To the Power Born: A Tale of the Slayers
Part 21: To Dance a Prayer
Thursday was the Fourth of July, and we had a blast. We all felt sad a few times, missing Alex, but mostly, we were okay. Joyce, Buffy and Xander got hit the most and the hardest by the sad, but they dealt with it pretty well.
We stayed in the park from about one in the afternoon until after ten-thirty at night, eating a big supper cooked by Daddy and my brother Stephen on the grill around six, played many silly games, went through the small but well-stocked zoo in the park, saw friends from school and their families, and generally had an excellent time.
A lot of extra people showed up, having been invited not just for the Fourth, but to stay and see Aunt Elaine's dance the next day. Graham was there with Thomas, Angel, Faith and Helena showed up, Lissette Tranh from the DC contingent showed up with her husband and two little boys, and Kimber Duncan came, too. She'd been unable to come for Alex's funeral and stuff, since her duties as a Guardian had her tangled up in a giant mess under the Himalayas, helping to stop a war between some yeti clans and a species of benign demons that lived in tunnels under the mountain. She had with her a woman whom she was very obviously involved with, a Tibetan native whom she'd met and fallen in love with over the six months she'd been in Tibet. Wesley and Fred came, as did Gunn and Brianne. (Brianne would be watching the dance through the eyes of her pseudo dragon, Jedi.) Delia Kent showed up, with her long-time boyfriend, a START captain, and she had on a newly-acquired engagement ring. Sara Lamont and Chelsea Yoder came up from Australia again, and Andrew and some of his girls, including his adopted daughter Jenny, came from Italy. Others came as well, including a welcome surprise; Kate Lockley, an ex-cop turned freelance demon-hunter, who lived and worked in Denver, a long time friend of Angel (and through him, the rest of us), showed up. She looked sort of rough, having only recently recovered from a battle with a Jaxanid demon (think a scorpion mated with a weasel and blown up to the size of a horse and you'll get the idea) that had left her with a couple of new scars, one on her face— and a permanent limp and cane, thanks to one knee being pretty much destroyed. (It should be noted, however, that she killed the hell out of the Jaxanid in the end, saving the lives of a whole classroom full of kindergarteners. She did the job, and without any special powers. Nifty lady.)
"Giles," Kate said, once she'd shaken hands with most everyone, accepted hugs from a few of us (she's kind of reserved, not very physically affectionate— made me feel good, because I'm one of the few she hugged). "You've offered me a job with the Watchers' Council pretty much every time I've seen you since we first met in oh-three. I've always said that I'd take it when I got too old to fight on the front lines. Well, I may not be too old, but I seem to have gotten a bit too infirm. Is the offer still open?"
"Of course it is," Giles said, making his grip on her hand two-handed. "Welcome to the Council, Kate.
"Tomorrow we can discuss your capacity of service— but do let me plant a couple of ideas for you to think about, please; you may serve in the traditional capacity of Watcher, advising a team, assisting them directly, or you may act as an instructor, training young Watchers and Slayers— and Guardians, now that I think about it— in the art of investigation. Given your long expertise in that field, and your experience as both a police officer and private investigator, I am sure that you could teach the next generation quite a lot."
"I'll think about that, thank you," Kate said. She grinned wickedly and said, "I can even teach them how to deal with a brooding mystery-man who keeps popping up in their lives, complicating every case beyond belief and driving them half-crazy trying to figure out who he is and how he does what he does.
"Oh, hello, Angel— I didn't see you there."
"Yeah, right," he said, hugging Kate. "You look like you bounced back pretty well— you must've worked really hard at the therapy, they said you'd probably need a brace and those fitted crutches."
"Yeah, I busted my ass," Kate said. "Cane I can deal with— those crutch-things— ugh. I'd go nuts.
"Still, on the plus side… I get all the good parking places, now."
We all laughed and went on with having fun.
It was a hell of a good day. I spent time with Joyce, walking and talking, and we ended up sitting in a quiet corner of the park near some trees, crying some over Alex and how much we missed him. It did us both some good.
The fireworks… well, the city had been very prosperous over the last sixteen years, being the twin city to Normal, the seat of the Watchers' Council. Tourists flocked to Illinois's Twin Cities to see the place where the truth of the supernatural had come out, where one of the most important battles ever against supernatural evil had been fought, and it did both towns a lot of good. So they spent a ton on fireworks, producing an hour-long show that really dazzled people.
