Chosen

by Nancy Holder

  “You’re . . . her,” he said slowly.

  “The Slayer,” she affirmed.

  He was mesmerized. “At long last,” he said, then put his hand out to touch her face. It slid through the image, and as he pulled it away, he said, “All the work I done for you, blowing up the Council, organizing the Ray Charles Brigade, and stickin’ all those splits . . . you never showed me.”

  “Well, you’ve earned it,” she told him silkily. “And you’ll be meeting her soon. Am I right?”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said, savoring the thought. “She’ll get the message.”

  “And what makes you so sure she’ll come?” she asked him.

  “Curiosity,” Caleb replied. “Woman’s first sin. I offered her an apple. What can she do but take it?”

  The First smiled, and Caleb raised his glass.

  He said to her, “See you soon.”

  And he drained it down.

  * * *

  The Storyteller was back, and he was telling of the legend that was . . .

  ANDREW (VOICE OVER)

  Faith.

  And there she is, so ravishing and dangerous, a cool, dangerous beauty like in James Bond.

  Faith tough. Faith dangerous, Faith sooooo seductive.

  ANDREW (CONT’D; V.O.)

  Her name alone invokes awe. “Faith.”

  A set of principals or beliefs.

  Faith dancing in the Bronze with her hands above her head, reveling in the power of her womanhood!

  ANDREW (CONT’D; V.O.)

  Upon which you’re willing to devote your life.

  Faith fighting various demons, kicking much ass!

  ANDREW (cont’d; V.O.)

  The Dark Slayer. A lethal

  combination of beauty, power, and

  death. For years and years—or to

  be more accurate, months—Faith

  fought on the side of good.”

  And then, hidden tiger, crouching . . . Slayer!

  She is taking out five ninjas in a deserted alley!

  They are wearing those kung-fu-style pajamas and

  she is every inch a Bai Ling or a Michelle Yeoh!

  ANDREW (CONT’D; V.O.)

  Terrorizing even the most silent and deadly members of the evil community.

  The deadly ninjas attack at once. Like a flying dragonness, Faith leaps into the air!

  Faith leaped into the air and took all five of them out with a flashy and glamorous circle kick. She landed in a crouch among her vanquished enemies. The she rose—the no-longer-crouching Slayer!—and arched her back.

  Ooooh.

  ANDREW (cont’d; V.O.)

  But, like so many tragic heroes,

  Faith was seduced by the lure of the

  Dark Side.

  Then see her being very bad—shooting a bow and arrow, burgling!, punching people, holding a knife to Willow’s throat . . . and jumping up and down on the bed!

  ANDREW (CONT’D; V.O.)

  She wrapped evil around her like a

  large, evil poncho. She became a

  cold-blooded killer.

  SHOT OF FAITH STABBING THE MAYOR’S ASSISTANT, THEN BATTLING THE SLAYER OF THE LIGHT . . . BUFFY.

  ANDREW (CONT’D; V.O.)

  Nobody was immune to her trail of

  destruction. Not friends,

  not family.

  THEN WE SEE FAITH BATTLING A VULCAN (CLASSIC-TREK VERSION.)

  ANDREW (CONT’D; V.O.)

  Not even the most pacifist and

  logical of races . . .

  Blow for blow, and then the Vulcan went for the Death Grip. She caught his arm, twisted it behind his back, and with her other hand held up her knife, about to strike down and stab him in the stomach.

  * * *

  As Andrew held Rona en tableau, in the exact same pose, and also in the kitchen, Amanda said, “What the hell are you talking about? I thought Faith killed a vulcanologist.”

  Andrew shook his head patiently. “Silly, silly Amanda. Why would Faith kill a person who studies Vulcans?”

  There were nearly a dozen Potentials listening to his story, including Chao-Ahn, who probably didn’t understand a word—okay, for sure didn’t understand a word—and who all looked a little bewildered.

  “He studied volcanoes,” Amanda barked at him. “He was a professor.”

  “Ah.” Andrew felt . . . awkward. “Well, regardless.”

