Buffy the Vampire Slayer - Buffy Season4 02

by The Lost Slayer 02 Dark Times # Christopher Golden

  They knew, she thought. Knew where I was, all along. It could not be coincidence that of all the vampires in Sunnydale, these two were the ones who had caught up with her. Out of the corner of her eye, Buffy caught motion behind her. Alert, ready to defend herself, she spun to see that the other three had also begun to approach her. They had already removed their hoods and goggles.

  She knew them all.

  Blond, bubbly Harmony had been in her high school class. The dead girl waved almost shyly, a sweet, stupid grin on her face. But Harmony did not worry her. It was the other two that made Buffy curse out loud.

  Spike and Drusilla.

  Willow sat in her dormitory room amidst a circle of white candles, their flames casting a sickly yellow glow upon the walls, flickering shadows of things that had no form. It was dark outside, but clouds blotted out the stars.

  Something prevented her from summoning Lucy Hanover. For more than an hour she had tried. Now she bit her lip and fought the despair that threatened to overwhelm her.

  “Lucy, please,” Willow whispered into the seething shadows. “I need help. You’re the only one who might have answers. Please.”

  With her heart and soul she reached out into the dark, into the spiritual ether she had mentally touched several times before. Something cold touched Willow’s back, and she flinched in fear and shock.

  “Lucy?”

  As one, the candles blew out, smoke wafting up from each of them, glittering in the dark. The tendrils seemed to reach out to one another, to twine into a web of smoke, to spin and weave together into a hideous shadow face, a snarling, horned thing whose eyes seemed like endless black pits.

  “Noooooo…” it groaned with pain and anger.

  Though the windows were closed, a sudden wind rushed through the room and the smoke dissipated. Willow shivered as the temperature dropped precipitously. She blinked, searching for some sign of that malevolent presence.

  Lucy was there, hovering half a foot above the ground. Her spectral form seemed even more faint than ever, a ghost of a ghost. Willow whispered her name and the spirit smiled weakly.

  ” I am here, friend Willow,” Lucy said, her otherworldly voice quavering.

  “What was that?”

  “The creature was a soul-eater. My will proved too strong for it, but it has been thwarting my attempts to reach you. It attacked me here on the Ghost Roads, in the moment just before The Prophet showed the Slayer the future. I fear that it may not have been coincidence.” Willow slumped over, one hand over her mouth, and squeezed her eyes shut. Only for a moment, though. Then she stood, determined, and faced the ghost.

  “You’ve gotta help me figure out what’s going on,” she said. “Ever since that night, Buffy’s been all wigged. At first I thought maybe she was just pushing us away, that she was gonna go all Lone Ranger, take Camazotz down herself and get Giles back.”

  Something rolled over in Willow’s stomach and she shuddered.

  “She hasn’t even tried, Lucy. I live here. I see her. She goes to half her classes, and she’s looking over her shoulder all the time, paranoid, like any second, hello, ambush! But she’s the Slayer. She gets ambushed all the time. Comes with the territory. And not usually during the day. It just isn’t like her.” Willow paused, a chill creeping through her. When she looked up, she saw the phantom of the dead Slayer gazing dolefully down upon her, swaying slightly in the dim room.

  “Lucy?”

  “Where are your friends? Do they agree?”

  “Definitely. It’s been two days and Buffy hasn’t done anything about Giles, so we’re going to do it ourselves. Oz is tracking down the ship, and Xander and Anya are getting some weapons from Giles’s apartment. We’re going in tonight to save him, with or without her.”

  “Of course I will aid as best I can,” Lucy agreed. “But what of Buffy? Your words have given rise to a terrible suspicion. I think it best we find her and put that suspicion to the test before even attempting the rescue you have planned.”

  Willow hesitated. A whispered voice in the back of her mind told her that it was already too late for Giles. But she would not listen. She was determined to find him and bring him back alive. The last thing she wanted to do was to wait another day.

  “We’re going in after Giles in the morning,” she said. “I don’t know what to do about—” A key rattled in the lock. The door opened, and Buffy walked in. Willow’s breath caught in her throat as she saw her friend stiffen, a dark look spreading across the Slayer’s face.

  “Buffy,” Willow whispered.

  “No,” Lucy Hanover said, her voice like a breeze rustling through the trees. “That is not Buffy Summers.”

  Willow shot a glance at the ghost, then back at the doorway. She shook her head, not understanding. Buffy shot the gossamer spirit of the former Slayer a hard look, then smiled grimly. It was the smile that convinced Willow.

  “Oh my God.”

  Buffy crossed to her bed, bent down and reached beneath it, and retrieved a duffel bag. Willow could only stare at her, frozen with shock and grief.

  “It is The Prophet,” Lucy said. “Whatever she is, the creature has taken Buffy’s physical form,”

  The Slayer began to open drawers and throw clothes into the bag. “It was foolish of me to think I would be able to stay here. Though it would have been more convenient, it is simpler to start over.” Willow could only stare as she zipped the bag, but as soon as The Prophet began to move toward the door, she moved to block the way. Fear and disbelief were supplanted within her by a kind of anger unlike anything she had ever known. She shook her head, jaw clenched tightly.

