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Shirley The Vampire Slayer

Shirley, a (Buffyverse) Slayer wannabe, has traced, through Quileute legends, "vampires" to La Push. Her time of preparation and training behind her, Shirley is ready to act.


1. Chapter 1 - The Hunt Begins

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Shirley the Vampire Slayer

Shirley the Vampire Slayer

This story is intended to be fan fiction in the “Twilight Saga” universe of Stephenie Meyer.  The characters are characters in her works and are owned by her.  Some characters, from the movie and TV series “Buffy the Vampire Slayer”, referred to but not seen belong to Joss Whedon.  All characters are fictional and do not represent any real persons.  All locations, except the for the Call and Uley/Young homes are real locations in La Push and Forks Washington but may be different than described.

Chapter 1 - The Hunt Begins (Mid-February 2006) [1234 words]

As I stepped out of my old Ford van, it continued to knock and shake like a wet wolf.  Gust driven rain spattered on my face.  I stretched and groaned a bit as muscles and tendons, little used for four hundred miles, protested their return to activity.  A wave of popping rippled along my spine as I placed my palms flat upon the wet asphalt.

"A wet werewolf," I thought.  I felt a slight, but unconscious, smile alter my usually somber face.  Did it reflect my own appreciation for my wit?  Or was it just the instinctive response of a fit body, once again in motion?  Or was it a sense of well being, of destiny as I start my life's work?

"Well, I'm done with training.  It's time to do!"  I turned and looked at the sign.  "Quileute Oceanside Resort," I read.   "Welcome to La Push!"

The door bell tinkled as I pushed my way into the office.  For a moment, I made futile swipes to rid the long, hooded coat of its dripping burden.  An older woman of undetermined age came from the back office and smiled.

"How can I help you?"

"I'd like to get a cabin for a night or two."

"I think that that can be arranged."  She smiled at me.

As I registered I wondered if the other woman was a member of the tribe.  "Beverly", as the name tag displayed, didn't seem to be much of an Indian name.  As a matter of fact, her face wasn't round and full fleshed at all, as I had expected of Native American women past their youthful beauty.  Beverly's face, while not exactly narrow, was lacking the high broad cheek bones I expected.  My face, bronzed from the San Diego sun, was darker than Beverly's.  Only deep dark eyes and the single salt-and-pepper braid matched my TV fed expectations.

"Where's a good place to eat?"

"River's Edge is closed for the season.  There's Lonesome Creek.  You can pick up a few things.  Your cabin has a kitchenette."

"Any other options?"

"Shoot, the nearest McDonalds is in Port Angeles.  Even though it’s the off season, you might able to find something open in Forks."

"Okay," I hesitated.  "I might as well start," I thought.

"Say, I am somewhat of an anthropologist.  Is there someone around that I can talk to?  I'm interested in tribal legends, customs and things like that.  But I'm also interested in daily life, things like daily routines and things that are important to individuals today."

"There's some drummin' and singin' at the tribal school tomorrow evening.  Stop by the office tomorrow and I'll get the time for you.  Otherwise, you could try Old Quil or Billy Black.  They know more of the legends than I do.  Willy Penn knows more about the old songs than anyone, dances too.  But knowing Willy, what he doesn't know, he'll make up for you."

"Hey, thanks."  I pocketed the key, nodded to acknowledge the pointed finger and headed back out into the whipping rain.

It took me a little while to get moved into the cabin.  Besides miscellaneous underwear, brush and pajamas, I had to bring in and deploy my special kit.  The garlic strung over each door and window was dutifully sniffed and found to still be potent.  Crucifixes, in silver, pewter and wood, were set upright on stands in several strategic places.  Stakes, actually sharpened, fourteen inch, solid oak, 5/8ths inch dowel, were carefully scattered so as to be readily at hand - no matter what.  Last of all, I held my squirt gun up to the light. The small bubble of air, seen through the yellow transparent plastic, floated at the very top of the holy water was no larger than it was this morning before I started this last leg of my journey.  I set it on the nightstand, grip toward the bed and muzzle toward the door.

While I had left my laptop and most of my books locked in the van, at the bottom of my kit was a broken backed three-ring binder.  This I pulled on to the table into the circle of lamp light and began, again, to study my enemy. 

"Rousseau was right," I thought, flipping through the pages.  "Nothing is quite as well documented as vampires."

My research had taken me to the Bancroft Library in Berkeley.  There, I had disinterred gold rush era copies of, among other Native American legends, Quileute creation stories.  These stories inextricably linked to Quileutes to their "cold ones", their "blood drinkers", that is, vampires.  I was excited.  I was confused.  The Quileute legends seemed to show some type of ancestral linkage with regard to vampirism.

"Oh, well," I thought.  "There are a lot of blanks to fill in.  That's why I came here, to ferret out their secrets."

A slight frown shaped my face.  Once more I regretted not being able to locate a hellmouth and having to search out vampires.  Joss had been remarkably tight-lipped about the facts that were the basis of his particular dramatization.  The restraining order didn't help.  I also regretted not having a watcher and at least one semi-competent assistant to do some of the leg work.  My few friends just laughed when I offered them the job, and then eventually grew quite distant.  One or two had suggested that I seriously needed help, seriously.  And they weren't referring to internet sleuthing or research in musty Latin texts either.

I sighed, "WWBD?"  What Would Buffy Do?  I stood and stretched again.  It was time to go. 

In the mirror, I noticed the large spot left by special sauce on my blouse.  It had been there for two hundred miles and too many hours.  I unbuttoned my blouse and threw it on the bed.  I didn't need the unseen reflection to know that I displayed a hard body, a very hard body.  It was, while not exactly slender, almost fat free.  Small breasts, sharply defined muscles in the neck, chest and arm, ripples where most women display softer contours were evidence of hard work.  The clean white turtleneck slid on with the grace of a dancer, a gymnast, a fencer - all of which were true.  My jeans and boots were clean enough for the hunt.

In my coat pockets, I checked the two small squirt guns, one for each side.  Dowels slid easily from their holsters, one under each arm and one in the right sleeve, to be ejected into my grasp with a shake of the wrist.  I suspected that Homeland Security would not be amused.  I wasn’t either.

Picking the narrow chain off my neck, I lifted my mother's cross of tarnished silver from beneath my blouse and let it settle on my chest.  Jesus always looked so sad.  Pulling out the neck of the turtleneck, I smeared just a dab of Eau du Garlic up and down on each side of my throat, on the skin over my arteries and veins.  I rubbed it in, washed my hands and tried to smell myself.

"Either it's not too bad, or you've gotten used to the smell.  And you are one crazy dudette, talking to your self!"

I swung my coat over my shoulders, picked up a small spiral bound notebook and departed on the hunt, for food among other things.