Prologue
"Exactly that. Only they're not statues," he said, pointing to the alcove. "They're called the Lonely Assassins. No one quite knows where they came from, but they're as old as the universe, or very nearly, and they have survived this long because they have the most perfect defense system ever evolved. They are quantum-locked."
"Okay, so how do I slay it?" Buffy asked, wanting to get to the important part.
"You can't. Well, it'll be difficult. See, they don't exist when they're being observed. The moment they are seen by any other living creature, they freeze into rock. No choice. It's a fact of their biology. In the sight of any living thing, they literally turn to stone. Except with your friend, the vampire." -The 10th Doctor & Buffy Summers, "Don't Blink."
The world shifted.
One moment, Buffy was standing in her Watcher's garden surrounded by the familiar hum of 21st-century technology, and the next, she was plopped down in a place that seemed straight out of a history book. Or a movie set. Buffy was really hoping this was a movie set. Emma. Sense and Sensibility. Pride & Prejudice—the one with Colin Firth. Those were all great movies. Her mother loved those movies. Wouldn't it be something if she had been transported on a movie set? She could navigate a movie set. She'd heard that the catering on movie sets was to die for!
Buffy rubbed her eyes, taking in the sights and the sounds around her. And the smell. Oh, god, the smell was something else—a mixture of human and animal waste and probably dead things. Buffy was used to the smell of dead things. But this was like the after-party of a zombie convention, and someone had used up all the air freshener.
Buffy smelled all the smells—they were not fancy catering smells. Maybe realistic horror-movie, special effects smells? But she didn't see a single camera, boom mic, or key grip—whatever those were—in sight.
Dense fog wrapped around the streets of London, the sharp chill making her skin prickle. The muted morning light filtered through the haze, casting long, eerie shadows. Everywhere she looked, people moved with a purpose she couldn't fathom, their clothes and demeanor utterly alien. She felt like a brightly colored peacock in a flock of sparrows.
The fabric of her dress fluttered against her legs, its modern cut and color drawing attention from everyone who noticed her standing there in a sundress, jean jacket, and Doc Martens. A fashionable outfit in the 21st century, but wholly underdressed and practically naked wherever—whenever—she was now. The sensation of dozens of eyes on her made Buffy's skin crawl. Men in top hats paused mid-conversation, women in bonnets whispered behind gloved hands, and children stopped to gawk openly.
'Toto, I have a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore,' Buffy thought, her heart racing, her throat constricting with fear.
A sharp whistle broke through her spiraling thoughts. Buffy turned toward the sound. A police officer pointed in her direction with a stern face. He marched toward her with purpose, and Buffy's pulsed leaped furiously. What did I do? I've only been here two seconds, and the police are after me already. Is it because of how I'm dressed?
Desperation urged her legs to move. Instinct kicked in, and Buffy began to run, knocking into a sea of unfamiliar faces blocking her path. Each step felt labored, the weight of her new reality pressing down on her with each heartbeat. Her mind flashed back to Giles' garden and the statue of his great-grandfather, Percival Fairweather. One blink and the once inert effigy had come to life before her.
The Doctor's warning about weeping angels and cherubs echoed in her mind. But he'd never mentioned statues of real people springing to life. The thing had appeared out of nowhere. Before Buffy could process what was happening, she blinked, and now she was running through the streets of old-timey London with a police officer on her heels.
Just as she felt the cold fingers of despair clutching at her, a rough hand seized her arm, yanking her into the cool shadows of an alleyway. It was a young woman, maybe a little older than Buffy herself, dressed in a worn dress. She had a kind, yet world-weary, face.
She pressed a finger against her lips, urging Buffy to stay silent. Together, they waited as the echoing footsteps of the police officer grew faint.
Once certain they were safe, the woman turned to Buffy with curious eyes. "You ain't from 'round here, are ya?"
Buffy swallowed, her throat dry. "Where am I?"
"In London," she replied.
Buffy's eyes welled up, the enormity of her situation crashing down around her. She fought the urge to cry, to scream, to do anything to wake herself from this nightmare. "When am I?" Her voice shook.
"Ma'am?" The girl frowned, obviously put off by Buffy's question.
"What year is this?"
The tavern girl hesitated, her expression confused. "1874, o' course."
The world seemed to close in on Buffy. The city sounds became muffled, replaced by the loud drumming of her heart in her ears. She felt the walls of the alley press in on her, her knees threatening to buckle. Then everything went black.