FIC: Whither Thou Goest... Part 6/?

[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: 6/? (yeah, I know the parts and the chapter numbers aren't
necessarily matching up, but that's because there was a prologue and now a
chapter that had to be split into two parts)

Whither Thou Goest...
Chapter 4 (second half)

Xander Harris was running as hard as he could, long legs eating up the
distance. He was barely breathing hard--being one of the Slayer's pals was
a hell of a work out program--and he had a sharp wooden stake gripped
tightly in one hand. Despite Giles' admonitions, he was absolutely
determined that nothing was going to hurt Buffy's mother. His own parents
were pretty much worthless, and for all the platitudes they mouthed,
Willow's weren't much better. But the Slayer's mother--despite any
failings--she was different. She honestly loved her daughter and if
anything hurt her, he knew his friend would be destroyed. He wasn't going
to let that happen.

He reached the front door of the gallery and slowed, pushing the door open
enough to peer through and ascertain the front room was empty. A soft
whimpery sound reached the boy's ears and he was through the door in an
instant. Joyce Summers had paid him to help out--lifting and moving heavy
stuff--a couple of times, so he knew his way around the place. He didn't
call out, just moved toward the back room. The double doors to the work
area were open, and he glanced through first, checking for anything that
might consider him a tasty meal.

"Where?" the voice was light and should have been pleasing, but there was a
dangerous hardness to it.

He recognized the second voice instantly. "Go to hell." Joyce Summers,
sounding bad, like she was in a lot of pain. Xander knew that tone all too
well.

"Been there, done that, not looking to go back, thank you," was the bitter
reply.

Xander spotted them in moments; together in the back hallway, Joyce Summers
pinned against the wall, one hand cradled against her torso, the woman
holding her there smaller, but obviously far stronger than any normal
human. He saw the discarded cross and knew what they were dealing with in
an instant. Gripping his stake tightly, the teen lunged, pulling back his
arm to give the blow added power.

He never made contact as the tiny blond sensed his attack a millisecond
before he should have made contact and twisted toward him, sweeping her
free hand around, knocking his arm aside, and sending him sprawling on past
her. He hit the floor hard, rolled to his feet and came up just in time to
meet a hard blow to the face. The teen's head was whipped to one side as he
suddenly found himself airborne. He hit the floor at the entrance to the
short hallway and heard a growled, "I don't have time for this," as he
struggled to push upright again. Somehow, against all odds, he'd maintained
his grip on the stake and he brandished it in what he hoped was a menacing
way as he found his feet with all the stability of a punch drunk boxer.

"Get away from her," the teen snarled, weaving gently.

Still maintaining a grip on Joyce, the blond turned toward him, her
expression forbidding. Or at least he thought the blurry double image that
was all he could make out looked pretty forbidding.

"Children," she whispered so softly he wasn't entirely certain that was
what she'd said.

He lunged then, swinging the weapon wildly, while Joyce threw a clumsy
left-handed punch at her attacker, adding another distraction in hopes of
helping the boy. The blond tossed Joyce aside, appearing not to notice the
limp blow that caught the side of her face as she turned to meet Xander's
attack. She blocked his blow, then hit back with a shove to his chest that
literally sent him flying. He landed on a work table, letting out a dull
scream of pain as the force of his impact sent the table careening into its
neighbor. He was just trying to push upright again, despite the pain and
dizziness rattling through him, when a hard hand gripped his shirtfront,
lifted him and slammed him down again. Only half conscious, the boy tumbled
to the floor, a voice ringing in his already ringing ears to create a
bizarre echo that hammered back and forth inside his skull.

"Stay down."

Momentarily forgotten, one knee wrenched from a bad landing, her broken
wrist throbbing with blinding pain, Joyce used the wall as a brace to push
to her feet. The work table with the covered painting was just around the
corner, and she lunged toward it, struggling to ignore her own aches and
pains. She grabbed for the shelves above the table, searching for, and
finding, the cheap lighter that sat next to a pack of cigarettes that she
occasional indulged in when the world was caving in on her late at night.
Don't think, just move, she told herself as her other hand fumbled among
the open cleaning supplies that lined the floor. Agony shot up her arm as
she closed her fingers on a wire paint can handle, and forced her shattered
wrist to bear the weight. As she lifted it, she used the thumbnail of her
other hand to flick the loose lid off. The acrid smell of turpentine
reached her nostrils almost instantly. She flicked the flint on the
lighter, saw the flame flare to life and shoved it into the can. The
turpentine caught with a soft puff, burning hot, bright blue flames that
threatened to singe her hand.

Xander had pushed to his knees and was trying to find his feet. One arm was
braced his ribs, and his breath came in huge gasps, while the hand that had
gripped the stake so tightly was empty. His eyes lifted to the woman who
stood over him, the expression in her eyes suddenly seeming perversely
gentle to his eyes. A hand reached out and slid over his hair, running it
back from his sweaty brow. He was going to die. He'd seen enough to know
that. "Just do it," he snarled, trying for one last show of bravado.

