by Various
A year ago, and she would have been quite happy here. But the intricate dance required to avoid coming into contact with strangers was not the only complication the beach brought with it. She stared at the tufts of foam on a relatively quiet ocean and realized that she had not gone swimming once since the night she faced the Master and prevented the Hellmouth from swallowing the town whole.
Not since the night I — she could think the word now, but only barely, and only when she was so tired she couldn’t force herself to think of something else — drowned.
“Do you remember how much you hated water when you were small?” her father asked. Somehow he’d managed to catch up with her. She handed him the cooler and the umbrella, and left him to struggle with them both at a safe, discrete distance.
“No. No, I don’t remember.”
“You did hate it. You particularly hated to be submerged. Even in the bathtub, if your face got wet, you’d whimper or cry. You honestly don’t remember?”
“Why would I have to when I have you to do it for me?” She stopped herself from speaking with effort, forcing the words to flow into less familiar channels. “I’m sorry, Dad. I’m just not up to this today.”
But if he’d taken offense at her words, he didn’t show it. He was caught, she realized, by the need to offer her the explanation she had asked for. “You weren’t up to it then. Friends of ours said it was best just to throw you in the water and let you figure it out for yourself — and you were so headstrong, Buffy, it almost seemed like the right thing to do.”
“And you did?”
“No. No, I went in the water with you. I got thrown out of more toddler wading pools than I care to remember.” He smiled. “But it worked.”
And in spite of herself, she smiled back.
“Whenever things were tough, we’d go swimming. I think . . . I think the water is the only place in the world that you were willing to trust me.”
She couldn’t think of anything to say. It was painful to look at him, because even though he was no longer looking directly at her — even though he had busied himself with the umbrella and the beach blankets — she could see the expression on his face.
“It’s not you,” she said abruptly. “I mean, it’s not specifically you. There are just things that I can’t talk about with anyone.”
“I had those,” he said quietly. “I don’t remember when they happened, and I don’t remember when they went away. Maybe never.”
She almost hugged him. But she didn’t, because seeing a loved one die as a reward for a sign of affection was a poor incentive. There was only one other thing she could offer. “I think I will take that swim now.” He nodded without looking up.
The water was salty. That was good, because it was different. It hit her skin like a shock or a slap, but that was also good; bracing. It cleared the mind.
She didn’t actually want to dive in or submerge her face, but it was all she could offer her father. She would have bet money he was watching it all. She teetered for a moment in cold water — the girl who killed monsters afraid of a few feet of crowded surf. And then, holding her breath, she started to run, to build up momentum for a knife-clean dive into the ocean.
She stayed under just long enough to make her point; the water against her skin was uncomfortable.
She could still feel it. Paralyzed, she had held her breath until she could not hold her breath, and then, with the world getting darker and darker, she felt the sharp sting of water in her nose and her throat as her body defied what little control she had over it in a desperate search for air.
She forced herself out of the water.
And found herself crouched before a black pool in a familiar grotto. The bathing suit was gone; the white dress of both dream and nightmare flowed over her knees, its sheen unmarred by water. The crossbow that she had carried from the library to this small wedge between worlds was pointed toward wet stone.
She blinked. Reached up with one shaking hand to touch last year’s hair. Last year’s face. Heard words so familiar she would never forget them.
“You’re not going to kill me with that thing.”
“Don’t be too sure.” She struggled to reload the crossbow — and then stopped. Held the bolt in her hand instead. She continued through steps memory had carved and enlarged, searching in shadows too deep too penetrate. Hearing his voice come from all directions, as if he were moving at incredible speed.
It hasn’t happened. It hasn’t happened yet. She swallowed. She had seen so many deaths — so many disturbing, horrible deaths. And it almost shamed her to say that the one that still terrified her the most . . . was her own. Maybe that would change. God, she hoped that would change. But — she hadn’t died. She was here. He was here. And she didn’t want to die, ever. Now that she knew how it had happened, she had a chance to prevent it.
“You still don’t understand your part in all this, do you? You are not the hunter. You’re the lamb.” The words came from everywhere, the sentence fragmented syllable by syllable with echoes and varying distances. As if he were circling her from above, waiting for the right moment to start his dive, like a bird of prey.
“You know, for someone who’s all powerful, you sure do like to hide.” She clutched the bolt, waiting. Waiting now. Knowing the moment — the only moment — when he would be vulnerable.
“I’m waiting for you. I want this moment to last.”
“Well, I don’t.”
“I understand.”
And he was there, behind her, beside her, moving so damned fast; she gave up the crossbow almost instantly; gave up the fight as she had done that night. There’s no disgrace in flight, Buffy. Retreat, and you can fight again. Fail to retreat when it’s necessary . . .
Who had said that? Did it matter?
She felt the pull of something old, strong, something that had roots on the wrong side of the demon/human divide. The scent of death and decay was stronger than it had ever been as she froze at his command. He sauntered elegantly behind her; he removed the jacket that Angel had given her, the talisman of protection and connection, exposing her throat over the thin white straps of the dress she had wanted so badly.
