Fall On Your Knees: Part Two

By Dex

If it was possible to love death in a dispassionate way, he had found it. Death was not a romanticized figure, all scythe and robes, nor as the Gothic ideal would have him, with red silk and a lawyer's smile. No, it was death as a process from life to mass, from thought to inert physical existence. Death was not the child of Chaos, but of Entropy. A god of modern science more cruel and effective than a thousand Durer sketches.

It was not a spell but a prescription. An aspirin a day keeps the mortician in pay. He giggled to himself, a high and obscene sound. He used to puzzle about the greater meaning of it all. Was there a new world waiting at the end of his journey? New gods and old titans in a modern Hyperion? Or was it just the next stage in evolution? Secretly, he thought it was just random chance, a new direction being found through a process no more meaningful than a child's game of ‘eeny-meany-miny-moe'.

His child cried, and a pale long-fingered hand stroked it to solace once more. Was there a greater purpose? That will be decided many years from now, he considered, regardless of his choices. Better to let the art carry him to an end then try and force one. His razorblade smile grew at that thought, and he leaned back to sleep; a rare occasion. Dream about what is and revel in what will be, he thought. So soon. So very soon.

***

"I love the train."

"Pervert." John sniped, huddling further into his jacket. The can of lager in front of him was empty, and the steward was too tied up dealing with the demands of a Yorkshire family with about nine thousand children to refresh it.

"You wouldn't understand."

"What, your bloody car culture? All too well, luv. Ellison said it best, gods of chrome. Worship on your highways."

"Does everything have to be miserable in your world?"

"Course. That's why they call it the real world." John said.

Willow huffed but held her comment. She had learned very quickly how sharp the wit was behind Constantine's dull exterior, and how futile it was to argue with him. For each claim she made, he had a counter argument based on horror.

They sat for a long time in an uncompanionable silence, taking in the scrub landscape flashing by the window. This was not the England Willow wanted, with the smell of unfiltered cigarettes and boiled vegetables.

"We'll be seeing some friends of mine in the city." John said suddenly, pulling her from her thoughts.

"Amazing."

"What, London?"

"No. That you have friends."

"I see Ripper has told you all about me."

"Some. Enough."

"Most of it's true."

"Oh, that I believe." Willow gave a nervous little laugh.

"That's something that you'll learn, luv. Magic takes you places, and some of those places aren't very nice."

"You make magic sound like it's a curse, you and Giles. If it's this big path to eternal damnation and bad breath, how come you both got involved in it?"

"Youth. Stupidity." John said.

"That's not an answer."

"Of course it is, luv. There are a thousand reasons to start doing magic, but only one to keep doing it; you like the power. That's what magic is all about. Power. Once you start using it, it's hard to stop, and even harder to see when it's right and when it's wrong."

"What about witchcraft, and shamanism; healing majiks? How can you say those are evil?" Willow said, her tone incredulous.

"First, they're barely magic. All that daft Earth Mother bollocks is just shifting more power down already established channels. It's like a candle compared to a blast furnace in the real world of magic. That old terror Harkness has a lot of power for a witch, and even a weak mage could end her without breaking a sweat." The steward had finally freed himself from the pack of children and nodded as John rattled his empty can in front of him. "Second, everything they do can be done without magic. It's a question of fertilizer, aspirin and enough time to duplicate anything witchcraft can do. Real magic, like you and I use is having our way with the fabric of reality. Change it to suit us, as we want."

"What about things we can't do? Cancer, death–" Willow cut herself off suddenly.

"Those things are the last place you want to bring magic to. It always amplifies the pain." John opened the can with a snap-hiss and took a long draw from it.

"That can't be the end of it. There has to be more involved than just whim! If magic is a human thing, then it has to be us that make it good or bad. That means we can change it."

"No. To try and make magic something else is to become something other than human." John retorted.

"You're wrong. I know you're wrong."

"Good to hear." John drained the can in a long swallow and settled back in his seat, closing his eyes.

Willow fumed, wanting to shake him, finish the terrible subject and hear him admit that he was wrong. She stopped herself, instead crossing her arms and slumping back in her seat, watching him. Beyond her shuttered window, England happened, unnoticed and at high speed.

***

It was a gloriously warm and sunny day, the kind that California seems to manufacture in bulk. The white-hot sunshine was perfectly suited to the deep red Jaguar and the leggy blonde who stepped from it. Her smile and stance seemed to suggest that a brace of photographers normally would be clustered around, snapping like mad and struggling with her security for just a glimpse of her. Lord Fanny had come to Sunnydale.

It seemed like a normal psuedo-LA suburb town, grown around a mall, a main street of trendy stores and lines of moderately priced homes for the family commuter. Appearances never tell the truth. Boasting one of the highest disappearance and accidental death rates in the world, Sunnydale was a macabre Disneyworld attraction; a town of oppressive normality in reaction to utter lunacy. Sunnydale residents had developed the ability to selectively screen out anything that they saw that they told themselves they couldn't be seeing. Vampires were myths and movie monsters, yet a lot of neck injuries had tragically left bloodless corpses behind in parks and graveyards. The studies were wrong, Fanny considered. People used ten percent of their brain to take in the world, and the other ninety percent to filter out what they couldn't deal with.

The shop she had parked in front of had a ‘Closed' sign on the front, and obvious damage visible through the windows. It looked like someone had held a rave and handed out sledgehammers half way through the night. Fanny stepped over a pile of what was once a wooden bench and paused at the door. Inside, two figures were shuffling around, likely cleaning up. Ripper didn't appear to be anywhere. Fanny adjusted her wig, and listened briefly to the people inside argue.

