Blooded

by Christopher Golden

  “Yes, of course.” He would be horribly remiss as Buffy’s Watcher if he did not have a full set.

  “How fortunate. Do you recall Claire Silver?”

  Giles searched his memory for several seconds before recognition hit him. “I have examined her journals,” he said, “but the last time I did so in depth was years ago.”

  Silence again on the other end of the line. Giles thought again of the Japanese traditions of honor and face, and wondered if, despite his required compliments, Kobo might be quietly disapproving of Giles’s lack of knowledge on this subject. Of the Watchers left alive, Kobo-sensei was one of the most respected. The idea that the man might look down on Giles’s performance as a Watcher had not actually occurred to him until now, pressed as he was to help Buffy, and now that it had, the tone in the older man’s voice was unmistakable, no matter how hard he tried to hide it behind politeness.

  “I respectfully suggest, Giles-sensei, that a man of your scholarly achievements might find Claire Silver’s journals instructive,” the old man said. “I seem to recall discussion of the King of the Mountain in them. But the last time I read them was a very long time ago, when I still had a Slayer to watch over. Thus I have allowed the story to slip from memory.”

  There! Giles thought. That was a barb, for certain. An implication that Giles himself had been lax in his duties by not committing more of the Watchers’ Journals to memory. He ignored it. The information he required was more important than saving face for himself.

  “But Claire Silver was a Watcher in Britain in the nineteenth century,” Giles countered. “What has that got to do with ancient Japan?”

  “Sadly, I have told you all I can remember, Mr. Giles,” Kobo said simply. “I fear that I have wasted your valuable time.”

  Giles paused before replying. The old Watcher had admitted he didn’t know everything. But for Giles not to defend the man, even to himself, would be a direct insult. Kobo might have insulted him, but he had done it indirectly. Even if it was just for appearance’ sake, or for the memory of his grandmother, Giles would do what was expected of him.

  “Oh, no, sensei,” Giles insisted, “you have been a great deal of help. Your wisdom and experience are unparalleled and you honor me with your assistance. I thank you. I am certain that this conversation will be of great help. It might even save the life of the current Chosen One, as well as several of her friends.”

  This time, Giles actually heard Kobo sigh. “Giles-sensei,” the old Watcher said slowly, as if reluctant to speak. His amiable tone was obviously forced now. “I must applaud your dedication to the Chosen One, for of course I have heard of it. Ah, yet it is most unusual for a Watcher to place the satisfaction of the Slayer, even her well-being, and particularly the well-being of her friends, above the mission of the Chosen One. Few Slayers have ever had friends. You honor her by your loyalty to her many needs, even those that may seem frivolous to an old Japanese man.”

  Giles froze, stared at the phone as if it were the offending object, as if it had insulted him.

  “I apologize if such concerns do not meet with your standards for the appropriate behavior of a Watcher,” Giles snapped. “And, with all due respect, sir, and as you pointed out, at least the Slayer I am responsible for is still alive.”

  He hung up, angrier and more confused than ever. For several minutes, he searched the volumes of Journals for those of Claire Silver, but he had been in the midst of reorganizing them when this crisis arose.

  The phone rang. He glanced at it before picking it up, wondering if it was Kobo, ready for another volley.

  “Yes?” he demanded sharply.

  “Giles, it’s Buffy. We’re at the hospital. Xander’s been . . . um, he’s . . .” she whispered into the phone. “Attacked, if you know what I mean.”

  “I’m on my way,” he said, rising from his chair.

  “I’m going to look for Willow.”

  “No. Wait for me, Buffy,” he said sternly.

  “But—”

  “Wait.” He hung up and ran out the door, nearly crashing into Principal Snyder.

  “So sorry,” Giles said in a rush. “Must dash. Sorry.”

  “Mr. Giles?” Principal Snyder called after him.

  “Sorry!” Giles called back.

