SAM: Devil Went Down to Sunnydale II (Patreon)

The Devil Went Down to Sunnydale II

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

July 31st, 1996

WednesdayMayor Richard Wilkins prided himself on his punctuality, his tidiness, and the simple pleasure of a well-kept schedule. A civic leader had responsibilities, after all. A town didn’t just run itself, and it certainly didn’t thrive on disorder.

So when Donna rapped her knuckles against the doorframe at exactly three-fifty-nine—bless her, always so punctual—he expected her to remind him of an appointment he had, of course, already prepared for.

Instead, she hesitated. A flicker of uncertainty crossed her face, lips parting like she wasn’t quite sure if she should be speaking.

“Sir,” she said slowly, “your four o’clock is here.”

Now, that was a surprise.

Wilkins’ fountain pen made a soft click as he set it down on the blotter, perfectly parallel to the edge of the paper. He smoothed the cuffs of his jacket, straightened his tie, and glanced at the empty slot in his planner.

“My four o’clock?” His voice was light, pleasant. “Donna, are you sure? I don’t recall scheduling anything for this afternoon.”

Donna swallowed. That was odd. Normally, she was sharp as a tack.

“Yes, sir. He’s right here.”

The door pushed open before he could ask another question. A young man strolled in, just a touch too smooth, just a little too easy with himself, like he belonged.

Wilkins didn’t frown—frowning was bad for the complexion—but he did feel the first murmur of unease.

The boy wasn’t local.

African-American, tall but not imposing, dressed sharp—sweater vest, tie, polished shoes. The kind of young man you’d expect to see shaking hands at a fundraiser, not wandering into a mayor’s office uninvited.

And then there were his eyes.

Bright blue, unnatural. Not just the color—Wilkins had seen every shade of human and inhuman eyes in his time—but the emptiness behind them. They should’ve held something. Magic, malevolence, hunger. But they didn’t.

It was like looking into a well-polished pane of glass.

The boy stopped exactly three paces in, hands clasped behind his back, posture straight as a cadet.

“Samuel Ash,” he said smoothly. “Mr. Mayor.”

Wilkins let his smile widen. “Well now, isn’t this something? Can’t say I was expecting company, but I always appreciate a young man with initiative. You’re sure you’re in the right place?”

Samuel’s lips quirked, just slightly. “Oh, I’m sure.”

Something in his tone—a deliberate lightness—made Wilkins’ fingers twitch against the desk.

He’d entertained demons older than this town, sorcerers who thought they could strong-arm him, even a god or two with delusions of grandeur. And yet, this boy was pressing on some deep, unpleasant nerve, like a song just out of tune.

“Donna,” Samuel said without looking at her, “you can leave.”

That was interesting.

Donna faltered, fingers tightening against the doorframe.

“Oh, I—” She glanced at Wilkins, hesitating longer than she ever had before. “Yes, sir. I mean—yes.”

She turned and stepped out, shutting the door softly behind her.

Wilkins’ smile didn’t slip.

“Well, golly,” he said, folding his hands neatly in front of him. “That was awfully assertive of you. Not the polite way to conduct a meeting, but I suppose the youth of today have different ideas of decorum.”

Samuel strolled forward like he had all the time in the world and dropped into the chair across from Wilkins, one ankle resting over his knee.

“That so?” Samuel murmured. “Well, in my defense, Mr. Mayor, I don’t have the advantage of your… experience.”

Wilkins chuckled. “I do have a few years under my belt.”

“Oh, I’ll bet.”

Something about the way he said it. Not mocking, not accusing, just… knowing.

Wilkins didn’t like that.

Not one bit.

Samuel smiled, resting his chin on his knuckles. “Must be tough, keeping this town together. With all the little… complications.”

Wilkins held his gaze, polite, patient.

“Oh, you know how it is,” he said cheerfully. “Managing a town, it’s all about keeping things in balance. Good folks, safe streets, a nice little community where people feel at home. A little elbow grease, a little hard work.”

