The Evil That Men Do

by Nancy Holder

  Chapter 14

  WHEN OZ WAS THROWN INTO CORDELIA’S CELL, SHE didn’t recognize him at first. He was filthy and bruised, and just barely conscious.

  “Oz!” she shrieked.

  He opened one eye. “Hey.” Shut it.

  “Oz, oh, my God.” She knelt over him, afraid to touch him. Whipping up her head, she screamed at the darkness, “What have you done to him?”

  Oz groaned and slowly sat up. “They let the dogs play with me. Wolf-baiting. Very big in ancient Rome, I guess.”

  Cordelia touched her hand to her mouth. “But you’ll heal, right? Cuz you usually heal pretty fast.”

  “Or Julian will do it for me,” he said. “What have they done to you?”

  “You mean . . . what do you mean? About Julian?”

  “He’s got all these ointments and lotions.” He held out his hand. “I almost lost this hand . . . doing something. He fixed it.”

  “My God.” She looked around, then leaned toward him. “Why are they doing this? Why are we prisoners?”

  “The way I figure it,” Oz said, “is we’re bait, primarily. For Buffy. Secondarily, we’re sacrifices to their goddess. Thirdly, we’re part of the floor show.” When she stared at him blankly, he explained, “We’re going to fight Buffy in the arena.”

  “Well, I’m not.” Cordelia folded her arms.

  Oz paused. “They’re going to give you something. It’ll make you go all crazy.” He paused again. “You won’t know what you’re doing.”

  “Like when I was with Xander.”

  “Exactly.”

  We’ve got to get out of here,” Cordelia said urgently.

  “That thought had crossed my mind, also.” Oz gestured to his battered body. “I’ve been trying to get out of here a lot. I think that’s why they let the dogs use me for a chew toy.”

  “Then Buffy will just have to save us.” She huffed. “Sooner, rather than later.”

  “Good thinking,” Oz said. He wasn’t smiling. He was deadly earnest.

  Buffy got to the library just before dawn, sneaking past marauding bands of wild townspeople. From the smoke roiling beneath the moonlight, it appeared that the rain had doused several fires.

  It was a simple matter to slip onto school grounds; she found herself thinking about Brian Dellasandro and his most recent journey to this very building. Probably his last journey to this very building. She couldn’t even imagine what was going to happen to him after what he had done. What would happen to a lot of people, in fact.

  She walked quietly on the toes of her boots, wrapping her coat around herself. She was colder inside the school hallway than she had been outside.

  Through the porthole windows in the double doors of the library, she saw Giles and Xander, seated at the study table with books heaped around them. Giles was on the phone, and Xander was plopped behind the computer.

  Buffy pushed in. They both looked up. They both brightened.

  “Did you bring donuts?” Xander asked

  .

  She realized she should have taken the time to eat before she left home. She was starving. A hungry Slayer was not only a cranky Slayer but a sluggish Slayer, and she did not have time to be sluggish.

  However, food had been nowhere near her thoughts.

  “No,” she told him.

  “That’s not a problem, because I did. I being, on occasion, donut guy,” Xander said, lifting a large pink box from behind a mountain of dusty volumes. With a flourish, he stood and opened the box, revealing at least two dozen donuts.

  “Giles likes sprinkles, did you know that?” he asked. “He ate two.”

  Buffy selected a maple bar and bit into it hungrily.

  “Tea?” Giles asked.

  It was something warm. “Sure, that’s nice.”

  “Or, a fresh latte?” Xander queried, holding up a familiar, and much beloved, paper cup of the Espresso Pump’s finest.

  “Oh, Xander, marry me and have my children,” Buffy cooed, reaching for it.

  “You’re just a bottomless pit of wants and needs,” he zinged back, holding up a little pink packet. “Sugar substitute?”

  “No. I’ll take it this way.” She sipped through the little slot in the plastic lid and closed her eyes. A tiny surge jittered through her, and she blessed whoever it was that invented caffeine.

  “A demon guy in the vamp van pushed Jordan Smyth out the door,” she said, getting down to business. “Very much dead.”

  “A sad end to a sad life,” Giles said.

  “They bought it at the Sunnydale Kar Mart. No license plate.”

