Kirlian Logic

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

Part IV

After several minutes of silence during which, presumably, all present contemplate our situation, Virginia Bryce turns abruptly to Dustin Clarke. “Why?” she demands. “Why did you want to meet me? What did you want from me?”

A subtle relaxation in Dustin Clarke, almost imperceptible even to my micrometer senses, suggests to me that he chose to wait for her curiosity and impatience to prompt such an inquiry. Now that she has raised the subject again, he is no longer imposing his request upon her, a small strategic point with the potential of making a substantial difference in results. “Okay,” he says. “What I told you about the stuff in Cromwell, couple of years ago? I was one of five people involved in that … Well, six if you count the Slayer and seven if you count the guy who was controlling the demons and kinda wound up dead.

“Thing is, one of them … She and I were sort of involved at one time, even if we drifted apart afterward. The Slayer, though, right before she left she said something about having a friend of hers put a spell on Katie — that’s my old girlfriend — and so I’ve been keeping track of her ever since. And maybe six months back, things changed. Katie has changed. She’s out all hours of the night, driving all over the county or sometimes roaming the woods on foot. Her appetite, well, she’ll power through a breakfast big enough to carry me all day long, and then an even bigger lunch, but she doesn’t gain an ounce; in fact, I’ve never seen her so toned. She’d finally got her black belt the year before, and then out of nowhere she’s doing full-on sparring with the higher belts at our dojo, all of them, at once, and I swear she acted like she was trying to go easy on them, and then she just dropped out. No warning, no reason … she’s been studying and training since she was twelve, dedicated, and all of a sudden she just lost interest.

“Sometimes, when she comes back in the morning, her clothes are torn. Sometimes there’s blood. Her dad and stepmom are really worried, but Katie just tells them everything’s fine and keeps on going.

“I care about Katie,” Dustin Clarke concludes, “even if we’re not really together anymore. Whatever spell the Slayer’s friend put on her, I was hoping you could point me to someone who could figure out what it was and undo it.”

Virginia Bryce has listened without interruption and without expression. Now she says, “And why me?”

Dustin Clarke smiles, shrugs. The smile attempts to combine rueful with charming; given her demeanor thus far, I am not certain it is the best path to take in securing Virginia Bryce’s cooperation. “I don’t have any money,” he tells her. “I don’t have any connections. I followed out rumors about some people in Los Angeles who helped with odd or mystical stuff, but it turned out my information was a little out of date, this Angel Investigations group doesn’t seem to be in business anymore. You knew them, though, and you have connections of your own. I figured I could at least ask you where to go.”

Virginia Bryce’s gaze cuts from Dustin Clarke to Rebecca Lowell, and back again. Comparing the two requests, or the two petitioners? “I don’t think you need to worry about your girl,” she says to him. “Or worry, yes, but not because of some spell two years ago.” She pulls a chair out from the nearest table, takes a seat. “You say you’ve met the Slayer? Well, from the sound of it, I’d say … Katie? … is a Slayer now herself.”

Dustin Clarke sighs, and his shoulders slump just a bit. “I was hoping that wasn’t it,” he says. “One Girl in All the World … when there’s just one, she turns into a target. Are you sure?”

“No,” Virginia Bryce says. “But it fits. This past spring, the supernatural world took a major shift. The Slayer line opened out, and now it isn’t just One Girl anymore. It’s spread. Dozens of them, hundreds, maybe even thousands. My guess is, your girl caught part of that wave.”

At my elbow, Joel Kreuter clears his throat. “Um, excuse me, but … ‘Slayer’ doesn’t sound very much like a good thing.”

Virginia Bryce shrugs. “Well, ‘exterminator’ has a pretty sinister ring to it, too, but that’s who you call if you have a roach problem. The Slayer … okay, I guess there’s no The Slayer, not anymore … Slayers kill vampires. Demons, too, sometimes, but still mostly vampires.” She arches an eyebrow toward Joel Kreuter. “Once you know vampires exist, hearing that there’s somebody designed by Destiny to kill them starts to sound like good news, doesn’t it?”

