Transitions - Ch. 20

It was a horrid voice: a dragging, hissing inhuman voice made a hundred times worse by its mockery of the cadence which had once been Randall's. To hear it emerge from his son's mouth made Giles's blood run cold--not so much with fear, but with a sharp, undeniable anger.

"How can you dare bring her, and flaunt her to me, you murderer?" the voice taunted him, expecting Giles to be overwhelmed--with guilt, perhaps, or grief--but he could only think of keeping Buffy safe, and Sebastian.

This thing speaking to him with Randall's stolen voice threatened those he loved best in the world, and Giles fully intended to conquer it

Before he could act, his young love flew into the room, performing a more-than-passable imitation of Joyce Summers at her most protective. "Now, you wait a minute!" she snapped. "What gives you the right to talk--?"

A grey mist of the creature's influence crept out toward her, but Buffy appeared too angry for that Slayer ability she called, to Giles's perplexity, her "Spidey-sense" to warn her properly, even though the gooseflesh had already begun to gather on her bare arms.

A misty tendril curled round Buffy's ankle, a rime of frost rising pale over her golden skin. Giles whirled toward her, enraged that the creature, whatever it was, had already managed to achieve contact.

"Buffy, get out!" he shouted, "Buffy, get out of here now!"

Without even intending to, he performed an Intention of his own, one which compelled her from the room, even as the creature began to speak in Ethan's voice, "Tu invitato--"

Giles waited until he heard the door slam, token that his spell had driven Buffy from the house entirely, then began to move quietly about his son's study, gathering his tools. He never took his eyes from Sebastian.

"Tu invitato, geminus crepusculum, ad hunc locum et hoc tempore et hanc vocem," the voice that was not really Ethan's said angrily. Had it thought to deceive him, with these voices from his faultily-remembered past? At one time those words, Ethan's spell for summoning Ripper, had frightened Giles more than any he'd ever heard spoken, and even now, with his Latin still shaky, he understood every syllable.

"That might work," Giles answered, feeling nothing stir in him, most especially not that other, dangerous, uncontrolled part of himself. "If I still had, as you say, a 'twilight twin' that could be summoned to this place, and at this time, and by your word--but if I do, or ever did, he's no longer separate from me, and can't be brought forward like the rabbit from a conjuror's hat, no matter how often you invite him."

The creature hissed, and Sebastian's all-white eyes wept blood tears--yet even as it did so, Giles was seized with an odd sense of familiarity, and of mockery. The demon's hissing and its tears seemed to him so much stage-dressing, like a villain's tooth-gnashing in an old-fashioned melodrama.

"Stop that. Now," Giles told it sharply. He set the purifying sage alight, and placed red candles at the five points, lighting them too--not remembering, precisely, how to do any of it, or why it should be done. Perhaps he'd better instincts than he knew.

Returning to Randall's voice, the creature began to curse at him. Giles raised an eyebrow and continued with his task.

"You ought to be aware," he said conversationally, "That for the last three years I've been employed by an American High School. There aren't many of those words I've not heard in the course of my work."

"I could hurt you," it said, showing its true eyes, through the whiteness of Sebastian's, like slides shown through a theatre scrim.

"Yes." Giles sat on the coffeetable, a lead jar between his knees, waiting, watching those evil, bile-coloured eyes, thinking of Sebastian, his beloved son, whom he'd failed once and refused, utterly, ever to fail again, He felt the burning begin in the palm of his hand, a warm wetness seeping through the bandages, and didn't care. He'd been tired to the point of exhaustion, and would return to that state later, when this was through--but for now the cold anger sustained him.

"You've lost all your strength," the creature jeered. "All your knowledge. All your magic. You wasted it all. You're nothing."

I need a spell, Giles thought, and it came to him as if by divine inspiration. An old incantation, that he'd known quite well at one time. He said the words quietly, and a binding spell twisted up around them: father, son and interloper--whatever happened, no one else would be hurt.

Giles leaned forward to take Sebastian's hand. Sebastian's fingers curled toward his palm, clawed now, piercing his skin, but Giles ignored them, just as he ignored the demon. Not raising his voice, weaving the spell inside ordinary words, he called to his son.

