by Nancy Holder
He held up the pair of slim journals he’d had when he came in.
“The Journal of Claire Silver, Watcher,” Giles explained. “During the first half of the nineteenth century, Miss Silver was instrumental in cataloging the journals of all the Watchers down through the ages. She was quite a scholar.”
“Yeah, great, we can read it later,” Xander said. “C’mon, we’ve got to go!”
Giles held up a hand. “We need to arm ourselves, Xander. We can’t just run out into the night. Much as we would want to,” he added under his breath.
“Actually, much as we have before, and it turned out okay,” Xander insisted incredulously.
Giles opened his book. “I’ll read to you.”
“Just put me to sleep,” Xander said. But he started to sway, and much as he wanted to stay upright, he lay back in his hospital bed.
“If it starts with ‘once upon a time,’ I’m outta here,” he grumbled.
“Shh.” Cordelia was all ears, and she sat up straight. “I’m listening.”
“Very well.”
Giles opened one of the books.
Journal of the Watcher, Claire Silver
January 6, 1817
The doctor has just left, taking with him all my hopes for Justine. The poor girl lies senseless upon her pillow, her wounds grievous and many, and there seems nought that I can do.
I must face it, but I cannot: She is dying.
As I look up from my pen to stare at her pale form, I know that somewhere on this vast planet, another Watcher has been alerted, and readies his young lady for her debut (if I may be so macabre) into the terrible world that shall be her secret domain: the world of the Vampire Slayer. As my young miss escapes at last this most unholy and unwholesome life, another soon shall find her existence irrevocably transformed—shall I say what I am thinking, that this new Slayer’s life will be ruined?!
All that shall then remain of my dear Justine and her many battles, victories, and this ultimate defeat, will be these words that I write, and her monument in the churchyard.
I cannot bear it. I cannot face the notion that the forces of darkness have beaten us at last, not after all that Justine has suffered and endured.
And I—if I can bear to think for one moment of myself—I shall become what Justine and I have so often scoffed at: a genteel English lady, gowned and ribboned like a useless bisque figurine. I shall fill my days with teas and dances and gossip. I shall pretend I know nothing of weaponry and fighting and beheadings and the proper way to stake a vampire through the heart. All that I have learned in order to serve as Justine’s Watcher I shall lay aside. I shall be as useless as a retired governess.
But who comes? For upon the window clinks a pebble. Does someone come to pay his respects? Someone who knows that Justine, the Slayer, lies dying after a vicious attack?
In our society, it has not been possible for Justine to accept suitors, knowing as she does what her life is, and what society requires of young ladies. Imagine explaining to a young man that you must of a night cudgel demons to death, or that the lady posing as your aunt last Tuesday sent a warlock to a fiery death in another dimension!
And yet, of what use have all our efforts been, and to what benefit our sacrifices?
Will this visitor be someone to whom I can utter these thoughts?
The maid knocks now, and waits for my permission to enter. I lay my pen aside, and shall return …
I do not know whether to cry in triumph or in fear, but my hands tremble so that I can scarcely put pen to paper. Our visitor was none other than Lord Byron, that infamous poet and ladies’ man. He was impeccably, if eccentrically, dressed, wearing a brocade vest of Italian design and affecting some sort of large, floppy hat.
I was much amazed, for he has not been seen in England for five years. I was also much frightened, I must admit, for as I have written before, Justine and I have often wondered if Byron himself is a vampire. So much points to it—his pale complexion, his strange hold over numerous persons, and his extreme passions.
In any case, Justine has never met Byron before, and I only once, at a party Midsummer last, yet here he arrives on what may well be the last night of her life, giving to me certain books as well as fragments of ancient Oriental scrolls! With a strange smile, he told me of his high regard for “our work” and made several veiled references to Justine’s “special talents.” Thus I may conclude that he knows All, though I cannot swear to it.
But hush! Justine awakes, and requests some water. My girl, my Slayer!
I would give my life would it save her own.
January 7, 1817
Justine has survived the night, and though I am weary, I rejoice to tell her of the marvelous tale I am unfolding! It appears that the legend we have often wondered at may be indeed true. This, namely, being the Legend of the Lost Slayer. As opposed to the tragically usual way of it—a Watcher outliving his Slayer—I have upon occasion come across references to a Slayer who lost her Watcher quite early in her career. We have no idea who the Slayer was, nor what happened to the Watcher, but we have both often wondered at it.
Nearly all the writings contained within this box have been translated into the tongues of Europe, but the whole of it is a jumble, with scattered notes on fragments of paper, passages referring back to various scrolls translated into English by one hand, and others discussed in Italian by another. Additionally, a few are in Latin. Fortunately, these are two languages in which I possess facility. I have had a time putting things to rights, and much of it I have not been able to decipher at all. Some of it is in German, and to translate those items I will have to appeal to a third party. This appears to be a life’s work.
The irony of those words is not lost on me. For most marvelous indeed is Justine’s weak promise to me to remain on this earth until we solve the mystery. If searching among these writings for the key to the legend keeps her beside me but a single moment, I shall go to my own grave praising Lord Byron’s name.
