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1860
“I love it Stephan! It’s simply marvelous!” Alyssa exclaimed, twirling about
in her new evening gown. It was a light green, to match her eyes. Stephan
watched with amusement from her seat.
“I’m glad you like it,” he said mildly.
“‘Like’ does not describe it Stephan! It’s perfect! And it would be even better if I could wear it to my coming out ball!” she said pointedly. He sighed.
“I’ve told you a hundred times Alyssa—you are not having a coming out ball. You are the Slayer. I don’t know why I even bought you that ridiculous thing. Slayers don’t need pretty dresses. Besides, it’ll get spattered with blood or something and then you’ll be upset,” he prophesied wearily.
“It will not! As if I’d ever wear it to go slaying! And Slayers do too need pretty dresses—at least I do, and I’m a Slayer, so that makes it true, doesn’t it? I don’t see why you go on about what Slayers do and don’t do. I’m a Slayer, so whatever I do is something Slayers do,” she pointed out. He barely repressed a scowl, then suddenly laughed.
“Perhaps you’re right,” he admitted. Before she could say anything, he continued. “That doesn’t mean, however, that I will let you come out. It’s much too dangerous. Someone might find out what you are.”
“What’s so horrible about that?” Alyssa asked crossly, sitting down, her pleasure in the dress forgotten. “Emily knows, after all.”
“Emily is trustworthy. Most people are not,” Stephan said sharply.
“So? All the vampires already know who I am. And they’re the ones we have to worry about, aren’t they? What does it matter if humans know I slay vampires every night? Or, most nights at least,” Alyssa amended.
“Most humans would not understand, and people fear what they do not understand. They would fear you and persecute you. Not to mention the fact that it would be very easy for vampires to then force humans to attack you at any time—you could be assaulted all night by creatures of darkness and all day by creatures of light.” Alyssa scowled at his logic—it made sense. Still . . .
“Coming out doesn’t mean everyone will find out. I’d be careful. We could put it out that I was very sickly, and then whenever I couldn’t go somewhere or had to leave suddenly, we’d say I was ill,” Alyssa suggested. Stephan shook his head.
“It wouldn’t work. No one would believe you were sickly Alyssa. You are much too . . . vibrant. And don’t even try to say you could pretend to be ill. You couldn’t. Even you, Alyssa. There is no way to hide the brightness in your eyes, or the color in your cheeks,” he said seriously. Alyssa flushed slightly and looked down, then looked up again and sighed.
“We could say it comes and goes,” she said, then, as she saw his expression, hurried on, “Or we could come up with something else. Please Stephan! I do so want to come out!”
“So you can find a husband?” he asked, a very strange tone in his voice. Alyssa blinked in suprise.
“Of course not. So I can have fun and be like other young ladies. I’m tired of being different, or not having any sort of life just because I happen to be the Chosen One. I wouldn’t stop Slaying when I came out, I just want to have a little of what everyone else has. I was too young when Nuru and my parents died to know what the world was like. And with you . . . well, I don’t mean any offense, but my life has been entirely about Slaying and vampires. I want more than that. It seems to me, that if all we ever see is the darkness, it’s winning. If we really want to defeat the dark, perhaps we should do something to defy it. Like dance all night, or giggle until you cannot stop. Or fall in love. Anything. Things I never do. I want those things, Stephan. I’m willing to give up a lot. I’ve already lost my parents . . . my whole world. But I won’t give up everything. I won’t do it,” Alyssa repeated. Her eyes were steady on his and her voice did not falter. Every word she had said was true. She was not good at being serious, but she was now. She wanted to live.
Stephan looked back at her, sensing that for once she was serious. With a sigh he reached up and took off his glasses, passing his hands over his eyes once. He left them off, his eyes focusing on her face all right without them. Without his spectacles he was really rather handsome, Alyssa noticed. He wore the ugly, huge things all the time and she couldn’t remember him taking them off long enough for her to really see his face. But he had them off now. Her mind left all thoughts of his face though, at his next words.
