FIC: Whither Thou Goest... Part 5/?

[PB <pbnj@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>]

Title: Whither Thou Goest...
Author: Pink Rabbit Productions
Archive: Pink Rabbit, A Slayer/A Hacker
Author's Notes: This is the latest sequel to Spin, Spinning, Spun Out, It
All Depends On Your Timing, and Interludis Neanderthalensis. It's not
finished, but I'm going to start posting in segments since it's getting
close to the end (probably).
Disclaimer: The characters and show all belong to Joss Whedon, Fox, Mutant
Enemy, Kuzui, and God only knows who else. This particular arrangement of
words in cyberspace belongs to me, however. Btw, it contains love between
two women, so if such things offend you, are illegal where you live or
somesuch, kindly don't read it and upset yourself, 'kay. It'll just make
life easier on all of us.
Spoilers: None that I can think of.
Rating: PG-13
Part: 5/? (yeah, I know the parts and the chapter numbers aren't
necessarily matching up, but that's because there was a prologue)

Whither Thou Goest...

Chapter Four

"Giles?" Joyce spoke into the phone as she heard it pick up, aware her
voice was trembling ever so slightly, but unable to do anything about it.

His voice came back with the unique tinny quality of an answering machine.
"Hello, I'm not home right now, just leave a message at the sound of the--"

"Blood curdling scream," Buffy's voice broke in, along with background
giggles and then a full throated scream.

"Buffy," Giles' recording continued, sounding highly annoyed.

"Please leave your name and which level of hell you're currently residing
in and we'll exorcize you in the morning," Buffy continued as if her
Watcher hadn't tried to chastise her.

"Dammit, Buffy," Joyce growled, fervently wishing for the beep. "I don't
have time for this."

"I don't have time for this," the Giles-recording echoed Joyce's thoughts
before continuing. "Name and number at the beep and hopefully I'll have
time to rerecord this message soon," he growled. A second later the phone
beeped at her.

"Giles, this is Joyce Summers. I'm at the gallery. You once told me to call
you if I ever saw a catalog listing on a DuCourvallier...well, I'm sitting
here looking at one. It looks to be a version of Ruth and Naomi, but it's
nothing like the one I've seen attributed to the artist and I can't find a
listing for anything like it in any of the books I've had time to check.
The style and the signature are right though. The piece was shipped to me
by mistake and my client is picking it up within the hour. If you want to
see it, you have to get over here now." Then she read off the phone number
at the gallery as well as her beeper number, and finished with, "Call me."
She hung up the phone, then slowly pivoted, staring at the open crate with
worried eyes.

There was something about the whole deal that was starting to make her skin
crawl, though she couldn't put her finger on the problem. Unfortunately,
the size of the contract made it impossible for her to do what she really
wanted to at that moment and simply leave. With Buffy's school bills and
the debt the gallery had built up during the start up period, she needed
the money too much.

Finally, she moved over to the painting, staring down at the exquisitely
delicate work. A part of her wanted to believe it was a fake. Nothing in
the few surviving paintings of the Baroque artist had ever hinted at the
kind of talent and skill required to create the piece in front of her. In
fact, had DuCourvallier not been one of the tiny minority of female artists
of the period--even briefly an apprentice of Orazio Gentileschi in Rome,
moving amid a circle of people that included great masters like Caravaggio
and Rubens--she would have long since been forgotten like hundreds of other
apprentices and less than masterful artists whose names had been lost to time.

But this piece was on par with any of the great works. The brush strokes
delicate and perfectly controlled, the colors chosen to make the piece glow
as though a light gleamed behind the canvas. The two women were staged
around a campire that made their skin glow in firelight hues of red and
gold while bits of light reflected off a hint of trees and rocks, giving it
an amazing amount of depth. The two figures were facing each other, one
nearly turned away from the viewer, only a tantalizing hint of gentle
features visible within a softly blowing mantle, while the other woman was
angled toward the viewer, her dark hair flowing around her, one hand
outstretched, fingers almost touching the other woman's face, the tip of
her index finger poised as if to stroke her lower lip. There was no
physical contact between the two, yet it burned with unspoken sensuality in
the grace of their bodies and the way they leaned toward each other, the
hunger to touch obvious in every brush stroke.

Joyce wondered if it had been hidden away because of that very sensuality
and innocent eroticism. Had some church official seen it and deemed it
unacceptable, or had it been stolen because of some greedy noble or
cleric's desire to keep it to themselves? Or had it simply been stored away
in someone's attic and forgotten? The failed artist in her couldn't help
but appreciate the beauty of the work, though she knew it was of little
historic significance to anyone but a few researchers. DuCourvallier wasn't
of importance to anyone.

