The Prophet
by Rainne
Part Four
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The girls, assured that nobody was going to get staked, escaped upstairs to talk about girl things. The rest of us sat in the living room. Buffy glanced at Giles and then took reluctant charge of our "meeting."
"We have to know about you," she said to me. "You understand, right?"
I nodded. "It's cool. So how do you know Angel?"
She started. "What?"
I shrugged. "Willow said it. On the porch. 'She's got a soul, like Angel.' Which I'll dispute, thanks: while I do, in fact, have a soul, it is nothing and may I repeat nothing like Angel's. So, how do you know him?"
"He- he used to live here. In-in-in Sunnydale. He helped us defeat the Master, and prevent the Mayor's Ascension," Buffy explained. That wasn't the end of the story, I could tell; but it was all I was going to get. It wasn't my business, anyway.
"Well, I met him in L.A. I heard about him through some friends — a souled vampire isn't something you hear about every day, either. So I went out there to meet him. To see. If he was like me. Because I thought maybe my soul was what makes me immune, you know? To sunlight and crosses and stuff. Turns out, it wasn't." I shook my head. "He tried to get me to stay and work for him, but his business isn't really my style. I'm a little more, shall we say, financially motivated. I am a creature of comforts, after all."
"But you do have a soul," Buffy stated, obviously asking for confirmation.
"I have it on good authority," I replied. I could see that she was working something out in her head.
"But you hunt. You have a soul, yet you hunt. With the killing and the sucking of blood and everything." This was from Xander. Trust Xander to say something really inane.
"Only those who desire or deserve it," I told him, carefully enunciating my words. "There's a big difference. It's more like... um... bounty hunting for snacks."
Giles stood impatiently. He was obviously fascinated by me and was masking this fact poorly. He silenced Xander with a severe look and then took over the questioning himself. "Your soul does not trouble you as regards your past killings?"
I shook my head. "They deserved it."
"All of them?"
"The ones who didn't deserve it desired it."
"How did you know?"
"Excuse me?"
He cleaned his glasses again. I was beginning to suspect this was simply a nervous habit. "How did you know that a particular victim desired or deserved to die?"
"The ones who desire death are easy to spot. They stand around on street corners with dead eyes and dead hearts, waiting for their bodies to follow. Just staring. But the ones who deserve it" — and here I think I smiled — "they are truly worthy to be called prey."
I stood, advancing on Giles with each slow word. "They're easy to spot, you know, in a place like Vegas. The poker rooms, the blackjack tables, they're full, and... and ripe. Not the slots — those are usually manned by low-budget tourists on honeymoon. Innocents. Not my style.
"So you stake him out at the blackjack table. He's got a whore on his arm that's gonna cost him more for a thirty-minute romp than he was willing to spend all last year on both his kids' school clothes. She's worth it, too, I'm sure. After all, chances are, I've had her." Giles' back was against the wall now and his brow was sweaty. I took pity on him, turning away to slowly circle the room as I talked and bestow my gift of knowledge on each person. I was remembering a particularly sweet kill, and my mouth was watering.
"So he's playing blackjack, and his hand goes a little farther under her skirt every time he gets a twenty-one which by the way is often. He's hot tonight. Or he could be counting cards. The chips are stacking up, blue and red in alternating stacks. This guy's a real high-roller.
"But you know, he's also a sick son of a bitch." I leaned over Xander's shoulder and spoke the last sentence in a hard voice that carried throughout the room despite its lack of volume. "This guy's got a wife at home with bruises and probably a cracked rib under her clothes, and two little girls ages five and eight that he's teaching the fine art of giving Daddy head. And here's this whore and believe it or not, boys and girls, I know her. Know her name, know her face and know the sound of her voice when she screams my name in the dark. I know her. She's a good girl. But she's got three kids and no education and she's got to feed the babies somehow. And this guy, this sick fuck that makes his kindergartener suck his dick, this sick fuck is also into strangling whores and screwing them while they die."
