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Point of Focus
Disclaimer: Characters from Buffy the Vampire Slayer are property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Kuzui Enterprises, Sandollar Television, the WB, and UPN.
Part III
– December 1998 –
She got breakfast at a McDonald’s drive-through, and swung by the apartment to get her books and class materials. There was time to change clothes (she threw away the bloodied briefs) but not to shower, though she longed for one. She called Giles at his home to say tersely, “Remember Lagos? I ran into him in the park last night. We need to do something about the body.”
“Ah. I had thought he was dead.”
“So did I. Now we’re both right.”
“Yes. Yes, of course. Is there anything else I should know?”
“Nothing worth mentioning.” She described the location of the bushes where she had left the demon’s corpse, and added, “Listen, the trunk of your car won’t be big enough for this one, so I’ll leave my keys at the front desk. You’re … oh, you’re doing me a favor, dropping it off for an oil change.”
“Yes, that should certainly be convincing. Our camaraderie is, er, legendary.”
“Tell it however you like, then. And use a tarp this time, I don’t want my upholstery ruined if he starts to disintegrate.”
“Oh, quite, quite. That goes without saying.”
She went through the morning classes largely on autopilot; drugged sleep had not been a proper substitute for normal slumber. During the lunch period she went to the library to get her keys, and entered with her mouth set in a grim line.
Giles greeted her with a distracted air; he had an armload of thick books, and was trying to turn the pages of the one on the top of the stack. “Ah, good afternoon, Joyce. The keys are there behind the counter; I, ah, I actually did get the oil changed for plausibility’s sake.” He paused to glance over at her. “And there was … that is to say, I saw blood on the axe.”
Afternoon, she thought. He says ‘afternoon’, at five minutes past the hour. How British. “He nicked me before I really knew he was there. Giles, just before I got here I saw Cordelia leaving.”
“Yes, she, she did stop in for a moment.”
“You’re not trying anything cute, are you?”
His eyes had gone back to the book, one finger tracing a line of text, and he said absently, “I’m sorry, what?”
Her fists clenched. “Damn it, Giles, look at me!” He started at the violence in her voice, and she went on, “Are you trying to pull Cordelia back into this nightmare? I won’t have it, Giles, we settled this long ago.”
It was all she could do to keep her hands from his throat. There had been too many deaths in the past fourteen months, too many she had been unable to save. Most had been innocent and unwary, but some had known of the war and entered it willingly, only to fall. Xander, interposing himself between a defenseless Willow and the desiccated Inca girl, and losing the gamble that her affection for him would keep her from draining him to a husk; Jenny Calendar, tattooed by Ethan Rayne with the Mark of Eyghon, and weaving a net of cyber-mystic forces about herself that turned her body into a living booby-trap for the demon; Harmony, wanting so desperately to atone for the tragic consequences of her cowardice of Halloween night, and failing so terribly in her hopeless running battle with the Gorch brothers in the Sunnydale mall; gentle, quirky Oz, believing his lupine alter-ego to be responsible for the slaughter outside the Bronze (and worse, believing Willow to be one of the victims), taking his own life rather than kill again. Finally Joyce had decreed that there would be no more. She had driven Willow away with harsh, merciless words, and the heartbroken girl, reeling from the loss of the three people she loved most, had taken early graduation and was now studying under a special scholarship at the Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute.
She would have done the same with the enigmatic young man known as Angel, but he had dropped out of sight at about the same time, and occasionally Joyce wondered if he had followed Willow. That made them the only surviving members of the jestingly named Slayerettes … with the possible exception of Cordelia, who had participated in at least some of the group’s anti-occult activities but had never considered herself a member, and had distanced herself from them even before the death toll had begun to mount so hideously.
Her mind snapped back to the present moment; Giles was blinking at her in honest surprise, saying, “Of course not. She had a most curious tale to tell, and it certainly warrants deeper investigation. I may need to ask her further questions, after I’ve had time to research the matter, but I see no need to involve her more than that.”
He would give no firmer guarantee, she knew; behind that flustery vague exterior was a surprising stubbornness that would arise when he was pressed, and she didn’t want to break him unnecessarily, not when his destruction could be stretched out for years yet. “So what was her story?”
“The details were rather confused; as I’m sure you know, linear narrative is not Cordelia’s métier. But it may tie in with some theories I’ve been developing over the last several months.”
“I haven’t eaten yet, Giles, and I only get half an hour. Focus.”
“Well, your encounter with Lagos calls to mind an earlier illustrative example. You will recall my contention at the time that the Glove of Mynhegon, when activated, had displayed rather more power than the historical records indicated?”
Joyce’s lip curled. “You didn’t really track down the Glove’s exact nature until after the fact, so I didn’t pay a lot of attention to your post-game analysis.”
“Yes, well. Perhaps.” He put down the books, carefully marking his page before continuing. “But when the spirit of Gabriela de Santos reconstituted several city blocks of Sunnydale into 17th century pueblo, you reminded me rather sharply of my prediction that she would be capable of little more than transient illusions.”
