Author's Note!! – This is my latest attempt at Buffy fiction. I always say I'm going to stick with something when I post it, but for this I'm about 99% sure I will be finishing it. It's just a feeling I have about this piece. I hope everyone enjoys it. Please do not hesitate to drop me a review and let me know what you think, as I am putting a lot of work into this. : )
Historian's Note!! – This novel takes place in the beginning of Season Seven. For anyone who knows more about the episodes and the chronological order of things, I'm basically setting this story between episodes 7.4 "Help" and 7.5 "Selfless".
Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Natural InstinctsPRIVATE
/// Prologue ///
Buffy Summers grimaced at the reflection in her bedroom mirror.
Her long golden locks were piled high on top of her head, held in a loose bun with stray strands falling all across her neck and forehead. She was dangerously close to running late for work, and her little flight-of-fancy in hair styling was seriously starting to grind her nerves. This new 'do just wasn't working for her.
She was just about to consider putting it into pig tails (she remembered doing it once before and thought it was really cute) when her little sister Dawn barged into her bedroom completely unannounced - big surprise. Buffy loved her sister just about as much as she possibly could, but the girl was a pure spaz.
And her manners weren't exactly top-notch.
"Xander's here!," she announced breathlessly, her mahogany colored hair (now lightly frosted with blond - her idea) floating around her petite face like a luxurious dark waterfall. "He promised me I could drive this time!"
"And when was this promise that will not become reality made?," Buffy asked sharply, casting a sidelong glance at the brunette Summers woman. Buffy had to admit that she was sometimes over-protective of Dawn, but it wasn't as if it were without merit. As the Slayer, Buffy was always inherently cautious, what with the chance that some ooky demon could attack her or her friends and family at any moment.
"Oh, come on, Buffy, just because you were never a good driver, it doesn't mean that I will be!," Dawn pleaded, giving Buffy her patented puppy dog eyes. Buffy rolled her own hazel eyes and went back to trying to manage the honey-colored bob sitting atop her head.
"I just don't know if you're ready for it," Buffy murmured as she ran her fingers through her hair, grimacing over and over at each style attempt. "Learning to drive is kind of a big deal. And¼and¼"
"Still waiting for good reasons," Dawn said impatiently.
A loud horn sounded from out on the street in front of their quaint two-story home on Rovello Drive.
"That's Xander," Buffy said hastily, glancing one last time at her hair which had suddenly become a lost cause. She had resigned herself to letting it stay down, hanging around her face like a light yellow curtain. She grabbed Dawn by the arm gently and led her out of her bedroom, where they ran into Willow, who looked slightly tired and out of it, as if she hadn't gotten much sleep.
"Hey Will," Buffy said over her shoulder as she and Dawn headed for the staircase so they could get off to the high school. She stopped for a moment and looked more closely at her friend. "You okay?"
"Fine¼," the red-head replied slowly, looking pensive. "Fine."
Buffy glanced over at Dawn and motioned for her to go on out and get in the car. Dawn silently read the signal and went down the stairs, the sounds of the wood creaking beneath her steps the only sound to fill the nearly empty house. Buffy found that even with a lot of people in it, the house always seemed to feel kind of empty, ever since her mom had passed away.
But those were thoughts she didn't like to think very much.
"Hey," Buffy said softly, approaching Willow. "Is everything all right? Did you not get to sleep last night?"
"Oh, I slept¼," Willow answered, but Buffy could tell she was lying. "Okay, so I pretended to sleep. For a little while. But then I couldn't even do that. So mostly it was just me laying awake in my bed all night."
"Thinking about Tara?," Buffy asked hesitantly.
"Among all the other horrible thoughts dancing around in my head," Willow admitted. "I guess I'm still just trying to deal with it all, you know? It's like I've barely even processed what happened. Maybe I never will."
"I know it's hard," Buffy said with a slow nod.
"I sometimes wish I could just¼I don't know¼," Willow said at length, tugging at the hem of her nightshirt. "That I could go back in time, make things different. Change it¼"
"I know how you feel," Buffy said softly.
Xander honked once again, this time three times in a row. Buffy sighed impatiently and Willow smiled wanly. She nodded towards the front end of the house, where the sounds of Xander's honks were coming from.
"You'd better go," the witch said warmly. "All those kids with boyfriend problems and big hairy demons trying to kill them and whatnot. Plus all that honking is probably not going to make the neighbors too happy."
"I'll talk with you later," Buffy promised with a warm smile. Willow returned the smile half-heartedly, and made her way into the bathroom as the sounds of Buffy's retreating footsteps echoed up through the staircase. A moment later, the sound of the front door being shut rang through the house, and Willow was alone.
