Bad Eurotrip, Chapter 7

[thedeadlyhook]

A quick update before we take off on vacation, while we still have another day to enjoy your comments. You remember that we promised you naked Giles? (What you didn't think that picture in the illustrated chapter was all we were gonna do, did you?) Previous chapters here. Original story, "Bad Trip," here.



ACT SEVEN: THE SILVER LINING

Giles gazed up into the blue sky, and a cluster of wispy clouds caught his eye. Cirrus, he thought. A high-altitude formation, made up of ice crystals. I believe that would be classified as a cirrus.

Or would it? He searched his memory, and all he found was a jumble of nonsense words, detached from any particular meaning. Cirrostratus, cirrocumulus. Nimbostratus. Cumulonimbus. Giles smiled. Cumulocumulus, nimbonimbus. None of it seemed terribly important at the moment.

Alexa's fingers brushed his forehead, and Giles twisted around to look at her. She was lying on her side, her lap cushioning his head, and now she gently twirled his hair with an idle hand.

"Penny for your thoughts, Rupert." Her fingers wandered down his cheek, along his neck, across the ridge of his collarbone onto his bare chest.

"I have no thoughts. Quite honestly, my mind is a complete blank." He smiled, admiring the contrast of Alexa's nakedness, her skin shining like copper in the midday sun, against the brilliant green of the wildflower-strewn grass. "You'll have to remind me how I found myself in this predicament."

"Well, first there was the false pretense of the picnic lunch. Then I led you to this fairy glen," and she gestured at the ring of trees that surrounded the sunny clearing, "and seduced you with wine and sweetmeats. Excuse me a moment." She swatted lightly at the side of his head.

Giles raised his head obligingly from Alexa's lap, and she wriggled around the blanket to lie beside him. "That's better," she said, as her fingers resumed their exploration.

Using one arm to support his head, Giles reached out with his other hand and ran it along the generous curve of Alexa's hip. "I have a mortifying confession to make," he said solemnly. "It's possible you may not forgive me."

"Good heavens." She stroked his belly, very lightly, sending tiny shivers of pleasure down his spine. "I'm scandalized already."

Giles gave her an apologetic half-smile. "As I said, my mind is a blank. I fear I've forgotten your last name."

"No, I never told you. My last name is Rose. Alexa Rose." She recited a line of verse in a singsong voice, as if it were a child's nursery rhyme. "With lilies for the newborn babe, and poppies for the grave... and roses gay along the way, the path of life is paved."

He raised a curious eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"

"That's gay in the archaic sense, Rupert." Alexa's fingers caressed the skin of his inner thigh, and he felt himself stirring at her touch. "Happy and free of care, like our friend here. As you should be."

Giles frowned. "I'm afraid that seems unlikely at the moment." He raised himself on his elbows to a half-sitting position. "In fact, I should probably be hard at work right now. Poring over musty tomes, teleconferencing like a madman."

Alexa sighed. "Then ought I to apologize for keeping you?" Rolling away from him, she opened the wicker picnic basket, lifted out a bottle of white wine, began refilling their glasses. "Because I should warn you, I don't feel particularly sorry right now."

"There's no reason you should." Giles watched her pour the wine, admiring her graceful motions, the lush curves of her body. "I doubt I'd be accomplishing anything," he said distractedly. "I haven't a clue what to do next."

"Cheers." Alexa handed him his glass. "You must be getting somewhere, though. All these late-night discussions, all this research..."

"Yes, it's going splendidly." Giles looked distinctly unenthusiastic. "With every passing day we identify more past errors, neglected warnings, missed opportunities... Our understanding of what we've done wrong grows more comprehensive by the hour. But none of this helps us decide where we should go from here."

"Are you talking about the problem of The First? Or is this a more general complaint?" Alexa hooked one of her legs over his own, drawing them closer together. For a moment Giles was pulled from his musings by the sensation of her smooth, warm skin sliding over his thigh.

"Oh," he said. "Yes. A little of both, I suppose." He set down the wine glass, cupped Alexa's breast with his hand. "It seems I've made plenty of mistakes in my personal life as well." He gently circled the dark disc of her nipple with his fingertip, and she drew a sharp breath.

