Summers Pryce: Chapter 6

Good Health and a Bad Memory

The lights did come up — inexplicably, with no one having done anything — some two minutes later. By then Dawn's nausea had dwindled away to almost nothing, though her head still hurt and she still felt dizzy.

Jazz came out from under the table as soon as the lights were up, saw Dawn sitting there looking pale and drawn, and went to her immediately.

"Do you need help, Dawn?" Jazz asked — and the screaming started.

"I'm fine," Dawn said, even as teachers tried to get students to calm down, stop screaming over the sight of the one student who had died. "Jazz . . . have I got blood on me? The vampire, the second one, he threw that girl he . . . he killed, and she hit me."

Jazz looked her over carefully as Polly and the other girls crawled out from under the table, Polly coming straight to Dawn and Jazz, the other two — Dawn couldn't remember their names right then, not to save her life — went to see what was going on.

"No blood," Jazz said. "Dawn, you look ill — are you sure you don't want a doctor?"

"No doctor," Dawn said. "I heal super fast. Just . . . talk to me, you guys? I think I maybe hit my head really hard, and I don't think sleeping or passing out is a good idea."

"This is all my fault," Polly said softly, tears thickening her voice. "I made this happen, I caused it, that girl—"

"Bullshit," Dawn said, and took Polly's hand. "No way, Polly — you listen to me!

"You did a simple spell, trying to get control of the magic you could sometimes do, and trying to help your friends have better lives while you were at it . . . and it worked! That some fucking vampire asshole with delusions of grandeur felt it or found out about it somehow, decided to grab you and use you for his own purposes — probably evil purposes, he is a vampire — is not your fault!"

"But I —"

"Did you know this could happen?" Dawn asked.

"No, but —"

"Would you have done it if you had known?" Dawn demanded.

"No, of course not, b—"

"Then it's not your fault!" Dawn said. "Polly, I know about blame, I know about fault — and you have no blame on you, because this is not your fault!"

"Okay," Polly said in a very small voice. "Okay, Dawn."

"You go, Mears," Jazz said. "That's telling her. Listen to the girl, Polly, she speaks wisely."

A teacher showed up then, one Dawn didn't know, a nice-looking guy in his fifties, and said, "Young lady, are you hurt?"

"I fell," Dawn said. "Hit my head. Hurts some, but I'm okay."

"All right," the teacher said. "Jazz, Polly, are you all right?"

"We're okay, Mr. Roberts," Jazz said. "What . . . what happens now?"

"The police are just arriving," Mr. Roberts said. "They'll probably not get statements from the students, not now, at least." He handed Jazz a cell phone, lit up and working now, and said, "Call your parents, each of you — I ask that you keep it brief, there are a lot of others without phones who will need to make calls. Tell them that there was an attack of some sort, and ask them to come get you immediately.

"And don't worry about school — we're cancelling classes tomorrow."

Jazz called her mother, Polly called her parents, and Dawn called Wesley.

"Wes, there's been an attack on the school," Dawn said. "It's over, now, and I'm not hurt except for a bump on the head, but the school wants parents to come get people right away."

"I'm on my way," Wesley said. "Dawn . . . did you have to act?"

"Yeah, it was that sort of thing," Dawn said. "We'll talk at home, okay?"

"Understood, I'll be there directly," Wesley said. "Be safe."

"I will, thanks," Dawn said.

She got up slowly, managed not to reel or stagger while she walked out, Jazz on one side of her, Polly on the other. The principal and a cop were standing at the exit to the gym, taking names to make sure that they could contact people later (and the principal to confirm the names of any students without ID). Outside, several cops were directing traffic and keeping worried parents in check.

"Listen," Dawn said, "with no school tomorrow, why don't you guys both come over to my house for lunch, if you can — we need to talk, I think."

"Mom may let me, since it'll be daylight," Jazz said. "I'll call in the morning, let you know — about ten for the call?"