  Molly squinted at him. “I thought you weren’t supposed to be doing this anymore. Making up these stories.”

  “I’m not,” Andrew insisted. “This is true, except for that . . . possible word misunderstanding.” He leaned forward. “And there are some things you need to know.”

  He turned and looked out the window, where Faith was working out. Getting sweaty.

  “Faith has a history that is not to be taken lightly.” He turned back to the group. “She’s a killer. Never forget that. You must stay on guard around Faith at all times. Your very lives may depend on it.”

  * * *

  Robin was at his desk, still banged up from his encounter with Spike. When Buffy knocked on the door and poked her head in, she looked as uneasy as he felt.

  She said to him, “You look better.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  She smiled weakly. “No, you don’t.”

  “But I’ll be okay,” he added, “unless, of course you start beating on me now.”

  “I won’t,” she promised. “I thought about it some, drew a couple little doodles, but, look, as far as I’m concerned, we’re on even ground.” She gave him a nod. “I mean what I said before—I don’t have time for your vendettas—but I need you in this fight. I want you on my side.”

  “Thank you,” he said sincerely. “That means a lot.”

  “So we’re good,” she concluded.

  “Absolutely,” he agreed. Then he said, “You’re fired.”

  She smiled. “That makes me feel so much . . . what?”

  “Effective immediately.” He looked straight at her.

  “You’re firing me?” She couldn’t believe it. “I just refrained from kicking your ass!”

  He gestured. “Buffy, there’s nothing here for you. People are leaving town, half the kids don’t even bother to show up anymore. . . . You’ve got things to deal with that are worse than anything here. Look at the big picture.”

  She blinked at him and said, “Right, the picture of the big war with all the dead little girls.”

  “Not dead,” he argued. “Not if you get them ready.”

  She sat down slowly, absorbing the reality. He was right; it was ridiculous to be worrying about anything besides preparations for the apocalypse.

  “I don’t want to lead them into a war, Robin,” she murmured. “War can’t be the right thing.”

  “Most wars aren’t. They aren’t right and they aren’t necessary, and humans kill one another,” he told her. “This isn’t that war.

  “The only question about this one is, are you going to be ready for it?”

  “I don’t know,” Buffy admitted honestly. She was afraid to even think about it, much less talk about it. “These girls . . . they haven’t been tested in battle.”

  He regarded her. “Then I guess . . . maybe you should test them?”

  Buffy thought about that.

  “Couldn’t I just come to work part-time?” she asked, pretending it was a real question. “I could make flyers for encounter groups and post them around the school. Kids could bring snacks—”

  “And you’re fired again,” he said. “Remember Buffy . . .” His voice took on a note of bitterness . . . “It’s the mission that matters.”

  He was right.

  * * *

  Faith had had enough togetherness. It reminded her of prison.

  So she took the stairs down to the basement for some quiet time and a smoke.

  She sat on the last step and light herself a cigarette.

  From the dark, a voice said, “You craving a moment
alone in the dank, or can I bum one?”

  Faith turned to see Spike on his cot in a corner. He was just sitting up from having been asleep, had off his shirt, hair a little tousled. He was not chained up, but his restraints were dangling from the wall.

  Faith got up and moved toward him, extending the pack.

  “Guess you can smoke all you want,” she said. “The ‘big C’ not really an issue.”

  “Teeth get yellow,” Spike said, “over an eternity. You gotta watch that.”

  “Huh,” Faith said.

  Spike followed her line of sight as he took a cig. She was looking at the chains over his bed.

  “Right,” he said. “Not what it looks like.”

  “Hey, to each his own,” she said, shrugging. “This one guy I ran with? He liked me to dress up like a school girl and take this friggin’ bull whip and— “

  “I got dangerous for a while,” he cut in.

  “This before the soul or after?” Faith asked.

  “After.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “But I’m over her.” Slid her a glance and said, “In case you get feeling dust-happy again after your long incarceration.”

  “Not if you’re all repent-y,” she said. “Takes the fun out of it.”

  They smoked, but they had not become smoking buddies. Still, they contemplated each other.

