Buffy Mary Sue
By Scribe
Part One
The Job From Hell--Sorta
Mozell Mozeby took another sip of the Blackberry Italian Creme Soda, and decided that ordering it had been a successful experiment. *Not like the time I decided to try escargot,* she thought. *And this is good, because I can really use something going right in my life these days.*
Things had been pretty crappy for a long spell. First her hours had been cut back at work, while they'd increased the workload during the few hours she was scheduled. Result--she was working her ass off for much less pay, no benefits. Then her car had given up the ghost, and she was on foot--and since her city was basically one of the armpits of the world, there was no cheap public transportation. Thus her already aching feet got a more extensive work out. Her cat had run away, her refrigerator couldn't manage anything much below room temperature. Speaking of which, they were in the middle of a heat wave, and she had no air conditioning--in summer--on the Gulf Coast. *Semi-tropical, my ass,* she thought. *If this is semi, I sure as hell never want to meet up with tropical.*
And the icing on the cake was that she'd just been told that her hours were being cut again, but would she mind very much training the new clerk they'd hired so they wouldn't have to pay anyone overtime?
She supposed that telling the manager exactly what he could do with the new clerk (who was also male) in very colorful and graphic language, before stripping off the hideous orange smock (luckily she was wearing a t-shirt under it), and suggesting that he sell it to a clown in the next flea-bag circus that passed through, hadn't been a good idea. When he'd tried to tell her she was fired, she asked him if he was really so fucking stupid that he couldn't recognize a resignation unless it was presented in writing--in triplicate? So much for a good reference.
After napalming her bridges, she walked over to the local mall, into the chi-chi national chain coffee shop, and ordered the above-mentioned beverage because she figured that as long as she was doing things she'd never done before (such as cutting her own throat financially), she might as well. One double fudge brownie later, and she was no longer considering crawling back to the store for another chance at her job. Chocolate could make you realize that by damn, you deserved a little dignity in your life. Still, there was the fact that come the end of the month the landlord would want rent. Sure, she could write him a check--but they tended to arrest people for things like that.
Now that the chocolate had released soothing endorphins, Mozell decided she ought to do something practical. A previous customer had left a newspaper on the table, so she opened it to the want ads and started scanning the HELP WANTED sections. *Accounting, computer tech, construction, real estate... They all want degrees, or experience out the wazoo. Motel maid. Oo, yes! I want to spend my time cleaning toilets and changing come-covered sheets. Waitress, waitress, waitress. Been there, done that, wanted to kill myself. I suppose I could always be a hooker, except they usually want experience there, too. Wait a minute, what's this?*
//Sales clerk for new and unusual shop. Good pay. Flexible hours. Good people skills and open minded a must. Apply Esoterica. Alley off Toscan St.//
*The alley off Toscan Street? Good people skills and an open mind? What is this--a sex shop? Surely not. This area isn't nearly hip enough for that. I'd have seen people picketing on the six o'clock news. Still, if it's very new...*
It was within walking distance of both the mall, and her apartment, so she decided she might as well have a look. She could always walk back out. *And besides,* she told herself, *It would be sort of like working in a liquor store. Just because I worked there wouldn't mean I'd have to use the products*
The walk over to Toscan Street wasn't long, but it was long enough. By the time she'd reached it, she was once again sticky with sweat. The alley was easy to locate. She stood at the entrance, peering into it. Odd. As bright and as hot as the day was, the alley itself seemed as dark and cool as a cave. She didn't see anything indicating that there was a business down there, but she cautiously went in.
About halfway down she came to a door set flush in the wall on her right. Funny. She thought that space should be occupied by the dry cleaners that fronted on Toscan. But there was a sign over the door saying ESOTERICA. Mozell was unsure of how to approach this, so she tapped at the door. A voice from inside called, "Don't stand out there roasting. Come in."
*Oo, that sounds a bit Brit,* she thought, as she entered.
There was a jangling from the string of different sized brass bells that hung over the door. Her first thought was that she was in the wrong place. The shop she'd entered couldn't possibly be located in an alleyway in a mid-sized redneck town in Texas. New York? Maybe. San Francisco? Probably. London? You damn betcha. But not here. It was just too--too. The ceiling was low, and the floor was very dark, highly polished wood. The walls were draped in alternating panels of black silk and maroon velvet. The room was a maze of all different sizes and shapes of glass and wood display cases--some open, some enclosed.
