Fall On Your Knees: Part One

By Dex

London bleeds after dark. It drips from light-flashed blades, down the whore's thighs, puddles in the cobbles and browns in neglect. The sweat-wet bricks of the alley were old and soot caked, a relic of three hundred years of industrial advancement and belching smokestacks. London was a city of history, but trash doesn't change much, choking the sides in drifts of crisp packets, fast food wrappers, and soiled newsprint. The weak light of the street lamps did little but make the shadows deeper, safer for those who used them. Her black outfit was tailor made for this sort of activity, now soaked darker with her own blood.

The knife flashed out again, cutting a shallow line across her cheeks. There was a lot of blood, but her wounds would later be called superficial in the police report. Only the short stab to her throat was serious, but even that was centered on the vocal cords, nicking the windpipe. She couldn't scream, only struggle horribly to draw breath. Struggle to try and stay alive for every future second, hoping like all creatures to somehow survive the look of death. She could draw a thin trickle of air past the blood and the wet whistle in her throat.

A few more cuts lit red patterns on her pale skin, and the dark figure bent over her hummed softly as he worked. Strange figures of injury stood out on her flesh, his knife used like the brushes of an artist, or rather, the pen of a writer and she trashed desperately to free herself. He was writing her death on her skin.

A grip like iron clamped down on her throat, and rammed her head back into the bricks. Dazed, she lay limp, as he returned to his ceaseless cutting. Finally, the blade left her body, snapping back into its handle and tucked in a back pocket. The figure, a man? She presumed it was a man. He thumbed open her agony-clouded eyes with his latex covered fingers and looked intently into them. She only saw a dark smear of him, his features barely human in the distortion. She missed his smile as he stood and stepped back.

The trickle of blood from her sex was growing, and her hands fluttered to her womb. Something primal woke in her, and she pressed down on the pulsing skin of her abdomen in terror as it roiled. Something tore inside of her, and her wet whistle scream fluttered for a moment before dying out. There was another wrenching pull, and the trickle had turned into an abattoir river. Long fingers wrapped themselves over the ruined labia and stretched, tearing open a hole for its escape. Her skin gave way with a sucking rip, and shit from her ruined bowels joined the offal in the alley.

The figure, small, black and twisted, won free of the corpse, and hunched in the chilly night air, skin steaming from the blood heat of its birthing. The dark man in the shadows bent down and collected it, holding it with care as he turned from the ruined body and headed for the street. He had several more stops this evening, and could not afford to be late. The figure in his arms squirmed, and he gentled it was a soft touch; a blessing by the father to the son. The creature settled and the man walked quickly across the streets, already heading for the next shadow and the next birth.

***            

John Constantine sipped a pint and looked out into the dark rainy May afternoon. Thick sheets of water collapsed in waves along the streets and washed up along the shop fronts. Londoners staggered from shop awning to shop awning like their grandparents had dodged during the Blitz. His country was well known for its phlegmatic citizens in the area of local weather. It rained, then it rained and then it rained. In the midst of all that rain, England happened.    

"All right John."

"Inspector. Come to buy me a pint?" John said, not looking at the man who'd slid into the seat beside him.

"Why would I do that?"

"Because it delays me telling you to piss off." John lit a cigarette and huddled further into his bartop hunch. Inspector Abercrombie motioned the barman for a lager and a refill for John. John took a long baleful look at Abercrombie before tapping out a cigarette and lighting it with a snap-hiss from his blocky Ronson.

"John. There's a–"

"No."

"You haven't–"

"Don't need to. No. Christ," John blew a plume of blue smoke in Abercrombie's face and sipped his new pint. "You look like hell, Davey."

"Too right. Fourteen-hour days, mostly in the lab. Jesus, John. You should know that I wouldn't ask you if it didn't matter. Hell, you know that you're one of the last people I want to talk to on this planet."

"Lots of fucking love in this room, mate."

"I'm not your mate, John. Don't forget, I was in that room in Carson Cross after you left. I saw what happened to your mates there, and I worked the Prevost Flats after your last little adventure." David Abercrombie leaned in close, his bushy black beard almost touching John's chin. "I know what you've walked away from, and I don't like it. You should be in jail at Her Majesty's Pleasure, not sitting in a pub, drinking a pint and pretending like your fucking hands don't drip blood."

"Now–"

"Shut it." Abercrombie's voice was low and dangerous. "I know what you are and what you can do. You owe a lot of people for your mistakes. This is how you start paying."

"Bollocks." John gave him a two-fingered salute and turned back to his drink.

"Right, let's try something different. You can help, or I can do my best to make life very difficult for you. I can't arrest you, and you'd just laugh if I threatened to have your legs broken. But what I can do is nudge a few of your old cases back into the light. I can get the word out that you're under the lamp, which means all your contacts will start getting wary. I can get your damn phone number back in the book. Income tax, John. All those little details of polite society that makes us all easy to find, watch and get in touch with. I'll bet you've got some old friends that would like to have a word with you, right?" David Abercrombie said, a vicious twist to his mouth. Constantine would have been impressed by the sheer nastiness of it, if the threat hadn't struck so close to home. The cases he wasn't worried about, nor the police scrutiny. The really serious students of the arcane ignored the police for a bunch of underpaid incompetents, but it could frighten away the more gullible ones, which is where John was currently making his income.

John Constantine's safety and success depended on a certain amount of anonymity. He could just pack up and move, but England was regimented, if nothing else, and some of those who were really looking for him would have an excellent place to start. Even worse, if the leviathan government bureaucracy finally took notice, he'd have a thousand unimaginative but highly tenacious beancounters and paperpushers clogging up his life. Funny, he didn't give Abercrombie enough credit. This was ingenious bastardry worthy of himself.

"Right, what's the deal then?"

Abercrombie dropped a thick manilla envelope on the top of the bar. "Pictures, police reports, the whole file. I'll want that back, by the way."

"That doesn't answer the bloody question."

"Open it." John flipped up the top and pulled out a glossy eight and a half by eleven photo at random. He inhaled sharply and put it face down on the bar. "Hellfire."

"Sure enough. Seven toms in one night. Spread around the city. Map is in there. Scotland Yard is worried that we've got another Ripper imitator on our hands, but this stinks of something different. There were... markings cut into the bodies. Coroner says they were made before death. He kept them alive long enough to cut weird symbols into their flesh, and then– " David paused, drawing heavily from his glass. "Well, then he fucking blew up their guts, far as we can tell."

"I don't follow."

"The damage to their abdominal and pelvic regions was so great that we can't even guess what was involved. It looks like he ripped them open with a great big chopper. The labs won't even hazard a guess. Bloody Finch threw up when he saw them, and he's been working on corpses for twelve years. There's something ugly going on, John."

