Chosen

  Kennedy, Rona, Molly, and two of their sister warriors traded blows with the Bringers, but the bad guys delivered punishing blows. They were being beaten, mercilessly so; and as the punishment progressed, Caleb walked gracefully through the killing filed, calm as could be.

  Without so much as glancing her way, he backhanded Kennedy, sending her smashing through a full wine rack. Broken glass and wine cascaded everywhere.

  Kennedy’s body was lost in the mess.

  “Kennedy!” Rona shouted, rushing toward her.

  Caleb caught her as she was running by.

  “Miss,” he said, “I do believe you have your own problems you should be worried about.”

  He took her arm and snapped it over his knee. Rona shrieked as the pain filled every inch of her, leaving room for nothing . . . except more pain.

  Carelessly he dropped her to the ground. Then he walked over and fetched up a knife from the ground, which he tossed to one of his Bringers.

  The minion caught it and leaped on Rona. Just as he was plunging the knife down—

  —FWACK!

  —An arrow sliced straight through the Bringer’s wrist, jerking him backward.

  The cavalry had arrived; Xander, armed with a bow-and-arrow, charged through the doorway. Amanda, Faith, and three more Potentials dashed in behind him.

  “Oh, good,” Caleb drawled. “There’s more of you.”

  “Something tells me that’s our guy!” Xander cried.

  “Two steps ahead of you!” Faith shot back.

  She charged at Caleb, knives in her fists; she sliced and diced at him, but he dodged her flurry.

  Then Amanda and the other Potentials rushed into the fracas, flying to the aid of their overwhelmed comrades. Fresher than the others, oblivious of the strength of the opposition, they fought well, and bravely.

  But there were so many, and they seemed to withstand so much . . .

  Xander assessed the scene: Faith was fighting Caleb; the Potentials were battling the Bringers. Spike was down; Kennedy, down . . . where was . . .

  “Buffy!” he shouted.

  She was on the ground, out cold. Xander moved to her just as a Bringer came bearing down on them. He cracked him with his bow, and the two exchanged blows, Xander pressing forward, protecting Buffy.

  * * *

  Faith couldn’t put a stop to Caleb; couldn’t wipe that stupid-ass smirk off his face. He blocked her attacks and knocked the knives from her hands.

  “You’re the other one, aren’t you,” he said. “The Cain to her Abel. No offense meant to Cain, of course,” he added pleasantly.

  She dodged his attack, and cracked him in the face with a good punch.

  “Never was much for the good book,” Faith gritted.

  “Oh, it has its moments,” he rejoined. “Paul has some good bits to say, for instance.”

  He caught her punch, spun her around, and grabbed her by the hair.

  “But overall it’s a tad . . . complicated. I liked to keep things simple.”

  He slammed her face down into one of the wooden barrels, and the wood shattered and exploded in a torrent of red wine. Faith’s body hit the ground amidst the wood splinters and liquid, and Caleb stood over her, palms up, smiling as he mocked an old hymn:

  “Good folk, bad folk . . .”

  Then a Potential named Dianne stepped up behind Caleb with a sword. She swung as hard as she could, going for his head. He ducked easily, never taking his eyes off Faith, and grabbed Dianne by the throat.

  He pulled her close to him, singing, “Clean folk, dirty folk . . .”

  . . . and snapped her neck.

  Molly screamed, “Noooo!”

  Caleb turned and smiled, coming for her next.

  “Yes,” he said.

  And it was coming to an end: the Bringers were winning, and the Potentials were being brutalized; they were going down, hurt very badly. They were going to die.

  * * *

  Buffy came to slowly, shaking the cobwebs away. She tried to get to her feet, staggered by the chaos. Her girls, laid low; Spike, down; Faith, down; and Caleb, walking toward Molly like a coyote after a mouse.

  Buffy spotted Xander taking out a Bringer with a hard elbow across the face. She called, “Xander!”

  He saw her struggling to get to her feet and rushed to help her.

  “Buffy—”

  “Get them out of here,” she told him. “We have to retreat.” Off his questioning look, she ordered, “Do it.”

