jwaneeta

Here's a chapter in the long-blocked sequel to A Proper Funeral. It's for Telsa, who's ailin'. When last we saw Giles, Spike, Angel and Andrew, they had been attacked by Drogan's vengeful little brother, and had to leg it for France. They believe Buffy might be endangered, but for Spike and Angel this is of course is just a flimsy excuse to see her -- the desired meeting having been long delayed by the Spike-Angel truce.

ETA: typos, typos. I'm blind as a bat. I think I got them, though. Yeesh.

*****

If you take, as I do, a healthy pleasure in seeing irritating vampires humbled, nauseous and discomposed, by all means take them on a channel crossing. I give the procedure my highest recommendation. The sea does not call to the undead bosom, apparently -- I've yet to learn how vampires manage to gad freely about, if they hate boats and shrink from aircraft with primitive terror. Trains, perhaps, do not rattle them too badly, which is a pity. But ferries shake them like beans in a can, and what a gift to the world it is when they are forced to travel thusly, clutching the rails and moaning as the ocean heaves. It bucks a man right up. If you have occasion to drag one or two vampires onto a boat in the near future, contact me, R. Giles, courtesy of the Deeper Well, and I will cheerfully reimburse your fare.

"Rough night," I noted, as Angel glowered at the lurching horizon, jaw clamped and pleasingly green. "Choppy, very. Oh, there goes Spike again. He doesn't have your sea legs, poor lubber."

"Are we there yet?" asked Andrew, who was busily shaming humankind with
his own mal de mer.

"Sadly, no. We have many combers yet to climb. Up, down: what a struggle! It's a shaping for a tempest, really. Angel, may I give you my arm?"

Angel received this kind offer with a look of hatred and shook his head.

"I shouldn't put you in the way of seeming to need help, of course, but it's just that your face is turning so many alarming hues. How does that work, may I ask? Do you have gastric juices? I suppose you must, to digest the blood upon which you subsist -- the rank, monotonous, warmed-over blood of beasts --amazes me how you can stand it, by the way. But if your approximation of digestive fluids are churned by an unfavorable sea, it follows that you would be desperately ill, sicking up like a colicky child. Fascinating."

"I'm not sicking up," wretched Angel bravely.

"I don't think I'm going to make it," groaned Andrew.

"Spike! Good to have you among us once again. Is the atmosphere below decks uncongenial? Stuffy? Repulsive? The bracing tang of the air is much better
for what ails you, I daresay."

"I'll meet you in Paris," gasped Spike, and did his best to jump overboard.

It fell to Angel to stop him, of course -- Andrew couldn't have caught a fly and I didn't really care if Spike took it upon himself to swim to Antarctica. I watched with interest as they rolled about on the deck, flopping like a pair of queasy demonic tuna.

"The hell you will," snarled Angel, holding Spike down.

"I won't look for her. My word of honor. Just let me off this godammmed
boat."

"We're almost there, you fairy."

"Ahoy," I murmured. "Is that Calais before us? What a shame."



****



Andrew revived halfway to the train station. He fumbled in his pocket, starting like an electroshocked gazelle, and exclaimed: "The nuns of Port Royale are traditionally hospitable to travelers."

"What of it?"

"The nuns of Port Royale have a hostel, Mr. Giles."

"So?"

"Well, it's a place to stay."

"Why on earth would we want to stay?"

"Well, the nuns of Port Royale --"

"No nuns," muttered Angel. "No nuns, no way."

"But they welcome travelers. They have a hostel. They're the famous nuns of Port Royale."

Spike had been using his restored health to herd us impatiently forward, presumably driven by the hope that his long-dreamed of reunion with Buffy was in the offing. But upon catching Andrew's words he paused, and a significant look passed between them.

Spike's fantasy about the Buffy scenario was an open secret: the Deeper Well was littered with rejected poetry drafts describing the projected meeting in embarrassingly florid and soppy terms. He was wont to toss the scraps furtively into the chasm, which regurgitated them on its fetid updrafts at intervals, like a toxic rain. I had a large folio of the ghastly efforts, because waste disposal in the Deeper Well was a serious issue.

"Andrew, are you saying we should visit the nuns of Port Royale?" he asked.

"Oui, mon frere."

"Right," said Spike. "Sun's coming anyway. Port Royale it is."

"Just a minute," said Angel.

"Oh, I forgot about your nun hangup, Peaches. You'll want to steer clear, won't you? Awful temptation, and you with your resistance at a low ebb. Watch yourself, mate, that’s my advice -- that soul's ready to conk out. I been meaning to mention it, stinks something awful lately, probably needs some kind of tune up. You just push along to Paris, and I'll ring you when I arrive."

"Is Buffy in Port Royale?" demanded Angel.

Spike laughed unconvincingly. "Buffy at a convent! Don't talk daft."

Once this vile genie of an idea got out of the bottle, there was nothing for it but a group detour. Angel and Spike contended and waxed petty every miserable step of the way.

"I knew it -- you're just waiting to sneak off and meet her alone. We have an agreement, Spike."

Spike placed a hand over his heart. "Don't you trust anybody?"

"I find your lack of faith disturbing," said Andrew, cackling weirdly.

The ancient convent of Port Royale was possibly the least welcoming edifice I had ever seen. A crooked cobbled way, narrow enough perhaps for an emaciated snake to navigate edgewise, led to an ugly door with an ugly grate smack in its ugly center.

"So knock," challenged Angel.

"You do it," said Spike.

"Hell, no. This was your idea."

"And nuns are your special thing. Scared?" jeered Spike.

Andrew did the honors, lifting up the heavy iron ring and letting it fall with a rolling boom that made my scalp creep.

"Nobody home," I said. "Well, we could but try. I saw a fine pub back at the boulevard, so why don't we --"

"Benedicte Domine," lilted a musical voice. The door ghosted open and in the dim recesses I spied a nun in full regalia, coifed and wimpled in a manner rarely seen in the world since the crusades.

"Jesus Christ!" cried Angel.

"Dru!" yelped Spike.

"Now and forever," replied Drusilla serenely.

TBC