A strange smile lifted the woman's mouth. "Don't be in such a hurry to die,
boy," she said softly and brought her hand around, her thumb under his jaw
forcing his chin up with implacable strength. "It's not all it's cracked up
to be."

"Better that than a thing like you," he sneered.

"Get away from him!" Joyce Summers' voice was stronger than she would have
predicted was possible. "Unless you want it to go up in smoke."

The blond's head whipped around and she tensed as she saw the burning paint
can held tightly in the woman's hands, ready to be spilled over the covered
crate on the table. With their attacker's attention focused on her now,
Joyce yanked the blanket back, revealing the painting with its wooden crate
and shredded paper packing.

"Lots of fuel for the fire," the woman snarled, her unsteady grip on the
turpentine can making it slosh liquid fire and threaten to spill onto the
canvas.

The blond relinquished her grip on Xander as she spun fully toward Joyce.
"One lick of fire on that painting," she snarled, green eyes glittering
with rage as her face morphed into the arched features of the thing that
lived inside her body, "and you'll take a week to die...if you're lucky."

"Xander, get over here!" Joyce ordered as she saw him struggling for his
feet. The boy scrambled to her side, somehow managing to snag the cross
Joyce had dropped in the first moments of her confrontation with the
creature in front of them.

"I don't want you or the boy," the vampire told her, her voice dropping low
in an odd combination of threat and seduction. "Just the painting."

"And how long will we live after you have it?" Xander jeered sarcastically.

In an instant, the vampire's features smoothed to a perfect mimicry of
normal humanity. "You'll have to take that up with your God. If I were
interested in killing you, you'd already be dead." She took a half step
forward, eyes tracking the burning paint can with laser intensity, and
froze as Joyce readied to tip the flaming contents all over the artwork.

"Don't move!" Joyce snapped. "Or I'll do it."

The vampire stood perfectly still. "All right...I propose a trade," she
offered. "Your lives for the painting."

It was Xander who shook his head first. In his experience, when demons and
creatures of the night were ready to work deals to get their mits on
something, it invariably meant that they should--under no circumstances--be
allowed anywhere near the item in question. "No deal," he growled and
brandished the ornate cross.

The woman who'd called herself Blaine Michaels flinched ever so slightly,
but didn't lunge back the way most of her kind did. "It's a rather poor
example of Rococo workmanship," she observed dryly.

"It does the job," Xander snarled.

A slim brow lifted. "We appear to have a Mexican standoff," the vampire
observed, then suddenly tensed, pivoting on one foot as she realized they
weren't alone. He eyes landed on the man standing in the corridor that led
from the back door, a crossbow braced at his shoulder.

With the vampire aware of his presence and moving, Giles was forced to fire
while he was still sighting the weapon, and the bolt hit wide, driving
deeply into the small woman's left shoulder, but missing her heart by
several inches. She twisted toward him, roaring in pain at this newest attack.

Giles dropped the weapon without even trying to reload, instead slinging a
second loaded crossbow from his shoulder to take aim.

"Delaine DuCourvallier!" he called out as Joyce and Xander's attacker
danced backwards, her expression twisted with frustrated anger. He sighted
the weapon along the bolt perfectly this time, aiming straight for her
heart. "I sentence you to hell in the name of the Watcher's Council."

"Just kill her!" Xander shouted, while Joyce just struggled to keep the
paint can from tipping fire over the painting, while still keeping it where
the threat was still evident.

Giles triggered the crossbow, lips lifting in a satisfied smile as he
watched the bolt take flight. Not even a vampire could run fast enough to
evade that fast-moving death.

Only, she didn't even try to outrun it. A fine-boned hand lifted, plucking
the wooden bolt out of the air only inches from her heart. She rolled it in
her fingers, turning the point end their way and Giles' felt his chest
contract with fear. In an instant, the bolt took flight once again, this
time flung with inhuman accuracy. He heard the thunk, and turned to look,
fully expecting to see it puncturing human flesh.

Instead, it was embedded in the wall, the length of the bolt sticking
through the handle of the burning paint can so it couldn't easily fall on
the painting, either by accident or design.

"We'll finish our business another night, Mrs. Summers," the vampire
promised, then spun, her coat flaring around her like a black cape as she
fled into the main part of the gallery.

"'Ey, Giles, I can't find a bloody...thing..." Spike called out as he
entered through the front, his words trailing off into a shocked finish as
he saw the slender blond standing in the middle of the gallery.

"Damn," she hissed, then glanced over her shoulder and saw Giles shoving a
fresh bolt into place.

A huge arched and multi-paneled skylight made up much of the ceiling of the
gallery.

Spike saw the woman's chin lift as she assessed the distance from the floor
to the glass--twenty feet at least by his calculation--then saw her brace.
"You've got to be kidding," the vampire exhaled. Then his jaw hung open as
she leapt straight up, almost seeming to fly as the black trenchcoat
whipped around her like batwings.