"You're thinking of that seer of yours." Alexa tossed her own glass aside, slid closer to him, nuzzled against his neck. "There are some things Sharon doesn't see as clearly. It's hard for her to let go of... ah... the past you had together."

Both his hands were on her now, holding her close, stroking and kneading her olive skin. "It's not easy to let go of the past," he murmured.

"How old are you, Rupert?" Her teeth nipped playfully at the skin of his neck. "Fifty? For all you know, you have as many years ahead of you. Don't don't become an old man before your time."

"And you, Alexa Rose?" Giles pulled back for a moment to gaze into her chocolate-brown eyes. "How old are you, really?"

"Oh, you know," she smiled. "As old as my tongue..."

"...A little older than my teeth," he answered. "Another riddle."

Abruptly Alexa lifted her leg off his body and rolled away onto her back, folding her arms across her breasts in a show of offended propriety. "I'm forty-three, if you must know. Married once for twelve years, two daughters, older one just started university at Bath. I have a little cottage just outside of Warminster." She turned her head to stare at him. "There. Are you happy now you've stripped me of my mystery?"

"I've barely scratched the surface." Giles parted her thighs with a gentle hand, pressed his lips to the soft skin of her belly. "I think there's much more to explore." He kissed her once, twice, and her back arched as he moved down her body.

They made love in the clearing, and talked and drank wine, and made love again, and thus they passed the afternoon.

...........

When Willow and Kennedy returned from their morning trip into town--a short, pleasant walk from the coven house, although in the end they'd done little more than window-shop--they found the house almost deserted. They heard voices murmuring behind the closed door of Miss Harkness's study, and the sounds and smells of cooking emanated from the kitchen, but otherwise the place appeared to be empty.

"Giles's car is gone," Willow observed, linking Kennedy's arm with hers. "Maybe he and the Euro-Slayers are off on another secret mission."

"Ooh, super-secret." Kennedy rolled her eyes. "Whatever. I'm sure we'll hear about it soon enough. In the meantime, what say we go get some lunch?"

But even the kitchen, as it turned out, was unusually quiet. Alexa was nowhere to be seen--"Went for a walk," Meg shrugged--and her two comrades were doing little more than puttering about.

"We're almost done, I reckon." Flipping her braids over her shoulder to keep them out of the way, Meg transferred a pile of pots and pans to the sink and then turned on the hot water taps. "Let's just get these soaking. Want to leave Miss Harkness with a clean kitchen, right?"

Tish wandered by with a bowl of brownie batter. "Ooh, that looks yummy!" Kennedy giggled, and dabbed a finger into the bowl to scoop up a sample. She was rewarded with a sharp rap on the knuckles from Tish's spatula. "Ow!"

"Don't be greedy, dear," Tish chided her, peering sternly over her small half-glasses. "These aren't for you."

"Poor thing," Meg grinned. "Sit yourselves down and I'll fix us a little snack." She motioned Willow and Kennedy to a small folding table in the corner of the kitchen, and as they sat down, the young woman began assembling a plate of sandwiches.

"So," Willow began, "where did everyone else get to?"

Meg frowned in concentration. "Well, your friend Xander took off for a walk around breakfast." She chopped and sliced with deft efficiency, her hands almost a blur. "Same goes for those girls--Dominique and what's-her-name, Greta. Haven't seen 'em since."

"As for that nice Mr. Giles," Tish added, looking up from her baking pans, "I think he's at lunch. I wouldn't expect him back for a little while yet." She smiled wistfully. "I remember when I had that kind of appetite..."

Kennedy poured herself a glass of milk. "And what of our gracious host?"

"You mean Miss Harkness?" Meg joined them at the table, bringing with her a tray of neatly quartered sandwiches. "Try the roasted eggplant. I think she's in the study with Mrs. Foster. They've been on the phone all afternoon." A look of concern crossed her face. "Ey, you don't think there's some kind of trouble, do you?"

Willow stared glumly at her plate. "We're already in trouble. The question is how bad it's going to get, and how quickly."