"Sounds good," Dawn said. "Polly?"

"I can probably do that, yeah," she said. "I'll try calling around ten-thirty to let you know."

"Jazz! Dawn! Polly!"

The call came from Mrs. Redman, who looked almost indescribably relieved to see Jazz and her friends. Wesley came up behind Mrs. Redman even as they approached, and the police there let Jazz and Dawn go through. Jazz stopped to hug Polly (who would have to stay inside the police cordon until a parent arrived to pick her up), and Dawn squeezed her hand — then they went beyond the police lines and there followed hugs and tears and cries of relief from Mrs. Redman, and Wesley squeezed Dawn's arm gently, gave her a relieved smile.

"Dawn, are you all right?" Mrs. Redman asked, once she'd assured her self of Jazz's solidity and wellness.

"I'll be okay," Dawn said. "I fell and bumped my head — clumsy me, but it's no big."

"Thank god for that," Mrs. Redman said. "Jazz, let's get you home. Dawn . . . sorry for such a crummy welcome to the neighborhood."

"You and your family already welcomed us," Dawn said. "And that was not crummy. This was just . . . a thing. Not your fault."

The Redmans left, and Dawn went to the jeep with Wesley, and home. Once they were inside, he said, "Let me see your head. Mmm. Sit down, I'm going to get my medical bag."

"Wes, I'm okay," Dawn said. "Really."

"I'd like to be sure," Wesley said. "And I was trained quite extensively in emergency medical care — as well or better than an EMT is, here. Sit. I'll be right back."

Wes looked into Dawn's eyes with a tsk of disapproval, asked her if she hurt anywhere besides her head, insisted on seeing her shoulder, still painful from the grab of the first vampire she'd killed inside the gymnasium. A large, dark bruise spread across Dawn's shoulder, but Wes decided that nothing there had been broken.

"All right," Wesley said. "You've a concussion, so we'll just keep you awake for a while. And the best way to do that is for you to tell me what happened, Dawn, in as much detail as you can recall."

Dawn told him, and Wesley actually took notes, nodding and even smiling occasionally. When she told him about Polly's confession of doing magic, and her assumption that followed, Wes looked up and said, "Yes, very good, that's very likely what happened — I forget how much exposure you had to magic through Willow and Tara."

He listened and wrote — until she told him of the bluff she'd run on this guy Drake. Then he looked up and stared at her with his mouth hanging open.

"You . . . advertised?" Wesley said, disbelieving. "You told him what you are? And right there where dozens, maybe hundreds of people could hear it?"

"Not like I had a choice, Wes," Dawn said. "I wasn't in shape to —"

"Dawn you shouldn't have done that," Wesley said. "That was a mistake, you could jeopardize everyth—"

"I didn't have a choice!" Dawn said. "Wesley, I was hurt — you say I'm concussed, so think about how bad it was right after I hit my head, would you? I couldn't have handled four more vampires. I'd have died! So I did the only thing I could think to do, and I upped the ante. I got lucky and this Drake asshole bought it — or I'd have been killed, and god knows what would have happened to everyone else who was there!"

Wesley sat very still for a long moment, then drew in a long, slow breath. "All right." He let the breath out in a sigh. "All right. You're right. I'm sorry, it's just . . . Watchers are trained to secrecy, and you . . . well, you did the right thing, but I really wish there'd been another way."

"Yeah, me too," Dawn said, relaxing and leaning back. "So . . . Drake left. Said we'd continue this later, and left. I got away from the middle of things, over by the wall, before the lights came back — and cell phones with them — and I'm pretty sure that no one but Jazz and Polly have a clue that it was me that stopped it."

"That's a relief," Wesley said. "Jazz and Polly . . . will you be explaining all to them?"

"I want to, yes," Dawn said. "This guy may come after them again, so they need to know — and they're both my friends, now, so I'd want to tell them anyway."

