Saturday, December 20, 2003
"Isn't he
gorgeous? I wouldn't kick him out of bed for eating crackers…."
"To die for. But don't let Harmony hear you. She seems to think she's got
him collared and housebroken."
If there was one thing this party had too much of, it was dull, brainless chatter.
Ethan transferred his attention to the black-clad object of their desire, who
was animatedly talking to the band's bass player.
Tuning into the conversation was easier than turning the dial of a radio. All
it took was a bit of concentration and a tiny pinch of magic—not enough to trigger
the internal spell alarms, of course—and voilá! Audio:
"… spent five hours watchin' my hand move," the vampire was saying,
holding one hand in the air as if inspecting his nails. Something in the tone
of his voice suggested that this was not just a fond memory but an oft-told
anecdote. "Of course the acid made Dru's ramblings even more cryptic than
usual, and unlike me she never cared much for music…"
Despite feeling
just a twinge of envy for having been on the wrong side of the planet in 1969,
Ethan smiled, and took a sip from his bourbon. Not a bad brand this, by all
means, even though he preferred single malt scotch himself. He was standing
half way up the stairs, leaning against the railings. It was the perfect place
to listen and watch, to skim the crowd like a dragonfly hopping from one conversation
to the next.
Most of the chats he listened into as people passed him on their way up or down
from buffet to bar to dance floor, dealt with routine day-to-day backstabbing,
who had a crush on whom, or the deplorable cuts on the year-end bonus checks.
Who'd have thought that evil lawyers and their retinue could be so dull?
Spike's Woodstock story was at least amusing, and Ethan stayed tuned in for
a while, automatically greeting people who passed him on the stairs, until a
name caught his attention.
"Did you hear about Harold? They had him back in human form for like five
seconds and then? Zap! The spell kicked in again and he was back to no-stop
ho ho ho," a gleeful voice recounted. Ethan recognized the woman it belonged
to: Dana, typing pool, second floor—pretty, with big knockers, and more than
a passing interest in Ethan, but sprouting the charm of a vulture.
"If they ever get him back for good, we'll never hear the end of it,"
a second voice answered—one of the secretaries from the third floor. "Such
a bore."
So the ex-watcher had already managed to temporarily dispel the transmogrification
spell? Impressive.
Ethan scanned the crowd. Mr. Wyndam-Pryce obviously had marching orders to mingle,
for instead of working magic in his office, he was hovering in Miss Burkle's
vicinity, who in turn was flirting with Dr. Knox, one of the white coats who
in Ethan's mind had looked good in fur and antlers. So easy to stir up trouble
there, all Ethan would have to do was subtly strip away some manners, lower
some inhibitions…. Nothing like a good free-for-all to liven up a half-dead
party.
Tempting. But he shook his head. Not spectacular enough. Better go with plan
A. Ethan smiled and began to slowly gather his power, sipping it out of the
air and siphoning it off the people in the room, then funneling it into the
gaudy tree that dominated the lobby, creating a kind of doorway, that worked
almost like a lit runway. In the distance, on another plane, something dark
and twisted stirred, slowly drawing near. Naturally, it would trigger a full-scale
security alert the minute it entered this plane to merge with the tree but by
that time it would be to late to—
"I wouldn't do that," Eve sing-songed with a smile that was as radiant
as it was fake. She nodded politely at a group of secretaries who were heading
upstairs towards the gallery.
Ethan started, irritated by the fact that he hadn't noticed Eve's approach.
"If that tree so much as sways," Eve warned him, once the secretaries
were out of earshot, "our deal is off. Terminated."
"I distinctly remember the esteemed head of our entertainment division
saying this puppy should walk free," he remarked, peeved that Eve had guessed
his intentions correctly.
"And I distinctly remember telling you to keep your nose clean." Eve
retorted.
"Oh, very well." Ethan acquiesced easily. Fighting with someone to
whom 'terminated' didn't always mean a pink slip wasn't a good move for someone
intent on surviving. He could always use the trick later, too, since she hadn't
said he couldn't do it—just not now. "Such a grinch, my dear.
