Oz had kept a change of clothes in the car, so his T-shirt and baggy pants didn’t have any holes in them, but the ratty old bowling shirt he wore over his T-shirt was tacky with blood over the spot where his worst wound had been. It had stopped bleeding, but the cloth had stuck to the skin and when he shifted it pulled painfully away, crackling with drying blood.
Faith looked rough around the edges, but that wasn’t new.
They’d rested in the old factory for twenty or thirty minutes. It would have been best to wait until their wounds were completely healed, or at least completely closed up. But they had to settle for mostly. They had both gotten stir-crazy out there in the middle of nowhere, knowing that the real fight might already be going on elsewhere.
Faith drove and Oz searched the radio for something acceptable to both of them. His taste in music was pretty diverse, but she liked headbanger stuff, so the car thrummed with thrashing instruments as they drove back to the hotel.
“You’re a scrapper,” she said to him at one point, while they waited at a red light.
Oz arched an eyebrow. “If that’s a compliment, I’ll go with thanks.”
Faith kept her eyes on the road and her hands on the wheel. “It is. Gotta be brutal in a throwdown if you want to come out the other side. Good to have you with me tonight. Could’ve used you in the prison yard.”
“Chicks in prison,” he mused. “I’ve seen that movie. Could be fun.”
“It wasn’t,” she said, with no trace of humor or irony.
Oz let it drop. Faith rarely seemed serious about anything. If he’d touched a nerve, he knew better than to touch it again.
As they came in sight of the Hotel Kensington, Faith’s cell phone began to play its ring tone. “(Don’t Fear) the Reaper” by Blue Oyster Cult. She flipped it open and looked at the display.
“It’s Buffy.”
Faith pressed the button to connect the call and held the phone to her ear. “Hey, B. We’re pulling up to the hotel now. What’s your twenty?”
Oz watched her face, saw the lines appear on her forehead.
“Yeah,” Faith went on. “We’ll park in front of the lobby doors. We’ll be waiting.”
She shut the phone and started to turn into the circular driveway in front of the hotel.
“What’s going on?” Oz asked.
“That wasn’t Buffy. It was Micaela. Looks like that Malik freak you ran across might be our guy. Buffy’s out hunting. She should’ve waited for us.”
“She’s never liked to wait,” Oz said.
Faith scowled. “Me either, but some of us learn our lesson. Micaela knows her general vicinity. Looks like we get to hunt the hunter. We’ve gotta find her before they kill her.”
“Against four Champions?” Faith said. “What’d they call her? The Deathless Slayer? Damn, wolf-boy, nobody’s deathless. Nobody.”
* * *
Willow and Tara left Maggie Hood’s townhouse when the witches in the back parlor began to stir from the enchantment that had been placed upon them. They slipped out quietly, walking down the hill in the wealthy neighborhood with weary smiles on their faces, hand in hand. The disapproving looks of the old woman walking her dog and the business suit parking his BMW—home quite late from work or from a dinner with clients—did not faze them at all.
The memory of their conversation earlier hung like the sword of Damocles above them, but Willow refused to acknowledge it. They would have whatever time they had, and she would cherish every moment that remained.
As they walked down the hill, Willow felt the cell phone in her pocket begin to vibrate and the ring tone played “Black Magic Woman.” A shudder went through her as she retrieved the phone, and she promised herself she would change the ring tone at the first spare moment.
The display said it was Buffy calling.
It wasn’t.
* * *
Xander sat in the back of the cab, but right on the edge of the seat, as though his urgency could somehow lend velocity to the vehicle. The driver glanced at him several times, apparently unnerved by the manic energy of the stubbly-faced one-eyed guy in the backseat. Xander didn’t care. He had to get to Buffy.
He had tried her cell phone nine times in about four minutes. Now, as he rode toward the Rhode Island State House—the dome was visible from almost anywhere in the city, lit up with small floodlights—he opened the phone and moved his thumb to the button, ready to hit redial.
Instead, it rang. He’d never gotten up the proper motivation to choose a song for his ring tone, so it remained the jangling, old-fashioned bell that came programmed with it.