I am not uneasy — that is a human emotion, and my varying internal states cannot be presumed to function as direct analogues — but I am dissatisfied by the uncertainty. I am here because I could directly perceive lines of fate converging at this point, and wished to observe what would take place at the portended time. For Rebecca Lowell and Dustin Clarke to both seek audience with Virginia Bryce, at the same time, posits a degree of coincidence that I distrust.

Still, some of the fate-threads move through Dustin Clarke. Did they merely foretell his presence here, or was there some deeper design in which they subtly steered him in this direction? Or, possibly, do prediction and cause interrelate on some levels still beyond my senses and understanding?

“There are some people you can get Katie to call,” Virginia Bryce is telling Dustin Clarke. “The new Slayers have an organization backing them, and word is that they’ll provide some information and training and support even if a new-Chosen doesn’t feel like joining up. — Which probably won’t be an issue, it sounds like your gal is all about embracing the power.”

“Okay,” Dustin Clarke says. “I mean, yeah, that’s something she’ll probably want to do.” He pauses, considering. “The other spell, though, the one the Slayer said she was going to have put on Katie: would these people be able to tell if it’s actually there, and remove it if it is?”

“I don’t know,” Virginia Bryce replies. “Maybe. Probably.” She tilts her head, studying Dustin Clarke. “Did she say what kind of spell it was?”

The increase of color in Dustin Clarke’s face should not properly be called a blush, since other physiological effects suggest anger as the cause, rather than embarrassment. I do not know if it is visible to human eyes. “She called it a ‘squealer’ spell. She didn’t go into detail.”

Another shrug from Virginia Bryce. “Well, if she said she was going to have a friend cast it, the friend was probably Willow Rosenberg. The Red Witch wouldn’t have any problem taking back something like that. Asking her to do it, though … you might want to think about whether you really want to go that way.”

Having seen some of the later developments in Willow Rosenberg’s psyche, I understand what Virginia Bryce means. Perhaps Dustin Clarke picks up something from her tone or expression, for he gives her a small nod of acknowledgment, but no further response.

Rebecca Lowell has been quiet for some time, disheartened, presumably, from the flat rejection of her own overtures to Virginia Bryce. Now, without preamble, she asks Dustin Clarke, “How did you know she was taking this trip, at this time? Grant said it wasn’t easy to get advance notice of her schedule. I don’t see how someone with … limited resources, could come into such information.”

Virginia Bryce gives Rebecca Lowell an inquiring look. “Grant? Who’s that?”

“A consultant, of sorts,” Rebecca Lowell says after brief consideration. “I’ve spent several years learning what I could in regard to this particular area of interest, but I don’t kid myself that I’ve gone much past the surface. Grant has experience, and knows people; he’s helped me to navigate what is still a strange world to me.” Again she looks to Dustin Clarke. “You didn’t mention any such intermediary or helper. Yet here you are.”

Dustin Clarke’s behavior toward me indicated a particular personality type, certain aspects of which were already familiar from observation of Warren Mears and the vampire Spike. A user of women, relying on personal charm, where Spike operated from an aggressive sexual charisma, and Warren by one or another means of compulsion. Desiring women, but valuing them for dominance and sexual exploitation rather than for any particular personal attributes. Dustin has treated Virginia Bryce with an easy but careful deference, and he regards Rebecca Lowell now with masked but detectible wariness. As a celebrity, ranking high in the conventional standards for female beauty, she should be a tempting trophy, but Dustin does not react in such terms. Interesting. “No, I don’t have anybody helping me,” he answers. “If I did, I probably could have managed something less lame than this.” He looks to Virginia Bryce again. “I’d been hanging around, trying to figure out how to meet you in such a way that you wouldn’t just cut me cold. I followed your car, kept following when you headed out of town. It’s no more complicated than that.”

This settles the concerns I chose not to draw attention to myself by voicing, and seems to satisfy Virginia Bryce as well, though Rebecca Lowell’s composed mask is more difficult to interpret. Joel Kreuter selects this moment to say, “Ma’am, wasn’t this thing —” He indicates the silver bubble surrounding us with a wide gesture. “— supposed to come down in about half an hour?”

