Into the Abyss

Disclaimer: Characters from Buffy the Vampire Slayer are property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Kuzui Enterprises, Sandollar Television, the WB, and UPN.

Part IV

He parked behind me in the driveway and I led him inside, he with his luggage, a personal valise and a larger athletic-type duffel that — I could tell by the set of his body as he carried it — was heavier than it looked. “That’s the spare room,” I told him, pointing, while I set our accumulated research on the little writing desk next to the bookcase. “You can just drop your bags in there for now, would you like something to drink?”

He took his cue and set his luggage down just inside the door, came out to join me at the point where the living room gave into the diminutive kitchen. “I could perhaps use a nightcap,” he answered me. “What do you have?”

I’d actually meant coffee, fruit juice, or soft drinks, but I opened the doors to one of the cabinets. “There’s bourbon, and … well, bourbon. I don’t get company that often.”

“Bourbon and water will be quite suitable,” he assured me. I fixed him one, then went back out into the living room. I sat in one of the armchairs, and he took the one just across from it.

He hadn’t said anything, but I had seen his gaze flick to and away from my empty hands. “I try not to drink at home,” I explained to him. “I went through a rough time some years back, caught myself drinking more than I needed to. Not genuine alcoholism — you saw me have the beer back at the restaurant — so I’ll keep the bottle here for the rare occasion when I have guests. But I just … have the feeling that drinking at home wouldn’t be good for me.”

“Entirely your choice,” he said. “And I would be the last to criticise a responsible prudence.” He settled back in his chair, took a sip of his drink, and nodded approval.

“Okay,” I said. “I suppose we’ve done as much as we can right now, and I figure if you had any other ideas you wouldn’t have come here. What were your thoughts on tomorrow, though?”

“Yes, well,” he said. “In the normal course of things, I would have already attempted to speak to either or both of the two remaining women, but I’m afraid I forestalled that by my insistence on sending them a warning.” He shook his head in some irritation. “Very muddled thinking there, I’ve let myself fall into slack habits. By this point they’ll have very likely contacted the police, and seeking them out would call distinctly unwanted attention to ourselves.” He sipped his drink again, considering. “I believe I may have been thinking unconsciously of the Sunnydale police force; they would hardly have been responsive enough, or alert enough, to pose us much problem. I’m fully aware that their practices are, er, atypical, but let myself forget the implications of our present situation being outside Sunnydale.”

I was nodding. “Okay,” I said. “I guess I can see talking to the potential victims as the natural next step; however they may be mixed up in this, there’s no question but that it’s … about them somehow.” I shrugged. “But, if going to see them is off the board now, what do we do next?”

He gave that some thought, fingers drumming absently on the arm of the chair. “I’m not sure,” he said at last. “Unless we wait to see if another killing should provide us with better information — which I am deeply loath to do — it would seem that making some type of contact with these women is an unavoidable necessity. Fortunately, the timeline we have seen, assuming that the Linden woman was killed at roughly the time her vacation was scheduled to begin, would indicate a period of nearly five days between victims; meaning, we still have at least two days in which to take some action.” He sighed. “I suppose I should try to formulate some approach by which they would agree to meet us without police oversight. At the moment, I am devoid of inspiration. Perhaps I’ll have a clearer eye in the morning.”

“All right,” I said. “Well, if you need to look over any of the material we’ve gathered so far, I’ve put it over there.” I indicated the writing desk.

“Yes, I see,” he said. He stood and went to the desk, riffling through the stacked folders while he continued to speak. “No doubt by tomorrow Willow will have more facts for us to add to these —”

He stopped. I watched, waited, said nothing. He was looking at the bookshelf, not the desk, his eyes moving over the titles displayed there. He turned his head to look back at me. “Ah,” he said.

“Yes?” I answered.

“Bristow’s Demon Index,” he read off, facing the bookshelf again. “Hebron’s Almanac. The Dichaltus Compendium. And, yes, 4th edition of Blood Rites and Sacrifices.” He returned to the armchair and sat down again, his eyes level and controlled as they met mine. “I understand the 5th edition is supposed to have corrected some glaring inaccuracies in their description of Tyristhean rites.”

“Really?” I said. “I … suppose that’s helpful.”

“So, are these volumes mementoes from, er, some rebellious ‘Goth’ period in your youth, or … are you a believer?”

The plain fact of his having recognized the titles told me much of what I wanted to know, which was why I had contrived to move his attention in that direction. “Working in my business, you hear things,” I told him. “Find out things. See things, sometimes, even if you’re not necessarily sure what you saw. After awhile, it starts to paint a picture. After a longer while … it starts to seem like a good idea to learn enough that you can tell if something is one of those things you don’t want to investigate any further.”

