Ghoul Trouble

by John Passarella

  “Not that I’m counting, but it’s fourteen.”

  “This was to be expected. Spike’s departure created a void in the vampire leadership in Sunnydale. And nature abhors a vacuum.”

  “As do the forces of evil, apparently,” Xander commented.

  “Skull John’s a skulker,” Buffy said, seeing a connection. “Could he be responsible for the bone we found?”

  Giles shook his head. “Aside from his gruesome fascination with skulls, he is a vampire and a vampire’s interest in human anatomy rarely extends beyond an unquenchable thirst for blood.”

  “Noted. Skull John not a flesh-eater suspect. But I still have a stake with his name carved on it.”

  The first class bell rang.

  “Drudgery calls,” Buffy said, and trudged out of the library.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Riding a horse across the green hills of Ireland, with a medieval castle in the distance, rising out of the morning mist. One of those really old ones with a moat and everything,” Willow said wistfully.

  “Good one, Will,” Buffy said, then closed her eyes and thought for a moment. “Maui,” she said, rolling the word over her tongue to savor the exotic sound of it. They were sitting on a bench in the school courtyard during a shared study period, playing the spring break version of Anywhere but Here. “I’m lying on a beach in Maui, sipping one of those drinks with an umbrella in it, as the sun rises.”

  “Hawaii, yes—ooh, but wait, if it’s morning then Angel couldn’t be there with you to sip those umbrella thingies, since the sun would be burning him to ashes.”

  “Right,” Buffy conceded with a brief grimace. “Exchange one sunrise for a sunset and Angel shows up a little late. I think it’s a plan.”

  “A good plan.”

  The class bell rang and was followed by a rush of students. Moments later Oz walked up to Willow’s end of the bench, placed a foot on the edge of the seat and balanced his books on his knee. “Hey,” he said to Willow.

  “Hey, you.”

  Xander approached from the opposite direction, slipping free of the stream of students. “What’s the what?”

  “We were talking about where we’d like to go for spring break,” Willow said. “The Anywhere but Here edition which, as you know, makes money not an object.”

  “I could definitely use some quality time in a hyperbaric chamber,” Oz said. Off Willow’s frown, he added, “But, one of those cozy two-seater models.”

  “Fort Lauderdale or Daytona Beach,” Xander said, his gaze drifting into the distance. “Ah, hard to beat the classics.”

  “And visions of bikini-clad supermodels danced in his head,” Buffy remarked. “A shining example of the typical adolescent male’s one-track mind.”

  “Who said anything about bikinis?” Xander said, then quickly added, “But why the daydreams anyway? General principles?”

  Willow shook her head. “I was assigned a term paper today for A.P. History. Lottery topics. We lose a whole grade level if we switch.”

  “No big, Will,” Xander said. “You can ace any topic.”

  “That’s the problem,” Buffy said.

  “What?” asked Oz, puzzled.

  Willow sighed. “My topic is the history of Sunnydale, from Spanish settlement to present day.”

  “Okay, as topics go it’s a little broad,” Xander said. “But Sunnydale’s a little burg. What’s the problem?”

  “She’s a little undecided,” Buffy said.

  “About?”

  Willow said, “Should I use the term ‘Hellmouth’ in my thesis statement or save it for the big conclusion.”

  Oz grinned mischievously. “Be bold. Go with the thesis statement.”

  “Oz!” Willow said.

  Xander frowned. “I see,” he said. “That would be taking the devil’s advocate position a little too literally.”

  “Somehow it’s a bad thing to know too much,” Oz said. “Incredible.”

  “Exactly,” Willow said. “Therefore we have no choice but to daydream ourselves many time zones from here.”

  “Fall on the grenade, Will,” Xander said. “Take the B. Over the years I’ve learned it doesn’t make all that much difference to my folks if I bring home B’s or D’s. If it’s not a complication in their lives, it’s not a problem.”

  “Remember my midterm physics grade?” Oz asked. “Identical to last year’s.” He shook his head. “It’s a whole space-time continuum thing. Take what you can get.”

