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

Part II

Little liking though either of them had for the man, Nolan could see that Maclay was as impressed as he by the quickness and ease of the arrangements Travers could make at short notice through his connections. The extended-bed pickup Travers had acquired for this night’s enterprise held a folding ambulance gurney; once Travers had deftly bandaged the cut on Nolan’s arm, the two men went back to retrieve the gurney while Maclay kept watch over the comatose demon, and with their captive securely strapped in, there was no insurmountable difficulty — only time, sweat, effort, patience, and determined suppression of swearing — in transporting it back across rough country to the two-lane highway where they had left the truck. Similarly, where normal transitional lodging would have been unsuitable for the next phase of their program, Travers had set up reservations at an actual hunting lodge: isolated enough that noise wouldn’t matter, rugged enough to provide a framework for sturdy restraints, and simple enough that any necessary repairs could be made quickly upon their departure. Such facilities (and the planning behind their procurement) made no guarantee of success, but would definitely help.

The doorways of the lodge were wide enough to accommodate the gurney, so it was a fairly simple matter to get the captive creature into one of the bedrooms; dragging out the mattress and springs, they chained their prisoner to the metal frame. That done, Travers let out a gusty sigh and said, “Well, then. Brandy, anyone?”

Maclay’s disapproval was predictably immediate. “No, thank you. I’ll want my wits about me for what we have to do next.”

“A double, please,” Nolan said. Travers’ brandy would naturally be superb, and it had been a rigorous evening. Still, his conscience compelled him to add, “Perhaps some coffee for Mr Maclay?”

“I believe the larder might contain some decent Colombian ground,” Travers said; then, with a little smile, “I certainly wouldn’t want to take any chances with their tea. Here you go, Patrick.”

Nolan accepted the brandy glass gratefully; Maclay, without looking at either of them, said, “For the process ahead of us, we’ll need to be strong in faith and purpose. Drunkenness won’t help that.”

Stung, Nolan allowed a sharp note to enter his voice. “We’ll keep it short of drunkenness, then.”

Maclay looked to him, all the generational wrath of old time religion toward the papist persecutors rising in his eyes; then he checked himself, shook his head, and said quietly, “That was uncivil of me. I apologize. You’ve come to help me in my need, it’s not for me to criticize you. All of this …” He shook his head again. “I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”

Nolan could only feel ashamed for his own shortness of temper. “There’s no need,” he said. “You’re right, it’s been a difficult night, and we still have a hard road ahead of us. And your need … it’s ours, too. That’s something we all have in common; you would help us just as quickly.”

Maclay nodded acceptance, but Travers undercut the moment by observing benignly, “All smoothed out, then? Good. Help yourself to more brandy if you want it, Patrick. I’ll see to coffee.” And he moved off to the lodge kitchen.

For several awkward minutes, Nolan sat sipping brandy in Maclay’s silent company, though he had already decided not to replenish the glass once it was exhausted. At last he said, “Now that we have the creature restrained, what do we have to do to make it relinquish its hold on your niece?”

Though it looked as if it might pain him, Maclay actually gave the other man a smile. “A Roman priest, not claiming authority in a matter regarding demons?”

“My office enjoins me to act,” Nolan said, returning the smile. “That’s not the same as knowing the best course of action. And, after all, she is your kin.”

“Yes, she is.” Maclay’s mouth returned to its customary line of resignation. “To keep the demon suppressed, we pray and do penance. The women drink an herbal brew, and carry out their own form of penance. It’s not an easy life, but those are the terms of the Covenant, and our satisfaction is in carrying out the will of the Almighty.” He shook his head. “Once the creature gets out, though … burying it isn’t easy. Usually we only manage one out of three cases. Not that we get much experience at it; our women generally aren’t inclined to risk something that will damn them if it doesn’t kill them —”

“Wait.” Nolan held up his hand. “Wait a moment, I don’t understand, I asked your plans because … well, Travers’ quick briefing to me indicated that you had some knowledge of how to address a case like this. But from what you’re saying, this is, is institutionalized, a pattern, even a tradition. What’s going on here?”

