Ghoul Trouble

by John Passarella

  “Not real fond of ’em myself, Cordy,” Xander said.

  * * *

  Giles groaned and struggled up from the darkness that tugged at him like sleep long denied. His good hand fumbled at his scalp, which had been cut The surrounding area was sticky with half-congealed blood, one eye glued shut. His other hand and wrist throbbed painfully. The pain was probably what had roused him. At first he couldn’t remember where he was or what had happened to him.

  His hand flopped down to his chest and found something smooth and rectangular there. He raised it to his good eye. A playing card. And it all came back to him. Solitaire. His wrist. The message for Buffy. Then the emphatic blow to the head. Giles sat up, felt only slightly dizzy, so climbed to his feet, using the wall for support. He must drive to the Bronze, warn Buffy. While standing seemed precarious, when he started toward the door, his legs felt as if they were on stilts, his feet so far below him. Definitely in no condition to drive, he thought. He staggered to the telephone and oddly remembered that parents on airplanes were instructed to put oxygen masks on themselves first so they did not pass out before they could place masks on their children. Odd . . . he had no children. He dialed 911. “Thank you, yes, this is, ah, Rupert Giles. I believe I may be in need of medical attention. Yes, it’s—” When his own address did not come immediately to mind, he thought it rather clever of him to refer to his driver’s license for the information. He’d been banged around quite a bit and was probably suffering from a concussion on top of all that, so minor victories were to be cherished.

  Oxygen, he thought, while he waited for help to arrive. He stared at the telephone numbers, grasping at a thought that eluded him. “Ah—Buffy, yes.” He checked the time and decided she would still be at the Bronze, unreachable. Cordelia had a cell phone, but he couldn’t recall the number if he had ever known it. Instead he dialed Buffy’s home number. He’d probably wake Joyce, but this was something of an emergency and she would—would The darkness was rising again, too quickly. He felt the telephone receiver slip from his grasp and drop to the floor, although the sound was oddly muffled. Darkness enfolded him, pulled him down with one last, fading thought . . . oxygen.

  * * *

  If Xander were a pig, he’d probably be delirious by now. He’d rooted his way through every last beer bottle and soda can, the odd banana peel and mound of potato chip crumbs, goopy bread and rolls, rancid chunks of meat and sticky eggshells, soggy cardboard, soiled tissues and clumps of cigarette ashes and the ever popular wads of gum. Somebody had dumped several cartons of Chinese food into the Dumpster. Now bits of chicken and lumpy white rice had found a home in his dark hair. At least he hoped it was white rice. No rats, thankfully, though he had stumbled upon one frightened brown mouse. After which, Xander had insisted to Cordelia that he did not, in fact, scream like a girl. Hey, the mouse could have had rabies for all he’d known.

  “Nothing,” Xander said. Nothing that would indicate the presence of Willow or Troy. Everything else one could reasonably expect to find in a well-stocked Dumpster had found its way into his hair, shirt, trouser pockets, socks and shoes. If anything, he was starting to feel a real and abiding empathy for the life of a garbage dump rat. He reached out a brown-stained hand toward Cordelia. “Help me out.”

  “Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head as she backed away. “Not till after you’ve bathed—at least several hundred times.”

  Oz stepped up, offered his hand and pulled Xander out of the muck. “Thanks, man,” Oz said, indicating the state of Xander’s skin and clothes.

  After seeing the grim expression on Oz’s face, Xander felt as if Dumpster diving was the least he could do to help. Xander and Willow had been friends, well, forever, it seemed. There was nothing he wouldn’t do if it meant getting Will out of a jam. But she and Oz had something special and he knew Oz was hurting big time. “No problem, Oz,” Xander said, and flicked a few grains of white rice out of his ear. “Just wish I could have found something useful in there.”

  “I know,” Oz said, downcast. His flashlight beam shone on the side of the brown Dumpster, revealing a dark, splotchy stain.

