Buffy The Vampire Slayer - The Lost Slayer - The King Of The Dead

by Christopher Golden (lit)

  The atrium was full. Perhaps two dozen Council op­eratives waited there in the sunshine. Guns cocked. Crossbows were aimed. Several flamethrowers puffed to life. But the worst were the small clutch of people standing just at the top of the stairs, directly across from Spike.

  The witch, Willow Rosenberg. A grim-faced Xander Harris, who had proven to be almost super naturally lucky, practically unkillable. That Watcher, Wesley, who had once run with Angel. A petite little Asian girl he guessed was the latest Slayer. And, of course, the real Slayer. Buffy Summers.

  "Hail, hail," Spike said dryly. "The gang's all here. Warms the cockles, it really does."

  Then there was Christopher Lonergan, who had a bit of blood just under his nose.

  Spike ran a hand over his burned, ragged hair. "Hello, Chris. Didn't know you were in the country."

  "Guess you didn't," Lonergan replied. "Else you wouldn’t a tried sneaking about in here."

  Spike grinned. "Got an extra ciggie?"

  The witch took a step toward him. The sunlight gleamed off her red hair and Spike shifted uncomfort­ably just looking at it. He stood in the shadow of the corridor now, but if they dragged him into the atrium... well, he'd had enough sun for one day.

  "What are you doing here, Spike? A long way to come just to commit suicide," Willow said curtly.

  "Is that what I've done?" Spike asked.

  Xander nodded. "Oh, yeah."

  "Maybe so," he allowed. Then he tilted his head and shrugged, as though none of it mattered to him in the least. "Gotta say, though, I think you've got bigger fish to slay. You're about twenty steps behind Giles by now, kids. The old sod's got his people in place all over the state. Only a matter of days now before he's got Los An­geles. Blink and you'll miss it."

  "Why tell us?" Willow asked.

  Spike narrowed his eyes, blistered skin cracking, and studied Buffy. Thus far she had not said a word, but she glared at him with such ferocity that he began to wonder if it had not been a mistake after all, his coming here.

  He shrugged. "Bugger pissed me off. He's got big plans, he has, but they don't involve me. I'm off now to redder pastures, but before I left I thought I'd see to it that you did my dirty work for me. In all our best inter­ests, of course."

  No one spoke. No one moved. The operatives barely seemed to be breathing. The young Slayer looked a bit nervous, and Spike gave her a friendly smile. The hate-filled sneer he received in return chilled him. But not nearly as much as the expression on Buffy's face.

  "Right then," he said with a shrug. "My mistake. You all might want to take a last trip to Disney before the Mouse sprouts fangs." He raised a hand in a small wave. "Ta."

  As Spike began to turn, Xander broke ranks and sprinted across the atrium to the double doors. Willow shouted something after him, but nobody else moved. Spike only smiled as he lashed out at Xander.

  But he was still healing. His flesh was tight, burned, and those injuries sapped his speed and strength. Xan­der gripped his throat, drove his head back against the post between the double doors. Spike struck him once, hard, but Xander only grunted and cracked the vam­pire's head against the post again. Groggy, Spike tried to pull the enraged man's hand away.

  Xander struck him in the face, shattering his nose and splitting the burned skin on his cheek. Another blow fell, and another, and all the strength ran out of Spike. When his eyes fluttered open, trying to focus, he saw the stake in Xander's hand.

  "This is for Anya, you son of a-"

  The stake fell.

  Buffy was there. She grabbed Xander's wrist, stopped the point from puncturing Spike's chest, his heart.

  Xander spun toward her, practically spitting with rage. "What the hell are you doing?"

  Buffy's eyes were dark with painful knowledge. Spike was fascinated by the girl now. He had not gotten a good look at her in the dark the night before, nor on the street during their previous skirmish. In fact, this was the first decent look he'd had at her in years. Her face had thinned slightly, and it made her look meaner. Or maybe that was just her eyes.

  "You want to win this?" Buffy told Xander. "We need the information he has."

  "Thattagirl," Spike cooed, there on the floor. He sat up, grimacing with pain. "Knew I could count on you to see the sense of it. Not the first time we've done busi­ness, after all. Better the devil you know, yeah?"

