The Ravages Of Hell

FIC: Ravages Of Hell (12/?)

The East End Of London

Charles Rogers hurried through the crowded market, the stalls’ ridiculously-priced goods and the clamour of the stall-holders and customers bartering, passing him by as he searched for the demonspawn he’d been sent to kill. He was one of his organisation’s finest killers, his quarry having taken out the first two men they’d sent after him.

But not him.

Charles smirked as he saw the fugitive ducking between two stalls. Picking up the pace, he raced through the crowd, heedlessly bowling over those who got in his way, ignoring their shocked protests. By the time he got to the space where he’d seen his quarry, he’d disappeared. Muttering curses under his breath, he rushed through a gap between two stalls and looked left and right.

Seeing his target running around a corner to his right, he continued his pursuit, chasing the man into an alley, its walls littered with fading and peeling fly-posters. Rogers stopped, his forehead creasing in puzzlement as he searched the alley’s shadows for his quarry.

The target darted out of the shadows at the far end of the alley. Snarling victoriously, he reached into his jacket for his pocket and started forward. Hearing a footfall to his right, he started to turn.

He gasped as pain seared through his throat as his unseen assailant thrust a switchblade into the right side of his neck and dragged it across his throat. Legs suddenly weak, he slumped against the left wall, his world spinning and his .38 clattering to the ground.

His eyes widened in disbelief when his quarry stepped out of the shadows opposite him. “How?” he gurgled, bloody foam bubbling up in his mouth.

“Dear chap,” the older man sneered, “I hardly think that’s important.” He reached for his dropped gun but his adversary kicked the weapon away, sending it rattling across the cobbles. “Naughty, naughty,” his opponent placed a hand over his mouth and nose, cutting off his air. He struggled desperately but his weakening body was no match for his rival and soon death beckoned.

* * *

“Enter my parlour said the spider to the fly,” he recited as he let go of the corpse. “Pathetic, truly pathetic.” He stared down at the body at his feet, quickly stepping back to evade being splattered by the blood pooling out of the would-be assassin’s neck. Didn’t want blood on his shoes, at two hundred and fifty quid a pair they were far too expensive to be ruined.

Realising he had to get out of the alley before somebody saw him, he quickly strode away. Finding the nearest greasy spoon, he shoved its door open and walked in, making his way to the counter. “What it’ll be mate?”

He forced a smile. Cuisine de la Cockney, how positively delightful. “Why, I’ll have a chocolate éclair and a cup of your tea, my good man.”

The balding man stood behind the counter nodded. “That’ll be four quid, mate.”

He grimaced. Bloody hell, he could remember when he could get pissed on that much. He handed over a crumpled fiver. “Keep the change,” he instructed before making his way over to a corner table, the sounds of some boy-band or other blaring out of the jukebox, polluting the otherwise unhealthily smoky atmosphere.

He shuddered as he took a tentative sip of his tepid tea. “Bugger, that’s foul,” he muttered. He idly stirred at the offending cup, considering his opponents. It had been a simple matter to cast a confusion spell, making his rival follow a hallucination-induced doppelganger of him. “Magic always works better on the simple-minded,” he chuckled.

His smile disappeared at the sound of nearing police sirens. Obviously the corpse had been discovered. Which brought him back to his original problem, namely his hunters. Individually they were no match for a man of his intelligence and resources, but collectively he was out-gunned. He needed help and the only solution was….

“Oh bugger,” he groaned. “Ripper.” His elation of having survived dissipating, he gulped down his tea, rose, and strode out of the café

* * *

“Oh, damnation!” Giles rubbed at his forehead as he read through the reports Riley had written. He knew there was a reason he’d hadn’t seriously considered a career in the military – bloody paperwork.

Still, it did appear Riley and his team were fitting in very well. As was Lorne much to his surprise, the green-skinned demon having somehow strong-armed him into turning one of the storerooms into a rec-area where he’d entertain them all every night with a mind-boggling variety of songs ranging from show tunes, country, pop, ballads, rock, and soul. The only thing he refused to sing was hip hop. But then, he smirked, who would?

Giles’ mood darkened when he considered the one black spot on the horizon – Roger ‘stick up his arse’ Whyndham-Pryce. Every soddin’ day the bugger would have to come into his office with a different complaint. Sometimes it was about Riley’s changes to the building. Other times it would be Lorne’s presence. Other times it would be about him and Willow concealing the Slayer line’s true origins. “Talk about flogging a dead horse,” he muttered.

He looked up at a knock on the door before glancing down at his watch. It was rather too early for it to be Roger; it usually took him a few hours to build up a head of steam. “Hello?”

“It’s me.”

