Wesley paused a moment while traversing the basement steps having thought he heard something from above. “Did you hear something?” he asked Rupert Giles who walked ahead of him. Cocking his head he listened for anything further that might indicate a sign of trouble, but nothing followed. “Perhaps it was just my imagination. My head is eager to hit my pillow.”
They had all been maintaining late night hours that stretched well into the morning. Mr Giles also had to maintain his post as the Sunnydale High School Librarian, but this was fortunately a weekend. Once they saw to the immediate needs and comfort of their new guest, he hoped they would all get some well-deserved shut-eye. Of course, there were things to do. Debrief about tonight’s disaster. Determine whether or not Karla Brewer had been exposed to magick versus simply experiencing a psychotic break, and plan for her long-term care. Regroup. Focus on the next phase of the prophecy.
Stopping at the small landing halfway down the steps, Giles turned back to answer his query. “No, I hear nothing,” but he returned his focus to the basement itself, his tone turning ominous.
Wesley reached the landing, holding onto the railing with one hand and a small plate with a slightly singed grilled cheese sandwich in the other. Although Angel’s mansion had an extensive basement that stretched under the full length of the building, he had converted just one large room into his personal training center. It was quite a nice sort of setup considering the vampire was not exactly on the postal route for receiving large packages.
He felt quite certain that his soulless counterpart had used the room for something else. After all, one rarely found manacles and chains, and other binding mechanisms attached to one’s walls on a routine basis. Wesley was too weary to think about the room’s other purposes. For now, it was simply a convenient place to keep their young guest chained up for her own safety, as well as everyone else’s.
There was no powered lighting in the basement chambers. The mansion’s renovation did not reach this far before the fire burned through its west wing. Lantern light flickered on the stone masonry of the wall where the metal lantern hung from a spike, spreading its soft glow further into the room. The gym mats that served as a temporary bed had been pulled away from the reach of the light into the furthest corner of the basement leaving it in shadows.
The chains had been dragged to their full length. A twinge of guilt pierced his chest as he thought keeping Karla Brewer chained up. She was a victim, not a vampire or demon the Watcher’s Council might keep shackled for training purposes. She deserved to be helped, and to find a respite from the constant inner torment that kept her screaming and mumbling the name of Amolon as though she both feared and worshipped him.
Wait! Suddenly, he realized the point that Mr Giles was making. The silence was indeed thick. No screams resounded in the darkness. No whimpers for mercy. No rattling of the chains. No shifting of the still air.
“C-Could she be sleeping?” he asked as they crept forward down the remaining stairs. “I think we should allow her to rest, poor girl.”
Mr Giles kept moving forward, pausing only long enough to take the lantern. He held it before him, arm stretched out to its full extent, peering into the shadows beyond. His foot connected with something heavy, and looking down, they saw it was one end of the rusty chain, the edges of the manacle stained red with blood.
A clatter made them both jump. “Sorry,” Wesley cringed at his reaction, confessing, “I dropped the plate.”
More important revelations required his attention, he realized. Focus was necessary to stay alive in this business, and being far more studious than hands-on, Wesley knew to fall back on his training. Taking note of the steady hand of his counterpart as he held the lantern aloft, Wes shored himself up for the sight before them.
“We left Drusilla alone with the girl. How could we do that? Chaining an innocent up for a crazed vampire. We might as well have given her permission.”
The light dancing across the wall revealed nobody. There was no body, Wesley had fully expected to find Karla Brewer’s drained corpse slumped on the floor. “Where is she?” he gasped.
Moving the lantern in an arc, Giles focused its light toward the other far corner. An open door led into the darkened depths of the mansion basement, a place checked cursorily as they secured the building, full of rooms, closets, hiding places, all leading toward the burned husk of the west wing.
“Oh dear.” Wesley considered the dangers. Immediate ones for Karla who in her current state might fall victim to structural damage as she scrambled through utter darkness.
The longer-term issues affecting the Rites of Tavrok were most concerning. Without time to fully analyze it, Wesley realized that every advantage they thought they might hold over the enemy was fading fast. They had not captured the convict. He was not a victim of the helicopter crash having apparently escaped that fate for one predestined. Now it seemed Karla, whom they rescued, hoping to keep her out of the reach of those who would do her further harm, was now gone. Once again, she might be captured and made a sacrifice at the altar of Amolon.
“We must find her,” Giles echoed his thoughts.
Jake Devries maintained his cool demeanor despite the rough company. Several bikers from Mike Mooney’s gang had packed into the small rented hole-in-the-wall that called itself a room at the Downtowner Motel. It was cheap and in many cases rented by the hour. The skinny rake of a man behind the desk looked more ghoul than human, but it was difficult to tell in this town.
“No questions. No police,” Jake ordered, smoothly slipping him a couple of crisp hundred dollar bills.
Giving him a rotted toothy grin, he pocketed the bribe, even as he eyed the body bag being dragged from the back of the van. “You do what you gotta do, buddy. We all got kinks.”
The suggestion that he was into group necrophilia registered, but failed to draw his ire. This man’s opinion of him or his actions meant nothing. All he required was his silence for the next few hours.
Two of the four men hauled Harry Sims’ unconscious body in from the van dumping it on the double bed. The drugs used to feign death might have killed him if not reversed in time. The storm had delayed their arrival. It had taken a shot of adrenalin and CPR to get his heart going again, but Sims still looked like death warmed over.
Mike Mooney stood at the end of the bed, his beefy bare arms folded across his chest. “This guy could use a hospital,” he joked instantly drawing raucous laughter from his three cronies.
“Too bad we just set it on FIRE!” exclaimed Goon#1 who flicked his lighter on and held up the flame as if they needed a reminder.
Goon#2 balled up a hammy fist and jovially punched Jake’s shoulder. “That coulda been you, dude. One big gust of wind, and— kablooey! Copter smashes right into the building.”
“Fuckin’-A! You’re like Bruce Willis, man, surviving explosions and shit,” Goon#3 joined in on the fun. Taking a step back from Jake’s stone-faced response, he added, “Only way less cool.”
“Something to add to my resume,” Jake’s upper lip curled into a sneer, the only outward sign of his irritation they would get. He had little patience for ill-mannered thugs, but in his business, they were a staple he could not avoid.
Addressing Mooney, he outlined a plan. “Get your men to dump the van. Once Sims is fully recovered, we won’t need it.”
“How long will that take? Sims looks like shit. Kalesh will have our balls if we show up with him looking half-dead. Don’t they got to be alive when we sacrifice ‘em?”
It was apparent that Mike Mooney had no clue about the methods used to invoke the Rites of Tavrok, which was fine with him. It made his job so much easier. Besides, if the demon priestess detected even a whiff of subterfuge on his part, he would have far more to worry about than the state of his currently non-existent sex life. The risk was actually part of the thrill, and precisely why Wolfram and Hart was paying him top dollar.
“Kalesh will get her sacrifice, Mooney. Trust me, Sims will be fine.”
Jake’s confidence had a way of affecting others. He could convince just about anyone to give away his last cent, make any argument stick. Mooney was no different despite the fact that Harry Sims’ pale body was still half-covered by an open body bag.
“Okay, but if this goes South, I’m laying the blame on you, dickwad.”