  He nodded and rushed back into the fray, grabbing a fallen girl and helping her to her feet.

  Caleb was still stalking Molly; he had backed her into a corner and she was terrified. The dagger in her hand was all she had; that and her heart . . .

  “I wish there were an easier way to do this,” he said sadly. “To cleanse you. I do. But I don’t make the rules.”

  Molly girded herself for her last stand, rushing toward him and swinging her knife. He caught her wrist easily, and caught her up by the neck, tightening his grip around her throat. He hoisted her into the air, her feet dangling.

  “Okay, that’s a bit of a lie,” he conceded. “I make the rules.”

  And Buffy fought to save her. She staggered across the room, backhanding a Bringer as he came at her, sending him flying.

  No. No . . .

  “What can I say?” Caleb said to Molly, her eyes bulging. He put his hand around her knife hand. “I work in mysterious ways.”

  Buffy slogged toward them.

  No. Nearly there. Inches away . . .

  Then he plunged her own knife deep into her chest. Molly’s eyes went wide with shock.

  Caleb dropped her to the ground.

  Eyes wide.

  Dead.

  Buffy screamed and threw herself at Caleb. She hit him as hard as she possibly could across his face. He dropped to one knee and came back laughing.

  “That’s it,” he encouraged her. “Show me your fire.”

  She attacked; they traded vicious blows.

  * * *

  Xander, ushering the girls up the stairs, called to Faith as she struggled to her feet.

  “Faith! We gotta go!”

  Amanda helped another girl up and herded her toward the stairs.

  Caleb and Buffy were pounding each other; he swung for her and she ducked it, then sent him flying across the room with a powerful uppercut. She lunged after him; then Spike grabbed her by the arm, halting her trajectory, as she said, “We’re leaving.”

  She looked at him, coming to her senses. She nodded; they swept the area, saw Rona on the ground, and helped her up.

  Faith hurried past Xander with a girl over her shoulder; then Xander raced over to Kennedy, who was struggling to extricate herself from the mass of broken glass from the shattered wine rack.

  He rushed over to her, grabbing her by the hand, and pulled her up.

  “You okay?” he asked. Stupid question, but she nodded. “Let’s go,” he told her. “Come on.”

  He pushed her ahead of him. She ran toward the exit. Then he paused for a moment, checking for stragglers.

  That was when Caleb got him.

  He grabbed Xander by the neck, laughing.

  “You’re the one who sees everything, right?” he taunted, throwing Xander’s words—the ones he had shared privately, with Dawn—back at Xander as he struggled in his grasp.

  “Let’s see what we can do about that,” Caleb said.

  He took his thumb and plunged it deep into Xander’s eye socket.

  Xander screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed.

  Buffy and Spike, who were helping Rona to safety, turned toward his screams.

  “XANDER!” Buffy shrieked.

  She and Spike rushed toward Caleb and Xander. Caleb rushed his bloody hand, about to destroy Xander’s other eye, when Spike slammed him to him, grabbing his arm, and knocking him back.

  Buffy was there to catch Xander, holding him in her arms as he clutched his face in agony.

>   Spike drilled Caleb with a nasty punch to the face; Caleb fell back and tumbled to the floor.

  Then he turned to Buffy. She was in shock and he helped carry Xander and drove her away to the exit.

  Retreat.

  Nightmare.

  Wreckage, disaster; bodies, death and . . .

  . . . Caleb, on his feet again, staring at Buffy.

  Smiling.

  Buffy turned, and rushed Xander up the stairs with Spike.

  And Caleb moved into darkness, his old friend, still smiling.

  * * *

  Aftermath.

  Agony.

  Defeat.

  * * *

  In the hospital emergency room, the girls fought new battles: against life-threatening injuries, against pain, against trauma and disbelief. As Buffy walked past each bed . . . against her.

  * * *

  Despair.

  Surrender.

  Extinction.

  * * *

  Oh, my God, Xander.

  Buffy reeled as she stood at Xander’s bed, which was at the end of the row. His head and his . . . eye . . . were heavily bandaged.

  If thine right eye offend me . . . I’ll pluck it . . .