  Meaning I should switch topics and take the lower grade. “I don’t want to just give up . . . or lie,” Willow replied. “That would be like cheating.”

  “I have just the thing to take your mind off the ethical issues of the day,” Xander said and removed a flyer from one of his notebooks. “Have you guys seen this? New band at the Bronze. Special engagement, five nights only. Interested?”

  Buffy pulled the flyer out of his hand, examining the grainy, black and white photocopied image of the band under the name Vyxn. “Xander, this is an all-girl group wearing leather . . . well, actually, not all that much leather.”

  “I, for one, support women in rock,” Xander said defensively. “Besides, they’re supposed to be good. I hear they wowed ’em at UC Sunnydale.”

  Oz glanced at the flyer. “Interesting.”

  Good old Oz, Buffy thought. I can’t tell if he’s curious or jealous.

  “Should be tons of fun,” Xander said. “What do you say?”

  “Miss Summers,” a woman called in an excited voice.

  They all looked up as a dark-haired woman approached, carrying a stack of folders with various slips of paper protruding from them. She looked one stiff wind away from organizational disaster. “Glad I finally caught up with you.”

  “This can’t be good,” Xander whispered to Oz.

  Willow looked a question at Buffy, who gave a slight shrug of ignorance. “Just sitting here basking,” Buffy said to the woman, smiling. When one faced ravenous vampires by night, a disorganized administrator type in the light of day was not all that terrifying. Well, mostly. Principal Snyder did have his oogie moments. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “I’m Carole Burzak,” the woman said. “Mrs. Burzak. Your new guidance counselor. Could I have a few moments with you, in private? This is a matter of grave concern for your future.”

  Buffy hopped off the bench, gave the others a slightly unsettled look before taking a few steps away with her guidance counselor. “My future?”

  “Exactly,” Mrs. Burzak said. “In my opinion, there’s too much seizing the day going on and not enough stockpiling of nuts.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m concerned about your red zones, Miss Summers,” Mrs. Burzak said, abandoning mixed metaphors for something entirely cryptic. “I reviewed your class standings and performance and I’ve identified two yellow zones and a red zone. I’m afraid if you do not address these zones immediately you will jeopardize your future.”

  “Yellow zones? Red zones? Would this have anything to do with football, because I’m not even on the cheerleading squad—”

  “Schoolwork, Miss Summers. They have everything to do with schoolwork. It’s a system I’ve developed.”

  “The Burzak system?”

  “I measure the occurrences of absences and tardies, the progression of exam scores and term paper grades. Young lady, you are in danger of failing three courses: English, Math and History. Fail the courses, repeat the year, and forget about college. You were planning on college next year, weren’t you?” She rifled through her folders before Buffy could form a reply. “Ah, yes. Right here. University of California at Sunnydale.”

  “Thanks for caring,” Buffy tried, “about all my . . . zones and everything.”

  “Don’t take this lightly, Miss Summers,” Mrs. Burzak said. “One gets very few second chances in life. I advise you to address your trouble zones immediately and, if I were you”—she plucked the Vyxn flyer out of Buffy’s hands and gave it a q
uick, dismissive review before handing it back—“I would start spending my evenings with books instead of bands.”

  “Books good,” Buffy said with a nod. “Bands bad. Got it.”

  Mrs. Burzak stared her down for a moment or two. “Miss Summers. Buffy. I want you to know I never give up on a student, even if she gives up on herself.”

  “That’s, um . . . comforting.”

  “I consider these yellow and red zones as much my responsibility as yours. We’re a team. We’ll get all your zones green again in time for graduation. That’s a Burzak promise!” She patted her burgeoning folders into a semblance of order, gave a brisk nod of encouragement and walked away.

  Buffy walked back to the others, feeling a little numb.

  “That was—” Xander began.

  “We couldn’t help but hear about all your zones and stuff,” Willow said.

  “She wants all my zones green again,” Buffy said pertly.

  Oz nodded sympathetically. “It’s not easy being green.”

