Chosen

  “Yeah, that door there’s problematical,” he drawled. “Don’t know as I can recommend stepping out at this speed, either. Like as not to tumble some. Then there’s my boys back there. They hate to miss a mark.”

  And it keeps getting worse . . . oh, God, oh, my God . . .

  “Your boys,” she managed.

  He smiled easily at her. “Well, they ain’t exactly my blue-eyed boys, but they’re hard workers. And they don’t truck with Satan.” He confessed, “That was me having fun.” He looked her in the eye. “Satan is a little man.”

  She tried to grab the wheel, but he slammed her back with one arm.

  “I don’t like back seat drivers!”

  Then the lighter popped. Driving with one knee, he placed it against the ring on his finger, heating up the metal.

  Shannon whimpered, “Please . . . don’t hurt me . . .”

  “Is this the part where you offer to do anything?” he sneered at her. “ ’Cause I’ve tried to make it clear you have nothing I want to explore.”

  He pulled the lighter away from his ring; the symbol on his ring glowed white hot. Then, before she could think of a way to stop him, he drove his fist into the side of her neck, smoke sizzling from the impression of the ring as she screamed.

  “That’s right!” he shouted. “That’s a cleansing fire! Hallelujah!”

  His laugh was wild and joy-filled as he released her, hands on the wheel again. She cowered against the door sobbing in the midst of her nightmare.

  He glanced again in the mirror. “If I’m not mistaken, there should be a car a little ways behind us. And I believe there’s some folk in it heading to the same place you are. Now I got a message for you to deliver, but it’s not for them. It’s for the other one. The one and only, original, accept-no-substitutes Slayer. Can you tell her something for me?”

  “Y-Yes,” Shannon managed.

  “Well, thank you, Shannon.”

  He reached into the other side of his seat, whipped out an enormous bowie knife, and plunged it into her belly. The agony wrenched her out her power of speech, her ability to say or do anything.

  He whispered to her, and then he pulled out the knife like a period on the end of his sentence.

  “Now, let’s see if we can’t do something about that door,” he told her.

  He swung a leg around and kicked her, the door swinging open from her momentum as she tumbled out. She spun head over heels several times before stopping to a rest in the middle of the road.

  * * *

  Following behind the truck, Willow was mentally reviewing the ensoulment of Angel, which she had successfully accomplished as per Fred’s phone call. That had gone well. Having her passenger figure out what was going on with Slayers . . . and nobody alerting her . . . not so well.

  But all musing stopped when the Wicca saw the body fly from the passenger’s side of the truck.

  She managed to swerve just in time, tires squealing, her car rocking as if a tired had blown.

  Then she jumped out into the crisis and ran to the girl in the road.

  Willow’s passenger got out more slowly. Her veins had recently been loaded with Morpheus, and she was still a little thrashed.

  “Goddess,” Willow breathed. To the girl, she said, “Can you hear me? Can you talk?”

  But the girl was beyond any of that. As she lay in a glaze of unconsciousness, Willow looked up to her companion and said, “She’s bleeding badly.” Then she pulled off her T-shirt and pressed it against the girl’s gut wound, trying vainly to staunch the flow of blood.

  Then Faith took in the sight, looked out at the horizon. Her face was shadowed with wariness, and she already felt unutterably tired.

  “Guess I’m back in Sunnydale,” she murmured.

  * * *

  There was a young Slayer who lived on Revello Drive; she had so many Potentials she didn’t know what to do. So she fed them all supper and sent many of them to stay at Xander’s apartment, darn the luck.

  Now stunningly gorgeous Kelly sat on the side of his bed in a baby T and boxers, and man, did she need comforting.

  “I haven’t been able to sleep the last few nights,” she said in a hushed voice, trying not to wake the others.

  “Hey, listen, it’s going to be okay,” he soothed. “Buffy knows what she’s doing. She’s not going to send you into battle until she’s sure you’re ready for . . . action.”

  Like me. I’m ready!

  “That’s just it, though. How will I know when I’m ready?” she asked anxiously. “For action?”

  “You have to . . . trust us,” he told her sincerely.

