Touch of Shadow

Hi all ~ Here is the first part of my Slayer fic for watchersdiaries. Hope you like it! :)


Title: Touch of Shadow
Author: Tiana
Rating: R for swearing, violence, sexual references
Summary: The story of Bella, The Slayer in New York and Washington, D.C. in the late 80’s. A vampire named Ian follows her on patrol on the streets of D.C.
Disclaimer:I don't own any of the concepts of the Jossverse, but I am borrowing the idea of the Slayer and vampires from there.

Author’s Note: This is the companion piece to Taste of Honey, posted earlier this month to this community. That piece was from Ian’s POV and this one is from Bella’s. Part 2 (which includes Ian) will be up later tonight.

Hope you enjoy!

Part 1:

Technically I staked my first vampire when I was 15, but I think I could have held a stake from the day my fingers would fit around one. That’s how good it felt when Rosemary placed my very first stake in my hand for the very first time. I remember the curve of the wood grain, the smoothness where someone’s hand had held it before, the balanced weight of it. To me, it was light as a feather and an immediate part of my hand. I looked up at Rosie, as I call her and she hates, and saw a soft look I didn’t recognize. Pride? Sadness? Pretty damn weird. I didn’t get it then. I get it now.

Rosie says she doesn’t like to take notes, so she’s given me this mini-tape recorder thingie. Wants me to tell my Adventures in Slayerland or something. Lame. But I’m getting used to it. Made me self-conscious at first. The first tapes are full of “Staked eight vamps tonight. Seven male. All smelled like hell.” Not too helpful, she informed me. Some nights I just let it run while I’m patrolling so it’s full of startled screams and quiet night noises. When Rosie listens to those tapes, I can see her get lost in it. Hypnotized kind of. Once I swore she was gonna cry. She blamed it on dust in her eye. I’ve heard better excuses. Hell, I’ve made better excuses. It took awhile to find out why she reacted that way.

Other nights, I’ve just talked into the recorder. Nice to have someone - something - listen to you. I didn’t have that for a long time.

Oh god, I can hear the violins now. Here comes Bella’s sad sob story. Boo hoo.

I’ll make it quick so we can get back to our previously scheduled program. My world caved in when I was 11. That’s when my Mom died. My loser biological father had never been around and now when I could have used him, he couldn’t be found. So, I was off into the system. Foster care. Hell on earth. Ran off from a group home when I was 14. I was always quick. Made my way with my quick hands. Learned how to disappear. The best way to avoid attention on the streets. One night, I thought I was well hidden. I’d heard a gang of thugs raising hell and I slipped into the shadows to keep from getting their attention. That’s when I met Rosie. She came out of nowhere and scared the living shit out of me. I’d just turned 15 and had spent a solid year learning how not to be found. And she just walked up to me like I was wearing blaze orange.

And if I thought that was weird, it was nothing compared to what came next. Chosen One. One girl in all the world. Slayer. Vampires. Hell, I knew about a lot of the things that went bump in the night, but this was news to me. I figured she was on some serious dope and took off before she took a razor blade to me. I did think she was awfully well-dressed for a junkie, but still. She was talking some serious shit.

She found me every night for the next seven. No matter where I took cover. For that alone, I had to respect her. Finally, she offered me something hot to eat and I came with her - to listen. Just listen.

Yeah, right. She’s really freakin’ persistent, is Rosie. Hounded me until I came off the streets and took a room in her apartment. Nice, too. Upper West Side by the Park. I asked where she got the money, but as usual, she was all cryptic. Council pays for it, she said. I could never get used to the plush chairs and everything framed in gold shit when we lived there. And having the doorman call me Miss Bella. Too weird. Even today, I’m still more comfortable sliding down wet, dank alleys unnoticed. Especially since I’m now wicked strong and even faster than ever. Yep, being Chosen does not altogether suck.

It took a year before I could actually elude Rosie. My Watcher. And she does. Sometimes I don’t even know it. That’s how good she is. When I asked her why she could do the things she does, she would change the subject. Frowned. Got a little line right between her eyebrows every time I brought it up. I dropped it and stopped asking. I’m not exactly full of details on my life, either, so I could hardly bitch at her for keeping a secret.

