Then, a fortnight after the accident, the empress Theodora came to the ruin in secret, to pay homage to the spirits of the dead prostitutes. Theodora herself had been a courtesan, who through her incredible sensuality had captured the heart of the emperor, Justinian.
As the empress poured wine on the floor over the mosaic of Leda and the swan, where so many had died, Veronique dared to approach her from the shadows, one sister courtesan to another. Theodora had taken an instant liking to the beautiful, accomplished, and very bold woman, never dreaming that she was a vampire.
They began to meet, as friends, then confidantes. The beautiful empress shared Veronique’s interest in the occult arts, though to the world she attempted to present a different picture altogether — pious in the extreme, a reformed sinner and champion of the state religion.
“I conjure endlessly for eternal beauty,” she told Veronique as they lounged in the women’s baths at the palace. “To be young and to savor pleasure forever is all I require of an afterlife.”
She leaned toward Veronique in the warm, perfumed water. “And I believe I am on the path. Shall you join me?”
At last, Veronique exulted. Her sire, Pere Augustine, had been a powerful sorcerer, in life and as a vampire. He had taught her much . . . and expected much in return. When she had tired of him, she had staked him — only to regret it later when she ransacked his laboratory and discovered vague notes about incantations and rituals that could prolong life indefinitely. She couldn’t piece much together, only that he believed that these rituals might allow a vampire to continue to exist even if its human shell had been destroyed. Pere Augustine had believed that the answers lay here, in Constantinople. That was why she had come here, three years ago. She had never imagined that Theodora would be the one to reveal the mysteries to her.
So the Byzantine empress and the vampire began the work. On auspicious nights, dressed in ebon shadow, they distilled elixirs that took them to other states of being, allowing them to journey to other dimensions. For their searches, they gathered talismans and amulets to ward against evil and possession . . . and to invite it. Steeling themselves against the pain, they carved arcane and powerful symbols into their flesh and branded themselves as daughters of the unholy.
They sacrificed together — first lambs and goats, then slaves. Next came the occasional freeborn virgin, plucked from the countryside by discreet and greedy members of the royal household guard.
They grew in knowledge and power, and the bond between them was formidable.
Then rumors began to get back to the city. The empress was suspected of witchcraft, and her enemies fanned the talk against her. Many of the lofty and powerful hated Theodora because of her distasteful beginnings and her licentiousness. Her life was in danger. Assassins followed her everywhere, and servants were paid enormous bribes to report her every move.
“I can no longer meet with you,” she bitterly told Veronique, embracing the vampire in the shadows of the ruined brothel. “I must abandon the work.”
In truth, Veronique was relieved. She had learned all she could from Theodora. But she feigned tears and sighs as they parted for the last time.
Now I can get on with it, she thought gleefully, without that silly cow slowing me down.
After countless journeys through time and space, her senses made contact with something ageless, eternal, and so evil that she withdrew. But she recognized that within that evil lay immense power . . . and that if she served that power as its handmaiden, her desire would be granted: she, among all the vampires, would be truly eternal.
So she returned to that special place in the abyss where the evil dwelled. She found it there, the Three-Who-Are-One, and it was called the Triumvirate. As she forced herself to surrender, it slowly began pouring its evil into her, transforming her into its creature.
Bring us forth into the world, it bargained, and we will share eternity with you.
From that time, she devoted herself to fufilling its desire. The mosaic floors of the ruined brothel, which she kept in a state of disrepair in order to deflect attention from her activities, were soon stained with blood from countless attempts to provide it with a suitable vessel to be born into the world.
And it is this lovely boy, she thought excitedly. This time, I shall succeed.
The hem of her white robe dragged through the dirt and cobwebs, and her jeweled headdress gleamed in the torchlight her minions brought to greet her arrival. Preceded by her small but loyal retinue, she swept into the grand salon and stood proudly with her captive as her followers bowed before her. The stars were in alignment; the portents were right. She had gathered the required thirteen vampires, all of her bloodline. This young man would not be among those performing the ritual but, rather, the vessel. The portal.