Rebecca Lowell looks to him, and then at the enclosing walls. “Roughly, yes. Is it nearly time?”

“Past time, I think,” Joel Kreuter says, softly polite. “I checked my watch when you first told us, and that was over forty minutes ago.”

“Oh,” Dustin Clarke says as we consider this new fact. “Whoa. That can’t be good.”

“No, it isn’t,” Virginia Bryce agrees. She regards Rebecca Lowell, brows knit. “How’d you call that up, anyhow? I heard you do some kind of invocation, but I was headed away from you … Now that I think on it, you couldn’t do that without some kind of aid, you said yourself you don’t know this world, and even if you had innate power, you wouldn’t be able to use it so precisely without schooling.” She tilts her head. “There’s a thing, right? Talisman, amulet, fetish, something with magic already bound into it, and all you had to do was trigger it.”

“Yes,” Rebecca Lowell acknowledges. She produces a small object and lays it on the table where we can see it: oblong, pewter-colored, four centimeters by seven, with blurred designs not so much engraved as worn into the surface. “This was Grant’s suggestion, in case you tried to use any of your wards to summon help or shut me away. He said you would have quite a bit of sophisticated protection … I’m sorry, I really should have shown better judgment.”

Joel Kreuter takes a step closer to the table, but makes no move to touch the token resting there. “So, if that’s the source of this, this bubble sealing us in, would breaking it break the bubble?”

“Maybe,” Virginia Bryce says, shifting to inspect the small object from different angles. “Or it might keep the shield from fading on its own. Or it might collapse the shield into a pinpoint, compressing our atoms like a black hole. You don’t want to be in too much of a hurry with these kinds of things.” She glances back to Rebecca Lowell. “This was supposed to overpower my wards, you say?”

“Something along those lines,” Rebecca Lowell replies. “I’m trying to remember the way Grant phrased it … No, not overpower, more like redirect. It was keyed to respond to whatever protections you had and re-route them into a form that wouldn’t keep me away or allow you to send out a call for help. Like a computer virus, I suppose, overwriting another program and substituting its own instructions.”

“Uh-huh,” Virginia Bryce answers. She stands and begins to move about the table, studying the object there, with an air of thinking deeply and carefully. “That would be the right kind of thing to give a novice: pre-set, limited function, not even carrying that much power because it would use the power set into my collection of trinkets …” She nods as if satisfied, then glances to Joel Kreuter. “Something like forty-five minutes now, right?”

“Right about that long,” Joel Kreuter agrees.

“So maybe it’s running longer because my shield-set carried more juice than expected,” Virginia Bryce muses. “Or maybe there’s a glitch in the system. Or maybe your Grant —” A brief glare at Rebecca Lowell. “— wasn’t quite as careful a shopper as you needed. Whatever, but we’re past our projected time, and if this thing is keyed off my protections, none of the people who watch out for me will know there’s anything wrong. We could wait awhile longer, but —”

“— but I’ll bet those walls are air-tight,” Dustin Clarke breaks in. “I don’t know how long it would take, but with five of us in here, we’ll use up all the air pretty quick. May have gone through most of it already.”

His reasoning is sound; he cannot know, of course, that my own functions do not require the consumption of oxygen. In fact, I could use certain systems to break down some of the accumulating carbon dioxide, extending the air supply for the others. It is not to my benefit, however, to have them accept our imprisonment for longer than necessary. “Uh, guys, he’s right,” I say. “It’s feeling kinda stuffy in here, we been waiting and talking and —” I break off with a little hiccup of seeming fear, and to Virginia Bryce I implore, “Can you get us out? Do you know how? Please, you have to know —!”

She makes an imperative gesture, less soothing than commanding. “Get a grip, hon. Won’t improve anything by flipping out here.” To the larger group she continues. “I think I know what will probably shut it off. Probably. There’s a risk with any magic, and more when you’re trying to fix magic that’s gone off-track. Are we agreed, though, that right now we’re likely risking just as much by not doing anything?”