“I will think about it,” he said softly. And she knew the battle was already won. Alyssa was out of her chair in a second, across the room in two, and, kissing his cheek quickly, was back up and spinning around in her beautiful dress.
“Thank you! Thank you! You won’t regret it Stephan! I know you won’t!” she cried. He sighed again, watching her exuberance. If only she was that enthusiastic about hunting vampires . . . The city—the whole country—would be rid of them. She was the best Slayer he had ever heard of, and had started the youngest as well. At fourteen all she knew of vampires was that they were stories made up to scare children. She never imagined there could be any truth to them. And then Nuru, the last Slayer—who had been born and raised in Africa, but traveled the world quite a lot—had been killed, and Alyssa had, all unbeknownst to her, become the new Slayer.
Stephan had searched for her for months before he finally found her. He had been looking for someone older, someone of a lower class even. But there she was, as blatantly radiating power as any vampire. He had tried to talk to her, to break it to her gently, but she thought he was crazy and ran away from him. And then Angelus attacked. He killed her parents, nearly killed Emily Lord and would have killed Alyssa as well if Stephan had not made it barely in time.
He had suprised Angelus, and with his encouragement, Alyssa had driven him away. But that was certainly not the last they had seen of the handsome Irish vampire. Not that he was really Irish anymore—he hardly had an accent. But it always helped Stephan to classify them. Angelus was Irish and William the Bloody was English, a common English ne’er-do-well. And this new vampire, Drusilla? English as well, he thought. A young English lady, much like Alyssa. Only mad, and now evil as well.
“Whatever is the matter Stephan?” Alyssa asked suddenly, stopping in the middle of a twirl.
“Nothing Alyssa,” he lied. “It is nothing.” She scowled at him momentarily.
“That’s not true! I can tell when you’re lying to me, don’t think I can’t! If this is about me coming out again, I—”
“It’s not about that,” Stephan said, truthfully this time.
“What is it about then?” Alyssa demanded, putting her hands on her hips. All her spinning had shaken her carefully pinned up hair loose, and the shining blond strands curled around her face as if she had arranged them that way. Stephan tore his attention away from her appearance—but not before noticing that she did look stunning in her new dress—and pulled together an answer.
“I was thinking about Drusilla,” he said. She made a face.
“Oh, I knew it was something serious! You always have to ruin a good moment, don’t you? Well, what are we going to do about her? Have you figured out what day her ‘party’ is going to be?” Alyssa asked, sitting down again.
“No, but I’m getting closer. I need a certain book. I know where they have a copy and I am going to buy it this afternoon,” Stephan said.
“A book you don’t have! Yet! That’s certainly a miracle, as Andrew Lord would say,” Alyssa said.
“There are a great many things Andrew Lord would say that I certainly hope you would not,” Stephan replied tartly. Alyssa laughed softly.
“You don’t like Andrew very much, do you?” she asked.
“I remember being like him too well to like him,” Stephan muttered.
“What was that?” Alyssa asked.
“Nothing,” her Watcher said firmly.
“You said something! What was it?” she demanded.
“Nothing you need to nor shall ever hear! Now, I should be going to fetch that book. I will see you at supper. While I’m gone you should practice your kicks,” Stephan said, putting his glasses on and standing up.
“I don’t want to! Kicks are the most trouble, especially since you won’t hear of me dressing like a man. It would be so much more easier to fight if I could wear pants!” Alyssa exclaimed crossly.
“It’s much too immodest Alyssa. Slayers have done quite well for hundreds of years in skirts. I daresay you can do the same,” Stephan said wearily, having made the argument far too many times.
“Just because they did it doesn’t mean I can or should!” Alyssa exclaimed, walking out of the room behind him.
“Enough Alyssa,” Stephan ordered. “I have to go. I shall speak with you later. In the meantime—practice.” Alyssa made a face, but after he was gone, she practiced all afternoon.
1998
When Buffy had been in L.A. for a week, she put an ad in the personals
section of every newspaper in the city. There were a lot of newspapers. But
she couldn’t take any chances.
Angel, the headline said, so it would hopefully catch his eye. I’m sorry, the message continued. The Treehouse. B.
