Fic: Delicate Cruelty (1/?)

[Erin <erin@xxxxxxxxxxx>]

I hope no one minds me posting this here, it's more of a B/F and W/T
than a B/W. But I won't be taking up much of your bandwidth, I
promise. Some of you may have already seen this on other B/F lists,
or on the web; if so, feel free to ignore. Those of you who haven't,
I hope you enjoy.

TITLE: Delicate Cruelty
AUTHOR: Erin (erin@xxxxxxxxxxx)
SPOILERS: Through Season 4 BtVS and Angel
RATING: R, because of some language, violence and adult situations.
It is a Buffy/Faith fic, so if that bothers you, or it's illegal to
even think of two Slayers getting it on, then just don't read it. Or
move.
DISCLAIMER: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all characters (except mine)
belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and Fox. I'm just borrowing them
for a bit. I'll put them back when I'm done, no worse for wear (but
maybe a little happier).
ARCHIVE: Anyone who wants to archive my stories is welcome to, just
let me know so I can add you to my website links. Thanks.
FEEDBACK: Constructive comments are encouraged.
WARNING: Contains some character death, character undeath, and
torture. Reader discretion is advised.
SUMMARY: (Buffy/Faith) A sadistic vampire's plan for domination
forces Buffy and Faith to join forces.

"After many months of successful hunting, there is the very real
danger of your Slayer exhibiting hazardous complacency. The most
common type of vampire, and thus the one that your Slayer is most
likely to encounter, is the fledgling. A weak vampire, these
newly-turned beasts are often brutal and stupid, attacking singly or
in very small groups with little plan or purpose. It is easy, after
having faced hundreds of these demi-vampires, to forget that there are
more powerful fiends skulking in the shadows which are capable of
brilliant depravities and delicate cruelty..."
--Senior Watcher Jonathan Wilkes, "Advice to a Young Watcher"

Chapter 1

"Father. We're here." The young woman kept her bright blue eyes
downcast, unwilling to intrude upon the Father's thoughts by meeting
his eyes with hers, unasked. She stood with grave patience in the
aisle of the private jet, her body seemingly motionless despite the
gentle swaying of the plane taxiing into position at the tiny
Sunnydale airport.

To look at her, one would think that she was nothing more than a slip
of a girl, around twenty years of age and just shy of true adulthood.
Indeed, she couldn't have been more than a few inches over five feet
tall; but though she was small and slender, she carried herself with
an air of powerful confidence. Her hair was as deep and black as a
raven's wings, and fell in soft, thick waves to just past her
shoulders. The young woman's pale skin and delicate facial features
indicated strong Celtic blood.

The man made no affirmation, no indication that he had heard her, but
she knew he had. Little escaped the Father's notice. A book, an
examination of 15th century Italian art, lay open on his lap, a
picture of Bellini's _Madonna and Child_ adorning the page. The faces
of the holy mother and son glowed with an ethereal luminescence, even
in the poorly printed reproduction.

Eventually, the Father turned his dark eyes on the young woman. He
closed the book, the picture of Bellini's opus disappearing from view.
The man stood and straightened his clothing, even though his black
jacket and trousers were as crisp and orderly as ever. He reached
toward the girl with a delicate, manicured hand, cupping her chin and
bringing her eyes in view of his.

"Trinity." His rich tenor resonated through the small cabin of the
chartered plane. "Has all been made ready?"

The young woman nodded, her expressive eyes meeting his in adoration.
"It has, Father."

Thin, cruel lips became a smile which could, somehow, only be
described as beatific.

* * *

The teenaged girl known as Buffy Summers flopped down on her bed with
a groan. "Can't we just set it all on fire?" She asked plaintively.
"It really would solve all our problems."

"Yep, and create a whole host of brand spankin' new ones, like jail
time and arson charges. Not to mention losing all our stuff," Willow
answered, without batting an eye. The redhead was standing on her
side of the room, carefully wrapping and packing her various little
crystals and ceramic knick-knacks, some of which she used for
spellcasting and some just for quirky decoration. The Slayer, on the
other hand, was staring off into space, wondering with some distress
exactly how she had collected so much _stuff_ over the course of nine
months.

Their dorm room was in a state of tragic disarray; boxes, newspapers,
and packing materials were strewn about in the center, while the two
girls worked to wrestle their belongings into some kind of movable
shape. Their success was apparently very limited, as only two boxes
had been filled, taped, and stacked by the door. This was despite the
fact that finals had come and gone the week before, giving the girls
theoretically plenty of time to move out of the dorm.

"When's your mother getting here?" Willow asked.

Buffy gazed at the ceiling, still unwilling to move. "Ten o'clock
tomorrow morning."

"Is Riley going to help you move?"

Buffy looked over and caught the smile that Willow was trying to hide.
"I know what you're thinking, but it's not like we're moving in
together. He's got his own stuff to move into his new apartment, and
I'm going to be staying at mom's. It's all completely innocent."

