Fool of the Devil II-5 (Patreon)

Xander was dreaming of brimstone and Jesse’s face again, right up until the banging started—three hard, sloppy-knuckled knocks that rattled his bedroom door like Tony’d just remembered what a hinge was for and decided he hated it.

A single eye snapped open, iris slitted red for a second before it remembered how to play nice. The real rage inside him sputtered out fast, the bona-fide grass-fed free-range stuff that regular people would almost never understand unless they blacked out and slaughtered a whole room first.

There was a reason why they called that sort of rage Biblical. Xander just hadn’t expected that term to be actually and unironically literal.

Apparently, the further away you were from normal human, the less your brain had to be occupied with all the other conflicting earthly shit that kept your soul from going full-hog.

And apparently emotions loved to go full-hog.

His eye unslitted, going back to it’s dark brown. Normal. Yeah, completely harmless even. Let’s see how long that lasts.

The door shook again, drywall groaning like it was filing for a restraining order.

“ALEXANDER LAVELLE HARRIS! No locked doors in my house, boy!”

And there it was. Tony. Peak condition. Drunk before dawn, again. He was putting in the work today—must’ve rolled off the couch earlier than usual just to bless the household with the full Tony Harris Screaming Bourbon Wake-Up Experience™. Which was weird. Normally the man didn’t rise unless there were sirens involved.

From downstairs, Mom’s voice creaked up the stairs, all static and cotton. “Leave him alone, Tony!” She sounded tired. Like always. Too many late-night “visits” to too many fake friends he’d never seen, leaving behind just enough perfume and guilt to paper over whatever she couldn’t say. Probably less drunk than him, but not by much. Progress?

A loud sigh left Xander’s lips as he rolled over in bed and stared up at his cracked ceiling. I’m judging. I’m actually judging. That’s rich. He snorted once, the sound nearly bursting out into a full laugh. Like I didn’t trade in my punch card for demon blood and a new species discount at the Rosen Queen. Part of him, the tinest part, had considered questioning the legality of his King’s deal just out of curiosity, because — from what he’d read — Devils were kinda sticklers for the law of deals, but he didn’t need Devil instincts screaming in his head to know going down that path would not work out for him.

The door shook again, this time harder—hinges squealing like they knew they weren’t built for this kind of conflict. Something warm flickered up his spine, trailing from his stomach. Not heat, not exactly, not the way any one could really define heat.

Something closer to… friction.

Xander let out another breath in the form of a sigh, teeth bared as he resisted the urge to run his tongue against his teeth. Canines are growing a little again. As small as it was, he still hated that. Any more growth at this rate and he’d look like leech trash in a year or two.

Shaking his head to dislodge that thought, Xander was already moving.

Not consciously, not gracefully—just up and across the floor in a blink, bare feet smacking hardwood hard enough to rattle the loose board near the closet. His hand slammed the door open before he finished stepping into it, the motion loud enough that something downstairs fell over. Maybe a bottle. Maybe Mom.

Anthony “Tony” Harris — “Big Tony” if you were one of the guys at the local bars who mocked the often-broke gambler — stood there. All robe and rage and a half-empty bottle of Old Crow sloshing in his other hand. Red bathrobe stained from a decade of microwave dinners and dried bile, hanging open just enough to ruin everyone’s day. Face swollen, eyes like potholes—bloodshot and mean.

Xander stared. Silent. Unblinking.

A few months ago, he’d have cracked a joke by now. Backed up. Maybe fake-yawned through the terror and made a sitcom of it. But not anymore.

Now, he just… watched.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

And Tony, Tony flinched. It was subtle, but there. The part of him that still had a lizard brain recognized something his conscious mind hadn’t caught up with yet. Something under the skin. Behind the eyes.

Tony jabbed a finger at his chest. It didn’t quite make contact but that didn’t matter to Xander. It was insult enough. “Don’t you take that tone with m-e,” he barked, though his voice caught on the last word, the man damn near hiccuping like a drunk of Merrie Melodies. Xander blinked, almost confused enough to ask "what tone?" He hadn't even said anything yet.“Seen you wearin’ new clothes lately. Think I ain’t notice that? Huh? Where’s that money comin’ from, kid? You selling pills? You doing favors?”

Spittle caught the edge of Xander’s collarbone. He didn’t wipe it off.

“I mean, look at you.” Tony gestured with the bottle now, sloshing it like a priest anointing a very disappointed congregation. “Too skinny, too smug. Walkin’ around like you think you’re hot shit. Like you’re better than us.”

I am. The thought rose up uninvited. He didn’t say it. Didn’t move.

Something heavy coiled in his gut, sharp-edged and slow-burning. He didn’t want to hit his father. He just… wouldn’t have minded if someone else did.