That level, direct gaze hadn’t wavered. “I see,” he observed. “And, given this, this unexpected depth to your knowledge, what is your judgment of our present situation?”

He’d batted it back to me, then. Fine. “I really don’t know what to think,” I said, just as evenly. “But with what we’re seeing and what we’ve learned, I have to wonder if … if these women are being killed by a demon.”

“Ah. Well.” He picked up his drink, tossed back the rest of it. “The evidence is less than conclusive. As it presently stands, however, I rather think that they are.”

*               *               *

I had expected that our discovery of mutual knowledge (in my case, confirmation of something I had increasingly come to suspect) would be a springboard to new revelations, or at least further conversation. Giles demurred, however. “I stayed up very late last night,” he explained, “doing further researches and investigations, then made an equally early start this morning. It’s not the first time I’ve done so, but I’m afraid I’m beginning to edge into diminished function. Absent any immediate urgency, I think we may proceed to better effect if I acquire several hours of solid sleep … and, given the labours we may face tomorrow, I believe that’s best begun soonest. And so, good night.”

I hated to put it off, but what he said made sense. More than that, though, there was an increasingly strong hint of hidden iron about this man. The deference, politeness, even seeming vagueness, had been deceptive: whatever was going on back in Sunnydale (and I was getting a sense of what type of goings-on that might be), it was clear that he was a leader there, and it couldn’t be easy for anyone to say no to him. Certainly I wasn’t going to attempt any such thing myself without a very good reason.

So we went on to bed. Separately, of course. Even if the thought of otherwise was somewhat less distant than it had previously been.

I woke early in the morning and showered quickly, wanting to be ready to begin as soon as Giles was. I tend to move through my life by deliberate choice, so it wasn’t entirely comfortable to find myself feeling impatient and resentful of the delay. I was in the middle of something here, of an importance I couldn’t begin to express to him, and I wanted to get on with it. I channeled some of that edginess into beginning the preparation of breakfast, and was gratified when Giles came out of the spare bedroom, rubbing at his eyes. He was wearing trousers and a t-shirt; his hair was more tousled than ever, he was showing some stubble, and without his glasses he had to squint slightly to focus on me, which made his gaze more direct. The overall effect was surprisingly masculine, and I took a deep breath to keep any response from showing. “Good morning,” he said to me, then gestured toward the bathroom. “I heard the shower. If I may —?”

“Feel free,” I assured him. “I was quick, so there should still be plenty of hot water.”

“Thank you,” he said, and went on in.

He took no more time than I had (less, probably), and when he was done he returned to the spare room, emerging minutes later in fresh clothes to join me at the breakfast table. I was wearing only my robe, but I was decently — even modestly — covered, so I set a plate of bacon and eggs in front of him and then sat down on the other side of the table.

Remembering the twist that had introduced itself yesterday morning, I had the radio on and tuned to the local news; if nothing else, it would help to know if any further identifications had been announced. (The police might have clamped on a lid after that first one, but some things are hard to keep secret.) Last night we had talked through dinner, but I wasn’t in the mood for anything so leisurely right now; I powered through my breakfast, even a couple of slices of toast, and waited till Giles was at much the same point before speaking. “Okay,” I said at last. “You’ve had time to recharge your batteries, and we’re ready now to launch out into another day … and, now that we’ve admitted we both know about the maybe-supernatural angle, I am really very interested in what thoughts you may be having about it.”

He finished the last of his orange juice before answering. “I’ll begin by confessing that I wanted some time to consider just how deeply I wished to explore these issues with you.” He gave me a small, quick smile. “Even admitting to such a possibility is more than most people are able to do, and so I wanted to devote proper attention to how best to proceed from that point.”

“I’m a big girl,” I told him. “I don’t need to be protected, and even if I did, I don’t see how ignorance could protect me.”

“I don’t mean to patronize you,” he assured me. “Even if we can resolve this situation without direct peril, however, there is another potential aspect I wouldn’t wish you to disregard.” I gave him a questioning eyebrow, and he went on. “On our first meeting, you referred to your below-basement offices as ‘the Abyss’. I couldn’t help but be reminded of one of Nietzsche’s better-known quotes, from Beyond Good and Evil: ‘when you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.’ ”

“Huh,” I said. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Doubtless it doesn’t mean to us what Nietzsche meant by it,” he responded. “My point, however, is that there is a reality here, distinct from and in many ways inimical to the comfortable ‘reality’ known by most. It is a dark, forbidding world, containing forces and entities that care not at all for us or actively seek our destruction … and they are, very many of them, aware.” He looked to me with sober, earnest intensity. “When you see them, when you notice them, when you attend to them, there is a substantial possibility that their attention may likewise turn to you.”