The incoming call was from Buffy.
“About time,” he said when he answered. “I’ve got to talk to you.”
“It’s Micaela. And I’ve got to talk to you, as well.”
“What’s wrong?” Xander asked, panicked. “Tell me Malik doesn’t have her already?”
Micaela paused. In that moment he imagined the most horrible things. But then she spoke, and he realized he’d misinterpreted her hesitation.
“What do you know about Malik?”
“No. Uh-uh. Tell me what’s going on. Why do you have Buffy’s phone? Did he already get to her?”
“Malik’s not a Champion. But we think we know where he and his allies are hiding. Buffy went after them.”
Xander swore. His empty eye socket ached, and his temples began to throb. “That’s not what I hear. About him being a Champion. The way the demons in town tell it, they’re all Champions, but they don’t follow the rules anymore. If it’s supernatural, they’ll kill it. Slayers included.”
“But that doesn’t—”
“Look, just tell me where she went.”
“We’re all meeting there. Let me give you directions.”
He listened, then barked orders to the cab driver. The guy looked at him like he was out of his mind, but did not argue. Xander closed the phone and slid back against the seat, trying not to think about what would happen when he got to the Seekonk River—what they all would find waiting for them.
* * *
Micaela snapped a branch from a fallen oak tree on the riverbank. The car was parked on the shoulder of the road, with the rental Faith had been driving right behind it. She and Oz sat on the hood, talking quietly to Willow and Tara, who had arrived in a taxi moments after Micaela and Faith had parked there.
She wasn’t one of them; Micaela knew that. They were a generation younger than she was, and though they’d all had their difficulties, their resentments, and their broken hearts, they had grown up together. They knew her, but she was an outsider. In some ways it would have been much simpler if Buffy had chosen Micaela to replace her as arbiter. Giles would have been here instead, and then their circle would have been complete. Despite their differences, they were all a sort of congress of their own.
But the clock could not be reversed. Giles was back at the State House, and Micaela knew that was probably for the best. Rupert would be able to deal with the diplomatic pressure of the Congress better than she would have. In his own life he had lost patience with diplomacy, but when the world hung in the balance, she knew that he would always know precisely what to say.
So Micaela simply had to do her best.
She snapped the twigs and small branches off the larger one, stripping it down so she was left with a Y-shaped branch, perfect for her purpose. Dropping to her knees, Micaela picked up an apple she’d bought at a market on the way over. She’d also purchased a paring knife, and she used it to peel some of the skin off the fruit. Quickly and vigorously, she rubbed the apple’s white flesh all over the single jutting end of the branch, juice and bits of the fruit left behind on the bark.
Micaela began a low chant. The incantation was a variation on a locator spell, but one she had never performed before. Micaela had some facility with magick—she had been raised from childhood by a sorcerer of great power—but she had no inherent magickal ability, only what could be learned from books and persistence.
An engine rumbled. She turned anxiously, worried that all of this activity so close to the entrance to the yacht club would have brought a police officer. Instead, it was another taxi. The cab pulled to a halt and Xander jumped out, then reached back in to pay the driver. A moment later the cab was pulling away and he was trotting over to join the others. Once he had been a laughing boy, a big-hearted clown, but the dark patch over his empty eye socket had altered him in spirit as well as appearance. He was grim tonight.
Of course, they all had reason to be grim.
Micaela walked back to where the two cars were parked. She heard them talking, exchanging stories about what they had learned. Catherine Cadiere and the vampires had all been cleared as suspects in Kandida’s murder. That came as no surprise now, of course. Xander had confirmed that Malik and his friends were Champions, though Micaela and Giles had been unable to find them with the locator spell that would identify the influence of the Powers in the city. There could be only one conclusion, and Micaela felt furious with herself that she had not made it sooner. Somehow the Champions had blinded the Powers to their presence here. Their connection to the Powers was diffused over a large area, explaining the concentration she and Giles had discovered with their spell.
“If Buffy found them, she could be in major trouble,” Willow said.