"Jocelyn," Colin said about half way through things, "I'm going to disappear near the end of things. I'd like to add my own little touch to this— think of it as my way of paying my respects to my adopted home."
I agreed, and Colin slipped away when there were maybe ten minutes left in the show. Then, just as the fireworks-American-flag got lit, he showed back up— with style.
A ribbon of light suddenly appeared in the sky, maybe a hundred feet up, starting behind the place where the experts were lighting the fireworks and encircling the park in about ten seconds. It was a striped ribbon, red, white and deep blue light, twisting in a gentle spiral as it circled the park, and spiraling up into the sky in an ever-tightening loop as people stared and oo-ed and ah-ed.
At the peak of his patriotic double-spiral, Colin stopped in the sky, and flashed once, all three colors in a slowed, swelling burst of light just bright enough to dazzle the eyes a little— and while people were still blinking away the afterimages, he landed in the cemetery across the street from the park and trotted back over to us.
Once I'd finished kissing him, pretty much everyone hugged him, thanked him and told him that he'd made a beautiful touch to the end of the show.
"How did you do that?" Thomas asked as we all sat down to wait for the park to empty a bit before starting out ourselves.
"Not that hard," Colin said. "My default glow is white-gold, but you know from the comics that I can change it with concentration. Well, I just concentrated pretty hard, put my arms straight out from my sides and made my right hand and arm glow red, my body glow white, and my left hand and arm glow blue, then flew the spiral pattern while doing slow barrel rolls."
"Gorgeous," Thomas said with a sigh. "Thanks again."
"Yes, thank you," Vincent rumbled. He had Vi curled up under one arm, their daughters Beth and Cathy under the other. "I love fireworks, have since I first saw them— right here, fifteen years ago today— and that was the most beautiful finish I've ever seen to a fireworks show."
We all went home about ten-thirty, and slept well and happily.
In the morning, people were all abuzz about the upcoming viewing of Aunt Elaine's dance, and stayed buzzy all morning.
After breakfast, Daddy took me and Richter to the veterinarian he used for Abe, got my little buddy his shots (for which he behaved very well, such a good boy), and a surprise.
Daddy had asked what breeds the vet thought Richter might be, and his answer came as a bit of a shock.
"At a guess," Dr. Hogan said, "I'm going with a strong bit of Newfoundland from some of his bone structure and the sheer size of him. Maybe a dash of something else gigantic, like Irish Wolfhound… which may leave the poor fellow confused."
"Confused?" Dad said, raising an eyebrow.
"Yes," Dr. Hogan said. "Because I'm pretty sure he's part wolf. Three-eighths, at a guess."
Dad blinked, looked at Richter, then back at the vet. "Uh, okay."
"Bone structure of his face, the paws… he's part wolf, Whitey." Dr. Hogan grinned, scratched Richter's head and said, "No need to worry— he's not going to go wild and attack people or anything. But he will be fiercely loyal, tenacious about protecting his people, and dangerous to people who try to break into your house."
"I'll be damned," Daddy said, looking amused. "Honey-girl, leave it to you to bring home a dog who's part wolf."
"I'm talented that way," I said, rubbing Richter's back. "That's my boy. Part wolf, all good dog."
We talked about diet and exercise, and went home. People found it funny that I'd found a puppy who was part cub, and no one seemed at all nervous about it. Makes sense— Richter was everyone's pal, happy to be petted and scratched, affectionate and cuddly.
In the afternoon, we had Joyce's favorite foods for lunch, and after lunch she opened her presents and we had cake. She seemed subdued, and got weepy a time or two— this was her first birthday without Alex, though, so that was to be expected— but she got hold of herself each time, and we let her have the time she needed for that.
She loved her present from Buffy and Xander, the SoundMaster I picked for her, and the iTunes gift card that Buffy had added to it, and Buffy made sure to give me credit for helping pick it out, which got me an extra hug. (I'd already gotten one super-hug for what I'd gotten her myself, a personalized-autographed copy of the newest book by her favorite author. I'd cheated, used Uncle Ballard to get it, as his insane riches and his contacts to the entertainment world through Aunt Elaine let him do some neat things like that— and I'd made sure to give him the credit for that, too.)
After the cake was eaten and the presents put away, I hugged Richter, told him to be a good boy, and we all left for the Palace theater to see Aunt Elaine's new dance on the big screen. (Or in the big screen, maybe? It was in three-d, after all.)