Giles fired a beat too late.

"Bloody hell," Spike snarled, diving out of the way of the bolt headed
straight for him as he threw an arm in front of his face to protect his
eyes from the sudden jumble of sharp glass knives that tumbled from the
newly destroyed skylight overhead as the blond went through without
slowing. He had only a brief glimpse of her figure dancing lightly across
the frame that held the remaining glass panels in place before she
disappeared into the darkness.

"Damn," Giles hissed peering up into the night sky visible through the
missing window panels.

Spike stared up at the newly revealed night sky for a long moment, his
expression one of awe. "Bloody hell. I gotta find out how she does that."
Then he pushed up on his hands, noting the crossbow bolt stuck in the door
right where his heart would have been if he hadn't ducked. "Hey," he
complained to Giles, "you coulda killed me with that thing."

Giles barely spared him a glance. "Remind me to care sometime," he muttered
as he turned back toward the rear of the gallery.

Spike thrust to his feet, jogging after Giles into the work area. "So, was
that really her?" the vampire demanded. "I mean," he laughed triumphantly
and punched the air with his fist. "They say when she comes it's always to
kill...that nothing...not even a Slayer can stop her." Spike was so
jubilant he was almost giggling. "She'll level this town and your precious
Slayer with it."

Giles spun on his heel, lashing out with a hard punched that knocked Spike
on his ass. "Shut up!" the Watcher snarled through bared teeth. "And while
you're crowing so happily, you might want to consider the fact that
according to the legend, she didn't like vampires much more than she did
humans."

"I just meant--"

Giles leaned closer. "In fact, as I recall, she killed more of them after
she died than she did before."

Spike lost considerable color at that little reminder. He'd been so lost in
the thrill of the coming of someone who might just put the Slayer and her
oh-so-self-righteous Scooby Gang in their proper place at the bottom of the
food chain that he hadn't stopped to consider the rest of the rumors...or
their possible ramifications in his undead existence. After a beat, he
slowly pushed to his feet.

"Hey, Giles, not that I mind the idea of killing fang-boy here, but you're
mighty bent out of shape," Xander limped over to intercede. "Okay, so the
art obsession is new for the fangy crowd, but we beat her back....."

Giles stepped past the boy, moving to stand in front of the painting. With
Xander's help, Joyce had lifted the burning turpentine can off its tenuous
support and put the lid back on to douse the flames by denying them
much-needed oxygen. The woman was leaning against the rolling table, her
broken wrist cradled against her body, her face ghostly pale.

"This is the DuCourvallier?" Giles whispered as he stared down at the work,
noting the soft glow that seemed to emanate from the very brush strokes.

Joyce nodded. "Yes."

Giles was still staring at the piece as if hypnotized. "Are you certain?"

The woman shrugged. "As sure as it's possible to be without a lot more
authentication. It's not something that's listed in any catalog of her
work, but the signature is right...and the style...it's a lot more mature
than any of her known works, but it definitely has her feel for light,
color, and background space. I mean, it's very possible it's a
forgery...but why? Her work's not particularly valuable. It's not like
discovering a lost Renoir."

Giles was only half listening to Joyce as he stared at the piece, trying to
decide if he should just go ahead and burn the damn thing. God only knew
what evil DuCourvallier was planning to use it for if it was important to
her. As far as the Council knew, she'd been quiet for better than a hundred
years, and there'd been considerable hope among the senior members that she
had somehow been destroyed along the way. Certainly, none of the many hit
teams dispatched around the globe to hunt her down had ever gotten more
than a distant whiff that might or might not have been the former Slayer.
"We've got to get out here," he said abruptly.

"Here, I'll help you," Spike said solicitously as he moved to help support
Joyce when she might have gone down.

"Oh...Spike," Joyce exhaled as she recognized the vampire. Buffy had told
her how evil he was, but she'd yet to see any sign of it. Really, he seemed
like a nice enough boy as far as she was concerned. "I'd appreciate that."

"The car's just outside," the blond vampire told her, then looked over his
shoulder at Giles and Xander. "You two probably ought to bring that
painting," he pointed out matter-of-factly.

"Am I the only feeling slightly grossed out?" Xander murmured thoughtfully
as he watched the vampire carefully helping the Slayer's mother.

Giles snorted something impolite under his breath, but slung the painting
up by the frame. He looked over at Xander who was standing dazedly beside
him. "If you're waiting for my tender, loving help," he said acidly. "It's
going to be a very long night."

"Well, aren't you coming?" Spike questioned as he looked back, the smile on
his face a wicked confirmation that he knew very well just how much he was
annoying the other two men.

Muttering under his breath, Giles hurried along, while Xander limped after
them in the rear, wondering how they were going to get everyone into the
librarian's tiny Citroen.

* * * * * *
TBC

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

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