So, that’s a little bit of how I came to be told I was the Slayer. What I would soon learn from Rosie is that being told you are the Slayer and actually being the Slayer were two entirely different things.

Yeah, I was the new Slayer. I was also totally raw, unskilled and had no formal training in fighting. Though, Rosie was impressed when we first took on a vamp together. I had to tell her I spent my formative years learning how to defend myself from all sorts of nasties in foster care. Wandering hands and tough girl bullies and sleazy guardians. All of it taught me the power of violence. I don’t talk much usually. For years, I made it a point. Less said the better. Punch first, ask questions later. I was fast, angry and most importantly, ruthless. I was going to win. I was going to survive. My Mom taught me some good stuff before she died. About how to last in this world. Even though she couldn’t. Not any of the violence stuff. No, she taught me about strength of will. I used that to survive the four years between her death and Rosie’s arrival. In those days in between, I just looked for the next sunrise. I still do, in a way.

I talk more now. Took awhile. Rosie is persistent, as I mentioned. I think the tape recorder is a trick to get me to talk. Don’t care, though. It listens.

Sorry. I’m rambling all over the place. She wants me to talk about my early years a little. I’m trying. So, the first time we went out to stake a vamp, I was not scared. Doesn’t make any sense. Fifteen years old. Should have been shaking. But like I said, Rosie put that stake in my hand and in my mind, I was the Slayer. I felt the power in me surge. Raw and totally untamed, but it was there. With Rosie’s help and coaching, I had the vamp pinned to the ground, stake up. I could hear Rosie’s voice, giving me direction on the exact location of the heart. It all faded into so much background noise as I looked down at this demon. Into its amber eyes. Still thrashing beneath me. My hand came down so fast Rosie swore it was a blur. And then, dust. We sat there in silence for a minute. I was smiling. She was...intrigued. I didn’t need to be told how to slay. Or even how to make it my passion. I just needed someone to hone the rough edges a bit.

For the first time since I was a kid, I felt like I belonged. Like I was something special. I was really fucking good at this. Two years later, I’m the Slayer she mentioned. All Chosen and shit, like I said.

So, yeah. I like the kill. I would soon find out that the hunt is almost better. All those years finding ways to disappear came in handy. I could do it better than the vamps themselves most of the time. The feel of being a predator of predators was beyond intoxicating. Still is. Rosie gave me some indication that not all Slayers enjoy their calling. I had to stare at her in disbelief. Her gray eyes sparked a little bit in amusement. She tucked a loose wave of hair behind her ear and shooed me out into the dark. How could you not get a thrill out of it? Every time I stake one, I want to jump up and crow. I don’t, though. I like it better when the other vamps don’t know I’m coming.

Part 2:

I’m all about the job when it comes to slaying. But I also want to do it. Need to do it. I feel my best, my most alive when I’m out at night, hunting. I think this worries Rosie. Oh, shit. Now she’s gonna hear this and bug me about it.

...

Well, since I already brought it up, guess I might as well keep going. I can always toss this tape and tell Rosie it got busted on patrol. See, being the Slayer is being someone. I spent the first fifteen years of my life trying to be, and mostly being treated like, no one. I know, yeah. That sounds like I’m asking for pity, but it’s not that simple. My Mom loved me a lot. She taught me how to have a spine and how to stick up for myself. She worked hard to pay for a hard life and I saw it. I saw her be treated like less for being a single mom and saw the pity in the eyes of strangers looking at me when I tagged along to her waitressing jobs. Here’s where the trying to be no one thing comes in. She took me to the bars or restaurants she worked at and when I was little, she made it a game. “Be still. Be quiet. If no one sees you all night, you win. That’s my little Bella.” Then she would lean down and smile at me, her honey brown eyes all soft, but so tired. A little kiss on the end of my nose and she would get to work.

For a long time, I always got noticed. By strangers, by customers, by her fellow waitresses, by her boss. And then, I would get those sad looks which I grew to hate. Really hate. One time, I knocked over a tray of glasses and when she told the boss to stop yelling at me for it, my Mom got fired. When she got another job, I made sure I disappeared. I could be in a bar all night and not one adult besides my mom ever saw me. Sometimes I eluded even her. While every little girl at school was doing her best to be noticed, I was always in the back row, always the last one in and the first one out. I was tired from staying out with my mom ‘til last call. I was that angry little girl the teachers frowned about in the faculty lounge. If they could remember my name.

