Chosen

by Nancy Holder

Who is’t? Oh, it is my lady, it is my love . . .

  Spike drowsed, smiling, and reached for Buffy.

  But she wasn’t there.

  She had left him a note; soberly, he opened it and began to read.

  * * *

  Walking in the vineyard with the one I love . . .

  Caleb and The First strolled among the barrels of wine, as Caleb told her, “It shouldn’t be long now. Prophesies say one thing . . . but brute strength says another. We’ll get it out.” He added, “We’re almost there.”

  The First, wearing Buffy, smiled at him and said, “Yes, that’s true. Now rouse the Bringers, get them back to work—”

  As if on cue, something came thump, thumping down the stairs.

  It was a Bringer, dead, the corpse rolling to a stop at Caleb’s feet.

  “Hey,” came a voice from the top of the stairs.

  It was Buffy. The real one.

  The Slayer.

  As she looked down on them, she said, “I hear you’ve got something of mine.”

  She charged down the stairs and faced off with Caleb, tense, taut, every nerve on a wire. He, however, remained his affable, casual self.

  “Well,” he drawled, “if it ain’t the prodigal Slayer . . .”

  “So where’s it at?” she demanded. “I’m going to find it sooner or later.”

  Her gaze darted around the room, looking for Potential hiding places. He smiled, knowing there were lots of them, and stepped closer to her.

  “No, you’re not,” he riposted. “I lay a hand on you and you’re just a dead little girl.” And a dirty one at that. Filthiest ever created . . .

  “So, lay a hand on me,” she said, lifting her chin, powering on her Slayer attack mode. “If you can.”

  And his fist shot forward; he was going to give her one hell of a punch . . .

  . . . but she bent back, far, much farther he could have even anticipated . . . and his fist went right over her head. She pivoted, turning out of his way as he staggered forward, his momentum unchecked. He swung again at her; this time she ducked and slid past him head-first, like a ballplayer going home . . .

  He was furious.

  She got to her feet, turned, and then . . .

  . . . he charged at her, crouching low to get her in the gut . . . but she leaped straight up, onto a barrel.

  She ran the length of the casks; she was as agile as a high-jumper, scanning the room, looking for it. Caleb gave chase, lunging at her ankles, and missed.

  Barrels crashed down on him, wine flowing everywhere . . . and he rose again, hallelujah, and he was gonna get this Jezebel and cut her to ribbons . . .

  . . . if he could find her . . .

  Then he saw her sitting on top of a barrel, went toward her, then whip-turned around and saw another Buffy behind him.

  The Buffy on top of the barrel was The First, who said, “Caleb, this is getting embarrassing.”

  So he flung himself at the other Buffy, and missed her. He hit the ground hard.

  “Do you have to look like that?” he asked The First.

  “Will you concentrate?” she shot back.

  “It’s just a little confusing,” he argued.

  “Fine. Go! Kill!” she commanded.

  And then she disappeared.

  Caleb turned on Buffy.

  * * *

  Who knew half my life would be spent in sewers, and not fighting crocs? Faith thought ironically, as the flashlight beams bounced off the slimy walls. Water dripped. It was dank, chilly, and stinky. Kind of like Boston.

  Amanda looked around, excited but nervous, and chattering to prove it.

  “Do you think there’s rats down here? This one summer my cousin and I dissected this dead rat we found in the basement. It was so creepy, oh boy . . .”

  “Amanda,” Kennedy warned.

  They walked on in silence, the nervous hysteria abating.

  “Everybody stop,” Faith ordered. “I think we found it.”

  They pointed their flashlights in the direction she indicated.

  Yeah, baby.

  It was an arsenal indeed, a glittering trove of swords and axes about twenty feet away, gleaming very yo-ho-ho in the murky tunnel.

  “Look at all this,” Kennedy said, shining her flashlight all over it.

  They advanced.

  “I don’t get it,” Vi ventured cautiously. “Why’d they abandon all this stuff?”

  “Maybe ’cause they didn’t,” Faith said.

  And suddenly Bringers attacked, dropping down like ninjas with their knives flashing, their ugly, weird faces contorted with effort.

