by Nancy Holder
The thought infuriated her. With renewed vigor, she got to her feet. The crowd sensed the change in her and jubilant cheers rose up. She was the favorite. That she had survived this long was too delicious.
She hacked and slashed at the monster, catching it behind the knee with her sword. There was a seam in its armor there, and she sliced with the side of her sword. The sword slid into some kind of muscle, some kind of bone, blood the color of ocher spurting from the wound. The creature bellowed.
She sliced again, and it fell forward.
Helen ran to it, whipped off its helmet, and cut off its spiny, leathery head. Its eyes were long and narrow, like the eyes of a snake, and they fluttered shut as the creature died.
The crowd went wild.
Helen picked up the head and saluted Caligula with it. He finally took his eyes off the beautiful girl in his lap and gave Helen a cheery wave.
“Nicely done, gladiator,” he bellowed. That was all.
She staggered from the arena to the side gate as they prepared to bring out the lions for the Christians, which would be the grand finale of the evening.
Her trainer was not there waiting for her. Julian stood alone.
“Don’t touch me,” she said.
But as he swept her into his arms and carried her toward her cell, she was too tired and too sore to protest. Her head lolled against his chest; she nearly lost consciousness, but she fought to retain control of herself as he carried her down the maze of corridors beyond the amphitheater proper.
Inside her cell, which was in the gladiators’ quarters, he laid her down on a silken coverlet spread over a real bed — luxuries he had given her himself — and uncapped a jade bottle of unguent.
“I’ve got a new salve. Tell me where it hurts,” he said.
She gritted her teeth. “I’m not going to fight anymore,” she announced. "Kill me if you want, but I’m finished.”
Julian bent over her, his armor golden and gleaming, his cape flowing around him. Even though she hated him, she had to admit that he was incredibly handsome. More handsome even than Demetrius, whose death she no longer mourned. She had been a captive for almost a year, and that year had hardened her.
“Your blood rises when you fight,” Julian said. “Don’t deny it. I see it in your eyes. You were born to be a warrior. It is a gift from the darkness that you were brought here.”
She made no answer.
He chuckled. “Don’t deny it. What would your life have been back on your country farm? A Roman wife, locked away in her house, losing your looks, dying in childbirth. But here, you are revered.”
He began to rub the unguent into her sore muscles, removing her breastplate and checking her ribs. When he had first begun to minister to her, perhaps three months before, it had astonished her that a being as cruel and heartless as Julian could be so tender. His healing balms had restored her more times than she could count.
Despite herself, she caught her breath as he continued the massage.
“You’re tired and you want to stop,” he murmured. “I can make it stop.”
She closed her head as flickers surged through her body. “By making me like you.”
“Yes.” He touched the vein in her neck. She jumped, and he chuckled softly. “I have never drunk of you, tempted though I am. And I will not, until you give me permission.”
“It’s not because of me. Caligula has forbidden it,” she threw at him. Just as he would not allow her to drink the Madness Potion. He wanted her "pure.”
He savored her terror.
There was a silence. Then Julian said, “He won’t be here forever.”
Helen took that in. Perhaps there was another plot to kill the emperor. There was a different one every week. All had failed, and the perpetrators had died horrible deaths.
“I won’t be, either,” she said, with a confidence she didn’t feel.
“She has deserted you, Helen,” he whispered, trailing his hand down her arm. “She has left you to this hellish existence. She knows you’re here. Everyone knows you’re here.”
Helen said nothing.
“She let the soldiers take you in her place.”
It was true. Aulus had called out, “Diana, no!” and looked straight at her, straight at Helen. Was this Diana’s revenge for telling her secret to Demetrius? Retribution for his death?
“I can stop it, right now,” Julian murmured. “I would make it very quick. And when I am emperor, you will reign beside me.”
“Over demons and ghouls.”
“No different than now,” he asserted. He put his lips against her ear. "This would be over, my beloved Helen. The pain, the fighting, night after night. Our life together would be glorious.”
