right? And...and John -knew-? Well of course he knew, she knew too. She just didn't know that it would be -tonight-. At -this- party. She told him that she didn't want anything to do with it! She can't think about it right now. "Well then lets go get it so I can go back to being a tourist, okay?" she moves to follow Nicolas out, she'll close the door behind her. Nothing to see in there. "Think if I mispronounce Thames enough, they'll all run screaming from the building?"

 

Small, European make semi-automatic pistols are leveled at the backs of Seishi and Holmes as Cardie moves to Lazlo's side. The Turk says "It's...it's gone!"

 

"If you ever 'ad it in the first place," Cardie says, glowering at Balaton, as if blaming him for the mess. "Search 'em." One of the thugs move up to begin pat downs of Seishi, Lazlo, and Holmes. The other two cover.

 

Nicolas does his best to lock the door behind them sans key. "Offer to make a historical movie on top of it and that just might do it." He idly wonders if she'll kiss him again if they happen to run into someone else. After a moment of listening, he picks a direction and follows it.

 

Holmes takes one slow step inside the room, carefully looking around. Kneeling at the body's side. Pushes back the collar a little to reveal fang marks in the pallid skin. "An astute observation, Cardigan." he says. He peers slightly at the slender vent above the body. A crooked smile. "Mr. Balaton was killed by a snake." he says. "One with quite a fast-acting poison." He indicates the vent. "If you will note the scoring around the edges, gentleman. That is the egress used by the killer, and we are dealing with a very agile one." He eyes the pistols with distaste. "Come, put those away. It won't help us find the item."

 

Maybe if he's lucky. Buffy scowls a minute, before it melts into concern as they move further and further away from the room poor John is in. "So do we know anything about what we're going into or is it just, grab the nail, try not to get killed while you run?" please let it just be that. Let no one else have knives. Lets not get stabbed. She hasn't even thought about guns.

 

Lazlo blinks, gulps, glancing between Cardie and Holmes and Seishi. "Guesses! Wild guesses. He's trying to confuse the issue. Who came to you with this offer, Cardigan? And who butted in uninvited?"

 

Seishi turns and catches hold of the hand that reaches out to begin searching her, threatening with a bit of pressure that just begins to strain bone and tendon. "I will," she says quietly, the lilt of her accent more pronounced than usual, "not be handled."

 

Nicolas is a bit disappointed to find the door to Cardie's office unlocked. Can't win them all. He leads Buffy in, spotting the security room off of it. "Unless we can simply buy it. I'd prefer to grab it without anyone noticing, actually. Be a dear and check if anyone is in that room?" he asks sweetly. "They're far less likely to shoot you."

 

Holmes also steps back from the pat-down, looking rather disgusted.

 

The Cockney goon on Seishi looks most distressed to find his wrist put into an awkward position, dropping to a knee with a pained cry. "Oh, Christ! Christ! Make 'er let go!"

 

Cardie looks at the man with a sigh, then at Seishi, then at Holmes. "Call her off, mate. And, Benny, forget 'er. Let me think a bit. A snake, eh? Sort of a farfetched way to do it, innit? Why not just plug the blighter between the eyes?"

 

"This was so glanced over in the Guide Book. That part about the getting shot to death while mingling with English Society." Buffy gives Nicolas a Look, before propping her foot up on the desk, to put the dagger back in its place. They're less likely to shoot me if I actually look like what I say I am too. Then her dress is smoothed, and she tries the door. Locked. Figures. Well, a hard kick to just beside the knob should fix that. Smoothing back a lock of hair she tries for a brilliant, delicate smile after that display, for anyone that might be in the room. "Hi, I'm American...you knock like that around here too, right?"

 

Holmes nods curtly to Seishi - in lieu of a verbal order. Then he replies to Cardigan. "The reason is clear - because someone wanted us to believe he died of a heart attack. I am sure your method of disposing of unwanted bodies - however crude it might be - is quite sufficient to preclude an autopsy, Mr. Cardigan. The gypsies of the Transylvanian valleys of Romania use this very snake to exact vengeance upon their enemies in such a way as to make the deaths seem mysterious and the result of a curse." He eyes Lazlo closely. "And you are traveling with someone who speaks Magyar, are you not?" he says with infinite pleasantness.

 

Lazlo stares. "I...I...of course. I am Hungarian, myself. But this is preposterous! What he says is fanciful nonsense, Cardigan! He's the interloper here! And what have I to profit by this?!" He sweats, looks frantically to Cardie, who is looking at him now with a most unpleasant glower.

 

Seishi releases her hold on the thug only after Holmes' nod, dropping the man's hand with the distaste of someone tossing away something rotten and regarding all the room with silent, composed distrust.

 

A guard with a spiky green set of hair looks up from the monitors to Buffy, startled. He stares, then says "What's all this then? Hold it right there!" He starts to feel with a hand towards a chrome pistol lying a girlie mag lying by the keyboard.

 

Benny whimpers and backs away, getting to his feet. He grips his wrist and mumbles dirty nasty things about Seishi behind her.

 

Nicolas steps out behind Buffy, a knife in hand. Partly for her sake, the blade is thrown for the man's weapon hand and not somewhere more lethal. "No way to treat tourists friend. Their our livelihood."

 

Holmes continues smoothly, "I? The interloper? On these green and pleasant shores? In England? I think you presume rather too much, Mr. Kzec. Perhaps, Mr. Cardigan, you could send your men to retrieve Mr. Kzec's companion for questioning." And perhaps some enterprising young Leaguer could take the opportunity to toss their room - carefully, of course.

 

"Agh!" the spiky-haired goon cries. He looks in horror at his skewered palm, then starts to reach with his Good Hand for the big red Alarm button.

 

Cardie nods, smiling a shark-like smile at Lazlo, standing closer to him. "Filthy Turk bastard. You'll be sorry." He looks to his men. "Denis. Stan. Go find his friend...is that's bint in the green dress, right? She's probably downstairs. Find her and bring her to me."

