It’s big and strong but not very fast, so I keep out of the way and wait for it to tire and give me an opening. The demon lunges, I spin out of reach, its buddy steps from behind a pile of crates, and suddenly the fight is a little more interesting. I push harder through the spin, and for a moment, I think I’m clear. Then I gasp in pain as claws rip through my shirt and across my ribs.
I stagger but get my back against the wall and blink the sweat from my eyes, trying to ignore the five-alarm fire blazing along my side. The demons close in, nostrils flaring as they catch the scent of Slayer blood, the snack of choice for occult types.
Will this be the way I die a charmed third time, no hell god or apocalypse, just a loading dock, a lonely night, and a pair of demons who are having themselves a good day?
So what if it is? This way or another, what does it matter? Death is no more than a pit stop for me although I have a feeling Willow may hesitate before casting another resurrection spell. There are those who would say the last one didn’t turn out terribly well, that I came back wrong.
At this thought, my lips twist and something in my face makes my attackers slow and exchange nervous looks. I straighten and take a firmer grip on my stake. I must be addicted to misery after all, because despite everything, here I am once again refusing to go down without a fight.
Deciding to get it over with one way or the other, I leap for the nearest target. My charge sends us off the loading dock and I end up perched on top of the demon’s chest as we crash into the parking lot. The jarring landing sends pain screaming through me, and the demon heaves up, knocking me to the side.
Damn. The plan was to kill this one before its friend could reach us, and now it looks like that isn’t going to happen. I can hear the second demon’s feet pounding across the dock. As I roll up for a strike on the first, the second leaps from the dock with a roar of rage...which turns into a roar of pain and finally into a gurgle as it crashes ungracefully almost at my feet.
There isn’t time to find the mouth on this particular gift horse. While the demon I was fighting stares at its dead companion, I thrust my stake into its heart.
I look dully down at the bodies, not really wanting to deal with whoever killed the second demon. Probably Spike, who will take the opportunity to remind me how screwed up I am (which wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t agree with him), and threaten to tell the others about what was between us. Other fun possibilities include Riley and Sam, back to give more lessons in how to have a perfect marriage, or Xander feeling sad about Anya, which makes me feel guilty since I have a vague idea that I should be doing something about them, or…
“You ok?”
I look up to see a woman standing on the edge of the loading dock. The security lights behind her shadow her face, and I don’t know her voice, but she stands like a fighter, up on the balls of her feet, fists clenched, ready for anything.
“Yeah, thanks,” I answer and head for the stairs, pausing to pull a large knife from the second demon’s back. As the adrenaline of the fight passes, I become more aware of the pain at my side, the blood soaking through my shirt, and I climb the steps instead of jumping onto the dock.
She takes the knife without comment, wiping the blade on the leg of her jeans before sheathing it at her waist. That done, she looks at me appraisingly.
I look back. She’s a little older than I am, not 30 yet, with a face that’s pretty but hard-featured and angular. There’s something about her that’s familiar although I know I haven’t seen her before. Maybe it’s the hair, red like Willow’s, maybe the sense of cool competence that reminds me of Giles.
“Thanks again for the help.” My words are awkward. I’m not used to talking to anyone outside the group unless they’re ordering a Doublemeat Special.
“Uh-huh.” There’s a short pause, and her eyes drift to my side. “You’re hurt.”
Well, duh, runs through my mind, but I only say, “It’s no big. I can fix it up when I get home.”
Another pause. I get the feeling that she doesn’t talk much either. “I got bandages and stuff back at my room,” she says at last.
“That’s ok, really…”
She’s already turning away. “Aren’t you the Slayer? Your blood’ll call every demon for miles. Come on.”
Startled, I hurry after her as best I can, holding my side. “How do you know I’m the Slayer?”
She shrugs. “Saw you fight. You’re good. Better than me. Have to be something extra.”
Brag much? I wonder. But there’s no boasting in her flat, matter-of-fact voice. I watch her walk, the hard muscles of her arms and legs obvious even in her jeans and long-sleeved shirt, tension radiating from every part of her body, and think that it might take something extra to beat her.
“Are you some kind of demon hunter?” I ask, remembering a certain puppet I knew a long time ago.
“I kill demons. Nothing formal.”
We cross a street to a hotel that makes the place where Faith stayed look four-star. A group of men stand in one of the doorways. I hear catcalls and laughter and get ready, thinking we’ll have to fight again, but as they see my companion, the noise dies away, and the men wonder away.
She uses a pass-key to open the door into a room that lives up to the promise of the exterior. I swallow as a roach skitters away into a corner, but the woman takes no notice, crossing to a pack that lies on the bed. She rifles out alcohol and bandages and a bottle of holy water, then turns to me.
“You’ll have to lose the shirt.”
I laugh nervously. “Usually I exchange names before we get this far.” When that doesn’t get an answer or even a change in expression, I try again. “I’m Buffy Summers.”
Another one of those pauses, but she’s thinking this time, trying to decide whether to give up her name. I wonder what the problem is. Should I know her? Is she something major? Am I going to feel like an idiot when she tells me who she is?
Finally, she mutters, “Justine,” and looks away, her face flooding with color.
That doesn’t ring any bells but seems to be all I’m going to get. I shrug to myself, decide she’s so far from secretly lusting after me that it isn’t even funny, and unbutton my shirt as I head for the grimy bathroom.