  “I’m so scared, Xander,” she confided, “and I’m so young.”

  “Believe it or not,” he told her, “I was younger than you when I started all this.”

  She looked somber, wistful . . . so very, very young. And inexperienced.

  “There’s just so much I haven’t done. So much I need to do. It’s, like, I’ve never had a real boyfriend, you know?”

  “Yeah?” he croaked.

  She traced the bed sheet with her finger. “I’ve never been with a man. I could die tomorrow, and . . . I’ve never been with a man.” Her look was vulnerable and seductive.

  Then the Potential named Colleen, who had been sleeping beside them, roused and came over to the bed. She was wearing a nightie, and she was equally beautiful.

  “I’ve never been with a man before, either,” she said.

  “Colleen,” Xander murmured, trying to calm them both down.

  “And I’ve never been with her in front of a man before,” she added, pointing at Kelly.

  “And I’ve never been with her in front of a man before,” Kelly said, pointing at Colleen.

  Both girls turned and looked at him. Colleen crawled on the bed toward him.

  “Xander,” Kelly said in a breathy voice.

  “We can’t,” Xander said anxiously.

  “We’re so scared,” Colleen reminded him.

  “The others will hear us,” Xander argued as they both glided toward him, wanting him, desirous of his special brand of comfort.

  “No, they won’t. They’re okay,” the two girls said.

  The door to Xander’s bedroom opened all by itself . . .

  . . . to reveal the other Potentials having a pillow fight. All gorgeous, all scantily clad, all . . . there and young and so, um, buoyant . . .

  Feathers, girlish laughter, nighties and bras and panties, all his favorite “ies . . .”

  Then the door jerked open and Xander jerked . . . awake, realizing he had been dreaming.

  “Xander, goddamn it!” Rona barked.

  “What-what?” he asked guiltily. “I’m sleeping.”

  Rona said, “Dominique has the stomach flu and the toilet’s backed up.”

  Behind her, the Potentials were milling around, displeased, in their full-body jammies and um, orthodontic headgear.

  “It actually backed up while she was on the toilet,” Rona continued. “And she has the stomach flu.” She gave him a moment to . . . digest that. “You should probably visualize that before you go in there. It’ll make it easier to deal with.”

  “Be right out,” Xander told her. “Just have a . . . leg cramp.”

  She went out, and he went down.

  * * *

  Willow and Faith were no strangers to the E.R., and their little friend too . . . who was fighting for her life, and no guarantees, there.

  “Are you sure she’s one of us?” Faith asked, and for a harsh second she almost laughed, because she sounded to herself like Tony Soprano talking in code about being in the Mafia. “She don’t look like much now. Not a Potential Slayer, I mean.”

  Willow shrugged. “I don’t know. Seems to fit, though. We’ll know more when she regains consciousness.”

  “If she regains consciousness,” Faith said. “Girl’s been gutted like a catfish.” They both looked back at Shannon, and Faith added bitterly, “Something’s killing girls all
over the world, trying to end the Slayer line . . . thing like that, figure I might get a heads-up.”

  Willow looked stricken.

  “Guess it doesn’t really matter,” Faith went on. “Long as you got the true Slayer intact.”

  Red looked upset. Poor Red.

  “You were in prison,” Willow reminded her. “We figured you were safe there.”

  “Yeah, prison,” Faith scoffed. “Safe as a kitten.”

  “Sorry,” Willow murmured. “I—I don’t know a lot about ‘the big house.’ ” A beat, and then she asked, “Was it . . . I mean, did something happen in there?”

  Faith cocked her head. “Someone came at me with this wicked-looking knife. Didn’t know why . . . not till now.”

  Willow was all frowny eyebrows and big, shiny eyes as she said, “Faith, we didn’t think—”

  “Forget it. ’S cool,” Faith said. “I get by.”

  She nodded toward Shannon, changing the subject. “What do we do about her?”

  “We should find Buffy, tell her what’s going on. I tried calling home. Dawn says she’s out patrolling.”

  “Let’s go look for her,” Faith suggested. “Cemetery’s more fun anyway.”

