The Book of Fours

by Nancy Holder

  “Plastic surgeons are probably upstairs drinking champagne,” someone else said. “Fat bastards. They should try practicing real medicine sometime.”

  Another voice chimed in, “Is Corvalis still alive? I used to hang out with his older brother in high school. He was a nice kid.”

  “Barely,” came in the answer. “Someone should be kind. If I was in that much pain . . .”

  There was a moment of silence.

  “She’s gone,” said a different voice.

  “I’m not leaving,” said the figure. “She’s going to make it. Come on, Willow. Come on, dear.”

  “Doctor Fleming, we really should call it,” said one of the other figures. “There’s no activity.”

  Willow blinked, feeling sad.

  Oz is going to miss me . . .

  Then the world turned very bright, as if she were staring directly into the big, circular light. She couldn’t blink, so she tried to raise her hand to cover her eyes. But nothing came between her and the light.

  I don’t think I have arms, she thought, bemused. But then I must not have eyes. So why does the light bother me?

  The light grew more intense; it was a shimmering, brilliant white that filled her field of vision. It stretched across her horizon; she had the sensation that it was solid, and that if she could touch it, it would be very, very pleasant.

  The whiteness faded, and grew dull; it flattened into a matte nickel color. There was nothing but grayness the color and consistency of fog. Again she tried to reach out a hand to touch it, but there was nothing to touch.

  Panic rose along with her disorientation. She looked down and saw nothing below.

  Not even my own feet. Nothing.

  She heard weeping, and then shadowy blurs began to form around her. They were indistinct flashes of darkness against the dull twilight.

  Then a face appeared, its features contorted and grotesque. She saw a disembodied hand. A stream of gray hair matted with dust and cobwebs.

  Half of a skull.

  The perfectly formed arm of an infant.

  Help, Willow whispered. But no sound came out. She heard herself inside her head, but not with her ears. She listened for her heartbeat, but instead heard the flatline of a heart monitor.

  More weeping.

  Then a slow, sad moan trailed across her, touching her in some palpable way. It was almost subaudible, a whispery keening that made her shudder as it caressed her, then seeped inside her, penetrating her with a coldness that permeated her being.

  Whatever my being is.

  Oh, God, I’m already a ghost. I’m a dead ghost person.

  For a moment, panic overwhelmed her. I really am dead!

  Her hand flashed before her, but only briefly. It moved toward her face—if I have a face—but disappeared almost as soon as she realized what it was.

  Come back. Be my hand again. I want to be Willow again.

  Forever.

  She was cold, so very cold. She bowed under the weight, sinking deep down into a quicksand, or a morass, of nothing.

  No, don’t let me die, she begged. Buffy, where are you?

  There were still no actual words, only her inner thoughts. No one to hear her plea, unless they could read her mind.

  Shapes darted around her; something icy darted right through her. The gray haze revolved around her, or maybe it remained perfectly still. She was unbelievably dizzy; it was like being seasick. Dimly, she remembered once telling Buffy how she had gone out on a boat with her adorable boy cousin Moshe from New Jersey and wound up barfing over the side half the day.

  Barfing in a wine-dark sea, a wine-dark sea, she thought, not recognizing the reference, but knowing it was from something she had read.

  If I’m really dead, do we get to read books?

  And is this all I’m gonna get of my life flashing before my eyes, barfing in front of Moshe?

  A face popped in front of her, its gaze level and unblinking. It had a mouth, and it inhaled sharply. Then it smiled and said, “Hello, little witch.”

  Willow blinked. The face stretched and became transparent; then she blinked again several times and the features became more formed. Willow brightened, relieved to see—at last—an old friend.

  “You’re Lucy, aren’t you?” she asked brightly. “It’s really, really good to see you. In all senses of the word. Seeing, as with actual eyes,” she added. “Eyes, good, too.”

  The figure of the dead Slayer, Lucy Hanover, vibrated in the gray, like a cheesy hologram. It was like a stuttering, and then the vibrating stopped.

  “Hello,” Lucy said. “Yes, it is I. I’m both sad and relieved to find you on these roads, Willow.”