 

Buffy keeps the bright, friendly smile even as she steps forward to grab for the young security guard's shirt, in order to hold him still to try and deliver a hard punch across his face. Hard enough that if the goon doesn't get out of the way, it'll knock him out easy. "If this turns into another Spain, you won't need a livelihood." she warns Nicolas.

 

The punky thug is given another dose of Justice in the form of a nose-crunching punch. He slumps backwards, spinning lazily and quiet KO'd in his swivel chair. The Alarm is held at bay for a few moments more. But how much longer?

 

Nicolas retrieves his knife from the unconscious security guard, and begins searching him, then the room, for the radio they're coordinating with. "Buffy," he says, taking a hand of hers in both of his. "I promise to throw myself upon any knives thrust your way." Okay? It better not come up, cause he doesn't mean it. "Now, let's see what we can see."

 

On the monitors that Simon and Buffy both see, black and white imagery of rooms, corridors, and the parking garage can be seen. The auction, with its crowd of wealthy dealers and illicit businessmen, seems to be carrying on quite nicely, heedless of the goings on two stories upstairs. Figures mill about. The Saint and the Slayer both then see Denis and Stan depart Balaton's room and move briskly to the steps, then through the casino, heading to another stairwell down, on their way to the auction, presumably. Their hands, of course, are kept inside of their jackets.

 

"That's nice, but they have -guns-," Buffy points our dryly, before turning her attention to the monitors. Her eyes flicker from scene to scene "...do you see Holmes or Seishi anywhere?" and where are those two going? Don't we need to be at that auction? God, did I chip my nail polish back there? The Slayer frowns. "I still think we should've just tried to jackhammer the damn thing. Screw the nail."

 

Lazlo looks resigned, wary, expectant; somehow all at the same time. He stands with a tensed posture, watching Benny (the remaining guard) for the most part. "You're making a Grave Mistake," he says, hoarsely.

 

Cardie rolls a shoulder and tugs at his tie again, likely a move he learned from Cagney films. Or perhaps Rodney Dangerfield. "Pokers, my Turkish compadre. Hot one's. Me mate Crackers'll take slow pleasure in applyin' em to you. I'll see to this slut friend of yours meself, eh? Think she'd like that?"

 

Seishi's eyes flick, just for a moment, to Holmes. Torture? She can't stand by and watch torture, no matter what these people may have done.

 

Holmes says faintly encouragingly, "I think she fancied your attentions earlier, Cardie. Saw her looking across the room and licking her lips a little." It's almost rather cold the way he's going about this, and so Seishi gets no real reassurance. Of course the man is a consummate actor. Perhaps she can take a little solace in that.

 

Nicolas shrugs as he takes the seat in front of the bank of monitors, looking from one image to the other. "I'm just along for the trip." So this is what it's like on the other side. Huh. "Not to worry. All we have to do is think really loudly and Holmes will know where we are." Or something like that.

 

Cardie looks to Holmes, smiling sharply. "Y'think? Maybe she 'as a thing for Real Men. You think so, you filthy Hindu git?" This to Lazlo. Who looks with a slight tick of his eye. The image of Cardie and Mileena seems to get to him in a deep, primal way.

 

Buffy is still looking for Holmes and Seishi on the auction monitor, walking around the other side of the knocked out security guard still frowning. "But what's the point of him coming to get us? We're here for the Nail--" no nevermind, it takes too long to puzzle out. Eyes still on the monitors, both hands lean on the counter as she takes a closer look, peering. Nope, can't see them. Of course, the heel of her right hand presses down on that button the guy was reaching for before, unbeknownst to the Slayer. "Do we even -have- a plan, or is it just outbid everyone in creation and hope we get it?"

 

On the grainy monitors, Denis and Stan push through the auction crowd, whispering to other guards, looking for signs of the Woman in the Green Dress. Then, in a noticeable, singular motion, all of the guards wearing headset radios look upwards at the same time. Strange that.

 

"Buffy?" There, someone said it, in a very tight and quiet voice. "Would you move your hand, very carefully, off the big red alarm button? And run." He knows he's about to.

 

Benny sputters "B-Boss!" He taps his earpiece. "There's...a...alarm?! In the security room!" He stares at Cardie, who stares back. Then, Cardigan punches Lazlo in the stomach, for no good reason. "Should've known! A setup!" He says "Go check it out!"

 

Buffy blinks, looks down, and pulls back very quickly. Not carefully. "You never said anything about buttons!" she accuses panickedly. I wasn't looking for buttons I was looking for Nails! Then she turns to follow Simon wherever he might run to. "That's why I asked about a plan. A plan that maybe included not pressing buttons?"

 

"Quite right," Nicolas says, stopping long enough to pick up the guard's gun. "My mistake. The new plan, for reference, includes /not/ getting killed, caught, or blamed for this in anyway."

 

Footsteps of a dozen or so men can be heard now, racing up the stairs. Shouts of dismay, cries of surprised auction guests. Something shattering, probably a rare fertility goddess statuette or something.

 

Benny rounds into his boss's office, tugging a Walther automatic from inside of his jacket.

 

I should have mentioned not getting shot along with the stabbed. Buffy has that trapped feeling that comes with being, well, trapped. Nicolas gets a glare, even in the face of all of this. "Here, be helpful." two high heeled shoes are tossed in Nicolas' direction, as the Slayer steps forward with a spin, to aim a kick at Benny's gun holding hand very, very quickly. Lets try to disarm the dangerous man. "I'm never going anywhere with you again. Even if you are a swell dancer."

 

Nicolas catches them and tucks them under one arm. Those are so getting dropped if they get in the way. "If you truly mean it, I will be better off if I die here tonight." He's ready to shoot poor Benny if the Slayer isn't enough to take him out.