“I’m afraid I’ve been remiss,” Travers said, appearing with the coffee. “There you are, Robert, cream and sugar if you want to take a stab at decadence. Yes, I knew explanations would be in order, but at the time it seemed more important to move quickly. As it happens, we succeeded at the most urgent task — preventing your niece from preying on the countryside and starting a panic — and now we have time to get all our information in order.”

Maclay ignored the coffee, conflict working in his face. “Quentin, I … How could you bring in an outsider, someone who didn’t know of our situation? — No criticism of you, Father, I’m in your debt. — But this is, is, it’s personal, it’s family, you had no right to open it out to others without even telling me!”

“Be calm, Robert.” Travers returned to his own brandy. “You’ve no affection for me, I know, but you called on me because you needed aid and you deemed me trustworthy in such a matter. I contacted Patrick for precisely the same reason, and I think you’ll agree he has justified my faith in him.”

“You had no right,” Maclay said through stubborn lips.

“Speak to me of right when we come to the end of this matter,” Travers returned. “Until then, we still have it to carry through.”

“He’s always been that way,” Nolan said to Maclay. “Complaints do no good, he just smiles at you and ignores them. You either live with it or refuse to deal with him at all. Right now we don’t have much choice.”

“Quite so,” Travers agreed blandly. “And, as your President Reagan once observed, if both sides disagree with me, it may mean I’ve found a workable course between two extremes. Now, shall we discuss our coming schedule?”

Nolan glanced toward the bedroom where their prisoner lay. “How long till that thing wakes?”

Maclay shrugged angry ignorance, and Travers said, “The dust will keep it dormant for a day, or until I administer the counteragent. We’ve ample time for whatever discussion we need.”

“Which is quite a bit, I think.” Nolan gestured toward Maclay. “From what you told me, I thought a demon had possessed this man’s niece. He seems to be saying something else entirely.”

“Very much something else,” Maclay said. “She is a demon. All the women of the Covenant are demons.”

Nolan shook his head in a show of bewilderment. “And you consort with them? Voluntarily? And call it the will of God? This is insanity —!”

“Not at all,” Travers interjected. “Robert and his brethren toil endlessly in the vineyards of the Almighty. I don’t echo their creed, but I respect their fidelity as fully as I do yours, Patrick.”

The interruption had left Nolan with his mouth open; now he closed it. “All right. All right. I’m sorry, Mr Maclay. I lost my head for a moment; this is a lot to take in, all at once and without warning.”

“I know it’s not easy for an outsider to understand,” Maclay said. “That’s why I was so upset with Quentin … It’s okay, Father. We’ll just have to start at the beginning, won’t we?”

“Yes, the beginning.” Travers had finished his brandy, and now he beamed at the other two men. “The essentials are as follows —”

Nolan cut him off. “Mr Maclay can tell his own story.”

“He is entitled, but not properly equipped,” Travers replied. “In this instance, Robert is like a soldier carrying out his duty toward the completion of a mission; his service is commendable, but his knowledge is less than comprehensive. I can provide more in terms of history and context.”

“All the same,” Nolan said, “I’d rather hear it from him.” There was more than courtesy toward Maclay involved in his insistence, more even than his customary annoyance at Travers’ automatic assumption of command; there were things he needed to know, and all his subtlest perceptions told him that he would learn more in this way. “Go on, Mr Maclay. I’m sure we can count on our host to let us know if you leave anything out or get anything wrong, but it’s your story to tell.”

“Very well,” Maclay said. He pursed his lips, considering, then began crisply. “Over seven hundred years ago, a small village in the Highlands of Scotland was attacked by a band of demons. The clan warriors fought them for half a day, flesh and bone and steel against scale and horn, spike and claw. They would have been overrun quickly, but in the first part of the struggle the bulk of them were driven back into the village’s churchyard, and there they discovered that the demons couldn’t follow them onto holy ground. From this refuge they rallied, time and again, attacking and falling back, doing what damage they could and then withdrawing to recover and regroup. At last, in the final sally, the clan chief fought his way to the demon overlord and killed him in single combat.

