Chosen

  “But if it’s necessary?” he urged, trying to be careful of her, yet needed to convey to her the urgency of their situation.

  She looked at him straight on. “Giles, honestly, I don’t know.”

  “Do what you can, Willow. That’s all any of us can do.”

  “I guess so.” She went back to the computer and studied the screen again. “Man, none of these sound right.” She pointed. “Look at this, something just called m with a question mark. What the heck is that?”

  “I can’t imagine,” he began, then blinked and said, “Wait, let me see.” He leaned over the keyboard. “That’s not a question mark. That’s the International Phonetic Alphabet sign for a glottal stop. It’s a sort of gulpy noise.” He nodded to himself. “I’m remembering something here . . . hieroglyphs. Hieroglyphs stand for sets of consonants, as you know.”

  “Yes, absolutely,” she replied, although she doubted .0001% of the population knew that; she certainly hadn’t.

  “The consonants m plus glottal stop are represented by a little picture commonly thought to represent a sickle or scythe.”

  He was getting into it now, going into a full Giles deal. Only as a Watcher and on Jeopardy! could so much trivial information prove so useful.

  “It appears in thousands of carvings, in Egypt and throughout the ancient world.”

  “Carvings?” Willow echoed, looking at him. She could feel the tumblers beginning to line up, the sense to become . . . sensible. “Like you’d have on a pagan temple?”

  “Let go back, see what else we can find out about that temples,” Giles said, as he picked up the scythe.

  “A scythe is a symbol of death,” he mused. “Find out where these pagans buried their dead.”

  * * *

  Dawn was on the dawn patrol, with Xander in the front seat in the driveway, only it was still night.

  She was rooting around in the weapons bag and Xander was pretending to help look, feeling noble and nefarious at the same time.

  “Xander, my crossbow is not out here,” she kevtched. “I told you, I don’t leave crossbows around all willy-nilly.” A beat. “Not since that time with Miss Kitty Fantastico.”

  Xander grumped, “Did you know I have to take a driver’s test every year now?”

  “Because you’re old?” Dawn asked, still rooting.

  “No,” he said patiently, “because of my eye. It’s a whole state law. They don’t trust my depth perception anymore.”

  “That sucks,” she said, distracted.

  He got out of the car and walked around to the open door next to Dawn.

  “You know what’s even worse? All the stupid ‘It’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye’ jokes.” He mocked up a voice. “ ‘I guess the fun and games are over, eh, Xander?’ ”

  “Giles was just having fun with you,” Dawn insisted.

  “That’s not the point!” he shot back. “It’s an obvious joke. It’s be like if someone called me a Cyclops.”

  She burst into laughter. “Oh, right! I didn’t even . . .” Then she saw his displeased expression and caught herself. “That’s not funny at all.”

  “I mean, give me an ‘eye of the beholder’ joke or an ‘eye for an eye’ joke or maybe even a weird post-modern ‘I, Claudius’ joke.” He frowned at her. “It’s about standards, Dawn. Just be creative.”

  “I know.” She got up out of the car, ostensibly to go back into the house to get her crossbow. “You know, everyone is still a little on guard around you,” she said. “Give them time.”

  She turned around, back to Xander, to shut the door.

  “Before you know it, they’ll be—”

  And that was when he did it: he clamped a handkerchief over her nose and mouth, holding it as she tried to scream, as she struggled; then breaking her fall as she went limp and unconscious.

  He put her in the car, put that sucker in reverse, and flew out of their like a bat . . . a one-eyed bat . . . from Sunnydale.

  * * *

  Down in the cellar, Caleb was throwing a tantrum, as only an insanely evil superstrong person could throw: couple of dead Bringers, and he was heaving wine barrels everywhere. They were crashing on either side of The First, who was wearing her Buffy face, and she hardly blinked.

  “Not that I care personally,” she said, “But you’re wasting a lot of robust, full-bodied Merlot.”

  Smashed barrels lay on the floor, and a broken chair. He was out of breath, but still brimming with righteous indignation.

  “Why did you let her go?” he demanded. “You know I could take that girl in a fight.”

