Blooded

by Christopher Golden

  Buffy sighed. Though it was hard for her to call Cordelia a friend, she supposed that it was true. But as much as she brushed it off, it hurt to know that Snyder couldn’t even conceive of such a thing. Sure, Cordy tried to maintain her rep as the most popular girl in school by not letting anyone know she hung out with Buffy and company. Which would have really hurt if she thought Cordelia had any idea how insulting that was. But when a child-hating geek like Snyder was dishing on her, Buffy had had enough.

  “Y’know what?” she said huffily, “I’m completely powerless to stop you from doing whatever it is you want to do.”

  She realized it was useless to try to wait for Giles. Useless, too, to even hope to write him a note about Willow’s strange little collection. And no way was she leaving Willow’s stuff where Snyder could scoop it up and throw it in the trash.

  She raised her chin. “So I’m going to go to the bathroom, and then I’m going to my sixth period bio class.”

  Buffy spun on her heel, ignoring Snyder’s vows to suspend her the next time she pulled a stunt like this. Next time. Those were the operative words. Detention was even okay, since that didn’t necessarily mean a call home.

  Of course, next time could be awfully soon. Especially since, once inside the bathroom, all she did was pop open the window and slip out. Then she was sprinting across the lawn for Cordelia’s car.

  There was a ticket stuck under one wiper.

  Buffy grimaced and tossed it into the car.

  * * *

  Miraculously, the ticket was still there when Buffy pulled up in front of the main branch—in fact, the only branch—of the Sunnydale public library in Cordelia’s car, gears grinding. She parked illegally there, too, but she hoped the ticket would keep her from getting another. On the other hand, the only thing that really mattered at the moment was not getting towed. Getting towed would be bad.

  No Willow at the library.

  Xander had once pointed out, with his usual loving sarcasm, that before Willow started to spend so much time hanging out at the school library because of the whole Slaying thing, she had spent almost as much time at the public library. Quiet. Surrounded by lots of books and computers. It was just Willow’s kind of place.

  Not anymore, apparently. Which sent Buffy scrambling madly across town in Cordy’s car, burning gas as the afternoon wore on and she checked small specialty bookstores, the place Willow had gone to have her hair tinted, and the weird video store Xander had dragged them to when he’d gotten on his Hong Kong action movie kick.

  She phoned the school library to talk to Giles. The phone was busy.

  It was busy the next time she tried.

  And the next.

  By the time she stopped for a breather and fed the Cordymobile, it was nearly six. There was one message for her on the message machine at home, but it was only to say that he was back in the library. Yet the phone was still busy. She began to worry that the phone was off the hook. Then she got through, but there was no answer.

  Dusk wasn’t that far off, so she left off trying to reach Giles and called Willow’s mother to find out if there’d been any word. None. Mrs. Rosenberg had been crying.

  After Buffy hung up, she had to take a few deep breaths. A sinking feeling was setting in with the sinking sun: this was going to end badly.

  Buffy slapped the roof of Cordy’s car as she finished pumping the self-serve.

  “C’mon, Willow, where are you?” she said aloud.

  Her only answer was the weird stare she got from a heavyset man gassing up his Lincoln.

  * * *

  The dim light of encroaching dusk filtered into the hospital room where Xander Harris lay, still unconscious from a few nasty raps to the noggin and the fact that his best friend had turned him into a Slurpee. Or at least, that’s what somebody was saying about him as Xander started to come around. He thought he remembered the phone ringing, but there wasn’t much else in his head except cotton and some kind of liquid that sloshed around in there when he tried to move.

  “Not so loud,” he croaked.

  “Oh God, Aphrodesia, I’ve gotta go,” the voice beside his bed said. “I think he’s waking up.”

  Click. That was the phone going back in its cradle. Really loud. Really, really loud, and Xander didn’t like it at all. He winced again. Carefully, he opened his eyes just slightly. Not too bright in there, which was nice. With the way his head hurt, the light might just crack it open.

  “Xander?” that same voice said in an excited hush. “Are you . . . okay?”

  A face floated into view above him. He knew that face.