The Treehouse was the local equivalent of the Bronze. At least, it had been to Buffy before she moved, and it was the only place she knew to say. So she put it in, and her initial, just in case he didn’t know who it was from—almost impossible, but there was a chance—or in case someone else read it. If he saw it, and wanted to see her, he would come to the club, hopefully. And she had to be there to meet him if he did.
Every night after the message was first printed, Buffy ate dinner with her father, and then told him she was going for a long walk and she would be back before midnight.
“I know you’re used to Sunnydale, but L.A. is different Buffy! Even here in the suburbs, it’s not safe to go walking alone at night, especially for an attractive young woman like you!” her father exclaimed when she first told him she was going out. Buffy caught his eyes in a level stare.
“I can take care of myself,” she told him, reminding him of who she was. Of what she was.
“Oh,” he said. And Buffy went.
She was walking to the Treehouse, which was pretty near her father’s house when she saw them. Or rather, when she felt them. Her eyes were better in the dark than most mortal’s, but she still felt their presence before she could ever make out their bodies.
“Do you guys follow me around or something?” she asked into what anyone else would think was the still night air. “I mean, is this enjoyable to you? Do you have some sort of wager going? Who can get the Slayer first? ‘Cause really, you’ll get a lot more blood somewhere I’m not” There was a growl to her left, and then silence again. Buffy sighed.
“Okay, we can do this the easy way or the hard way,” she said. A body launched itself at her left. She ducked and rolled, coming up opposite the evily grinning vampire. “I take it you’re going with the hard way.” He—very rudely, she thought—did not reply, attacking her just as his female counterpart came at her from the other side. She ducked out just as they both lunged at her, letting them knock heads.
“You guys are really new to this, aren’t you? I mean, you sort of suck. Not to, you know, impugn you in any way as people—except that you aren’t—or vampires, except being a vampire sort of includes fighting and killing people—so I guess I do mean to insult you. Oh, did I hurt your feelings?” Buffy asked as one advanced on her. The other was still clutching her head. Buffy didn’t wait to be lunged at again. She attacked, driving the vamp back with a quick series of kicks and punches. Before he had a chance to react, she had staked him and turned to the other. “Sorry you had to wait, I was a little backed up. I’d be happy to kill you now.” The female vampire growled and attacked. Buffy was ready for her, easily blocking her punch, and turning her kick into a flip—for the vampire, over Buffy’s hip, landing on her face. Buffy drove a second stake into her back, extremely glad all of a sudden that she kept a stock of stakes in her purse, even if she didn’t expect to use them.
Brushing herself off and checking her hair quickly, Buffy walked on. She had a date to make. If he came and she wasn’t there . . . Buffy shuddered to think about the possibility. She quickened her speed for the rest of the walk.
He was not there when she arrived. Well, that wasn’t suprising. It had just gotten dark a little while ago. Even if he did come—which he might not, as he very well could not have seen the message—it would probably be later. Buffy sat down at the bar and ordered a soda, prepared to wait. And wait she did—for hours. He didn’t come that night.
Or the next.
On the third night, someone else came instead.
Buffy was sipping a club soda when the young man approached. He was late high-school, early college age, relatively good looking. He looked like a football player, maybe, though his clothes didn’t scream “jock,” which Buffy took as a good sign. He looked slightly familiar—she thought she’d seen him the other nights she’d been there.
“What’s a pretty girl like you doing sitting at a bar all alone?” he asked, then added, “For three nights in a row.” Buffy managed a smile. He sort of reminded her of Xander, though with much better fashion sense. And bleached blond, buzz cut/spiked hair.
“Waiting,” she replied.
“That would be my cue to ask ‘for what’ or ‘who,’ but I’m not going to. I’m an original thinker. I’m going to ignore your answer and get straight to the point. Does that mean you’ll a) let me buy you a drink, or b) tell me I’m a freak and send me packing?” he asked.