  * * *

  The sandwich board sign outside the Bronze announced the SPECIAL ENGAGEMENT—5 NIGHTS ONLY appearance of Vyxn. In the center of the sign, tilted at a slight angle, was a much larger version of the band’s publicity still. Four extremely attractive women with improbably wild hairstyles, clad in just enough strips and triangles of leather to avoid arrest under any state indecency laws. Dramatic applications of makeup emphasized their various come-hither and pouty expressions.

  “Tacky,” Buffy said.

  “Tasteless,” Willow said.

  “Cool,” Xander said. “I wonder if they’ll sell posters after the show.”

  “We’re not staying after the show,” Buffy reminded him. “Remember: one set. That was the deal. This feels very . . . red zone-y to me.”

  “Well, we brought our books,” Willow said, hefting her backpack for emphasis. “That’s a good thing. A little music, a little patrolling followed by a little studying.”

  “All part of a Slayer’s well-balanced day,” Xander said.

  * * *

  The Bronze made no pretense to exclusivity. Everyone was welcome, which in no way dampened the amount of business on any given night, for the simple reason that the Bronze had little or no competition in Sunnydale. For those of legal drinking age, alcohol was available.

  The warmup act played as if they had sleepwalked on stage and only vaguely recalled how to play their instruments. In keeping with the somnambulistic theme, the lead singer kept his eyes closed while he sang his lyrics in a whispered monotone. A round of polite applause died out before they had even left the stage.

  Buffy, Willow and Oz sat at a table stacked with unopened textbooks. Xander sat alone on a sofa closer to the stage, impatiently awaiting the arrival of Vyxn. Cordelia was nowhere around, no doubt hoping to restore her social status by minimizing her contact with Xander and the rest of the Scooby Gang. However, when the lights dimmed and smoke billowed out from machines positioned on either side of the stage, he sat up straighter on the sofa and thought more about Vyxn’s imminent arrival than his former relationship with Queen C.

  Red lights came on and the smoke diffused. The band was standing there, still as statues, as if sculptured from the smoke.

  The lead singer had an unruly mop of black hair, shaved on the sides, a microphone held low, almost carelessly, in her hand. A spiky-haired brunette wearing a spiked leather collar was the drummer. Flanking the drummer was the bass player, who had wild red hair and thick eyeliner, and the lead guitarist, who sported a white Mohawk that flowed back into a long ponytail. For a moment, Xander imagined these last two looked at him and then back at the table where Buffy, Willow and Oz sat, before exchanging looks with each other.

  Welcoming applause filled the Bronze. Xander made up for the lackluster response in the back of the room. “Come on, Vyxn!”

  The lead singer slowly raised her microphone to her lips. She whispered, “We’re so glad you came.” She lowered her head demurely, then looked up at them through a loose fall of her hair and a glint in her eye. “This could be the last night of our lives.”

  A heartbeat. Then the drummer began a pounding rhythm, with the bass slipping in and out and the lead guitar wailing along with the mournful voice of the lead singer.

  “This could be the last night of our lives.

  Is the sky all red?

  All the people dead?

  And you can’t believe a single word that she said

  Was it all untrue?

  Did she tell you lies?

  In the final days . . . I’ll be there for you.”

  Xander bobbed his head in time to the music.

  At the table, Buffy looked away from the band and said to Willow and Oz, “Millennial stress syndrome?”

  “She’s off-key half the time,” Oz noted, “but somehow it works.”

  “Maybe it’s that leather harness she’s wearing,” Buffy said.

  “No,” Oz said. “It’s her voice. It’s very . . . distinctive.”

  “Distinctive in a Celine Dion kind of way?” Willow asked.

  “But without the chest thumping,” Buffy observed.

  “And for good reason,” Willow said. “I mean, with the skimpy harness and all.”

  The song ended to a long round of applause. The lead singer bowed her head slightly in acknowledgment. “Thank you, Sunnydale.” She walked to the back of the stage and introduced the band members. The audience clapped after each name. “This is Nash on drums.” Nash twirled a drumstick overhead, then struck it against a cymbal. “Carnie on bass. Playing lead guitar, Rave. And I’m Lupa. Together we’re Vyxn.” She walked to the front of the stage again, an exaggerated sway to her hips, helped no doubt by the three-inch heels on her leather boots. “And we’re just devastated.”