"And you bring it to me. Cheers David. Do us a favour and die slow, right." John slipped the photo back into the envelope and stuffed the whole packet into his pocket.

"My card is in there. You give us a call when you've got something, right?"

"Right. David, no crime scenes, no detective work. I'll give you what I can on the symbols, and you get the fuck out of my life. That's the deal."

Abercrombie nodded and stalked out of the bar. John leaned forward and took another sip of his pint, not tasting it as his mind churned. Another bloody situation, like he was Philip Marlowe in a sorcerers hat or something. John scrubbed his hands through his hair and scowled as the barman came over.

"So, you covering your mate's pint then, John?"

"Hellfire."

***

"I shouldn't have had that curry." Constantine muttered to himself as he turned over the pictures again, cigarette ash wafting up from the photos. Home was a small flat in a newly fashionable part of town, the shops full of naturally made soaps, organic foods, handwoven shawls and trendy books that no one ever buys with the intention of reading. John hated it with a passion. But, it was also the best place to practice his own career in minor magicks and arcane nonsense. No doubt the magical community would have a good laugh at the idea of John Constantine selling charm amulets to the silly and the trendy. However, Cheryl needed help to cover Gemma's schooling, and had refused, point-blank, any money that wasn't had legitimately. So, John had taken a brief vacation from his normal cons and was peddling wares that had as much to do with real magic as a toaster had to people.

The bottle of whiskey was half gone and he was into his second pack of Silk Cuts when he finally finished the police reports. The locations of the bodies didn't seem significant, save for the fact that they were all in inner London, and not spread out into the giant boroughs and suburbs that girdled it. The damage was consistent with something inhuman, but even that could be conjecture. Nothing in the demon community was as vicious as a human when looking to hurt things. It could be an industrial chopper being used on the poor women as easily as some night horror with too many teeth and vowels in its name.

The symbols were the real case, it seemed, and John stacked volume after volume of texts on his table as he worked through them. The symbols seemed familiar, but he still couldn't place them. Hermetic magic was a mercurial thing. The symbols and languages were different with every culture; every mage in fact. The degrees of variation could be extreme, which was likely why magic hadn't been harnessed by man except in limited ways over the centuries.

John slammed shut a book of Inca blood rituals and poured himself another drink. The symbols niggled at his memory. He was sure that he had seen them, somewhere. But there was something wrong with them, as if they were slightly modified in some way. The cabalistic influences were obvious enough, but there was another aspect at play. The hermitic tradition was principally elemental; earth, air, fire, water. These were something that tapped into more natural influences; shamanistic. Witchcraft even. Things John knew bugger all about in a practical sense. Most mages had little to do with witches. Even the most powerful witch was low on the magical scale, since witchcraft was tied directly in with the natural forces of people and places. It withered in cities, across distances and failed in the face of technology. Shamanism could be extremely powerful, but it was tied directly to one place, something that most mages found too inflexible to be attractive.

Twisted symbols and gruesome deaths. John rubbed his eyes and sat back down. What was he missing?

"Too bloody early for that question." John finally closed his books and got up from the table. Nothing more would come of it tonight. If he slept on it, he might get some ideas. Plus, he had that reading, he thought with a mental shiver, for a couple of lawyers that afternoon, and had to look appropriately arcane. John took the photos over to his sideboard, meaning to slide them back into the envelope when he stopped.

The photo on top had a mark he'd missed, looking almost like a shadow in the indent of the woman's ruined ribcage. John scrabbled for his magnifying glass and sat down under the light. It was a tiny cut, this one done in detail in the pale skin. John flipped through the pile, looking for the coroners report on the victim. The report mentioned the cuts to the rib with the other symbols, and each had a grainy digital image to go with the description. In a flurry of paper, John starting pulling notebooks out of his cabinet. Finally, he located an old stained one, with an Oxford logo on the front. John sat back down, flipping through the pages of tiny handwriting until he found it.

An ink drawing of the same symbol that had been cut into the girl. There were several different people writing in the notebook, with beer stains and cigarette burns on the pages. It had been used years ago, when John was first getting into magic, and running with a crowd that worked hard on being bent and twisted. Mostly it was for sex, but that was true of everything at that age.

John quickly read through the notes, but was disappointed. The symbol was there, ascribed to some nether summoning of one type or another, but there was no context. It could be a demon name, a binding element, even just a sequencer used to help the invocation. John squinted to read the fine script underneath it. If he could figure out who copied it on to the notebook, he might have an idea where to get more information. John flipped to the front, to check the name of the one who wrote those notes and grimaced.

"Oh. Him. Bugger."                            

***

"Does it rain all the time, Giles?" Willow said, looking forlornly across the green fields. She understood now why a country as grey as England could be so green. It didn't so much rain as perpetually soak, and she found herself checking regularly for the first signs of gills. Giles, on the other hand, looked uncharacteristically relaxed in the environment; a subconscious loosening of everything in him. He looked younger somehow, more powerful. Willow was glad that he'd never taken them here when they were still in high school. With her on him crush at the time, she would never have stood a chance. Still, there was something safe about this place. It was old, in a way that she couldn't describe. It was loved and loved in return. It was safe, cared for, immensely deep and subtly powerful. England was an education every second.

"Of course not. I seem to recall a clear day back in eighty-four. I think the library has something on it." Giles said, sipping a steaming cup of tea as he stared out into the rain.

"Obvious paranormal influence." Willow smiled, twisting in her chair and resting her chin on the padded arm. "Giles, you haven't said anything about... well, the thing that you likely should be talking about since we got here."

"No, I haven't."

"And I should be coming apart at the seams. I mean, I cried when my fish died, and that's not even on the flaying scale. But I can't feel it. It's there, inside, but it's not– " Willow made a wide gesture with her hands. "You know, _there_."

"No, it isn't."

"Giles, what's going to happen?" Her voice was plaintive, and Giles slowly put down his cup. His relationship with the Slayer and her friends was much deeper than he was ever willing to let on. In a very real way, he found the family he'd never had with them, and felt deeply responsible for each of them. Willow was one of the most paradoxical of the group. A sheltered child, a repressed teen, she had found herself only through the empowerment of magic. Her bravery, her spirit was buoyed by that association, in a way that she had never consciously questioned. The risk that the consequences of her actions could shatter her personality was frighteningly real. That was why he was with her in England, and not in Sunnydale, even though every instinct screamed at him that something was forming at the Hellmouth.

