She was vaguely aware of Xander/Sarah showing a distinct lack of faith in her abilities by ducking, even though Buffy had planned on the knife missing him/her by a good half inch.
Indeed. The knife spun right on course and thrust deep in the Master’s Chest.
“That’s what I call a real steak knife!” said Buffy. “Game over.”
The Master looked down in abject horror at the knife protruding from his body, but he couldn’t bring himself to touch it. The sudden action broke the spell of the four chanters as they stopped in shock. The malevolent equilibrium dispersed and the gate between the here and the there began to disappear.
“You failed me!” he said to Rick/Danforth, the Master’s voice rising in pitch. “I should have known. You’re coming back with me! You’re all coming back with me!” He held out his hand and closed it in a fist as if grabbing the four internal essences from thin air.
Then he fell back through the gateway.
The bodies of Rick and Lora Church, Darryl MacGovern, and Eric Frank fainted, collapsing into heaps.
“It’s over,” said Xander/Sarah. “Now I can leave this realm secure in the knowledge that I have made up for the evil I helped cause three hundred years ago.”
“What about my friend Giles?” Buffy demanded. “Is he going to be okay?”
“His fever is already beginning of break, of that I am certain,” said Sarah. “Farewell.”
And Xander fainted too, adding his body to the heap made by the other four on the floor.
The “living rerun” part of the night of the living rerun was over.
We now return to our regularly scheduled program.
“Thank goodness,” said Buffy. “Now maybe I can get out of this stupid outfit.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
The rain ceased and the skies grew quiet. The wind still blew, but what came through the demolished steak house was warm and comfortable. After she had seen to it that everyone who hadn’t started the evening as a corpse was still, Buffy rushed to the ladies’ dressing room, which thankfully was still intact, pulled her clothes from the dryer, and changed. Then she returned to the kitchen and knelt beside Xander.
“Xander!” she hissed. When he didn’t respond, she slapped him once.
His eyes opened immediately and he sat up. “Hey! That hurt!”
“Sorry, I had to make sure you were Xander. Are you okay?”
“Apart from a hot flash here and there, I think I’m fine.”
“Phew!” exclaimed Darryl MacGovern as he rolled into a sitting position. “Where did all these dead bodies come from? They sure do stink!”
“What happened?” asked Eric Frank with a groan. His hair looked like he’d stuck his finger in an electric socket.
“How did we did get here?” asked Rick Church.
“Oh my gosh! I look a fright!” exclaimed Lora Church, checking herself out in the reflection of a napkin dispenser.
Buffy guided Xander to what remained of one of the walls.
“What do you remember?”
“Everything,” he said. “Up to a point. I still don’t know what happened to Sarah Dinsdale after Kane put the kibosh on the Master. I’m afraid we both know what happened to Kane, though.”
“But they don’t seem to remember anything,” said Buffy. “I guess when the Master yanked Mather and company from them, he took their memories, too.”
“The Master didn’t want anything to do with Sarah,” said Xander. “I know that. She went of her own accord. But where?”
“Phew!” said MacGovern behind them, as the wind shifted and a certain potent stench from outside wafted in like the aftermath of a stampede of skunks.
“What are they doing with those assault rifles?” asked Eric Frank, pointing at pieces of zombies. He and MacGovern looked each other in the eye. “I smell a story here.”
MacGovern, deep in thought, rubbed his chin. “You know, I think something paranormal happened here. I’d bet my reputation on it.”
“You have no reputation,” said Frank.
“Where’s your crew?” asked Lora. “Shouldn’t they be getting this on film?”
“Maybe they’re in the van!” said Frank. “Let’s find out!”
Let’s go, mouthed Buffy to Xander, pulling him out the back door by his shirtsleeve. Then, once they were outside, “I think Eric Frank is going to have a difficult time explaining things to his crew.”
“Really?” said Xander.
“Yeah, we’ll probably read in the papers about how Billy Bob’s was struck by a freak lightning storm,” said Buffy.
“How will people explain all the dead … bodies?” Xander asked.
