Chosen

  “Caleb.” She brushed him off. “Came looking for seconds.”

  “Good Lord,” Giles gasped. “Is he . . . ?”

  “Still able to make me see little cartoon birdies all around my head?” she cut in. “You betcha.” Painfully she sat down. “The short lack of consciousness was nice, though. I feel rested.”

  Giles sat again, facing her, and they shared an awkwardly silent moment. Buffy made the first move, trying to get past it.

  “How’d the police files work out? Was there anything helpful in there?”

  Giles brightened at their brief détente, ready to work.

  “Oh, yes, very much so, I think,” he told her. “Evidence that Caleb may have made inroads up north.”

  “Really?” Buffy asked, smiling excitedly. “That’s . . . that’s great! That could help us a lot! Good job.”

  “I sent Spike to look into it,” Giles added, and then . . . oops.

  “Oh,” Buffy said tersely. There was a moment, and then she said, “So, is this a mission from which you intend Spike to return alive?”

  “Yes,” he said firmly. “I sent Andrew with him.”

  Buffy took that in. Then she deadpanned, “And again, I ask the question . . .”

  “Buffy,” he said reasonably, “you weren’t here. Some decisions must be made in your absence.”

  “Well, those are the ones that have been scaring me,” she retorted.

  He raised his chin, not backing down, and told her, “I did what I thought was right.”

  She narrowed her eyes, not happy, and gave it right back, “You sent away the guy who’s been watching my back. Again. I think—”

  “We are all watching your back,” he countered.

  “Yeah. Funny how I don’t really feel that lately.” She bit off every word as she stood and moved toward the stairs. She was tired, and hurt, angry and . . . hurt.

  “Buffy,” he began.

  She paused. “Where’s everyone else? Faith, the girls . . . where’d everyone go?”

  “Faith thought the girls needed some time away from their studies,” Giles told her. “A chance to relax for an hour or two. I thought, given everything learned from our time . . .”

  He capitulated under her intense, questioning scrutiny. “She took them to the Bronze.”

  She stared at him as though she couldn’t quite believe it. Then she nodded, turned to the front door, and left.

  * * *

  The vineyard. The wine cellar. Caleb . . . and his god.

  They walked, they talked.

  “Know what I figured out tonight?” Caleb asked. “Every high school from one end of this country to the other smells exactly alike. Now why do you suppose that is?

  The First, dressed in Buffy’s body, stepped from the shadows and moved toward him.

  “And how was our best girl?” The First asked him.

  He shook his head, grinning. “They always think they should put up a fight.”

  “Did you lay the proper groundwork?” The First pressed.

  “That I did.” He preened a little. “Reckon she got the message, even if she doesn’t know it yet. So now the big, strong Slayer goes back to those girls. She’s so ready to just walk them right into it, and all we’re going to have to do . . .” He reached up to The First’s chest . . .

  “. . . is give her that one . . . gentle . . . final . . . nudge.”

  His hand passed right through The First, and The First smiled.

  “Excellent,” she said.

  “Gotta say,” Caleb continued, “I know she’s supposed to be some great and powerful mystical force, but . . . I don’t see it. I just don’t.” He smiled broadly. “She was so . . . easy.”

  “Of course she was,” The First responded. “And now it’s just a question of knowing how to exploit it. And when.”

  Buffy The First smiled a very happy smile.

  At the Bronze the girls danced and drank; Faith took a drink away from Amanda and was having a wicked good time until the cops showed up, looking grim.

  “I was wondering what was taking you boys so long,” Faith said as she kept dancing.

  One of the officers said to her, “We’re gonna have to ask you to come with us, miss. Outstanding warrant.”

  She smiled brightly, shrugged, and said, “Yeah, or let’s try this one on instead. How about you boys buy me a drink and we see where the evening takes us?”

  But the guy got behind her and grabbed her wrists, and they began to Mirandize her: “You are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. . . .”

  And the yadas . . . and then, as Faith began to protest, she saw something spooky. Both cops had put black tape over their badges, which she knew is what cops did when they were about to do things they didn’t want traced back to them.