"Willow, there are... consequences that arise from the level of magic you unleashed. Not the least of which involves yourself. The level of connection you had is unimaginable to almost anyone else on this planet. The loss, the feedback you received from it, compounded on an already fragile emotional state. I know it sounds patronizing, but you simply are not ready to deal with that. I can't imagine that any one could." Giles took off his glasses, cleaning them carefully. "After you regained some control over yourself in Sunnydale, I took that time to lock away the full emotional effects of your actions."

"You cast a spell on me?"

"Several. All very complex. I dislike doing it, but if you are to heal, to regain control over yourself and your magic, then you must be able to handle one element at a time. So, as you are learning here, the blocks will slowly break down. You will hurt, Willow, and you will grieve. But you will also heal." Giles put his glasses back on and smiled bleakly at her. "I hope you can forgive me, but I'm afraid I didn't see much of an option."

"I suppose I don't have much right to get all huffy."

"Of course you do." Giles smiled wryly. "That doesn't exactly mean that we'll take it into account though."

"Wow, the coven justice. I feel all ironic now."

"Quite."

They sat in silence for a time, watching the rain and distracted in their own thoughts. The sun room (a drastically optimistic name in Willow's opinion) was a quiet island in the house, with only the regular sound of the rain on the glass panels to connect them to the downpour outside. Willow shook her head and stood up, placing her hands against the glass, feeling the minute energy of each impact raindrop in her senses.

"Giles, I know I've asked this, but what's going to happen to me? Not the whole emotional, not wanting to break myself into little pieces thing, but past that. I mean, magic's been part of me for so long. I wouldn't be surprised if they, you know, busted me and put me on magic probation, but I don't think I can just stop." Willow made patterns in the fogged glass with her finger. "Magic is part of what I am. Can you really just, I mean, block that?"

"I don't know, Willow. The fact is that you're something entirely different from any conventional witch or mage we've seen. That raises a lot of questions. You are undeniably one of the most powerful witches of the last three decades, but you approach your power from a hermetic tradition. Most witches who try such a thing have quick and explosive deaths." Giles gestured helplessly. "Whether it was the total lack of preconception with which you approached the magic, or some other force, your methods are completely unlike any witch. More of an earth magus, if such a thing is possible. I'd like to have you talk to a few friends of mine; men and women from the purely hermetic school. They may be able to provide the missing pieces in Ms. Harkness' training."

"Mages?"

"Yes. All of whom have been consistently practicing the art over the last few years. Unfortunately, Willow, I feel that I bear some of the burden for your current state. When you first began your tentative forays into magic, I did not act as I should have."

"That was my studying, Giles. Besides, it's not like you were able to just dig out a Witchcraft for Dummies book to give me."

"No, but I had experience with magic. Worse, I actively encouraged your development." Giles set down his tea. "Willow, there was a time when I was planning to be the Prime Magus of England. I was gifted in the art, and was brought up with the resources of the Watchers to draw from. A thousand years of writings and spells by vastly powerful and talented mages. When I left Oxford to rebel, it was in part because the council wouldn't endorse my further studies in magic. They needed a Watcher with magical ability, not a magic dynamo without control."

"It's hard to picture you as the big rebel, Giles. Like you and Spike switching bodies or something."

"Something like that. London is an old place, Willow. There is a whole world that hides just a fraction of a second out of synch with reality and all things real and imagined can emerge from it. I went out to find real magic. Hooked up with the equivalent of the magic underground: lots of young people, all with a taste for magic, sex, drugs and– " Giles cut himself off sharply. "And things that weren't very appropriate and don't require telling here. In any case, it was a very dangerous and exciting world."

"Is this the whole A&E Biography Giles story?"

"Um, not exactly. The point is that I ventured into some areas and spent time with some people who were not entirely wholesome. After a few years, the entire world seemed to come apart around me. I returned to Oxford, made my apologies to the Watcher's Council, and firmly avoided the practice of magic for the next several years." Giles sat down on the arm of Willow's chair, looking suddenly tense; sadder. "That was why I did not react properly when you began your studies. Witchcraft is traditionally not a very powerful discipline. So, I thought if I just left you to your own studies, you wouldn't progress terribly far in the craft. Certainly not enough to endanger yourself. But then, every time you had reached a ceiling, circumstances required your skills. Required me to assist you into that next level; open up those new doors and venues."

"You didn't want me to learn magic?" Willow said. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because it would have required me to look closer and closer at my own development. The further you went, the less I wanted to see. The result was that you managed to approach your craft in a hermetic manner. I blame that computer personally." Giles rubbed the bridge of his nose. " I taught you too much, and in the end, I didn't teach you enough."    

"So, you're saying that your being here is penance?" Giles started at the venom in her voice, anger quick behind her eyes. "Is that all I amount to?"

"No. I'm here because its where I'm most needed to be. Willow, I believe Buffy can handle herself for the moment. You need me here, and here I am. That would be so even if I had no part in this." His calm words mollified her somewhat, the anger slowly draining from her face. Her sensitivity was delicate, raw from the emotional roller coaster ride.

"Nothing makes sense anymore. I should be grateful that I'm not locked up in some Merlin prison, waiting for the magic cops to sentence me. At the same time," Willow turned from the window, to stare at Giles' perch on her armrest. "I feel rage. That I'm being judged by rules that no one bothered to tell me. Unfair, much?"

"Much." Giles smiled. "But Willow, now we have a chance to fix that. To look at your future with magic, and not casting about in the dark. That is the first step in all of this. I dare say that in the end, your powers and knowledge will be far greater than anything your wielded in your madness."

"That doesn't scare you?"

"Not as much as the chance of losing you does." Giles joined her beside the window, and she closed her eyes, leaning into him. He stiffened slightly, before carefully resting his hand on her shoulder, supporting her. They stood that way for a long time, drinking in the sounds of the rain on the glass; the tintinnabulations of the wet impacts on the roof above.

"Giles? Why do they call it the sun room?"

"Wishful thinking."

"Ha. Thought so."

***

Lester Bullows was a large man, from both genetics and a diet of fast food. He was a forty-five year old accountant, who worked for a modestly prosperous trading company in central London. His wife had divorced him eight years ago, moving into the country with his son, whom he saw during school holidays. His small apartment was comfortable, the den of a man that liked nothing more than to relax in his overstuffed easy chair, watching the telly over his pint of lager and looking forward to Sunday, with his weekend paper and the football on.

Bullows opened the three locks on his door and stooped to collect his mail as he stepped inside. The normal stack of bills, junk mail and curry coupons went into the wicker basket in the kitchen, and Lester poured himself a drink before looking through the important pieces. An alumni newsletter, a card from a co-worker on vacation, and curiously, a letter from the hospital. Bullows opened the envelope and extracted two sheets of paper and a second, smaller envelope. The two pages were follow up information, about the operation he had only two months ago.

