Blooded

by Christopher Golden

  He stood his ground. “I’m going to wait for her a little while.” He put his arm around her and urged her against his chest. “C’mon, Cor, we can make out in your car here just as easily as at the Point. Moon, stars, lips? What do you say?”

  She sighed heavily, a martyr to ecstasy. “Come on,” she said, and led the way to the car.

  * * *

  Buffy gasped and froze in her tracks. “What’s the matter?” Giles asked. “Do you feel that . . . ‘oddness’ again?”

  “Weirdness, Giles. It was a weirdness. And, no,” she said slowly. “It was just that . . . well, I think I forgot to change the dryer setting to ‘delicate’ before I put my clothes in.” She groaned. “My new shirt is going to shrink.”

  “I see. Alas,” Giles mumbled dismissively.

  “Okay, maybe you don’t care what you look like,” Buffy said angrily, “but you are not a seventeen-year-old high school female.”

  “Quite true, Buffy, quite true,” Giles agreed.

  Buffy didn’t miss his whispered “thank the Lord,” but she chose to ignore it.

  “You were going to tell me about the research you’ve been doing, sans Willow?” Buffy prompted.

  “Ah, yes,” he said, happy to be back in familiar territory. Giles hefted her Slayer’s bag and used the stake he was carrying to push up his glasses. “There has been a veritable surplus of recent disappearances.”

  She nodded, all business now.

  “Many of them are teenagers,” he said pointedly. “They were known to frequent a well-known area where young people congregated for the purposes of—”

  “Makeout Point,” Buffy said, nodding. “Get on with it, Giles. I may not have a social life, but I know what one is. So, what, did someone go up there and vampirize a bunch of kids who were swallowing each other’s tonsils?”

  “It would appear, so, yes,” Giles said, clearing his throat. “If you are correct about there being a new leader of sorts in the Hellmouth, it may be that he is gathering a group of vampires loyal to him to do his bidding.”

  “Much joy there,” Buffy said. “If I can just get him on my good side, maybe he can force them to do my homework.” She waved a hand to stave off the inevitable request from Giles to be more serious. “Or I can ask him to—”

  She stirred, alert, gesturing to her Watcher.

  A vampire lurked nearby.

  Giles raised the stake.

  “Wait,” Buffy said, smiling.

  A vampire, yes. Tall, dark, and not fangy at the moment. But handsome. Very, very handsome.

  “Hi, Buffy,” Angel said. He bobbed his head at Giles. “Good evening.”

  “What’s the haps?” Buffy asked, trying to sound casual.

  “I was out.” He shrugged. “I was hoping we could—”

  Just then, a ring of vampires fell from above, shrieking as they landed in a circle and surrounded Buffy, Giles, and Angel. At least a dozen of them in full fang face, crouched and waiting. Not rushing. Not crowding.

  Not acting like your typical demon-infested, ravening corpses.

  Buffy glanced around at the odd mix of vampires. Young and old, of varied races and sexes, they also differed in another way. Some were in funereal clothes, indicating that they had been taken to funeral homes and buried in the ground before reviving to undeath. But others were in street clothes or work clothes. One man wore only a bathrobe and boxers. Those were people who were killed and dragged away and never given a proper burial. Whoever had turned them had simply sat around waiting for them to come back to life.

  Whoever had made them was making an army.

  “This is not good,” she whispered, glancing at a man in black who wore a white collar.

  Giles said quietly, “This morning, a priest was reported missing. And an elderly lady wearing a jogging suit.”

  The priest was going after Angel. The old lady jogger growled menacingly at Giles himself.

  The chubby guy in the bathrobe leered at Buffy. “Prepare yourself, Slayer,” the vampire growled. “The Master has plans for you. You will make a most powerful slave.”

  Buffy spun, launched a high kick that took bathrobe boy in the chin and rocked his head back hard . . . but not hard enough to snap his neck, she thought with disappointment.

  “Okay, people. Former people,” Buffy corrected. “Maybe if you tell me what’s going on, I’ll let you live. Who’s this master you’re all so hot on? ’Cause I knew one guy who called himself that, but what’s left of him is in some kid’s sandbox somewhere.”

