Prophecies

by Christopher Golden

  She slipped her stake back into its sheath. Earlier she had been cold, but now she was too warm, so she unzipped her sweatshirt and tied it around her waist. A bell rang on a buoy out on the ocean and the salt air felt good, invigorating.

  * * *

  When Buffy at last lay her head upon her pillow, sleep would not come. Every time she closed her eyes she could see those burning orange eyes and feel powerful hands upon her throat, the drain of the life force within her. Her mind whirled as she thought about this new breed of vampires. Their tattoos and attributes unified them. They were a single unit, not a group of individual scavengers. She would have to talk to Giles the next day, get to work on figuring out what she was up against.

  At last, exhausted, Buffy drifted off to sleep, and she dreamed.

  She dreamed she was back in Docktown. . . .

  * * *

  Orange eyes blazed in the shadow of every alley. Buoy bells echoed up from the wharf, where the surf rattled wooden timbers and crashed against the sea wall. A chill breeze whistled through cracked windows in a darkened storefront off to her left and whipped bits of trash along the street. An empty beer bottle rolled along the pavement with a tinkling of glass like mournful wind chimes.

  Buffy quickened her pace. They were not attacking, the beasts in the shadows, but she did not like their eyes upon her. They made her feel weak, skittish, like an animal about to bolt into traffic. . . .

  When she looked up, her path was blocked by a ghost.

  Buffy recoiled, prepared to defend herself, her heart beating wildly. But in a single eyeblink, she relaxed again. It was a ghost in front of her, that much was true. But this particular phantom bore her no ill will. In fact, the dead woman whose spirit drifted intangible and translucent before her had been a Slayer herself centuries before.

  “Lucy?” Buffy stared at her, stunned.

  The spirit of Lucy Hanover now walked the ghost roads, the pathways between the world of the flesh and the hereafter, helping lost souls find their way to their ultimate destinations. She had aided Buffy several times, but usually appeared to Willow, apparently somehow in tune with Willow’s magick.

  “I come with a warning, Buffy Summers,” the ghost said, her voice a wisp, like dry leaves rustling in the breeze. “In my journeys I have come upon the soul of an ancient seer. The Prophet tells of horrible events about to take place.”

  Through the ghost’s shimmering form Buffy could see the street beyond, a Dodge up on blocks, a dog on a rusted chain that ran toward the street and began to bark. At the dog’s alarm, Buffy glanced around, hoping the police would not hear and come to investigate.

  But she knew there would be no police. She knew this was a dream. With the Slayer, however, a dream was rarely just a dream. Though it took place upon the dreamscape, Lucy’s visitation was all too real.

  The sound of the surf crashing beneath the docks nearby almost drowned out Lucy’s words, so soft were they.

  “It will be your fault,” the ghost said.

  “What’s that mean?” Buffy asked. “What will be?”

  “I cannot be more specific as yet. I will search for The Prophet again and see if her vision has grown clearer. Until then, I can only say be wary of all that you do and of all the dark forces gathering around you.”

  The ghostly Slayer shimmered again and then dissipated altogether, first into what looked like static on a television or spatters of rain on the windshield, and then Lucy was simply gone.

  Buffy stared at the space where she’d been. The dog kept barking.

  * * *

  Her eyes fluttered open, but only for a moment. An abiding sense of dread had been planted within her, and it lingered in the back of her mind even as she fell back to sleep.

  “Great. Thanks,” she muttered as she drifted off again. “That was very helpful.”

  Yet it was not the last dream she would have that night.

  Nor the worst.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Buffy.”

  In the dream, she slept in Angel’s arms, by a blaze he had set to burn in the enormous stone fireplace at the mansion. Though she knew that his embrace was all of him that she might ever hope to enjoy, still his strong arms around her gave her a deep and abiding sense of contentment. Of peace. It was a peace that her waking hours never afforded her, particularly not of late.

  Bliss.

  Yet bliss quickly gave way to a kind of dark suspicion. Her sleeping face creased with a frown. There was a malignant presence attempting to worm its way into her mind, to draw her from Angel’s tender caress into a world of chaos and horror and sadness.

