|
The dog keeps following her.
Through the colours -- red and orange and purple wrapped around the women in layers and layers; white on the men with their starched shirts brighter than bright against their skin. Through the scent of spices, oils, bodies both human and animal -- a minute ago she's passed a baby elephant chained to the wrist of some old geezer -- overshadowed by the stench of exhaust fumes. Through oddly angled streets, red dust caking the crooked gaps between stones polished by millions of feet.
And still, he's there, a flash of gold and a glimpse of skinny dog-limbs.
The fuck?
Not like she's the only foreign girl in Varanasi, and unlike the sweaty tourists she seen waddling around the ghats after one of these ever-popular Ganges riverboat rides, she doesn't stoop down and coo over every mangy animal that crosses her path, or even dole out precious food that one of the hordes of beggars would probably appreciate more -- only, they 're not *cute*, of course.
This one she picked up high in the Old Town when stepping out of the Grand Temple -- "Hindi Only", sure, but Faith wasn't about to start minding rules just then. She'd felt slightly dizzy from all the incense, her feet still bare, with moisture and mud from the smudged marble clinging to her soles; she hadn't even had time to wipe off the mark on her forehead -- latest layer of the brightly coloured blessing. *Last*, if she had any say in the matter.
"Leave them on", Giles had told her when she'd first complained, his voice faint and tinny and faraway, "you'll be able to blend in better with the crowds of pilgrims if you wear a tikkam ."
So now she's here, wearing one of those, all decked in sensible clothes. No way she'd go native and start wearing these flowing pants with the long blouses -- what is she, a goddamn hippie? -- but with her faded jeans, that insanely long scarf, and a long-sleeve that would make that French designer envious, she doesn't stand out much from the younger Indians. Faith figured she'd be okay.
Anyway, Sir Rupert wasn't the one having to actually trudge through the hundreds of temples to find a Watcher-turned-Hindu-Priest who'd be able to finally tell where this lost batch of Indian Slayers was and to keep getting new marks of blessing.
To them, it was probably the yellow thumbprint of God -- or gods, she guesses, can't remember the names of all these elephants and dashing heroes and fat men in the lotus position -- but to her, it's just a warm smear that makes her skin underneath itch something fierce.
This'd been the last temple on her list. Faith is sure she got them all -- on the surface, the place doesn't much look like the back streets of Boston, but it's true what she's heard others on the streets say -- know one city, know them all. Even without a clue, she could still instantly find her way, decent food, company. Nita's English had been mostly picked up from tourists, what with the weavers speaking only their own language, but not like Faith was in the habit of asking for letters of reference.
Still, all street wisdom hadn't helped her to find this brahman . For a moment, there'd been a stab of hope right there in the Grand Temple --
The rough, fast sing-song of Hindi, directed at her, mildly questioning, once more with fucking feeling.
"Yeah, sorry, not so much with the Hindi, but I speak Slayer -- that One Girl in All the World gig is up, and we need your help."
And for the first time during this endless weekend, there hadn't just been a benign smile and a hand stretched out for a crumpled bill or two: the old brahman 's head had shot up, his eyes sharp and clear all at once.
Faith'd been careful not to touch anything or anyone in and around the temples-- never knew with holy things and people -- but suddenly the priest's hand'd snatched her own into an iron grip and pulled her closer, closer, until their noses were almost touching.
It'd taken all of her willpower not to instinctively draw away and slam the old guy against the temple wall for good measure -- yeah, yeah, she has issues -- but she'd managed, ground her teeth, and kept returning the gaze from eyes lighter than her own, amber-flecked, burning with something that made her more light-headed than the scent of perfumed oil and burning spices. His free hand had snaked up, and then she'd felt the cool paste of another tikkam smeared to her forehead.
And she was free again, the old brahman just a huddled figure by the blessed pool again, already turning to the pilgrims behind her, mumbling yet more prayers.
Just great. She hadn't even gotten one of these wicked flower necklaces.
Instead, suddenly, there was a dog-- just another thin, light-furred mutt, but unlike its buddies cowering in corners and keeping close to walls and gutters to avoid being kicked, this one was standing in the middle of the street, head held high, staring at her while the crowds simply passed him, a sandy island in the stream of people.
Weird. Rabid, maybe? Faith isn't gonna check this out, though; more important to find the Brahman guy she's looking for.
She'll just keep an ear close to the ground (only, not really; these streets aren't exactly licked-clean, Sunnydale style) while rounding up some demons-- bit careful, though, after the mess with that family. She's still sorry for almost breaking the son's neck, but well, if you wear a mongoose's head on a human-ish body and hide in abandoned rice storages, a Slayer's gonna be all killer instinct first. Good thing she's learned (not perfected, but hey) to apologise.
Even to demons.
A/N: Inspired by an Alias fanfic author -- daera23 mentioned she was (I'm paraphrasing) fed up with the lack of properly exotic locations for our favourite spies and craved fiction with a genuine link to faraway places, with more than just using the equivalent of a cut-out Eiffel tower in the background. In this, Faith will eventually turn around and follow the dog, which will lead her to the East Indian Slayers...who aren't exactly problem-free, of course, if nothing that our favourite ex-rogue Slayer can't handle.
In the end.
|
|