by Nancy Holder
Then the Buffy patrol returned; Anya, Xander, Willow, and Dawn, and Giles swallowed down his Jaffa Cake as she asked, “Did you find Buffy?”
“No,” Xander told him, frustrated.
“But you did that spell with the little lights,” Andrew pointed out. “The locator.”
“It crapped out on us,” Anya said.
“No, it didn’t . . . exactly,” Dawn reported.
“It just took us to an empty house,” Willow explained to Giles, sad and worried. “She must have moved on already.”
Giles took that in. Then he said, “Well, I’m afraid there’s rather worse news here.”
He glanced toward the Potentials, then led the core group off to the side for more privacy. Andrew was there.
“Faith hasn’t returned with the other girls,” Giles informed them. “Something’s gone wrong.”
Andrew nodded soberly. “I’ve been keeping morale up, because that’s important.”
“We have to go to her,” Willow said.
Xander nodded. “Guess so.”
“Yes,” Andrew said firmly. Then, “I’ll stay here, keep working on that morale thing.”
* * *
In the sewer, as the second Ubervamp attacked Kennedy, she instinctively flipped him over her shoulder as she screamed bloody murder.
A third crashed the party and scrambled up a tilted metal beam atop the pile; it crouched atop the beam like a huge bird of prey, eyeing the Potentials, hissing at them.
The girls backed away as Caridad shouted, “Weapons! Over there!”
The three Turok-han poured over the debris, lunging as one upon the tight cluster of girls. The Potentials ran for their lives; Amanda raced ahead, then turned back.
The three monsters converged on one of the newer girls, grabbed her, began ripping her apart with animalistic brutality and speed; horrified, Amanda couldn’t stop watching, couldn’t stop them, couldn’t stop . . .
Caridad grabbed hold of her and pulled her along.
Kennedy grabbed up one of the Bringers’ weapons on the mucky floor of the sewer and held it up, protecting the others, poised to meet the enemy. The Ubervamps, their mouths dripping gore, rushed the girls, backing them up against the wall.
The first Turok-han ripped her blade from Kennedy’s hand, slapped a long-fingered hand around her throat, and lifted her off the ground as if she were weightless.
Oh, God, Willow. Willow, I love you, Kennedy thought wildly, preparing herself for death. She was beginning to suffocate, and she hoped to God she went out that way.
Then a loud crash of cement, mortar and dust startled the creature as a metal grate behind Kennedy collapsed. Light streamed in from the hole above.
It was Buffy, surrounded by light, and holding her scythe.
The Turok-han dropped Kennedy and lunged for Buffy. Buffy, holding the scythe by its handle, punched it in the throat with the scythe’s blade; the blade sliced right through its neck in one solid motion.
Decapitated, the supervampire dusted.
The second and third Ubervamps rushed Buffy from behind; Buffy spun and staked the second Ubervamp with the handle of the scythe, pushing through his stone-hard breastbone and into his heart.
With a roar of fury, that vampire dusted too.
The third grabbed her and hurled her hard onto the metal grate, then jumped her. Buffy rolled backward, out of its reach, then flipped the scythe into position as she got to its feet. Facing the Turok-han, she was in perfect position to cut off its head with the scythe, swinging it like an axe.
It, too, dusted instantly.
Battle over, Buffy looked below her from the pile of rubble to see the Potentials staring up and her with awe and reverence. Cathedral-like streams of light backlit her, adding an aura of holiness to her heroic stance.
“Get the wounded,” she said. “We’re leaving.”
Kennedy ventured, “Are there more?”
“There’s always more,” Buffy retorted. “Let’s move.”
* * *
The wounded were transported back to Revello Drive; everyone else got back on their own steam. Dawn bandaged injuries while three unconscious girl lay on make-shift pallets. Buffy bent over a girl with a terrible wound; the Slayer was trying to staunch the wound with her bare hand.
“Willow,’ c’mere,’ she said. “This girl’s losing blood.”
Willow brought a cloth and pressed it hard over the wound. “Got it,” she said.
Buffy rose, surveying the scene, then wiped her bloody hands on a blanket on the floor. Then she hefted up her scythe.
