The Book of Fours

  As for Kit, my love for him has grown since we began working together. Sometimes I think my heart will burst from loving him so much. He’s so handsome, and kind, and brave. There’s a light in his eyes that takes my breath away. I’m certain that he knows, and that he loves me, too. We don’t talk about it, but I’m positive of it.

  Hold on . . .

  A little while ago, Kit came to pick me up to go to a flamenco club. My dad had to go down to the ship, so I was home alone, and no questions asked.

  The club is outside Rota, which is where the U.S. Naval Hospital is located. I love all the whitewashed buildings around here. They have tile roofs and the weather is mild. I could smell the sea—my whole life, I’ve smelled the sea—and there are orange groves and tomato fields everywhere.

  We got to Cantina de los Gitanos, a popular hangout with white walls and wood-beamed ceilings, and the tables were jammed. It was smoky and everyone was drinking. The flamenco dancers were just getting started—it was eleven!—and Kit and I jammed up against the crowd.

  At exactly the same time, we both had a feeling, and we both turned our heads to the left. About three people over, we saw a vampire couple. He was tall, with white-blond hair, wearing a black coat and black T-shirt and leather pants. She was all dolled up in a flamenco gown with a comb and black-lace mantilla. She was waving her fingers and stamping her feet, and there was something incredibly . . . demented about her.

  The blond vampire guy turned and looked straight at me. He looked startled. Then he winked at me and hustled her out of there.

  She was whining and smacking him. Then he whispered something to her and she stared at me. She grinned and twirled in a circle, making the most bizarre growling noises.

  Kit and I followed after them as best we could, but our way was deliberately barred by a bunch of Spaniards. Cigarettes, dark, flashing eyes, the Spanish guitar music—it was like some kind of movie (again with the James Bond!)

  We turned around and made it through the cantina, just in time to see the blond vampire trying to get the female into a low-slung black car. When she saw me she started jiggling all over. Then she fell to the ground and pointed at me, shrieking and laughing.

  She said, “The Gatherer wants you, poor lit’l thing! It will eat you all up!”

  The pale blond man said, “Shut up, Dru! Cecile will have our heads!”

  I don’t know what she’s talking about, but it was freaky.

  So Kit said he’d research it. Then he suggested we go home, which was a drag.

  Except that when we got home, he walked me to the door and kissed my cheek.

  This was the first actual kiss between us. I think he’s realizing I’m practically all grown up. We’re in so much danger all the time that I want to seize the moment. I want to make love with Kit when I turn eighteen. I want to marry him. Will that get us in trouble with the Watchers Council?

  Chapter One

  “Giles!” Buffy shouted, as she wrapped her hands around the enormous chunk of ceiling on top of her and began to heft it off herself. The rain was falling so heavily that she had to contend with the pressure from it as well.

  “Yes?” he bellowed, grunting as he pushed at the rubble that had trapped him and held him to the floor.

  “Just, um . . .” She succeeded in freeing herself and scrambled toward him. “Y’know, don’t die,” she added lamely.

  The creatures continued to move in the same direction, but they appeared to be completely disinterested in Giles. Also, in Buffy. And Faith.

  “Check it out,” Faith shouted, as the three watched in silence.

  They glided slightly above Giles’ head, and kept going.

  “Yo?” Faith called to them. “Guys?”

  Buffy glared at her. “You don’t need to encourage them, Faith,” she hissed.

  Faith chuckled. “What, you afraid they’re going to think I’m forward or something?”

  She got to serious work pushing pieces of wood and stucco off herself, then got to her feet and assisted Buffy with Giles. Working against the wind and the rain, they uncovered the Watcher’s arms and legs and pulled him to his feet. Then the three searched for India’s diary, which was nowhere to be found. It had been buried and/or destroyed.

  Meanwhile, the two mummies drifted on, unfazed by the storm.

  “They’re totally ignoring us,” Buffy said, intrigued.

  “Yeah. I’m so insulted.” Faith clapped her on the shoulder. “This is a good thing, blondie.” She said to Giles, “Does your car, you know, work?”

  Giles, as always, looked mildly offended by the question. “Yes.”

