Ghoul Trouble

by John Passarella

  “Not my guidance counselor. She’s—”

  “No. It was a man. A strange man.”

  “Strange, how?” Buffy asked, her irritation replaced with a new sense of alarm.

  “It was the oddest thing,” Joyce said, recalling the incident. “He said he was a dealer in Sumerian antiquities, said that an associate gave him my name, that he thought I might be interested in what he had in his briefcase.”

  “So, what did he have? Really old pots and pans?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” Buffy said. “I don’t follow. He said you’d be interested in nothing?”

  “That’s the odd part,” Joyce said, laughing. “He was absentminded and, apparently, forgot to pack anything in his briefcase. He just came into the house for a minute and then his case was completely—”

  “Wait a minute,” Buffy said, alarmed. “You invited him in?”

  “Yes, but I know what you’re thinking,” Joyce replied. “That a . . . a vampire has to be invited in. But Buffy, this was broad daylight. He squinted a little, but he was obviously walking around on a sunny day without bursting into flames. I think I would have noticed that”

  “Did this guy have a name?” Buffy dumped the pieces of the museum mug into the kitchen trash can.

  “Well, he left his card, if you can call it that,” Joyce said. She picked up the jack of clubs playing card. “He apologized for forgetting his business cards as well, so he wrote his number on the back of this card. I told him to stop by the gallery later, but he never showed or called.”

  “Let me see that,” Buffy said. She read the name on the back of the card, L’taire—sounds French?—and the telephone number. She picked up the phone and dialed the number.

  After several rings, a telephone operator’s voice spoke. “The cellular customer is unavailable.”

  Buffy hung up, then dialed Giles’s home number. As usual, Giles sounded as if he’d had his nose buried in a dusty old book and still hadn’t pulled it all the way out “Oh, Buffy, hello. I’m glad you called. I was just pursuing the possibility that there might be some other mechanism for the removal of the flesh from the bones. An acid bath, maybe. Or the victims could have been boiled until the flesh—”

  “You need to get out more, Giles,” Buffy said. “Listen, my—”

  “Oh, and a Mrs. Burzak asked me to talk to you about some . . . red zones?”

  Buffy sighed. Et tu, Giles? “We can talk about my commando counselor some other time, Giles. The reason I called—”

  “You called—? Oh, yes, quite right. Do go on, then.”

  “My mother had an odd visitor today.”

  “An encyclopedia salesman, perhaps?”

  “No,” Buffy said, ignoring Giles’s dry attempt at humor. “He said he was a museum guy. But after my mother invited him into the house, his bags were empty and he just left.”

  “Ah,” Giles said. “But you said today. In daylight?”

  “This morning,” Buffy said, her shoulders slumping. “I know. Obviously not a vampire. But strange.” Buffy explained how the man had presented himself to get inside the house.

  “Nothing in his case, you say?” Giles was silent for a moment. “Either he is incredibly forgetful or the sole purpose of his visit was a pretext to gain entry into your house.”

  “That’s what worries me,” Buffy said, flipping the playing card over in her hand. “Jack of clubs . . .”

  “What was that?”

  “He also forgot his business cards,” Buffy explained. “So he left his phone number on a playing card.”

  “A playing card? Hmm . . . now why should that seem familiar?”

  “You’re the Watcher,” Buffy said. “I save the Double Jeopardy round for you.”

  “I’m sure it will come to me,” Giles said. “Bring the card with you tomorrow.”

  * * *

  Lupa paced in the Vyxn dressing room, repeatedly slapping a wireless microphone in her palm. With each impact, her palm turned a pale shade of green before reverting to a normal flesh tone. “Our first set was a little rough.”

  “We got them right where we want them,” Nash said, ignoring the comment. She spun a drumstick in her hand before striking it against the back of a chair.

  That’s the problem, Lupa thought. They had a captive audience, ripe for the picking, and they were so close to the Slayer, prepared to strike at any moment . . . yet Lupa held back. As troupe leader, she must give the order, to go for broke, as the humans said. Still, she hesitated.

  Rave crossed her arms and leaned against the wall, shaking her head. “We wouldn’t have waited this long if you weren’t so worried about the Slayer.”

