Where Buffy stood, the runoff was quickly heating.
It’s the Wanderer of Fire, all right, she thought anxiously. So it can’t kill me, right?
She began to swing the axe at it. It didn’t hesitate, just kept coming for her. She half-swam, half-ran through the water, making huge arcs. It kept coming, hands outstretched, just as Xander had said—Boris Karloff.
Then she leaped forward and brought it up over her head, then down, and sliced it down the center of its face.
Flames gouted out of the wound, spraying her; she ducked under the water before any significant damage was done. Looking up through the murky, rushing water, she saw blurs of gray and orange; when she breached the surface, she realized it had frozen in place, burning.
Hands around the axe, she doubled her fists, locked them together, and rammed the axe blade into the wound once more. Flames geysered out, peppering the water. Buffy backtracked as fast as she could, bashing into Xander, and grabbed him around the waist.
She hit shallow water and flung him toward the bank.
“Sit. Stay,” she ordered him.
Xander taken care of, Buffy sloshed over to Faith, as the mummy blazed above the surface of the water.
“Buffy, I think I’m dying,” she muttered. “The mummy touched me and something’s inside me now. Something that’s hot and burning and making it really hard to breathe.”
Buffy didn’t know what to make of it, but it sounded like what had happened to Xander. She grabbed hold of the plank and gently pushed Faith to the side of the road. Xander reached down to give Faith an assist. Xander’s dark hair hung in his eyes, and his brows were glistening with water droplets. As he cleared himself a viewing space through his bangs, Xander looked at Buffy and said, “My mom’s on shore. She’s okay.”
“Does she need a doctor?” Buffy asked, quickening her rescue mission as together, she and Xander eased Faith to dry land.
“I don’t know. I gave her C.P.R. When I gave you C.P.R., you didn’t go to the hospital afterward, but you’re the Slayer. My mom heals slowly. Always has.”
Xander ran his hand through his hair. “And, speaking of healing, may I say ouch. And possibly, ouch again.”
Showing his teeth in a grimace belying much pain, Xander gestured to his burned arm, which was really looking bad. Very cooked, with long strips of skin peeling off and at least a dozen blisters rising.
“Which is an indirect way of saying,” he concluded, “that I could use some medical help, too.”
“And a meat thermometer,” Faith said, making a face. “What’d you do, try to broil yourself for lunch?”
Faith had curled back up in a fetal position, clutching her stomach. She added, “That looks extremely painful. Not to mention gross.”
Buffy gazed at him. “That’s two people you’ve saved with your mighty breath. Maybe you should consider a career in medicine.”
“Or blowing up balloons and making ’em into funny toy animals. Like poodles,” Faith zinged. Buffy was impressed that the dark-haired Slayer could make with the funny when she was in such terrible pain.
She looked back at the rushing water.
The mummy was gone.
“We’d better get the heck out of here,” she said. “Who knows where that thing went?”
Faith nodded.
Ahead, Xander’s mother was slowly getting to her feet. Xander race-walked over to her. Buffy watched her put her arms around her son and was glad for Xander. She often got the feeling that Xander’s parents didn’t put much thought into the day-to-day existence of their lives as parents. Xander never complained, but Buffy felt that he and Willow were both ignored by their respective families.
“Can you walk, Faith?” Buffy asked.
Faith moaned under her breath. “Buffy, I’m so messed up inside. My guts are on fire.” She gasped.
“We’ll get help,” Buffy promised.
But help is not on the way, Buffy thought, as yet another vehicle passed them.
“I can’t understand it,” Xander’s mother said. “Can’t they see we’re in trouble?”
“Everybody’s scared, Mom,” Xander told her, hunched over and hurting. He was sitting on the curb. “Things haven’t exactly been normal around here. Or what passes for normal in our fair town.”
“I know.”
Behind and to the left of Xander, Faith groaned. She was lying on the grass divider between the sidewalk and the curb, all curled up, and her color was not good. It was the gray of recycled cardboard.
