by Nancy Holder
Buffy shut her eyes in frustration at his idiotic show of courage, but she couldn’t help a rush of gratitude as she scrambled to put distance between her and the demon. It was possible Xander’s little dance had just saved her life.
“C’mon, baby, light my fire,” Xander persisted. “C’mon, baby —”
“Enough!” the demon bellowed, vomiting flame in Xander’s direction. Xander dove out of the way, sliding through to home.
Then the red guy whirled back around and tore after Buffy, shooting out more fire, so close and so hot she felt blisters on her cheeks. She fled, not liking showing her back. Mostly because she liked having one.
As she escaped to the firmer footing of the highway blacktop, she was not a happy girl. This guy was major bad news. True, she had expected a little something, based upon the screams she’d heard coming from the truck. Then, when she’d seen what was happening to Willow, she figured it was maybe luck or a miracle that of all the off-ramps on all the highways cutting through this icky little town, she and Mark had chosen this one to get back onto the highway. In fact, they had thought they had successfully flagged down a ride from a black van when the truck pulled over to the side.
Now, it was pretty obvious to her the demon hadn’t seen either one of them. Probably because he had been too busy treating Willow’s arm like a piece of corn on the cob. And as for the van, it must have sped away.
She turned and faced flamethrower boy, completely unarmed, and wondered what the hell she was going to do to protect herself and the others.
Xander watched helplessly as the demon closed in on Buffy. There had to be something he could do. After all they had been through, he was not about to lose his number one Slayin’ vixen to some gun-totin’ demon trucker with a Juicyfruit monkey on his back. But he’d been pretty much pushed out of the fight, hadn’t he?
“Hold on, Buffy,” he said to himself, so not the hero of hour. “While I watch like some bimbo in a nightgown and a matching pair of feathered high heels.”
Then he brightened. What had the demon told them?
I got me a shotgun needs some use.
And was that true?
One way to find out.
“I’m baack,” he said to Willow, opening the little door behind the passenger door. He was surprised to see her in the passenger seat, more surprised to see some nerdy kid next to her behind the wheel. “Cover for me, or something.”
“He can drive,” Willow said eagerly.
Xander nodded at the kid, not knowing who he was, not caring, especially if he really could drive, and wasn’t just trying to impress Willow, and poked around in the crawl space behind the seats. There wasn’t much there, just a few, oh, God, bones.
“And a shotgun,” Xander said triumphantly, grabbing it up. He started scooting back out and said to Willow, “So. You guys are figuring out the driving part?”
Her hair bobbed with her happy nod. “Yes. Figured. We can move this puppy any time you want.”
“Okay. I’m going to draw his fire, so to speak.” He looked at Willow. “I’ll try to wound him but whatever happens, I most definitely want you to run him over.” His gaze ticked toward the kid. “Can you do that?”
The boy was hollow-eyed. “What’s going on? What is that thing?”
“He can do it,” Willow promised, putting her hand over the boy’s hand.
“I’m gone,” Xander told her, and jumped back out of the truck.
He ran around to the other side and headed for the end zone. The demon was practically on top of Buffy, and she was dodging huge belches of fire. Steam rose into the rain wherever the gouts of flame hit anything solid.
Xander spread his legs for balance, aimed, and fired.
To his euphoria, the demon’s head shot up and flames volcanoed into the storm. It whirled around and blasted more fire. This time Xander didn’t move, didn’t flinch. When flames landed mere inches in front of his body, he shot at it again.
Another direct hit. It staggered backward.
Then Buffy darted up behind it, jumped into the air, and double-kicked it in the small of the back. It arched slightly from the impact, and Xander shot it again.
It spread out its arms and made a half circle, which Buffy avoided by dropping to her knees. Then she drove straight for its shins, obviously attempting to topple the creature.
Somehow she’d miscalculated, though, and the demon’s response was to lean down and pick her up under her armpits. She kicked, hard, then double-kicked, and flipped up and out of its arms.