  Amanda, Dawn, and Kennedy must have seen what was going down, because they came over.

  “What’s going on?” Kennedy demanded.

  Dawn said, “They’re trying to--”

  “You girls don’t want to get involved in this,” the lead cop informed them.

  Kennedy raised her chin. “Yeah? And maybe we do.”

  Acting as one, the cops pulled their guns. End of discussion. The Potentials stood back, stunned.

  And then the leader tossed a large, non-regulation machine gun to one of his fellow anonymous badges. That guy turned and faced the crowd in the Bronze, as the leader and his lackeys dragged Faith away.

  They hauled Faith outside, roughing her up as she insisted, “I’m telling you! I’m not going back to jail!”

  As she got free and turned toward the door, one of the cops slammed the door shut, trapping her outside with the them.

  The leader said, “Who said anything about jail?”

  Faith turned back around, and all the cops lifted their guns, aiming right at her heart. She launched herself at them, attacking with a flurry of vicious moves, knocking their weapons from their hands as fast as she could with a stunning series of kicks and punches.

  She knocked the final gun away—but the moment she thought she was safe, the leader slammed his billy club across her face and she dropped to the ground. In a frenzy, the cops began to beat her mercilessly.

  * * *

  Inside the Bronze, the Potentials were gathering, moving in on the guy with the machine gun, but not quite daring to do anything to alarm him.

  “Trust me,” Machine Gun Guy said. “Best thing you can do is wait here.”

  Dawn said to the girls, “Don’t listen to him. He won’t hurt us.” in a loud, defiant voice, announced, “I’ll just go borrow their phone.”

  The cop raised his weapon and fired it into one of the hanging lamp globes. It exploded all over the dance floor.

  Dawn froze. The Potentials took cover.

  The music stopped.

  “Best thing you can do is wait here,” the cop said.

  The girls surrounded him as Kennedy told the guy, “You’re going to have to shoot us all to stop us.”

  “Doesn’t really bother me,” he told them. “Back up.”

  But the girls were crowding in, getting in his face.

  “No,” Amanda said, finding her power.

  He was startled.

  “What?”

  “You’re not in charge here,” Kenny informed him.

  Amanda said, “We are.”

  He turned toward her, fully prepared to shoot. But Kennedy move lightning-fast, grabbing the barrel of the gun and ramming the butt of it into his jaw.

  He reeled back, swinging wildly at her. The guy went flying. As she rushed him, Amanda got behind him. Pool cue in hand, she whacked him over the head with it. He went flying.

  Then all the girls went into Berserker mode, seizing the power, taking the hill, rocking and rolling the bad guys like it was 1999; Yeah, baby, yeah!

  They’d walked in with a Slayer and thy were not going to take crap from anyone.

  * * *

  The cops beat Faith with their clubs. She was o
n the ground, taking it. Then she shot out a leg, swiping one her assailants off his feet. She jumped up, ramming her knee hard into the face of another one. A third rushed her; she spun and slammed him against the alley wall.

  Then she faced the leader again, aware that The First pig had gotten to his feet and was behind her. Without even looking at him, she made a fist and smashed in the face. He was down, round two, and she circled the leader, getting ready to rumble.

  And they pounced, totally going at it, all scrappy and brutal. Dirty cops and dirtier fighting; Faith was into it—head slams to the cement, gut punches, no holds barred. The battle took them to center of the club as Amanda and Kennedy rushed outside and hauled the two cops off Faith. It was a total melee.

  And of course Faith was winning.

  Jerks couldn’t handle that; three of them grabbed her from behind and peeled her off their buddy.

  Faith, bloodied but far from beaten, watched as the leader rushed to help the guys being attacked by her girls, Amanda and Kennedy. She smiled, got to her feet, and kicked him as hard in the head as she cold.

  Kennedy kneed her boy in the stomach, grabbed his club from his hand, and whacked him over the head.

  Amanda shoved her cop backward into a small stack of crates. She towered over him, landing a foot on his chest, and, grinning like an Amazon, dropped another crate on his face.

