Page 65 of Slayer (Slayer 1)

I want to scream, to cry out for help.

“That’s right,” the darkness whispers. “You can’t do anything.” I feel the presence shift closer, feel its ice-cold breath brush my ear. “You can’t save any of them.”

I gasp, finally breaking free of the paralysis of the dream. Only to find myself on a rooftop in San Francisco. Buffy sits, small and alone, on the edge looking out over the sunset. I don’t have time for this.

If I were really a Slayer, if I were a hunter like Artemis, I would run forward and push her off. Dream or not, I owe her. I owe her for everything messed up and crappy in my life. She defied the Watchers and ruined the order of everything. She let in so much chaos that the First was able to rise and kill almost all my people.

And she got my father killed.

“You didn’t deserve him!” I shout, consumed by my anger toward Buffy. “He should have let Lothos kill you! The whole world would have been better off!”

I don’t know if it’s the wind blowing her hair or if her shoulder moves in a shrug. I want to hurt her. I want her to know how it feels to lose everything, how it feels to be powerless, how it feels to—

The edges of the dream pull tight, then snap.

• • •

I hit the floor running. Or at least I try to. I’m a little dizzy and winded.

If I visited Buffy in a Slayer dream, then maybe what came before was a Slayer dream too. I’ve got to check on Bradford Smythe. I almost run into Leo in the hall as he comes toward my room.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“I think Bradford is in danger!”

He falls immediately into place next to me as I tear through the castle and into the residence wing. I pause outside the old man’s door. I’m glad Leo’s here. Whatever I walk in on, it’s nice to have someone by my side.

I knock. There’s no answer. I knock louder. Then I try the doorknob. It’s locked. “Bradford! Bradford, let me know you’re okay, or I’m breaking down your door!”

“What’s going on?” Eve leans into the hallway from her room.

Wanda Wyndam-Pryce’s door opens and she peers out blearily, clutching a silk robe around herself. “Keep it down!”

For a few seconds I question myself. Leo’s voice is almost a whisper. “Kick it down,” he says.

I do.

The wood cracks and splinters with a single kick, the door hanging wildly on one hinge. I push through. My stomach sinks. It’s the room from my dream, even though I’ve never been inside. I rush to Bradford’s bedside, take his wrist between my fingers.

No pulse.

Leo throws open the drapes to give me some light. Bradford Smythe’s body is already blue and gray, mottled with death. His skin is cold.

I do CPR anyway. I do it as Wanda comes into the room and lets out a wounded cry. I do it as Ruth Zabuto wanders in and comforts Wanda. I do it until a hand comes down on my shoulder.

“It’s too late,” my mother says. “You couldn’t have saved him.”

I shake my head, still checking his wrist. “I could have. I knew this was happening. I saw it!”

“What do you mean, you saw it?” Eve asks.

“In a dream! There was something on top of Bradford. It was draining him or something.”

“Was he in pain?” my mother asks.

I finally drop his wrist. The only way he’s coming back is as something no longer human, and I hope that’s not the case. I don’t want to have to kill him after failing to save him. “No. He wasn’t in pain. He was—well, he wasn’t in pain.”

“He had a bad heart,” Eve says.