Old habits are hard to break. My Mom didn’t want me to be that angry girl, but she had so little free time to spend with me, it started to drive us apart. When she got sick, I got pissed. I blamed her hard life for her illness instead of the genetics, the fate that gave her breast cancer at 36. Her mother died of it, too. Young. I put myself in the same category, figured my life was going to be hard and short, too . Little did I know how short. At least, according to Rosie. Stats don’t lie. Slayers die young. And not from cancer. Which is fine by me.

I’m getting really sidetracked here. Slayer stuff. I’m supposed to talk about Slayer stuff, not my life. Rosie would say it was all connected. I don’t know. I guess she’s right. I guess this idea that a vamp is going to get me one day should scare me. It doesn’t. Being the Slayer is a gift to me. I’m not suited to be anything else. I need to be in the shadow. I don’t like people seeing me, even now. I feel like I’ve lost the game if they do.

But hey, enough free therapy. Let’s get back to business. I’m 17 now. Eighteen in three months. A few months ago, Rosie and I moved down the coast to D.C. She said there was a surge in vamp activity around here and they needed me. Still don’t get the system of just one Slayer. Seems like having one in every city would work better. Nobody asked my opinion on that one.

For the first month, Rosie followed me on every patrol. We learned the city together. Didn’t talk to each other until we got back to our house in Georgetown. Just out there in the dark, one killing, the other...watching, I guess. The feel of my hunt pushing their numbers down and down was a thrill. The whispers I could hear about me in every dive bar. No one could describe me. No one lived to tell the tale. But still, the whispers. I would sit in the corner and smile, unseen, unknown. But feared. I was winning the game.

We had another nice set of digs, courtesy of the Council. After a few weeks, I realized the area we lived in was a prime target area for the vamps. The river area, down under the highway, offered cover of darkness and a place to dump the bodies. Didn’t take me long to sort that area out. They were thick like flies down there when I arrived. Now, just a few stray ones buzz around occasionally.

And of course, those vamps who have just arrived in town and remember the old days by the river. He was one of those. The first time I felt him near, I was stalking this pasty stringy-haired vamp. Another one who thought he could elude me. I took him without warning. As the dust cloud rose, I heard a sneeze nearby. Thought it was Rosie, as she had taken to following me sometimes. I called her name but I only heard the echo of footsteps running away. Definitely not Rosie. She’d never make so much noise. I wrote it off to some foolish kid out too late.

Next night, I was back in Georgetown. I was feeling like having a bit of a tussle. Some nights it was just too easy. I’d had to adjust to vamps when I started slaying. They’ve got heightened senses, so sneaking up became more difficult. I’ve got it now. They rarely know I’m there ‘til it’s too late. But then my fighting skills get rusty. So, I see this big vamp. Twice my weight, easy. Ten feet away, I decide a fight would be just the ticket. I’ve got him flat on his back, a look into my eyes the last thing he sees before I dust him. Then, I notice something. Feel it, really. I’m being watched. I remember being so pleased with myself. Rosie is almost never detectable. She keeps her distance. Not this time. I looked the way I felt and I couldn’t make her out. I took off, and so did she. Before I could pinpoint her location, she was gone. A few hours later, I went home and congratulated her on her quick escape. She just stared at me. Thought she was playing me, but she swore she’d stayed home.

I remember lying awake for hours as the sun rose, wondering who was stalking me. They were winning the game. Seeing me. That thought kept me awake for hours more.

Over the next few weeks, I noticed the same presence a few more times. Following me. I tried to catch a glimpse, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t imagine another human could be this good. Started hanging out in the worst bars in the city. Made myself a part of the woodwork long enough to learn his name. Ian. A vampire. My blood boiled at the idea of it. A vampire stalking me. I’m the Slayer. The Slayer. Did he not get the memo about me killing his kind? And why watch? Why not come after me? It seemed he was asking about me, but I’d made sure there was little to tell.