  “That’s something. Not much,” Giles said. “What did you do with the body?”

  She shrugged. “Left it there. It was almost dawn. I didn’t want to get caught with it. You know I have a sort of a bad rep as it is.”

  A silence dropped over the trio, as if they were giving Jordan the respect he had craved in life and never gotten.

  Then Giles got back to it. “So what did Angel give you?”

  “In terms of information,” Xander said quickly, “cuz the rest, I don’t even want to hear about.”

  “There is no rest. There can be no rest. None, okay?” Buffy said, rolling her eyes even though she felt her cheeks turning pink. She turned to Giles. “What did you ask me?”

  “Angel told you more about Helen, the Betrayed One.”

  Buffy nodded. “A little more. He had to go, because of the sun.”

  “Some guys have the lamest excuses,” Xander said.

  Buffy ignored him. “There was this vampire, Julian.”

  “Yes. I know of him, of course. Since he was Helen’s paramour.”

  “Oh.” Buffy sipped her coffee and chewed her donut thoughtfully. "Paramour. We didn’t get that far.” She swallowed and took another bite. “All we got to was that the Roman soldiers picked her up instead of the Slayer. Diana’s Watcher confessed to the switch.”

  “A bit of a disappointment, that fellow,” Giles conceded. “That scheme was not at all approved, I might add.”

  “Helen went in Diana’s place?” Xander asked.

  Buffy reached for another donut and regarded it suspiciously. She put it down. “Maybe it’s all this sugar that’s wigging out the happy folk of Sunnydale. Willow’s mother did a paper about it. Some guy in San Francisco even tried to dodge a murder rap by saying sugar made him all crazy.”

  “It was called the ’Twinkie Defense,’” Xander confirmed. “Behold, I have knowledge.”

  “And I am impressed,” Buffy told him. She moved on. “The Watcher told the soldiers Helen was the Slayer, and since she was with him, they believed it. I guess Helen was pretty ticked off about it.”

  “Ouch,” Xander said. “You do something like that, Giles, and I’ll never buy the ones with sprinkles again.”

  “It’s difficult to believe Diana would consent to such a scheme,” Giles observed. “To let any person stand in for her.”

  “Maybe she didn’t,” Buffy said. “We don’t get her side, do we?” She peered at the stack of books. “No journals? No diaries?”

  “We faxed the Vatican,” Xander said importantly.

  “Wow.” Buffy looked impressed.

  “Not the Vatican precisely, but someone who . . . works in Rome,” Giles said offhandedly.

  “An undercover Watcher spy?” Buffy asked, even more impressed.

  “No,” Giles said quickly, then pushed up his glasses. “Well, something like that.”

  “Now that’s what I’d be good at,” Xander said. “I’m stylin’ in my Watcher trenchcoat and fedora.”

  Buffy nodded to Giles. “The Italian not-a-spy, faxed because?”

  She could tell Giles was delighted that she’d asked. He was winding up for the pitch even as he perched on a corner of the study table and folded his arms.

  “Well, you see, the Roman emperor of that time, Caligula, was extremely depraved. Completely mad. He was so awful he only lasted four years before he was assassinated. But in
that time, he perpetrated more heinous acts than any other of the Caesars, before or after.”

  “Or since,” Xander added.

  “As Rome is no longer ruled by the Imperial Caesars,” Giles said rather tiredly, “we may discount their influence in the present day.”

  “Or not,” Buffy said. She pulled out the urn. “This thing got stolen from the art gallery.”

  Giles was silent for a moment. Then he said in a hushed voice, “The Urn of Caligula. I didn’t know it actually existed.”

  Buffy looked at Xander, knowing that, despite the urgency of their mission, Giles was about to do some more talking to find his way to the knowledge. Xander started to drum his fingers; she gave her head a little shake. He grimaced and folded his hands under his arms, maybe not realizing he was imitating Giles, and gazed expectantly at the Englishman.

  “This is really quite remarkable,” Giles continued, cradling the piece as he moved a hand over several of the books, then lifted one and began paging through it. “Caligula is also believed to have been a minor demon. It’s said that when he met the vampire Julian, he aspired to immortality without becoming a vampire himself. He founded the Cult of Meter. She is the mother of all darkness. He declared himself her son, and it was from his desire to sacrifice to her that he was so enthusiastic about the Games. An incredible number of people died in gladiatorial combat during his reign. Also, mass butcherings — Christians thrown to the lions, that sort of thing.”