In a way, it was a pity, for he would suffer horribly. But in another way, his death would exalt him. For he would bring forth upon this Earth the Triumvirate.
“Greetings, Harbinger,” one of her minions murmured. Bowing and scraping, he carried an elaborately carved ebony tray. On it, a human heart had been cut into four large pieces. Runestones had been tossed between the four bloody clumps, and she read the signs with delight.
“So, I was right,” she said to her follower. His name was Belasarius, and he was one of Justinian’s finest generals. She had turned him only recently, and no one in the royal court knew his secret. “Tonight is most auspicious for our purposes.”
“It is the most auspicious night in the next one hundred and sixty-nine years,” Belasarius agreed, and they smiled at each other. Thirteen years times thirteen years was one of the most powerful spans of time in existence.
“Then we shall proceed. Prepare the vessel.”
He held out his arms, and she handed over the burden of the unconscious man. Frowning, he looked down at the human. “I think he’s dead.”
Her rage was terrible.
Her terror was worse.
* * *
Buffy and Angel crouched among the headstones at the Shady Hill Cemetery. After a while, she said, “We should have brought a deck of playing cards.”
“For Faro,” Angel said.
“Don’t know it.” She moved her shoulders and cricked her neck. They had been there for almost half an hour, and Buffy was a little chilly and very restless. “Hearts, now that’s a game.”
He glanced at her, shrugged. “I don’t know it.”
“Hearts? Where’ve you been?” she demanded.
“Underground,” he shot back.
“Geez. What a stiff.”
They smiled at each other, Angel far more faintly than Buffy, who was putting on a big show that she found this kind of talk in the least bit amusing.
See, the problem with loving a guy you’re not supposed to love is that you tell yourself there’s an upside, she told herself. Such as, you get to be such great friends with him. Which, frankly, sucks in a lot of ways because friend is a major demotion from girlfriend. And let’s not even go to the higher planes of relationshiphood — such as what comes after girlfriend. Because that ain’t gonna happen, and it would make a lot more sense to jump off the train before it leaves the station. Because it’s going nowhere near the place you want to be.
Problem is, the alternative — being nothing to him — sucks worse.
Angel looked at her. He didn’t say anything, just looked. Her cheeks got warm, and she muttered something about being in a bad mood.
“You’ve been in a lot of bad moods lately,” Angel ventured.
“Hormonal. Strictly.” She frowned and waved her hand. “Nobody’s digging up anybody around here. Shall we move along?”
“Is it me?” He squinted at her as she flushed. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
“What?” she asked defensively. “Why would it be you?”
He stared at her.
She sighed. “Pleased now? Thrilled that I want to kiss you and . . . and be with you, and I can’t? Does that give you some kind of whacked-out h
appy? Flatter you?”
“Of course not.” He kept staring. “Buffy, you know that I . . .” He sighed.
She sighed, too. “You can’t even say it, you can’t even tell me you love me, because next thing you know, your soul will be gone, and you’ll try to destroy the world. And I’ll be sending you back to hell all over again,” she muttered.
“You know I do,” Angel whispered.
Then she looked up, trying not to reveal her pain. “You’re the only one I . . . you’re someone I can talk to, but hey, I can talk to Xander. I can’t do what I . . .” She looked away, because the pain was obvious, in her voice if not her face. “You’d think that after all these months and years of Angel-based awkwardness, I would be better at it.”
“Awkwardness is a moving target.” He shrugged. “My aim is off, too, if it makes you feel any better.”
“Why would it make me feel better?” she echoed back at him.
At an impasse, they sat gazing at each other. Then Angel stood. He turned his back to her and said, “Buffy, when we were together, part of me . . . I gave it to you forever. It will be yours, forever.”
She took that in. Her voice dropped below a whisper. “No. It won’t. Because I won’t be around forever.”