  Willow sat vigil, her hand around Xander’s.

  For Buffy, Willow had no words of comfort.

  * * *

  At her house . . .

  * * *

  Buffy surveyed the disarray of defeat, felt the shame, the anger, the blame. Kennedy being tended to on the couch; the other two survivors wounded, dazed, quietly talking to Dawn and four Potentials who were spared from battle duty.

  The girls would not look at her. She had betrayed them. She had killed their sisters in arms.

  She couldn’t meet their gazes.

  Shellshocked, she walked out the front door and bled into the darkness.

  * * *

  In the cellar, darkness laughed and capered. Darkness exulted.

  Darkness had won.

  “Now, it’s a simple story,” Caleb said. “Stop me if you’ve heard it.

  “I have found and truly believe there’s nothing so bad it can’t be made better with a story. And this one’s got a happy ending,” he said . . . happily.

  “There once was a woman,” he intoned, moving himself back to his thumpin’ days, back to the sweet days of little girls in sundresses begging to be gutted like fish. “And she was foul, like all women. For Adam’s rib was dirty, just like Adam himself, for what was he, but human? But this woman, she was filled—with darkness, despair, and why? Because she did not know. She could not see. She didn’t hear the good news, the Glory that was coming.

  “That’d be you.”

  He glanced up at The First, who was wearing Buffy’s image, and who smiling at Caleb, well pleased with her beloved son.

  “The Kingdom, the Power, and the Glory are yours,” he said. “Now and forever. You show up, they’ll get in line.

  “Because they followed her,” he continued. “And all they have to do is take one more step . . . and I’ll kill them all. See?” he said to The First, savoring each syllable, each word, as if it were a cut of his knife, a tug—

  “Told you it had a happy ending.”

  Chapter Nineteen: “Empty Places”

  Sunnydale was falling: The Hellmouth’s jittery pressure cooker had finally boiled up into panic. It was worse than any war zone Buffy had seen on TV as the inhabitants of Sunnydale fled for their lives. Chaos raced up the street screaming alongside women, children, shop owners shutting down for the last time; the town was the picture by Edvard Munch called “The Scream.” It was Picasso’s “Guernica.” It was super-heated terror, and it was all that was left.

  Surrounded by throngs, the Slayer walked alone.

  Then floppy-faced Clem leaned out of a brand new bright red VW Beetle and called out to her, “Hey, you!”

  She brightened, seeing a familiar face, and walked over to him as he said, “Can you believe this mishegas?”

  She shook her head. “It’s like these people have never seen an apocalypse before.” Then she gave him a knowing look and said, “And you’re just out for a quick spin, right? Maybe out to the 7-11 . . . in Nebraska.”

  Busted, Clem said, “It’s getting bad here. Really bad. Hellmouth acting up again, people feeling it, getting crazier. And you can’t swing a cat without hitting some kind of demonic activity. Not that I . . . swing cats. Or eat. Nope.” He added weakly, “Cutting way back. Cholesterol.”

  Before she might possibly smack him, he scampered back to the less-controversial topic of mayhem.

  “We’ve seen bad stuff in this town before, but, you know, this time, it’s like, it just seems . . . different. More powerful. I don’t think anyone’s gonna be able to stop it.”

  He looked further busted and said, “I mean, I’m sure you’re going to do fine. Complete faith in you. If anyone can do it, you can, ’cause . . . you rock!”

  He added brightly, “If you save the world, I’ll come back, we’ll have a drink . . . when!” He nodded at her eagerly, flop-flop with the entire face, which, to an outsider, might seem to be made entirely of flappy bunny ears.

  Then he added weakly, “Maybe . . . maybe you should just get out of town this time.”

  “Yeah,” she said. I probably should.”

  But she didn’t move an inch.

  “You take care of yourself, okay?” he said to her. Which, to an outsider, might have seemed like a stupid thing to say.

  He left, and then, in the wild, frenzied crowd, she stood alone.

  * * *

  In the evacuation madness, Willow and Giles were stood just outside the police station, Obi-wanning a young cop:

  “Thank you, officer,” Giles said sincerely. “I appreciate your help.