She clamped her mouth shut and turned her head as tears spilled down her face.
Does he know that I’m tempted? she wondered.
She didn’t dare speak.
Buffy was a bit winded by the time she reached the deserted block where Mrs. Gibson’s house sat. She made a right into an empty lot, then jerked hard as she made out the shape of a car beneath well-placed shrubs and tumbleweeds. She pulled a few of the bushes off the hood and smiled grimly.
Giles’s poor car. Maybe he would finally have to buy a new one.
She opened the door and found Willow’s witchy bag, which also contained some stakes and holy water. She hoisted it over her shoulder and recovered the vehicle. Then she trotted the length of the lot and dipped down the hill, crabbing along over the soggy, muddy earth.
“Hang on, Willow,” she muttered under her breath. “Please.”
She bent over and darted as fast as she could under the window on the right-hand side. Dropping to a crouch, she held her breath, waiting for a sign that she’d been spotted. None came.
Scanning the ground, she saw several sets of muddy footprints, some of them very fresh.
Willow, please be all right, Buffy begged, reaching for the door knob. She opened the door and snuck inside.
Mark cocked his head. Willow’s eyes ticked to the left and she saw the remains of the dead squirrel. Her stomach roiled. She was terrified and sickened.
“I thought I heard something,” he said.
Willow swallowed. It could be good guys or bad guys, but either way, I really don’t want to end up like that squirrel.
Mark picked up the gun and aimed it at her.
Willow’s eyes widened. “You don’t want to hurt me.”
“I don’t want to hurt anybody,” he admitted. “But everybody in town wants to kill me and my brother.” Nervously he licked his lips and sighted down the barrel. “You’re my hostage. If they don’t let Brian go, I’m going to kill you.”
“You couldn’t,” Willow said, her mouth going dry. “You’re a good kid.”
His lips quivered. “I was.”
“We’ll figure out how to stop . . .” She paused. “Mark, if you think your brother went crazy because he took that drug, what about the rest of us? We thought it was some kind of possession. Or a curse.”
He said something so quietly she couldn’t make out what it was. She took a step forward.
“Don’t come any closer.” He held the gun with both hands.
Cautiously, Willow held out her arms. “I didn’t hear what you said.”
He frowned. In his slender hands, the gun was beginning to shake. “Yes, you did. You just want to make me say it again.”
She shook her head. “No, honest. I really didn’t. But —”
“I put it in the water!” he shouted.
“The water? But I —”
“I poured the drug in the reservoir!”
“Oh, my God,” Willow breathed, stunned. Everyone in town drank water. Good guys. Bad guys. All that tea Giles drank. The cappuccinos and lattes at the Bronze. Even her mom, who had read somewhere how important it was to drink at least two liters of water a day. “Oh . . . Mark.”
“That’s why he went crazy. I made him go crazy.” Mark burst into tears. "I ki
lled my parents.”
“No —”
“Yes! Yes! He didn’t know what he was doing.”
The sobs came heavy and wracked with pain. Willow dared to come forward another step, then another.
“All those people,” he said, lowering the gun. “I did it.”
“Mark, you didn’t know.” Willow took another step toward him. Another. She felt as if she were walking a tightrope stretched between two skyscrapers. If she looked down, she would fall. The only way to make it was to keep moving.
“Don’t,” he warned, but she could tell his heart wasn’t in it.
She put her hand on his shoulder and eased the gun from his weak grasp. Then she put her arms around him; he sobbed against her. She felt the pain striking him, harder with each sob; and she was afraid. She had never grieved like this. But if Oz was dead, she would hurt at least as much.
“I didn’t mean to, I didn’t,” he wailed.
“I know.” She patted his back and took a deep breath. If only he’d told us this in the beginning, she thought, fewer people would be dead.
“Please, Mark,” she said gently, “do you know where they took my friends?”
“Who? Who are you talking about?”