Samuel exhaled, almost amused. “Right, right. And a little blood. Along with the sweat and tears. Can’t forget that.”

The air between them stilled.

Wilkins’ smile didn’t falter, but his fingers curled just a fraction tighter against his desk.

Samuel leaned forward slightly, elbows on the armrests, voice light as ever. “I can’t imagine having your job. Must be hell wrangling all the malcontents in a town like this.”

He tilted his head.

“…Right?”

Wilkins studied him for a long moment.

His instincts told him there was nothing there. No magic. No power. No reason to be concerned.

And yet.

Something about the boy.

Something wrong.

Wilkins kept his smile in place, even as that whisper of unease curled tighter around his spine.

“…Right.”

Mayor Richard Wilkins leaned forward, hands folded neatly on the desk, smile in place. His office was orderly, his day had been going just fine, and yet—something about this particular visitor left an itch beneath his skin.

“Well now, Mr. Ash,” he said, his voice as chipper as ever. “I do love a surprise, but I do like to know why folks drop by my office. Just good manners, you understand.”

The boy—Samuel—tilted his head, dreadlocks shifting slightly over his shoulder. He moved slow, easy, like a cat stretching in the sun, the kind of looseness that only came with certainty.

“I just like interesting places,” Samuel said, tone light, casual. “And interesting people. Like yourself.”

Wilkins chuckled, just the right touch of warmth. “Well, that’s mighty flattering of you, son. But I do have a town to run, so I hope there’s a little more to this visit than pleasantries.”

Samuel leaned forward as if letting Wilkins in on a secret. “Oh, there’s a point. A simple one, really.”

Wilkins raised an eyebrow.

“Just wanted to introduce myself,” Samuel said.

The mayor’s fingers tapped lightly against the desk.

“Introduce yourself?” he echoed. “That’s all?”

Samuel’s smile didn’t waver. “Well, not all. But, you know, it’s always good to put a face to a name. Don’t you think?”

Wilkins let out a hum, studying him. “I suppose so. But if there’s nothing urgent—”

“Oh, urgency,” Samuel interrupted smoothly, “that’s a funny thing, isn’t it?” His tone stayed light, but something in it felt like a trap set just beneath the surface. “Some folks like to rush for no reason. Others—like yourself—take their time. Patience. Measured decisions. Thoughtful.”

Wilkins’ fingers stilled.

“Measured,” he repeated, tone carefully neutral.

Samuel gave a slow nod. “And wise. Best decisions happen when all the pieces are on the board, don’t you think?”

Wilkins studied him.

“I’ve always believed in taking the long view,” he said finally.

Samuel’s smile sharpened just a fraction. “Good. Because the long view is what really matters, isn’t it? Not just the next step—but the one after that. And the one after that.”

The room seemed a little smaller.

Wilkins had been around a long time—long enough to know when someone was playing games with him. The boy’s words weren’t idle. They carried weight, pressing into the spaces between them, and Wilkins didn’t like it one bit.

His instincts, honed over a century of survival, whispered that this wasn’t just some precocious teenager with a taste for theatrics. Wilkins’ hand drifted beneath the desk, brushing the polished wood where certain… contingencies rested. Just in case.

No need to be hasty.

He kept his smile bright. “Well, Mr. Ash, sounds like you’ve given this a lot of thought.”

Samuel just smiled back, the curve of it lazy, like he had all the time in the world.

Wilkins continued, smooth as ever. “But if there’s nothing pressing, I really must—”

Something slid onto the desk, coming to a stop in front of him. A manila folder.

The mayor blinked slowly. Odd. He hadn’t seen him walk in with anything.

Now, that was curious.

His fingers drummed lightly against the polished wood, his mind racing. Could the boy be working for one of his many rivals? A new player, trying to shake the careful balance he had spent so long maintaining? Or worse—someone who didn’t care about balance at all?

