Giles frowned at Illyria. “I wasn’t aware we were making an actual job offer.”
“It is necessary that there be a custodian of the Deeper Well. None can fulfill that role better than I.” Illyria cocked her head to one side. “I have certain conditions. A computer, broadband internet access, and an electricity supply. Each year at Thanksgiving I shall visit the shell’s parents. You will arrange transportation and a temporary substitute guardian.”
“That seems reasonable,” Giles conceded. “Very well.”
“Also,” Illyria added, “I desire computer games more violent than ‘Crash Bandicoot’ and a regular supply of tacos.”
Illyria scribbled equations on a whiteboard. Periodically she broke off and entered figures into her computer.
Once the calculations would have been superfluous. She could have accomplished the task using her own natural abilities with no need to steal power from the slumbering Old Ones in the Deeper Well.
It mattered not; she would overcome her limitations and prevail. This existence was intolerable; therefore she would not tolerate it. She would alter the past, reload from a save and play again, and next time things would be better. Wesley would not die.
She just needed to construct a time machine.