“The people who gave your brother the drug. They’ve captured some friends of ours.” She closed her eyes as things clicked into place. The vampires have done it all. That’s what Buffy’s dreams mean.
They drugged us and brought evil into our hearts.
“Jordan,” he said. “Jordan gave it to him. He took my ring as payment.”
Willow was shocked. Buffy had told her about Lindsey Acuff’s autopsy photos. If they found Mark’s ring, and Jordan Smyth had it . . . Jordan Smyth murdered Lindsey Acuff.
She took a breath. “All right. Let’s go to Giles. He needs to talk to you.”
“No.” He yanked out of her embrace. “No way!”
“Yes way,” Buffy said, walking into the room. She looked at Willow. “You okay?”
Willow nodded, weak-kneed with relief at the sight of her friend. “How long were you here?”
“Long enough to hear about the reservoir.” She reached out a hand. "Mark, you have to come with us. You have to help fix this.”
“I just want to run away,” he said miserably.
Buffy nodded. “I know the feeling. Believe me, I really do. But you can’t, Mark. It doesn’t work. It’s like the world is on some big conveyer belt, and it catches up with you sooner or later. It doesn’t matter how fast you run.”
“Not if I go to Mexico.” He flushed, as if even he knew how silly that sounded.
Willow raised a hand. She dug into her pocket and pulled out the cell phone. Mark’s eyes widened but he said nothing.
Willow started to press the numbers for the library, but the battery had died. She looked at Buffy and said, “I was hoping for a ride.”
“I assume the phone here doesn’t work,” Buffy said.
“I didn’t see one.”
Buffy turned. “I’ll make a quick run through the house.”
“There’s a dead squirrel,” Willow warned her.
Small potatoes. Buffy smiled. “Thanks, Will.”
Willow turned to Mark, who flopped down on the mattress and crossed his arms and legs. “I’m dead,” he moaned.
“No. We’ll fix it,” Willow said, with a confidence she didn’t feel. They didn’t always fix everything. Sometimes the dark won. People died. Every one of the Slayerettes had lost someone they cared about. Buffy and Giles had endured more heartbreak than Willow thought it would be possible to handle.
Slayers died. Buffy had already lived longer than many of the Chosen Ones before her.
With a sudden shiver of fear, she called out, “Buffy?”
Buffy appeared at the entrance to the room. Her face was pale. She said, "Don’t go anywhere else in the house. Just follow me straight out the kitchen door.”
Willow looked at Mark. His eyes were big in his small face. He said, "Why? What’s in here?”
“You don’t want to know.” Buffy turned her back as if she expected them both to fall in.
Which they did.
Rome, A.D. 40
Julian finished his meal and let the body drop to the floor. He crossed to the basin held by his bruised and beaten slave girl and washed the blood from his face. She had displeased him mightily the night before, but now he couldn’t recall her offense.
He gargled, spit, and left the room.
Smiling, he walked leisurely to the Temple of Meter, where Caligula was in communion with his so-called goddess. He pushed the door. It was locked. He pushed harder, breaking the lock, and sauntered in.
Caligula was on his knees, before the large statue of Meter. The goddess was a grinning fanged creature with huge, violent eyes that gleamed from the fires burning in the empty sockets. At least a dozen ruined human corpses piled beside a stone altar in her lap, faces contorted in terror and agony. Their hearts were piled atop the altar.
Such a sight was commonplace. Julian kept walking, fully expecting to be greeted cordially when he announced his presence.
Then Caligula rose, picked up one of the hearts, and placed it into the mouth of the goddess. To Julian’s utter shock, the statue began to devour it with its huge stone fangs.
That’s new, he thought, thrown. How did the emperor manage that? With priests inside the statue, pulling ropes?
“Greetings, my son.” The voice did not emanate from the statue. It was disembodied, inhabiting no form.
Julian crept into the shadows.