I looked away. “Can’t say I want that,” I admitted. “But … this isn’t something that happened and I can just pretend not to notice; it’s happening now, to people I … well, I can’t say I know them, but they’re part of MY world. Am I supposed to do nothing because there might be some risk attached to it?”

“There is,” he insisted. “People die of these things; as, in fact, they are dying now. You may be more involved already than you wish, for your having independently produced the list that is apparently being followed now would suggest that you are … attuned … to these forces in a way that could all too easily make them equally aware of you.” His voice was level, his expression grave. “It is your decision as to whether you involve yourself further in this matter, but I must be certain that it is a … an informed decision.”

I shook my head. “I’m already in it,” I told him. “One way or another, I’m going to see this through to the end.”

“Very well,” he said. “If indeed there is a demon preying on these women, its actions cannot by any means be random. The similarities they share, the fact of their having chosen new names, even the renown they all have come to enjoy, seem to indicate something particular to them.”

“This carries extra punch in the news because they’re famous,” I mused, following out on what he seemed to be getting at. “But their success, their celebrity, that’s what’s attracting this demon somehow?”

“Such things are not unknown,” he acknowledged, “but I was thinking in rather more specific terms. Last year there was a brief spate of news items about a particular fraternity at a small private college in Sunnydale; even apart from the local perpetrators, a number of former members who had attained high status in the financial world, suffered huge losses, or were arrested, or in at least a few cases committed suicide. Those stories shut off abruptly, but in your occupation — and with your, er, unconventional knowledge — you might have paid them some attention at the time. Do you remember that?”

I thought about it. “Maybe,” I said. “Not about Sunnydale, but I do remember the thing about girls being murdered at a frat house: Delta Kappa Zeta, or some such?”

“Or some such, yes,” he confirmed.

“That business did drop out of the news awfully suddenly, now that I think about it.” I rolled the memory around in my head. “Funny that nobody started asking why. But, you’re saying a demon did that, too?”

“In a sense. There was indeed a demon, but the unfortunate young women were being sacrificed to it by the members of the fraternity.” He tilted his head, regarding me appraisingly. “In return for which, they were rewarded with immense material success.”

“Right.” I nodded. “And you think these women did something like that, back in the Eighties.”

“There are certain elements to this situation that turn my thoughts in that direction.” He shrugged. “Even apart from the Delta Zeta Kappa affair, legends and even popular literature tell of people bargaining with diabolical powers to receive earthly fortune; Faust is the best known example, but hardly the only such.” He took off his glasses, reached for a pocket handkerchief to begin cleaning them. “Of course, we must consider the possibility that these women are themselves being offered as sacrifices, with the demon or some other supernatural doom being directed at them by an outside party; women of their stature would be considered potent offerings in some circles. All told, however, this has the hallmarks of their being called to final account by the entity with which they made an exceedingly unwise bargain.”

“It does have that sound,” I said, agreeing. “You wonder why anyone could possibly do something so dumb … but, look around you, people are always finding ways to convince themselves that the odds won’t catch up to them. Human nature is why newspapers never run out of headlines.”

“Indeed.” Giles moved his chair back from the table. “Well, I suppose I can begin researching to see if any invocatory demons reward their supplicants in the manner we have seen, or dispense to them such an end when the reckoning comes. I can use your Bristow’s, and I brought some other texts with me …”

Yes, those would probably be in the athletic bag he had brought in last night. “You do that,” I said, standing. “I’ll go ahead and get dressed.”

In my bedroom I couldn’t stop myself from glancing at a few outfits, in the back of my closet, that might have prompted him to look at me differently. I told myself sternly that this wasn’t the time for such things, and dressed myself with an eye to practical utility. On the other side of the door, Giles might well be zeroing in already on the correct demon and the correct rite and the best documented means for testing or detecting or nullifying or vanquishing the inhuman killer that was now operating in my city; he had already demonstrated a keen intelligence and an impressive depth of knowledge — or trained intuition, or judgment springing from comprehensive familiarity with this area of arcane study — that surpassed anything I could have been prepared to see.

He had wanted to be certain that I understood what I might be letting myself in for. Despite my confident assurances to him, I couldn’t help wondering if I had, in fact, jumped into more than I could handle.