“Neither,” Buffy said. “I’m sorry. I know you didn’t ask, but I’m waiting for a who. In fact, the man I’m in love with. I don’t know if he’s going to come, but there’s a chance he will and I need to see him, so I’m waiting. And even if he doesn’t . . . I’m definitely not ready for a relationship. Maybe not even with him. Certainly not with anyone else. I told a guy at home once that I didn’t think I’d ever date again, and that may still be true. While I’m sure you would have rather had an a) or b) answer, I’m more of a c) kind of girl, so there it is. It’s not you, it’s me. Even though I swore I would never say that to a guy. It’s true.”
“Hey, I like c)s,” he said. “How about a d) though?”
“D)?” Buffy asked, amused despite herself. “I don’t know.”
“I’ll tell you what it is and then you decide, okay? D) you let me buy you a drink while you wait and we can talk. If your dream guy shows up, I’ll hand you off without a murmur. And if he doesn’t, you have company while you wait, no pressure of any kind. Just someone to talk to. What do you say?” he asked. Buffy considered it for a moment.
“All right. D)’s pretty good. But we’re just talking,” she warned. He held up his hands.
“I swear!” he said. “By the way, I’m Mark Goodman. And you are?”
“Buffy. Buffy Summers,” she introduced herself, shaking his hand. She grimaced at his suprised look. “Hey, I didn’t name myself! It’s all my parents’ fault! Blame them!”
“No. It’s a cool name. Mark’s boring. Everyone’s named Mark.”
“Really? I don’t know any Marks,” Buffy said. “Then again, I seem to attract people with strange names usually. My best friends are named Willow and Xander. Though I think Xander’s short for Alexander, but no one but his parents or a teacher—or Willow when she’s angry—would ever call him that.”
“What about the guy you’re waiting for?” Mark asked.
“Angel,” Buffy said. At his look of suprise she laughed. “I told you I attracted strange names! It fits him though.”
“He’s angelic?” Mark asked skeptically. Buffy smiled slightly.
“Not always. But sometimes, yes. More than anyone else I’ve ever met.” She knew she sounded stupid and lovesick, but it was true. He was her Angel. And she had sent him to Hell. What happened to people that sent angels to Hell? Even if the angel could forgive. But all she had to show that maybe he could was one note, unsigned. In his handwriting, but unsigned.
“Wow. You do love him,” Mark said. Buffy returned to the present abruptly.
“Yes. I do. I told you I did. I don’t lie,” Buffy said.
“I didn’t think you did, but you seem a little young for true love,” he remarked.
“I’m seventeen!” Buffy exclaimed.
“High school? Is this, by any chance your first love, ‘cause—”
“First loves are extremely overrated. Well, that’s not the right word. But I know what you’re getting out. And no, it’s not. I thought I was in love with a guy in L.A. when I lived here before. Besides, it’s not exactly high school love . . . not on both sides anyway,” Buffy said. Mark whistled.
“Uh-oh, am I sensing an older guy in the picture? How old is he? Twenty two, twenty three?” he hazarded.
“Of course not!” Buffy exclaimed. Which was true. Only not in the way he assumed.
“All right, so he’s not that much older than you. Still, these college guys can be dangerous,” Mark warned.
“You’re in college aren’t you?” Buffy asked, looking him up and down. Mark winked at her.
“Not yet, I’m not. I just graduated from high school. Therefore I’m not yet actually *in* college,” he pointed out. She sighed and rolled her eyes.
“If you’re going to get technical!” she exclaimed, then got serious. “Can we change the subject? I don’t really want to talk about Angel right now.” He looked suprised; most girls this age in love would want to talk about their lovers and only their lovers. This girl was unusual though.
“Sure. So where are you from? You mentioned home. And what are you doing in L.A.?” he asked. Buffy smiled in relief at the change of subject. Talking about Angel made her think about him, and about what she had done to him and she couldn’t handle thinking about that for too long. Not yet.
“I’m from Sunnydale. You probably have never heard of it. It’s a really small town—you know the type, one high school, one hang out, and that’s about it. I live there with my mom. I’m visiting my dad—they’re divorced, if you didn’t figure that out yet. Besides that, I’m going to be a senior at Sunnydale High next year—assuming they’ll let me in,” Buffy said, in a joking tone though it wasn’t a joke.
