摘录

Chapter One Lost...but not forgotten. Lost...but not forgotten. Buffy woke with tears sliding down her face. Had she been dreaming again about being on the road? She lay very still and closed her eyes tightly, feeling the pain, just giving in to it, just for one moment longer, letting it sear like a cauterizing blade. Then she deliberately wiped the tears away. If she could be very honest with herself -- and these last few months had made her nothing if not honest -- she knew she hadn't been dreaming at all. What she hoped was that the tears were healing a very deep wound, the one that cut right through to her soul. The pain that lingered even when she smiled. So many friends lost. Ford. Kendra. Ms. Calendar. Love lost. Angel's face filled her mind. Even now, her mom was trying desperately to cling to the idea that Buffy had done something that had made her the Chosen One. It was like Joyce was blaming her for making some mistake -- like the punishment for shoplifting that tube of lipstick from Macy's back in L.A. freshman year was a lifetime of battling the forces of darkness. Because if you got handed the Slayer rap because you were bad, maybe you could make up for it and get the sentence reduced. So very untrue. Buffy knew now that some people never got touched by all the bad juju. When you didn't expect much, you got what you wanted: a husband or wife, a good job, some kids. At the mall, they bought happy little magnetic plaques they put on their refrigerators: Take time to smell the flowers. Kiss the cook. What you believe, you can achieve. Maybe they went to church, or did crafts, like Mrs. Calhoun, two doors down, who spent half the day doing paint-by-numbers. She was so proud of the finished pictures, but really, all she had to do was make sure she painted inside the preprinted lines on the cardboard. She didn't even have to pick out what colors to use. They came in little containers with numbers on them. There was nothing about Buffy's life that was like that. Not a single place where all she had to do was stay inside the lines. There were also people whose lives were full of joy. People like that artist, Mary Cassatt, who must have been a very happy mom to paint all those pictures of mothers and children. Buffy could just imagine her washing a chubby little baby or tenderly rocking a child to sleep. Then the image of Timmy Stagnatowski exploding into dust blotted out the picture. No, it was not self-pity that made Buffy cry in her sleep. She was the Slayer, the one in all her generation who stood between the forces of darkness and the rest of humanity. She had accepted that, moved forward with that. She believed it was a personal exorcism to let herself feel this much pain, and try to find a way to let it out. Let it go. But sometimes she felt that with each tear, she was losing more than the pain. A memory. The ability to care so deeply, want so terribly... She caught her breath and stopped her tears. She could take no more, not now. It was just that it was always darkest before the dawn. That's what people like Mrs. Calhoun or the famous baby-painter would say, anyway. But for Buffy, the world kept getting darker, and dawn seemed further and further away all the time. Outside, clouds were rumbling, threatening a downpour, and the sound echoed inside her room. In the back of her mind, she was always wondering, Was that really thunder? Or was it actually a portent of some as-yet-unknown evil about to descend, one she'd have to fight, to her death, if need be? But that didn't make her cry. It honestly didn't. She had accepted her duty as the Slayer. It wasn't that she was looking for a way out. She wasn't trying to run away. Not anymore. She silently gazed at what was left of being a normal teenager: Mr. Gordo, her stuffed pig, and all her stuffed animals. The butterflies on her door and her Japanese umbrellas. Some friend of her mom's had said this was such a sweet room. Never guessing, of course, that in the false-bottomed trunk in the closetwere hidden vials of holy water, bulbs of garlic, and lots of very sharp, pointed stakes. So sweet. There was her picture of Xander and Will on the nightstand. She smiled faintly. There weren't two of Willow in the world, and Xander was likewise unclonable. Sweet friends. Good to her. She heard talking and frowned slightly. Did her mom have company at this hour? Or was there something in this house that shouldn't be? Moving with Slayer's reflexes, she jumped out of bed, put on her robe, and slipped a stake into her pocket. Stealthily, she hurried down the hall and headed for the stairs, pausing to assess any and all possible dangers. She heard crying, heaving, bone-deep. She knew that kind of crying. Was...friends with it. "Mom?" she called softly. She hurried down the stairs, then passed from the front room into the kitchen. In her pleated bathrobe, her hair frowsy from sleep, Joyce Summers stood facing Buffy. In her arms, a woman in a black raincoat sobbed desperately. As Buffy stood watching, the woman clung to Buffy's mom, barely able to stand. "They'll find