by Nancy Holder
“I’m pretty much thinking about shopping. As usual,” Buffy announced.
“There’s an Agnes B. in the new mall!” Willow told her excitedly.
“I could use a few items,” Xander said.
“Well, no, aren’t we going to discuss this?” Giles asked. “We’re saving the world to go to the mall?”
“I’m having a wicked shoe craving,” Buffy said.
“Aren’t you on the patch?” Xander asked her.
Willow shook her head sadly. “Those never work.”
“And I’m just here, invisible to the eye, not having any say . . .” Giles whined.
And the three younger champions headed off, leaving the older one to watch them.
“See, it’s the eye-patch thing,” Xander groused.
“Right,” Buffy said, “do you go with the full black secret agent look—
“Or the puffy shirt pirate-slash-poet feel,” Willow suggested. “Sensitive yet manly . . .”
“Now you’re getting a little renaissance fair on me,” Xander told her.
“It’s fine line,” Buffy admitted.
Giles turned away from them.
“The earth is definitely doomed.”
* * *
Then the three peeled off from each other, Willow first, then Xander, much with the cazh chatter as they would have, any other day . . .
. . . and Buffy was alone . . . with memories, with voices:
Xander: “Oh, me and Buffy go waaaay back. Old friends. Very close.”
Cordelia: “If you hang with me and mine, you’ll be accepted in no time.”
Willow: “Do you want me to move?”
Giles: “I’d much rather be home with a cup of Bovril and a good book. . . .”
Angel: “Let’s just say I’m a friend. . . .”
Then she was in the basement at the end of the hall, where Spike was waiting.
“Time to go to work, love,” he said.
He gestured to the Potentials. Some were crowded outside the Seal chamber because there was not enough room inside. But they parted respectfully for Buffy. Her gaze ticked toward a few of them. They were so brave, and yet so terrified. Maintaining their control so well . . . she was so proud of them. She wanted to save them, all of them, not lose a single one, ever. For no one to die, ever, in the world. . . .
She moved into the room and stood beside the Seal, next to Faith, who held out Andrew’s mystical knife.
“You’re first, B,” Faith said.
Buffy took the knife, cut her hand, and let her blood drip onto the Seal. Faith took the knife and said, “Pucker up, ladies. We’re going to Hell.”
Then she sliced her own palm with casual aplomb.
Then all the girls around the circle held out their hands . . .
The Seal started to open.
Steeling her gaze, finding her center, Buffy started down.
* * *
In Robin’s office, Willow sat on the floor, the scythe in front of her, her own athame and bowl at her side. Candles and incense; the trappings of witchery, as Kennedy watched her from the other side of the room.
“They should be in place,” Willow said. “Okay, magic time.” She gazed at Kennedy. “You ready to . . . heh, heh, . . . kill me?”
“Starting to be,” Kennedy replied pointedly, but with warmth and love and all vibes good.
“Great. Fun. Right.” She took a deep breath. “Brace yourself.”
She shut her eyes, and Kennedy said softly, “Come on, Red. Make it happen.”
* * *
Down among the dead men, into the cavern, Buffy and Faith and a few of the girls went as more followed.
And Spike, with the amulet around his neck.
“Not to be a buzzkill, love,” he said, “but my fabulous accessory isn’t exactly tingling with power.”
“I’m not worried,” Buffy told him.
“I’m getting zero juice here,” he went on. “And I look like Elizabeth Taylor.”
“Cheer up, Liz,” Faith said to him. “Willow’s big spell doesn’t work, won’t matter what you wear.”
“I’m not worried,” Buffy said again.
But her voice said otherwise, and the others gazed in horror as they moved to the precipice, which looked out over an endless cavern, and in that cavern . . . thousands of Turok-han.
Thousands.
“I’m not worried,” Buffy said, practically catatonic.
“Really?” Rona whispered. “ ’Cause I’m flashing back to Xander’s whole bathroom speech.”
“Buffy?” Amanda asked shrilly.