Buffy shrugged. “Mad corpse disease?”
Buffy and Xander found Giles and Willow sitting on the couch in his office.
“You made it, Buffy,” said Giles, pleased, “but I hoped all along the prince’s prophecy was just an educated guess. I knew if anyone could untangle the complex web of fate, it would be you.”
“Now you tell us,” said Xander. “Oh, and thanks for being glad to see me.”
“Well, I am,” said Giles, not understanding the reason for Xander’s sarcasm. “It’s just that Willow and I were having a conversation about what you would call ‘stuff.’”
“You mean ‘things,’” said Buffy.
“Exactly. ‘Stuff.’”
Xander waved his hand above his head.
“Ah,” said Giles. “I’m talking over your head.” He grinned. “A momentous occasion. If the two of you must know, I was telling Willow of the flashes I had of Robert Erwin’s life before he died of that mystical fever. And we were wondering how much free will we really have—how free we are to make the choices that matter to us.”
“You’re always telling me I should forget about my private life and concentrate on my destiny and duty as Slayer,” said Buffy.
“It’s true that destiny has selected you,” said Giles, “yet I would hope in the coming years you will find more freedom of choice than even you could have imagined possible.”
“I’ll remember that the next time I have a hot date,” Buffy replied. “Or any date.”
“Willow, you’re awfully quiet,” Xander observed.
Willow was surprised to have everyone’s attention suddenly turn to her. “I was thinking. And wondering.”
“About?” prompted Xander.
“Well, it’s just that sometimes people choose their own destiny, you know, as in I’ve chosen to assist you two”—she pointed at Buffy and Giles—“in saving the world from various despicable creatures. But you two believe that destiny has more or less selected you.”
“Yes,” said Giles, nodding gravely.
“So what’s your point?” asked Xander.
“How do you really tell? What if you two have made some massive mistake and you’re not really the chosen Watcher and Slayer, and that I haven’t been fated to make the same mistake with you?”
“I think you’re reading too much into current events,” Buffy advised.
Willow pouted. “Maybe. I’ve felt like such a fifth wheel this whole time.”
The others immediately tried to buoy her confidence, pointing out how invaluable her assistance had been so many times in the past. If that wasn’t destiny, Xander asked, then what else could it be?
“Better a fifth wheel than someone walking around in your skin. Yeesh!” Xander shivered. “I’m glad she’s gone. Is my hair all right?”
After everyone had said good night and Willow walked home, her spirits plummeted again. This whole adventure confused her. It indicated bonds between the souls involved, but no love. To make matters worse, her soul, apparently, was not involved. And if there was anything Willow desired in this world, it was a bond between her and Xander even deeper, stronger than the one they now shared.
That, however, was not in the cards. Willow arrived home seriously bummed, a solitary person apparently for all time.
After staying up to watch a movie on the Romance Channel,
Willow fell asleep with tears in her eyes. To say she felt lonely and depressed would be like saying the night is dark, or outer space is big, or there are too may reruns on TV in the summer.
Even so, her sleep was deep, and it wasn’t long before she dreamed.
She dreamed of running through a heavily wooded forest—thicker, more teeming with life than any she’d ever seen—during a frightening thunderstorm of a strength almost as great as the storm that had struck Sunnydale while she’d been awake.
In this dream Willow felt older, heavier, and distressed. She experienced a heartsickness so intense it was almost crippling. And yet some dread she could barely fathom propelled her through the woods, through the storm, toward a mysterious distant light that arced over the trees like a dome.
Whenever she noticed her clothing, though, she got the funny feeling she was no longer a she. For she wore a man’s boots and a man’s pants. The sleeves of the man’s white cotton shirt were bloodied and tattered. Her breathing was labored, her every muscle ached, and her heart pounded at top speed.
A silent explosion, so odd its origin was surely evil, knocked Willow the man to the ground. When he got up, the storm had diminished and the distant glow was fading. By now the glow wasn’t so distant—only a few hundred yards away—but the man was stricken with spiritual agony. He had a hunger that would never be satisfied, a thirst that would never be quenched. He felt as if his life was over, though he was still young and strong.