The air between them went still as Tony blinked, red-rim eyes twitching as the alcohol continued it’s lazy path through his wrecked system, his hair already gone white and face lined deeply despite being in his forties. “Well? You gonna say something or just stand there like a goddamn statue?” He stepped in closer, chest bumping Xander’s—not hard, but harder than he’d ever dared before.

The smile that crossed Xander’s face was small. A barely-there thing but he couldn’t help it. He really couldn’t. It was the sort of smile that crossed his face when he wondered how Peter Parker kept from ripping heads off on a bad day and how good that would feel to do anyway.

Just a little blood, something whispered in the back of his mind.

Tony paused, just long enough as his eyes narrowed Xander’s way.

“Ya li’l sh-shit,” he stammered, half-spluttering, “ya even l-listening to me right now?”

“You done?” Xander asked, voice low and calm.

Something changed in Tony’s eyes—rage and confusion and maybe the first flicker of fear. His hand shot up, open-palmed and ready to strike.

Xander caught his arm mid-swing without his expression flickering in the slightest. No wasted movement. Just reflexes that could track and kill things that moved at speeds belonging only to cars or very, very fast horses.

He could feel the pool of Nether— Ignis Infernalis, if you felt like getting fancy — in his gut roiling at the contact, at the thought of how easily he could treat the man’s bones like melting butter. Bad dog. The thing really responded to violence and negativity, and he often had to bust out the proverbial newspaper, as it were.

Tony tried to pull back from Xander’s grip, but the man couldn’t and Xander knew that as well as he knew that the sun had risen even through the dark curtains he’d put over his window.

“Let go of me, boy,” he hissed, but the words came out uncertain, even as the man’s voice sounded a lot more sober.

Xander held him for three more seconds. Four. Five. Just long enough to make a point as his eyes locked with Tony’s, unblinking.

The older man’s gaze tracked down, taking in Xander’s more muscled arms, all the way down to his black wife-beater (familiar, eh, Tony?) and his red pajama bottoms.

“Go back to sleep, Tony.” Xander released the arm, his voice soft but carrying a weight that hadn’t been there six months ago.

Tony’s mouth moved silently, working like a fish on land, forming words that just refused to come. Then the drunk turned and shuffled away, weaving slightly as he navigated the hallway toward the stairs.

Xander watched until the man disappeared down the staircase, rolling his eyes before he slammed his door behind him. “Parents.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Xander sat in the school lounge, fiddling with a piece of paper he’d folded into a crude airplane. The paper had started life as a math worksheet that was definitely not worth a D-minus, no matter what Mrs. Finkel claimed. Now it was something way more useful: a missile aimed directly at the back of Buffy’s perfect hair.

Parent-teacher night. Just another way to remind everyone that, hey, Sunnydale was more than just vampires and doom; it was also an endless parade of awkward social obligations. The only silver lining was watching Buffy squirm as she tried to juggle her responsibilities as the Slayer and as a totally normal, grounded teenager.

Wonder if Mom will even remember to show. He shoved the thought away. Hey, maybe they’ll serve those little triangle sandwiches with no crusts. Fancy prison food.

Buffy paced near the coffee table, muttering to herself, a mini-tornado of blonde hair and teenage anxiety. Her Discman sat forgotten beside an open textbook that hadn’t seen a single highlight mark. There was something endearing about her frantic energy—the way she approached every crisis, supernatural or social, with the same determined intensity. Like slaying a vampire or acing a quiz required the same battle stance.

“This is ridiculous,” she said, throwing her hands up. “Parent-teacher night and patrol. I’m one missed vampire attack away from getting detention for eternity.”

“Eternity’s not so bad,” Xander grinned, launching the paper airplane with a flick of his wrist. It sailed across the room with way more precision than his former paper airplanes ever had. “Plenty of time to perfect the whole ‘world’s greatest daughter’ routine.”

Buffy shot him a look, half-glare, half-exasperated smile. The kind that used to make his heart do the mambo but now just registered as familiar warmth. The airplane made a perfect landing on the bookshelf behind her, which wasn’t where he’d aimed, but whatever. He wasn’t about to question unexpected victories.

“Maybe you’ll get lucky,” Willow offered from her cross-legged position on the couch, a massive calculus textbook balanced on her knees like some ancient tome of wisdom. She wore that green fuzzy sweater he’d always liked, the one that made her look like a friendly Muppet ready to explain prime numbers. “And Snyder will mysteriously disappear before the event starts.”

“Could happen,” Buffy perked up, pausing mid-pace. “It’s Sunnydale.”

“Yeah, but with our luck, he’ll get turned into something even worse.” Xander plucked another worksheet from his backpack. Better grade, but still airplane-worthy. “Like a vampire with tenure.”

Willow snorted, her nose crinkling in that way that made her whole face light up. Xander noticed how her fingers fidgeted with the corner of her textbook page—a telltale sign she was working up the courage to say something else.

