Fic: Running With Scissors, chapter 32
Running With Scissors, chapter 32
A long time ago, when Sunny was a pony-tailed kid on a pony (only the pony’s tail was curried) she learned how to kick her from a jarring trot-trot-trot to a canter as smooth as a rocking-chair. Then, she shied at something and went right and Sunny went left, and suddenly found herself flying through the air. Time slowed and she seemed to sail on forever, until she was on her back in the grass. From the pounding of horse-shoes on turf and the creak of the saddle leathers and the wind whistling past her ears, there was nothing but silence, and the blue circle of the sky.
Nothing happened for a long while, and she heard the tops of the trees swaying in time with the blood pounding in her ears. Then, Sunny sat up, and saw the trailing reins of her pony as she peaceably cropped the grass. Even after she had the reins in her hand, she didn’t move.
She kept thinking that she was dead.
Of course, she eventually had to pee, so she put her foot in the stirrup and rode back to the stables. (Neither of her parents noticed that she had grass stains from the fall, or that her hard hat was dented, but then she had already noticed that they didn’t pay too much attention to her.) All the other kids were out on rides, and the stalls were empty. The owners were in the air-conditioned office, and there was simply no one to feel sorry for her or laugh at her or, really, do anything.
Sitting in her Camaro outside the old dark hotel, Sunny had the vertiginous feeling that she was sailing through the air towards some hard landing. There was no one on the street outside, not even any traffic. The air was close and thick, the cloud cover low.
On the building, she could see faint blue lights: magic. Protective spells, something that the family wouldn’t tell her about, being cast by Auntie Prem and the other Chatterjis. She drove around the block, down the rutted alley behind the building. The blue lights flickered along the roof-top. On her second circuit, she noticed the service entrance with the broken gate, and cautiously drove in. There was just enough room to turn around, and a second, smaller exit to the street. It’s a place to be trapped in, she thought, easing the car back onto the street. Don’t be a red-shirt.
Fat raindrops, as big and thick as drops of blood, splattered the windshield, and she thought she could hear the low rumble of thunder. Just as the storm broke, the blue glow began to shine from the top floor windows, almost like computer monitors left on in the big office buildings. The old scar on the palm of her hand itched.
The rain came down like a curtain. Sunny got the tire iron from beside her seat and stepped out of the car. She was immediately soaked, and the smell of the rain came up from the wet pavement.
But, as soon as her sandals were wet, she smelled other things, the smell of wet leaves, wet lawns, smells that were miles away from dirty LA asphalt. She jammed her car keys in her front pocket and splashed down the alley.
Car lights came up behind her, and screeched to a stop. Fred, in Wesley’s Jeep.
“He’s dead,” Fred shouted over the din of the rain on the canvas roof. “Wesley. He’s dead.” She had streaks of blood on her face, and her mouth twisted grotesquely. “Can you---there’s bathtubs in the hotel.” It gave Sunny a horrid jolt to realize that Wesley was hanging, limp, in the shoulder harness, dried blood caked in his hair and his shirt sodden with it.
She felt herself grow oddly calm, as calm as if she were in a hot tub instead of Hell’s own rainstorm.
Sunny swiped wet hair from her mouth. “Won’t need it,” she said calmly. She glanced down at her sandals, and stepped out of them into the puddles of dirty water. “It’s all here.” She pointed to the service entrance, gesturing with the tire iron. “Take him in---”
“I know it,” Fred said. “I used to live here.” She ground the gears and fishtailed the Jeep into the little parking area.
There was a flash of blue, and the blue goddess was standing in the downpour right in front of Sunny. “Lindsey is dead,” she said flatly and she was----Jesus, she was dropping a body into the road in front of Sunny. “Invoke your deity, human priestling, or I will kill you.”
“Yeah,” Sunny said. “I was just going to. Take, uh, him, where Fred and Wesley are. Was he, uh, shot? Those are---pretty big holes.”
“Yes,” Illyria said flatly. It was creepy, seeing Eve’s babyish high forehead and pouting lip transfigured into this creature. She picked up the bloody, long-haired corpse, with one hand and jogged through the blowing sheets of rain.
Who, Sunny thought irrelevantly, splashing through puddles, was actually a God-King and probably missed his dangling bits. She looked up at a sound of thunder---but it wasn’t thunder. Something caught fire, up on the roof line, and fell heavily to the pavement, reeking of burned hair and fish-scales. The blue glow grew stronger, and was now at the second floor windows. Naturally, the Indian demon family would be rational and decide to fortify the building. But Angel would want to fight in the street, of course. He wasn’t planning on surviving.