  * * *

  At the hospital, the nurse was trying to reach Xander’s mother on one phone, even as Buffy hung up with Giles on the other. Their conversation was brief and hushed, and when Buffy was through, she felt even worse about things than on her ride over with Cordy. More than anything, she wanted to run out and find Willow, as quickly as possible. But Giles had ordered her to stay put.

  Buffy was a strong-willed girl—you had to be when you were the Slayer—and she didn’t like taking orders from anyone. But if Giles felt strongly enough about it to try giving an order, the least she could do was follow it.

  So she paced in Xander’s hospital room with Cordelia, who was sunk tiredly into a chair pulled up to his bedside. She’d cried a little when the doctors were fussing over him, and her makeup was a mess, but not once did she ask Buffy if she looked okay. She only held Xander’s hand, half-holding and half-massaging it, as if she could warm him again and take the ghostly pallor from his cheeks.

  He had lost a lot of blood, and there were holes in his neck.

  Could Willow have actually put them there? Willow, a vampire? Buffy wondered if she would have to . . .

  . . . would have to . . .

  “No,” she said, clenching her teeth. She couldn’t be certain what she would do when she found Willow.

  But one thing was certain: it would be very much better to find her friend before the sun went down. For the moment, however, she could only pace.

  * * *

  By the time Giles got there, she was frantic. Though stunned by the sight of Xander, he briefed her on his conversation with the Japanese Watcher and she practically pushed him back out the door.

  “Library, Giles,” she begged. “We’ve got questions. You get answers.”

  “I’m not so certain I should go,” Giles argued.

  Buffy looked at him, then glanced quickly at the others in the room. Cordelia, who sat next to Xander with a worried look on her face. Xander himself, who was still unconscious, although recovering, according to the doctors. He wouldn’t be running the hundred for a couple of weeks, but he’d be home sucking down chocolate milk shakes and making his mom do Blockbuster runs within a few days.

  Buffy glanced around to make sure Xander’s mother—who had stepped out into the hall to speak with the doctor—hadn’t returned, and then she looked up at Giles again.

  “We need to know what happened to him,” Buffy said, staring down at Xander. It was obvious Giles’s protective streak was overpowering his sense of logic. Buffy was touched. Her Englishman was the best Watcher a girl could ask for.

  “Your job is not to stare at Xander and fret,” Buffy insisted. “That Kobo guy told you where to look for the knowledge stuff and a librarian’s gotta do what a librarian’s gotta do.”

  Giles was obviously about to protest when Cordelia said Giles’s name. Her voice was so low that at first Giles didn’t hear her.

  “Giles,” Cordelia said again, emphatically. “I’ll be here. I’m not going anywhere, not right now. Whatever happened, I’ll call you as soon as Xander’s able to talk about it.”

  Giles pursed his lips. “You don’t think it would be better if . . .”

  “I can handle it,” Cordelia said, only half-looking at him. “I’ll find out what happened to Xander. You go back to the library and read Claire What’s-her-name’s Journals.” She looked at Buffy with satisfied self-importance. “We all have jobs to do, right, Buffy?”

  “And that’s my cue to start the hunt for Willow,” Buffy said.

  “Take my car,” Cordelia said generously.

  “I don’t have a license,” Buffy said quickly.

  “Yeah, but you can drive it if you have to, right?” Cordelia ask
ed.

  “I’m not sure that’s the wisest course,” Giles began, but Buffy cut him off. Cordelia was right.

  “I think I can manage,” Buffy said. “Okay, I’m gone.”

  Then she turned and almost ran from the hospital. It was nearly one o’clock already. Dusk already seemed too close.

  Of course, in Sunnydale, the night always came too soon.

  CHAPTER 11

  Ah, this undefended land! These foolish, weak people!

  And, best of all, these demons!

  They flocked to Chirayoju, desperate for a leader. Oni, who had traveled from China with the Buddhist faithful. The vampiric kappa, strange, scaled creatures whose bowl-like heads were filled with magic water. When the water spilled, the kappa lost their powers, but not their yen for blood.

  Blood that Chirayoju found for them in plentiful supply.