"It doesn't look nice."

"Anya, it doesn't have to look nice. All it has to do is keep the roof from caving in on us." Xander stepped down from his ladder, his toolbelt and head covered in sawdust. "I've braced the beams with steel, and the fire damage is pretty minimal, actually. I guess we were lucky."

"Your friend destroyed my source of income. How is that lucky?"

"Well, considering she almost followed it up by destroying the planet."

"Xander, I'm talking about priorities. I have no income. What good is the planet to me now?"

"As ever, you focus on the important things in life, Anya." Xander rolled his eyes. Outside, Fanny smiled. This was going to be fun. The door wasn't locked, and the dented bell above the frame made a sick clonk noise as she pushed it open.

"Uh, we're clo--" The words died in Xander's throat as Lord Fanny walked in. The tall statuesque blonde in heels smiled openly and looked at the pair.

"Darlings! Tell me what's for sale. I have an itching VISA with an entirely too high credit limit and the self-control of a mildly concussed red squirrel." It wasn't often that a rain of money announced itself in such an extravagant way, even in California. Anya and Xander sat frozen for a moment. Leggy blondes were also not uncommon around California, but this one entered a room like it had been staged and pre-lit by experts hours in advance. She gave the impression of wearing a sequined evening gown at ten in the morning and that everyone else around her was letting down the party by being underdressed. Xander unconsciously straightened up and squared his shoulders in a half-remembered military fashion.

"Uh, Miss?"

"Fanny, darling. Lord Fanny. My, aren't you the handsome gallant." She said, touching his arms at the sides and looking up and down appraisingly while he blushed.

"Xander!" Anya said sharply. "I'm Anya and this is my shop." Anya flipped through her mental file of small talk and came up blank. "You have money and I'd like some of it."

"How refreshing to hear an honest shopkeeper. Yes, dear, I certainly am here to spend." Fanny tapped a perfect fingernail against her teeth and looked at Xander. "I'll just have to decide what I want." Xander sputtered and fled, picking up his toolkit as he went.

"I just-- well...hee, uh, I'll be back." He called over his shoulder, disappearing into the back of the Magic Box.

"My, isn't he darling? A trifle shy, perhaps."

"It comes from his rat qualities." Anya said nastily. "Have we met before?"

"Of course. Anyanka. I certainly didn't expect to find you here, my dear."

"Neither did I. But, you know how it happens. Become human, start having sex. End up working in a magic shop in a marginal California town with a persistently alive ex-fiancee. I've heard that story a thousand times."

"What happened?"

"Failed almost marriage."

"Perils of mortality, darling."

"Lord Fanny... did you call me once?"

"Not at all. I don't think I qualify for your services."

"How–" Anya stopped cold. "The Lord Fanny?"

"One and the same. The world couldn't stand it if I was a Lord Fanny." Fanny raised her arms flamboyantly over her head and bobbed at the knees. "Charmed."

"You were the one– "

"In Brazil, yes. Tell me, did they ever find that man?"

"Just an earlobe." Anya shrugged. "I was in a rush. Can we talk about money some more?"

"Of course. There's a book that I'm looking for."

"Lots of books in here." Xander said, reappearing at Anya's shoulder. His toolbelt was gone and he'd either washed and combed his hair or had been caught in a brief and meticulous rain storm in the back of the shop.

"So I see..." Fanny paused.

"Uh, Xander." He said, taking her pre-offered hand and sneaking sideway looks of contrition at Anya, who rolled her eyes disgustedly.

"How delightfully original. Why don't you show me the books?"

"Of course. I'm good with the books. In a ‘non-reading, but a throughly knowledgeable about the spines' kind of way."

"What a marvelous wit!" Fanny cooed.

"At least half of one." Anya said, sulking. Xander shot her a nasty look before taking Fanny's hand and leading her back towards the library. Anya threw up her hands and stormed back to the cash in disgust. The bell
clonked again, and Anya looked up to see Buffy striding in, Dawn in tow.
"I don't see what the big deal is." Dawn said.

"For the last time, no! It's... icky."

"Janey did it last week, and now all the boys pay attention to her."

"Yeah, there's an argument to convince the parental figure." Buffy said sarcastically. "No."

"But Janey– "

"I don't care if she did it ten times! The answer is still no."

"Aw, little Dawn. Looking forward to having disappointing teenaged sex for the first time." Anya said. "A tip. Make them wear two condoms. It desensitizes them enough to last more than thirty seconds. That's what Xander had to do."

"What?" Both Summers said, shocked.

"You know, the little tramp rep can be useful at times."

"We were talking about me getting my belly button pierced." Dawn said.

"Yes, and no. And eww!" Buffy slapped Anya's shoulder. "No Dawn sex talk until she gets older. Like, say, hits thirty."

"Whatever." Dawn huffed and trudged towards the table.

"I thought the shop was still closed?" Buffy said, leaning on the counter.

"Well, I'm mostly doing the mail order sales right now. You would be amazed how many people want to have pickled organs shipped to them."

"Then what's with the blonde? No pickled organs there." Buffy gestured over at Fanny, where Xander was trying to impress her with a series of jokes about Latin codexes.

"She's just looking to spend lots of money. I think Xander is helping her because she has a penis."

"Don't you mean because he has a penis. She's kinda dishy... and tall."

