The argument began like this:
"I have to be the one to tell Anna, to convince her to repent and turn to the light. I may be the only one who can."
"Why?"
Such a simple question, but so much silence followed it.
"Say it, Drew. Spit it out." Samantha Kessler knew there was a bomb about to be dropped. A big one, from the way Drew turned his head and stared resolutely at the floor. But she had to know what he was thinking right now. The fate of the world might hinge on it.
"Because...I love her." Drew looked miserable as he said it, but it was true.
Erik nodded. "Of course you do. You love all Slayers."
All of them. Not just her. In Nazi-world, Sam-as-vampire felt her grip on humanity slipping, but the battle still had to be fought and won. Even if she turned that rage against their enemies, breaking their bones with her bare hands, and Drew's taser-gun did drop Anna in her tracks, Drew could not convince the Nazi Slayer to repent. Nor could Sam intimidate or shame her into admitting she'd done a great evil, even for a good reason. It was Erik's lighter that made all the difference, burning the Nazi blood flag to cinders in an instant put the world back on the track it was accustomed to.
The argument continued afterward, back in their own world. After the shots rang off the Monastery's stones—Joshua making sure no enemies were behind them. After the funeral pyre was piled with bodies, Anna's last of all, and Tori set the mass on fire. After Erik's grandfather was rescued and convinced to return home. Sam and Drew walked away from the scene, deeper into the woods where the scent of pine partially covered the stench of the fire.
"I think I need to make a change." Sam was mortally exhausted, physically and emotionally drained, but she knew this for truth. "I can't be sleeping with you any more." Not when she knew it was wrong, and the Church frowned on it, and now, she wasn't even sure of Drew's feelings for her.
The statement was a slap in the face for Drew. Hadn't he always been there for her? Loyal and loving and everything, especially recently? Sarcasm bubbled up the surface, not entirely masking the plaintive demand, "What? Are you bored with me now? Want to date other people, try something new before it's too late?" His voice caught. Too late could have been just now, he knew. Or five minutes from now, or next week. "You and I can be 'just friends'?"
"That's just—no, Drew, I am not bored with you. Nor do I want to 'try something new' as you put it. Who do you think I am? Joshua? Ha!" Vehemence lit a new fire in Sam. "Or maybe Britta? No, wait! You think Britta is like me! (Mimicking him) 'I only love them, because they remind me of you.' Do you know how insulting that is? Britta and I have nothing in common, besides the fact that we are—or were—both Slayers. Nothing!"
Drew slid a few words in edgewise. "Yeah. Just a name, a sword, a Calling, a family history dating back centuries. Nothing in common at all."
"That's just context. Circumstances. I mean us, personally. Just for example, Britta's parents were rich. Rich enough to hire her Watcher as a personal tutor for their darling girl, so they could have more time to listen to Wagnerian opera and go to cocktail parties. So, Britta was practically raised by her Watcher. He prepared her for the role she was to play. Trained her daily. Paid attention to her. But it still wasn't enough. She was killed, and turned into the very thing she hated in life. A vampire. Britta's whole un-life is—was—directed by hatred. Hate the Watchers. Kill the Watchers. Turn other Slayers into Vampires. She was certifiably obsessed!
Sam continued her rant, "And Vivian? Pul-leez! Vivian was a bone-deep criminal. Triad. You think I don't know what that means? Look out for number one. Betray whoever you need to, to get ahead. Becoming a vampire was perfect for her. Maybe in Nazi-world they were the lesser of two evils, but here, in my world, they were an obscenity." She punched a tree-trunk, leaving broken bark.
But now, Drew had to stop her. "You're wrong about Vivian. You didn't know her. None of us knew her. Nobody but Preuter, and the Watchers won't give me those diaries." He was actually mad now, as mad as he'd ever been at Sam. "But she was Slayer for a year. You have no idea what she did. What would have happened to this town—or this world—if she hadn't been here before you were ready to take her place?" Drew actually shook his finger in Sam's face. "Don't you tell me she was a criminal! While I was reading comics and playing games and you were running track and...detailing your truck, she was risking her life every night to protect us. Nobody gets to denigrate that. Not even you."