  The priest vamp laughed. “Soon you will know. When you bow down at his feet and beg for your life!”

  As one, the vampires attacked. The priest, bathrobe boy, and a young girl with multiple nose rings and a stud through her lip all went after Angel. But behind them, things got worse. The next three hulking vamps were dressed in their Sunday best—the suits they were buried in. Young guys, not much older than Buffy when they died, and they looked vaguely familiar. She pushed the almost-recognition away. Maybe they’d played football for Sunnydale High or the parochial school two towns over. Buffy didn’t want to know.

  Giles was attacked by the lady in the jogging suit and a younger boy who looked no older than fourteen. Even as she fought off the vampire offensive line, Buffy kept an eye on Giles, concerned for his safety as always. But, as always, his skill surprised her. The old jogging lady was dispatched instantly. The boy proved to be a different matter indeed, making passes in the air with his hands and shooting out his legs as he twirled in huge, distracting circles.

  Some kind of weird martial art, Buffy figured. Not something she’d seen before, though.

  Whump! A fist connected with the side of her face. Not a solid hit, but even a graze of knuckles when the punch had vampiric strength behind it was enough to send her reeling.

  “That’ll teach me to pay attention,” she mumbled to herself, and returned to the battle.

  Pierced girl shot a kick up toward Angel’s head, but he blocked her attack, parried, and sent her tumbling across the ground. The priest was right in front of him, and Angel kneed him in the gut, then he brought both fists down on the vampire’s back, forcing him to the earth as well. The overweight guy in the bathrobe came at him then.

  “Throw me a stake!” he shouted to Buffy.

  But it was Giles who answered.

  The Watcher ducked away from the youthful male vampire trying to gut him and hurried to the Slayer’s bag. Half-turning, he was about to throw Angel a nicely carved stake when the boy vampire hurled himself at Giles. Giles’s reaction was all instinct—the stake came up just in time, the boy shrieked and exploded into dust. Though the smallest bit taken aback, Giles didn’t miss a beat as he tossed the stake to Angel.

  As Angelus, he had been called “the Scourge of Europe.” That was a different creature entirely, as far as he was concerned. But still, Angel was fierce in battle. With the stake in his hands, the other vampires didn’t stand a chance. In moments, the priest was gone. Next, he took out the bathrobed man by flinging him onto his back and landing on top of him. Straddling him, Angel brought the stake down hard.

  Of Angel’s assailants, only the pierced girl remained. She sneered at Angel, “When we are gone, there will be more. My honorable lord has returned and he will conquer this land and grind your bones to dust.”

  “Returned? From where?” Buffy called out, anxious for information.

  “If we all die, you’ll never know,” the girl said to Angel.

  Angel looked at her for a beat, part of him unwilling to stake one so young. Then, as she bared her fangs and rushed him, he reflexively thrust the stake hard into her chest.

  “Guess we’ll have to take that chance,” he said, as she exploded into dust.

  Buffy saw Angel rush to help her, but she was faring just fine on her own. Already, one of the dead jocks had been dusted. The other two were persistent, and she’d fought them off several times without getting the opening she needed for a staking.

/>   They moved around to trap her between them, and Buffy smiled. That trick hadn’t worked the last time she’d been ambushed. It wasn’t going to work now, either. They started in toward her. Buffy dropped to her hands, swept her legs around under her body in a move the gymnastics coach would have kissed her for, and took one of the dead jocks down at the knees. The other one was looming over her, but Buffy did a backwards handspring and brought both of her boots up into his face.

  He grabbed his nose and eyes, staggered backwards, and didn’t even look at her as the stake slid into his heart. While his buddy exploded in a cloud of ash, the last dead jock had started to get to his feet.

  He never made it.

  “Who’s next?” Buffy shouted through the dust cloud, but the handful of remaining vampires broke into a run, fleeing like a pack in the same direction.

  Buffy watched them a moment, thinking how odd it was that they should stay together. They were so much more . . . disciplined than vamps she’d seen before.

