Author: Sandra Pascoe

Pairing: None

Rating: FRM - some violent situations and swearing

Archive: Sure - just ask first

Disclaimer: Giles doesn’t belong to me - I’m only borrowing him. Can I keep him, please?

Spoilers: I don’t think there are any

Setting: Giles is still in England during S6-though its going a tad AU…hehe

Notes: Sequel to "The Summoning". It helps if you’ve read that first. A few odd references in this one - mainly Dr Who. The title comes from the Barry Manilow song of the same name - it’s only available on his recent "Ultimate Manilow" album and is from his film "Copacabana". I’d advise you to listen - it’s a superb and moving song. (The song actually has nothing to do with this fic - but the title fits!)

Dedication: To Jules and Julia - cracking betas - especially Julia who beta’d this whilst recovering from a hospital stay - there’s dedication for you! Also thanks to Ruth for her valuable input.

**********

The cellar was clean and brightly lit - yet still managed to convey that air of dank foreboding that is the purview of cellars everywhere. A hooded man sat cross-legged on the floor, his back against a wall as he picked through the various books and papers beside him. Occasionally, he glanced up; frowning first at a chalk circle that had been drawn with great precision in the centre of the room, his eyes then flicking towards the television that was mounted on the opposite wall. He sighed, opening a rather battered looking diary and running through a list of necessary items.

"Acacia leaf … check. Calamus Root … check. Liquorice Root … check. Mullein Leaves … check …"

He broke off, his attention caught by the programme that had just started on the television. He chuckled softly, reaching for the remote control and turning up the sound.

"In 1888 a series of murders took place in the Whitechapel area of London. The reign of terror had begun … Jack the Ripper had arrived…"

"Ahhh Jack," he murmured, turning back to the diary. "Such death … such Chaos … such precision. I’m impressed. I know you now. I know your true identity. Time for you to return for a while, my friend. Time for a little poetic justice. A bit of Chaos is needed to test Vulcan’s Bane and its new host."

He stood up, stalked forward and turned off the television. Damn you. You should have been a servant of Chaos. We were awaiting your return. He sighed and picked up his herbs. If only you knew the shockwave that went through us when you merged with THAT. A Watcher … you HAD to go and pick a Watcher … and if that weren’t bad enough, you bloody picked HIM.

The hooded man stepped into a chalk circle, placing his herbs carefully at various points around the circumference. He straightened up and moved to the centre of the circle, chuckling to himself.

"I’m looking forward to meeting you…’Jack’…"

**********

Rupert Giles sucked thoughtfully on a Mint Imperial as he stepped out of his car and gazed up at the Council’s "Country Retreat". The large granite Mansion was impeccably maintained and set in over 100 acres of exquisite grounds. Two lakes, herb gardens, sweeping lawns and dense woodland all contributed to the atmosphere of peace and serenity for which the retreat was well known. I love it here, he smiled, I always have. He locked the car and walked slowly along the gravel drive towards the house. Your affection for this place is the very reason Quentin Travers chose it for this meeting. The "presence" as Giles called it, had developed a soft, almost lilting voice in his mind and Giles shrugged.

"I know," he murmured, having found it easier to speak aloud whilst conversing with Vulcan’s Bane. "A part of me is very glad to see that Quentin is as astute as ever."

And a part of you is prepared to fight.

"Yes…well…I can’t help that," replied Giles. "I’m sure Quentin won’t need any explanation from me. He knows about you already, doesn’t he?"

The minds I examined certainly confirm your suspicions. Quentin Travers arranged your employment at the Museum and Gerald Montague’s mind contained an in-depth knowledge of myself, together with a deep-rooted hatred of both you and Quentin Travers. Of course, as I did not examine the mind of Quentin Travers directly, his motives are somewhat unclear.

"Oh great," Giles increased his pace. "NOW you tell me. I think you need to work on your communication skills."

A flash of amusement swept through his mind and the reply came: If I had told you earlier, you would have talked yourself out of this meeting. I believe that would have been most unwise.