The operation (or procedure, as they preferred to call it) was to remove a benign growth in his right lung. It had gone perfectly, and his last check up showed no further signs of growths anywhere in his body. His regular doctor had chuckled and mentioned that Lester was a lucky man, and no, this sort of thing happens a fair amount. Don't worry and take a few days off to relax. The letter seemed to support that, reminding Lester of his next check up, two weeks from Thursday.

The smaller envelope was well sealed, requiring Lester's pen-knife to open. Inside was a piece of glossy, photo-like paper. Lester pulled it out and squinted at it. A curious series of symbols were printed on it, unlike anything he had ever seen. Bullows turned it over, but nothing was written on the back. Stupefied, Lester went over to his phone, planning to call the hospital and inquire on the strange note. His body made less than three steps before he collapsed.

On the counter, the glossy paper began to darken, the white greying and finishing an opaque black, even as Lester's screams ended in a wet choke and the moist snapping, ripping noises began on the floor. The symbols faded as the paper went entirely black, voiding the message as completely as the life of Lester Bullows.

***

"Bloody long distance..." John groused, trying his call for the third time. Finally the number went through, and the seething mage waited as the other phone rang. And rang. And rang.

"Hello."

"Ripper, mate! I need to–"

"You have just reached Rupert Giles. I'm afraid that I'm not at home at the moment. You can either reach me at the Westbury Conservation Group or leave your name and number and I shall be sure to call you back."

"Bollocks." John slammed the phone down. He hated those things. Westbury Conservation Group? John sat down at his table and thumbed through a battered black pocketbook, full of phone numbers, addresses and ale stains. Finally he located the page, and rolled his eyes.

"Harkness, you bloody old crone." Agnes Harkness was one of the most powerful witches in England, extremely well-versed in the craft. It wasn't surprising that she'd based herself in Westbury, an old Celtic place of worship. There were deep wells of belief and magic in that area, perfect for training new witches how not to set themselves on fire. The number he had was crossed out, and John shuddered as he located his easiest way of contacting them.

"Hello, British Rail. How can I help you?"

***

Agnes Harkness shuddered one more time as she stalked down the hallway. As one of the heirs to the most potent wiccan traditions on the planet, very little frightened her. However, the new class of first years was enough to give her the vapors, as her Great-great Aunt would say. Determined future eco-earth mothers, the lot of them. For the thousandth time, she craved to add a few courses in accounting, computer programming or management into the syllabus. Magic was all well and good, but they didn't have to be so silly about it.

Harkness was a sensible witch; one who had learned that power was all well and good, but so was wrapping up warmly before holding any midnight stone circle rituals. It might not be occult, but a hot cup of tea cured more things than any ten charms combined. Still, that was something that the girls would learn eventually. Besides, there wasn't much that could match the entertainment of their first moon worship ritual; fifteen naked girls in too much eye make-up, looking embarrassed and shivering as she poured herself a tea from her thermos, wearing three jumpers and a nice thick jacket.

Agnes sat down behind her desk and dumped the days mail in her basket, ignoring it as she powered up her iMac. Most of the really interesting occult research was getting out on the web these days, in selected mailing lists and hidden websites. Strange how effective the new lines of cybermancy were becoming; direct magical empowerment via programming and the net. A mage who had dropped by for supplies mentioned that it was just the old elemental control, on a smaller level. Shoving around electrons and chanting chaos maths at a billion calculations a second. Harkness herself was looking into the new genetic research. Witchcraft was about using life forces itself. Now that man could selectively modify those, to create more effective vaccines, resistant plant strains and cloned sheep, perhaps some of those modifications could be twinned with the craft at a higher level. A hex at the genetic level. Harkness earmarked a number of papers e-mailed to her for more thorough study later. Work from bio-chemical and genetic engineers who were working with a few specialists from her school. It would be interesting to see if the paradigm shift would affect the craft as much as the rest of the race.

Agnes Harkness was the great-great grand niece of Agatha Harkness, the most puissant witch in a thousand years. Agatha had been skilled enough to defy time, allowing the years to slip past her without a touch. She lived in Salem, the very town that had burned its way into the history of witchcraft as one of the last great flares of the Inquisition. Curious that she'd been burned at the stake two hundred years later, aiding a group of American superheroes. Still, a woman of her power never really died, and her spirit still explored boldly. Agnes had been in touch with Stephen Strange recently over the events in the astral plane, and he'd off-handedly introduced her to Agatha. In many ways, Agnes was very glad Agatha was dead. Her thin shade was terrifying enough to hint at the raw power that she must have marshaled when she was alive.

"Ms. Harkness?"

"Yes Julia?" Agnes' personal assistant came in, holding a folder under one arm, and dressed similarly to Harkness. The long black skirt, white blouse and sensible blazer had been jokingly nicknamed the Westbury Chic by the students, but it had the twin advantages of sensibility and utter normality; a valuable tool for those who remembered how shallowly beneth the surface of people that the stake and flames lay.

"I have the accounts from foods services that you asked for. There is also a man in the parlour to see you. He hasn't an appointment, but he said that you'd make time for him." A smile toyed at the edges of Julia's mouth as Agnes' eyes sparked.

"What cheek! I haven't made time for a man in ten years." Harkness said acidly, and Julia's smile finally broke open.

"I assumed that would be your reaction. I'll let him know that you're busy."

"Indeed. Honestly! As if I have the bloody time to argue with every new estate agent that wants to make an offer on the grounds, to put up bloody apartment blocks."

"I don't think he's an estate agent. Too scruffy. But Ms. Harkness, he's aura is a bit... off."

"Off?"

"As in, not there."

"Not– did you get a name, Julia."

"Constantine, Ms. Harkness. John Constantine."

"Blast." Agnes leaned back in her chair, lacing her fingers together under her chin. "Julia, do show him in."

"I'm sorry?"

"No, I am. Or I will be. Please, show Mister Constantine in." Agnes said, and Julia's look of confusion grew. However, she was used to odd visitors here, and left for the parlour. Agnes sat glowering at the closed door. John bloody Constantine. This had better be good.

The door opened and Constantine walked in, parrying a fourth insistent offer to take his coat. He stopped at Agnes' look, but she turned to Julia instead.

"Have someone bring in tea, Julia. See that we're not disturbed after that."

"All right, Ms. Harkness." Julia bobbed her head and left, closing the door a touch too quickly. John smirked at the departing woman, and turned back to Agnes' basilisk glare.

"Cheers Aggie."

"John. You have bird dung on your shoulder. It suits you."

"I see we've loosened up in the last few years. Not even going to offer a weary traveler a seat?"

"No."

"How about an old friend, then?"

"That would require us to be friends, John."