I finally told Rosie about this Ian and she went very quiet. Rigid. Her voice was thin and wavering. She told me to stake him. Find him and stake him before he got the better of me. I told her that was not even a possibility. If he got within fifty feet, I was going to know it in enough time to defend myself. Still, she said it was a risk to let him go on following me.

The conversation we had next still echoes in my head. “Bella, I should have told you this before. I know you’ve wondered.” She seemed so uncomfortable. Of course, I can have that effect on people. This time, it wasn’t me, though. “I was The Slayer.”

I remember the look I gave her, asked if she meant she was a Potential Slayer. But no, she was the real thing. Chosen. Again, I said I didn’t get it. She had told me being the Slayer was a do or die gig. Turns out she did. Die, that is. The next bit was a whole lot of mystical mumbo jumbo to me. She was poisoned, but it was magic. Drained her life force or some such. By a vamp who particularly hated her. Luckily, they found her before it was completely too late. Dead, but not cold. The Council apparently has some serious mojo available to them and they brought her back. But no powers. All gone. At least, the particular Slayer stuff. All her training still there, but no extra speed or strength to go with. Council made her a Watcher and buried the story of the first ex-Slayer. She was only Chosen for 112 days. Staked 142 vamps. I didn’t look that up. She told me with that same sad expression I’d seen on her face a thousand times before.

That night was the first night I felt like crying since my mom passed. Rosie told the whole story in the smallest voice I’d ever heard from her. I thought about waking up tomorrow and not being the Slayer anymore and I understood her better than I ever had. And why she was scared for me. Thought this vamp was up to something.

I left a few hours later to patrol. I was on a bit of a tear. Fueled by Rosie’s story and my fury at the bastard who had done that to her. Around midnight, I found two vamps on the hunt and took them both at once. Sweet, right? Even better though was what happened right after. I heard him. Just above me. I cut a look up at him and it worked. I heard him again, reacting to me. Definitely the guy. I left as if I didn’t know he was there and climbed up the fire escape on the far side of building, quiet as I had ever been. I came over the top edge of the building and he was sprawled out on the roof, staring at the stars. I moved a little closer. No reaction. I took another step, rubbing my foot into the gravel just enough to get his attention. Reaction.

He was on his feet, and I saw fear in his eyes. Not what I really expected. He looked like a kid, not much older than me. Of course, he could be 150 for all I knew. He moved into the light and I was extremely pissed with myself. I thought he was hot. So inappropriate to find a vamp hot. I could see him considering his escape routes, so I asked him the question on my mind. Why he was following me.

His answer surprised me. Said he had never seen a Slayer before. I came a little closer. Mostly to keep him from getting away. Partly for other reasons. I let the security light hit me so he could make me out. I let him see me.

The unabashed lust in his eyes took me by surprise. Surprised by a vamp twice in one night. Pretty damn unusual. My heart pounded a little bit as I saw him give me the once-over. Was he really stalking me ‘cause he thought I was pretty? What the hell, right?

He tried to make a move for the edge of the building and I realized he was planning to jump. Only three stories up, so he’d manage it. Break a bone or two, but that’s all. I closed on him in a hurry. Just out of arm’s reach. I called him on his reason for following me. I thought of Rosie and asked if he just wanted to be famous. Off the Slayer.

Again, he denied it. I got a little pissed then. Everybody wants a little fame. I had a hard time believing he would follow me for weeks and never plan to take a crack at killing me. It’s what they do.

Then, he surprised me for a third time. Asked for a kiss. A kiss! I frowned at him. Wondered why I was tempted. Wondered why I believed him. Rosie would not be happy about this. Somewhere in the middle of those thoughts, I decided. He never even reacted ‘til I had my stake against his shirt and my mouth inches from his. His dark eyes were locked on mine and damn, did I want that kiss. And I took it, coupled with the requisite death threat. My lips burned from the cool softness of his as I shoved him hard, sending him right over the edge of the building. Deciding not to stake him didn’t mean I could let him think I was going soft. I’ve got a reputation to protect.

Besides, he had won the game. He had seen me.

Least I could get out of it was a kiss and a great story.

Not that I’m telling Rosie. This tape is my little secret.



The above transcription was made from an audio tape found amongst the possessions of Isabella Matthews after her death at the age of 24. She was The Slayer for over nine years, making her the longest tenured Slayer in recorded Council history.