 

Holmes says to Cardigan, "You better move quickly. If she could fit through the vents, she is likely already back in your office by now." Just turn your back for a /second/, please.

 

Benny's hand is again sent into spasms of pain by the strange blonde girl's kick. The Walther skitters across the carpet with a series of thuds. He looks altogether demoralized as he sees that her friend is packing a gun. He holds up his hands "Don't shoot! Don't shoot!"

 

Lazlo breaths heavily, doubled over by the ex-goalkeeper's brutal low blow.

 

Cardie sneers at Holmes, then brings his knee up under the Turk's chin, sending the fez skyward. He then says "She's in for an unpleasant surprise if that's 'er plan, mate." The sounds of running footsteps reach the hallway outside, and Cardie turns his back to Holmes and Seishi, shouting "Did you find that bint of the Turks?!"

 

Holmes swiftly has the Nail's box in his graceful hands and he brings it sharply down on the back of Cardie's head, first once, then twice (where there's no sense, there's no pain), with quick sharp, precise blows. Then he turns to Lazlo. He's hoping Seishi's wired enough to deal with the people approaching from the door.

 

Oh, yeah. Seishi was just waiting for a cue to start breaking bones. She whirls into action as soon as she sees the whites of their eyes, hands and feet lashing out with all the speed and strength concentration gives her.

High heels. If Seishi survives this, Lara is /so/ getting an earful.

 

"No need to shoot." Buffy's hands go out to try and grab Benny and shove him back against the wall. She even smiles. "Just tell us where our friends are, and call off the rest of the goons. There's gotta be a reset button on that alarm somewhere." right? Riiiight? You handling those high heels okay Simon?

 

Oh right, the reset button on the alarm. "Perhaps he could be coerced into telling his friends that the trouble is in fact, /not/ in this room. What do you say? Send them off to the basement? It could save a life." Nicolas has the high heels under control, laying on the ground at his feet. They aren't going anywhere.

 

Cardie turns after the first blow. He looks more surprised than in pain; tough little bastard. The second one shuts his eyes in pain and he says "You..." before the third finally settles the matter. He slumps forth onto the carpeted floor, by the feet of the dead Balaton, lying on his side.

 

Lazlo looks up, blinking, clearly not used to taking punches. He looks at Holmes and Seishi with a rather plain expression of fear. "Who...who are you people?" he asks in a high-pitched whine.

 

Outside, a thug calls "Lost 'er in the crowd, Mr. Cardigan!" He stops by the doorway, a handgun held low and at his side. He slowly registers the scene, then looks up from Cardie's limp form to Seishi and Holmes, gun muzzle starting to swing upwards. Seishi's first blows send him flying back into the far wall across the hallway. Another thug appears, shouting "Love a duck!" before he too is dropped by a whirling foot. The corridor gets jammed by the six or so goons. They stop and aim weapons down the corridor. One calls "Mr. Cardigan?!"

 

Benny gulps, watching the gun in Nicolas' hand mostly at the moment.

 

Holmes reaches out with a lightning-fast hand, attempting to grab Lazlo around the neck - his other hand zipping down to his belt to pull Lazlo's revolver out of the back. Last step - shove Lazlo out into the corridor towards the goons and make a break for the other rooms before they can fire. "Miss Tamashiino." he says, unnecessarily.

 

"Right." Buffy puts a hand on Benny's shoulder attempting to spin him around so he can march out infront of them and...do whatever Simon says. "Lets just go see the nice men with the guns in the hallway huh? You can tell them all about the evil American girl down in the basement with the guns and the bad accent."

 

Seishi is right there with Holmes, taking courage in the sarcasm that she so often displays when she's feeling out of her depth: "You sure know how to stage a hot date, darlin'!" she drawls acerbically in the middle of a headlong dash.

 

Nicolas is right on Buffy's heels, and the shoes are left behind. He promises to replace them later. Standing tall over the diminutive slayer, he holds the gun at the ready. "We'll go out the way we came," he suggests.

 

Lazlo "Human Shield" Kzec says "Gurk!" and is dragged out into the hallway. He says a prayer in Magyar as he sees the gun barrels pointed at him from the end of the corridor. Amazingly, the guards don't immediately open fire. Immediately, anyways. One of them fires a single shot, which ricochets off of a light fixture in a hail of sparks. This leads to a short cacophony of single shots....relatively careful, and all too late. The door to the adjacent room splinters as Holmes and Seishi duck into it, Lazlo in tow.

 

Benny looks appropriately terrified as he is forced to stare down the mass of men at the end of the hall. He screams during the fusillade following the mad dash of the Detective and the Martial Artist. Miraculously, he isn't shot. He manages to make out "Girl! Basement! Don't...!" Then faints.

 

Holmes comes running into the security office, revolver out, just as Buffy is forcing Benny out into the hallway. He doesn't look surprised exactly. He immediately starts, rather adroitly for someone born in 1854, running back the parking garage and exit camera tapes, looking for the woman in green. "This is going to be a very near thing..." he mumbles under his breath. Eyes alight with a kind of joy, the joy of the hunt, no doubt.

 

"Well," Buffy lets Benny drop to the ground when he goes limp, looking from him to the mass of gun barrels they're looking down. "Kinda makes you guys feel more manly, huh?" leave? I thought we were here to get something and--hey there's Holmes. And.. he just ran by me. The Slayer turns her attention back to all the men with guns, shifting her stance to.. what, take bullets? "...I guess you wouldn't right now believe there's someone in the basement that's way more deadly than us?" she tries anyway.

 

Nicolas tugs on Buffy a bit ungently, turning to chase after Holmes. He fires a few shots down the hall behind them. In theory they go above the heads of the men after them, but he won't lose much sleep if they don't. "Yes, I'm the pinnacle of manliness, watch me run."

 

Seishi swears inventively in Japanese, tugging at her high-heeled boots. Got to get these damn things off, and whose idea were all these buttons? She hasn't got /time/ for this.