His thoughts flicked, briefly, to a spell he’d designed decades ago: Cordial Impalement.

Simple, elegant, deadly. The iron spears it conjured behind the target’s back left no magical trace to tie back to him. Perfect for troublesome situations.

The incantation rested on the tip of his tongue.

Ferrum amicum…

But Samuel shifted in his chair, that same slow ease, and Wilkins hesitated.

The boy hadn’t changed his posture, hadn’t moved an inch closer, and yet—something in the air had turned.

A weight.

Not magic, not anything Wilkins could place, but something just as present, just as real.

His grip tightened against the desk.

Samuel’s smile remained, smooth as glass, as if he hadn’t noticed the hesitation at all. Wilkins smiled wider in return, masking the faint tremor in his fingers.

Not yet.

He tilted his head, keeping his tone light. “And what’s this, Mr. Ash?”

Samuel’s fingers tapped the folder once, a lazy little movement.

“Just some paperwork I’d like you to take a look at.”

Wilkins flipped open the folder with careful, practiced ease, his fingers tracing the edge of the paper like he was expecting it to bite.

Nothing. No shimmer of magic, no trace of hex or cursework. Just good old-fashioned bureaucracy.

And yet, something in his gut remained unsettled.

The first page detailed a deed—a property across from the Sunnydale Mall—already signed, notarized, and finalized. Wilkins frowned. There isn’t a building there. Not one he could recall, anyway. And if there had been, he would have known about it.

He turned the page.

Business licenses. Three copies.

Filed meticulously, printed without a single smudge, the kind of neatness that spoke of deliberate, obsessive care. The notary stamps were crisp, official. Every signature in place.

Too perfect.

Wilkins wasn’t in the habit of underestimating people, but teenagers weren’t this prepared. Especially not ones waltzing into his office with bright blue eyes and hair like a bleeding sunset.

He ran a finger over the name.

Samuel Lucius Ash.

The lettering was bold, deliberate, standing out against the stark white page. Names had power, Wilkins knew that better than anyone. This one felt like it was meant to be seen.

He leaned back in his chair, adjusting his tie with a slow, casual motion.

“Well now, a business? At your age? That’s mighty impressive.”

Samuel inclined his head slightly, something amused in his expression. “Thank you. My family always had high hopes for me.”

Wilkins studied him, weighing his words. A family. That could mean anything.

He considered pressing further—where does a teenager get the resources for this? But something in the boy’s posture made him hesitate.

Not arrogance. Not quite.

Something worse.

Certainty.

Wilkins smiled, the warmth never leaving his voice. “And where is your family? I take it you’re new to Sunnydale?”

Samuel arched an eyebrow. “Why do you say that?”

Wilkins chuckled, waving a hand. “Oh, you’re so… unique. I think I’d remember you.”

Samuel chuckled, soft and measured. “Fair.” He paused. “My family doesn’t live in Sunnydale. It’s just me.”

The mayor’s fingers stilled against the desk.

Just him.

Wilkins’ mind raced through a dozen implications, none of them good. No mention of a guardian, no details on where he came from, just a casual dismissal of the question like it didn’t matter.

That meant one of two things.

Either the boy had something to hide…

Or he wanted Wilkins to know he had something to hide.

Wilkins kept his expression pleasant, filing that little tidbit away.

“Oh, and where do they live?”

Samuel’s faint smile didn’t flicker. His voice stayed steady.

“…Outside of Sunnydale.”

A slow blink.

Wilkins returned the smile, polite as ever. “Of course.”

Samuel nodded toward the folder. “Now, I just need to make sure that’s approved and there won’t be any issues with zoning or anything else.”

The mayor’s gaze flickered back to the papers. The request was normal enough—on the surface.

And yet…

Wilkins adjusted his tie again, this time more deliberate.

This boy was playing a long game.

And Wilkins didn’t like being played.

Still, he wasn’t about to show his hand just yet.