The front door opened, and Giles and Xander brought Faith in. She was unconscious; and Buffy stepped over to join the two men who were carrying her fallen comrade.
“The room upstairs is ready for her,” Buffy said.
Giles nodded. “Good.”
Xander said, “Hope we’re in time.”
Kennedy and Amanda trailed in after the cortege, faces pinched with weariness and exhaustion; their bodies were covered with injuries. Kennedy’s neck had been bandaged in the field.
“Is she okay?” Amanda asked. “Is she going to be okay?”
“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” Kennedy soothed. “Right?” she asked Buffy, as Giles and Xander carried Faith upstairs.
Buffy stopped in the entryway with the girls, saying to Xander, “I’ll be up in a second.”
“Careful,” Xander’s voice trailed downstairs.
“Watch her head,” Giles continued.
Buffy looked up after them, watching, worrying, trying to tamp it down while she dealt with what—or who—was in front of her—wounded, frightened, worried warriors, home from battle.
“You guys heal fast, right?” Kennedy asked. “You Slayers?”
“Yeah,” she said absently.
“So, she’ll be okay?” Kennedy pressed.
“I don’t know,” Buffy told her honestly. Now was not the time to lie about things. Morale or no, they had to know what was going on.
Caridad gestured to Buffy’s weapon and said, “What’s with the scythe?”
“I took it from Caleb,” Buffy said, unable to stop looking up the stairs. “Might be important.”
“Let’s hope,” Vi murmured.
Amanda blurted, “I think we got punished.”
That got Buffy’s attention. She looked at Amanda and said, “What?”
Kennedy dipped her head. “We . . . we followed her, and it was . . .”
“It didn’t work out,” Vi finished lamely.
Buffy shook her head. “That wasn’t her fault. It was a trap. I could have fallen for it as easily as her.”
Caridad took that in. “So . . . are you . . . are you, like, back?”
Buffy realized she hadn’t thought that far. She said, “I don’t know. I guess I’m . . . not leaving.”
Kennedy clearly liked that answer as she nodded, satisfied. Then she pushed on like the Amazon she was and said, “So . . . we got a plan now or anything?”
Buffy headed upstairs, calling back, “Yeah, there’s a plan. Get ready. Time’s up.”
As she continued up, she heard Amanda murmuring, “I still think we got punished.”
She went into her old room, to see Xander and Giles tending to Faith. Three more Potentials stood watching, moving out of Buffy’s way as she came into the room.
“Is she breathing okay?” Xander asked.
Giles nodded. “Still not conscious, though.”
Emotion welled up inside Buffy . . . Oh, my God, she might die, she might be dying right now . . . Faith . . . but she steeled herself and said, “We’ve still got work to do.”
She caught Giles’s eye; he rose and followed her into Willow’s room. A Potential got Willow and brought her in, leaving the three of them alone to examine the scythe.
“I think it’s . . . maybe some kind of scythe?” Buffy said, every inch the general as Willow and Giles examined it. “Only thing I know for sure is, it made Caleb back off in a hu
rry.”
“So it’s true. Scythe matters,” Willow quipped.
Giles tried very hard to ignore that, and continued examining the weapon.
“It’s really quite ingenious,” he said.
“Kills strong bodies three way,” Buffy agreed.
“And you say you sense something when you hold it?” Willow asked.
“Not much,” Buffy replied, gazing first at it, and then at the Wicca. “Just . . . it’s strong. And I knew it belonged to me. I mean, I just knew it.”
Giles considered that. “So in addition to being ancient, it’s clearly mystical.”
“Yeah,” Buffy said with a tinge of irony. “I figured that when I King-Arthur’ed it out of that stone.”
“Sounds like maybe some kind of traditional Slayer weapon?” Willow suggested.
That clearly struck Giles as odd; he frowned and said, “It’s hard to imagine something like that could exist without my having heard of it.”
“Yeah, well, the good guys aren’t traditionally known for their communication skills.” Buffy made of avoiding eye contact with Giles, and he sucked it up.
They moved on.