One long, low case ran parallel to the back wall. It's top was bare, save for a huge, upright cash register that probably dated back to the Victorian age, and a large, cut-glass vase that was absolutely stuffed with a profusion of long stemmed crimson and white roses. There was a man standing behind the case. He seemed to fit very well with the room. Dressed entirely in black, he was tall and handsome, in a darkly sardonic way. He looked vaguely familiar. He smiled at her, sharp blue eyes seeming to miss nothing. "Well, hello. Don't you look as if you're about to melt into a puddle of goo."
The room was blessedly cool, though she couldn't hear any air conditioning. "I think the heat index is hovering around the century mark."
"Isn't your air conditioning working in your car?"
"What car?"
"Ah. That would explain it. Why don't you come back and have some tea? That should lower your internal thermostat." He swept aside a fall of brocade to reveal an archway, and gestured toward it invitingly. "Just come around the end of the counter."
Mozell thought about just asking for an application, but with the jobs she'd had in her life, she'd long ago developed a philosophy that one should never turn down a chance to sit, and seldom turn down any offer of free food or beverages. She walked across the room and went around behind the counter. On the way she caught glimpses of the items in the cases, and began to wonder precisely what the hell sort of a store this was. She'd seen books, figurines, crystals, objects she couldn't begin to identify--and what looked like a plastic beach bucket and shovel. That had a DO NOT TOUCH sign on it, which seemed more than a little bizarre. He held the curtain aside for her, and as she slipped past, she thought that she'd been mistaken at first--his eyes seemed more green than blue.
The room seemed to be a combination office/break room/storage room. There were crates piled against one wall, a kitchenette area that featured a microwave, coffee maker, and mini-fridge, table and chairs, and a desk in one corner. The desk was bare, save for a closed laptop computer.
Her host gestured at the table. "Have a seat. Do you take sugar, or lemon?"
Mozell sat down, and glanced at the coffee maker. "Um, I don't really do hot tea unless I'm sick."
"Of course not," he said dismissively, opening the fridge. "This is the American South. You'll be wanting iced tea." He removed a small plastic jug, and took a plastic glass off a stack. She watched in bemusement as he took a small pair of tongs and filled her glass with cubes from a bin in the freezer section. "I'm afraid plastic will have to do. I haven't brought in anything decent yet."
*Plastic glasses, but he has ice cub tongs. Hello, eccentric much?* "If I didn't drink out of plastic, I'd have had a very thirsty life."
"Admirable practicality." He filled the glass. "Once again, how do you take it?"
"Got any Sweet n' Low?"
"Abominable stuff, but so prevalent in American society that yes, I have some." He presented her with the glass, a plastic spoon, and a pink paper packet. "Please tell me that you will not require more than one."
"No. I doubt I could stir it if I used more than one." He sat down opposite her as she stirred the powder into her tea. He was resting his elbows on the table, watching her with what seemed to be a hint of amusement, and she noticed amber flecks in his eyes, almost the same color as the tea. *He may be my boss--I do not need to pay that close attention to his eye color.* "Ah. Hits the spot. Thank you. Tell me, are you this homey with all your customers?"
"I haven't been open long enough to establish a pattern, but ARE you a customer?" I had assumed that you were here to apply for a position."
She glanced down at herself. Limp T-shirt *Oh, crap. I forgot I was wearing the Dawn of the Dead shirt!* and her 'work pants'--tired polyester. "Er, I guess I don't look like your usual class of clientele."
He smiled at her. "My dear girl, I have a very, very wide range of customers. It's just that I've only recently opened this establishment, and there hasn't been time for my regulars to begin arriving, nor new prospects to find me. You are seeking employment?"
"Yes," she said hopelessly. *I've blown it. For a place like this they're going to want skirts, pumps, and pantyhose. Just as well. I can't afford a wardrobe like that...* He'd said something. "Pardon me?"
"Are you sure the heat hasn't been too much for you?"
"No, my mind was off on a tangent."
"I was saying that if you're applying, we ought to introduce ourselves." He offered his hand. "Ephraim Tempest."