God, her heartbeat was so loud in this place, in this packed terrible space, at this moment. She heard his voice beside her ear. She struggled for air, for breath, for calm. Dropped her arm, then stiffened the hand that held the bolt that she hadn’t put into the crossbow.
When he bent, she struck. She heard a soft grunt, and she could move, could turn to witness the slight widening of the eyes that passed for surprise in a dead person. She wanted to say something clever. But nothing clever came to mind as the Master disintegrated, leaving only dust and night in his wake.
The Hellmouth hadn’t opened.
And Buffy Summers, the Slayer, hadn’t died. She waited for the sound of footsteps. She knew that Angel and Xander would be rounding the bend in the sewer tunnels at any moment. She wanted to see them.
She wanted to see her friends. To see friends who hadn’t failed her; friends who hadn’t expected her to come here like the sacrificial lamb the Master had spoken of. But it was silent in the grotto; silent as the dead. She picked up her crossbow carefully, and turned toward the stairs enclosed by tunnels. Toward freedom. And then she noticed that the lights were dimming and flickering.
It made sense. Not that the lights in this ruined space had ever been spectacular; they set the mood and tone for the encounter; hundreds of candles burning slowly into oblivion. The Master’s magic was no longer present to maintain them. But . . . something was wrong. She listened for a sound . . . any sound. But not even the rats were in an obliging mood. The candles were wrong. The space was wrong.
“Hello?”
She walked toward the stairs. Stopped. Turned to look at the pool in the grotto’s heart. And she heard voices. Voices that she liked, even, but raised in a way that made them unpleasant.
But this is the Codex. There is nothing in that that does n
ot come to pass.
Then you’re reading it wrong.
I wish to God I were. But it’s very plain. Tomorrow night, Buffy will face the Master and she will die.
Giles. Angel. Giles.
Like the tolling of a bell.
She turned away from the stairs and began to walk toward the pool. Knowing that this was a dream. And that it wasn’t.
“I did die,” she said softly.
“You did,” the dust said. It began to rise and whirl, coalescing into a horror that was so thoroughly familiar it should have lost its edge. It hadn’t.
“I did die. But so did you.” She swallowed. Her throat was thick and swollen, and her heartbeat had become such a constant white noise she could almost pretend it wasn’t racing wildly out of control. Could almost pretend he couldn’t hear it, that he didn’t know just how frightened she was. She was still sixteen years old and she didn’t want to die.
I’ve got a way around it. I quit.
It’s not that simple. Angel’s voice. Angel’s concern. But it wasn’t important. She raced over it, pain speaking, fear taking her words and forcing them out.
I’m making it that simple. I quit. I resign. I’m fired. You can find someone else to stop the Master from taking over!
I’m not sure that anyone else can. The signs indicate . . .
She hadn’t let him finish. But she understood now. She could never have beaten the Master had she not died. She didn’t know why, and she hated it, but it felt true. She had died. And she had come back, and in between those two — dying and coming back — she had found the strength to beat the Master and send him to Hell.
“You’re the avenue for my return,” he said softly. “And the roadblock. You would have made an amusing consort.”
She ignored him, sweating now. There was no air. No air.
“You’re too late, little Slayer. You’re already dead.” The Master stepped between Buffy and the water. His voice was a moving whisper again. “Or have you forgotten? I’ve seen your nightmares. I know what frightens you. You’re trapped here, with me, while the lights go out because there’s only one other way back.”
“If I were already dead, you wouldn’t be trying so hard. And you shouldn’t. It doesn’t suit you.”
He snarled; she ran. Past him. Through him. She felt a terrible chill, and then a familiar horror, a physical terror, as she hit the water and passed beneath its surface, cheek striking the debris that littered the rock inches below. She did not know if this was real. Didn’t know if she was in the past, and the drowning had yet to take place, or in the present, in Hell. But she had done this once. She had come through it. And she had had to do it; she could see that now. Yes, her death had served his purpose — the humiliation of that left a scar of its own — but it had served hers as well.
How hard could it be to face it again?
Easy question; she had the answer. Harder than anything she had ever done.
His fingers were on her shoulders, as if he could somehow force her from the water; she could feel them as if they were the brush of moths’ wings. And then she could feel nothing but the burning sensation of water down her throat, water in her lungs, the terrible darkness that comes without something so simple people never think about the action at all. Breathing.
But there was some small solace, some small gift: she could hear the cry of rage and frustration somewhere in the halls of the dead, in the beyond that the living couldn’t see or touch. But the tenor of the screaming changed; rage and frustration gave way to terror and pain.
She didn’t like it.
“Buffy!”
She didn’t like it at all. It wasn’t his voice anymore. It was the voice of someone she cared about. Someone —
Who had always been there, in the water, near the surface; someone who had taught her that the water was nothing to fear. She felt his hands on her shoulders, and then she felt nothing at all.
She woke in a bed, in a sterile room. Or rather, in a room that smelled enough like antiseptics that it should be sterile. That’s how it worked in television. Her throat felt raw, her eyes ached, her mouth tasted not like the salt water she’d swallowed by the gallon — which would have been bad enough — but like anything living in that water had given up on life, died, and decomposed there.