Ah, Giles grimaced. There was another problem, a slight issue compared to the other more pressing ones, but still a problem. “Do come in.” He watched with concern as Willow entered, noting the red-head’s unnatural paleness and the dimness of her usually lively eyes. “Please,” he gestured to the leather upholstered seat at the other side of the desk. “Have a seat.”

”Thanks,” the world’s most powerful witch smiled wanly before complying.

He stared at the red-head for a long second. “And how are you, Willow?”

“The Council’s library is incredibly extensive,” the witch reported. “And the Watchers you gave us are a great help. The only trouble is we don’t really know what we’re looking for, let alone what we’re looking for.”

“Oh,” Giles winced. That was less than encouraging. Returning to his original concern, he pressed. “I didn’t ask you how research was going. I asked how you are. Since your return I’ve noticed you’ve not been yourself. What’s wrong?” the witch looked down at the ground. “Willow?”

“It’s Xander,” Giles groaned inwardly. When either of the two Sunnydale natives was upset, the other was usually to blame. They loved one another fiercely but when they fought it was with equal passion. “H….he found out that I’d told Amy to watch out for him no matter what. Now he’s mad at me. He blames me for her dying and not trusting him.”

Giles felt his heart drop at Willow’s words. In truth, he had considerable sympathy with both viewpoints. Willow was only doing what she thought was right to protect her oldest friend. Which was all very admirable but Giles knew how Xander had chafed under the mantle of being the ‘weak one’. He also knew that the young man had secretly loved the opportunity to spread his wings, to be his own man. But now Willow had taken that away from him. And Willow’s actions, however well-intentioned, had indirectly lead to Amy’s death. “I understand your concern, Willow, and that you acted for the best of reasons,” he carefully began. “But Xander is a full-grown adult.” Now there was a word he’d never thought he’d use in relation to Xander. “And as such deserves the right to stand and fall by his decisions. You can’t hold his hand forever.”

“Bu-.”

“Giles!” They broke off from their conversation to look towards the doorway as Dawn charged in, a distressed look on her face. “I know what’s causing this!”

“Really?” Giles felt his academic interest quicken. “Please, by all means.”

“It was the amulet that Wolfram & Hart gave Angel for Buffy,” the teen brunette began pacing the floor.

”It wasn’t meant to close the Hellmouth?” Willow guessed.

Dawn shook her head. “Oh yes it was. In its original form at least.” Giles’ heart dropped. Original form? That did not sound good. “Wolfram & Hart didn’t want the First Evil to win anymore than we did. It was serious competition for them. But they added an interesting twist, put on a curse that delivered the wearer’s soul to them.”

“Why the interest in Spike?” Giles asked in confusion.

Dawn smiled painfully. “It wasn’t meant for him. They didn’t figure on Buffy’s feelings for Spike.” Giles rolled his eyes. Please, bile rose in his throat at just the thought of that swaggering prat. Love is blind? It’d have to be deaf and lacking sanity for someone to fall for him. “It was meant for Buffy or Faith, the true champions at the Sunnydale battle. Best case they got Buffy to use to blackmail Angel with. If they got Faith,” Dawn shrugged. “I guess they got an opportunity to get revenge for her not killing Angel.”

“And Spike?”

“Although Spike’s soul closed the Hellmouth, his demon warped the amulet’s magic, causing rips in the dimensional fabric.” Dawn’s eyes darkened. “Evil is leaking in from hell.”

“Oh bugger,” Giles muttered. Could things get any worse?

“Sir?” He looked up to see Robson leading in a scruffy but familiar looking figure. Giles groaned. Question answered.

Lips parting in a snarl, he leapt to his feet, raced across the room, and drove a solid right into their unwelcome guest’s stomach. The man grunted, doubled up, and fell wheezing to his knees. “What the bloody,” he slammed a foot into his fellow country-man’s right side, knocking down onto his left, “hell are you doing here, you bastard!”

“Please,” the man gasped, an evil smirk twisting his mouth, “watch your language. No swearing in front of the ladies.”

Giles glanced behind him. Noting Willow and Dawn’s pale faces, he forced himself to relax. Next, he looked towards Robson. His ire returned as he noticed the tell-tale glaze in his fellow Watcher’s eyes. Glamour,” he muttered before grabbing his former friend by the hair at the back of his head and dragged him to his feet. “You’ve got some bloody nerve, Ethan!” he growled.

“This isn’t the sort of welcome I’d hoped for, Ripper,“ his friend retorted.

“Welcome this!” Giles slammed his palms into his former friend’s chest. Taken by surprise, Ethan staggered backwards, the back of his legs hitting the table directly behind him. Before Ethan had chance to right himself, Giles punched him in the face.

