BirthWriteLab

Birthright Post by Rhiannon- "The Monster Is Dead"

Wed, 26 Sep 2007 17:32:23 GMT

I read a book when I was younger,
Buffalo Soldiers,
About servicemen making war in times of peace,
When there was no real war to fight.

I was fixated reading it because I understood that it was true.
I was a proto-slayer, a Girl amongst girls, set apart
By my grasp on an idea about the consuming urge to fight.
It’s in us from day one,
Little soldiers yet to be drafted.

See, there always has to be an Enemy.
Mom, Dad, Sister, Brother, Vampire, Watcher, Police,
Who cares?
Without one, we get restless.
We’re designed for one thing and one thing only.
Battle.
So we turn on our friends, ourselves, anyone,
Just to wage a war and win it.

And then afterwards,
Licking our wounds but proud, defiant,
TRIUMPHANT,
We turn an ear to the newfound silence and we say to it,
“Now what?
Show me the next, bigger thing.”

You know we have to be bound for somewhere.
Upward or downward, it doesn’t matter.

Warriors always search for a worthy struggle.
Count back through your history books and I dare you to find
The champion who sat at ease in the knowledge of his safety.

Slayers are the most dysfunctional champions of all.
We fuck up so we’ll have things to recover from.
Trouble Addicts.

So today the Defiler is toast
And forget about all the hordes of vampires out there,
I’ll stake the ones I find, but they’re not enough to satisfy me anymore.
(Apparently you can build up a tolerance.)

It’s an attack of the clean life.
I quit corruption, I quit addictive men,
I quit smoking, I drank the last bottle on my shelf,
I even quit hating (did you see who I fought beside today?)
You know what else? Somehow, my rent’s paid in full.

Let’s face it.
My real monsters are dead.
I killed them.
And when I turn my ear to the newfound silence, do you know what I ask it?

I’m so goddamn predictable.

“Now what?
Show me the next, bigger thing.”

Birthright Post- "Where Are Your Wings?"

Mon, 24 Sep 2007 19:21:00 GMT

St. Hyacinth’s Cemetery
Portland, Maine
September 21, 2011

Once upon a time, Hannah saw only headstones in cemeteries.

In her tiny hometown, cemeteries were unremarkable places. At nine years old, she had stepped over a chain-strung fence to sneak inside one. Once she got up the nerve to explore, it was a terrible disappointment to discover that the superstitious charm of Hollywood wasn’t there. There were no elaborate mausoleums, no crumbling crypts or nocturnal creatures to haunt them, and certainly no well-tended family plots to give her romantic thoughts about life after death and love everlasting. What that cemetery had in abundance was red, white, and blue patriot flags with the star shapes fading into obscurity. There were also bunches of frumpy silk wreaths, probably purchased on discount.

In Searchlight, the situation had been no better. The cemetery was a barren piece of gravelly land, each grave an awkward mound anointed with an iron cross. It was ironic that a vampire-infested town had the most pitiful lawn of eternal rest she ever saw.

But oh, that wasn’t the case in St. Hyacinth’s. It was a gorgeous place to sleep, she thought. The oak trees were old and strong, their branches leafy green. Ancestors had bought up plots and gated them in with ironworks so that for generations to come, relatives could be laid to rest alongside them.

It was a nice gesture.

It was also a noisy cemetery. Here and there, spirits perched on headstones with their chins resting on their see-through hands, bemoaning doctored wills and scandalous weddings and life endings all too abrupt. Corpses might not move, but spirits could most certainly roll in their graves.

Hannah had a purpose for being there. His name was Oliver Jerzyck, and it just so happened that Oliver lived in Nevada. According to her otherworldly sources, Oliver was on a visit to his deceased father’s grave, and the experience wasn’t settling too well with him.

She begged a wardrobe change for the encounter. It was important to look like a human girl, after all, especially when Oliver wasn’t to know his visitor was a ghost or an agent of higher powers. Wearing a navy blue pea coat buttoned up tight, Hannah waited for him in the not-quite-silence, pretending to admire his grandmother’s choice of angelic statuary.

Oliver picked his way through the ornate headstones and the well-crafted marble cherubs, a cigarette in one hand as he fastened the top buttons of his coat with the other. September in Maine was cool, and the grass was damp from an early-afternoon rain. He hadn't been here in years, not since he'd flunked out of Northwestern and showed up drunk to do little more than sit on the well-tended turf and stare at the name carved into the headstone.

Nathe was buried here too, and he supposed that when Amelia died she'd be interred close to her husband and her son. Not him, though, he wanted to be cremated. Better to scatter whatever was left of him to the winds than to plant him in the earth like some obscene, ill-fated flower. There would be no huge marble marker for him. Random thoughts. Morbid thoughts, wondering if his bitch of a mother would even bother to attend if she outlived him. That'd be a nice final fuck you, to have his remains blow back in her face.

The tips of the angel wings came into sight, and the spell-caster paused, dragging on his smoke. He'd allowed himself one steadying drink before coming out here. He wished he'd had more. The day was cold, and on the inside, he felt colder.

He didn't even have to see the inscription to remember what it said;

Saul Wendell Jerzyck
October 24, 1960 - November 18, 1992
Devoted Father, Beloved Son

"Devoted," Oliver muttered, then finally closed the distance between himself and the headstone. "Hi, Dad," he said, his breath visible on the breeze. "You surprised?"

Behind the angel with its outreaching arms and sympathetic smile, Hannah winced. She hadn’t been given any empathic gifts upon her death and rebirth, but when working with the bereaved and bewildered, it didn’t take long to recognize pain and bitterness. It was an intensely private moment, one she’d never have interrupted when she was alive. These days, there was little choice in the matter.

Hannah waited for a solid minute to pass, counting the seconds off in one-one-thousands. The leaves underfoot were damp. She dug her shoes into them. The shoes were terribly formal, and so were her heavy skirt and hosiery. She felt like a feminine sailor.

Eventually she cleared her throat, a soft noise that ushered in her arrival. She stepped round the angel and smiled at him, nothing too cheery. “Hi. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to--” A weak gesture at the grave. A fine mist hung in the air and muted her skin, which was helpful because it glowed too brightly to be normal.

She rambled on awkwardly. “I heard you talking. I didn’t mean to listen in. I just... didn’t know how to make my exit after that... so I waited...” She nibbled her lip. “Did I do it wrong?”

He twitched a little under the coat, then relaxed again. It was just some girl. Possibly from a college nearby, come to look at where the Great Man was buried. People still did that, made random appearances at Saul's grave. His name didn't garner as much recognition as it once had, but there were those who still remembered.

"Art history?" he asked her with a faint, sardonic smile. The cigarette was used as a pointer, indicating the carving on the front of the grave marker. "I didn't know they were still talking about Saul Jerzyck in college classrooms. Just when you think everyone's forgotten you..."

He let the sentence trail off, placed his free hand on the cool marble. He had never forgotten, even if everyone else had. Creak, creak, creak... Oliver's fingers tightened, then let go abruptly, as if he'd touched something contaminated. He should have worn gloves.

"Terrible day for visiting," he continued. "It's cold here, even for this time of year."

Hannah nodded and applied some chapstick. “Yeah. I wasn’t expecting that.” She rubbed her lips together. Awkward seconds fell and she could hear the sound of raindrops sliding off the leaves and pattering on the ground below. “It’s neat that you thought I was an Art student. I don’t know much about art. I mean, I have opinions. Like this statue.”

She looked up at the smiling face carved out of stone. “It’s sort-of weird, the hug she’s offering. It’s not like you can actually take it. It’s kinda like... bowls of plastic fruit on your coffee table. They make you hungry, but you can‘t eat ‘em.”

Hannah rocked on the outside of her shoes. “I’m visiting cousins,” she revealed. “My grandpa’s around here somewhere but I can’t find it.” She craned her neck and gave a helpless shrug. “He’s nobody famous. I think he’s got one of those plaques on the ground.”

She peeked at Oliver. There were dewdrops landing on his black, black hair. “Was he a good man?” In case it was confusing, Hannah took her hand out of her pocket and pointed at the headstone Oliver couldn’t touch.

No, Oliver thought. Would a good man leave an eight-year-old son behind? He looked up at the angel's vapid smile, left the cigarette in his mouth to jam his hands into the pockets of his coat.

"I don't remember," he said instead. "It was a very long time ago." He was such a liar. What else was new? When you spent your entire life protecting yourself with falsehoods, the truth became as elusive as mist.

"He was...intelligent. And driven. And very, very unhappy."

“Oh.” She nodded and looked at the grass that grew where Saul slept. “I think that happens a lot. Being smart and being sad on top of it. I guess it’s too hard to know a lot of things. Maybe you can‘t stop thinking about life, about all the bad parts of it.”

The question Hannah asked next was a risky one, only to be asked in the mildest of curious tones, innocently. “How come you came?” The simplest questions could bring about lies, and all that Hannah knew about Oliver could fill a thimble and not much more. But watching him confirmed that she wasn’t here for old Saul. It was for his son.

The wind blew and a drop splattered Hannah’s nose. It hung there, suspended, proof that she was still real. She smudged it away with a wet sleeve.

"Because he was my father." The answer was given absently, and he was still looking at the features of the marble angel that watched over Saul and Nathe where they rested in the earth. Father, son, father, son. He was the last male Jerzyck left above ground. What would they think of him if they could see him now?

"His father is buried there," the spellcaster added, indicating his grandfather's headstone. "He and Grandmother had this plot for years, but there'd been no need to use it until Dad died." A long sigh, more visible breath.

"It's good to see they're keeping the place up," he said, noting the grass and the fact that there were no weeds. He was paying for that too, the way he was paying for Amelia's care. The very least he could do. Even a bastard like him knew what family meant.

Hannah faced his profile. While he pondered grass and weeds and secret things, she studied the misanthropic presentation of Oliver. Was there anyone in the world that got to see him underneath? Every person had a soft underbelly. The fact that he was angry meant that was part of him could be hurt and had been. He was human, after all, and the womb didn’t give birth to anger. That was the whole point.

“Will you be buried here?” she asked. “With your father?”

Oliver shook his head, and water trickled down the back of his neck and under the collar of his shirt. "I'm going to be cremated," he said in a low voice. He touched the marble again, found it slick with leftover rain. Wet. Cold. It left his unprotected fingers chilled. He removed his hand after a minute.

"I should like to have my ashes scattered over the sea somewhere. Maybe off the coast of Greece. I spent a summer there once, with my grandmother. The Parthenon was beautiful and desolate." Random thoughts again, snapshots from the past.

He frowned, took the cigarette out of his mouth. Listened to the silence, the pattering of water drip-drip-dripping off the leaves of a nearby tree. Glowered at the insipid fucking angel over his head. No, he would not be here when he was dead.

"He wouldn't want me here, anyway. Not beside him in the ground for eternity." His jaw tightened around the bitterness of the admission. It tasted like vomit. "He never wanted me. Neither of them did."

Hannah bit her lip. She looked at the ground, its feet upon feet of dirt separating Oliver from the shells of family he didn’t trust. She considered carefully how to respond to him, a dark-haired man who shook with resentment. He made the air vibrate. Did he know that? She realized she would’ve been scared of Oliver in life, afraid he might be volatile enough to lash out at a stranger.

“Death is beautiful, too, but it’s not as desolate as people think,” she hedged and pulled back the veil of her identity a little more. “It’s crawling with souls that regret their short-sightedness in life. How they couldn’t see the forest for the trees.”