Buffy finally sat down, running a hand through her hair. She smelled like strawberry shampoo and vanilla body spray—the kind that came in those clear bottles you could get at the mall for like, eight bucks. He could pick out every chemical note now, which was both cool and deeply weird.

“Okay, so game plan,” Buffy said, counting off on her fingers. “I smile, mom smiles, we survive Snyder. Simple, right?”

“Simple if you’re not a social disaster,” Cordelia declared, walking in with arms crossed over her chest, red lips curved in that permanent half-smirk that was its own social weapon.

Xander turned toward her, a retort ready-loaded. His eyes tracked her movement automatically—predator instinct that made him hyperaware of everything in the room. It was the same instinct that made him count exits when he entered a space now (three in this room, plus the window if things got desperate).

“Don’t worry, Cordy,” he said, voice dipping lower than he intended. “You’re safe. Social disasters only happen to people with souls.”

“Hilarious,” Cordelia rolled her eyes, but he caught the slight hitch in her breath, the way her pupils dilated ever so slightly. Behind her practiced indifference, there was that micro-hesitation he wouldn’t have noticed six months ago—a tiny crack in her armor. Weird. “Anyway, I don’t know why you’re all stressing. Parent-teacher night is just… night. With parents.”

“And teachers,” Buffy reminded her. “Like Snyder.”

Cordelia shrugged like she wasn’t performing, like she hadn’t just calculated the way her spine looked when she sat. Xander didn’t buy it. No sireee, Bob, he thought with a click of his tongue. Not one bit.

No one just hovered into a chair that gently unless they’re trying to look like they don’t care who’s watching. Her perfume was fresh too, sharp, sweet, and it took all of Xander’s willpower not to arch his head back and let his nostrils flare.

Not just because it would make him look suspicious but also because giving Cordy more ammo to call him a dog just sounded like a bad idea on several levels.

“Sounds like a you problem,” she muttered, inspecting her nails like they held the answer to vampire calculus. The gloss caught the overhead lights just enough to glare.

Xander didn’t answer, the Imp not moving much as his fingers folded another plane, this time without looking. It was a different shape this time, the wings tighter and more weight at the nose.

Just a fun little waste of time, and honestly, what better place to waste time than school in the first place. What else am I gonna do here, anyway?

Then Giles walked into the lounge.

Xander’s brain registered it the way he was still getting used to, the scent of tea and fabric hitting him with each step the man took nearer to them.

“Greetings, Buffy, Willow, Xander,” Giles said as introduction, adjusting his glasses the way he did often. “Apologies for interrupting your…” The man tilted his head slightly at the sight of Willow reading a calculus text from the 60s at the latest, “…leisure time.* His hand went to his glasses again, Xander half-wondering why the Watcher didn’t just get them tightened.

That was a thing, right? Tightening glasses?

Ms. Calendar popped out from behind the British librarian, her steps soft enough that Xander only noticed her now. He took in a small breath, mouth open as he tasted the air to avoid sniffing, the teacher’s scent filling his nostrils. Ah, sandalwood and stressed-out teacher, which was apparently a specific scent funny enough, unique to her. Most other prison guards at Sunnydale gave off more of a fast-food undertone, which was in it’s own way just as pleasant.

“Something we need to discuss,” Giles added, and yeah, there it was.

That tone.

The one where he got softer and the syllables clipped harder. It was almost a feature of the accent, as if the British had mastered replacing punctuation with dread.

Xander tilted his head. I mean, I guess growing up under World War II bombings will do that to you. Was Giles that old? He honestly had no idea.

Buffy sighed, collapsing deeper into the couch like the news had already happened and she was pre-processing the exhaustion. “Let me guess. Hellmouth’s hiccuping again?”

“Not exactly,” Ms. Calendar said, voice lower than usual. Not soft, just… flattening the edges. Smoothing the blow before it hit. “Have you ever heard of the Night of Saint Vigeous?”

Buffy’s brows furrowed, not in that cute angry kitten-way they usually did. No, she just looked tired. “Sounds vaguely churchy.”

Xander was already leaning forward before he noticed. His spine hadn’t gotten the memo about staying casual. Ms. Calendar’s gaze slid past him, then back, like it had tripped and circled around.

“It’s named after a vampire,” Giles began, pacing already. “A powerful one whose name went down in history for the exact reasons you’d expect of a vampire. He even led a crusade through the Middle East, though crusade might be too sanitized a term for the actions of a small army of once-knights. During the night named in his honor, all vampires experience an increase in power. Physical. Sensory. Magical. Temporary, yes, and not overwhelming, but significant enough to be noted.”

Xander’s blood ran warm and for the first time since the death of the Master, it felt like someone had knocked on the door of the thing inside him and it had blinked awake, interested.

“Great,” Buffy muttered. “Vampire steroids.”