  Lucy Hanover the Vampire Slayer had died during America’s Civil War, and she was dressed for the occasion. She wore a high-necked, formfitting black silk dress with a large, puffy bustle. Lucy’s hair was pulled back in a becoming bun, and dangling earrings of jet hung from her ear lobes. She had the palest skin Willow had ever seen, including Angel’s. She was literally whiter than a sheet.

  Willow finally understood.

  “I’m on the Ghost Roads,” she said.

  Lucy’s smile was reassuring and kind, and she reached out a hand as she nodded. “Don’t be afraid.”

  “You mean, don’t be afraid because I’m here, or because you’re dead, or because I’m, um, dead?” Willow queried uneasily.

  “All three, but I meant, because you’re dead,” Lucy said gently.

  Willow was sick with dread. “I really am? It’s not a dream?”

  Nodding, Lucy clasped her hands in front of herself and sighed. “I’m so sorry, Willow, but you really are.”

  Willow sagged. “Darn.” She made a little face. “No offense.”

  Lucy said, “None taken, I’m sure. I was no more delighted to find myself here than you are now.”

  Nervous, Willow began to spill, blurting, “You know, okay, death issues because I’m a teenager, but I really thought I’d live a really long time. I guess everyone does, huh? I mean, thinks they’ll live a long time?”

  “Even Slayers,” Lucy murmured. She held out her hand. “This is a pocket of quiet, but the dead are restless. They’re frightened. You remember how it was before, when you were trying to save Xander?”

  Willow did. She and Cordelia had traveled the Ghost Roads last summer to save Xander’s life. But the ghosts who had traveled there were frightened, and tried to block their way. Also, to force them to leave Xander behind, because he was dead.

  “We brought him back to life,” Willow said hopefully. “Are you here to tell me how to save myself? Like, dunk myself in a magick cauldron or something?”

  Lucy shook her head. “It’s too late to bring you back in that way. Your friend Xander had a stronger life spark than you do.”

  Willow found that somehow very embarrassing, as if not having a strong life spark was her own personal failing. So call me an overachiever.

  She said, “What about all the modern medicine? Are they doing C.P.R.? Or maybe the thing with the paddles, like on E.R., where Dr. Green yells ‘clear’ and everybody lifts up their hands and they zap me and I go back—”

  “Willow, I don’t know about those things. For the moment, my dear, you are truly dead,” Lucy said.

  “Oh.” Willow was still, taking that in. Then over the unchanging landscape, she heard rustles and tears, sighs and whispers.

  “Oblivion,” someone said breathily.

  Then Lucy took her hand, and Willow saw that she, too had a hand again. It was almost, but not quite, as white as Lucy’s.

  “Your life is draining out of you,” Lucy said, as if she’d read Willow’s mind.

  “Then I’m not quite dead,” Willow replied.

  “I pray—and the dead do pray—that they will bring you back to your living world.” She reached out a hand, and Willow took it. It was ice cold. “But for now, walk with me, Willow. Buffy and Faith are going to need your help.”

  They did walk, and as
the gray merged into more gray on the vast, flat horizon, Willow lost track of spatial distances—if there were any there, on the Ghost Roads—and how much time had elapsed. She knew there was only a short span of time where shocking a person’s heart was any use, because if there was no oxygen to the brain, everything else shut down in rapid order.

  Lucy looked around. “There’s a great evil moving through the living world, young Wicca. Do you know what the Gatherer is?”

  There was a momentary flicker of light; someone breathing; Willow heard a heartbeat—

  And then she was positive she heard someone calling her name from very far away.

  “Have you been listening?” Lucy asked, startling her.

  Willow jerked. She was dizzy and unfocused, as if she’d fallen asleep, and she flushed.

  “I drifted off,” she confessed. “I’ve very sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

  “You must have gone back. But it wasn’t for very long, or I would have noticed,” Lucy told her, as Willow began to get excited.

  “I was resuscitated!” Willow said.

  “But it didn’t last.” Lucy’s voice was kind but firm. “Please, Willow, I need your attention while I have it.”