him, Anne," Joyce said. She lifted her eyes toward Buffy. Locked gazes with her. Buffy didn't know what to do. She stood awkwardly for a moment, then tiptoed out of the room and paused on the stairs. "Joyce, he's so little. He's too little to run away. Something's happened to him. Something bad. I just know it. I know it!" The woman almost screamed. "Oh, my God, Timmy!" Buffy was frozen to the spot. Guilt drenched her. There was no reason to feel guilty, she reminded herself. The boy who had been Timmy Stagnatowski had been dead before she staked his walking corpse. It was not this woman's child she had destroyed. But she knew what had happened to him, and she could never tell his mother. Mrs. Stagnatowski would go to her grave wondering what had become of her happy little boy. Every night, she would wander to the window and look out, praying that he would run up the walkway. When the phone rang, she would jump. For the rest of her life. Buffy could save her from that pain. She could stop the wondering right now. Her heart thundering, she descended one stair. She was not supposed to tell anyone about the Hellmouth, about the terrors and dangers she fought to save them from. Would it be better for Mrs. Stagnatowski to know the truth? Would she even believe Buffy? Or would she assume -- as her mother once had -- that she was crazy? "We'll put up some more flyers," Joyce said gently. "And I'll call Liz DeMarco at the shelter. If he comes in, they'll ask him to contact you." "But what if he doesn't?" Mrs. Stagnatowski asked dully. "What if he doesn't understand how much we love him and miss him?" Were they always missed, the ones who ran away? Buffy felt fresh tears welling in her eyes. With effort, she swallowed them down and stared into the distance, remembering the road and the way back home. She looked at the panes in the front door. The sun had risen. It was time to go to school. Buffy sprinted through a vicious downpour across the lawn of Sunnydale High, her laced ankleboots sliding on grass that had quickly become more mud than green. She muttered curses the whole way. Her Chinese embroidered blouse was spattered and clammy. Her long skirt, muddy at the hem. Barely managing to keep hold of a bag filled with books she hadn't so much as glanced at in days, she wrenched open the front door to the school and squished inside. She ran her fingers through her ruined hair and started along the corridor toward the library. "Hey, Buffy!" She turned to see Willow and Xander coming toward her. Willow, of course, had come prepared with a hooded yellow slicker, while Xander's only concession to the weather was a battered baseball cap. Which might be good for keeping the rain off but really didn't do anything for him. His just wasn't a hat kind of head. He looked a little goofy in his typically oversize shirt, the sleeves hanging over his wrists, but that was standard Xander gear. She had pretty much decided it was a rebellion thing for him: Yeah, I'm a geek, so what? "Good morning to the seriously umbrella-challenged girl clad in the latest fashion in spongewear," Xander teased, obviously having no notion that she had been equally harsh about his fashion challenge but hadn't felt the need to mention it. Tired, frustrated, she glared at him. "Yes," she said. "I'm wet. Any other brilliant observations this morning? And by the way, the cap looks way past stupid." "Ooh," Willow said gently. "Down, girl. Bad morning, huh?" Buffy took a breath and tried to calm down. Xander was acting like he wasn't hurt, but she knew him better than that. She saw how his hand went halfway to the cap, as if he were about to take it off, then hang at his side, as if he'd rather not bring attention to it. "And bad night, and bad everything," she admitted. "At least one of our recent runaways wasn't exactly a runaway. And Mom was less than pleased that I completely forgot her benefit last night." She couldn't tell them about the rest. It hurt too much. "Running away," Willow said, sighing. "Sounds good to me." Buffy paused, narrowing her eyes. "No," she said bluntly. "Good it is not. Trust me on this one, Will." Willow looked abashed. "Sorry, Buffy." Xander turned to Willow and said, "Plus, you're a senior. Which, y'know, automatically means that running away would be kind of childish. Unless you were running away to join the circus, which would be cool. High wire, Will. You'd be good with that. No clowns, though." "Clowns are evil," Willow noted, smiling a little. "All of them," Xander confirmed, smiling back. "So spill, Willow," Buffy demanded. "Otherwise I'm just going to keep complaining about my problems, and yours will be summarily ignored." Willow shrugged, letting her hands flop loudly against her hips. "My parents think Oz has no ambition." Buffy and Xander stared at her, waiting for the rest. "That's it," Willow added, raising her eyebrows. "They like him, y'know. Even though they want him to pay a little more attention to the clock when we go out. But they think he has no ambition, no goals." "Well that's just riddichio," Xander said. "Oz