“Right,” he said. “Is there any chance it’s something besides a tool to kill things?”
Buffy shrugged. “The First’s guys were clearly trying to get it out of that stone,” she said. “It’s not just some tool. It’s important. Find out whatever you can: who made it, why. And when. Does it have a name? And, I dunno, a credit report? Find out fast.”
“We’ll start immediately,” he promised her.
“Don’t worry, Buff,” Willow soothed her, smiling gently. “We’ll find out everything there is to know.”
“Thanks,” Buffy told her genuinely. She looked at the strange scythe, and her heart pounded in her chest as she felt, again, the odd connection between herself and it. “Because right now, this thing’s all we’ve got going for us.”
* * *
Downstairs, Anya and Andrew were nursing the wounded, Andrew tying a bandage around a girls shoulder with strips torn from a flowered bed sheet.
He wrinkled his nose and said, “I liked the real bandages better. This bed sheet is awfully festive.”
Anya looked on, nodding, saying, “I know. They’re all going to look like mortally wounded Easter baskets.”
“What?” the patient asked, alarmed.
Anya took a hefty swig from a bottle of Scotch.
“Hey!” Andrew frowned at her. “We’re supposed to use that to sterilize wounds. Mr. Giles said!”
“Oh, what does it matter?” she asked rhetorically, rolling her eyes.
“Hmm, good point,” Andrew murmured.
She handed him the bottle, saying, Giles knows his single-malt antiseptics.”
Andrew drank, coughed, and scrunched up his face, handing it back to her. “Bleahh. Everything is horrible.”
“Yup.” Anya cradled the bottle. “Many of these girls will die. Slaughter house is what it is.”
Their patient was even more alarmed, “What/”
Anya said to her kindly, “Trying to talk will just kill you sooner.”
Andrew huffed. “We need supplies. And not just bandages and junk. These girls need stitches and pain killers.”
“And I could use a cookie,” Anya put in. Then she straightened and said, “But I’m not making reckless wishes.”
Then Andrew brightened. “No! We can do it! The hospital!” He was amazed by his own brilliance. “It’s gotta be all abandoned like the grocery story was. Stuff just lying there for the taking.” He looked into the distance, a bust of Alexander the Great, or maybe Alfred J. Newman. “I’m going in,” he announced.
Anya raised her brows. “You are?”
“And you’re coming with me!” he informed her excitedly.
“I am?”
He blushed a little, although heroically. “Well, I think you should drive ’cause that Scotch made me a little dizzy.”
Anya rose. “I’ll get Kennedy to watch these girls. She’s tough. Imminent death won’t bother her.”
As the two began to leave, their patient called mournfully after them, “What?”
* * *
It was Buffy and Xander, in the kitchen, and they were not playing Clue. They were, essentially, saying goodbye. Or at least, she was trying to.
“You got it?” Buffy asked him firmly.
He half-raised his hand in that “hold on a minute” way of his. She knew his every gesture, the nuance of his voice; plus, she had seen him do the Snoopy Dance and heard him sing in Hindi.
“Wait,” he said. “I’m not to the ‘got it’ place yet. I’m still in the neighborhood of ‘you’ve got to be kidding.’ ”
She was adamant. “You know it’s for the good.”
“I don’t.” He looked at her, hard. “Buffy, do you get that if I do this, that’s it for me for this fight?” As she gazed back at him, he said, “I feel like you’re putting me out to pasture.”
“Of course I’m not putting you out to pasture,” she insisted. Then she said, half to herself, “What does that even mean?”
He cocked his head, sighed, searched for a way to put it. “Oh, you know, it’s like, when a cow gets old and loses an eye or its ability to be milked, the farmer takes it and puts it in a different pasture where it won’t have to . . . fight . . . with priests. . . .”
Realizing he had vagued out, he said, “You don’t have to protect me.”
“I’m not.”
“I got hurt,” he continued. “But I’m not done. I can still fight.”
She nodded strenuously, her eyes big and wide. “I know. That’s why you’re doing this. I need someone I can count on. No matter what happens.”