The service area would probably have a drain, she thought practically. She’d have to put something over it to make sure the water was deep enough. She looked at the tire-iron in her slippery grip, and let it fall. It was nothing, compared to the oncoming mass of Something that was nearly upon them.
What good would it do, to revive Wesley and that other guy, if they were only going to be killed again? She shrugged, and once more in the grip of that odd calm, watched another figure jog in from the street.
Spike.
He recognized her at the same time, and stared. “Christ,” he said. “What the fuck are you doing here? Angel’s head’ll explode, if he still has it.” He grabbed her arm. “You don’t understand. No one gets away from this one.” He turned his head. “Gunn---”
Gunn came limping, blood streaking down his shirt and pants, diluted pink by the rain. “These blue guys came in and helped me, but I got stabbed---I don’t know---” he focused on Sunny, blinking, uncomprehending.
“You’re not doing well, Charlie, old son,” Spike said.
“I can do a few more,” Gunn said.
“Maybe you won’t have to,” an unfamiliar voice said. “God damn, Gunn, you look like shit.” The voice was coming from the fire-escape, and then it’s owner leapt down, landing with minimum splash. “I like fightin’ in the rain.”
“One Slayer isn’t going to help,” Spike said, but still grinned widely. “How the fuck?”
“Oh, I brought back-up,” the Slayer said. She glanced over at Sunny. “You been called?”
“Not that I know of,” Sunny said.
“I mean, you have a dream or something, make you come here?” the girl asked, unusually patient for someone standing in a downpour.
“I think,” Spike said, narrowing his eyes, “she did the calling. She’s not a Slayer, Faith. She’s Angel’s girlfriend.”
“You’re a werewolf?” Faith said, brightening. “Can you turn at will, because that would be handy.”
“Not that one,” Spike said.
“You a witch?” Faith asked. She waved to someone on the street. “I’m puttin’ some of the girls on each end. There’s a mob of things comin’.”
“I’m not a witch,” Sunny said, turning and splashing towards the service yard.
“Then what good are ya?” Faith asked, in high good humor.
At the far end of the alley, in the other direction, Sunny saw a running figure. “I guess we’ll see,” she muttered, and ducked into the yard to stand over the dead.
A long time ago, when Sunny was a pony-tailed kid on a pony (only the pony’s tail was curried) she learned how to kick her from a jarring trot-trot-trot to a canter as smooth as a rocking-chair. Then, she shied at something and went right and Sunny went left, and suddenly found herself flying through the air. Time slowed and she seemed to sail on forever, until she was on her back in the grass. From the pounding of horse-shoes on turf and the creak of the saddle leathers and the wind whistling past her ears, there was nothing but silence, and the blue circle of the sky.
Nothing happened for a long while, and she heard the tops of the trees swaying in time with the blood pounding in her ears. Then, Sunny sat up, and saw the trailing reins of her pony as she peaceably cropped the grass. Even after she had the reins in her hand, she didn’t move.
She kept thinking that she was dead.
Of course, she eventually had to pee, so she put her foot in the stirrup and rode back to the stables. (Neither of her parents noticed that she had grass stains from the fall, or that her hard hat was dented, but then she had already noticed that they didn’t pay too much attention to her.) All the other kids were out on rides, and the stalls were empty. The owners were in the air-conditioned office, and there was simply no one to feel sorry for her or laugh at her or, really, do anything.
Sitting in her Camaro outside the old dark hotel, Sunny had the vertiginous feeling that she was sailing through the air towards some hard landing. There was no one on the street outside, not even any traffic. The air was close and thick, the cloud cover low.
On the building, she could see faint blue lights: magic. Protective spells, something that the family wouldn’t tell her about, being cast by Auntie Prem and the other Chatterjis. She drove around the block, down the rutted alley behind the building. The blue lights flickered along the roof-top. On her second circuit, she noticed the service entrance with the broken gate, and cautiously drove in. There was just enough room to turn around, and a second, smaller exit to the street. It’s a place to be trapped in, she thought, easing the car back onto the street. Don’t be a red-shirt.
Fat raindrops, as big and thick as drops of blood, splattered the windshield, and she thought she could hear the low rumble of thunder. Just as the storm broke, the blue glow began to shine from the top floor windows, almost like computer monitors left on in the big office buildings. The old scar on the palm of her hand itched.
The rain came down like a curtain. Sunny got the tire iron from beside her seat and stepped out of the car. She was immediately soaked, and the smell of the rain came up from the wet pavement.
