"I don't trust him," she snaps.
"Well, the feeling is mutual," I shoot back. "I don't trust you either, Diane."
The Professor gives me a long-suffering look as I hand him a small stack of plates. I offer him a small shrug in response before taking out drinks and setting them on the breakfast bar. "I'm going to guess you haven't been eating right since the fight," he says, cornering me in the kitchen and lowering his voice. "Have a shake. Trust me."
"I do," I tell him. "But there's plenty of food."
In response, he lifts my arm and wraps his hand around my wrist. It's a test he used to do, back when I was younger, to make sure I was eating enough and not losing too much weight. "Trust me," he says again. "Please?"
I nod and, while the others sit down and serve themselves, I throw milk, protein powder, and vitamin mix into the blender and start it up. The sound makes Jake and Dr. Colibri jump, but the Professor takes it in stride. It only takes a minute to make the thing and then I'm at the table with the rest of them. "So," I say, "where were you guys today?"
The Professor opens his mouth, closes it, and looks over to Dr. Colibri. They commune silently for a few seconds and the look on her face when it's over seems to say 'in for a penny, in for a pound'. "There are more of us than you know," Colibri says.
"Hell, there's more than just the Professor, and that was a big-ass shock."
She stabs a piece of chicken hard enough that the fork clinks against the plate. "Does she always interrupt?"
"When she's in a good mood," the Professor says. "Or in a really bad one."
"Oh? And which one is this?"
I just smile sweetly and drop crispy noodles into my soup. "Guess."
The doctor eats her piece of chicken -- probably so she has time to count to ten in her head -- before continuing. "Once we determined the fight was over," she says, "we were going to contact you, but our..." She casts about for the word. "Our superiors," she finally decides upon, "wanted to have a word about you. And a few other things."
"Such as?"
"Other things." It's the Professor saying it now, so I let it go. He glances at Jake, whose mouth isn't hanging open, though I'm sure it's a near thing. "Please don't make any 'Watcher's Council' references. If you're Andrea's friend, I'm sure you know what I mean."
He nods. "So what are you two? Support staff?"
"Hardly," Dr. Colibri says with a bark of laughter.
"I agree. She's not supportive at all." The doctor gives me another glare, and I retaliate with another smile. I think my goal tonight is to get her to storm away from the table before she finishes eating. "The Professor's job was always to help me defeat my enemies. The Dark King and his adversary -- that's me," I add, grinning at Jake, "have been locked in a cycle of combat for thousands of years. Whoever his people are, they have a ton of information on the King's minions."
"But you kill them, right?"
"Reduce, reuse, recycle," I say, and then spoon up some of my soup.
"The Dark King calls up most of the same... I guess you could call them 'demons'," the Professor says. "We don't know if it's because he only has so many, or because he's comfortable with them, but whatever the reason, we know how to stop a great deal of them."
Jake nods and serves himself a little more lo mein. "You have to admit, it is very Watcher's Council."
"Face it, Professor," I say. "You're going to have to sit down and watch Buffy one of these days."
He actually smiles. Cool.
"And you, Jake? You worked with Andrea?"
Another nod. "I'm a web developer. I don't actually cover the news or anything, although I see most of it."
Dr. Colibri makes a 'hmm' sound. "What is it, Diane?" the Professor asks.
"He might be useful to us," she says. "We don't hear everything, and we certainly don't get phone calls."
"People do call TV stations an awful lot." I'd filled in on occasion at the front desk, and holy crap did I talk to a lot of people. "Jake, you have an account on the internal system, right?"
"Yeah, but I can't share that kind of information."
"Right." I remember we signed NDAs when we got hired. "But I'm not the competition. If anything, it'll lead to more stories for the station, right?"
"Jake," the Professor says, "I know you care about Andrea. She's certainly told me enough about you--"
"She has?" He looks over to me. "You have?"
I reach over and put my hand on his. "I have."