She helps me peel the shirt away, and I brace my hands on the edges of the sink, swallowing at my reflection in the mirror, the deep claw marks going from just under my right breast, down and around my waist, and across to my back. I see with relief that Justine is reflected in the mirror too.
One of her hands touches the back clasp of my bra. “Need to get this off too,” she says, and when I nod, she unhooks it, and the straps slide down my arms.
She soaks a towel in the holy water, and begins to clean my side, starting at the front. I shudder although there’s nothing sexual about what she’s doing, nothing even personal in her light, careful touch. Still, I’m topless, she’s dressed, and I feel vulnerable. Nobody’s seen this much of me in a long time except Spike, which is something I don’t need to be thinking about right now.
Justine works in silence for a time, then as she puts alcohol on a second towel, and I grit my teeth because I know it’s going to hurt, she says abruptly. “It must be nice.”
“What?” It comes out in a gasp as the alcohol sears into the cuts.
“Being the Slayer.”
“Yeah. Oh, God, OW! It’s barrels of fun.”
She looks surprised. “But you know what you’re supposed to do. What your purpose is. Everything’s clear. Isn’t it?”
Her question hits me like the demon’s strike, and I struggle to answer what I can barely explain even to myself, finally getting out, “I used to think so, but it’s not. Right and wrong is pretty murky. Sometimes it…changes.”
That doesn’t even begin to cover everything, but how do I talk about a Slayer who went bad, then repented, which should be enough, only I’m still angry enough to kill her?
How do I talk about the Initiative, formed by humans to kill demons, which sounded great, only they didn’t just kill the demons, they tortured them, including kind and funny Oz, and made Adam?
And how do I talk about the vampire who used to try to kill me, but later let himself get tortured to save me pain? Who gave me the one place of safety I’ve known since I woke up underground. Who flickers from dark to light and back again like a candle flame in a drafty room, except I’m the draft, and I already turned one vampire evil and had to kill him, and I really don’t think I stand that again….
I snap out of my thoughts to find that I’m gripping the sides of the sink hard enough to make my hands ache, and Justine has stopped bandaging and is staring at me through the mirror. I’m sure she thinks I’m crazy, but when I meet her gaze, her eyes are dark with misery and something that looks like understanding.
“It hurts so much, you want to die,” she whispers hoarsely. “Except if you die, it’s all for nothing. So you do stuff that you tell yourself makes a difference, even if you know it really doesn’t.” She wraps the bandages around my waist and up, not looking at her hands, not bothering to wipe away the tears that begin to fall. “One day somebody shows up who knows how you feel, who shows you what’s maybe a better way, and you believe them. Because you want to, because you’re so Goddamned tired of doing it all yourself.”
…Slayer, if you’re in any pain… You’re something better than this. I can get money. Walk away with me now…
“Then, you find out he was lying,” she finishes, tucking the end of the bandage away. “He had some whole other thing going on, and you were part of it. You didn’t matter, and you’re back by yourself again and hurting that much more because it was different for a while.”
…You're not drawn to the dark like I thought. You're addicted to the misery…
Not that Spike lied. He did…does, still, maybe, sort of…love me. But he’s like Riley (and wouldn’t he be furious if he knew I thought that). I’m not what he thought I was, and what I am, he doesn’t want.
We stare at each other’s reflections, and I recognize what’s familiar about Justine. Me. Underneath the surface stuff, like age or hair-color, we could be twins. We have the same eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I say from the bottom of my heart. “I am so sorry.”
She nods. “I am too.”
I know she means it. Justine understands absolute and utter loneliness like no one I’ve ever seen before. How somewhere underneath the pain, there’s a kind of peace, because at least you know how this feels, the shape and color of it. So you stay there because it’s safe, because there are so many things that hurt worse, and because you’ll end up back there anyway.
The moment breaks, both of us pulling back at the same time. There’s nothing to say. Both of us understand that we can’t fix the other beyond offering the most basic help.
“You’ll need a shirt,” she says abruptly, turning away from me. She goes back to her knapsack, pulls out an old t-shirt, and hands it to me.
“I can’t take your stuff,” I protest since I think the knapsack is it for Justine’s belongings.
“Like I’m gonna die without that t-shirt,” she snorts.
I do need a shirt, so I pull it reluctantly over my head. “You could crash with me,” I offer, wanting to do something for her. “I think everyone else in town has slept on my couch, so you might as well. You could wash your clothes, and I’m almost sure there won’t be a knife fight which puts my place ahead of here.”
She smiles reluctantly but shakes her head. “Better not. I’m moving on tomorrow.”
I don’t press. I see the wariness in her face, the worry that she’s revealed too much, the fear that it’ll come back to bite her on the ass. I felt the same the morning I woke up naked in the rubble of a building.
“Ok,” I nod. “But be careful.” I hunt around and find a scrap of paper, and when Justine hands me a pencil, I write the address and telephone numbers of my home and The Magic Box. “If you need anything, there should be someobody at one of these places who will help you.”
“Thanks.” She looks like she’d like to say something more, but doesn’t, and tucks the scrap of paper away.
Justine follows me to the door and jerks her head to acknowledge my good-bye.
I head through the deserted streets of Sunnydale, knowing that she’s shoving the rest of her things into the pack, getting out now and never mind waiting for morning. Getting away from someone who saw too far into her heart, walking on her quiet, lonely road. Because that’s what I’m doing.