Everybody Calls Me Ma'am by Verity Watson

Chapter #1 - Everybody Calls Me Ma'am

We’d stopped apocalypses before, so many that we argued about the plural form. I liked “apocalypti,” mostly because it’s a fun word to say, even though Giles said it was a corruption of the Latin. But no matter how many Big Bads we’d put down, nothing ever changed much. I mean, I died twice, hello? And other than coming back on the verge of bankruptcy, things were pretty much things. We didn’t even get new furniture for the house in between showdowns, and there were some sofa cushions that really showed the toll. But this time – this time when Spike went all soul-having and world-saving, wouldn’t you know that my whole universe rocked on its axis, and now I’m leaping out of a chopper in a silver unitard that forgives not even one extra serving of lo-fat frozen yogurt? How’d this all happen? Well … turned out that the Council had more money than Bill Gates and the Queen combined. Some because they’d been sitting on it for nearly nine centuries and, hey compound interest, some because Watchers tended to die without heirs and willed all their property to HQ and some relatively new money because it turns out there’s really a Q, like from James Bond. Okay, his name isn’t Q. Xander says that’s really a title anyhow. His name is just plain Joe Smith, and he’s a mousy little guy. But he’s a genius with weaponry and tracking devices and all sorts of shiny pretty things. Joe Smith turned out all sorts of contraptions over the past three decades, and the Council sold them to everyone. Their biggest customer? Can you even guess? Yup, that’s right. A top secret US military division known simply as “The Initiative.” They’re a big step up from my trusty wooden stakes, but despite the steel and aluminum and space age composites, the guns shoot wooden bullets, with the option to switch over to silver or holy water, as required. So I haven’t totally sold out, even though the Kevlar spacesuit does mean that my new Hudson jeans are still in one piece, something that would never have happened on the Hellmouth. Now Willow’s working on a function to add synthetic sunlight, kind of like a laser beam but not, and who knows what they’ll think of next? Right, Willow’s here. Did I mention that? She and Kennedy didn’t last, and we arranged for a quiet and mutually agreeable transfer to Tokyo. Kennedy still sends postcards, funny things that appeal to Willow’s love of Cibo Matto and all things quirky and colorful. But there’s no romance, and I think that’s probably okay. Speaking of Willow … “Hey Buffy! Sorry I’m late,” she apologized, as she hurried towards me. “No problem. I was just … thinking.” She fell into step beside me. The Council owns so much real estate I can’t even begin to keep it straight, but right now we’re walking down Barrack Street, headed towards the Arch Bar in a town that reminds me of Sunnydale, except minus the sun. I don’t know what Loughrea means in Celtic, but grey would be a safe bet. We live in a castle – that’s right, a real live castle – just a little ways from here. It isn’t as glamorous as I thought it would be, and Willow’s been after Joe Smith to do something about interruptions in internet service since about three seconds after we landed, but it’s a good base for our current operations. “So how are the new girls working out?” “Good.” “Seems like that Marie is pretty gung-ho.” “And how. She took out an Arenap demon all by herself.” “Wow. And yet me thinks you don’t much like her.” I blushed, and decided I’d better admit it before Willow heard it first-hand. “She keeps calling me ma’am.” “There’s been a lot of that going around, huh?” “I mean, don’t you have to be somebody’s mom to be called ma’am? Or maybe, I dunno, prime minister?” “I think that all you have to be is in charge, Buffy.” *** Willow’s cell phone rang right after we’d ordered our second round of cider. “Hi, Xander!” she chirped into her cell phone. “How’s Buenos Aires? Really? That’s good.” She flashed me a thumbs up. “Do you want to talk to Buffy? No, oh, okay. I will.” Willow clicked the phone off. “Good news?” “Yeah. It looks like the house there isn’t in bad shape, and it won’t take more than a few weeks to get the security features in place. There’ll probably be trouble with communications, though. He says hi and hugs and all, but the connection wasn’t good.” I nodded. It didn’t take a genius to see that Xander was still taking Anya’s death hard. He’d been miserable, dark and brooding and as un-Xander-like as you can imagine. Then Giles mentioned the vast property holdings waiting to be cataloged and made ready to accommodate our little family – 500 Slayers on the books; another 1300 out there, plus countless new personnel from rebuilding the Watchers’ network and research divisions. He’d barely slept two nights in the same place since, living out of a battered wheelie bag and calling in just enough that we didn’t worry. Much. We drink