Fic: Apocalypse Aftermath (3/8)

[goldarrow]

Title: Apocalypse Aftermath 3/8
Author: goldarrow
Rating: PG13 for violence plus 1 NC17 Scene which is separate and clearly marked

Summary: Van Helsing disappears, and it’s up to Willow and the Scoobies to find him.

Crossover: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Van Helsing

Pairing: Van Helsing / Willow

Posting: Anyone who already has my work, just let me know you’re taking it; If you’re new, email me – I’m sure I’ll say yes! 

Disclaimer: All the BtVS characters belong to Joss Whedon, ME; Van Helsing belongs to Universal, Steven Sommers, and lots of other high-powered people.  I mean no harm, and get no money from this, just loads of fun.

Spoilers: Buffy Season 7

Apocalypse Aftermath – Chapter 3

PRESENT DAY

“No.  I’m sorry, but I just can’t believe that the Order would try to destroy him.  Van Helsing is much too valuable for the Cardinal to have any hand in something like that.”

“Well, maybe it’s not the Order.  Maybe it’s a small group inside the Order.”  Buffy was adamant that Jacob face the fact that Van Helsing might have been betrayed.  “Something like it happened to me a few years ago.  There was a small group on the Council who thought it might be good to have a more tractable Slayer.  I ended up resigning, and they ended up Slayerless.  So don’t tell me that bureaucrats aren’t capable of doing that nose-cutting thing.”

Jacob sighed.  “Perhaps.  But the only way to find out the truth is to check.  And to do that, I must be allowed to talk to some people in the Order; they’re in Records, and they’re totally apolitical.”  At Buffy’s blank look, he added, “They don’t care about who’s in power, only about their jobs.”

Willow and Buffy traded glances, then Willow nodded.  “Okay.  You can check.  But, Jacob, please be careful.  We don’t want you to disappear, too.”

“I don’t want me to disappear, either,” he replied tartly.  “I can be very circumspect.”

“Thanks.”

He walked out the door, shaking his head.

* * * * *

Two hours later, Willow and Buffy were sprawled in Buffy’s living room again after delivering Willow’s bags to her new apartment and unpacking them.  It was strange for Willow to see her things taking up so little space in the roomy closet.  She could only hope that it wouldn’t be too long before Van Helsing’s clothes were nestled alongside.

Willow tasted her cappuccino again. It really was different from any she’d tasted in the States, and as for Rio, they hardly knew what a cappuccino was.  “This is unusual,” she mused.  “What’s the difference?”

Buffy chuckled.  “It’s the real thing, that’s what’s different.  Italian cappuccino is a lot stronger, and a lot unsweeter than the American kind.  It takes a real cup of espresso, then some frothy milk, and then just a little dab of whipped cream, and even that amount’s optional.”

“I like it,” Willow decided.  “It’s coffee, not dessert.  Not that there’s anything wrong with the other kind,” she added hastily – she still loved the sweet American version.

“Yeah.  I may make Italian cappuccino, but I drink it all day, and they mostly don’t.  Cappuccino is for breakfast, to most Italians.  For me, it’s an any timer.”

“What do they – oh, switch to espresso, huh?”

“Yup.  I’ll stick with the sweeter one.  It jazzes me just fine.”

“I agree,” Willow said, staring owlishly into the depths of her cup.  “Jazzed perfectly, thanks.”

The sudden knock on the door startled both of them.  Buffy answered it gingerly, surprised to see Jacob back so quickly.  He smiled shyly as he entered, and started speaking before he even reached the nearest chair.

“Well, I have good news.  The Order knows nothing.  When I checked with Records, they had him down as being on leave.”

“What?”  Buffy and Willow’s voices combined in an arpeggio of shock. 

“But that means – “ Buffy continued.

“Not really.  It seems that when the Cardinal talked Van Helsing into taking the assignment, he told him that he could have a few days off afterwards.  They simply assumed that he was doing so.”

“But what about the people he was sent to help?  Didn’t they get in touch with the Vatican again?”

“Oh.  I didn’t think of that.  I’ll have to check.  But the important thing is that no one at the Order is aware that there’s any trouble at all.  They just assumed the same thing that I did – that Van Helsing had just not bothered to check in.”

“Oh, damn.”  Willow looked over at Buffy.  They were back to square one.  No Van Helsing, no hard data, and no leads.

* * * * *

9 DAYS AGO

Waking up with a splitting headache in a totally dark room wasn’t Van Helsing’s idea of a perfect morning.  His hands were free and he was fully dressed, but he certainly wasn’t really warm – the room was musty and damp, the chill seeping through the thin material of his clothing to caress his skin like the fingers of a cadaver.  He shuddered.