"It's her penis he's interested in, I think."

"What? The blonde?"

"What about her?"

"She has a penis?"

"Yes. Is that a little strange to you?"

"Well, yeah. You don't think so?"

"Many famous women in history have had penises. True, most of them were kept in jars, but still–"

"Are you talking about a literal penis?"

"Yes. I'm sure you've seen Angel's."

"This isn't about Angel's penis."

"Spike's?"

"Ew– no!"

"I thought Spike had a very nice penis."

"Oh god! Anya, don't take this the wrong way, but shut up!"

"This is my store, you know."

"I don't care. The thing I need is Spike's penis–" Buffy stopped dead as Anya arched an eyebrow. "Um–"

"The last thing anyone needs is Spike's penis." Giles said, standing in the door of the shop. Both Anya and Buffy jumped in surprise.

"Giles?"

"I'm sure I'm going to regret the answer, but what were you talking about?"

"Xander's penis-woman."

"Amazingly enough, that answer leaves me even less informed." Giles said dryly and smiled. Buffy grinned and rushed forward to claim the first hug, Anya close behind.

"How's Will doing?"

"Um, well. Very well. She's in London right now, with a... friend." Giles said.

"Friend? That sounds ominous." Buffy stepped back. "Why didn't you call first?"

"It's a bit of a quick trip, Buffy. I can't stay long."

"Does that mean I get to keep the store?"

"Anya, please."

"What about the cash register?"

"Yes, you get to keep the store and the register."

"Oh. Are you going to buy something then?"

"Anya..." Giles sighed, exasperated.

"So, if you're not back for the holiday special program, what's the deal, Giles?"

"A book, actually. Something I need for some research in London."

"Is it connected with Willow?"

"In a way."

"Oh." Buffy said flatly. "Dawn's about to start high school."

"Buffy," Giles finally set down his bag and sat. "I wish I could spend more time with you and Dawn, I really do. But right now, it's more important that I'm in England."

"I know, I know. I'm just being Little Miss High Maintenance." Buffy sat down beside him and put her hands on his arm. "I guess I'm a little jealous that someone else's problems are more important than mine for once."

"Like when Riley slept with Faith in your body?" Anya piped up.

"Scratch jealousy, and go right to anger. In fact, underline it."

"Buffy, I have missed you." Giles smiled and patted her arm.

"What about me? You missed me too, right?" Anya said.

"Surprisingly enough, yes Anya, I have missed you. All of you."

"Hey!" Dawn giggling, appearing at Giles' elbow.

"Hello, Dawn. How's your summer been?"

"Do you think it's fair that I'm not the one to decide if I'm old enough for a bellybutton ring?"

"Um..." Giles looked puzzled at Buffy. "No?"

"See!"

"Giles!" Buffy said sharply.

"I mean... I'm sure that I don't know what I mean." Giles sighed. "Anya, I
need my copy of Ignatious Porlock's 'Glyphs of the Hidden World'."

"I can check the stock!" Anya said happily. "I read that any successful small business starts with a thorough and up to date record of all products."

"It's propping up the–" Giles started, but Anya had already rushed out. "I see little has changed."

"Same old Sunnydale." Buffy jerked a thumb towards Xander. "At least Xander's got something new on the go."

"With the blonde. Rather tall isn't..." The words died as she turned around.

"Hey G-Man!" Xander said, hurrying over. "How's Will?"

"She's fine, Xander."

"Hey, Dawn, Buffster... this is Fanny." Xander introduced the blonde.

"Hello, Rupert."

"Fanny. I thought you were going to meet me at the airport."

"It's funny, but the flight time you gave me was just hours off, darling. So, I assumed you were heading here in any case, you naughty thing."

"Uh, do you know each other?" Xander asked.

"Rupert and I go way back. Don't we, dear?"

"Er, right." Giles said weakly. "Buffy Summers, this is Lord Fanny."

"What about me?" Dawn said, but was ignored.

"Lord Fanny?"

"Charmed, darling. I love your hair!" Fanny said, taking her hand. "You really are lovely, my dear. The boys must be dying to spend some time with you."

"It seems like a prerequisite sometimes." Xander muttered. Buffy shot him a dark look.

"So, how long have you known Rupert– I mean, Giles."

"Oh, simply ages."

"Or something that seems like it."

"Don't be mean, Rupert. Really, it was cruel of you not to introduce me to your handsome young friends earlier." Fanny brushed her fingers along Xander's arm.

"Leave it out, Fanny." Giles sighed.

"Whoa, Giles. It's alright. I didn't know you two were together." Xander held up his hands.

"We are not together." Giles said.

"Rupert, you monster. What shall I tell the children?"

"Fanny."

"I'm feeling a little lost." Xander mentioned.

"As opposed to your very specific direction earlier?" Anya said pointedly.

"I was just standing; talking. You know, normal people things."

"While you were doing your best to pick up the penis woman. That's why you left me at the alter. You like penis women!"

"Oh lord." Giles hid his face in his hands.

"Penis woman?" Xander said, clearly befuddled.

"That would be me." Lord Fanny said, and waved brightly.

"Tell me that title is because of some porno-style obsession with it." Xander pleaded.

"That's true..."

"Yeah?" Xander said hopefully.

"...as well."

"Um–" Xander flushed deep red and bolted for the back of the store.

"Ah, another love lost." Fanny said. "Rupert, you are a brute."

"Fanny is a bruja-witch from South America."

"A cross-dressing witch." Buffy snarked.