“Ya think?” Faith snapped. “Two Champions, maybe, but four? She’s screwed.”
“Way to boost morale, Lehane,” Xander snapped.
Faith flipped him off, but there was nothing hostile about their exchange.
Micaela stepped up to them, the Y-shaped branch—her supernatural dowsing rod—in her hands.
“Tara?” she said.
They all turned to look at her. Willow wore a strange expression, almost protective. Faith gave Micaela a glance that said she had only just remembered that the Watcher was with them.
“Me?” Tara said.
Micaela smiled, considered asking if any of the others were named Tara, but then thought better of it. The witch was shy and self-effacing, and making light of that would not win her any friends.
“I’ll need your help to find Buffy. The locator spell I’m using is channeled through this branch and it becomes a sort of pointer. I’d like you to hold it while I finish the incantation.”
Tara’s blond hair fell across her face and she seemed to hide behind it. She opened her mouth as though to reply, but Willow moved up beside her and took her hand.
“Why Tara? If you’ve got a locator spell that can track Slayers, why does it have to be her?”
Micaela understood Willow’s protectiveness. She had lost Tara once and feared losing her again. So she did not take offense at the powerful witch’s tone or the wary light in her eyes.
“The spell doesn’t track Slayers. But if it did, I’d need Faith to hold the pointer, otherwise it would simply point to her because she’s closer to us than Buffy is. This spell is attuned to those whose spirits have touched the afterlife and returned. It’s—well, honestly, it’s usually used to find the walking dead, but it should work to track the resurrected. If I hold the branch, it’ll point to Tara. If she holds it, it should lead us to Buffy.”
They all stared at Micaela until she began to fidget.
“What?” she asked.
Xander grinned. “Nothing. It’s just cool. If Giles were younger, female, kinda hot, and not so in love with giving lectures, he could be you.”
He flinched, his smile vanishing, and glanced over at Oz. “Did I say that ‘kinda hot’ part out loud?”
The werewolf nodded solemnly. “You can’t help yourself. You’re Xander.”
Tara reached out and took the pointer, holding the arms of the Y in her hands.
Faith slid off the hood of Micaela’s rental. “Can I just ask, before we play cavalry, if there’s a plan? I mean, okay, I know I’m not the having-a-plan type. Pretty much I go with what for most people would be the fallback option—y’know, ‘beat the crap out of something.’ But we’re trying to do things differently these days, right?”
She glanced around at them. Micaela knew what Faith was talking about. As they had gone around the world gathering all the young, new Slayers, they had attempted to become more methodical in their operations.
“Tara and I were talking,” Willow said. “If the Champions are blowing off the Powers That Be, the Powers are gonna be kinda pissed when they find out. We’re trying to work out a way to get the message to them.”
Faith nodded. “Cool. Other than that?”
Micaela glanced around at them. After a few seconds Xander threw up his hands. “What was that you were saying about your fallback option?”
Willow glanced at Micaela. “Are you sure you don’t want me to do this spell? No offense.”
Micaela shrugged. “None taken. You’re a very powerful witch, Willow. More innately powerful than any I’ve ever met, I think. I’m just a magician, really. Petty sorceries, that sort of thing. But I’ve done this spell before, and done it well, and I don’t think we have time for me to teach it to you.”
Willow turned a hesitant glance toward Tara.
“She’ll be fine,” Micaela assured her.
After a moment, Willow smiled. “So, pretty much up to you. Do your thing.” She kissed Tara’s cheek. “Be careful, sweetie.”
“Will you drive?” the Watcher asked.
Willow nodded and Micaela handed her the keys. Tara got into the backseat. When Willow started the engine, Tara rolled her window down and held the pointer out. Micaela got into the passenger seat as Faith started up the second car, with Xander and Oz riding along with her.
They pulled off the soft shoulder, moving slowly. Micaela started chanting the spell again. When she had finished, she glanced into the backseat at the shy, blond witch who watched her anxiously.
“Tara?” Micaela asked.