  “I’m sorry,” Willow said unhappily. “But I don’t feel like I belong here. And if they’re working on me, well—”

  She half-opened her eyes. The blazing white made her shy away, squinting, until two large blue eyes blocked the beam. Below the eyes stretched a mask of white paper.

  “She’s back,” said the figure. The blue eyes crinkled above the strip of white.

  There was a chorus of cheers in the operating room.

  Then: “No, damn it! Stay here, Willow! Stay with us!”

  * * *

  Willow knew she had let go again, and she began to feel guilty about her inability to either stay alive or stay dead.

  Then after a moment, she returned to the Ghost Roads. This time she knew it, and didn’t wig.

  Which, this time, may be a good idea.

  Lucy wasn’t there, but a lot of other people were.

  The dead were in a wild panic, threatening to run right over her. They slammed into her, knocking her over, swarming around her like stampeding cattle. Their mouths were contorted into terrified shrieks. They jostled one another and shattered into fragments, to be ground under the heels of the next panicked phantom.

  Oh, yeah, Willow thought, remembering her previous travels on the Ghost Roads. Brittle. One sock and they’re dead meat.

  So to speak.

  “It’s here!” a white-faced wraith screamed directly into Willow’s face. Its hands wrapped around her shoulders and shook her, hard. It was so terrified that it was trying to crawl up Willow’s body, scrambling in fright and complete panic. Then it let go of her and ran shrieking around her, arms thrown above its head as if it were on fire.

  Willow cried out as a semitransparent child rushed up to her next, its face a hole filled with screaming. Sobbing, it clung to her, and in its fright, began to pummel her chest. Willow blocked its blows with her wrists, struggling to push it away.

  “Stop it, stop!” she shouted.

  “Mama! Mama!” the child screamed. “Mama!”

  The child kept batting at her. Willow tried again to push it away, her fist accidentally catching the child in the chest.

  It shattered into shards of brittle bone that clattered against the gray, as if it had hit a solid wall. Willow stared in shock and remorse.

  “Sorry,” she murmured.

  The panic level rose, until Willow could no longer distinguish the blur of white around her. Then she realized it was like fog, rolling in, a thick, rolling mist that blanketed everything. And it smelled.

  A fleeing skeleton swiped at her, its bony fingertips just missing her cheek. Willow ducked, crying out, and covered her head in a defensive posture.

  Something slammed against her back, knocking her forward onto her knees. As the offender—another phantom—dashed on, Willow looked over her shoulder just in time to see a blanket of fog unrolling toward her. Not liking that.

  She pushed her hands and feet against the road—which was solid—and sprang sideways out of the way. Inside the fog, there was a blur. As the mists shifted and curled, the blur became a figure wrapped in bandages. Though its face was covered, it appeared to look straight at her.

  It came toward her. Then a box appeared in its arms, and it slowly lifted the lid.

  She kept well away from it, backing up to stay out of range.

  “Lucy?” she cried, looking around for the dead Slayer. “Help would be good!”

  * * *

  Willow woke up.

  For a second dizziness roiled over her and she thought, I’m at Xander’s, watching some dorky horror movie.

  No. I’m at Six Flags Magic Mountain. I’m on the Viper roller coaster.

  Lights flashed overhead, bright, not, bright, not, and something was rattling and banging and there was screaming everywhere.

  She opened her eyes. She was strapped on a gurney, and people in masks were racing her down a corridor. Lights overhead flickered and strobed.

  “My head,” she moaned. It throbbed with pain. “My head.”

  “My God, she’s back again!” someone said. “Get her back in surgery!”

  The gurney she was on bobbled down a hallway. Rattle, rattle, rattle. Willow’s eyes began to close.

  Then she heard, “Willow!”

  She couldn’t speak again, but she thought tears were sliding down her temples.

  “Willow, damn it, stay with us!”

  * * *

  “It must have honed in on me,” Lucy said, as the two raced hand-in-hand along the Ghost Roads. “Don’t go anywhere on these roads without me, all right? It’s so easy to get lost on the paths. So many twists and turns. Try to concentrate on me if you have to leave and then come back again like that.”