"It wouldn't be anything too intrusive," the Professor continues. "I'll give you a phone number to call; you leave messages, and we'll follow up on them or try to corroborate them."
I can see on his face the battle going on in his head. On the one hand, he doesn't want to get in trouble at work. On the other hand, I know he knows the kind of dangers Alexandra faced last time, and now that he knows I'm her, he wants to help me. And on the third hand, I know Jake, like all men, was once a little boy who dreamed of being a superhero. This is about the closest he's going to get, and if I'm right, he's about to--
"Okay," he says. "Give me the number."
Dr. Colibri tries to menace Jake a little more, but it's like a Chihuahua barking at a Saint Bernard -- Jake ignores her and concentrates on me instead. Eventually she and the Professor depart, though not before extracting a promise from me to be at the lab by nine the next morning. "Ten hours," Colibri says as I show them out. "Should be enough time to relax, even for you."
I don't dignify that remark with an answer; I just thank the Professor for dinner and close the door behind them.
Jake comes out of the guest bedroom a couple of minutes later, while I'm clearing the table and putting the leftovers into the fridge. His face is decidedly more ashen than I've seen lately. "Lisa?"
"Lisa," he confirms. "I told her I was coming by to drop something off and talk to you for a few minutes, but it's been hours."
"I'm sorry," I say. "I guess you have to go, then."
"Yeah." I can tell he's reluctant. "Might as well take my licks."
In a normal situation, I might joke with him about that particular phrase, but I can tell it would be in bad taste. I go over to him and take his hand. "I'm sorry," I say again. "I wish I could do something more to help."
Jake shrugs. "Not much to be done. I just have to keep trying and hope we get it worked out."
I nod and we walk to the front door. "Hey, Jake?"
"Yeah?"
I urge him to turn around, and when he does, I'm floating high enough for us to be eye-to-eye. "If things don't work out," I tell him, "remember this, would you?"
"Remember... remember what?"
I take his face in my hands and kiss him.
I wish I could say that one kiss got him to say goodbye to his wife and spend the night with me, but that wouldn't be realistic. And, truthfully, I shouldn't have done it anyway. But I'm fighting monsters now -- well, not right now -- and I don't want to die not knowing what it's like to kiss Jake.
For the first second or two, it's amazing. It's been so long since I've been kissed -- and even longer since I was the one who initiated it -- that I give myself completely over to the sensation. Jake's lips are warm and soft, and his beard tickles a little, and this close up I can smell the vague scent that always makes me feel safe and comfortable, even though now I'm the one who does the protecting.
But it's that third second that... well, I don't want to say 'spoils' it, but when a girl is kissing a guy and he pushes her away, how's she supposed to feel? I drop to the floor and watch his face flush hot and red. "Andrea..."
"Jake, I'm sorry, but I had to. I just... I had to."
He doesn't say anything else, and he doesn't hug me goodbye. He just gets the hell out of the apartment.
Great. Brilliant.
"Fuck!"
I forget about the dishes and clump over to the sofa, throwing myself down on it. Willow, who was sleeping on the armrest, pads across the cushions to get into optimal petting position. Buffy,
though, just stares at me from her perch on the coffee table. "What's the big deal with him, anyway? So he feeds us and he's nice to you; so what?"
"So I like him. He's the perfect type of guy for me, except that he's married."
"So what?" Buffy says. "You're starting to look like those girls in the shows you watch. They never have trouble getting men to mate with them; why not find another, now that you look different?"
"I don't want to find another guy," I say. I don't pet Willow; I get up from the couch and go into the bedroom, closing the door behind me so I can lie on my bed in peace, away from everyone.
Tears prick at my eyes. I wipe them away with my fingers so I can keep staring at the ceiling, at the fan blades that slice through the air, at the pattern of the paint. I don't want to voice what I'm thinking -- not yet, and maybe not ever -- but if I don't get it out in the open, then I might never admit it to myself.