She watched the witch holding the pointer out the window. Tara moved it back in the direction from which they’d come and the Y-shaped branch jumped in her hands, its point bending in the other direction. Tara shifted, let the pointer lead the way.
“Keep going straight ahead.”
* * *
Malik sighed. “Such a shame, but we’ve wasted enough time. Yes. Kill her.”
The dwarf, Bors, whipped his arm out, unfolding a metal flail—a kind of whip made up of segments of black iron. Tai unsheathed a pair of silver daggers, intricately etched, ancient blades. Simone brandished no weapon save her hands.
The three of them came at her, and Malik only watched.
Buffy let them come, staring into the warrior’s eyes. She might be fighting the other three Champions, but Malik was her true opponent.
The dwarf’s metal flail whipped toward her. Buffy dodged to the right, practically into the hands of Tai and Simone. The silent, mountainous warrior slid into a smooth, swift attack—he held the dagger in his right hand back to parry any counterpunch even as he stabbed at her with the left. The attack had been coordinated so well with Simone that Buffy felt sure they had fought side by side many times. Simone dropped down and shot a kick at Buffy’s right knee that would have easily shattered her kneecap if she had not moved.
Buffy leaped into the air, grasping Tai by the stabbing arm and diverting the blade in his hand. Simone’s kick swept harmlessly beneath her. The Slayer twisted, using the hulking mute as a foundation for her motion. She grabbed Tai’s right hand and drove it back, forcing him to stab himself in the shoulder with his own blade. Tai grunted, and as his blood began to trickle, Buffy shot her right leg down and caught Simone in the back of the head before she had managed to jump back from her own attack.
The redheaded woman fell forward, tumbled into a roll, and then leaped up, turning toward Buffy, enraged.
Tai glared at her, trying to twist her off, to free his left hand so he could stab her again. Buffy head-butted him, but it seemed to trouble him not at all and her skull rang hollowly.
She heard the metal flail whistle through the air and tried to move. Tai held her, turned her, and the flail struck her across the back. Buffy cried out as she heard bone crack in her back. Pain shot through her and she pulled her legs up, braced them on Tai’s chest, and pushed away, tearing herself free of him.
When she landed, it took a moment for her to rise. The pain in her back felt like Tai was stabbing her with his silver blades, over and over again.
“I’m gonna guess you guys don’t care about playing fair,” Buffy said.
Simone danced toward her in an odd, elegant fighting style that reminded Buffy of capoeira. She did a kind of pirouette, which seemed like an opening. The Slayer ignored the pain in her back and shot a kick at Simone’s chest.
The redhead leaped from her pirouette like a ballerina, using the end of her spin to knock aside Buffy’s kick, and then she twisted, reversing direction, and slapped Buffy open hand across the face. Though it could not have the impact of a punch, the sting was sharp and startling and it staggered her for a single heartbeat—long enough for Simone to follow up. The redhead dropped into a crouch, shot a punch at Buffy’s side that connected solidly, then leaned back to shoot a low kick, once more at her knees, trying to disable her.
Buffy snagged her ankle and spun her hard, twisting her off her feet. Simone went down hard on the ground. The Slayer tried to follow up, but Tai was already there. They traded several blows, then Buffy broke his nose. Blood sprayed down his shirt. Buffy knocked the dagger from his left hand, leaving him only with the one in his right, the one that already had his own blood on it. Tai snorted like a bull and started to pursue her. Simone was getting up.
This time Buffy heard the whistling of the flail as it whipped toward her. She turned, dodged, and then grabbed hold of the segmented metal weapon before Bors could retract it.
“Yeah, I don’t think so,” she said. “I didn’t ask for seconds.”
She ripped the flail from his hands. Bors ran at her, reaching for it. Buffy dodged the little man and then kicked him into the dirt. With a low grunt from deep inside him, the mute Tai thundered toward her.
Buffy hit him in his bleeding, broken nose with a quick snap of the flail.
The massive Asian opened his mouth in a moan of agony and she saw that he had no tongue. But that didn’t stop her from taking advantage of his pain. Buffy whipped the flail at him again. It wrapped around his neck and she maneuvered around behind him, choking him, dragging him down. He tried to bring his other dagger up, but she kicked at his wrist, disarming him completely, and dragged him away from the weapon.