Standing up, he held his arms out to the sides at their full extension.  He felt nothing, so he moved them in front and took a step forward.  Nothing, again.  He kept moving, alternating his reach to the front and sides, until he managed to explore the entire room.

The walls were of rough stone; it was impossible to tell from touch exactly what kind.  The floor – he stooped and felt around – seemed to be of hard-packed clay, or maybe rock or cement.  Once clay had been trodden on for long enough, it almost packed down to become cement, anyway.  He reached above and could feel nothing there.  So, he was in a room about ten feet by twenty feet, with no windows and only one extremely heavy door that had no discernable handle on the inside.

He was a prisoner, of person or persons unknown.  Shivering against the chill, he curled up in the corner in an attempt to save some body heat and to finish recuperating from the blow to his head, which still hurt abominably.  At least, with his apparent healing ability, he wasn’t in danger of dying from concussion, he thought sourly.  All he had to do was rest through the worst of the pain, and then he’d find a way out.

Two days later, his head was better, but he was beginning to think he might have reached the end of the line anyway.  He’d been over the room from top to bottom more times than he could count and had found nothing.  Well, nothing except a lot of slimy moss on the top half of the walls, and a few mildewy cobwebs at the upper levels.  He had discovered that the walls were made of rough stones, mortared together, which gave him some decent handholds to use for climbing.  Which didn’t really help, since those walls led only to the ceiling.  The door was of wood so hard it might as well have been steel:   Either ironwood, or petrified wood, he wasn’t sure which.

He sat in the corner again with his legs pulled up and his arms wrapped around them in a vain attempt to find some warmth, wondering when he was going to become thirsty enough to try licking the slimy walls; a thought which made his extremely empty stomach lurch.  He rested his head on his folded arms and pulled back into himself, conserving energy as he lapsed into a meditative state.  Waiting.  Dreaming.  Remembering on the edges of his consciousness times gone by, only to wake with a jerk recalling nothing.

* * * * *

PRESENT DAY

Jacob slipped back into the Archives and looked up the name of the village Van Helsing had been sent to assist.  He considered that God was on his side when the name of the Mayor who had contacted the Vatican was included in the report, along with – blessing of blessings – a telephone number where he could be reached.

Praying that he wouldn’t be caught before he found out what he needed to, Jacob scurried into the communications center and appropriated the nearest booth.  While the phone rang on the other end, he pondered exactly what to say.  He still hadn’t decided when the receiver was picked up and a lugubrious voice answered.

Realizing that he had no choice but to wing it, he asked if the Vatican’s representative had given them a satisfactory result, and held his breath for the answer.  It came, in complete confusion.  The representative?  What representative?  They had received no assistance, and were praying that the Lord would forgive them for their sins, and that the Holy Father would relent.

Jacob stuttered for a moment, then apologized.  He told the Mayor that someone should have arrived over a week ago.  The Holy Father was extremely sympathetic to their plight, and he would personally make certain that help was sent immediately.  If they’d been in the same room, Jacob was sure that the Mayor would have fallen on his neck in tears of gratitude.  He was extremely glad they were half a country apart as he hung up.

However, that still left them in trouble.  He glanced quickly around, and dialed Buffy’s number.  When she answered, he said immediately, “He never arrived.  And the villagers have just been waiting, thinking that the Holy Father doesn’t care.”

“Oh, hell.”  Buffy sounded as miserable as he felt.  “So that means he never made it out of Rome, and the Order had nothing to do with it.”

Startled at her reversal, Jacob asked for enlightenment.

Willow took the phone.  “We worked it out after you left.  If he’d been kidnapped after he took care of the Zombie-thing, then we could figure that the Order might have had a hand in it. But neither of us can see your Order allowing a village to be terrorized.  So, since Gabriel was taken before he had a chance to kill the village-scarer, the Order has to be cleared.”

“I think that makes sense,” Jacob agreed tentatively.  “I’ll have to think it through more carefully, later.  But for right now, with what we know, I really think I must go to Cardinal Jannone.  At the very least, we have to send someone to help San Veneto.”

After a quickly whispered conversation on the other end, Willow came back.  “We agree.  Go get help for the villagers.  We’ll wait for you here.”