  Panting, Buffy slid into Angel’s now-empty arms and snagged a quick kiss. Giles approached, stake in hand. The three looked down at the piles of dust their conflict had left on the ground.

  Then a chill wind kicked up, lifting the piles and scattering them. It whipped at Buffy’s hair and clothes, stinging like buckshot.

  “We should get out of here,” Giles said, gathering up her Slayage equipment and stuffing it into her bag.

  Angel took off his jacket and put it around her shoulders. “This is the second jacket of mine you’ve gotten,” he teased her, having to yell over the wind. “Pretty soon I won’t have anything to wear.”

  “That’s a nice thought,” she shouted back.

  A bolt of lightning flashed across Angel’s face and landed not five feet from them. Buffy shouted and jumped in surprise.

  She turned, stared hard at something odd that had been illuminated by the lightning. The departing vamps were running behind a figure who laughed and capered. Even now, Buffy could see her silhouetted in the moonlight.

  “Oh, my God,” Buffy whispered.

  It looked like Willow.

  CHAPTER 8

  As was his custom, Sanno, the god whom men called King of the Mountain, rose from the dawn clouds surrounding Mount Hiei and walked the earth like a man. Each of his footsteps was like a small earthquake, summoning the faithful to greet him like the sun. For Sanno was a gracious god, benevolent and generous. He gave his people clear mountain springs to drink from, hares and other animals to devour, and wood for their villages and the castle of the local branch of the Fujiwara clan, nestled in the foothills of Mount Hiei. He anticipated their every need, and he provided for them.

  So he walked, anticipating a fine morning with those who loved and revered him in the beauty of his shrine, on the far side of Mount Hiei.

  But on this snowy winter morning, no one came.

  Frowning in displeasure, he ascended Mount Hiei once more and with his mighty breath blew away the clouds. Then he looked down upon his lands and observed his people, gathered on the opposite side of Mount Hiei, cowering before the entrance to a newly erected temple with a strange, curved roof. Some of the women wept and tore their clothes. Their farmer husbands lay prostrate on the ground, their faces buried in the mud.

  To the left of the wailing multitude, the local noble family sat on white tatami mats clothed in their formal kimonos adorned with the Fujiwara clan crest. They sat unmoving, like statues, mute and pale with grief. Sanno knew them well. Husband, wife, and son he saw, but not their beautiful daughter, Gemmyo, named after the Empress who had reigned some seventy years before.

  Of late Sanno had thought of marrying Gemmyo, for should not gods possess all the happiness that mortals do? She was the loveliest maiden in the environs of his mountain, and the most gentle as well. Additionally, she was skilled in music and song. Many nights, he had made the earth tremble violently while dancing to the lively melodies of her koto.

  He descended to earth again and walked into the midst of his worshipers, searching both for signs of Gemmyo and for the cause of all this distress.

  At the sight of him, the villagers and nobles exchanged glances among themselves. Eyes red, chins quivering, they parted to make him a path as he advanced toward the entrance of the new, oddly fashioned temple.

  Within the structure, beneath a canopy decorated with stars and on a bier of red satin lay his beloved. Gemmyo’s eyes were shut as if in repose. She was dressed in a beautiful white kimono decorated with herons. At first glance, one might think that she was asleep, even though her body was stark white. For on occasion, it was not unheard of for women to paint themselves with an ivory sheen.

  But at her neck gaped two large wounds, and from these wounds blood had run onto the folds of her gown.

  Sanno caught his breath, realizing that she had been foully murdered and by the vilest of demons: a vampire.

  His eyes filled with ungovernable rage. The pulse at his neck throbbed with fury. Thunder and lightning crackled and roared across the sky and the clouds quickly gathered. The earth rolled like the back of a dragon disturbed from its slumber.

  Sanno whirled on the hapless villagers, who stood in stark terror, and bellowed at them, “Who did this?”

  No one spoke.

  Sanno stomped his foot against the earth and it cracked.

  “Who did this?” he bellowed again.

  The villagers remained silent.