“I just . . .” His voice dropped. He regarded his friend, and his voice shook with emotion. “I just . . . always thought I’d be here for the end with you,” he said.
She scowled. “Hey!”
“Not that this is the end,” he added quickly.
“Thanks a lot, she mugged.
“No, no, no, no,” he sweated, “I mean ‘end’ in a heroic, uplifting way.” A beat. “I’m still optimistic! You’re just thrown off by this gritty-lookin’ eye patch.” He preened a little.
She smiled reassuringly, loving him in that moment. As in all moments. “I know what you meant.”
“I should be at your side. That’s all I’m saying.”
“You will be,” she said feelingly. She gazed at him. “You’re my strength, Xander. I never would have made it this far without you.”
Her words moved him, but he was macho as she continued, “I trust you with my life. That’s why I need you to do this for me.”
Her words finally sank in. He surrendered.
“Okay.”
Then she lightened it up. “Also, you can’t shoot a bow and arrow anymore and every time you swing a sword I worry you’re gonna break one of our good lamps.”
“Hey!”
As Buffy started to walk out of the kitchen, she called back over her shoulder, “Don’t look at me. You’re the one who said I’m going to die.”
“I didn’t say you’re going to die. I . . . I implied you’re going to die. Totally different.”
Buffy shrugged. “Yeah, okay, sure.”
Xander trailed after her. “Besides . . . if you die, I’ll just bring you back to life.” He paused and added softly, “It’s what I do.”
* * *
Willow and Giles worked in Willow’s room, Giles reading the moldy bound books, Willow on the laptop. Her fingers were flying, and Giles was reading fast. The scythe was like a third person in the room, a silent sentinel with its secrets locked away . . . and the power in it thrumming eagerly, to be used by the Slayer.
Then Willow found something. “Okay,” she said, looking at the screen, “before the vineyard was just you know, a vineyard? It was a monastery.”
She glanced over at the scythe. “It could have been put there there. Creepy monks, mess
ing with powers they don’t understand?”
Giles frowned thoughtfully and shook his head. “No. It’s far older. Pre-Christian.”
“Well, I found a reference to stories the monks used to tell about something older . . . like, maybe some kind of pagan temple.”
That intrigued Giles.
“Native American?”
“No.” She thought a moment, glanced again at the screen, then back at him. “Maybe we’re coming at this the wrong way. Maybe we need to research the weapon itself.” She gestured. “I mean, look . . . maybe it’s the Axe of Dekeron . . .” She read off the monitor “. . . said to have been forged in Hell itself. Lost since the Children’s Crusade, where it killed a lot of . . . children.” She looked up. “I hope that’s not it.”
Giles gestured with his book. “I’ve found references to the Sword of Moskva, and the Reaper of the Tigris.” He was frustrated. “I don’t see how we’re going to narrow this down. There’s never a clear enough illustration.”
He slammed his tomey volume shut. “Damn. We’re running out of time and we’ve nothing useful.”
Willow got up and crossed to the scythe, warily lifting it up. She examined it.
“It doesn’t have any markings,” she said. “Would it be so hard to include a little sticker? ‘Hello, my name is the Blank of Blankthuselah, consult operating instructions before wielding.”
She closed her eyes, moving into a meditative state, searching for the scythe’s vibratory plane.
“Willow?” he asked. “Do you feel the power Buffy talked about?”
She opened her eyes. “Gotta say no. Must be a Slayer thing.”
“Tapping into some magicks might help with that,” Giles ventured.
“It might,” she agreed. “But this . . . thing . . .” She sighed. “I mean, if Caleb is scared of it, it’s something pretty dangerous, and tapping into that . . .”
She put the scythe down, a little afraid of it.
“Willow,” Giles said gently, feeling protective of her, “you know there’s a way to do it without endangering yourself. Drawing positive power from the earth, the power that connects everything . . .”
“I know,” she said wistfully. “And when I was in England, I got it. But here . . . I can’t do it. If I tried something big, I just know I’d change and then it’s all black hair and veins and lightning bolts.” She flushed with shame. “I mean, I can barely do the locator spells without getting dark roots.”