  “Daphne?”

  With a snarl that was nearly a roar, the face dropped down so that he was eye to eye with it, with the girl . . . with Cordelia.

  “And just who is Daphne?” Cordelia demanded.

  Xander blinked. “Huh?”

  “Daphne!” she snapped. “You just called me Daphne. I’ve been parked here for hours waiting for you to wake up, completely ruined my makeup crying because I thought something horrible had happened to you, and here you’re talking about some girl named Daphne!”

  Xander exhaled, frowned, though it hurt his head even worse. “Um, Daphne from Scooby Doo?” he suggested, though he had no idea if that was the truth. He already couldn’t remember ever having called her that, at least to her face.

  “Uh-huh,” Cordelia replied.

  With another sigh, Xander slumped back against the bed and stared at the ceiling. He was in a hospital, that much he knew. But he couldn’t quite recall how he’d gotten here. When it came to him, it struck hard, like a blow to the gut, and he struggled to sit up, staring at Cordelia.

  “Where’s Willow?” he asked urgently. “Or Buffy?”

  Cordelia rolled her eyes. She opened her mouth to complain but was interrupted by the arrival of a rather frazzled-looking Giles. In his right hand he clutched a pair of thin, faded books that looked like old diaries.

  “Yes, that’s what I’d like to know,” Giles said, rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses. Xander thought he looked haunted, but as far as he was concerned, Giles always had that kind of distracted thing going on. Sort of a cross between Obi-wan Kenobi and the Absent-Minded Professor.

  “It seems my timing is propitious,” Giles said. “Xander, what did happen? Willow is missing, and there have been enough clues and coincidences to lead us to some horrible conclusions. I hope that you can dispel them as erroneous.”

  Xander blinked. “Whatever you said. But if one of your horrible conclusions is that Willow fanged me . . . yeah, that’s the way it looks.”

  Xander felt sick. Just saying the words gave him a chill. Willow was closer to him than a sister, and the idea that she was now . . . one of them, was more than he could bear.

  “Actually, we have reason to believe that Willow is not, technically, a vampire. At least, not yet. She was seen in daylight as recently as Monday by her mother, and though she is still among the missing, if we can find her, we might be able to save her from further harm.”

  “Let’s go,” Xander said, and sat up painfully.

  “Xander, what are you doing?” Cordelia cried.

  He winced with pain from the bruises on his head, from the tightening in his chest that told him he probably had a few ribs that were at least cracked, and he reeled from the disorientation that made him feel like he was on a fishing boat instead of dry land. But Xander got up. He put a hand against the wall to steady himself. Felt a draft. Hung his head and smiled at his own abject humiliation.

  “And, of course, Xander Harris is wearing a hospital gown, isn’t he? The kind that covers about as much as an apron? Yes, of course he is!”

  He spun around quickly and slumped against the closet door, frantically searching for the knob.

  “Ah, nothing. Nothing to see here,” he said. “Or, well, nothing that should be seen . . . that very nothing anyone needs to see at this particular moment.”

  “When he starts talking about himself i
n the third person that’s usually a sign that he’s embarrassed,” Cordelia observed. She looked very proud of herself. “Third person being an English grammar, um, thing, where it’s him, her, and it.”

  Giles began to study his shoes as if they were completely fascinating, and was still doing that when Xander stepped unsteadily from the closet wearing the greatest invention in the history of mankind.

  Which would be pants. Pants were very, very good.

  Xander started for the door to the room. Whoa. The tide was coming in. He staggered awkwardly and lurched forward.

  “Xander, what do you think you’re doing?” Giles demanded.

  “Wearing pants is what I’m doing. What a man does. Wear pants.” Xander stuck out one hand to stop the room from spinning on its axis, reached out the other one, and found himself being steered by Giles back toward the bed. He sat quickly and squinted at the sudden jolt of pain in his head.

  Giles cocked his head. “Xander, get back in bed. You’re in no shape to be up.”

  “We’ve got to find Willow,” Xander insisted. “And Buffy. Before she . . . before they end up hurting each other. We’ve got to do something.”