He cocked his head. “Did you say something?”
“No.” She swallowed hard. “Let’s just sit here and wait for the grave robbers, okay? We can pretend we’re at the movies, like the more normal dysfunctional couples of today.”
“Next time, playing cards and popcorn,” Angel said.
Buffy shifted her weight. She was getting a cramp in her thigh. Or maybe it was her heart. “What’s it like, to know you’ll be here at least another century?”
He paused. “I don’t know that.”
“Barring stakings, I mean. Stay on your toes, you’re pretty much a shoo-in.”
He bent down and wrapped his hand around hers. He pulled her to her feet and put his arms around her. His skin was cold, but the contact warmed her nonetheless. “It’s not all that different, Buffy. I can still die.”
“It is all that different,” she insisted. “Because I will die.”
For a moment, he was still. His eyes glittered in the moonlight. Then he raised a hand and pushed her hair back, looping it behind her ear.
“Every evening, when I get up, I wonder where you are. How you are. I never wonder if you’re still alive.”
“Gee, thanks,” she huffed.
“Because I can’t imagine that you won’t be.”
Something moved among the gravestones. Buffy tensed. Beside her, Angel said, “I think it’s the wind. I don’t smell anything.”
“Of all the superheroes, your power is the weirdest,” she drawled.
Suddenly, Angel was kissing her. His arms were tight around her body, and his mouth was pressed against hers. She caught her breath; her hand rose in weak protest above his shoulder, and then she was clinging to him. Every part of her was hungry for him, starving. Just once more, she thought. Once, because if I had known it would be the only time, that I could never have him again . . .
She tried to catch her breath as Angel sank to the earth with her in his arms.
If she had known that the night they had made love would be the only time, nothing would have been different. Because it had been Angel, and first love, and lust, and so much that she had not known about, could not have prepared for. She had been overwhelmed with passion, and joy, and astonishment, believing that night to be a miracle, a wonderful gift to compensate her for her life as the Slayer.
But now, as her desire mounted, so, too, did her pain and dread. Never, never again. As good as it had felt. As happy as she had been.
Never again.
“Angel, stop, we can’t,” she said, gasping.
Then he broke away. She gave a little cry and began to reach for him. He turned his back on her.
“Don’t touch me, Buffy,” he said. “This is all the strength I have left.”
She ran from the graveyard.
He did not follow.
“Nighthawk?” squeaked the walkie-talkie.
“Roger that,” Xander whispered. “Nighthawk here.”
“Hi, Xander.” It was Willow. “Restfield’s a bust. And, um, I have a big calculus test tomorrow.”
Xander nodded gently into the speaker. “Okay. Call it a night. Nothing’s happening here, either.”
“Maybe that one was a fluke. You know, like a Norman Bates thing. Maybe somebody got dug up for sentimental reasons.”
“I love the way you think, Will,” Xander drawled. “Or are you just trying to impress Oz?”
“I have other ways to impress Oz,” Willow retorted. Then she giggled. Xander grimaced, imagining all the smoochies Oz and Willow had shared in the graveyard while he, king of Cretonia, had shared nothing with anyone except the stray cat that tried to snag half his Taco Bell Gordita.
“If this were a horror movie, you guys would be toast,” Xander grumbled.
Willow giggled again. “But it’s not.”
Xander harrumphed. “That’s debatable.”
“So, Xander,” Oz said, “okay if we book?”
“Sure. I guess I’ll pack it in, too. Jennifer Love Hewitt is going to be on Leno.”
“Signing off, then,” Oz said. The walkie-talkie fuzzed out, then went to dead air.
Xander turned his off, too, picked up his empty Taco Bell bag, and sauntered out of the cemetery and onto the sidewalk. He had started toward home, when who to his wondering eyes should appear, but Cordelia and a guy.
A guy who was pawing at her and making weird noises, while she was huffing and writhing in his grasp.
“Hey,” Xander said.