Drew stopped, surprised at himself, and equally surprised that Sam didn't immediately kill him, or worse, walk away. Sam found she had to smile, just a little. She knew she stepped over the line, and deep inside, was glad that Drew called her on it. Drew saw that smile as encouraging, and tried another tack.
"Yeah, okay, as vamps, they were kinda creepy." He rubbed his neck, remembering half-healed bite marks that had been there in that other world. "So were you, if you hadn't noticed. So was I, and I don't even have the excuses the three of you had." He softened the next words. "But you don't judge them by what they became when they lost their souls. You judge them by what they were when they had them."
"You're right. Of course you're right. God knows Tori and I didn't resemble ourselves much in that world, either." Sam stuffed her hands into her pockets. "In boring-normal-world, I thought Vivian was pretty nice, actually. She graduated with us, and her mother ran a dry cleaner's. I even thought we might have been friends, if not for the whole Slayer-thing."
But there was always the Slayer-thing. The way it worked, there was only ever one Slayer at a time. The only exceptions involved vampirism, or time travel. Or memories. The Watchers kept the diaries, which were the Slayer's memories. But they only shared those memories sparingly, if at all. Not for the first time, Sam wondered what might have happened if she'd had a proper Watcher from the beginning, like Britta did. Would she know more, or less, about her 'Sisters' across the centuries? Probably less. Most of what she and Drew knew came at the cost of stealing the information from the Watchers themselves. But this was an old line of thought, and didn't need to be repeated just now.
While Sam marshaled her thoughts, Drew tried to direct the argument back to the core issue, although he knew it was going to hurt:
"Whether you're bored with me... what am I supposed to think, Sam? You won't sleep with me; you'll barely even talk to me except to yell at me. All year long, you're drooling after Erik and your art teacher."
Sam looked like 'Huh?' "Erik? I thought we dealt with that last year." She mumbled.
But Drew plowed on. "And, okay, if that happened now, I'd understand. Or after I blew up Mr. Barrows, or you found out Melina and I had been an item in a previous life. But I didn't do anything this time. You're just mad at me all the time for no reason. So, great, yippee, now you have a reason. Or is it just now you have an excuse? Do you even love me anymore?"
She sighs. "I still love you, Drew. I love you. The one who watches out for me, and fights beside me, who used to joke with me and talk me down when the world got too hairy-scary. Took me long enough to admit it; I'm not going to back out on it now."
Drew's anger visibly deflates. A ghost of his former grin flickers across his face, but Sam has to get it all out, to tell him why she's been acting this way.
"But this isn't just one argument. It's everything rolled up into one, like a dam with a crack in it. The pressure builds, and builds, until it all gives way. You're right. I've been a righteous bitch. Mostly, I've been mad at you because your inheritance, on top of everything else, pissed me off so much." She holds up a hand to forestall any interruption, yet. "And I know it wasn't your fault. I know. But that doesn't change the whole unfairness of it. Joshua gets a castle in Scotland. Tori's always had money. Erik and his family have never been hurting, either, with his grandfather supporting them. Then, you inherit this awesome place in Jamaica, which is next-best thing to paradise, even with the bottomless pit and having to deal with Wolfram & Hart. And, on top of that, it's a rum-making operation. You know how much I hate alcohol? Of course you do. I'd almost rather it grew marijuana or coca leaves instead. Alcohol ruined my childhood. And now, the man I love, through no fault of his own, is handed a direct contribution to the alcoholic content of the world. How am I supposed to feel about that?" Sam slams a fist into her other palm. "It pisses me off, is what! And it pisses me off even more that we can't do a blessed thing about it, unless the legal-eagles can find a way to get around that damn contract so you can sell the cane to Dixie Sugar or plant some other kind of crop instead."