 

The gunmen have a surprising amount of restraint. One suspects that, were they American, they'd have submachine guns and perhaps a grenade launcher, all firing until empty at the moment, heedless of their friends. But, no, they restrain their trigger fingers for the moment. One belatedly comments "They've got Benny!" "Watch your shots, watch your shots!" The Saint's shots confirm their decision to be cautious, their heads ducking as bits of ceiling plaster rain down on them.

 

Lazlo looks pale and quivering. He mumbles "She's...she's long gone by now. She tricked me. Tricked me." He places himself against a wall, fez askance, trying to claw his way into the wallpaper.

 

Buffy is suddenly left alone in the hall. Slowly she starts backing away. Don't fire right now. "Great party...really livened up a bit at the end. I'm just gonna go and--" and what? Well they'll just have to wonder, considering the Slayer spins around and dashes after everyone else, rounding the corner to hang in the doorway. "John--" she gets out after a few seconds. "What's happening here--I've gotta go back and get him."

 

Holmes looks from screen to screen to screen to...."Ah...HA!" he cries triumphantly, freezing a frame and pointing at an indistinct figure running for a BMW Convertible. "We have you, my dear." he says brightly. "You know," he adds to Seishi, lifting his index finger as if to impart some eternal truth to her, "I've always thought I would have been a first rate criminal." Then he brings that index finger down on the 'Garage Door CLOSE - OVERRIDE' button, and watches as the woman's escape route is promptly cut off. To Nicolas. "What's the quickest way down there?"

 

Seishi yanks her second boot off and looks up, dark eyes fixing on the skylights. "Can I get there from the roof?" she demands a breath or so after Holmes' question.

 

Nicolas yanks on Buffy again, pulling harder this time. "If you don't get shot, I promise to come back and get him with you. Now let's move out of the way of the guns." He catches up with Holmes, gun still pointing behind them. "Out the window, down the side....or yes, the roof. The landing is the difficult part."

 

The BMW screeches to a halt in front of the now shut doors. The woman inside curses inaudibly, but clearly vociferously. She hops out, purse banging on her hip. She moves with the deft agility of a gazelle, leaping over another car stopped in a line behind her vehicle. She makes for a side doorway and disappears through it.

 

A gunshot rings out and the bullet whizzes through the room, past the Leaguers and Lazlo, and shatters a pane of glass in the trophy case. A goon starts to hesitantly edge his way forwards, goaded on by his friends.

 

Buffy is yanked nicely out of the way, around the corner with Nicolas, looking up at him, then to the other two. "The landing is a piece of cake," the Slayer decides, wishing she'd worn something less dress-like. "Just point me in the right direction." then she ducks somewhat instinctively when the shot rings out. "Preferably in the next two seconds."

 

Holmes also heads for the window. He fires the revolver back with uncanny accuracy. That goon will regret it if he exposes a leg or arm in the time when the Leaguers are making their escape. "She's gone through the northwest door. We should be right on top of her. Sei-chan first." he says. Always in charge, this one.

 

Nicolas doesn't bother questioning it, pointing his gun in the same direction as Holmes. A quick check shows he doesn't have many shots left. "Up there, Buffy." While they're waiting. "Any luck on your end?"

 

Seishi nods once, sharply, and darts across the room. No time for subtlety; she simply flings up a shielding arm and leaps /through/ the window, seeming to hang suspended for a moment in a glittering spray of glass shards before she falls into the darkness outside and is gone.

 

There's a crash of broken panes, and the tinkling of glass shards dancing across carpet, metal, and asphalt.

 

The revolver's bullet cracks through to the hallway, and Cardigan's man yowls as the slug rips across his lower leg. He drops prone and the others stay where they are.

 

Out in the night air, Seishi can see the fleeing Mileena, shoeless, carrying her purse closely. She is briskly moving down the sidewalk and ducking down a side alleyway between other warehouse structures in the dimly lit docks.

 

"Now I know why you men always let the ladies go first." is Buffy's only comment, before she runs and jumps after Seishi. When she hits the ground outside she rolls, and takes a minute to get her bearings back with a wince. Ow. I should've kept my shoes. She pushes herself up though, and then sprints after where she sees Seishi disappearing. Lets try not to step on any buttons this time.

 

Holmes takes the next jump - much more carefully than the slightly more-than-human jumps that preceded him- he clambers out the window with a lanky grace, hangs down and drops down to the sidewalk. It's not even that far considering how tall he is. He, however, waits just a moment for Simon, covering his retreat.

 

Nicolas goes in a similar more careful fashion, instead jumping and slowing himself with one hand, not ashamed to be eager to get away from the bullets above. The landing is a bit rough, but he brushes himself off and nods to indicate he's alright. "The game is afoot?"

 

Seishi hits the ground running, heedless of such hindrances as stones and bits of broken glass, giving chase to Mileena at an impossibly swift, leaping run, fleet as a deer and determined as a hound.

 

Cars honk horns inside of the parking garage. A trickle of shell-shocked looking auction attendees stumble through the two side doors exiting the building. There is the distant and distinctive noise of a police siren.

 

Mileena runs with the grace and energy of a child of the wilderness, her dress's lower half torn off a while ago, bare feet finding purchase on the sooty back alley floor. She hops up to a fence and clambers over it, slowing her enough for Seishi to turn the corner and come almost face to face with her. The gypsie woman snarls, her pretty features a mask of hatred. "You shall never have it, gadje!" The throwing knife comes from seemingly nowhere, hissing through the fence's metal links and at Seishi's heart.

 

Holmes breaks into a run - and into a laugh at Nicolas' statement, a bright and excited laugh. "Quite so!" he says. "This way!" His lengthy strides cover a lot of ground fast, well, for an Englishman. He's no ninja.