She kept her fists tucked in her pockets. “They cry so loudly. You wouldn’t believe. Imagine you had all of eternity to spend reflecting on your mortal choices.” She drew a breath to collect her thoughts and held it. “Death has an unforgivably honest rearview mirror.”

"Why shouldn't he cry? He killed himself." Oliver spoke with all the resentment of a child who'd been abandoned, and his mouth was a narrow line, held so tightly closed that it was white around the edges. He looked at the blonde, this girl, this child, and something trembled inside his gut, under the knot of rage he walked around with every day of his life.

He'd never seen such a kind face. Most people looked kind on the surface, but she glowed with it. Radiated it at him in warm waves, like the sun. Beneath his coat, under his shirt, his skin prickled. His shoulders knotted with tension, and he dropped his gaze to the damp earth.

"Unforgivable," he said, and he pointed viciously at his father's gravestone. Unloved, unwanted, unnecessary. Everyone said they loved you. Everyone lied. Jill had said it too; 'I love you, Oliver.' And where was she now? Probably back sleeping with her vampire. Hadn't he tried? Everything he'd done had been for her. Not good enough. Not ever good enough.

Just like dear old fucking Dad.

“Yes. Unforgivable that you were left by yourself,” Hannah agreed. “Unforgivable that he took his life? Maybe.” She almost hiccupped upon blurting that out. No wonder her bosses were hesitant to let her off the leash just yet. She was impetuous. Apparently certain characteristics would cling to her always. Hannah gathered her thoughts and reminded herself that his father’s passing was infamous in Portland, a familiar conversational topic, and that everyone had their unwelcome opinions.

Hannah plunged ahead. “Probably. But it’s hard to imagine being in so much pain that you’d rather feel nothing. Do you know why it happened?” She didn’t. Somewhere in the Other Place, the answer existed, but it wasn’t for her to know.

Oliver shuddered, a man caught in a feverish state. "I was eight years old," he told the woman in a whisper, as though speaking too loudly would cause the dead to rise from their slumber, or perhaps for the angel that was witnessing this conversation to step down off of its perch and wreak havoc on him. "Nobody ever tells children anything. I just knew something was wrong.”

He tried to breathe, realizing that where he'd been cold before, he was now too warm. He undid the top button of his heavy coat, then two more. He wanted to scream, to scream for the sake of screaming. Another button. He finally let the coat fall open, taking in great gulps of cold Maine air.

"Who are you?" he asked, his mouth twitching between a smile and a scowl. "You've got the sweetest face. Like... like an angel. Who are you?"

“Hannah,” she said delicately, as though words were to be treated like footsteps on a minefield.

An unbidden smile came to her mouth. Once there it surpassed his and tried to coax him along with her. Happy was too far-reaching a dream for Oliver, but she believed she could help him find a moment of peace. Later the powers would scold her for it; they said that what he needed was encouragement to be outraged right there in the cemetery, loud enough for Saul Jerzyck to hear it.

Maybe they were right, but as Hannah watched the metamorphosis of a fleeting smile on his face, she was too selfish to let go. “You’re Oliver,” she said. She put her fingers on the knuckles of his fist, cautiously. Her touch was warm. “I have a confession. I’m not quite alive.”

Hannah let her brown eyes go to his face. “But neither are you. When people make awful choices, it kills a little of anyone who loves them.”

"Hannah." He stared at her hard, as though he were trying to memorize her features in order to capture them on paper later. "It means merciful." Something that sounded perilously like a giggle escaped from his throat, and he scrubbed one hand down the side of his face. Merciful. Was there such a thing? God, he was burning up.

"I'm years long dead," he told her, and the top button of his shirt came undone after he worked at it impatiently. As cold as it was, it felt fabulous. "Beating heart and all. But if I'm dead it's because he killed me. I didn't do it to myself. I'm not like him, I'm not weak."

He sat down, bringing his weight to rest on Nathe's gravestone. The seat of his pants was immediately soaked through, but he ignored it. He lit a cigarette off of the one already in his mouth, then extinguished the first and tucked it into the pack with the rest. No dropping his used butts here, he wasn't going to use this place as an ashtray.

"You feel alive," he remarked, looking at the blonde through narrowed eyes. "Did you die here? Is your name among these cathedrals of stone, Hannah?"

“Nuh-uh.” Hannah shook her head. For the first time she showed him a touch of melancholy in the slight pinch at the corners of her mouth. “I died in the desert. I don’t have a grave. I always wanted one, but not some big casket with buckles and layers of satin inside. When I was alive, I didn’t even own satin underwear.” She lifted her hands helplessly, as unphased by the over-share as she would‘ve been in life. “It wouldn‘t be authentic. I just wanted a wooden box in the dirt, and if the worms got in, it’d be okay. I thought maybe I’d turn into a field of dandelions and be part of the earth again.”

She laced her fingers in front of her coat. The wind picked up and a lock of her hair danced with it. “But here I am, in the same body, talking to you. And your grandfather and your father aren‘t so far away as you think. Souls have ears and eyes and mouths. You can say anything you want and they’ll listen... and then you can let it go or keep holding onto it, just to say it again next year.”

Hannah wet her lips. They tasted of chapstick. The clarity of the newly-recovered sense startled her, but she tried not to let it show.

He considered it, looking at each marble slab in silence. The fingers of his free hand began to trace the letters of his grandfather's epitaph. Nathe's middle name had been Thaddeus. From the father to the son, from the river to the sea.

"I remember how tall you were," he said, addressing Saul's gravestone in a voice so low he could barely hear it. "I knew there was no way I'd ever be able to get you down by myself. Is that why you waited until we were alone? Because you knew I wouldn't be able to do anything? So I couldn't stop you? Selfish. You selfish, selfish fuck..."

He smoked, the cigarette's burning ember very much like the fiery knot of fury that swelled underneath his breastbone. "You selfish fuck!" he yelled suddenly, standing up so fast that he stumbled. His voice echoed off of the marble, reverberated into the silence beyond him until it dissipated, and he glared at nothing as he shoved the hair out of his face.

"That's why you waited, isn't it? Because you wanted to die so much that you couldn't see anything else? Not even me." The coat was suddenly an unbearable burden, and Oliver stripped it off, hanging it on one of the angel's marble wings. It looked ludicrous there, but the chill in the air felt good. His hands balled into fists, the knuckles whitening.

"I was your son," he told the silent piece of carved rock, and his molars ground together. "You could have waited until I wasn't there. You owed me that much, even if you didn't love me. Why didn't you wait?" It was raining again. He could feel the drizzle start, wetting his face. He tipped his head backwards, up to the overcast sky, but when moisture trickled past his lips, he realized that it was salty. Not rain. Tears.

"Daddy...”

Hannah was so thankful that he couldn’t see her anymore, not up where his eyes had turned. She covered her mouth with overlapping fingers, keenly aware that Oliver was in agony, and so desperate to help and yet completely unaware of how to do it. Why, she wondered, the tune in her heart changing, why had the powers sent her to him?

She wasn’t ready. She was too clumsy with speech, too bright with the old joy of her life, not someone filled up with sadness that Oliver would trust to understand him. There had been loss when she was young -- only three -- and she was left to her grandmother’s care. But there was so much love in soft, wrinkled hands, so much tenderness when Hannah became sickly and small, and there was her grandmother’s faith that she would get better, held close to the heart until it came true.

Hannah didn’t know how to salve a wound so deep. She was a girl tending a mortal wound and she’d only brought a band-aid.

Would he shove her if she touched him? Hannah didn’t think Oliver could stand it if she begged the powers to let her bring Saul up to say his piece. Maybe Saul didn’t deserve it.

“Oliver?” she whispered. In her innocent way she loved him, not because Hannah knew who he was, but because he needed it.

“Your father was an artist, wasn’t he?” She felt unsteady but kept going. “I read somewhere once that the most beautiful works of art are unintentional. Just... impulsive mistakes, or experiments, that somehow turn into masterpieces. You’re a creation. I think you’re beautiful and desolate, just like the Parthenon, and strong, too. So much more than you might’ve been.”

Oliver made an animal noise, wrapping his arms around his midsection as though he could squeeze the grief out of himself. His head shook back and forth, tears burning his eyes and his cheeks. Beautiful? No. Desolate? Absolutely.

"I'm not weak, not like him," he grated, and that was also true. There was something in him that was like trying to eat tinfoil, something that refused to die or be crushed no matter how bleak things became. He would not be buried in a cathedral of stone before his time. He was not a weakling.

The spellcaster turned towards Hannah, his expression a little befuddled. Why was she here? Was she an angel, as he had facetiously suggested? There was such compassion in her face, such care and concern. Why? He'd done nothing to merit it. He was not a good person. His mouth trembled uncertainly.

"Why?" His hands reached for her shoulders, found them solid enough beneath her coat. A trick of the imagination? Perhaps he was drunk after all and just hadn't realized it. Maybe he was hallucinating. Going crazy. It wouldn't have surprised him.

"Why me?" Her eyes were brown. He was almost a foot taller than she was. He couldn't decide if he wanted to laugh or scream. When one usually sounded so much like the other, it became difficult to tell the difference.

She shrugged beneath his hands. Because they grabbed onto her instead of reaching through, they felt wonderful. “Because you needed me,” Hannah said.

The honesty was hard for her. It felt like being full of herself, imagining she could help a stranger. Oliver was her first attempt at serving her Fate in the real world, and she had no concept of whether or not it should happen this way.

Hannah‘s eyes had an open quality. “It’s why I still exist... to help dead souls, the forgiven and the damned, and the people who go on without them. See, you haven‘t gone on at all. But you‘re not meant to carry the burden of your father’s failure your whole life. You’re meant for greatness. You can be extraordinary.”

Sensing he was the type to deny compliments, she hurried to add, “And hey, don’t question me. I’m dead, remember? I’m wise. And if you don‘t believe me, you can look me up when you go home. I was real.”

Oliver put his face very close to Hannah's, as though he intended to kiss her. Would she feel it if he did? One pair of dark eyes looked into another as he chewed over her words. Greatness. He supposed it was true, or that it could be. A chill slithered up his back, but he ignored it.

"Where are your wings, little angel?" he asked her rhetorically, and then he did kiss her, very lightly on the cheek. Bordering on reverent. Because no one had ever noticed what he needed before, not really. His fingers worked against the heavy material of her coat as he pulled back enough to see her eyes again

"I'm sorry that you're stuck," he told her, the ridiculousness of the apology as obvious as the drying tears on his cheeks. But he couldn't imagine anything worse than being trapped between the physical and the ethereal. "If there was anything I could do..." He let the sentence trail off. "Is it very bad, where you are?"

Hannah caught her breath.

She had a memory of a Halloween past. She was dressed like an angel in Hell’s Bouquet, an angel with gauntlets on her wrists and a whip in her hand. It had been so funny at the time, so seemingly out of place, and yet here she was. Not quite an angel, not quite a ghost, and alive no more. But she smiled, remembering, and giggled until her eyes glistened with happy tears. What a gorgeous, short life she had lived. Bacon and toast on blue plates, wild adventures with her girl friends, nights bickering over Bingo with old ladies, awkward attempts at flirting with boys, and driving fast, fast, fast down the highway with the sun on her arm.

“No, it’s not bad there,” she said and touched the spot where Oliver kissed her. “And it’s wonderful here.” The smile that Hannah wore was radiant, some of it natural, some of it not, but all of it hers.

She went up on her toes and put her mouth on his uninvited. Hannah wanted to kiss him because he was handsome and cold and strange and yet still, he had made her so happy without even trying. Oh, this was what she was meant to do. The certainty of it astounded her. It flooded her senses into wakefulness.