  In a move so swift Spike barely saw it, Buffy spun and shot out a hard side kick that cracked his cheekbone and slammed him back on the floor. Groaning, Spike tried to rise, tried to scuttle away from her, but the Slayer swept in and kicked him in the side, splintering several ribs.

  Enraged and confused, the vampire reached out to her and Buffy snapped his wrist. Then she grabbed him under his chin and, with the prodigious strength of the Chosen One, lifted him off the ground. She carried him back into the atrium and dangled him there, in the sun­light.

  Again, Spike began to burn. He screamed in agony this time, for he could feel his skin bubbling, could feel himself start to cook from within, the sun searing the evil in him. It occurred to him, mind reeling from the pain, that there were worse things than flowery linens. That perhaps he was not quite so intimate with pain as he had imagined.

  "Bloody hell," he croaked. "Stop!"

  Buffy tossed him into the shadow of the double doors where he crumbled into a blackened, whimpering heap.

  The Slayer stood over him. "My mother," she said, voice thick with disgust and hate.

  Spike grimaced. "Heard about that, did you? Just doing what I was told. Giles gave that order. He was real specific about it."

  Ignoring him, she turned to Xander. "We'll find out what he knows. After that, I don't care what you do to him."

  Willow stared out her office window at a trio of gulls that circled lazily in the sky. The ocean was thirty miles away and it always made her curious to see the sea birds inland. She wondered if something had drawn them here, or if they had simply become so distracted by their interplay that they had drifted far from their usual haunts. They had a freedom Willow envied.

  There was a rap at the door. Willow turned her attention back to her office, which—with its potted plants and the art that hung on the wall—was just about the only room in the entire facility with any warmth. It was her retreat, a place for contemplation, and she rarely liked to have diffi­cult conversations there. But for once she thought that she ought to extend the warmth of this room to another.

  "Come in," she called.

  The door clicked open and Wesley poked his head in. "We're a bit early, Willow. Sorry about that."

  "It's fine," she replied.

  He smiled and opened the door all the way to reveal Anna Kuei in the hall behind him. Then Wesley stood aside and ushered the nascent Slayer into the office. There were a pair of black leather chairs in front of Wil­low's desk, and the two visitors sat and faced her.

  "Anna. I'm sorry if this morning's debriefing dis­turbed you," Willow said kindly.

  The girl twirled the fingers of her left hand in the short tufts of her shocking pink hair. She had the ap­pearance of the rebel, but Willow knew her as a sweet girl, almost an innocent.

  "It's all right, Miss Rosenberg," Anna said. Always soft-spoken, her voice today sounded more girlish and wispy than ever.

  "Willow, Anna. You're the Slayer now. Call me Wil­low."

  The girl smiled and sat up a bit straighter. "Willow. I just.. ."

  When her words trailed off, Wesley jumped in for her. "Anna had a few questions about the, shall we say, dy­namics of the Council's efforts here, now that Buffy has returned to the fold."

  Willow's brow furrowed. "Shoot."

  Anna shrugged, glanced away. "I mean, I know she's the Lost Slayer and everything, and it's like this big deal. But she isn't anything like Faith, is she?"

  A tiny smile played upon Willow's lips. During the months of training Anna had spent in this facility with several other Slayers-in-Waiting—girls the Council had pinpointed as having the
potential to become the Cho­sen One-Faith had taken a day to instruct them each time she returned to the facility.

  "No," Willow agreed. "She's nothing like Faith."

  Anna nodded emphatically. "No kidding. I mean, Faith was all about discipline and focus, and the Lost Slayer—"

  "Buffy," Wesley quietly corrected her.

  "Buffy," Anna continued. "She's, like, totally un-hinged. Okay, nobody's crying over Spike getting his ass handed to him. As long as he ends up dusted, he de­serves whatever he gets beforehand. But there's more to it than that. In the debriefing, I just... when she talked about August..."

  The girl's eyes became moist and she wiped a hand across them. Willow's heart went out to her. Anna and August had been close friends during their training, be­fore Faith's death had led to August's being Chosen.

  "She killed August," Anna said, hurt and angry. "And now it's supposed to be August's fault, but August isn't here to defend herself."