up, and head back out into the night. Now we have grey and drizzling, but since we set up shop, we’re reasonably confident that we won’t have any vampires. Amazing how a little thing like seven Slayers and the world’s most powerful witch moving in can transform the neighborhood. *** Willow and I dashed the last few feet, as the skies open up and really let us have it. Instead of heading for the common room and the big roaring fire, we go our separate ways. My room is the closest thing the castle has to a master suite. The deBurgo Suite, technically, though most people just call it “Buffy’s room.” The walls are the original stone and there’s this huge four-poster bed, all piled up with pillows. It’s an easy room to love, but it might as well be a room at some fancy bed ’n’ breakfast for all that it reveals about me. My armoire, though, that’s another story. Armed with a real salary and a globe-trotting calling, I’ve bought this and that here and there, and the result is a wardrobe that could put my Sunnydale closets to shame. I shed my wet clothes in favor of yoga pants and a hoodie from this little boutique in Vancouver, then add wool socks because, hey, castle. I brushed out my hair and re-ponytailed, and then I was stuck. I hovered on the threshold. Trouble with being boss lady is that sometimes entering a room can bring all conversation to a screeching halt. The work has always been lonely, but this is a whole new flavor of involuntary solitude. Back in Sunnydale, I was rarely alone. And especially, in recent years, I had him. He was there more than I’d ever even realized, really. He took up so much space, what with his restlessness and his punk rock and his cigarettes. You couldn’t ignore him – believe me, I’d tried. *He’s gone,* I repeated to myself for the billionth time since May. The only place for me is the common room. I can’t be alone when I get like this. Otherwise, I’ll end in bed, rocking like a motherless monkey and longing for things that I can never have. *** I put on a brave face for the group, but it doesn’t matter. The chatter stopped anyway. The ones that have been around for a while look grim. The newcomers seem just plain curious. “What?” I asked. Not very original, but this isn’t the normal hush-up here comes the teacher routine. In the corner of my mind, I can sense something – something off. “Buffy,” Willow started, a hesitant catch in her voice, “it’s about Los Angeles.” “They didn’t get the bid for the 2016 Summer Games?” “No. There’s been a … well, there’s no good way to say this.” She fiddled with her cell phone. “Spike’s back.” “Back?” “Fred called. They’re worried it might signal some prophecy or – something.” “How?” “The amulet. Apparently he didn’t disappear as much as he got trapped inside the stone. Like a genie in a bottle.” I dropped into a leather arm chair, conveniently vacated by one of the newbie Slayers. “Buffy?” It’s Vi, the red-headed Sunnydale vet. “Can I do anything?” “I – I need a minute.” *** An hour later, I was wandering on the parapets when I heard her footsteps. “Go away,” I mumbled. But I knew she wouldn’t listen. “Nice try,” Dawn snorted. “He’s my vampire, too.” I shrugged, and let her wrap an arm around my shoulders. “Don’t you even want to know?” “What’s there to know?” I was a little bit curious, but I also dreaded knowing. “Well, he’s … Fred says he’s non-corporeal.” “He’s the First?” “No. No, he’s some kind of a ghost, but it’s complicated.” “It always is.” Dawn kicked at the stone. “Are you going to go see him?” “Now that’s the million dollar question, isn’t it? I don’t know. I mean … what if he doesn’t want to see me?” Dawn gave me a look. “Buffy, there is no universe in which Spike does not want to see you.” “Maybe,” I sighed. “I wasn’t very good to him, Dawnie.” “Me neither.” “And there’s so much going on here. We’ve got more than a thousand Slayers out there, and this new vampire gang with delusions of world domination and rumors that Caleb left behind a cult of psycho devotees …” “Yeah.” “And maybe … maybe I’m just not ready. First I wasn’t ready for him to not be here, and now I don’t if I’m ready for him to be here … does that make any sense?” Dawn smiled. “Not even a little bit.” “So does he know where we are?” “They told him Rome.” “Rome? Why?” “Your cover, remember?” “Yeah, but only for the bad guys.” She got quiet then. “We’re not sure if he’s on our side, Buffy.” “Oh come on …” “Not Spike,” she hastily corrected. “Not Spike, Buffy. Angel. Wolfram & Hart is the mother lode of badness. No one there knows we’re here. Besides,” she added with a grin, “Can you imagine if they knew you were living in Galway?” I nodded. “Alright. If he’s back – and if he stays and gets his corporeal-ness back, then we’ll … well, we’ll jump off that bridge when we get to it. For now, I’ve got to see if the Slayers are ready for tomorrow’s raid.” I turned to head inside, and as I opened the door, I heard Dawn’s voice, small but clear. “Yes, ma’am.”