To the Power Born: A Tale of the Slayers
Part 2: Mystery Guest
"Stay still, please," Aunt Dawn said as the mystery man who'd saved my life started to sit up. "You're pretty banged up, I want to make sure there's nothing life-threatening."
He looked at her, blinked in surprise and appreciation— Aunt Dawn's a major hottie, tall, titsy, butt to die for, and a face that begs to be put on magazine covers— then nodded and looked back at me. His eyes, gray, clear and filled with a pain that made me want to cry, met mine again, and I spoke.
"Hi, and thank you," I said. "I'm Jocelyn Penobscot, and you saved me from those über-vampires. Thank you very much!"
He nodded, opened his mouth, and… frowned. His mouth closed. He opened it again, then closed it after a moment, shook his head in frustration. He tried to speak one more time, managed a sort of hiss— just the expulsion of air, no real involvement of his vocal chords— and frowned more. He smacked his closed fist into the concrete floor of the basement— and it sounded like a sledgehammer hitting concrete, not a fist.
"Easy," Aunt Dawn said. "Don't hurt yourself, it'll be okay."
He shot Aunt Dawn a "yeah, right" sort of look, but he did it when she said "don't hurt yourself," before she ever go to "it'll be okay," which made me wonder about just how powerful he was. Aunt Dawn had already said that he must have some serious power, given the spell that brought him here.
"Okay, your clothes seem in a lot worse shape than you are," Aunt Dawn said. "You can get up, if you want. I'll want to look you over again later, but for now… you seem okay."
He stood, moving with an ease and grace that reminded me of Uncle Ballard, who'd taught me Capoeira, a martial art based in dance and acrobatics, so you can imagine how graceful that was. Also, he didn't let go of my hand.
Once he was vertical, my mystery helper took a good look around— and stared openly at the five pseudo dragons in the room, on my shoulder, Dad's, Mom's, Gwendolyn's and Aunt Dawn's. Aunt Rose's Glitter— the first pseudo dragon to come to our world— and Uncle Ballard's Facet had apparently stayed home.
Cautiously, our silent guest reached up a hand towards Royal, held it still like you might with a strange dog, to let him sniff it. Royal didn't sniff, just shoved his head under the man's hand and pressed upwards. He scratched and rubbed, and Royal let out the bubbling, cackling purr of a pseudo dragon who's happy, which visibly startled the man— but didn't seem to frighten him.
"This is my best friend, Royal," I said. "He's a pseudo dragon, and perfectly friendly. Also— Royal, can you read our friend's mind? If you don't mind, I mean, sir? Pseudo dragons are telepathic, he could at least tell us your name, if that's okay?"
The man nodded and tapped his temple. Royal locked eyes with him— easier to send and receive with a new person if he had eye contact— for a long moment, then shook his head rapidly.
*I cannot get in,* Royal said telepathically, including all of us. *There is… imps and mages, the barrier in his mind is pure pain— mental and emotional, not physical. I can't… I'm sorry, but it's too strong, too fresh. I can't read him, and I don't think he hears me.*
The man shook his head, tapped his ear and nodded, indicating that he heard Royal, then frowned again, annoyed that Royal couldn't read him.
"Okay, well, somebody has to have a pen and paper," I said. "Daddy? Aunt Rose?"
Dad produced a pen and a little notebook, handed them to the man, who opened the notebook, put pen to paper… and stood there, his right arm trembling with effort as he tried to write… well, something. Since he couldn't, we didn't know what it might have been.
He closed his eyes and stood silently for a moment— then handed Dad back the pen and paper, stood where he was, and shuddered.
"Hey, it's okay," I said, taking his hand again and squeezing gently. "Seriously, it's okay— we can help, we've got some world-class healers in the family, and maybe the world's best trauma psychologist-slash-psychiatrist on call. We'll help you, okay?"
He looked at me, nodded slowly, and squeezed my hand.
"Okay, we need to call the cops," Dad said. "Things are so much easier these days, I swear, calling them and explaining what happened as opposed to hiding everything.
"But we can't explain you, sir, and I'd like a chance to try and help you without the police interfering. Would you be willing to go and sit in our van and wait for us? Maybe with a pseudo dragon for company?"