"I'm not a threat, darling. We're two completely different sizes." Fanny said.

"Why does everything you say sound like sex?"

"Luck and wishful thinking?"

"Fanny." Giles said warningly.

"You're no fun anymore, Rupert."

"Can I have my book now, please?"

"No. It's not in stock." Anya said.

"That's because it's propping up the register."

"It's not there either."

"What?"

"I sold it."

"How could you sell it?"

"This is a shop, Giles. Capitalism?" Anya mentioned. "Besides, he offered a lot of money."

"Anya, that book was extremely rare."

"Should I have charged more then?"

"Rupert, please." Fanny said soothingly. "Anya, who did you sell it to?"

"Here's the receipt." Anya passed over a slip of paper. Giles took a look and shook his head wearily.

"What is it?" Asked Fanny.

"DeCoucy."

"Oh dear."

"DeCoucy is a bad thing?" Buffy said.

"Only if you're a bottle of brandy, a rare book or a prostitute with the slightest sense of taste." Giles said. "Where did he make his order from?"

"London."

"Bloody brilliant. I should have guessed. It's the rare folio show in Kensington."

"That mean's you're going back to England."

"After I pick up a few things." Giles got up and disappeared into the back of the store. Buffy and Dawn sat looking at Fanny.

"I won't bite, dears."

"You are so cool!" Dawn gushed.

"Aren't you lovely!" Fanny said. "You know, you are a very attractive young woman. Have you ever considered curling your hair?"

"No tips." Buffy admonished firmly.

"For shame, Buffy. If anyone is going to put her on the road to fashion excellence, it should be you. After all, the right look is a power all on its own." Lord Fanny said.

"Power?" Dawn asked.

"Power, darling. You see, ancient shamans wore masks and elaborate costumes for their rituals; false-face masks for the Iroquois, powdered Kabuki outfits for the miko of Japan. The modern world grants the same power to our masks; magic from the designers of Tokyo, Milan and Paris." Fanny leaned down, nose to nose with Dawn. "You will one day know what it is like to own someone with the mask you wear, and only the truly skilled will understand why."

Dawn stood stock still, blinking. Buffy shook her head, like she was trying to shake off a nightmare and stepped in between Fanny and Dawn.

"As much weirdness as I have to deal with doesn't mean that I want Dawn following in my footsteps. Especially as some kind of creepy high-fashion warrior."

"We all face that, every day. Living here, she'd have to be blind not to." Fanny flashed one of her brilliant smiles. "Besides, it drives the boys wild."

"Who are you?"

"A friend, which is always an asset. Ah, darling!"

"Don't call me that." Giles huffed. He had a stack of books in one hand and was fending Anya off with another.

"I have to scan them! That's inventory."

"Anya, if you would please stop." Giles snapped. Anya halted and waved her scanning wand under Giles' nose.

"Now look, Mister Not-So-Silent partner. This is my store to run and if you don't like the way I do it, you can go somewhere else." She said, and Giles shook his head tiredly before handing the stack of books over.

"Fine, but please, hurry." Giles turned back to Buffy. "Our plane is leaving soon."

"Giles."

"I have to get back to Willow."

"I know. I want you to tell her..." Buffy hesitated. "I don't know what I want you to tell her, but make sure she know's she's not alone."

"Is she forgiven?"

"She's not alone. Let's start with that for now." Buffy said finally, and Giles smiled.

"It amazes me how far you all have grown." Giles said, just as a three way battle between Anya, Dawn and Xander caused a cascade of books from the counter. "Then again, sometimes nothing seems to have changed at all."

"It was Anya's fault." Dawn said.

"Tattletale." Anya hissed before sliding the stack of books into a paper bag and setting it on the counter. "Here you go."

"Thank you, Anya. Xander, Dawn, do try and keep out of trouble."

"In Sunnydale?" Xander grinned and shrugged. "How hard can that be?"

"I love the smell of sarcasm in the morning." Buffy said and gave Giles a quick hug. "I'll see you soon?"

"I hope so." Giles picked up the bag and turned to go. Anya's arm snaked out and caught the handle before he could take a step and he turned back puzzled.

"Yes?"

"Giles," Anya smiled widely. "Will that be cash or credit card?"

***

The house was ivy covered, nestled up against its neighbours in a richly refined area made possible only by the English. The sunlight had broken the clouds for the first time since Willow had come to England, and the cheery glow was intoxicating. John had stopped by the wrought iron gate to light yet another cigarette, drawing deeply on it, shoulders hunched against the light. Willow grinned and tilted her head back, eyes closed to glory in the sunlight.

"Bloody bright today." John groused.

"Has to be at least once in this country. I was starting to check for gills every morning."

"I need a drink."

"Gills might help with that too."

"Drink helps with everything." John said, a brief smile creasing his face.

"You know, there's a word for people like you in California."

"Yeah, celebrities." John deadpanned, and Willow laughed, covering her mouth. She didn't like John, but she was learning at least one thing from him. A true mage never is without a rejoinder.

"So, what's this place?" She asked finally.

"The house of Mister Whyte."

"You serious?"

"Clive Whyte. Former head of England's Golden Order, hermetic master and one of the twentieth century's most puissant mages. He likes his titles, you know." A shadow crossed John's face. "That is, he was all that before he started going to places he shouldn't have. We'll see if Gareth is in to get the door."

"Gareth?"

"The Gatekeeper." John's tone was acid, something behind his eyes dark and sharp.

"Sounds ominous."