“Is she okay?” his mom said under her breath, too loud, the way she did when they were at the mall and somebody really hot walked past. She’d roll her eyes and whisper at the top of her lungs, “That girl dresses like a hooker!”
“No, Mom, she’s really not okay,” Xander replied.
“Oh, dear.”
“Yeah.”
At a loss, Xander silently surveyed the ruins of Sunnydale. What surprised him most about the aftermath was the amount of trash. Trash that was now burning, in fact. There were huge piles of fiery paper and battered, smoking cardboard boxes and dozens of reeking pieces of plastic and melting glass.
Flashfire tumbleweeds and rust, everywhere he looked.
His mother murmured, “All this freakish weather. It’s such a mystery.”
“Yup. That crazy weather,” Xander bit off. He was angry with his mother for not noticing all the other stuff that went on in Sunnydale—eviscerated animals, missing children, the number of fatalities at his school.
Highest in the nation.
But her life was narrow, and unfocused, and despite the fact that Xander’s view of the world had been broadened not by travel but by his secret life as Robin to Buffy’s Batman, he resented her lack of interest in the bigger picture.
Truth be told, her eggshell imagination frightened him. He didn’t want to end up like her. The only time she read anything was when she went to the doctor’s or stood in line at the grocery store. So much of life seemed to be about conforming and fitting in; how did you find a way to be different from your parents?
“I need to talk to you about something,” his mother said. “Maybe after we get your burns treated.”
Xander smiled grimly. If I don’t die waiting for a ride first.
“Tell me now, Mom. What is it?”
She took a breath and plunged in. “Kevin’s mother phoned, just before everything went kerplooey.”
“Yay.” Those were the rich relatives, the ones who shunned Xander’s branch of the Harrises.
As well they should.
“Your cousin’s very sick.”
That didn’t register. Nothing ever happened to the golden boy of the San Francisco Harrises. Unless you counted totaling a classic Mustang Xander would have sold his soul for.
Or at least possibly rented my soul out, with a limited number of centuries. “Yeah, and?” he asked, his mind now wandering over to the topic of cars he’d like to own. At the moment, any car would do, but if he could have anything he wanted . . . maybe a classic red-and-white Studebaker Hawk.
“. . . match you as a bone marrow donor,” his mother said.
Xander swung his head back around to look at her. “Excuse me?”
His mother huffed. “His parents had that tropical fever or whatever . . . .”
“Mom, it’s called hepatitis. They got it from that restaurant they sued.”
“Right.” She nodded vigorously. “So they can’t donate. And your father has the high blood pressure. They want to see if you can be his donor.”
Xander was astonished. “They need something from us?”
Her lopsided grin spoke volumes. He knew she was pretty tired of all the in-your-face wealthy-people snobbery of the upstate, upscale Harrises of San Fran. Better yet, mention Dad’s brother in front of him and the big guy let out a belch and asked you to pass the corn nuts in that wacky I-fix-cars-for-people-like-my-brother way of his.
“They’ll pay for your airplane ticket and you??
?ll stay at their house.” She looked excited.
“And they’ll owe us big time,” Xander observed.
“Well, I don’t like to think about it that way.” His mother’s eyes gleamed. “But yes, they will.”
“May I say again, yay.”
His mom touched his arm. “Honey, he might die without new marrow.”
A car approached. Buffy reached out her arm and waved, and the sucker screeched onward.
“Jerk,” Xander’s mom said. She ran her hand through her hair. “I wish I had some gum.”
“I wish I had some skin.” He looked down at his arm. “I’ll bet I get some scars out of this one. They won’t look good with my swim team gig.”
“Oh, are they going to lift the ban?” she asked.
He was pleased that she even knew about the ban. He hadn’t realized she paid attention to anything that had to do with him and high school. Or him and anything. “Possibly. Snyder wants the teams back.”
Another car sailed on past. Xander watched Buffy’s temper wind up for the pitch.
“Your dad likes Principal Snyder,” she said. “He’s got a firm hand.”