So, why the hell does Buffy's Watcher care if one of her pieces show up,
Joyce questioned herself, then shivered as she felt as though someone had
walked over her grave. She was still contemplating the problem when she
heard the sound of the front door chimes ringing. "Damn," the woman
muttered as she glanced at her watch and noted the time. She'd totally lost
track of the hour while studying the painting and her caller was doubtless
looking to pick up her property. Joyce had a funny feeling the woman
wouldn't be too thrilled that the crate had been opened, particularly since
it had happened since her request to retrieve the piece. She'd just have to
delay her another night. Joyce shivered at the thought. There'd been
something about Blaine Michaels, something not quite right. She looked like
the perfect blond coed, and her smile had been easy, her manner almost too
polite and apologetic, but there'd been a moment when Joyce had sensed
something more. Something--

The bell rang again, reminding her that she had an impatient customer
waiting. The woman slung a protective blanket across the painting and
shoved the rolling work table out of the way, then hurried out to receive
her guest.

* * * * * *

Giles cursed softly as he re-entered his home, noting the figure sprawled
on his couch surrounded by a feast of opened cookies and crackers, not to
mention a nearly empty pint of pig's blood. "Spike," he growled in a voice
thick with distaste.

The vampire looked up, raising his mug in salute, not because he liked the
Englishman, but because he knew it annoyed the hell out of him. "Hey, you
should take a look at this," he encouraged as he pointed to the video
playing on Giles' tv. "Tabby's about to make a try at that little blond
tart again--God, I'd love to sink my teeth into that girl," Spike enthused.
"But not as much as that other blond, the one who can't resist the cop.
Tasty bit of fluff there. I like my ingenues with a bit on 'em."

Giles glared at the mess and then at Spike. It only seemed to please the
vampire. "So, is this what you've been doing all day, hanging out eating
oreos in pig's blood and watching Passions tapes over and over?"

Spike shrugged. "Sure, not like I'm going to be planning any bouts of world
domination or major killing sprees." The vampire's expression turned
pathetic. "Not like I used to."

Grumbling several impolite invectives, Giles started grabbing up the
tattered remains of his cracker cupboard, intent on establishing some tiny
bit of order in his home once again.

"Besides, I thought you and the Boy Blunder were out for the evening doing
the Slayer's job, 'cos she's too 'upset' to handle it right now."

"I realized I forgot the holy water," Giles snapped impatiently, and
abruptly dropped everything back on the couch as it occurred to him that
he'd been just about to clean up after the vampire. He hardened his voice
as he continued, "Which is what I came here to get." He glared at Spike.
"And now I'm going out again and I want this entire mess cleaned up again
before I get home." He turned away, flipping open the weapon's trunk to
grab what he needed.
Spike made a face at the mortal's back as he mouthed, "I want this entire
mess cleaned up before I get home." His lip curled with dislike. Even his
mother hadn't been that much of a harridan. It was like living with bloody
Felix Unger. He dusted a few crumbs off the couch and onto the floor.
Sheez, it was just a few cookie bits. Not like he'd suddenly brought in a
load of crypt dust or something. He looked up as he heard Giles moving to
leave. "Oh, and you have a message on the answering machine," he said,
trying to get back somewhat in the other man's good graces--not that he'd
ever been there in the first place. After all, much as he hated them, the
Slayer and her friends were all that stood between him and a quick
Spike-style weenie-roast. He shuddered. That wasn't how he planned on
going. No, he wanted to die peacefully in...well, actually, he didn't ever
want to die at all. Which made that whole vampire lifestyle a pretty good
choice as far as Spike was concerned.

"Why didn't you tell me before?" the ex-librarian demanded shortly as he
spun back.

Spike shrugged. "Didn't think of it." He climbed to his feet, wandering
over to listen to the message as Giles played it. "Not like you're going to
get a message from a cute bird." He eyed Giles speculatively. "Or even a
good-looking bloke."

"Bloody hell," the ex-Watcher groaned as he heard the name DuCourvallier go
by. He was already grabbing for the two-way radio to warn Xander when
Joyce's message clicked off.

Spike looked at the other man with a wry smile. "Looking for a
DuCourvallier," he murmured. "I'd think one of those would be a bit out of
your price range...what with the jobless thing and all--"

"I don't want to buy the damn thing," Giles clipped, then focused on the
radio. "Xander, this is Giles--"

"Nighthawk here," the teen's voice came back.

"Nighthawk," Spike mouthed, then snickered derisively and took another swig
from his mug.

"Xander, I need you to get to Joyce Summer's gallery and get her out of there."

Xander's voice was all business. "Trouble?"

"Probably not, but it's possible. It's a long story--I'll tell you about it
later--but for the moment, get her the hell away from there...and if you
see anything, don't engage...run!"

"But, Giles--"

"I mean it, Xander. Don't try to fight it. I'll be there as fast as I can."
He clicked the radio off and reached for the phone, dialing the number
Joyce had given in her message.
"You don't actually believe that old sod about Delaine DuCourvallier, do
you?" Spike snorted.

Giles ignored him in favor of the phone.

"Next thing y'know, you'll be telling me you believe in Santa Claus and the
Tooth Fairy," the vampire continued, though he tracked Giles' progress on
the phone out of the corner of his eye. "She's a bloody myth, a fairy tale
to scare Watcher-tots in their beds at night." He stuffed his hands in his
pockets before adding, "Anyone pick up?"