Enough. I didn’t have time for a crisis of confidence here, couldn’t afford doubts. “I have a few more books tucked away,” I told him, exiting the bedroom. “A little too beat-up to stick out on the shelf, and some of them are just folios that have lost the bindings —”

I stopped. He wasn’t paying any attention; or rather, he was but not to me. I could see his face, the rigid fixity of concentration, and I crossed quickly to where he sat and now I could hear what was coming out of the radio:

“— police department is refusing to comment, but several independent reports indicate that the well-known TV producer triggered a personal alarm before vanishing from her midtown penthouse condo. She makes the third high-profile woman to have disappeared within the past week; the body of one, celebrity columnist Amelie Linden, was later found in a derelict neighborhood, though it was several days before her identity could be positively established. A series of anonymous calls to various news organizations claim that the ‘homeless’ women found dead and abandoned during the same time period are, in fact, the vanished media personalities. City officials are calling for an investigation into police procedural errors in this matter, and spokesmen for the other missing women are demanding to know if any of them are, in fact, among the unidentified bodies currently languishing in the city morgue.

“To recap: Luciana St Claire, successful television producer and rising network executive, is missing from her home following an emergency response to an alarm there. After fashion maven Danica Carlisle and gossip queen Amelie Linden, St Claire is the third well-known woman to disappear in the last week —”

It went on from there, but the rest was repetition of what had already been said. Giles sat staring at the radio, his jaw clenched. His fists as well, I saw. I laid my hand on his arm, saying, “Rupert —”

“I was wrong,” he said, ghost-soft. “The five-day interval … I misunderstood, or miscounted, or miscalculated, and now another woman is gone. Doubtless dead already, taken while I was nattering over roast beef and sodding potato!”

“No,” I told him. “No, listen to what they’re saying.” I pointed at the radio. “The alarm they’re talking about, that went off around five-thirty yesterday evening. We were still at the newspaper building then, we didn’t leave till more than an hour later. It’s not your fault, we didn’t know enough yet, we were still gathering information … we still are gathering information. It’s not your fault.”

He shook me off, angrily, but I knew none of that was directed at me. “I’m so bloody tired of failure,” he snarled, pushing himself to his feet. “So everlastingly weary of being a step behind, of having the cues fall into place after it’s already too bloody late. Tired of having bodies laid at my door —” He stopped and laughed abruptly, an ugly sound. “… oh, yes, laid at my door or elsewhere, all due to my arrogance and stupidity and incompetence. Jenny, and Kendra, and Buffy gone too, and on and on and on —” His fist crashed down on the table. “I’m bloody sick of it!”

“No, no, don’t say, that, no.” I couldn’t understand why my voice was shaking this way, but I couldn’t stop. “You’re not to blame for this, you’re not, you’re not!” God, I was about to start crying, I was out of control here! but I put my hands on his shoulders and made him face me, still babbling over and over, “It isn’t you. It isn’t you. It isn’t. It isn’t.”

He stood stiff under my hands, not wanting the contact but not willing to shove me away. And then I felt the tension go out of him, and he sighed and slumped slightly, and I was wiping away tears now. He reached up to take hold of my other hand where it lay on his shoulder, and our eyes met and I felt the breath catch in my throat, and —

It was there then, it was there between us, a living thing, we were only inches apart and I could have moved into that space, moved toward him, and he would have moved to meet me. That was the moment, raw and urgent and more real than I could have imagined, it was there and all I had to do was lean forward just a few inches —

And I didn’t. It was too unexpected, had flared from nothing with no warning at all, and before I could adjust, it slid away and was gone. “Yes,” Giles said, himself again. “Well.” He released my hand, and didn’t actually step back but he was away from me now, distance appearing between us like a force field. “I apologise,” he said quietly. “I should not have … have subjected you, to my personal tempests.”

Stupid, stupid, stupid! It had been there, it had been right there in front of me and I had just stood there like some quivering rabbit. I swallowed my self-loathing and gave him a shamefully shaky laugh. “I guess it’s just … been that kind of week,” I said with desperate, lying cheer. “Better to, to get it all blown out in advance, right?”

“Yes,” he agreed, turning his face just slightly away. “Yes, of course. I shall … comport myself more properly henceforth, I assure you.”

He might as well have gone on and said the rest out loud: Nothing like this will ever happen again. I would have hated him for that, if I didn’t already hate myself so much. Sick as he was of failure, I was just as sick of being the deer in the headlights whenever faced with the actual possibility of possibility.

Never again, I swore to myself as he moved back toward the desk and its heap of books. I had been caught off guard, and I had frozen, but I was done with that. I had learned, I would be ready, and I would act if I ever had another such opportunity.

Or if I could create one.
 

|    Next Part    |    Previous Part     |    Chapter Index     |