  “I’m not worried about her,” Lupa said.

  “Prove it,” Carnie said, a little too boldly for Lupa’s taste. The redhead’s appetite was always the first to resurface. Their need was putting all of them on edge and just now it was manifesting as a challenge to her authority. “Choose someone tonight.”

  “Me, I’d choose Xander,” Nash said.

  “Sure,” Carnie agreed. “He’s cute.” She examined her intricately lacquered fingernails, flexed her fingers, then extended them and watched as the skin turned a mottled green and her fingernails became coarse and yellow, with sharp, hooked points. In their natural form, her nails bore more resemblance to animal claws or hooves than they did to frail human fingernails. She closed her fist and opened it again, revealing her human fingers and fingernails once more. “Let’s do him.”

  Lupa shook her head. “No. He’s friend to the Slayer. He’ll have other uses.”

  “Then pick somebody else, Lupa,” Rave said. “We’re hungry.”

  Lupa nodded. While Carnie and Nash were usually slaves to their hunger at the expense of common sense, Rave was the only one—other than Lupa herself—who could think beyond her next meal. In a bold move to make the troupe strong again, Lupa had brought them to the Slayer’s hunting grounds. Then she had been overly cautious in postponing their regular feeding. What sense was there in confronting the Slayer in a hunger-weakened state? The time had come to follow one bold move with another. “Tonight,” Lupa declared. “We feed tonight.”

  * * *

  Waiting for Vyxn to begin their second set, Xander sipped soda at a round table in the Bronze, accompanied by Oz and Troy Douglas. While Xander wore a checked shirt over khakis, and Oz wore a green three-button shirt and dark pants, Troy wore a slate gray two-piece designer suit that had probably cost more than Xander’s entire wardrobe. Xander examined the crowd and saw that it was predominantly male and figured Vyxn’s word of mouth rep must be spreading like wildfire. Only a few nights left, Xander thought Might as well make the most of it. Besides, who knows how far away the band’s next stop might be?

  “So, no Willow tonight, Oz?”

  “History paper, then Buffy’s for a tutoring sleepover,” Oz said, then nipped at a pretzel.

  “Gotta admire that dedication,” Xander said, turning his attention to Troy. “What about you, Zit Man? Finally manage to slip Cordelia’s leash?”

  Troy chuckled. “I think I preferred it when you called me Pimple Boy.” He grabbed a pretzel. “Anyway, we’re gonna hook up later.”

  “So you two are getting serious?”

  “We’re just old friends catching up,” Troy replied. “Besides, I won’t be around town much longer.”

  “That’s good—I mean—”

  The crowd cheered, rising to its feet as Vyxn took the stage again. Thunderous applause filled the Bronze. Carnie began the set by playing a mournful bass riff, which was joined by a slow, steady drumbeat from Nash. Lupa cupped a wireless mike close to her mouth, tilted her head and sang softly.

  “The night weeps for you,

  the rain is falling down,

  And I am hollow now

  On the bus out of town . . .”

  The song was called “Bus Stop” and the band had played it each night, yet it still filled Xander with the same vague se
nse of longing, that he was missing something important and could regain if only he tried hard enough. Before Lupa finished singing the first verse, Xander forgot what he had been so upset about He settled down in his chair and listened raptly.

  Several songs into the set, Xander, Oz and Troy were all bobbing their heads in time to the drumbeat, completely unaware of each other or their surroundings. Only Vyxn seemed to matter, but that seemed perfectly natural.

  “Pathetic much!” Cordelia said, interrupting another mournful ballad.

  Troy shook his head, clearing the cobwebs. “Oh—uh, Cordelia, glad you’re here.”

  Oz looked up at her. “Hey.”

  “Hi, Cordy,” Xander said, but turned his attention back to the stage.

  Cordelia Chase stood with her hands indignantly planted on her hips. “Xander, I knew you were hopeless. But, Oz? I thought, musically at least, you’d have better taste. And, Troy”—she shook her head for emphasis—“you’re the biggest disappointment I thought you were a little more mature than these hormonally charged guys.”

  “I . . . I was just waiting to call—” Troy’s mistake was a sidelong glance at the stage during the middle of his explanation.