  He led the way through the ruined courtyard to the parking lot where he kept his car. Palm trees had toppled; electric wires were snapped and sparking. Someone was shrieking in the wind, or else it was the wind.

  They got in the Gilesmobile and freighted it to the hospital. When Buffy got out, the wind was blowing so hard it felt like it might rip the skin right off her face. Around her, people were batted by the fierce gusts like Ping-Pong balls tossed at a jet engine. Those who could move under their own steam were staggering toward the entrance to the medical center, while a woman who had lost her walker slid to the ground next to a gray Toyota Camry and buried her head against her knees.

  “We’ve got to help these people,” Buffy said, as she held onto one of the poles supporting the awning over the front of the entrance. Or rather, where the awning used to be. It had been ripped away.

  “We’re not going to be much use,” Faith pointed out. As if to demonstrate, she lurched to the pole opposite, then unwrapped one hand from the column and held it out to her side. The wind caught at it and spun her around the pole like a tetherball.

  “This could be fun if it might not also kill us,” Faith shouted, as she flung herself back against the pole and gripped hard with both hands. She dropped down to her knees, then scooted out backwards as she slid down her hands to the base of the pole. Carefully she pressed first her right palm and then her left against the concrete walkway. She made herself as flat as she could, and then she inched her way toward an old man who had slammed back-first against a stand of bushes. His back was bowing and his right shoe had been blown off his foot.

  Buffy copied Faith’s motions and the two worked their way toward the man. Then with a squeal like a wounded humpback whale, the Camry at the curb upended. It teetered for an instant, then crashed right on top of the old woman crouched beside it.

  The three were shocked into motionlessness for a few seconds. Wide-eyed, Buffy stared at Faith, who had not stopped moving. Buffy said, “Get inside with Giles. I’ll see what I can do.”

  Faith nodded. Slowly, arduously, Buffy slithered in extreme slo-mo toward the curb. Beyond, in the parking structure, cars began to rock and shift. Metal scraped metal.

  There was an enormous zzzizzing sound behind her, then a strange, overpowering pop. Buffy hazarded a glance over her shoulder.

  From the looks of things, the power in the Medical Center had just gone out. The large glass windows in front revealed a very dim lobby, and people milling haphazardly around, some clumping away from the windows, while others started pushing on the doors. Faith and Giles were gesturing for them to get away from the sheets of glass, which could be shattered at any moment by any number and type of wind-powered projectiles. No one paid them the slightest bit of attention.

  Buffy kept crawling to the Camry.

  The woman’s arm extended from beneath the car. Buffy checked for a pulse. There was none.

  The poor lady was dead.

  “Well, gosh, can things get worse?” Buffy shouted over her shoulder. As if in answer to her question, smoke and flames billowed from the roof of the building. The glass entrance doors burst open and screaming people poured out. Someone shrieked, “The hospital’s on fire!”

  The panic was immediate and riot level. Buffy shouted, “Stop!” as men and women ran blindly forward, slamming into the columns and trampling a young Asian ma
n who had the bad luck to fall.

  More arriving ambulances joined the din, swarming onto the streets surrounding the hospital, at least six screeching up to the curb while others poured around the side to the emergency room entrance.

  * * *

  Faith grabbed Giles and pushed her way through the stampede, slamming her fist into the face of one man who was pushing her from behind, side-kicking another, and barreled like a front end for the Raiders the rest of the way to the entrance. Buffy joined them; they were all definitely fighting upstream as they got closer and closer to the surgical waiting room.

  “Yo! Touchdown!” Faith cried, as they stumbled through the crowds and landed inside.

  “Come on,” Buffy said, leading the way, since she knew the hospital layout better than Faith.

  They ignored the elevators and took the stairs. Giles kept up, despite the fact that he was bruised and limped slightly. As they rounded a stairwell containing a couple of vending machines, one of them burst apart. Fruitopia and Mountain Dew geysered into the air.

  They kept going, coughing through thickening smoke, and popped out of the stairwell onto the intensive care unit floor. Things were not as chaotic here; the medical personnel wore masks to filter out the smoke and moved quickly, efficiently, but there was no panic.