has plenty of ambitions..." Xander's words trailed off and he looked at Buffy with a little nod, a hint that she was supposed to pick it up from there because he couldn't come up with anything. Buffy thought for a moment. Oz was a majorly laid back guy. He just kind of took things in. Oz smiled a lot. Waited to see what would happen next. Not that he wouldn't pitch in when the situation called for it. Just the other night, he had tripped a vampire so Buffy could stake it. He'd also worked pretty hard to steal Willow away from Xander. Okay, not steal. Like, all he had to do was offer her some animal crackers. Treat her like she was interesting. And pretty. All the things Xander had so not done. "Yeah," Buffy said lamely. "Oz has plenty of ambition. With...the band and all. And, y'know..." Willow shook her head. "Don't even bother, guys. You both get A's for effort...well, maybe C's, but Oz's ambitions in life just aren't the kinds of things that parents can understand. It's just a whole other world of priorities that will never be their priorities and...well, they'll get over it when I go to college." "Ah, yes." Xander nodded sagely. "Higher education heals all wounds. Or so I'm told." And so he wondered. He wasn't even sure he was going to college. His grades sucked, and nobody had really talked to him about going. Oh, sure, they dragged Will out of classes to see the guidance counselor about this scholarship or that one. And Cordy, well, she kept making noises about expensive private schools where you could buy your way in if your SATs just laid there and died. So where did all the Xanders go? To the Air Force, every one? Still, he didn't have it as bad as Buffy. He supposed she could go to Yale if she wanted to -- well, maybe not, because her grades sucked, too -- but she was smart enough to go to Yale. Maybe not in the booklearning department. But in a bad, sad, so not fair way, it didn't really matter what she wanted to be when she grew up. All that mattered was that she got to grow up. Because in the Slaying business, that was not a given. He turned his attention back to the girls -- his girls, his very special pals, one a girl he had wanted to date, and one a girl he should have wanted to date -- too late for that now -- and smiled his best Xander smile. He was da man for the riffs and the one-liners, and he wasn't about to let his vixens down now, when they obviously needed some cheering up. It was his job in their little social circle. Willow made the brilliant observations, Buffy killed bad guys, and he told jokes. Even if it cost him a little something in the let's-share department. Heck with it, he was tough guy. He could handle his own problems. Buffy shook her arms, sending droplets of rain flying. "Am I the only one who thinks that when you live in a place called Sunnydale, there ought to be some kind of rule against rain?" "Unless you're Giles, and then you think there should be a rule for rain. Like that line in Camelot." Xander paused, trying to remember the lyrics. "Y'know. 'It really rains a lot, here in Camelot.' Whatever." When neither Willow nor Buffy so much as cracked a smile, he grimaced and mock-shuddered. "Ouch. Tough crowd. A little too much rain on everyone's parade this morning. So smart Xanders everywhere creep off the stage." "Sorry, Xander," Willow said. "I'm just not used to having problems with my parents. I've always been the good daughter." She thought for a moment. "As opposed to the bad daughter. That they don't have." Willow being the only daughter, of course. Buffy nodded sympathetically. "I used to get in trouble for being a flaky daughter, maybe, but not for being a terrible daughter. You're about six degrees of evil away from that, Will, but I know it must be a shock." "A shock," Willow said slowly, as if testing the words. "Yeah. You could say that." She nodded back. "Which I just did," Buffy replied, giving her a grin. "So, Xander," she went on, "obviously I had one of those nights that reminds us all that parents are from Mars and teenagers are from Venus, and Willow's mom and dad may have finally realized that she's not nine anymore. How about the Harris household? Have you been getting any hassle for coming in late all the time?" "Not really," Xander admitted with a shrug. "My parents have sort of rediscovered dating. Each other, of course. They go out a lot after dinner. Come back all mussed and flushed. It's really, um, 'shocking' is our word du jour, yes? Otherwise, they just figure I'm out with Cordy." "Until way too late on a school night, and this doesn't bother them?" Buffy said, frowning. He was the one it bothered a little, if truth be told. He kind of wished they would notice that he wasn't doing the study thing and all like that. Like the girls' parents. Which was childish, he knew, but all this parental angsting everybody else was kvetching about was, frankly, something he had no experience with. Rules and regs? Not so many for the Harrises. Just like conventional mealtimes. Which might explain his passion for junk food. Or not. "Well, I can't say