Drew is flabbergasted. All this high drama, and it comes down to: money. "That's what this is about? You're jealous of me? God, Sam. First, I wouldn't loose too much sleep being jealous of Erik. Yeah, there was the occasional extravagant gift, but basically his grandfather's money mostly went to pay the bills his parents couldn't. And imagine what a great family atmosphere that created. I practically grew up at his house and it wasn't that much different than mine. Except more Renn Faire crap lying around. Not exactly the Clark manor, believe me." Drew spread his hands toward downtown. "And, as for me, my evil rum plantation is your evil rum plantation. You want a key to the house? Let's go down to Harris's Hardware and make you a key. Just try not to spill lemonade on the tweed. Hartsdale hates that."
Sam shook her head. "Don't want it. I wonder, though, if we got Tori to burn all the sugar cane right to the ground, that would be an act of A god, if not The God, right? Blame it on a lightning storm. Then you'd have a plausible reason to not supply the pirate company, and stick it to the insurance company at the same time! What d'ya think?"
Drew considered that. "Hmm. Maybe. Although two years in a row is going to be kind of suspicious. And sticking it to the insurance company, I mean, it's not like they've ever done anything to us. It's still a little risky—it's not like Tori leaves any evidence, but if Wolfram & Hart was able to figure it out they might be use it to take the plantation away from me. If Tori'd even do it. And, come to think of it, there's no way W&H wouldn't figure it out. My whole crop just happens to burn down two years in a row when Tori just happens to be in town. Heck, even the Jamaican police are going to figure that out. Besides, I don't know if Tori's up for insurance fraud, even in a good cause." Something about the scenario bothered Drew, something he read about in the Jamaican news archives, something about fire.
He broke out laughing. When Sam looked at him sideways, Drew explained. "I just remembered something, about growing sugar cane and fire. They have to have it. All those news articles, some of them mentioned the 'yearly burn' at harvest time. The cane is like bamboo, too tough to burn, but if you don't get rid of the leaves and undergrowth, the workers cut themselves up on the sharp edges. So, if Tori did burn it hot enough to take down the canes as well, everyone would know that it wasn't a natural fire."
"Oh, well. Just a foolish thought. We shouldn't even be thinking about more illegal activities when we've still got to face all those weapons charges." Sam sighed. Yet another real-world complication intruding on her nice, quiet little life.
Drew went on. "I could talk to Hartsdale, though. We can't really destroy the crop, but a series of bad decisions could maybe cut down the size a bit. As long as they get something, it's not like it's fraud, since they're only paying for what they get. We still have to sell enough to make expenses—the last thing we want is that property in bankruptcy court. But we don't necessarily have to raise every ounce of sugar the land can possibly support, either. After all this time, you don't think I know how much you hate alcohol? I get it Sam, and I'd get out of that contract in a second if I could do it without turning the pit back over to Wolfram & Hart. But I'm stuck for two years. Then it's Domino Sugar or Dixie or whoever, and I'll be safely contributing to the fattening of America, rather than it's intoxication. I haven't even looked at what that will do to the bottom line. I don't care. Do you think it matters to me? There's nothing more I can do. If that's not enough, then we have to find some beer company pennant and a medieval corkscrew and sacrifice a frat boy to create an alternate history where I grow lemons or something." Drew stops abruptly. "Sorry. That wasn't funny."
But after all they'd just been through, Sam had to laugh. "Yeah, it was, kind of."
Drew chuckled, too. "But, in this universe, there's nothing more I can do except give a bunch of evil lawyers a prize they've been plotting for centuries and killed thousands of people for. And that I won't do. And you don't even want me to."
"You know me so well." Sam had to admit, if this argument were a tennis match, Drew would be winning handily. Ten-love, twenty-love. She'd been smashing every point right to the back wall, out of bounds, but just getting them out felt better than having all that pressure built up inside. "Envy has had a field day with both of us. For you, there was Stephie, and Melina, not to mention the loving-all-Slayers thing." There, she said it.