*And I thought I had a weird name.* She shook hands. "Mozell Mozeby."
"Charmed. Well, you seem like a competent and personable young lady."
She blinked. *I do?*
"I really only have two questions. Now, these aren't considered strictly proper for job interviews, but they are significant for what I'm looking for in my assistant, so I'll ask you to be very honest with me." He smiled, and it was a little sharp. "And don't assume what answer I'm looking for. First question--do you have any family?"
"Well, sure. No husband or kids, if that's what you mean. I have a lot of aunts, uncles, and cousins, but I hardly see them from one year to the next. My dad died when I was twelve, and Mom moved to Bocca Raton two years ago with some guy named Dudley. I try to call every week or so, but I usually can't reach her."
"Mm. You see, I'm open very odd hours, and I may need you to work late at night. I wouldn't want them to worry about you. Second question is similar to the first--boyfriend?"
"Personal much?"
He smiled again. "Very often, but it is important. You see, there may be times when I need you to accompany me on, say, buying expeditions, which will require hotel stays." Mozell sat back a little. "Strictly separate rooms, I assure you, but some men are very jealous and suspicious. A boyfriend could impinge on your available time, and frankly, I don't want a love-smitten youth mooning about, casting big eyes at you."
She gave him a cynical look. "Do I look like the sort to inspire mooning and big eyes in youths? No boyfriend."
"I do mean casual as well as serious."
"None of any degree. I've spent most of my waking time for the past few years wearing a pumpkin colored tent and working my behind off behind a counter. Men haven't seen me as anything but an animated cash register."
"More fools they. I provide work attire, but I promise you that it will be much more flattering than what you're used to. As I said before, I'm open odd hours, so I have a cot around here somewhere. Would you be willing to sleep in occasionally?"
*This begins to get weird.* "I suppose so."
"Good, good. Now, one more thing. I'll need a blood sample."
"Excuse me?"
"Just a couple of drops."
"Excuse me again, but what the hell kind of sales job needs a blood sample? I mean, I know that a lot of places want urine samples for drug testing, but..."
"Miss Mozeby, the name of this shop is Esoterica. That is what I vend--objects for inner circles, for initiates into certain belief systems and such."
"New age?"
"Hardly, but the paranormal most certainly figures in. Do you have a problem with that?"
"Do you have a problem with me thinking it's mostly a load of malarkey?"
"How badly do you need this job?"
"Well..."
"Never mind--I'm glad you're being honest. I don't mind, as long as you don't relate that to the customers. Most of them are used to being viewed with skepticism by the world at large, but not all of them are tolerant of that attitude."
"I know how to do good customer service. You really need blood?"
"One or two drops, and it is a bit of a job related test." She hesitated. "I don't believe I've mentioned the salary." He mentioned double what she'd been making, for what looked like a lot less work, in a more congenial and safer environment.
"How do you want it?"
"One moment." He went to his desk, opened a drawer, and returned with several items--a bottle of alcohol, a couple of cotton balls, a long, gold-colored lancet, and a tiny, shallow, black metal bowl. Ephraim wet a cotton ball and used it to carefully wipe the lancet. Then he wet another one and said, "Your hand, please."
Mozell let him take hold of her wrist, thinking, *Okay, I've had my fingers poked for medical tests before. This is for a good cause.*
He scrubbed her index finger vigorously with the cotton, then picked up the lancet, and smiled at her. "This will sting."
"I..." *yip!* "You weren't kidding!"
"Sorry." He set down the lancet and squeezed her finger, watching blood bubble up into a fat bead. "Oh, this is working nicely." He turned her finger over and let the blood drop into the black dish. "And another." He squeezed, and another drop fell. "And one more for luck, eh?" He stroked her finger, and she knew that he was coaxing the blood out, but the gesture was peculiarly sensual. "Lovely." He pressed the damp cotton to her finger. "There. That should stop bleeding in just a second. Excuse me while I make the test."
She held the cotton to her aching finger and watched as he walked over to a door that she had assumed led to a restroom. Apparently not, because now she noticed a second door that was ajar just enough for her to glimpse tile. Ephraim shut the door after him, and a moment later she heard him speaking. At first she thought that there was someone else in there, but then she realized that he was chanting. She considered getting up and leaving, then considered the salary, and stayed in her seat. So he was weird. Wasn't most of the world these days?
