After the Deluge - at long last an update
I know - I'm terrible and don't deserve to have any readers. Here's another chapter, though. You may remember we left our friends with a slight fire problem.
Chapter Twenty-Three: Unexpected Warmth
His own flammability had never particularly bothered Spike. Bloody nuisance at times, yes. Reason to change his plans? Not on your bleeding Nellie.
That was as a general rule, mind you. Towering Inferno at one end of the only room and sparkly bright sunshine outside - that was a bit of a buggeration. The presence in said room of most of the very few living people he could give any sort of shit about made it an actual crisis.
He looked around warily. Fireball-spitting was a new one on him. What else might the bastard be up to? No sign of it in any of its guises at least. And - aha - over by the ladder was what he thought he’d seen out of the corner of his eye - some big flappy paddles on the end of sticks. Now there was a nice coincidence if you like - if you have to have a fire it’s not bad to have firebeaters to hand.
With one bound he was a third of the way to the wall. Two more bounds - okay, jumps - and he was grasping several of the things. “Slayer!” he yelled, launching one of them directly at his girl. This had to beat a syrupy reunion any time - just Buffy and him fighting the odds as they were meant to do.
Oh yes, and all the pillocks who’d come along for the ride. Mustn’t forget them. He threw a beater to Giles who nodded briefly and started to use the thing vigorously.
Another went to Andrew. He dropped it. Dawn leapt at it and was attacking the flaming bales before the little runt had spotted where it had gone to. That wasn’t part of Spike’s plan. Victorian gentleman here; women not endowed with superpowers weren’t risking their lives on his watch.
At that point three more women flooded in behind him. No, two women and a strange-looking man with the ponciest tie he’d seen for a long while. What was he, a tweedy hippy? They all reached out for beaters and Spike sidestepped them - at least the weapons to fight the flames were in hands which mostly seemed to know what to do with them.
The weirdo who only spoke foreign saw what the others were doing. Quick on the uptake, you had to grant him that. He started tearing at the untouched bales and flinging them away from the blaze. As the others beat at the sparks, he was creating a firebreak. It could only work if the inferno became more of a sort of campfire. A weedy little campfire at that. Not so much chance really but, hey, marks for trying.
Then the nearest thing to a miracle he’d seen since the last time he’d worked with Buffy happened. The two strange females stepped away from the burning straw, each holding - holding - a small handful of flames in the left palm. With their right hands they laid their beaters down in the shape of a cross and tipped their mini-fires onto the exact centre. Then, of all the stupid things, they started singing! It was a warble, not a full-throated aria, but it got to you after a while. The intensity built and the echoes intertwined with the notes pouring from the mouths of the singers. Echoes? In a barn?
The tiny flames turned blue, with an emerald core. So did the flames in the main conflagration. The women - witches, it would seem - started to spiral round their strange symbol, weaving their hands in what was undoubtedly a mystical pattern, though if you’d asked Spike he’d have said it looked bloody stupid.
Nobody was asking Spike just then, which was probably just as well. The rest of the group had a total focus on the two witches as the flames which had fought back against the beaters subsided obediently under the spell. The barn was oddly quiet now, the notes of the song in a minor key, quiet, almost achingly sad. As the last flames guttered there was a moment of utter stillness.
“Right. That’s sorted. Now would someone mind telling me what the bloody hell’s going on?”
“Spike. I always could rely on you to sustain an atmosphere.” Giles looked weary, one hand inevitably reaching for his spectacles, the other diving into a pocket to retrieve an immaculate handkerchief.
“Thrilled to see you too, Rupes. Doesn’t answer my question, though. Nor explain who the hordes of happy wanderers are.”
The weird foreign blond bloke turned to Giles and started rattling away in whatever it was. Dutch? German? Pity there wasn’t a fish Spike could put in his ear. How in hell did the librarian know how to reply? He was chatting to the bloke, like old pals.
Buffy looked intently at him for a moment, then turned to her lady friends. “Miss Hartness? That translation spell? It might make all our lives easier in the next half hour if you could widen the mojo a bit.”
Oscar Giles frowned and seemed about to speak, but Althanea smiled. “I love the way you say things, Buffy. It’s so refreshing. I think we might be able to manage something. Your sister should stand here, next to me.”
“And my vampire?” The words were spoken without reflection, and Buffy only truly grasped what she had said when Spike’s head jerked up and he pinned her with one of his intense, crystalline gazes. His brows lifted in question, but he nodded when she fumbled a gesture at him and then moved to stand beside Dawn.
The two witches repeated their hum, moving slowly around the pair. Miss Hartness drew a small packet from a pocket and tore an edge, for all the world as if she were adding sauce mix to a broth. The contents spiralled upwards, glittering in the final rays of sunlight way up above their heads, then drifted down to coat the hair of both of them.
And, with a single bound, he could understand. This magic lark had its drawbacks, but there was no denying it had its uses too. Dawn shook her head, the dust falling in a glinting cascade, and looked at the witch. “Quick catch-up here? I’m Dawn.”
“Glad to meet you, Dawn - I have heard much about you. I am Althanea - your friend Willow may have mentioned my name? This is Witleof, a young man who is much, much older than he looks.”
“Isn’t everyone?” Dawn muttered. Then, louder, “Thank you. Who is the man there and this lady? It’s best to be clear about all of one’s company, I feel.”
There were swift introductions. Then the group stood in a rough circle, uncomfortable and unsure how to proceed, until Spike pulled up a part-consumed bale, set it upright and sat on it.
