It was widely known that Neema had been on the short list for assignment to Kendra, and that she had deeply resented Roger’s selection over her. She had gone so far as to file an official complaint, but like much of Council business, it came to nothing.
Shortly thereafter, she withdrew her name from active status and devoted herself to research. Her particular specialty was hunting down lost Watcher’s Diaries, in some cases translating or transcribing them, or extracting as much text as she could, from books burned hastily in fireplaces or buried to prevent discovery. The forces of darkness were quite eager to learn all they could about Slayers, always had been, and always would be.
As a result of her efforts, Neema probably knew more collectively about Slayers than any other person in the room. The consequence of that, of course, was that she was a highly sought-after prize. There had been numerous attempts to kidnap her, and even more to bribe her. Demons could be a practical lot.
As with the male Watchers, a Waterford snifter of Napoleon brandy sat before Neema on the highly polished table. A fire crackled pleasantly in the hearth, but it was not enough to dispel the chill in the ancient stone room. Beyond the high wall which blocked most of the frail English sunlight, the traffic of London swirled and raced, cabs circling in the roundabouts like dogs chasing their tails.
So much normality, Neema thought sadly, yet Roger is dead. How the world does go on.
How we must go on, as well.
Her throat was clamped shut with unspent grief. Though she had married another—also a Watcher—she had never stopped loving Roger Zabuto. In fact, until this moment, she thought, I assumed that somehow we would finish our lives together. That he would miss me too much, and my choice would be so simple . . . .
“To Roger,” Lord Anthony Yorke said gravely, lifting his glass. He was the most senior member of the Council among them—trotted out, Neema assumed, to indicate the high regard in which Roger had been held.
The others followed suit. “To Roger,” everyone chorused, and sipped their brandy with one motion.
Sir Anthony looked steadily at Neema. He was her confidante; he had known of her deep and abiding love for Roger. Now she could see the sympathy etched on his features. She was profoundly grateful; more often, the upper echelons heartily disapproved of any sort of strong feelings between Watchers, or between Watcher and Slayer, for that matter. Somehow, he excused Neema her weakness.
The Watchers sipped in silence, as was the custom, each remembering Roger and the part he played in their constant, unending struggle against evil. Theirs was a difficult calling, theirs, a lonely way to live.
There were two vacant seats at the table. One, of course, was for Roger. And one was in honor of Rupert Giles, the current Watcher of the two American Slayers. Kendra had been called because Buffy Summers had died, albeit briefly. Kendra’s death had called Faith to service. So the lineage had been both preserved and altered, and there had been innumerable discussions about the propriety—if such a word could be used—about having two Slayers at the same time.
Whatever the case, Giles was at present in charge of both of them, and such a thing had never happened before.
“It is a sorry business all around,” Lord Yorke said, as he set down his snifter. “Slayer and Watcher, both gone. A double loss for our side.”
“Amen,” Neema said.
“I’m worried that something similar may happen to Rupert Giles,” Lord Yorke continued. “As you know, he’s extremely vulnerable at the moment, as the Watcher of both the Slayers. I have it in mind to fly over and see how he is. As some of you may know, we have had a number of mental breakdowns in the past when Watchers have outlived their charges, and it might do well to check in on them at more regular intervals.”
“But it’s a rather normal state of affairs, is it not?” another of the Council said casually. “The girls rarely live beyond their mid-twenties.”
“I think it would be a lovely idea to visit Mr. Giles,” Neema said. “He cared about Roger a great deal.”
“Then I shall leave as soon as possible on the Council private jet,” Lord Yorke said. “Unless there are any serious objections?”
No one spoke. It would have been quite disrespectful of anyone to voice any, once such a highly placed member had spoken.
Sunnydale
“Okay,” Cordelia said to the group as they settled in their usual spots in Giles’s living room. The Watcher was in the kitchen, making another pot of tea. Much with the tea-drinking. “We have fires. We have floods. We have wind. Apocalypse much?”