“Not, however, a firm grasp on reality,” Xander muttered.
She cocked her head. “What?”
“Nothing.” He was really hurting, and it was getting harder to talk. If they didn’t get a ride soon, it was going to get harder to live.
“Not that many cars come by here,” his mom said.
“Nope.” He grimaced. “Mom, do you have any aspirin or anything?”
She shook her head. “My purse is in the car.” Her hair hung around her face and she looked doughy and confused. “Your father is going to be so angry about the car.”
“Insurance money,” Xander said.
“We haven’t paid it off yet.”
“Jeez, Mom, it’s like, fourteen years old.”
“We spread the payments out.” She scanned the horizon. “I don’t think things like this happen in San Francisco.”
* * *
Plan A was not working.
Buffy said loudly, “Screw this,” and stepped into the middle of the road. She made sure the axe, which she’d taken from the mummy, was wedged securely inside the back of her pants. No sense freaking out a potential free ride by looking like an urban legend axe-murderer.
The oncoming truck blew its air horn and kept racing toward her. Through the windshield, Buffy saw the driver. It was Christopher Bothwell, and a hot-looking woman was next to him.
“Wow. This is amazingly cool,” Buffy said.
The truck rolled to a stop and Bothwell got out. He smiled and said, “Well, I’ll be.”
She looked around. “Where’s Giles?”
“Would you believe it? His car broke down,” Bothwell told her. “He told me to go on ahead, and I hitched a ride.”
She frowned. “Then why are you driving?”
Then the beautiful woman climbed out. She opened her hands slowly. A large sphere of energy glowed between her hands. Bothwell walked over to Faith and yanked her to her feet.
The woman said, “We’re going to the summit. Get in, or we’ll kill that boy and his mother.”
“You’re Cecile,” Buffy guessed.
The woman only smiled.
I have the axe, Buffy thought. I can fight.
The woman’s smile faded. “Get in.”
“Are we going to the summit?” Buffy asked.
The woman nodded. Faith groaned and said, “B., we should do it.”
Cecile looked at Faith. “We have to find that axe before she dies,” she said to Bothwell. “If she doesn’t die by the axe, the Gatherer won’t be able to absorb her.”
Buffy started sweating. She resisted all temptations toward heroics and meekly climbed into the truck. Faith and Xander did likewise, injured as they were.
Mrs. Harris was left by the side of the road, screaming and stomping her foot.
“You go, Mom,” Xander said hoarsely. He gave Buffy a half-smile. “Wish I could start screaming, too.”
The Book of One
Prologue
San Diego, 1996
They were walking along the beach, Kit and India, and he was staring up at the stars. When he realized she was looking at him, he smiled shyly and said, “Some people believe the stars are the souls of fallen warriors.”
The Slayer asked him if he believed that, and he nodded and said, “Yes, I do. Have you heard of Lord Dunsany? He wrote a marvelous poem. It begins, ‘She like a comet seemed . . .’ ” Then he trailed off, looking uncomfortable.
He loves me, she thought. He doesn’t want me to know, but he does. Oh Kit, Kit, if I do die, wish on my star, and I will make your wish come true. I will do anything for you. Give my life, my soul . . . yes, even my soul.
Chapter One
They reached the summit.
When Christopher Bothwell opened the back of the truck and told them to get out, Buffy saw that the others were already there. In the howling wind and rain, the stormy seas and the spurting fires, Willow and Cordelia stood waiting. They looked unnaturally calm, astonishingly focused.
They looked like Slayers.
“Join them,” Bothwell said, pushing Faith brutally out of the back of the truck. The rogue Watcher left Xander there, and Buffy was content to let her friend remain off the radar in his condition.
Faith groaned and limped forward, rolling her eyes as if to say, Pain’s a bitch, ain’t it, B?
Angel. Buffy looked for him, but didn’t see him. Had he gotten the axe? Oh, God, don’t let him be hurt. Don’t let him be dead.