Everyone who'd been at the Fourth of July picnic was there, as well as some other people— James Tanner, his very gorgeous date (a movie star who'd gotten very popular over the last five years), a bunch of Slayers from the New York group, Aunt Elaine's agent… and a superb and beautiful surprise for Aunt Elaine, one which left her in shocked and happy tears, and which I suspected might be the death of Uncle Ballard, as Aunt Elaine was sure to try and love him to death for it.
Spider Robinson stood waiting for us in the lobby just outside the theater that Uncle Ballard had rented for this, a party-red pseudo dragon (named Willis, I found out later, for Robert Heinlein's most memorable non-human character) sitting on his shoulder. Spider freaking Robinson, the man who, with his (lamentably deceased) wife Jeanne had written the books that inspired Aunt Elaine to do this.
"Elaine," Mr. Robinson said. "Lady… it's a pleasure to be here."
She'd met him, of course, after he saw Dance the Heavens Home he'd made appoint of meeting her. Since then, they'd corresponded often.
But to have him here, now, for this? Uncle Ballard deserved to have all his wives and children, that's all I can say— no higher praise comes to mind.
Aunt Elaine hugged Mr. Robinson, held on for a long, long moment, then said, "Sit with me?"
"Bet on it," he said. "Think the introductions can wait? I'm about to pop for wanting to see this!"
She agreed, and we went in and got seated. Uncle Ballard made Aunt Elaine and Mr. Robinson sit in the best seats in the house, Joyce, Buffy and Xander on Elaine's other side, Uncle Ballard and the rest of Aunt Elaine's family in the row right behind them, the rest of us wherever we liked.
Once everyone was seated, Uncle Ballard pressed a button on his phone, said simply, "We're ready," and hung up.
The lights dimmed, and the screen went from dull silver to black. Words faded in— and I started leaking tears.
"For the memory of Alexander Liam Harris." That was all it said— and all it needed to say.
Then there were stars, stars everywhere— and in the middle of them, a single human figure in a spacesuit so comparatively thin that you really didn't notice it, a figure in white, curled in on itself in grief.
Slowly, Aunt Elaine uncoiled, straightened, looked at the camera with a bleak expression on her face, the expression of someone who's lost someone they love. The music started then, a slow, deep dirge, pain-filled, yet powerful. In time with the music, Aunt Elaine moved from place to place, looking sad, reaching out to touch the people she'd lost, people you could almost see as her body undulated with grief and her hands caressed their invisible cheeks, hands, shoulders. I saw her grief for her parents, for her grandparents, for every Slayer who'd fallen in the Battle of Bloomington, for Aunt Rose's sister Laurie, for each and every Slayer who'd fallen since all of them were activated… and finally, I saw as plain as day her grief for Alex. Alex, just a boy, taken from her and everyone else who loved him far too soon and for no reason but insane hate.
The music kept its dirge-like feel, swelled and ebbed, but stayed sad and wounded.
Then back to the beginning, back to the loss of her parents, grieving still, differently, yes, but still grieving, and never mind the years between. She went through the whole cycle again, showing the change in the grief, the slow acceptance of it, but that "accepted" didn't mean "lessened." The music changed with her grief, gaining edges of grief, losing them to softer, sadder pain, swelling to knife-edged hurt and sinking again.
Then she curled in on herself again, shook with sobs and screams as the dirge softened, became a variation on the Funeral March— before she exploded into motion again. The music exploded with her, became a thing of rage and violence, hard, harsh percussion, flaring, angry brass, strings short and sharp like blows on the ear, and an electric guitar keening notes of horribly hurt anger slipping in, joining the orchestra.
Now she raged, she fought, she let death know that she hated it, that she wanted to kill death, make it stop taking people from her, from all of us. The music raged with her, fought back as another weapon in her arsenal, the drums slamming against the unfairness of fate, the strings slashing out, the horns and woodwinds sounding the call to battle. Aunt Elaine flew from place to place on jets of compressed air, twirling in a mad dance of violent opposition, arms and legs striking with speed, grace and power, with all the rhythm and grace of a dancer in consummate form, and a warrior at the very top of her game.
But every time, she was defeated. Death kept on defeating her, taking those she loved, leaving her to mourn, to berate herself for failure, to dance a scream of self-recrimination, loss and hate— then go on to the next battle.