  “Thank you, Inspector,” the cop replied. “We don’t get a lot of contact with Interpol, so we’re happy to help with anything you need. Is there anything else?”

  “No. Thank you,” Willow said. “We’re fine.”

  The cop nodded. “Right, because you’re . . . wait . . .” Confusion crept across his features. “Who are . . . ?”

  Willow put the whammy on him, saying firmly, “I’m with the Inspector.”

  And he was back in the mojo. “You’re with the Inspector,” he said. “Right. We don’t get a lot of contact with Interpol.”

  They were interrupted by two more cops struggling with a guy who had completely lost it, and was screaming, “A single step! A single step and it is upon us! It is nigh! From beneath you it—”

  One of the officers cuffed him as the other pushed him into the station.

  “Freakin’ nutcase,” growled the cop who had put on the cuffs.

  “Ow,” Willow murmured. She remembered the people who had lost their minds when Glory had come to town. How they were the only ones who had sensed what was happening, but no one listened to them because of their chaos. It was like that now.

  “People’re acting up,” the cop announced. “Getting nuts. We do what we can, but our hands are kind of tied. I mean, man, let us know if you need help with your guy, because we’re itching to hand out some justice.”

  “He wasn’t much of a threat,” Willow argued.

  “And you’re . . . wait . . .” the cop murmured.

  “We really out to go catch that flight back to . . . Interpol,” Giles said to Willow.

  They walked away. “My control was fading,” she confided in him. “What’s up with them?”

  “Same thing as everyone else,” Giles observed. “Hellmouth is active again.”

  “C’mon,” Willow said. “I want to get back to Xander.”

  * * *

  He lay in his hospital bed, bandage over his eye. . . where his eye should have been, and Willow could hardly stand it. She couldn’t bear to see him so wounded. It terrified her.

  “. . . and that you should expect to see some bruising when you remove the bandage,” Buffy was saying to him as Willow tried to focus, try to st
ay present. “Bruising around the . . . area. The . . . musculature and bone structure took a heavy hit.”

  “Okay,” Xander replied.

  “Also, the meds may cause some stomach discomfort,” Buffy ventured, “so we’re going to have to be, you know, careful.” She took a breath. “About your diet.”

  “Can’t really taste anything anyway,” Xander confided. “I keep waiting for all my other senses to improve by fifty percent. Should kick in any day now.”

  “And we’re looking at a possible release as early as tonight,” she soldiered on. “Once your labs are back. Doctor Kallet says they should be a couple hours.”

  Then he pretty much dismissed the Slayer, which Willow didn’t get at first. Buffy stood, picking up Willow’s file from the nightstand and said, “Okay, I think you’re all caught up. Thanks for this, Willow. Great work.”

  “Oh, but I thought we were going to . . . there were going to be card games,” Willow protested.

  “It’s okay,” Xander said to Buffy. “Gotta be done. And maybe I’ll see you tonight. Without any depth of field, of course, but still . . .”

  Buffy smiled at Xander, turned, and left.

  “So, you’re stuck with me then, huh?” Willow asked, too brightly. “Let’s get us some cherry-flavored off-brand gelatin, and then I think we’re going to be ready for a rousing game of—

  “I’m gonna need a parrot,” Xander cut in. “To go with the eye patch. You know, complete the look. I think I still have that costume from Halloween . . .”

  Though her heart was breaking, she did her best to go with it. “Yes, well, don’t underestimate the impact of a peg leg. The hospital can probably hook you up with a nice one. Maybe they have a two-body-parts-for-one kind of deal.”

  “Oh, you know what the best part is?” he said, pumping up the hilarity. “No one will ever make me watch Jaws 3-D again!”

  “Right!” she said cheerily. “Plus . . . you never . . .”

  She grew quiet, smile frozen in place, tears welling. She could no longer speak.

  “Willow,” Xander murmured. “Please. Don’t.”

  He himself was barely holding it together. She understood that she was would drag him over the edge if she sailed off there herself.

  Pulling herself back from that abyss was hard. But for Xander . . . she did it.