The guy ignored him. It looked for all the world as if Cordelia was trying to pry the guy’s hands off her shoulders, but she was getting nowhere fast.
Xander sprinted toward them, tackled the guy, and threw him to the ground. He straddled him and pulled back his fist, ready to deliver the first blow, when Cordelia smacked him on the back of the head.
“What the hell are you doing?” she shouted.
Xander looked up and over his shoulder at her. The guy on the ground punched him in the jaw, and Xander fell backward onto his elbows.
Staring down at him, Cordelia narrowed her eyes. “This is so pathetic. What, are you stalking me and my dates now?”
“Your . . . date? I thought he was your mauler,” Xander said, rubbing his jaw. “Aren’t you on patrol?”
“Patrol? What’s he talking about?” the ground guy demanded. Xander took a good look at him. Oh, fabulous. It’s Troy Harper. Rich, football team, scholarship to USC.
“Oh, he saw this stupid video,” Cordelia said meaningfully. She wound her arms around Troy’s. “Xander doesn’t understand about passion.” She gave the X-man a withering look. “Just jealousy.”
Xander exhaled slowly and raised his hands. “Sorry. Misread the situation. I thought you were in trouble because of the thing you were supposed to be doing tonight.”
“And if I had been, you would have saved me.” Her voice was loaded with contempt.
“Yes,” Xander said evenly. “I would have.”
Without another word, he brushed past them both.
“Well, I did patrol,” Cordelia shot back at him. “But Giles said I could stop.”
As Xander stomped away, he heard Troy say, “What video?”
Man, what a one-watt, Xander thought savagely. If she had any brains at all, she’d be bored with him in two minutes.
“Who’s Giles?” Troy went on.
Pepper Roback had a roommate named Tanisa Johnson. Sacrificing her privacy had been one of Pepper’s cost-cutting measures, an artifact of saving for college that she’d never done anything about, even when it became obvious college was no longer in her long-term plans.
Tanisa worked two days a week as a manicurist at Jada’s Nails and three days a week at Barron’s Bazaar, where she sold Oriental rugs. To her su
rprise, she had discovered she was good at selling things. And when Mr. Barron offered her full-time work at his larger store in Los Angeles, she jumped at the chance.
When she got off work, she hurried home to give Pepper her thirty days’ notice. Not that it was required in an informal roommate situation, but it was the nice thing to do, after all.
Thing was, Pepper did not show. Not after work, and not before it was time for her to go to the library to read to the kids.
So Tanisa filed a missing person’s report as soon as the cops would listen to her. She wrote a note for Pepper with the address of a friend of hers who lived in Brea. Then she packed all her stuff and took a cab to the bus station.
When she never heard from Pepper again, Tanisa simply figured Pepper was angry with her for splitting and forgot all about her.
Without anyone to prod them, the Sunnydale police forgot about Pepper, too.
In the middle of a violent coughing fit, Joyce heard Buffy come in. The kitchen door slammed, and Joyce pushed her wad of tissues against her mouth, struggling against the violent urge to hack up all her internal organs. She was alarmed by how much worse she felt this evening compared to the morning. I should have tried harder to see Dr. Martinez, she chastised herself. If not for my own sake, then for Buffy.
She looked up from the John Updike novel she was reading. Only, not reading. She had been on the same page for the last hour.
I’ve been worried about Buffy, she thought. And while that was true — she was usually worried about her daughter — she found herself thinking about her doctor’s appointment in the morning.
Buffy paused at her bedroom door and called softly, “Mom? I’m home. Everything’s okay.”
“Thanks, honey,” she called back, with difficulty. “Are you hungry?”
“Naw. Just going to bed.”
“All right. Sleep well.”
“You too, Mom.”
“I will.”
There was a pause, and then Buffy said, “What time’s your appointment?”
“Ten-thirty.”
“Oh.” Buffy sounded disappointed.
“Sleep well,” Joyce said again.
“Well, good night.” Buffy was clearly distracted.
Immortal Page 6