"I approve of Jazz completely," Wes said. "And I can't imagine a friend of hers being all bad, and while it was mistaken, Polly's concern about being at fault speaks well of her. If you need help explaining, I'll do so."

"Thanks, Wes," Dawn said. "And . . . sorry I had to blow the secret. But really, no other choice, not right then."

"I understand, and no apology needed," Wes said. "You did the right thing — I just wish this Drake creature wasn't aware, is all. It's going to make him harder to deal with."

"Yeah, probably," Dawn said. "Wes . . . if Drake has someone who can figure out that Polly and the others did a spell, and who can put out lights and kill cell phones like he did . . . why would he need Polly?"

"I suspect that Polly is potentially very powerful," Wesley said. "Dawn, she did a spell to grant herself and her friends luck, she said — but it went much deeper than that. She affected reality, perhaps in minor ways, but . . . well, that coin toss you did to decide between coming here and going to Philadelphia was almost certainly affected by that spell.

"In fact, it's very possible that you and I ran into each other that night only because of what Polly did."

"Whoa," Dawn said, looking bemused. "Wow.

"Still . . . well, Wes, that's one more reason to tell her the truth. She did us both a favor."

"Indeed," Wesley said. "I cannot argue.

"Now . . . are you hungry? Is your nausea gone? If so, a snack might be in order — you'll burn up calories healing, and should replace them."

"I could eat," Dawn admitted.

She and Wesley snacked on crackers and summer sausage, and Dawn had a big apple besides, and he checked her pupils again.

"Much better," Wesley said. "Your pupils are responding normally, and are evenly dilated, now. If you're tired, it should be safe to go to bed — though it wouldn't hurt to stay awake and read for a bit."

Dawn agreed to that, said goodnight and went to the stairs. She stopped off on the second floor, went to the guestroom there, and looked in on their mystery guest — and saw that he'd moved. Last night and this morning, even this evening before she'd left, he'd been flat on his back, arms at his sides.

Now he lay on his side, blankets pulled up under his chin, one foot sticking out from under the covers.

Dawn went closer, wanting to see if there was any sign that Wes had turned their guest, and made it to within three feet of the bed before the young man's eyes opened, and he sat up with a jerk.

Dawn jumped, and he stared at her. She calmed down, smiled at him, and said, "Hi. How do you feel?"

"I'm fine, thank you," he said. "Where am I?"

"You're safe," Dawn said. "Let me get my friend, he can probably explain better."

Dawn went to the stairs down, called, "Wes, our guest is awake," and went back to the guest room to find the young man sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed in a pair of sweatpants that had probably been Wesley's.

"Where is the bathroom, please?" the young man asked, his voice quiet and somehow melodious.

"Right over there," Dawn said, pointing at a door on the other side of the room. "Maybe you shouldn't get up yet . . . ."

"I'm fine," he said, standing easily. "And this is . . . very urgent."

She watched him walk to the bathroom and shut the door, and a moment later, Wesley came in.

"Where — ?"

"Bathroom," Dawn said, indicating the closed door. "I guess it was pretty urgent."

A couple of minutes later, the young man came out and stopped, looking at Dawn and Wesley intently.

"I don't think I know you, do I?" he asked.

"No, we've not met," Wesley said. "I'm Wesley, and this is Dawn. We brought you here after you were hurt."

"I was hurt?" he said, looking surprised. "Oh — thank you, then. I'm grateful, and you've obviously taken good care of me — I feel fine. I'm pleased to meet you My name is . . . I am . . . ." The young man went very white very suddenly, and looked up at Dawn and Wes with a fearful expression. He tried to sound calm when he spoke, but missed calm by a wide margin.

"I . . . I don't . . . know who I am."

"Oh, damn," Wesley said. "All right, sit down on the edge of the bed here. I'm no doctor, but I do know something about medical treatment."

The young man went to the bed, sat down and placed his hands on his knees. Dawn could see him trembling violently and trying to suppress it.

