“I will always believe in you. And while I regret my haste in sending you, what you did in Dublin is incredible. Especially considering that you’ve had no training. Your abilities are genuinely astonishing. I guess there is something to the notion of saving the best for last. Apparently even when it comes to Slayers.”
It’s so much the opposite of my mother’s reaction—even Artemis’s reaction—that I stand there stunned. Eve not only wants me to be a Slayer; she thinks I’m doing a good job.
She squeezes my shoulder. “Don’t worry about Cosmina or Dublin. Bradford Smythe and I are looking into it. Best to keep it quiet, though. Your mother, Wanda, and Ruth don’t know, and I would like to keep it that way.”
“Right. Of course. Anything I can help with?”
She shakes her head. “You already did your part, and you should be very proud.” She beams, then walks away to wherever she was going.
Happier, I settle on a pile of mats in the corner of the gym. I need to research more about the Coldplay demon too, but he’s not going anywhere. Cillian has texted me regular updates, so I know he’s safe. For now my own questions about being a Slayer feel more pressing.
My father’s diary is thick, the pages worn and wrinkled. He wasn’t only Buffy’s Watcher. He had two other Slayers before her. I was always proud that he got to be Watcher to so many Slayers. But now that I’m a Slayer, I realize that means he had to bury two Slayers. Because Slayers don’t retire. They die.
I crack the book open to somewhere in the middle. I don’t recognize his handwriting, which makes me feel a sharp pang of loss. It’s messy, but his thoughts are well organized. This section has notes on training techniques that have had more success than others, as well as an anecdote on his Slayer facing a gang of vampires that had taken over a small town. The Slayer lured them to a cemetery, where my father had set up booby traps to take them out one by one so the Slayer’s odds would be better.
A tear splashes down onto the page, making the word it fell on blurry and indistinct. Even though he never told us about this, Artemis and I have used half these booby traps in our own rooms over the years. I know fighting vampires isn’t genetic, but between his skills and my grandmother’s Slayer status, maybe I really was born for this.
I feel a sudden intense connection to my father. I might not remember him very well, but we’ve carried on his legacy in more ways than we realized.
And I’m certain that my father would be proud of me being a Slayer. My mother might hate it—might even hate me for it—but my father would be as proud of me as he is of this girl he writes about with professional affection. I wish he were here to train me. He wouldn’t have kept my Potential status hidden. He would have prepared me. Would have used our years together to help me become the greatest Slayer ever.
For the first time, I’m genuinely happy about being a Slayer. Not just elated over the physical tricks I can do or high on adrenaline. But truly happy. Because I can see how much my dad cared, how proud he was of this girl, in the way he writes about her.
And I can pretend it’s me. I can imagine that he would have extended that same pride and care to my own training. My father loved these girls like they were his own. How much more would he have loved a Slayer who really was his own? If he were alive, everything would be different. My mother would still be herself. Artemis would never have had to take care of me, because he would have. And I would have been trained, prepared, truly watched over.
Wiping away my tears, I skip ahead. Half of me hopes there will be entries on his family, even though I know this was a professional journal, not a personal one. And then I stop. I’ve hit the section where he’s preparing to meet a new Slayer.
Bu
ffy.
It’s close to the end of the book. Because it’s close to the end of everything.
“I’m concerned about the prophecy,” he writes. “Helen insists we needn’t worry, but these things are always more complicated than they seem on the surface. I told Helen I wasn’t going to take the assignment. But this new Slayer is the least-prepared girl I have ever seen. I got the preliminary surveillance. It is, quite frankly, terrifying. I am not one to judge the system, as the ancient power knows more than I do about whose potential will translate into the Slayer most needed for our time, but . . . surely it chose wrong?”
I snort. Then I reread the first part that references my mom. I remember a prophecy about Buffy. It had to do with the Master, the first major vampire threat she faced after moving to Sunnydale. Something about “the Master will rise and the Slayer will die.” It came true. She did die. It just didn’t stick. Buffy always was bad at following the rules.
But . . . the Watchers didn’t have that prophecy at the time. Her weirdo vampire-with-a-soul boyfriend gave Rupert Giles the prophecy after my father died. I remember, because there was a whole stink about how a vampire could have access to a prophecy the Watchers didn’t. So my father couldn’t have known about that one. He’s talking about another prophecy.
And if the prophecy was about Buffy, why would he want to turn down being her Watcher? It doesn’t make any sense. I wish I could ask my mom about it, but that’s not going to happen.
“I have to accept the assignment,” my father’s words continue. “Buffy needs me. I won’t entrust her life and safety to anyone else. Helen will see that the prophecy never comes true. Bradford will help. And my girls will never—”
It has to be a different prophecy. Something more personal, if he’s mentioning us. But what? I eagerly look to the next page.
It’s gone. It’s been sliced out. The next page starts midsentence with details about his first disastrous training session with Buffy, and his fears that the ancient vampire Lothos had already begun to hunt for her. No mention of our family.
I close it. I can’t read the rest. I can’t read how hard he worked to train Buffy, to prepare her, knowing what it results in. My father buried two Slayers. And then we had to bury him, because of Buffy.
I stand and slam my fist into a punching bag. It breaks free of the chain, sliding across the floor and hitting the wall so hard it bursts at the seams.
I hear a couple of slow claps, then, “Wow.”
I spin around to find Leo behind me. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to. I was—” I cut myself off. I’m a badass Slayer who can bust up some punching bags without anyone’s permission. I want Leo to get mad at me, to chastise me, so I can yell back at him.
Leo bends down and examines the bag. “These facilities were designed for Watchers. Not Slayers. It’s not your fault you’re stronger than all of them put together.”
Not exactly the fight I was hoping for. I grab a broom from a closet to help clean up. When I turn back, Leo’s holding the diaries.