  Wesley reached out and touched Anna's hand to comfort her, but his eyes never left Willow. "She doesn't realize how close you and Buffy are," Wesley said.

  "It's all right," Willow said, gaze still on Anna. "I un­derstand what you're feeling. I really do. In high school, Buffy was my best friend. I guess she still is. But it's going to take time for all of us to adjust. There's no way to know what her years in that cell might have done to her. But, for what it's worth, the Buffy Sum­mers I knew would never have killed a human, never mind a Slayer. I believe it was an accident. You know as well as I do, Anna, that August was having problems with the pressure of being Chosen even before she was captured."

  "Okay, maybe so," Anna said, her Cupid's-bow lips pinched into a round little pout. "But I hope nobody ex­pects me to be friends with her or something."

  "No," Willow said carefully, "but Buffy is a part of the team now. Probably going to be an important part. You could learn a lot from her."

  The girl opened her mouth and then clamped it shut tight, and Willow knew she probably had a dozen sar­castic retorts that were bursting to get out.

  "The team was fine," Anna said at last. "I mean, if you've got Buffy, what do you need me for? And why does it seem like she's suddenly in charge? Like every­one's looking to her for the next move? You're the one in charge. I don't understand why—"

  "Actually, Ms. Haversham is the director of this oper­ation," Willow corrected, feeling a bit awkward.

  "Oh, that's crap," Anna snapped. "You're in charge and you know it. Haversham hardly even pretends to be the boss anymore, except in meetings. Even Lonergan looks to you. But Buffy's got this air about her, like everyone should follow her lead."

  Wesley scratched at his beard and shifted a bit in his seat. "Her presence does seem to have upset the balance of power somewhat. There's the potential for great con­fusion there, and in an operation of this magnitude, con­fusion could be deadly. The mission parameters clearly state that Anna and I are to lead the main unit when the assault on Sunnydale is finally launched. Why do I have the sense that Buffy's arrival is sure to throw a wrench in the works?

  "I must confess, Willow, I'm concerned. My experi­ences with Buffy were limited, of course, and there was always the question of how much of each mission's planning was Buffy's doing and how much was Giles's strategy. Certainly Buffy never allowed me to truly lead. My point is that she is rash. The deployment of forces and the creation of layers of strategy for contingencies are hardly her forte. She leads by charisma and passion, by inspiration. Those are enviable traits, to be sure, but leadership also requires forethought, the ability to envi­sion and consider the big picture. Logic, reason, intu­ition and, frankly, the capacity to outthink your enemy.

  "You are far younger than I am, Willow, but I have never questioned your leadership skills. There is a rea­son why those who were put here to run this operation have tacitly acknowledged you as the de facto com­mander of this little outpost. You may not give the or­ders, but you make the decisions.

  "It would not only be a travesty to have your leader­ship jeopardized by Buffy's arrival, formidable war­rior though she is, but in my humble opinion it could also have a catastrophic impact on our chances of suc­cess."

  Wesley paused for a moment, then nodded his head once, brusquely, as if physically punctuating his thoughts on the matter. Then he took a deep breath and let it out slowly as he sat back in his chair.

  Willow placed her elbows on her desk and leaned forward, fingers steepled under her chin. She studied the two of them closely. Anna's emotional response to Buffy's revelations—even her mere presence— was understandable and genuine. Wesley, on the other hand…

  "Are you concerned about Buffy stealing my thun­der, or your own, as the current Watcher?" Willow asked him.

  Wesley sputtered a bit, muttered something about the question being preposterous, but he would not meet her gaze. He had always been easy for her to read.

  "You were her Watcher briefly, Wes, or don't you re­member?" Willow prodded, her gaze roving from him to Anna and back again. "I don't know how the years she's been gone have affected Buffy. Goddess knows I hope my friend is still there. I'm going to try to find out."

  Willow hesitated for a moment, unsure whether or not to confide in them. Of late, there seemed no one she felt comfortable confiding in. When she had first seen Buffy again she had been so thrilled that she had let all the in­tervening years drop away as if they had never been, but it had not taken long for her to put walls up around her heart again. She wanted her best friend back so very much, but she would not allow that desire to override her common sense. She had responsibilities that were greater than her own needs.