Then he saw Sarah Dinsdale—also dirty and disheveled—running through the wood. He called out for her to wait, but she paid him no heed. He ran after her. He did not catch up to her until they had left the wood and were running down the beach, and even when he was able to touch her she did not stop.
So he tackled her. He landed on top of her and they struggled until he had both her hands in his grip and she was unable to fight back.
“Go on! Finish it!” she exclaimed. Do what the others could not do and kill me! Isn’t that what you always wanted?”
The man was so shocked he released her hands. “Absolutely not. Forgive me, but that was the last thing on my mind.”
Something in his expression must have changed Sarah’s mind about him, because she ceased to struggle and did not try to escape even though he was giving her plenty of opportunity.
“But you denounced me!” she said. “You denounced me before all of Salem.”
The man stood, bowed his head in shame, and turned away from her. “It is true. I denounced you because I hated you. Rather, I thought I hated you. I did not know my own mind.”
“A common enough affliction among men,” said Sarah, “but presumably you know your mind today.”
“Indeed I do. As I know my heart.” He turned back toward her, and she read something in his eyes that changed her expression to one of awe, and of a fear more tender and vulnerable than any he had ever before witnessed. “I love you, Sarah Dinsdale. I ask for more than your forgiveness. I ask for your heart. I ask for you to be my life partner.”
“I wish I could believe you, but I am a witch. That I admit freely.”
“Granted, but I have learned that not all witches are evil, just as all preachers, I am loath to admit, are not as good as they might imagine.”
She smiled and touched his cheek with her warm fingers. “Do not be dismayed to learn there is a bit of the devil in you. There is a bit of the devil in us all.”
“I love you, Sarah. Come away with me. Let us leave this colony and go to Philadelphia. There we can change our names and no one will know of how you were wronged in Salem and of how I was the man who wronged you.”
“You say that, knowing I cast a spell on you to make you love me?”
The man shrugged. “It made no difference. I would have come to love you in time, spell or no spell. So what is your answer? Will you come away with me? Will you marry me?”
“When you put it that way, how could I say anything but yes, John Goodman?”
And Sarah/Xander kissed John/Willow. The two souls had made their connection, and forged their future together.
Willow Rosenberg smiled. She would sleep soundly tonight.
PORTAL THROUGH TIME
TO NORMA, FEARLESS HISTORY TEACHER, MY STALWART COMPANION, MY MOTHER, FOR YOUR SUPPORT AND BELIEF IN ME. YOU GAVE ME MY LOVE OF HISTORY, WHICH SHINES THROUGH IN THIS BOOK.
Hearty thanks to Cara Bedick for all her editing work; to Elizabeth Bracken for her assistance in the early stages; to Debbie Olshan at Fox; to all the other writers, cast, and crew who have brought Buffy to life on the page and screen; to Jason, for his endless encouragement, belief, and support; and to Norma and our rainy visit to the Shiloh battlefield.
CHAPTER ONE
Los Angeles, 1995
Buffy Summers did not know she was about to die. She entered the gym for cheerleader tryouts, excited to show off the new move she’d perfected. For some reason, she was much better at acrobatic moves than the other girls. It just came naturally to her. And now, during her freshman year at Hemery High, she was trying out for the high school cheerleading team.
With a toss of her blond hair, she entered the gym, confident of placing on the team. She’d bowl them over, do her flips, and then go home and binge on pizza with her parents. When she came to school the next day, the tryout results would be posted.
The doors shut behind her as she entered the gym.
• • •
Ten feet away, two vampires crouched in the shrubbery outside the Hemery High gym. Gold and pink still glowed in the west of the newly darkened sky. They talked in whispers, orchestrating their attack.