  They were standing in early predawn light that made the street lamps appear even fainter, but Xander noticed a distinct red hue to the stain and he doubted it was ketchup. He crouched beside the Dumpster and, despite his grime covered hands, was afraid to touch the wetness, afraid to confirm what he knew it must be. Remarkably, he caught a whiff of Cordelia’s perfume as she stepped up beside him—remarkable because it was only in contrast to her scent that he realized how truly awful he smelled.

  “Look,” Cordelia said softly, pointing down beside him.

  Xander nodded, dislodging a few more kernels of rice. “I know,” he said. “Looks like blood.”

  Oz crouched and shone the light on the red stain.

  “No,” Cordelia said and picked up a piece of cloth which had been pinned against one of the Dumpster’s wheels. “This,” she said, showing it to them.

  “A clothing label?” Xander said, confused.

  “Duh—are you guys blind?” Cordelia asked. “It’s Versace.”

  Oz frowned.

  “Hello,” she said. “Was no one paying attention? Troy was wearing Versace last night.”

  Buffy and Angel had just returned from another circuit of the Bronze. She examined the piece of cloth Cordelia held pinched between her fingernails, shining her own flashlight on the label, and realized the significance. “They—it—whatever got Troy,” she said, glancing at Angel, who only nodded.

  “I really hate this town,” Cordelia said. “All the great guys get eaten by demons!”

  “Oh, no—oh, no!” Xander shouted, pointing at the ground. “Guys, look! The rice—the rice is moving!” He yelled and ran, flicking his fingers through his hair and shuddering. “Oh, God—God! Beyond gross!”

  Cordelia looked down to where Xander had pointed. “Is that—?”

  Angel nodded. “Maggots.”

  Cordelia’s hand went to her mouth. “Oh, I’m gonna be sick!”

  “Aim for the Dumpster,” Angel said.

  Buffy walked over to where Oz had retreated, now almost oblivious to his surroundings. She put an arm around him. “We’ll find her, Oz. I promise.”

  “Willow’s alive,” Oz said softly. “Bet on it.”

  * * *

  Willow was alive, but she ached all over.

  Vyxn had kept her tied up and gagged during the third set of their show, hunched over in a closet in their dressing room. On the other side of the closet, in a large sack, they had dumped what was left of Troy. And there hadn’t been all that much after their set break meal. Despite their ravenous appetite for human flesh, they had been careful to remove all evidence of their attack outside the Bronze. Willow had not been hopeful that her friends would find her any time soon.

  She still was not hopeful, especially since she had no idea where she was. They had put her in another foulsmelling sack and dumped her in the back of their van for the trip back to their hideout—lair?

  A collar had been fastened around her neck and chained to a long board—with other, matching hooks—mounted to the wall of her room, where she sat and waited alone. The two windows on one side of the room were covered with old plywood. Early morning light streamed through narrow cracks, illuminating a cascade of dust motes. The walls were painted a sickly shade of green and, in several spots, plaster and lath showed through holes in the drywall.

  She could hear the four of them, talking and laughing, almost as if they were human, which couldn’t be further from the truth. Willow was no longer gagged but there was no use screaming. Lupa had told her the abandoned house was too isolated for screaming to do her any good. Nash had pretended to scream for help, just to show how hopeless it was. The others had laughed and left Willow alone for a while.

  Now the door opened again as Carnie, the redheaded bassist, stepped inside, munching on what could probably be the remains of a human forearm. Beyond her, Wil
low could see Lupa, Rave and Nash at an old wooden table, busy with their own pounds of flesh. “Leftovers,” Carnie said. “Want a bite?”

  “No thanks, I already vomited.”

  Carnie laughed. “If you’re gonna be one of us, you really have to get over this aversion to raw human flesh.”

  “That’s really not a problem since, actually, I would really prefer not to be one of you.”

  Carnie chuckled and shrugged. “You’re either one of us,” she said and, by way of demonstrating, reverted to her mottled green, jagged-toothy self. “Or”—she waved the hunk of forearm in a slow arc—“you’re one of them. Your call.”

  CHAPTER 9

  “Okay, Giles,” Buffy said beside Giles’s hospital bed. “Here are the Watchers’ journals and the other musty books you requested.” She placed the old, leather-bound tomes on the movable hospital tray, where they were bound to unsettle the nurses.