 

The knife slices through the air where Seishi /was/ a moment before she leapt into the sky, into a long, floating arc that carries her, turning lithely in the air, over the fence and down a few short yards from the gypsy.

 

Nicolas follows after Holmes, with occasional glances behind him to check for pursuit. He has a few disguises stashed nearby, just in case.

 

Of course that doesn't really bode well for the Slayer, who was right behind Seishi, but she's got quick reflexes for a reason. A dart to the side to avoid the dagger and yell back a "Watch it!" before she jumps, grabbing onto the top of the fence to haul herself over the top of it. Okay, so we're chasing -that- lady huh? Get her good Seishi!

 

Holmes has to resort to climbing the fence the (very) old fashioned way, reaching the bottom just as Buffy gains her feet on the other side. He doesn't seem to care much for the idea of trying to shoot through the fence and into the fracas with Seishi and Mileena.

 

The gypsy stares in disbelief at Seishi's paranormal nimbleness, then says "A sorcerer! You must not possess it! This belongs to my people! Not to vultures like Balaton, not to thugs like Cardigan! We will...!" The whisper of a the silenced bullet ends with small splotch of blood on her dress front. She stares down at it, gasping "But...he...promis...d..."

 

At the end of the alleyway, a black sedan idles, window rolling up. Its tires squeal, and it races off into the night, leaving the dead gypsie and her purse lying before Seishi.

 

Seishi falls back a stunned, faltering step. There was no way she could have expected this, and the sight of such a sudden, unforseen death only feet away hits her harder than a blow.

 

It is a few seconds after the final gunshot before Nicolas thinks to move or say anything. "...is everyone intact?"

 

"HEY!" Buffy calls out, rushing the few steps beyond Seishi and the body before the car peels away. Dammit. The Slayer glares off the way it came, before turning back frustratedly to the group. Then the steps are retaken to kneel down beside the lady. Lets make sure she's -really- dead. I mean, of course she is, but you never know. "Some party, huh?"

 

Holmes hurriedly drops down on the other side of the fence and he actually says, "Curses!" He shakes his head almost violently. "Balaton." he spits. "The real Balaton." He kneels at Mileena's side but she's fading fast - then gone. "All this for a fake nail." he says almost wistfully.

 

Seishi scrubs her hands quickly over her face. I will not break down. I will not break down. "...Fake," she echoes in a small, flat voice.

 

Nicolas climbs the fence, the need for hurrying now apparently having passed. He drops down, and begins the somewhat grisly task of searching a corpse. He's less bothered by the death than the ladies. "When did you know it was fake?"

 

"Fake?" hands reach out to try and grab the front of Holmes' shirt. Buffy is entirely unpleased. "You mean John just got knocked out, we jumped out a window, left a swingin' party, and almost got shot for a FAKE NAIL?!" voice raising. Upset Slayer who doesn't deal with it nearly as quietly as Seishi. "Just WHEN were you going to TELL us this?!"

 

Holmes jerks back from Buffy, lifting his hands to ward her off. "I only realized it when I saw the box the nail was kept in. If it had been the real nail, the rust chipping would have been red-black, not red-orange - the Roman method of metalworking in the century of Christ's death was...." He is about to launch into a soliloquy, but then waves his hands a little, stopping himself. "We needed to find her because of what she knew....and now he's killed her for it. All a rather clever and well-plotted ploy by the real Balaton to get Mr. Kzec to show his hand. And we must check her body for clues, quickly, before Scotland Yard arrives."

 

"Buffy, stop it," Seishi protests, a bit more collected now that it's clear it's not over yet. "That won't help." She hesitates before stepping towards the fallen woman, walking gingerly on bare feet, stockings pretty well shredded after the run. There's something like sympathy in her face as she watches the hunt for clues.

 

Nicolas rummages shamelessly through the dead woman's purse, and hasn't forgotten the sirens they heard when fleeing from the party. "Plane tickets, to India. And the Not Nail." Nick holds it up by the point, between thumb and finger.

It might not help, but a spot of violence surely makes Buffy feel better. She glares and gets to her feet, brushing off her dress. A finger is leveled at Nicolas. "No. -No-. I am not going to India to do this all over again. Besides those don't tell us -anything-. If she--if she thought she had the -right- nail, then maybe she was just trying to get out of the country?" it could be. And the Slayer is in no mood now. "The ring will keep, its not like--" her breath catches juuuust slightly. "Its not like Angelus will be back for it anytime soon."

 

Holmes sighs. "We should take the false nail. Though grisly, it may yet be useful." If nothing else, as a memento on the mantel. "We can discuss the situation later. Right now I believe we should adjourn to our hotel. Quickly."

 

Seishi lets out a long breath, murmuring, "...Yeah." The energy has drained out of her, leaving her pale and vaguely sad. "I guess there isn't anything we can do for her. Let's get out of here."

 

Nicolas tosses the Nail in Holmes' direction, and puts the tickets inside his jacket. "You go on ahead. I have a promise to Buffy that I have to keep."

 

Buffy casts a glance at Seishi, calming down a little bit. "Its okay," she tells the other woman with a lot of background in the tone. "it was pretty quick. Believe me, it could've been worse." she means about the dead woman. There's a glance t Nicolas and a slight smile. "You just think I'll kiss you again." see, see me try to be funny and lighten the air?"

 

Holmes blinks slightly. "Oh for god's sake, did Constantine not make it down the back stairs?" Apparently not all of his plans have completely worked out. He's moving towards the entrance to the alley, getting out his cell phone - possibly to try to hail a cab?

 

Seishi, after a brief pause, pads slowly after Holmes, tugging her coat closer around herself in an unconscious gesture. Buffy's reassurances don't really help all that much. That surprised look is going to live in Sei's memory for a while.

 

"Well," Nicolas says, with a clear of his throat that has nothing to do with embarrassment. "One can only hope, really." He's all for the lightening of the mood.

