102 - A Message Made From Bones

Epilogue

"Jaime."

His eyes flutter open at the sound of his name, taking a moment to register his surroundings before they eventually land on me. A smile eases onto his face; he reaches out his hand, gently caressing my cheeks, then it falls limply between us.

It doesn't take him long to realize where we are: his room, yes, but not his actual room—our dreamscape. There are subtle differences, like the lack of trinkets on the surfaces of furnishings and the faint glow of the subconscious.

"You've figured out how to find me here," he whispers, his deep voice thick with sleep.

"It was rather easy once I narrowed down which rickety wooden door was yours." Though I can't say what other slayers' dreamscapes look like, mine is essentially an infinite corridor lined with rooms belonging to each slayer's subconscious. The order of doors is arranged by who I'm closest to: Faith's and Buffy's are the nearest, followed by a few of my closest sisters: Max, Alai, Elaine. Jay's door is right after Alai's.

Jay only smiles, his aquamarine eyes brimming with amusement.

"'Bout time, huh?" I joke lightly, relieved to find him in good spirits. So much has transpired in the last few days, and being able to exist in a bubble with no responsibilities, even for only a short while, is a welcome respite.

"I don't remember going to sleep." His brows pinch with the effort to recall his last few moments of consciousness.

I cup his chin with my fingers, tilting his face up, the hoop on his right nostril glinting. "You're exhausted," I shush, threading my fingers through his hair. I can't bring myself to tell him of his mother's fate yet—not in this place. "Just got tangled up with the Doctor, but he's been dealt with. Rest. It's my turn to take care of you."

I lean in for a kiss, savoring his sweet taste, his citrus-and-earthy scent—but a series of knocks raps at his bedroom door, firm and with a quickness that startles us both.

We exchange puzzled looks: Who might've entered our dreamscape?

Who dared to?

I hesitate to answer them in hopes that they'll go away after the first try, but the persistent knocking continues, growing more urgent until I have no choice but to leave the bed.

I swing the door open, immediately blinded by a white flash; I instinctively shoot my hands up to shield my eyes from the light, trying to peer between my fingers. The coldness from outside bites my exposed skin as it gnaws to come in, its icy tendrils coiling around my waist.

Through the narrow slits between my fingers, I barely make out the charred figure of Alexander Quinn in the midst of the blizzard. His face twists into a grimace, the flesh on the right side melted away, exposing his yellowed teeth.

Before I can react, Quinn lunges, and again I feel the sharp pain of my dagger sliding into my belly. I double over, staggering backward into Jay's hard body, his arms folding around me.

"Illyria, what—" he stammers, drawing my head into his chest. Reluctant to turn my back on Quinn, I push Jay away and brace for another attack.

But when I untangle myself from him, the dead watcher is nowhere to be seen. Nor is there evidence of a dagger.

Instead, Lenora stands at the threshold in Quinn's place.

Bathed in radiant, white light, she is clean of her mortal wound, yet the sight of her is almost more terrifying than Quinn's disfigured visage. I'm afraid of what she may say: if she'll tell Jay she's dead; if he'll wonder why I didn't tell him.

"Jaime," his mother breathes, sighing with relief. "It's so nice to see you."

The boy's brows twist, his eyes wide. "Mum, what are you doing here?"

Without knowing of her death, without knowing why she's here, I try to stop him from taking another step toward her, but his arm slithers from my grasp.

"Jaime, I don't have much time. You are in danger. I'm so sorry I did this to you; I really am." Lenora begins to cry, but as her tears trail down her face, they sizzle and smoke, burning paths in her cheeks.

As the rest of her face melts, mirroring Quinn's exact wounds, she says, "Do not let the darkness win, like I let it. I was wrong."

My body goes numb; Jay's desperate stuttering for his mother is overpowered by the ever-growing, deafening whirring in my ears. The scene is so gruesome that any mundane person wouldn't have had the guts to watch, yet my eyes remain locked onto Lenora, watching in horrified fascination as her skin burns down to her skeleton, charring her bones, until finally, her blackened remains clatter to the floor in pieces.

Jay falls to his knees just as her skull, entirely cleaned of all its muscle and tissue, settles perfectly on top of the pile. He reaches out a steady finger and gently traces her brow bone, confusion etched in his own.

When he turns to me, his eyes are dry. His face bears an expression of acceptance, as though he has anticipated the day his mother would meet her demise. And I get the vaguest feeling that even if he didn't witness her death, this dream may have just told him.

Right as I think the carousel of guests is over, a shadowy figure darts through the blizzard, vanishing down (what would've been) the hallway. A heartbeat later, they reappear, this time stopping in the doorway so we can see them fully:

Sineya.

Clad in tattered rags and distinguishable clay body paint, she is the perfect, ageless vision of the First Slayer. The embodiment of pure Slayer fury.

She lunges at Jay with my dagger, and he narrowly dodges the attack. But she doesn't attack again—though we remain on guard for even the slightest movement, the slightest indication that she will.

We both tense as she lowers her arms, her dark eyes coldly fixed on Jay. Her weight shifts restlessly between her feet, a perpetual readiness for battle, yet she finds the calm to utter just a few raspy words:

"Death is your gift."