Immortal

by Christopher Golden

  “Thank you both for coming,” he said.

  “Not a problem,” Oz said.

  “What’s wrong?” Willow asked.

  “I received a call from Cordelia. All I heard was a quite a bit of screaming on the other end. When I press star six nine, a message tells me the phone is out of service.”

  Willow blinked at Oz, and vice versa. Willow chewed her lower lip and said, “And you don’t have any idea where they were?”

  “None whatsoever. They were doing a bit of reconnaissance, hoping to find a lead on Veronique’s whereabouts, or even to find some of our grave robbers and follow them back to their lair. I’ve been hoping she’d manage to call again. But . . .” He shrugged.

  “We’ll start looking,” Willow promised him.

  As she turned on her heel, Oz caught up her hand and said, “Where?”

  “Where? Why, there are lots of wheres.” Willow drew herself up. “And the sooner we start searching all the wheres, we’ll have a better idea of where not.”

  “On the other hand,” Giles cut in, “Buffy is off-duty, and if we can ascertain where Xander and Cordelia are, we can help them as a team. If we separate, we may prove less effective.”

  “The hospital,” Willow said softly. “Oh, poor Buffy.”

  There was a momentary silence. Then Oz said, “Perhaps not showing my sensitive side, but the Slayer can’t be off-duty. Not for this.”

  Giles sighed. His shoulders sagged with fatigue as he nodded. “My thinking likewise. Though I hadn’t wanted to put it into words. It’s most unfortunate that this is all happening at the same time, but Buffy is the Slayer. She has a clear duty.”

  “She’s also a daughter.” Willow’s voice was whisper-thin. “And I really like Mrs. Summers.”

  The three regarded one another.

  “Hospital,” Giles said.

  They left campus.

  After answering a hundred questions about her health, her previous surgical history, if she had complied with fasting the night before — what do they think, I slipped out the window and went for pizza?— and a million other things (including if she wanted to be an organ donor), Joyce was given a hospital gown to change into. Also, a paper bouffant shower cap and a pair of paper booties.

  She sat on her hospital bed and regarded her uniform. To Buffy, she said, “I feel so . . . disposable.”

  “Just your outfit, which I’ve longed to tell you many times before,” Buffy said. Her voice was shaking. “Some of the stuff you wear . . .”

  She turned away.

  “Stay with me, honey,” Joyce asked quietly. “I know you’re scared. I’m scared, too.”

  “I’m sorry.” Buffy was horribly ashamed. “I’m okay, Mom. Really.” She wiped her tears away to prove it.

  “Mrs. Summers? We’ll be walking you down in about five minutes,” said a nurse in salmon-colored scrubs and a matching shower cap.

  “No dignity,” Buffy huffed after the nurse left. “I thought they’d wheel you down in a hospital bed with violin music in the background.”

  “Only in the soaps, I guess.”

  Joyce didn’t want Buffy to know how unsettling it had been to discover that she would actually be escorted to the operating room. She would walk into the room with all the equipment and the beep-beep-boops and climb up on the table. Apparently, the reason for this was that the anesthesiologist was running behind, and another doctor would begin the process of knocking Joyce out.

  They had been waiting more than an hour past Joyce’s scheduled surgery in a sort of clearinghouse area, with one bed, a shower, and a restroom in it. Buffy had already been at the hospital for five hours.

  She was weaving, nearly asleep on her feet, except for her heightened anxiety. That kept her going. She had had nothing to eat, nothing to drink, but she was certain that if she tried to eat or drink something, she would throw it back up.

  “All right, Joyce, here we are,” the nurse said again. It had only been about two minutes since the last time she had popped her head in.

  I’m not ready, Buffy thought frantically. Please, I am so not ready.

  “All right.” Joyce took a deep breath. “May my daughter accompany me?”

  The nurse looked apologetic. “Only as far as the O.R. doors.”

  “Better than nothing,” Buffy murmured.

  Joyce stood, looking tall and thin in her gown. Her paper booties were ridiculous. The shower cap was silly.

  Buffy thought her mother had never looked more beautiful in her life.

