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“Okay, I know you didn’t get these at Borders.”

Logan glanced up from the fridge to see Francis Kristofferson staring at a bookshelf that was six or seven inches taller than she was, housing some of the world’s rarest and most powerful texts. She was right in thinking one wouldn’t find these tomes in one of those corporate bookstore chains – the ones complete with cafes and wi-fi hot spots – and the Watcher couldn’t help but chuckle as he walked back into the living room, handing a can of Coke to the Slayer before cracking open his own.

“Most of those,” he explained after a sip, “I got from the Council. The others I’ve picked up in small occult shops here or there. Not many places like that, and they’re notoriously hard to find.”

Francis frowned, her left index finger trailing along the spine of a volume titled Seeking Persephone. “Council?” she asked, though part of her was also wondering why such stores were still in such short supply, given recent events. Maybe it was only a matter of time before some entrepreneurial sort saw fit to open such a place for mainstream society.

So far, though? Nothing of the sort – at least, not in Denver.

Logan nodded, setting his can on the coffee table before joining Francis by the bookshelf, retrieving one of the Watchers’ journals he’d been studying in Las Vegas. The Cult of Zeus and everything surrounding it were no longer an issue following Samantha Blanchard’s death, so Logan wondered if perhaps he should return the volume to the Council.

Would they care if he did? They hadn’t spoken to him since he informed Rupert Giles’ of Samantha’s death. Logan figured he was still employed – he was still receiving a paycheck, after all – but other than that, he was pretty much the Council’s version of persona non grata.

“The Council of Watchers,” he said. “A secret organization based in London. Mostly, the Council trains Watchers to guide and train Slayers. We also specialize in occult research and monitoring areas of persistent supernatural activity.”

Francis hung on every word, her brow furrowing and her arms folding. “Okay,” she said, cocking her head to the side. “I’ve been doing this Slayer thing for a while now – pretty much since I’ve needed a bra. How come I’ve never heard of these ... Watchers until now? Shouldn’t one have, I dunno, found me from the get-go and told me what the deal was?

“I mean, it’s a good thing I already knew how to kick ass, on account of all that karate my parents pushed me through. Cause otherwise, you’d have had one very confused and one very dead 14-year-old.”

Returning the book to its place on the top shelf, Logan rested his right elbow on the surface and gave Francis a level gaze. She wasn’t one to mince words, that much was certain, but she was also quite intelligent. Her questions made a lot of sense, and from what Logan knew of the old ways – the way of the world back when there was only one Slayer at a time – that was what happened. The Council tracked Potentials worldwide, sent operatives to train the girls for their possible destinies. If one became the Slayer, so be it. If not, the Council likely had another Watcher at its disposal.

But the attack – and the spell cast in what used to be Sunnydale – changed the dynamic. Logan knew the Council’s numbers had been depressingly low, even with worldwide recruitment efforts over the last nine years, but he suddenly found himself wondering:

Just how many Slayers were fighting without proper guidance? How many Slayers didn’t even know what they were?

“Before 2003,” Logan explained, leaving out details to offer a streamlined, more understandable history, “there was only one Slayer. The Chosen One, if you want to get dramatic and borderline cliche. She fought the vampires and the demons, and when she died, the Slayer’s power moved on to the next girl.”

Francis nodded. “One a generation.”

“Basically. In 2003, the Slayer, stationed in Sunnydale, California, and her allies proceeded to close the Hellmouth – a ... big demon magnet is probably the easiest way to explain it. In the process, one of the Slayer’s friends, a powerful witch, used a mystical scythe said to hold the power of the Slayer to share that power with every girl in the world who had the potential to one day be the Slayer.”

“So the Chosen One became the Chosen Lots?”

“More or less,” Logan smiled, watching Francis open her can of soda and take a long first gulp. Her resulting burp was amusing, in light of the Watcher’s textbook-like dissertation. As much as Logan liked to think he wasn’t like the old guard in his profession, this was one of those times where even he couldn’t deny the similarities.