But very well, I'll be good. Now if you'll excuse me, this party may be seriously
lacking in mayhem, but there's plenty of candy, and I'm feeling a bit peckish."
He left Eve standing there and headed downstairs towards the buffet table where
he'd spotted a delicious young intern. Maybe Ethan could first lure him under
the mistletoe and then drag him off to one of the empty offices? Even Eve couldn't
begrudge an old mystic the chance to get laid.
The party was actually in full, merry swing, the Dingoes had done tasteful and
sometimes extremely artful renditions of various Christmas carols and were scheduled
to go back on stage for another set later. People were laughing cheerfully and
while it wasn't quite the bash Halloween had been, it was doing pretty good
for an office that had traditionally ignored this particular holiday.
"Merry Christmas, you ding-a-lings," Lorne caroled, two-stepping his
way over to Spike and Oz, standing by the buffet. "Try the eggnog. Guaranteed
to make you see mistletoe!"
Spike immediately dropped the ladle, glancing furtively around him. Spotting
Harmony in animated discussion with a cornered Angel, he relaxed. "S'got
alcohol in it, right?" he asked. "Not any of that fake stuff."
"That is pure, genuine moonshine, my sarcastic little lush. Drink up me
hearties, yo ho!"
That was a little more effusive than usual. "Partaking early?" Wesley
guessed. He'd hovered in the vicinity, eavesdropping on Spike's tale of how
he and Dru had met Jimi Hendrix—presumably an outrageous lie but still an entertaining
story—but now he sidled closer.
Lorne graced him with a superior look. "A Host," he said clearly,
"never partakes until the last bell has rung, the last cab door has been
slammed, and the clean up crew is doing your dirty work. I am simply high on
life and a successful party." Waving cheerily, Lorne danced his way over
to another part of the room, single-handedly spreading cheer and far too many
mixed metaphors throughout the room.
"Well, he seems happy," Wesley popped a California roll into his mouth.
"Blech. You eat that?"
"What, sushi? Well, I admit I'm not a huge fan of avocado, but I rather
like this current trend."
Spike made a face, staring at the second piece Wesley picked up. "Raw fish.
Nothin' civilized about eating raw fish."
"Certainly healthier than some of the other options." Wes nodded vaguely
at the wide array of choices available—everything from a dozen chocolate dishes
to a small table covered in black and reddish substances that were being consumed
with gusto by the handful of vampires that Wolfram & Hart employed beside
Harmony.
Spike ignored the thinly veiled hint and the platters of blood pudding.
"Gotta go with the vampire, there." Oz smiled. "Fresh, yeah,
but not fulfilling to your average predator."
"Oh? And why's that?" Wesley asked, amused that the were-bass-player
and the second souled vampire seemed to be in agreement.
"Too cold," they chorused. "Plus, there's the whole slime factor,"
Oz added.
"Yeah, and some of the stuff they put in with it!" Spike pointed at
a maki that contained smoked salmon and creamed cheese. "I've lived in
New York, mate. You don't put lox on seaweed."
"Try the tuna ones," Wesley suggested. "They taste almost like
beef."
Spike made a face, sticking to his cup of eggnog and wandering away. Let those
two battle out the merits of raw fish, which didn't taste at all like beef,
because it was, well, fish. Half-heartedly skirting Harmony, who was looking
for him, Spike ducked around the table to bump into—"Hey, Edgar."
"Ah, Mr. Bloody," Edgar responded cheerfully. A pretty young intern,
blond and not too steady on his feet, was hanging off the mailman's arm and
blushing furiously. The boy looked like a male version of Harmony, dim, but
still an attractive piece. Spike grinned, not the least disturbed about Edgar's
choice. "Havin' a good Christmas, are we?"
"A bit orthodox so far," Edgar replied, "but I'm working on that."
"That's the spirit," Spike gave the old bloke a heart-felt thumbs-up
and watched him lead his tipsy young conquest away. Heck, it was the
spirit of the evening. Why break with the good ole' English tradition of getting
some on Christmas?
Harmony was standing by the bar, absently swishing to the canned-music beat.
Smoothing his coat and brushing back his hair, Spike lowered his voice to a
sexy drawl. "Hello, Harm."