“So you dropped the ball a few times. That’s nothing new.”
“The point I wish to make,” he went on patiently, “is that for some time the threats we have … that you have faced, have been more substantial than could be expected from their innate nature. I had feared this might signify an increase in the scope or intensity of Hellmouth influence, but that appears not to be the case.”
Joyce weighed the idea, professional detachment for the moment supplanting her automatic animosity. “The vampires are no stronger than usual,” she mused.
“No, but they are somewhat more numerous, despite the, um, fervor with which you pursue them.” Giles shook his head. “No clear leader has emerged among them since the rather demoralizing end you devised for Dalton, yet they remain as active and aggressive as ever.”
She didn’t like to be reminded of Dalton. There had been something different about that one, and at the last he had looked at her with sadness rather than hate as the rising sun consumed him. But that was the way of war: even if you respected your enemy, he was still an enemy, and Dalton’s meticulous organization had posed a far greater danger than had any of Spike’s theatrics. “I still don’t see what that has to do with Cordelia,” she said.
“Ah. Yes. Well, she described an encounter with an individual who may have demonstrated an ability to affect reality.” He avoided her eyes … but he always did, so there was nothing unusual in that. “Our own experience has made us aware that the Hellmouth, even when quiescent, exudes an aura that seems to potentiate other natural and quasi-natural phenomena. Cordelia’s account suggests the possibility of a second influence which may itself be enhancing this, er, catalytic effect.”
“Amplifying the amplifier, you mean?”
“Something of that nature, yes.”
Joyce felt her interest waning; when it came right down to it, the only question that mattered was, Will this give me something to fight? “I’m sure it’s fascinating,” she told him. “Call me if you find out the world is ending, I’ll want to reschedule my parent conferences.” With that she retrieved her keys and departed.
All the same, the conversation kept nagging at her. Her afternoon students noticed a certain distraction about her, and Larry wordlessly decided to save his posturings for another occasion. Summers was pretty cool, but you didn’t want to cross her when she got one of these moods. Not that she really did anything if you made her mad (not in class, anyhow), but the air around her just seemed to … crackle …
She drove back to her apartment when classes ended, slept for an hour, then rose and made a small pot of canned soup for an early supper. There was still another hour until nightfall, and she spent that time grading papers, then dressed in dark clothing and went out to where she had parked.
Time to hunt.
* * *
The cemeteries took longest; there were a dozen of them, and they had to be covered on foot. The city parks also required foot reconnaissance, but there was more open area and they were closer together, so checking them went more quickly. Then the mall; then the Bronze, and the surrounding streets where some of the regulars occasionally parked …
There. She braked to a halt and was out of the jeep, running to where a convertible was wedged into an alleyway, and inside it a screaming dark-haired girl swinging a small handbag in futile desperation at the five figures that ringed the trapped vehicle. Joyce was among them in instant explosive fury before they could react, dropping one with a crushing kick to the small of his back and running another headfirst into the side of the convertible with a force that caved in the door; then the other three were on her like wolves, and she met them with an equal ferocity.
Willy had told her of the muttering among his arcane customers about the way she fought, of how she seemed unaware or even scornful of pain, of wounds suffered in battle. She had seen the same wonder in Giles’ eyes, though he never spoke of it. It was a joke too bitter for laughter. Pain? This was how she escaped pain, this was where she could leave it behind for just a few moments; this was anodyne, not ordeal.
Jagged nails ripped through the cloth of her blouse and down her side, and she trapped the arm and broke it; she slammed another attacker away with a looping crescent kick, and let her body continue through the turn and spear the stake through a third vampire who had thought he could take her from behind —
it won’t bring back my daughter
— and used his mass to rebound in a spinning backfist in the split-second before that mass crumbled into graveyard dust. Gnarled knuckles crashed into the side of her head; she counterpunched automatically, missed, followed up with a double-hammer to face and groin, staked the unlucky recipient before he could recover —
it won’t bring back my daughter
— and fell back momentarily, putting the convertible behind her so she would only have to guard from the front and sides. Instantly she saw that the three remaining were all damaged, injured, their speed and aggressiveness diminished, and she went for them like God’s own thunderbolt.
it won’t bring back my daughter
it won’t bring back my daughter
it won’t bring back my daughter …
The street was empty. Joyce straightened and returned the stake to its place of concealment beneath the light jacket, then pivoted to face the girl in the car. “Cordelia, what are you doing out alone? I thought you at least knew to keep to well-lit areas.”
Cordelia was staring at her, mouth agape, eyes almost starting from her head. “You … you’re …” She closed her mouth with a snap, and said faintly, “Oh, my God. Oh, my God. I didn’t know …”
Joyce had always been ambivalent about Cordelia. That she had once stood with Buffy and the others against demonic forces spoke well for the girl, but their few chance encounters at the school had left a different impression; in fact, the calculated sophistication and oh-so-hip Valleyspeak had reminded Joyce all too keenly of the vicious, vapid cliques of her own high school days. Tonight’s incident did little to improve her opinion. Had Cordelia learned nothing in the past two years?