"Not for you, luv."

"Right, while you're going all Mister Mystero here," Willow waved her hands in front of her. "Um, is there a key or something for the gate?"

"Bloody show-off." John muttered, almost smiling.

"That's not a conventional yes or no."

"You've got the key."

"Is this one of those female empowerment things?" Willow said suspiciously.

"No, you bint. Look at the bloody thing."

"I have."

"Looked or seen?" John said, pulling Willow up short. She cut off her retort and tried to think about his comments. She was quickly learning that much of what Constantine said led to a much deeper meaning beneath. Swallowing her anger, Willow put her hands to the gate and stretched out with magic. The first rush hit her like the crashing waves of an orgasm, and she bit her lip as tears came to her eyes. An ocean of power beckoned, but she dominated the desire; schooled it to a single point, as powerful as a drill.

With just a brush of power, Willow opened her eyes and saw the magic crackle along the gates. Whoever was involved in the enchantment of the house was very skilled and diabolically subtle. At the edge of the gate, a mote of magic flared. Willow followed the shimmering lines, ringing them along her fingers as she went. They bunched along the gate at a single point, a Gordian knot of magic. Willow's eyes flared as she reached out and touched the nature of the spell. She tasted the intent of the caster; the designs of the mage. She grinned hugely as it made sense.

"Well?" John said, arms crossed and leaning against the ironwork fence. Willow looked around for a moment and touched the gate. There was a hum in the metal, and Willow raised one foot and kicked the gate hard. The force sent the rusted latch pinwheeling into the garden.

"Not bad." John said.

"They hid the catch with magic, and they didn't ward the door at all."

"Why's that?"

"Because a ward would not only advertise that there was a powerful mage inside, but also that he wanted to hide something."

"Exactly. I told you he was smart." John dusted his hands. "You'll find out one that the most powerful magics don't involve any magic at all."

"So, is that the invite?"

"I think so." John said, and they mounted the steps together. The door was bone-white, with a fat brass knocker set in the centre. John rapped twice, and perched on the edge of the pediment waiting for a response. The door opened a crack, and then wider as the person inside caught sight of John. It slammed shut just as he moved forward.

"I guess they are home." John remarked. The door opened again, this time fully, and a short man with curly ginger coloured hair and beard regarded John suspiciously.

"Gareth."

"Constantine. What are you doing here?" Gareth's soft brogue carried a mixture of surprise and hostility.

"I need to see your old man, Gareth."

"Why?"

"Is that any of your business?"

"No. But you're not getting anywhere near Clive unless you tell me."

"Hellfire." John said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Look, I just want to ask him a few questions, right? I promise, nothing more."

"John," something in Gareth's face softened slightly. "It's cruel of you to be here. He doesn't want to be remembered like this."

"Not much choice."

"We'll see." Gareth said. "Who is your young lady?"

"Oh, I'm so not his young lady. I mean, I'm a young lady, but not his. Not that I don't like him but– " Willow stopped, realizing that she was babbling. "Um, lesbian much." She finished lamely.

"Far more respectable than being one of John's skirts. Come in." Gareth stepped aside from the threshold and motioned them both to follow. John and Willow stepped into the house, first noting the bare bleached white walls and carpet. There were marks here and there that hinted at pictures removed.

"Cheery place." John muttered.

"The parties are gone, John. Twenty years ago, it was a different world." Gareth said. There was little furniture; a small cream sofa, a white painted side table, with a squat silver radio sitting on top, several bookcases, stuffed with volumes.

"Jesus." John said. The room held plants instead of furniture, thick verdant walls of ferns, rubber trees, creeping vines, flowering lilies, palm fronds, sprays of bamboo. The white fought with the hot green, the wet smell of soil and flowers heady and thick.

"Upstairs." Gareth motioned them up the blank toned steps and down a long hallway.

"Right, can't say I'm–" John began, pulling a cigarette from his pack with his lips.

"No smoking." Gareth said, snapping the cigarette from John's mouth. "There are oxygen tanks in his bedroom."

"Just take all the fun out of it." John answered, earning a sharp jab in the side from Willow's elbow. Gareth ignored them both, stopping to open the door slightly.

"Clive, luv, you awake?" Gareth said.

"Gareth, I'm up." A voice replied, so weak that it reminded Willow of a wisp that a breeze could snatch from the air at any moment.

"You've got visitors."

"It's been ages since I've had a party."

"Clive..."

"I'm teasing Gareth. Bring them in." The reedy voice said, and Gareth motioned them to follow him. They stepped into a room of white; antiseptic and sterile. It was dominated by a king-sized four poster bed. The hangings hand been stripped away, replaced with the ugly clear-blue shrouds of plastic sheeting to form an oxygen tent. Through the translucent blue sheet, Willow could make out a frail shattered figure, lying like a broken doll on top of the sheets. The starch white pajamas engulfed the rake-thin frame, camouflaging the pallor of the man inside.

"Are you thirsty, luv?" Gareth said and Clive nodded weakly. He poured a full glass of water in a plastic cup, affixing a lid with a straw pierced through it. Gareth leaned over and helped Clive raise himself high enough up to drink.

"So, John Constantine. I wondered when you'd drop by. I'm afraid you'll have to come closer. I've been having trouble with my eyes these days." John took a few grudging steps forward, while Willow hung back. "You too, my pet. Don't worry, I'm not contagious in that way."

Willow stepped forward to join John, blushing. "I'm Willow. Willow Rosenberg."

