Chapter Six

         Hank peered nervously through the windshield of the Hummer at the neon sign that advertised Willie's.  He didn't like this neighborhood much, and it bothered him even more that his daughter seemed so familiar with this place.  And that Buffy was becoming so bossy.  She'd directed him here and ordered him to wait in the Hummer with Riley while she and that Giles character went inside to ask some questions.

        "Are you sure she's safe in there?" he asked Riley uneasily.

        "What?" asked Riley, who had been examining the controls to the SkyFi satellite radio.  "Buffy?  Sure.  Everything in there is a lot more afraid of her than she'd ever be of them."

        Hank let himself be reassured momentarily, even though he still had trouble believing his little girl was a superhero.  But he felt inclined to trust Riley, even if the man was dating his daughter.  Riley had a military background, he understood basketball, and he had spent a good portion of the evening discussing sequential fuel injection, torque, electronically controlled four-wheel drive, traction control systems, and other tenets of Hummerology with great enthusiasm.  In order to have the honor of riding in Hank's front passenger seat, Riley had even tossed the keys to his own SUV to that odd Xander boy.

        But Buffy had been less impressed with the Hummer, dumping huge bags filled with pointy weapons on the virgin custom carpet floor mats in the back and complaining that it didn't have much seating for something this big, forcing them to take two vehicles.

        Giles hadn't complimented the Hummer either, merely pointing out that two vehicles meant that they could split up as they conducted their search.   Xander would drive Anya, Willow, and Tara to some night spots frequented by white witches and the friendlier sort of demons, while Buffy and the others tackled more recalcitrant sources of information.  Hank was trying not to think too much about the fact that at least two of his daughter's best friends were witches.  He had no idea what Anya was, and the few comments he'd heard her make made him reluctant to ask.

It bothered Hank a lot that Buffy seemed to look to Giles for advice instead of Riley.  Hank wasn't inclined to trust Giles.  He remembered how Giles had gone through Joyce's kitchen cabinets as if he belonged there.  The man seemed too much at home in Joyce's house and Buffy's life.  And he probably didn't even watch basketball. 

        A few more minutes went by, the only sound that of Riley turning the pages of the Hummer owner's manual and giving occasional grunts of admiration and approval.

"Who is Buffy going to see?" Hank asked at last.

        Buffy yanked the rear passenger door open in time to hear the question.  "Just Willie.  I hit him for information all the time."  She hopped inside.

        "Hit him up for information, you mean," said Hank.  He'd hoped she'd grown out of her tendency to mangle clichés.

        "No, she usually just hits him," said Giles, climbing into the seat behind Riley.  "But it didn't do much good this time.  We're convinced he doesn't know anything about the jaguar."

        "Where to next?" asked Riley, turning to lean over the back of his seat.  "How about that place out on the highway?  The one called Wreck's or something like that?  A ride out there will give Hank a chance to show off his Hummer, too."

        "This isn't a joy ride," said Giles repressively.  "Besides, judging by a phone call Willie got while we were in there, Rack's is closed for the rest of the evening."

        "Yeah, there was some big bar fight," said Buffy.  "A demon got knifed, whatever did the knifing got away, and the victim's relatives tore the place up.  Rack's is a wreck at the moment.  I can try to find out tomorrow exactly what killed what, but considering what the clientele there is like, someone probably just did me a favor.  Not to mention Willie, who is thrilled at the prospect of getting more business until Rack can open up again."

        "Why do you care what got killed?" asked Hank. 

        She stared at him blankly.  "I thought you understood, Dad.  It's the Slayer's job to know things like that."

        "So you spend your evenings chasing down news about bar fights and demon homicides?  And—and mystical jaguars?"

        Buffy pouted.  "Well, it's more important than you and Riley discussing the circulation in your balls.  That jaguar thing mauled someone last night.  Someone besides me, I mean."

        Hank winced.  "We were discussing recirculating ball steering," he said, adding reflexively, "with integral power."

        "Whatever," said Buffy.  "We need to meet up with the others and start checking out the parks and the cemeteries."  She picked up something big with sharp edges and started doing something with it—making it even sharper, maybe.  Hank quailed in fear for his optional leather upholstery.

        "We haven't tried asking Spike," said Riley, tearing himself away from the heating controls on his seat for a moment.  "He might have heard something."

        "From the sound of things, that idiot got himself involved in the big bar fight," said Buffy.  "And Willie said he had a female of some species or another with him, so I'm guessing he's not worrying about the same kind of pussy that we are tonight."

        Hank winced again as he began to carefully back the Hummer out of the narrow alley.  Buffy was beginning to remind him unpleasantly of her mother.  How many times had Joyce made him flinch with some dirty-minded little pun? 

        But Joyce wasn't here tonight, on what she would doubtlessly call a wild cat chase.  Hank was beginning to think that she had chosen a much more sensible way to spend the evening.

        Spike shoved the Guecubu down into the hand chair, holding it there with one of his own hands on a scrawny shoulder.  "We need to tie him up," he said over his shoulder to Joyce, who was locking the back door behind them.  "Too bad we don't have any handcuffs here."

        "But we do," called Joyce's voice from the office.  "We brought them here last week, when I had that funny abstract sculpture here, remember?"  She bounced out of the office a moment later, triumphantly holding up the handcuffs.

        "Brilliant.  Toss them here, love."  Spike grabbed them and pulled the Guecubu over to a sturdy display case.  He secured the demon carefully with its hands behind its back, making sure the skinny wrists and hands couldn't slip through.  He turned around to see Joyce holding the box she had begun to unpack the day before.

