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Chapter 3
Bath
Willow had slept for 18 hours straight in an attempt to minimize the jet lag from traveling not only across various time zones, but to a whole different hemisphere. Funny. She had spent so much time in South America that now, almost two years later, the seasons in England felt backwards.
She took a long shower—which would have been even longer if Giles' hot water hadn't given out—and dressed in corduroy pants and a sweater. England in February seemed very cold after the warmth and sun of Buenos Aires.
She caught the enticing scent of eggs and bacon frying and her stomach rumbled in response. Quickly running a brush through her damp hair, she followed her nose to the kitchen.
“Ah, Willow, your timing is impeccable. Breakfast is nearly ready.”
A grin spread over Willow's face. “Have I mentioned how much I've missed you, Giles?”
“Er, yes. At least five or six times during the drive down from London.” He smiled as he served her a large helping from the cast iron skillet. “And it's very good to see you, too.”
Willow slotted two slices of bread into the toaster and inhaled deeply.
“Yum! Smells delicious, Giles.” She poked experimentally at a strange, breaded something on her plate. “What's this?”
“It's a tomato, of course—part of a proper breakfast.”
“An actual fried, green tomato? Should I start calling you Idgie now?”
“Why on earth would you call me 'Idgie'?”Willow giggled. “Well, as long as you don't try and foist kippers and kidneys off on me, we're good, but you know I'm gonna need coffee, and lots of it, if you want me functional any time soon.”
Giles lifted the carafe and poured her a steaming cup as Willow happily dug into her breakfast.
Comfortably replete, Willow dried the dishes as Giles washed up. Giles made a pot of tea, after Willow had declined further coffee, which he carried into the living room. Willow followed with the cups, cream and sugar.
“Okay, Giles, what's up? Your letter mentioned a rare codex and you're concerned that you haven't heard from Buffy?”
Giles' eyes gleamed with excitement as he leaned forward in his chair.
“I'll begin at the beginning, shall I? A friend of mine in Scotland rang me up several months ago to inform me of the death of Archie Sinclair, Lord Templeton. He was the last of his line and was reputed to have an extensive collection of very old and rare books.“Sinclair is an old and venerable name in Scotland, and is believed to be an Anglicized version of the French 'Saint-Claire'. Couple that with the title 'Templeton' and one can assume an almost certain connection with the Knights Templar. The Templars were an order of warrior-monks who, among other duties, escorted pilgrims through hostile territory to holy sites in Palestine, attempted to preserve as many sacred and mystical artifacts as possible, and also developed a system that revolutionized banking at the time. They were based in Solomon's Temple in Jerusalem, hence the name 'Templar'.
“With the failure of the crusade and the fall of Palestine to the Turks, the Templars were forced out—taking their treasures with them to preserve and protect. It has been hypothesized that those treasures included the Shroud of Turin, Solomon's Seal and the Holy Grail, among others. The Templars settled in France and were eventually betrayed, outlawed and many burned at the stake by the combined efforts of King Philip IV of France and Pope Clement, both of whom were heavily in debt to the Templars and saw this as a way of both wiping out the outstanding debt and securing the Templar resources for themselves.”
Willow burst out laughing. “When you said you were going to begin at the beginning, I didn't think you meant the beginning of time! If you ever get tired of being a Watcher, I'm absolutely, positively sure there's a spot just waiting for you on the History channel.”
Giles smiled ruefully. “Yes, well, to make a long story short, the Templars had advance warning of the plot against them and it is alleged that they were able to smuggle their most precious treasures out of France. Some ended up in Scotland, including the priceless and hitherto unknown Solomon Codex, which I now own—and I got it for 700 pounds—along with some other wonderful finds I was able to purchase prior to the estate sale.”
“Yay? I mean, that's wonderful, Giles, but what does that have to do with us?”
Giles got up and went to his desk. He retrieved a yellow legal pad, which he handed to Willow before going into the kitchen to make more tea.“If you'll look over the sections that I've translated thus far, it will save us some time.”
While Giles waited for the kettle to boil, Willow began to read. Within moments, she was thoroughly engrossed in the translation. She was just finishing up as Giles appeared with a fresh pot of tea.
“Wow! And you're sure this is genuine?”
“As sure as I can possibly be. The scroll and the ink have been vetted as dating to Solomon's time. The bronze of the scroll case is of the appropriate type and composition. Lord Templeton kept the scroll in an hermetically sealed container, in which I will of course replace it when I have finished the translation, but the case was previously sealed with wax, dating to 13th century France, so I'm as sure as it is possible to be that the Codex is genuine.”
“Spike pooh-poohed Dracula's powers, but it makes sense if there really are three separate vampire races.” Willow flipped through Giles' notes to find the passage she wanted. “This speaks of three separate lines known in ancient Egypt, so we're talking at least 5000 years ago, right? The Order of Zoroaster is probably the line Drac's descended from, as he was probably sired during the Turkish invasion of the Carpathians; the Order of Taraka includes various types of demons, but the Tarakan vampires sound suspiciously familiar. I'm betting they're our good friends the Turok-Han, and the Order of Aurelius? Geez, Giles, the Master could have been really, really old! Like, thousands of years old!”“It's quite possible. And the difference in appearance can be explained by species characteristics—”
Willow interrupted, “The Tarakans are bumpy all the time, the Zoroastrians are never bumpy, and the Aurelians can switch back and forth.”