Hannah kissed him softly, her lips like the flutter of wings.

“I’m sorry,” she sighed, “That was rude, me taking advantage of you in a vulnerable moment. I forgot all my manners.”

Oliver shook his head, negating Hannah's words even as he swayed slightly on his feet. The purity of it, of her, was a balm on his scarred, aching soul. "No," he said, still holding onto her narrow shoulders. Ghost-flesh. But she felt so solid, so real.

"I'm sorry. I'm not... always like this. Not so loud." He tried to smile, but it was a piss-poor effort. He let go of her coat, touched her face instead. How typical of him to become enchanted by a dead girl, no matter how temporarily.

"You're so beautiful." Tears ran down his cheeks in a salty rain, mixing with the drizzle that had begun to fall. No one was here to see him cry except for Hannah. He kissed her forehead. His hands were freezing. Could she tell the difference?

"It's raining again." The height of inanity, for him to notice that now. "I guess I should have brought an umbrella."

Hannah looked up and the fat droplets struck her face. She actually did feel beautiful, just this once. “I know another trick,” she said, letting the water run down her neck and into her wool coat. “It’s something I learned while I was alive. No one can take it from me.”

The blonde took a great breath and blew it overhead. The water and the air still listened to her, and the bubble she blew formed an invisible shield over their heads. That pocket of air protected them. It made the rain bend its path mid-air and fall in a circle all around them.

“You better get inside before you catch your death,” she said, laughing because it was corny. Hannah stepped out of the makeshift umbrella and left him standing underneath its protection. “Go on. It’ll follow you.”

He laughed, a rusty, unused sound. He wanted to ask her to stay with him, to break his heart a thousand times, just as long as he never lost sight of her smile. He wondered if Saul could see him now, if he was hovering somewhere nearby.

But he let her slip free, his hands dropping to his sides as she moved out of reach. She was no more for him than he was for her. It had been a brief respite, albeit a glorious one. He bowed to her, the gesture formal and respectful.

"Thank you," he said. Ghost, spirit, angel, all three at once. Hannah. Merciful Hannah. In that moment, he loved her utterly.

“You’re so welcome,” she said. Hannah began to walk away from him through the gravestones. She bit her thumb to stem the blossoming smile on her face, but it wouldn’t go away. Oh his lips. His kiss. Things that were impossible now and never would’ve happened before.

At the last moment, she turned around and called, “I’m from Searchlight.”

She wasn’t sure that it mattered, or when she’d begun to think of the town that took her life as home, but she did now. It always would be.

He watched her go, touching his mouth. His shirt was stuck to his back and shoulders. Amelia was going to wonder why he'd been standing out in the rain. And he'd never be able to explain it to her.

Greatness. He was destined for greatness. Hannah had told him so. If the dead could lie, he'd still have believed her.

"Goodbye, little angel," he said, turning to head back the way he'd come. He swiped up his coat as an afterthought, draping it over him without putting his arms through the sleeves. Searchlight. She'd been from Searchlight. He wondered if he'd ever see her again.

He hoped so.

Submitted for Feedback -- "Cold and Grey"

Wed, 19 Sep 2007 05:04:14 GMT

Small cell, cold and grey.

White sheets on a thin mattress. Just one pillow, flat and overused.

Rusty toilet, looked like it hadn’t been washed in months. Metal bars keeping the outside world away, as dreary as the cell itself.

Huddled up in a corner, arms wrapped around knees. Tear-stained eyes, puffy and red. No cell mate, none wanted.

Samantha was alone in this. She had no friends, no allies. Everyone on her side was dead. Dead or … taken away somewhere.

Cory.

Her son, the one Jason DiSantos once begged her not to have. The son Jason left her because she refused to listen.

Time alone, regret. Wonder.

Was Jason right? Should she have listened? If she had … no cell.

No cold, no grey. No tears.

How many days? She lost count. One week? Two?

Oh, the things they were probably saying at the station. Starnes was loving this. She had to – she finally caught the younger, prettier cop.

No, that was stupid. She was doing her job; nothing personal.

Guards stare. Mumble as they walk away. Crooked cop, they call her. Murderous bitch.

Evil. Tainted.

Was she the only Slayer ever to be called those things? She didn’t know … probably.

Where was the Council? No contact, nothing. Figured … she needed the Watchers, they were too busy watching … something.

Always watching, never doing.

She didn’t do it. She couldn’t have. She was innocent. Too bad they didn’t know it.

Long sigh, another tear. Slowly trickling down her cheek.

Small cell, cold and grey.

Submitted for Feedback -- "Vigor"

Tue, 04 Sep 2007 05:01:42 GMT

“Well, look … the roaches have all gathered.”

The smile on Jill’s face as she waltzed into the conference room bordered on psychotic, her folders flopping onto the desk as she surveyed the eight bodies sitting on either side of her. Colleagues, but people Jill hardly knew – and sure as hell didn’t care to.

There was Mr. Parsons, an attorney who specialized in corporate accounting – guy had the IRS in his back pocket, but his eternal fixation with little Thai boys was a tad disturbing. And who could forget Angela Travis, a fat waste of skin with nails that would put most vampire fangs to shame?

But Jill’s smile faded when she laid eyes on the man sitting at the opposite side of the conference table … goddamn Roger McDonnell. The smooth-talking, too-much-hair-gel-using Oklahoma boy who for some reason thought he had a shot at getting under Jill’s skirt.

Never mind the fact that, up until a couple weeks ago, Jill had a boyfriend. And ignore Roger’s sleazy attitude and the fact that he once contracted chlamydia from a For’sak demon. His smile, his oh-so-clever attempt to be flirtatious, just made the young lawyer chuckle to herself.

“Listen up, you worthless fuckers,” she continued, pacing around the table intently. “I don’t know what you’ve heard about me the past several months, nor do I really care. Jillian Andersen is back, and she’s here to stay.

“You all know what happened to my secretary. Bitch had it coming … anyone know why?”

Jill’s hand slapped against the back of Roger’s head as she asked, and her face scrunched in disgust when she felt residue from his hair product in her palm. Wiping her hand on Parson’s shoulder, Jill continued.

“Anyone?”

Swallowing hard, Travis raised a finger. “Because,” her voice postured hesitantly, “she was worthless. A liability.”

Jill’s sadistic grin returned. “Exactly. And why was she a liability?”

The eight seated bodies exchanged nervous, uncertain glances, shrugging shoulders and murmuring under their breath. Jill’s smile widened; they were afraid of her. For the first time since before she’d met Oliver, her colleagues at Wolfram & Hart shook at the sight of her.

Her pep talk with Victoria had been just what the doctor ordered. The attorney was annoyed they didn’t consummate anything – Victoria having someone, that dopey redhead, no doubt – but at the end of the day, the vampiress put Jill back on her path. The lawyer was starting to realize again just who she was.

And just how much fun that was.

“She wasn’t down with the mission,” Jill answered with a hint of annoyance in her voice. “She was one of those pointless peons who walk through our doors every day thinking Wolfram & Hart is just a law firm. That all we do is serve clients, keep them out of jail and all that bullshit.

“I’ve heard some of the normals talk … they think working here is the epitome of the law profession. Some douchebag in Human Resources yesterday said that working at Wolfram & Hart was like a sportscaster working at ESPN – the very top of the game.

“See, that’s the problem with this place … the Senior Partners aren’t seeing the big picture. They hire these people to keep public perception, to make people think we’re nice and normal while we plan the Apocalypse.”

Parsons drew Jill’s angry glare as he raised his hand. Clearing his throat, he suggested, “Miss Andersen … while we appreciate your renewed vigor and desire to see the firm’s endgame met, it’s not that simple.”

The woman growled, driving Parsons face-first into the table. Busting his nose and drawing blood, Jill threw the old man to the floor, brushing black hair out of her face. “Of course it is,” she bit back, standing over Parsons. “I know what’s going on … the Senior Partners are scared. They got socked in the face a few years back with the L.A. debacle, and now they’re afraid to walk in case they step in a steaming pile of dog shit.

“Well, I’m sorry, but that is not what I came to Wolfram & Hart for. And I am going to do everything I can to see to it that things change around here.”

Parsons coughed blood onto the fine carpet, looking up at Jill. “So,” he mused, “you’re not trying to find a way out of your contract, then?”

Again, Jill growled, grabbing Parsons by his collar and forcing him to his feet, getting in his face. “Where did you hear that?!” she bellowed, spitting in the old man’s face. Her free hand balled into a fist before driving into his large gut, causing his eyes to bulge and a sharp breath to escape from his lips.

Parsons fell to the floor again as Jill stared at the other seven staring at her. She saw fear in Travis’ eyes, but everyone else looked on with no emotion; they knew what was going on, they knew what it all meant.

And they understood.

Drawing a pistol from her blood-red business jacket, Jill cocked it and pointed it at Parsons’ head. “Doesn’t matter,” she said, waving her free hand dismissively. “Whoever told you was wrong.”

Jill pulled the trigger. Parsons never screamed, his blood exploding onto the carpet and Jill’s suit.

Pocketing the gun, Jill regarded the others again, a darkness in her eyes none of them had ever seen before. She cleared her throat, kicking the body beneath her with her heels. “I am not going anywhere,” she stated with authority. “In fact … I think it’s time I got a promotion.

“Go straight to the Partners, get it myself. Special Projects, people. We’re getting this shit started, with or without you losers. You got that?”

Travis and five of the others nodded in silence before closing their briefcases, rising from their chairs and leaving in a hurry. Travis tripped over Parsons’ body as she left, struggling to get back up because of her size. Jill saw this and chuckled, shaking her head as she drew a knife from the nearby wall and stuck in the back of Travis’ neck, undoubtedly hitting either her brain or her spine.

Either way, her final resting place was right where she wanted to be anyway: on top of Parsons.

Jill sighed when applause came from behind, and she whirled around to see McDonnell standing before her. He had that smug grin of his, a grin that said, “I think I’m hotter than I really am!” Jill cleaned the blade before setting it back on the wall and folding her arms across her chest.

“Yes, Roger?” she sighed in annoyance.

“That was …” McDonnell began, waving his arms, “brilliant, Jill. It’s so nice to have the old you back. What say we celebrate over a drink and, ya know …”

Jill placed a finger on McDonnell’s lips to shut him up, leaning in close. Her lips inches from his, Jill giggled and shook her head. “Haven’t you heard, Rog? I don’t like the pole anymore. So if you’re looking to have a shot with me …” Jill reached between McDonnell’s legs, grabbing, squeezing and twisting violently. “… you might wanna get rid of this.”

McDonnell squealed loud enough to echo through the ninth floor of Wolfram & Hart’s Las Vegas offices, Jill’s satisfied grin radiating as she left the conference room and dialed a number on her cell phone.

“Yeah, Andersen,” she spoke into the phone. “I need to schedule a meeting tomorrow morning.

“Yes … the Conduit and I need to have a talk.”

Submitted for Feedback -- "Torn to Shreds"

Wed, 22 Aug 2007 03:47:49 GMT

***Begin Adult Content: Self-Inflicted Violence and Brief Sexuality***

Corbett’s bathroom reeked of dried blood and vomit.

Mostly because in the 24 hours since his face-to-face with Elfleda, Corbett had done nothing but throw up, cut open his wrists and pass out. The vomiting and wrist-cutting were a desperate attempt to force the darkness the Corruptress infused in him out – as if it were some poison he’d lost the antidote for.

The more he purged, the more he bled, the Watcher thought, the sooner he’d be rid of the damn visions and urges. But the truth was, Corbett was growing weaker by the moment, and the only thing keeping him conscious now was the glass of water he drank moments before.