Dimly, he became aware that Sebastian wept--dry harsh sobs, such as he himself wept the night Jenny Calendar died. Giles understood, suddenly, that Sebastian had lost something, and that loss had allowed this creature inside him. Lost his faith. Lost his nerve. Lost his ability to go unscathed and unconcerned into the midnight places of the world.

"It's all right, Sebastian," Giles said, sorry for his son, "I'm here. We'll say the words together, shall we?"

Sometimes Giles's father Henry, tired and bruised and trying to make himself comfortable in the worn leather armchair in his infrequently-used study, had listened, half-attentively, to Giles's lessons. He had tried to say them correctly, knowing that although his father never criticized, he heard all that was done poorly, and little that was done well.

He still wanted to say the words correctly, this time for his own son. It hurt, bringing them to the surface, and Giles didn't want to muff up the spell. Sage-smoke clouded the room, a dusty, spicy smell. The candleflames leapt and sputtered. Giles began his second incantation, while Sebastian, with great effort, supplied the odd word here and there.

As they spoke, though, his son's voice strengthened, until their two similar voices sounded as one, and the demon rose, smoky and amorphous, almost the ghost of a demon, fighting to keep itself from the jar. The room shook, as with one of California's earthquakes, pictures falling from the walls, books and small ornaments from the shelves. Sebastian's body convulsed with it, painful, jerking seizures that nearly ripped his hand from Giles's hold. His ears rang with a thousand stolen voices, so that he could hardly hear the concluding words of his own spell.

The smoky cloud funneled into the jar in a way that would have been almost comical, if Giles had not been so deeply worried about his son. As he capped the vessel Sebastian gave a final convulsion. The windows cracked, and the fallen objects rose into the air, flying in a violent spiral about the room. The candles extinguished themselves.

"Sebastian," Giles said sharply. One or two of the ornaments--a paperweight, he thought, and a small bronze--struck with bruising force. "Sebastian, stop. Now."

His son gasped, his body rigid. The objects dropped, gouging furniture, thudding heavily to the floor.

Sebastian fell back into the cushions. His colour appeared poor, and he scarcely seemed to be breathing, but Giles knew that he could not hesitate at this moment. He capped the jar, feeling, even through the heavy lead, the vibrations of the creature trapped inside.

Now, how to seal it? he wondered, and again by instinct, attempted something akin to the candle-lighting spell. Almost to Giles's surprise, the metal heated and flowed together. "Well," he said aloud, unable to suppress a grin, "Perhaps I am not so useless after all, hmn?"

He only wished he knew what to do with a demon in a jar. The Watchers' Compound contained several, he knew, but that avenue was closed to him now. Perhaps the church...Sebastian would know, when he recovered himself.

Giles set the jar on the floor, to be dealt with later. Sebastian breathed, albeit raggedly, and his hands had returned to their normal state. His eyes, when Giles lifted the lids, were most shockingly bloodshot, but revealed once more, their normal grey-green colour.

He took a handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped the red tears from his son's face, wishing, in a part of himself, that he'd been there to dry Sebastian's more innocent tears when he was a boy. Or had Sebastian been the sort of child who never cried? Giles would have liked to have known, would have liked to experience all those years that were lost to them--but perhaps he would not even have remembered them now.

Giles felt the pulse in his son's wrist; the beat was overly rapid, but strong. When he looked up, he saw Sebastian watching him. "Had a bit of an adventure, have you, Seb?" he asked quietly, in a voice that he intended as comforting, though to his surprise it came out hoarse with emotion.

What had he done? Giles wondered, though not in a self-castigating manner. He hadn't performed a ritual of magic so casually in twenty-five years, and yet he'd done so without hesitation, relying upon what felt right, instead of what was logical. He wasn't yet sure if such an act spoke more of confidence or foolhardiness.

Sebastian uttered a low, croaking cry. He looked ill.

"Did you need to--?" Giles began, then saw that Sebastian, in fact did, and helped him to his feet. His son leaned heavily on him on the way down the corridor and into the loo, where Sebastian was wretchedly sick. Giles stayed with him, and afterwards brought a glass of water, which his son only sipped at, then set aside.