  They walked out of the room and into the hall. Joyce took Buffy’s hand and squeezed hard. To Buffy’s surprise, the nurse took her mother’s other hand, and Joyce squeezed her hand, too.

  “My mother had a very bad prognosis,” the nurse confided. “Twelve years ago. She just went on a cruise to Puerto Vallarta with a brand-new husband.”

  “Her own?” Joyce asked. The two older women chuckled. All Buffy did was stare straight ahead. Her heart was thundering.

  This cannot be happening. This is not happening.

  The nurse’s voice dropped.“If you can believe it, she met him on a blind date. At a nudist colony.”

  “Get out!” Joyce shrieked, scandalized. She giggled. “I guess you can’t call it a blind date, then.”

  The women snickered and cackled. Buffy thought she was going to scream.

  Then her mother turned to her suddenly and put her arms around her. “Hey, you,” she whispered into Buffy’s ear. “We’re going to be fine.”

  “I know.” Buffy’s voice was small and timid and lonely.

  She was bereft when her mother let go and waited for the nurse to buzz the light gray operating-room doors. They clicked and opened. Beyond, there were people dressed in scrubs milling up and down a corridor lined with other doors.

  Joyce walked through them, arm-in-arm with the nurse, leaving Buffy behind.

  The operating room was exactly the way Joyce had seen them on TV. In the center of the room, a flat, padded-looking table with an enormous light overhead, all kinds of equipment on roll-around carts, and people bustling everywhere.

  “Just climb up on here, Joyce,” the nurse said, helping her onto the table.

  “Oh, it’s warm,” Joyce said, surprised.

  “We heat it. And we’re going to encase your arms and legs in special warmers. They look like they’re made out of aluminum foil. But you’ll probably be asleep before that.”

  Joyce lay down on the table. Someone came over with a mask and cap on. She saw two piercing, rich brown eyes.

  “Joyce? I’m Dr. Charaka, a staff anesthesiologist,” the masked figure told her. “Dr. Jones is still in surgery, so I’m going to take care of you. All right?”

  “Yes,” Joyce murmured, wondering what would happen if she said it wasn’t all right. And why does it matter so much about Dr. Jones? Is he better than Dr. Charaka?

  “Now, I’m going to give you a mild sedative. Then I’ll give you your morning margarita.” His eyes crinkled, and she guessed he was smiling. “It’s quite a cocktail.”

  “Will I feel sick afterward?”

  “No way,” he said firmly. He gave her a pat. Then he looked up and said, “ ’Morning, Dr. Coleman.”

  Joyce was confused. “I thought Dr. Martinez was going to be here?”

  “He asked Dr. Coleman to head the team,” Dr. Charaka explained. “He’ll look in on you later.”

  “Oh, but . . .” She felt a sharp jab in the back of her hand, and she began to feel dizzy. She heard something whining beep beep beep.

  A short time later, she was aware of someone saying, “Joyce? Please breathe into the mask. Good. Very good.”

  Then a disembodied voice said, “Joyce, I’m Dr. Coleman. We’ve met. Can you hear me?”

  “Help,” Joyce whispered.

  “Don’t you worry, Joyce,” said the voice. “Just go to sleep.”

  Joyce Summers dreamed.

  She was young again, and with her husband, Hank. Buffy was
somehow still the same age as she was now . . . whenever now was.

  They were walking through a forest. Everyone was dressed in white. Joyce and Buffy wore coronets of wildflowers in their hair, and as Joyce smiled at her daughter, she thought, She’s my child. I brought her into this world.

  The forest dripped exquisite petals — roses, violets, lavender — and Buffy held out the hem of her dress to catch them.

  From a stand of weeping willows, a shape parted the drooping branches. It was a snow-white unicorn, a magnificent creature, stately yet delicate. Its golden horn glistened in the magical forest light. It stamped a silver hoof once, chuffing, and bobbed its head in Buffy’s direction.

  “Oh, it’s beautiful,” Joyce’s daughter whispered.

  She reached out a hand to pat the creature’s forelocks. It dipped its head lower.

  It charged.

  It slammed its horn through Buffy’s side.

  Buffy screamed.