“Problem was, the Council was still rebuilding after an attack that left headquarters destroyed and killed most of its members. With all those Slayers in the world, the Council didn’t have enough Watchers to find them all. Even today, there are Slayers who, for lack of a better term, slip through the cracks.”

Francis frowned. “Well, that sucks,” she said, her thumb idly tracing over the lip of the can before she took another sip. “What about now? Like, since everyone knows about this suff now, you think more people’ll become Watchers?”

Logan couldn’t stop the laughter from spilling from his lips. Truth be told, he couldn’t really think of anyone willingly seeking out such employment. Near as Logan could tell, being a Watcher either ran in the family or one just stumbled into it, much like he had almost a decade earlier. Studying to be a journalist one night, watching a vampire crawl from its grave with his professor-turned-Watcher beside him the next.

Nope, certainly not what Logan had in mind when he read his acceptance letter from NYU.

“Sorry,” he said, sliding his hands into his pockets. “It’s hard to say ... right now, I think everyone’s still too afraid. You never know, though – we might see people down the road a bit decide they wanna do their part. Watchers don’t really fight, but we do our part.”

When we’re not trying to get in the way.

“Well, I hope it’s soon,” Francis replied, staring at the open mouth of her Coke can. “I don’t know what’s gotten into this place, but all of a sudden, the vamps love Denver.” She frowned, shooting Logan a look that was equal parts curious and worried. “We’re ... there’s no Hellmouth here, is there?”

Logan shook his head. “From what I can tell,” he mused, “there’s nothing here to suggest such an influx of supernatural activity. The only thing I can figure – and this is a stretch – the news had been going on and on of late about all the places where vampires and demons are most likely to be, right?”

Francis nodded. She’d seen the reports on CNN ... According to supernatural experts, a variety of factors have led to the following areas and cities to be more susceptible to supernatural activity than others. The anchor would then list several places – most of them large cities – Los Angeles, New York, Cleveland, London, Moscow ... even Chicago had become a hotbed of sorts, following the Lincoln Park tragedy two months prior.

“Maybe the vampires and demons are adapting,” Logan continued. “They see the same reports we do, they think that’s where the most Slayers, demon hunters and vigilant citizens are going to be. So they start going to places people might not expect them to. Small towns, mostly – you remember reading last week about the vampire gang last week that slaughtered over 400 people in the mountains of West Virginia.

“Maybe they see Denver as the sort of place no one would think of. Are there any other Slayers in the area?”

Francis shrugged, set the can on the windowsill to the left of the bookshelf. She might’ve been a superpowered demon fighter, but Francis still had a clumsy streak about her, and she didn’t want to place the Coke on the bookshelf, only to inadvertently spill it and ruin Mr. Guevera’s rare – and she guessed expensive – library.

“Not that I know of,” she said. “If there are any, I don’t think I’ve come across them.”

Logan frowned. “So you’ve been by yourself this whole time?”

“Pretty much,” Francis sighed, stuffing her hands in the back pockets of her jeans. “I mean, I do alright. Still alive, which is good, and I guess I’m averaging about two vamps a night now. Haven’t seen many demons, but that doesn’t mean they’re not out there.” She removed her hands from the pockets, scratching her right elbow and shrugging her shoulders.

“I dunno, like ... I’m tired of fending for myself, ya know? Not in fighting, but ... like, okay. I see something on patrol – a symbol or whatever, and I have no idea what it is or what it means. And I have no one to ask about it.”

The Slayer moved from the bookshelf toward Logan, stopping in front of him and looking up at the Watcher. His beard was surprisingly neat, and his glasses, though a little smudged, seemed to add an air of dignity to him. That might’ve all been in her head, though, considering everyone she ever met who wore glasses – including her aerospace engineer of a father – was a bonafide genius.

Logan might not have been a genius, but when Francis looked at him, she could see someone who might be able to help. She stared into his eyes for a few moments, her gaze narrowing. There was something else in them, something gentle, but she couldn’t quite place it.

Not yet, anyway.