  Itself, it had not dined on anything as exquisite as the maiden Gemmyo—although it had sampled at least a hundred humans since it had left Mount Hiei, but its new army of followers had assured it that the Emperor, being holy, would taste the best of all.

  And so, with its minions who now numbered in the thousands, Chirayoju descended like a night mare upon the capital of this Land of the Rising Sun, called by some Heijo and by others, Nara.

  In the forest its army camped and measured the defenses of the Emperor’s palace. Fierce warriors guarded the walls, but within, the court of the Emperor Kammu languished like fat cattle. They were obsessed with the airy cultivation of art and culture and the monotonous veneration of the Lord Buddha. Nunneries and monasteries littered the wooded hills. A statue of Buddha as tall as eight men greeted the sun daily. Chirayoju was contemptuous, considering the Buddha himself a weak, unambitious being who preached the obliteration of ambition as the key to happiness.

  While the nobles within the palace walls wrote poems and discussed philosophy, the people outside the walls starved. Taxes were high and crops failed despite the fertile land. They were ripe for unrest and rebellion.

  Chirayoju saw much to please it.

  So it left behind its fearful minions and walked the nights among the starving peasants, whispering to them of all the things it could give them—treasures, weapons, and warriors—if only they would call it master. They began to listen. They began to believe. Soon, they looked forward to its nightly visits and its tales of how their lives would be, if only they would deliver the Emperor to it.

  It began to seem natural for them to hate their supreme lord, who was a god on Earth, and to practice the hacking and slashing of mortal combat with their fishing poles and pitchforks. They began to anticipate the battle with the heavily fortified palace, forgetting that they possessed neither armor nor weapons, and unaware that their general, Chirayoju the Liberator, had promised its second wave of attackers their own blood in exchange for their loyalty and aid.

  This second wave were the oni and the kappa.

  Who likewise did not know that it had promised its third wave of attackers the delicious and magical blood of the oni and the kappa in exchange for their loyalty and aid.

  This third wave consisted of the vampires it made from the ranks of the eta. In the dark of night, alone and in secret, it would fly to the hovels in the filthy quarter of these, the Untouchables of Japan, who butchered animals and tanned their hides into leather and prepared the human dead for burial. Shunned by all except other eta, reviled and cursed, they fully embraced the new life Chirayoju offered them. They would willingly die any death Chirayoju ordered in exchange for the power and freedom it gave them.

  So, with its three ranks of soldiers ripe for battle, Chirayoju shut itself deep within a cave and on the longest night of winter, cast its dragon bones. It sought the most auspicious moment to strike at the Emperor and devour him.

  Not knowing, at the time, that Sanno, the Mountain King, had gathered thousands of followers of his own and stood poised in the foothills for battle. In his left hand he held fire and lightning. In his right, water and wind.

  He vowed he would destroy Nara before he allowed Chirayoju to escape him. He would destroy all of Japan, if need be.

  His only thought was of vengeance.

  But his actions spoke otherwise: he went with a small company of retainers to the gates of the palace and demanded an audience with Kammu. From the guards’ behavior, he deduced that word of his deadly temper had not spread as far as Nara, and that he was believed to be the benevolent deity he once had been. For the guards, astonished to see the god in their midst, quickly ran and informed the Emperor of his esteemed guest.

  Hasty and elaborate preparations were made, and Sanno was welcomed with pleas by Kammu himself that he excuse the poor banquet and clumsy entertainment laid on in his honor. In fact, of course, the entire evening was most sumptuous. Sanno and his retinue enjoyed the meal and drink, and when he rose to dance after many toasts and protestations of loyalty and friendship, the palace shook to its foundations under the tread of the Mountain King.

  Thus was Chirayoju alerted that Sanno had arrived.

  The vampire sorcerer called its armies together, and the siege began.

  CHAPTER 12

  Buffy had no license, but Buffy drove. If you could call it that. Shrubbery suffered. So did curbs. But she managed to avoid getting pulled over.

