Ewww.
He looked at her. “This is going to be bad, isn’t it?”
Her expression was almost pitying. “Yeah.”
“So how come you’re here?” he asked her. “I mean, you could just go, right?”
“Yeah, I did before,” she told him.
“Before what?”
“There was this other apocalypse this one time,” she elaborated, “and I took off. But this time . . .” She shrugged as if to say, Here I am.
“What’s different?” he asked.
She thought about that. Well, I was kind of new to being around humans before. And now I’ve seen a lot more, gotten to know people, seen what they’re capable of, and I realize now that they’re just so . . . amazingly screwed up!” she said, her voice rising. “I mean, so really, really screwed up in a monumental fashion!”
“Oh.” He was bewildered.
It was as if someone had opened up at the gates at the racetrack as she plunged on ahead. “They have no purpose that unites them so they drift around, blundering through life until they die. Which they know is coming and yet every single one of them is surprised when it happens to them. They’re incapable of thinking beyond what they want at that moment. They kill each other, which is clearly insane . . .
“. . . but here’s the thing. When it’s something real, they fight. I mean, they’re lame morons to keep fighting, but they do. They . . . they never quit. And so . . .” She took a deep breath and let it all out. “And so I guess I’ll fight too.”
“That was kind of beautiful,” Andrew said dreamily. “You love humans.”
“No, I don’t,” she snapped.
“Yes, you do,” he jabbed. “You luuuuuve them.”
“Stop it!” Her eyes flashed. “I don’t love them and I’ll kill you if you tell anybody.”
“I won’t tell anybody.” His voice fell. “Won’t get a chance to, anyway.”
She avoided his gaze. “I don’t know. You might survive.”
Andrew shook his head. “No, you might survive. You can handle a weapon. You’ve been in this world for, like, a thousand years. I’m not so . . . I don’t think I’ll be okay,” he said frankly. Then he moved his shoulders sweetly, stoically
“I’m cool with it,” he told her. “I think I’d like to finish out as one of those lame humans trying to do what’s right.”
“Yeah.” She was sympathetic and honest.
And then Andrew said, “Wheelchair fight?”
Wheelchair fight.
* * *
A cemetery.
A Slayer.
A scythe.
Panama.
Buffy walked through the clean, well-kept graveyard, past the many headstones she knew so well . . . and then she got to the place where those who had died in less than good graces had been stashed; down among the weeds and thistles. The gravestones were tilted, sparse, forgotten.
She looked around, and finally spotted a tomb, Egyptian-looking in design.
She tried to find a way to open the door, then finally gave up and pushed it down, sending up a plume of dust that swirled and eddied like a ghost before it dissipated.
She entered cautiously, amazed at the thick layers of dust coating the walls, thinking vaguely of mummy movies and wondering what weird context Andrew would put this in.
“I’d forgotten,” a voice echoed in the dark.
Buffy whirled around, her scythe at the ready.
An old woman sat on a throne of dust, her clothes so old and faded they appeared to be made of dust as well. Her face was sepia, her eyes . . . ancient.
“I’d forgotten how young you would be,” she said. “It comes from the waiting. The mind plays tricks.”
Buffy walked toward her, and the woman gestured to the scythe. “I see you found our weapon.”
“Who are you?” Buffy asked cautiously, half-expecting her to turn into The First.
“One of many.” The woman closed her eyes, opened them, looked far off through time, so much, so very much, but distant memory. “Well, time was. Now I’m alone in the world.” She ticked her gaze toward Buffy. “I’d gamble you know what that’s like.”
She stood, approached Buffy, who stiffened and went on the defensive.
“Don’t worry,” the woman said. “You hit me, I’d just about crack in half. But then . . .” She scrutinized the scythe, keeping a respectful distance. “You have been doing some killing lately. And you’re going to do a lot more. Not a wonder you’re so anxious.”
“So, who are you?” Buffy demanded impatiently. “Some kind of ghost?”
“Nope.” The woman smiled faintly. “I’m as real as you are. Just . . . well, put it this way. I look good for my age.” She said again, “I’ve been waiting.”
She held out her hand, and waited. Buffy felt compelled to hand her the scythe. The woman hefted it appreciatively, and examined it.
“You pulled it out of the rock. I was one of those who put it there, and don’t think that was easy.” She smiled more fully.
“What is it?” Buffy pushed.
“Weapon,” the woman replied, as is if it should be obvious. “A scythe. We forged it in secrecy, for one like you who . . .”
She stopped and smiled at Buffy, still holding the scythe. She looked like a Tarot card, wonderful and old and mystical.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “What’s your name?”
“Buffy.”
The woman insisted, “No, really.”
Buffy shrugged.
“Buffy.” The woman tested her name out on her tongue. Then she proceeded. “We kept it hidden from the Shadow Men, who—”
Buffy nodded sharply and lifted her chin. “Yeah. Met them. Didn’t care for ’em.”
The woman looked at Buffy with new respect, and handed the scythe back to her.
“Yes,” the woman said. “Then you know. And they became the Watchers, and the Watchers watched the Slayers.” She raised her brows and said proudly, “But we were watching them.”