"I see this is going well. Still holding Sifton against me?" Constantine said. They had met in London, when both of them were in their early twenties. John had just started to get out of his punk-anarch phase and into real study on higher magics. Agnes had been studying at Oxford, a multi-disciplinary range of courses that was suited only for the truly idle or a witch. Their affair had been brief, but explosive, ending with a botched summoning, a head full of cocaine, and a three mile run across Sifton Bog with the Wyld Hunt right on their heels. At the very least, it was a spectacular breakup.

"John, I can't imagine having the slightest urge to hold anything against you. Why are you here?"

"Well, luv, you'd never believe me if I told you, but I'm not here for you." John poured at the decanter on the sideboard. "May I?"

"No. And don't even think about smoking that." Agnes snapped, and John's hand froze inside his coat.

"Hellfire. Not going to make this easy, right Aggie? Relax, I'm not here to corrupt your girls or summit. I've got a mate staying here, that I need to talk to sharpish." John said, stuffing both hands in his pockets to fight his urge to smoke.

"A friend of yours? Here? I find that highly unlikely."

"Name's Giles. Ripper. Wait, he's back to Rupert now."

"Rupert? Why do you need him?"

"That's private." John said, and her eyes flared. Sighing, he held up his hand in mock surrender. "Fine, it's not private. There's a situation in the city that I've been roped into researching, and a couple of symbols are right out of one of Ripper's old notebooks. I'm hoping he'll remember what it was, assuming he wasn't completely on the piss that night."

"John, tell me this isn't one of your famous ‘troubles', which ends up with a horde of demons descending on this school. Frankly, I haven't the time to fend off a netherworld invasion. Also, I'll cut off your bollocks "

"Nothing like that. Just a bit of research. Though, if you're all that keen to get another look at my package... " Agnes fought down the urge to curse him. If not just self-control, it was also self-preservation. Despite his rumpled exterior, Constantine was an extremely powerful mage, who could likely level the entire school if he tried hard enough. Sighing, she touched the intercom on her phone.

"Julia, never mind with the tea. Can you see if Mister Giles is free and send him to see me?"

"If he's busy?"

"Free him."

"Yes Ms Harkness."

"Nice little operation here, Aggie. The butler's day off?"

"My, John. Still running your ridiculous cons across London, or have your made your demonic surgery a regular practice these days?" Agnes said sharply, scoring a hit. John scowled and finally sat down. They glared at each other in silence for a few minutes, until a gentle knock on the door pulled Agnes to her feet.

"Come in, Julia."

"Mister Giles, Ms Harkness." Julia said, opening the door and allowing Giles in. The door closed behind him and he tilted his head to look at Harkness, puzzled.

"Yes, Agnes? Julia was most insistent that I see you."

"You have a visitor."

"I'm sorry?"

"You will be."

"All right, Ripper?" John leaned over the side of his chair and nodded at Giles.   

"Dear lord. John. What are you doing here?"

"Visiting a mate. What, is that not allowed any more, Ripper?"

"In your case, barely. And it's Rupert."

"That's a rare argument. Rupert for Ripper. It's like complaining that the cash girl gave you too much change back." John said, raising from the chair like a reversed collapse, all limbs akimbo.

"John, I know that I'm going to regret asking, but what are you doing here?" Giles said wearily, sinking into a chair. Constantine grinned, rearranging his trench coat. Harkness huffed audibly behind them.

"Any chance we could talk in private?"

"No." Giles and Agnes said in unison.

"Look, you both don't want me here. Fine, bollocks to you. But the longer you fuck about, the longer until I'm gone. Besides, you owe me one, Ripper." John said pointedly. Giles sighed and nodded.

"You're right, of course."

"I don't bloody think so." Agnes snapped.

"Agnes, please. It's... complicated." Giles rubbed his eyes. "If we could have just a moment alone?" Looking for all that world that it was the last thing she wanted to do, Agnes Harkness gathered herself up and stalked towards the door.

"Make sure that when I come back, he's... unavailable." She added as a parting shot, before storming out the door. Giles and John exchanged a look, and turned back into the library.

"So, what is it that you feel like blackmailing me into, John?" Giles said.

"Not being treated like one o'clock half struck for one."

"John, I– " Giles paused, a long heavy silence building before his look. "I apologize. You helped me last time, and I never truly thanked you."

"Too right." John said, slightly mollified.

"There was a symbol?"

"From one of your old notebooks, Ripper." John fished into the recesses of his coat and pulled out the slim volume. "Back when you were more like to shag than read."

"Vulgar, John."

"Fuck that." John lit a cigarette over Agnes' previous warnings. "You ran away, Ripper. That's vulgar."

"Ask your surviving friends that, Constantine. If you can find both of them." Giles riposted, no trace of pity in his voice.

"I faced it, Ripper. You ran away and acted surprised when it showed back up. I hear Ethan is now at Fort Bragg, teaching SEALs how to cast fireballs because of you."

"He needed to be stopped."

"Big picture, Ripper. You don't choose the Art. It chooses you. Running away from it is like running away from yourself. You can hide all you want, but the only bloody way to escape it is more permanent then you'd like."    

"John, I'm surprised at you trying to mystify the whole process. We are not the ‘Chosen Ones' or any of that rot. We studied man's oldest and rarest science. We learned. Magic is as foreign as physics to the Egyptians. That is all."

"And all those twats in Oxford who have access to a fucking Ark of occult books somehow manage to consistently screw it up? What, they haven't figured out how to hold the books right way up?" John snorted derisively. "Wake up and smell the magic burning, Ripper. We had something that made us mages. Call it talent, bad luck or bloody genetics, but there is something that stamped magic on us at conception. Deny it all you want. Doesn't matter what you believe, as long as the magic believes in you."

"See, this is one advantage of California. Once the conversation moves past the Gap and the latest episode of the Simpsons, people tend to flounder."

"The beer is piss. Not worth the trade."

"Point."

"Mate, the symbol?" John said, pulling the conversation back to his own interests.

"Oh, right. Of course." Giles flicked open the notebook and began to decrypt the arcane symbols on the pages rapidly. John sunk back into his chair, dropping his cigarette into a cup of cold tea on Agnes' desk and lighting up another. After a moment, Giles looked up at John, puzzled. He started to ask something and stopped, bending back down over the book.

"Well?" The shadows were lengthening, casting long dark fingers up the edges of the room. John's seat was pooled in darkness, vaguely sinister in the dull amber evening light. In the midst of the darkness, the ember of his cigarette flared an angry crimson; a single violent mote.

"This was one of Ethan's discoveries." Giles said finally. "Back when we were delving into demon summoning."

"Right. That was a fucking lapse in judgement." The light and sour twist to John's mouth made him look boyish; petulant and spoiled.