Buffy closed her eyes. “Now Willow now Willow now.”
“Buffy?” This time Amanda almost screamed.
“I’m not worried!” Buffy proclaimed. “As long as Willow can work the spell before they . . . see us.”
As one, the vamps caught sight of the girls. Screaming, they charged.
“Willow,” Buffy whispered.
The battle had begun.
* * *
WordstotheGoddessprayerstotheGoddessprotectorofwomanofwomenthepoweroftheGoddessQueenoftheMoonoftheEarthAirFireWateroftheAngelsofGuardians andofSlayersofSlayersofSlayers
“Willow?” Kennedy asked, alarmed.
Willow stabbed her a look and kept chanting.
GoddessQueenoftheMoonoftheEarthAirFireWateroftheAngelsofGuardiansandofSlayersofSlayersof SlayersofSISTERS
Willow tensed up, eyes widening, as light began to fill the room, coursing through her, through everything: flowers in Paraguay and the coven back in England, all the Wicca, and there she was in Willow’s soul, Jenny Calendar . . . and all who had fought for good, with magicks and with their souls and spirits. . . .
“Oh
my
Goddess!”
Willow cried.
Kennedy fell back, slammed by something unseen. She grunted, shouted . . . and was filled . . . filled as Buffy had dreamed she would be, when she had given each Potential her choice:
* * *
“What if all you could have that power? Now. All of you. In every generation one Slayer is born because a bunch of guys that died thousands of years ago made up that rule. They were powerful men.”
And here she had pointed to Willow, and said the things that made Willow so uncertain:
“This woman is more powerful than all of them combined. So I saw we change the rules. I saw my power should be our power. Tomorrow Willow will use the essence of this scythe, that contains the energy and history of so many Slayers, to change our destiny.
“From now on, every girl in the world who might be a Slayer, will be a Slayer. Every girl who could have the power, will have the power. Who can stand up, will stand up.
“Every one of you, and girls we’ve never known, and generations to come . . . they will have strength they never dreamed of, and more than that, they will have each other.
“Slayers. Every one of us.
“Make your choice.
“Are you ready to be strong?”
* * *
Kennedy was ready. Her head reared back, her eyes sparkling with power.
As the Ubervamps swarmed to crush them, the Potentials were ready; the power was a rushing wind, a hammer blow, a slap and an embrace and true love and sure death. A fever dream . . . all, it was all, it was . . .
. . . appening everywhere;
In India, a girl fell to the floor as the power and knowledge coursed through her.
In an inner city school, a young girl fell against her locker, dazed . . . and new.
In a trailer park, a young girl blocked the ham fist of her drunken, abusive father.
On a baseball diamond, standing at the plate . . . a little girl straightened, grinning a wicked happy grin.
In Japan, a girl backed away from the dinner table, changed utterly and forever, trying to take it all in.
* * *
. . . take it all in, take it all in . . .
“Sweet fancy Moses,” Amanda gasped.
&nb
sp; Buffy and Faith beamed at each other.
“You feel that?” Faith asked the Slayer.
“I really do,” Buffy told the Slayer.
Faith looked ahead; the Slayers steeled them-selves—dozens of them, ready and uncertain, pumped and hanging on, hanging in, hanging tough.
“Everybody, hold the line,” Faith said.
“These guys are dead,” Vi said coolly.
The first wave of vampires hit, frenzied evil spilling over the girls in a blur of teeth and axes and spears, talons and muscles and no fear of pain or dying. They swarmed, enormous killing things . . .
. . . and the Slayers went into action.
Roundhouse kicks, uppercuts, sidekicks, leaps—punching and twirling in a jaw-dropping battle dance such as the world had never seen before. They were to the Power born. Each Slayer, cloaked and anointed in the Power, burning bright as they fought back the horde, slaying as if they had been doing it all their lives.
The Chosen, the valiant, heroes to a girl; the Champions of Good, beating them back.