  Willow demurred. “One of us should stay here. In case she wakes up.”

  “Fine. Sit tight. I’ll be back.” Faith started to talk off.

  “Wait,” Willow called. As Faith did so, the Wicca swallowed hard and said, “Maybe you meeting Buffy alone isn’t the best idea . . .”

  “You told her the sitch, right?” Faith asked sharply. She knows I’m coming. Prob’ly up all night hanging streamers . . .”

  “Yeah, it’s not exactly you guys are study buddies exactly,” Willow murmured. “Maybe it’d be better if I . . . eased her into the whole thing.”

  Faith shook her head. “I can’t stay here, Willow. Spent too much time in hospitals. We don’t click. Don’t worry . . .”

  She turned to walk out the door.

  “. . . I’m sure we’ll get along fine.”

  * * *

  In one of Sunnydale’s many fine graveyards, a girl was running for her life. There was a vampire closing in behind her; and though it made no sense, she stopped to assess her options—which way do I run?—when running just about anywhere was preferable to standing still.

  Stupid bint.

  The vampire flung himself at her and she went down; she was struggling wildly and the vampire backhanded her. She went flying into a tombstone; and lay on the grass, helpless and unconscious.

  He moved in for the kill . . .

  . . . and a hand grabbed him from behind and yanked, hard, sending him across the graveyard and into a tomb wall.

  He looked up at his assailant. She was dark, beautiful, and had a swagger that would put Colin Farrell to shame. Had killed for, in fact.

  She walked toward him and said, “What did you want to do to her, vamp? Something like this?”

  She charged. With a growl, he lunged at her. She easily blocked his punch and then gave him a bleedin’ fantastic right cross that sent him flying all over again, right on his arse.

  He devamped, and looked up her as he got up and backed away, sizing her up.

  “Nice punch you got there,” he said. “Let me guess. Leather pants, hard right cross, doe-eyes, holier-than-thou glower.” He nodded. “You must be Faith.”

  “Oh, goody,” she deadpanned. “I’m famous.”

  “Heard you were coming,” he said, nodding. “Right. Bit of a misunderstanding here. I’m—”

  “Spike,” she finished for him. Her eyes sparkled with private amusement. “We met before.”

  He tried to remember her. Shook his head.

  “We have? I don’t think—”

  Without warning, she kicked him in the face.

  “Bloody hell!” he protested. “What are you doing? I’m on your side!”

  “Yeah?” she flung at him. She hit him again. “Maybe you haven’t heard. I’m reformed.”

  “So am I!” He blocked her next punch and hit her square in the face. “I reformed way before you did.”

  She hit him again; they went at it, trading blows, and he said, “Stop hitting me! We’re on the same side!”

  “Please,” he said. “Do you think I’m stupid? You were attacking that girl!”

  Whack! She got in a good one and then wham!—a punch flew out of nowhere and dropped Faith to the ground.

  It was Buffy, who said, “Oops, sorry, Faith. Didn’t realize that was you.”

  Faith rose and said, “It’s all right, B. Luckily you still punch like you used to.”

  Girl’s hurt, not about to admit it, Spike realized. Then Buffy walked over and helped him to his feet.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah. T’riffic,” he added, not about to admit it.

  Faith looked confused. “You protecting vampires? Are you the bad Slayer now?” She thought a moment. “Am I the good Slayer now?”

  “He’s with me,” Buffy told her. “He’s got a soul.”

  Faith blinked. “He’s like Angel?”

  “No,” Spike said quickly.

  “Sort of,” Buffy put in.

  “I’m nothing like Angel,” Spike assured Faith.

  “He fights on my side,” Buffy volleyed. “Which is more than I can say for some of us.”

  “Yeah?” Faith drawled. “Well, if he’s so good, why’s he chasing down defenseless—”

  Then the formerly helpless girl tackled Faith and flung her to the ground. Bird was in full vampface, and Spike and Buffy looked on, making no move to help.

  “That’s one of the bad guys,” Buffy said helpfully.

  As she struggled with the frenzied demon, Faith gritted, “You should make ’em wear signs.”