A stunning moment of clarity in the midst of mental chaos.

Corbett sat on the bathroom floor, his shirt torn to shreds in the bedroom. A cold sweat stuck to his forehead, eyes darting around each time his psyche was bombarded with thoughts of deeds the Watcher would normally never speak of. Acts so vile even the darkest of demons would cower in fear.

And the worst part? Corbett couldn’t deny he liked it … longed for it, even. Elfleda really was the Corruptress after all.

Toilet paper soaked in blood littered the floor beside the Watcher. A shaky hand lifted slowly, eventually grabbing the handle and flushing the results of his last purge down the toilet. For a moment, Corbett thought this must’ve been what it was like to be a drug addict, so desperate for a chemical compound the very lack of it made you sick.

Not even the withdrawal symptoms after he broke his bond with Desdemona were this painful. But Corbett needed to suffer through it – the illness, the searing pain along his flesh – if for no other reason than to get Elfleda out of his system and to get back to normal.

Faith would be back soon, and she was, she was going to have a normal Watcher. Not a hopeless old man too busy crouching in front of a toilet and holding a razor blade to be of any good to her.

Death … death to them all …

Corbett flinched and gave a startled yelp, curling back into himself as his body began to shake once more. The images of children running from a mass slaughter filled his head, grainy and yet so detailed. He saw every speck of dust, every drop of blood. Every scream rattled through his ear drums, so much so he covered his ears with his arms and whimpered in a vain attempt to make the pain – or the part of him that enjoyed it – go away.

A black figure stood over a pile of dead bodies. Children he’s killed, butchered in so many horrific ways. Ways Corbett couldn’t even conceptualize, not even in this altered state. The figure stayed in the shadows, staring ahead with blood-soaked blades in its grasp. For what seemed like minutes the figure stood still, saying nothing.

Then suddenly …

”Memento Mori!!”

And with a sudden burst of white in his eyes, the figure was gone. Corbett was alone again, on the bathroom floor, breathing heavy and sweating. The sickness in his stomach slowly returned, but the Watcher swallowed it back, choosing instead to grab the razor blade off the counter. He stared at the blade for several moments, noting the blood not quite dry.

Tentatively, Corbett brought the blade to his mouth, running his tongue along the side of the blade. His blood pooled on his tongue and, much to Corbett’s inner chagrin, he closed his lips and swallowed. The blood was so warm and soothing going down his throat, and once it hit his stomach, Corbett felt the nausea fade.

The Watcher had found his Pepto.

Gritting his teeth, Corbett again took the blade to his left wrist, grunting as he sliced open skin once more, watching as the blood rose and spilled to the floor. The Watcher began to feel light-headed, realizing – yet again – that drawing blood like this wasn’t having the desired effect.

No, all it was doing was making him hungry.

Another vision gripped the Watcher’s psyche suddenly, this one more of a flashback. There was Desdemona, wearing nothing and sitting in Corbett’s lap. Her hips swayed slightly to and fro, the seductive grin on her demonic face at once sensual and predatory. She licked her lips, letting a fang puncture her tongue before shoving it down Corbett’s throat, sharing her vitae with him.

He kissed with equal passion, grabbing the vampiress’ hips and letting himself lose complete control. His eyes closed, the horrors of a moment before all but forgotten as he began to lose himself in Desdemona’s embrace … only to have her vanish into thin air, leaving him with nothing more than a whisper.

“Memento Mori … “

“Memento Mori,” he whispered in a husky, exhausted tone, licking his wrist and swallowing whatever his tongue collected. It’d been decades since he last tasted blood – back when he was still in Desdemona’s thrall – but in many ways, this was a feeling he’d never forgotten.

And in many more ways, a feeling he didn’t want to lose … even as he passed out again on the bathroom floor.

Door wide open for anyone who might happen to walk in to see.

***End Adult Content: Self-Inflicted Violence and Brief Sexuality***

Submitted for Feedback: "Now William"

Tue, 10 Jul 2007 03:19:46 GMT

Prague. July 1881.

“Where’ve you been now, William?”

Spike snarled to himself, closing the window and sighing. He’d been back not two seconds and already Angelus was on his case. Already an annoying little ponce, Angelus was worse whenever the girls weren’t around. So with Darla off catering to The Master’s desires and Drusilla … doing whatever Drusilla did … that left the de-facto leader of this little Fang Gang in a less-than-pleasant mood.

Then again, Angelus was never in a pleasant mood unless he was torturing and disemboweling.

“Feeding,” the younger vampire answered, quickly making his way to the back bedroom, wanting nothing more than to retreat before the sun rose. If he fell asleep fast enough, he wouldn’t have to bother with his grandsire’s prattling.

“Feeding,” Angelus repeated, stepping out of the shadows and grinning at Spike. His grin was actually more of a sneer, a look of condescendence over the younger leech before him. In many ways, William was nothing more than an insignificant bug, someone to be toyed with when desired and ignored when needed.

Too busy chasing around his sire to truly be a useful vampire, Angelus had little, if any, respect for Spike, so much so he refused to use the fledgling’s new alias.

“Now William … ‘tis not smart to be feedin’ while the Slayer roams about, now is it?”

Spike growled under his breath. Damn Angelus and his cowardice. Refusing to meet the Slayer head-on, denying himself the adrenaline, the rush of confronting the only being on the planet truly capable of undoing him. Oh, Angelus was mighty when it came to preying on the weak – ask him to mind-fuck a seer to insanity and he’s golden, but the minute you point him in the direction of a being with some semblance of power and he skulks away to the shadows, wishing for his lovely Darla.

“I was hungry,” Spike explained, turning to face Angelus with a defiant gaze. He really didn’t care for the elder vampire’s assumed position of authority. The way Spike heard, it was Darla who made Angelus, so despite the former poet’s distaste for Darla, he figured it only made sense for her to be in charge of this little macabre family.

Then again, Spike often wished to take Drusilla by the hand and just leave the other two. Roam the world together, hunting down Slayers and living the unlife to its fullest. No caveman-browed masochists to get in the way and tell Spike what to do.

“And let the Slayer come,” he added with a bit of a swagger. “I bloody welcome her.”

Angelus made no effort to hide the bemused smirk on his face, brushing a lock of brown hair out of his eyes as he approached Drusilla’s progeny. Once face-to-face with the irritate lad, Angelus placed a hand on his shoulder, shaking his head.

“Oh … William,” he began with a mocking regret in his thick Irish accent. “Y’still don’t get it. The Slayer’s not to be meddled with. She’s slain dozens of our kind, possibly hundreds.”

“Weak little wankers,” Spike responded dismissively, shrugging his shoulder out of Angelus’ grasp. He wanted none of the elder vampire’s lecturing. Too many times Angelus warned of the strength of the Slayer and the undead foursome had yet to encounter one. Then again, that was probably because whenever she so much as crossed into whatever country they were pillaging, Angelus would herd them all up and scatter away like a cockroach whenever a lamp was lit.

“The Slayer would be no match for us.”

“Aye, no match,” Angelus agreed momentarily, pushing Spike back into a chair. “Well, not for me. But you … you’re reckless. Not too keen on usin’ the brainpan. Any Slayer who survives past a month will take advantage of that and dust you in two seconds.”

Spike scoffed. “No match for you,” he mocked, shaking his head. “Then why not take her? You’re so bleeding strong, Angelus. Why is it every time the Slayer so much as sneezes you grab us and hide in the nearest mouse hole?”

Angelus’ nostrils flared. Again with William and his insolence. Those questions, the constant nagging and needing to know why Angelus did things the way he did. There was no need to question such things; none of the four were piles of dust, so as far as the one once known as Liam was concerned, he was doing things the right way.

“You’re young,” he told Spike. “Which is why I don’t stake you for your stupidity. I keep hoping some day everything I tell you will sink in, and you’ll get it.

“Just because I can take on the Slayer doesn’t mean I should. This isn’t a seer, William. This isn’t someone I can pick at for a few months, drive her batty until I give her the eternal kiss. Oh no … Slayers are special. They fight back.”

And you can’t handle that …

“Which is what makes it fun,” the younger vampire chose to say instead, not at all interested in the prospect for a round of fisticuffs with Granddaddy as the sun threatened to rise. “Kill the helpless to feed, sure, but don’t you just wanna tear into something every once in a while? Just get in there, get your bloody hands dirty? Let the animal buried deep where your soul used to be and just let loose?”

Angelus said nothing, his sadistic sneer growing as his hair framed his face. The younger vampire felt an unnerving chill run down his spine at the sight, willing to admit only to himself that Angelus did in fact scare him sometimes.

This being one of them.

“We’re animals,” Spike added, hoping to feign bravado well enough to fool the elder vampire. “Prattle on all you want about the art and the sodding majesty of what we do, when the sun comes up we still have to crawl in our beddy-byes.”

If Spike still had a heartbeat, it would’ve tripled when Angelus glared at him over his shoulder. It wasn’t necessarily what Spike said that irked Angelus so; it was more the young one’s insolence. No matter how often Angelus demonstrated his power, his hold over both Darla and Drusilla, it seemed Spike was always right there to disagree with him.

When Angelus wanted to run, Spike wanted to fight. When Angelus took his rightful turn with Drusilla, Spike threw the vampiric equivalent of a hissy-fit – one that only got bigger if he was denied his own turn with Darla. Angelus never cared if Spike had his way with Darla; it was the blonde’s choice not to engage the fledgling vampire in such a manner.

And Spike didn’t understand that, much like he failed to understand just about everything else about the ways of the vampire. Angelus blanched at the thought of taking on the Slayer; sure, there were myths and legends of the few vampires able to best the Slayer in battle, but as far as Angelus was concerned they were just that: myths.

He never believed for once second that Lestat could ever take one, let alone several.

The Slayer was the veritable Boogeyman, and the more vampires stayed out of her path of senseless destruction, the better. Dealing with Daniel Holtz had been bad enough; Angelus hated to think what would happen if one took Holtz’s convictions and added superpowers to them.

“Do ye not remember Holtz?” he offered simply, leaning back against a doorway and folding his arms, patiently waiting for Spike to finally get it.

Spike, for his part, scoffed, shaking his head. “Please, you mean to tell me you’re still getting your knickers in a twist over that sod? You offed his family, turned the niblet and drove him bonkers. And I’m sure he’s back with his nice and cozies now anyway … unless the sod struck a deal with the bloody devil or something.”

It amazed young William how Angelus could cower so easily over a mere mortal. One which he and Darla had tortured quite deliciously, at that. For all of Hotlz’s righteousness and for all the men he enlisted to his cause, he was just a man. Flesh and blood, nothing special aside from a crossbow and a stake.

But the Slayer? Oh, she was a morsel. All the righteousness of an uptight Englishman, but with the powers of a demon and the looks of a harlot. Why wouldn’t Spike be enticed by that? He was drawn to the power, the thrill of potentially bettering someone whose only purpose is to turn him into a pile of dust.

For Spike, it was not only an adrenaline rush, but a bit of an aphrodisiac as well.

“Take away Holtz’s weapons and all you’ve got is a man,” he added. “But the Slayer … she is the weapon.”

“All the more reason to avoid suspicion,” Angelus countered, again approaching Spike and pushing him back against the wall. Picture frames shook with the force of William’s impact, his eyes widening.

“We’ve got ourselves quite the reputation,” the elder vampire continued. “No thanks in part to you. Now I don’t care if the local vampire king hears about Angelus and his little group. I welcome that. But the Slayer finding out about us?

