“The future cannot be prevented now,” The Prophet told Buffy. “Already the clockwork grinds on. But I can show you my vision, so you may see what is coming and perhaps better prepare for it.” Reeling, Buffy glanced at Willow and Oz, then at Xander and Anya. They all seemed as stricken by the specter’s words as she was. Prediction, Buffy told herself quickly. It isn’t fact yet. We don’t know it’s true. But it felt true. The words of The Prophet were heavy with finality. With doom. Buffy swallowed, then looked at the oily silhouette again. “Show me.” “I must only touch you, and you may see.” “Do it,” Buffy instructed her. The Prophet’s slick, shimmering form slithered forward. The tear in the fabric of the world extended toward her, fingers like tendrils reached for her. “Buffy,” Willow said cautiously, a tiny bit of fear tinging her voice. “Maybe this isn’t such a good —” The Prophet touched her. Invaded her. Buffy screamed. 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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS POCKET PULSE, published by Pocket Books, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020 ™ and © 2001 Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation. All rights reserved. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020 ISBN: 0-7434-3132-4 POCKET PULSE and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc. Visit us on the World Wide Web: http://www.SimonSays.com PROPHECIES CHAPTER 1 All dressed up and no one to slay. A chill wind blew off the Pacific Ocean. Buffy Summers zipped her navy blue sweatshirt up to her throat and shivered, just a little. All right, it was November, but still, Southern California in November was not usually quite so brisk. She was tempted to pull her hood up but there was something just a little too gangbanger about that look for Buffy’s tastes. As Buffy walked along the waterfront, she stuffed her hands into the pockets of her sweatshirt and grumbled softly to herself. Her gaze darted around the wharf and the canneries and the large shipping vessels out on the water. Sunnydale had its share of gorgeous California beaches, but this wasn’t one. This was Docktown, the part of town the Chamber of Commerce desperately tried to divert tourists from. In a way it was surprising these streets were still on the map. Patrol had been completely uneventful thus far, and it was growing late. Midnight had come and gone and by all rights Buffy should have long since returned to her dorm. She had class at ten minutes to nine the next morning and she was determined not to oversleep. Now that college had started, she was turning over a new leaf. The Watchers Council held as conventional wisdom that a Slayer could not carry on a personal life and be effective in the war against the forces of darkness. Come hell or high water, Buffy intended to prove them wrong. She would be the most efficient, most effective Slayer who ever lived. But she would also immerse herself in the college experience, both socially and academically. In high school, she’d failed to balance the two, had really made a mess of things a few times. But college was going to be different. Maybe she’d never be normal, but with the enhanced physical capacity that came with being the Slayer, she but with the enhanced physical capacity that came with being the Slayer, she believed she could juggle it all. If she managed to get to class in time in the morning. What the hell am I doing all the way out here? she thought. The answer came back quickly, and what a simple one it was: the job. She was doing exactly what she was supposed to be doing. Buffy was the Slayer, the Chosen One, the one girl in all the world with the power to combat the forces of darkness. Tonight, though, things had been quiet. Patrolling Sunnydale was a vital part of her work as the Slayer. But when patrol was slow, that was when a bit of doubt might creep in; doubt that she would actually be able to pull off the balancing act she was attempting with school, her mom, her friends, and slaying. What she needed now were action, adrenaline, and a nice, juicy monster or two. See Buffy. See monster. See Buffy kick monster’s ass. It was what she needed to keep her focus. A scream rent the night air with the blunt brutality of a gunshot. A quick and violent instant that caused Buffy to flinch even as its echo died above the waves. Despite the ominous quality of that scream and what it might mean, she could not hold back the ghost of a smile that flickered across her face. Heart pounding in her chest, Buffy sprinted along the wharf. Her legs pumped as she ran past the harbormaster’s quarters on one side and a long, ugly concrete building that housed several shipping companies’ offices. She waited for another scream but none came. At Dock Street she instinctively turned toward town and ran alongside a liquor store and half a dozen run-down multifamily homes mostly utilized as boardinghouses, renting rooms to fishermen and merchant sailors. Halfway along the next short block she saw the cracked and flickering neon sign that hung in front of The Fish Tank. Experience told her that was her destination. There was no activity out front so Buffy stopped short at the entrance to the stinking alley beside the bar, a place so sleazy calling it a dive would be an insult to dives everywhere. No scuffle in the alley.