He hesitated, then nodded. Immediately, Phantom, Dad's pseudo dragon, dropped from Dad's shoulder and flew over to land on Mystery Man's shoulder. He looked surprised, but not at all upset.
"Before you go outside— I'll have Ballard show you which vehicle and unlock it for you— I'd like to thank you, sir," Dad said, offering his hand to the silent man. "My daughter says you saved her life by dusting the vampires that were threatening her. For that… well, I can't ever pay you back, so you're stuck with a lifelong friend."
"What he said," Mom said, taking his hand when Dad let go. "She's my daughter, too, and I'm in your debt forever an' a day for savin' her. Thank you."
The silent man looked at Mom, looked at me, then held his hand out at the height of Mom's head, pointed at me and moved his hand down, looking like he didn't believe her.
"Oh, yeah," Mom said. "She's my daughter, for real. I was sixteen when I had her, which explains some of the lack of apparent age difference— the rest is Slayer power, clean livin', and a hellacious-active sex life— keeps me lookin' young."
"Info-load, dear," Daddy said. "I'm sure he didn't need to know you're a sex fiend. But he's right, you and Jocelyn could be sisters by appearance."
"Flattery," Mom said, preening a little. "Thank you both."
(Actually, not flattery— Mom could pass for twenty, easy. Slayer-powered women seem to age really slowly, probably a side effect of the healing power that comes with the rest.)
Ballard took our new friend outside, Phantom on his shoulder, and came back about the time the first police car arrived.
I got lucky that first night out, and the responding officers obeyed not just the letter of the law— well, policy, as made by Bloomington's mayor— but the spirit, as well. They cooperated fully with us, treated us like fellow cops, not suspects. That doesn't always happen, or even most of the time. About two-thirds of the cops resent us Slayer, Watcher and Guardian types, think we're loose cannons, vigilantes, all that jazz. But I was lucky, and the detective I talked to liked us, respected us, appreciated the job we do. We were able to leave in an hour after the cops' arrival, and we got home by eleven at night.
We have a very, very nice house right next door to Giles and Kelly, who are my grandpa and grandma in all but name. I don't call them that so that they don't feel old, but that's who they are— and they're all I've got for grandparents. Mom never knew her dad and her mother tried to kill her once, so I've no interest in meeting the cow— unless I'm allowed to beat the shit out of her, anyway. Dad's parents died the year before he met mom, his dad of nasty cancer, and his mom in a car wreck on the way home from his dad's funeral— drunk driver hit the car with her in it, killed her and Dad's Uncle Mike, her brother. Dad… well, I think it was probably a good thing for the drunk that the wreck killed him. Dad was (naturally!) out of his mind with grief and rage.
Anyway, the house— eight bedrooms, ten bathrooms, stone construction, but well insulated. Dad paid extra to not have the trees on the property taken down (they normally chop them down to make getting equipment in and work done easier), and had the architect copy Scooby Mansion in style, if not in scope. I've got my own room on the third floor— one of two rooms up there, both bedrooms (well, four rooms if you count the bathroom off of each bedroom), with my own big, luxurious bathroom, a balcony that's actually shaded most of the day (BIG oak tree right next to it), and bookshelves built into the walls. (I'm a bookaholic, and I'm not even thinking about seeking treatment, thanks!)
The living room is sunken, well-furnished, big enough to land a helicopter in, I think, and has this fireplace… you could roast a cow in there. Whole. We all got in the house, and Aunt Elaine and Aunt Sh'rin came over, with their pseudo dragons and Aunt Rose and Uncle Ballard's. My brother and sisters were next door, staying the night with Uncle Ballard's kids by his various wives, with my brother Stephen in nominal charge of things (with nominal help from Ballard's oldest, Nathaniel— me, I just hoped the house was still standing when the adults went back).
I was down on one knee, petting Abe, our dog— an old gentleman of a Golden Retriever, friendly and good natured— when Aunt Sh'rin and Aunt Elaine came in, and Aunt Sh'rin went straight to our silent guest, who gave her a serious looking over, as well as staring in delight at Shimmer, her pseudo dragon, who's really pretty. She's white, but picks up colors from everything around her— gorgeous. Aunt Sh'rin is hot herself— short, barely over five feet, stacked, tiny waist, tight butt… and this skin that's gorgeous. She's half Cheyenne and half Chinese (also, she's from a time about five thousand years before ours, but that's a long story), and her skin… wow.