But, as soon as her sandals were wet, she smelled other things, the smell of wet leaves, wet lawns, smells that were miles away from dirty LA asphalt. She jammed her car keys in her front pocket and splashed down the alley.
Car lights came up behind her, and screeched to a stop. Fred, in Wesley’s Jeep.
“He’s dead,” Fred shouted over the din of the rain on the canvas roof. “Wesley. He’s dead.” She had streaks of blood on her face, and her mouth twisted grotesquely. “Can you---there’s bathtubs in the hotel.” It gave Sunny a horrid jolt to realize that Wesley was hanging, limp, in the shoulder harness, dried blood caked in his hair and his shirt sodden with it.
She felt herself grow oddly calm, as calm as if she were in a hot tub instead of Hell’s own rainstorm.
Sunny swiped wet hair from her mouth. “Won’t need it,” she said calmly. She glanced down at her sandals, and stepped out of them into the puddles of dirty water. “It’s all here.” She pointed to the service entrance, gesturing with the tire iron. “Take him in---”
“I know it,” Fred said. “I used to live here.” She ground the gears and fishtailed the Jeep into the little parking area.
There was a flash of blue, and the blue goddess was standing in the downpour right in front of Sunny. “Lindsey is dead,” she said flatly and she was----Jesus, she was dropping a body into the road in front of Sunny. “Invoke your deity, human priestling, or I will kill you.”
“Yeah,” Sunny said. “I was just going to. Take, uh, him, where Fred and Wesley are. Was he, uh, shot? Those are---pretty big holes.”
“Yes,” Illyria said flatly. It was creepy, seeing Eve’s babyish high forehead and pouting lip transfigured into this creature. She picked up the bloody, long-haired corpse, with one hand and jogged through the blowing sheets of rain.
Who, Sunny thought irrelevantly, splashing through puddles, was actually a God-King and probably missed his dangling bits. She looked up at a sound of thunder---but it wasn’t thunder. Something caught fire, up on the roof line, and fell heavily to the pavement, reeking of burned hair and fish-scales. The blue glow grew stronger, and was now at the second floor windows. Naturally, the Indian demon family would be rational and decide to fortify the building. But Angel would want to fight in the street, of course. He wasn’t planning on surviving.
The service area would probably have a drain, she thought practically. She’d have to put something over it to make sure the water was deep enough. She looked at the tire-iron in her slippery grip, and let it fall. It was nothing, compared to the oncoming mass of Something that was nearly upon them.
What good would it do, to revive Wesley and that other guy, if they were only going to be killed again? She shrugged, and once more in the grip of that odd calm, watched another figure jog in from the street.
Spike.
He recognized her at the same time, and stared. “Christ,” he said. “What the fuck are you doing here? Angel’s head’ll explode, if he still has it.” He grabbed her arm. “You don’t understand. No one gets away from this one.” He turned his head. “Gunn---”
Gunn came limping, blood streaking down his shirt and pants, diluted pink by the rain. “These blue guys came in and helped me, but I got stabbed---I don’t know---” he focused on Sunny, blinking, uncomprehending.
“You’re not doing well, Charlie, old son,” Spike said.
“I can do a few more,” Gunn said.
“Maybe you won’t have to,” an unfamiliar voice said. “God damn, Gunn, you look like shit.” The voice was coming from the fire-escape, and then it’s owner leapt down, landing with minimum splash. “I like fightin’ in the rain.”
“One Slayer isn’t going to help,” Spike said, but still grinned widely. “How the fuck?”
“Oh, I brought back-up,” the Slayer said. She glanced over at Sunny. “You been called?”
“Not that I know of,” Sunny said.
“I mean, you have a dream or something, make you come here?” the girl asked, unusually patient for someone standing in a downpour.
“I think,” Spike said, narrowing his eyes, “she did the calling. She’s not a Slayer, Faith. She’s Angel’s girlfriend.”
“You’re a werewolf?” Faith said, brightening. “Can you turn at will, because that would be handy.”
“Not that one,” Spike said.
“You a witch?” Faith asked. She waved to someone on the street. “I’m puttin’ some of the girls on each end. There’s a mob of things comin’.”
“I’m not a witch,” Sunny said, turning and splashing towards the service yard.
“Then what good are ya?” Faith asked, in high good humor.
At the far end of the alley, in the other direction, Sunny saw a running figure. “I guess we’ll see,” she muttered, and ducked into the yard to stand over the dead.