“Cool,” Xander said, trying to sound down, but it came out too quick anyway. Even worse than that, he couldn’t help the grin on his face, one that showed too many teeth. “Because regular vampires weren’t already on my list.”

There was a twitch just behind his jaw. He could feel the heat behind his eyes—familiar, eager. Not fear. Not nerves. That other thing. The part of him that leaned forward when blood got thick in the air. The thing that asked for more.

He wished he could call it Spider-Sense but it was more like Devil Sense, way less fun and more of an anticipation than a prediction power. Either way, it got his heart moving, the blood under his skin rushing, his face blushing like a twelve-year old getting his first kiss.

He was already aware that just what he said had come out like his voice belonged to someone two inches taller. Or hungrier.

The devil in him perked up like a dog hearing a can opener. Not that he was gonna say that out loud. Or even let it echo too long in his skull. It was just—

There.

Pressing into the back of his tongue, restless in his knuckles. The idea of fighting something stronger, faster, teeth longer than they should be? That wasn’t scary. That was clarifying.

He breathed out through his nose. No words. Just enough to make the heat go somewhere.

“This isn’t a matter to take lightly,” Giles said, glasses off again, which was the apocalypse signal for please stop joking before I throw a Latin book at you. “The Night of Saint Vigeous is often marked by organized assaults. Full-scale attacks. If we’re not ready—”

“We’ll be ready,” Buffy cut in, and her posture snapped into something sharp. Her voice didn’t shake. The Slayer version of her had taken the wheel again.

Ms. Calendar’s hand touched Giles’s forearm. Just a graze. Fingernails blood-dark, matte. Xander’s eyes caught the color first, then the hand, then the space between the fingers and the fabric.

He looked away fast enough to pretend he hadn’t seen any of it.

“Just…” she said, and now she was looking at him again. Longer, slower, like her eyes weren’t entirely convinced about what she was seeing.

“Keep it on your radar, okay?”

His skin hummed at the word. Radar? He was radar. He’d been pinging vamps at twenty yards since the school year had started. If Saint Vigeous turned them into monsters?

That was fine.

He knew how to talk to monsters.

Definitely on his radar.

Question is, am I on theirs?

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

It was almost impossible to run in heels.That’s why she let hers go half a block back, kicking her way out of them as her bare feet hit the road hard and fast, each impact sending jolts of fear up her spine. Callie’s breath came in short, desperate pants, pure panic squeezing her chest like a vise keeping her from breathing right.

Stupid stupid stupid. Her head jerked from side to side, looking for somewhere to hide. First night in Sunnydale and you’re already fucked.

The blood on her shirt was already crusting over, the fabric sticking to her skin with each movement. God, there was so much of it. 

She’d heard rumors about Sunnydale—everyone in her circles had—but nothing prepared her for the reality. Sometimes at night, it was as if the whole town felt strangely wrong, like the air had gotten all twisted up and thick. It was like what the breath of a wolf was like in your face, thick and hot and smelling like old kills.

Don’t scream. Don’t you fucking dare scream. Screaming would bring attention. Attention would bring people. People would mean questions she couldn’t answer about the mess decorating her favorite Nine Inch Nails t-shirt.

She bit down on her lower lip hard enough to draw blood, the copper taste filling her mouth. Not the time. Definitely not the time to think about that. Focus. Just get to the motel. Get to the motel.Easier said than done.

Another noise.She bolted again, remembering how she thought—stupidly—that she could find a quick bite before finding a place to crash at night. But apparently Sunnydale had other plans.

Just keep moving. Don’t look back.

The street remained empty, the only sound the distant music of what had to be some college bar down the strip. A rush of air came up from behind her and Callie spun, but too late—hands closed around her throat, impossibly strong, lifting her up until her feet dangled uselessly above the ground.

She clawed at the hands, but they might as well have been steel. The figure holding her was just a silhouette, faceless in the darkness, but she could feel its eyes on her, assessing, curious.“Oh, stop fighting already.” The crack was sudden and sickening, punctuation for the end of the sentence.

Her body went instantly numb, a puppet with cut strings, and she collapsed in a heap on the ground. She could only stare upward, paralyzed, as the figure knelt down beside her.

The face that came into view was young, almost boyish, but something ancient lurked behind those eyes. Eyes that, as they caught the distant streetlight, flashed blood-red for the briefest moment. A smile split his face, revealing teeth that were just a bit too sharp, a bit too eager, and just as hungry as she had been. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about St Vigeous, would you?”

Then the smile faded, replaced by confusion, then something like embarrassment.

“…wait, can you talk when you’re paralyzed?”

Callie tried to respond, but all that escaped her was a wet gurgle.

The dark-haired boy rolled his eyes dramatically. “Well, slap my ass and call me a donkey.” He reached behind his back and pulled out a wooden stake. “My bad, Ms Leech.”