 

Buffy grins slightly at him, inclining her head towards the way back. John has probably gotten up and left by now, but you never know. She carefully doesn't look at the body, and shrugs one shoulder. "So who ended up doing the sweeping?" lets just pretend we're back at the party huh?

 

Holmes is indeed calling a cab. He names cross streets near here. In the middle of the darkened foggy streets, he stops, heaves a heavy sigh, as if cycling down out of whatever adrenaline high he was on, and then proceeds towards that cross street at a more reasonable pace. "Sei-chan? Ms. Summers? Are you coming with me, or assisting Mr. Templar?"

 

Seishi winces along after Holmes, trying to ignore her bare feet and not entirely succeeding. "I'm coming," she responds quietly.

 

"That's Mr. Myra to you," Nicolas says, with a transparent pretense of being offended. "Or Lord Myra. I like the sound of that better. Shall we?" Going alone was not part of the deal. "We'll determine that after we finish our dance."

 

Buffy gives Nicolas a smile and offers her hand. Just because we narrowly escaped certain death and didn't get anything we wanted out of the night, doesn't mean we can't party now. "I think I'll be assisting Lord Myra tonight. Or he'll be assisting me. We'll be assisting each other." there's a pause. "...okay none of those sound right."

 

Holmes merely looks weary, and smoothly offers his arm to Seishi. They head for their taxi and are soon lost in the fog.

 

"But they all sounded fun," Nicolas says, accepting the hand. It's so very shameless, all of him. "Lord Myra," he says, testing it out. "I wouldn't be surprised if my father was a lord." In fact he's quite counting on it. "I've even gotten Barbara to pose as my wife."

 

"Then you -really- shouldn't be seen with me," Buffy grins slyly, all in good fun. "imagine? Poor Barbara will be crushed. It wouldn't be very lordly of you." or maybe it would be. American standards here. The Slayer chews slightly on her bottom lip, as they approach the fated window they were near earlier. "...the lights are on." that could mean many, many things. 

 

"I could only wish she would be," Nicolas says, and it's mostly good fun. She is pretty nice. "Though I did once say she's the kind of girl you bring home to mum. Even..." Even if she's a prostitute. "Even mine." He looks up. Nicolas says "He's gotten out of far worse situations, Buffy." 

 

Buffy still looks up at the window somewhat guiltily, mostly concerned. "Yeah," she says distantly. He would've gotten out okay. John does that. All the time. She seems to have trouble believing it, but finally glances at Nicolas. "Barbara--Barbara is? Yeah she's nice." there's another pause, a glance up at the window, and then she just has to believe he's okay. "Why do you always talk like that? Like it always has to be pretend?" 

 

Nicolas climbs up the same pipes, partly to avoid answering the question, partly out of curiosity. "The lock on the window has been opened, from the inside." Which all things considered, is probably a very good sign. He drops back down. "Was I pretending?"

 

"You sound like you are. When you talk about things. Like--like what you just said. You wish she would be crushed. You've said things like that before." Buffy may not have the greatest of memories, but some things do stick. A glance is given again up the building to the window. That's good. John is resourceful. He got out. "...were you pretending?" she gives him the question right back. 

 

"Well I certainly don't wish her to be emotionally hurt, no. It was pretending in that sense." Nicolas never is quite sure what these people are getting at. Like the 'truth' is so wonderful.

 

The Truth -is- wonderful! Well no, not really. Buffy glances at him sidelong with a slight smile. "Are you always this good at misinterpreting the question, or am I just lucky tonight, Lord...Myra?" see she remembered it.

 

"You should see when people ask the really personal type questions," Lord Myra answers, and starts walking away from the building, deciding distance is prudent. "Are you asking if I have romantic feelings for Barbara? Or asking if I wish she had romantic feelings for me. Which can be two separate things."

 

Buffy glances at him, with a half-grin. "I think I'm sorta asking not specifically about Barbara but just...in general. Every time I ask you about someone, or you mention someone in passing its just like..." whats it like? She tries to think. "Like you're always -happy-, but you're just waiting for it to end. Or knowing that its never started. Or--or something that sounds similar to that only less confusing, you know?" 

 

Nicolas raises his eyebrows, and sticks his hands into his pockets. "I am always happy. It's never been anything...serious. It's hard to be serious, when, well. Firstly, I've never known anyone for any extended period of time. And they've never known me in any real sense. It's just the way of things."

 

Buffy ohs. I mean there's not much else she can say to that. It makes sense. "So long as you're happy, I guess that's all that matters. And I should keep my prying fingers away from your problems. Or lack thereof." she's tripping over words now, apologetically. But then she does it again, at least hesitantly this time. "Did you ever want someone? To...-know- you know you?"  

 

Footsteps fall in silence for a few moments. Finally Nicolas speaks up.  "If I seem particularly quiet, it's because I'm trying to think of a witty way to deflect your question." And still he's smiling. "I suppose everyone does on some level. It's hardly practical however."

 

"Its -never- practical," there's a touch of amusement to Buffy's voice even though its a horrifically serious topic isn't it? "Ever. I think that's sort of the draw...the whole getting in over your head, throwing caution to the wind and..." the tone gets more level, more weighted. "knowing its not really going to work out but hoping anyway. Its all downhill after that first broken heart. That's what they tell you, anyway."

 

"Ooooh," Nicolas says with sudden understanding, looking up at the street in front of them. "Well, I get my heart broken every other week. Then fall in love all over again. Terribly romantic and exciting."

 

Buffy gives him an oddly amused glance. "I don't know if I could handle every other week. Don't you kinda run out of girls that quickly?" she only asks it half seriously. "Everyone's got different priorities I guess. Although," she muses. "My main one was to just have a nice vacation. Remind me to cause you lots of pain sometime for bringing me to the party tonight."