“Oh!” Buffy blurted, surprised. “So you’re like . . . what are you?”
“Guardians,” the woman said. “Women who want to help and protect you. This . . .” She gestured to the scythe “. . . was forged, centuries ago, by us. Halfway around the world.”
Buffy glanced around. “Hence, the Luxor casino theme.”
“Forged there, it was put to use right here,” the woman continued. “Only once, to kill the last pure demon that walked upon the earth. The rest were already driven under.
“And then there were men here, and then there were monks. And the first men died and were sent away, and then there was a town.”
She looked at Buffy. “And now there is you. And the scythe remained hidden.”
Buffy took that in as best she could, although she was really only interested in the bottom line: “Does this mean I can win?”
The woman shrugged. “That’s really up to you. This . . .” she reached out, running a finger along the flat side of the scythe. “. . . is a powerful weapon.”
“Yes,” Buffy said.
“But you already have weapons,” the woman continued.
“Oh.” Not what Buffy was expecting to hear.
“Use it wisely,” the woman said, “and perhaps you can beat back the rising dark. One way or the other, it can only mean an end is truly near.”
Then, just as she finished speaking, two hands reached in from the darkness behind her, and with blinding speed, snapped her neck.
She fell to the ground, dead.
Caleb stepped forward, over the body. He said pleasantly, “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch that last part on account of her neck snapping and all. Did she say the end is ‘near’ or ‘here’?”
* * *
High desert, high moon, and Xander was fahrin’ fahrin’ auf der Autobahn . . .
. . . when Dawnie made moanie noises.
Xander said, “Dawn, you awake?”
She squinted around, took in their black surr
oundings, looked at him. “What the hell happened?”
“Um . . . thought you might say that.” He grimaced.
She grimaced back, angrily. “Actually, I meant to say, ‘what the hell happened?”
“It was chloroform.” He felt just sick about it.
“Color forms? What?”
“Chloroform. Are you still loopy?”
“Sorry about that,” she said, dry as toast. “Someone knocked me out with chloroform. Xander! Talk to me! Where are we going?”
“Away,” he said simply.
Then he handed her a sealed envelope.
She opened it.
Dearest Dawn,
Don’t be angry with Xander. He
did what I told him to do. This isn’t
the place for either of you right now.
Please know that I love you and that everything
I do is for you. I promised once to
show you this beautiful world, and I’m
gong to do everything I can to make that
ZZZZZZZZZot!
Xander went rigid behind the wheel and slumped.
Dawn put down her stun gun, which she had slipped from her weapons bag while reading Buffy’s note, and put her foot on the brake.
The note, she tossed into the back seat.
Then she pulled over, got out, dragged Xander over to her side of the car, walked around, slid in, hung a U, and went home.
* * *
As Buffy processed that Caleb was in the tomb with her, and that he had just killed the old Guardian, he grabbed the scythe and tried to yank it away from her, as simply as he had broken the woman’s neck.
Buffy recovered, shaking off her astonishment, and whacked him in the side of the head with the handle end, moved to the other side and whacked him again, and went for a third time, three-times-fast.
Reeling, he let go of the scythe, and Buffy leaped back.
He rushed her, punching a column so hard that it dusted like a vampire.
“You’re not slipping out of this fight, girl,” he said exultantly. “Don’t you see? You can’t stop me. I can just keep coming back for more.” He grinned. “Like being reborn.”
She lunged at him with scythe; he ducked. She pressed her advantage, swinging and thrusting. He dodged each parry with amused ease.
Then he smiled broadly and stood upright, presenting her with a target . . . and she swung hard at his neck; without looking, he shot a hand up and caught the blade in mid-swing, stopping it cold.
With the other hand, he punched Buffy so hard she went flying across the tomb and smacked the far wall, sending up dust as she fell to the ground . . . dropping the scythe.
They both raced for it . . . and Caleb got to it first.
But he couldn’t keep it—she kicked the scythe from his hand and caught it in the same motion. Then she spun, clipping him behind the knees with the weapon’s shaft and lifting him off his feet. He went crashing to the dusty floor.
Now, she thought, as she spun the scythe, stake-end first, and thrust it straight to Caleb’s throat.
He caught it an inch before his face, twisting the scythe hard, sideways, sending Buffy flipping over: it was her turn for a smackdown.
Caleb seized the moment and jumped to his feet; Buffy staggered to hers, and he punched her in the face. She staggered back, and Caleb began to pummel her like a punching bag, each blow nearly enough to take her head clean off.
It hurt; each blow took something out of her. Although she tried to defend herself with the scythe, she wasn’t making it.
“I gave you ample warning,” he reminded her. “I told you not to interfere. And you chose not to heed. But you know what?”
His last word was punctuated by a blow so hard that it hurled Buffy right through a stone column. Dust plumed everywhere, and she sank into it, began to sink into herself . . .
“I was kinda hoping it would go this way,” he finished, smirking.
Then, with a grand gesture, he arced the scythe up over her head, and—
“Hey,” said a male voice.
It as a voice Buffy knew.
A voice she loved.
