Chapter 9

Disclaimer: If you people are such big fans of Buffy to be reading fanfic of it, then you obviously know I did not create it.

Rant: Grrrrrrrrr! Just found out that Sarah Michelle Gellar will NOT be in the season finale of Angel, supposedly. And I had such high hopes! But this means at least she won't be getting together with Spike…ha! If Angel can't have her, no one will!!! (BA all the way! Sorry all you Spuffy people.)

Author's Notes: See above rant. Plus the fact that  I WANT REVIEWS!!! Feedback, people!

Sunnydale, California, 1999

Cordelia wiped a tear from her eye, and, for once, it was not shed because of her own misfortune. She was reading the same Watcher's diary she had read aloud to Giles earlier, but now she was actually reading it, letting each word stamp itself firmly into her memory, and, consequently, her tear ducts. This stuff was more tragic than Romeo and Juliet.

            June 29, 1955.

            Still cannot get over my grief.

            Of course, Roger is doing his best to understand, but I can't tell him everything. Its funny that at my age a woman would still run to her stepfather, but at least Roger tries. Not that the others don't try. Michael has been wonderful, and so has Penny, but they don't know. I can't confide to even my husband or best friend. I have never felt so alone. At least I can live in the memory that one person, gone as they are, understood. People die. Memories will not.

                        -H.D.

            Not only tragic, but deep too, Cordelia thought. Suddenly a noise was heard from the library door. A snarling noise.

            "Oh, shut up," Cordelia grumped at the vampire, lifting her crossbow. She sighed with the air of one that has repeated a tiresome task over and over again in a short amount of time. "Don't make me use this."

            The vampire hesitated, as if unsure of what to do. Should he carry out the task he had been ordered to do, or should he face the inevitable wrath of the unfazed woman before him? Job won out, and he charged. Cordelia fired and hit him on the wrong side of his torso. "Crap," she muttered, loading another…bolt? Arrow? She had no idea what these things were called, only that you shot them out of a crossbow at vampires that did not date Buffy.

            The pain stopped the vampire for a minute, though, and he looked down at the stick protruding from his chest.

            When he looked up he found another whizzing toward him. This one hit closer to the heart, but still missed. This time he was ready. He ran for Cordelia.

            "Oh, well," she said, whacking him over the head with the crossbow, stunning him. She then pulled another of the crossbow stick things from her bag and used it to stake him. She sneezed as dust surrounded her. "How lovely."

***

Sunnydale, California 1954

The battle was on…between Willow and Miss Ford.

            "No, you see," Willow was saying, "sage is used in the cleansing spells, not protection spells."

            "But I've used it for protection many times," Miss Ford protested.

            "Are you sure it wasn't witch hazel?" Willow asked.

            Miss Ford snorted in an uncharacteristically unladylike way. "I think I know the difference between sage and witch hazel."

            "Oh! Are you thinking of pineapple sage?"

            Miss Ford thought for a moment. "Yes, I suppose I am," she said rather sheepishly.

            Willow smiled, but it wasn't gloating. Willow, of all people, did not gloat.

            They reached the cemetery where Buffy suggested they spread out in groups of two. But Willow objected, saying that there was an odd number and what would happen if the one alone got attacked or kidnapped or killed or…

            She was interrupted by Cassie. "Why don't we split off into two groups? There was argument over who would be in whose group. Both groups wanted Willow with them for magical protection. They ended up searching the cemetery as one big group. One big, loud, conspicuous group, but one group just the same.

            The search turned up nothing anyway.

            "Where to now?" Buffy asked.

            "The dark side…of town," Cassie said dramatically. Then in her normal voice, "We can cut through the woods over here."

            The two slayers, the watcher, the vampire and the witch made their way across the graveyard  toward the patch of woods at the other side.

            Upon entering the woods, Buffy noticed the silence. No really, the absolute silence. No crickets chirped. No animals rustled in the brush. No owls hooted. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath rather than disturb the woods.

            "Why do I have…?"

            "…a bad feeling about this?" Cassie finished nervously. "Probably because of that."

            She pointed ahead, where ominous-looking occult figures adorned the trees and symbolic articles hung from the branches.

            "It's like the Blair Witch Project," Buffy breathed.

            "The what?"

            The group silently pressed on, ready to react at the slightest danger. Presently the woods began to thin. "Where are we?" Buffy whispered.

            "Miller's Field," Cassie told her. The name was unfamiliar. Buffy glanced at Willow.

"Housing development," the witch said simply.

"Oh."

The slience was broken by a crackling sound. "Fire," Angel said.

The group drew closer to the flickering orange light, which almost seemed to taunt them: Come on then, if you're all so brave. Let's see how well you do.

Angel suddenly spun around. "They're surrounding us," he whispered, so low that most people whose senses had not been heightened by fear would not have heard. "Get re—"

In a split second the vampires were on them. And it wasn't just vampires, Buffy realized as she fought off a winged, horned thing. It was demons of all kinds as well.

She spotted, over by the fire, four bound and gagged teenagers. Two faced away from her—I hope they're not dead—one looked as though he had lost the will to live at all, but the last one stared at her frantically. Buffy raced to untie them.

When this is over, she thought, I'm treating myself to a nice big ice cream sundae.

***

Sunnydale, California 1999

July 1, 1955

Her birthday is—was—next week.

How cruel for her to be taken from the Earth so close to her birthday. I can rest assured she will have a grand celebration in Heaven and will keep the Lord up until all hours with that song—Johnny Angel, her favorite.

Yesterday the Council contacted me. They want this journal, to add to their files. I can't give it away. This is my last tangible piece of her, the last of her essence that I can pick up and hold in my hands, aside from a few bad photographs and her favorite stake. Even her jacket was taken away from me. Whenever I picture her, I picture her Jacket. The Jacket that some silly boy gave her. It seems so long ago.  Almost yesterday, it seems,  that she came to me house, announcing that she was in love. Of course, the 'love' faded, but the Jacket somehow stayed. No matter the weather, she always wore her Sunnydale High School Varsity Football Jacket.

I don't even think she liked football. I suppose I'll never know.

The boy took it back after she died. I suppose he wanted a memento, too. But what about me? I miss her so…

However, thus ends my record. The Council will get this journal one way or another. I might as well give it up willingly, so as not to insult her memory. Maybe it will help me move on, though I realize in some ways I don't want to. I sleep with her stake under my pillow. Hopefully Michael won't notice.

Cassie, I wish you could come back.

                                              --Henrietta Paulette Ford Day

                                                                                             1955

. Watcher of Cassandra Mae Hall from 1953-1955

*****

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**mistymidnight**