She stopped in front of our guest, smiled and took his hands in hers. "Sunset tells me that you saved Jocelyn's life— I thank you. I helped bring her into the world, and would be saddened to see her leave it so soon.
"I am Sh'rin. I am a Guardian, one who watches and helps the Slayers, provides them with magical assistance… and I am a healer. I am told that you have been hurt, and that this hurt keeps you from speaking. I would help if I can. May I try?"
Watching his face through that little speech, I'd picked up on a couple of things that seemed important— but I didn't say anything yet about the fact that I was pretty sure that he had no idea what a Slayer was, and less idea about what a Guardian might be. But after the events in late 2003, everyone knew those things, I thought. Then Aunt Rose published her… account, I guess, since, while it was novelized, it was based on things that really happened, which had been a HUGE best seller, was still on the New York Times best seller list at number twenty now, almost three years after it had been published, and now people knew even more about stuff. But I could see on his face that he didn't know— and that had me puzzled.
"Hang on a second," Dad said. "Sir… dammit, we need a name for you." Dad looked around, then said, "Okay, charades, sort of. Is there anything you can see in here which sounds at least a little bit like your name? If so, point to it, please."
Our guest thought for a second, looked around, then pointed at Abe, whose head I was still scratching.
"Dog?" Dad said. "Doug, maybe?"
The silent man rolled his eyes and shook his head, then dropped to one knee and patted his leg a couple of times. Abe, being friendly and loving attention, promptly walked over to him, moving slowly (he's fifteen, which is old for a dog— over eighty), but with a wagging tail and grinning face. For a moment, our guest just petted Abe, scratched his head, gave his sides a good thumping (and Abe loved it, our guest was definitely a dog person), then gently pushed his fur aside and lifted his collar, pointed at that.
"Collar?" Dad said. "Bollar, dollar, follar—"
"Colin," I said— and our guest pointed at me and gave me a thumbs up. "You were slow, Dad."
"So sue me," Dad said, grinning. "I was simply approaching the question logically.
"All right, Colin, I'm Whitey— shall we try for a last name while we're at it?"
Colin thought, still petting and thumping Abe, then stood and paced for a second. He stopped, nodded as though to himself, and nodded at Dad.
Then he knelt, pressed his hands together before his lips, and moved his lips like he was praying.
"Pray? Prather? Prater?" Mom said.
Colin shook his head— and pointed up, emphatically, like he was saying "not the prayer, who it's directed at."
"God?" Aunt Dawn said.
Colin nodded and gave her a thumbs up, then stood, faced the fireplace, and held his right hand up near his face. He had the first two fingers of his hand and his thumb held close together, like he was holding a pencil, or something about that big around. He moved his hand away from his face slowly, back towards it quickly, twice— then the third time his hand went forward faster, his wrist flipped and his fingers opened. I opened my mouth, but Mom got there first.
"Darts," she said— not surprising, she loved darts and was a scary-good player.
"God darts?" Dad said, looking confused. "Thunderbolt?"
Colin shook his head, looking amused and exasperated.
"Goddard," Uncle Ballard said, frowning a little, like he recognized the name. "Colin Goddard."
Point and thumbs up.
"Okay, I'm never playing charades again, I suck," Dad said, grinning. "Colin Goddard, thank you again for my daughter's life— I think I need to say it again, now that I have a name for you."
"Ditto," Mom said.
"Thank you, Colin," I said.
He didn't try to wave it off, or anything, just nodded gravely at each of us— and again tried to smile when he nodded at me, but still couldn't do it.
I loved that he tried, though.
"One more question, then we'll let Sh'rin go back to trying to help," Dad said. "How old are you, Colin? I thought mid-to-late twenties, at first, but… younger, yes?"
Colin held up one finger, put it down, then held up nine.
"Nineteen," Dad said. "Well, speaking as one who looked older than he is for most of his life, I can't say I'm surprised. Sh'rin, back to you."
"All right, Colin," Aunt Sh'rin said. "May I try to help you?"