And the owner of that voice rammed his fist into Caleb’s face and sent him spinning across the tomb. Dazed, he dropped the scythe, and it clattered to the ground.
Buffy squinted up. Not a dream.
Angel.
He loomed over her, hand held out. She took it, and he lifted her to her feet.
“I was never much for preachers,” he told her.
“Angel.” She could scarcely believe that he was here. But he was, and he had just saved her life.
“You look good,” he said to her.
“You look timely,” she said. “And also good.”
“Heard maybe you needed a hand.” He grinned.
Then Caleb got to his feet, and Angel moved in for the kill. But Buffy placed a restraining hand on Angel’s arm, and he glanced at her with an understanding expression.
This one of those things you just have to finish yourself?” he asked.
She nodded. “Really kind of is.”
Livid, Caleb advanced as Buffy plucked the scythe up and stood her ground; he rushed her, raining down a series of lightning-bolt blows on her.
She blocked each and every one of them with the shaft of the scythe.
Angel leaned up against a wall, enjoying the show.
“You’re so gonna lose,” Angel called to Caleb. “She does this thing where . . .”
She dodged Caleb with a blurry-fast move.
“Oooh, yeah.” Angel’s pleasure was almost sensual. “I’ve missed watching this.”
She swung the blade end of the scythe at her enemy; as before, he caught it again. But this time he shoved it back at her. She twisted out of the way, the stake end barely missing her as it imbedded in the wall behind her.
The Slayer pulled it free, then lowered it down, and in one brutal motion, ripped it straight up—gutting Caleb from below.
She retracted the blade, and Caleb fell to the floor, raising dust, looking very dead.
“See?” Buffy said to Angel. Then she took a step back, exhausted and unsteady. “Under control.”
She walked into him, and as he steadied her, said, “Well, at least tell me you’re glad to see me.”
As worn down as she could be, she gathered herself inside his embrace, hugging him, letting go of the scythe and putting both arms around him; they stood together for a long, quiet moment.
Then she pulled back, looking him in the eyes, and kissed him. Tenderly, at first, but then it built, a long kiss that spoke of years of yearning, and not having, and this solid moment laced with death . . .
And as they kissed, Spike watched from the shadows, stunned.
And a voice—Buffy’s own—said from behind him, “That bitch.”
Chapter Twenty-Two: “Chosen”
In the Egyptian tomb, more with the kissage as Angel and Buffy held each other; champions share passions others can only dream of, and their kiss could easily have moved a mountain . . . or sent the world straight to hell.
“Well,” Angel said, as finally, reluctantly, they ended the kiss, “I guess that qualified as ‘happy to see me.’ ”
Her eyes shone with the joy of his presence. “Angel, what are you doing . . . no. Don’t even. I just want to bask.
They looked at each other, warm and giddy. The smile was still on Buffy’s lip as she continued, “Okay. I’m basked. What are you doing here?”
He smiled back at her. “Not saving the damsel in distress, that’s for sure.”
“You know me,” she told him. “Not big with the damseling.”
He turned away, saying, “Got your share of distress, though.”
“And then some,” she agreed. “You heard.
Angel retrieved an accordion file from the corner. He wasn’t about to tell her that it was the same file dead Lilah had tempted him with to get him to accept the “gift” of the Wolfram & Hart operatio
n in Los Angeles—and that he had initially turned it down. Buffy’s fate he had thought to leave to her; he had bitten into the apple for Connor’s sake. Like a fairy tale prince, his son was going to be raised by good, kind strangers . . . only in this case, Connor would never remember that he had been born to vampire parents, that he had been raised in a hell dimension by a man so twisted he had committed suicide so that Connor would think Angel had killed him.
Connor had helped conceive Jasmine, who offered the world utopia . . . with strings. One of those strings being Connor’s complicity in the death of an innocent. . . .
None of this was what he said about his Sunnydale file.
Instead, partly to distract her, he said “I got coverage on the whole thing. Very gripping, needs a first act.”
She shook her head. “You have to leave L.A.”
He looked up from the file and said, “It’s The First. Right? The First Evil. The power that tried to convince me to kill myself.”
“Yeah.” She nodded. “It’s gotten a little more ambitious since then. It’s raising an army.”
Angel considered. “Well, it failed once, and I’m here to tell you that—”
Just then, something hit Angel in the back of the head so hard that he went soaring across the room. He landed in the dust face-first, slamming to a stop against a wall.
It was Caleb, eyes black, ebony blood dripping like tears from them, and from his nose and mouth.
“You ready to finish this, bitch?” His voice was otherworldly, coming from everywhere.
Then he rushed her, swinging at her. She blocked with the scythe. His movements were halting, but his strength was greater than ever.
She stumbled back.
“Okay,” she said sarcastically, “how many times do I have to kill you? Ballpark figure.”
“You understand nothing!” he cried in reverborama.
He came at her; they fought—lunge, parry, riposte—as he shouted at her, “You think you have power over me? I am everything. Everywhere!”
“Speech getting old,” she informed him
“Stupid girl!” He was a wild . . . entity as he came at her. “You’ll never stop me. You don’t have the b—”
As he was saying it, she arced the scythe back and swung it up right between his legs.