"Remarkable what we've been involved in." Giles thumbed through the notebook. "If I had the chance to go back and change things– "

"-- I'd do it in a bloody instant."

"Too right." Giles peered at the page. John had marked it with a beer coaster in place of a book mark. "Interesting."

"What?"

"The symbol."

"Yes?"

"That's what I said was interesting."

"Ripper, if you don't get into the whys, it will go very hard on you." John growled.

"Oh right. It's a corruption sequencer. A ritual catalyst in spells and rituals involving human decay. Both moral and physical, of course."

"Sequencer? Levels out the power then, or stabilizes the spell?"

"Regulates the flares, I think. The backlash on corruptive type spells tends to, well, rot the caster." Giles stroked the page, lost in thought. "We used it that night we raised the proto-Djinn essence."

"We did?"

"Yes."

"Was I drunk?"

"Everyone else was. I can't imagine why you'd be any different."

"Wait, was that the possessing demon that was hosted in the groupie with the big tits?"

"Pauline. The whole idea was– " Giles brought himself to a halt, batting the air in front of his face like a man trying to clear a cobweb from his face. "Well, it was what we were always doing. In any case, this symbol was a part of the summoning circle. Why bring this up now?"

"Murder."

"Well, Pauline was quite upset the next morning."

"No, you dozy prat. That symbol was carved into seven toms before they were messily killed."

"That makes no sense."

"Wholesale slaughter rarely does."

"They could have summoned a demon. Many will hunt down their summoners if freed."

"These girls weren't the occult type, save for the odd kinky customer." John got up and finally joined Giles at the study table. He pulled the now bedraggled envelope from his pocket and set it on the table. "You might want to take a look at these. Actually, you really don't want to take a look at these, but you should."

Giles took the envelope gingerly from John and pulled out the sheaf of photos. He put them slowly on the desk, face down and sunk into his chair. With slow precise motions, he wiped his glasses clean and took a deep breath. Then, he flipped the photos back up and carefully examined each one.

"I can't think of a demon that would be attached to a corruption ward that would cause this kind of damage, John." Giles said finally. "This is... bestial."

"It's seven kinds of shit, I agree. But that fucking ward is still there. Any of the other symbols make any kind of sense to you? Maybe some... I don't know, vampire magic or something?"

"Vampires are not magically adept, John. The demon in them cannot manipulate the ether flows properly. Magic is a human thing."

"What ever did that is pretty deep in the low end of the human scale."

"Quite." Giles straightened up. "John, I know someone that could help us."

"More Watchers. Brilliant."

"Not exactly. I'd like to talk to you about it before I bring her in."

"Why's that?" John crossed his arms. "Ripper, me old china, what do you have on your mind?"

"Months ago. The hermetic witch."

"Ah, that psychic shitstorm that cropped up in California. We figured it was your work."

"You know about that?"

"Mate, few mages on this planet don't know about it. Magic spike like bloody Hiroshima in the most occult dead area of the planet causes talk, you know?"

"True. Look, John– " Giles laced his fingers together, looking over them at John. Constantine had resumed his seat in the depths of the leather chair, long shadows cloaking his features. Ever the theatrics, Giles thought. "I need your help. This young woman is immensely powerful and I'm not sure what to do with her."

"Ripper, you've been doing the mentor thing long enough. Can't be that big a deal."

"John, she's a dangerously powerful mage. If it came to it, she could flay me alive and I don't think I could stop her." That made John pause. Ripper had been on a frightening curve in his younger days; real crackling potential for magics that reached right down to the most primal forces. It had been a possibility that he was going to breach the envelope when Stockwell happened to them. With Ripper, it revealed a hidden flaw, a hairline crack like a fault in a Ming vase, where the right pressure would shatter it to shards. The spot was magic, and Giles put Ripper back in the box and fucked off to become a safe, secure Watcher. That power was still there.

"And what am I supposed to show this bird? The best pubs in Camden?"

"John– "

"Right. I'll talk to her is all. Right?"

"Thank you." Giles nodded. "Besides, she'll have a few ideas about where to start on those symbols."

"It's your decision. By the way, tell Aggie to send us in some supper, would you?"

"I doubt the kitchen is open right now, John."

"Where do you people eat at night?"

"There's a pub down the lane– " Giles winced even as he said it. John smiled and nodded.

"Bring your girl there then. Magic is always best after a few pints."

"John– "

"Ripper, this is England. She'll have to find out sooner or later." John said. Giles shook his head and left the room. John picked up the pictures and stuffed them inside his coat. He took a last look around the library before heading out. Agnes Harkness was waiting for him in the hall, a scowl on her face.

"Constantine, you better have a good explanation for– "

"Nice place, Aggie. Very scholarly. Bet you've been turning out eco-terrorists and feng shui therapists like mad here. Still, one thing you're missing."

"And what's that?" Aggies demanded. John lit a cigarette and drew deeply on it.

"Harry fucking Potter. Be seeing you."

***

The shadowy corner booth offered no exposure of the person sitting in it. Deep black pools obscured identity, suggesting a dark purpose in the very existence of its use. In that stygian void, a match flared and a dim red glow fluttered in the depths.

"Oh, for pity's sake, John." Giles said, exasperated.

"You were a lot more fun when you were fucked on acid six nights a week." John groused, drawing deeply on his cigarette.

"Willow, this--" Giles sighed. "This is John Constantine."

"Um, I know that name's supposed to mean something from your significant pause and all, but really, not a clue." Willow slid into the booth, dropped her laptop case down beside her. "Is there anything in non-smoking?"

"This is non-smoking." John grinned nastily. "I hear you think you're a mage."

"John..." Giles said warningly, finally taking his seat. The bargirl leaned out over the polished mahogany bartop, and Giles motioned her over with a wave. Willow kept looking from him to John and back, trying to avoid the intense blue eyes fixed on her. Giles ordered for his two silent companions, and leaned back in his seat.

"Willow, John is an old acquaintance. More like associate, actually. You recall the mages that I said I wanted you to meet?"

"Yes."

"John wasn't one of them. However, he does have a vast amount of knowledge and something of a need for our talents at the moment." Giles said, leveling a long look at Constantine. "He also knows what it's like to pay a price for magic."

"That's it, Ripper. Kill the party right off the bat, mate."

"John, we are talking about some very serious issues here."

"Which is exactly why we need to drink first--" John said, just as the waitress appeared. Constantine helped himself to a long pull from his pint, watching the pair over the rim of the glass. Giles followed suit, as Willow looked dubiously at the stout.

"Are you sure this is liquid, because, you know, I'm used to being able to see through it."

