Switzerland, July 1914
The lesson was on French verbs, but Buffy Summers was far more interested in watching the automobile driving through the school's iron gates. Students were only allowed visitors on Sundays, and staff generally preferred to seek socialization off-campus, so the question of just who might be in that motorcar was quite intriguing. Certainly, more intriguing than the conjugation of avoir.
Perhaps the mysterious visitor was a wealthy patron of the school: a young man, possibly handsome, from a noble family, sent to search among the young ladies for a bride fit for his ancestral home…or a modiste from Paris, invited especially by the headmistress to outfit her favorite pupils as a reward for good behavior...or an artist, commissioned to paint the portraits of some of the wealthier girls…
"Miss Summers?"
Buffy was jolted back to the reality of French class.
"Miss Summers, if it's not too much trouble, could you conjugate for your fellow-students the imperfect subjunctive of vouloir?"
"Erm…" Buffy tapped her pencil on her desk, stalling for time. "Vol…" Tap, tap, tap. But the noise was not her pencil, but a knock on the door. Madame Moran sighed, cast a reproachful you're-not-getting-off-that-easy glance at Buffy, and stepped outside to speak with the messenger.
She returned with a face much graver than before. "Girls, class is canceled for the remainder of the day. You are to return to your bedrooms and begin packing your things. More information will be provided to you as we deem it necessary."
The other students rose in a flutter of skirts and petticoats, but Buffy stayed frozen in her seat. For all that she had been wishing for an escape from Gallic grammar, this strange development was too troubling for her to enjoy. Not after what she'd seen the past few months.
It had begun with a dream-a series of dreams, in which she ran, bobbing and weaving through crowds and around obstacles, through deserts and over hills, ran in fear of some unidentifiable force chasing her. She would wake up each morning sweating and panting, with the nagging feeling that whatever it was that she'd been running from was still behind her, and one day when she forgot to turn her back-that would be that.
But one night, the dream changed. One night, instead of running, she turned around. Better to see what it was she was fleeing, she reasoned. Better to know her fear.
What she saw was unimaginably terrifying. A man, ordinary in every way save one: the contours of his face were warped, distorted into something inhuman. His eyes glowed an unearthly yellow, and when he opened his mouth to smile, his teeth were fangs.
It was extremely unattractive.
Buffy was frozen in place, petrified; she strained her legs to move, but they remained still as the creature came closer and closer. He reached her, at last, and she tensed herself for what would come. She felt a cold hand on her flushed cheek, and he softly tilted her head to the side in an almost lover-like gesture, exposing her neck. She knew what would come next. She'd heard stories about this as a child, legends, tales she'd never dreamed could possibly be true.
This was a vampire, and he was going to bite her.
The realization gave her a burst of unexpected strength, and she thrust her foot up and into it with more force than she thought she had. And, instead of running away, for some reason, she ran towards it, only thinking of how to get another kick in before he attacked again. He lunged at her, and she ducked the blow and responded one of her own, a swift punch that exposed his torso. As he faltered, she reached up to her waist and pressed down on her corset, snapping off a piece of the wooden boning. And she drove the improvised stake through the vampire's heart.
She had woken that morning tired but strangely exhilarated, as though she'd done something incredible. She was almost excited to go to sleep that night, to fight the demon again. And she did-each night, now, instead of running, she would hold her ground and kill the monster, finding new ways each time to stake its heart, marvelling at her own speed and strength. But they were only dreams. Until, one evening, they weren't.
She had been walking alone through the school's gardens, composing in her head a letter to her mother that would make her sound healthy and happy, when she heard a rustling in the bushes and turned to look. The intruder was a girl about her age, but not one she'd seen before, and a strange smile played around the corners of her face.
"Hello?" Buffy said cautiously.
"Hello, Slayer," the girl said, and before Buffy's eyes her face transformed into a vampire's.
Buffy was astounded, but by now the routine of staking had been drilled into her memory, and her muscles reacted on their own as her eyes scanned the ground for a piece of wood, finally alighting on a stray stick, thinner than the ones from her dreams.
Well, it would have to do. As the other girl moved for her neck, Buffy threw up one hand, knocking her chin aside, and with her other hand aimed for the heart. The vampire disappeared in a cloud of dust.
There had been other demons, since that day-vampires, mostly, but other creatures as well. Many of them called her "Slayer," like the first girl, but others merely shouted harsh nothings. Each of them was easy enough to dispatch; some were strong, yes, but Buffy was growing stronger.