"You think we need this meeting?" Giles tried to swallow his irritation.

I think YOU need this meeting. Even here, in this place where your happiest memories are centred, you felt like an outsider - as though you didn’t belong. You believe your brief flirtation with Chaos prejudiced their minds against you?

"It did," muttered Giles, shuddering slightly as he recalled the looks, the whispers and the multitudinous accusations.

And yet, you were assigned a Slayer.

Giles paused; gazing across the lawns and watching two swans swim serenely on the lake.

"Only because she wasn’t expected to survive for long … and they wanted me out of the way."

Have you considered that you were simply the best man for the job? Maybe Quentin Travers and his associates saw in you then what I see in you now.

"And what might that be?" Sighed Giles, thrusting his hands into his pockets.

Potential. There is a great deal of untapped potential in you, of which I am certain the Council were aware. Maybe assigning you a Slayer was an attempt on their part to help you uncover that potential. In a way, it worked. You became much more than you had been.

"But that’s not enough, is it?" Remarked Giles. "You need me to be more than I am NOW."

In order to face the coming darkness, we will BOTH need to be more. You cannot, however, move forward until you have vanquished your demons.

"Starting with the Council." Giles turned and walked to the house, opening the door and stepping inside. "I hope you know what you’re doing."

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

Giles jumped slightly, blushing guiltily as he noticed the Receptionist staring at him, a question in her eyes and a fixed smile on her face.

"Oh…um…sorry…nothing," he stammered.

The Receptionist’s smile faltered for a moment and Giles sighed inwardly. How many times recently have I talked to "myself" in public? It’s a bloody wonder I haven’t been locked up yet. The Receptionist took a deep breath and readjusted her smile.

"Welcome to Clunewic House, sir," she said with a touch of weary boredom. "How may I help you?"

"I have an appointment…"

"Rupert!" The bellowed shout interrupted his explanation and Giles turned his head to see a dark-suited, thickset, middle-aged man running lightly down the stairs towards him.

"Bernard, you’re looking well," grinned Giles, "have you been eating monkey glands?"

Bernard laughed and clapped Giles on the arm.

"Hardly. The new Doctor says I have to get fit. Its all part of his ‘healthy mind in a healthy body’ obsession. Don’t see the point myself. Once a pen-pusher, always a pen-pusher."

"You’re a bit more than that," smiled Giles. "Are you still dining with the devil?"

"I’m using a very long spoon," he grinned.

Bernard nodded to the Receptionist then, lightly gripping Giles’ elbow, he ushered him towards the stairs.

"Seriously though, Quentin HAS mellowed," He continued. "It’s not an easy thing you know…to face the fact that much of what you’ve done, what you’ve worked for, has been…I hesitate to use the word ‘wrong’…maybe ‘misguided’ is more accurate."

Giles glanced at Bernard, frowning when the latter wouldn’t meet his eyes. He knows, came the soft voice in his mind and Giles sighed.

"I AM still me, Bernard," said Giles with a touch of irritation. "Or did you expect my eyes to glow red?"

"Actually my money was on gold," smiled Bernard nervously. He sighed with relief as Giles grinned. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Did you actually…merge…with it?"

"Well it would be more accurate to say that he merged with me."

"What does it feel like?" Bernard was intrigued at Giles’ use of pronoun.

"It feels…" Giles paused and smiled widely, "interesting. Very interesting. He’s a part of me yet, at the same time, he’s not. We are one … yet separate. Bit of a paradox really and very difficult to explain."

Bernard nodded and continued to lead Giles to Quentin Travers’ office. He studied Giles surreptitiously. He could be the one eating monkey glands, mused Bernard. Rupert looks younger; more relaxed … much less haggard. He still has that steel behind his eyes but he seems happy. Whatever it is that Vulcan’s Bane does - maybe this is just what Rupert needed.

