Chosen

  “What?” Willow was stricken. Cassie was talking about Tara. She had a message from Tara!

  Cassie nodded slightly. “Remember that time on the bridge, when you sang to each other? Well, she says even though you can’t hear her it, she still sings to you.”

  “Tara?” Willow cried, looking around, fingers twisting, heart clutching. “Is it you?”

  “She’s sorry she couldn’t come herself. She just can’t,” Cassie continued forlornly, “because of what you did. You killed people. So you can’t see her.”

  Willow nearly choked on her grief and remorse. “But she’s talking to you? And she can hear me? Tara, Tara, I miss you. I miss you so much.”

  “She’s crying,” Cassie told her. “She misses you. She wishes she could touch you.”

  “Me, too. Oh, me, too. Oh, God, Tara, it hurts so much. Every day, it’s like this giant hole, and it’s not getting better. After Warren shot you, it was horrible. I was horrible. I—I lost myself. The regular me.” Tears streamed down her face.

  “Well, you were grieving,” Cassie replied, and Willow didn’t know if she was speaking for Tara or for herself.

  “A lot of people grieve,” Willow argued. “They don’t make with the flaying. They don’t kill people.”

  “It was the power,” Cassie said.

  “I am the power. It’s in me,” Willow said. “Did I mention the random destruction of property? The Magic Box—”

  “The power is bigger than you are,” Cassie cut in.

  “I know, but—”

  “Things are more clear where Tara is, where we are. We can see your path, and you have to stop. You can’t use magic again, ever.”

  Willow was confused. “Black magic, of course. But Giles says it isn’t as simple as quitting it all cold-turkey—”

  “It’s too dangerous,” Cassie told her. “You can’t take the chance that you’ll lose control.”

  “I—I don’t want to. I can’t.” Willow was distraught. “I never want to cause that kind of pain.”

  “Of course you don’t,” Cassie assured her.

  “So, I won’t,” Willow finished. “I’m gonna be okay.”

  Cassie listened a moment. “She says . . .” She looked straight at Willow. “You’re not gonna be okay. You’re going to kill everybody. But if you stop completely . . .”

  “Right,” Willow said quickly, but she was still incredibly confused. “W-What about Giles? He made it seem like it’s just as dangerous for me to quit completely, like I’ll go off the deep end again—”

  Cassie was adamant. “If you do so much as another spell . . .”

  “I tried to stop. I—I tried. What if I can’t do this?” Willow demanded, distraught.

  “Don’t think that way,” Cassie said calmly.

  “Well, how can I not? You’re telling me I’m going to murder all my friends. I’m not strong. I’m not an Amazon. I’m just me.”

  “Well, there is one thing you could do to stop it.”

  “What? Anything,” Willow begged.

  “And you could see her. You wouldn’t have to talk through me.”

  “Tara?” Willow asked softly.

  “So go. Be with her. Everybody will be safe, and you’ll be together again. It’s not that bad. Really. It’s just like going to sleep.”

  Willow stared at her.

  Cassie was trying to get her to kill herself. Commit suicide.

  This is wrong. Something is wrong. Tara was all about life. Our Wicca tradition is about the power to heal. . . .

  “Who are you?” Willow coldly asked Cassie.

  Still seated Cassie—or whatever entity was masquerading as the dead girl—made a little face and said, “Suicide thing was too far, huh. Hmm. You seemed so ripe.”

  She mocked Willow. “ ‘Oh, baby, you left such a big hole. It hurt so bad.’ ” She leaned in all serious and cold evil. “You don’t know hurt. This last year’s gonna seem like cake after what I put you and your friends through, and I am no fan of easy death. Believe me, I’m going for a big finish.”

  In horror Willow murmured, “From beneath you, it devours.”

  Cassie leaned back in her chair, grinning at Willow. “Oh, not it. Me.”

  Her grin grew until her mouth became her entire face, her jaws engulfing her head as she turned inside out, becoming a floating sphere of flesh. Just as Willow managed to understand what she was seeing, the sphere disappeared.

  Buffy, she thought, horrified.