  She was halfway down the block—actually, down the center of the block—when she realized she’d forgotten to tell Giles about the little shrub and the disk and the note. Maybe there was something to that whole take-a-deep-breath-and-think-things-through thing he had going. She’d decided to kill two birds with one stone and meet up with him back at school. It could be that Willow had her wits about her, and it was possible she would go there looking for help from Giles.

  It was worth a shot.

  Way too short a time later—at least as far as Sunnydale’s speed limits were concerned—she pulled into the school’s faculty parking lot, tires kicking up sand as she put on the brakes. She was in a rush, or she might have cared a bit more about positioning the car between the lines. Details, details.

  Before she ran into the school, she slipped the disk onto the chain she wore around her neck with a large cross dangling from it, then jumped when a jolt shot through her. It could easily have been static electricity, she reasoned, but she took note of it nonetheless.

  She made sure she had the little tree and the note from Willow’s bedroom, and then she was off.

  It was already fifth period, and the halls were empty as she hurried toward the library. She banged open the door, a naive little part of her mind hoping she’d see Willow there, at the computer, doing that hacking thing that she did.

  Uh-uh.

  “Willow!” she called. “Please, come out, come out wherever you are!”

  “Yes, I’d like to know where Miss Rosenberg is as well,” an insinuating voice sneered from behind her. “And the school librarian as well.”

  Buffy whirled, ready to fight off whatever horrible monster had followed her into the library. But it was worse than that.

  It was Principal Snyder.

  “Oh, um, good afternoon, Principal Snyder . . .” she began to stammer, glancing around, before remembering that Giles would arrive in time to rescue the Slayer in distress.

  No joy.

  “Don’t give me that, Miss Summers,” Snyder said, cynical as ever.

  She knew Snyder had never liked her, and the feeling was mutual. The guy looked only slightly more human than one of the Ferengi on Star Trek. But he was the principal, and after all, he knew Buffy’s mom’s phone number. By heart.

  “Um, give you what, sir?”

  “I’m on to you, Summers. On to you and all your delinquent friends. Bad enough you run roughshod over the rules of this school, over the fundamental respect for authority that we all need in order to get along in this world. But then you come in here and holler for your friend as if you were at one of those drug-addled rock-and-roll clubs all of you hoodlums frequent.”
/>   “Speaking of which, have you seen Willow? Or, um, Mr. Giles?” Buffy asked, wincing in anticipation of the principal’s response.

  “Don’t interrupt me! There is a thing called decorum, Summers.”

  Buffy didn’t have time for this.

  “Y’know, Principal Snyder,” she flared, “maybe if you’d asked what I was in such a hurry for . . .”

  “I was just getting to that, Summers. Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you were off campus. I saw you running up the walk. You know I could suspend you for that alone.”

  Buffy thought fast.

  “Well, actually, sir, Mr. Giles had sent Cordelia Chase and me over to the Sunnydale library to get a book we needed for a research project he’s helping us with.”

  He looked less sure of his self-righteousness. “That’s no excuse . . .”

  “I’m sure he’ll show you our permission slip to leave campus whenever he gets back from . . . wherever he is,” she added earnestly, keeping her eyes wide and innocent and terror-free. “And when we left, we both had study hall, so you see, we didn’t miss any classes or informational content or, um, knowledge acquiring.”

  “Don’t think I won’t check on your story,” Snyder grumbled. “And it’s fifth period now. You’re defnitely missing class.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “You know, that knowledge-acquiring thing you find so foreign and new? I’d say you’re both in for detention all next week, even if your story checks out.”

  Buffy really didn’t have time for this.

  “Listen, you . . . sir . . . Xander Harris is in the hospital and Willow Rosenberg is missing. Her mother thinks she might have been abducted or something. That’s why Cordelia and I were gone so long. Cordelia’s at the hospital with Xander right now.”

  “Why would Cordelia Chase have anything to do with any of you, particularly That Harris Boy?” Snyder remarked, crossing his arms and looking very stern. “You’re going to have to do better than that, Miss Summers.”