  “Thank you, Buffy.”

  “Looks like the Watchers Council bestsellers list or something.”

  “Certain volumes—the Pergamum Codex, the Black Chronicles, the Writings of Dramius, to name a few—have, over time, proven invaluable, yes,” Giles said.

  “And somehow not an Oprah pick in the bunch.”

  “You were able to complete the uninvite ritual successfully?” Giles asked.

  Buffy gave a brisk nod. “Dotted my T’s and crossed my I’s. Took over right where you left off when you were so rudely interrupted,” she said. “Or was that the other way around?” The smile on her face faded as if it had been an illusion all along. She pulled up a chair and sat close to her Watcher. “Okay, Giles, spill. My mom said you called to tell me you were in the hospital but okay.” Her gaze swept across the cast on his arm, the bandage on his forehead. “You don’t look ‘okay.’ ”

  “Nothing too serious,” Giles said. “Concussion, fractured wrist, skull lacerations. Humbling, but hardly life-threatening. Now tell me. Have you been able to locate Willow?”

  Buffy pushed herself out of the hospital chair and walked to the window, staring down between the gaps in the vertical blinds at the orderly rows of parked cars. I should be doing something—anything—if I only knew where to start. Willow was her best friend and all Buffy could say was, “No.”

  “Still nothing to indicate she disappeared from the Bronze? Or Troy?”

  “We think Troy may have run into the flesh-eaters, the ghouls or whatever they are,” Buffy said. “After he left the Bronze. Cordelia identified a piece of clothing and there was some blood. But we can’t be sure if Willow was there or—”

  “I know,” Giles said. “If nothing else, the lack of physical evidence gives us reason for hope that she’s okay.”

  Buffy nodded, returning to his bedside. “Xander and Oz promised to catch a few hours sleep. But they’re probably out searching again by now.”

  “You’ll be missed at school. Your mother?”

  “Called in to cover for me. But that probably won’t stop Principal Snyder from taking his evil little chart to my commando counselor to show her what a horribly undedicated student I am.”

  “Buffy, you mustn’t neglect your studies,” Giles said. “Or your sleep. You need to prepare yourself for the challenges ahead. Otherwise you will be of no use to Willow or yourself. With our resources spread thin, we must approach this intelligently and efficiently.” Giles flipped through one of the larger tomes, frowned, closed it and selected another. He jabbed at a page with his good index finger. “There is mention of flesh-eating ghouls here,” he said. “As I said before, creatures out of Arabic folklore.” He skimmed the passage, culling the salient facts. “Ghouls were female desert demons who lured travelers—we can assume men—into their clutches and devoured them.”

  “No deserts in Sunnydale,” Buffy said. She tapped her head. “See—got that whole intelligence thing working now.”

  “But we do have a Hellmouth.”

  “Okay, but this Solitaire guy doesn’t fit the pattern,” Buffy said. “First off, he’s a guy. Second, if he was a ghoul, you would have been an entrée.”

  “No, I believe Solitaire is a loner,” Giles said. “As evidenced by his name and notwithstanding his playing-card affectation. I’m afraid Solitaire is nothing more than a vampire, a very powerful vampire.”

  “A vampire who slaps on some SPF 10,000 before a morning stroll?”

  Giles frowned. “There is that—er, anomaly. We can’t discount the possibility that he possesses a magical ring or an amulet that protects him from the rays of the sun. Make a note. You’ll want to remove that if you encounter him in daylight.”

  “Or I could just stake him.”

  “Quite right,” Giles conceded. “I do recall mention of a vampire named Solitaire in a Watchers’ journal. But the entry dates back three or four hundred years.” He pushed aside the larger books and started flipping through the assorted Watchers’ journals. He shook his head, disappointed he couldn’t immediately locate entries he had read years ago. “The subject of rumors and myth spread by the legions of undead who feared him. I suppose I’ve forgotten the specific entries since there’s been no mention of him for hundreds of years.”

  “What did he say to you, Giles?”

  “He basically threatened your life,” Giles said.

  “That’s original.”

  “He was, however, quite impressed with your reputation,” Giles said.