  “And people get so hepped up about violence on television,” Xander quipped.

  “What’s in the urn?” Buffy asked.

  “If the legend is correct, these are Caligula’s ashes.” He tapped the stopper. “He was assassinated, and his body burnt. The story has it that on the full moon of Meter, which occurs only once every six hundred and sixty-six years, his evil energy can be used by those who know how to wield it, for their own purposes.”

  “Which can now be us, for our purposes,” Buffy said. “Cuz we’ve got the trophy.”

  “Yes, perhaps,” Giles said slowly, “but I’ll have to do a lot of research. It’s dangerous to use evil power, even against itself.”

  Buffy sighed. “We need Willow.”

  “We need Willow,” Giles replied, turning away.

  “Meanwhile,” he said, and in that moment, he caught his foot on the leg of a chair at the study table and dropped the urn.

  A smoky scent immediately filled the room. Giles whipped his head back and made a half circle away from Buffy. When he turned back, she scarcely recognized him. The expression on his face was nothing short of demonic.

  “You little . . .” he said between clenched teeth. “Night and day, I watch out for you. I have no life. My friend died and I couldn’t even go to him.”

  “Xander,” Buffy said anxiously, watching Giles the way one might watch a rabid dog, “don’t inhale.”

  “You never back me up,” Xander said behind her. “You let them expel me. You let them take Cordy. And now Willow.”

  They both circled her. Uh-oh.

  “Guys?” she said anxiously. “Think this through. It’s not you. It’s not you.”

  “We’d all be better off if you had never come here,” Xander said, coming nearer, fists clenched.

  Buffy backed away from him. “Xander, calm down. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “Everyone dies because of you.”

  “No,” she said, blinking.

  As Xander lunged, she grabbed the urn, saw that the stopper had fallen out, and crammed it back in. Cradling it against her chest, she blocked Xander’s awkward leap at her.

  “Xander, stop it!” she shouted.

  But as he leaped again, she gave him a light kick to the midsection. It wasn’t enough to hurt him, but he lost his balance, fell against a chair, and smacked his forehead on the edge of the table. Blood welled from the cut.

  Then she socked Giles hard, square in the jaw.

  “Buffy,” Giles murmured, staggering, his hand to his mouth. “What . . .” He gestured to the urn. “All we did was smell it. Not even that.”

  “What about me?” she asked as she crouched over Xander. “I smelled it.”

  “Wha . . . wha . . .” He was woozy but conscious.

  “Perhaps being the Slayer, you’re somehow immune.” Giles cleared his throat. “I apologize sincerely, Buffy. You know I don’t think that way. Not for a moment.”

  He looked down at Xander. “I’ll get the first-aid kit,” he said, disappearing into his office.

  Xander was bleeding pretty badly. Another little guilt to add to the list.

  Oh, c’mon, Summers, she could almost hear him saying. Don’t take credit for all the bad schwarma in my sad little world.

  “Here.” Along with the regulation white plastic box, Giles was carrying a spare teacup with some water in it, which he set down beside Buffy’s knee as he knelt beside her and Xander. He dipped a paper towel in the water and daubed Xander’s cut.

  “Ouuuuch,” Xander groaned. “Wha’ happen’?”

  Giles dipped the paper towel back in the water.

  There was an audible hiss.

  Buffy and Giles looked at each other, then down in the water.

  Forming in the CENTER of a droplet of blood was a small black circle.

  Giles said, “Here,” absently pushing Xander in Buffy’s arms. He picked up the cup and held it under the study light on the table. “This is fascinating.”

  “And it means?”

  Giles went back into his office and returned with another cup of water and a small, sharp knife. The dull library fluorescents glinted off the metal, giving it the aura of something bigger and more dangerous.

  As Buffy watched, Giles cut his finger and let the blood drip into the cup. They both bent forward, Buffy with Xander still cradled against her chest.

  When the blood droplets hit the water, they hissed. The black dot formed in the CENTER of each drop.