“If her Watcher’s worth the ink used to write his books, the Slayer knows more about us than we know about ourselves. Which puts us at a disadvantage. I’m not worried about the power, young William … I’m worried about what she’ll have … up here.”

Angelus poked Spike in the forehead to accentuate his point, smirking to himself and shaking his head as he let go of his “comrade” and began to walk away. “Then again, the Slayer’ll have that over you regardless.”

Without thinking, Spike snarled and pushed himself off the wall and jumped at Angelus. With a growl, his face shifted … eyes turning yellow and his forehead growing bumpy and rigid. He tackled his grandsire to the floor, grabbing a large tuft of hair and ramming Angelus face-first into the floor.

“Older doesn’t mean smarter,” Spike quipped, again introducing Angelus’ nose to the floor.

Reaching behind him, Angelus grabbed Spike’s wrist and forced his hand off his hair before swatting at the younger vampire and pushing him off. Rolling over, Angelus glared at Spike, his face still remarkably human and showing little, if any, emotion.

“You’re young,” Angelus began, “that much we knew. But you’re also stupid, a fact becoming more and more clear every night. I’ve tolerated you until now because, for some reason, you make Drusilla happy.”

Breaking off a leg from the wooden table beside him, Angelus reached for a grabbed Spike by his collar, growling in his face and pointing the broken-off leg in his chest. “But let me make somethin’ clear, Willy … you are not, nor will you ever be, the leader of this family. That mantle belongs to me, because I know what it takes to make sure we all make it to see the next sunset. Bluster all you want about how big and bad you are, but you will always live in my shadow.”

Spike pushed Angelus off of him, kicking away the table leg as his face shifted back to its human façade. “What it takes … you run away at the first sign of trouble. Cause all the bleeding havoc you want, but the minute someone spoils the party, you run off with your fangs between your legs.

“Who knows … Dru and I might just take off one night.”

Angelus laughed to himself, brushing blood away from his nose and licking his fingertips dry. “No you won’t. Dru wouldn’t leave,” he offered. “She’s more mine than yours.”

Again Spike charged Angelus, only to find himself swatted away this time. He hit the floor with a grunt, looking up in time to see Angelus crouched over him, the fangs now unsheathed and the feral eyes striking. He struggled against the elder vampire’s hands on his collar, but couldn’t break free.

“I made her,” Angelus growled. “So I have as much a claim to her as you. I didn’t make you, William, but I can – and will – destroy you. When the Slayer’s in town, you stay low.

“Wouldn’t want to disappoint Dru, would you?”

Letting go of Spike, Angelus walked out of the room, shutting and locking the door behind him. With a growl, Spike rose to his feet, closing the curtains over the window to keep the rising sun from invading his room – and his flesh. He growled and sneered at the closed door separating him from the vampire who pranced about acting like he knew what was best for all bloodsuckers involved.

The more he learned about Angelus, the less Spike liked the sod. Overbearing, confrontational as all get out … so long as you didn’t hold any power. Then he was a wuss to end all wusses. Unwilling to face the Slayer or even acknowledge that anyone other than him might have something resembling brains or strength … at least Darla was up-front and knew what she was. Angelus was trying to act all bureaucratic where there was no call for it.

Vampires and politics didn’t mix, and the more Spike saw in this little family of theirs, the more he wanted out. Angelus was right … as long as he stuck around, Spike would always be under the older vampire’s shadow. There was no way of getting around it, unless Spike did something bold like try and stake the boy.

But that would piss off both Darla and Drusilla … and the last thing Spike wanted to do was piss off his beloved Dru. The vampire sighed, sitting with his back against the wall and shaking his head. He was stuck. Unless Dru agreed for them to separate – which she wouldn’t, as tied to Angelus as she was, Spike was stuck.

“Bloody hell.”

Submitted for Feedback: "Looking for Answers"

Tue, 26 Jun 2007 23:12:00 GMT

Bless him father. It's been three, maybe four decades since his last confession.

Not that he was a pious man. And penitence hadn't been his strong suit. Why piss off twelve deities for the sake of making peace with one? When you died, they didn't bid for your eternal spirit. Neither did they war for it. And there wasn't an Anti-Christ playing chess with a Christian god over a river of souls.

“You died! One minute and forty seconds. Down for the fucking count. Then boom. Paddles to the chest and suddenly you’re all better?"

There was an afterlife. Several. Hundreds. Angels of Death -- their true names buried in ancient texts, beings as old as the Earth -- served at the moment of passing. But contrary to popular belief, they didn't ferry you to your final destination. That was reserved for another.

Someone Whistler had expected to meet a few weeks back. Sometimes, more often that not, he ran a bit late. Rhiannon joked her boyfriend's internal clock was set to Eastern Standard Time. But he never missed an appointment. Not one.

"I couldn't have died. I'd know."

“Apparently, you don’t know shit.”

Forgive him father, for he is about to sin.

The elderly man, peaceful in his bed. His wine-colored robes hung with care, the crucifix nailed above the modest headboard. So quiet in the rectory. The final soft breaths echoed throughout the bare room.

The Agent crossed through the parish church, lit a candle. Pretended to say a few words on bended knee. Slipped through the back door, ignored by the crack dealer and his latest client. Up the stairs, into the bedroom to the dying priest.

He sat patiently, waited.

Five minutes after the priest took his final breath, Whistler reached deep inside and pulled.

A gasp. Two.The old man slowly opened his eyes. Scared. A face that had known peace.

"Tell me, Vicar."

The voice plaintive.

"What did ya see?"

Forgive him father, for he cares not what he's done.

Submitted For Feedback: Absent Spirit

Wed, 23 May 2007 03:37:04 GMT

I don’t like wakes.

I’ve always thought they were a bit morbid and daft. My mother insisted we have one for Bailey, though we had to keep the casket closed. His friends came in, filed past the wooden box and said a prayer as they went. There was bad coffee and stale cookies and the whole place reeked of old potpourri.

I had one for Mother as well. That day, it was only me, sitting there in the same cold, reeking room that we’d had for Bay. Ten hours, just sitting, staring at my mother’s corpse. No one came. No one cared. I decided that day, I’d never attend another of these morbid experiments in grief ever again, yet here I am.

The closest place was Diamond and Sons in Laughlin, but it didn’t feel right to take him so far away. Searchlight was his home. He said it was the only place that ever made him feel as though he really belonged. I never thought I’d have to see someone laid out among the books and charms, but then I never thought I’d have to bury a friend in this little desert town either.

The casket is grey steel, shining under the overhead lights that create this lurid little shrine to the dead, with a bronze crucifix gleaming on the lower half of the lid. The people from the Laughlin mortuary were contracted to set this all up for us, and the gaudy display of flowers and lights sickens me here. Liam moved the raised level shelves back to make room for the casket; I tried to help but my hands went weak, arms limp at my sides, at the very thought of touching those shelves that he had made just for me.

Standing here now, I still can’t believe it. Everyone is here; his mother and father, aunts and uncles, cousins and half-cousins and third-cousins and on and on. His family is much larger than even I had realized and they must have loved him as dearly as the family he had made here, to come all this way. The wake should not be until tomorrow, but they were here already and the mortuary had finished their work, so here we are. His mother had agreed with me, that he should be buried here. He’d left no instructions for us, only a few brief scribbled notes on a legal pad in a little lockbox he still kept in his room at the house.

No cremation, because the thought of burning all away frightened him. Catholic mass, if possible. Send a letter to a post office box in Seattle, addressed only to ‘Eddie’, to let him know. His car to a young cousin, Erica. The papers still spoke of his Mustang, though I suppose we could take it to mean his Jeep at this point. Ring a tattoo shop in Wisconsin and leave a message for someone called ‘Chicago Ed’. Send a letter to an elderly professor at a seminary in Chicago. Simple things. Little things.

He wants me to have all of his books and magickal supplies.
He wants Destiny to have his confirmation cross, the one he wore hidden beneath his clothes, everyday. I wonder if he ever took it off.

He doesn’t look right. They never do, really, laying there in a box. You can give the mortuary people as many photos as you’d like, they never get it right. Thick paste of make-up made him far too light in tone. The man had worn a perpetual tan for three years now; it just wasn’t right.

They’d smoothed back his hair, which was all wrong. It was longer than he would have liked now, no time for a cut in recent days. I reach out and push my fingers through the dark locks, brushing them down to fall in his face, messy and reckless and so very normal for him. Seemed wrong that there was no sawdust; he was always littered in sawdust when he was working, golden brown flecks adhered to his clothes and falling from his hair with every movement he made.

Thick dark lashes – too thick for a boy, I’d told him, such a waste on a boy, and he’d laughed and told me his mother always said the same. Of course they are closed, his eyes, and find myself wishing for just one more glance from him, one last look into the laughing brown eyes that I had taken for granted every day. The light had danced in his eyes. I wonder if beneath the lids they’ve already gone dull and filmy and dark.

His mouth is the worst of it. It always is at these things. Gone slack, corners pulled down from resting on the back, muscles dead and useless. Gravity pulls it down, making a wide, deep frown, skin puddle there like dripping wax so that it doesn’t even seem real. Some strange dripping-mouth mask; soon it would all slip away.

I keep waiting for him to sit up, to laugh, to tell me it was all a joke.
Just sit up, Aidan. Please. Just open your eyes. I won’t be angry, I promise. Tell me it was all not real and I will believe you and I won’t be mad, I won’t be mad at all.
I know he won’t; I know he can’t. But still as I gaze down at him I am begging, pleading in my mind for a wink and a smile and a short deep laugh.

I don’t want to forget what it sounds like to hear him laugh.
I can’t remember my father’s voice or Bailey’s eyes or even my mother and shrill, berating tones. Please, God, don’t let me forget him too. Don’t let me forget Aidan too. I can’t. I couldn’t stand it.

He’d had no suit or dress clothes. All we found in his closet was a crisp red button-down shirt, and a pair of black slacks that looked oddly dated. Still, they would have to do, and I can see how it complements him now. They’d been stored in a box on his closet floor with a black masquerade mask and a book of Poe; I placed them at the foot of the casket, since they carried some meaning for him that I am not to understand.

His hands are folded in front of him and I pull the small black satin bag of runes from the pocket of my sweater. He had many sets, all left to me, but these were his working stones, the ones he used the most. Carved by his own hand, stained by his own blood. I place them in his hands; he’d left them for me to do as I please, and I want them to go with him. They are as much a part of him as his scarred hands, as the mapwork of tattoos he wore and wide, cheerful grin he always had. As much a part of him as the perpetual bump on his head from the underside of the counter he had built. He should have them now.

His hands are cold and heavy and stiff, so strange to me as I push the little bag into his dead grip and feel the cold smoothness of his skin. These hands had built the bookshelves that surrounded the coffin. These hands had built the countertop and the table in my kitchen, the shed in my yard and poured the concrete on my basement floor. These hands had bled and painted runes to bring protection. These hands had carried me, lifted me from possession and brought me back to life and myself. These hands will shrink and shrivel and wither away to dust and bone and the bile rises in my throat as I think of it.

I want to turn them over, and look at his lifeline. I had tried to read his palms but I never really understood it all. What did I miss? Is it there, written on his hands? Should I have known this would happen? If I had known, couldn’t I have stopped it?

It has to be a mistake. It has to be wrong. Somewhere someone made a huge cosmic error and it’s not Aidan, not Aidan who was supposed to die. Someone else. Someone else, far away from here, who was meant to be laying in a box, and not Aidan.
Or maybe closer. Maybe it was me. Maybe someone just made a mistake and I’m supposed to be dead now and that would be better and right because I don’t have a family to leave behind and I’m the one who is always in trouble and getting hurt and I’m the one who is weak so it should be me, me in the box because he is better than me and deserves better than this and needs to be up and alive and smiling with his family and with Destiny and even with Sam.