 

Nicolas looks so very innocent, holding his hands to his chest. "/I/ thought it was just going to be a calm auction, and we'd either buy it or steal it from whoever bought it. I didn't expect a gunfight. Hardly my style." Back to the topic. He's not as eager to avoid it as he pretends. "Well, I usually travel much more than I do now. Beacon Harbor is....different."

 

"Different is certainly a way to put it," Buffy grins, hopping barefoot along the pavement. "its certainly...not a place a lot of us would choose to end up." timing is everything, but we won't dwell. "So you've got a girl in every port huh?" she's teasing him.

 

"Something like that," Nicolas says, and for once doesn't smile. He looks almost wistful. "Except now, there is no port. And no girl. I tell you, I do /much/ better when I am not myself. They say 'be yourself'. Well, my own fault for listening. Now I can't even pretend every few weeks."

 

Buffy rubs one shoulder, and doesn't look at him. "Its easier to not be yourself. Then you're all like, hey they didn't reject me they rejected Fake Me, and its kinda easier to justify it." they all hate me! *sob*. "I don't know. I like to meddle and I'm really not the best one to even ask for -advice-. But I think you're nice. As," she lowers her voice conspiratorially. More for fun than anyone hearing "Simon. Or whoever you're trying to be. If it matters."

 

Nicolas smiles, she's a very nice girl. There's a certain innocence, and damned if that isn't the most attractive thing. "If ever there's opportunity, he will try his best to sweep you off your feet. The fake ones don't get rejected. As for Simon? Well...he's only tried once. It was enough."

 

Buffy smiles back at him. "Believe me, you don't want to even -think- about sweeping me off my feet. Its all--" she tries to find a good way to say it. "High maintenance and...men never like to know that you're stronger than they are and its just...kiss of death kinda thing. You know?" she might be kidding. She isn't, but she might be. She keeps the tone kinda light. "But its something nice to think about." see, I'm not mean!

 

Nicolas laughs a bit, shaking his head. "Strong women don't scare me, as I am currently surrounded by them." Out of my league, maybe, but not scary. "Ah, so you'll spare me the kiss of death, but not John. You must not like him as much."

 

Oh right, she's being nice and you just bring up the most painful thing possible. And Buffy does wince. "...no, I must not." that's all she says about that. Guilt! So Much Guilt! He better have gotten out of there all right. "Do you think the Nail is in India?" nice change of subject.

 

He's not going to apologize for mentioning his name. "I don't even know that it exists. It's all pretty farfetched, really." Nicolas is just along for fun, and personal reasons.

 

Not the name, the kiss of Death thing! Geez. Buffy looks at the ground a minute. "...you ever known something really bad was going to happen, and you didn't know how to tell someone? Or even if you -should- tell someone?" she can be vague too, Mr. Saint. "And Dr. Jones seems to think it does."

 

"He has more faith than I," Nicolas says, and considers. "Which I suppose is ironic in some sense that escapes me at the moment. And no, I haven't. Besides which I don't tell anyone anything."

 

"Oh." well that was entirely unhelpful. Buffy rubs the back of her neck. "He seems to have done his homework. So long as the ring gets destroyed I guess it doesn't matter. But I don't know that its really worth lives. We could just bury it in a yard somewhere and never tell anyone..."

 

"Then again, I wouldn't have believed in the ring either. So maybe this is for the best." Simon hardly missed the reference, but it looks like it will require a bit of effort. "So what is going to happen that's so very bad?"

 

"I don't know," Buffy lies, looking up the street and carefully not at Simon here. "It was just a hypothetical question. Like if you knew that people would react badly to something that -might- happen, but only if it happened in a certain -way-," she stops herself. "Nevermind. Its just...confusing. In a hypothetical confusion sort of way.

 

"So, hypothetically," Nicolas says, getting the gist but not even /imagining/ the actual details. "Something /might/ happen. And it might be bad, if it does happen. However, it might happen in a good way?"

 

"Exactly!" Buffy beams, then follows up with a quick. "Hypothetically. But everyone would think it would be bad. But what if it wasn't? So are you better off -not- telling them or...would it be better to do the fair warning thing in case it -is- bad?" you following?

 

Nicolas certainly knows what he would do, trustworthy and honest individual that he is. "Well...wait and see. If it's bad, but you take care of it, why tell? If it's good, tell them only if you want to. That's what I'd do. There's enough trouble in the world without bothering people with the possibility of possible trouble."

 

Possibility of possible trouble. Okay! Buffy feels a little better. Or she will until the next wave of guilt comes. "That sounds about right, I think." she's only told one person what's going to happen. And she hasn't dared tell any of the League. "So London, we get to see it tomorrow right? Without guns huh?"

 

"People react to the unknown far worse than to the certain. Tell them if it's certain," he concludes. Nicolas is so smrt. "With no more guns than the normal tourist, at least."

 

Buffy smiles and attempts to slip her arm around Simon's. See? I can be so nice. "I think I can deal with that. Thanks. For the dancing and the company."

 

Nicolas allows her to be nice. And being the consummate thief, he tries to steal the briefest of kisses. "I'm sure you can deal with very much. And we'll have to go dancing and not get shot again sometime."

 

Buffy blinks at him once, in the slight surprise at that, before smiling at him, "I don't know...you're a very good thief. I think I'd be out of my league with you at least." she's mostly humoring him. Only mostly.

 

"I owed you," Nicolas explains. "I wouldn't burden you with my love. I like you too much." 

 

Buffy looks up at him with bright eyes for some reason. She's touched. She really really is. "That's both the nicest thing anyone's said to me in awhile and one of the sadder things I've ever heard." she smiles but it only makes it halfway, turning her attention back to the road, while she leans into him a bit, trying to lighten it up again. "If it makes you feel any better, my love isn't so much of a burden as it is a sledge hammer. At least you got the passive form."