“Precisely.”
“Who knew?”
“Apparently, the ancient Egyptians,” Giles responded dryly.
“But what does this have to do with Buffy?”
Giles sobered instantly, a look of worry replacing the joy of discovering new knowledge on his face.
“I had learned through a contact of mine of a vampire operating in Canada who seemed to fit the Zoroastrian profile—including the ability to shapeshift. There are two slayers based not terribly far from where the sighting occurred, but they're young—not fully trained—and if this vampire does have special powers, Buffy thought that she would be the most appropriate Slayer to assess the situation. She is, after all, the only living slayer to have successfully resisted Dracula's thrall and managed to hold her own with him.”
“So Buffy went to Canada . . .”
“Yes. And she phoned frequently with regular reports on this Lucien. She believed she was close to locating him a month ago, but I haven't heard from her since then. There could be any number of reasons for her silence, but I became concerned, nonetheless.”
“Why didn't you let me know?”
“I did try, Willow. I left quite a few messages on your answering machine in Rio, and finally sent you an airmail letter.”“Oh, Goddess! It's totally my bad. I thought I told you . . . something came up and I've been in Argentina for the past few weeks. I just got your letter and I came right away. I've had a friend stop by the apartment in Rio to water the plants and she must have forwarded it. Do you have any sage?”
“Sorry?”
“Sage? I could try a locater spell for Buffy. I know, I've never been really great with the locater stuff for some reason—that was definitely Tara's forte—but if you're worried . . .”
“At present, I would say 'concerned' rather than 'worried', but . . . I have ground sage in a tin—will that do?”
“Let's see.”
The smell of burning sage filled the living room.
“I don't know . . . it smells less Southwestern-shamany and more Thanksgivingy than usual but . . .”Willow removed a crystal on a leather thong from around her neck and held it over the map.
“She's alive; she's somewhere in Quebec, but I can't tell you more than that.”
“That's all that really matters, isn't it? I'm very relieved. I expect she'll contact us if there is a need. Would you be interested in seeing the actual scroll?”
“Darn tootin', I would.”
**********
Quebec
Lucien soared over the tops of the pines in the guise of a spotted owl. He loved night flying; it made him feel free and young in a way nothing else could.Alighting on a branch, he turned his head from side to side and sighed. It came out as a mournful who-o-o-o. He felt like a starving man would feel, being shown a great feast and then having it all snatched away. His long life had been weighing heavily on him and he hated the 20th Century. The world was so different from the one he had known that he could find no single point of reference from which to say This! The world may be a madhouse, but this hasn't changed.
The humans were so different, he could hardly recognize them as the same species he had known. They were bold and brash and rude—even the women! There was no honor . . . no chivalry . . . no dedicating one's life to an ideal greater than oneself.
Lucien had been a member of the Order of Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, a Knight Templar, chosen to be one of the defenders who stayed behind in Acre, holding the forces of Sultan Al-Ashraf Khalil at bay long enough to allow their brethren to escape with the Holy relics. It was a suicide mission, and he had volunteered for it gladly. He should have died there—he was prepared to die—and his body did die in Acre. So what was he doing here in Canada 800 years later?
The first few years of his immortal existence were very difficult for Lucien. The Knights Templar were not only warriors, but monks who had taken vows of obedience, chastity and personal poverty; upon awakening, not in Paradise as he had hoped, but in a cellar in Acre in the company of a doe-eyed Saracen, he was inconsolable. The Saracen vampire wasn't satisfied with taking his life; he took away Lucien's chance at the only kind of Eternal Life that mattered!
Lucien shuddered, causing his feathers to fluff out. He didn't want to remember those early years—kept as a Catamite by a heathen whose life-view was as incomprehensible as his language. Chained during the day so he could not seek the sun, Lucien listened and learned.
He learned that one was not required to kill to survive; unless grievously injured, a pint of blood was sufficient for both his survival and that of his prey. This knowledge would come in handy when he was again among civilized peoples. For now, each Saracen he sent to his devil of a maker was a victory for Christ.
He discovered that to attain his full strength and be able to take the guise of animals or mist, he must sleep on a bed of his native earth, which apparently had rejuvenating properties. He was unable to test this at the time, as his native earth was in France, and he was far from there.
Eventually, Lucien ceased attempting to die and instead conceived a plan. He would return to France, develop his skills and then come back at the head of a crusade that would wipe the conquering heathens from the face of the earth!
Lucien concentrated, forcing the molecules of his body into mist, which floated to the ground and reformed in his normal guise.His black memories had taken the joy from the night. He felt tired and weary and old. For a short time, he had felt revitalized—he had been instantly drawn to the tiny blond girl whose courageous spirit shone with such light. He had followed her, wanting to learn more of her. He had never been tempted to make a consort, until he had seen her. She had broken through his ennui, but then she had seemed to disappear. Not dead—he was sure he would have known if she were dead—but her unique brainwave pattern that he had been tracking her by was gone as if it had never been. Cloaked in some way? He would think about her tomorrow. Tonight, the past was too close and too bitter.
Taking one step after another, in the plodding mortal manner, he began the long walk to his current home in human form.
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