“My mother,” Caligula said humbly, lovingly. “Is it finally enough? I put the Madness Potion in the aqueduct, and all Rome lies in ruins. Thousands have died in your name. Will you rise from the darkness and give me what I desire?”
“It is not enough,” the voice intoned. “I cannot rise without the Slayer’s heart. Then I shall come. And you shall live forever.”
“What of my rival?” he demanded. “Will you destroy Julian the vampire?”
“Who calls me, rules me,” the voice seductively promised.
“Then I call you, Meter!” Caligula shouted.
From the statue’s mouth, blood geysered. It smoked and crackled, and turned a brilliant blue. Then it gushed over Caligula like a waterfall. He was bathed in it.
When the stream stopped, he threw back his head and shouted with triumph.
“You are with me, Dark Mother!” he cried. “Your evil lives in me!” He spread forth a hand, and fire emanated from his fingers.
“You are flesh with me,” the voice agreed. “Your bones shall carry my essence until I can come forth. It will be a full moon, and it will be within the season.
“If,” it added, “I can eat the Slayer’s heart.”
Caligula lowered his head. “As with all else you have commanded, it shall be done.”
Though thrown, Julian seethed.
And planned.
Giles leaned over a glass beaker bubbling away on a Bunsen burner and squeezed a couple of droplets of something purple from an eyedropper. As Giles had instructed, Xander kept his gas mask and goggles on. Going psycho around big bottles of acid and gas flames would be very not good. So he was determined not to do it.
Also masked and wearing goggles, Giles had out a couple of especially moldy books, which gave Xander hope, and occasionally he would ask Xander to turn the pages. They were thick and felt very strange to the touch. Not at all papery. I so don’t want to know what they’re made of.
“So, are we getting anyplace?” Xander asked.
“Yes,” Giles said, squinting at the mixture. “I’ve distilled down the samples of our infected blood. I do believe I’ve isolated the original ingredients of the Madness Potion of Caligula.”
“Oh, great.” Xander made a face. “Now we’ll be on The X-Files.”
“Caligula originally had it developed for the Games. He wanted the gladiators to put on a fine spectacle, you see. Enrage them so they would
become mindless killing machines. Go on a bad trip, as it were.”
“Giles, you hippie,” Xander riffed.
Flushing slightly, Giles ignored him. “The Roman Empire fell because of the depravity and insanity that pervaded it. One could theorize that the Madness Potion somehow got distributed throughout the populace.”
They looked at each other.
“Just like here in Sunnydale,” Xander said slowly.
“Just like here in Sunnydale,” Giles echoed.
“So this town is on a bad trip.”
“A very bad trip.”
They both gazed at the bubbling beaker.
“Yes!” Julian cried, delighted, as Cordelia sailed her spear into the target he held in front of his body. “Wonderfully done!”
“But how will she do against a real adversary?” the dark vampire woman asked as she approached them. Cordelia stiffened. “Against someone who fights back?”
Helen pulled the spear from Julian’s target and aimed it at Cordelia. Cordelia bit back a cry. That’s what this bitch wants from me, fear and pleading. She’s the queen of mean and I could certainly learn a few things from her . . .
“Stay cool,” Oz murmured. Flanked by demons, he stood at the side of the arena, a spear in his hand.
Helen morphed into vamp face. She bent low, raising the spear over her shoulder, and stalked Cordy. Cordelia’s heart beat crazily but she kept her cool, mincing backward, never taking her gaze off the spear.
Suddenly the vampire straightened. She threw back her head and laughed, turned, and hurtled the spear at Julian.
“She’s a feisty one. No wonder you fancy her,” she said.
Laughing, she turned and glided away, her black skirts swishing like Morticia Addams all vogued out for the Executioners’ Ball.
Julian glared after her. As Cordelia stood reeling, he snapped the spear in two by clenching his fist.
Then he smiled at Cordelia, and her blood ran cold. It was not a friendly smile. It was calculated and icy. She figured then that “fancy” was not a wacky foreign word for “like.”