  * * *

  “Wish we’d stayed in Mexico,” Jonathan muttered.

  He and Andrew were in their El Camino, which they had boosted in Mexico and which was decorated like a border gift shop. Dingle balls bobbed and danced as they sped toward the city limits of Sunnydale. Jonathan had never dreamed he would see this town again.

  “I didn’t like it there,” Andrew contended. “Everyone spoke Mexico-an.”

  “You could’ve learned it. You learned the Klingon dictionary in two and a half weeks.”

  “That had much clearer transitive and intransitive rules.” He hesitated. “And besides . . . I can’t keep having those nightmares.”

  Jonathan shuddered. “Right. Me neither.” He took a breath and intoned, “Desde abajo te devora.”

  “ ‘It eats you, starting with your bottom,’ ” Andrew translated.

  “We’re gonna make it right,” Jonathan muttered to himself.

  Andrew nodded, growing misty-eyed. “We’re outlaws. With hearts of gold.”

  Then da-da, da-da-da-da, just like in Mission Impossible, they cut a hole in the window and rappelled down, their equipment stowed in two large black backpacks. Flashlights, map, check, check; walkie-talkies, check-check-check-check-check-check . . . and they had successfully infiltrated the brand-new Sunnydale High School.

  “Maybe we should just go get Buffy,” Jonathan murmured. “We’ll just tell her what we know about the Seal of Danzalthar—”

  “Think, McFly! Why would she believe us without any proof?” Andrew insisted. “Think of it as a trial by fire. A quest.”

  In search of the library Andrew sent Jonathan off in one direction while he took the other.

  Then Warren finally appeared to him.

  “There you are,” Andrew said. “I’m scared out of my friggin’ gourd here?”

  Warren laughed. “Take it easy. Take it easy.”

  Andrew was not amused. “One time you left me, and I ended up a Mexican.”

  “We’ve been over this. Now, this death thing is part of the master plan. Short Round holds up his end of the bargain, we’ll both become gods.”

  Andrew got that. He got it all the way down to the basement, as Warren led him to the Seal while Jonathan, unable to see Warren, consulted the map.

  They finally got there and began digging. Jonathan was in a chatty mood, reminiscing about Sunnydale High, even though his days there had sucked so totally that at one time he’d tried to kill himself.

  So what I’m about to do, not so bad, Andrew thought. He’s been partway down this road by himself . . . I’m just helping him make it to the end of his questa . . .

  They dug, Jonathan rammering about caring about his old “friends” and that being why he was doing this.

  Finally they uncovered the Seal, and Andrew had to catch his breath. It was like something Indiana Jones would collect—a circular metal object with a diameter of six feet—making the circumference nearly nineteen feet, molded into the shape of an upside-down pentagram embossed with the likeness of a horned goat.

  Mission accomplasido.

  While Jonathan busily packed up his equipment bag, Andrew got out the dagger. Then, as Jonathan registered Warren’s presence behind his other live friend, Andrew did just as Warren had told him, and sliced Jonathan in the abdomen.

  Shock . . . theater!

  Then Jonathan collapsed onto the disc. He bled—a lot, Andrew thought nervously. It just ran out of him, and there was more than Andrew would have expected. It was .
. . gross.

  But Warren looked pleased. And, as he had told Andrew it would, the Seal drank Jonathan’s blood, and began to glow.

  Power on, Warren thought dazedly.

  * * *

  Dawn had lived with witches and she knew a little bit about the power of magic.

  Now she sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by white candles and spell books.

  “I know you’re there,” she said boldly, listening to the terrifying breathing that reverberated through the house. “I will cast you out. My mother needs to talk to me.”

  She was holding a bowl of powder and she sprinkled some on the floor. For her troubles she was slammed backward against the wall. She held tight to the bowl.

  “I cast you from this place!” she shouted, sprinkling more dust. “It is your poison and your bane!”

  Invisible fingers raked her cheek.

  She screamed again, but sprinkled more dust. “It is the skin that is cut from your flesh!” she cried.

