Chapter Eight

Panic was not an option. Not for Rupert Giles. Five minutes and one broken fertility god statue after Spike had cut him off—rude little pillock—Rupert Giles was seated at his desk with a notebook open before him. In the margin of a legal pad, he wrote in quick, firm strokes everything he remembered about the Gem of Amara. He also made a short checklist of questions that he would have for Buffy and Xander when they arrived.

He called Xander’s home first. The boy had a summer job delivering pizzas that Giles was afraid would become more than a summer job if he did not re-think going to college with the girls in the fall. Sometimes Buffy and Willow were too gentle, too easy on Xander. He needed a bit of a kick in the seat of his pants every now and again to keep him moving in the right direction. Xander’s mother woke him, and Giles rolled his eyes. It was after one in the afternoon, Willow was missing, and Xander was sleeping? “Hey G-man!” Xander said, sounding half asleep.

“Xander,” Giles said. He sounded calm. “I need you to come over as soon as possible,” he said.

“Yeah?” Xander yawned. “O-kay,” he said sleepily. “Soon as I get up,” he said.

“Which would be now. I’m calling Buffy, next. We will be expecting you,” Giles warned.

“Have you got a line on Willow?” Xander woke up. “Tell Buff I’ll swing by her place and pick her up,” he said.

“Yes. It’s not good news,” he added. “I’ll call Buffy, just get here as soon as you can,” Giles insisted.

He hung up and dialed his Slayer. Technically, Giles was no longer a Watcher and the Slayer had decided that she no longer had any use for the Watcher’s Council or any Watcher they might send to her. For Giles this meant that he no longer collected a paycheck from the Watcher’s Council or enjoyed the privilege to call on his superiors for information or assistance. To his infinite surprise, he tended to get things done more efficiently without dealing with the Council’s languid bureaucracy. The phone at the Summers' home was answered on the second ring by Buffy.

“Hey, Giles,” she said, sounding let down. Probably hoping that it was Willow calling. “What’s up?”

“I need you to come over, immediately,” he said. “I’ve already called Xander.”

The post apocalyptic summer had been quiet. The vampire population had taken a beating on graduation day when the Mayor led them into a counter attack that had involved most of the senior class and one souled vampire who had walked off into the night and out of Buffy’s life. Quiet was not necessarily good. It meant dealing with Angel leaving, which had been put off for a couple of weeks of R&R in her summer visit with her father.

“Willow?” Buffy mimed a staking, feeling a tingle in the pit of her stomach that she recognized. “What’s the what, Giles?”

“Yes, though I’d rather not go into it over the phone,” he put her off. He was determined to remain calm, under control, and organized about this latest crisis. “I need you here as soon as possible,” he said briskly.

“Research? Road trip to slayage?”

“Research,” Giles told her. “Xander said he would pick you up.” Giles took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. Find the Gem of Amara. This was going to be infinitely harder, if not impossible, without Willow. “Buffy? I need to call Angel,” he told her, not sure how she would react. While she was sad about his leaving, Giles had the distinct impression that she had come to terms with the necessity of Angel’s absence from her life. This was her first test, and his Slayer tended to be stubborn about how she met the tests her calling imposed upon her.

“Maybe,” she said, armed with less knowledge. “Why Angel, specifically?”

“I’d rather talk to you and Xander at the same time, but I think we are going to need more help and some specialized knowledge that Angel can provide. I’ll make the call,” he told her and Buffy agreed to get there as soon as possible and hung up. He hung up the phone and opened a drawer, taking out an old, battered address book held together with a rubber band.

Opening the address book, he paged through it, scanning the entries, some lined through to denote contacts that had fallen away over the years. Names leapt out at him. Dr. Porter Breckinridge. Expert in folklore and ancient artifacts. He made a note on his legal pad. Porter might be helpful.

UC Sunnydale’s head of the archeology department was new. Giles had been introduced to him at a fund raising party for the new UC Sunnydale cultural center. The name eluded him. He opened a decoupage box on his desktop, a Christmas gift from Jenny the year before she died, and sorted through business cards the box held until he found a card for Luke Holbrook. Youngish fellow, mid thirties, who had fled the crowded ranks of East Coast academia for California. Giles turned the card over to read his own notes about the man. ‘Studied under with D&C Parrish’ he had written.

David Parrish was a cultural anthropologist with some unconventional views. His wife Carol was an archeologist and a natural skeptic. The only question was which perspective had formed Dr. Holbrook’s training in his field. Possibly useful.