Spike held off others, but there were so many—the army of darkness was endless. But he fought, waiting for the amulet to bestow power, not waiting to wade into the war and hold the line.
It was brutal and dark and bloody; it was why there were Slayers.
Why they were here, glimmering, shimmering with Power.
* * *
. . . Glimmering, shimmering . . .
Kennedy was still feeling it, still mesmerized by the Power as it worked inside her, coursing through her. It was like a drug, a high, and she was taken over by it.
Then she opened her eyes and gasped, “Willow?”
For Willow was more than Willow, too—she was the Power incarnate, blown by a force so powerful, so loving, that she was bathed in a pure white wind. Her hair was actually white, streaming out behind her, her smile a bowl to catch her tears.
Transcendent, forever altered . . . cleansed, forgiven, purified.
The loving wind sucked out of her and her appearance returned to normal. She was clearly completely spent.
Kennedy said wonderingly, “You are a Goddess.”
And Willow replied, filled with joy, “And you’re a Slayer.”
She picked up the scythe and tossed it Kennedy.
“Get this to Buffy,” she said.
Kennedy gazed at her one last moment, and then she raced away.
Collapsing to the ground, Willow giggled like a dope.
“That was nifty,” she said to herself.
* * *
On the precipice, the Pride Rock of Doom in the endless cavern . . .
Buffy hovered near the edge, fighting every vampire she could touch: She tossed a Turok-han over the side, staked another, then took a couple of brutal hits.
A fearless warrior jumped through the Seal opening: Kennedy, shouting, “Buffy! Catch!”
She hurled the scythe at her; Buffy caught it in mid-fight, not even looking back, and dispatched two vamps immediately.
Kennedy was attacked and jumped high, kicking hard—pummeling the enemy with her newfound Power.
“Oh, I could get used to this!” she exulted.
Spike fought as he had never before; Amanda, Vi . . . everyone was pumped and armed and filled with it. War cries echoed over the frenzy: Faith and Buffy, vamps and Slayers, leaping at each other above the heads of the warring crowd. A sprawling, brawling mob: Armageddon.
Having breached the line, some of the vampires saw the Seal opening and scurried up it. More followed.
* * *
Robin and Giles heard them coming. Giles had rolled a cigarette—traditional last one before battle—and he offered it to his comrade in arms. Robin declined; one last drag for Giles, and then he stamped it out.
They hoisted their swords.
They were ready.
* * *
In the atrium, Xander and Dawn prepared.
She turned to Xander and said, “You were going to take me to Oxnard?”
He shrugged. “I know some people there.” He added, “You’re in my blind spot.”
She gingerly and swiftly changed sides with him.
* * *
In the north hall, Andrew and Anya geared up for the fight.
“I think they’re coming,” Andrew said.
Anya nodded, swallowed. Her heart was pounding so hard she could barely hear her own voice.
“Oh, God,” she said, “I’m terrified. I didn’t think . . . I just figured you would be terrified and I would be sarcastic about it.”
Terrified indeed, Andrew whispered, “Picture happy things. A lake. Candy canes. Bunnies.”
Anya’s eyes narrowed.
“Bunnies. Floppy, hoppy bunnies,” she said.
Her sword came up, all her fear gone.
* * *
The Turok-han made it up and through the Seal; they came barreling down the hall toward Giles and Robin, whose blades were at the ready. Vampires to the right of us, vampires to the left of us, volleyed and thundered . . .
They were a matched pair of warriors; they fought expertly—Giles scoring a beheading—but they were only managing to hold them off, being driven slowly back. . . .
* * *
. . . while Anya and Andrew fought. Anya was a swordswoman, Andrew was Jerry Lewis, but they also managed to keep them at bay . . .
. . . as a group of five Bringers appeared in the hall behind them, all armed with knives and swords . . .
* * *
In the cavern, as Spike fought off in a corner, he was startled by a surge of power from the amulet on his chest.
“Uh, Buffy?” he called, but she was in the heat of battle. “Whatever this thing does, I think it’s . . . Ahhhhh!”