  “Color me flattered.”

  “This is quite serious, Buffy,” Giles said. “He seemed particularly impressed with the way you handled the Order of Taraka. Apparently, he now considers you a challenge worthy of him.”

  “Sounds like a Wild West gunfighter,” Buffy said.

  “The parallel is not without merit,” Giles said.

  “And that biker—Warhammer—was what? A warm-up act?” Buffy guessed.

  “The other bikers who were killed simply got in the way. Solitaire challenged Warhammer directly, the others he offered a chance to escape. Your mother and I are probably alive simply because we are beneath his notice.”

  “If he wants me,” Buffy said. “Why not come directly to me?”

  “He’s circling you, sizing you up, looking for weaknesses,” Giles said. “If he savors the duel, it is reasonable to assume he savors the anticipation of the duel as well. He’s engaging in a psychological battle before the physical battle.”

  “What he’s doing is getting me really angry.”

  “He will look for the advantage before attacking. If he truly is immune to the rays of the sun, you must be on your guard all the time, day and night.”

  * * *

  Willow could no longer deny she was hungry. Whenever her stomach growled, she thought about what had happened to Troy and instantly lost her appetite. But the image was losing its power over her building hunger. Sleep helped pass the time, but the hardwood floor was uncomfortable and she woke every fifteen minutes or so with stiff and achy limbs. So she had fatigue to add to her list of grievances.

  To keep herself occupied while awake, she examined the iron collar they had put on her neck. It felt old, handmade, but sturdy. The padlock also had an Old World, pre-industrial-age quality to it. However, the chain holding her to the ring board was made of identical, machine-stamped, stainless-steel links. She tried unscrewing the ring from the board but it was impossible without leverage. The board was securely mounted to the wall and—she guessed from the even horizontal spacing of the nails—into the beams of the house. Of course, at least one member of Vyxn had stayed in the house since they had locked her in the room, so she had been careful not to make too much noise.

  She turned away from the wall as she heard the door open.

  Carnie again, but this time with Lupa, the ghoul leader. They took positions on either side of her, both wearing their human disguises. Beyond them, sitting at a table bathed in the wan light of a hanging oil lantern, Willow could see Rave and Nash. Both were in their natural ghoul form, bristling with jagged teeth
and sharp claws, the better to strip meat off the bones, as they talked in low tones. The slaughterhouse stench made Willow’s stomach turn, though she couldn’t help but be relieved when Lupa swung the door shut which, if nothing else, blocked the revolting scene in the other room.

  “Any preference for take-out?” Carnie asked. “Thai? Mexican? Chinese?”

  “I’m not hungry,” Willow lied. “Thank you very much.”

  “You will be,” Lupa assured her.

  “What exactly do you want from me?”

  Lupa crouched beside her. “We just want you to join our little club. All it takes is a . . . well, let’s call it an initiation.”

  “Initiation?” Willow really didn’t want to hear any more, nor did she believe she could get these ghouls to see the error of their ways, but the more she learned, the better her chances of figuring a way out of her predicament. And right now she could use an edge. Any edge.

  “It’s simple, really,” Lupa told her. “All you have to do is consume the living flesh of your closest friend.”

  “About a quarter-pound should do it,” Carnie added.

  “What if, instead, I just make a really mean crank call?” Willow asked.

  Lupa slapped her across the face, just hard enough to stun her. “Tell us about Buffy.”

  “Buffy—who?” Willow pressed her hand to her burning cheek. “She’s not my—we’ve only seen—passed in the halls once or twice. I don’t even think I know her last name. Why do you ask?”

  “Nice try,” Lupa said. She stood up. “We don’t want to get ugly, and torture is such an ugly word. But we won’t go there . . . yet. Right now, we have to get ready for our show. So, think about it. You still have time. Time to get good and hungry.”

  They left her alone, closing the door behind them. In the outer room, they talked softly among themselves but their voices were too faint to hear. It was much darker now. As the light faded, so too did her hope.

  * * *

  “Well?” Rave asked when Carnie and Lupa rejoined her and Nash at the table, in the center of which was a large bowl filled with gleaming, discarded bones.