"Oh, of course," the redhead responded, nodding vigorously. "I
totally believe that, really I do..."

"Will." Buffy interrupted her friend, wanting to head-off the babbling
before it got a chance to start. "There is such a thing as laying it
on too thick. Besides, what's up with you and Tara?" The Slayer had
had some difficulty getting over the initial shock of Willow's
'unconventional relationship', but having seen how happy Tara made her
best friend, she was actually very grateful to the blonde witch.

Willow ducked her head, blushing a little. "Tara is, uh...staying
with me for the summer."

"Really?" Buffy cocked an eyebrow and a smile, bounding off the bed to
give her best friend a poke in the ribs. "And you were teasing me
because Riley is staying in the same _town_! You and Tara are living
together?"

"No," Willow answered quickly, holding up her hands in apparent
protest. "Not really living together. It's just...with my parents
gone most of the time, it gets pretty lonely there all by myself, and
since Tara said she really doesn't have any family to go back to..."

"So, your parents know about you?"

Willow blushed again. "Not really, no. They just know that Tara's a
friend of mine, and needs a place to stay over the summer. It's not
like we'll be living in the same room..." She paused for a moment, in
thought. "At least, I don't think so."

The blonde Slayer grinned knowingly and turned back to her own
packing. "Well, as long as the vamps and beasties stay away, this
should be a pretty fun- and all around good-times-filled summer.
Adam's been dealt with and the Initiative is gone, so we don't even
have to think about any of the bad stuff that happened this past
year."

* * *

"You know, normally someone in your position would be a lot more
excited than you seem to be." The lawyer looked across the table at
his client, a young brunette woman who seemed unaccountably distressed
by the news he had just delivered.

The lawyer, a court-appointed public defender to be specific, was a
young man with a healthy measure of ambition. His family hadn't been
wealthy or influential enough to support him in a good criminal law
firm after he had passed his bar exams, so he had decided to begin his
career by going into the Public Defender's office. Little had he
known how remote the chance really was that a lowly PD would get
noticed by a top law firm; but so far he had a reasonably good record.
He wasn't about to let this young girl mar that record with her desire
for self-flagellation.

"I don't understand," the girl, whom the lawyer knew only as Faith
Wilkins, said quietly, almost despairingly. "My confession..."

"A confession doesn't mean anything if there isn't any evidence to
back it up," the lawyer said, with ill-disguised impatience. "The
murder charges you were up for in Sunnydale had to be dismissed, due
to lack of evidence." Which was true; for some reason, the Sunnydale
PD had been unable to produce any of the evidence they'd claimed to
have had originally to pin Faith Wilkins as a suspect. The lawyer
wasn't positive, but he assumed that it had something to do with this
girl Faith sharing the same last name as Sunnydale's late Mayor.

"What about all the other stuff?" she asked dully.

"The assault charges here in L.A. won't be pressed. It seems that the
man you _allegedly_ put into the hospital didn't want the police
asking too many questions about why he was hanging around a bus
terminal talking to newly-arrived teenage girls. Considering that two
girls in the last three weeks have disappeared from that same bus
terminal, I'm pretty inclined to think that you did the police a
favor, and apparently the D.A. agrees with me. He was willing to drop
all the other charges, too, as soon as I mentioned the press." The
lawyer closed his briefcase with a snap and stood up.  

"Oh, and the young girl you allegedly assaulted in Sunnydale won't be
pressing charges either. The police can't find her; apparently she's
joined Sunnydale's list of Missing Persons." He shrugged, unwilling
to spend valuable mind-share on a case that now meant very little to
him, other than a tick in the 'Win' column. "You've just been given a
'Get out of Jail Free' card, Miss Wilkins; I suggest you make the most
of it. Apparently somebody up there likes you." The lawyer strode
out the door of the visiting room, whistling softly.

"Somebody up there likes me," Faith mumbled, still staring blankly at
the table in front of her.

* * *

The taxi pulled up outside the Sunnydale Plaza Hotel, nearly clipping
a slow-moving valet parking attendant in its rush to its destination.
A bellboy stepped forward and opened the rear, passenger-side door,
from which stepped a tall, older man, and a young, very beautiful
woman. It was difficult to tell exactly how old the man was; as far
as the bellboy was concerned, he was at that indeterminate age
somewhere between thirty five and fifty. His black, wavy hair and
olive skin marked him as Mediterranean, though the thing that the
bellboy noticed the most was that the man was dressed in the black
suit of a Catholic priest.

The woman got the lion's share of the bellboy's attention; she
appeared to be about his age, late teens to early twenties. He jumped
to help her with her only luggage, a large black gym-bag which she
withheld from him and insisted on carrying herself.

The young woman paid the taxi driver and the pair entered the hotel,
leaving behind one heartbroken young bellboy and one angry cab driver
who took off with a squealing of tires and a loud string of curses
about the cheapness of the two travellers whom he had just brought
from the airport.