  “Save it. I see your brain is already overloaded.”

  She was gone and Troy felt he should follow her, but Lupa had just finished her song and was at that moment pointing her finger at him. “Tune for a dedication,” she said and stepped off the stage. She leaned over, revealing a startling amount of cleavage. With her face next to his, he noticed that her skin was smooth and utterly dry, though he smelled a musky scent coming off of her. “Tell me your name,” she whispered in his ear.

  “Troy,” he whispered right back, felt compelled to do so. “Troy Douglas.”

  “Ah, Troy,” she said, so soft that only he could hear her. “What a lovely name. You know what I want you to do, Troy, I want you to . . .” Her words then flowed so fast he could no longer consciously distinguish one from the next and he wasn’t meant to, though deep in his mind, he understood the commands.

  Xander watched, annoyed that Lupa had decided to give Troy the dedication treatment. First Troy moved on Cordy, now he was monopolizing Vyxn’s attention. He watched as Troy first smiled, then seemed to stare off into space before finally just nodding twice, slowly. Lupa stepped away from him. Xander thought she’d probably given Troy her phone number for after the show.

  Lupa retook the stage, swaying her hips hypnotically before turning slowly to face the crowd. “This is the last song of our next to last set. It’s called ‘Tender Heart’ and it’s dedicated to Troy, the gorgeous guy sitting right here up front and dressed for success.”

  That’s laying it on a bit thick, Xander thought, disgruntled. He couldn’t enjoy the song as much as he would have liked to, mostly because he kept looking at Troy to see how he was reacting to his dedication song. Stone-faced, is how Xander would have described his reaction. However, just as the song was fading, Troy became agitated. He looked over at Xander and Oz.

  “I need to find Cordelia,” Troy said. “Apologize for ignoring her.”

  “An apology.” Xander nodded his head. “Oh, that will definitely make her fall into your arms.”

  Troy shrugged, as if to say it was worth a shot. He stood and slipped between a few tables to get to the door.

  Lupa watched him go, pouted to show her disappointment and then gave the crowd a little wave. “We’re gonna grab a quick snack,” Lupa said. “Don’t run away on us!” The crowd laughed, cheering and clapping as if the mere suggestion was the ultimate in absurdity. “See ya in ten, guys!”

  Xander looked at Oz after the band had left the stage. “You staying for the last set, Oz Man?” Xander felt wiped out after the band had walked offstage. Looking around, he saw that many of the guys who had been cheering a moment ago, looked as if they were waiting for a second wind. An exhilarating show that exhausted the audience. That was a good thing, he thought. Right?

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” Oz said. He picked up the basket on the table and turned it upside down, surprised to find it empty. “We’re gonna need more pretzels.”

  * * *

  As the cool night air washed over Troy Douglas, reviving him slightly, he stood looking from left to right and couldn’t remember why he’d left the Bronze in the first place. Something had seemed urgent a moment or two ago, but it had completely slipped his mind. He stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets and sighed heavily. He recalled that he’d meant to call Cordelia earlier, but it was probably too late for that now. But there was something about Cordelia . . .

  “Troy . . .”

  The voice was barely a whisper. He almost imagined the sound had been conjured by his imagination.

  “Troy . . .”

  He looked from left to right. Nobody was hanging outside the Bronze. So where had the voice come from? he wondered.

  “Troy Douglas . . .” the voice whispered, seemingly audible now, a woman’s voice, definitely.

  “Who’s there?” he asked. The voice had come from the right side of the Bronze. He started walking in that direction. Could it be Cordelia? Maybe she was waiting for him out here, in the dark. “Cordelia? Cordelia, is that you?”

  He neared the corner of the building and peered around the side, saw a figure standing there, in silhouette. “Come. . .”

  A woman. She seemed taller than Cordelia, standing near a battle-scarred Dumpster, which was hardly romantic and certainly not the type of location Cordelia would have chosen for a rendezvous. He was, however, accustomed to female fans of “Wanderlust” confronting him in the oddest places for an autograph or even a kiss. One young woman had followed him into an airport men’s room to tell him she was his number one fan.