"There, there." Tish popped up from behind her, smiling fondly and brandishing a batter-coated spoon. "Would you like to finish this off for me, dearie?"

"Hey," Kennedy protested. "How come I don't get a taste?"

"S'what you get for being pushy," Willow mumbled, her mouth full of chocolate. "What about Dawnie?"

Meg and Kennedy exchanged blank glances. "Beats me," Meg finally volunteered. "Maybe she's still doing research with Milly Carter?"

Barely seconds later, the door swung open and Milly peered into the kitchen. The young witch blinked nervously, one hand twirling a curl of her rust-colored hair. "Excuse me, but has anyone seen Dawn? I had a few questions about this last batch of translations she left for me, but I can't seem to find her anywhere..."

As the color drained from Willow's face, Kennedy reached across the table and picked up another sandwich. "Well," she said, "I guess the waiting is over. Trouble's started."

...........

Walking back to the house, arm in arm with Alexa Rose and happily absorbed in light conversation, Giles gradually became aware of the faint sound of distant voices. Peering ahead, he saw a tiny figure jogging over the crest of a hill toward them.

Alexa followed his gaze and squinted uncertainly at the approaching figure. "Is that Willow?"

So it was, and she was close enough now that they could make out the red hair swirling around her head as she ran. She was waving her arms, Giles realized, and shouting. Kennedy followed close behind her, loping easily down the slope.

"Giles!" They could hear her now. "Giles, come quick!"

Giles let go of Alexa's hand and hurried forward to meet Willow. "Yes? What's the matter?"

"It's Dawn!" Thanks to her downhill momentum, Willow was unable to stop quickly enough, and Giles grabbed her by the elbow as she passed and swung her gently around. "It's Dawn," she repeated. "Dawnie's gone!"

"What?!" Giles thought he must have misheard her. "What about Dawn?"

"She's gone, Giles." Kennedy pulled up alongside them, and Willow flopped onto her shoulder to catch her breath. "Xander too, and the other Slayers."

"There must be some misunderstanding," he frowned. "Are you sure they haven't just--"

"Their stuff's gone," Willow wheezed. "Their clothes, their bags, everything."

Kennedy nodded. "Uh-huh. And it looks like they took your car, too."

The furrow in Giles's brow deepened, and he reached into of one of his pants pockets. "Why didn't you... ah. My apologies. I must have had the ringer turned off." He squinted at the display of his cell phone. "Eleven messages?"

"Yeah, that would be us." Willow smiled faintly, then turned serious again. "Miss Harkness wants to talk to you too. She says something's happening with the other covens..."

Alexa caught up with them as they reached the crest of the hill and sighted Miss Harkness's house. "What is it, Rupert?"

"It appears," he sighed, "that we're having some sort of a crisis. Or crises plural." He dropped the phone back into his pocket.

"Ah well," Alexa said, giving him a wry little smile. "It was nice while it lasted."

As they drew near the house, they saw Miss Harkness and Milly Carter waiting in the garden to meet them. "Welcome back, Mr. Giles," the old woman called. She looked tense, disturbed, her cane clenched in a tight grip. "I assume you've heard the news."

"Dawn," he said wearily. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised." Alexa gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze, then slipped past him into the house.

Willow flopped down onto the grass. "Plus Xander. And the Euro-Slayers."

"And your car," Kennedy added helpfully.

Giles gave her an irritated glare, then turned his attention back to Miss Harkness. "When did they leave?"

"Perhaps a couple of hours ago. They could be in London right now, for all we know."

"And you didn't stop them?"

Miss Harkness gave him an icy stare. "I am not in the habit of forcing people to accept my hospitality, Mr. Giles."

"Of course not." He chuckled wearily. "How silly of me. Do what thou wilt, and all that. Everyone free to run willy-nilly over hill and dale, dancing widdershins by the light of the harvest moon..."

"I beg your pardon," Miss Harkness replied frostily. "Perhaps we could enjoy your witticisms about witches and their funny practices on another occasion. I'm afraid I'm really not in the mood right now." She steadied both hands on her cane. Her shoulders shook.