“I think it’s about time we stopped dancing round each other. Don’t you?”
Chapter Twenty-Three: Unexpected Warmth
His own flammability had never particularly bothered Spike. Bloody nuisance at times, yes. Reason to change his plans? Not on your bleeding Nellie.
That was as a general rule, mind you. Towering Inferno at one end of the only room and sparkly bright sunshine outside - that was a bit of a buggeration. The presence in said room of most of the very few living people he could give any sort of shit about made it an actual crisis.
He looked around warily. Fireball-spitting was a new one on him. What else might the bastard be up to? No sign of it in any of its guises at least. And - aha - over by the ladder was what he thought he’d seen out of the corner of his eye - some big flappy paddles on the end of sticks. Now there was a nice coincidence if you like - if you have to have a fire it’s not bad to have firebeaters to hand.
With one bound he was a third of the way to the wall. Two more bounds - okay, jumps - and he was grasping several of the things. “Slayer!” he yelled, launching one of them directly at his girl. This had to beat a syrupy reunion any time - just Buffy and him fighting the odds as they were meant to do.
Oh yes, and all the pillocks who’d come along for the ride. Mustn’t forget them. He threw a beater to Giles who nodded briefly and started to use the thing vigorously.
Another went to Andrew. He dropped it. Dawn leapt at it and was attacking the flaming bales before the little runt had spotted where it had gone to. That wasn’t part of Spike’s plan. Victorian gentleman here; women not endowed with superpowers weren’t risking their lives on his watch.
At that point three more women flooded in behind him. No, two women and a strange-looking man with the ponciest tie he’d seen for a long while. What was he, a tweedy hippy? They all reached out for beaters and Spike sidestepped them - at least the weapons to fight the flames were in hands which mostly seemed to know what to do with them.
The weirdo who only spoke foreign saw what the others were doing. Quick on the uptake, you had to grant him that. He started tearing at the untouched bales and flinging them away from the blaze. As the others beat at the sparks, he was creating a firebreak. It could only work if the inferno became more of a sort of campfire. A weedy little campfire at that. Not so much chance really but, hey, marks for trying.
Then the nearest thing to a miracle he’d seen since the last time he’d worked with Buffy happened. The two strange females stepped away from the burning straw, each holding - holding - a small handful of flames in the left palm. With their right hands they laid their beaters down in the shape of a cross and tipped their mini-fires onto the exact centre. Then, of all the stupid things, they started singing! It was a warble, not a full-throated aria, but it got to you after a while. The intensity built and the echoes intertwined with the notes pouring from the mouths of the singers. Echoes? In a barn?
The tiny flames turned blue, with an emerald core. So did the flames in the main conflagration. The women - witches, it would seem - started to spiral round their strange symbol, weaving their hands in what was undoubtedly a mystical pattern, though if you’d asked Spike he’d have said it looked bloody stupid.
Nobody was asking Spike just then, which was probably just as well. The rest of the group had a total focus on the two witches as the flames which had fought back against the beaters subsided obediently under the spell. The barn was oddly quiet now, the notes of the song in a minor key, quiet, almost achingly sad. As the last flames guttered there was a moment of utter stillness.
“Right. That’s sorted. Now would someone mind telling me what the bloody hell’s going on?”
“Spike. I always could rely on you to sustain an atmosphere.” Giles looked weary, one hand inevitably reaching for his spectacles, the other diving into a pocket to retrieve an immaculate handkerchief.
“Thrilled to see you too, Rupes. Doesn’t answer my question, though. Nor explain who the hordes of happy wanderers are.”
The weird foreign blond bloke turned to Giles and started rattling away in whatever it was. Dutch? German? Pity there wasn’t a fish Spike could put in his ear. How in hell did the librarian know how to reply? He was chatting to the bloke, like old pals.
Buffy looked intently at him for a moment, then turned to her lady friends. “Miss Hartness? That translation spell? It might make all our lives easier in the next half hour if you could widen the mojo a bit.”
Oscar Giles frowned and seemed about to speak, but Althanea smiled. “I love the way you say things, Buffy. It’s so refreshing. I think we might be able to manage something. Your sister should stand here, next to me.”
“And my vampire?” The words were spoken without reflection, and Buffy only truly grasped what she had said when Spike’s head jerked up and he pinned her with one of his intense, crystalline gazes. His brows lifted in question, but he nodded when she fumbled a gesture at him and then moved to stand beside Dawn.
The two witches repeated their hum, moving slowly around the pair. Miss Hartness drew a small packet from a pocket and tore an edge, for all the world as if she were adding sauce mix to a broth. The contents spiralled upwards, glittering in the final rays of sunlight way up above their heads, then drifted down to coat the hair of both of them.
And, with a single bound, he could understand. This magic lark had its drawbacks, but there was no denying it had its uses too. Dawn shook her head, the dust falling in a glinting cascade, and looked at the witch. “Quick catch-up here? I’m Dawn.”
“Glad to meet you, Dawn - I have heard much about you. I am Althanea - your friend Willow may have mentioned my name? This is Witleof, a young man who is much, much older than he looks.”
“Isn’t everyone?” Dawn muttered. Then, louder, “Thank you. Who is the man there and this lady? It’s best to be clear about all of one’s company, I feel.”
There were swift introductions. Then the group stood in a rough circle, uncomfortable and unsure how to proceed, until Spike pulled up a part-consumed bale, set it upright and sat on it.
“I think it’s about time we stopped dancing round each other. Don’t you?”