“We don’t have earth,” Giles said thoughtfully. “At least, I don’t think we do.”
“Lacking in earth, to my thinking,” Xander concurred. “Since the water is covering it up a bit more than usual.”
“And mummies,” Holly Johnson whispered.
Wearing one of Giles’s sweatshirts as a long dress, the little girl was anxiously pacing, waiting for her mother, who was on her way. Cordelia had driven Joyce Summers home, then shown, and did not look too happy to be there. Xander was busy with the books, and Oz had elected to stay at the hospital, and promised to call as soon as he had some news.
Faith was of the absent, having dropped by to tell Giles about her dreams and then boogied on to damper pastures.
Meanwhile, Buffy was so very glad she’d gone outside to see what the heck was going on with the wind. She had seen no mummy thing, but she had seen a lot of fog and a terrified child racing in the opposite direction. Slayer to the rescue, and bonus points for finding Holly Johnson.
“So, meanwhile,” Buffy said, “India.” Giles hesitated. Buffy frowned at him. “Giles, you said you had her diary.”
He cleared his throat and said, “I suggest we wait a bit.” To the girl, he said, “Holly? Would you care for more tea?”
She was trembling. Buffy could practically see the fear coming off her in waves. Gently the Slayer took her hand and led her to the sofa, made a face at Xander to get him to move, and eased the little girl into a sitting position. Holly almost bolted back off the couch, as if she were afraid to stay in one place, but Buffy knelt before her and gave her a smile.
“I need to ask you some more questions,” she said. “While we wait for your mom, okay?”
Holly’s thin shoulders slumped and she nodded as if she really didn’t care anymore. Buffy knew that look. She had seen it on more faces than she cared to admit: it was defeat. It was the look that came over someone’s face when they had had enough.
“Never mind.” Buffy picked up Holly’s tea cup and handed it to her. “We’ll just wait for your mother to come.”
She heard rapid footfalls and said, “That’s probably her now.”
But the door crashed open and Faith dove over the transom, shouting, “B! Front and center!”
“Why?” Buffy yelled, but didn’t hesitate to run to her fellow Slayer’s side.
They dashed outside, Faith sailing into a bank of unbelievably thick fog. She said, “There’s something in here, and it tried to nail my butt! It followed me all the way over here.”
“It’s probably a mummy,” Buffy said. “Maybe it caught my scent when I saved Holly.”
“Whatever. I just wanna kill it.”
Buffy started swinging, on the off chance that she might make contact. Then she slammed her fist into something as hard as iron. The jarring impact made her bones vibrate and her teeth rattle. She swung again, before whatever it was had a chance to put distance between them. Executing a flawless sidekick, she used the momentum to deliver a whipkick as she switched standing legs. Then a swift uppercut. Whatever it was . . . did not budge an inch.
“I got it, I got it,” Buffy said, “but it’s not going anywhere.”
“Okay,” Faith said. “Me, too. I can feel it.”
They both went into pummeling mode. Buffy said, “Can you see anything? Is it a mummy?”
“Doesn’t feel like one. It feels like a Sherman tank,” Faith said.
“What is it??
?? Giles called from the doorway. Buffy glanced at him, took in the fact that Xander had joined him.
“Don’t let the fog inside,” Buffy advised. She doubled up for another punch and flew forward, impelled by her own momentum. She continued to sail through the air; her target had moved.
“Where is it?” she cried to Faith.
“I don’t know. I think it’s gone.”
“Let’s get inside,” Buffy said.
Both Slayers hightailed it back into the house, narrowly missing Giles and Xander as they backed into Giles’s apartment. Faith, at Buffy’s heels, slammed the door and flicked the locks. Then she took a couple of giant steps away from the door, assuming a clean, steady fight stance, and Buffy did the same.
They waited for a few moments. Nothing happened.
“Huh,” Faith grunted.
When the doorbell rang, Buffy nearly put her fist through the door.
“Holly?” a woman called.
“Mommy!”