  Then the hellwind rose and blew out all the candles. The living room window imploded, and shards of glass showered down on her like bombs.

  She didn’t know how much time passed, but eventually she got her breathing under control. Shell-shocked, terrified, she sat in the middle of the living room, trying to absorb what had happened.

  Then . . . glowing, white, transcendent, her mother appeared.

  Joyce Summers was robed all in white. She glowed like an angel, and her smile was sweet and gentle, belying the message she had for her daughter.

  “Things are coming, Dawn. Listen. Things are on their way. I love you, and I love Buffy, but she won’t be there for you.”

  Dawn was thunderstruck. Her eyes widened as she said, “What? Why are you—?”

  “When it’s bad, Buffy won’t choose you. She’ll be against you.”

  The glowing image of Dawn’s mother began to fade.

  Dawn cried, “No! No, don’t go! Please, don’t go!”

  As her mother vanished, Dawn sobbed uncontrollably, amid the ruins of her home.

  * * *

  Holden had hit the mother lode of her issues, and Buffy couldn’t hold back. They sat together on the steps of the crypt, Holden practicing the reflective listening he must have learned as psych major.

  “He loved me,” she told him. “I mean, in his own sick, soulless way, he really did care for me. But I—I didn’t want to be in love.”

  “Didn’t you?” he asked gently.

  “I have all this power,” she continued. “I didn’t ask for it. I don’t deserve it. It’s like. I wanted to be punished. I wanted to hurt like I thought I deserved. Um, this is sort of complicated. If you’d rather fight.”

  He leaned back and said, “Tell me.”

  It all rushed out. “I feel like I’m worse than anyone. Honestly, I’m beneath them. My friends, my boyfriends. I feel like I’m not worthy of their love. ‘Cause even though they love me, it doesn’t mean anything ‘cause their opinions don’t matter. They don’t know. They’re not the Slayer. I am. Sometimes I feel . . .”She sighed heavily, burdened down by her guilts and confusions “. . . like I’m better than them. Superior.”

  Holden smiled kindly. “So you can’t win.”

  She looked down.

  “And I thought I was diabolical,” he said. “Or, I plan to be. You do have a superiority complex, and you’ve got an inferiority complex about it. Kudos.”

  “It doesn’t make any sense,” Buffy murmured.

  “It makes every kind of sense,” Holder shot back. “It just adds up to you feeling alone. And, Buffy . . . everyone feels alone. Everybody is, till they die.”

  He rose.

  “Speaking of which . . . you ready for our little death match?”

  She stood slowly. “I suppose. Thanks for listening.”

  They moved to opposite corners in preparation for their face-off.

  “There’s some things you can only tell a stranger,” Holder told her.

  “You’re not a stranger,” she said. “But that stuff with Spike is pretty—”

  “Hold it,” Holden said.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Did you say Spike?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  He chuckled expansively. “He was the guy that um, oh, what’s the word?”

  Buffy felt herself go hollow and numb. “Sired?”

  “Yeah.” Holden nodded happily, as if to say, small strange world. “He was the guy that sired me.”

  Buffy stared at him in utter disbelief.

  * * *

  Spike sat in the Bronze drinking whiskey and listening to the singer, taking in her words.

  And where were you?

  Warm skin, wolf grin, where were you?

  I fell into the moon and it covered you in blue.

  I fell into the moon, can I make it right?

  The air is dew and where were you?

  I died, and where were you?

  High tide inside . . .

  Nice bird in fake fur came in, plopped a pack of cigs in front of Spike, and took the set next to him. Pretty. Interested.

  Can I spend the night?

  High tide inside.

  After he chatted her up she suggested they leave. It was his idea, but he allowed her to lay claim to it.

  They strolled together, talking, smiling. Got to her apartment building—looked a bit like Rupert’s old digs—and she invited him up.

  I crawled out of the world and you said

  I shouldn’t stay.

  I crawled out of the world. Can I make it right?

  He demurred, glancing at the picture window behind him. Drapes were closed, no one to see, as she descended, to see what he was about. She moved in closer to tempt him. . . .