"We have our own problems, Rupert." Sharon Fleet Foster appeared at the back door, with a glass of whiskey in one trembling hand. She took a fortifying gulp before continuing. "I've been on the phone all afternoon with my lot back in Devon, and some of the covens on the mainland. The First is making its move."

Willow turned pale. "Against the, the covens?"

"Yes," Sharon replied. "In Toulouse, in Freiburg... Barcelona, Salzburg, Stockholm... Seven covens in all, from one end of Europe to the other, all of them wiped out overnight. The First's opening move."

"But how?" Giles shook his head in disbelief. "Surely all those coven members wouldn't be gathered together in one place..."

Miss Harkness nodded grimly. "Indeed. They were attacked individually. In their homes, sleeping in their own beds. And the most powerful members of each coven were the first targets."

"It knew," Sharon hissed. "The First knew. Their names, where they lived... every detail. Like it was running down a list." She drained her glass, and Milly took it quietly from her hand, then went inside to refill it.

Giles closed his eyes and tried to concentrate. He pictured a clear blue sky, a wisp of cloud. Cirrus. A high-altitude formation... He remembered the feel of Alexa's dusky skin, the taste of her lips. The way her back flexed as she turned to pour the wine. Gradually his mind cleared, and he felt himself becoming calmer, more focused.

"Tactics," he murmured. "Strategy." Think as the enemy thinks, he told himself. Understand its goals. Anticipate its maneuvers. Learn from your mistakes.

He opened his eyes, and the others were looking at him expectantly.

"This is a provocation," Giles began. "The enemy is trying to goad us into a certain reaction." He paced a circle in the grass, one hand rubbing at his temple. "Just as it did with the Council, and with the Slayers in waiting."

Sharon laughed bitterly. "I beg your pardon, Rupert. I think the simplest explanation is that it's just trying to kill us."

"No." His voice was gentle but firm. "That's the same mistake we always make. Seven covens... completely wiped out, you say? That makes, what, perhaps fifty people in all?"

Miss Harkness nodded silently, her eyes fixed on Giles.

"A waste of resources," he snapped, raising a hand to forestall their protests. "Of those fifty people, surely only a handful had the necessary skill to perform the Charm of Set, to interfere with the enemy's plans. There may only be fifty people in the entire world with that kind of power. Why not just kill them all and have done with it, rather than staging this show of force?"

Willow frowned in concentration. "It wants us to do something, then. But what?" She gave Giles a quizzical look, and he stared silently back at her, waiting for her to work through the puzzle.

"It thinks... It thinks the witches will gather together," Willow concluded. "Like the Council did, like we did in Sunnydale. A single witch is just as vulnerable as an ordinary person, so they'll gather to defend themselves."

"Exactly." Giles felt a blush of paternal pride. "Whatever information The First has on the whereabouts of the coven members will be useless now that they've been warned of its intentions. But if they provide it with a handful of conveniently large targets..."

"I'm not sure I agree with your analysis, Mr. Giles." Miss Harkness stroked her chin thoughtfully, stared off into the distance. "A full coven, especially one whose members are powerful enough to threaten The First, is more than a match for a single Slayer."

"Yeah," Kennedy interjected, "maybe so. But how do you think they'll do against an army of them?"

There was a long moment of silence. Milly Carter emerged from the house with a fresh glass of whiskey, pressing it into Sharon's hand.

"We have a choice," Giles said at last. "We can attempt to pursue Dawn and the others. It won't be easy, but the car can be traced, and I have an idea where they may have gone."

"Okay," Willow nodded. "What's the other option?"

"We trust that Dawn and Xander know what they're doing, that they can take care of themselves. And we head into Europe to go to the aid of the covens."

Kennedy perked up. "Does that mean we get to fight?"

"Against an army of rogue Slayers, led by The First incarnated in the form of Buffy Summers?" He gave her a stern look. "Yes, we'd fight. And if we were very lucky, some of us might even live."

"Great." She raised her hand, grinning enthusiastically. "I'm in."

Willow sat there on the grass, looking back and forth between Giles and Miss Harkness. "I don't know," she whined. "Just thinking about Dawnie, all alone like that..."

"Not alone," Giles corrected her. "She has Xander to watch over her."

