“I’m off to patrol,” Buffy told her mother, leaning down to plant a kiss on her cheek. “Don’t wait up, okay?”
“Patrolling? Isn’t it awfully late for that tonight?”
Buffy tried to suppress her annoyance with her mother. She knew Joyce was only concerned, but they didn’t need to have this conversation every single night. “Actually, it’s pretty early for them. Before lunch time, in fact, and lunch time for vampires often leads to chaos.” Buffy looked her mother in the eye and noticed the glimmer of perpetual worry. She softened and gave her mom a hug. “I’m sorry. Maybe someday I’ll have trimmed down the vampire population enough so that we can enjoy a nice after-dinner movie instead of a night of violence… or, in your case, Harlequin Romances.”
Joyce furrowed her brow playfully. “What’s wrong with my romances?”
“Oh, nothing. You enjoy yourself now.”
“Shush, you. And be careful.”
“I always am.” Buffy walked out the front door, pushing a stake up the sleeve of her jacket and making her way to the nearest graveyard.
Almost immediately upon her arrival, she came across a grave with a vampire just emerging from it. She stopped short and snuck around to behind where the vampire was coming out, waiting for it to get most of its torso out from underground before reaching around and staking it before it realized what had happened. Suddenly a hand around her mouth pulled her backward; Buffy found herself being firmly held onto by another vampire, apparently more accustomed to being undead. He kneeled on her feet while one hand held her head to the ground and the other held her hands behind her back. She flopped helplessly against his grip, eyes wide with horror.
“My, my. The Slayer. To what do I owe this pleasure?” The yellow eyes focused on her neck as a grin spread across his face. “Oh, right. To me.” The vampire bent down and broke the skin on Buffy’s neck, drinking slowly.
Why couldn’t I fight him? Buffy thought to herself as the world began to slip away from her. Why couldn’t I sense him?
Then, all at once, the world started to come back. Or, rather, it stayed properly stationary. Buffy moved her limbs and lifted her head ever so slightly; the vampire seemed to have just taken off. Still, though, even with the blood loss, she should have been able to stand; she just felt incredibly weak.
Soon the apparent source of her weakness was apparent. Though everything in front of her seemed clear to a degree, the figure standing in front of her was not. It appeared blurry, as though the reception on the television had suddenly gone wonky or something. The figure appeared human, but its facial features were melded together, as though its face was melting on the spot. Buffy found that any detail on the creature was entirely lacking; though it clearly had five fingers on each hand, they blurred together as though she was looking at them through a glass full of water. She thought for a while that maybe the figure had come to save her, but found herself sadly mistaken as the breath seemed to be knocked from her body upon the figure’s approach. The figure knelt beside her, hesitated, and continued where the fleeing vampire had left off.
Unconscious began to flood Buffy’s mind. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think… she felt her own pulse rate start to slow. In the last few seconds of consciousness, she suddenly felt the figure being pulled away by something, someone, and that her name was being called somewhere very, very far away.
***
Giles sat down in his mother’s old rocking chair in front of the fireplace (that he’d never use; he was living in California, after all) with a fresh cup of tea and opened the old book of demon lore he’d wanted to catch up on. Almost instantly after he’d gotten himself comfortable, an abrupt knocking at the door caused him to jump ever so slightly. Grumbling to himself, he rose from his chair and went to the door.
His annoyance deepened into seething hatred when he regarded the figure outside his door. This feeling soon disintegrated, however, when he noticed the unconscious figure in the vampire’s arms.
“May I come in?” Angel asked, simply for the sake of being polite.
“Yes, do.” Giles moved the table away from the sofa so Angel would have room to place Buffy down more easily. He went into the spare room of his apartment to grab the first-aid equipment. “Vampire?”
“Maybe it started out that way, but by the time I got there, something else was sucking her blood.” Angel regarded the unconscious Slayer sadly. “I didn’t really recognize it, but it seemed somehow… familiar. Like a childhood memory or something.” The vampire with a soul shook his head. “I don’t know what it was, Giles, but it wasn’t anything good. I had to fight off the physical instinct to run as fast as possible in the opposite direction… more than once. Her pulse was almost non-existent when I got there, but the further we got from the creature, the stronger it got. Look, can I… help?”