  At last, she decided that revealing her own fears to these two would be harmless enough. Willow glanced at Wesley, but then regarded Anna more closely.

  "I knew Giles very well before," she said. "Wesley did, too, but he likes to pretend Giles wasn't as cunning as we both know he is. I have a confession to make. I've believed for a very long while that it was only a matter of time before all this blew up on us, and the U.S. government would have to essentially declare war on southern California. If Spike's telling the truth about L.A.—hello! A little more right than I ever wanted to be."

  The young Slayer's eyes sparkled with fear. She shook her head in denial. Wesley cleared his throat, but did not argue.

  "The thing is, if Buffy's really back, I mean, y'know, if she hasn't slipped a gear after all that time to herself, she may be our best chance at stopping this before we reach the point of no return. I don't know about Buffy now, but Buffy then, my friend? If anyone can stop Giles, she could."

  They stared at her.

  Willow smiled. "If that means the balance of power is going to shift? Not exactly going to argue."

  As soon as Xander hauled open the steel door, Buffy caught the scent of burned flesh from within the room. Her stomach convulsed and her nostrils flared with dis­gust. From that point on, she breathed through her mouth.

  At dusk, Willow and Xander had come to fetch her from her quarters and then escorted her down to dinner. Things were awkward. Though she wished for the close­ness and humor they had once shared, it was almost all business. After they had eaten, Xander had led the way down into the basement and to a wing to the rear of the building that had been transformed into holding cells.

  There was one door that had several dents in it and Buffy could hear something huge grunting and sham­bling within. She glanced at Willow, but her friend had not even seemed to hear it. Buffy decided not to bother asking.

  Now, though, they had arrived at the cell where Spike had been imprisoned since early that day.

  When Xander pulled the door open the rest of the way and flicked on the lights, Spike was crouched in a defensive posture in a far corner of the room. The exten­sive burns that had covered his body earlier were not gone, but they had improved significantly. His hair had even begun to grow back somewhat. There were places on his skin where the flesh was raw and wet, pink and vul
nerable. Healing.

  Spike's face changed instantly, his brow thickening, fangs lengthening. He snarled, low and dangerous, as Xander approached.

  "You had me at a bit of a disadvantage before, boy," Spike said, voice a rasp. "I'm feelin' better now. You shouldn't have left me alone all this time."

  Xander grinned, and the expression was so haunting that Buffy shivered. Then he pulled a simple plastic water pistol from the small of his back as though it were a real gun. He leveled it at Spike and fired sev­eral hissing squirts of holy water into the vampire's face.

  Spike's flesh bubbled and steamed as though the water were acid, eating into his skin. With an agonizing scream, the vampire covered his eyes. Xander clasped his hands together and brought them around in a single, massive blow to the side of Spike's head. Spike went down, clutching his ribs where Buffy had kicked him earlier. Xander crouched in front of him and aimed the water pistol at his face again.

  "I never liked it when you called me 'boy,' even when I was one," he said pleasantly. "You want to know why we let you heal? It's 'cause you were so far gone that we didn't think torture would be effective. You're living in the past, Spike. Not so much your glory days anymore, as your final hour."

  Spike managed to lift his chin but his defiant ex­pression did not reach his eyes, which were filled with fear. The room suddenly seemed too small, too close. The atmosphere had turned ominous, even cruel. This wild thing they had trapped was a vicious, savage beast, but there was nothing honorable about these proceedings now.

  They were in a killing box.

  "You used to be funny, you know that?" Spike sneered at Xander. "Not very, and stupid humor, yeah, but at least you had a soddin' sense of humor. That water gun gag? That wasn't funny."

  "I haven't felt funny in a long time." Xander squirted holy water into Spike's hair and the vampire swore and started slapping at his head to stop the burning. Xander chuckled softly. "Now that, though? That's funny."

  The twin souls that existed within Buffy were in con­flict as she watched. The older Buffy, who had truly ex­perienced the years of imprisonment and torment, the electrical prods and beatings, the knowledge of her own defeat, had not a moment's hesitation about Xander's treatment of Spike. But Buffy-at-nineteen felt differently. To her, only weeks had passed since a simpler time. It seemed almost perverse now to look back upon that chaos and realize that it was, indeed, simpler. Bet­ter. Brighter.