Joyce regarded George Warners thoughtfully. Successful he possibly was, although after years of LA cocktail parties, Joyce had learned to mistrust the assertions of men who loudly and repeatedly proclaimed their business triumphs to near-strangers. Attractive? His body was almost health-club fit, she supposed, even if he was developing a bit of a gut, and if his smile was a little rigid, at least having had some cosmetic surgery showed he was careful about his appearance. She wished she could think the same about his toupee. Why on earth didn't men realize that baldness was far more attractive than a too-lustrous wig that almost, but not quite, matched their own hair color? Of course, a head of platinum curls, slicked back with too much hair gel, was even more attractive. Her attention strayed from George's description of his latest real estate deal. The sommelier stopped by to uncork a bottle of wine and pour it out for George's approval. He smiled, and Joyce's glass was filled. She sipped. It tasted a bit bitter to her, but she knew nothing about wine. She was sure the sommelier did, though, and she was pretty sure the smirk on his face meant he knew George didn't. They'd just been overcharged. At least, George had been overcharged. There was no chance her date would argue with the sommelier, send his steak back to the kitchen because when he said rare, he bloody well meant bloody rare, make snide remarks about their fellow diners, and then stick her with the check because he'd had a run of bad luck at poker the night before. She sighed. "Don't you like this place?" George stopped talking about himself and looked momentarily concerned. "Oh, no. I mean, it's fine. Very expensive, though." He laughed. "Better than that little ethnic hole-in-the-wall you were willing to settle for, eh? Don't worry, I can afford it." Joyce thought back to the small, inviting restaurant they'd passed and the welcoming scent of spices that had wafted out the door. She looked around at staid decor and lifeless pictures hanging on the walls, and thought about the equally unimaginative menu she'd just read. She sniffed. This place smelled of overcooked vegetables. George was talking again. "Besides, you can't be too careful around here these days. Been a bunch of killings in this neighborhood recently. Mostly Orientals, though." Joyce looked up and met the eyes of the young Asian woman who was filling her water glass. "Probably some illegal immigrant thing," said George dismissively. Joyce was about to respond when she felt a faint shudder. It seemed to be originating in the vicinity of her right foot. She tried to ignore it, but the sensation repeated itself. George was describing another business coup. Joyce reached down to touch the shoulder bag resting next to her chair. She could feel something quivering inside. She interrupted a lecture on the wonders of sub-prime lending as an investment. "Excuse me for a minute," she said with a polite smile before slipping away from the table. She made her way to the ladies room, hugging her shoulder bag as she went. The damn thing was vibrating so much, gripping it tightly was the only way to keep others from noticing. As soon as she was alone in a stall, she opened it and stared inside. "What do you want?" Her dagger was quivering and glowing. Joyce had never decided if this behavior was meant to telegraph warning or excitement, although she suspected the latter. It always seemed so happy when she prepared to use it. "Any chance you'll come out and tell me what we need to do for once, instead of just nudging me along?" A wave of colored light passed down the length of the hilt, varying in shades from blue to green, and settling down as a turquoise glow pulsing along the blade. "And what exactly does that mean in English?" It wasn't enough that she'd accidentally found a magic dagger. No, this one had to become so attached to her it made her head and stomach ache if she got too far away from it. And it was worse than a cell phone for making its presence known at inconvenient moments. Her cell phone she could turn off. This thing was practically dancing a jig, and the only time she could be sure it would follow orders was when she was actually in a fight. The door to the restroom opened, so she stopped trying to argue with her not-so-inanimate object and exited the stall. A tall woman was standing in front of the mirror, primping. Joyce stopped to wash her hands, even though she hadn't used the facilities, because doing anything else would have looked and felt yucky. But when she put both hands under the faucet, the bag hanging by her side gave out a distinct hum and shook visibly. The other woman was staring, and Joyce felt compelled to give some explanation. "I--I have my, um, personal massager with me, and the off button is broken." "Oh." For a moment, the woman appeared to accept this explanation, but then she said, "Why don't you take out the batteries?" "Oh, good idea!" Joyce fled the restroom before any more helpful suggestions could be made. Joyce wanted to return to her table and finish her boring date. The dagger wanted to check out the kitchen. She turned towards the kitchen. The kitchen was a bustle of noise and voices in several languages. No one seemed to notice her, which would have surprised her if she hadn't had to stalk prey before while the dagger was oozing a blue haze that surrounded her without impairing her own view of the world. She looked around carefully. She was no authority on restaurant kitchens, but everything seemed more or less normal. Her gaze focused on two people who weren't working. Near