 

Nicolas leans back, ever so slightly. And with a voice dripping with friendly sarcasm he responds. "Oh yes. I was spared the horror of having a beautiful charming young woman in love with me. The Saint escapes once more, and lady luck is with me as always." There's no barb to it. He's not upset. Sure, he'd boff her though. As they walk away, leaving the camera behind, he asks, "Join me for tea?"

 

 

Holmes rides in a moody silence with Seishi in the back seat of the cab, back to the hotel, turning the false nail over and over in his long-fingered graceful hands. "The city's changed so much," he murmurs. "But not enough, I suppose."

 

Seishi curls up on the seat with careless disregard for the length of her skirt or much of anything else. "We got that woman killed, didn't we?" she asks in a low voice.

 

Holmes says lowly, "No. She was pursued by Balaton's men after she killed the false Balaton. She would never see India's shores."

 

Seishi's head lowers, her hair falling half-loose from its knot to trail across her face. She is, it seems, not much comforted by this. "Still," she begins, then changes her mind and falls quiet.

 

Holmes nods slightly. He seems to understand, glances at her slowly. "Yes. Perhaps she might have had a better chance without us. However guilty she might have been."

 

Seishi looks up again, sighing. "Well, I suppose none of this helps her much now, does it? I'm sorry. It could have gone a lot worse. I'm just not /used/ to seeing people die right there in front of me." She rubs the back of her hand across her eyes, concluding unhappily, "This doesn't feel like a victory for us."

 

Holmes pauses, then nods. "I quite agree. We lost the battle, even if the war may yet be won." The cab pulls up to the hotel. Holmes pays the driver and steps inside with Seishi. Carpet now, not hard road on her feet. They have separate rooms on the same floor. He blinks slowly at her a few times in the elevator as if he is suddenly at a loss. But at least that's /something/.

 

Seishi watches the numbers light up, ticking off the floors. "So..." she says tentatively, not really clear herself what she's asking about, "...what now?"

 

Holmes suggests, slowly, "Come and relax in my suite. I don't think I will sleep until I've played a little." Ah, the violin.

 

Seishi offers a fragile little smile. "...I'd like that," she admits. "I'm not going to be able to sleep for a while either, and," stubborn pride seems to have lost some of its strength for the moment, "I don't really want to be alone right now."

 

Holmes might ruin it a little bit with his reply: "I know." Well of course he knew. He goes to his room - it's not really a suite, and opens the door for her. Fortunately the walls are thick and so playing the violin is not out of the question. The London newspapers and phone directories are spread out across the table, with a bottle of brandy that apparently the Saint and Holmes were sharing. Holmes finds his violin amongst his overstuffed bags.

 

Seishi excuses herself quietly and pads back into the room's bathroom, closing herself in. Water runs for a few minutes, and is then turned off again. When she emerges, she is sans her ruined stockings, and her face is freshly scrubbed and her hair once more in order, pulled back loosely at the nape of her neck. She picks her way back across the room, looking for a place to sit.

 

Holmes has the usual array of Victorian chairs and a big sofa. He himself is standing at the window, playing a soft and mournful dump, Eastern European rhythm to it in there somewhere, as he watches the grey-on-black sky.

 

Seishi settles down on the sofa, curling her legs up beneath her. After a moment or two she shrugs off her coat and drapes it over her lap like an undersized afghan. She fingers a small rip in the brocade absently as she listens, watching him with a subdued and somewhat wistful expression.

 

Holmes pauses in the playing to take off his tie and unbutton his collar a little, laying aside his jacket. Then he launches back into it, picking up the pace a little, still not rollicking, but pouring himself into it as if to purge himself of whatever's in him.

 

Seishi squeezes her eyes closed, again rubbing the back of her hand over them as she did earlier in the cab. If her cheeks are left damp, it's from a few minutes ago, surely. Seishi would never dream of subjecting anyone, and least of all Holmes, to tears.

 

Holmes lets the last few notes sustain out over the city - his city, or at least a version of it, sweet as the feathers of an angel and twice as light. There's a pause. He finally says, in a far-off voice, not turning to face her, "There's no point in hiding it from me...if you don't want to be embarrassed, I will try not to embarrass you."

 

Seishi is, at least, a quiet weeper. There's no sniffling, no little sobs. She just lowers her head, this time using the velvet cuff of her coat's sleeve to wipe at her eyes. "I'm sorry," she says helplessly, voice low and faintly husky.

 

Holmes turns slightly and leans against the window. Violin across him. "For what? For being a human being?" he murmurs. "I cannot grant you forgiveness for that, for it is my crime too."

 

Seishi scrubs again at her face, suddenly angry at herself for crying. "There isn't any point to it, is there?" she asks, a note of despair entering her voice.

 

Holmes's voice comes calm and reassuring. Very collected. This he knows the answer to. "There is no point in playing the violin, playing something nobody's ever heard before to only one person and not writing it down afterwards. Most of what it is to be alive has no purpose."

 

Seishi's head comes up, dark eyes wet and brilliant. "But that's not true," she protests. "It can't be."

 

Holmes spreads his graceful hands slightly, laying the violin down before him. "For a sufficiently narrow definition of 'purpose'." he says drily - then he swallows and goes on more warmly. "If there is no purpose to tears, then there is none to music or to poetry or any of the great arts."

 

"It isn't the same," Seishi begins, but finds herself at a loss to explain how, and winds up looking down at her hands where they lay on her lap, very pale against the dark green. Another tear slides down her face, and this time she doesn't bother to wipe away the wet track it leaves.

 

Holmes approaches and now offers her a handkerchief. Something in the antique gesture reflecting much more than just the desire to help her with her face. He seats himself opposite her and picks up the violin again, and starts to play one of her favorites, still keeping it pretty quiet and low-key.

 

Seishi takes the handkerchief from him gingerly, as though it were something too fragile and valuable for her to handle. But more tears follow the other, and finally she simply buries her face in her hands and cries silently into his handkerchief until there are no more tears left.