  Upstairs, the girls were shrieking and laughing.

  “No more Starbucks for the wannabes, man.” She rolled her eyes. “They’ve been spazzing for, like, hours.”

  “Yeah.” He nodded. “Gets a bit much up there.”

  “They’re good girls. Green, is all.”

  He cocked his head. “So how come you’re not up there imparting?”

  “That’s Buffy’s thing,” she replied. “Anyway, I just spent a good stretch of time locked away with a mess of female types. Kind of had my fill.”

  “But you waited until Angel needed you to break out of jail,” he ventured.

  She shrugged. “Three squares, night weight room, and a movie every Sunday., It could have been worse.”

  He was thoughtful. “What movie?”

  “Last one was Glitter.” She gave him a weary smile. “Guess it couldn’t have been worse.”

  “You had the power to walk away anytime. Nothing to stop you,” he said softly.

  “I stopped me.” A beat. She tried to keep the haunted feeling out of her eyes. “I got dangerous for a while.’

  And then . . . a connection. Their eyes met.

  “You over it?” he asked her.

  “More or less,” she replied. “I pull for the good guys now.”

  “What’s the ‘less’?” Spike asked.

  “Usual stuff.”

  He prodded. “Such as?”

  She indicated the chain, said, “I was thinking about looking up the guy with the bull whip.” Shifted. “Long incarceration.”

  Spike smiled. “You could do better. School girl thing is old hat.”

  “It’s all old hat, man. Every guy has some whack fantasy. Scratch the surface of even the most crunchy granola dude? Naughty nurses and horny cheerleaders. I figure, you can’t beat ’em . . .”

  “Join ’em,” Spike finished for her.

  “Just don’t forget who’s on top,” she zinged right back.

  “I suspect that would be you,” he said dryly.

  “Got that right.” She preened a little.

  Thing’s getting warm now, so to speak . . . and then she sat down on the end of Spike’s cot, looking at him.

  “I met you before,” she told him.

  “Yeah, you made quite an impression on my chin.” He grinned at her.

  “Not in the graveyard. Before that,” she said. Then, “I was kinda wearing a different body.”

  His grin was a bit lascivious as he gave her an appreciative once-over. “Pity.”

  “You seemed okay with it,” she said, teasing him.

  He got it. “The body swap. With Buffy.”

  “She fill you in on that whole deal?”

  “Told me it went down,” he told her. “Failed to mention who was driving her skin around.”

  “I may have said a few things,” she said.

  “Like you could ride me at a gallop until my legs buckled, squeeze me till I popped like warm champagne?” He raised a lazy brow. “Not the sort of thing a man forgets.”

  “You should have known it wasn’t blondy behind the wheel,” she crowed. “She’d never throw down like that.”

  “You have been away,” Spike said.

  She was amazed. “Don’t tell me miss tightly wound is getting her naughty on.”

  “Not of late,” he replied.

  She gave her head a little shake. “Wow, everybody’s full of surprises.”

  The vibe was getting more intimate . . . until they heard a noise on the stair. And of course, it was Buffy, come to spoil the moment . . . and all one hundred thousand and twenty-eight moments to come after it.

  “Hey, B,” Faith said cozily.

  “Nice to see you two getting on so well.” Oooh, she was pissed.

  “Yeah,” Faith said. “You know all the cool vampires.”

  “Yeah,” Buffy bit off.

  Spike looked at Buffy. “Aren’t you usually at work about now?”

  “Right,” she said awkwardly. “I kinda am. I decided to cut back my hours.”

  Then Dawn called down, “Buffy? Is that you?”

  “I’m down here,” she called to her sister. Then, to Spike, “Figure I’m better off focusing on what’s going on around here.”

  * * *

  Dawn appeared at the head of the stairs. Her face was filled with anxiety.

  “Buffy, Willow just called form the hospital. The girl’s awake.”

  * * *

  The girl was named Shannon, and she was a Potential, as they had suspected. She was barely alive, hooked up and still bloody through her bandages. As she told Buffy and Willow her story, Buffy got more freaked out, listened harder.