  Another woman stepped out from behind the Dumpster, followed by a third and a fourth. They fanned out but did not approach. “Come to us, Troy Douglas,” the first one said in a voice that made him shiver. Something about that voice seemed familiar . . . and the way she spoke his name, like a caress inside his mind. Before he was completely aware of his actions, he found himself walking toward the women.

  “Hello, ladies,” he said. Still thinking fans or groupies had found him out in Sunnydale.

  They were anything but ladies.

  * * *

  Willow Rosenberg had finally tossed up her hands in defeat over her history term paper. Defeat is too definitive a statement. Let’s call it a strategic retreat for the evening. She simply felt like a fraud parroting Chamber of Commerce statistics when she knew the truth behind the history of Sunnydale, behind the Hellmouth. Even though she’d told Oz she would head over to Buffy’s house after putting in some time on the paper, she had waved the white flag earlier than she would have predicted. So it was too soon to drop in on Buffy, who was probably out somewhere with Angel anyway, looking for another cache of human bones or introducing some newly risen vampire to Mr. Pointy.

  Instead, she found herself approaching the Bronze. She figured Oz would be in there with Xander. Oz had tried to hide it, but he was obviously attracted to Vyxn—well, vixens—with their wild hair and seductive looks and the distressed strips of leather they called stage costumes. She doubted Oz’s interest was in Vyxn’s meager musical talents. To Willow, they represented everything she was not and knowing that Oz might be attracted to their brash sex appeal made her feel a little inadequate. She couldn’t compete with them on any level . . . well, except for maybe nailing down an obscure Internet search topic in record time. But Willow was pretty sure that talent wouldn’t impress a whole lot of guys. Actually, she thought, it would probably intimidate them. Guys generally weren’t real keen on feeling intimidated.

  Though Oz always made her feel special, somehow this wiggly little doubt had wormed its way into her subconscious. Now she could only think of the things she was not. Oz had had other girlfriends before her and she assumed she compared favorably to them since, obviously, they weren’t in the picture anymore. Still, Oz was her first boy
friend, which wasn’t much of a relationship history at all. How could she know why one relationship ended while another endured? Maybe Oz saw something in Vyxn that she was lacking, something that would make him realize Willow Rosenberg wasn’t all that great, after all. Insecurity had a way of feeding on itself.

  She figured dropping in for a surprise visit would get Oz’s attention, maybe show him she could be the spontaneous girl if she wanted and she was pretty sure guys liked spontaneity. That is kind of exciting, isn’t it?

  But she never made it past the Vyxn sandwich board. Before she could enter the Bronze, she heard a strange sound from around the side of the building. It sounded like a scuffle and she thought some high school guys might be fighting over some real or imagined insult Yet Willow was a veteran of all—well, a disgustingly and frighteningly assorted sample of all—the Hellmouth had to spew out at the people of Sunnydale, so she approached cautiously. As an official member of the Slayerettes, she was embarrassed to admit she was prepared to turn tail and run at the slightest sign of anything supernatural. “Discretion can be the better part of valor,” she whispered to herself. Still, she had faced many evil and icky things since joining Buffy’s inner circle and had managed to maintain a semblance of courage and dignity throughout.

  She peered cautiously around the corner and saw them, three of them, in silhouette, crouching over a guy lying on the ground. Her first thought was that he—whoever he was—had had too much to drink and had gone around the side of the building, accompanied by his concerned friends, to be sick. But that impression was fleeting. She realized all the crouchers were female, while the crouchee was definitely a guy. That was unusual enough in itself. But the clincher was the sounds the crouchers were making—wet, snuffling noises, like pigs at a trough. Or wild dogs with a fresh kill.

  She’d seen more than enough to know it was too late to help the guy but not too late to run before she became a second course. She stepped back carefully and her heel scraped against a stone. The woman nearest her, with her back turned, whipped her head around and the wild mane of red hair immediately brought to Willow’s mind the image of Vyxn’s bass player, Carnie. Only her face was a mottled green and her teeth were two or three rows deep, gnarled and intertwined and covered with gore, as were her coarse, hooked fingernails. Beyond her, his face partly in shadow and partly streaked with his own blood, lay Troy Douglas.