"It was inside me, Dad," Sebastian said, huddled on the cold tile floor, his back against the wall. Giles crouched before him, and try as he might, he could not catch his son's eyes.

"How could that happen? I'm meaning, how could--?" Sebastian couldn't continue, but Giles knew what he meant, and thought that he, of all people, was the last person of whom his son should ask spiritual questions.

"Sebastian," Giles said, and was glad to hear that his natural voice had returned to him. "In this case, I believe one oughtn't think in such a manner. The creature inside you was a demon--a monster, if you like, a supernatural being. It wasn't a devil, sent by the Adversary, or whatever you like to call him. Demons can be--er--catalogued, if you will. They have rules which they must follow. They can be bound, as we bound this one. Speaking of which, I hope that your employers have some safe place set aside to store such things, because I hardly imagine Celeste would approve of it as an objet d'art."

"Celeste," Sebastian moaned, his voice barely audible. He put his hands over his face, pushing his fingers back through his hair--it was a gesture Giles had now and then seen Moira make, at her most frustrated, or distraught, reminding him that Sebastian was her son as well as his own.

Giles rose, fighting a momentary dizziness. "Now, with your permission, I should like to let Buffy in. She'll be worried. Will you be all right a moment on your own?"

Sebastian nodded, his face still covered by his hands.

Giles retraced his steps along the corridor and opened the front door, expecting to find a miserable--or perhaps furious--Buffy just outside. She wasn't there.

From the kitchen came a mighty thump, and the sound of breaking glass.

"What do you mean when you say there's something bad inside?" the chicken-cutting-lady, who was probably Celeste, asked, gripping Buffy's arms. She had big hands, with long fingers, and she was strong. "Where's my husband?"

Oops, Buffy thought, Foot-in-mouth disease again. How did you tactfully tell someone that her husband was probably possessed?

"There...uh...ah..." God, now she sounded like Giles, old-style. He'd gotten much better, she realized, about spitting out whatever it was he was trying to say. "There may be a problem there. With. Umn. Sebastian. Your husband," she added, as if Celeste might not recognize the name.

Celeste marched up to the front door and stuck her key in the lock, but it wouldn't turn. She stood glaring at the shiny red door as if it was her worst enemy.

"Round the back," she said, and took off, charging down the cobbled path in her high heels in a way that Buffy envied. Celeste would have made a good Slayer; judging from what she'd been doing on TV, she certainly knew how to use a knife.

She followed Sebastian's wife to the back yard, arriving in time to see Celeste casually throw her suitcase out of her way. Buffy was glad she hadn't packed any breakables.

Celeste tried the knob for the back door, which Buffy was pretty sure should have still been unlocked--she couldn't remember either of them locking up again after their unorthodox entrance. Of course, she'd been a little focused on other matters, but still...

Buffy suspected that whatever Giles had done to send her outside was keeping her there. Dammit, where did he get off being all protective like that? She was the Slayer. Her place was inside, combating evil, and any former Watchers who thought different were going to be given a big piece of her mind.

"The knob turns, but the door won't open. Blast!" Celeste said, in a way that told Buffy that she really wanted to use a much stronger word, but held it back in front of company. "Break it down."

"Huh?"

"You're meant to be extremely strong, aren't you?" Celeste gave her a slightly dubious once-over. "Break it down, Buffy. Our men are inside."

Buffy shot her companion a look. Celeste didn't appear scared at all--she looked pissed off , and Buffy pitied any demons who got in her way. She found herself liking Giles's daughter-in-law.

Celeste, obviously a practical woman, moved out of her way. Buffy gave the door a good hard kick--it was like connecting with something made of steel. Her shoe left a wide black streak on the perfect pain.

"Uh. Sorry," she said. "Ouch."

Celeste pulled off what must have been at least the British equivalent of a five hundred dollar jacket and wrapped it around her arm. Not hesitating even for a second, she moved to the kitchen window and broke out the glass, careful to get all the jagged little pieces around the edge. "You'll fit," she told Buffy. "Mind the glass in the basin."