  The walls were lined with patients waiting to be evacuated. Buffy, Faith and Giles took a moment, then Buffy nudged Giles as Cordelia, who had gone ahead with Xander, waved at them from a doorway.

  Buffy was about to protest that she had to check on Willow, when Cordelia said, “Willow’s fine, meet this guy,” and herded her forward into the crowded room.

  “Hello,” said a young, dark-haired man, standing beside a couch. He was wearing dark brown cords and an Irish fisherman’s sweater.

  Buffy instantly knew who he was.

  “Christopher Bothwell,” she said.

  He held out her hand. She took it. Buffy regarded him steadily, but she felt very dizzy. This was the Watcher of the girl whose death had activated her.

  “We haven’t much time,” he said gently, though in a loud, steady voice. “There is a creature called the Gatherer, and—”

  “We know some of it.” Buffy looked at Giles. “We know a little bit of some of it.”

  Faith said, “If you guys don’t need me, I want to go to the fire department to get the axe. Nice to meet you,” she said to Christopher Bothwell. “I’m Faith. Bye.” She turned her head to see Xander appear with an armload of vending machine food. “I’m taking him.”

  “Right,” Giles said. “Xander, are you up for it?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good luck,” Buffy said, giving him a hug.

  He nodded, kissed her cheek, winked at her. “You, too, chica.”

  Faith and Xander headed out, and Buffy shifted her attention to Christopher Bothwell.

  “You may have realized that all of this . . . ” He paused and gestured around himself “. . . revolves around the four elements, Earth, Air, Fire, Water. What you may not realize is that one of these qualities dominates the being of a Slayer. You, Buffy, are a Slayer of the Air.”

  “No airhead jokes,” she admonished. She looked over her shoulder. “I want to check on Willow.”

  “In a moment,” Bothwell said authoritatively. “We need to go over this.”

  Buffy looked at Giles and pursed her lips. Giles shrugged and said to Bothwell, “She isn’t keen on taking orders. I told you she was unusual.”

  “Hey.” Buffy looked affronted.

  “Let me continue. Please.”

  Buffy nodded impatiently, trying to give her attention. But her heart was really in Willow’s room, and she was getting more and more impatient to check on her.

  “The Gatherer has two assistants in this dimension, the Servant and a woman named Cecile.” He flushed, and Buffy had no idea why. “Cecile is a remarkable woman, accomplished in the Black Arts, very cunning. Also beautiful. She’s been alive for centuries. She’s the real mastermind behind the plot to liberate the Gatherer.”

  “Liberate it from . . . ” Buffy said.

  “It lives in a pit. It’s a sort of created being, absorbing the essences of the people and animals it consumes. It found a way to merge, or join, with a single strong personality—the Servant—and that person became its eyes and ears, its very body.”

  “Following,” Buffy told him.

  “Good. Once the Gatherer was given a Slayer to absorb, it realized that the primal force each Slayer carries within her gave it new life, new consciousness, and new integrity. It has absorbed many Slayers. The First Servant, ibn Rashad, gave it its very first Slayer, Shagrat al-Durr. During the ensuing chaos as it experienced her power, ibn Rashad was released from his tenure as Servant, and a Second Servant was called.

  “That was a French knight named Chretien de Troyes. This was in Jerusalem. He was eventually lured to the Southern colony of South Carolina, where he was dispatched by the current Servant, Cameron Duvalier.”

  His face puckered as if he had eaten something sour. “But Duvalier is quite mad, and was an unsuitable choice for Servitude. Cecile, who in her homeland of Jamaica, had been a voodoo queen, had managed to follow the Gatherer here, and willingly allowed herself to be treated as a slave so that she could be near it. She remained with Duvalier for over a century, but his insanity eventually proved his undoing.”

  “Who is the Fourth Servant?” Buffy asked.

  Bothwell shrugged. “I’m assuming we shall soon find out. Cecile and the Gatherer are on their way here, even as we speak.”

  “How do you know all this?” Buffy asked.