Finally, Aunt Elaine stopped fighting, the music sinking to a low reprise of the funeral march with the electric guitar wailing along with it. She didn't even curl up, just hung there loosely among the stars for a long moment.
The music… shifted. Under the funeral march, behind it, sounded something else, something that slowly made it self known; the high, sweet notes of flutes, piping softly, gently, a little tune that almost screamed for attention. Aunt Elaine seemed to stiffen, and she looked up, up above the camera, and cocked her head as though listening. As she did so, the flutes swelled, harps joined in, and keyboards. They got louder, slowly drowning out the deeper sounds of horns and big string instruments, took on a definite theme; hope!
Aunt Elaine spun on her own axis, tumbled and rolled and yawed, turned on every axis at once, her arms and legs pulling her through that multiple-axis three-sixty, then stopped herself, and listened, her arms and legs beginning to move with the music seemingly without consulting her brain. Hope… it called to her, she heard it— but she didn't understand where to look for what it promised, you could see her confusion in every reaching motion, in every tentative "step" she took in any direction.
The music swelled, the whole orchestra joined in, and that theme of hope now had a counterpoint going through it, a frantic seeking theme, as Aunt Elaine jetted from place to place, dancing hope and frustration at not finding hope's promised relief as she moved and stopped, looked, and moved again, growing every more eager, then more frustrated when she failed to find what she looked for.
She seemed to give up, to stop looking, to throw her head back and scream silently in frustration— and the music swelled again, held a single note. After a moment, the note went higher up the scale, calling to her— and Aunt Elaine looked slowly up. Her hands moved up from her sides, and for a moment, hesitated at shoulder level— then went up further, framed two bright, white stars between them, seemed to cup and hold those stars, to cherish them. She spun, then, and her face lit up as she did so, as she understood.
Again, she reached up and cupped a pair of stars in her hands, older, dimmer stars— then she jet-danced her way to a new portion of the sky, spinning and gyrating in the joy of understanding— of knowing that hope is real, that existence continues after death, that death, while no person can stop it, can be beaten— that death can never truly win.
Aunt Elaine flew around the space of her dance, her joy expressing itself in every movement as she located the stars that were those she'd lost, heard them acknowledge the finding, answer her as she told them she loved them, cupping them briefly in her hands. I saw her find Kennedy, Willow's love before Lydia, killed by Amy Madison's pet Slayer. Aunt Elaine found Linnea, for whom Aunt Dawn had named her daughter, cupped her star, loved her through it. She found Helena Parris, missing one hand and turning that to her advantage, Elise Morgan, stuck on crutches from an injury before she'd become a Slayer, who'd learned to fight using her crutches as weapons and done her share of damage anyway, Rona Thompson, a veteran of the Battle of the First who'd had stamina like nothing she'd ever seen before. She found and held Riley and Samantha Finn, founding members of START who'd given their all against Amy Madison, Vivian Chaucer, Vincent's first love, who had died in the Battle of Bloomington, used her dying breath to remind him that he was human, and that humans went on after those they'd love died. (Vivian's star was in the constellation of Leo— how perfectly wonderful that little touch was!)
And finally, slowly, Aunt Elaine looked around for the star that was Alex Harris, her pain at losing him and joy at discovering that he was still out there mingling on her face and in every motion of her dance. The music softened as she searched, swelled to a quiet crescendo as she reached up and cupped between her hands a star the precise shade of red that Alex's friend Chief had been, cradled it lovingly… and wept tears of relief and release as she danced those same emotions around the star that was Alex, telling him she loved him, telling him goodbye… for now.
Then the music became madcap joy and triumph, defied everything sad and hurtful, skirled up and let Aunt Elaine chase it laughing around the sky, darting from one loved and cherished star to another, dancing for them, telling them with her movements that she loved them, that she'd never forget them, never stop loving them.
Finally, Aunt Elaine used her jets to fly a great circle, her long, lean body arcing cleanly as she flew a great, outward-spiraling circle, then jetted back to the center of her dance space and used the last of her jets to stop exactly in the center of the dance-space— and threw her arms and legs out wide in a last expression of joy and triumph.
As the scene faded, words faded in, words that not even those of us who'd seen the dance had known, the title of the dance….
Souls, Like Scattered Stars….