She ambled into the bathroom and fumbled with the light switch for a moment before flicking the light on. Shouldering off her robe, she let the garment slip to the ground and walked over to the sink to brush her teeth. She stared at her face in the mirror, examining the light purple and gray smudges beneath her eyes, and the stricken expression on her pale face. She really did look awful.
And she felt the same way.
A small tear escaped over her lower eyelid, running down her cheek, slipping back and forth over the contours of her skin before skidding to a slow stop near the bottom of her chin. Her lips began to quiver, slowly, barely noticeable. Soon enough, more tears began streaming from her eyes, and almost as if in slow motion, she crumbled against the porcelain sink, her entire body weight falling into the water fixture, her legs no longer strong enough to hold her up.
She was sobbing hard now, lost in grief.
Through the thick fog of sadness that had suddenly settled over her brain, she managed to bring one clear image to the forefront of her mind¼bathed in golden light, her shoulder-length chocolate colored hair, those sparkling eyes¼that smile that simply took her breath away every time she caught a peek of it¼
She remembered how wonderful it had felt to have her back in her arms after their break-up. That reunion would be forever etched in Willow's mind, eternally repeating itself in her mind's eye. It was all she had left, now.
"Tara¼," she managed to gasp out between sobs.
She slipped to the tiled floor of the bathroom, feeling empty. She stared at her discarded bathrobe blankly and let the tears continue to flow.
///
"We don't get too many outside dealers around here."
Darren Monroe stared over at the Sunnydale Museum's curator blankly, looking the man up and down. He was old, probably in his late forties, with thinning brown hair speckled with light gray strands here and there. His eyes were creased with wrinkles and his chin and cheeks were weathered by laugh lines. Or lines caused from constant grave worrying. Darren figured by the lame monotone voice the man possessed, that it was probably the latter.
"I have many¼specialties," Darren told the curator. "Mostly in ancient antiques. I think you would enjoy to overlook what I have to offer. Sunnydale is such a progressive little town. It's really¼going places."
"Well, like I said, there aren't usually many people offering," the man - Darren was pretty sure his name was Mr. Klein - said slowly. His face brightened a little. "I am expecting something, though. Something really quite special." His voice lowered to an almost conspiratorial whisper. "Wait until you see it. Oh, it'll be a scream. It should be here any moment."
"Sounds exciting," Darren said dryly.
"It is, it is," Klein said with a strange grin. Something about the old man seemed off, as if he hadn't taken some medication he should have. Darren was finding it hard to be near the man, but knew he must see this through.
The front doors of the museum scraped open, causing a loud screeching noise to echo back to the two men standing in the back of the museum. Mr. Klein's face lit up expectantly, a strange gleam lighting up his eyes. He rushed away from Darren, rubbing his hands together eagerly. Darren followed him, mildly amused. He wondered if this man really did have some kind of mental condition.
He sure did act strange.
Three young men were gathered around an extremely large, weathered wooden crate, with the words "EAST ASIA, FRAGILE" printed on each side in wide black ink. Mr. Klein hurried over to the crate - easily five foot squared on each side - and lovingly swept his hand over the top of the box.
"Are you Robert Klein?," one of the delivery men asked briskly. The curator nodded vigorously, and the delivery man handed him a clipboard to sign for the arrival. With shaking hands, Klein applied his signature to the form, and the delivery men quickly exited the museum, their job done.
"I've been waiting for this moment¼," Klein whispered feverishly. He turned to Darren, a look of raw excitement contorting his aged features. "Would you like to see it? You'll be the first person ever to see it! Won't that be marvelous?"
Darren simply nodded. Klein rushed off, and a moment later, he returned with a slightly rusted crow bar. Within moments, he managed to rip the lid of the crate off after hinging it off with a few good tugs. The wooden lid slipped to the floor with a loud clatter, and a small cloud of dust emenated from inside the crate.
Mr. Klein stepped back suddenly, gasping, almost as if he were afraid.
"It's¼it's breathtaking," he whispered. "Almost¼almost scary."
Darren turned to look Mr. Klein right in the eye. The curator suddenly noticed that the strange man who had claimed to be an antiques dealer suddenly had eyes of pure black, like two bright stones made of onyx. They gleamed with unseen power, crackling with a force unheard of by man.
"Wanna see something really scary?," Darren asked, his voice distorted and deep, like another person was speaking through him.
Before Mr. Klein could utter a sound, a bright light like a flash of lightning sliced out of Darren's raised hands, igniting him in a sudden gust of flame. Within a second, Mr. Klein was nothing but a scorch mark on the ground.
His eyes slowly turning back to normal, Darren turned back to the open crate.
"Finally, it's mine," he said softly.