  She pushed the vamp off her and rolled to her feet, got in Buffy’s face, and yanked a stake out of Buffy’s belt.

  “May I?” she asked. Buffy nodded. “Thanks.”

  She whipped around, leaped on top of the vamp, and dusted her.

  “Angel’s dull as a table lamp,” Spike muttered. “And we have very different coloring.”

  It had been bothering him.

  Annoyed, a bit winded, Faith got to her feet. “Okay, catching up. Anything else I gotta know?”

  Buffy looked at Spike. Spike looked at Buffy.

  Buffy said to Faith, with total, dripping insincerity, “Nice to have you back.”

  * * *

  I can’t believe this is happening, Buffy thought, as they walked through Buffy’s front door.

  Faith said, “Whoa, memory lane. Same old house.”

  “Every piece of it has been destroyed and replaced since you left, so, actually, new house,” Buffy drawled.

  “Buffy,” Dawn began.

  “We have another houseguest,” Buffy announced.

  Giles and Dawn both stood up, looks on their faces filled with hostility, if not surprise.

  “Hey,” Faith said brightly, “got a spare bed for a wanted fugitive?”

  “Hello, Faith,” Giles said coolly.

  Faith raised her chin. “Huh. Guess ‘wanted’ wasn’t so accurate.”

  “Does she have to stay here?” Dawn asked Buffy. “ ’Cause there’s some nice hotels that welcome tried-to-kill-your-sister types.”

  Faith looked impressed. “Check it out, brat’s all woman-sized.”

  “Guys, we need to go to the hospital,” Buffy told Giles and Dawn. “A girl was attacked on her way into town. She may be a Poten—”

  “We know,” Dawn told her. “Willow’s been calling.”

  “She’s still there,” Giles added, meaning Willow. “She’ll call if the girl wakes up.”

  Buffy’s answering look was icy. She wasn’t sure she would ever feel warmly toward Giles again.

  “Fine,” she said.

  The awkwardness grew, and then Giles said to Faith, “Well, Faith. I guess we should try to find a place to squeeze you in tonight.”

  Giles and Dawn left.
Then Spike said to Faith, “Not all that tension was about you. Giles was part of a plan to kill me for Buffy’s own good.”

  Faith considered that. “Well that makes me feel better about me.” A beat. “Worse about Giles.” Another beat. “Kind of shaky about you.”

  * * *

  Who was it said about being the vine? Oh, yeah.

  The vineyard was the power center; the vineyard was “where it was at,” as they used to say back before Caleb and the serpent formed an understanding: no touching.

  Now, in the cellar, Caleb poured himself a small one from one of the dozens of barrels and huge casks settin’ about. Bringers hovered—not literally—in the musty corners.

  “ ‘Drink of this, for it is my blood,’ ” he said, quoting from the greats. He tasted it and continued his conversation.

  “You know, I loved the story of the Last Supper, the body, the blood of Christ become rich red wine. I recall as a boy, though . . . couldn’t help thinking, what if you ordered the white? Nice oakey chardonnay, or a white zin?

  “I never did bring it up, but well, I never could stay with the same parish for very long. Just looking for answers, looking for the Lord, in the wrong damn places. ‘Till you showed me the light.”

  The First stepped out of the darkness and into the light. She was wearing the face of a beautiful young blond woman. Corrupt, but an interesting choice.

  “Do you think I’m God?” The First asked him.

  “I sure do not,” Caleb assured her. “I’m beyond concepts like that.”

  “But you still wear the outfit,” she mused, indicating his collar.

  “Man can turn his back on what he came from,” he replied. “Besides, black is slimming. Everybody knows that.”

  “How do you like what I’m wearing?” The First asked him.

  He shrugged. “Just another dirty girl. And since you only dress up in dead folk, I’m guessing it’s one who has been paid her wage.”

  “Look hard,” The First urged, amused.

  He did, up and down, not with any lust, but carefully. He came close and stared into her eyes.

  “What do you see?” The First asked him.

  “Strength,” he replied slowly. “And the loneliness that comes with real strength.”

  She feigned disappointment. “Nothing about my pert and bouncy hairdo?”