That didn't mean she had to like it. And now, today, the mysterious visitor filled her with a dread that far overpowered her joy at escaping French class, because every time she saw something suspicious, it meant she had to kill it. She was, apparently, the Slayer.
So she remained at her desk long enough to offer up a prayer to the universe that this disturbance had nothing to do with creatures from hell, then collected her things and proceeded to her room, making certain she had hold of a pencil for emergencies.
The girls' matron was standing in the hallway, monitoring her flustered students as they ran back and forth, gathering their things. Buffy approached her quietly.
"Yes, Miss Summers?"
"What's happening?"
"I really oughtn't to tell you."
"Please?" Buffy opened her eyes unusually wide, and the matron sighed.
"Austria-Hungary has declared war on Serbia."
That was somewhat underwhelming, Buffy reflected. "At the risk of sounding flippant, ma'am, who cares?"
"This is no laughing matter, young lady. It is very likely that soon Germany will enter the conflict, and Russia, France, and Britain may not be far behind."
Buffy frowned. "And so Switzerland is no longer safe?"
The matron nodded. "Many of our students will have families on one side of the conflict or another. The headmistress feels it is best for us all to be home at this difficult time. We will have passage arranged for you all by tomorrow morning."
Calais, France
August 1914
Buffy heaved her suitcase over the threshold of her stateroom, grateful for how her strength had recently increased. She surveyed the cabin-second-class, but spacious enough, and luckily single-berth. It would certainly do as her home for the next week.
It was early yet, though, and the ship wasn't set to depart until noon, so rather than following her first impulse and collapsing on the bed, Buffy pocketed the room key and, quickly checking her appearance in the mirror, set out to explore. Recent experiences had made her determined to know every corner of the space she inhabited-one never knew when one would need to run and hide. Nevertheless, she was hopeful; there had been no supernatural disturbances on her train journey from Switzerland, and she could scarcely imagine seafaring vampires. Perhaps she had left those troubles behind.
Stepping out of her stateroom, she wandered about the second-class deck, searching for a friendly face-another girl her own age, or a kindhearted mother hen, or a handsome young man to squire her about during the voyage. But all the other passengers were either locked securely in their rooms, or clinging together in groups to which she did not belong, and Buffy let out a sigh of loneliness. She had been popular at school; leaving for America did not bode well for her continued social success, if she remembered anything from the last time she'd been home.
"Bother this war," she muttered under her breath, wondering not for the first time why the death of some archduke meant that she had to leave her life behind.
"I beg your pardon?" Buffy whirled around to see the owner of the voice-it was not particularly odd to hear English spoken, but the majority of those around her were muttering in French or in strong American accents, and these tones were unmistakably British.
The man who had spoken was staring at her quizzically over the rims of his glasses, and the wrinkles on his face seemed more from frowning than from age; he was not quite old enough to be her father.
"I beg your pardon," he said again, "but are you Miss Buffy Summers?"
"I am," Buffy said cautiously. "Are you with the ship? I assure you that I've paid my passage in full."
"I have no doubt of it," the man said courteously, "and I am not employed by the ship in any capacity, no. I am here on behalf of-is there somewhere private we can talk?"
Buffy raised her eyebrows skeptically. A strange man asking her to go somewhere with him? This was the sort of thing she'd been amply warned about at school. But warnings of that kind were seeming increasingly trivial now, and something avuncular in this man's eyes made the idea of sordid designs laughable.
"Yes," she said, and led him to her stateroom, leaving the door open just enough to enable easy escape if her instincts should turn out to be wrong. "So," she said, sitting decorously on the bed while he stood, hands folded, against the wall: "How do you know who I am, if you're not with the ship?"
The man ignored her question. "My name," he said instead, "is Rupert Giles, and I have been sent to find you in order to act as your Watcher."
"My what?"
"Erm...your guide, mentor, teacher. I will be in charge of your training and development."
"Are you a sort of private tutor? Did my mother send for you? I assure you, I have had the best education possible, and although the results are perhaps not entirely distinguished, I do not lack for intelligence."
"No, I am certain of that, no, I have not been sent by your mother. You misunderstand. I am to teach you about being the Slayer."
Buffy blinked. "You know about…"
"Vampires? Yes. I am something of an expert on the subject, in fact."
"Then perhaps you can tell me why they've been following me around like flies to honey, lately?"
"As I said, you are the Slayer. You alone have the power to stand against the forces of darkness. I am here to help you in that duty."
"I alone can fight the forces of darkness?" Buffy asked. "Do I have to?"