* * *

Trinity followed the priest closely as he strode up to the check-in
desk, his shoes echoing loudly on the marble floor. He flashed a
bright smile at the young, african-american woman behind the desk.
"Hello, Miss. I believe I have a reservation under the name Frank
Pallazo." Trinity had always found his voice quite pleasant, a rich
tenor that held just a hint of an Italian accent.

The young woman behind the desk, Lydia if her name tag was to be
believed, returned the smile. "Certainly, Mister--"

"Father," Trinity interjected smoothly.

"Father Pallazo," Lydia finished with an apologetic air. She printed
up the registration form and set it out for the priest to sign. "A
penthouse suite of rooms. Do you need help with your luggage?" Her
eyes scanned the floor around their feet, reflecting momentary
confusion at the obvious lack of suitcases.

The priest signed the form and handed it back to the hotel clerk.
"No, just the keys will be sufficient," he said with another smile.
Trinity saw his smile falter a bit, but Lydia, looking as if she had
already embarrassed herself enough for one customer, didn't seem to
look closely enough at the Father to notice.

The two travellers made their way up to their suite and let themselves
in. The common area was spacious and well-furnished; large, heavy
curtains covered the east-facing window, which pleased both of them
greatly.

After a brief period of settling in, a period which was made much
shorter by the fact that they had little luggage, Trinity dropped
heavily onto the suite's couch. "It disturbs me, Father," she said
quietly, "that you are unable to use your own name around these
cattle."

The priest chuckled, setting himself on the arm of the couch, and
stroking Trinity's hair with one gentle hand. "Soon, my child, soon.
There are some here who may recognize the name of Father Francisco
Sedona. There is no need to tip our hand." He stood, walking over to
the window and throwing back the curtains to reveal the city of
Sunnydale by night.

"What to do next, Father?" Trinity asked.

Father Sedona appeared to study the view through the window as
thoroughly as he had meditated on Bellini's _Madonna and Child_
earlier. "We bring the kin of this city under our control. It should
prove to be tragically simple."

He turned toward Trinity and smiled, his canine teeth elongating into
sharpened points. "But first, we eat."

* * *

Daniel Corbensen drove his patrol car quickly down the darkened
street. He was a security guard, but not just any security guard;
when pressed with large amounts of alcohol, he would proudly proclaim
to anyone within earshot, whether they were interested or not, that he
was "the best damn security guard in Sunnydale."

He was probably the smartest, too; because while some other security
guards would walk their nightly patrols of darkened mini-malls and
schoolyards, Daniel never set foot outside his locked patrol car. He
reasoned that most everyone who didn't belong there could be
frightened off by his spotlight, and those that weren't he didn't want
to tangle with anyway.

Like anyone who had lived in Sunnydale for a few years and managed to
survive, Daniel was certain that there were some things which stalked
the night that he didn't want any part of. After his third co-worker
disappeared under mysterious circumstances, Daniel decided that no job
was worth whatever happened to them; but fitting with his philosophy
of life, Daniel didn't quit, he just started doing his job in a
thoroughly half-assed fashion.

So when he spotted a lone, crying girl by the side of the street, he
was torn. His survival instincts, finely honed after years of
Sunnydale residency, told him not to get involved, to keep moving. At
the same time, his conscience, rusty from disuse and too often
ignored, told him that it was his job to help people, and that girl
certainly looked like she desperately needed help. Besides, he
thought to himself as he slowed his car to a stop, she won't last the
night out there all alone.

Daniel stepped out of the car, sliding his baton into its ring on his
belt. "Excuse me miss," he said, slipping easily into the role of
savior, "but it's very dangerous out here at night. Can I take you
somewhere?" He slowly approached the girl who appeared to be sobbing
piteously.

"Oh, officer, thank God," the girl said brokenly, practically falling
into his arms. "I was so scared!"

"Now, now," Daniel said, patting her on the back awkwardly, "I'm not
police, but I can help. What seems to be the problem?"

"The problem," she replied in a stronger voice now, "is that I'm
hungry." With a strength that belied her slender form, the young
woman pulled his neck down to her mouth, sliding her sharp canines
into his yielding skin.

It took a moment for Daniel to realize what was happening; the
sickening feeling of blood being tugged out of his veins by an eager
mouth was really the only input his body seemed able to process. His
vision swam and he felt, more than saw, a man -- a _priest_ --
standing a few feet away watching the spectacle. As a deadly lethargy
began to overtake Daniel, he heard the man speak.

"Ah, a good Samaritan. It should console you to know that the Lord
has a special place in Heaven for those who help the less fortunate.
You should have just enough time to get there and settle in...before I
arrive and throw Him from His throne."

END chapter 1
-- 
"Eliza. Does she not in fact rock the very world? Yes."
-- Joss Whedon, Exec. Producer, BtVS
*email: erin@xxxxxxxxxxx
*web: http://www.heckman.net/erin