The little girl raced to the door. Buffy stood in front of her and said, “Hold on a sec.” She nodded at Faith, who unlocked the door, got ready to rumble just in case, and opened it.
A woman who resembled the little girl ran into the room. She was followed by a man whose smile lit up the apartment. Distracted, Buffy nevertheless scoped out the courtyard. There was nothing there, not even a wisp of fog. She traded glances with Faith, who had joined her.
“Holly, Holly,” the woman cried, falling to her knees and enfolding the child. They clung to each other, sobbing, while the man stood by.
Then the little girl looked up at the man and blurted, “Please don’t make my mommy drink.”
“What?” the man said, then wiped his eyes and came to the mother and daughter and tentatively gave the little girl a quick hug.
The reunion continued. Faith rolled her eyes at Buffy and ambled into the kitchen, where the tea kettle was screaming. Giles joined them, rescuing the screaming kettle, while Faith smoothed back her dripping hair and said, “Well, that’s a happy ending, eh, blondie?”
“What was in the fog?” Buffy asked her. “Did you see anything?”
“No clue. But it was following me, or something.” She grimaced at her wet leather clothes. “It’s a bitch when this stuff dries on you,” she said. “It’s like wearing a corset.”
Giles was doing all the tea things he did, fussing with the bags, sugar, and milk. Everything went on a tray, always did, even if it was just him and Buffy and a couple of mugs. At the moment, Buffy found comfort in the ritual, and put her hand on the jamb as she watched him go for it.
Then she said, “Okay, Giles. They’re too busy to listen to us. Spill. India.”
“Oh.” Faith brightened as she picked up a sugar cube and licked it. “The chick who came before you.” She wrinkled her nose. “Hell of a way to die, huh?”
Buffy stared at her. She was thunderstruck. “My . . .”
“Your predecessor, Buffy.” Giles’s voice was soft. “The girl whose death called you to your destiny as the Slayer.”
The phone rang. Giles touched Buffy’s shoulder and said, “I’ll be right back, Buffy. That may be news about Willow.”
“Yes,” she said blankly. Then, processing, more urgently, “Yes.”
Giles picked up the phone. Buffy watched him, aware of how hard her heart was beating. India. The Slayer before me. And I never even asked him her name.
“Giles here,” her Watcher said. “Yes?”
Faith popped the sugar cube in her mouth and crunched.
Was she strong? Was she a good fighter? How did she die?
Giles paled. He reached for something to hold onto as he breathed, “Oh, my God. How? When did it happen?”
Buffy’s stomach lurched. “Giles?” she called. “Is it Willow?”
He had the presence of mind to shake his head, then hold out a hand as if to fend off more questions. Slowly, he sat, as Holly, her mother, and her father left the apartment in a happy chorus of farewells.
“Wait, it might not be safe,” Faith said, but no one was listening. She started to head for the door just as Giles hung up the phone.
“Buffy,” he said, looking at her through the breakfast bar cutout in the wall. “That was a contact of mine in Jamaica. Mr. Zabuto . . .”
“Kendra’s Watcher,” Faith filled in, coming into the living room.
Giles turned his back to both Slayers. Tensions spanned across his shoulders and his spine was ramrod straight. He looked off to the side, the way he sometimes did when he simply couldn’t handle saying something directly to Buffy’s face.
“He’s been killed.”
“What?” Buffy was shocked. “As in . . . ?”
“Brutally murdered. His belongings have been ransacked, as if the murderers were looking for something.”
“Money?” Faith asked.
“Doubtful.” Giles exhaled. “Roger was not a wealthy man. The mansion in which he lived had fallen into disrepair. Dire neglect. One assumes they were searching for something else.”
“Like what?” Xander asked.
“Give me a moment, please,” Giles said. “Alone.” Slowly sitting on the chair opposite the sofa, he hung his head in his hands.
Faith, Xander, and Cordelia tiptoed into the kitchen, joining Buffy near the refrigerator. Cordelia looked at the others and snapped, “It’s always death with you people.”
