I give Willow a gentle nudge in the hindquarters and she meeps at me -- a sound that doesn't translate into human speech very well -- before taking a few steps, far enough to find a clear bit of couch and flop back down on it to continue her nap. Good enough; now I can get up and go into the bedroom. I've been sitting in these same clothes for way too long, and even though I tossed the socks and shoes in the trash, once I've taken off my jeans I realize that the bottom of the legs are crusty with dried octopus stuff. In fact, some of the splatters made it all the way up to my knees. "Really did a number on that thing," I murmur, carefully folding the jeans and setting them on the floor next to the hamper -- they're going in the washer by themselves, although I'm not confident I'll be able to get it all out. And if that happens, I don't know what I'll do. "Probably make a pair of jorts or something."
Jorts. Funny word, that. I laugh a little as I finish undressing, but seeing myself in the mirror, naked except for my mask, I find I'm suddenly barely able to hold back tears.
Buffy, who apparently has been sitting on the chair by the window all this time, asks a rather pertinent question. "Did anyone see you wearing that when you came in?"
Oh.
Oh, holy shit.
Oh holy shit!
Without thinking, I grab the mask and pull it off my face. There's a short, sharp scream that I realize came from me, followed by a not-insubstantial burning sensation across my cheeks, brow, and the bridge of my nose.
"Well, that was dumb," Buffy says.
"No fooling." I toss the mask onto the dresser and peer at my face in the mirror. Blood is welling up in a few places, and the skin is definitely torn in others, just barely holding on. I feel the tears welling up before my vision goes blurry, but they're tears of pain this time, and I think that's better than the alternative.
I carefully wipe the tears away from my eyes and sniff back the snot threatening to drip out of my nose, and when I can see again, the scrapes and such are already healing. "That's funny."
"What's funny? You standing there naked?"
"You're naked too, cat."
"Cats aren't afraid to show their bodies to other cats. I was here the last time you tried to mate with someone."
My face flushes red with a combination of embarrassment and horror -- I used to ignore the cats on the extremely-rare occasions when I felt comfortable enough to invite someone into my bedroom. I turn to Buffy and advance on her, slowly, my face going hard and tight. "You... you watched me..." I stomp once, hard enough to shake the stuff on the dresser and raise Buffy's hackles. "You watched me having sex?"
Buffy bolts, but I'm faster; I have her by the scruff of the neck now, dangling in midair. Her tail curls up to protect her more sensitive spots, and her claws -- such as they are after the weekend's trim -- are out and ready to strike. "Put me down!" she yowls. "Put me down, bitch!"
My fingers tighten on Buffy and the yowl turns to one of pain and fright. My heart crumples and in an instant she's on the floor, bolting away, cursing up a storm. I drop to my knees and bury my face in the blankets, ignoring the pain of my healing face.
Then I start to scream.
Willow finds me curled up in bed, buried under the blanket. She squirms her way in until her fuzzy little head is pressed to my cheek. "Is she mad?" I ask.
"Yeah." For the first time, Willow's voice in my head doesn't sound kind or pleasant. She's pissed off, and she has every right to be. "What happened, Andrea?"
"Everything." I feel my eyes start to well up with tears again, and I hate it. I thought I got all of this out, but apparently that was not the case. "I quit my job today. I said goodbye to one of my best friends. And then I saved a woman from being violated by a tentacle monster."
"That's good, right? That last one?" There's still an edge to Willow's voice.
"It won't go away," I say. "The feelings she had, the powerlessness... she'll have those forever. She'll never feel safe again."
"You saved her life," Willow says again.
"Maybe I did. But I didn't save her soul."
And then, very quietly, my voice perfectly flat, I tell Willow about my college roommate, Regan: about how she dragged me out to a party, about how she went off with some guy, about how she came home at four in the morning, and about how she never told anyone but me what happened to her. I can still remember the way she balled herself up in the corner of her bed, her face as unmoving as I'm sure mine is now, telling me how she said no and it happened anyway. "It's not something I like to think about. Regan never recovered; she failed the next semester, dropped out, and I never heard from her again."