He dropped to his knees, stunned by pain.
* * *
The army of the bad was not getting smaller.
Buffy watched a Turok-han leap on a young Slayer, tear into her; the girl went down.
Faith battled her way over to Buffy’s side, exhausted but game, as she said, “Think it’s too late to talk this thing out?”
Buffy called out to the girls, “Keep the line together! Drive them to the edge! We can’t let them—”
Pain.
Unbelievable pain.
She looked down to see the point of a sword extend from her belly, then retract. She had been run through.
Silence covered her thoughts; vaguely she realized that Faith was tackling the vampire who had stabbed her; the Buffy fell slowly to the ground, face first.
“Buffy?” Faith cried, running to her sister Slayer.
Buffy gazed up at her and rasped out, “Hold the line.”
She held out the scythe—symbol of their Power—to Faith. There was a moment, then Faith took it. She stabbed the vampire behind her without looking at him.
Then she went crazy with battle frenzy, and started taking them out, one by one by one.
A vampire got her around the neck from behind; then more, dogpiling her. Her skin tore; the stench of the monsters assailed her. She tasted blood.
She looked around, saw Rona, and shouted, “Rona!”
As she was buried beneath the vampires, she tossed the scythe to Rona.
Who took it, and started hacking.
* * *
In the atrium, Xander swung his sword as he was driven back by vamps. Then Dawn yanked a rope, pulling a tarp off the skylight, sunlight pouring in and setting the three vampires ablaze.
“We call that the greenhouse effect,” Xander explained. “Very dangerous.”
Another leaped on Xander, tackling him, weaponless, as Dawn grabbed a sword and swung.
* * *
Three Bringers rushed behind Giles and Robin as the vampires pushed from the front. Robin turned and hurled a knife into one of their throats with perfect precision.
But another took its place; they fought hard; Robin found himself thinking of his mother, imitating her moves; all right, she had died a Slayer, but she may have save
d his life because he had been able to observe her, first-hand . . .
Then the Bringer’s crescent-shaped knife sliced across his chest.
I’m out of the game, he thought in shock as he collapsed.
The Turok-han ran past him and Giles, free to escape into the next building.
* * *
Anya and Andrew . . .
They were here. They were driving them apart, Andrew toward the north hall, Anya down the adjacent hall that lead outside.
Okay with the dying, not with the pain, Andrew thought. Okay with that . . . not so much, oh, God, I am so scared . . .
Then a Bringer went down, holding out his sword like a limp . . . noodle, as a Bringer jumped onto him with a knife.
* * *
And Anya . . .
She slashed one.
Dropped it.
I’m winning!
I’m terrified!
And then another one came from the side.
She turned—
—Mrs. Xander Harris, that is who I’ll be . . .
—Aud.
—Anyanka.
—Anya.
—and the Bringer gutted her.
He stabbed her repeatedly.
And she was dead.
—Forever, Anya.
* * *
Spike.
Searing pain wracked his body; he tossed away a vampire as confusion and pain contorted his body; he clutched his stomach.
He was burning from the inside out.
* * *
And Buffy . . .
As Amanda dropped right in front of her, eyes wide.
Amanda was dead.
Two more Slayers fell; Kennedy was backed against the wall, her weapon knocked from her head. She was steadying herself, preparing.
On the ground, her vision hazy with pain, Buffy looked up to see her own boots, her own legs . . . her own self . . .
But of course, it was The First.
“Oooh, ow, Mommy!” The First mocked her. “This mortal wound is all itchy!”
She leaned in and said to Buffy, “You pulled a nice trick.” She smiled pleasantly and added, “Hey, you came pretty close to smacking me down. What more do you want?”
Buffy pulled herself up on her hands, shaking with fury. She was not done, not yet.
“I want you . . . to get out of my face,” Buffy told her.
Then she rose: Resurrection.
The First backed away, vanished.
Sweaty, bloodied, hair in her face, Buffy took a step forward; two, stumbling, hunched steps . . .