  “Buffy!”

  It reached for her, icy grip on her bare shoulder, the warmth from the fire leeched away in an instant. Buffy shook her head, tried to deny the creature’s power. She glanced at Angel, but he slept on unaware that she was being attacked, that she was being taken from him.

  “No!” she cried, and flinched away from the thing’s frozen touch. The Slayer lashed out with a powerful backhand. . . .

  “No!” Buffy snapped, as she sat upright in bed, eyes barely open, vision fogged by the remnants of dream. Thoughts slipped slowly back into place in her mind, as though tearing away cobwebs that had been spun there while she slept.

  Once, twice, Buffy blinked. Her knuckles stung with the echo of a blow she had landed only a moment ago. She glanced down at her hand and then, horror mounting in her chest, turned to her right, where her best friend and roommate, Willow Rosenberg, sat holding a hand over a growing welt on her face. Willow’s eyes were wide with shock, her mouth open in a little “o” that would have been comical under other circumstances.

  “Oh God, Will,” Buffy muttered groggily. “Oh . . . I was . . . I was dreaming. I’m sorry.”

  Willow frowned and rubbed her cheek. “That’s the last time I try waking you up.” With a frustrated sigh she grabbed a light sweater off the back of her desk chair and began to slip it on.

  “Are you okay?” Buffy asked. She climbed out of bed and pushed her sleep-wild hair away from her face. “I just . . . I don’t know what happened. I was having this dream and I guess you waking me was part of it, but in the dream you were this horrible monster that wanted to . . .”

  While Buffy had been talking Willow had gone to the mirror in their room and begun gingerly to touch the still-growing red welt on her left cheek. Willow winced when she poked at it a bit too hard. When Buffy, horrified by what she had done, stopped speaking to watch, Willow turned to face her.

  “Your alarm went off a bunch of times. You hit the snooze. Then you turned it off. That was half an hour ago. Since you have class in, like”—she glanced at her watch—“seven minutes, I figured I’d better wake you up. You said you couldn’t afford to miss it.”

  Buffy’s mouth opened, but no words came out. She shook her head and let out a long breath. “I really am sorry, Will. I was out really late on patrol last night. Guess I just got carried away with the sleep thing. Can I make it up to you?” she asked brightly. “Mochaccinos on me?”

  For a moment longer Willow’s grumpy expression remained. Not that Buffy blamed her for it. Then, suddenly, it dissipated as if it had never been there, though the welt remained. Willow offered her patented shy, half-smile and rolled her eyes slightly.

  “After last class this afternoon. I want lots of whipped cream. I’m so weak.” She sighed. “I’ve got to have more practice at staying mad.”

  Buffy offered a sympathetic nod. “It’s not your fault. I didn’t play fair. The mochaccinos are like Willow-kryptonite.”

  “They do drain my resolve,” Willow agreed. “That’s the problem with fighting with your friends. Devastating knowledge of your vulnerabilities.”

  “Exactly why we shouldn’t do it. Nobody wins.”

  Willow flashed a sunny grin at that, then winced with the pain it caused, a hiss escaping through her lips.

  “Oh, Will,” Buffy said quickly, moving toward her. “It hurts that bad? I hope I didn’
t crack your cheekbone or something. Let’s have a look.”

  They moved together to a half-open window where Buffy could get a good look at Willow’s face in the sunlight. Already the swelling had gone down just a tiny bit, but the redness was quickly being replaced by a dark purplish bruise that was certain to draw attention Willow would likely rather do without.

  A cool breeze slipped through the window and Buffy shuddered a little.

  “It looks pretty bad. Sure you don’t want to cover it up? I’ve got a pretty heavy base you could use.”

  Willow shook her head sadly. “No time. Besides, that’d kinda make it look even more like the battered-spouse special, don’t you think? I don’t want anyone thinking I have something to hide. That’d look pretty sad for me, and even worse for Oz.”

  “Oz,” Buffy repeated, and cringed. “He’s gonna kill me.”