they haven't chastised me for lateness now and again, but as long as I get my homework done, and I'm in before the news comes on, they pretty much leave me alone." And if I ran away, would they notice? he thought. Then he edited himself: Too bitter, Harris. Way too bitter. Things are not that bad. It was just that in his house, there were not a whole lot of...things. Buffy and Willow scowled at each other. "Total double standard," Buffy said, sighing, and turned to start walking toward the library. Willow fell into step at her side. "Completely unfair. By the way, you and I were studying at Cordelia's last night..." "At Cordelia's?" Buffy asked, astonished, almost tripping over her own feet. "It was all I could think of on short notice." Willow shrugged sheepishly. "Besides, my mom doesn't know Cordelia. She won't really get how ridiculous a concept it is." Buffy considered. "True. Of course, you'll have to tell Cordelia." "She'll go along with it," Xander assured them. "She's been trying to find a good excuse for being out late all the time too." He rolled his eyes. "Looks like we're doomed to be rebellious teens for the rest of...well, at least for the rest of high school." "We're just born to be wild," Buffy said, sighing as she pushed open the library doors. "Bad to the bone," Willow concurred. "I'm not bad," Xander protested. "I'm just drawn that way." The girls both chuckled faintly. Xander brightened. Mission accomplished. The library was incredibly dreary. Dank and shadowed, it made Buffy think of a shipwreck, of diving on the sunken remains of some old galleon or something. With the wan light and the dust, the brown and faded books...it was like peering through a lot of murky water to make out books, tables, chairs. No sunken treasure, though. Sigh. Since moving to Sunnydale, Buffy guessed she had spent more time in this one place than she had anywhere else, including her bed, yet there was nothing welcoming about it. Maybe she should ask Giles to wallpaper it. Get some stuffed animals. Make it more homey and sweet. "Ah, there you are," Giles said as they entered the library. He looked a little tired, or maybe that was how people looked when they were creeping toward the notion of old. There were dark, puffy circles under his eyes. "Horrible storm, isn't it? Reminds me a bit of home, actually." Despite looking tired, or perhaps slightly less than young, Giles was smiling. Buffy didn't know why he was smiling, but she did know that as far as she was concerned, he shouldn't be. "You have a completely perverse appreciation of weather, Giles," she said. "For once it actually looks like we live in the Hellmouth outside, and you're grinning." "Hmm? Yes, well, the storm is supposed to be over quickly," Giles replied. "And tomorrow night the Renaissance Faire opens to the public. They'll be here for several weeks, and I hope you'll all avail yourselves of both the amusement and the educational experience of a visit to the Faire." "Fair?" Xander asked. "Renaissance Faire," Willow said. "Kind of a carnival if they'd had one during the Dark Ages. Knights. Ladies in waiting. Hunchbacks. Jousting. Eating with your hands." "I'm for eating with your hands," Xander said quickly. "Utensils are grossly overrated." "Speaking of gross..." Buffy murmured. "It has nothing to do with the Dark Ages, Willow." Giles cocked an amused though disapproving eyebrow in her general direction. "As I'm certain you know, considering that you tutor Buffy in history. The Renaissance began in Italy and spread throughout Europe. It reached its height in Italy in the fifteenth century, spread through Europe in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, and it is largely considered to be the end of the Middle Ages and the beginning of what we would call the modern world. It signified a new idea of humanity's place in the universe, and a new respect for art and education." Giles looked at the three students expectantly. They stared back at him, waiting for him to say more. "And the part that we love is?" Xander asked at last. "The part somebody thought would be cool to make into a fair?" Buffy added. Willow considered. "Actually, jousting sounds like fun." She assumed a fencer's stance. " En garde. " Buffy raised an eyebrow at her Watcher. "Moving on, I'll take 'Creatures of the Night' for five hundred, Alex." "Very well, then," Giles said, sorting through a small pile of paperwork. Finally he found what he'd apparently been looking for and glanced up at them. "These are the autopsy reports for the various Weatherly Park victims from the past week or so," he explained. "Willow was able to... appropriate them from the computer at the coroner's office." Willow grinned proudly. "You can call me Webmistress. If you want." "You hacker, " Xander teased her. Buffy started to reach for the autopsy reports. "Why the extra research? I thought you said we were dealing with slightly extra-savage vamp attacks?" Giles pointed a finger at the photos. "Yes, well, that's what I had assumed. However, after a bit of consideration and a review of the wording