I looked around me. I was standing on a mountain, the wind howling around me, sharp and cold. The sky above was bruised purple, heavy with storm clouds.
At the edge of the cliff, a wolf crouched, tearing into something. I advanced a little. A white rabbit's small head dangled from the left side; his eyes glowed red, locked on me.
I stopped moving. The wolf's jaws snapped on bone, but the rabbit didn't look away. Its gaze burned straight through me.
The rabbit mouth moved. The sound was wrong; it was gritty and old.
"I… want… you."
I stumbled back, heart hammering, and the wolf head turned back to me. His eye sockets were empty.
I jolted awake. My chest heaved as I stared into the dark room. It was just a dream. Just a dream.
Mom's snores drifted from the other room—she'd worn herself out cleaning. I turned toward the nightstand, squinting at the old clock there. Its brass hands ticked unevenly, and the glass was cracked across the face. 6:30. Too early for school, and I'm not going back to sleep after that dream.
So I need to make myself useful, so I figured I would make breakfast. I put my old sneaker on and picked up my jacket. I slipped into the hallway, careful not to wake Mom. The house was quiet, heavy with that same salt-and-jasmine smell.
In the kitchen, I opened cabinets, drawers, and even the pantry. Nothing. No pans, no plates, not even a fork. Just empty shelves and the faint smell of old wood.
Damn it, we left in a hurry; we forgot to pack the kitchen essentials. Great, I grabbed my jacket and stepped outside. The morning air was cool, the sky still streaked with the last traces of dawn.
I shoved my hands into my jacket pockets and headed down the street, stomach growling. This town has to have a diner nearby, or at least a corner store.
The morning air was cool, the sky pale with early light. As I walked, the cracked sidewalk led me past an old gate that caught my eye. A sign hung above it read Sunnydale Cemetery.
That's when I heard it. The sound was coming from inside the cemetery.
I approached the cemetery gate; it was open. Was I imagining things? The voice came again, sharper this time, like someone fighting for air.
"Help me…"
I scanned the rows of headstones, the shadows stretching long and thin. Nothing moved. just silence and the faint cry echoing between the graves.
A woman's voice. My pulse spiked. I looked to my left and my right. There was no one in the street. Should I go look for help? But what if I arrive late?
Then, faint but clear, the voice again—closer this time.
"Damien…"
I pushed the gate open, the hinges groaning. My sneakers crunched against the gravel path as I stepped inside. The air felt colder here, heavier, like the shadows were pressing closer.
I moved between the headstones, my pulse hammering in my ears. The voice had gone quiet, but I knew I'd heard it. I wasn't imagining things.
Then I saw her.
A woman lay sprawled across the grass, her clothes torn, her body slick with blood. Her hair was tangled. The blood was coming out from near her shoulder.
I don't know why, but I lunged without thinking, my sneakers slipping on the damp grass. She was sprawled across the ground, blood pooling beneath her, her skin pale as stone.
"Hey—hey, hold on!" My voice cracked as I dropped to my knees beside her.
Her chest rose faintly and shallowly, but she didn't speak. I pressed my hand near her shoulder, not sure if I should move her, not sure if I even could. The blood was warm against my fingers, too real, too fresh.
"Don't… don't die," I muttered, panic clawing at my throat. "Can you move?"
Her lips trembled, and then her eyes snapped open—eyes that glowed red, locking onto mine. Her lips peeled back, revealing fangs that gleamed in the pale morning light.
She hissed, low and guttural, and then lunged.
I stumbled back, my sneakers skidding on the damp grass. Her claws are trying to grab my neck, missing me by inches. The adrenaline kicked in; I rose fast.
She rose too, faster than I thought possible, her movements jerky but powerful. Blood still dripped from her shoulder, but it didn't slow her down—it fueled her.
"You… came…" she rasped, her voice gritty.
She lunged again. I ducked, grabbing a loose branch from the ground. It wasn't much, but it was something. "Don't come any closer, or I will hit you," I said in a panic.
"He wants you; come with me," she replied with a whisper.
I backed up, branch trembling in my hands. "Stay away!"
She hissed, crouched low, then sprang. I shoved the branch forward, pure panic guiding me. It sank into her stomach with a sickening crunch.
She beckoned a few feet of blood pouring from her stomach. "What did I do? I'm sorry, I did not mean to."
She did not scream or cry with a sick laughter. Her body jerked, but instead of collapsing, she started moving toward me, the branch still jutting out of her stomach like it was nothing.
My breath came in ragged gasps. I stumbled back until cold stone dug into my spine. I looked back; it was a molusome. No more room to run. My hands were shaking, my heart pounding so hard I thought it would burst.
She dragged herself closer, eyes glowing red. "You… can't run…"
"I did nothing wrong," I blurted, panic choking me.
Her grin widened, blood slicking her teeth. "You were born. That's The wrong? You did."
Then a voice cut through the air, sharp and confident:
"Isn't it a little late for vamps to be out?"