  “Sorry.”

  The phantoms were in full retreat around them, shrieking and screaming. White and gray raged around them, crackling and rumbling like weighty summer storms. Brighter lights flickered and flashed, explosions on a distant, nonexistent horizon.

  The fog rushed over Willow and Lucy like a net again. Something close behind them was breathing down Willow’s neck; she felt its shadow, and its panting breath stank like rotten things.

  “Lucy . . .” Willow said.

  Lucy nodded. “It’s a Wanderer, Willow. It’s following us because of me, not you. I’m a Slayer. We have to find a way to tell Buffy and Faith that the Wanderers are coming to Sunnydale.”

  Willow said, “The what?”

  “The Wanderers. They’re hunting for Slayers, for the Gatherer. It wants them. It needs Slayers, Willow. It craves them.”

  “Like nicotine?” Willow asked.

  Then Lucy shrank to the size of a needle. Willow realized that she herself was floating up into the air, leaving the dead Slayer behind.

  Lucy reached up for her. “You have to tell Buffy, Willow. Don’t forget—”

  * * *

  Willow opened her eyes.

  A man in scrubs was straddling her, his mouth over hers. She felt her breath pour into his mouth. His eyes flew open, and he sat up.

  “She’s breathing!” he shouted.

  “B—bu,” Willow tried. “Buff . . .”

  “Don’t talk,” said the man. A clear plastic oxygen mask came down over her face. “Don’t say a word. Just breathe in, honey. C’mon, Willow, stay a while.”

  Chapter Three

  Okay, Oz thought, as he rushed into the waiting room of the Sunnydale Medical Center. This is the part where I wake up.

  Only, he knew better. Going to Sunnydale Medical Center to check on one of his friends—or worst, of all, my Willow—was his least favorite but most common form of déjà vu.

  He had seen Willow in the hospital before. He had already faced the possibility of losing her, to heartbreak, yes, and to death as well.

  So why does it feel so horr
ible and new?

  His heart was pounding as he pushed open the door to the waiting room. The plastic chairs were the same. So were the out-of-date wooden coffee tables crammed between the couches. The TV was turned on to some talk show, just like always. There was the fish tank with the neon tetras and the zebra fish swimming around.

  He saw Buffy and her mom, and no one else, even though there were other people in the room.

  “Oz, thank God!” Buffy cried when she saw him. She ran to him and took his hand. There were stitches at her hairline, just to the right of center.

  “Hey.” He gave her a nod as he searched her face, looking for something, anything, to tell him how Willow was. The skin around her stitches was puffy and red. There was a bruise on her right cheek. But except for that, all he saw was a frightened young woman with swollen eyes, who looked like she’d just lost her best friend.

  And does that cliché suck.

  “Hello, Oz,” said Mrs. Summers. Her right arm was in a sling. She had a Styrofoam coffee cup in her left hand. It was full. She looked down as if she’d just realized she was holding it and set it down on the nearest dark veneer tabletop, which was littered with out-of-date golfing magazines. Then she held her hand against her chest in an awkward position, as if she didn’t know what to do with it.

  All this Oz saw, with a strange, dizzying clarity. It really is a dream, he thought. A nightmare.

  He thought he might lose it when Buffy started to unravel. But the Slayer got hold of herself and said, “Oz, she’s hurt.”

  “What happened?” They’d told him on the phone, something about a car accident, but he couldn’t pull any of it together.

  “I didn’t see him at first,” Joyce said anxiously, looking at her daughter. “There was this sudden fog. And then, this figure. A-a tall man. He just appeared in the middle of the street. From out of nowhere.”

  Oz ticked his attention to Buffy, who moved her shoulders in a gesture of helplessness and apology.

  “We were talking about makeup and I gave her my lipstick, but I dropped it. And then Mom hit something, a car—”

  “It wasn’t a car,” Joyce insisted. “It was a man. A white man, like a silhouette.”

  “It was too foggy to see,” Buffy conceded. She turned to Oz. “All this fog rushed in, like a fire—”