  “You marked his girl,” Willow told her with grave resignation. Then she nodded firmly. “I’ll talk to him. See if I can keep him from putting that hit out on you. Anyway, a sparkly new glamour oughta cover it up, I just need some time to do it. Meaning after class. Speaking of which, hello, class? You’re a brand-new Buffy, remember? Supergirl. You should get going.”

  Panic swept through Buffy. The next couple of days were going to be a true test of her resolve about juggling her life. Not only did she have a history exam tomorrow, but a research paper due for soc class on Monday. Now on top of that, and keeping up with her classes, a new crew of nasties were in town to complicate things.

  Sometimes she felt like Jekyll and Hyde, Buffy and the Slayer, with one persona taking over and pretty much screwing things up for the other. Accidentally slugging her best friend was a perfect example. But Buffy knew if she worked at it hard enough, she could maintain the balance.

  “I’m gonna be a little late,” she said. “Professor Blaylock will be annoyed, but I’ve got to call Giles. There’s new talent in town, and I want to figure out what I’m up against.”

  Willow nodded, concerned. “We’ll go over there after mochaccinos this afternoon. Research mode is just a flick of a switch away.”

  “I got it, really,” Buffy said quickly. “You’ve got other things to worry about.”

  “So do you,” Willow reminded her. Then she shrugged. “I’m here when you need me.”

  “Thanks. Just give me a second.”

  She called Giles’s number, then grimaced with frustration as the machine picked up. “Giles,” she said, “it’s me. Patrol was kinda crazy last night. We should talk. I’ll try again later.”

  With a sigh, she put down the phone. Willow watched her impatiently. Quickly as she could, Buffy pulled on a heavy wool jersey and blue jeans. Frantic, she poked around her bureau until she found an elastic to tie back her hair.

  “Y’know, after Kathy, kinda wondering if maybe you’re not cut out for the whole roommate thing,” Willow suggested, one eyebrow arched mischievously.

  She was joking. That much was clear. The roommate Buffy had been stuck with at the beginning of freshman year had been as aggravating as they came, a total spoiled brat with bad taste in music and zero social skills. She’d also been a demon, but that was another story.

  “You’re a riot, Will. Thanks a lot,” she said dryly. A smirk touched the corners of her mouth as she sat on the bed to put her shoes on. “Okay, I’m in and out at all hours, but I think I’m a pretty good roommate. And you’re not exactly perfect yourself. Wet towels on the rug, CDs all over the place, and never mind the studying. You’re up so late cracking the books all the time that I’m getting a total inferiority complex. I mean, Kathy had the whole demon excuse. What’s yours?”

  When Willow didn’t respond, Buffy looked up to find her best friend staring at her with a hurt expression on her face. Hurt that gave way to a deep, angry frown.

  “I never said I was perfect.”

  “Hey. I was just teasing,” Buffy said. But suddenly she was not certain of that. A part of her had been very serious about the things she said. They had only come out because she was tired and on edge, but now she couldn’t take them back.

  She went to Willow and placed a hand on the other girl’s shoulder. “Really,” she promised.

  Willow nodded. “I know. We’re both sleep deprived, which brings on the crankies, and trying to figure out the wacky world of college. I feel all sitcom couple-y, but maybe you should try to leave the stress of work at the office. We’ve got heapin’ helpings here already.”

  Buffy sighed with relief. “Deal. Let me just brush my teeth, then we can take off.”

  “If it’s okay with you, I’m going to go on ahead,” Willow replied, heading for the door. “I don’t want to be late for class.”

  “Oh,” Buffy said softly. “Okay.”

  Willow went out without another word and closed the door behind her. Buffy stared at the door for a long moment, playing back the scene in her head. Willow had brushed it off, but Buffy knew the things she had said must have hurt. A punch in the face she could forgive, but half-serious comments about her behavior as a roommate had gotten under her skin. Buffy didn’t understand it. She just hoped that over the course of the day Willow would forget about it.

  They were best friends. In it together, no matter what.