"Clive Whyte, my pet, though I suspect John already told you that." His bright eyes locked on hers, and Willow caught herself trying to puzzle out the colour. It shifted treacherously from a deep topaz to a tawny green. Motes of copper and brass slipped across the iris, the colours deceptive by the second.

"Whyte. We need to talk."

"Of course, John. All of that wit you prize so highly, and that is your best opening? You know, pet, John first came to me as a wretched thing of Northern England."

"Clive, I'm serious."

"Really? I try to avoid that these days. Does so bring down the fun."

"There's a little nastiness that's got your look to it. At least, someone who's been about where you've been about, and I want to know how."

"I have no doubt."

"Clive– " Constantine took a step forward, and Gareth stepped between him and the bed.

"Don't you move, John Constantine!"

"Gareth, please– " Clive said weakly.

"Piss off, you bugger." John hissed.

"You've done enough!"

"I've had enough of– " John said, reached out to push him aside. The smaller man shoved him roughly, setting him back a few steps.

"I'll kill you, John. You trick him again, and I'll kill you." Gareth's face was very red, splotchy against the ginger beard.

"Please!" Clive said, straining to be heard. "Gareth, take John down to the garden. Get him something to drink. Get yourself something to drink as well, luv. I want you boys to be nice to each other. Or at least pretend to for me. Do that and I'll give you the information that you want." Clive said, winded by the effort.

Gareth glared fiercely at John, but finally nodded. He walked out the door, and John stood for a long moment watching Whyte before he turned and following. He gestured for Willow to follow him, but Whyte gestured lightly.

"I'd like to speak to her, John. She'll be quite safe with me, I assure you." Whyte said. Constantine exchanged a long look with Whyte before nodding, and he disappeared out the door. "Such men, my pet. Such lovely, angry men."

"Not really my thing."

"Very much mine. Oh, I remember the parties, Willow. Everything is a party when you're young. Can you believe that I was once young and beautiful." Whyte smiled, and for the first time, Willow really saw him. His long hair was baby fine and fragile, the colour of corn silk. In that sickness-ravaged face, she saw the sharp cheekbones and narrow chin. Willow could see the ruins of a dynamic figure in the devastation the disease visited on him,

"Yes," She said simply. It was in his words that she felt the lost strength; the lost power and knowledge.

"I loved the parties. Great sprawling things, with every one crammed in each nook and cranny. Drinking brandy out of coffee mugs and champagne from juice glasses, talking about the brave new world of our ideals and powers and why Maggie Thatcher was such a cunt who needed a leather dyke to sort her out. Getting into the bath with five other men, splashing around to Gareth playing old American rags on the piano in the nude." Clive smiled, a thin slash on his face. "I only wore white suits, you know. White for Whyte. I ordered raw silk underwear from Thailand, bleached and terribly expensive. I told politicians that I would give them a taste of magic in exchange for a blowjob. I was a wicked thing."

"Wow."

"Yes, wicked. But silly, too. A silly young thing. I thought it mattered." Clive muttered. "You have power, Willow. I felt you touch my ward."

"Well, yeah, sorta. See, John was all Tony Robbins ‘you can do it' and I– " Willow bit her lip. "Sorry?"

"No need. There is power in you, my pet. Pain too. Pain like an ugly stain on your soul. That's why you truly look like a mage. Who hurt you?"

"No one who matters." Willow said, angerier then she intended. "Not any more."

"You used magic to change things."

"Isn't that what it's for?"

"Sometimes. Other times, it's there not to be used."

"I don't understand you people! Everyone I talk to tells me how horrible magic is, and you're all mages! Double standard, much?"

"Sometimes." Clive smiled. "You hurt her, didn't you?"

"What?" Willow's head snapped back like she'd be slapped, blood draining from her features. "What did you just say?"

"Took her thoughts from her."

"I– "

"You raped her."

"I never!"

"Unconsented violation."

"You didn't know her." Willow said. "You don't know anything!" Her voice broke into a sob, and she gabbed at the rage inside her, boiling hot and screaming for pain.

"I don't think so." Whyte said mildly, and Willow found herself enveloped, trapped in his power. "Gareth would hate an explosion."

"You're not fair! It's not fair!"

"You pulled a soul from heaven. You sent men to torment." Whyte's tone sharpened. "You violated every law of nature, and what you brought the world was pain. Your magic made your love a slave to your whim. You blithely snuffed out lives and twisted others into mockeries, without even the slightest sense of responsibility."

Willow gasped, falling to the floor and pushing herself away from the presence of Whyte that filled the room. The sickly man in the bed was a pale shadow; a thin shell that held a power overwhelming to her.

"Death." She was pushed up against the wall, his will all around her, an integral part of the room itself. "The end of things."

"Stop!" Willow screamed, tears streaming down her cheeks. He was all around her, inside her, his words touching her mind. Each indiscretion was laid bare, the consequences she had hidden from herself revealed, judged under that shifting eyes. She howled, a long keening wail, trying to drive all the pain away in her voice. The cry reverberated, hung indescribably long in the white room. As the echoes died away, Whyte's voice came back, powerful in defiance of his state.

"Willow Rosenberg, you have just learned the price of magic." His voice overwhelmed her, pulling her from her huddle against the wall. "It is action, and each action has a proper consequence. You have the ability to remake reality to suit your whims, and you are just realizing that ability does not mean you have the right. You must accept the results of your actions, or you will travel down a road that leads to evil and death."