  “We’ll get her. Calm down,” The First told him.

  “I’m calm. You should see me when I get angry,” he bit off.

  “She’s powerful now,” The First drawled. “And you’re weak.”

  He glared at her, flexing his hands, pulling back his mouth in a tight frown. “All of a sudden, I’m getting less calm.”

  “Face it,” she said. “Your strength is waning. It’s been a while since we merged.”

  Caleb looked around, nodded. “Suppose you’re right. Okay, let’s do. it.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Boy, you really know how to romance a girl. No flowers, no dinner, no tour of the rectory . . . just, ‘let’s do it.’ Help me. My knees are weak.”

  He gave her a look. “Watch what you say now. You’re starting to sound like her. This is a sacred experience for me.”

  “Oh, for me as well,” she assured him. Then she sighed and added, “When this is over . . . when our armies spring forth and our will sweeps the world—I’ll be able to enter every man, woman, and child on the face of this Earth.”

  She gave him a lustful, seductive look.

  “Just as I can enter you?”

  Pleased with her attention, he asked, “Are you trying to make me jealous?”

  Her demeanor changed; she became deadly serious as she rejoined, “I’m trying to make you a god.”

  Then as Caleb watched, The First shot out of its form as Buffy; becoming its true self—malevolent, magnificent, a red demon of huge power and majesty.

  It rose to the top of the room mushrooming in size and sizzling with distilled evil; and he whispered, in total rapture and awe, “I am thy humble servant.”

  And it dove into Caleb’s body, filling him.

  It was violent, voluptuous, transcendent. He shook with the fullness of it, the drive and the sound and the fury, fall to his knees . . . oh, glory, hallelujah, he was a god . . .

  His head lowered in worship, in the prayer of it; then slowly he lifted his head, the shadows churning inside his until even his eyes were black, and he said, “And I am ready to serve thee.”

  He rose and presented himself . . . a figure of power.

  * * *

  Faith’s Slayer-sized restorative powers had started to work, and though she looked like a beaten-up side of beef, she was able to sit up in bed and test out the scythe when Buffy took it to her. Her eyes were closed; she was lost in reverie, as Buffy stood by the bed, watching.

  “You feel it too, don’t you,” Buffy said, as Faith opened her eyes.

  The dark-haired Slayer grunted. “Damn. And damn. That’s something.”

  “I know,” Buffy said.

  “It’s old. Strong. And it feels like . . . like it’s mine,” she finished, a slight mixture of shame and resentment in her voice. “So I guess that means it’s yours.”

  “It belongs to the Slayer,” Buffy corrected her.

  Faith shrugged. “Slayer in Charge. Which I’m guessing is you.”

  Buffy sat on the edge of the bed. “I honestly don’t know,” she admitted. “Does it matter?”

  Ever Five-by-Five Girl, Faith replied, “Never mattered to me. But somebody has to lead.” She perked up. “Let’s vote for Chao-Ahn! Harder to lead people into a death-trap if you don’t speak English.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Buffy insisted.

  Faith gave her her patented tough-wom
an stare. “Really not looking for forgiveness. What do you want me to say? I blew it.”

  “You didn’t blow it,” Buffy repeated.

  Faith laughed shortly; her ringed, swollen eyes were haunted, her bloody mouth stretched back in pain. “Tell that to the—”

  “People die. You lead them into battle, they die. No matter how smart you are, or how ready, war is about death. Needless, stupid death.”

  Faith looked at Buffy for a moment, and then she said, “So here’s the laugh-riot. My whole life, I’ve been a loner.”

  She fell silent; confused, Buffy said, “Was that the funny part? Did I miss . . . ?”

  Faith said with effort, “I’m trying to . . .”

  “No, no. Sorry.” Buffy inclined her head. “Go.”

  Taking another moment, Faith started over . . . and did not flinch. She went through her thoughts, and not around them. Not this time.

  Not this close to death.

  “No ties, no buddies, no relationships that lasted longer than . . . well, I guess Robin lasted pretty long.” Her eyes gleamed with mischief. “Boy’s got stamina.”