Slowly, looking sad and hurt and scared, Colin nodded.
"All right," Sh'rin said. "If you would like privacy, we can step outside— it's very pretty out."
Colin looked unsure for a moment, then turned to look at me and cock his head inquisitively.
"You… want me to come with you?" I asked, and he nodded. "I'm willing. Dad, Mom? May I?"
I saw them exchange the "patented parental telepathy" look, and knew that they both knew that I wanted to go, that I wanted to understand and help Colin— and that I wanted him. Mostly physically, so far, but come on— gorgeous man, and he'd saved my life! Of course I wanted him!
"Well, color me not surprised," Mom said, so softly that I only got it because of the slightly enhanced senses that come with being a Slayer. Then she said to Dad and me both, "I don't object at all. Whitey?"
"I can't see why not," Dad said. "Why don't you three go out back— the porch swing would probably be a good place to sit, very relaxing.
We went out onto the back porch, Sh'rin, Colin and I (and Royal and Shimmer), and I led Colin to the porch swing, a suspended wooden bench with a back, and thick, comfortable cushions on it. Aunt Sh'rin grabbed a lawn chair, pulled it over close, and said, "Colin… this hurt that you feel, that seems to be keeping you from speaking or writing, even keeps our pseudo dragon friends from being able to read your mind… is it fresh?"
He nodded once, sharply, and I saw the muscles in his jaw bunch and flex.
"Colin, forgive me, but I must ask— are you— oh, English!" Aunt Sh'rin said the word "English" like a curse, and I sighed.
Fifteen years here, and she still didn't really think in English, and sometimes had trouble with it. Giles says it's because the worldview she grew up with is so totally alien to that of here and now, and I see his point. Five thousand years makes for a BIG culture gap.
"Colin, I know that some subjects are considered rude to broach, and that this is one— but I must ask," Aunt Sh'rin said. "And I am sorry if I phrase it badly, but English is not my native tongue, and it still trips me, sometimes.
"Colin, there are men in the world who feel that to cry is to not be a man, that to cry is to be weak, more a woman than a man… do you feel that way?"
Colin shook his head, and held Aunt Sh'rin's eyes while he did so. I could see on her face that she believed him, and that she was relieved that she believed him.
"Good," Aunt Sh'rin said. "Have you cried over whatever it is that hurts you so, that keeps you from communicating?"
Slowly, he shook his head.
"You have said that the hurt is fresh," she said. "As I understand it, you were summoned here accidentally, and immediately on your arrival, saved Jocelyn from several vampires— including three Turok-han, which are to vampires as fully armed soldiers are to children with toy guns.
"Colin, how long before that summoning did whatever it was happen?" she asked, very gently.
Colin hesitated, then held his right forefinger and thumb up with maybe a half an inch separating them.
"Less than an hour?" she asked.
He nodded, pressed his fingers together.
"Minutes?" Aunt Sh'rin asked, looking shocked.
Colin nodded, held up one finger, then put a second finger up, down again, back up.
"One or two minutes before you were brought here, this… event happened?" Sh'rin asked.
He nodded, looked miserable, sad, sick, scared and… and furious.
"Did someone die?" Aunt Sh'rin asked. He nodded emphatically. "Someone you cared for?"
He hesitated, looked frustrated, then nodded— but only once, and very quickly.
Aunt Sh'rin looked at me for help, and I gave it a shot.
"Someone you cared for, but weren't terribly close to, maybe?" I tried.
He nodded, looked— god, I don't know how to explain it! Colin looked sick, sad, angry, and… and bleak. Like he'd forgotten how to hope, like whatever it was drove out of him all hope of ever hoping again. Then he looked at us both, leaned back on the swing, and crossed his open hands on his chest.
"Someone died, yes, we— oh." I shut up and stared as Colin held one finger and shook his head violently. Then he held up both hands, all his fingers and both thumbs extended— and closed them, opened them again, closed, opened, closed, opened, closed-opened, closed-opened, closed-opened, closedopened, closedopened, closedopened, closedopened, closedopenedclosedopenedclosedopenedclosedopenedclosedopened—
"Oh, gods and ancestors," Aunt Sh'rin said, looking ill. "Hundreds of peo—"
Colin shook his head and jerked his hand up, telling her quite plainly to elevate her estimate.