**********

The chained demon sat perfectly still, eyes closed and his breathing shallow. Occasionally, an ear twitched as if to send out a signal that he was still alive. Suddenly, he tensed; eyes snapping open, nostrils flaring as he sniffed the air. So, he mused, relaxing back against the chains, the wheel has turned full circle once more. I can never refuse. That is part of my curse. They come here, somehow finding their way to this realm, and make their demands. I must agree. A prisoner cannot say no to his captors. A slave cannot refuse his masters. It has been a long time since one came to me - over 100 years - but one is coming now. I can feel his presence. He brings the stench of humanity with him. I will agree to his request…I must agree. Maybe this time I can win my freedom. Maybe this human will be different.

The hooded man approached the chained demon warily; taking great care not to look for too long at the constantly changing landscape that surrounded him. A multitude of colours drifted through the air in a seemingly endless and random procession, whilst hills, mountains, deserts, oceans and ice appeared and disappeared almost at whim. Something that resembled a chuckle came from the creature as he watched the hooded man.

"My prison is the Realm of Dreams, human. It is in a constant state of flux." A forked tongue flicked out from between sharp, pointed teeth. "Is it not to your liking?"

"I like to think my tastes are more refined," replied the hooded man as he continued to watch the demon. Why do demons all look so … stereotypical? Can’t they come up with something other than lizard-like skin, pointed ears, long razor-sharp claws and pointed teeth? The forked tongue is a nice touch though. He moved closer, taking care, despite the chains, to stay out of reach of the demon’s claws. This may only be a representation of myself, he thought, but what happens here is reflected upon my body lying on the floor of the cellar…so I’m not going to take any chances.

"You are compelled to answer my questions, is that not so?" The hooded man smiled with satisfaction as the demon nodded wearily. "And to do my bidding?"

"When your mark is upon me…yes."

"A human put his mark on you about a hundred years ago…do you remember that?"

"I do," replied the demon evenly.

"And what did he have you do?" The hooded man took a step closer.

"At first he wished to talk…he wished to learn. Then I killed for him."

"Why did he want you to kill those women?"

"I do not question my masters," snapped the demon. "I merely do as I am bid."

"Good…if there’s one thing I hate it’s chatty demons." The hooded man reached out and placed his hand on the demon’s shoulder. His fingers were as shadows; they seemed to pass through the flesh but the effect of his touch was instantaneous. The demon screamed and arched against the chains, trying to pull away from the hand that was burning like the fires of Hell. The hooded man stepped back, both arms by his sides once more. He nodded with satisfaction at the black and blistered handprint on the demon’s shoulder. He drew a pattern in the air and the chains dropped away from the demon.

"What…what is your bidding, Master?" The demon gasped for breath as the pain gradually receded.

"You will kill. You will use the same methods as you did for my predecessor. You will ONLY kill the ones I select and only at a time of my choosing. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Master."

"You will wait here until you are summoned." The hooded man slowly faded from sight and the demon sighed, sinking wearily to the ground, wincing at the pain in his shoulder.

So once again I return to that realm…and once again I must kill. Must I always be at the beck and call of these humans? Have I not paid for whatever mistake I made? Will this never end?

**********

Henry Rochester would normally be described as an easy-going and cheerful man; however, at this particular time he was having great difficulty in keeping hold of the tattered remnants of his temper. He winced as one end of the large crate hit the concrete floor with an audible thud.

"Be careful, you idiots!" He roared. "If that’s damaged I’ll have your damn guts for garters!"

"Yeah, yeah," replied one of the four deliverymen, "keep your hair on, granddad."

The other three chuckled and Henry glowered and stepped forward.

"Now, look…" he began, stopping when an instantly recognisable voice interrupted before he could allow his temper free reign.

"Problems, Henry?" Nicholas Goldsmith had, as usual, walked in unnoticed.

I’m sure that dratted man levitates, thought Henry as he turned around. I wonder just how soft his soles are?

"Oh no problem at all," began Henry. "If we employ such a ‘cheap’ delivery company then we should expect slipshod service. Have you ANY idea what is in that crate?"

"None whatsoever," smiled Nicholas. "I never claimed to be an archaeologist."