Xander gestured to Willow to follow him, and he began running toward the monster.
In the back of his mind, he remembered saying very cruel things about Buffy this very night. Believing them. But right now, he would die for her.
“You ugly, gross thing!” he shouted at the demon. The roar of the truck as it began to move might have drowned him out, or maybe the boom of thunder overhead, but something else drew the creature’s attention. Its eyes widened in terror and Xander wondered what it was about the scenario that was flipping it out: truck, gun, boy wonder.
Just in case it was him, Xander kept running toward it, wondering how the heck they did stuff like this on TV, just ran around like fools shooting things without having to stand still to take aim.
“You’re disgusting!” Xander shouted again. To his amazement, the demon kind of hunched over, like it was scared or shy or apologizing or something.
So Xander kept running.
The truck’s air horn blared behind him, blasting his eardrums. He jumped, looked over his shoulder, and hauled out of the way.
The truck was bearing down on the demon.
“No! My queen!” it cried. Then it opened its mouth and spewed flame at the truck.
While Xander watched in horror, the entire front of the truck burst into flame. Then it rammed into the demon, sending it flying, and ran right over it.
The flaming truck kept going straight onto the highway. Xander raced after it, shouting Willow’s name, dropping the shotgun and moving as fast as he ever had.
The driver’s-side door opened. Someone tumbled out. One someone. Only one.
The truck blew. The ground shook from the explosion as the truck went up, bursting with awesome force. Huge chunks of half-molten metal flew in all directions, arcing through the rain and screeching back toward the ground like bombs.
“Willow!” Xander screamed. “Buffy!”
“Hello, Slayer,” said the figure in black, backlit by the explosion.
It had been standing on top of the truck when the big rig had begun to roll toward the demon. After the demon had set the truck on fire, the figure had darted to the back of the vehicle and leaped off, landing on its feet with an easy grace. It was hooded and robed.
It was the figure from her dreams.
“Hold on a sec, okay?” Buffy said, her finger raised as she turned toward the fire storm to see if everyone got out. The stench of burning rubber and an odor of cooking meat — oh, God — filled the air.
The figure advanced and put its hands to its hood. Threw it back.
She was a vampire. Just a vampire.
Buffy was disappointed. After all this time, and all those nightmares, she’d been expecting something much more dramatic. Vampires she could slay in her sleep. So to speak. Okay, with her eyes closed. With one hand tied behind her back.
Buffy motioned with her hand. “Five seconds, okay? Hold on. We’ll fight. I just need to check —”
“Oz,” the vampire said. “He’s alive.”
She unclasped her robe and let it drop to the ground. She was very cut, with muscles on her muscles, and she was dressed in some kind of weird body armor, complete with a Xena-style bra.
“Wow. Where’d you get that?” Buffy asked in admiration, even though it took every bit of her focus not to race for the truck. One of the advantages of all her training with Giles was a developed ability to concentrate, which, unfortunately, still had not extended to studying. “Do
they take charge cards?”
The vampire walked stealthily toward her, positioning her hands in a fighter’s stance. She was awesome. “Mock all you want.”
“No mocking,” Buffy assured her. “Honest. I’m really impressed. See, I don’t have a costume. Not even a cape. I could go for a new look.”
“Your grave clothes will be your new look.” The vampire narrowed her eyes. “Do you have any idea how many Slayers I’ve killed?”
Buffy shrugged. “Do you have any idea how many vampires I’ve killed? Cuz I don’t. I lost count. I’m the McDonald’s of slaying. Over three billion slain. Something like that.”
The vampire raised an eyebrow. “Boasting is unseemly.”
“So is biting people on the neck and sucking out all their blood,” Buffy retorted. “But that doesn’t seem to stop you people.”
“No. It doesn’t stop me,” the vampire said, spreading her mouth as she morphed into vamp mode. “It impels me.”
“I’ve gotta get a thesaurus,” Buffy muttered.
