This time it was Las Vegas.
Faith sighed as she downed two Percocet with a gulp of Jack and Coke. She wished the kid back in coach would quit crying. They'd already boarded by the time she'd settled into her cushy leather seat - young mother with a baby who had barely graduated from infancy. Poor thing started screaming as soon as they had taken off. Too young to be on a plane anyway, since you can't exactly explain cabin pressure at that age. Headache had come on with a vengeance after five straight minutes of that wailing.
Her mind wandered back to a time when she felt lucky to afford a bus ticket. Now she wished she'd taken the jet instead of flying commercial. The clothes on her back cost more money than she'd seen in six months back then. Sometimes she couldn't believe that she'd blundered her way into this life. In the beginning, when Sunnydale was fresh in its grave, the money was a concept. Conversation would last from dusk till dawn in the Hyperion lobby, ideas flowing with wine. The Council was overhauled in a week with words. Those nights were golden; it almost made her smile to think back.
They'd thought they had the demon world by the balls. Hell, with hundreds of slayers ripe for the picking, they should have. All they needed were the funds to turn their dream into reality. Then the technicalities were litigated into oblivion by Angel's new pet, Wolfram & Hart, and the money became tangible. The Council was rebirthed, incorporated, and franchised. Ten cells in the first year, thirty-six in two. Faith traveled to countries she'd never even heard of, mindlessly desperate in her quest to increase the ranks. She was fluent in four languages, and could define the concept of "slayer" in eleven more. The frequent flier miles she'd accumulated could take her to Neptune. And back.
Too much money made even the most passionate advocates complacent. People could be paid to care for you. From high up in a corporate penthouse, you could look out the window and convince yourself that those below were fighting your cause. The calls slowed and you could rely on your assistants to give you daily reports. Then weekly. Then an e-mail every third Wednesday. Pretty soon you were too busy having insipid conversations over forty dollar salads to remember the crater in Southern California you almost died in.
It was for that reason that Faith worked the trenches, sweating through third-world airports, and spending thousands of dollars every year on translators and cultural coaches. This hard-ass out of South Boston, reformed killer, former fugitive, was now a world traveler. If she allowed herself to stop and think about it, she might lose her mind. Instead she stayed busy. When Faith wasn't explaining sacred birthrights to skeptical young girls, she was carving the more seasoned slayers into fierce warriors.
One week out of every month she ran the Council's most difficult training out of the Hellmouth itself. Cleveland was Kennedy's territory now, but the trust-fund bitch was scarce when this slayer rolled into town. Whoever survived the week of kamikaze patrolling unscathed was farmed out to a hot spot, cities chosen by Willow Herself. Faith had cleared September's session last night. The week had been the necessary slaying binge needed to give her some semblance of self. It always brought her within kissing distance of the girl she used to be, the necessary reminder of the darkness that lay dormant in her soul. This was the only day that she had the strength to complete her other monthly ritual.
Willow had called early this morning, right on schedule. After giving the run-down of relocations for the recent graduates, she had named the city of Faith's next destination. The brunette had sighed, jumped online mid-conversation, and booked her flight.
"It's bad this time." Willow sniveled, as if her tears made a difference.
"When isn't it?" Faith asked in a flat voice. She was tired of the witch's tears, tired of everyone caring so fucking much, tired of having to do the dirty work. The slayer hung up the phone without another word, ignoring the hiccup that meant the beginning of another long-distance crying jag from the most powerful known Wicca in the world. She was on the plane two hours later.
This time it was Las Vegas.