"Uh--okay." Buffy wondered if she'd managed to say even one intelligent thing to Celeste so far--she didn't think so. She let the older woman give her a boost. Celeste really was strong, and she had a no-nonsense, Moiralike quality to her.

Buffy did manage to slide through the narrow little window, even though she had to go sideways. It was a tight fit, and for a minute she thought her butt was going to get stuck. After a good strong shove from Celeste, though, and at the loss of a little skin, she managed to wriggle through into the kitchen, avoiding the broken glass in the sink by slithering headfirst to the floor.

"You're in?" Celeste asked--unnecessarily, Buffy thought, since half of her was no longer hanging outside the window like Pooh Bear stuck in the entrance to Rabbit's hole. "You haven't cut yourself, have you?"

"Nope, cut free," she called back, looking up to see--by her perspective--Giles's upside-down face. Ever the gentleman, he stooped to set her upright with his arm around her waist. As he touched her, she felt something wet soak through her clothes.

"Buffy, let me in!" Celeste demanded.

Silently, Giles left her to answer the door. Celeste nearly burst into the room.

"Bastian!--where is he?"

"Hullo, Celeste," Giles answered. "In the loo. He's feeling a bit under the weather, I fear."

"Under the weather?" The other woman kept her cool, but definite fear flashed in her dark-brown eyes. "Rupert, tell me," she insisted.

"Disaster averted." Giles gave her a slight smile. "Do you know what it is, exactly, that Sebastian does for the Archbishop, Celeste?"

"Dad." Sebastian came into the kitchen, and they all turned to stare at him. He looked icky, no doubt of that, but okay. Actually, it shocked Buffy how much he and Giles looked alike--not so much like father and son, more like clones. The only thing Sebastian seemed to have of Moira's was her curly auburn hair. His eyes were like Giles's, exactly--that changeable gray-green, with the start of the exact same lines around them.

Celeste went to her husband like a shot and put her arms around him so tight it must have hurt. Sebastian hugged her back just as desperately, resting his head on her shoulder.

The minute he did, Celeste tore away. "My God, Bastian! What did you do?"

"It was nothing. Bit of a mishap." Sebastian gave a shaky smile, both the smile and his words so completely Giles that Buffy had to sneak a peek to make sure her Giles still stood beside her, and hadn't gone through a fountain of youth, or a time machine, or something.

Sebastian sank into one of the nice wooden chairs at the nice tile-topped kitchen table. All the chairs had cushions in a pretty blue-and-white pattern. Even with the sink full of broken glass, the room still looked like something from a magazine.

"It was one of those bloody demons, wasn't it?" Celeste dropped into the chair beside her husband, checking him over quickly and none-too-gently for bruises and other visible marks. "Has it been in my house? What has it done to you?"

"Nothing, love. Only thank God that Dad arrived." Sebastian caught hold of his wife's hand, rubbing the back of it with his thumb, the exact way Giles sometimes did with hers. "Celeste, my study's--ah, a bit of a jumble just now." Sebastian's face had a very Giles-like expression of alarm--he could face demons, but not his wife fussing, Buffy thought--the same way Giles could handle just about anything the Hellmouth threw at him, but tended to freak when she or Willow cried.

Which reminded her...

"Why did you shut me outside?" Buffy asked Giles in an undertone. "Why would you do that to me?"

His look of puzzlement, at the anger in her tone, quickly turned to one of extreme seriousness. "Sit down, please, Buffy," he told her quietly, and when she sat, took her foot in his hand.

"Gee, do you think the glass slipper will fit?" she quipped, alarmed by his somber tone. Her skin stung where he touched her, and when Buffy looked down she noticed the band of rawness running all the way around her ankle.

"You didn't feel it, love," he said, so softly she could hardly hear. "It nearly had you, and you didn't feel."

"Would it have--you know--with me?" Buffy whispered. "The way it did with Sebastian?"

"It meant to take all of us, I suppose." Giles looked troubled. "And yet, somehow, it seems to have had more of a purpose than merely our general destruction. Buffy, it knew who I was."