I close my eyes and stop the tears, order them away, for another day.
Wakes are not for crying and carrying on. Wakes are for keeping composure and making sure everyone else is okay and that the coffee isn’t burned in the big silver coffeemaker set out on the counter and that the cookies and cakes aren’t gone stale on the platter beside it. Wakes are for handing out tissues and smiling at the memories the guests will talk about and pausing to stare at the posterboard full of photographs near the door and holding his mother as she shakes with sobs.

I will not go home tonight. I will not go home tomorrow, or the day after. I will stay here, stay with Aidan, and wait for the morning of the funeral at the dusty graveyard where not so long ago he lay bleeding and dying until a Slayer found him. Then, after it is over and his family has gone home, I will go home and take many pills from the little bottle on my nighttable.

Then I will sleep. And maybe when I wake again, this will all just have been a nightmare.

Submitted for Feedback- "Staccato"

Mon, 14 May 2007 21:29:57 GMT

"Thank Christ for shellfish." Fingers snapped the crab leg. "Earth to Rhi. Pass the butter?"

“Butter’s why you’re dying young.” A complete lie. Immortality and all. Rhi slid it anyway and settled back.

Back in the saddle. Useful, with purpose, and no more doubt. She always gave him impetus. Reason. And now, partners in a new sense. Seafood dipped in hot butter. Enjoy the moment. "How's your meal?"

“Meal-tacular.” Rhiannon’s sarcasm heavy on the air. “Last time you order while I’m in the bathroom.” Food pushed around on a full plate. Her mind someplace else, a cigarette burning to ash.

"Ash is a good Watcher. Friend of the big man himself. She's in good hands." He sensed her distance. Wondered if it brought memories. It brought back one of his own. Rhiannon walking through the door, a promise to meet three months later. So much then unknown. "You're a million miles away."

Away from other diners, and unconcerned about eavesdropping. “She’s green.” Rhiannon’s thumb at her eyebrow, rubbing. “I could break her in half.”

Half of the crab leg devoured. Napkin dabbed at dripped butter on his chin. "Yeah. A stiff wind could'a pushed rollergirl into the bay. Fate doesn't always pick the seasoned and stout."

"Stout, maybe not. Weighing a least a buck is preferable.” Her fingers tapped, the nail polish chipping. She abandoned her cigarette for a pen. “You never know about watchers.” The ink lines were dark against wood grain. Ancient-seeming. Not the first etched there.

There was a small lull. The Agent considered changing the conversation. "Penny for your thoughts." He padded his pockets. "Don't suppose you'd take credit?"

Credit would get maxed, all that raced inside Rhiannon’s head. “Was thinking I get it now, why it’s hard. The leaving.” The pen continued its long lines, its gentle curvatures. “Almost wished she came with us.” Dark eyes lifted. Unblinking. “Mum’s the word.”

Words searched to comfort. He stretched out. Looked at possibilities. "You'll see her again. Jennie'll surprise everyone." The Agent kept her gaze, the dinner ignored. "I wanted the same. To protect you. Selfish. You had a destiny."

“Destiny might be overrated.” Rhiannon’s eyebrows arched. “I’m still looking for mine. The big one, you know. Every slayer wonders. Is it something big? Do I kill it or does it kill me.” The ballpoint digging deep. “They stopped whispering you the answers.”

"Answers mean no surprises." He'd mulled this over before. Since Beowawe. When the Powers made Swiss cheese of Whistler's brain. "There's something liberating about not knowing what comes next. Like when you first kissed me. Didn't see that coming. Happiest moment." He watched as his girlfriend scrawled. "Do you want to know, Rhi? A peek at your future?"

“Futures exist.” Rhiannon’s thumb touched the inked area. The pad went black. “Already, I mean. Tarot proved it to me. A nine of swords… the nightmare card. Emmeline saw a redhead. It was Deanna, I think, and the Hellverse. You.” A sweep of hair off her temple. “So no, but yes, too. It helps you recognize what matters when it comes. Like a match on gasoline.”

"Gasoline prices rise, taxes, death and my love for ya. Four constants. Everything else is a variable." A small smile. His partner/best friend/lover. "And that card only said 'what'. Your actions were the 'how'."

“How the pieces come together... that’s what I change.” Rhiannon capped the pen, frowned into a glass of iced tea. A gnat floated on the surface. “But they do come together. No choice about that.” She tipped the liquid out. A puddle spread. “I just want to know the players.”

"Players change. Turn right instead of left off of Las Vegas Boulevard, it's a Mohra instead of a vampire." Whistler understood however. "The Defiler's still out there. And Elfleda."

Elfleda. The name gave fire to the slayer’s eyes. “I want to hurt her. I’ll go through her science project if it does the trick.” Rhiannon wanted more. She wanted permanent damage done. A scar like the ones inside her. Invisible, but she could remember.

Remembering the Corruptress' influence on his girlfriend, Whistler grimaced. Her soul darkened. Twisting the Slayer until she was almost unrecognizable. Never again. Not while the Agent drew breath. "Nothing since you and Connor smashed the temple of doom?"

“Doom evidence, as you recall, was handed over to the book guys. I’m just here to kick ass and report back.” Rhiannon bit her lip. It cut sharp, tasted like iron but didn’t show red. “Maybe you should ask how the books are treating them. Then point me at Iron Man.”

Iron Man armor would be a boon. Shame comics weren't real. At least the movie didn't suck. Another tangent. He needed to work on that. "You're more. Just ask Jennie. And yeah, I will soon as we get back." The hatted man glanced at her ink-stained thumb. The table. Her etching.

Etching had ceased upon picture’s completion. The rough outline of a young face. Wide eyes. Rhiannon slit her plate across it. “You know, lately my dreams are blank.” Her expression followed suit. “Sometimes I get a wash-out before a big one. Separates it from the junk before.”

“Before the shit hits the fan?" He saw eyes before the image was covered. This he didn't press. Rhiannon would explain if she felt it important.

“Important shit. Otherwise my brain wouldn’t bother with a dream.” The slayer shifted. Restless now. Ready to get home, in case the show started without her. “What about you… anything?”

"Anything? Other than Jennie. They're not talking." The Powers played that game before. When he was destined to play a part in events to come. Which meant trouble.

Trouble could be a self-fulfilling prophesy. It could hang over their heads like a dark cloud. Never produce rain. Rhiannon shrugged. Defiant. A success story on their heels, and the highway to home blazing ahead. “Enjoy the silence.” A smile. Sunlight breaking through. “Somewhere in San Francisco, Ash is earplugging 80s new wave.”

Waves crashed on the shore outside. Inside, a hand reached out. Thumb pressed against ink-stained thumb. Their waiter silently presented the bill and slipped away. "And there's an Iron Man in Vegas that needs to be destroyed." Money placed on table. "Ready?"

“Ready. Just don’t complain when I drive fast.” A hint of dimples. Rhiannon’s secret weapon, rarely used. “I might pull over. Refuse to go anywhere. What would we do to pass the time?”

Time he didn't need to answer Rhiannon's question. Gods, he loved her dimples. "Give you reasons to take our time getting home."

"Home can wait."

Submitted for Feedback -- "Samantha's Fools"

Wed, 02 May 2007 03:17:41 GMT

East Lansing, Michigan. November 11, 2004.

Perfect by nature …

Time was, Jason DiSantos was the picture of perfection to Samantha. Handsome, sexy, funny, confident without being cocky, caring, and somehow always knowing just what to say.

But over the past five months, that man left, and all Sam could see was … she wasn’t sure what it was she saw when she looked at Jason these days, but the care? The tender shoulder she could lean on when things got too rough? It just wasn’t there anymore … and all because Samantha was pregnant.

“What did you say?” the Slayer asked with furrowed brow, arms crossed over her chest.

“I’m done,” Jason said, taking off his glasses and shooting Samantha a level gaze. “I can’t be in this … relationship anymore.”

Samantha blinked. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Jason was breaking up with her? And all over … what? The fact that she wouldn’t kill her own child? That seemed rather selfish, now didn’t it?

“Why?” she bit off. “Cause I’m determined to have this baby? You can’t stand the fact that I’m not willing to kill the human life growing inside of me? A life you helped put there, might I add.”

Jason shook his head, putting his glasses back on. He stared at Samantha, and she noticed something in his eyes she’d never seen before. Where once the Slayer saw love and understanding, she now saw mistrust and loathing. The same man who once spent a Christmas vacation keeping the lonely Samantha company was now backtracking out of her life and leaving her to potentially raise their son on her own.

The young man was scared. This wasn’t what Jason bargained for. How was he to know this would happen? Samantha said she’d been on The Pill; he used protection every time they were together. How the fuck was this happening?

Jason couldn’t be a father. He just … he just couldn’t.

“I just can’t!” Jason practically screamed, his hands shaking as he dove to his knees and got in his lover’s face. His breath flared through his nostrils and for the fleetest of moments, he considered slapping Samantha across the face.

But he remembered … Slayer. His girlfriend was a goddamn Slayer. Smacking her would be like showing a retarded terrorist how to activate a bomb.

“I’ve already got a freak for a girlfriend,” he said as he stood again. “I will not have a freak for a child, too.”

Samantha’s eyes widened as she stood and met her boyfriend face-to-face. She tried her damnedest to control her breathing as she looked into Jason’s eyes, still amazed at the remarkable lack of feeling in them. One hand grabbed Jason by the throat, tightening to the point of discomfort while still allowing the boy to breath.

“First of all,” the Slayer hissed. “This Slayer thing’s not genetic. Second of all, this child growing inside of me is a boy. Third of all?” Samantha paused, grinning to herself. “Call me a freak again, and I’ll make sure this is the only child you ever have.”

Jason snarled and grabbed Samantha’s wrist, pushing her hand away. “I have no child,” he said, turning and heading toward the door. He turned the knob, stopping briefly to look over his shoulder.

“Have the damn kid if you want; choice is yours. But kid or no kid, I’m out.

“I’m done.”

East Lansing, Michigan. January 17, 2005.

Just what we all need … more lies about a world that never was and never will be … Have you no shame? Don’t you see me?

Russell Witherton sighed as he shut the door behind him. Setting his briefcase on the floor beside the front door of the apartment, the Watcher took a cursory look about, noticing all the lights were out.

Asleep, Russell figured. She must be asleep. Seven months pregnant now, can’t blame her. Just glad there’s more than one Slayer in town to pick up the slack.

Russell disapproved of Samantha going through with the pregnancy, mostly because of the impact it had on her work as a Slayer, but he realized things often happened with young people, and she demonstrated tremendous resolve in deciding to go forth with the pregnancy.

But more impressive than her resolve in that decision was the resolve she showed the day before in making a tougher, more important decision.

The Watcher walked into the kitchen, opening the fridge and grabbing a bottle of water. Twisting the cap and taking a sip, Russell thought he heard a faint voice in the other side of the apartment. He stopped mid-sip, honing his ears more to the source of the noise.

Silence for several seconds, and then he heard it again. Samantha wasn’t asleep after all.

Closing the water bottle and returning it to the fridge, Russell slowly crept through the apartment, listening with each step he took. The closer he got to the closed door to Samantha’s room, the louder the whispers and sniffling became.

Ah … no wonder the Slayer couldn’t sleep. She was up crying. A common occurrence in recent months, what with Jason’s abrupt departure and the like. Russell was sorry Jason had left town the way he did; he was rather cross with the boy and had the intense desire to show him so.