"Thousands of people?" Aunt Sh'rin said in a tiny voice.
Again, he shook his head, lifted his hand.
"Tens of thousands?" I said, my voice… I think I must have sounded like I was about five years old.
Colin nodded slowly.
"Oh, god," I said. I knew it was foolish, but I tried to ask anyway. "How…?"
Colin thumped himself in the chest, hard, violently.
"You… you did it?" I asked, horrified.
He shook his head, then closed his eyes, visibly tried to compose himself. After a moment, Colin stood, moved to the edge of the porch, and set himself, took a martial arts stance (karate of some sort, I thought). He looked behind himself and gave a thumbs up to the air behind him, and a cheery little wave, then turned back to face us, set himself more firmly, and shook his head from side-to-side once, slowly and deliberately.
"You… tried to protect people?" Sh'rin said. "Tried to save them? And you… you failed?"
Colin sagged visibly, nodded slowly, then sank slowly to sit on the flagstones of the porch, put his face in his hands for a moment, then just… drooped. His elbows were resting on his knees, and his hands fell to dangle limply between them while he stared blankly at the ground.
"Colin, no one man can save that many lives, or lose them, not in a single moment," Aunt Sh'rin said. "You can't— gods of earth and sky!"
Colin stood up— and kept going up. A nimbus of gold-white light surrounded him, the color of sunlight on a bright, clear day, and he floated up until his head was only inches from the porch ceiling.
I understood then. Colin's clothes, while badly tattered, made sense to me.
He wore black pants, bloused into black boots, and a white shirt of some heavy material, which, while badly torn, had a visible pattern to it, a starburst done in gold on his chest. The shirt had been ripped up, but you could still see the starburst.
"Holy god on a pogo stick," I said softly. "Colin… you don't know what a Slayer is, do you?"
He shook his head, floated back down to the ground, and the light around him went out.
"The year," I said. "Colin, what year is it?"
He looked puzzled, then shocked— and held up various numbers of fingers to indicate 2018.
"Okay, wait, stupid, you'd have heard of him if he'd been from your past, he'd have heard of Slayers if he came from your future," I said. That left parallel worlds. "Colin… does the name Alex Halstead mean anything to you?"
Colin thought visibly for a moment, then shook his head, looking puzzled.
"But— but he is the President!" Sh'rin protested. "He won by many votes, people saw that he had a pseudo dragon companion, and they understood that he had to be a good man, he won by— you have to know who he is!"
Colin looked stunned. He shook his head, stood straight, saluted, then put his hand over his heart— all before making the classic "hourglass" wave of the hands from shoulders to hips, indicating a woman.
"Your president's a woman?" I said, and he nodded. "Okay, plain as day— parallel worlds, and you got jerked into this one by those vampires. They wanted something nasty and powerful, but I broke one of their summoning objects, and they lost the nasty part— and got you.
"Colin… you're a super hero, aren't you?"
He nodded slowly, then— then his face twisted, and he suddenly tore the remains of the shirt he wore off, flung it away from him. When it hit the ground out in the yard, he shoved both hands out towards it, violently— and beams of white-gold light leapt from his hands and incinerated the shirt— completely. Nothing left but a little puff of ash that blew away in the breeze.
Then he dropped to the ground, put his hands over his face, and his breathing changed, grew rapid. I understood, knew that he was crying, though silently, and I went to him without thinking, knelt down, pulled him close, and held him.
He cried for a long time, and I held him until he stopped.
He cried… but he never sobbed, never said a word, and when he stopped crying, he tried to speak, probably to say "thank you"— or maybe "I'm sorry," he's a guy, after all, and might have been that stupid— but nothing came out, and he shook his head in frustration.
Crying wasn't enough.
So I'd have to find another way to help him.
I looked around for Sh'rin, but she'd gone inside, probably to give us privacy.
"Colin," I said softly, and he looked up at me, not seeming ashamed of the tears on his face. "Colin… there's a lot of differences in our world, but… I save lives, too. Or will, I guess. Tonight, I killed a lot of vampires. I killed a Turok-han by myself— they're the vampires that are— what did Aunt Sh'rin say? 'To other vampires like soldiers are to kids with toy guns,' or something like that. Good analogy.