  Taking the cue, the white Mohawked lead guitarist began to play a medium-tempo chord. Black-haired Lupa began to sing forcefully.

  “I’m devastated by you every day.

  My friends keep telling me to run away.

  But it’s so hard for me.

  You’re always killing me—with words . . . .”

  Xander couldn’t help but notice as Cordelia entered the Bronze and intentionally crossed his line of sight. She made a point of ignoring him and veering away from the table where Buffy sat with Willow and Oz. She was determined to rejoin her lofty social circles but not above letting him know it was his loss. They were no longer a couple and she probably wanted to be as over him as he was over her. Definitely over her, Xander told himself. Definitely. Besides, thinking about the past was ruining his enjoyment of the music. He turned his undivided attention back to the stage.

  After the second song, Xander jumped up and gave Vyxn a standing ovation. Buffy looked at him as if he had just sprouted antennae. Actually, she thought, horns were probably a better analogy. She looked around the Bronze and saw several other guys on their feet, clapping enthusiastically. Only guys. “Why am I not surprised?” she asked Willow.

  Lupa turned her back to the audience and spread her arms to acknowledge her band. She looked to Carnie and Rave and said something not meant for the audience’s ears. They both gave her a slight nod.

  “Great, huh?” Xander said to Buffy and the gang sitting at the table behind him. But he had trouble taking his eyes off the band.

  “They’re not that good,” Willow said, with a loyal look to Oz.

  “They’re okay,” Oz, the Dingoes guitarist, admitted.

  Lupa turned to the audience. “Thank you,” she said. Xander gave a loud whoop. “Looks like we’ve got a big fan here already in Sunnydale,” Lupa continued. She stepped down from the stage and walked over to Xander, trailing her microphone cord.

  The closer she came, the deeper the frown on Buffy’s face. Xander seemed totally enthralled in her presence. Maybe he’s just enthralled by the presence of so much cleavage, she thought, dismissing her concern as unfounded. With a sigh, Buffy turned her attention to one of her textbooks, f
lipping aimlessly through the pages.

  Lupa leaned her head down beside Xander’s and whispered in his ear, “Tell me your name.”

  “Uh—uh—Xander,” he said, beaming.

  “Xander,” she whispered, as if tasting the sound. The seductive way she pronounced it caused Xander to shiver visibly. Lupa felt as if she had just slipped a leash around his neck. There was special power in the knowing of names. She returned to the stage and said, “I’d like to dedicate this next song to our biggest Sunnydale fan, Xander. It’s called ‘Heartbreaker.’ ”

  Xander turned to the table again. “She’s dedicating a song to me!”

  “Yeah,” Buffy said. “We got that.”

  A driving drumbeat filled the Bronze. Lupa began to clap, a little awkwardly with the microphone held in one hand. Soon most in attendance were clapping in time to the song.

  Alone at her table and excluding herself from the audience participation portion of the show, Cordelia swirled a straw around the half empty glass of soda. She almost jumped off her chair when someone tapped her on her shoulder.

  “Cordelia?” he asked. “Cordelia Chase?” She turned. “You remember me, don’t you?”

  He was gorgeous. Tall, tan, with wind-swept blond hair, deep blue eyes and a dazzling smile. Even if she hadn’t seen that smile on several television commercials and on the daytime soap “Wanderlust,” she would have recognized him. They had dated for a couple months before he moved to Los Angeles two years ago.

  “Of course I remember you,” she said. She glanced briefly toward the stage but Xander remained ever clueless. “Troy Douglas. So great to see you again!”

  CHAPTER 3

  “Troy, I can’t believe you’re back in little old Sunnydale,” Cordelia said over the swelling power ballad the Vyxn tramp had called “Heartbreaker.”

  “Visiting my mother for a couple weeks,” he said. “But I was hoping we could catch up. Thought I might find you here.”

  “Not a lot of entertainment venues around here,” Cordelia reminded him.

  “Your friend seems to be enjoying himself,” Troy said, nodding toward Xander, who was bobbing his head and slapping his knee.