of the articles on the killings in the Sunnydale Press, I decided a closer look was warranted. "It's fortunate that I did," he added, and the last trace of the smile he'd worn when they entered was now gone from the Watcher's face. "It appears as though only one of those victims showed the usual signs of vampiric attack. The other five had been...eaten. At least partially. And not by any animal familiar to the coroner's office." Buffy took a look. Wished she hadn't. Silently she gave them back to Giles and thought, mournfully, of little Timmy and his mother. Her flesh prickled and she shivered with a chill that had nothing to do with temperature. Xander looked at Willow. "Any chance Oz slipped his leash?" Willow whacked him on the arm. "Oh, what?" Xander asked indignantly. "Ask the question everybody's thinking, and get physical punishment in return." "I wasn't thinking that," Buffy said in a low, sad voice. Xander wagged a finger at her. "Fibber. You're just afraid she'll hit you." "Actually," Giles said, putting the reports facedown on the table, "the coroner's office postulates it's a very small animal, something with a bite radius no larger than that of a raccoon's. But no raccoon did this." "So what did?" Willow asked, turning her head quickly in Xander's direction, as if daring him to say anything snide about her boyfriend again. "I've no idea," Giles replied. "And until I do, Buffy, you'd best take extra care. Be on guard for something small and quick. It's small enough that you might not see it coming before it's too late." "Okay. Rabid raccoons. I'll keep a lookout." Giles sighed and began to sort through a pile of his latest research books, moving a stack of green paper. "Now then," he said after a moment, "how did you fare last night?" She glanced down at the stack. They were flyers for the runaway shelter. Her mom's art gallery was listed at the bottom. Her mother must have given them out at the benefit last night. Which meant Giles must have gone. She felt even guiltier that she hadn't shown. But then who would have destroyed Timmy? "Buffy?" Giles prodded. "Oh, last night? Just super," Buffy said harshly. Xander stared at her. "Super?" "Should I have said 'swell'?" she retorted, glaring at him. "No. Please." Xander held up his hands. "I just figured anybody in a mood like yours...would be, um, looking for someone to hit a lot harder than Willow hit me. That's not what we call a super mood, at least among my people." Buffy raised her chin. She did not want to tell them, felt unaccountably ashamed. "My people do." "Super," Giles repeated, and looked at her expectantly. "Okay," she caved. "I staked a twelve-year-old boy, but not before somebody else died in Weatherly Park. His mother was at my house this morning sobbing in my mother's arms because she has no idea that he's dead. Isn't that super enough for everyone?" she asked. All three of them seemed momentarily uncomfortable. "Yes, well," Giles said finally, clearing his throat, "I know it's difficult for your mother these days..." "For my mother? " Buffy echoed, astounded. "My mother?" "Buffy," Willow said gently, touching her friend's arm, "if there's anything we can do..." "Yeah, maybe you should take a little R and R." Xander said. "Leave the staking to us." Giles cleared his throat. "Yes, well, that brings us to a topic I believe we need to address. I'm not sure now is the time, but I suppose one must confront these things head on." Buffy cocked her head and looked at Giles more closely. He did seem agitated, but as far as she knew, nothing had happened the night before that ought to concern him. Concern her, yes. "Buffy," he said, and then hesitated, pushing his glasses up on his face. The library was dingy gray with the rainstorm outside, only the dimmest of light filtering in. It seemed to have made everyone a little sad today. And a little slow-brained. "Giles," she prompted. "Yes, well, regardless of the tragic nature of your accomplishment last night, it does seem to me that you found this...vampire because you were able to focus. This is but one example of an issue that has begun to concern me of late. I think we may be getting a bit carried away with this whole business of 'Slayerettes.'" " Uno minuto, Señor Libro, " Xander said, raising his hand. "The family that slays together..." "Not now, Xander," Giles warned. Xander lowered his hand and looked at Buffy and Willow. Willow bit her lower lip and frowned nervously, clearly waiting for the next part. Giles perched on the edge of the study table and crossed his arms. It was weird, but sometimes Buffy almost forgot that he had come to Sunnydale specifically to be her Watcher. Hers. As in Buffy. There he was in England, filing things -- bones -- whatever -- in the British Museum, then...what? He gets a call from HQ and grabs a jet to California? Giles, old man, the Slayah's relocating. See to it. It still wigged her that she and her mother had assumed their move here was through random chance, and not because this cursed town sat atop a mystical convergence swirling and whirling with