The gym doors opened suddenly with a bang, and a stream of girls appeared, pom-poms in hand, tossing ponytails, talking in excited voices. The last one out was Buffy, walking a little slower, a small frown on her face. They knew she’d tried out for the team but didn’t think she’d done very well. It was a low moment, a vulnerable moment, and though she was not yet an active Slayer, the vampires hesitated before attacking. They both knew her as the fearsome warrior they’d fought in 1997 during the Master’s ascension. Victor, who’d been around since the Crusades, had barely escaped when the Slayer’s attention focused on killing Luke at the Bronze. He’d slipped out the back door into the alley. Jason, much younger, was no less terrified when he’d glimpsed the end of his three-hundred-year life as Buffy fought her way through the horde of vampires gathered at the Bronze that night. Somehow, miraculously, he’d been shoved aside by another vamp, and Buffy had staked her instead.
But that was the future they’d left behind. When they returned later that night, everything would be different. If all went well, they’d kill Buffy, and the Master would reign supreme on the surface, rising to ever more power with each passing moon. Victor grinned at the thought of that glorious possible future. But the current reality was far more dire than that. The Master was dead, and Buffy triumphant. And so they’d crossed time itself, mouths eager to taste the blood of a potential Slayer. The Master would live, and the earth would tremble. The Hellmouth, writhing and alive, spitting out demons to swarm over the earth, would gape open, emitting darkness and chaos and things that fed voraciously on human life.
Victor leaned forward from his crouch behind the bushes, chancing a look at Buffy. She loitered by the stairs, still looking sad, and slowly made her way to the sidewalk. As soon as she turned her back, Victor would strike. He licked his lips, the anticipation of tasting a potential Slayer’s blood making his stomach nearly sing with savage delight. He signaled for Jason to follow him, and they started down the sidewalk behind Buffy. Victor fought the rising fear back down into his chest. This was not the Slayer. Not yet. She was an ordinary human that he would destroy.
He and Jason had one simple assignment: Stab her. Slit her throat. Be sure she was dead. Then return to 1998, triumphant.
Victor slunk forward, still at a crouch, moving silently. Jason followed close behind, drawing his knife slowly from its sheath above his boot.
Victor reached inside his jacket, felt the reassuring weight of his throwing knife in its holster. Buffy made her way down the street, unaware of their presence. They crept from bush to bush, taking refuge in the shadows of trees and hiding behind parked cars on the road.
Now Buffy walked only ten feet before them. Victor slid his throwing knife out of the holster and rose to his full height. Taking careful aim between her shoulders, he flung the blade with a powerful movement of his wrist. Expertly it sailed to its target, and Buffy Summers cried out in surprise and pain as it sank into her back. She stumbled, pitched forward, went off balance, and landed with a painful smack on the concrete.
Quickly Jason closed in, stepping over her prone body and grabbing a fistful of blond hair to lift her head. He moved his knife low, readying to draw it across her throat. Buffy spun suddenly, rolling over, then cried out in agony as the blade in her back twisted against the sidewalk, tearing her flesh as she landed on it. Her eyes teared in pain but still she fought, kicking at Jason.
Victor’s feet turned to lead. There was some mistake. She was already the Slayer. She had to be. She kicked Jason in the groin and he sprawled to one side.
But no. That couldn’t be right. It was 1995, and he knew that she would not be activated until 1996. He remembered Lucien warning him that she might still be strong, still quick on her feet. But she was not yet the Slayer.
Victor closed in, tripping Buffy as she rose to her feet. She crashed back down, and he wrenched the knife out of Jason’s hand. Trembling, he lowered the knife to her throat, praying she wouldn’t spring up suddenly, produce a stake, and drive it through his heart, turning him to dust. But she didn’t. The pain in her back looked unbearable, and he could clearly hear from her labored breathing that he’d punctured a lung. She wheezed and coughed, striking him with her fists in his face and neck. He braced for the blows and moved in closer.
He thrust the blade into her neck and dragged it across her throat, slicing a deep wound that instantly welled and overflowed with sticky blood. He studied her face as she glared back at him with eyes full of hatred and anger. Buffy struggled and punched him as she suffocated. Then she managed to throw him off and get up, staggering down the street with her hands clenched tightly over the gash in her throat.
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