Purpose
Author's Note: This is an expanded version of "Every Night, I Saved Him", a summary story about Eponine becoming a Vampire Slayer. This story contains vampires and other unlikely elements. You have been warned.
Big ups to LesMisLoony for her thoughtful criticism. Thanks for keeping me honest about my historical/book-related stuff!
Vampire Slayer mythology and some language pertaining to it is the property of Joss Whedon; used without permission.
Chapter 1 - Eponine Called
"Why yes, Monsieur, you may have this dance," said Eponine, extending a grimy hand to the chill night air. She produced a series of harsh barks that were intended to be girlish laughter, the way she imagined fine ladies in beautiful dresses laughed when confronted with handsome cavaliers at lavish balls. For that is where she imagined herself: dancing with a handsome young gentleman at a ball. As she executed a few wobbling dance steps, she thought how nice it was to be in this place of warmth and light. Her surroundings and everyone in them were beautiful, and none more so than this fine gentleman in front of her. Surely, he would be kind to her. After their dance was finished, he would want to invite her to sit next to him at the great feast, and there they would fill their bellies with rich food as they talked and fell in love.
Ah, but that last thought was too much, and Eponine stopped dancing as her fantasy disintegrated at the seams and was gone. It had not been the thought of love, but rather the thought of a full belly that had taken her out of her imagination. It had awakened the hunger in the shriveled stone which had once been her stomach. Mostly, she had learned to ignore the useless pangs from her midsection, but there were times (like now) where the awareness of its emptiness produced something like a hard pinch in her middle, and then it became too strong to ignore. She paused at the mouth of an alley and, leaning against a lamppost for strength, tried to will the feeling away.
As the last of her dream-image faded, Eponine again became aware of her surroundings. She had been walking through the dark Parisian streets, having delivered the last of her father's letters hours ago but not wishing to go home yet, because she never knew what beatings or other humiliations would await her there. The hour was late, and she realized with a small start that she had wondered close to the seedy building in which her family shared a room. She was not within sight of it yet, but it was only a few streets away; she would have to be careful not to be seen. Just lately, her father had taken up with a bunch street thugs of the sort that one tried never to run into after dark, if it could be helped.
Had it not been a letter-day, she need only have worried about running into Montparnasse, who was always sniffing around her like a hungry dog, but since her father had sent her out with high hopes (and a kick in the arse) that morning, it was highly possible that he would have them out looking for her. There might still be hope for her if she returned on her own, but if one of them found her and brought her back, she could only guess at what she might have to endure.
She had just made up her mind to go when a voice from the alley stopped her. "Ah! There she is!"
Eponine tensed, knowing that if she had been spotted, she could not hope to outrun any of her father's "friends". She trained her eyes on the alley and waited to see which of them it would be. Perhaps she could make a deal with him, convince him she had just been on her way home and persuade him to let her go her way alone.
The man who emerged from the shadows was not, however, a member of Patron Minette. Seeing this, Eponine relaxed a little -- but only a little. She had known what a man has and where he wants to put it for ages now, and she knew that many men were willing to resort to force to get what they wanted. And even if he didn't want her for that, one never knew what sort of people might be met in the street at this hour. She regarded the man warily, tensing her legs to run at the first sign of trouble.
He was old, with a generous amount of white sprinkled in his dark brown hair and beard. Despite his apparent age, he walked upright without the aid of a cane. His large gray eyes were gentle but slightly wild, and he wore a large wooden crucifix around his neck. He approached but stopped a polite distance away, looking at Eponine speculatively.
Feeling the weight of his gaze on her (and not liking it), Eponine drew herself to her full height, trying to radiate strength and dignity. These things were usually beyond her, as thin and wretched as she had become, but she came close to projecting them now, closer than she ever would have believed. When she spoke, her rough, broken voice quavered with a slight edge of the fear she had hoped to hide. "Well, what is it, old man? Staring costs a sou, so it does."
His answer surprised her. "Forgive me," he said, his voice calm and kind. "I did not mean to stare. It's just that I've been looking for you. I have been sent to find you."
A bitter scowl twisted Eponine's lips. "By who? My father?"
He blinked, perhaps surprised by the venom with which she had injected that word usually spoken with love, father.
"No, child. Not by your father." He paused, seeming to consider his next words. Finally, he said, "Who sent me is not important now. For now, I must prepare you for things to come. You must be ready to fight them."
"Fight? Monsieur, there are days when I can barely stand. Fight who?"
"The vampires."
Eponine did not know whether to laugh or be insulted. Vampires! Drunk, she thought to herself. Surely, he must be drunk as a lord, to be talking such nonsense and to look as serious as he does. She thought that he must be making sport of her; grown people did not believe in vampires.
Her anger began to grow as she thought, he thinks me a child, and he means to amuse himself by scaring me with this silliness. If so, he would not succeed; she had only lived 16 years, but many of those had been hard, cruel, unforgiving. In the last half of her life, she had seen things that would make the monsters he spoke of seem as benign as children's playthings. She opened her mouth, an angry retort on the tip of her tongue, but then she looked at his face, at the gentleness there, and shut it again.
Instead, she said, "And why would I need to fight these creatures, Monsieur? I'm just a girl, and not a very healthy one at that."
"That," he replied, relief written large on his face, "Is one of the things I've come to explain. You see, my dear, you're very special."