"Proper ale, Willow. John, tell me something. For over a month I've been coming here, and ordering my pints at the rail like everyone else. You're here for twenty minutes and we have table service. How?"

"Magic."

"Pillock."

"I think there are chunks in mine." Willow prodded her glass.

"They're good for you." Giles said dryly, setting his glass down. "John, would you like to summerize this... project for Willow."

"Right then." Willow found John's accent broader, rougher then Giles' more cultured tone. There was something in his eyes and manner that suggested a ferocious intelligence and cunning. It unnerved her, feeling the edges of his aura like an abrasive shroud around her. Whoever this Constantine was, there was something wrong in him.

"Willow."

"Sorry. Spacing."

"Bloody kids." John groused. "As I was saying, there's been a rash of killings in merry ol'London, and the police don't seem all that confident in finding the killers. Because one of them is smart enough to have gotten a real job, he's got me involved. So, I'll get you and Ripper involved because I like spreading around misery."

"What sort of killings?"

"Bad ones. Very bad ones." John lit a cigarette and dragged heavily on it. "Cut up right proper, with a load of mystical bollocks carved into their bodies. Funny thing about them is that I can't identify them, and neither can old Ripper here. He thinks you've got a line to things that can tell us what they might mean."

"I suppose I can check the net for anything to do with–"

"Corrupting demon summoning circle symbols?" John sneered, openly derisive of the idea.

"You'd be amazed at some people's hobbies." Willow sniped back, and was awarded with a twitch of John's eyebrow. In his eyes, the judges had just awarded a grudging pair of sevens. Willow had realized that he was being deliberately nasty, trying to shake her confidence. Fortunately, he sounded and acted similar enough to Spike, that is was easy to imagine Buffy kicking him from one end of the bar to the other. That made her a lot less inclined to be intimidated.

"Willow, I think this might be something entirely new." Giles said. "The symbology is very similar to a number of different icons. This could be more of an adaptation of existing practices rather than an unknown established procedure."

"Well," Willow chewed her lower lip. "Do we know anything about it?"

"Bits and pieces." John tossed the package of photos down on the table.

"John, I don't think–"

"I do. Open it." Constantine said, directly the last comment at Willow. She looked at Giles for a moment before gingerly taking the envelope. She fumbled with the gummed seal before sliding out the stack of pictures. Something cruel sparkled in Constantine's eyes at her sharp inhalation of breath. Willow looked up and met his cold gaze.

"Fuck you." She said, uncharacteristically harsh. She threw the pictures down in front of him and stood to leave.

"Got some backbone in you then?"

"I skinned the last person that tried to mess with my head. You I'd do slow."

"Big talk. Is that what stains your panties now, luv?" John said. Giles caught Willow as she lunged for John across the table. Viper-quick, he slammed her back against the booth with one arm, and in the same movement grabbed John by the collar and dragged him from the booth. Willow sagged back in her seat, too stunned to say anything as Giles wrestled John towards the washroom.

"Bloody hell, Ripper–"

"Shut. Up." Giles said, his words cutting like flint and colder than ice. "I know your games, Constantine, and I know your sick need to play them. Let me make one thing absolutely crystal clear to you. If you drive that girl back from her therapy and along the path she was taking, I will kill you. Hurt her, and I will kill you. Endanger who she is by persisting to be your miserable self, and I will kill you."

"You poncy–" John was cut off as Giles slammed his head back into the wooden wall.

"Don't ever forget for a moment that I'd do it, John." Giles snarled.

"Ripper finds his bollocks. About time." John sneered.

"You–"

"Stuff it, mate." John pried Giles' hands from his collar. "I know what I'm bleeding doing, right. Just leave off and let me work."

"Not at the cost of her soul."

"It's not about that. It's her self-loathing that's the issue. Normally I wouldn't give a toss, but if she's what you've said, she's too bloody dangerous to have those kinds of issues. Good job, Giles. You trained a fucking mage-witch, and then make it so she has to be stable or the world is up the spout. Forgetting the fact that the basic personality of everyone using magic is half round the twist."

"If she comes out broken, I promise the same for you."

"Leave it out, Ripper. If you had the slightest whiff of a fuck of what to do with her, you'd have cleared this up already. Give my way a chance. Let's get her mad and worked up and out to do some bloody good. Reinforce her self of purpose and use of magic directed in something other than ritual flaying."

"You may have a point." Giles paused, holding his former friend at arm's length. "But, be careful. It's important, and we have no idea how unstable she really is. It's important." He repeated, lamely.

"It always is. Now, let me take a piss and get on with the teaching, right." John said. "That girl reeks of power. And pain. Who did that to her?"

"Someone in California."

"Is that the one she killed?"

"Yes."

"Bugger." John unzipped himself at the urinal. "You've really screwed the pooch this time, mate."

"You don't think I know that?"

"I don't think you understand it much."

"I don't want to see anyone else hurt if I can help it. Least of all Willow."

"You twat. Magic is about the hurt. It's the hurt that makes it real. If it didn't hurt, everyone would be a bloody mage."

"It's her sanity that worries me, not her power. "

"You've got it arse-backwards, Ripper. Her magic and her mind are not separable. You should look pretty damn close at your girl, my friend. She's halfway to magical Armageddon because she doesn't have a release valve. No way to vent her pain and hate because no one ever taught her respect the fucking magic and balance it." John finished, in a theatrically liquid fashion and tucked himself back in. "What do you think will happen each time she starts back into her craft?"

"Explosion."

"Bloody right." John sighed. "Ripper, you created a damn witch-magus. You don't think there's a reason that they tend not to exist, save for short and very messy periods?"

"I thought I could limit her development."

"Magic always finds a way out." Constantine sagged momentarily, a bone deep weariness that no amount of posturing or alcohol could ever soothe. "It always does, and you always pay for it."

"So what do we do, John?" Giles said, shaking his head ruefully. "We're mages in a world which we damage."

"Right. But there is more to it, Ripper. There is more in this life, even if we've bloody screwed it right up." John said. "I'll try to show her that. That's the best I can do."

"And?"

"I'll put the fear of magic into her, and try not to be a total prick about it."

"Good." Giles allowed himself a small smile. "Good. Well–" He drifted about the washroom for a moment before stuffing his hands in his pocket. "Good. Shall we be about it?"

"Right." Both men left the cramped washroom and threaded their way out through the growing pub crowd and back to the table. Willow had her laptop open and was tapping the keys as they sat down.      

"I might have a line on something." She said without preamble. She pointedly ignored John, turning to face Giles.

"So soon?"

"Well, there were some symbols that didn't fit with the whole 'demon summoning' mojo. They actually had the more science major mojo going." Willow picked up one of the photos and tapped the page. "See that sort of S cut with those symbols in the gaps?"