every kind of evil thing you could possibly think of, both generic nasties and the name brands. "As you know, traditionally the Chosen One works alone," Giles continued. "In fact, there is a school of thought that says that the Slayer should be required to work alone. I don't adhere to this theory, of course." "Of course," Xander said urgently. "As your Watcher, I have accompanied you on an irregular basis," Giles persisted. "And, given their enthusiasm and the fact that they came into the knowledge of your true identity and your obligation through a threat to their own lives, I was content to allow Willow and Xander to join you when the threat seemed to warrant that risk." "Yes, and that was a good thing," Xander said. Moving beside him, Willow nodded earnestly. "But now that Cordelia and Oz have also begun to participate, it all seems a bit much," Giles concluded. "I know that it is rare for your entire group to be on patrol together, but we may have to begin weighing each crisis in order to determine if the risk is great enough to involve your friends." Xander leaned back in his chair. "Giles, in case you haven't realized it yet, it isn't as though Buffy invites us along for kicks. Or even invites us at all." "Right," Willow said, looking slightly hurt. "We help because...well, I know I couldn't sleep at night, knowing what goes on in this town, if I wasn't doing something to help. If that means research, then research. But if that means going after the bad guys, well, I'll do that too." Buffy had heard enough. She stood, walked over to Giles, and snatched from his hands the book he was glancing at. He looked up at her in surprise. "You know what, Giles, you're right," she said. "Most nights, I should be on my own. Or maybe just with Angel." She caught the flicker of unease on his face and decided to ignore it for now. She knew he had mixed feelings about Angel. Who didn't? "And you know I don't want anything nasty to happen to my friends. But when it starts raining vamps and demons, I'm the first one to admit I might not be able to do it all myself." Her gaze took in her friends and a dozen images flashed through her mind, each one of a time when one or several of them had come to her aid and saved the day. Even though they had no special obligation to patrol and fight, as she did. Even though they had no sacred duty. They did it simply because they were her friends. And because somebody had to do it. In that way, Buffy often felt they were far more heroic than she was. If she wasn't the Slayer, she might not even...but she was the Slayer. It wasn't healthy to wonder what might have been. "It's not like we're having beach parties when we work together," she went on, feeling a little angry. "We do what we have to do because we have to do it. Don't give us a hard time about it." Giles didn't respond at first, but Buffy could see that he wasn't finished. That there was something still on his mind. He began to glance at the books stacked on the table and kept flipping at the cover of the one on top until Buffy couldn't stand it anymore. "Spit it out, Giles!" she snapped. "You're making me a little edgy, here." "Actually, you were edgy when you got here," Xander ventured. "You remember, the rain, your mom, and all?" Buffy shot him a withering look. "Not now, Xander," Xander said to himself. "Well," Giles said, "several nights ago, it seemed to me that we were, all of us, having a bit too good a time at this. It's no game, you know. What you do is horrifying. Dreadful. The things we face are evil incarnate, and well, the kind of caprice evident during the hunt the other night could get you all killed." Buffy knew exactly which night he was talking about. It seemed there was a strange little group of vampires who were into numerology or something, or maybe they watched too much Star Trek, but they had given each other wanky names like "Seven" and "Twelve B Two." They had somehow decided that the seventh of the month was the perfect time to make a sweep of the beach and chomp on kids partying around the fire rings. After the first time, Buffy and Giles probably would have passed it off as a particularly hellish night on the Hellmouth, but Angel had heard about this latest little sub-cult, and Angel had told Buffy. So the next month, they had all saddled up and headed for the beach, Xander mangling ancient Beach Boys lyrics while the rest of them just generally made far too many jokes. Maybe because they'd known one of the girls who'd died the night before. That was what the gallows humor was all about, wasn't it? Laughing so you didn't cry? Giles knew it, but it had been obvious that even with that understanding, he'd still thought they were going too far. His facial expressions and his reserved commentary had made that abundantly clear. But Buffy hadn't expected any long-term repercussions. Not like this. After all he'd been through himself, all the pain he'd suffered, Buffy would have thought Giles would understand. Even a little bit. "How dare you?" Buffy asked, offended not only for herself, but for all of them and