  I fell into the moon and it covered you in blue.

  They were hip to hip, and the bloodlust was upon him. Firmly he grabbed her, held her, and tore out her throat. Drank lustily, drank deeply.

  Then he threw her corpse away, which sprawled at his feet. Brimming with satisfaction, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hands. If he’d been a were-wolf he would have howled with joy.

  I fell into the moon.

  Buffy thrust her stake into the unbeating heart of Holden “Webs” Webster, former psych major, former vampire, and he exploded . . . just as he had known he would, the moment that he rose.

  Rest in peace, and thanks for the analysis, she thought mournfully. You actually helped me quite a bit.

  The ashes of fear were dry in the Slayer’s mouth.

  Spike sired him.

  It has to be a mistake.

  It has to be.

  He can’t do that and he wouldn’t now, even if he could. He has a soul. He wants to be good.

  The Slayer stared down at the pile of dust, and disconnected on so many levels that part of her power was, for a moment, shut off—it was the power to feel, to move, to think. She stood in the graveyard like another monument to the inevitability of death, stunned.

  Can I make it right? Can I spend the night? Alone?

  Part Two: Ordeal

  Chapter Eight: “Sleeper”

  Who’s that knockin’ at my door? Xander thought groggily as he staggered from his bedroom toward the front door of his apartment. “At 4:30 in the morning,” he grumbled. “Sweet mamalooshin. Who is it?”

  “Me,” Buffy said. “Where’s Spike?”

  He unlatched the door and opened it. She sailed past toward Spike’s bedroom, peering in only to find it empty.

  “He’s out. I think,” Xander said, yawning. “Least he was when I got home.”

  Buffy not loving that news. “Any idea where he went?”

  “I don’t know,” Xander replied, shrugging. “Creature of the night, Buffy. He’s probably out . . . creaturing.” He looked at her intently. “Why? What’s happened?”

  Buffy was loathe to answer. She walked away to the window.

  “He in trouble?” Xander asked.

  She hesitated and peer
ed out the window.

  “I hope not,” she murmured to herself.

  * * *

  Early one morning . . .

  Spike hummed the tune as he dug a hole in the cellar. Nice of the old place to come with a dirt floor.

  Nice of him to have someone to bury in it.

  Bird was still wearing her faux-fur jacket, which he was tempted to take, mostly on principle, because it was definitely a woman’s piece of clothing. His leather duster, now, that’d been a trophy, too—taken right off the back of a dead Slayer back in New York.

  This one’s eyes were open and blood caked her bite wounds, rather like frosting on a sweet. He picked her up, gave her a cursory look-see, then tossed her body into the shallow, unmarked grave.

  Early one morning . . .

  * * *

  The Watcher named Robson was still reading his book when he let himself into his flat. It was a venerable old tome written by the Venerable Bede, actually, and it had some nice bits about the nature of mystical power.

  He looked up from his reading and froze for just one instant.

  Hel . . . lo?

  Then he proceeded straight into alarm mode. The furniture was tipped over; a broken vase lay in shards—signs of a struggle, and he with a Potential to protect.

  “Nora? Nora?” he called, searching the place for signs of her.

  He crossed into the next room and what he saw stunned him for a moment into inaction.

  No, he thought, please, God, no.

  Her dark braid like a hangman’s nose draped over her neck, Nora lay unmoving on the floor. She had been stabbed in the back. There was blood, and no signs of life.

  My Slayer, he thought, grieving, disregarding for the moment that she had not been Chosen.

  A rushing sound alerted him that he was not alone; he turned around as a hooded figure in a black robe rushed him, a scimitar-shaped dagger in his hand. Robson blocked the attack with his valise, the dagger sliding deeply into the side. Then the Watcher palmed the figure in the face and pushed him backward. The figure stumbled.

  Taking advantage of the moment, Robson reached for one of the wall-mounted swords, just as another black-robed figure emerged from the shadows and stabbed him in the back.

  He collapsed beside Nora, whose life he had sworn to protect, and thought, Just as well . . . it’s what I deserve for failing her . . .