“When their leader fell, the remaining demons let out a great shriek, and then prostrated themselves before the men they had been battling. As the clan warriors watched in disbelief, the demon forms melted away from their former attackers, and they were revealed as women, clutching at the warriors’ feet and crying out with tears of thanks and pleas for mercy. Their demon lord had worked dreadful sorcery on them, molding them into his own shape so they could both fight in his service and satisfy his unholy lusts; their flesh would never be free of his stain, but they begged to be allowed to return to the world of men.

“The warriors took pity on them, for the cursed women had been allowed no will for resistance; but, mindful also of the darkness that still lay upon the released captives, they imposed terms. The women, and their daughters and their daughters’ daughters, would forever swear submission to the rule of men; in return, the men, and their sons and their sons’ sons, would forever be guardians of that which they had overcome, ensuring by their unending stewardship that the remnants of the slain demon would always lie under subjugation.

“This was the Covenant. And so it has remained from that day till this.”

A few seconds of silence followed the end of the recitation, then Maclay looked to Travers. “All right, Quentin. Now you can tell us how much I don’t know.”

“Hardly that.” Travers took a measured sip of his brandy, which he had replenished while Maclay spoke. “Oral history, am I correct?”

“Yes,” Maclay confirmed. “It’s not proper to write out such things. This is part of who we are; if anyone falls so far as to forget it, words on paper won’t save them.”

“Quite so. Well, your rendition provides all the information your clan has needed to keep the faith of your covenant, but I can offer a few details that may pertain to our own immediate purpose. The chief demon was a Qart‘araf, and the minions he produced were called Qart‘arafiim. The name isn’t truly important, but the nature of the creature is quite relevant, because the minions were not, as your histories indicate, women cursed into demonic form, but actual human-demon hybrids. In ages past, Qart‘araf, breeding with human females, had generated armies of hybrid soldiers for wars of demon depredation; this last remaining overlord was content to produce a smaller number for his chosen avocation of roving plunder.”

“That’s all interesting,” Nolan said — he could see that Maclay actually was intrigued by the new information, but somehow felt obligated to defend the other man’s rendition — “but does it really make any difference?”

“Only in the basic sense,” Travers acknowledged. “It isn’t a matter of a curse being passed down through the generations; Robert’s statement that the women are demons is actual literal fact, though they’re human as well. Curing this young woman won’t be a matter of repelling a foreign force thrust upon her, but of suppressing a real and quite potent aspect of her own nature.”

“And doing it soon,” Maclay said. He had finished his coffee, and now stood from the table. “We’ve rested, we’ve found a safe place to work, we’ve allowed her to stabilize in her current form. It’s time to begin.”

“Very well.” Travers stood as well, and Nolan joined him. “Let us begin.”

Maclay shook his head. “No. I appreciate all you’ve done for me, but this task is mine. I’ve been at it my whole life.”

“Something similar, perhaps,” Travers reproved gently, “but not this task, no. You yourself said that your people seldom deal with the demon emergent, and that when it manifests, you lose two out of every three so afflicted. I believe I can help you improve those odds. My own immediate knowledge of Qart‘arafiim cannot compare to your own, of course, but there are certain rituals —”

Maclay’s face had gone stiff and forbidding, and Nolan cut in ahead of the fierce refusal he knew was coming. “Rituals, Travers? I can’t see how pagan invocations could possibly help us, or how men who take their faith seriously could ever be part of such things.”

Travers glanced from one man to the other with an amusement that, while courteously restrained, he didn’t attempt to conceal. “Indeed? I had anticipated that you might voice objections, but I feel compelled to point out that you have been willing to accept my —” A brief smile. “— supra-mundane aid, until now.”

“And neither one of us was comfortable with it,” Nolan replied. “You used what you had, and we fell in with it because the situation was desperate. Well, there’s time now to make some choices, and I have serious questions about the methods you use.”

“I agree,” Maclay said. “I’ll do whatever I can to help Beth, but not if it endangers her soul or ours.”