        Spike took the box from her and opened it, lifting the Chac Mol out while it was still in its packing material and setting it on a counter a few feet away from the Guecubu.  "That's it," moaned the little demon.  "That's the altar.  If only you would let me perform the ritual, I will have the power to destroy the jaguar."

        Spike and Joyce exchanged glances.  "If he kills the jaguar that hurt Buffy, that's a good thing," said Joyce.  "But what happens then?"

        "I become a great warrior and champion of my tribe!" cried the Guecubu.

        "What does his tribe do?" asked Joyce.

        Spike shrugged.  "Not much.  Try to keep from getting skinned by bigger demons, mostly."

        "Well, I have no objection to their doing that," said Joyce.  "Maybe we should help him do the ritual."

        "Yes! Yes!" cried the little demon, jumping up and down with excitement. "Ow!" it added as it pulled too hard against the handcuffs.  It deflated a bit, and its antenna dipped subserviently.  "Please?"

        "Well," said Spike, "now you've said the magic word, and the importance of that has been made clear to me recently, so—"

        Joyce watched as Spike prepared the Chac Mol for the ritual, setting it up on top of one of her display cases according to the Guecubu's stuttering instructions.  She could tell he hated taking orders from that annoying little twerp, but he was doing it for her and Buffy.  He could be so sweet.  She sighed blissfully.

The Guecubu was less happy. "You have to give me my dagger back, you know," it muttered in a sulky tone.  "My mother said that I'm never supposed to be separated from it."

        Spike rolled his eyes.  "Well, if your mother said—" The demon's expression grew hopeful until he added, "I was joking.  We have you bound and are holding you prisoner, remember?  It's not likely I'm going to hand you a bloody great weapon, is it?  Now, what does this thing need to be ready for your ritual?"

"It requires a sacrifice of demon blood."  The creature squealed its words out faster as Spike picked up one of the cheap little knives Joyce sold from a display case and came towards it.  "Of non-Guecubu demon blood, that is."

        Spike shrugged.  "Easy enough."  He pulled off his duster, tossed it aside, and went over to the Chac Mol. With one quick slice, he cut through his palm and watched a thin trickle of blood drop to the altar.  "That enough?"  he said.  "I don't bleed very freely.  Not the best circulation, being dead and all."

        "The being dead part is good," said the Guecubu, frowning.  "But I think it would be better if I sacrificed someone close to me."

        "If you mean emotionally, that ain't going to happen," said Spike. "Casual acquaintance is going to have to suffice.  What happens next?"

        "I chant."

        "Of course.  There's always got to be a boring and incomprehensible chant, doesn't there?"

        "You sure this will help you kill that jaguar?" demanded Spike sometime later.  He was moving restlessly around the room as he listened to the gargling syllables of the ritual.

"Yes, of course," said the Guecubu, stopping its chant for a moment.  "I will be filled with the power, I think."

"You think?" demanded Spike.  "You sounded bloody sure about it a while ago."

The antennae shook nervously.  "The process is not described exactly in the scrolls.  But the power will come, and I will destroy the scared jaguar."  The chanting resumed.

"What happens to the sacred jaguar if you don't kill it?" asked Spike suddenly a few minutes later.  "Does it go off and join the circus on its own?"

"No, it becomes a ravening beast that cannot be destroyed by mortal means.  Only the power of the ritual can destroy it," said the Guecubu.  It looked at Joyce.  "Is the vampire always this chatty during sacred rituals?"

        "Yes," she said absently, "but he's great in bed, so I put up with it."  She was looking at the bloody dagger that she had taken from the Guecubu earlier.  It was lying on a counter, wrapped in a rag that she'd found in the back of Spike's car.  She made a face, and stepped back into the office for a moment to look for a roll of paper towels.  The first two removed most of the goop.  She dropped them in a wastepaper basket and stepped back into the main gallery, absently rubbing the blade with a third towel.

        The Guecubu was still gargling syllables, but nothing was happening.  Spike was standing with his legs spread and his arms folded.   A half-dozen cigarette butts littered one of the cheap made-in-China Chal Mols on the counter next to him.  His eyes rolled towards the ceiling.  "Come on, mate, dawn will be here in a few hours.  Chant faster or something."

        "I don't understand," muttered the demon nervously.  "I can feel the magic flow, but I am not being filled with it."

        Joyce realized that the blade of the dagger was beginning to glow.  She stopped rubbing it with the paper towel and watched carefully.

        "You're full of something, and I'm starting to believe it's bullshite," thundered Spike.  "If I even suspect you're leading us on because you think you can scamper off at sunrise—"

        "Wait, Spike," cried Joyce.  She held up the dagger.  It was glowing more brightly now.  "I think the power is here.  In the blade."  She pointed the tip at the demon.  "This little guy said he was never supposed to be separated from his weapon.  Maybe that's why."

        "I told you it's not right," sulked the demon, staring at Joyce resentfully.  "You two are ruining everything."

        "Well, now," said Spike, "seems to me that things are looking up.  You've had the power transfer, which means that if the cat gets killed with this dagger, it won't come back the very next day."

        "Yes, and if you just give my dagger back to me, I will destroy the sacred beast and—"

        Joyce thrust the hand holding the dagger behind her back and took a step away from the demon.

        Spike shook his head. "It's not your dagger any more, mate.  Belongs to the lady now.  She nicked it from you in a fair bar fight."

Chapter Seven

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