  “He was a minister or something,” Shannon told her. “At least, he dressed like one. I thought he was trying to ‘save’ me. At first.”

  Buffy frowned. “He picked you up on the side of the road?”

  She nodded and croaked, “The Bringers were chasing me.” She thought a moment, then added, “He said they were ‘his boys.’ Right before he burned me.”

  As she pulled back the bandage on her neck, she revealed the burn mark the guy—Caleb—had left there. Buffy gestured to Willow’s purse; Willow pulled out a small digital camera and took a shot of the injury.

  “He wanted me to tell you something before . . . before he cut me,” she said in a tiny voice. “He told me to give the Slayer a message.”

  Buffy was barely able to control her anger at the horror the girl had faced. “What is it?”

  She looked at Buffy, cold and hollow.

  “He said, ‘I have something of yours.’ ”

  * * *

  Full house, oh, was it: There were an even dozen, counting Buffy, and they included Xander, Willow, Giles, Spike, Dawn, Kennedy, Rona, Amanda, Molly, Chao-Ahn, and Andrew.

  “We’ve got a new player in town,” Buffy announced. “Dresses like a preacher. Calls himself Caleb. Looks like he’s working for The First.”

  Dawn thought about that. “So he’s like . . . The Second?”

  Buffy shaken, angry, and in mood for riposting.

  “He’s taunting us. Calling us out. Says he has something of mine. Could be another girl. Could be something else. Don’t know. I don’t care.”

  She paused, fighting for control.

  “I’m tired of talking. I’m tired of training. He’s got something of mine? Fine. I’m getting her back.”

  Her gaze was flinty, her spine, ramrod straight. She was totally on the edge . . . and she said, “And you guys are coming with me.”

  * * *

  Caleb was walking in the vineyard, and she was there . . . he didn’t know her name, didn’t
care what it was. Seventeen or so, she was a filthy whore in a sundress that just advertised her soulless lust, and she slithering around like the serpent in the garden, just itching to cause a man’s downfall.

  “You’re searching for something, girl,” he said, coming upon her. “What would that be now?”

  “Oh.” She was startled. Then excited. “You. I was looking for you.”

  “That right?” Caleb said kindly.

  She nodded. “I heard you speaking tonight. Preaching. I felt your words going straight to me.”

  “The truth is like a sword, isn’t it, girl?” He felt himself filling with the fire. “Cuts deep.”

  “Yeah.” She moved closer, trying some seduction, a little clumsy . . . but ready. “I got warm. The words made me feel that way. I got warm. It was your words that made me feel that way. All that power you was talking about. The temple coming down, and the end of days.” She went for it. “Your words are strong, Preacher.”

  “You liked ’em,” Caleb said simply.

  She nodded, less shy before, still deferential. Something about men with the fire . . . women wanted it. So they could burn awhile, then suffocate the source with their lack of breath.

  “Words I use got a power to ’em,” he told her. “Power, now. They’re not just ‘words.’ They’re truth.”

  “They called you. And so you followed. Know why?”

  “Tell me, Preacher.” She put her hands on her own belly, breathing deep, taking his fire into herself.

  “Because you’re human,” Caleb told her. “You got your urges. A woman’s got hers, a man’s got his. Our whole race can be so damnably weak. It’s why we seek the strength. That power.”

  She murmured eagerly, “It’s not wrong to be drawn to the power? Is it, Preacher?”

  Moving into the deepest shadows, she stepped up against a wall. He followed her in.

  Then she fell out of the darkness and into the light, hallelujah; she was bleeding, gutted like that other little whore he had picked up in his trunk. The Slayer’s little whore girl, Shannon.

  “No child. Not wrong. Just human,” he told the corpse.

  Then the body morphed, becoming Buffy the Vampire Slayer, fresh and unhurt as a little apple blossom.

  She looked up at Caleb and said, “Most people don’t like visits from their dead, you know.”

  “It’s okay with me. Might unsatisfying, is all,” he told her. “I must confess I miss the bite of flesh on a knife. Freeing a soul from its body should have . . . a tug to it,” he mused.