He continued through his address book. With an inward sigh, he picked up the phone and dialed a more recent entry for a cell phone that was answered almost immediately.

“Angel, Rupert Giles calling,” Giles said, wincing at the how officious he sounded to himself. He was never going to feel comfortable around Angel, though in the last year he had managed to get past his grief and rage over what Angelus had done.

“I know,” Angel said. “I recognized the number, Rupert,” he said quietly, marking his place in the book he was reading and setting it aside. “Is Buffy all right?” he asked. He knew her Watcher wouldn’t call him unless it was important. He was almost grateful that he had called, even as he rationalized that something serious must have happened. How many times had he punched the numbers into the cell phone and left his thumb hovering over the talk button, wanting no more than to hear her voice? Knowing that it was unfair, even cruel, to appease that longing?

“Buffy is fine,” Giles said. “This is about Willow.”

“Willow?” Angel repeated. “She’s in San Jose this summer, isn’t she?” Angel remembered something about an internship, and Willow working hard to sound brave and enthusiastic about her summer opportunity to work for a dot com business and house sit for a relative. He understood why she had accepted the internship, but not the forced enthusiasm. It wasn’t like her. She worked so hard to please nearly everyone that she sometimes made him feel vaguely uncomfortable.

If someone as guileless as Willow Rosenberg was worried about being good enough, then he really had a long row to hoe, not that this was a competition, but still. She was the kind of girl that happily embraced summer reading lists and homework, although he really didn’t know her that well. He knew that he was pigeonholing her into a stereotype. Just when you were ready to write Willow off as a sweet, shy, smart kid who hung out with Buffy she would surprise you with an insight or inner strength that had gone unnoted. Or with the revelation of elements of her character that emerged in her vampire doppelganger. He smiled to himself, remembering her calling him a jerk and ripping into him for not having time to do things with Buffy.

“What’s the problem?” he asked.

“Spike,” Giles said. “It defies imagination but he has kidnapped her. Again.”

“Spike,” Angel growled. He had kidnapped Willow and Xander last fall in a falling down drunk bit of idiocy to get Willow to cast a love spell to bring Dru back to him. It smacked of spur of the moment bumbling. Fortunately, Spike had been too drunk to do much more than beat Xander up and scare the crap out of Willow before he had had an epiphany and took off to track Dru down and torture her back into love with him.

“I guess Dru’s running true to form and she’s left him again.”

“That is in question. I don’t know if she is with him or not,” Giles said. He was hoping for not. Spike was bad enough on his own. Paired with Drusilla, they were a disaster zone. He made a quick note on his legal pad. This was a question that required an answer. They had to know what they were up against. Drusilla had some impressive weapons of her own and could not be dismissed. “He says that he wants to trade her for the Gem of Amara,” Giles explained.

Angel sucked in a surprised breath. Not that he needed to breathe. It was an involuntary reflex. “You have the Gem of Amara?” It boggled the mind. He knew what it was, or at least, what it purported to be in vampire legend. A devise that made a vampire impervious to harm. Sought for hundreds of years all over the world.

“No. Frankly, I don’t believe it exists,” Giles was blunt. “He expects us to find it for him.”

Angel leaned forward, thinking. “That doesn’t sound like Spike. He’s more bird in hand than flights of fancy, and he isn’t a big student of history. Kind of a natural skeptic when it comes to lore,” he said.

Giles sighed, “Well, that as may be, he claims that a vampire named Dalton was on the trail of the Gem. He has his research and he says he is sending it to us. He expects us to find it and make a trade for Willow.”

Angel remembered Dalton. Older, quiet, bookish minion who had been with Dru and Spike when they came to Sunnydale. “That is plausible,” he conceded. “Are you sure he has Willow?” Willow was missing and Buffy hadn’t called him? He filed that away for the moment.

“He put her on the phone long enough for me to know it was her,” Giles’ throat tightened in grief and fury. “And then he beat her,” he gritted out. “I could hear her crying.”

Angel closed his eyes for a moment, getting a mental picture. “That was probably as much for your benefit as anything else,” he said. “Spike’s ruthless and a prick, but as long as he thinks she’s no threat to him and valuable, he’ll keep her alive.” If he doesn’t get bored, or frustrated, or simply loose his temper. Angel kept those thoughts to himself.

“Pardon me for finding that cold comfort,” Giles tone was sour. “I don’t trust Spike. He could be doing this to distract us or simply to inflict maximum damage before he kills her. This whole business about the Gem of Amara could be pure mischief and spite.”