“I will fight you for the lives of your friends.”
Buffy took that in. “Okay.”
The vamp narrowed her golden eyes and cocked her head. “This isn’t the forum I had in mind.”
“Picky, picky,” Buffy said. “It works for me.”
Then she took the offensive, running at the vampire as she felt at her waist for a stake. Uh-oh.
She was fresh out. What a stupid miscalculation.
Well, there was nothing to be done about it now. She flung herself at the vampire, shifting her trajectory just as she sprung when the vampire feinted to the left, then darted to the right. Buffy’s right heel caught her hip, and her left landed hard in the CENTER of the vampire’s right side of ribs. The vampire grunted and slammed onto her back.
Buffy landed on both feet, and before the vampire had a chance to get up, she landed on top of her, straddling her, while her gaze darted left, right for something to impale her with. The firelight from the burning truck cast flickering orange light over the ground, but Buffy kept coming up empty. She thought about Xander’s gun, and wondered where it had landed.
It really is just like the dream, she thought, as she pummeled the creature. With the fire blazing nearby, and the figure beneath her, which she was punching out for all she was worth . . .
She was gaining the upper hand, and felt a renewed surge of power with the knowledge. Okay, cool outfit and wicked-scary dreams, but a vampire was just a vampire, after all, and she hadn’t been exaggerating too much about how many she’d dusted . . .
Then she heard someone shouting, “Buffy!” and she was confused. Because it sounded like Angel.
She glanced up. The female vampire took advantage of her distraction to undercut Buffy’s chin, whipping back her head. Another human being would probably have suffered a broken neck. It was Buffy’s luck — and misfortune — to be the Slayer; despite a rush of pain and dizziness, she quickly recovered her momentum and punched her attacker in the face again.
“Angel?” she called.
Beneath her, the female vampire shouted, “Don’t kill him!”
Buffy frowned at her. “’Don’t kill him’?”
The vampire caught Buffy’s fist with both her hands and yanked her hard to the right, pulling Buffy off her body and throwing her into mud. Buffy scrambled in the thick ooze for a toehold as the vampire dodged away from her.
By the time Buffy managed to get to her knees, the vampire was running toward the burning truck.
Buffy gasped. Directly in front of the fiery vehicle, at least six vampires had hold of Angel. He was struggling to free himself; as Buffy slipped and slid, and finally got to her feet, he managed to shake at least one off and had another in a choke hold.
Then a slim figure ran toward him, followed by a taller, beefier version of a humanoid. Willow and Xander.
They’re alive.
Xander was carrying something stick-shaped, and as Buffy darted toward the group, making her way as fast as she could, he rammed the stick through the back of one of Angel’s attackers. The thing exploded — vampire, good — but the one next to him whirled on Xander and grabbed the stick out of his hands.
Xander was hurled into Willow, and they both went down. One of the vamps sprang toward them. The female who had fought with Buffy reached the fracas and shouted something in a language Buffy didn’t understand. The other figure turned away from Buffy’s two friends.
Then the female reached Angel, moving with an eerie sort of theatrical rhythm as she advanced on him and at the same time took the stick from the other vampire. In the pulsing fire glow, while three of the others held Angel, she became a silhouette as she aimed the stick directly at his unbeating heart.
Buffy screamed, “No!” and ran, calling on everything inside herself to reach them in time.
Chapter 8
THE RAIN WAS POUNDING ON THE ROOF OF GILES’S apartment building. Every dish in his kitchen lay demolished on the floor. Every glass, shattered. A half-opened bottle of single malt Scotch wafted odiferous, telltale fumes.
Thank God he had come to his senses before he had reached his record collection, the destruction of which had, indeed, crossed his mind. If he had truly been possessed of a mind at the time.
There had been many moments in Giles’s life when he had lost his temper. A few, when he had lost his mind. But this had been like nothing else. He had never felt such complete rage.