Willow touches my cheek -- which is now completely healed -- with her nose; it's just as moist and cold and comforting as usual. I feel her tiny breaths brushing my skin like kisses. "You aren't your friend," she says. "You're Andrea. You're strong -- stronger than any other human I know."
"You don't know very many humans," I say, unable to stop the smile.
"Be that as it may." I think she got that phrase from me. "I know Buffy heard all of this, no matter where she's hiding. I know she understands. You still need to apologize, though."
"I will." And I mean it, too; to think I would use my powers to terrorize one of my two best non-human friends... to think I was so angry that I was ready to actually hurt her... I want to cry again, but I fight it down. No more tears, not now. "I'll tell her. Soon as she's willing to be in the same place as me, I'll tell her in person." I don't raise my voice, but now I'm talking directly to Buffy. "I'm sorry," I say. "I didn't mean it, and it'll never happen again."
"Fuck you!" It's a cat-sized shout; I can tell she's hiding behind the television just from the way her voice sounds. "You're lucky I don't come in there and fill your bed with hairballs!"
Willow looks right into my eyes. "I'll talk to her," she says. Then she sniffs, just once. "You need a bath. And some food."
I sigh. "You're right. Why are you always right?"
Willow just nuzzles my face again and then jumps down from the bed, I guess heading off to try and keep Buffy from going ballistic on me. Just to be on the safe side, I close the bedroom door before going into the bathroom. I take a quick shower -- really just a rinse -- to get any residual yuck off my skin, and then step onto the scale while the bathtub fills.
Down to 170. Well, at least one thing went right today.
Just to keep the cliché going strong, I find a few candles and set them on the vanity before flipping off all the lights but the one in the shower stall. I even light some of that weird-ass lavender incense I got in the White Elephant exchange at work last December. Honestly, I could use some weed at this point, maybe send my mind out for pizza and let my body do nothing, but I'd have no idea where to even start looking for that, and anyway I learned in high school that when I have powers it doesn't get me high. No, I'll have to settle for candles, incense, and a criminally bad attempt at a garden tub.
I roll up a towel and, as I lean back in the hot water, rest my head against it. The water's too hot to be safe, but I'll heal. And, for now, the burning feels good. It'll get my endorphins going, and that's the best high I can hope for right now.
Once I'm finally comfortable, I let my eyes drift closed. I know falling asleep in a bathtub can be dangerous, but it's been a rough day. I'm exhausted, both physically and emotionally, and I just need a little time to myself.
A minute or two later, the endorphins kick in and I shiver. The water makes a funny micro-splashing noise against my knees where they poke above the surface, and that's the last thing I hear for a while.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
HIM
+++++
I sleep.
I dream.
In the dream, I'm sixteen again, and I'm about to face the Dark King for the first time. The Professor has been training me; my parents are sort of aware of what I've become; and I've already fought a decent chunk of evil -- demons and monsters that were kind enough to come at me one at a time, and one thing that
I think was a vampire, although the Professor told me repeatedly that they simply don't exist.
In the dream, I'm sixteen again, and I'm petrified. The Dark King is at my high school, and there's no way I can beat him.
The first clue I got that something was wrong was the sudden sensation of having to throw up. My hand went to my stomach; Mrs. Daly caught my eye and gave me a nod, and I was out of the classroom as fast as humanly possible. It took pretty much all I had not to engage my super-speed, but the moment I was in the hallway I was like a girl possessed, running for the bathroom.
I made it in time. The minute I spent on my knees wasn't worth thinking about; there was a reason I always kept my hair in a ponytail -- the first time it got in the mess was the last time it got in the mess. Finally I was able to get to my feet, flush, and go to the sink to wash my face and rinse out my mouth.
I looked into my eyes in the mirror: bleary, as usual. But more bloodshot than I was used to. And my stomach hurt a lot more too.
