Sunnydale, 1997
While he waits his turn, Giles goes over his mental lists again. Establish a separate card file for the occult books; set a glamour over the occult books he's had to place on open shelves; order a copy of Hawkins' Index of Demon Dimensions to replace the one water-damaged in transit. Ring Quentin Travers again in case there's new information about the Slayer's arrival. Travers insists that he'll pass along any new information from the Council seers, but Travers mistrusts Giles and would be happy to see him fail.
When she arrives (in nine days, the seers have predicted), she'll need to be tested. Strength and stamina, unarmed combat, crossbow, sword. Vampirology and basic demonology. Probably he should start outlining a training roster. But he can't decide much until she arrives.
Frantic boredom. With only unpacking and list-making to occupy him until the Slayer arrives, he's slipped into this unlikely state. And so he's here in this open-air coffee bar, drinking a badly-made cafe latte and waiting to play. It's better than another night spent rearranging the sitting room.
The woman onstage concludes her sweet Irish folksong, and he applauds through a sudden attack of nerves. It's been a long time since he's played in public, and when the emcee calls his name he regrets whatever foolish impulse brought him here.
Once he's onstage it's easier. A quick fine-tune of the guitar steadies his hands, and he launches into Richard Thompson's "1952 Vincent Black Lightning." James the outlaw, and Red Molly, and the motorcycle: it's a modern myth, practically an archetype. And he likes the melody.