  “Xander,” Giles said gently. “We’ve got to do what we’re good at.”

  Suddenly Xander shivered as fresh memories rushed in to fill the blanks.

  “When she . . . she bit me, she laughed,” Xander said, and fought off the burning sensation in his eyes, the urge he felt to cry at the thought of it. She was his best friend, and now this horrible thing had happened to her, and in a way, to him as well. “Willow laughed while she drank my blood.”

  “Did . . . did you drink her blood as well?” Giles ventured.

  Xander frowned. “What am I, pervo boy? I don’t think so.”

  “Okay, I missed something,” Cordelia said. “Willow was out during the day, yesterday, right? We’ve established that. So now, what are we thinking? She’s somehow possessed by a vampire? Can that be done?”

  “It certainly seems that way,” Giles replied.

  “One thing’s for sure,” Xander added. “The person who attacked me last night? Maybe it had Willow’s face, but it wasn’t Willow. It wasn’t even her voice. And it referred to itself as something else. Some weird Japanese name or something.”

  Giles softly said, “Perhaps it was Chinese.”

  “Perhaps,” Xander said. He went on alert. “So this makes some kind of sense to you?”

  Giles sighed. “It’s beginning to.”

  “Look, I read the last panel of the Sunday comics first to save myself the suspense. Could you spill, already?” Cordelia said, her hands flapping the way they always did when she was frustrated.

  Giles walked to the window and looked out at the darkening sky.

  “I suspect the name you heard was Chirayoju,” Giles said. “Do you recall our visit to the museum the other day? Willow cut her finger on an ancient sword that belonged to a Japanese warrior-god called Sanno, the King of the Mountain.”

  “Riiiight,” Xander said, tentatively. Nervously. Less than joyfully.

  “Which has exactly what to do with this Cheerios guy?” Cordy asked.

  Giles faced them, looking as troubled as Xander had ever seen him. Maybe even more so, if that was possible. They’d all seen some pretty troubling things in the company of the Slayer.

  “The text that accompanied that sword told of a legendary battle between Sanno and a Chinese vampire named Chirayoju, which ended with both of their deaths. I had a conversation earlier with a retired Watcher, who directed me to this.”

  He held up the pair of slim journals he’d had when he came in.

  “The Journal of Claire Silver, Watcher,” Giles explained. “During the first half of the nineteenth century, Miss Silver was instrumental in cataloguing the Journals of all the Watchers down through the ages. She was quite a scholar.”

  “Yeah, great, we can read it later,” Xander said. “C’mon, we’ve got to go!”

  Giles held up a hand. “We need to arm ourselves, Xander. We can’t just run out into the night. Much as we would want to,” he added under his breath.

  “Actually, much as we have before, and it turned out okay,” Xander insisted incredulously.

  Giles opened his book. “I’ll read to you.”

  “Just put me to sleep,” Xander said. But he started to sway, and much as he wanted to stay upright, he lay back in his hospital bed.

  “If it starts with ‘once upon a time,’ I’m outta here,” he grumbled.

  “Ssh.” Cordelia was all ears and she sat up straight. “I’m listening.”

  “Very well.”

  Giles opened one of the books.

  Journal of the Watcher, Claire Silver

  January 6, 1817

  The doctor has just left, taking with him all my hopes for Justine. The poor girl lies senseless upon her pillow, her wounds grievous and many, and there seems nought that I can do.

  I must face it, but I cannot: she is dying.

  As I look up from my pen to stare at her pale form, I know that somewhere on this vast planet, another Watcher has been alerted, and readies his young lady for her debut (if I may be so macabre) into the terrible world that shall be her secret domain: the world of the Vampire Slayer. As my young miss escapes at last this most unholy and unwholesome life, another soon shall find her existence irrevocably transformed—shall I say what I am thinking, that this new Slayer’s life will be ruined?!

  All that shall then remain of my dear Justine and her many battles, victories, and this ultimate defeat, will be these words that I write, and her monument in the churchyard.