With a wave of his hand, he dismissed the concern. “Oh, of course. I always believe in supporting small businesses.”

Samuel’s lips curled faintly, tapping his fingers against the armrest in a slow rhythm.

“Small… yes.” His smile sharpened. “Hopefully, not for long.”Wilkins adjusted his tie, fingers smoothing over the silk with practiced ease, though the motion was slower than usual, deliberate. The light caught against the fabric, glinting for just a second as he sat back, keeping his posture relaxed. The stiffness, the faint coil of unease at the base of his spine, was new—and Wilkins didn’t care much for new.

He’d run this town long enough to know exactly what belonged in it.

And yet, across from him, standing with easy, practiced poise, was something that didn’t.

Wilkins chuckled, warm and affable as ever. “Oho, big plans, I see.”

Samuel grinned, the picture of effortless charm. “The biggest.”

Wilkins studied him, chin tilting forward just slightly. “Well now, Sunnydale is just thrilled to have you.” He let the words settle before adding, as light as a Sunday morning sermon, “But…”

Samuel mirrored the pause, letting the silence stretch just long enough.

“But?”

Wilkins folded his hands atop his desk, his smile unwavering. “Why Sunnydale?”

Samuel’s expression didn’t flicker, but Wilkins caught the faintest trace of amusement behind those unnaturally blue eyes. The boy knew the question was coming.

Samuel rocked back on his heels slightly, smoothing down the front of his blazer before answering. “Great location. Excellent clientele. Interesting nightlife.”

His hand extended smoothly, palm up.

A handshake.

Wilkins hesitated for just a fraction of a second—too quick for any normal man to catch, but the hesitation was there all the same.

Then, with the practiced grace of an immortal politician, he reached forward and clasped Samuel’s hand, his grip firm, fingers curling around the boy’s palm in a gesture he’d perfected over a century of handshakes.

The moment their hands met, something shifted.

It wasn’t magic. Not exactly. Not in any way Wilkins could recognize.

It was like trying to grasp smoke that wasn’t there. A fleeting, almost imperceptible presence, something pressing at the edges of reality before disappearing completely.

By the time the handshake ended, there was something in his hand.

Wilkins blinked.

A black business card.

It hadn’t been there before.

He turned it over between his fingers, the material smooth, almost velvety. Across the matte black surface, crimson lettering stood out in stark relief—deep, bold strokes, as if the ink hadn’t been printed so much as bled into the page.

Samuel Lucius Ash.

No title. No business. Just a number.

Wilkins flipped the card over.

Blank.

His thumb brushed over the letters, testing the ink. Solid. Unmoving. The texture was strange—too smooth, yet somehow heavy, like the card itself had weight beyond its paper.

His fingers curled around it, slipping it into his pocket with a slow, casual motion.

Samuel adjusted his tie.

“Well now, wouldn’t dream of taking up too much of your time.” His words rolled out slow, measured, as if he had all the time in the world.

Wilkins straightened. The motion felt mechanical.

Samuel’s voice stayed pleasant, but something lurked underneath, something sharper. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Mayor. I’m sure we’ll see each other again.”

Wilkins extended his hand again—habit more than anything.

Samuel took it, his grip just as steady as before.

Wilkins smiled. “Likewise, Mr. Ash. Take care now.”

Samuel’s grin sharpened. “Oh, I always do.” 

The boy turned, stepping away with the kind of unhurried confidence that set Wilkins’s teeth on edge and in moments, the office door clicked shut behind him.

Wilkins remained standing for a long moment, staring at the space where the boy had been.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he sat back down, his fingers drumming lightly against the polished wood of his desk as he let out a breath he hadn’t been aware he’d been holding. His gaze flickered to the wall—plaques, awards, and so many framed photographs. I built this town. Brick by brick.

No one walked into his office and unsettled him.

And yet.

His fingers curled, drumming once more against the desk, his voice a low murmur, almost thoughtful.

“Now what on earth was that about?”