the back door, a young Asian man in a white apron was arguing in English with a pretty blonde girl. It wasn't an angry fight; they both sounded worried and distressed. Joyce moved closer. "I won't leave by myself," the girl was saying. "Don't leave with any of these people. Just wait here until my mother lets me close up our place, and I'll walk you home." He grabbed her hand. "You can't trust anyone. My grandmother says it could look like anything, like anyone." The girl shook her head. "That's just superstition." "You know it's been happening. You saw the last body." "Okay, I'll wait for you." The girl was trying to sound like she was humoring him, but there was real fear in her voice. The girl went back to chopping some wilted vegetables, and Joyce followed the boy into an alley. Arlene had been trying to convince Joyce that the Midwest was fundamentally superior to California. From what Joyce could tell, the choice, at least in summertime, was between earthquakes and tornadoes. Otherwise, Illinois was as hot as home, and not in a good way. The humid air outside was thick with soot and less-than-pleasant smells. Pushing a lock of hair out of her eyes, she followed the white-clad form down the alley. He looked behind him nervously, noticed her, and was staring in suspicion when something else jumped at him from behind a dumpster. Joyce had gotten a lot better at staying in control when she had to use the dagger, but she still saw most of the next few minutes through a haze of red. The thing that was attacking the waiter (and the poor boy was only here because he wanted to make sure his girlfriend was safe!) looked almost human, but she had no doubts that it was a demon. When the fight was over, she and the boy stared down at the blood-soaked body of the sommelier. It looked even more human in death, except for the color of the blood, which was the same turquoise that had glowed on the blade of her dagger. The weapon was quiet now. So was Joyce, as she tried to figure out what to say to the young man next to her. Carefully, she took a package of wet wipes out of her shoulder bag and started cleaning off the blade. "Um, are you all right?" "Thanks to you." He was staring at her gratefully. "My grandmother said that she sensed the presence of a Hero in town. I didn't expect him--I mean, her, to look like you." "I didn't expect it either," said Joyce ruefully. She examined her clothes and draped the scarf she wore over a stain. "I don't think that will be too noticeable." She looked down at the body. "But I don't know what to do with him." "Don't worry." The boy was grinning now. "I understand that as a stranger here you may not know the best places to dispose of the bodies of your enemies. But I have a cousin who can help." "Oh. That's nice." Is it? "Nothing like that!" The boy laughed at her expression. "He drives the road-kill truck for the county." Relieved, she smiled and thanked him and went back into the restaurant. George was looking a little nervous at her extended absence, but as soon as she sat down, he began a tale of an important discussion he'd had with a lobbyist and a Congressman he'd met the previous week. Joyce's salad had arrived, and she dug a fork into the pile of limp lettuce. She unearthed a single tomato slice under a pile of carrot scrapings. George was saying something about government contracts. Not really my idea of a romantic dinner. ***
The next day, Joyce was walking down the same street, this time with Arlene and Arlene's current husband, who was a George-clone with a slightly bigger beer belly. "That's the restaurant where I ate last night," she said. "Most of the restaurants in town are on this street," said Arlene. "We're not a big city, you know." "Well, neither is Sunnydale." Joyce wondered for the umpteenth time why Arlene was always implying Sunnydale was inferior to this town, but would never come to visit and see for herself. She was about to say something to this effect, as tactfully as possible. Be careful what you wish for. She closed her mouth without saying anything. "This is my favorite place." Arlene's husband had stopped below a canopy. Joyce looked up and saw the logo of a chain that specialized in overly-salted, deep-fried food that came in enormous portions, apparently in an attempt to make up for the lack of quality. "Um..." Joyce realized she'd forgotten her brother-in-law's name again. No matter. I don't have to introduce him to anyone. She cast a glance down the street. The door to the little restaurant she'd seen yesterday was open, and a golden glow was cast out into the street. "How about that place?" Walt or Jim or Harry or whatever-his-name-was gave a little shudder. "That's all Vietnamese or Korean or something like that. Way too spicy and not enough meat. And I worry about what kind of meat that is, if you know what I mean." Joyce bit her tongue before she could say that this visit could do with a little spicing up. She was about to acquiesce to her brother-in-law's choice when a hand touched her shoulder, urging her to turn around. "Spike!" He was smirking as if he'd done something particularly clever. He'd slicked his hair back carefully, put on one of his newer shirts, and left the duster behind for once. Joyce smiled, recognizing the signs of Spike making a Special Effort. She grabbed him and hugged him, holding her mouth up for a kiss. She hadn't realized just how bored she'd been on this trip until this moment. "Joyce!" She turned around at Arlene's exclamation, blushing a little. "This is, um--" She thought about using his given name "William," but a sideways glance reminded