  The fighting commenced.

  * * *

  The fighting continued . . . or didn’t, as Caleb had still not managed to connect with Buffy. He was getting righteously indignant; the place was redolent of sweaty Preacher Man, as he swung and she dodged, jabbed and she dodged.

  Then he chased her; she ran backward until she ran up against a cement post, and his face was right in hers.

  Yes, yes, he thought, thrilled. I have you now, whore!

  He swung.

  She dodged.

  His almighty punch connected to the cement. It hurt like hell . . . and it was like Samson and the pillars as the post started to crumble.

  He seethed. He would see her dead, see her in hell, put an end to this here, now . . . he tried to grab her; she feigned left and too late, he realized she had tricked him . . . she jumped back on the wine barrels and so help him, if he had had a grenade, or another bomb . . .

  Not long now, he promised himself.

  He began to yank barrels from under her feet; she reached up to a ceiling beam and swung herself to safety.

  Wretched, red-faced, and angry, he said to her, “You whore.”

  “You know,” Buffy said, “you really should watch your language. Someone who didn’t know you might think you were a woman-hating prick.”

  Furious, he grabbed another barrel . . . and threw it at her.

  His aim was perfect, smashing into her and knocking her backward—but her legs held the beam like a trapeze and she flung herself into the air, landing on the ground.

  As she gained her footing, she saw a small copper trap door in the floor.

  She ran toward it, sliding along the wine-drenched cement on her knees, pulling it open . . .

  Caleb lunged at her, but it was too late. Buffy dove head-first through the trap door as Caleb raced after her, knocking barrels over, crushing them and landing on top of the wreckage, heaped on top of the trap door.

  Beneath it, Buffy tumbled alongside the ladder, landing in a heap on the cement floor.

  * * *

  Faith ran, stabbing another Bringer in the back; as she pushed the corpse out of her way, she freed Vi just in the nick.

  Amanda shot Legolas-style with her crossbow, except Legolas didn’t tend to miss; as the Bringer charged her, she realized she was out of bolts; she ran kamikaze-style at the ol’ no-eyes with a wild battle cry.

  Vi and Kennedy tag-teamed against a pair of Bringers; and Faith whipped around to find not her dream date, but another damned Bringer . . .

  They fought. They fought some more. They fought the most and then . . .

  . . . all the Bringers were dead.

  Well, Faith thought; and then, well again, because she didn’t know what else to think.

  “Is that it? Vi said. “I mean, not that that wasn’t fun, but . . . eight Bringers?

  That’s what I was gonna think next, Faith thought.

  They pawed through weapons. There just wasn’t much there.

  “Isn’t this supposed to be the major leagues?” Vi said.

  That next.

  Vi came from around the corner, reporting in.

  “There’s not much here, actually. Not really a full arsenal, more of a just an . . .”

  “Arse?” Amanda queried. She chuckled to herself. “Heh heh. Good one.”

  Okay, that I was not going to think, Faith thought.
r />   “Yo, Faith, check this out,” Kennedy called.

  * * *

  As Buffy unsteadily got to her feet, she looked around at the walls of rough stone, registered that she had fallen somewhere hidden, somewhere secret—like a holy of holies; the beating heart of the place that was The First domain . . . or rather, the place that The First wished was its domain.

  Then she realized with a start that she had found it.

  I have something of yours . . .

  . . . and this is it. And he was right: It is mine.

  Her heart pounded. Her breathing became shallow. She reached out a hand as she stared in awe and wondered.

  Mine.

  Waiting, for me . . . for eons.

  It was a scythe, buried to its hilt in stone like King Arthur’s sword, but round and circular like the moon . . . like the shape of a pregnant woman. A scythe, ultimate symbol of woman, and womanhood. Of the power only a woman could wield.

  The Power . . . of the Slayer.

  The stone in which it was encased had been chipped and blackened; but it was clear that Caleb and the other minions of The First had been unable to pry it loose.

  Yes. It was a moment. Her moment. Her first smile, in a very, very long time.

  * * *

  Faith and the others joined Kennedy, gazing where her flashlight beam had penetrated the gloom.

