Inconsistency: giving opposite reactions to the same situation depending on the sun’s position in the sky, or the day of the week or on some mysterious vampire logic.

 

Inconsistency was Spike snarling, “Get your restless self out of my bed, Harris. I’m trying to sleep.” A few hours later, he hunkered at the pillow of the floor bed and smoothed a finger along Xander’s eyebrow, “Come to bed, pet.”

 

It was Spike’s back pasted to Xander’s chest some nights, sweet ass seated on his pelvis. Other nights the expanse of mattress between them wasn’t enough, Spike had to put a pillow there.

 

“Ta,” he took the mug with a smile, eyes on Xander’s mouth. Another time it was, “’bout time,” and he snatched the mug with a growl, drunk the blood in game face, frown on Xander’s wrist.

 

Nice dinner, pleasant chitchat with Spike, Dawn and Fred. Later in bed, harsh chitchat from Spike, “Just tell me I didn’t make that whimper-groan bitch sound. Fuck, I did didn’t I? I find out you jerked off on me and I swear you’re a dead man.” Hard smile, quick flick of his thumb on the Zippo.

 

“I didn’t.”

 

Spike tapped ash into the mug balanced on his chest and puffed on the cigarette. “Need a forklift to get it up for me, that what you’re saying, Harris?”

 

 The day came in every man’s life when he bowed out of too much hard work, too many wrong moves, no right move possible. That day wasn’t nigh for Xander.

 

“Could you not smoke in bed? Some of us care about our lives, you know,” he said, calmly.

 

“A life you jealously guard by disturbing demon nests with your terrifying Ninja moves,” Spike took his cigarette to smoke in the doorway. “Star’s are out. Nice night for the hammock.”

 

They spent hours swinging in the hammock and Xander thought Spike never looked more peaceful than when he was staring at the sky. Kind of like he was doing now, staring at the sky through the library’s glass ceiling. A vampire puddle on the velvet divan, too sunned up to be inconsistent.

 

Worlds away from First Ranking, the library on Fifth Ranking was all hardwood shelves and leather bound books, rice paper reading booths with a divan, a coffee table and deep armchairs in each booth. Tresten’s librarians were nothing like Giles, dazzling young things dressed in gold embroidered, black silk kimono.

 

In search of another book in English, Xander left the booth and half-heartedly scanned a bookshelf. Lots of books in French, Spanish, Latin and Demon, stagger onto one in English and the gods were smiling down on you. He heard a flurry of thuds and looked along the aisle, into the face of a young thing. Storm-gray eyes, flawless ivory skin, blue-black braid loosely coiled around his neck, snaking over his shoulder and down to his trim waist like a pleated silk scarf.

 

“I’m sorry, Monsieur, I have disturbed you,” the guy whispered, helplessly glancing at the books at his feet.

 

Dazzled, Xander flashed a foolish grin.

 

The librarian scooped up his books and carried on down the aisle, brushing his shoulder on Xander’s shoulder blades as he walked past. Xander turned his head, watched the guy go, laughing softly when he dropped the books again.

 

“What’s funny?” Dawn asked when he returned to the booth.

 

“Nothing,” Xander wiped the grin off his face and sat down. “So,” he looked at Dawn and Fred in their armchairs and at Spike on the divan, “any luck?”

 

“Spike’s got my book,” Dawn popped her gum.

 

“There are other books in here,” Fred said.

 

“I don’t read French or Spanish or Spanch,” perfect harassed teenager drawl, smart pop of the bubble gum. 

 

“Now, now children, play nice or I’ll not read you the tale of Turncoat Theo,” Spike dripped with boredom.

 

“Please tell us, Master, we know you’re dying to do it,” Xander said.

 

Brief pause in Spike’s page turning, teeny hike of scarred eyebrow. “Turncoat Theo,” he smiled, “or Theodore of the House of Urran if you’re being formal, was a Master vampire way before my time.”

 

“Story is he Mata Hari’d the Scots and English in the run up to the Battle of Flodden, got sussed – because eventually you get caught – but vanished before the Scots noosed him. Some say the English snatched him from his cell for a less lenient execution, others say he dug his way out of the dungeon cell. Nibblet’s book says he turned up in Tresten’s Trail in 1513, worked through the levels and became a Sixth Ranking warrior-lord. Got dusted on his bid for Seventh Ranking in 1759. Has his portrait somewhere on the walls.”

 

“Warrior-lord huh? Two hundred years of working the pit and he still got dusted – in the pit? Wow, I guess the Bid thing’s not so smooth sailing.”

 

“Cheers for the vote of confidence, Bit,” Spike looked at several pages of pictures.

 

Edgy, Xander leaned across and tweaked Spike’s sleeve, “Dawn’s right. If you ask me, Bidding’s lost its novelty.”