A frustrated sound -- half exasperated sigh, half outraged cry -- escaped her lips in a small explosion of air. Turning her back on him, she gathered her shawl (really little more than holes held together by strings) around her scrawny shoulders. She addressed him over her shoulder, in a tone which she hoped sounded haughty but which managed to sound no more than weary. "Monsieur, I believe you must think me both stupid and easily led. I am neither. Excuse me." And with that, she began to walk in the direction of the Gorbeau building.
She had not gone far, however, when he called after her, "You have work to do, Eponine!"
She froze, bony frame squared. Then she whirled back to face him, brown hair flying about her face and shoulders in a tangled, filthy curtain. Her mouth was dropped in shock. "Eponine!" she cried when she could once again form words. "How do y'know my name's Eponine?"
He came closer, and took her by one bony elbow. Eponine, still stupefied at having heard her name come from this stranger's lips, barely noticed. "I was given your name by the people who sent me to find you," he explained, speaking slowly and carefully, as if to a child. "There are a great many of us, and we exist to find and prepare girls like you."
Eponine shook her head, coming back to herself a bit. She looked at him, an expression made from equal parts bewilderment and indignation on her face. After all, she'd heard the phrase "girls like you," before, and she'd never known it to mean anything nice. And yet, this man seemed to almost revere her, as if his earlier remark about her being special were true and not just something men said to get girls to lie on their backs for them.
"What do you mean by that?"
He let go of her elbow and placed both his hands on her shoulders instead. The gesture was almost… paternal, and Eponine felt herself comforted in spite of the surroundings and the odd circumstances.
What he said was, "As long as there have been vampires, there has been the Slayer. One girl in all the world, a chosen one. One with the strength and skill to hunt the vampires, to contain their numbers and stop the spread of their evil.
"That," he finished, leaning over her and looking into her eyes, "Would be you."
Eponine looked up at him, her eyes round, her expression skeptical and believing all at once. "But how?" she asked, not really sure if she was speaking to him or to herself. "How can that be?"
"When one Slayer dies, the next one is called," he explained. He took his hands off her shoulders (Eponine felt a little sorry at this, although torture would not have dragged the admission out of her) and twisted them nervously. "You, my dear Eponine, have been called."
"Oh," she said. She still couldn't quite believe he was telling the truth, but she didn't dare quite believe it was a lie, either. Then, as the full weight of what he had just said struck her, what her being called must mean, "Oh!" she exclaimed. She noted his nervousness and fixed him with a look. "Do these Slayers die often, then?"
He met her gaze, not without some difficulty. "Yes," he admitted, his voice low. "The calling is a dangerous one. I will prepare you as best I can, but you must remember that, from now on, your life is always in danger."
The sadness with which he said this pierced Eponine's heart in a way she could scarcely credit. She thought of telling him that this last mattered not at all to her; by and large, her life was something she merely endured. She had thought often of killing herself, but she had always been stopped by some gnawing, undefined notion that she should not, for reasons she could not identify. She thought now that this might be the reason, and the thought filled her with an excited warmth that she thought had left her forever a long time ago. Hope.
Grinning, she took his arm in her own. "Well then, that's fine. I was going to die anyway; might as well do some good before then. So, what's next?"
For the first time, a small smile appeared on the man's lips. "For now, you go home to your family. Stay off the streets at night, or at least be as careful as you can. Soon, you'll start to notice some changes. You'll feel different. Once that happens, do not tell anyone. Come and find me. My name is Sims, and I'm staying at number 25 Rue Notre Dame."
She was about to ask another question, when a dark figure appeared a few blocks away. "'Ponine!" this figure hissed. He began to approach, and Eponine felt fear and loathing in her gut. Montparnasse.
Moving quickly, Sims fumbled in his pocket and handed Eponine twenty sous. When he spoke, he was careful to keep his voice low so the approaching figure would not hear. "Remember, Eponine -- number 25 Rue Notre Dame. Don't speak of this to anyone. And above all, be careful, child!"
Eponine looked wonderingly at the coins in her hand, feeling absurdly touched as Sims hurried away. Then Montparnasse had caught up with her, a hungry, cruel leer on his face. "Where've you been, you little baggage?"
With a sigh, she showed him the coins in her hand. "Where do you think? Collecting money, just like Papa told me to. That gentleman just gave me twenty sous."
"For what?" asked Montparnasse. He slipped a lecherous arm around her waist and led her towards her parents' hovel. "Are you selling it these days?"
Her not-inconsiderable temper spiked, and she stifled the urge to hit him. Experience had shown her that she would not win a slapping fight with Montparnasse. But perhaps soon that won't be the case, she couldn't help but think. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep the smile away, but the thought wouldn't go as easily. "No, 'Parnasse. He's just a kindly old man with a good heart. That's all."
She let him lead her home; she would let him touch her breasts (what meager breasts she had, anyway) once they got there, and that would keep him from telling her father what he had seen. She would keep silent about the things she had learned tonight. But she would watch. She would await the changes.
Number 25 Rue Notre Dame, she thought. And then, on the heels of that: Yes, 'Parnasse, perhaps one day soon, that won't be the case at all.
The smile was harder to keep away this time, and she didn't try. Smiling, she let him lead her into the night.