Trish would agree without hesitation, so I nod vigorously. Dustin Clarke does likewise, though more slowly. Rebecca Lowell parts her lips as if to speak, and then closes them again, perhaps intuiting that Virginia Bryce would not find her opinion especially welcome. Joel Kreuter is the only one to speak, and not to express immediate assent. “What is it you’re planning to do?”

“I don’t really understand the principles,” Virginia Bryce says with a shrug. “My family markets the stuff but I never had the knack myself, all I know is some of the broad outlines —”

“That’s fine,” Joel Kreuter assures her. “I don’t need the mechanics, I’d just like to know the general idea.” The interplay of fine muscles around Virginia Bryce’s eyes and mouth, assessed in the context of her behavior to this point, gives me the impression of impatience and annoyance. It is possible that personal experience or idiosyncratic insight allows Joel Kreuter to perceive these same things, for he adds, soft but quite firm: “We got pulled into this without being asked or even warned. It’d be nice, now, to have at least some notion as to what we’re letting ourselves in for.”

Virginia Bryce lets out her breath in a sharp sigh. “Okay, okay. You’re right, you’re entitled. Look, I have … layers, of protections. Some of them shield me, some of them track me, some keep anybody else from tracking me, it’s a balanced package of different things for different purposes. Same-old, same-old for somebody in my life, which I never wanted but I was born into it so what can you do? But even if you’re used to it … well, I think you can understand how a girl might have one level for out-in-public, and still want to dial back the oversight if she’s settling in for a little happy-time with her sweetie, or just doesn’t want it going back to the watch-wardens exactly how much noise she makes in the ladies’ room after one too many chili burritos.

“The point is, I can turn down most of them, and I can turn off some of them, and there’s even an emergency kill-switch, so to speak, for if I just want to dump them all at once. I’ve never gone that far, but it’s there because sometimes things do go wrong. I could try shutting them off one at a time, but the kind of re-write that Raven described might be able to shift tracks if I went that way. So I’m thinking, pull the plug, wipe ’em all so that there’s nothing left for it to work with.”

“And you say there’s some risk to that?” This is Dustin Clarke, and he asks with keen interest rather than evident alarm: gathering information, in order to better make a decision. It would be more impressive if he had not in fact agreed already, acting now in emulation of Joel Kreuter’s example.

“Always a risk,” Virginia Bryce says, with another shrug. “Like if we were in a stalled elevator, and stripped some of the wires so we could interrupt the alarm in an SOS pattern. There are all kinds of safety features built into the elevator, but you’re definitely not operating the system the way it’s designed, so things might go wrong. You’re taking a chance, but probably not a big chance. Probably.”

Joel Kreuter looks around to each of us in turn, inquiring with a tilt of his head and a lifted eyebrow as to a decision. As if our previous expressions were non-binding, preliminary. As if the final choice were his, and he is merely seeking feedback before deciding. That may be the case, for in a subtle way the initiative has shifted to him. None of us challenge it; perhaps, in assuming responsibility, he has relieved us from the necessity of doing so.

Dustin Clarke nods again. So does Rebecca Lowell, for Joel Kreuter looks to her next. I have continued to evaluate the overall situation — though hypoxia does not concern me, I am as vulnerable as any of them to having my atoms catastrophically compressed — but ultimately a calculated risk is preferable to passively awaiting an unknown outcome, so my own nod comes without any pause that Joel Kreuter would be capable of detecting.

“Well,” he says to Virginia Bryce, “it  looks like we’re all willing to chance it.”

“Okay,” Virginia Bryce tells us. “One way or another, then, it’ll be settled in a second.”

Her handbag is larger than Rebecca Lowell’s, and more utilitarian than stylish, but still clearly of expensive craftsmanship. From it she withdraws a wallet-sized folder of rougher leather. She opens this one way and then another, for it was folded twice, and extracts a square of saffron-colored cloth, unembroidered and unpatterned and with raw, unhemmed edges.

Virginia Bryce takes a two-handed grip on the cloth square. “Geronimo,” she says to us, and rips it quickly in half.

We return to the world in a blip of light and sound, and the world retaliates with vindictive celerity.
 

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