  “That was kinda cool,” she exulted.

  Then Faith slammed the leader back, whipped around, and punched the very last man standing in the head. She was on the leader, in his face, grinning at him. She pressed his club into his neck.

  “You know, when you’ve been locked up in prison for three years, you end up forgetting how good something things feel, till you get out.”

  As he found his fear gene, she drawled, “Then it all comes rushing back.”

  “Faith,” Kennedy warned, afraid she was going to go to far.

  “Don’t worry,” Faith told her. “I’m not going to hurt him.”

  She dropped the club, grabbed the dirtbag’s head, and slammed it into the wall. As he slumped to the ground, she said cheerfully, “I’m sorry. Did that hurt?

  “Faith?” It was Buffy, arriving just after the nick, as more girls spilled out of the Bronze and Faith was adjusting her clothes.

  “What are you doing?” Buffy asked, all school-teacher. Pissed-off schoolteacher.

  “Just blowing off steam,” Faith said easily. “Well, it started out that way.”

  They traded looks—pow, ka-pow!—and then Buffy said, “Girls, go home I want to talk to Faith for a minute.”

  “Buffy,” Dawn said, stepping forward to explain. “We were—”

  “Dawn, you too,” Buffy ordered her. “Go on.”

  As the girls complied, Buffy came over to Faith.

  “What is this?” she demanded, big blue eyes flashing.

  Faith shrugged. “They needed a break. They were running themselves into the ground. Things just got of hand.”

  “Taking a break off is one thing. I get blowing off steam, but they were fighting,” Buffy said angrily. “And those girls are drunk. What were you thinking?”

  Faith was not about to justify herself to Buffy. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  “What if someone had gotten hurt?” Buffy was practically shouting.

  “They didn’t,” she returned.

  “Faith. I need to know those girls are going to be safe when I’m not there,” Buffy said.

  “No one got hurt, B!” Faith was so tired of her stuff. “Look, you don’t even know these girls. Maybe you need to have a little more confidence in them, let them get down and dirty, mess up sometimes. How the hell else are they going to learn?”

  “It’s one thing to learn from your mistakes,” Buffy insisted. “But you don’t throw children into—”

  “They’re not children,” Faith said.

  “That’s really not the point.” She turned on her heel and stomped off, heading after the girls.

  “What about the vineyard?” Faith shot at her.

  Buffy froze. Turned around.

  “What?”

  Faith knew she’d gotten her where she lived; decided to visit with her there awhile. “How safe were they when you dragged them off to meet Caleb? How safe was Rona? Or Amanda? Or Molly?”

  Buffy slugged her as hard as she could, and Faith went down. She didn’t fight back, just looked Buffy in the eye.

  And Buffy turned and walked away, leaving her there.

  * * *

  The bike was a monster; Spike rode it like a rebel. Bad man, on a bad machine. Dru would be calling him “Daddy” by now.

  Except for the bit about Andrew on the back, in Dawn’s old football helmet.

  Spike was focusing on the road, but Andrew was focusing on the adventure. He said, “You sure you don’t want to stop and pick up some burgers or something? You know, road trip food?”

  “It’s not a road trip,” Spike growled at him. “It’s a covert operation.”

  “Right.” Andrew nodded. “Right. Gotcha.”

  They drove in silence for another beat.

  “I bet even covert operatives eat curly fries,” Andrew ventured. “They’re really good.”

  There was a moment. Then Spike gave a little. “Not as good as those onion blossom things.”

  “I love those!” Andrew cried.

  “Yeah, me, too,” Spike allowed.

  “It’s an onion, yet it’s a flower,” Andrew murmured appreciatively. “I don’t understand how such a thing is possible.”

  But Spike knew. “See, the genius is, if you soak it in ice water for an hour or so, it holds its shape. Then you deep fry it root-side-up for about five minutes.”

  “Masterful,” Andrew crooned.

  “Yeah.” Spike was wistful, too. Then he realized what he was doing and said, “If you tell anyone we had this conversation, I’ll bite you.”