  I cannot bear it. I cannot face the notion that the forces of darkness have beaten us at last, not after all that Justine has suffered and endured.

  And I—if I can bear to think for one moment of myself—I shall become what Justine and I have so often scoffed at: a genteel English lady, gowned and ribboned like a useless bisque figurine. I shall fill my days with teas and dances and gossip. I shall pretend I know nothing of weaponry and fighting and beheadings and the proper way to stake a vampire through the heart. All that I have learned in order to serve as Justine’s Watcher I shall lay aside. I shall be as useless as a retired governess.

  But who comes? For upon the window clinks a pebble. Does someone come to pay his respects? Someone who knows that Justine, the Slayer, lies dying after a vicious attack?

  In our society, it has not been possible for Justine to accept suitors, knowing as she does what her life is, and what society requires of young ladies. Imagine explaining to a young man that you must of a night cudgel demons to death, or that the lady posing as your aunt last Tuesday sent a warlock to a fiery death in another dimension!

  And yet, of what use have all our efforts been, and to what benefit our sacrifices?

  Will this visitor be someone to whom I can utter these thoughts?

  The maid knocks now, and waits for my permission to enter. I lay my pen aside, and shall return . . .

  I do not know whether to cry in triumph or in fear, but my hands tremble so that I can scarcely put pen to paper. Our visitor was none other than Lord Byron, that infamous poet and ladies’ man. He was impeccably, if eccentrically, dressed, wearing a brocade vest of Italian design and affecting some sort of large, floppy hat.

  I was much amazed, for he has not been seen in England in five years. I was also much frightened, I must admit, for as I have written before, Justine and I have often wondered if Byron himself is a vampire. So much points to it—his pale complexion, his strange hold over numerous persons, and his extreme passions.

  In any case, Justine has never met Byron before, and I only once, at a party Midsummer last, yet here he arrives on what may well be the last night of her life, giving to me certain books as well as fragments of ancient Oriental scrolls! With a strange smile, he told me of his high regard for “our work” and made several veiled references to Justine’s “special talents.” Thus I may conclude that he kno
ws All, though I cannot swear to it.

  But hush! Justine awakes, and requests some water. My girl, my Slayer!

  I would give my life would it save her own.

  January 7, 1817

  Justine has survived the night, and though I am weary, I rejoice to tell her of the marvelous tale I am unfolding! It appears that the legend we have often wondered at may be indeed true. This, namely, being the Legend of the Lost Slayer. As opposed to the tragically usual way of it—a Watcher outliving his Slayer—I have upon occasion come across references to a Slayer who lost her Watcher quite early in her career. We have no idea who the Slayer was, nor what happened to the Watcher, but we have both often wondered at it.

  Nearly all the writings contained within this box have been translated into the tongues of Europe, but the whole of it is a jumble, with scattered notes on fragments of paper, passages referring back to various scrolls translated into English by one hand, and others discussed in Italian by another. Additionally, a few are in Latin. Fortunately, these are two languages in which I possess facility. I have had a time putting things to rights, and much of it I have not been able to decipher at all. Some of it is in German, and to translate those items I will have to appeal to a third party. This appears to be a life’s work.

  The irony of those words is not lost on me. For most marvelous indeed is Justine’s weak promise to me to remain on this earth until we solve the mystery. If searching among these writings for the key to the legend keeps her beside me but a single moment, I shall go to my own grave praising Lord Byron’s name.

  And so, to work . . .

  February 1, 1817

  What we had not counted on was that Justine, though in a weakened state, is still alive, and therefore remains the only Slayer of her generation. Though she can not rise from her bed, she alone wears the mantle of the Chosen One against whom the forces of darkness are arrayed.

  This has depressed her greatly, for she feels that she is failing in her duty, and at one point today cried out to me, “Oh, Claire, if only I could simply stand aside! Better that I die than leave the world unprotected!”

  I encourage her to believe that she shall recover, but the doctor has taken me aside several times and reminded me that on occasion, those who soon will leave us rally briefly so that they may bid farewell. He still holds little hope for her recovery. I find this astonishing, for she does seem much improved.