  Buffy’s eyes got wide. “Principal Wood? And you? And on my . . .” Gingerly she rose from the bed, and took a step away from it.

  Faith cocked her head. “Don’t tell me you two got wriggly . . .”

  “No, no!” Buffy said, flustered. “We’re just good friends.” She hesitated. “Or . . . mortal enemies, depending on which day of the . . .” She looked back at Faith. “Is this the funny part?”

  “Okay, the point?” Faith said. “Me, by myself all the time, and looking at you, everything you have, and . . . I don’t know, jealous. And there I am, everybody looking to me, trusting me to lead them . . .” Her eyes softened, and the haunted look came back. “I never felt more alone in my life.”

  Buffy gazed at her, felt such a connection, yet still felt the distance—she and Faith, what an unlikely pair,

  “Yeah,” she said.

  “And that’s you every day, isn’t it?” Faith pressed.

  Someone understands. Someone gets this gig. Oh, Faith . . .

  “I love my friends,” she said, “and I’m grateful for them, but yeah. That’s the price. Being the Slayer.”

  “There’s only supposed to be one.” Faith looked at her questioningly. “Maybe that’s why you and I can never get along. We’re not supposed to exit together.”

  “Also, you went evil and were killing people,” Buffy reminded her helpfully.

  Faith nodded thoughtfully. “Good point. Also a factor.”

  “But you’re right,” Buffy said. “ I mean, I guess everyone’s alone, but . . . being a Slayer. There’s a burden we can’t share.”

  “And no one else can feel it.” A beat, and then Faith grinned and said, “Thank God we’re hot chicks with super powers.”

  “Takes the edge off,” Buffy agreed.

  “Just comforting,” Faith added.

  “Uh huh.”

  She left Faith then, and was going downstairs with the scythe in her hand, to find Spike coming through the front door. She wasn’t certain how he would feel, since she had, essentially, split on him with just a scribbled note of explanation. But there was a flash of joy on his face that he could not conceal, and she warmed to him, relieved.

  “Honey, you’re home,” he said in a slightly low tone, so as to not wake the sleeping girls.

  “Yeah.” She nodded, smiled.

  “And you did it. Fulfilled your mission, found the holy grail, or the holy hand grenade, or whatever the hell that is.”

  “Right now we’re going with scythe.” She showed it to him. “You like?”

  He looked it over, taking its measure, and replied, “Pointy and wooden is not exactly the look I want to know better, but it does have flair. I can see how a girl would ditch a guy for one of these.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” she said sincerely.

  She headed to the back space between the kitchen and the living room; he followed.

  “Doesn’t matter,” he drawled. “You’re back in the bosom, all’s forgiven, and last night was just a glitch. A little cold comfort from the cellar dweller, let’s don’t make a thing out of it.”

  That took her a bit aback, but she said, “Great. I got work to do.”

  “Another solo mission, of course,” he said leadingly.

  She turned, annoyed. “Yes, it is.”

  He straightened slightly, rushed with, “It’s fine. Don’t have to get shirty about it.”

  “I’m not shirty!” she insisted. “What even is shirty? That’s not a word.”

  He was not annoyed, he was calm. “All right, all right,” he soothed. “Big secret mission. It’s fine.”

  “It’s not a secret.” She backed up. “I mean, it is, but that’s the point of the mission: find the secret. This was forged by . . . we don’t know, something about a tomb on unconsecrated ground. I have to find out what this is. Why I have it.”

  He listened, accepted, moved on. “And this is the thing Preacher Man was so anxious to keep out of your mitts.”

  “That it is,” Buffy concurred.

  “Well, maybe I’ll swung by his place while you go,” Spike offered, “make sure he’s sitting tight.”

  “Great,” Buffy said brightly.

  A beat, and then he headed for the kitchen door and she turned to go out the front. Then she turned and went after him, calling out, “You’re a dope!”

  He turned, baffled. “I’m what?”

  “You’re a dope, and a bonehead, and . . . and you’re shirty.”

  He could only stare at her. “Have you gone completely Carrot-top?”