Angel didn’t argue with him. It was true. Spike could be setting them up with an impossible task just for the fun of watching them scramble about. The only problem with that scenario was that his attention span was too short. He would get bored. Again, he kept the thought to himself. Giles had enough to worry about without his thoughts on Spike’s impulse control issues. “How can I help?”

“Could you come here? We will need help with the research,” Giles was direct. “I want to see what can be done to run him to ground. We may have to take more direct action to rescue Willow. His insistence on our finding the Gem of Amara may buy us time.”

“Presumably he found her in San Jose, which means he’s been there recently,” Angel said. “I can’t go there. If he is still in the area, he’ll just move or consider the deal void, in which case—“he left the consequences unsaid.

“Oz is already there.”

“I’ll leave for Sunnydale at sunset,” he promised. “We will find her and bring her home, Giles.”

Giles was hanging up when Buffy knocked on the door and stuck her head in. “Hey,” she said brightly, coming in with Xander behind her. She clapped her hands like a child promised a treat. “Give me something to beat the crap out of, Giles,” she invited.

If only it were that simple. He gestured to the couch. “Please sit down, both of you,” he invited. “I have some bad news, and we have a lot of work to do.”

Xander sat on the edge of the couch. His right knee bounced with pent up nervous tension. Giles felt guilty for thinking that the boy had slept soundly despite the news that his best friend had gone missing. He looked like he had barely gotten any sleep at all and the blue-black stubble on his face made him look . . . too much like what he was. A boy on the cusp of adulthood who had seen too much, and knew that wherever Willow was she was alone in a world he had learned to be somewhat fearful of. He had none of Buffy’s gifts, or Willow’s talents. What he brought was unwavering loyalty and love to his friends.

Buffy leaned against the arm of the couch, resting her hand on Xander’s shoulder. “I think we are braced, Giles,” she looked at Xander, who met her gaze and nodded.

“Very well, then,” Giles took a seat in an armchair. “This is what we know,” he said. “Oz phoned earlier from San Jose. He believes Willow disappeared on Thursday evening. She went to a coffee shop in the neighborhood, and that was the last place she was seen. She joined a group that included someone whose description—male, bleached blond, wearing a leather coat, English accent . . .”

Buffy’s fingers tightened on Xander’s shoulder, hard enough for him to yelp, “Fingernails of slayerly strength, Buff,” even as it was sinking in.

“Spike?” Buffy relaxed her grip on Xander. She shot him an apologetic look. “Sorry,” she mouthed, then she turned back to Giles. “Spike.” His decision to call Angel now made more sense to her.

Giles nodded. “He called right before I called you,” he said. “To let us know that he had Willow and was willing to trade her.”

“Spike?” Xander was dumbfounded. “How could Spike have Willow? She’s in San Jose,” he pointed out.

“That I can’t answer,” Giles told him regretfully. “There are a lot of things about this that we don’t know, but I assure you of this: I spoke to her, very briefly,” he said. “She is alive,” Giles really didn’t know that. The thought flashed through his mind that she might actually be dead and under Spike’s control or authority, a vampire herself. He forced it aside for the moment. “She sounded frightened, which is to be expected. Spike wants us to find an artifact,” he took his glasses off, tapping them on his knee for a moment while he felt in his pocket for a linen handkerchief. “Buffy? Raphael’s Compendium, please,” he requested, gesturing to the shelf that housed the volume.

Buffy went to the bookshelf to look for it, and hefted a fat book bound in worn oxblood leather. She handed it to Giles and leaned over the back of his chair to read over his shoulder as he finished cleaning his glasses and flipped through the book. “Ah. Gem of Amara. There was a great deal of vampiric interest in locating it in the 10th century,” Giles said, finding what he was seeking. “Source of some enormous power . . . conveniently vague . . . hm . . . questing vampires combed the earth . . .” Giles read on, disheartened at how little was actually known about the Gem of Amara.

Xander rubbed his face. “That is what he wants to trade Will for? This Gem of Amara?”

Buffy looked puzzled. “Isn’t that the name of a video game?” she asked.

“Hmm . . . what?” Giles looked up at her.

She gave a spare shake of her head. “Nothing,” she muttered. “So, research?” she guessed.

“Yes,” Giles agreed. He went to his desk to review his notes. “We need to start researching all the references that mention the Gem of Amara,” he said. “Angel intends to come to Sunnydale to lend his assistance. He can help with the research, and his insights about Spike will be valuable,” Giles looked at Xander, expecting a protest from that quarter.

He scowled, but he nodded his acquiescence.