“Those are hardly the stakes,” Travers answered mildly. “If you’ll allow me to explain? Thank you. Your opposition, I suspect, stems from the assumption that I would be calling upon discrete and conscious ‘higher powers’ in order to carry out my purposes; in a word, beseeching pagan gods. I shan’t be doing that. These are simply procedures that allow me to access, organize, and apply certain forces that wouldn’t be available to us by other means.

“Now, unarguably, some uses of mystical power, and some means of marshalling it, are not to be countenanced. Within the Council we draw sharp distinctions, and a number of our members have been reprimanded, expelled, or rather roughly penalized for taking those distinctions too lightly. Dilettantes or renegades might wield such energies irresponsibly, but those whose task it is to utilize them regularly, do so with deepest respect and utmost care.

“The techniques that we use, the only ones we allow, tap into forces that science can’t measure, and direct them in ways that science can’t explain. This readily falls under the definition of ‘magic’, but carries with it no threat to the soul intrinsically greater than does the use, or misuse, of electricity or firearms or medicine. The forms I propose to apply — in order, mind you, to deal with an explicitly supernatural problem — are equivalent to the use of a warming blanket or stimulating tonic. Only the source is open to question; you wouldn’t protest, either of you, if I were to accomplish the very same thing with hormone therapy or electromagnetic radiation.”

Maclay was slowly shaking his head as Travers finished, doubtfully rather than in emphatic refusal. “I don’t know,” he said. “You make it all seem so reasonable … but I’ve seen what these practices can do, and I don’t think —”

“I have to side with Mr Maclay here,” Nolan said promptly. “We can’t give blind approval. You’ll have to tell us exactly what you intend to do, and explain it to us, before either of us could think of agreeing.”

Travers’ measured nod conveyed precisely none of the satisfaction Nolan knew the Watcher felt. “Of course,” he said. “I wouldn’t consider doing otherwise.” To Maclay he continued, “There are many ways by which additional strength can be imparted to an individual, and I’ve memorized several of the more basic forms. The time your niece has spent in demon state, especially since her fundamental nature isn’t fully human, will present a certain resistance to recovery. I believe we can increase the likelihood of success if each of us contributes to her a portion of his own essence: an added tincture of humanity, to bolster that which has been reduced within her. It will be a small sacrifice — perhaps a few months subtracted from our total lifespan, though probably not — but essentially comparable to a blood transfusion.”

“So far, it makes sense,” Nolan said. “Tell us more.”

As he had pledged, Travers outlined the process for them in careful detail, but the matter had been effectively decided with the casual, calculated use of the word “sacrifice”. Maclay and Nolan listened to the explanations, the former in growing acceptance of the Watcher’s aid, the latter with silent appreciation of how deftly Travers had sold his case. In the end, after a series of questions to which Travers supplied suitably reassuring answers, Nolan gave his approval and Maclay agreed.

Preparation required a bit less than an hour; most of the materials they needed were available in the supplies Travers had brought, and some were improvised from kitchen spices. The assembled elements, properly blended and laid out, were then conditioned (Nolan was privately aware of how narrowly Travers had avoided saying “consecrated”) by a chant in Latin, the translation of which had been verified by Nolan as being no entreaty to foreign deities but simply a means of focusing psychic energies. Then, with a supplemental chant, they were applied to Maclay.

“We shall need to do this in turn,” Travers told them. “The drain would severely tax any one of us, but three can bear it readily enough. You will be first, Robert; she is your own blood, naturally, so it’s both proper and effective that you provide the first infusion of humanity. Moisten your palms with this mixture — here — and lay your hands on her. That will open the conduit, and the prayers you offer so faithfully will maintain it.”

“I understand,” Maclay said, and stood up. “I’m ready.”

“I will replace you in sixty minutes’ time,” Travers went on. “That will be well before your own energy begins to flag, and in that fashion we shall continue an even flow of life-force. I will use my experience in mental disciplines to stabilize and align what you have given her; Patrick will follow me, sealing our contributions with his own freely offered energies. When the process is completed, you should find your niece in a condition substantially more receptive to your clan’s traditional cures.”

“Thank you,” Maclay said from the bedroom door. Then he was inside, closing it behind him.
 

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