"And two Slayers," Kennedy chimed in. "And Giles's car."

Willow glanced uncertainly at Miss Harkness. "What should I do?"

"Your best, dear," the old woman replied gravely. "Just do your best, and take responsibility for the consequences."

"Then I guess I'm decided." Willow rose to her feet, brushing grass from her skirt. "It was me who started this whole thing, wasn't it? If I hadn't raised Buffy from the dead, if I hadn't done that spell to activate all the potential Slayers, if I hadn't used the Charm of Set..." She shook her head, lips pursed in determination. "What's happening to those covens is my responsibility. I have to see it through."

Suddenly Willow found herself airborne, swept her off her feet and scooped up in Kennedy's arms. "Get a load of you, Willow," Kennedy beamed. "You're so damn mature I could just kiss you!" Which she did.

"Very well, then," Giles nodded. "Kennedy, Willow... pack your bags and get ready. We'll set off for the train station in, oh, let's say half an hour."

He made his way to the back door, and Sharon stepped aside, not quite enough to let him pass. "So where are you headed, Rupert?"

"London," he replied. "I need to check in with the rest of the Council, gather intelligence and supplies... With luck we'll be on our way to the continent tonight."

"Then this is goodbye, I suppose." Standing on tiptoes, the seer brushed his cheek with her lips. "For now."

"For now," Giles nodded, and then he went on into the house.

...........

Ten minutes later Giles emerged from the shower. Wrapped modestly in a towel, he padded down the hall to his room.

Alexa was waiting for him there, sitting demurely in a chair beside the bureau desk. "Hello, Rupert," she smiled. "I think you'd better get started on your packing."

Giles pulled the door shut. "Yes, I suppose I had." He unfurled his towel and tossed it onto the bed.

"Don't mind me, dear." Alexa watched him as he dressed, studying the smooth flexing of muscle in his legs and back, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "I'm just here to deliver a message."

"A message?" Giles paused, halfway through putting on his pants. "What kind of message?"

Alexa held up a piece of notepaper. "Your office called. Apparently there's a man from the government waiting to see you when you get to London."

"Well, I can't say I saw that coming." He resumed dressing, selecting a cotton Oxford shirt. "Does this man have a name?"

"Nathan Eyre," Alexa replied, pronouncing it like air. "Spelled ee why are ee. Apparently he's rather eager to see you." She winked. "Can't say I blame him."

"Really." Giles finished buttoning up his shirt and took a step towards her. "So tell me, Alexa. Our little picnic today... which, I should add, I enjoyed immensely..."

"You want to know if it was all a wicked plot," she said, giving him a sultry look. "A clever little scheme to distract you while Dawn slipped the leash, goading you all into action at last."

"Something like that, yes."

"Or perhaps the plan was even more elaborate," Alexa suggested. "A chance encounter arranged beside a forest pool, to give Dawn a suitable group of escorts. The mistress of the house watching all from her tea-room, breathing a silent blessing as the stolen carriage takes to the road..."

"So was that the reason, Alexa?" There was no anger in Giles's voice, only a note of sad resignation. "Or only a part of it?"

Alexa laughed, and rose from the chair to stand before him. Her flowery summer dress swung. "Tell you what, Rupert. When all this is over, come pay me a visit, and I'll show you what my reasons were."

She kissed him, full on the mouth and with such passionate energy that it left him breathless. Long seconds later, she pulled back to look him in the eyes.

"Alexa Rose," she said seriously. "I'm in the Warminster phone book."

Giles smiled. "I'll be in touch."

"I know you won't disappoint me, Rupert." Alexa opened the door and stepped out into the hallway, pausing to give him a warm grin. "You certainly didn't this afternoon."

Then she was gone. Giles stood there for a moment with his eyes closed, savoring the bright, musical sound of her laughter. At last it faded into the distance, and he opened his eyes, took a deep breath, and began to pack.

...........

Aimee ran blindly through the sewers of Paris, terror driving her on until she thought her lungs would burst. At last she came to a stop, unable to keep going, and she slumped against the curved concrete wall of the sewer tunnel. She retched, and nothing came up this time but a thin stream of sour fluid.