A moment later the door opened, and Ephraim came back out, accompanied by a faint, acrid odor. "Is something burning?"
"Just part of the test. When can you start?"
She gaped, then carefully shut her mouth. "That's it? I've got the job if I want it?"
"If you want it? Young lady, I insist that you accept it."
"Well, sure. Yeah. Um, don't you need to see my two forms of identification?"
He waved negligently. "We can take care of that later."
"The federales are kind of nasty about that, especially around here, what with all the, er, undocumented visitors from south of the border. I really think I should show it to you."
"If it makes you feel better." He looked at her social security card and driver's license. "Very nice. Oh, you've cut your hair." He pulled out a small notebook and pen. "Now, give me your clothing sizes, so that I can get your work clothes." He took down her vital statistics. "Can you come in, say, day after tomorrow at around nine?"
"Sure."
He glanced at her, and she decided that his eyes were hazel. "That's nine pm."
"Oh. Uh, okay."
"Good. I'm going to need to familiarize you with the stock before I leave you alone here." His lips quirked. "Some of it bites--or worse--if you aren't careful. You've been studying me rather carefully, Miss Mozeby. Am I wearing my lunch?"
"No. Sorry, I didn't mean to stare. It's just I've finally realized who you remind me of. Do you know Robin Sachs?"
"Who?"
"He's an actor--British. He was in Galaxy Quest--wait, that was under a ton of make-up. He was in Babylon 5... More make-up. Um... In Jonathan Creek he was Adam, the magician..."
He was escorting her out toward the front door. On the way he picked up a small sign that said POSITION FILLED. "Afraid I've never seen it."
"Oh, of course! His most famous role is as Ethan Rayne in Buffy, the Vampire Slayer."
"Ethan Rayne?"
"Yes, the Chaos mage."
He opened the door, and she stepped out into the alley. He hung the sign on the doorknob. "A Chaos mage?"
"Yes--he worshiped the forces of chaos. Not necissarily evil, but definitely dark."
"Really?" He leaned in the doorway, crossing his arms. "Caused a lot of trouble, did he?"
"He made things interesting for the Scoobies, but he was only in a few episodes. He'd cause mischief, then disappear for awhile."
Ephraim smiled. "Makes you wonder where he went and what he was up to during those times, doesn't it?"
"I'm sure there's been a lot of speculation about that. So, tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow." He twiddled his fingers at her as she made her way up the alley and turned out onto the street. "And tomorrow, and tomorrow..." He shut and locked the door, then started back through the shop. "Creeps in this petty pace from day to day to the last syllable of recorded time."
He went into the back room, then into the small room he'd entered for the 'test'. It was bare, save for a small alter on which rested a crudely carved stone figure. It would be hard to say what the statue resembled. Seen from a certain angle it was vaguely humanoid, from another it was most definitely not. The tiny black dish rested before it. It was empty. The shop owner knelt before the alter, and bowed. "And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. But I do my best to make things more interesting for them, don't I?" He rubbed his hands together. "She's not a fool, but bless the naivety of the innocent. I do believe she thinks she's quite cynical, the fluffy little lamb." He smiled at the idol. "You like her, don't you? I can tell. I like her, too. Isn't it amazing how often our tastes coincide? I wonder what they'll make of her back in dear old Sunnydale." He chuckled. Sitting back on his heels, Ethan Rayne threw back his head and indulged in a rich, deep laugh at the expense of everyone in the world who believed in the rule of order.
At that moment, a clerk at the Starbuck's Mozell had visited earlier was showing a friend the paper he'd rescued from one of the tables. "You need a part time job, right, dude? This one looks right up your alley." He tapped the ad.
His friend read it. "But dude, it's not available any more."
"What do you mean? I know it wasn't in the paper yesterday--it's running for the first time today."
"Well, then, something weird's going on. Look." He pointed to the ad.
The first boy read. "Hey, it didn't say POSITION FILLED before. Why the hell would they run an ad for a job if they'd already hired someone?"
His friend shrugged. "To tease people?"
He had no idea how right he was.
