Chapter 1
Buffy Summers
My first ever vision of Buffy Summers came to me with such blazing ferocity, such vivid color, that it destroyed my world. No rich fabric could meet the saturation, no gold trinket could sparkle so bright, nothing and no one could hold my attention by comparison.
Because when you stare into the sun, it blinds you.
I could barely understand what I was seeing. A golden haired girl, bare legged and beaming, holding shredded balls of fabric, dancing and cheering in a wooden hall. You see, it was 1922 and cheerleading hadn't spread from Minnesota yet, and in fact women would not be allowed to cheer for another year. So the cascade of vivid color, lit by fluorescent bulbs was just alien, and strange and ruined me to the lesser charms of New York city.
So, I felt the cold and the dark more than ever. And the blood I fed upon became, if not tasteless, but sour in my mouth.
The guilt would grow from there. And from it, a conscience. The last one I took, in a stinking dark alley by the tram depot, was a man who deserved it. A predator of young women, who met an ironic end at my fangs. And still, he tasted vile to me.
So depressed, bored, listless… burning with guilt and growing ever hungrier, I was drawn from New York into the wilds.
She came again to me there, on those moon drenched nights, vision after vision, the golden girl in the strange clothes with the not-quite real smile, laughing a not-quite real laugh to her not-quite friend's jokes. I could feel her disconnection whirling about inside her, her need to be something else, someone else, and she became a puzzle to me to keep me from my darkness, a girl with everything, a mortal girl with food in her belly, all the clothes she could desire, money, a family… life.
I wondered why she came to me, as I lay amongst the leaves, soil clad, caked in the blood of my prey. Why me? Why her?
And as I glimpsed her strange life, I started to recognise myself in her. For she had visions too. Nightmares that tore at her sanity, splitting her skull wide and bleeding the light from her. I watched as golden hair grew dark roots, as her tan paled and her eyes darkened from lack of rest. She would wake, tortured and sweat soaked, weeping for release. And her parents watched all this, as I guess my own must have (though I have no memory of them at all).
And I saw her bloodied and panting, a wild eyed, dark figure against the blazing fires of her school gym. I saw them lock her away. How she became pale and thin, dark and hollow.
I could see it now. How alike we had become.
Her nightmares, her visions. She was like me. And my heart went out to her. And my heart got lost in her.
Somewhere along the way, I fell in love with Buffy Summers. And perhaps that was my punishment and my curse for the lives I had taken.
I loved her, and I needed her, and I had to suffer. Because it would be decades, (and a second world war) before Buffy Summers would even be born.
…
Veronique Boucher was my release, my distraction. Golden haired and glowing with energy, wanton and wild. If you could capture the myth of the prohibition flapper, condense it all down into one woman, it was Veronique.
And many a man, and no doubt a few woman, fell prey to her charms. She drank the world like champagne, wove herself into the fabric of society, and tempted me back into the world again.
She was like me. The only other like me. Ice cold and crimson eyed, she drew me from solitude, back into the world. I guess I went to her to escape the cold, dark shadow that Buffy Summers had cast upon me. I had to escape, to find distraction and find something, anything to fill the emptiness. And so with Veronique it was jazz and dance and… yes… once more blood.
But nothing filled the void. The guilt stayed with me. The visions haunted me. And so I made the decision to break away from Veroniques whirlwind, to strike out on my own and forge a life I could live with, until she arrived.
I took residence in one of the houses left by Veroniques bloodlust, by chance, a girl who I resembled. A supply of animal blood from the slaughterhouse would sustain me, and my income I took from working as a seamstress, and then a sales girl for a fashion outlet.
I guess that is where I found my love of fashion. The glamour and the craft, the exotic materials and modern, challenging thinking. And deeper still, my gaze could fall, unquestioned upon those women who modeled the clothes. For lusts such as mine where deemed unseemly and unnatural. I kept them to myself, but enjoyed the stolen glances.
It seemed like a year or so passed before I saw Buffy in a vision again. Both to my joy, and to my horror, she appeared as an immortal now. Skin bleached white and hair deep brown, eyes crimson and mouth bloodied, she groaned in pleasure as she fed, and then, oh, and then she looked upon me with those crimson eyes and I knew. I just knew.
I knew she loved me.
She would be my future. And I would be hers.
…
The first time I saw her in the flesh, I could barely contain myself. I wanted to run to her, to seize her into my arms. Finally!
She sat across the room with Jessica, glancing at us, cheeks flushed and heart pounding with fear and confusion. Thump, thump, so loud and strong and real. I could smell her blood on the air, even through the busy cafeteria, the throng of bodies, her blood sang to me.
Edward told me to go. And I did, so help me, despite every nerve in my body screaming to me to claim her blood as mine. I stood, and crossed the room, dumping my tray of human food into the bin before fleeing into the fresh, damp air. My easy smile concealing rows of razor tipped fangs, dripping thicker with venom than ever before. And the throb between my legs hammering heat through my veins.
I don't remember what it was to be alive. But I wager it was like that sensation. I felt full, brimming, burning with energy. Buffy had arrived, after decades of waiting... she was here.
Perhaps I had served my time, my pennance was over, perhaps I was finally free to love and live without shame.
Perhaps.
But I learned then that The world is cruel, and the powers that be play sick games. The closer I got to Buffy, the further fate carried her from me.
I had no idea how far.
...
The Buffy that entered Jessica's cafe seemed nothing like my Buffy. Her face was hardened and emotionless, her golden eyes distant, flicking from face to face, barely settling on mine. She closed the door behind her and pausing but for a moment, perhaps to gather herself, before she turned and strode over to the table around which we all sat.
The room stilled, all the Quileute elders, Jane Volturi, The Chief of Police, the pack leaders, all fell silent before this woman, the warrior, and waited.
And though she had filled my world since that first, glorious vision, like the sun rising upon my life for the first time, this Buffy cast her shadow over us all. This Buffy had brought the war to Forks.
I did not know this Buffy.
And it terrified me.