The credits started then— and they started with the words, "This dance was inspired by those I— and the people I love— have lost down the years," followed by a list of names that started with Aunt Elaine's parents, went through all the Slayers, family and friends we've lost. The list included Jeanne Robinson— and ended with Alex's name.
Then came the actual credits, then the lights came up— and Spider Robinson said in a low, reverential voice that broke with emotion, "Thank you, Elaine. God, thank you!"
Then the applause started— and for a small number of people, we made a hell of a lot of noise!
Joyce was on her feet and hugging Aunt Elaine two seconds in, and she only stopped when her mother gently pulled her away. Once Joyce was clinging to Xander, Buffy turned to Aunt Elaine, flung herself into Aunt Elaine's arms and hugged her, wept on her, clung to her and kissed her cheeks and lips repeatedly. Then came Xander's turn— then Spider Robinson took a turn, then everybody else, one at a time and in groups.
Afterward, the only thing to do was go have a party.
Spider Robinson got introduced around, insisted that we all call him Spider, and I've never met a man more instantly likeable than him. He ended up staying at Scooby Mansion for a few days, since Giles insisted, pointing out that without the dream Aunt Elaine had gotten from Stardance, well… we'd never have seen the two miracles she'd made. Spider accepted that with thanks— and for the next week, he was around, getting to know us, letting us get to know him, and generally becoming "Grandpa" to me as much as Giles was.
After dinner that night— a big dinner, ordered out, no one felt like cooking— we got to repay him some, thanks to my man.
"I just wish I could have seen that in space," Spider said. "Hell, for that matter, I wish I could go to space, period. But… I'm seventy years old, and the old bones won't take the acceleration."
I felt Colin, whom I was cuddled up to at the moment, shift, looked up to see him looking at Uncle Ballard with a raised eyebrow. Uncle Ballard nodded, grinning, but I didn't get it— I'm slow, sometimes.
"Spider," Colin said, gently untangling himself from me and standing, "you can go to space. Name the time, make the arrangements for a place to stay— and I'll get you up there. I'm sure Ballard can arrange things, he did it this last time."
Oh! I finally got it!
"I don't get you," Spider said, looking curious. "How can you get me up to orbit with smacking me around with seven gravities? You got an anti-gravity device in your pocket?"
Colin grinned— and he flew up to the ceiling, hovered there for a moment, said, "Not exactly, but it'll do 'til the real thing comes along."
"Holy shit," Spider said, staring at Colin with an expression of wonder and delight on his face. "You're… flying!"
"Yes," Colin said. "I can make escape velocity when I'm in a hurry, but I don't need to do that— I'm not limited by fuel concerns, so you never need to experience more than one gravity. We happen to have a fairly comfortable transport laying around that we used to get pseudo dragons to and from Asimov Station, and Sh'rin rode back with them, so her broken arm wouldn't be made worse."
"You… you'd do that for me?" Spider said. "I mean— I know, I helped write Stardance, but still—"
"But nothing," Uncle Ballard said. "You've done the whole world a favor, Spider. Well, we'll pay some of that back."
"I— yes!" Spider said, almost shouted. "Jesus Christ, yes!"
"Make the arrangements through Ballard," Colin said, dropping back to the ground, then to the loveseat we were sharing.
"Yes, I'll— yes!" Spider said. His grin grew wider, and he said, "Now— how the hell do you do that!?"
We spent the rest of the evening just talking and relaxing— wonderful.
The next day went quietly, a long, gentle progression of time that left everyone relaxed and comfortable. At seven, we gathered before the big screen TV in the living room of Scooby Mansion, with other TVs set up around the place so that everyone could see clearly. At five minutes to seven, all TVs were set to the local NBC station, since NBC had won the auction for the broadcast.
At seven, the screen went to the NBC logo, and a voice said, "NBC is proud to bring you, with limited commercial interruption, the broadcast premiere of Elaine Marshall's Dance the Heavens Home, followed by her new dance, recorded only three days ago."
We saw a single, long Pepsi commercial, featuring dancing as the central theme— then the screen switched to familiar features of Josh Hayward, a famous movie critic who worked for NBC sometimes, who said, "In 1979, science fiction author Spider Robinson and his wife, dancer and choreographer Jeanne Robinson, released a science fiction novel called Stardance, about the first human to go into space for the sole purpose of creating art, and the events that flowed forth from that action. That first section of that novel, a novella called, like the book, Stardance, won both the Hugo and Nebula awards for science fiction.