  And then she became a shower of petals which fell to the moist, rich earth.

  Buffy was pacing in the waiting room. She could make no sense of what was on the TV — she, who used to skip school on such a regular basis back in L.A. that she had memorized the entire daytime programming lineup, including all the major cable channels — and she hadn’t been able to read any of the out-of-date Time magazines heaped on a number of coffee tables around the room.

  “Buffy.”

  She looked up and walked straight into Willow’s arms. They held each other for a moment. Willow whispered, “Any news?”

  “The surgeon was delayed,” Buffy said in agony. “This is taking forever.”

  Oz came in next, followed by Giles. The Watcher’s expression was grim at best. Buffy gazed levelly at him and said, “What?”

  “Xander and Cordelia are missing.”

  Buffy closed her eyes. “As in, they didn’t show up at school, or as in, you don’t have any idea where they are?”

  “The latter.” When she stared at him, he said helpfully, “Door number two.”

  She remained silent.

  “I heard Cordelia screaming on her cell phone.”

  She took that in.

  Giles said, “How’s your mother?”

  “Funny thing. I’d like to know that, too.” She ran both hands through her hair. “They’re in there cutting her open. Spreading her ribcage apart with, like, these huge nutcrackers. Don’t ask me to leave her, Giles. Because I can’t.”

  “She’s in good hands,” Giles ventured.

  “No.” Willow took a step in front of Buffy, inserting herself between Slayer and Watcher. “It’s not right to ask Buffy to leave.”

  “Next he’ll say there’s nothing I can do here,” Buffy muttered, staring at Giles with a tormented expression on her face. “Which is true. And a lot I can do if Xander and Cordy are in trouble.”

  “She’s your mother, Buffy,” Willow insisted.

  “Of course, you’re both right,” Giles said. “I shouldn’t have presumed —”

  “And why not?” Buffy burst out. “Just because I happen to be the Slayer with the sick mom? You’re supposed to tiptoe around me because I have split loyalties or something? Is that in the Slayer’s Handbook, or is it just more proof that I’m all wrong for the job? Because I love my mother?”

  “Buffy, please, calm yourself,” Giles begged, as interested faces glanced their way.

  A little boy tugged the pants leg of a man who was getting a cup of coffee from a vending machine and said, “What’s a Slayer? What’s wrong with her mommy?”

  “Oh, God.” Buffy wiped her face and marched into the corridor. Giles accompanied her. “All right. What do you want me to do?”

  Giles shook his head. “I was wrong to come here. We can search for them. And we’re quite a formidable team.”

  “Oh, yeah.” She was not being sarcastic in the least. “You guys can kick evil bootie from one end of the Hellmouth to the other.”

  “We’re going. We’ll be back to check on you,” Giles assured her. “Cordelia and Xander in tow, bickering as always.”

  “A sight for sore ears,” she replied. “Right, then.”

  He ducked his head into the waiting room and gestured for Willow and Oz to follow him. With one last tight hug, Willow brushed past Buffy, wrapping her arm around Oz’s.

  Then, as abruptly as they had arrived, they left.

  “Are you sick?” the little boy asked Buffy.

  Buffy only stared at him.

  The day had seemed endless. Now, at last, the dusk was upon them. In the condemned police station, Veronique imperiously clapped her hands. The sun had barely set when she spoke.

  “We will depart. It is time to feed.”

  The vampires, though sluggish with hunger, responded eagerly to her announcement. Konstantin took Catherine’s hand in his — a gesture not overlooked by their mistress — and they smiled at each other, oblivious of the consequences.

  Konstantin was so hungry he had been tempted to taste the humans held in reserve for the hatchlings, including the newcomers, the dark-haired boy and girl. The two were young, and filled with vitality. Their blood smelled clean and fresh and rich, and whenever he stood near their cage, he swayed with his need.

  Now his lot was about to become even worse. Veronique had determined that he and Catherine were the only two among her brood that she trusted to obey her, despite their hunger. Thus, the two of them were to be left to watch the prisoners — the first meal for the Three-Who-Are-One after their reunification — while the Harbinger led the others on the blood quest.