Blood flew from the Chaos Mage’s mouth as he fell onto the table, knocking both him and the table to the carpet. Grinning viciously, he stepped towards the moaning man. “Stop!”

He glared at the obstacle stood in his path. “Out of my bloody way!” he ordered.

Dawn glared back at him with all the pig-headedness of her sister. “No.”

“Dawn,” Willow broke in, her voice colder than he ever remembered it. “Move.”

After a second, the younger Summers sister sulkily stepped aside. By now, Ethan had sat up against the wall, and was gingerly holding his ribs, eyeing him warily. “Miss Rosenberg,” Ethan greeted with all the false cheer of an used car salesman. “I see you’ve begun to utilise your potential.”

”And I see,” the Wicca’s tone sounded like treading over chipped ice. “You continue to abuse yours. Three decades now! Will you never learn!”

Ethan laughed then winced. “You can talk! I heard about ’02, most enterprising. A little overkill perhaps-.”

“Overkill.”

“Willow, please.” Ethan’s exchange with Willow had given Giles the time to calm down slightly, which was probably what the crafty bastard had intended. “Why are you here, Ethan?” he demanded. “You should have known you’d get a less than congenial welcome.” His fellow country-man’s mouth opened. Giles shook his head as he thought of something. “No, wait. Dawn, get Lorne.”

Ethan grinned at him as Dawn left, closing the door behind her. “Dawn Summers, uh? Just as nubile as her -.”

His former friend shrieked, eyes rolling back in his head, when Giles drove his foot into his groin. “Shut your damn hole!” he snarled at the moaning man. “Another word like that and I’ll cut your bollocks off!”

“Giles,” he forced himself to relax at Willow’s now slightly trembling voice, “calm down. He’s just trying to-.”

“Wind me up,” Giles finished before nodding, it was the bastard’s favourite sport. He bet as a lad Ethan had picked the legs off insects, now his hobby was annoying people. “I know, it’s what he does.” He looked up from his inspection of the now grey-faced Chaos Mage at the sound of the door opening. ”Thank you, Dawn. Lorne,” he nodded towards the green-skinned demon as immaculately dressed as always. He idly wondered if the Pylean could give Xander some fashion tips. Returning to the matter in hand, he looked towards Ethan, eyes hardening once more. “Sorry to disturb you old chap, but I want you to,” reaching down, he grabbed two handfuls of Ethan’s denim jacket and dragged him to his feet, “read this piece of shit!”

“Am I sensing hostility Watcher Guy?” queried the horned Pylean.

“Perceptive fellow aren’t you?” Ethan examined Lorne with interest. “And what, pray tell are you?”

“Lorne reads people when they sing,” Giles explained with a significant look at his former friend. “It’s up to him if you should be allowed stay.”

A smirk slowly wound itself across his fellow country-man’s face. “It would appear that only one song is suitable for this weighty occasion.” His compatriot took a breath before starting.

Once he’d finished, Giles shook his head in disgust. “Should I stay or should I go? Everything’s a bloody joke to you, isn’t it?” he demanded.

“Keeps me young,” Ethan agreed with a grin.

Still shaking his head, Giles turned to Lorne. “Well?”

“He’s got the aura of a W&H lawyer,” Lorne replied, the distaste etched on his face. Giles grinned, that meant he got to beat on the sleazy bugger for a while longer before having him thrown in the council dungeon. “But he also needs to here.”

“Oh bugger,” Giles muttered before turning to the smirking Chaos worshipper. “Why are you here anyway?”

All hint of hilarity fled from Ethan’s face. “The Witchguard.”

”Oh bollocks,” he cursed. “It never just rains, it has to bloody pour.”

“The Witchguard?” queried Dawn.

“An age-old cult dedicated to the annihilation of all witches and wizards. They’ve been in existence since records began. They influenced the Druidic massacre by the Romans, the Chelmsford Witch trials, and the butchering of the Knight Templars. They even put Pope Paul IV, a Cardinal involved in the torture of witches on the Papal Seat, and were behind the creation of the Witchfinder General. In addition they caused the trial of Joan of Arc-.”

“Oooh! Was she a -.”

Giles stared at the witch, exasperated by the interruption. “Yes, Willow before you ask, she was a Witch-.”

“Even worse, she was a lesbian, what a waste of a good wom-,” Ethan gulped at Willow’s glare. “Never mind.”

Giles rolled his eyes. He could just see Ethan was going to be a pain in the arse. “And were behind the Salem Witch Trials.”

“Just how old is this most feared order Mr. Giles?”