So instead I lie there for a few more minutes, until I decide nothing's going to get solved. Then I get up, go back into the kitchen, and finish clearing the table. Buffy, rather wisely, has made herself scarce, and Willow's keeping her own counsel as she sits like a sphinx and watches me clean. I'm not even bothering to use my abilities to make it go faster, which feels odd as well.
Eventually I get back to the bedroom and get undressed. I stand in front of the mirror and look at myself. I'm still not perfect -- my stomach and thighs are bigger than they were when I was in top form, back in high school, although I don't really mind it so much. I've been fat for so long that just being thirty pounds overweight is one hell of an improvement.
I pick my phone up from the dresser and flip over to the gallery. There's a photo of me and Jake from last year's Christmas party -- I only went because he badgered me into it, and we ended up having a good time just hanging out. The photo is of the two of us doing one of those stupid-ass group dances that every DJ feels the need to trot out, and I actually look like I'm having a good time.
I compare 225-pound me to 160-pound me and that's when I finally say it.
"Jake liked me the way I used to be."
"What do you mean?" That's Willow; she's on the bed now. She must have come in while I was brushing my teeth.
"I mean, Jake didn't care what I looked like. He liked me for me."
"I like you no matter what you look like," Willow says. "You're my Andrea."
I see my mirror image smile. "Thanks," I say, "but it's different. No offense, but you're a cat."
"Why would I be offended? I am a cat."
"What she means," Buffy says from the doorway, "is that Jake would've wanted Andrea when she was bigger, and she's confused. She's afraid he won't want to mate with her now that she's this shape."
I frown at Buffy. I have no idea how this cat got so damn smart, but the thing is, she's right. "All this time," I say as I retrieve my nightgown and pull it on, "I've been going crazy about not having my powers. I'd been alone, and I'd resolved myself to it."
"You're not alone," Willow says. When she sees my face, she adds, "I know. I'm a cat."
"Now that she looks more like the women on those shows she watches," Buffy says, "she's wondering if she's just being shallow."
"Am I?"
"You tell me." Buffy moves to the chair by the window and gets into a comfortable position. "You got what you wanted. From what I heard, you can't have Jake. So find another mate and quit being such a dumbass about it."
I shake my head slightly and get into bed. Willow takes her spot on the pillow. I set the alarm and turn off the light.
My brain, unfortunately, won't shut off. It just keeps running around in little circles, driving me crazy.
Jake liked the way I used to look.
I used to be fat.
I can't have Jake.
I'm not fat anymore.
Does Jake still like me the same way?
Jake liked the way I used to look...
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE KILLER IN ME
+++++
My plans for getting to the lab right on time are flushed down the toilet courtesy of an early-morning call from Dr. Colibri -- apparently evil doesn't believe in sleeping in. It also doesn't wait for me to get my costume cleaned; when I take a close look at it for the first time since I took it off last night, I realize that it could use a wash. Not that I ever asked the Professor how he got my costumes cleaned or repaired, but I've got to believe there's a dry-cleaner somewhere that doesn't ask questions.
Still, I'm not putting the suit on in this condition. I opt for jeans, boots, a blue t-shirt, and my mask. Although I don't really have the time to, I take a moment to preen in the full-length bathroom mirror: for the first time in a long time, this outfit actually looks good on me. If only someone -- if only Jake -- could appreciate me in it, instead of appreciate what I'm about to do.
Not the whole "make a quick breakfast and feed the cats" part -- the other part, where I go out and make with the ass-kicking. I admit I kind of like the adulation from that, too, but sometimes a girl just wants to look pretty.
No time for that. Not today. Maybe tomorrow.
The first creature I fight is at a high school in Decatur. I can tell when I get there that it's targeting the football team -- the only people, other than teachers, who are willing to be on campus more than an hour before school starts. I catch it just on the other side of the bleachers; the fight is brief and to the point, and I escape with only a little goo on my boots. After that's done, Dr. Colibri sends me to another school -- a private school in Sandy Springs -- where something that's got to be the first monster's cousin is clearly waiting for kids to get to early-care. It goes down just as easy as the first, and I leave its body in a shallow ravine under some nearby power lines.