I looked up. She was perched on the mausoleum roof like it was the easiest thing in the world. Blonde hair catching the dawn, leather jacket scuffed from too many fights, stake twirling in her hand.
The woman gazed upward at the girl. With a hiss, she spat, "Slayer…"
The girl smirked, jumping toward the woman with a stake in hand, pointing toward her heart. As she buried it in her chest, "Bingo. And you're dust."
One strike—clean, brutal—and the woman crumpled into ash that scattered across the damp ground.
I blinked, still pressed against the molisuame wall. She moved fast—too fast for me to follow. One strike, clean and brutal, and the woman crumpled into ash that scattered across the damp ground.
The girl straightened, brushing ash from her sleeve. She looked at me, eyebrows raised. "Seriously? Backed yourself into a wall? Rookie mistake."
I stared at her, heart still pounding. I didn't know who she was, but she'd just saved me.
"Who… who are you?" I managed.
She smirked, like she'd heard that question a thousand times. "Buffy. And you're welcome."
"Buffy? Did that woman just now turn into dust, or am I hallucinating?
"Not a woman," she corrected, "a vampire. Big difference."
I stared at the patch of grass where the body had been. "She had fangs. And her eyes—"
"Yeah, that's the giveaway," Buffy said casually. "Red eyes, fangs, creepy cryptic lines? Vampire. You're lucky she didn't finish breakfast."
My stomach twisted. "She didn't want to kill me. She wanted me alive."
Buffy's smirk faded into thought. "That's new. That explains it: why she was out here late; they usually want dinner. Do you know why she wanted you"
Trying to calm myself, I grab my shaking arm. "She said I was… born."
Buffy's expression flickered, then settled into a smirk. "Vamps love their melodrama. Don't take it personally. But if they're calling your name, that means you're on somebody's radar. And trust me, that's not a list you want to be on."
I tried to laugh, but it came out shaky. "So what—you're telling me vampires are real? Like, actually real?"
Buffy tilted her head. "You just saw one turn to dust. Unless you think I carry around ash with me, yeah. Real."
I shook my head, still reeling. "This is insane. I was just looking for breakfast."
Buffy shrugged. "Welcome to Sunnydale. Breakfast comes with monsters. And me? I'm the Slayer. I kill them before they kill you."
Then she stepped closer, her tone softening just a little. "Listen. This town? It's built on ancient ground. That means it's a. Wait a minute, what time is it?"
I looked at my watch. "It's 7:50."
"Dammit," she said. "I have to go. If we cross paths, I will finish the explanation," as she ran toward the cemetery gate.
"Wait!" I called.
She tossed me a look over her shoulder. "We'll cross paths again. Trust me. Sunnydale's small, and you're apparently popular with the undead."
Then she was gone, swallowed by the shadows between the headstones.
I stood there, heart still pounding, dust clinging to my jacket. My eyes caught something glinting in the grass—a silver cross. I picked it up, shoved it into my pocket.
Breakfast forgotten, I ran home with the words of the girl who saved my life echoing in my head.
I sprinted back through the streets, lungs burning, the silver cross heavy in my pocket. My sneakers slapped against the cracked pavement. The front door creaked as I pushed it open. Mom was already there, arms crossed, her face tight with anger.
"Damien!" she snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut.
I froze, words tangled in my throat. How could I explain vampires, blood, and a girl named Buffy when Mom was glaring at me like I'd betrayed her? She grabbed my backpack from the chair and hurled it at me. It hit my chest with a thud.
"You're late for school!" she yelled. "I will talk to you later; now go."
"I—I wasn't," I stammered, clutching the backpack. "Something happened."
"Go."
I swallowed hard, the taste of ash still in my mouth. My heart was still racing from the cemetery, but Mom's fury was just as suffocating.
As I got out of the house, closing the door behind me, I put the backpack over my shoulder, Mom's words still echoing in my head. My chest felt tight, but there was no time to argue. If I stayed, she'd only get louder.
The streets were already buzzing with kids heading to school, bikes rattling past, sneakers slapping pavement. I kept my head down, every step heavy, the silver cross in my pocket pressing against my palm like a secret I couldn't share.
The dream, the vampire, Buffy—it all swirled in my mind, unreal and too real at the same time. I wanted to scream it out, tell someone, but what would I say? Hey, vampires are real, and one tried to kill me before breakfast? Yeah, that'd go over great.
By the time I reached the corner, the looming shape of Sunnydale High rose ahead. Its brick walls were cracked, banners faded, but the place pulsed with noise—students laughing, shouting, slamming lockers. Normal life.
I slowed, staring at the entrance. The double doors gaped open, swallowing kids into the chaos inside. My stomach twisted.
Normal life was waiting. But after this morning, I wasn't sure I'd ever be normal again.
I tightened my grip on the backpack strap, drew a shaky breath, and stepped forward.
The doors of Sunnydale High closed behind me.