Cecile said to Bothwell, “The Gatherer’s body is in a safe place. But it won’t need that oozy mess much longer.”
They smiled at one another, radiating victory.
“You don’t have to do this,” Buffy said to Bothwell. “You’re under her thrall. You don’t have to.”
“He does,” Cecile said. “And speaking of alternatives . . .”
She made a ball of energy between her hands. It spun and glowed, and then something hard and solid appeared within it. It was the head of a dark-skinned man who looked very much like Cecile.
Leaving its owner’s body had pretty much ended its life.
“Simon, thank you,” she said. “I’m sorry, but the position of Fourth Servant has been filled.” She clapped her hands, and the head disappeared.
Christopher Bothwell laughed and kissed her. “You had a list,” he said.
She smiled. “I have worked for centuries to produce the proper Fourth Servant,” she said.
“I’m honored.”
Cecile smiled first at him, and then at the sky. She closed her eyes. “I can feel the Gatherer,” she shouted. She reached up her arms. “I can embrace my god!”
“O-kay,” Buffy muttered.
Then Giles pulled up, with Angel and Oz. Xander slowly tumbled out of the back of the truck to join his friends.
“Four friends,” Cecile said brightly, pointing to them. “Four Slayers.”
“And Four Wanderers,” Kit said.
The mummies coalesced from the Elements around them, the four swathed creatures from the dreams of Buffy and Faith—and Willow’s. One was dripping wet; one burned. The Wanderer of the Earth was covered with mud. And the bandages on Buffy’s Wanderer flapped in the wild wind.
Then Cordelia gasped and said, “I saw this. In my slumbers.”
So Kendra had dreamed on the Ghost Roads.
That was encouraging, Buffy thought, to someone hoping for an afterlife.
The sky darkened and more lightning jittered across the thunderheads, reminding Buffy of fingernails against a chalkboard.
Buffy and the others stayed lined up. They stood firm.
The Wanderers advanced on the four Slayers.
The world went into overdrive. If there had been a storm before, it was like nothing now.
The Four stood together.
The Wanderers drew near.
Out of the cor
ner of her eye, Buffy saw Angel. He nodded at her, patted his jacket.
Yay, Buffy thought. He’s got my axe. The axe of Air.
That was when Kit Bothwell fell to his knees.
And that was when Cecile Lafitte ran to the truck and flung open what Buffy now realized was a false bottom. A hinged lid swung down, and Cecile plunged her arms into the box, shrieking with agony and triumph.
“My king!” she cried. “It is I, your Servant!”
Kit Bothwell raised his head and stared at her. “What are you doing? I’m the Servant!”
“You fool,” she sneered as she stumbled back toward the others. Her arms were coated with ooze. “Do you think I would allow you, a mere man, to serve my god? I am now the Fourth Servant! All has been accomplished, and I am my master’s body on this earth.” She whirled with the wind. “And when he eats these Slayers, then he shall be transformed!” She pointed to the sky, and enormous streams of energy emanated from her body, shooting into the sky and puncturing the clouds with magickal brilliance. “He comes!”
Christopher Bothwell kneeled and began to chant. Then the air around him shifted.
Cecile laughed and said, “He is taking you. He will engulf your rotten soul.”
He continued to kneel. She pointed at him, shaking. “Stop your magickal babbling. It won’t save you. You wanted her. Part of you knew what I was, and what I was doing. And you thought I would let you have India, if you helped me.”
“No, Kit! My love!” Willow shouted, breaking ranks. “Take me instead! Take my soul!”
She sailed over the cliff as Buffy screamed; and then the sky burst with the light of a thousand stars, a hundred thousand: All the souls the Gatherer had consumed; the spirit-matter of innocents, and wicked men, and Slayers, whose deaths had been hideous.
And now, it had back India Cohen.
The brilliance blinded Buffy, and then it exploded. Clouds, or smoke, or gases formed a face that was alien, repellent. Miles wide, it stretched across the sky. Stars exploded inside its features like fireworks.
“I walk,” it thundered.