“Oh, so you’re one of those troublemakers disguised as sweet, gorgeous girls. I see right through ya,” he teased. Buffy smiled half-heartedly.
“Yep, that’s me. You really got me pinned. Anyway, what college are you going to? You are going to college, right?”
“Yep. Wouldn’t miss it. Well, I would, but my parents would freak. It’s Berkeley for me. I’m going to be an architect. I guess. It’s my latest kick, you know what I mean? Last year I wanted to be a lawyer. But for now, I’m going to be an architect. My dad’s just hoping I don’t change my mind again!” he laughed. Buffy smiled and gave a small laugh, but her heart wasn’t in it. What she would give to be able to change possible professions every year. But no . . . she was the Slayer and she had no choice in the matter. She would always be the Slayer. Until she died, at least, which, if the pattern ran true, would be in five years, maybe a little less, maybe a little more if she was lucky and very good. It was like being a terminal cancer patient, but being unable to get out and do all those things you had always wanted to do. Like having to lay in a hospital bed and wait. Except laying in a hospital bed was a whole lot easier, and Buffy didn’t get drugs for the pain.
“Are you all right?” Mark asked, noticing her silence and the look on her face. She took a deep breath and threw off the depressing thoughts, summoning a smile.
“I’ll be fine. I just get to thinking sometimes . . . and the things I get to thinking about are usually not especially bright things. And then I get depressed. But don’t worry—I’m not manic or anything. I don’t need drugs. I’ll be okay. Just keep talking. Tell me about yourself. Do you play sports? Have a girlfriend—well, hopefully you don’t right now, ‘cause I’d be morally obliged to tell her that you were majorly flirting with me—but what was your last one like, and all that good stuff. Let me guess, she was a cheerleader?” Buffy asked. Mark shuddered.
“No!” he exclaimed.
“You have a problem with cheerleaders?” Buffy asked in an offended tone. Well, she generally didn’t like them that much either, but she had been one once, and Cordelia, who was captain of the Sunnydale cheerleading squad wasn’t that bad. Anymore.
“Are you one?” he asked incredulously.
“No, but I used to be. What, I’m not like cute and blond enough to be one?” Buffy asked, teasingly, doing her best valley girl imitation. He laughed.
“Not at all. In fact, when I first saw you I thought you might be one. You know, not that I go around classifying every girl I see as ‘cheerleader’ and ‘non-cheerleader,’ but you sort of have that peppy, blond thing going. Then I talked to you and realized there was no way,” Mark said.
“Why not?” Buffy asked, intrigued now.
“You’re too . . . real. No offense if your friends are all cheerleaders or something, but they usually seem a little . . .”
“Ditzy?” Buffy suggested.
“That would be the word I was looking for!” he exclaimed. Buffy laughed.
“Well, I was like that once. A lot of stuff happened though, and I changed. And my friends aren’t cheerleaders. They’re nerds. Though one is dating a cheerleader—and don’t even ask how that happened, you don’t want to know. But why did you have such a reaction?” Buffy asked.
“Oh, well I did date one once, and it took me a long time to recover. A long time,” Mark repeated. Buffy laughed, and settled in to listen as he began answering her other questions.
They talked for hours, and at 11:45 Buffy excused herself, saying she had to be home before midnight.
“He didn’t come,” Mark said as she slid off her stool and picked her purse up from the counter.
“No,” Buffy answered, putting her purse around her shoulder. “He didn’t.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“So am I,” Buffy replied truthfully, then smile a little. “But I’m glad I had someone to wait with. I’ll be here tomorrow if you want to talk more. I had a good time. If you don’t want to waste time with someone you know you’re not going to score with—as my friend Xander would say. I love him but he’s a real jerk sometimes. It’s his hormones talking—I’ll understand.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Mark said, ignoring her last comment.
“Good night,” Buffy said, and then was gone before he could say anything
else. She had learned a few things from Angel after all.