But the Watcher couldn’t, so he got the much more difficult task of comforting his Slayer.

Slowly rapping his knuckle against the door, Russell spoke in a calm, hushed tone. “Samantha?” he nearly whispered. “Are you alright?”

Almost as soon as the question left Russell’s lips, he silently cursed himself for asking it. Of course Samantha wasn’t okay; she was over seven months pregnant, the child’s father abandoned her, and she was struggling with a decision that would affect both her life and that of her unborn son.

As intelligent as Russell was, he was prone to moments of idiocy. This was one of those moments.

The Watcher slowly turned the door knob, cautiously stepping into the Slayer’s bedroom and searching the darkness for her. It was hard with the lights out, but the moonlight coming in through the window helped somewhat. The quiet sobs were disheartening to a man who over the years learned to ignore his heart. It was a bone of contention between Russell and Samantha over the years, but this time, he couldn’t hide the emotions he felt upon seeing his Slayer in this situation.

And see her he did, finding Samantha on the floor in the corner beside her bed. She was too busy crying to really notice Russell was there, so he merely stood in the doorway and frowned at the sight of his charge bathed in moonlight, her body jerking with each tear she shed.

Russell felt inadequate, unable to think of anything to say or do. He was just about to turn around and retreat away to his room when he saw Samantha look up at him, a tear rolling down her cheek and her eyes eerily dark in the room’s darkness.

“Get out,” she growled.

Russell stood motionless, his brain not completely registering what he just heard. He stared at his Slayer, removing his glasses and squinting in her general direction.

“I said,” Sam whispered, wiping her thumb under her left eye, “get OUT!!!”

Russell recoiled, backing into the wall as his hand frantically searched for the door knob. The look in Samantha’s eyes was one he’d never seen before, and the chill it sent down his aged spine was a feeling the Watcher was keen on never feeling again.

So the sooner he left the room, the better.

“You cold, unfeeling prick!” she continued, slowly rising to her feet, her hands balled into fists. “For months now I’ve had to deal with all this … shit! Granted, a lot of it was my doing, what with getting knocked up and all, but still … would it have killed you to show a little compassion?!

“Is that what they teach you at the Council? Were you pulled out of your home as a child so the Mother Country could teach you how to be such a bastard?! If it’s not morning sickness, it’s the realization I can’t slay until after I’ve had Cory. If it’s not the lack of slayage, it’s the fact that my boyfriend – Cory’s goddamn father -- up and walked out on me. And then -- AND THEN -- I’m faced with the possibility of handing my son over to some other family the very moment he plops out of my belly!

“So here I am, a scared college-aged girl, unsure of what to do or where to go, and where’s the one person in the world responsible for helping me figure all these things out? Huh? Where is he?

“If you know, by all means tell me, because I have no fucking clue! I don’t even know who you are anymore, Russell. You’re my goddamn Watcher … is it really that hard for you to just be there for me? Put down the books for a few minutes and look at me for what I am. Okay, I’m a Slayer, sure … but I’m a person, too.

“A scared person. So until you figure out how to do your fucking job, get out of my apartment. You’re no good to me right now.”

East Lansing, Michigan. May 9, 2005.

You don’t know how you betrayed me … and somehow you’ve got everybody fooled.

“Oh my God, Samantha! How are you?!”

To be entirely truthful, Samantha was uncomfortable with the way Regina Higgins hugged her. Sure, they’d had one class together their freshman year and they hung out a bit the following semester, but the Slayer never really figured them to be close friends – as evidenced by how they fell out of touch that following summer and how they really didn’t seek each other out again once the fall started back up.

“Hey, Reg!” she responded with a hug, deciding to go along with things. She wasn’t upset to see Regina … just a little taken aback at the sudden thrust of arms around her neck.

“So,” Regina said as she took her arms back, sitting on the bench next to Samantha and brushing back a strand of her black hair. “How’ve you been?”

Ooh … way to start out with a tough one, Reg. Just had to bat Pujols leadoff, didn’t you?

The Slayer heaved a sigh before forcing a smile Regina’s way, scratching her shoulder. “I’m … good,” Sam lied, silently hoping her friend wouldn’t notice the telltale signs that all was not well.

Of course, Regina was studying for a government job, possibly in intelligence, so the chances of her knowing Sam was lying? Pretty damn good.

“Sam,” the young black woman said in a serious tone. “Come on. You know better than to lie to me. Future CIA girl, remember? You’re looking at the next Sydney Bristow – ya know, minus the whole my mother was a KGB badass and I spend every day not knowing who or what my father is – anyway, the point is, I just took an entire class on detecting lies, so I know right now you’re knee-deep in one.

“So spill.”

Samantha sighed and gave Regina a cringe, shaking her head and curling up within herself. Wrapping her arms around her knees, the Slayer rest her chin on her knees, a listless look in her eyes.

Regina watched this display, her brows furrowing as she inched closer to Sam on the bench. Students walked past on their way to class or the student center, Michigan State its usual busy self on the week before spring finals. But right now, Regina was oblivious to the whole campus scene, because she could tell Samantha was in a rough place.

“Sam,” she said. “What’s wrong?”

Samantha gave Regina a sad look, a sudden tightness in her chest. She took a ragged breath, feeling that burn in her eyes again as tears threatened to fall. Her Watcher aside, Samantha told nobody about what happened. Not the pregnancy, not Jason leaving, nothing.

But Regina asked, and she’d know if Sam was lying, so …

“Jason left,” she said in as even a voice as she could muster.

“What?” Regina asked, her eyes widening. “Oh, honey … why?”

Samantha shrugged her shoulders, looking down at the ground beneath the bench. She so didn’t want to go through the whys and wherefores of her boyfriend leaving. But again, she knew Regina wouldn’t let her lie or drop the issue, so …

“I was pregnant,” the Slayer explained, “he wanted me to get rid of the child, I refused to. He wanted nothing to do with fatherhood, so when I put my foot down and said once and for all I wasn’t getting an abortion … “ Sam paused, taking a ragged breath and wiping away a tear that managed to stray down her cheek, “ … he just walked.”

Regina blinked, grabbing Samantha’s hand into her own, squeezing it. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “That asshole.”

Regina shook her head, her mind racing with all the things she wanted to do to Jason for just up and walking out on Samantha like that. But when she heard Samantha say she’d been pregnant, her eyebrows raised again, her head cocking to the side.

“So,” she began after a lengthy silence, “you had the kid.”

Samantha nodded quietly, her eyes filling with tears again. She sniffled, wiping at her nose before looking at Regina again, silently worried about her mascara running. It was one thing for Regina to see her nearly at rock-bottom, but for her to see the Slayer as some hideous, raccoon-eyed freak? That was just unacceptable.

“Yeah, I had him,” she said in a near-whisper, wiping away another tear. Over two months since she gave birth to Cory, two months since she held him in her arms and then gave him away to the nicest family in the world. Now her son was in Pennsylvania and would get to grow up happy and normal and all those other things that were now nothing but a memory for the Slayer.

“Gave him up for adoption, but … I had him.”

“You gave him up?!” Regina asked in shock. “For God’s sake, Sam, why?”

Samantha sighed again, glaring at Regina and shaking her head. “Because,” she began, pausing to gather her thoughts and choose her words. “Because I can’t be the kind of mother he needs. The kind of mother I want to be. Between school and my work and how much Russ pushes me, I couldn’t devote myself to my son the way I want.

“Getting pregnant was something I did; by having Cory, I was taking responsibility for what I did. But I know if I were to try raising that boy, it wouldn’t go well, and I want that life I brought into the world to have the best chance at a good life he could.

“And it wasn’t with me.”

Regina shook her head. This was certainly unexpected. She knew breakups were a part of college, but never in her wildest dreams did Regina think Jason would ever be the kind to up and leave Samantha without good reason. For so long, Regina thought she knew Jason. Now she wasn’t so sure.

And Russell … he was awful pushy for a grandfather. She supposed it was his growing up in England, but it amazed her how short a leash he had Samantha on. Regina hadn’t heard much about Samantha’s family, but what little she knew she didn’t like.

So maybe giving her son up for adoption was a smart move on Samantha’s part. But … where was the child?

“I’m so sorry,” Regina said again, resting a hand on Samantha’s back.

Samantha just nodded, sniffling and glancing at her watch. “Shit,” she sighed in annoyance. “I’m really sorry, Reg, but I need to go. Reviewing for my Serial Killers final today.”

The Slayer gave Regina a tight hug, rubbing her back and sniffling again before pulling back and standing. Tossing her bag over her shoulder, Samantha gave her friend a sad smile. “It was really nice seeing you … let’s do this again sometime. Preferably before the end of the next semester.”

Regina nodded and gave a friendly wave. “Of course,” she said as Samantha walked away. Her smile faded as she watched the blonde disappear into the distance, glancing over her shoulder to watch a gaggle of students exiting one of the campus buildings. Classes must be getting out, she though she reached for her cell phone, dialing a number and putting it to her ear.

“Regina Higgins. Patch me through to the Chicago office.”

A slight pause, Regina sitting on the bench on her cell phone as she waved to another student who walked by.

“Mr. Gregor. Yes. … Yes, I did. There … there’s news. … Yes, sir. She had a child. A son. … Cory, sir. Cory Blanchard.”

Portland, Maine. July 4, 2006.

Without the mask, where will you hide? Can’t find yourself, lost in your lie.

“So how’s the lobster?”

“You’re late,” the dark figure snarled, flicking a half-smoked cigarette into the ocean. The moon shone bright off the ocean, but the black hooded cloak kept the figure hidden from Jason’s view.

“Yeah, well,” Jason shrugged, “I can’t help it if you needed to meet in some middle-of-nowhere little pisshole like Maine. Awful lot of trouble for a simple rendezvous, don’t you think?”

The figure took one step forward, Jason taking a step backward in reaction. The figure weirded Jason out, not just because he had no idea who it was, but the whole black robe hiding the face thing was a tad unsettling too.

Not to mention meeting in the middle of the night on some pier on the ocean.

“We must take care to not be found,” the figure explained in disguised voice. “If anyone finds out what we’re doing, it’s all over.”

Jason furrowed his brow, leaning back against the railing on the edge of the pier. “So … let me get this straight,” he mused. “We’re here to discuss Wolfram & Hart business, but we don’t want Wolfram & Hart to find out what we’re doing.

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t see the sense in that.”

“Things have changed,” the figure said. “I’m of the opinion the firm’s timetable is much too slow.”

“Timetable,” Jason repeated.

“Yes … the firm still thinks nothing should be done until the child has reached high school age.”

Jason frowned. “Why?”

The figure shrugged, lowering the black hood and revealing its face to Jason. It was Regina; well, it looked and sounded like Regina, but … it’s face was different somehow. Jason gasped and took a tighter grip on the railing when he saw the ridges on Regina’s face, the way her brows resembled those of a fucking Klingon and how her eyes were now yellow and feral.

“What the hell is this?” he wondered aloud.

“Wolfram & Hart is many things,” Regina said. “But first and foremost, they’re a corporation, constantly concerned about the bottom line. Aside from a small minority of the higher ups, nobody understands the importance of this.”

“But you do,” Jason said, suddenly feeling dread in his gut.

“Have from day one,” Regina said with a smile, showing off a shiny pair of fangs. “Think about it, Jason … you are the father of a child with immense potential. The offspring of a Vampire Slayer – do you have any idea the future someone like that could possess?”

Jason nodded, but said nothing. He still hated how Cory was able to be born and given away to a normal family halfway across the country. Sure, he was with a family away from Samantha and all that, but did she really think no one would ever find out about her son?