“No, you’ve done enough, I think.” Angel couldn’t tell if this reply was sarcastic or not. Giles was still clearly angry with Angel, and rightfully so, ever since Angel had sort of lost his soul and killed Giles’ girlfriend before torturing Giles himself for information on how to destroy the world. The tone of the Watcher’s voice suggested sincerity, however, but whether it was simply out of distracted concern for Buffy or in gratitude for bringing Buffy to him rather than taking her home or to the hospital or, worst of all, to his own mansion, Angel couldn’t tell. “Did you get a look at the demon?”
Angel hesitated. “The body looked human, but any features not covered in clothing were blurred together and indecipherable. It was like it was melting on the spot.” He shivered uncharacteristically. “All I know is that when I touched it, I felt like throwing myself onto the nearest stake. I think maybe Buffy was so weak at the time that I found her because she wanted to die. That thing made her want to die.”
Giles stepped back, observing the job he’d done on patching up Buffy’s neck. The watcher frowned at Angel. “You’re right, that does sound… vaguely familiar. And extremely concerning. But moreover familiar.” He whirled around to pick up the book he’d just been reading, leafing through the pages and distractedly muttering to himself. That characteristic… the melted features… he’d read about it recently. The information seemed terribly fresh in his mind. Finally he shook his head and put the book back down to observe Angel stroking Buffy’s hand lightly and muttering to her quietly. A rush of empathy for the vampire caught Giles off-guard. He sighed. “You’ll want to stay with her, I assume?”
Angel turned slowly. “I’d like to, but if you prefer that I leave, I understand.”
Giles hesitated and resisted the temptation to take him up on that offer. “No. Stay. I’ll be up all night researching anyway… perhaps you could be of some help. First, though, I should call Buffy’s mother and tell her Buffy’s sa—here with me.” Giles paused. “Actually, if you don’t mind, I’d be much obliged if you wouldn’t mind putting on another cup of tea. I wager we’re in for a long night.”
***
Joyce was sitting at the kitchen counter, resisting the mad urge to start pacing through the kitchen. She picked up a newspaper and attempted to read it, failing miserably and finding herself glancing rhythmically at the front door instead. This… this Slayer business was just so strange. All the trouble Buffy had been in, all the times she’d snuck out or skipped school… they’d all been for a reason. A reason that saved lives. A reason that had saved the world on more than one occasion. Nearly everything that Buffy had done over the past three years had been done out of goodness rather than rebellion. No matter how many times Joyce went over it in her mind, it still seemed foreign to her. She supposed it probably always would be.
Joyce jumped at the shrill sound of the telephone. She caught herself and just sat for a moment before getting up and answering. “Hello?”
“Mrs. Summers, hello. It’s… *ahem*… it’s Rupert Giles.”
“Oh,” Joyce responded quietly. Things were still awkward between them ever since their teenaged misadventures on top of a police car a few weeks back. “Oh, hello, Mr. Giles. Buffy isn’t here… she’s out on patrol. I can tell her you called when she gets back…”
“Actually, Mrs. Summers…”
“Oh, please. Call me Joyce.”
“Very well, Joyce. I’m calling to tell you that Buffy came by to see me. She apparently had an encounter with a demon on her patrol that… that she didn’t recognize. She is taking it very seriously… she seems to be on a mission of sorts to find the demon as soon as possible. She… er… asked me to call you so you didn’t worry about her whereabouts.”
Giles winced at his lame attempt at covering. Joyce hesitated, and he could hear the doubt in her words when she responded. “Oh… all right. She’s… she’s okay, then?”
“Yes, quite,” he returned, trying to sound convincingly cheerful.
“Well, all right, then. Will… will she be home tonight?”
Giles took a breath before responding; he didn’t want to sound too rushed. “It doesn’t seem terribly likely at this point. We’ve already gone through a few books, and nothing’s turned up. The demon seems to be quite elusive indeed,” he added with a false chuckle. Joyce’s tone relaxed.
“All right. As long as she isn’t a bother.”
Giles had to restrain himself from sighing in relief. “No, never a bother. Have a good night. Bye, now.” He hung up hurriedly.
On the other end, Joyce hung up more slowly. She walked shakily back to the counter and sat down with her face in her hands. No, she’d never get used to this.
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