A quick introduction: This story is loosely (emphasis on the loose) based on a collaborative story I did with a partner over a year ago. I'd give credit but his details are out of date. Safe to say storyline details are slightly foggy. But I was always curious how this world of prophecy and chosen ones continued after Buffy activated all the slayers. So, here's an imagining. Hope you like it and come along for the ride. Forgive story inaccuracies. I just love some vamps.
Only one thought crosses my mind as I walk through the Graceland Cemetery: I wonder how does it take for an ass to freeze off? Not the deepest thoughts you've probably ever heard, but the biting wind of Chicago doesn't exactly promote intense contemplation. Usually the thought process is reduced to a few expletives and a general question as to why someone would choose to live in a place called The Windy City. However, this latter question is cleared up as I come over a rolling hill to see the city lit up below. Tucking an unruly lock of hair back behind my ear, I find myself smiling softly. To my left is the glass encased statue of Inez Clarke, a young girl sitting daintily upon a chair with her parasol in hand. Her birth and death years have become familiar to me as I have spent many nights here. "Not a bad view, Inez. Not bad at all." I whisper, my breath visible in the dark.
Clutching the stake in my coat pocket, I glance at the fresh grave nearby and I sigh, "Would it be better if I were, say, in the arms of a lover instead of waiting for the dead to rise? Yes, yes, it would." I move over to the headstone that marks the grave, and rest against the cold marble. Pulling my phone out of my pocket, the screen reads: 4:18 a.m. I don't mean to be a whiner, but being a slayer isn't my only occupation and my boss won't take "the vampire wouldn't wake up" as an excuse for being late for the morning shift. Full-time waitress, part-time Slayer problems. My Watcher, Finley Grant, would take issue with me putting my duties as Slayer below those of my diner job, but a girl has got to pay the bills and monster stabbing doesn't bring in the dough.
As if he knew I was thinking of him, his name flashes across my phone screen as I receive an incoming call. Pushing the green button, I bring the phone up to my ear. "What's up, Finn? Little early for tea, isn't it?" Despite the influx of Slayers worldwide there still was an oddly high number of English Watchers. At least here in the States that was the case. Finn was a proper English man who despite his young age of thirty – only eight years older than me, I would like to mention – he acted much older. He often shook his head in disbelief at my uncouth Yankee behavior and in turn I made fun of his strict adherence to teatime and various other British isms.
"What? Well, yes, quite, but that isn't why I'm calling. Wilhelmina, Natasha informed me that you never showed up at her apartment to begin patrol. Seeing as you're clearly awake, I can only assume you've gone on your own." Internally, I groan both at the use of my full name and the fact that I've been caught. Natasha is another Slayer that lives in Wrigleyville. A sweet enough girl but her upper class, townhouse lifestyle made conversation during patrols nearly brain melting. Since the Awakening, as it's called, in 2003 structure and rules have become more prominent than even the famous Buffy Summers initially envisioned. Seventeen years later, required buddy systems for patrols, a formal network of Slayers maintained by Watchers to allocate resources – aka us – more efficiently, monthly community Wicca and Slayer meetings to maintain alliances between the two camps are of the norm now. Do Slayers live longer? Yes. Do we also resemble the United States Army more and more every day? Also, yes.
"Finn, you know how much I hate the partner patrol. I do much better on my own. Honestly, it's been quiet all night. I'm just waiting for—" I look down at the name engraved on the headstone, "Sam Jenson to wake up so he can go poof. Then I'm heading home. Cross my heart."
"Forgot the 'hope to die' part, Slayer. I can help you with that." At the unfamiliar voice, I whip my head around only to be punched squarely in the jaw. My phone goes flying with me to the cold, hard ground. Distantly, I hear Finn calling my name through the speakerphone as I'm easily picked up by my coat, lifted off the ground and brought face to face with a vamp. His yellow eyes meet mine briefly and for a moment it feels like recognition passes through me and I see it reflected in his gaze. My self-preservation takes over however as I swiftly kick in between his legs. With a howl of pain, he drops with me to the ground. Reaching into my coat pocket, I feel for my stake but find nothing. I frantically look around and see it laying in the snow just beyond Sam Jenson's grave.
Scrambling to my feet, I run towards the weapon only to come crashing down as a hand wraps around my ankle and my head slams against the edge of the headstone. Dizzy and probably bleeding, time shifts, and before I know it Sam Jenson, I can only assume, is on top of me making a move for my neck. Bracing my strong forearms against his chest, I growl, "You picked a hell of a time to wake up, buddy."
To my surprise, I feel Jenson being lifted off of me but I don't remain still long enough to see my rescuer. A low voice with a notably Scottish accent growls, "She's mine," By the time I've grabbed my stake and reoriented myself, I see Sam has become a pile of dust mixing with the snow. My brow furrows and then I meet the unnamed vamp's eyes again. Both of us stand in the semi-darkness, a light snow starting to fall from above. Neither of us makes a move. For some unexplainable reason, he morphs back to his human face. A mutual surrender as we take our opponent in. Shaggy auburn hair falls over a broad forehead, the ends of it brushing the collar of his black coat. Light blue eyes instead of yellow meet mine, a strong nose matching his defined cheekbones and jawline. Stubble the same color as his hair lines his jaw. Standing at least 6'0 he towers above my mere 5'3, broad shoulders and lean muscle making him stand out against the lights of the city behind him. Regrettably, he is beautiful.
The feeling of blood trickling down the side of my face pulls me out of my daze. For some reason I don't rush him as my instinct should tell me to do. Instead, I sidestep, moving slowly as if not to spook a cat. Then, I did something I have never done: I ran. Past Inez, past the Palmer Tomb, and mausoleum row until I left Graceland cemetery far behind me. Even as I sat on the subway taking the red line towards Wicker Park, I couldn't get the unnerving blueness of his eyes out of my head.
:::::::::::::::
As I watch the Slayer run towards the entrance of the cemetery, I mutter to myself, "Shit." Not only did I let the Slayer go, I saved her. Very contradictory actions to my nature these nearly three hundred years. Hearing a voice coming from the phone she dropped, I move over to it, crouching and say, "Your slayer lives. Mind she follows the rules next time, Sasanach." Pressing the red button, the English voice on the other end stops. Putting the device in my jacket pocket, I stand. I walk towards the mausoleum I'd been living in for the past days, brows furrowed as I acknowledge that while I should want to kill the little Slayer, I didn't. However, I did plan to hunt her. Yet another contradiction. Odd.