  There was a metal box on the ground.

  Eureka, Faith thought happily, and raced toward it. She smashed the lock off with her boot and knelt before it, throwing back the lid.

  A bomb!

  It lay inside, the timer counting down:

  6 . . .

  5 . . .

  “Everybody get down!” she shouted.

  4 . . .

  3 . . .

  2 . . .

  Chapter Twenty-One: “End of Days”

  Faith dove as she shouted, “Get down!”

  And the bomb exploded.

  * * *

  In the secret chamber, Buffy stood in awe. The scythe, embedded in rock, called to her in a language of the heart, and the soul; she knew it belonged to her, didn’t know how she knew that. But she had a deep sense of coming back, of coming home, of being here for the very purpose of claiming that weapon.

  She walked forward, reaching out a hand . . .

  . . . just as Caleb dropped down her, landing on his feet with a wry smile on his face.

  She whirled to face him; as he approached, she did not break her stride.

  “So? You found it,” he said. He shrugged. “Because the question now, girly girl, is: can you pry that out of solid rock before . . .”

  She gripped the scythe’s hand and, as easily as pulling a knife from butter, pulled it from the rock.

  Caleb stopped short as Buffy looked at him, and said, “Darn.”

  The scythe felt good in her hand; it felt right.

  It felt hers.

  Blocking Buffy’s only way out, he said, “Now, before you go hurting yourself, why don’t you do yourself a courtesy . . .” He stepped forward, hand out “. . . and hand it over now.”

  “Yeah? You want it?”

  She flipped the scythe over in her hand, as if she’d done it a thousand times. Now the weapon was pointed straight at her enemy’s throat.

  “In the head or the gut?” she added.

  He stayed calm which was impressive. “You don’t even know what you’ve got there.”

  “I know you’re backing away,” Buffy drawled.

  She sidestepped around him. He kept his distance, and Buffy felt a thrill. He was genuinely afraid.

  So he went for the attitude.

  “You think wielding some two-side doodad’s going to make a difference?”

  Then, in her Buffy voice, The First said, “Let her go, Caleb.”

  She was standing behind Caleb, gaze on the Slayer . . . and on the scythe in her grasp.

  “I said, let her go.”

  Caleb also kept his gaze fixed on Buffy and the scythe. “I let her go, she slices me open with that thing.”

  “No, she doesn’t,” The First informed them both. “She hasn’t got time. She’s got friends, and her friends are in trouble.”

  Buffy’s gaze ticked from Caleb to The First as her mirror image said helpfully, “Faith go boom.”

  Caleb shook his head. “I’m not letting her out of here with that thing.”

  “Sure you are,” The First said pleasantly, “and then you’re coming for it later.” To Buffy: “When she’s got her back turned.”

  He was incredulous. “After all the work we did to free it?”

  The First got firmer with him as she replied, “It’s hers for now. Let her go.”

  Seething, Caleb stepped out of Buffy’s way . . . and then she leaped straight up, catching the edge of the trap-door opening above her—making the point that Caleb had not been in her way at all.

  Still one-handed, she swung herself up the opening . . . and got the hell out of there.

  * * *

  Aftermath.

  Death.

  Smoke and dust choked the sewer; chunks of brick and cement crashed down from the ceiling like more bombs, like a fusillade. Beams dangled at grotesque angles; metal groaned; water rushed alarmingly from some distance away as girls wept and screamed in pain. It was loud and dark and twisted and horrible, stinking of mud and blood and very, very broken bodies.

  Around her, her comrades in arms lay dead, eyes open as if in shock; and Amanda crawled out from beneath bodies and half-stood, bleeding, and terrified.

  “Hey!” Her voice shook. “Hey, Faith! Anybody?” Her voice rose in shrill panic. “Is anybody here?”

  “Me.” It was Caridad, also banged up, also alive.

  They moved on together, passing through the destruction, smoke, and twisted metal, slogging back toward the main section of the sewer.

  “Hello?” Caridad called through the noise. “Anyone?”

  Then Amanda put her arm on a survivor . . . Vi, who was coughing hard as she struggled to her feet, cradling her arm.