  “Runes,” he said simply. “I’ve made a life study of this. Because . . . because my Slayer was absorbed by the Gatherer. But something went wrong. She’s been able to somehow break free of the Gatherer and act independently.”

  “That’s not wrong, that’s good.” Buffy started walking toward Willow’s room.

  Bothwell caught up with her. “The Wanderers have each been given an axe that will destroy a Slayer so that her essence can be absorbed by the Gatherer. That’s why they pursue you so vigorously with the axes. One supposes,” he added. “As the Slayer of Air, you must be killed with the Axe of the Air, by the Wanderer of the Air.”

  “This is too much like math,” she said.

  She walked into the room, to find Oz sitting with Willow. Both had on white masks, but they looked relatively unaffected by the smoke.

  “Will,” Buffy said warmly. “Oh, Will.”

  They embraced. Buffy gave herself the luxury of this moment, of reconnecting with her very best friend in all the world.

  Then she smiled at Oz, who said, “Check it out. Willow made a warding spell, keeps the smoke from bothering us.”

  Willow said, “Pretty neat, huh?”

  “Very neat,” Buffy agreed.

  “Buffy,” Bothwell persisted. “I need you to travel the Ghost Roads. Kendra and . . . India . . . will meet you there. You’ll perform a ritual.”

  “That does what?” Buffy asked, frowning slightly.

  Instead of answering her, Bothwell looked at Cordelia.

  “I need to ask something of you. Something very dangerous, and very important.”

  “Oh, yay,” she said, grimacing. “Let me guess. You want me to allow one of the dead Slayers to take over my body so we can join forces for the final battle and kick the Gatherer’s ass.”

  Buffy stared at her in amazement, then Christopher Bothwell, who nodded.

  “That’s exactly right,” he said.

  Cordelia sighed. “Okay.”

  Buffy blinked at her. So did Giles. Cordelia looked up, saw everyone’s expressions of astonishment, and snapped, “I told you, I’m really nice. No, it wasn’t any of you, it was Xander, and he’d better find out I did this.”

  “Okay, then,” Christopher said, putting his hands on his knees. “I’ve got the herbs we need, I have the incantation—”

  “And you need four Slayers
,” Willow said. “Buffy, Faith, whoever Cordelia becomes and . . . one more.”

  “No way,” Oz and Buffy said at the same time.

  Giles stepped forward. “I agree. She’s recovering from surgery. If we need a fourth, I shall fill in.”

  “Or me,” Oz said.

  “Slayers are girls,” Cordelia said with an air of authority.

  There was silence, and in that silence, Buffy understood that Bothwell was agreeing with Cordelia.

  “She will possess Slayer strength and healing abilities while she is filled with a Slayer’s soul,” Bothwell observed, his voice kind, reassuring. “It may actually benefit her in the long run.”

  “If it doesn’t kill her in the short run,” Buffy snapped. “No. I won’t let you do this to her.”

  “We must, Buffy,” Bothwell said.

  “Use Faith.” Buffy scowled at him.

  “Math class, Buffy,” Cordelia trilled.

  “Faith’s got to be there as well. There must be four Slayers, one of each elemental sign,” Bothwell explained. “That will be you, Faith, Cordelia and Willow.” He took a breath. “As Kendra, and as India.”

  Everyone took a moment. Then Cordelia said, “Who am I gonna be?”

  “You are an Earth sign. As was Kendra.”

  Cordelia looked bemused.

  “I’ll be India, then,” Willow said softly.

  “This is insane.” Buffy crossed to Willow. “You don’t even have any hair.”

  “I shall bolster her with magick.” Bothwell regarded Willow, who looked bravely up at him. Oz was holding her hand. She looked small and easy to kill, and Buffy was not about to lose another friend to death so easily.

  The Watcher continued. “A Wanderer hacked India to bits right in front of me. She was so happy to have a real home at last. I’d gotten her a dog. Her father was going to stay home from the sea and she would finally have a real family.”

  “Slayers die,” Buffy said, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “If this thing devours the force of two living Slayers at once, there is an excellent chance that the line will not be able to recover,” Bothwell continued. “In other words, we will have no more Slayers. Ever.”