 

“Not asking you,” Spike said, turning to a dog-eared page. “’m reading and what I read is bidding’s the only way to go,” he skimmed down the paragraphs and read, “…for this, Tresten must pay the price. In earning he is beholden to accede to all who would bid. While ever Tresten plays, his prize burns on. When play sleeps, so too shall Tresten's prize.”

 

“What comes before the ‘for this’?” Xander asked, surprised there were no hitches in his voice because he felt hitchy.

 

“The before part’s in demony,” Dawn said.

 

“Let me see,” Xander leaned all the way out of his chair to relieve Spike of the book, yanking when Spike wouldn’t let go.

 

“Guys,” Dawn rushed over, rescued her book from them and sat on the rounded arm of Xander’s chair. “There’s always the conventional way, you know, leaving by the door?”

 

Rapid flick of pages and Dawn showed round a picture of Tresten, a spindly figure, a round figure and a veiled figure standing at the Seventh Ranking railings and looking down at the cavorting, sparring and mating masses. Two massive, closed black doors were depicted behind the crowd.

 

Xander read out the caption beneath the picture, "panem et circenses?"

 

"Bread and circuses," Spike said, "Latin. It means amusements to take people's minds off their sad-bastard reality. You’d know about that, Harris."

 

Xander let it slide.

 

“I think they’re metaphorical doors, Dawn. Same with the Sisters of True Likeness, The Saint’s Way and The Devil’s Pass, metaphor for the way out,” Fred said.

 

“I’m with Einsteinia,” Spike said, “Metaphor for broiling our way out.”

 

Two calming breaths then, “You’re not well enough to broil, Spike.”

 

“I will be soon and why am I even discussing this with you, Sir Lustalot…Freudian stumble. Lancelot.”

 

“You figure Tresten’s prize is metaphor too Fred, or is it a touchable thing like, say, a video tape of Senseless Sensitivity – shoot. You’ve got me slippy Spike. Meant Sense and Sensibility.”

 

Fred parted her lips, thought lines puckering her brow.

 

“Don’t get involved Fred,” Dawn advised. “Anyway metaphor blah blah theory blah and more blah, done with it can we move onto the practical now? Sometimes a door’s just a door. We know that trucks bring Jude’s orders into the Trail. Trucks need huge doors. Somewhere in the Trail are huge doors that let trucks in. The way in equals the way out.”

 

“Fred?” Spike glanced at her, “Get involved.”

 

“It works – in theory.”

 

“Are you up to doing some snooping tomorrow night, Harris?” He asked next.

 

“No Bidding, no problem.”

 

*    *    *    *

 

Tresten’s Dining Room – Seventh Ranking

 

Tresten sat at the head of a sixteen-place table, sipping from his silver goblet. The three Advisors, eleven entertainment co-coordinators and the Chief Runner all raised their silver goblets to their lips, tasting the red wine Tresten had insisted on.

 

He read the last parchment again and looked along the table at Groza. “Tresten approves the plans for an orchestra for his Court Opening this season and is quite taken with the idea of Trapeze artists. The buffet is a matter of course as is the dress code.” He held his goblet out, smiling as the gray, ever helpful Sargo refilled it from a crystal decanter, “However Tresten is not thrilled with Groza’s proposal.”

 

"The boy is beyond reform," Groza pointed out once again. "As for his master, well, he does not have a master to speak of."

 

“Tresten is aware of the vampire’s shortcomings, but there are rules. You can not simply snatch the boy from him,” Tresten spread his hands on the table, frowned at a hangnail and spent the next few minutes prying it loose with a letter opener. “This is lazy strategy Groza. Go away and come back with one befitting Tresten’s most esteemed Advisor.”

 

Groza walked to the head of the table and bowed at Tresten, staying bowed as he said, “Do not castigate me, Amo. I only speak words no other has the courage to voice.”

 

“Indeed?” Tresten smiled.

 

Groza rose out of the bow and glanced at Ruby and Sargo who found reason to gaze into their goblets. “Indeed, Mi Amo. Effort spent on an undeserving opponent is effort wasted. Perhaps an esteemed Advisor’s time is better utilized on matters of state and not on applying the law to one undeserving, easily subdued vampire.”

 

Chairs grated on the stone floor as the assembled shifted, some slouching in what appeared to be a bid to slink under the table.

 

Tresten beamed a thousand watt smile on Groza, “Your time is Tresten’s to squander and matters of state are the matters Tresten deems to be of state. You will amend your strategy and keep within the confines of the law. If you are adamant that the boy attends Court know that Tresten is equally adamant that he attend with his master – as set out in the rules,” Tresten hooked his first finger under Groza’s chin and wrenched, unhinging his jaw with a resounding crack. “Is this acceptable to Groza?”

 

Groza clacked his jaw.

 

Tresten stood and distributed the parchments to their owners, “Are there any other questions?”

 

“No, Mi Amo,” collective shake of heads followed by group exodus to the door.