  “I . . . I’m here,” she said, coughing.

  Other girls called out, but their voices were swallowed by the cacophony, terror and confusion reigning over all.

  The trio pushed on, Caridad asked, “Who else we got?”

  “Dunno,” Amanda told her, then to Vi, “You okay?”

  Vi said, “I think my arm is broken.” As Amanda pointed to two dead Potentials, the redhead added, “Guess I’m lucky.”

  Then Kennedy joined them, limping and bloody; she asked, “Where’s Faith?”

  “I don’t know,” Vi said anxiously.

  “Find her,” Kennedy ordered.

  “Maybe we should get the hell out of this place,” Caridad pleaded, looking fearfully around.

  “Find her!” Kennedy bellowed.

  Three Potentials found her, pulling her dripping body from the water. Looking on, Vi, murmured, “Oh, God.”

  “Is she alive?” Kennedy demanded.

  Amanda touched their leader gently, reporting, “Breathing. Pulse.”

  “We gotta get her out of here,” Caridad said.

  Vi looked around and asked shrilly, “Which was is out?”

  Amanda gave her head a little shake. “There’s other girls. There’s more than Faith. We don’t even know how many of us are still . . .”

  A feral growl cut short her sentence; as one, the girls turned to face the source of the sound as it echoed through the darkness, but they could see nothing but smoke whirling in darkness.

  Vi swallowed hard. “It could have been grinding metal. It could have been . . .”

  The growl was louder this time.

  Her gaze steely, Kennedy lifted her chin, and said, “No. It’s one of them.”

  “That’s not possible,” Caridad murmured.

  “How’d it get in here?” Amanda asked.

  Vi looked at Kennedy. “Plans?”

  “Run!” Kennedy ordered them.

  They m
oved like a single being, racing through the tunnel, other Potentials moving into their group like wild animals fleeing a rogue elephant. Kennedy led the ones who could move, who were in team guiding the ones carrying Faith . . . all was chaos, fear, shouting—

  “This isn’t the way!” Vi protested.

  “Yes, it is!” Kennedy bellowed at her.

  “We’re heading in the wrong direction!” Caridad insisted.

  “No!” Kennedy cried. “This is it!” Then, less sure, she said, “It’s just . . . it looks different . . .” She reached a pile of debris—fallen pipes and bricks, cluttering their egress. “Cut the chatter! Up and over it!” she ordered. “Wounded first! Let’s go!”

  Kennedy half-helped, half-shoved Vi up the pile. Vi climbed up on some of the debris, peeking over just as an Ubervamp popped up.

  She screamed and fell back; in the panic, she scrambled back to the group, Kennedy grabbing hold of her and yanking her into the cluster of Potentials.

  “Group together!” Kennedy told them. “Form a circle. Nobody panic. It’s all of us, one of him.” She pointed at the pile of debris. “And he’s gotta get over that. We can take one of these things.

  “Remember the training. Everybody get read—”

  Before she could finish the sentence, a second Ubervamp jumped Kennedy from behind.

  * * *

  Andrew was in the living room and he would have felt like an American G.I. passing out silk stockings and chocolate bars, if he had been into those boring old war movies where everyone wore khaki; as it was, he was a sort of chick magnet—or at least, his duffel bags were chick magnets. Lucky duffel bags.

  “It was pretty exciting,” he told the Potentials as they pawed through the goodies. “A whole grocery store, abandoned. Food lying around everywhere. The produce was on its way to funky town, but the other stuff was just . . .”

  “Oh, for god’s sake!” Giles shouted.

  “Hi, Mr. Giles,” Andrew said, somewhere between a grimace and a smile. “Okay, I did a little looting, which is technically unethical, but these girls need to eat . . .”

  “Andrew,” Giles said impatiently as he came forward and glanced down at the food items spilling from the bags. “Things are getting very dire around here, and we’ve got more important things to worry about than . . . ooh! Jaffa Cakes!” He started going through the groceries, just like the girls.

  “The apples still looked pretty good,” Andrew announced, “so everyone make sure they check those out.”