  “Okay,” Andrew said.

  They kept driving. . . .

  * * *

  Faith stood on the porch, looking out into the street. She was smoking, clearly trying to cool off.

  A man approached her, quite the hottie, and asked her, “Big meeting started yet?”

  Not looking at him she said, “God, I hope so.”

  “Faith,” he said, evidently realizing who she was.

  She looked at him again. “You must be Principal Wood,” she said. “Heard a lot about you.”

  “It hasn’t really started, has it?” He asked her. “I hate being late.”

  She shrugged. “Troops are still gathering. You’re safe.”

  He didn’t go inside. Instead, he looked her over and said, “Someone banged you up pretty good.”

  “Yeah. Cops. Mostly,” she added dryly.

  “Mostly?”

  She touched her jaw. “This one was from someone who just thinks she’s a cop.” She touched it. “It’s my favorite of all my current bruises.” Faith checked him out, gestured. “Someone banged you up pretty good, too.”

  “I have no favorite bruises,” he drawled. “I love them all the same.”

  There was silence. Then he said, “So someone thinks she’s a cop, huh? You’re not gonna have to, like, ice her now or something, are you?” As she raised her eyebrow, he added, “I don’t know a lot about how prison works.”

  She smiled at his dorkiness.

  “I’m not going to kill her. I wanted to. But I didn’t. And by the way, bully for me, since no one else said it.”

  “For not killing Buffy,” he finished for her.

  “It’s this new thing I’m trying,” she said coolly.

  He scrutinized her for a moment. “She told me about you.”

  “Believe every word.”

  “So what changed?” As she looked questioningly at him, he elaborated, “Why didn’t you fight back?”

  “Other things matter more,” she replied, shrugging.

  He kept studying her. “I think that’s not all.”


  “You do?”

  “I do. You look like . . . I think you’re worried about her.”

  She favored him with a sour smile. “I think you need to brush up on your Faith-and-Buffy history.”

  “Okay, you say so.” He paused. “It’s just . . . I read people pretty well. It’s a thing I do.”

  “You read people,” she echoed. At his nod, she said, “You live around here, right?”

  He was caught off guard. “Uh, no, I mean center of town, really, but . . .”

  “Where’d you park?”

  “I walked,” he told her, even more confused.

  She moved a little closer, nothing too obvious, but enough to make him a little nervous.

  “Yeah. I noticed. Interesting. Long way to walk. Especially in a place like Sunnydale.” Then she moved in for the confrontation. “This town, walking anywhere after dark is like an extreme sport. Someone who didn’t know you very well might think you were out looking for a fight or something.”

  He gave his head a little “no-way” shake. “You’ve known me exactly fifty-three seconds.”

  Faith stood back, nodded, and smiled.

  “Just saying, maybe you’ve got bigger issues than what’s wrong with B.” She gave him a little look. “I read people too.”

  As they regarded each other, headlights swept over them, car in the driveway.

  “Xander’s home,” Faith said.

  * * *

  They were off the hog and in the Gilroy Mission. It was dark and very Spanish adobe, and as they crept down the hall, Andrew murmured, “No one’s here. These kind of places make me feel funny inside.”

  “How about that,” Spike drawled. “You and me got something else in common after all.”

  Perhaps sensing a bonding opportunity, Andrew moved into confessional mode. “This one time, when I was in Sunday school, I woke up later, so my mom made me skip breakfast, and I was really hungry; so I told the teacher I had to go to the bathroom, but I really broke into the supply cabinet and ate a whole package of communion wafers.”

  Spike smile to himself. “Yeah? Good on you, boy.”

  “But then I got sick for two days . . .”

  A side door slammed opened and a dark, hooded figure rushed them, tackling Andrew.

  “Spike!” Andrew cried.

  Spike leaped, throwing the hooded figure off Andrew. Andrew fell against the wall as the hooded figure swung at Spike hard enough to stumble; then Andrew kicked out his feet and used them to grab hold of the figure’s feet.