My pocket buzzed. The Professor had me carrying a cell phone, and my doctor's note said I had to have it in case I needed to call 911 and I wasn't near a regular phone. I always forgot it was there until someone made it vibrate. I fumbled it out of my pocket and flipped it open. "Hello?"
"Andrea? Are you all right?" It was the Professor. "I heard something on the scanner."
"Something bad's happening," I said. Then I spat into the sink. I really wished that I'd remembered to put my mints in my pocket this morning. "I think I just barfed up my entire digestive tract." I blamed Mrs. Daly for that bit of detail -- we were up to that unit in Bio, and just before it happened I'd been working on a diagram of the intestines. "It's got to be close."
"It is," he said. "It's him. And he's coming for you."
"Oh, shit."
I could just imagine the Professor's lips going thin. But then he said: "That sounds right."
"What do I do?" Forget the barfy feelings and the persistent tingle in my neck; if what the Professor told me was true -- and I had no reason to doubt him -- then defeating the Dark King was the reason I got these powers in the first place. But... "I'm not ready, Professor," I said in a small voice. "I don't think I can--"
"You can," he said. "Just remember your training, and exploit any weakness you can find."
My knees went watery; I didn't know how, but I found myself sitting on the bathroom floor, my back against the cold tile of the wall, my heart pounding against my ribs. "I'm scared," I whispered. "I'm..." I stopped, took a deep breath, and swallowed past the massive lump in my throat. "I'm going to die."
"No." There was no give in the Professor's voice. "You're not. You're going to win, and you're going to save the world. Maybe not today, but it will happen."
"What...? What do you mean, 'maybe not today'?"
He explained. And, I had to admit, it made sense. "Police are being dispatched to the area where your school is. You have to stop him, Andrea." He paused -- as if the situation needed any more gravity. "Do you have your things?'
"Yeah," I said, nodding -- not that he could see it; just a habit. "I got a hiding place."
"Go. Get changed. And, Andrea?"
I was already pulling myself to my feet, using the sink for extra support. "What?"
"I believe in you."
No one saw me move through the building -- or, if they did, they dismissed me as something they caught out of the corner of an eye. I spent a full weekend here early in the fall, memorizing the layout, learning exactly where everything was. I didn't need to stop every dozen yards and get my bearings. That lost time off came in handy more times than I could count -- especially now, running for the old gym building, sneakers bouncing off the linoleum floor, ponytail almost horizontal behind me. Doors flew open, rebounded against concrete walls, slammed shut, and I was already two hallways away by then.
The old gym was perfect for this. The locker-rooms were only used by visiting teams and kids looking for a place to get high, and there were so many lockers with old locks hanging from them that no one would question one more. I mean, the janitors had had tons of chances to cut them off, and they hadn't done it. Yet. Of course, if it ever happened, I'd be in deep shit, but for now... for now, my best option was to lock one of my costumes in here and always carry the key.
I'd seen the first couple of Superman movies and, in those, Clark was always able to change in a matter of moments. The producers of those films never thought about the breaking points of fabric. The first time I changed at school, I ripped my blouse in half and almost tore one of the legs off my jeans. Now I was more careful -- I could change in about a minute, plus another fifteen seconds to put the glue on my mask and get it in place, and another thirty seconds on top of that to change my hairstyle. The Professor and I had put together an "official" look, but I didn't have time for it; I braided my hair into a single long tail and snapped a blue rubber-band around the end. By then the glue had set and I was ready to go.
Didn't mean I didn't take a couple of seconds to check in the mirror, though, just to be sure. Blue mask, white full-body singlet made of some form of spandex, teal boots and matching tank-top made of more spandex, darker blue knee-length skirt and waist-length cape... it was all in place. I knew the Professor thought the longer skirt could get in the way of my fighting, but I'd refused to budge. I was most definitely not wearing a mini-skirt; the singlet was stretchy, sure, but there was always the chance of ripping it, and there were some days -- mostly the ones ending in y -- that I had absolutely no desire to show my underwear to the people I was saving.