  Konstantin wished that he could be certain Veronique’s trust in him was warranted. But he was not. He did know, however, what the consequences of slaking his thirst would be. If he and Catherine fed, their lives would surely be forfeit when Veronique returned and saw what they had done.

  Over the racket of the clacking, active hatchlings, Konstantin and Catherine stood back and listened to the Harbinger address the others. The brood was very attentive.

  “The blood bank is on the third floor,” Veronique reminded them. “The same floor as the surgical recovery unit, which is excellent. Most of those patients will be so groggy they won’t notice us.”

  “Why don’t we drink of the patients?” the Brit, Niles, asked.

  Veronique narrowed her eyes in distaste. “Anesthetized human blood? Diseased cattle? I’ll not allow it. No taking of lives. No attacking humans. We’ll steal the blood bank’s plastic dinners and drink when we are safe and away. You will not risk yourselves, you will not draw undue attention or waste time.”

  “Cold, dead blood.” Catherine shivered.

  “Be grateful for it when we bring it to you,” Veronique snapped. “Or die of starvation. I don’t care.”

  She stomped away. Catherine was stunned. Konstantin patted her hand and said, “Don’t worry. She won’t harm you. She needs all of us for the Ritual.”

  “But what about after?” Catherine asked nervously.

  “We must not speak like this,” Konstantin replied, his guard up. He still didn’t fully trust her when she talked like this. Now was not the time to be branded a traitor, no matter what assurances he might give the beautiful vampire. After all, there were live humans in the police station. Any one of them could be transformed if another vampire were needed.

  Konstantin watched as they all filed out after the Harbinger. When they were gone, he allowed himself to change. It had been all he could do to control himself in those minutes. The hunger was wracking his whole body. His face kept morphing from vampire to human and back again. It had been stupid, cruel, and arrogant of Veronique to bring them to this state. He was not sure he would ever forgive her. But one thing was certain: his trust in her leadership was permanently destroyed.

  She is immortal, he reminded himself. I can’t kill her.

  It became a mantra as he tried to control himself, bloodlust clouding all other thoughts.

  She is immortal.

 
“Miss Summers.”

  Someone was shaking Buffy’s shoulder. She sucked in air and half jumped from her chair, to see the wrinkled face of Dr. Leah Coleman inches from her own.

  “Mom,” Buffy blurted.

  Dr. Coleman smiled gently. “Your mother is recovering nicely. We took out the mass and did a frozen section. It was not malignant.”

  “But . . . was it . .. is she . . .?”

  The doctor’s thin white hands cupped Buffy’s own. Buffy saw now that the doctor wore turquoise scrubs. She had a bonnet stuffed in her breast pocket, along with a stethoscope, and a white mask was draped around her neck, dangling from two sets of ties in back. Her hair was cropped short and very white. She looked positively ancient.

  “It appears your mother had Valley Fever,” the doctor said. “She’s going to be pretty weak for a time to come. But most people make a full recovery.”

  Buffy stared at her. “Most.”

  “Oh, I think she’ll be fine,” the doctor said. “The mass was caused by a fungal infection, which we found in the tissue when we examined it. But there’s no evidence of it having spread. Now that we’ve taken it out, she should be right as rain.”

  Dr. Coleman cricked her neck and stifled a yawn. “Excuse me, dear. I’ve been on my feet a long time. I’m sorry your mother had to wait. Delays are routine nowadays.” Her face softened. “So much has changed since I started practicing medicine.”

  Buffy looked at her closely. It was so hard for her to picture what Dr. Coleman might have looked like when she was young, when Angel had known her, and she had given him just a little bit of hope. She found herself feeling sad for Angel, and for Dr. Coleman, too. She could afford to feel bad for someone else, now that she had hope that her mother would be all right.

  “We still want to keep an eye on her, of course. Make absolutely certain we’ve gotten rid of it all. But I think we’re in the clear. Would you like to see her?” Dr. Coleman asked.

  “Oh. I can?” Buffy said quickly. She jumped to her feet. “Yes. Of course I do.” She swallowed. “I’ve been having trouble swallowing. Dizziness . . .”