“There’s been rumours of their existence as far back as Tutankahem,” Ethan answered Andrew’s query. “Legend has it the boy pharaoh dabbled in the arcane arts, and a cabal of his advisors got together and murdered him. That act was the inception of the Witchguard, the pharaoh their first victim.”

“Quite so,” Giles nodded, hiding his irritation at Ethan’s interrupting his lecture and the fact his oldest friend had wasted such a fine brain in the pursuit of small-minded chaos. “Amongst the famed Witch Hunters that were members of their dread order were Bernardino of Siena, Pierre de Lancre, Henri Boguet, Nicolau Eymeric, Cardinal Richelieu, and even King James Stuart VI.”

“But he was a Jock, can one expect different?” muttered Ethan.

”Maybe they killed the Devon Coven?” Willow suggested.

Giles considered the idea for a few seconds before shaking his head. “No,” he decided. “There was a demonic signature at the cottage,” bile rose in his throat as he remembered the slaughter, “and demonic languages daubed in blood on the walls of the cottage. The Witchguard wouldn’t lower themselves,” he smiled apologetically at Lorne, “to working with demons.” He glared at Ethan. “And what pray did you do to piss them off?”

His former running mate shrugged. “Nothing. It appears,” Ethan reached into his jacket, pulled out a crumpled was of papers, and glanced significantly at Willow, “I’m on a list.”

“A list?” Giles took the list and began to leaf through ten sheets of single-spaced typing. It was a list of names, perhaps 150 to a sheet, some names crossed out, some he vaguely recognised. Finally he looked up. “What is this?”

“A list of people marked for death,” Ethan shrugged again. “Some evil, some good. Some grey.”

“Mages?” asked Dawn, her voice a taut whisper.

“Not just mages.” His former fellow Chaos Mage shook his head. “Seers, psychics, empaths. People with paranormal talent. If you look on the back page, there’s a colour code to the differing inks.”

“Where did you get this list?” demanded Willow a half-second before he could.

Ethan smiled Wryly. “The Withchguard have been persistent in their advances. I took it off one of their after killing him.” Rayne’s expression grew puzzled. “What I don’t understand is why they are now so powerful and bold?”

Any explanation Giles could have given was interrupted by his study door crashing open. “Giles!” Riley’s voice trailed off, the soldier’s eyes narrowing as he registered Ethan’s presence. “How in the hell did he get here?”

“Ah, US. Military prisons, not what they once were,” Ethan sneered only to pale when Riley advanced on him. “A simple glamour spell convinced my guards to release me,” Ethan babbled before looking pleadingly at him. “Ripper!”

Giles sighed. It was truly tempting to leave the arrogant bugger to get his just desserts but Lorne said he was needed. “Please Colonel Finn,” he was careful to use the American’s rank, subtly reminding him of his duties. “It appears for now ourselves and Rayne share a common foe. You have some news?”

“Yes.” After a last glance at the battered mage, Riley turned to him. “Lord Alfred Norton, Baron Fredrich Von Kruger, and Keifer Erickson have all been reported murdered. In addition, the Vatican and Cardinal Alex Kane has been murdered.”

“Good god,” Giles breathed, his legs suddenly unsteady. Glancing at his former friend, he saw Ethan’s face grey.

“Giles,” Dawn’s worried voice broke into his shock. “Who are they?”

Giles glanced at Willow. “Willow, please power that,” he stared distastefully at his computer, “thing up.” He turned back to Dawn. “Norton was the head of the Free-Masons, Kruger led the Illuminati, Erickson runs the Bilderberg group, and Kane is the head of the Catholic Church’s Occult Department.”

”Your computer’s ready, Giles.”

Giles nodded at Willow’s shout. “Thank you, dear.” He strode over to the Wicca, noting that the others, including Ethan, followed him over to the desk. “Please run the icon marked ‘1,000’.”

“What is it Giles?” Willow asked after she’d pressed on the icon. Tricky thing the mouse, he remembered the days one dealt with them by putting cheese in a trap.

“Andrew wrote me a computer application. It tracks the world’s 1,000 most powerful people – secret society leaders, business tycoons, politicians, religious leaders, law enforcement officers, and criminals. It searches the internet for recent reports on them all.” Giles paused for a second. “Please click on the ‘deceased’ option.” After a few seconds the screen cleared to give a result. “Good lord,” he gasped. “One hundred and twenty-seven dead in the past week.”

For a long while there was a hushed silence. Inevitably it was Ethan who broke it. “Well that answers one of my questions.”

“Really?” Giles looked at his former partner in crime. “Do share with the rest of us?”

“Why you and Miss Rosenberg weren’t on the Witchguard hit-list,” Ethan glanced at the wad of papers he’d given to Giles. “You’re being saved for later.”