The guy still has that smug look across his face. The smirk. Enough to make him want to grab hold of the man who taunts him, put his hands around his head and squeeze until his eyes pop out. But right now, that’s not an immediate concern.
    He tries to think, to concentrate on what he needs to know. But the man is speaking now, speaking as he moves his hands, aglow with old magicks, his devoted disciples, the saps that they are, watching him speak to his ‘guest’.
    But he can’t hear him. Not over the sounds of his own screams.

The room is dark, painted in shadow, the only source of light emanating from the magician’s hands. His followers hold up candles to light their way, and he can just about make out the images on the walls of the room. They’re all extinct creatures or deformed humans. All manner of things.
    But then the pain finds him and suddenly he can hear the man, even over his own shrieking sounds. His smirk is still there, but there’s a degree of calmness to the magician now. He’s preparing his tale.
    I wish he would hurry up. The pain is not exactly pleasant.
    He tries to keep the discomfort from showing on his face.

No one will ever see me break.

The magician’s words seem to fill the room, despite his screams. Or has he finally cracked? Is he screaming? Is he just imagining all of this? Has his brain stopped processing?

“I’ll stop the magic,” the magician says smiling, almost cordially. “But only as long as you listen. Attentively.” He drags the word out. The prisoner locks eyes with his tormentor. He has his attention.

“Any sorcerer worth the name knows the legend of the Reckoning. The last stand of the last Slayer. Over two hundred years ago.” In his mind, he can see her, the girl from a few years ago. The one with the blade. The Scythe.

Buffy.

The magician carries on, almost forgetting the pain he’s causing. It’s as if he’s having a religious experience.

I just need you to talk quickly, buddy…

“The Slayer and her allies faced an apocalyptic army of demons.” The images in his head now swirl, a horde, no an army, or a stampede of ancient demons, Old Ones, marching on the interfering Summers girl.
    Let’s see her wield her blade now. Annoying Lurk-Lover.
    He sees Buffy, surrounded by creatures and fire. She looks tired.

“By the time it was done, so were they. The demons banished to a Hell dimension. Vampires all but wiped out. Devolving into present-day Lurks. The Slayer herself gone… and no other called… until Melaka Fray just recently.”

The wizard stops talking, looking straight at him now. He walks towards him, almost suggestively. He lowers the magic field causing the pain, just a little: he intends for his prisoner to speak.

“That’s the legend anyway. Vague and unreliable as legends are.” He takes a deep breath and runs his finger over the prisoner’s face, circling his lips with his finger. “But my sources tell me that you, little Lurk, are Fray’s twin brother Harth.”

Harth wants to spit in the guy’s face. His stupid little soul patch on his chin, the regal, but oh-so-expensive fake velvet coat… But Harth can barely raise his head. The magics holding him in place too strong.

“And that, while she’s got the Slayer power, you ended up with the memories… of every Slayer that ever was.” He turns away from Harth for a minute, but he knows what’s coming. “Which means you know what really happened during the Reckoning.” He moves closer, their eyes locked, his lips close to his, the anger searing through his skin. His breath fogs up Harth’s glasses. “And you are going to tell me.”

Harth decides the time has come. He stops screaming, almost to comic effect. His pain twisted expression turns to one of glee, as his mouth curls into a smirk, his eyes glazing over as he brushes his fangs with his tongue. “It wasn’t just demons. It was vampires too. And they weren’t fighting one Slayer, but many. The Slayers did meet their end that day. They weren’t all killed. Most just lost their powers and memories. But she was gone forever.”

The magician’s eyes go angrier now. Not at Harth, but at her. “Buffy Summers. Yes… the same Buffy Summers who came to our era not long ago.”

A screen behind the magician shows a holo-file. On it two girls are fighting. One, short, black hair with the Slayer Scythe, pink rebellious streak in her bobbed hair, whilst Buffy punches her. His sister and the Slayer.

“The same Buffy Summers who came to our era and by doing so made the timeline…” He struggles to find a word with enough gravitas, but gives up when he can’t find it. Harth chuckles. “Made the timeline wobbly. But she left a trail, if you will, back to her time. A trail that could be followed.”

He turns to the far wall. Harth doesn’t look particularly impressed as he picks an arm-length rod from a rack on the wall. It’s golden, with a large diamond embedded in the top of it. It’s old, almost impossibly old, and looks suspiciously like the top of a gentleman’s cane. The magician, with a long look of satisfaction on his face, begins to ramble again. Harth sighs.

“The Scepter of Veils,” the magician squeals, “which I have spent countless credits and lives to acquire. Now I can go back to Buffy Summers’ era. Take advantage of the Reckoning to make myself all-powerful. Then return here, kill your sister and rule this world.”

Harth wonders if the guy has any idea how dumb he sounds. “I like the plan. One note: it should be me,” he singsongs back at his captor.

The guy laughs; a stupid, annoying, over-the-top giggle that reeks of rehearsal.

“Ha! You? A common Lurk? Who crumbles to ash at a simple stake to the heart? You’re funny, Harth. I believe I’ll keep you around. You might yet have useful information, and you amuse me.” His smile then changes, the wicked smirk back again. “But never forget, I can destroy you utterly.”

His sentence is cut short when one of his followers moves behind him. The idiot magician turns to yell at his disciple, obviously not enjoying being interrupted mid-villain rant. “What are you doing? You’ve ruined my threat! Now I have to start over-“

He doesn’t finish again.
    He can’t, thankfully. The stake that just pierced the human’s heart will at least shut him up.
    The followers remove their hoods – they’re all Lurks, the magician, now on the ground, squirming to hold onto life, gargling his own blood.

Harth smiles his evil, leering grin, kicks the magician with his foot and picks up the dropped Scepter. He adjusts his glasses and regards his captor-turned-floor ornament.

“Such contempt for us lowly Lurks. So much. You didn’t bother to do your research… Hardly anyone knows today’s Lurks – vampires – can assume human form. Even they’d forgotten. Until I showed them how.” One look at the disciples and they pounce on the helpless magic man, carving him apart with their bare hands.

Harth smiles, dusts his clothing down and eyes the Scepter curiously.

“Thank you for the Scepter. I couldn’t go back in time without it. And I have to admit, your defenses are more than we could breach. So it was so nice of you to invite me in… but only fair after the effort I went to, turning your minions one by one.”

He bends down towards the magician, who remarkably is holding on. “Your sources,” Harth continues, pointing at himself, “Me, in case you hadn’t guessed, were right. There is unlimited power to be had.”

He runs his finger across the magician’s face, repeating his gesture back, circling his lips with his finger but consciously taking blood from his skin and licking the tip of his finger with relish. His features change, the glasses looking slightly strange on the vampire, his eyes glowing red, his fangs gleaming.

“Presiding over the end of the Slayer in two different timelines…” he considers, his grin getting bigger. “That is just blood icing on the cake…”

To be continued 200 years ago in