her that even with the Special Effort he still looked enough like an Inappropriate Companion to make that a waste of time. "Spike. And this is my sister Arlene, and--" Oh, damn, I do have to introduce him to someone! "her husband," she finished lamely. "How--?" Arlene's gaze was flicking back and forth between Joyce and Spike incredulously. "How did you two meet?" "Oh, Buffy introduced us," said Joyce happily. "You're dating a friend of your daughter's?" Walt-Jim-Harry looked as if he were trying to decide if he were outraged or impressed. Joyce caught Spike's eye roll at the word "friend," but all he said was, "Just happened to be in town on business, and I thought I'd take my lady out for the evening." He raised one eyebrow. "If she's free." "Of course I am," Joyce said happily. Arlene objected. "But we were going to eat together." "Oh, Arlene, I could tell by the way you were encouraging me to go out on dates that you've been just aching to have a romantic dinner alone with--with your husband. Spike and I wouldn't want to interfere with that." Arlene's astonishment at the notion that she could want more time alone with her spouse was so evident that Joyce almost started to giggle. "That's right!" Spike draped an arm over Joyce's shoulders. "You two lovebirds go off on your own, and your sis and I will manage somehow." He started steering her down the street. "But--" Arlene called after them. "When will you be home?" Spike laughed in a very unreassuring way. "I'll bring her back--eventually." "By dawn," Joyce promised over her shoulder. She turned away from Arlene's shocked expression to face Spike's smug one. "How did you get here?" "Drove. Had to pull over during the day, or I'd have been here yesterday." His hand squeezed her shoulder. "You didn't really think I could hang around my crypt for a whole week, worrying what you were up to and who you were up to it with?" "Maybe I should drive back with you," said Joyce wistfully. It would certainly be an improvement over flying through O'Hare, although that wasn't saying much. "Maybe you should. But first, let's see about feeding you." They were in front of the little restaurant now. Joyce stopped and looked through the door. "Here?" Spike breathed in deeply. "Smells promising." "Yes, here," said Joyce, stepping inside and looking around her. It was cheaply but cheerfully furnished, and her eyes strayed to some of the artwork on the walls. Some of the creatures portrayed there looked a little familiar. She felt a slight shudder from her shoulder bag. Her dagger seemed to be purring. It liked this place. The young man she'd met in the alley the night before came rushing up. "Hello! I'm so glad to see you again. I never really thanked you!" Joyce beamed at him. "I need to thank you too. Did you have any trouble with the, the disposal?" "Nah." He grinned back. "He's sleeping with the raccoons and skunks." "May he rest in stink." The boy glanced at Spike. "I'll find you and your friend a good table." He led them past several empty tables, away from the noise of the other diners. Instead, he showed them into a small room at the back, turning on some lights as they entered. "We keep this for private parties. But tonight you have it to yourselves." He pulled out a chair from one of the smaller tables. As the boy rushed in and out, finding them place settings and lighting candles, Spike pulled out his own chair and sat down slowly. "I take it you've been up to some tricks without me." He was serious now, frowning at her. She fidgeted in her chair, trying to decide what to do with her bag. "Really, Spike, I can take care of myself. And it wasn't something that could wait. Just a little demon, but it would have killed that boy if my dagger hadn't warned me." It wasn't as little as all that, but there's no point in making him worry. An elderly woman bustled up to their table, carrying a small bottle of something that she poured into porcelain cups and handed to Joyce and Spike. It burned pleasantly on its way down Joyce's throat. "Thank you," she said to the woman. The woman patted her hand. "Thank you," she said in an emotional voice. "Now, we serve you all our best." Unlike her grandson, she had an accent. Spike watched her return to the kitchen. "I'm guessing we're not going to get to choose our own entree, but I'm betting we don't have to pay for it either." A young woman slid a plate full of spring rolls and a bowl filled with sauce in front of Joyce. She picked one up, dipped it in the sauce, and bit down. The fresh ingredients crunched and the lemony taste of coriander filled her mouth before mingling with other flavors. "I'm sure we'll like whatever they serve," she said happily. He leaned back, smiling as if he were enjoying her enjoyment. She couldn't help comparing him to George, who had put all his work into being admired instead of admiring. Spike always made her feel special. Something else with the same knack but a different style began to make its presence known. Joyce opened her shoulder bag and stared down into its depths. The dagger glowed bright blue and gave an excited little "ZING!" She frowned and spoke firmly. "Settle down in there! Tonight, I choose the action. Whatever you have in mind can just wait until tomorrow." The blade burned red for a second, as if it were about to object, then gave up with a sulky "PFFT!" and dulled to an ordinary metallic gray. "What are you doing? Spike demanded. She draped her bag over the back of her chair and reached out to take his hand. "Just making sure our romantic evening isn't interrupted."
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