Wes pulled a chair over, sat next to the bed close enough to touch their guest, and reached to the nightstand to pick up the necklace and charm the young man had been wearing when they brought him here.

"Before we start an examination, you should take a look at this," Wesley said, handing it to the trembling young man. "You were wearing it when we found you."

"Locke," the young man said, tracing the letters. He frowned in concentration, then shook his head. "I don't . . . do you think that's me? Am I Locke?"

"I suspect so," Wesley said. "May we call you that, at least until we know more?"

"Yes, that would be fine," Locke said. He shook his head violently, as though trying to shake something loose. "Locke. Locke . . . I don't know . . . but it feels right, at least."

"That's something, then," Wesley said. "Tell me . . . do you remember the names I gave you a few minutes ago?"

"Yes, you're Wesley, and the lady is Dawn," Locke said. "She was here when I woke up."

"All right, then we can very probably rule out anterograde amnesia, then," Wesley said. "You seem able to make new memories. We'll know for sure later — after you've slept.

"Locke . . . would you mind trying a few experiments?"

"Anything that might help," Locke said in a low voice. "This . . . it's very frightening."

"It would be," Wes said gently. He looked in the nightstand drawer, found a pen and a small notebook. He handed them to Locke and said, "I want you to write something down for me. Ready?" Locke nodded, and Wesley said, " 'The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dogs.' "

Locke wrote for a minute, then handed it to Wes, who looked at it and nodded. "Very good. Now, again, please — in cursive, not printing."

Locke wrote more quickly, and passed it to Wesley, who looked at it and raised an eyebrow. "Very nice — and you seemed to make no effort at beautifying your writing. Yet your printing is extremely neat, and your handwriting almost calligraphic in appearance.

"This proves that you haven't lost things learned, only details about your own life.

"What is your mother's name? Your father's name? Any brothers or sisters?"

Wes fired off the questions rapidly, as though hoping to surprise Locke into answering — but the young man only trembled and said, very quietly, "I don't know. I don't . . . I don't remember."

"Do you remember anything before waking up here?" Wesley asked.

"No, sir," Locke said. "Nothing at all. Except how to talk and how to write, I guess."

"Wesley, or Wes, please, not sir," Wes said. He looked thoughtful, then asked casually, "What is it that you do, Locke?"

"I fight," Locke said, his voice more firm, though he seemed to be searching for exactly the right words. "I fight . . . for . . . for the Light."

"What do you fight?" Wes asked, still casual, as though just making conversation.

"The Dark," Locke answered, still firm. "The Dark, as personified by the demons. I fight them, as I was . . . was . . . ." He trailed off for a moment, then said softly, as though he didn't quite understand it himself, "I fight the Dark . . . as the Light commands."

Dawn and Wesley looked at each other for a moment, then back at Locke, Dawn with an amazed expression, Wesley more bemused.

"All right," Wesley said. "That's definitely a fight worth pursuing.

"Who are your allies in the fight, Locke?"

"The Light has many allies," Locke said, his voice somehow distant. "Yet no formal alliances. All who stand between the Dark and its victims are allies to the Light. Among these are the Guardians, though most are vanished, the Watchers, though many have lost the way, the Slayer, though the greatest of Slayers has fallen, the Strangers, who make safe the paths between, and even some demons, those who are only outsiders, not evil in nature.

"The Light has . . . Champions. Many, and some not even aware that they are such . . . Dawn are you well?"

Wesley looked over his shoulder to see Dawn standing behind him, tears streaming down her face, trembling all over. Even as he stood to go to her, she sobbed harshly — and left the room at a run. He heard her running up the stairs of the brownstone, and uttered a soft curse.

"Dammit," Wesley said. "I'm sorry, Locke, I need to speak to her, please, wait —"

"I hurt her," Locke said, sounding sorrowful. "I did not mean . . . what did I say that hurt her?"