The voice drew back, became the low rasp of a desperately sick man. "It means that you cannot escape the responsibility of your actions, even magical."

"But–"

"It seemed so easy in the beginning, didn't it?"

"That's not fair."

"The truth rarely is." Whyte smiled. "Willow, sit with me. Let me tell you about magic, John Constantine, Clive Whyte, and real consequences." Clive shook his head slowly, as if finally coming awake from a long, torturous dream. "You see, I've been doing magic for a long time. I tasted that power young, and I liked the rough passion of it. I went through all that silly hermetic lodge nonsense. Fortunately, I grew out of it and found some real magic. Still, I could smell that greasy tin reek of magic all around me, and sought it out."

"I didn't."

"No, you saw magic. You studied in a school and found some books. A real witch showed you a few tricks, I'd guess. So, you struck out on your own, and instead of finding witchcraft, you merged into true magic." Whyte said. "You learned about Gaia, which has as little to do with what your magic required as those material components you must have used. But you must have felt they weren't all that necessary."

"Yes." Willow said in a small voice.

"You should have seen London twenty years ago, pet. It was hard and fast. It was crouched between an ancient history and a modern age. Oh, the magic was there and it was intoxicating. We could do anything and often did. Parties with ideals and madness, solving the world's problems after a dozen rails of cocaine. I liked drugs, because they were white too. Snow white blow, China White, tiny pale pills of every chemical one could ingest. In the middle of that was magic. I was researching, learning, and very likely the most powerful mage in London." In Whyte's words, Willow saw his world
in full.

"I walked London streets like it was my private party, and it did my bidding." Whyte sighed. "Days dripped in light, Willow. Pride, power, it was all mine. One day, heading home from some party, I nearly ran over a young blond boy, all deliciously punk and rebellious. John was tasty, my pet. He smelled of power and potential, but that was just the excuse I made for myself. I wanted him for myself." Willow could barely imagine Constantine as the figure Whyte was describing, especially not meriting the obvious attraction.

"I can't imagine why."

"He's very different now, Willow. All he had then was anger and just a bit of cunning. Not the cynical shield that he lugs about today. No, he was a lovely young thing. Gareth didn't approve, but I rarely listened to Gareth then. We had gone to school together, and he was a good friend and lover, but it wasn't a relationship. Gareth didn't understand the magic, and John so desperately wanted to. I let him live here for a while. Showed him real magic. Let him have free run of my books, even showed him London for one with money. Nearly two years we worked side by side." Whyte's eyes lightened, his memories a faint trace of happiness left to him. Willow felt the unconscious pleasure in his words, and the undertone of loss.

"John really was gifted, brilliant even. My golden boy, the fearless one that approached all magic looking to dominate it. We had wild parties, groups of mages and witches and hanger-ons and all the right people to remain perpetually screwed up with." Whyte picked at the sheet with one frail hand. "Still, John didn't love me. I tried, you know. Romantic dinners, quiet getaways on the continent. He just wasn't interested in me, not in the way of the birds he ensnared with that flashing smile. Two years, Willow, and still I was no closer to my beautiful boy."

"What did you do?" Willow said with a horrid fascination, hearing the confession of the shattered man about a person she wanted to hate, and the magic that interlocked them.

"Magic, of course. If I was the most powerful mage in England, I could make use of it to clear that poor boy's confusion. You see, my pet, because I loved him so much, there was no way he couldn't feel the same. It was easy. A little compulsion spell, a memory charm, and John spent one glorious night in my bed. I loved him, pet. If I did it out of love, how could that be wrong?" Whyte said plaintively, and Willow heard her own crime with Tara repeated in that injustice. Whyte went silent for a long moment, seeming to settle further into his bedding. Finally, he sighed and made a negligent wave of one emaciated hand.

"He knew, eventually. That kind of magic leaves a lingering mark, like an ethereal stain. He didn't know what we did, but my bright boy guessed very quickly. He left me that week, out into the rain with only the clothes on his back, and an old trenchcoat from the hall closet. That's what he left with Willow, a head full of knowledge and an old coat."

"Then why did he come here today?"

"He's had his revenge, my pet. You see, about that time, the parties grew a little more fearful and mad. AIDS had made it to England, and several of us watched friends die that year. The damn disease even resisted our magical cures, like some kind of biblical scourge. I saw death, and realized that it terrified me. You see, pet, what good is power once you're in the ground. That's when the obsession came. I wanted to live forever. The goal of Ponce De Leon was now mine. If I was the greatest mage in England, then I had to be able to find a solution. The Comte De St.Germain succeeded, so I could do the same. Six years I worked, my pet. Like a madman, hunting down every lead I could. Finally, there was one person that could provide the missing pieces that I needed."

"Constantine."

"Indeed. You can imagine the irony of the situation as I approached him. I was shocked when he agreed, even if his price was on the steep side. Oh, he was cruel and arrogant, my pet. Lean and hungry and just mad and cocky enough to spit in the eye of the devil in a bargain. So, John helped me craft my spell, and in an instant, I was immortal." Clive Whyte caught Willow's eyes in an intense stare, pinning her to her spot as he made her understand his words. "You see, pet, I cannot die. The clock no longer turns for me."

"I don't understand." Willow said, looking at the shell of the man in front of her. "How can you be immortal?"

"That was John's revenge. He helped make me immortal, and laughed as I plunged back into parties and debaucheries a hundred times greater than I had in my youth. I tried every vice a dozen times, secure in the fact that death no longer held power over me. Until I too caught the disease, and learned the awful truth." Whyte laughed lightly, a grim sound to Willow's ears.