“Yeah,” Buffy breathed, watching Giles. Hurting for him. And somehow, missing Kendra more than ever. It was as if that now that her Watcher was dead, she was even more gone. Buffy didn’t know how to explain it, but she felt it.
It’s always death with us people. So much death.
Chapter Six
San Diego, California
In her lovely rented mansion in the rich San Diego neighborhood of Point Loma, Cecile Lafitte threw the bones, read them, and gathered them up again with her blood red nails. The signs were not all there, but the majority of factors pointed to a good resolution. Translation: Despite the fact that things were not perfect in Sunnydale, she should continue to move her pawns. Two living Slayers lay within the grasp of the Gatherer, and it wanted them. Desperately.
Rich rewards would come to the one who delivered them up to the insatiable god.
She threw the bones again, came up with the exact same answer, and dropped them into a skull on the black varnished table. The planks of the table had been cut from the coffin of Tutuana Lafitte, her wily descendant. Clever woman that she was, she had nearly succeeded in achieving immortality. In her attempt, she had reconnected Cecile with her bloodline, and of that, she was very grateful.
Cecile picked up her phone and punched in the familiar North Carolina number. She tapped her nails and waited expectantly; Cameron usually picked it up on the first ring. He did not disappoint.
Her smile was in her voice as she said, “It is time, mon amour. It is the correct moment to transport our master.”
“Everything is ready?” he asked eagerly. After all this time, Cameron had not lost his Southern accent.
“Almost everything,” she replied. “There are still a few loose ends, but I have confidence that they will be resolved in time.” She tapped one of her lovely manicured nails against the vellum pages of Le Livre des Quatres. The Book of Fours. She reminded herself that without Cameron, her plans would have been much more difficult to accomplish. When she assumed her rightful place in the new world, she would remember his past services to her.
She took a moment to reminisce. With victory so close, it was time to reflect on all that had been accomplished.
After she had fled, as “Ceceli,” from ibn Rashad, she had languished in a small desert village, cowering from his wrath, until she realized that she was not aging. Nor was he hunting her. Either he had lost track of her, or lost interest in her. Either way, she was not about to waste her valuable time pondering this fortuitous event.
So she continued her studies of the Pool, gleaning all she could of its orig
in and creation; and to her delight, she made friends with a local sorcerer, who taught her about scrying stones. They were like tiny windows through which one could see across vast distances, even across time. She learned, also, that ibn Rashad was said to dwell in the city of Jerusalem, and that he was worshipped there as a god.
It took her years, but at last a confederate agreed to infiltrate ibn Rashad’s fortress, deposit a stone, and then, hopefully, escape. In return, Ceceli showered him with pleasures of every sort, including her own, promising him much, much more upon his return.
But he never did return.
However, he managed to do as he promised before the desert took him: the stone was in place, in ibn Rashad’s privy chamber, where the sorcerer communed with his god. The One Who Gathers and Preserves, which he now called the Gatherer, lived in an elaborate pit, and ibn Rashad merged in some way with it by thrusting his hands into its hideous, rank form. That this was both excruciating and sublime was clear from the expressions on his face and the sounds he uttered; but even better, he maintained a private diary of his experiences with the Gatherer. With her scrying stone, Ceceli read every word he wrote—and made herself a copy of his book. It was she, not he, who eventually called it The Book of Fours.
It was she, not he; nor the next man who had served the Gatherer; nor the next, who had eventually realized that four was the crucial number in every magickal equation having to do with the Gatherer.
But I get ahead of myself, she thought, running her fingers along the text which she herself had written, years before.
Fifty years after she had taken ibn Rashad to the pool, rumors circulated regarding ibn Rashad’s depravity. The kings of Europe were determined to take Jerusalem, “saving” it for Christianity. With Christian armies on the march, she knew she must go soon to ibn Rashad, and challenge him for control of the Gatherer.
But fate had intervened, and she had been forced to wait.
Which turned out to be a very good thing, she thought. It saved me so much traveling.
With a smile on her face, she picked up the phone again.