Besides, the skirt hadn't been a problem before; if I was going to die today -- the thought made my chest clench up tight and I had to force myself to breathe again -- it wasn't going to be because of my skirt.
I took a couple of deep breaths and released the control I had over my eyes; the blue glow was comforting -- it meant my powers were still working just fine. One of my nightmares since the powers came was that I'd be in a fight and they'd suddenly disappear.
"Okay," I told myself. "Time to go."
I found the Dark King wreaking havoc in the library -- books flying everywhere, shelves crashing, walls busted out, and mixed in with everything else at least thirty students and several adults, most of them hurt. I stopped in the doorway to the library, surveyed the damage as quickly as I could, and then stuck my fingers in my mouth and whistled. Loudly.
The black-and-red-clad figure had been holding a scared-looking boy by the front of his jacket, other fist cocked. Without warning, he threw the kid at me.
I caught him. It was easy enough, and I was certainly strong enough. He looked up into my face and I whispered, "run," as I set him down. He ran, and I stepped into the library. "What do you want?" I asked, and to my credit, my voice didn't shake all that much.
"Want?" He sounded so smooth, so suave; actually, he sounded kind of like the guy who played Q on Star Trek. "I want to win, the same as you."
The voice was where the similarity ended. The Dark King had blood-red skin, a crown of horn-like spikes poking through his shiny black hair, and glowing red eyes. He wore an impeccable suit of black fabric that seemed to shine with a life of its own, and the suit had red accents to match his flesh. He didn't have a tail, but he could've pulled one off with ease.
He did, however, have a trident. Sort of. What that meant, according to the Professor, was that the weapon lived in the pocket dimension where he and his minions resided. But at that moment, he held out his hand and the staff shimmered into existence.
He slammed it against a support pillar, and the pillar shattered.
"What about you, Alexandra?" When he saw my face go pale, he laughed. "Oh, I know exactly who you are. I know who all of my opponents are." He raised his voice. "I know all of humanity's saviors!" Then he spoke quietly again, as if we were in an intimate situation. "And this time, humanity is fucked."
The King came for me then, moving fast -- not as fast as me, but faster than any normal p
erson could hope to do -- and I flashed out of the way, across the room. My cape fluttered behind me as I stopped. "Oh," he said, grinning, "so that's how you want it to be?"
"I don't want it to be any way in particular," I said. "I just want it to be over."
"Then give up." He moved in my direction and I flashed again. "Come on, Alexandra," he snarled, exasperated now. "Give up and I promise to kill you quickly."
"And I'm supposed to believe you?" I flashed again, to a student bleeding from a head wound; I picked up the girl and flashed out to the hallway, laying her down gently on the linoleum. A couple of teachers ran around the corner and skidded to a stop. "Stay back," I warned. "Help her, but stay back. I'll save as many as I can before--"
The building shook. I don't know what the King did, but I heard things starting to fall in nearby rooms, and some of the students were definitely shouting.
"Should we call the police?" one of the teachers asked.
"Call who you want," I said, "but I think they're coming." Sure enough, I heard faint sirens, maybe through a broken window. "I gotta go."
Back into the library. Back into hell. The King was waiting for me, swinging his trident; I got out of the way of most of it, but the edge clipped my shoulder and sent me tumbling, howling in pain. It was like getting punched by five hundred people in the exact same spot at the exact same time, except from the inside out, like my blood wanted to bust through my skin. It was quite possibly the worst pain I'd ever felt.
But I had to ignore it. I had to trust my healing powers.
I had to save the others.
If I was going to die today -- and the jury was still out on that -- I was going to go out saving as many people as I could.
Quick as possible, trusting my speed and my abilities, I flashed through the room, trying to find people who needed my help. I got five more out before the King figured out I wasn't trying to fight him and met me at the door. The trident slammed into the person I was carrying -- one of the librarians -- and she nearly folded in half, coughing and spitting blood all over me. I lowered my good shoulder and jammed it against the King, setting him off-balance just enough to get past.
After The Apocalypse Page 18