And so, to work …
February 1, 1817
What we had not counted on was that Justine, though in a weakened state, is still alive, and therefore remains the only Slayer of her generation. Though she cannot rise from her bed, she alone wears the mantle of the Chosen One against whom the forces of darkness are arrayed.
This has depressed her greatly, for she feels that she is failing in her duty, and at one point today cried out to me, “Oh, Claire, if only I could simply stand aside! Better that I die than leave the world unprotected!”
I encourage her to believe that she shall recover, but the doctor has taken me aside several times and reminded me that on occasion, those who soon will leave us rally briefly so that they may bid farewell. He still holds little hope for her recovery. I find this astonishing, for she does seem much improved.
Tonight I shall go out hunting. Someone must, and she is in no condition for it. In truth, I undertake it only so that she will not fret so. I am for myself, selfishly, much afrighted. I am only a Watcher, though at this moment I would I were more.
February 13, 1817
I feel that we are in a race. As the doctor predicted, Justine has taken a turn for the worse. Her face is ashen and her chest rises and falls as if she is perpetually gasping for breath. And yet, an hour ago, she opened her eyes, smiled like an excited little girl, and asked, through her pitifully cracked lips, “What have you discovered now? Are we still on the trail?”
Either she is being brave for me, or else remains as captivated by the search for the Legend of the Lost Slayer as I. Through a lengthy volume of Chinese lore called Emperor Taizu’s Book, we have found this:
It is true that in the first place, demons owned this world. They lost it in a grand battle with the Emperor, and fight to this day to take it back again.
This is precisely what Watchers and Slayers are taught to believe! Although, of course, we believe that it was not a battle with a Chinese Emperor which caused the forces of darkness to lose their control over the
world. But what is significant is that according to our unnamed translator, these words were written in A.D. 971!
February 28, 1817
My girl is dead. In the moment that I saw the light go from her eyes, I clutched the bedpost and cried aloud, “Truly, I knew not it would be this difficult!” For though I have steeled myself for this moment, I was—and remain—unprepared.
They are coming to help me wash and dress her poor body. To the churchyard we shall go on the morrow. I cannot bear this. I am in a state of agony. Whatever shall I do with my days and nights?
The answer lies in the scrolls and parchments. For her last words to me were, “Promise me you’ll solve the mystery.”
And so I shall.
Oh, Justine!
January 6, 1818
It is a year since Justine’s defeat in battle. I am glad to say that her successor found her murderers and dispatched them as a personal favor to me. I went to the churchyard to tell Justine of our side’s victory.
At the least, I am not as useless as I had believed I would become. I am someone honored among the Watchers, for I was Justine’s Watcher, and she was much admired. And as I continue unraveling the Legend of the Lost Slayer, others have begun sending me pieces of information they have unearthed. In some cases, this includes entire volumes!
To wit, I have just opened a packet from a colleague at the new University in Ghent. It concerns a certain Japanese legend about a god, or goddess, named Sanno. This Sanno was also called the Mountain King, and he or she was the patron deity of Mount Hiei in Japan. Part of the legend concerns a Chinese vampire who vowed to devour the Japanese emperor. Sanno saved the emperor by dispatching the vampire with a magickal sword through the heart.
My colleague writes, “Could this Sanno be your Lost Slayer? I have no idea. If Sanno was female, perhaps she is!
May 18, 1819
How delightful! I have just received a copy of my book, Oriental Magick Spells as Collected by Claire Silver, a Watcher.
Privately printed by one of our own, there are five copies now circulating among my fellow Watchers. It is a comfort to me to be of use to my fellows, for though it has been over a year since my Justine left me, I feel the loss of her as deeply as though it were yesterday. I visit her grave daily, telling her of the progress I have made.
Though I have now discerned that Sanno was not the Slayer, as he was male, yet pursuit of that knowledge led me to investigate and record many fascinating and useful Oriental spells, contained now in my very own published work! I will take it to show Justine this afternoon.
Giles looked up from the book. “Damn,” he said.
Cordelia blinked. “What?”
“I have the feeling that’s the volume we’re really after. Her book of spells.” He checked the other book he had with him, flipping through the pages. He shook his head. “This is quite useless. It appears she married and had children. This is about their travels in Switzerland.”
“How thrilling,” Cordelia said ironically.
As if he seconded that emotion, Xander snored loudly in his hospital bed. Cordelia rolled her eyes.
“He doesn’t usually snore,” she offered, then blushed and stammered, “or so his, um, sister says.”
Giles had never heard of a sister of Xander’s before, but whether or not Cordelia was an expert on his, ah, nocturnal habits was quite beyond the scope of the matter at hand. Anxiously, he glanced at the phone.
“If only Buffy would check in,” he said.
Cordelia waved her hands at him. “You go back to the library and get the book, and I’ll wait here in case she calls.”