“Are all Slayers this alone?” she wondered. “I mean – I come home from patrol, bruised and sore, and I get maybe a couple hours’ sleep before I have to get up and go to class. If I’m lucky, my clothes can hide the bruises and scars from patrol. If not, I have to come up with shit – I fell down the stairs, I sparred with this guy at the local gym and it got a little too rough.”

Francis was talking at about a million words a minute now, airing all her frustrations for the first time to someone who wasn’t the journal she kept under her bed. Her parents disowned her after a series of incidents her sophomore year of high school – all of them involving her status as the Slayer – and with no siblings, Francis had been left on her own. It made for a challenging and Spartan lifestyle, one she knew would drain her of her humanity if she wasn’t careful.

More than that, though, Francis just wanted someone to talk to. Helping her with her slaying would be nice, sure, but what about times she felt overwhelmed by everything and just needed love and support? Family was supposed to provide that; she had none. Friends and lovers were supposed to do the same; her lifestyle didn’t afford her the luxury of friends, and Francis couldn’t remember the last time she’d known a man’s touch.

“Something needs researching? I don’t have any books, and don’t know where to get any.” Her voice was shaking a little, and she felt tears burning in her eyes. “I need to vent? Just – get out everything bugging me? Nothing. I got a pillow, and I got a book to write shit in. That’s it.”

The Slayer took in a deep breath, wiping at the edges of her eyes and laughing nervously. “Sorry ... didn’t mean to ramble on like that.”

Logan frowned a little at the display before him, reaching out and putting his left hand on Francis’ right shoulder. “It’s fine,” he said. “Traditionally, the life of the Slayer has been a ... solitary one. There’ve been a few with real-world attachments – some Slayers have had children, others a strong group of friends – but over time, every Slayer has been alone, save their Watcher. I remember reading of Slayers in centuries’ past who were taken from their families by the Council when they were still Potentials so they could train for their destiny.”

Francis nodded, glancing at the hand on her shoulder before giving Logan another glance. She smiled a little, in spite of the fact that her hands were still shaking a little from the rant she just spouted off. “You ever have a Slayer, Mr. Guevera?”

“Call me Logan,” the Watcher said, removing his hand and shaking his head. “And no, I haven’t been assigned a Slayer yet. I’ve been primarily a researcher and investigator to this point.”

He tried to hide the bitterness as he spoke, still somewhat angry he hadn’t been able to serve as a Watcher to his full capacity. The handling of the Samantha Blanchard case was particularly vexing, simply because he knew much of it could’ve been avoided if the Council had allowed him to intervene.

If Logan had been able to reach out to Samantha, she would still be alive. He just knew it.

“Well,” Francis shrugged, chewing on her lower lip and giving Logan a hopeful stare, “what do you say? I could use a Watcher ... I mean, I dunno how much I can pay you, but ...”

Logan placed a hand in front of him to stop Francis, shaking his head. “You’d owe me nothing,” he said. “The Council pays me quite handsomely.”

Francis frowned. “But your ad ...”

“The ad is for ‘normal people.’ The father off our looking to mystically protect his family from demons. The old lady who wants to rid her house of the ghost still haunting it. It’s just a little side job; I figured, since I wasn’t in Denver on official Council business, I’d make myself useful in some other way.”

Since the hysteria is, in part, my fault.

“I’ll gladly be your Watcher,” he added. “Free of charge.”

“Great!” Francis beamed, leaping forward to wrap Logan in an impromptu hug and stealing a peck on his scruffy cheek before letting go again. The Slayer laughed at the befuddled look on the Watcher’s face, realizing she’d perhaps shown a little too much enthusiasm. Still, she liked the thought of finally having a support system – and Logan seemed smart enough.

He also seemed nice and – now that she thought about it – he was kind of cute, too. Francis found herself wondering how old he was before shaking her head to rid herself of the thought. Somehow, she doubted Watcher-Slayer relations were looked at fondly.

“So,” she said, “what now?”


[NPC Francis written by Jeff.]