  She held up the scythe, and ranted sotto voce: “You see this? This may actually help me fight my war. It may be the key to everything, and the reason I’m holding it is ’cause of you. Because of last night, the strength you gave me. I’m tired of defensiveness and weird mixed signals. I’ve got Faith for that.”

  She took a breath. “Let’s just get to the truth. I don’t know how you feel about last night, but I’m not gonna—”

  “Terrified,” he said.

  She stepped. Okay. Honest. Real. Oh, my God, we’re doing this.

  “Of what?” she asked him.

  “Last night was . . .” He looked down, gave his head a shake, closed his eyes. “God, I’m such a jerk. I can’t do this.”

  “Spike . . .” she urged.

  He couldn’t look at her, but he could tell her.

  “It was the best night of my life.”

  Then he did look at her, his eyes welling up defiantly, as he pointed at the scythe. “If you poke fun at me you bloody well better use that ‘cause I couldn’t bear it. It may not mean that much to you . . .”

  “I just told you that it did,” she murmured.

  “I know, I hear you say it, but . . .” He made himself go on, his voice choking with emotion. “I’ve lived for sodding ever, Buffy, I’ve done everything—I’ve done things with you I can’t even spell, but I’ve never . . . been close. To anyone, least of all you . . . until last night.

  “All I did was hold you, and watch you sleep, and it was the best night of my life. So, I’m, yeah . . . terrified.”

  She came closer, said quietly, “You don’t have to be.”

  He gazed down at her, hopeful, a bit guarded, daring to ask, “Were you there with me?”

  “I was.” She gazed back up at him.

  There was a moment. Their moment.

  Theirs . . . and no one else’s.

  “What does that mean?” he asked her.

  “I don’t know.” Her voice betrayed her fragility, her own fear. “Does it have to mean something?”

  The spell was broken, albeit slightly; he backed off, not hurt so much as a wee bit detached. “No,” he said. Then, “Not right now.”

  “Maybe,” she said, “when—”

  “No,” he said, a firm grip on the magic of this moment, this bond, “Let’s just leave i
t.”

  “ ’Kay,” she said.

  He smiled at her. “We’ll go be heroes.”

  Then he did.

  Buffy watched him go.

  * * *

  The Sunnydale Hospital was like a morgue . . . or not, because there weren’t any dead bodies lying around. No one was lying around. It was deserted. Folders were heaped and tumbled off the nurse’s station, doors hung open.

  Anya and Andrew each carried the colorful matching pillowcases from the bandage sheet set. They were half-full; and Andrew thought wistfully about caches of Halloween candy long devoured, and wished he were, like sixteen again and life was carefree . . . except for getting beaten up everyday at school and having head flushed in the toilet.

  “Okay,” he said to Anya, leading their raiding party, “so if the supply closet on this floor is exactly above the last one, it should . . . be . . . here!”

  And it was! The door was even marked, “Supplies.”

  “Yes,” Anya said. “That is consistent with the six floors we already did.”

  He opened the magic door and peered inside. “Oooh!” he cried. “This one has oxygen tanks!”.

  Anya said, “They’d only be useful if something big was attacking and then we could throw one down their throat and blow ’em up like Roy Scheider did with the shark in Jaws.

  He gaped at her and thought in Mehico-an, Ay, que mujer! Ay, Chihuahua!

  “You are the perfect woman,” he said adoringly.

  Looking pleased, she inclined her head. “I’ve often thought so.” She gestured to the supply closet. “Wanna rob?”

  “Let’s rob!” he cried gleefully.

  Close together, they took: “Gauze and alcohol and tape and sutures in case we need to get stitchy with it,” Andrew said. “Oh, and there’s a box full of ointments.” He looked at the label, nodding with recognition. “I used one of these on a rash once.”

  “Show me,” she told him.

  He sure would! “Well, it’s healed up, but it was sort of red and crusty with little itchy places—”

  “Show me the box full of ointments, you little freak.”

  Andrew handed the box to her and she dumped it all out into her pillowcase, saying, “Get cotton packing for the biggest wounds.”