"No," Giles snapped as he hung up. He dialed another number-- Buffy's this
time--and got a busy signal. "Damn," the former Watcher hissed and slammed
the phone down in frustration. He was hurrying to leave when he abruptly
realized Spike had grabbed his coat and was following him and pulled up
short. "What do you think you're doing?" he demanded angrily. He didn't
have time for this.

"I'm coming with you," Spike answered as though it was the most natural
thing in the world.

"Oh, right, am I to believe you've suddenly seen the light and decided you
want save the world and help fight evil?"

"No," Spike sneered at the very idea. He shoved a finger in Giles' face. "I
hate the Slayer, loathe you, and would cheerfully put Xander's head through
a wall if it weren't for the bloody migraine I'd get, but I rather like the
Slayer's mum."

Whatever response Giles had been expecting, that wasn't it.

"Look," Spike pointed out surprisingly reasonably, "if it really is La Cour
Noir, you're going to all the help you can get."

Accepting that he was going to have a passenger, Giles simply headed for
his car as he jeered over his shoulder, "Well, I suppose we could throw you
at her if things get too rough."

"Hey!" the vampire complained. "That's not funny."

"It is from where I'm sitting," Giles disagreed as his Citroen puttered to
life and he pulled out. He shoved his cell phone at Spike. "Now shut up and
dial while I'm driving."

* * * * * *
"Important call?" Blaine Michaels politely questioned Joyce as she returned
from the back room.

The other woman shook her head. "I don't know." She let out a small
stressed laugh. "Didn't make it in time."

Green eyes watched her assessingly, though Michaels' expression remained
bland. "Too bad. Personally, I always hate missing late night calls. I'm
always afraid it was something important."

Another nervous laugh erupted from Joyce's lips. "I'm sure it was nothing,"
she denied, then continued uncertainly, "Probably just...um...my--uh--the
man I'm dating. He often calls or stops by when I'm working late."

Blaine lifted an eyebrow, but her expression didn't otherwise change. "Very
thoughtful of him. After all, you never know what might be lurking in the
night."

It was probably just her imagination running out of control--fed by the
knowledge of the otherworldly evils her daughter faced--but Joyce couldn't
force down the sudden bout of nerves and every time she looked at Blaine
Michaels it seemed as though her fine features had taken on a demonic cast.
"Yes," she agreed, hoping the other woman would believe the tale of the
boyfriend who might just stop by. "That's the kind of man he is."

"Lucky you," Michaels drawled, then pointedly glanced at her watch.
"However, in any event, I'm afraid I do need to be moving along. So if you
could just show me the crate, I can be out of your hair in just a few minutes."

"Of course," Joyce assured her uneasily. "If I could just..." she trailed
off, grabbing for the beeper in her pocket. A simple message scrolled
across the tiny screen, 'Get out.' The woman felt her heart kick into
overdrive as she made a fast decision. Money or no money, she was
walking--running actually-- away from this one. "I...uh...it's from my
date. If you don't mind, I'm just going to go ahead and return this call.
It'll just take a moment."

Blaine Michaels' smile was strained, but she nodded. "Of course."

"I'll just be a moment," Joyce repeated over her shoulder as she hurried
toward the back room. Once through the double doors that shielded the
storage and work area, she broke into a jog, bypassing her office as she
headed for the short corridor that led to the rear door, pausing only long
enough to grab an antique wooden cross from one of the work tables. She
threw the lock on the back door, wrenching it open with the intention of
hurrying out.

It didn't quite happen that way. Blaine Michaels stood just outside the
back door, and she lunged forward as Joyce flung the door open--somehow she
had to have gone out the front and made it around to the back in the time
it had taken Joyce to get to the back door--grabbing her by the throat and
forcing her back inside. "Where's my painting, Mrs. Summers?" the
youthful-appearing woman demanded implacably, her expression flinty, her
grip painfully strong. She shoved Joyce into the wall, lifting her off her
feet. "Because I'm tired of the delays."

Gagging desperately for air, Joyce grabbed for the hand wrapped around her
throat, trying to take some of the awful strain off her windpipe,
momentarily forgetting the cross gripped tightly in her other hand. She was
startled a brief second later when her feet hit the floor again and the
hand at her throat loosened enough so that she could breathe.

"My painting," Blaine Michaels repeated her voice little more than a low
hiss, just in case Joyce was considering forgetting what she wanted. "Where
is it?"

Working on instinct, Joyce swung the cross around in a roundhouse arc,
trying to use it like a club. A hard hand caught her wrist mid swing and
she heard the crunch of bone shattering against bone as agony bolted up her
arm. The cross clattered uselessly to the floor as she was slammed into the
wall hard enough to make her teeth rattle.

"That wasn't smart, Mrs. Summers...."

* * * * * *
TBC

--"If I was all that fond of real life, I would never have majored in theater"

For f/f related fanfiction, art, and a little bit of everything else
Visit the new Pink Rabbit Consortium Homepage:
http://pinkrabbit.simplenet.com