Bors and Simone came at her slowly, watching warily, not wanting her to kill Tai, looking for an opening to attack her. Beyond them Malik stood as still as ever. In his black clothes he seemed to be half invisible in the moonlight. His eyes even seemed black, set in his pale features, above that dark beard. The ominous warrior had not even drawn his sword.
“I didn’t expect him to be real skilled in the banter,” Buffy said, giving a tug on the flail to indicate that she meant Tai, “but none of you talks very much, do you? Where’s the bragging? The threats? No promises about eating my eyes or gnawing my bones or delivering me to everlasting torment? You guys really have to brush up on the bad-guy schtick.”
Malik actually smiled. He strode toward her, but stopped when he was still a few feet behind Bors and Simone.
“Killing you really is regrettable, Slayer. You’d be quite an ally. And we could make you vanish the way we have vanished. We’ve blinded the Powers to us, made them believe we’re dead. When we learned of the Dark Congress, there was no other choice. We simply cannot accept that peace might be made between the monstrous races. That could lead to peace between the forces of Light and Darkness, and we can’t have that. Demons and horrors, hostile or passive, must be destroyed. Anything else goes against our purpose, our mission.”
“Yeah, y’know, I was kidding about the speechifying.”
Buffy dragged Tai backward by the neck. He choked pitifully, reached up, and tried to claw at her, to grab her, but she dodged and twisted the flail hard. He tried to struggle and she forced him down again. He might be much larger than she was, but Buffy wasn’t an ordinary woman. She was the Deathless Slayer. The Chosen One among Chosen Ones. She overpowered him, kept him down.
“Didn’t the Powers give you this mission in the first place?” Buffy asked.
Simone laughed softly.
Bors had lost his pornographer’s grin. He glared at her now, full of hate. “The Powers don’t understand the needs of the human race. We are human. We’re flesh and blood. We understand what must be done.”
“Good for you. What do you want, a cookie?”
Even as she spoke, Bors moved. His right hand came around from behind his back and he barked words in an ancient, guttural tongue as he whipped a handful of gravel into the air.
For a second Buffy was confused. The dwarf wasn’t even throwing the gravel at her. Then the scattering of dust and tiny stones exploded in a burst of light, a fireworks display of tiny sunbursts that blinded her for a moment.
Then they were on her. A boot struck her cheek. Hands grabbed fistfuls of her hair and dragged her down and then they were kicking her, circled around her. Spatters of Tai’s blood fell on her as he crouched to hammer his fists down upon her. She twisted so that the blows fell on her back, but the pain pounded through her. The bones that the flail had cracked ground together.
Buffy tried to crawl away.
Her right hand landed on a leather boot.
The beating ceased and she raised her head to find Malik standing over her.
He had drawn his sword at last.
* * *
The demon of the desert slid along the roadside, nothing more than wind and sand. He followed the friends of the Slayer in their two cars as they tried to use their witchcraft to track her down. The cars moved slowly, just rolling along the road, slower than the rush of the nearby river.
The presence of the river hurt Trajabo’s heart. All he could think about, so close to the gentle sound of the deep, rushing water, was Kandida. His grief and fury had merged and become one.
As he slipped along the road, watching the two cars, his very presence sucked the moisture out of the humid August night. The demon missed the desert. When he passed above grass, it dried to a crisp yellow, the soil becoming arid. Trajabo did not exert this influence on his environment purposely. It was simply his essence. The desert lived within him. And now his heart was as arid and unforgiving as the hard land of his origin.
The cars began to slow and then stopped. The engines were shut off, first one and then the other. The Slayer’s friends climbed from the car. Trunks were opened and weapons removed—swords and an aluminum baseball bat and a crossbow.
The Slayer must be near, which meant that Kandida’s killers were also near. Trajabo trembled. Vengeance would not restore her to life, or assuage his grief, but it had to be done.
Blood would flow.