Chapter 2

The Harvest

You live for this. Heart pounding hard, coursing so much life through your limbs that you feel you could burst. Heart pounding. Feet pounding. Driving headlong, vaulting, darting, tumbling and sprinting. You may as well be flying.

The vampire stands no chance. The dead travel fast. You're faster.

You feel the vampire's shoulder blade detach as you boot slams into it. That silky, crumbly, sickly quality of vampire bones and flesh under force. It hits the floor, face and fangs furrowing dirt. Your boot finds the nape of the neck- a satisfying crunch. Limbs go slack.

No need to rush now. It will be hours before this suck-head can stick itself back together. But still you check your six. A lesson sorely learned back in Boston; long scars run down your back like wings of ribbon.

A flash of movement above a mausoleum catches your eye. You turn ready to fight.

It is Kennedy, crouching low, hair hanging loose and wild, like her eyes. You know she found her mark, her arm blackened with grave dust and the carnal look on her face.

She watches you bury the stake deep into your prey. Watches as it blazes and crumbles, the ash carried away on an inhuman cry.

She drops down beside you and you both naturally fall into step beside each other. You don't say anything. The air is cool and hinted with fresh soil and smoke.

Giles is waiting by his classic car. You expect him to produce a stopwatch and 'tut' at you both, but he doesn't. He is not Merrick. A fact that is both pleasant and unpleasant to you.

"Excellent work, the both of you." he smiles. "Now, I believe we are done here. Kennedy expressed a craving for er… BBQ ribs, I believe. Would that be amicable to you Faith?"

Kennedy grins at your confused expression.

"You paying?" you say.

"Even better.' he smiles 'The council is."

Your nightmares are bad. Real bad. But haven't they always been? Even before they took on the supernatural angle, sleep was always like dark water concealing jagged rocks. Dreams are something you fall into, rather than enter by choice.

You awaken to your little room, choking on nothing but air. Your little box. Clean and neat and freshly painted. No cracked windows pushing Boston chill into your bones. No laying on your stash of possessions where junky fingers could not reach them. Sleeping with your boots laced tight.

And you realize that you can actually have a hot shower. So you do. Night sweat limbs warming to the water. Soap smells like heaven. Having a lock on the door and a shower curtain just brings the luxury home. Almost comforting. Almost safe. Almost.

What else are you free to do now?

You wrap your hair with a second towel like they do on TV, and sneak down to the kitchen.

Kennedy is sitting at the small kitchen bench, looking blank faced and pale. She nurses a mug of tea, so strong and black you can smell it from the doorway.

"You turning British or something?" you ask.

"It grows on you. It was way too bitter at first. But…" she shrugs and takes a sip, returning to her distant stare.

It brings a smile to your lips that there are cartons of milk in the refrigerator. All still in date too. Bonus. You slump down in the chair across from Kennedy with your prize and you drink deep.

"From the carton? Seriously?" the brat frowns "you'll get us all sick."

"Only if I put it back. I am slaying this one. Besides, you ever gotten sick a day in your life?"

Kennedy shakes her head and sips her tea.

"So" you say, wiping milk from your lips with scabbed knuckles. "Am I interrupting some kind of nightly ritual?"

"Prophetic nightmares." she says with a shrug. "Sometimes I get them before a big bad shows up.' she glares into her tea. "You get them?"

You shake your head.

"Lucky. It's a sucky way to give a girl a heads up if you ask me. An email would be so much better."

You can hear the air conditioning change up somewhere in the house. So faint, fainter than any human could hear. Kennedy's head tilts slightly. She has heard it too. Her deep eyes meet yours and she sips the hot black liquid. An image flashes into your mind of fangs sinking into a throat. You both shudder.

When you were homeless, you had no options. You do what you need to do, moment to moment, meal to meal, shelter to shelter. You would daydream about options.

Now? Bizarrely you are drowning in options. What to eat, what to wear, what to do in the spare hours you can afford between training and slaying. Somehow it feels all wrong. Something like guilt, or fear, or shame, perhaps. It's dumb, but you catch yourself freezing up over trivial decisions. Those feelings drop away when you slay.

You find yourself in the habit of holding your house keys, flipping them on the ring, back and forth and just gripping them, like they might disappear at any moment.

Food is not scarce. Fruit and meat and grains and things you never heard of before. Everything a growing slayer needs.

You are getting stronger already, way stronger. You love how your ribs have finally vanished under a layer of tanned, firm flesh. You love the feel as your work your muscles. Movement soothes and invigorates you. Sparring with the brat? What a rush. You even love the pain as she lands those killer rights. That tang of blood on your lip- maybe the vamps are onto something.

Has it been three months in Sunnydale already?

Today you sit under the palm tree in the communal courtyard of Gile's apartment, eyes closed behind dark glasses, arms folded behind your head. It is too hot for leather. Your discman pumps noise into your skull, shredding up your thoughts and isn't that like some kind of magic?

The brat is at school, so this time is yours to do whatever you want. So you do nothing. Because choosing something would be hell.

Your CD stops and the last song fades out. You gaze up at the sky and have no idea what comes next.

Giles is reading some great dusty tome in the kitchen. You hover at the doorway and watch him work. The kettle is boiling but the whistle fails to get his attention, so deeply entranced is he by the texts.

"This is how he gets" Kennedy said once, "it's his weakness.".

Anyone could sneak up behind him and render him unconscious (And, she said, they often do).

So you pour the hot water into the teapot and bring the tray to the table. Collecting an extra cup for yourself.

"So, G… I was thinking." you find yourself saying after a few minutes of silence, "did I miss my shot at the whole high school thing?"

Giles looks up at you blinking, as if he has missed a joke. You clear you throat.

"I was thinking… I mean... I think… It wouldn't hurt would it? To take another shot at school. After all, things are different now."

Giles' hyper focus is his weak spot. You don't know when his smile of approval became yours.

One of them. Anyway