The third battle, though, is worse than the others. Not because I don't think I'll win it, but because I'd hoped that the Dark King's minions wouldn't get around to "let's possess humans and make them do horrible things" this time around.
I should be so lucky.
I track the minion to an office building in Buckhead and enter through the roof access. I'm sure I'll show up on a security camera -- breaking the lock on the door probably trips more than one alarm at the front desk -- but then, that's why I have my mask. I run down the stairs to the fifteenth floor, following the cramps in my stomach and the tingle in my neck to suite 1550. The door is unlocked and I hear a few people milling around, but it's still not even eight o'clock yet and there aren't too many people here. I flash past a secretary on her way back from the break room and make my way through a cubicle maze until the acid in my throat becomes nearly too much to bear.
"Don't try and stop me."
It's an older man, probably in his fifties, who's speaking, but the words aren't his. I know -- I can feel the minion's presence inside the man, like a disease that I'm going to have to find a way to cure. "Who are you?" I ask, trying to figure out what the minion has on its mind.
The man's body turns in his chair and I see the semi-automatic rifle cradled to his chest. "I'm your enemy. That's all the name you need right now."
"What about his?"
He shrugs. I steal a glance at the nameplate on the wall -- Ezra Hirsch, Pricing Specialist. Sorry, Ezra, but this is going to hurt you more than it's going to hurt me. "Why do you care?" he asks. "It's not as if you'll ever see him again."
"No, but I might see you."
He laughs, soft and bitter, and turns the gun in my direction. I tense up, remembering exactly where I'm going to have to run if he starts to pull the trigger. I'm fast enough to get out of the way -- not faster than a speeding bullet, per se, though I do have one hell of an acceleration curve -- but I'm still hopeful I can resolve this without shots being fired. I've been shot, and it sucks. A lot. "My name is Zakrazgo," he says. "Do you remember it?"
I shake my head. I killed a lot of demon-minions the last time around. "Sorry."
Zakrazgo gives me a half-shrug. "I don't hold it against you. I'm just
doing my job here."
"Why this guy, though? Why this place, and why this man?"
He strokes the trigger-guard and I manage not to flinch. I can't stay this tensed-up for too much longer without sacrificing some of my reaction time, and I let myself relax in tiny increments as he speaks. "It's an old story, played out every day in this city," he says. "Faithful employee gets passed over for promotion after promotion, not because he wouldn't be good at the job, but because he's too good at what he already does. They can't find anyone to replace him. Eventually he's deemed too old and too un-trainable, but if he quits and goes somewhere else he has to start over again. So he's bitter. Bitter and impotent." Something must cross my face because Zakrazgo allows a small grin. "Not like that. But lately he's been having trouble in bed, too. He thinks his wife is banging someone else, but he doesn't have proof. Plus, his kids are in high school and have the standard high-school attitude. I'm sure you're familiar with it."
I nod. "I'd like to think I wasn't that bad."
"Let me in," he suggests. "We'll find out together."
"I think not."
Zakrazgo is silent for a couple of seconds. "It's a perfect storm. I caught him at home, showed him where to find the gun, and brought him here. When I'm done, I'll throw his body out the window and escape, just to do it all again."
"You know that I have to stop you."
"I know you're going to try." He smiles, and the smile is ugly in the man's distinguished features. "Let's see if you can pull it off, shall we?"
He pulls the trigger then, but I'm already on the move. Instead of escaping, I flash to his side and grab the gun before the echo of the shot has died down. I bring the gun down across my leg, bending it, turning it into a hunk of wood and metal that's useful only as a club.
Hmm. Good idea. I whip the bent gun upward, hoping to knock Zakrazgo -- and Hirsch -- out in one go, but Zakrazgo catches the blow on his arm and floats past me before I can grab him. I know that I've hurt Hirsch badly, but Zakrazgo isn't letting him feel the pain.
After The Apocalypse Page 21