  Meanwhile, the clock was ticking and she was already three minutes late for class.

  * * *

  Professor Blaylock’s sociology class was held in the Bibeau Social Science Building, in an auditorium with seating for more than two hundred. It was a popular class, and he was a popular teacher. Fortunately for Buffy, that meant that it was usually possible, when late, to sneak in through the back door of the auditorium, wait for Blaylock to turn toward one of the large blackboards on the wall, and then slip into a seat before he noticed.

  She had been late a lot the first couple of weeks, but Blaylock had only caught her once.

  Buffy slipped in through the door and went halfway up the short stairway that led up to the back of the auditorium. A thick-necked guy with a crewcut and a nose that looked as though it had been broken at least once glanced down at her and smiled conspiratorially. A football player, she thought. It was not the first time she had noticed him, but they had never spoken.

  The guy held up a finger to caution her, his eyes on the front of the auditorium. Buffy could hear Professor Blaylock talking about “the epidemic of depression in America,” which she thought might well be his favorite subject. He veered off into manic-depression and the sound of his voice changed as though he had turned away. Buffy glanced expectantly at the football player, who looked over and nodded with a grin.

  As surreptitiously as possible, Buffy went up the last few steps and jostled her way past three people, headed for the nearest seat in the last row, right next to Mr. Football.

  “Well, well, hello there!”

  Buffy froze.

  The voice belonged to Professor Blaylock.

  Embarrassed, she turned to regard him, all the way down at the front of the auditorium. He had his hands on his hips and he was smiling amiably.

  “Sorry,” Buffy said sheepishly. She shrugged, then gestured toward her seat. “I’ll just—”

  “No, no, remain standing, please.”

  Buffy blinked, surprised, then just stood there awkwardly as every student in the auditorium stared at her, most of them with smirks on their faces.

  “Your name, please? I’m sorry I can’t keep track of all of you.”

  “Buffy,” she said quickly.

  “I’m sorry, speak up, please.” He was still smiling, but she realized now that there was no humor in it.

  “Buffy Summers,” she said, a bit snippily now, as anger replaced embarrassment.

  “Ah, yes, Miss Summers. Might I presume that your tardiness is due to a last minute’s bit of diligence on your research paper?”

  A deep frown creased Buffy’s forehead. “Well, yeah. I mean, I’m still working on it.”

  Professor Blaylock’s smile disapp
eared completely. “Still working on it? Which I take it means that you’re not prepared to hand it in at this time?”

  Buffy blanched. Her mouth went dry. They were all still staring at her, but some of the smiles were gone. Now their expressions were more like the pitiful glances people gave accident victims as they drove by a crash site.

  “The paper’s not due until Monday. I . . . I wrote it down.”

  “Then you wrote it down wrong,” Blaylock replied coldly.

  For the first time she saw the three large multicolored piles of plastic folders on the lecture table at the front of the hall. In the first row, she saw the professor’s two teaching assistants turn to look at her with sympathy. Ironically, that made her feel worse.

  “I guess I must have,” she said so quietly that she was not sure if he heard her. Not that it mattered.

  “I guess you must have,” Blaylock repeated, not quite mocking her. “You know, Miss Summers, if you had been on time to class today, it might not bother me so much that you don’t have your paper. But I find myself disinclined to believe that this was a simple error on your part.”

  That made her angry again. “It was a mistake, Professor.”

  “Perhaps. Or maybe you think deadlines don’t really apply to you. Either way, you don’t have your paper, do you? So here’s what we’re going to do. You take all the time you need, Miss Summers. Until the end of the semester, if you like.”

  Buffy blinked, even shook her head a bit. “I’m sorry?”

  “You should be,” Blaylock told her. “But, let’s move on, shall we? You may deliver the paper whenever you like, Buffy. But for each weekday that passes, you will lose ten points. The weekend you may have off. As of midnight tonight, Wednesday, you will begin with a ninety. Midnight tomorrow, an eighty, and Monday, a seventy. If you should decide to surrender, take your lumps, and simply never deliver the paper, I guarantee you will fail this course.