* * * * *

7 DAYS AGO

Van Helsing was long past the point of being able to control his bouts of shivering.  The bone-deep chill he felt made him wonder slightly deliriously whether his arm would shatter like an ice sculpture if he struck the wall too hard.  It wasn’t so terribly cold in the room, but the dankness made the temperature seem much lower than it was; and his damp clothing wasn’t helping.  He thought seriously about ways to find out if his shirt was developing a classic case of mildew, then realized that the condition of his garments was irrelevant.  He wouldn’t last more than another couple of days without food, water and warmth of some kind.

When the door rattled, he was nestled so far back in his head that he didn’t even notice.  It took the painful glare of light from the torch to catch his attention, forcing his eyes to snap shut before he even realized they’d been open to the inky darkness.

He was still squinting, even the dully wavering flare too much for him, when he was grabbed by the arms and hauled to his feet.  Without speaking a word, his captors yanked him forcibly from the room and down seemingly endless rough-hewn corridors to end up shoved into what appeared to his bleary eyes to be a middle-eastern hareem:  Walls covered with silken hangings, cushions on the carpeted floors, metal and stone bowls full of glowing coals fighting back the chill; the only things missing were the dancing girls.

Instead, there were ten men scattered around the room, lolling on the cushions, watching him narrowly as he stood swaying, desperately trying to suck some of the more-than-welcome heat into his body.  The sudden warmth restarted his shivering with a vengeance.  He was having trouble standing upright as he peered around, cataloging the arrangements as well as he could in his current state.

“So, this is the great Van Helsing.”  The snide voice rasped across his nerves, so used to silence, and the raucous laughter that greeted the sally set him even more on edge.

Van Helsing concentrated hard, and, managing to pull his errant wits into some semblance of order, he followed the sound to the mouth of the man lounging on the largest overstuffed cushion in front of him.  He wasn’t the most prepossessing of specimens, being slightly weedy, but the vicious twist of his mouth and the terrible scar running down the side of his face made him look dangerous, nonetheless.  Others in the room might be larger, or stronger, or perhaps even quicker, but this one was obviously the boss.

“And just who the hell are you?”  His voice cracked, and the audience laughed.  He ignored them, concentrating only on the leader.

The man also paid no attention to the noise.  He smiled grimly at his captive.  “My name is Cesare.  But you will call me Master.”

Van Helsing snorted.  “In your dreams.”  He turned to walk out, only to come face to face with his recurring nightmare:  A fully formed Werewolf.  He froze.  After watching it warily for a few moments, he realized that here was no animalistic creature; it was fully aware of itself and what it was doing.  He stared into its eyes, and as he saw the intelligence and sly cunning, what warmth had rekindled in him seeped away to leave him colder inside than he’d been even in the dank cell.

Forcing himself to relax, he turned back to face the Leader with his head up.  “What do you want with me?”

Cesare laughed.  “I want to smash you, cacasodo.  Your arrogance offends me.” He stretched his arms out and boasted, “I will take the Great Van Helsing and break him, and turn him into the Least of my Pack.  When I do that, my Reputation will be Universal.  We,” and he gestured at his followers, “are known and feared in Roma, and even across Italia.  When we make you our Runt, then, oh, then, mi amico, the entire world will bow before us.”

Van Helsing glanced warily over his shoulder to keep track of the Werewolf behind him, and was surprised to see a young man smiling knowingly.  He whirled back to face the Leader again, his mind spinning.  How had the Werewolf fought off the Change?  Unless it was before its first full moon – but no, this Pack would never have trusted an incomplete Werewolf with guarding the door.  He raised his hand to his head, confusion obvious.  The Pack celebrated raucously.

Cesare held up his hand and they quieted immediately.  “As you can see, we control the Change; it does not control us.”

Van Helsing cringed mentally.  One of the firmest beliefs of the Order was that Werewolves were nothing but animals once the infection was complete; that they became ravening beasts, fit only for destruction.  But if Werewolves were truly able to retain their intellects, even when the Change was upon them, then they could be much more dangerous than previously thought.

Speaking from his place on guard behind Van Helsing, Tullio told him more.  “We have learned much.  As long as it is nighttime, we can become Wolf; we do not even need the Full Moon any more.”

“As the Moon waxes, we simply become more powerful.  As it wanes, we are less so, but still stronger and faster than any Human.”  Cesare’s voice dominated the room.  “Now you have a choice, Hunter.  Join us.  Become my Runt voluntarily, and you will be spared much pain.  Refuse, and we will teach you – the hard way – who is truly your Master.”

Tullio and another Pack member, who looked like an overly obsessive bodybuilder, stepped up on either side of Van Helsing and grasped his arms.  His skin crawled, but he remained silent, staring back into the feral eyes of the Pack Leader.

“So be it.”  Cesare gestured, and they dragged him from the room.

TBC