all that they did. Giles seemed taken aback. "I'm your Watcher, Buffy. It isn't a matter of daring at all. I have an obligation to..." Buffy angrily slapped her palms on the big study table in the library. "That's it!" she said. "I'm done for today." He reached out a hand. "Buffy --" She whirled on Giles. "I can't believe you!" she cried. "Never once did you get one of those little lightbulbs over your head that told you that maybe we're just blowing off steam? Maybe this whole thing is so disgusting and awful that the only way we can deal with what really goes on in our lives is to laugh about it? To make the kind of jokes you're always giving Xander a hard time about? Maybe that's how we make it from one day to the next, Giles. Because itisn't by hanging out at the Bronze or the mall or gossiping about what you-know-who wore to the dance! "We...no, let me just speak for myself. I, Giles,...I don't go to the dances! How many times do we have to go over this? If it helps me be the Slayer, helps me get through the night -- and my nights are very, very long -- to have my friends around and to make jokes, why can't you just leave it alone? "If you want to wallow in your own pain, to...savor every moment of suffering, hey, crunch all you want, we'll make more! But don't get all pissy if the rest of us want to run away to the Bahamas for a few seconds. Don't try dragging us down to your level of misery, Giles. I think you'll find that, speaking just for myself, I'm already soaking in it!" Buffy stood glaring at Giles, breathing heavily from her tirade and waiting for a response. Giles blinked several times. "It was merely an observation," he said at last. "Well, stop with the observations. You're as bad as my mother half the time." She flushed, feeling guilty again, but she stood her ground. She had a point. That she was making. Now it was Giles's turn. He took his glasses off, which usually meant he was getting serious. "Well, Buffy, if you want to see it that way, that is your prerogative," he told her crisply. "In fact, when you compare me to your mother, you're not far off in some ways. As the only adult among you, and as your Watcher, I am in many ways responsible for your wellbeing." Buffy turned and walked to the door in a huff. "You know what, Giles? My dad is gone. Absentee father. I've adjusted, and I don't need you to take his place. You want to be my Watcher, fine! You want to be my friend? Okay. But do not try to be a parent to me!" Then she stormed out. When Buffy was gone, all Giles could do was stare after her. "I didn't say anything, didn't voice any concerns I haven't brought up in the past," he said, after a few seconds had ticked by. "Today just isn't the day for it, Giles," Willow explained. "Yeah," Xander agreed. "Parents are from Mars. Teenagers are from Venus." At that, Giles was truly speechless. A rare and wondrous thing. "So, Giles was talking about this Renaissance Faire thingy," Buffy whispered. She crept across Mrs. Calhoun's backyard, feet squishing in the damp ground, hoping the lady's yippy dog wouldn't start barking like crazy. At least it had stopped raining. But it was cold and damp, and it occurred to her to wonder -- not for the first time -- if she would ever make it to a fine old age where she could complain about rheumatism, arthritis, or -- worst on her list -- have to start wearing glasses. Angel was at her side, hidden in the night, as she was, in all black clothing. Both of them were keeping their eyes peeled for vampires. The bad kind. "Before my time," Angel replied. "The Renaissance." "Wow." "Yeah," Angel admitted. "Wow." "I teased him about it -- before I yelled at him for something else -- but I don't know. Knights and swords and ladies in those beautiful gowns, it does have a certain appeal," Buffy admitted. "I thought maybe we could go." "I don't know," Angel replied softly. "I try not to think much about the past, even if it's further in the past than I can personally remember." Buffy paused. Glanced at him. Noted briefly the glint of moonlight on his hair and pale features, framed in blackness. Like Angel's life: washes of light, and so much dark. "I guess I don't blame you," she said. And she didn't. But she did wish that he'd go with her to the Faire. She'd thought it would be very romantic, after she'd cooled down from her argument with Giles long enough to give it some consideration. Not that romance and Angel made a comfortable pair these days. But she'd kind of thought Angel would like it, to remember another time like that. A time that was probably a lot more like the era he grew up in than Sunnydale was at the turn of the millenium. "Maybe we can hit the museum?" Angel suggested. "I think I'd like to stay away from the museum for a while," Buffy replied. That was where Angel had stolen the statue of Acathla, back when he had not been...himself. Angel looked at her. "Yeah," he said. "I see your point." Willow hung up from her conversation with Oz and lay on her back, angling her legs so that her bunny slippers hung over the edge of her bed. She wore an