" 'Though the greatest of Slayers has fallen,' I think," Wesley said. "Dawn's sister was Buffy Summers, a—"

"Oh, black damnation," Locke said — and he stood. "I am sorry, Wesley, I did not know. Yes, it was she whom I spoke of, though . . . Wesley, I don't know how I knew."

"I understand, Locke," Wesley said. "Now, if you will excuse me?"

"May I come?" Locke asked. "Wesley . . . sometimes it is easiest to speak of hurt to one outside the hurt. And it was me who said that which hurt her."

"I — all right," Wesley said. "Though if she will come to me, I may ask you to leave us alone."

"If it needs to be so, I will go," Locke said, and followed Wes to the elevator.

As they got out of the elevator on the sixth floor, Locke looked up and said, "She is on the roof, Wesley."

"How do you know?"

"I just . . . know."

Wesley thought about it for a moment, then decided to trust Locke, and went to the stairs up to the roof, Locke right behind him.

Dawn stood at the waist-high retaining wall of the roof, her arms crossed across her chest, staring out towards downtown Detroit and shivering.

"Dawn . . . ." Wes stopped, unsure what to say next.

"I'm all right," Dawn said, her voice even and emotionless.

"No, you aren't," Locke said. "I am sorry I hurt you. I did not know that you were that Dawn, Dawn Summers."

"You . . . know me?" Dawn asked, still not turning to face the men.

"I know of you," Locke said, sounding rueful, "though I have no idea how I know.

"But I know that you feel guilty, and that I have made it worse. I'm sorry."

"I . . . she died so that I wouldn't have to," Dawn said, her voice almost robotic. "She died to save me and I'm not even real."

"Of course you're real!" Wesley said. "Dawn, you're as real as any of us."

"Am I?" Dawn asked. "What am I, Wesley? A girl, sure — I'm sixteen, but I'm not. I'm only two years old, Wes. I have all these memories, and none of them are real!"

"They are real," Locke said, stepping around Wesley and taking a single step towards Dawn. "You are real.

"Dawn, we are our memories, and the memories we leave in the minds of other people. Right now, you are much more real than I am."

"I'm a creation from some sort of mystical energies, I'm not even a person!" Dawn said, struggling to maintain her emotionless state and losing badly. "I'm just — I'm just — Buffy died to save me, and I'm not even real! 'The greatest of Slayers,' and she died for me!"

"You're quite real to me," Wesley said softly. "Dawn . . . you're my friend. You're real, and you are my friend."

"You are very real," Locke said. "If you weren't real, you couldn't feel guilty like this, Dawn.

"And there is an answer to that guilt, Dawn Summers, a way to banish it — you're already on the right path, I know this, I feel it — but you must keep walking that path, if you are to do the one thing that can make you feel free of the guilt you carry — though you carry it wrongly, I feel."

"Tell me," Dawn said, still not looking around.

"Become her equal," Locke said softly. "You are the Slayer, now. You have the best example any girl has ever had of what a Slayer can be, should be . . . so follow it!

"Become her equal, Dawn . . . and if you want her spirit to be as proud of you as you can make her be . . . then pass her!"

Dawn turned around slowly, stared at Locke for a long moment, then said, "I could never be that good."

"You can be," Wesley said. "You can be better, Dawn. How can you doubt it? Remember why you have the power in the first place; you were created from Buffy, essentially cloned from her, if by magic rather than science. You have memories of her work, of her methods, and you were even part of some of the things she did.

"You've already started training hard, advancing rapidly. Tonight, you saved hundreds of your fellow students from vampires, and you thought of a way to do so while injured and ill.

"You're the Slayer, Dawn. And the best way to honor your sister is to keep on with what you're doing, to get better at what you do . . . and to do the job right."

Dawn stood there staring at the two men for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "All right. I'll . . . I'll try."

She walked to them, her arms still crossed over her chest — and stopped next to Wesley. Without a word, she leaned against him slightly — and he hugged her, held her, guided her down the stairs . . . as she started to cry.