"No…you’re more of a bean counter. Well, to put it in terms that you would understand…the items in that crate are valuable. Should any of them be damaged then the Museum would have to pay compensation…a LOT of compensation."

The smile slipped from the Curator’s face.

"I see," he replied thoughtfully. "I’ll look into it."

Henry nodded; watching intently as the crate was deposited in a corner of the room. A short, rather rotund man in overalls peeled away from the others and wandered over to Henry, pulling a grubby piece of paper out of his pocket.

"Sign here, mate," he said, pointing a dirty and battered finger at the bottom of what turned out to be a delivery note.

Henry gingerly took the paper between thumb and forefinger and placed it on a table. Spreading it out, he signed and then carefully added a note at the bottom:

I hold your company entirely responsible should these artefacts be in less than perfect condition. Upon delivery, your employees dropped the crate and treated the consignment in an entirely slipshod manner.

Henry handed the note back, receiving a scowl and his half of the delivery note in return. The rotund man stalked away and Henry allowed himself a small smile.

"I need a word," said Nicholas softly, putting his hands in his pockets.

"Of course…what’s wrong?" Henry thrust the delivery note into his pocket.

"How has Rupert seemed to you recently?"

"He seems fine," shrugged Henry. "Does his work with his usual efficiency…no problems."

"He seems to have been a bit distracted…you know the type of thing: not listening…talking to himself…"

"Oh good Lord," interrupted Henry. "My dear chap, EVERYONE talks to themselves…it’s a fact of life. I not only talk to myself but I also regularly converse with televisions, books, kettles." Henry shrugged. "Although I will admit my ‘conversations’ with kettles usually consist of me snarling ‘boil you bloody thing’ at them."

"Uh…yes…well," stammered Nicholas. "Getting back to Rupert though…would you have a chat with him? Make sure he’s not ill or something. I’ll have to check his employment contract - it would be a bad thing were the Museum to be liable."

"I’ll have a word when he gets back," replied Henry.

"Oh? Where’s he gone?"

"Taken a couple of days off. Said he had personal business to attend to."

**********

Giles placed the sheet of paper on Quentin’s desk and sat back in his chair.

"I see," he said quietly. "Well, it’s beginning to make more sense now."

"It’s not entirely what you think," replied Quentin. "That prophecy was really the only clue we had. We didn’t know if Alistair Butler had found all the pieces of Vulcan’s Bane…and if he had, how were we to know he’d keep them at the Museum? We weren’t even sure about our interpretation of the prophecy…but as it appeared that the future of the Council was at stake, we had to do what we thought necessary."

"And you never thought to tell me?"

"Telling you might have clouded the issue. You might have walked away from this…and we couldn’t afford that. Rupert, I WILL do what I consider is right for the survival and growth of the Council…and if that means stepping on a few toes or putting certain people in the line of fire, then I will not hesitate."

"I never doubted it for a second," replied Giles, calmly sipping a cup a tea. "I just needed to know precisely how involved you were in all this."

"I understand that, but we do have more important things to discuss."

"I wondered when we’d get to that," Giles smiled slightly and put his cup down. "And the whole reason for this meeting is for you to discover as much as possible about Vulcan’s Bane and the effect its had on me. Not to mention how you can turn it to the Council’s advantage."

"Well of course we need to know!" Quentin snapped irritably. "Like it or not you are a part of this Council and there are larger concerns here, not just your hurt feelings."

"These ‘larger concerns’ are one of the reasons I agreed to this meeting." Giles put down his cup and leaned forward. "Quentin, I am still discovering what Vulcan’s Bane does or can do. We are still exploring one another but he IS here to fight against the forces of Chaos and evil. You’ll just have to take my word for it."

"Do I have a choice?"

"Not really," Giles grinned. "I get the impression you need me…and him. And to be brutally honest, we need the Council."

"Oh?" Quentin raised an eyebrow.

"There’s some kind of darkness coming, Quentin. He doesn’t know what it is but it IS coming." Giles paused, his head slightly to one side. I believe the darkness could be connected to the Council, came the voice in his mind. It would make sense as regards the prophecy. Does it not say ‘the tower will fall’?