For a Slayer, Samantha was awful naïve.

“The firm never placed much of a priority on Slayers,” Regina continued with a hint of disgust in her voice. “So it doesn’t surprise me that they’re sitting on their collective hands in regards to this kid. But you and I … we can change all of that. We can bring into motion things they’re too chickenshit to start.”

Jason furrowed his brow. “You and me?”

Regina smiled again, a dark flare in her eyes. “Yessssss,” she hissed. “Who better to bring into the fold than the father of the Chosen Child?”

Jason blinked. He so could not believe this. Chosen Child? What the fuck?

“Whoa whoa whoa,” Jason said, letting go of the rail and starting to head back to his car. “I don’t know what you and your freak brigade have planned, Ms. Higgins, but I’m not a part of it.”

“Your part in this cannot be denied,” Regina said, following Jason step-for-step. “You are the father of the Chosen Child. You are foretold to play a pivotal role.”

Jason spun around, angry and jabbing his finger into Regina’s chest. “You know what, fuck you!!!” he yelled. “You know, it’s freaks like you why I didn’t want Sam having that damn kid in the first place! You can chase the boy around all you want, but he’s nothing special! He’s just a boy!”

Regina frowned. “You don’t believe.”

“No,” Jason bit off, “I don’t.”

Regina’s frown grew, her lithe finger trailing Jason’s jawline. He flinched at her touch, but the look in her eyes froze him somehow. The dread in Jason’s gut grew and his hands began to shake.

He had no idea where this was going, but he had a bad feeling about it.

“Poor boy,” Regina lamented. “Poor, unenlightened boy. Someone needs to open your eyes.”

Before Jason could react or respond, Regina pushed his head to the side and lunged for him, her fangs digging into the side of his neck. Jason grunted in pain when her fangs broke flesh, puncturing his jugular and causing his blood to fill her mouth. Regina drank from Jason, relishing in the warmth of his blood; she hadn’t fed in nearly three nights, preparing for the possibility of having to do this, and the taste was much better than she thought it would be.

Jason’s body began to slump, consciousness leaving his body as the blood did. His eyes fell shut before Regina lifted her fangs, licking her lips and brushing her fingernail along her chest. Blood speed from her skin just above her cleavage before Regina took the back of Jason’s head and led his lips to the blood.

Almost instinctively, Jason’s lips suckled on the blood, grunting and swallowing whatever vitae he could. After several moments of feeding, Regina let Jason’s body drop of the ground, placing the hood back over her head.

With a sigh, Regina lit a cigarette, clacking her lighter shut and taking a long first drag.

Baltimore, Maryland. August 1, 2009.

I know the truth now. I know who you are, and I don’t love you anymore!

“I thought you were working with us on this, Regina.”

“I was, sir,” the vampiress said with her arms folded across her chest, her expression showing she wasn’t the least bit impressed by David Gregor’s lavish office. “But your firm works far too slowly.”

Gregor smirked, putting out his cigar and rising from his chair, turning his back to Regina and staring out into the night sky. Regina might not’ve appreciated his office, but the view of the Baltimore skyline – not to mention the Inner Harbor – was one of the reasons Gregor preferred to keep his operations local. Oh, he’d move to Chicago or Las Vegas whenever the situation allowed, but he always found himself back in Baltimore.

“Our firm, Ms. Higgins,” Gregor began, his back still turned, “has other concerns. Concerns far more pressing than that of some child who may or may not have a destiny before him.”

“That is the child of a Slayer,” Regina fought back, her fangs glaring under the light of the office. “Have you any idea what that means?”

Gregor turned to look at Regina again, a smug grin on his face when he saw her fangs. Tough little bitch, thinking she can waltz right into Wolfram & Hart and order David Gregor around. Never mind the vampire sensors trained to alert security, who themselves were all trained to stake now, ask questions never.

Amusing, if not pathetic.

“It means nothing,” Gregor said with a dismissive sigh. “This is not the X-Men, Ms. Higgins. A Slayer does not necessarily beget another Slayer. This isn’t genetics, it’s destiny. And seeing as how the child in question is also male, his already slim chance at Slayerhood is diminished to zero.”

Regina sighed and let out a low snarl, sitting back in the chair and crossing her arms again. Such a simple, stupid man … how in the world did he ever climb the corporate ladder? What could the Senior Partners possibly have seen in this simpleton?

“You know nothing,” she said in a low growl. “The prophecies have told true. The child of the Slayer will play a pivotal role in the battles to come.”

Gregor sighed, growing weary of this entire charade. He walked across the front of his desk, leaning back against it and scratching his dark goatee, normally brown but with the slightest hint of gray beginning to show through.

“Ms. Higgins,” he said in a weary, exhausted tone, “you do remember there’s more than one Slayer in the world now, yes? You recall the spell that activated every Potential on the planet?”

Regina nodded in silence.

“So what makes you so sure this boy is the one?”

Regina blinked, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. “Be … because he is the child of the Slayer.”

Gregor smiled knowingly. “And what makes you think Ms. Blanchard is the only Slayer in the world with a little brat?”

Gregor’s eyes lifted as he spoke, noticing the thin man with glasses entering his office. He sighed again and shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. “Mr. DiSantos,” he greeted with no feeling. “I was merely … ending a discussion here with Ms. Higgins.”

“So I heard,” Jason said, his feral eyes amplified by the glasses he no longer needed yet still wore. He smiled at Regina, giving her a soft kiss and a squeeze on her shoulder. “It seems you have no interest in my child.”

Gregor nodded. “Is that going to be a problem, Mr. DiSantos?”

Jason smiled at Regina, and then at Gregor. “Oh, no,” he said as his smile grew. “It’s no problem at all.”

Chicago, Illinois. September 17, 2009.

It never was and never will be … you’re not real and you can’t save me. Somehow now, you’re everybody’s fool.

The Navy Pier was pretty this time of night. Always had been.

But as much as Samantha loved the rare opportunity to come out to the pier and enjoy authentic Chicago-style deep dish, she found herself staring out into Lake Michigan with tears in her eyes. It seemed with every passing year, things kept getting worse and worse for her. If she wasn’t dealing with the love of her life being a complete dick, she was dealing with giving up her son. If she wasn’t dealing with her issues with Russell, she was dealing with Wolfram & Hart offering her $2.5 million to kill Russell.

Then there was the whole issue of Russell actually being dead and his current Slayer Shannon being the one who killed him. It was just too much.

Samantha sniffled, wiping at her nose before a high-pitched scream in the distance distracted her. The Slayer stared in the direction of the scream, looking back inland. Without another moment’s hesitation, Samantha sprinted off the boardwalk on the pier, reaching into her black leather coat for her stake.

The Slayer bobbed and weaved her way around the people parading about the pier, grunting when she ran into the back of a hot dog vendor with her shoulder. She never lost stride, however, and she turned the corner into a dark alley only to see …

… a young man fall dead, a female figure standing over him. The victim sported the telltale holes in the left side of his neck, the distinct smell of blood in the night air. Samantha gripped her stake tighter, gnashing her teeth.

“I’d tell you to freeze and put your hands up in the air,” Samantha told the black-haired figure, “but I don’t have a badge yet, so what’s say I just stake you instead?”

“Slayer,” the figure said with a grin, putting its hands in the air before turning to reveal itself to Samantha. The Slayer nearly dropped her stake when the vampire turned to face her and she saw that it was, in fact, her old friend from Michigan State.

“Regina?” she said with a disbelieving blink. “Oh … oh my God. I’m … I’m so sorry.”

Regina shrugged and smiled, licking her fingers. “I’m not,” she replied nonchalantly. “Life’s more fun this way. I’m way cooler, way stronger … can stay out as late as I want and have anything I desire. Pretty cool gig, if you can get it.”

Samantha shook her head, tears building in her eyes. “You’re a monster.”

Regina gave Samantha a well, duh look. “Uhh … yeah,” she said. “What gave that away? Was it the pointy teeth? It was the bumpy forehead, wasn’t it? I bet it was the bumpy forehead.”

Samantha lunged forward, grabbing Regina by the collar of her red dress and slamming her against the wall. “How about the dead body at your feet?” she growled, her emotions for the moment giving way to the natural call of the Slayer. She held the tip of the stake at Regina’s chest, her teeth gritted as a tear rolled down her cheek.

“That,” Regina said, seemingly unphased by the attack of hunk of wood inches away from dusting her, “was just to get your attention.

“By the way, how’s ol’ Grandpa doing? Always did find it kind of odd you had a British relative. Then again, he wasn’t really your grandfather, was he?”

Samantha blinked, taken aback as she let go of her grip on Regina’s dress. She shook her head, pointing the stake at the vampire. “You,” she stuttered out, “you knew?

“How?”

“Jason told me,” Regina said as she straightened out her dress, pushing her breasts together to show more cleavage in the top. Appearances had always been important to Regina, especially now that she was in the business of seducing her meals. “You know, before I sired him.”

Regina noticed the stumped look on the Slayer’s face, her smile growing. “Oh, babe, didn’t I tell you? He and I are together now. He’s told me everything about you. Seriously, girl … everything. All the way down to how you spent your nights killing the undead and crashing away with some elderly British man who’s probably never seen a pair of tits before in his life.

“Well, until yours … if you can call those tits.”

Samantha slammed Regina against the wall again, growling as she punched the vampire in the face. Blood sprayed against the brick wall, Regina doubled over as the Slayer’s fist buried itself in her stomach. Regina didn’t even have time to gasp when she felt Samantha’ knee between her legs.

It didn’t matter what gender one was, a knee to the crotch always hurt.

“Get up,” Samantha said, tightening the grip on her stake again. “Get up!”

Regina did so, slowly, blood trickling from her nostril to her upper lip. She chuckled as she did, taking great pleasure in the pissed-off look on Samantha’s face. “Oh, honey,” she said with another giggle, “you should see yourself right now. So uptight, so wound up. Maybe you need to take that stake, turn it around and use it for something else.

“You’ll feel better, trust me.”

The sight sickened Samantha. The thing looked like Regina, even sounded like her, but that was not the friend she once pulled all-nighters and had weekend-long Gilmore Girls marathons with.

No, Regina was gone. And all that was left was this foul creature who not only killed the friend Samantha had, but corrupted the father of her child as well. Not that Jason was a prize-winner of a human anymore, but still … vampirism was a curse the Slayer wished on no one.

“Aww, what’s the matter?” Regina pouted at Samantha’s expression. “Strike a nerve?”

With nothing more than a grunt, Samantha drove her elbow into Regina’s chin. Blood again splattered against the wall, but this time as the vampire stumbled back against the wall, the Slayer took her chance. With a quick jab of her arm, wood punctured skin and pierced an unbeating heart.

Regina’s eyes went wide, the realization finally sinking in. She could feel her body starting to deteriorate, flesh ripping into tiny particles. “You,” she spat out, “you bitch … oh, Jason’s not gonna like … “

Before Regina could finish, she was dust. Gone, blowing in the Lake Michigan breeze. Samantha dropped her stake, standing in complete disbelief over what just happened. Regina a vampire, having sired Jason. What else had happened since Samantha left Michigan? What else was there?

Samantha stared at the man Regina killed, sighing and running her hands through her hair. She felt dust in her blonde locks, shaking her head. But before she turned to walk away, something caught the Slayer’s eye. Kneeling before the dead man, Samantha noticed a small white card lying on the ground face-down.

Grabbing the card and flipping it over, the Slayer gasped as she read the words printed on it.

David Gregor, President, Division of Special Projects Corporate Offices, Wolfram & Hart.