The girl collected herself with obvious effort and climbed over the crushed door to stand beside the older woman. “Giles sent me to look for you,” she explained. “He called me up, said it was urgent, told me the places you might be.” She grimaced quickly. “I didn’t understand, not then anyway, it was like Hello, what would she be doing there —”
“Giles? He sent you out here?” This was too much, damn him, he’d answer to her and answer in blood.
Cordelia nodded eagerly. “He said he tried to reach you but you weren’t answering, and there is just mondo mojo going down right now, so I told him I’d try to find you.”
Joyce swore at herself. She had left her pager and cell phone back at the apartment, this was her own fault. But, “Why didn’t he come out himself?”
“He’s at the library, setting up for some big hairy exorcism, or is that ‘exfoliation’? He said there was no time, he said … he said you might need to reschedule those conferences after all.” Cordelia laughed. “Only he said SHED-ule, you know, the way these British guys always do?”
Conferences —? Joyce felt a chill go through her, and started back for the jeep. Cordelia ran along beside her, stumbling in high heels. “Wait, I’m coming with you.”
“Go home, Cordelia. Call a taxi if you can’t get your car started. You’re not part of this.”
“But I want to help,” the girl cried after her; and as Joyce sped away she could hear a voice calling plaintively, “It’s all my fault …!”
She went to the apartment first, hoping it wasn’t a bad decision, and pulled out the long bag that contained the heavier weapons she kept for demon combat; whatever this was, it might call for more than stakes and holy water. She grabbed the cell phone as well, and back in the jeep she keyed in the number for the library as she punched the accelerator.
Giles answered on the fourth ring, harried and breathless. “Cordelia?”
“Joyce. What’s happening?”
In the background she could hear sounds of irregular pounding, and a female voice chanting something. “There’s some kind of apocalyptic warrior priestess cult,” Giles said rapidly. “They’re … push that against the others there! I’m sorry; they’re trying to reopen the Hellmouth, we’ve barricaded ourselves in here …”
“We? We who?”
“Listen, they’re in the halls, you need to come in through —” The call snapped off, and REDIAL brought no answer. Joyce tossed aside the phone and increased her speed.
She parked in the lot nearest the library, used her key to get in the side door. Warrior priestesses, Giles had said; from her bag she selected the pistol-grip crossbow and a heavy cavalry saber that approximated in weight and balance the bokken with which she had trained, and for good measure tucked a British commando dagger into her belt. She started through the darkened halls, watching for movement and trying to put herself in Giles’ place. If he had the main doors barricaded, she wouldn’t be able to get in that way, so what had he meant to tell her —?
Distantly she heard a scream, and changed direction without conscious thought, sprinting toward the sound. She broke out into the open area by the gymnasium doors, and there to the side were hunched shapes holding a struggling figure, and in the dim glow from vending machine lights she couldn’t make out faces but damn it that was Cordelia’s voice! She raised the crossbow and loosed a bolt, and one of the forms screeched and fell away, the bolt through its neck. Joyce shifted the saber to her right hand, discarding the crossbow, and was on the others before the small weapon bounced from the tiled floor.
There were four of them, and they turned on her with yowls and long, rippled swords. She slapped aside one blade with the saber, felt the cold fire of a second point slide into her thigh, and struck back with a lightning slash that tore across a misshapen face. She could hear Cordelia babbling hysterically to herself, and she cursed the foolhardy courage that had brought the girl here, did she think good intentions held any weight against Satan’s footsoldiers …?
A tremendous echoing blast split the air, and one of Joyce’s opponents flew backward to crash through the plastic front panel of a soft drink machine. Two of the fluorescent bulbs behind it exploded, but in the revealed light of the others Joyce looked back, shocked, to see Cordelia using both hands to rack the slide of a pump shotgun. The demon priestesses — was that blue skin? — shook off their amazement and started for the girl, then turned back to face Joyce as she drove for them.
She had been given a few seconds to take their measure; they were fierce, tough, and determined, and more skilled with their weapons than she with hers. She went through them like a scythe, a whirlwind of steel and wrath. The shotgun roared again as she kicked one of them momentarily clear of the clashing knot of conflict, and that left only two, one already crippled, and in moments there were none.
She turned to Cordelia, panting harshly, and demanded, “For the love of God, girl, where did you get that thing?”
Cordelia was staring at her, appalled, but answered defensively, “From the police cruiser sitting in the front lobby. You’re bleeding!”
Not in more than a dozen places. “Why did they drive it into the lobby?”
Cordelia let out a nervous giggle. “Well, the police haven’t exactly caught up with it yet.” Seeing the older woman’s glare, she set her mouth stubbornly and said, “Look, did you ever try to find a taxi this time of night?”
There was a choice: explode, or let it go. Joyce let it go. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s get to Giles.”
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