  Then, as Sanno prepared to shake the earth to pieces beneath their feet, a wizened old man staggered forward. Though it was cold, he wore no shoes and his coat was made of straw. Sanno recognized him as Genji, a poor farmer whose wife was dead and who had no children to serve him in his old age. He had come often to pray at Sanno’s shrine.

  The old man feebly raised a hand and said, “Sanno-no-kami, these cowardly villagers are silent because the murderer of Gemmyo has threatened them with death if they name him. But I am very old, and I have prayed often for happiness in my declining years. Now I see that my prayers are answered, for I, and I alone, dare to challenge your enemy. If it means my death to reveal his identity to you, then I shall die happy.”

  In the clutches of his anger, Sanno reached for his great, ancient sword and said, “Speak then, Genji, and know that if your courage deserts you, I shall kill you myself.”

  The old man shook his head and bowed low several times. “Please, my gracious lord, do not trouble yourself. I’m glad to speak his name aloud. He is Chirayoju.”

  At the mention of the name, the other villagers drew back in horror. A few began to weep, others to wail.

  “Chirayoju?” Sanno repeated. “I know no tengu by that name.”

  Genji said, “He is a vampire who has flown over the sea from the great land of China. And he is a sorcerer who can set fire to our houses with the merest flick of his wrist. He can fan the flames with the smallest exhalation of his breath. And he has promised to do all this if we tell you who he is. For this reason, all fear his wrath. But I shall burn myself to death willingly before I displease you, great Sanno-sama.”

  “You foolish old man!” shouted another villager, a young man named Akio. He ran to Genji and struck him down with his fist. “You’ve doomed our whole village!”

  “No. You have done so,” Sanno replied to the youth.

  The Mountain God stomped violently on the earth, forcing Akio to his knees. Then he raised his sword and brought it down on Akio’s neck, beheading him.

  Sanno stomped until no one could stand. He took the heads of those nearest. Then he whirled around and from his hands shot flames of purification onto the body of Gemmyo, so that she might enter Paradise.

  The flames traveled from her body to the canopy of stars, to the rest of the temple in which she lay, to the trees, and to the huts of the villagers. And over the trees and bushes to the garrisoned keep of Gemmyo’s Fujiwara clan.

  That day, a thousand people died because of Sanno’s fury.

  No longer was he see
n as benevolent or kind. No longer was he worshiped.

  He was only feared.

  CHAPTER 9

  Panting in the backseat of her car, Cordelia pushed Xander away. “Stop moaning,” she ordered, sitting up. She leaned into view of the rearview mirror and fluffed her bangs. “I hate it when you moan.”

  “Wh—wh—” he panted back.

  “Because when you moan,” she continued, answering the question he had been unable to ask, “it reminds me that it’s you, okay?”

  “Reminds you . . . oh.” Xander scowled at her.

  “Isn’t that lovely? So what you’re saying is that when you’re with me, you pretend you’re with someone else.”

  When she said nothing, only turned and blinked at him in that blank, yeah-so? expression of hers, he looked at her in complete disgust.

  “Okay, fine. I am outta here,” he said. He flailed for the door handle. Cordelia reached around his head, obligingly flicked the handle, pushed open the door, and let him fall half out of the car.

  “I am so outta here that I am . . . really outta here.” He scooted backward the rest of the way and tumbled to the sidewalk. Standing, he regained his footing, if not his dignity, and slammed the car door shut.

  “Fine!” Cordelia scrambled back into the driver’s seat and started the car. She peeled out and shot down the street.

  “Buckle your seat belt!” Xander bellowed. “You nympho!”

  She roared down the street, tires squealing.

  Xander stomped to the porch and sat down, pulling his knees beneath his chin. He sighed. Wished he’d brought something to do. Even his homework. Now there was a novel notion.

  He was just about to doze off when he heard light footsteps on the walk. He opened his eyes and sat up.

  “Will,” he said happily. “I was worried about you.”

  Willow stood with her legs wide apart and her hands on her hips. “Little boy,” she sneered, “you worry for me?”