"But I didn't save everyone. You saw the bodies of the family that lived in the place where the vampires summoned you— I didn't save them. I didn't know them, didn't know they were in danger even, but I still feel… guilty."
He shook his head violently, and I smiled. "I know, I shouldn't— thank you. But I do. And I can't help but wonder… how much of what happened to the people who died was really your fault, and how much is you doing what I'm doing; taking too much blame."
He shook his head firmly. He seemed to realize, as he did so, that we were in a pretty intimate position— him sitting on the porch floor, me on my knees on his left, arms wrapped around his waist and chest, body pressed against his, face only a couple of inches from his— and tried to pull back a little. I wouldn't let him.
"No," I said. "You need held, I like holding you. Stay still." He stopped trying to pull away, and I said, "Colin… it's going to sound weak, but… did you do your best to try to save those people?"
He nodded, but looked ashamed.
"That counts," I said. "Maybe it doesn't fix it, maybe it isn't enough to make you hurt less— probably even— but it counts. Will you give me that?"
Slowly, very slowly, he nodded.
"Okay," I said. "That's a start, and I'll take it.
"Shall I get Aunt Sh'rin, now?"
Again he nodded, then he stood and pulled me to my feet. He pulled me into a hug, moving slowly, giving me time to move away or let him know I didn't want to hug him. Fat chance!
I got my arms around his neck, realized how tall he was— over six-two, maybe even six-four, to my five-three (and I'd been amused by Aunt Rose and Uncle Ballard, earlier— hello, payback)— and just hugged him as tightly as I could. For the second time since I realized how much stronger I was than most people (the first time was my friend and trainer Vincent, who isn't entirely human himself), I hugged all out on someone who wasn't a slayer— and he made no indication that he found it uncomfortable at all.
We stood there for most of a minute more, then I let go and stuck my head in. Aunt Sh'rin stood near the door, looking pensive, and came out as soon as she saw me.
"Colin," she said, "it is easy to blame yourself for things such as this, and it may even be true— I cannot know that, not until I can hear what happened— but it may well have been beyond your control. I would like to try and help you, if I may?"
Colin nodded— then bowed to her, plainly thanking her for trying.
"You are welcome," she said. "Colin… I have been here long enough to know a little about super heroes, and knowing how you called yourself when you wore your costume, that might help me to reach you. Can you think of a way to tell us?"
He thought for only a second, then nodded. He walked out from under the porch roof, motioned us to follow, and pointed up at the brightest star in the sky.
"Star?" Aunt Sh'rin said, and he nodded, then held up his left arm, put the fingers of his right hand lightly on the underside of his left wrist.
"Life-beat?" Aunt Sh'rin said, looking puzzled.
"Modern English, Aunt Sh'rin," I said, smiling. "Not life-beat, pulse."
"Star Pulse?" Aunt Sh'rin tried— and Colin held up both hands, made a sort of pushing-together motion.
"Starpulse," I said, making one word of it. "Wow. I like it."
Colin shook his head violently, made a pushing away gesture.
"It may not be something you want anymore, Colin Goddard," Aunt Sh'rin said softly, "but being Starpulse is a part of who you are. It may be that you never use the name again, but it is still a part of your being. I know this."
Colin spread his hands, cocked his head, asked "How do you know?" without saying a word.
"I know because Starpulse was the name— the self— that you wore when you used your abilities to save lives, Colin," Aunt Sh'rin said. "And had you not loved saving lives, loved it with every fiber of your being, then failing as you did would not have hurt you so much, or in a fashion so clearly designed to keep you hurting. By not letting yourself communicate your hurt, my friend, you are insuring that it will not go away.
"That tells me that you hate failing so badly that you must have loved saving lives as much as you hate losing them— that you loved saving lives more than anything else in your personal world."
After a long, tense moment, Colin nodded slowly, and again started leaking tears.
"I will help you if I can, Colin," Aunt Sh'rin said as I went and put an arm around his waist. "I know that some part of you believes that you do not deserve my help, nor any help— but you are wrong.
"Let us begin."