"In 2001, Elaine Marshall's dance teacher gave her a copy of the novel— and Elaine, a promising dancer herself, fell in love with the book.
"In 2013, Elaine Marshall fulfilled a dream she'd had since first reading that book, and created the dance she called Dance the Heavens Home, danced it in outer space and zero gravity— and the DVD of that dance has made her a fortune that she richly deserves.
"Three days ago, Elaine Marshall gave us a second dance— and her husband arranged with us to broadcast it, with her permission. NBC chairman David Nordstrom spoke to the lady herself later, and received permission to broadcast Dance the Heavens Home before broadcasting the new dance, whose title we will not reveal until it is seen at the end of the performance— because to do so would be to cheat you, the audience.
"Dance the Heavens Home is twenty two minutes with the credits, and it will run without interruption. After it ends, there will be a two minute commercial break, then we will go directly to the new dance, run it straight through with no interruption— because interrupting it would be a crime. It's thirty-three minutes and change, with the credits, and will be followed by a thirty second commercial before we return to our usual Saturday night schedule.
"Grab a box of tissues, folks— you'll need them.
"Now… watch!"
And they started Dance the Heavens Home. When it ended, we saw a two minute commercial for Asimov Station and its numerous attractions— then the screen went black, and the world went away again.
Souls, Like Scattered Stars lost none of its power on a third viewing. When it ended, we again did the only thing to do after seeing an accomplishment like that— and we had a quiet little party. Again!
The next morning, we found out that Aunt Elaine's dances— heavily advertised in every single media known to man from the moment the papers were signed— had earned NBC TV the highest ratings ever earned by an hour of television by almost half again the previous record-holder. Damn near every newspaper in the world reviewed it, and the vast majority gave it their highest rating.
(The New York Times had a dance critic who published her shortest review ever, consisting of "There are no words. If you didn't see it, buy the DVD as soon as it's on the stands. If you don't want to see it, please resign from the human race." That and six stars on a five star scale!)
Aunt Elaine could probably have walked on up to Asimov Station under her own power after that if it weren't for the need to breathe.
Sunday was one of those perfect, heavenly days full of nothing but happy things. I'd read the books Dad gave me over the last couple of days, and I started training Richter by the methods they suggested Sunday, which was a lot more like play than work. I did a lot of Capoeira, working out with Uncle Ballard, Aunt Dawn and Aunt Elaine, while Spider watched, amazed and delighted with the art. I went to bed for a while with Colin, then went to play a quiet game of Scrabble with Spider, who stomped me into the ground quite cheerfully, and made me laugh while he did it. After that, I went for a long, quiet walk with Richter and Royal, then went home and listened to people talk about nothing much for a bit, before going to bed with Colin and, after we stopped making love, our pseudo dragons and Richter got up on the bed and slept with us.
The next day, I went back into training, working myself as hard as my teachers would let me, then spending a hard, hurtful late afternoon trying vainly to explain to Diane Hodges exactly why never having been actively Chosen by the Scythe hurt me so much, left me feeling so hopelessly inadequate. I had very little luck, but she didn't let that phase her, and didn't let me blame myself for the failure— she jollied me out of it with cheerful threats of calling me Jossie, of beating me about the head and shoulders with a wiffle ball bat, and having Endorphin use my bed as a litter box.
"Jocelyn," Diane said after I'd stopped giggling over that last image, "no blame, here— the big things I'm looking at are these; you're trying, really trying, not just going through the motions— I'm a pro, I can tell the difference— and you came to me. You didn't wait for someone to suggest talking to me, you asked for it. That says to me that you know you're goofy in the emotions, and that you know you're goofy says that I must be Donald Du— no, wait, that's not right.
"It says that you're really trying to get past this, and that says that you will, sooner or later. Patience will out. Give it time. Give yourself time.
"We'll talk again Wednesday— same time, same place. Now, go walk your horse. Puppy. Whichever."
I went and I brushed Richter (he loved that, and I loved doing it), then brushed Abe, because he loves it just as much, and I love doing it for him, too, then had supper.
That night, Mi Kyong had a Slayer dream— and she saw something that all of us had missed, something scary as hell, but that made sense in light of other things we'd learned and heard.
She saw the really, deeply scary thing about Warren Mears as he was at that time— and it's a good thing she did, or a lot of people might have died.