The lights blinked fitfully, sparking and fizzing. Aimee could make out the channel that ran down the middle of the tunnel floor, filled with greenish-yellow liquid--she realized she must have tripped and fallen in one of these trenches, maybe several of them, because her hands were slick with moisture, her pants soaking wet from the knees down--and when she looked up, she saw thick utility conduits running overhead, suspended from the ceiling and stapled to the walls.

The conduits reminded her of intestines, of human guts. And that reminded her of what had happened back at the house, what might still be happening there. Le sanctuaire, Aimee thought bitterly. Some sanctuary. They'd huddled there like frightened hens, hoping that sheer numbers would keep the foxes out.

She supposed the creatures that attacked the house must have been Slayers. That's what the older witches had said. But surely Slayers were human beings--women, girls even, no older than herself--and from what Aimee had glimpsed in those terrifying moments before Camille shoved her down the stairs, into the basement where the sewer entrance was hidden, she was certain that these were no human beings.

There had been three of them, Aimee remembered, or maybe four. She slid down the curved wall, her knees buckling beneath her. They'd shrieked and squealed and bellowed, like the pigs on her uncle's farm, and some of them carried knives but some of them were using their hands. Some of them were using their teeth.

The thought spurred her to her feet, and she began moving again, limping now on her bruised feet. She'd kicked off her shoes somewhere along the way, Aimee realized. Now her bare feet were bloody and raw, and she winced at every step. She glanced back and saw a trail of red footprints. Should she try to walk in the channel, in the murky liquid? Could the Slayers follow her scent as wild animals do? She didn't know, but she couldn't bring herself to step into the foul waters.

Aimee heard sounds from up ahead--the shuffle of feet, the low murmur of voices. For a moment her blood ran cold. Could she have circled back by mistake, run right back into the hands of the Slayers?

But these were human voices, not the squeals and grunts of beasts. Surely what she was hearing was normal conversation--English conversation, if her ears weren't deceiving her. She thought for a moment, weighing her options. Could she take a closer look, see without being seen?

She remembered the spell Camille had showed her at the last coven meeting. Visionnement à distance, Camille called it. Remote viewing. Aimee concentrated, steepled her fingers into a triangle and held them up before her eyes. She breathed a few short verses of Latin, invoking the power of the goddess Diana, and the pale disc of the Lens Lunaris appeared within the triangle of her fingers.

Aimee focused her will on the lens, telling it to fly forward down the tunnel, around the twists and turns, to the source of the sounds. The disc didn't move, but the view she saw through it changed, the tunnel walls whizzing by in a blur of motion until the lens reached its destination.

Peering through the lens, Aimee saw a group of a girls--six or seven of them, she guessed--ambling through the sewers. She could see them laughing and chatting, bantering affectionately. She felt a surge of relief, followed by renewed anxiety. Not for herself this time, but for the innocent girls wandering the tunnels, enjoying their mischievous little adventure, unaware that every step brought them nearer to the cruel embrace of the Slayers.

Aimee began to run, heedless of the pain in her feet and in her chest. "Hallo," she yelled. "Hallo!" She stumbled, slipped in a pool of dank water, picked herself up again and ran onward.

She rounded the corner and saw them, the little group of girls the Lens Lunaris had revealed to her. One of the girls stepped forward, a small blonde, her face furrowed in an expression of surprise and concern.

"Hello," the blonde girl said, enunciating slowly and carefully in the usual manner of English-speaking tourists. "Are you okay? Is there a problem?"

Aimee stood there panting, trying to catch her breath. "Please," she managed to say. "You must go. Is not safe here."

The blonde girl screwed up her face, trying to understand. "Not safe? What do you mean?" Behind her, the other girls in her group whispered quietly among themselves. Aimee thought she could hear some of them giggling.

"Not safe," Aimee repeated. "There are bad people. Bad people are coming."

Then the girl grinned, and there was nothing human or merciful in her expression. "Silly little witch. The bad people are already here."

Aimee turned to run, but she didn't get very far. Buffy let Gwen take the witch down, because she figured she could use the practice.