Her father sat beside her bed, head bowed, forehead caught in his hands.
“Don’t tell me. I’m wearing one of those really awful hospital gowns and you’ve suddenly developed enough fashion sense that you don’t want to see it, right?”
The head snapped up fast enough she was surprised he didn’t get whiplash.
He hugged her.
She stiffened, waiting for his death. But if it was coming, it stayed where it belonged: in the future.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Buffy. I should have listened. I should have listened. It was easier when you were two. I could be right there, all the time.”
“Dad?”
He didn’t say another word.
And she didn’t say another word. But she let him hold her, and for a minute memory opened its vast curtains and she could clearly remember being pulled from the water, in tears, by a huge bear of a man with a voice deep enough that it almost always sounded slightly scary.
You can trust me, Buffy. I’ll never let the water hurt you.
She wasn’t that girl. Could never be that girl again.
“Dad, I was wrong. I do remember,” she told him softly.
The good thing about the human world, the demon mage reflected, as he sat back into the wide curve of a first-class plane seat, was the ease with which one could disappear into it. Failure in Hell had its consequences, but failure here was . . . different. For one, the people who one failed had to have the resources and the abilities to hunt you down. Two, the old vampires were exceedingly rare, and the young ones were bound by darkness, their movements curtailed by the poverty of their limited imagination and their pathetic power.
Had it not been for the possibility of the Master’s revivification, he wouldn’t have felt a pressing need to be half a globe away from Sunnydale. But he was curious. The Slayer was formidable almost by accident — and accidents of a certain type rarely happened without cause or purpose. He picked up a dark, wide bowl and stared into it for a long time.
“Did you want a refill, sir?”
“You noticed.”
It was a warm summer night. Rupert Giles stood in the courtyard of his condo complex and waited for the others to arrive. His hands in his pockets, he listened to the gentle bubbling of the tiled fountain beside him. Birds of paradise rustled in the breeze. The scent of night-blooming jasmine wafted around him like the signature perfume of an affectionate ghost.
Despite the tranquillity, Giles was not tranquil. The scent of death hung in the air as well. Evil crept along the concrete on clawed talons, ready to slash, eager to kill. A sense of dread pushed against Giles’s spine until he was afraid it would crack. Each day, each night, the things in his apartment drove him out here, to the courtyard. It was as far away from them as he could get, and still stand guard over them. It was getting worse. He could no longer rest. He had been this way ever since Buffy had killed the Master.
Ever since his apartment had become a reliquary for the Master’s bones.
It was late June. The other faculty members at Sunnydale High School, blissfully unaware of the rampant evils in their midst, had spoken of nothing but their upcoming holidays for weeks. The students had practically gone mad with the waiting. Giles was new to the academic world. If working as the school librarian at Sunnydale High counted as academic in any sense of the word. Having a job that came with three months’ vacation was a novelty.
Novel as well was the departure of the Slayer, who had left Sunnydale to spend the summer in Los Angeles with her father. No Watcher had ever had a Slayer who went on holiday before. The Watchers Council were extremely put off by it. No surprise there.
There was quite a lot about Buff
y that put them off — her lack of discipline, her unorthodox approach to training, and, of course, her insistence upon having a social life. Giles had been unprepared for her as well. He had known since age ten that one day he would become a Watcher, and once having accepted his fate — not an easy task — he had done all he could to ensure he would be the best.
At present, Buffy Summers did not share the same . . . enthusiasm . . . toward her destiny. One girl in all her generation was chosen to be the Slayer. It was she who must battle the forces of darkness — the demons, the vampires, the monsters. Buffy was that Chosen One. But as she had pointed out more than once, choice had nothing to do with it.
“Which sucks,” as she’d so eloquently put it.
When one is only sixteen, it does suck. There had to be a few compromises to keep her going, help her survive. So Giles had surreptitiously smoothed the way for her summer visit with her father. He’d pointed out to the Council that Buffy had become the Slayer while living in Los Angeles. Before her expulsion from Hemery High School (for burning down the gymnasium, according to the official record), she had killed any number of vampires in that balmy metropolis. One could expect her to have as productive a summer there as here in Sunnydale.
“And I shall remain in town, and keep vigilant,” Giles had promised the Council. He had not mentioned the presence of the Master’s bones in his home. He didn’t want Quentin Travers — who was turning out to be no friend to Buffy in the Council — to use it as a reason to forbid her trip. She desperately needed a break from Sunnydale.
Sunnydale. What an ironic name for this dark place.
The Spanish who had first settled it had called it by a more suitable name: Boca del Infierno. Quite literally, “the mouth of hell.” The small, seemingly dull little town was situated on a Hellmouth — a portal through which evil sought to enter this dimension. It was a constant fight to keep it closed; even so, its energy attracted monsters, demons, and vampires from all over this dimension. Sunnydale was a magnet for death and destruction. No wonder it was home base for the Chosen One.
The last time the Hellmouth had opened, Buffy had died.