Drew had the grace to look abashed. "Look, I'm sorry about Anna, and Britta, and Vivian, and I know how it sounds. I don't think I'm explaining this well. I don't know if I even can. It's just—that first year, when I was reading all those diaries, trying to learn about the Cruciamentum, trying to find the lessons of their lives—and deaths—and figure out how you could apply them to yours. I don't know; you just all got tangled up in my head. And now I can't separate any of it." Drew stepped in front of her, forcing them both to stop and face each other. "But I can tell you to the second when I fell in love with you, Sam. It was in that alley, when you grabbed my arm away from Kitty and said, 'he's with me.' And I knew I wasn't, really, but I'd never wanted anything in the world more than I wanted that to be true. And the thing is, Sam, we didn't even know what the Slayer was, then. Much less that you were one. So, I don't know if I'm explaining this well. But you have to understand this at least—what I feel about you isn't about them; what I feel about them is about you. Even if none of the rest of it makes sense, believe that—that it's all about you."
Sam teared up and looked away. This was what she needed to hear, most of all, but there was one thing left to explain. She continued quickly, "Well, on my side, I was mighty flattered when Erik admitted he was attracted to me. I mean, here I had two guys vying for my attention. That never happened to me before. I know he's your best friend, and you're obviously still worried about it, or you wouldn't have said anything. But that was last year. Now he's with Juanita, so that's," Sam waved her hands like smoothing something over, "Done and over with."
Sam turned to face back toward the monastery. The glow of the pyre was burning down and darkness was encroaching again. "But then, there's Prof. Malion, who's a whole different story. A myth, actually." Sam chuckled. "The myth of Pygmalion."
Now it was Drew's turn to go 'Huh?' "The sculptor who carved a perfect woman in marble, and dedicated her to Aphrodite?" They started walking together, slowly, back toward the courtyard.
"That's the one. Well, Professor M. isn't actually Pygmalion himself, but he is a sculptor and he worships Aphrodite. Sort of a male Venusian. I don't think he actually has love-powers, but there might be a pheromone thing going on there. It's not just me. Everyone seems to be instinctively well disposed toward him." Sam hunched her shoulders, suddenly embarrassed. "Also, one of your Actaeon faces looked exactly like him. I saw his face on the monitor at the Sacred Grounds, how he examined my dragon sculpture so, well, appreciatively, and I remembered where I saw that face before." She had to chuckle wryly. "The Actaeon curse was matching people up by ideal pie-in-the-sky love, not real-world relationship love. You notice how many faces were actors and actresses? I think Erik's wasn't really me; it was his cartoon image of me. So, it fits. Professor M. worships the goddess of ethereal love, so Actaeon somehow glommed onto him. And he is a good artist. He destroyed all of Professor Rosalini's nasty sculptures when he took over the art studio. So, the crush, the curse, the whole thing makes sense, and none of it is real. I'm not going to take any more of his classes, so that's over and done with, too."
Drew looked away. Was that really all there was to it? "Um, look. This Professor Malion? Is he a good teacher? 'Cause, I mean, you're not going to stop taking a good class from someone who you're learning stuff from just because of me? I mean, that would be pretty stupid."
"Yeah, he's a good teacher. He appreciates the work we put in, and always has something nice to say to everyone. But there's only the one class on metal sculpture, which I'm taking now." Sam waved a hand. "Erik can have all the drawing and painting stuff. I'm not about to switch majors. I'm just glad I got my Div. I class filled this year."
Drew looked more than a little relieved at that. "Good. Because I wouldn't want you to not take his class just because of me." To someone who wasn't Sam, that might have even sounded convincing. Well, maybe.
And thus the argument came to an end. Sam and Drew met their friends in the Monastery's parking lot. The pile of bodies was nothing but ashes blowing into the far corners of the courtyard, and sirens sounded in the distance. Before Solomon's Finest could find them again, Joshua tore off on his motorbike and Sam and Tori gave the rest rides home.