“Mmm. All right.” He rose and spared an extra moment to gaze at Xander. “Youth is remarkably resilient,” he murmured. Then he read Cordelia’s blank stare and said, “The color’s already returning to his cheeks.”
“It’s blood,” she said bluntly, indicating an empty blood bag hooked into an IV in Xander’s arm. “The nurse told me that was the last bag just when you were getting to the part about Lord Brian.”
“Byron,” Giles corrected automatically, then sighed. “Yes, Lord Brian indeed. Quite right.”
“Go get the book,” she urged.
He sighed. “I suppose I must. But do take care.”
He left his books there and hurried out of the room.
Cordelia was a little shaken. All that talk about the Slayer dying … eeuu. It creeped her out. It must really creep out Giles. And Buffy, too, of course.
She rubbed her arms, suddenly cold. Xander might have died, if Buffy hadn’t insisted they go look for him. That creeped her out worst of all.
About five minutes later, the phone rang. Cordelia picked it up.
“Oh, hi, Harmony,” she said. “No, I’m still stuck here, can you believe it? His mother had to go pick up someone somewhere or something. Well, yes, he had a pretty nasty, ah, fall. A sale? I’m missing a sale? You’re on your cell? Go to the petites right now. Go! If that leather jacket is marked down, you have to buy it for me. Of course I’ll pay you back!”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The hospital phone was still busy. Xander must have a lot of worried relatives, or else maybe someone had knocked it off the hook.
Buffy sighed and got back in Cordelia’s car.
The golden glow of the sinking sun glared against the windshield as Buffy braked the car in front of the building where Angel lived. She grabbed her Slayer’s bag, hopped out, and scrambled down the stairs to pound on the door. It was the last place she could think of where Willow might be hiding out. Angel would have taken her in if she really needed a place—if he didn’t know what else had happened.
Or maybe even if he did. Angel was a surprising person … make that vampire … make that person …
But when the heavy door scraped the floor as it opened, and she saw the bleary-eyed face of the dead man she loved, she knew she was out of luck again. Whatever Willow was going through, Buffy somehow knew that her chances of helping Willow were draining away with the last rays of the sun. She had maybe twenty minutes, and they might as well be twenty seconds. Or two.
“Sorry to wake you,” she mumbled as she pushed past Angel into his dimly lit apartment and dropped her bag to the floor. She had long since grown used to the eclectic furnishings there, but it seemed as though each time she visited, she saw something new. Well, something old, but new to her.
Not his time. This time, everything seemed all too familiar.
“Buffy, what’s wrong?” he asked.
“Willow,” she whispered. Then she filled him in on everything that had happened up until that moment.
Buffy’s eyes welled up as he came to her and tilted her head so she could lay it against his chest, a chest where she would never hear a heart beating. They’d been through so much together, suffered so much, and yet she still loved him. What else could she do? Love was like that.
“What’s this shrine you found at her house?” Angel asked.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I was in such a rush that Giles and I didn’t even have a chance to go over it. And I can’t seem to locate him or even talk to him. I guess I should’ve hung around the hospital, for all the good I’m doing Willow.” She sighed. “I guess I’ll go back there.”
“Can I see the things you took?” he asked.
Buffy reached for her bag, unzipped it, and pulled out the note first.
“Origami,” Angel said. “An Asian art form.”
She nodded. “I knew it was a word like that. All I could think of was rigatoni.”
She showed him the disk on the chain around her neck.
He shook his head. “No idea what that is.”
The withered little plant.
“Hmm,” Angel murmured, and Buffy glanced up sharply to see if he realized how much he sounded like Giles. Apparently not.
“Looks like a bonsai tree,” he said finally. “But it’s been dead a while.”
“How do you know all this stuff?” Buffy asked
.
“I’ve traveled a lot,” Angel replied.
“I never get to go anywhere,” Buffy said, half-mocking herself.
Angel kissed her then, deeply and with a kind of gentle sympathy. “I’m sorry all this is happening,” he whispered. “I wish I could be more help, but I’ve never heard of anything like it before. If Willow is a vampire—we don’t know that, but if she is—she shouldn’t be up and around during the day.” He half-smiled. “Vampires don’t go to school, Buffy.”
Buffy stared at him.
“What did you say?” she demanded.
“I said …”
“Vampires don’t go to school!” Buffy shouted. “Angel, that’s it!”
He stared at her, stupefied.
“The things on Willow’s desk aren’t exactly the kind of souvenirs she would keep,” Buffy said quickly. “Whatever, whoever she is now … that’s who put those things there. I’ve been wasting my time looking in all the places Willow might go. She’s changed now …”
The thought threw Buffy for a moment, stealing some of the joy of her realization. Her face became grim and her mind determined. “Origami. That dead bonsai tree was ripped from the ground.” She slapped her forehead. “The Chia Pet garden! That’s what it reminded me of.”
Hastily, she explained about the Japanese friendship garden exhibit. “The real garden is still in Sunnydale,” she said. “It may have some kind of weird connection to the one in Kobe. So maybe there’s some extra vortex thingy there or something. And Willow as vampire is drawn there.”