Buffy, sitting across from Xander, went green as I recounted what I'd seen. But I wasn't done. I started to walk again. "So you stalk him. It might take all day for him to get done at the table, but eventually he does. The chips go into his pocket and he leads the whore to the elevator. But as he's about to get on after her, he sees you there in a corner of the lobby. And he knows what he sees and he likes it 'cause you're just what he likes. And he gives the room key to the whore and tells her he'll be up directly. And then you give him a grin and ask him if he wants to have a good time."
I laid my hand on Willow's shoulder and spoke as though to her alone, simply confiding in my best friend. "Now, most guys with a thousand-dollar hooker waiting for them upstairs would tell you to haul your underaged ass out of there before they call security. But not this guy. Oh, no. Because you're just what he likes. And though you might be able to pass for twenty-one in makeup and a fancy outfit, well, with your hair up in braids and the hollow-eyed look on your face for effect, he takes you at your word when you whisper that you're just twelve. After all, when he wants to believe it, he'll believe it. Right? He likes 'em young. So you pull him off into a service corridor and he starts to unfasten his pants and he asks you how much. And you tell him just the price of a meal. And then you show him your real face."
Now standing just behind Buffy, I gamefaced and leaned close to her. "And then he's yours," I sighed. "The best taste you've ever experienced because let me tell you something, Slayer, Anne Rice was right: the blood of the evildoer is sweet. It's also thick and rich and warm, and more intoxicating than the strongest wine known to man, beast or demon." And I changed back to my regular face, standing up. "Everything after that," I continued flatly, "is just details. But sometimes the actual amount of money he's carrying on him can be a pleasant surprise.
"So, Giles, does my soul trouble me about letting two little girls grow up without having to learn about the birds and the bees hands-on with their dad, raised by a mother who's too afraid of him killing her to step in and protect them? No, not especially."
The atmosphere hung silent as I finished for a long moment, before being broken by slow, sarcastic applause. "Oh, bra-vo," came the dry British accent that did not belong to Giles. "Bloody dramatic artistry, that was," the voice continued, and I tracked it to the kitchen doorway. There stood Spike. He wasn't finished talking. "I've heard of you," he said. "Nice rep you've got, and with only a few years of working at it. Good show."
"Heard of me, have you?" I responded, consciously mocking his accent. "No need to ask who you are, Spike. Nice show of pathetic sarcasm to mask your, ah... incapability, shall we say? And of course, a hopeless crush on our dear friend, the Slayer."
Buffy gasped and stared at Spike. "What?"
"Hey!" he exclaimed. "Just 'cause you can read minds, bloody well doesn't give you the right to go about spreading my secrets."
I laughed. "I didn't have to read your mind, you pathetic little sod. You're a joke among the Kin, William." I sneered. "William the Bloody. Ought to change your name to William the Buddy, don't you think?"
He gamefaced and growled at me. "My chip won't stop me from killing you, you little bitch," he snarled. "Think you can get away with saying stuff like that to me."
"Yes, I damn well do think I can, so put that face away. You can't scare me. You're a pathetic excuse for a vampire, William. You're nothing."
"Wow," Xander interjected with false brightness. "Didn't know we were going to get involved in a territorial pissing contest between two vampires."
"Mind your tongue, Xander, or you could lose it," I snarled.
And then Willow was there, laying a calming hand on my shoulder and pressing me back into a chair. "Just calm down, calm down" she was whispering to me. "It's okay. Just calm down."
I turned and looked at her. And then I shook my head. "I shouldn't have come back. This was a bad idea. I should have stayed in Vegas."
"No! No, you're fine. You're fine. It's okay. Xander was out of line."
I sighed and put my head in my hands, rubbing my temples. "Why aren't you scared of me and chasing me away with stakes and holy water?" I asked her quietly. "You should hate me. I'm a vampire. You fight vampires all day long."
"Maybe so," she whispered back. "But you're also my friend. And friends stick by each other. Okay?"
I smiled slightly. "Okay."
But Spike had one parting shot before he left. "Careful there, Dakota," he called to me on his way back into the basement. "Don't want people thinking you've a crush on the witch there. Might be bad for her reputation." And then he was gone.