  Giles nodded. “Perhaps it means I’m still infected.”

  Buffy stuck out her finger.

  Giles handed her the knife. “I’ll get another cup. I think I’ve got one more. For when company comes.”

  While he was rummaging in his office, Xander moaned and snuggled against Buffy’s chest. He mumbled something Buffy couldn’t understand.

  “Xand?” she whispered. “Are you awake?”

  “God, I hope so,” he whispered back, and opened his eyes.

  She grinned reprovingly at him and sat him up.

  “Perv.”

  “Right. Here we go,” Giles announced, coming into the room. He smiled at Xander. “Glad to see you up and about.”

  “Oh, I’m up,” Xander said blandly. “Way up.”

  “Here.” Giles handed Buffy a cracked white china cup with at least three chips in the rim. The handle had been glued back on.

  “If this is for company, I’d hate to see what your unannounced drop-ins get.”

  Giles colored. “I, ah, dropped it.”

  Smashed it against the floor, she wanted to correct him. But no sense opening old wounds.

  And speaking of opening wounds . . .

  With a little flourish, she gave her fingertip a quick slash.

  “Ouch,” Xander said. “Are we all three becoming blood brothers?”

  Buffy held her finger over the teacup. Giles watched as she forced out three, four, five drops.

  The blood hissed when it hit the water. Giles and Buffy stared down at it.

  The dots formed.

  “So I’ve got it, too,” Buffy said, sitting back on her heels.

  “What?” Xander asked. “Black tick disease?”

  “Perhaps you’re simply a carrier,” Giles offered.

  “Good, cuz it would be real bad to have a psycho Slayer,” Buffy said.

  “Please, please tell me what’s going on,” Xander said, “and leave out all the bad parts.”

  Buffy thought a moment. Then she said, “You’re going to live. I think.”
/>   The phone rang, and Giles went to get it.

  “Angel,” he said. “What is it?”

  The Yorkshire Moors, 1897

  In a private room in the Raven Inn, Helen laughed gleefully and threw back her head as Angelus entwined his arm with hers and they drank goblets of fresh, warm blood. Helen reclined on a chaise lounge, as she had in ancient Rome, while Angelus was curled up beside her by the blazing fire in the fireplace. They were in evening dress to celebrate Helen’s kill. The death of a Slayer was a special occasion.

  “To Grace,” Angelus said.

  “To Grace.” She clinked her glass against his, then sipped. “Ah. Young. Vibrant. Slayer’s blood is best.”

  His eyes gleamed as he peered at her over the rim. “It was a vicious kill.”

  “Not my most vicious, however.” She lay back on her elbows. “Tell me truly, have you never heard of me?”

  “I’m a young vampire,” he said. “Only about a hundred and fifty. I have so much to learn.” He kissed her hard. “Stay tonight. All night.”

  She let her head fall back as he ran kisses down her neck and collarbone, over to her shoulder. “My jailer hunts for blood even now. If I’m not back when he returns to feed me . . .”

  “Let’s kill him,” Angelus said. “We’ll run and hunt all over Europe.”

  She gasped as passion leapt between them. “We’ll need to plan.”

  Giles’s car gave up the ghost about half a mile from the intersection of Boundary Street and the empty canyon where Mrs. Gibson’s beloved pet had been found. Mark made Willow help push it off the street, into a fenced empty lot that was half-covered with brush and tumbleweeds. Willow tried to tell herself it was a lousy hiding place and that someone would notice it right away, but after Mark put some bushes on top of the hood, it was impossible to distinguish the car from the landscape.

  In the rosy dawn, he pushed her ahead of himself, toward Mrs. Gibson’s house.

  “No, you don’t want to go in there,” Willow told him. “There may be, um, bad people in there.”

  “Drug dealers,” Mark said. “I’ve got a gun. I know how to use it.”

  Willow’s hair stood on the back of her head. “Mark, you’re, please don’t be offended, but you’re just a kid. And I’m, well, okay, a little older than you, but I’m no match for what we might find in there.” She looked up. The sun had just risen, but that didn’t mean too much. Angel could move around in his mansion during the day if he stayed away from any sunny places. So could other vampires, in other houses.