He had no idea how it had come upon him, except that he had been told of David’s death by David’s aunt, Lady Anne, and realized that not only had he missed the opportunity to say good-bye to an old friend, but that he would have to miss the funeral as well. That had sent him over the edge. He had even less of an idea regarding how the completely overwhelming rage had left him.
He thought back to his own behavior these past days. Abominable. What had he been thinking? Had he actually told Buffy he thought she was a bimbo? What on earth had possessed him?
“Possession. Aye, there’s the rub,” he muttered. He cradled his hand in his chin. He was very tired, and enormously embarrassed. His kitchen was a disaster and should be cleaned up immediately.
Instead, he went straightaway to his bookshelves and began searching out all the titles which contained the word “possession.” He had quite a number in his home library, and he was certain there were even more in the library at school.
He stacked them on the coffee table in front of his sofa and began to read. In due course, he discovered that there were a thousand theories about how one could become possessed; everything from angry spirits to bad peyote was cataloged in one volume or another.
The rain clattered on. He was about halfway through the stack when he finally admitted defeat. There wasn’t enough to go on, and he blamed himself for that. Buffy had been trying to talk about this for weeks, and he had not been listening. Maybe a regular person could blame that on possession, but not a Watcher. He had higher standards to live by. He had a Slayer to protect.
With a sigh, he picked up the phone and called Buffy’s home. An apology was in order. That, and a brainstorming session. He had been most remiss in his duties. He prayed he would never be so again.
The phone was answered on the first ring.
“Yes.” The tone was harsh, angry. The voice belonged to Buffy’s mother.
“Joyce. Ah, Ms. Summers,” Giles amended, when she didn’t respond to his use of her first name. “Giles here. Is Buffy —”
“She’s not here. And if you find her, you can tell her thanks a lot for not leaving a note. Again. What does she think this is, a pit stop?”
“I’m so sorry.” He cocked his head. “Is everything all right there?”
“Here? Oh, everything’s just terrific.” She bit off each word. “Some jerk broke into the gallery and stole a very valuable ancient Roman artifact. Which, we have since discovered, we are liable for. And of course it was underinsured.”
“Oh, my. I’m so dreadfully s
orry indeed. If there’s anything I might do —”
“There’s not,” she cut in rudely. “But if you see that daughter of mine, tell her to come home. I’m sick and tired of worrying about her. The least she could do is call.”
“Yes, of course I shall. And might I suggest —”
She hung up.
He was not offended in the least. He knew she was not herself. He sincerely hoped she did not trash her kitchen. Or, if she did, that she had adequately insured her prized possessions.
And he also hoped that she, like he, ran across the antidote for whatever gripped them in this nasty temper, and cured her of it as soon as possible. For Buffy’s sake, if not her own.
And so, back to the books.
About half an hour later, he looked up and thought, Ancient Roman artifact?
Slipping and sliding through the mud, Buffy shouted, “Stop!”
And to her pure and total surprise and relief, the beautiful, dark-haired vampire paused from staking Angel and smiled at her. She raised her brows as the rain washed down her pale face and pooled around her feet. There was no reflection in the moonlit water.
“Why should I stop, Slayer?” she asked. Now Buffy detected an accent. What kind, she didn’t know. It wasn’t Transylvanian, or whatever passed for it in the movies. Definitely not Californian. Or British. “He’s a vampire.”
“This is my territory,” Buffy tossed off. “I don’t want to hurt my rep.”
The vampire smiled. “He’s your property. Your lover.” She whipped her head toward Angel, keeping the stake pressed against his chest. “Is that not so, Angelus? You have turned your back on your kind for one of them?”
“Now you’re really pissing me off,” Buffy said, smoothing her sopping hair out of her face. “’Cause you sound like Darla.”
“His sire,” the vampire filled in. Buffy was surprised she knew about Darla, but maybe not so much. Angel was a celeb in vampire circles. “Tell me, Angelus, how is she?”