"Yes. The symbols are Sanskrit. Numerals, I believe."

"They are. I checked. That's why it makes a weird sort of sense."

"How's that then?" John said, suddenly intrigued.

"John. Let her explain."

"See, I tried to cross reference it against all of the available archives of mystic images; cabbalist images, Greek symbols, Wes Craven movies. I got a lot of 'S's, which is what you'd expect from, well, an...S." Willow finished lamely.

"I feel illuminated already." John said, earning a dark glare from Willow.

"If you turn the picture and look at it from he side--" Willow tilted the picture. "It's now a wave."

"With numbers spaced in the lulls. Why is that familiar?"

"Bio-chemistry." Willow smiled, forgetting herself and taking a swig from her pint. Giles studied the picture, missing her face twist in distaste.

"How strange."

"Bloody genomantic nonsense." John groused.

"That's alchemical. This is using demonic sources." Giles rubbed his eyes behind his glasses. "Something very different indeed."

"Damn." John lit another cigarette and waved the bargirl over.

"This is non-smoking, mate." She said.

"Didn't see a sign." John said, his fingers flickering and a fifty pound note appearing like magic in them.

"It's understandable then." She said, making the bill disappear just as fast.

"Same again, luv. Something fruity for the girl." John ordered. He waited until the waitress had left before leaning back over the table. "Right, so tell me what this bio-sign actually tells us."

"In a science sense, it's gibberish. Like randomly plugging letters and numbers into an equation to make it look like something. It must have some kind of magical meaning, if not a chemical one." Willow accepted the cider that the bargirl brought, sipping slowly.

"Yum Cimil."

"Ghuesantit."

"No, Yum Cimil, the god." Giles said. "Why didn't I notice it before?"

"Ripper. Some clarity, mate?"

"The god of decay and rebirth. It's Aztec, or Mayan. One of those gods, in any case. It looks nothing like the normal iconic representation because of the smearing and because someone has grafted an omega symbol into it. I'm sure it's him."

"Omega." John stared closely at the muddled symbols. "Bloody death on death."

"Quite." Giles leaned back, carefully removing his glasses to clean them. "A rather disturbing image of your killer is emerging, John."

"As opposed to the well balanced killer we could all adjust to in a trick?"

"The signs don't even show what he was trying to do." Willow flushed as they looked at her. "Other than the whole killing part, I mean."

"If this person is using adapted symbology, we can use that as a starting point."

"If we had the right materials. I'm missing my copy of Ignatious Porlock's 'Glyphs of the Hidden World', you know." John said sarcastically. That book was near the top of the Catholic Church's list of banned books, thought mostly lost to time and vigorous burnings.

"I think I may have one." Giles said, dodging John's stunned look. "I was using it to prop up the register."

"Ooh, we could ask the gang to ship it!"

"Ship the bloody--" Constantine's voice was strangled. It was like hearing a pair of fisherman trying to decide the market price of cutlets from the Loch Ness Monster.

"Perhaps I should fly back." Giles said, enjoying John's temporary fluster.

"We should look more into... yummy meal?"

"Yum Cimil."

"Him. We should learn what we can about him."

"Not really a hot topic."

"John is right. The entire religious structure of the early Central Americans is shrouded in mystery. Most of our knowledge comes from European accounts, years after the conquests and purges by the Church. There are few, if any mages knowledgeable on the subject."

"Drat."

"Indeed. With the seemingly organic nature of the symbology, we might be better off with a witch or a shaman. Something like that."

"Ripper, you might just have the right idea." Constantine said, an evil grin crossing his face.

"I do?"

"Course. Even better if we could find all that in someone who could meet you in California, like. To pick up the book."

"Well, yes. But I don't--" Giles' eyes went wide and his face drained of colour. "Oh no."

"Oh yes."

"You can't possibly--"

"You did."

"I never--"

"Um, feeling much outside the box here." Willow waved her hand.

"Old friend of ours. You're American. You've got one of them cell phones, right?"

"Well, yeah, but--"

"Pass it over, luv." Willow looked from him to the sputtering Giles and back before fishing out her phone from her jacket.

"I think I'm low on minutes."

"It won't be a long call. Besides, Giles needs to book a ticket to California while we go to London."

"London?"

"The only place to learn, and get a handle on what this nutter is planning." John said. "Bastard's got a taste for it now, I'll wager."

"Giles?" Willow turned to him.

"I can't believe I'm about to say this, but it might be best if you do go with John. Neither of us has the scientific knowledge that you do, and John can show you the avenues of magic that Ms Harkness could not." Giles' misgivings were easily apparent in his voice.

"But I--" Willow lowered her voice. "I really don't think I should. With the whole 'hating him like cancer' thing."

"I can still hear you." John said mildly.

"I understand and he no doubt deserves it, but that doesn't necessarily make him wrong." Giles said. "If we have a hope of solving this, we will need that book and some outside expertise."

"Besides, London's built on magic." John said.

"That's what I'm afraid of." Willow huffed. "Oh, alright. What kind of help are we looking for?"

"Oh luv," John laughed, looking at Willow's Looney Tunes cell phone shell and vastly enjoying the entire situation. "Exactly the wrong type."

***

"Why John, darling. You beast, not calling me sooner. I was afraid that you'd forgotten me." Her pout was delicious, dripping with the promise of more. Already the men at the bar were queuing up to buy her table drinks.

"Yes, I'm actually in the Baja right now. I found the most marvelous little cabana on the water, with the most marvelous little blond morsel waiting for me. Darling, where did you learn that kind of language? Oh ta--" She covered the phone as a tray laden with drinks was deposited at her table. Kisses were blown to the group of rough looking men at the bar, who all blushed and nudged each other.

"So, what brings you to my phone this evening, darling? Yum Cimil? That is a tall order. Can't we have a nice safe apocalypse instead? No? Well, I supposed I'll have to join you then. Looking for a book, in Rupert's shop. Sunnydale? What a coincidence... I'm driving my friend up there. Of course I can meet up with Rupert there. Where will we go from there? London? Oh John, you devil. I'd think you were trying to seduce me. Him? Oh, I hope so. You should see him, dear. All washboard abs and brooding eyebrow scars. I think he's pathologically insane and likely a killer. Oh no, it just means I'll have to tie him up first. Don't make such noises, John. I know it turns you on. I'll meet up with dear Giles in Sunnydale." She took a long pull from her glass and smiled brightly.

"By the way, something my friend keeps bringing up... have you ever heard of a Blooming Onion, and how do you make one?"

***

John snapped the phone shut. "Fanny's in."

"Oh," Giles groaned. "Wonderful."

[next part]

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