Quentin watched with interest as Giles appeared to be listening to something. His eyes had lost their focus as though he were concentrating intently. Fascinating, thought Quentin, quite fascinating.

"I take it you had nothing to do with this prophecy?" Giles muttered softly, not noticing the slight frown on Quentin’s face.

Not directly. However, my presence whilst in the sphere can have unusual effects upon those who come into contact with it. It can open the mind, allowing access to those areas that are underdeveloped or blocked off in the human brain. It is entirely possible that a human who was close to the Sphere developed precognitive abilities.

"What about after merging? Do you have those effects then?"

To a much lesser degree. You may find your instincts are sharper…you might feel your intuitive abilities increase. However it will merely be a slight enhancement of abilities you already possess. You will feel no dramatic changes.

"Interesting," muttered Giles, glancing up and flushing slightly when he caught Quentin’s eyes. "I...um…I prefer conversing with him aloud. I’m still learning to ‘think’ in the right way."

"I found it quite fascinating," replied Quentin with a smile. "What did he say?"

"He said that the coming darkness could be connected to the Council. The prophecy after all stated the possibility of the ‘tower’ falling."

"That doesn’t give us much to go on," remarked Quentin. "It could mean anything."

Quentin paused and stared intently at Giles, noting the determined look in his eyes, the sense of purpose that emanated from him. Purpose, thought Quentin, that’s what was missing from him. Purpose and a sense of his own worth. I hope this helps him find it.

"Very well," Quentin nodded. "We’ll start researching…see if we can turn up anything. In the meantime, I have a question."

"Just the one?" Giles remarked in surprise.

"For the moment, yes. I need to know what happened to Gerald…whether he still poses a threat."

"Ahhh…let’s just say he’s indisposed. He no longer poses a threat."

"Do I have your word on that? He’s a dangerous man…"

"You have OUR word." Giles deliberately allowed a touch of steel to enter his voice.

"Then it appears I will have to accept it." Quentin sat back and drummed his fingers on the table. "And now we come to you."

"Me?" Giles raised an eyebrow.

"Another reason for this meeting is to discuss your role in the Council."

Do not interrupt, came the voice just as Giles started to open his mouth. He closed it again and sighed. Let him speak. Your role in the Council is a grey area that has been bothering you. It makes sense to hear what they are prepared to offer. And remember…they DO have extensive facilities that could be of considerable use.

"With Gerald’s disappearance, the Council is in confusion," continued Quentin. "He had bribed and influenced a number of staff, including a few Board Members. The important thing though is that he was held in high esteem and great regard by many of our younger Watchers, who listened to his views not only on how the Council should be run but also on the role of the Slayer and her Watcher."

Gerald Montague believed the Slayer was a weapon that should be controlled by the Council. The Watcher would train the weapon…use it when instructed to do so…at targets of the Council’s choosing. The voice paused and then added: he did not understand the nature of the Slayer nor that of her Watcher. For Gerald Montague, it was all about power.

"Thanks," muttered Giles under his breath before saying aloud: "So where do I come in?"

"I would like you to spend some time with the trainees. Talk to them…tell them of your experiences. Most of them have never seen a Slayer, never met an ‘active’ Watcher." Quentin shrugged. "I suppose what I am trying to say is that I want you to play an active role in training them."

"I see," replied Giles evenly.

"It’s not a full-time position, Rupert," continued Quentin. "A couple of days a week in London…I’m sure you can arrange that with the Museum."

"In return, I want top level security clearance and access to ALL of the Council’s libraries and records." Giles spoke firmly, leaving Quentin with the impression that he would up and leave if he didn’t get what he wanted.

"On one condition," Quentin matched Giles’ tone. "You will share with us any information concerning the Council or the Slayer that your…um…’partner’ should reveal or discover."

"Fair enough," nodded Giles, feeling a sense of satisfaction and anticipation from Vulcan’s Bane.

Quentin stood up and held out his hand.

"The prodigal son returns," he smiled. "Welcome home, Rupert."