"You see, pet, the joke is very funny, especially since it happened to me. I knew the consequences of magic. I've crafted and delved and explored enough to know that no assumption is safe when dealing with magic. But this time, I was too dazzled by the prize to see the danger. Immortality is a protection from death, not a guarantee of health. My body weakened, failed in a dozen ways, and yet I remained alive, and still do. In a few years, I'll be blind. My weakness is such that I can barely move my head and soon even that will be gone. And I will still be alive. In this shattered frame, I will remain alive forever. Until they can find a cure, and if my body can still take it, and if it can reverse the damage..." Whyte smiled as Willow realized the horror of his trap.

"Oh god..."

"John let me follow my pride and fear off the cliff, and found his revenge. My bastard boy is truly great in cruelty, and I can't even blame him for it. I asked him, I failed to think through the consequences, and I damned myself to this. You see, Willow, consequences are the most important thing to consider when using magic, not the right or the wrong of it." Whyte said. "It was easy to blame John at first, but now," He paused. "Now I know who's fault it really was. You must understand that."

"Mister Whyte–"

"No, please. You see, that's when Gareth came back to me, my pet. He helped me as I got weaker and weaker. He's held vomit bowls and bathed me. He's dealt with my bed sores, weakness and mindless anger. That's where I found real magic, Willow. In that small Scotsman who I treated like a peon for so long, when all he did was love me honestly. Now, he is my life. Magic destroyed my illusions of love, and he brought them back." Whyte said, his eyes moist.

"She shouldn't have died." Willow slumped, hands between her knees and eyes locked on the floor. "Not before I knew if she forgave me."

"I know, pet. But she did, and you have to find your lesson in that." Whyte's voice was kindly; a weary empathy at the younger woman's pain. "Because pain repeats itself until we learn what we have done wrong. Magic only amplifies what we can do, and what it can cost us."

"Why does it have to be this way?"

"Because if it wasn't, it wouldn't be human." Whyte said with a tired smile. "Now, why don't you call the boys up here before they start fighting."

Willow went to the door, hesitating for a moment before calling for them, wrestling with her own thoughts and pain that lay bare in the room. Finally, she called down, bringing them up the stairs. Gareth came over to Clive's side, casting worried eyes at him. Whyte patted his hand weakly, smiling up at him before turning to regard John.

"Right, what did you do with the girl, Clive?" John said. Whyte's eyes caught John's, and Willow caught a flinch of rebuke in them.

"The murders you are seeing, Constantine. No discernable pattern, strange majik symbology, and no motive that makes any real sense, correct."

"How did you–"

"I'm bedridden, not brain-dead, John. Think, my bright boy. What does that lack of pattern tell you."

"Chaos."

"Indeed. Someone is using aspects of chaotic magic in their little summoning, which means that they received some instruction in that. Now, since Harlen Keyes is dead, fifteen years gone now, and chaos adepts are not known for their patience, who do you think has to be involved in this little naughtiness?"

"Ethan Rayne."

"You don't disappoint." Whyte sighed. "Ethan is in town, I know that much. Where, I couldn't say. I'm sure you have friends you can call."

"I do." John said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Look, Clive, what I said earlier..."

"John, please don't. I'm very tired right now, and I've lost any will to blame others in the last year."

"Clive–"

"Go find your madman, my bright boy. Look after your young lady friend, there. I can see big things for her, once she starts to truly learn." Whyte nodded. "Goodbye, my pet."

"Mister Whyte." Willow took a step forward.

"Parties, young Willow. Love being young and beautiful. And many years from now, remember it fondly without trying to return there. Goodbye John. I'm glad you finally fit that coat." Whyte said and closed his eyes. Gareth turned to them, the anger in him banked, ashed in his concern for Whyte.

"Look, John, you can find your own way out, aye?"

"I can." Constantine started to say something, but Gareth stopped him with a look.

"Don't. Just go, John." Constantine looked ready to argue, but finally nodded. He motioned to Willow and they left the room. John stopped at the edge of the door, and watched Gareth gentle Clive's knotted forehead with a cool cloth, finding that sick strength of watching a life in pain beyond your ability to truly help. He spoke in soft whispers to the broken man in the bed, and did his best to drive the pain away. John Constantine turned away and walked down the hallway, filled with pity, ashamed that Gareth had once upon a time disgusted him.

Willow held the door for him and eased it closed, the energy of the house humming under her hand. The complexity of the place, where magic and pain intertwined so closely bled off into the air around her, and Willow wonder how people couldn't feel it. John fished a cigarette out of his pocket, fumbling with his lighter and trying to make it light. Willow took the lighter out of his shaky hands, and thumbed the flame on.

"Why did you take me there?"

"Because what we both needed was in that house. Ethan Rayne. I should have bloody known."

"That's not what I meant." Willow said. John drew deep on his cigarette, taking back his lighter and stuffing it deep into his jacket pocket.

"I know. We all pay for things, Willow. That lesson in there had to be paid for somehow, and I did. Leave off at that, right?"

"Sure." Willow said softly as John turned and walked down to the sidewalk. She stopped to close the gate, and shutting her eyes, repaired the broken catch with a trickle of magic. When she turned, Willow saw John watching her, with a queer expression on his face. Before she could say anything, he turned away again, and started towards the bulk of the city, leading her back into the depths of London and away from the house in the early spring sun.

[next part]

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