oversized T-shirt, and her red hair hung freely down her back. Oz had told her he liked the color of her hair. Her stuffed animals lounged in their places on her bedspread. Her fish burbled in their tank. Life was good. Well, except for the part of the phone conversation where Oz realized he would have to cancel out of the next Dingoes gig at the Bronze because he would be a werewolf that night. That kinda sucked. "Willow?" her mother called from the hall. "It's a little late for phone calls, don't you think?" Willow sighed. She got calls from Buffy and Xander much later than this, and on a regular basis, too. She wondered if her mom had picked up the extension and listened in. If she was doing stuff like that, they would have to be careful with what they talked about. Willow tried to think if she'd said anything tonight that might have freaked out her mom. She winced. Oz, you're such an animal, she'd said. He'd chuckled and replied, Only sometimes. Her mother would definitely misinterpret that kind of thing. Great, Willow thought. Something else to worry about. "Willow?" Willow sighed. "Sorry, Mom." Her mother moved on. "College," Willow reminded herself, setting her jaw. "One that's far, far away." Flipping open Cordelia's cell phone, Xander waited for the connection and said, "Hi, it's me." Queen C herself was at the wheel. At the corner of Bartholomew, Cordelia made a sharp left, tires squealing. They were late for her curfew, as usual. And she had made a big deal about the fact that he lived awfully far away from her -- translation: not in the snooty part of town, where Rapunzel here dwelled -- so much so that he had suggested she just let him out so he could hitch home. "Maybe not a good idea," she had said tentatively. So he was already in the not very best of moods when his mom said, distractedly, "Yes?" with no obvious notion of who "me" was. "Xander." He exhaled. "Your son." "Hi, honey." She was watching TV. He could always tell. Sometimes when he thought of it, he made sure he called her during the commercials. Only she liked to watch some of those. At least she had some outside interests. "I have a terminal illness and I have decided to end my life by jumping off a train," he said. Cordelia rolled her eyes. She narrowly missed a Miata as she zoomed around to pass, pointing frantically at the digital readout on the instrument panel. As if his talking on the phone were going to slow her down. "Are you on something?" Mrs. Harris asked suspiciously. "No, Ma, just high on life," he quipped. "Okay. Well, be home soon." She disconnected. "And so, we will not be taping the news for tough guy," Xander said, flicking the phone shut. "What?" Cordelia took her eyes off the road. Not a good thing. "Why didn't you just come right out and ask her?" He shrugged. "Willow will tape it." There was a slight chance they were going to run a piece about the escalating runaway situation in Sunnydale. Giles had suggested they all watch it, and Xander, eager to remind the Watcher that he and the Slayerettes were useful and productive citizens of the Hellmouth, had wanted very badly to comply. Well, so much for that. It wasn't his mom's fault, not really. He could have made sure he and Cordy knocked off the smootchin' a little earlier. "We could catch it at my house," Cordelia suggested. "I'm closer." "Oh, right. You're coming in late again and I'm walking through the front door? And I still need a ride? Not the best plan." "Yeah." She sighed and checked her makeup in the mirror for telltale smears. "I wish you'd move." He looked out the window. "Yeah, well, we can all dream." "Whazzat?" Bernie Sayre sat upright in the bed he had once shared with his wife, long gone, and frowned in the darkness. Was Simon pawing through the trash again? "Dang cat." He yawned and climbed out of bed with a groan. His hip was acting up -- don't tell the manager of the Sunnydale S&L, he might fire ol' Bernie, and him so close to retirement -- and he favored it as he limped down the hall. "Simon, dang it," he called. Back when Vera was alive, the kitchen was always spotless. But with his job and his hip and all...well, who was he kidding? He just wasn't the housekeeper she'd been. Not that it mattered too much. He didn't get a lot of company, and the cat didn't seem to mind. There was a clatter, like a cat food tin falling to the ground. Bernie grunted, envisioning a pile of garbage on the floor -- coffee grounds, banana peel, wadded up circulars and junk mail -- and he said, "Simon, stop it!" Another clatter. He sped up, and nearly fell over the lump in the middle of the hall. The lump gave a meow of displeasure and cocked his head at Bernie. It was Simon, who got up, stretched, and deigned to saunter out of Bernie's way. Bernie was not very glad to see him. "If you're out here, what the heck is in the kitchen?" he demanded. Simon said, "Meow." TM and copyright © 1998 by Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation. Excerpted from Child of the Hunt by Christopher Golden, Nancy Holder All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.