  “You’re not leaving,” Willow said. “Not until you bring Buffy back.” A brittle, severe expression settled upon Buffy’s face, and Willow wondered how she could not have noticed the change in her best friend. This thing in front of her was not Buffy.

  “Move, witch.”

  Willow glanced once at Lucy, hoping that the ghost would have some way to remove The Prophet. But the specter only floated, a soul-haze and nothing more. She could not help. Willow swallowed hard and begin to inscribe arcane symbols upon the air with her fingers. Her lips moved silently as she mourned a spell that would lock them all in the room.

  With a guttural laugh, The Prophet backhanded Willow, who staggered backward and slammed into her desk before crumbling to the floor.

  Dazed, she dragged herself to her feet.

  But the door hung open, and The Prophet was gone. Buffy was gone.

  And if Willow did not catch up with her, she might never know what had truly become of her best friend.

  The car horn kept blaring. Parker, unconscious, was slumped over the wheel and Buffy could not spare even a moment to slide him off.

  Spike and Drusilla.

  “Well, well, Dru, look what we’ve got here,” Spike called happily, preening like a rooster as he took a few steps toward the car. His hair was longer now, almost shaggy, giving him a more feral aspect. “That Utile Summers girl, isn’t it? I thought she was a house pet now. Soft little kitten.” Drusilla’s mad eyes widened and she made tiny scratching motions in the air, then licked her lips.

  “Ooh, I love kittens. We know just what to do with kitties, don’t we, Spike?” There was bloodlust in Spike’s eyes. “Oh, we certainly do, pet. We certainly do.” Harmony stared at Drusilla. “You don’t hurt kittens. Tell me you don’t hurt kittens.” Dru seemed shocked. “Only when I’m hungry. I’m not a monster.” It took Buffy only a heartbeat to calculate the odds. These three behind her, three more in front. Parker’s Mercedes was hemmed in on both sides. Six of them. She’d killed six at once before. More than that, in fact.

  But not these six.

  Harmony and the stranger wouldn’t be a problem. But Buffy knew from experience that Clownface and Bulldog were tough enough. Spike and Drusilla, though, that was the final nail. I’m not ready. Not now. The world had changed and she had to find her place in it. At the same time, she knew that another world awaite
d her in the past, a place … a home … where she was desperately needed. She had to return there.

  What had she told Faith, so long ago? The first rule of slaying: Don’t die. Once the decision was made within her, Buffy acted in an instant. She ratcheted around, fired a crossbow bolt at Spike. He snatched it out of the air, and then glared at her as though his feelings were hurt.

  Buffy dove across the unconscious Parker, who slid off the horn. She popped open the door, then used her prodigious strength to shove him out onto the pavement. Her bag dropped onto the seat beside her with the crossbow, and she reached into it for one of the stakes she had made. The vampires saw that she intended to flee, and rushed at the car.

  “Dammit, Buffy! I never took you for a coward,” Spike snapped at her. “I’m disappointed.” Buffy slammed the Mercedes into reverse and floored the gas. Spike and Drusilla had learned to be fast. It was part of the reason they had stayed alive as long as they had. They split up, each diving out of the way of the car in opposite directions.

  Harmony stood frozen behind the car, her mouth open as though she were somehow offended. The Mercedes slammed into her, drove her back with all the horsepower the engine had. The car crashed broadside into the van with Harmony in the middle. There was a sickening crunch and she screamed, a shriek so wild and agonized that it seemed to be tearing her throat apart. Buffy spun the wheel to the right in order to avoid running over Parker, dropped it into drive, and floored it again. Spike and Drusilla had gotten up and were rushing at her from either side, but the tires spun under the Mercedes, laying a black rubber patch on the pavement, and the car lurched forward, away from them.

  Behind her, Harmony tumbled to the ground, the top and bottom of her body only connected by torn flesh and a crushed spine. Her upper torso twitched as though she were having a seizure, but her legs lay still.

  In the rearview, Buffy caught a glimpse of Spike and Drusilla running to their van. The Mercedes raced around to one side of the van in front, but the other three vampires were there already, coming for her. Buffy lifted up the crossbow in her right hand, targeted the one she did not recognize, and fired even as he leaped toward the car. The bolt found its mark and the monster dusted, orange-blazing eyes the last to disintegrate.

  Buffy tossed the empty crossbow into the backseat as Clownface jumped onto the hood of the Mercedes at the last possible moment. Then Bulldog leaped onto the trunk and tossed himself into the backseat. The Slayer swore loudly.

  Her right hand gripped the stake that lay beside her.

  With all her strength, she stomped on the brake.

  Clownface sailed off the hood and rolled onto the pavement, even as Bulldog was thrown into the front seat. The pug-faced vampire slammed his head against the dashboard, but struggled to right himself. Buffy punched the stake through his heart and he imploded, scattering dust all over the upholstery. She accelerated again. Just as Clownface was getting up, Buffy ran her down. The car rocked as she drove right over the vampire, and then she was away, leaving them behind. Spike and Drusilla gave chase in the van, but they had no hope of catching up to her. Not in the Mercedes. Clownface wasn’t dead. Buffy knew that. But three out of six wasn’t bad for a girl who was only trying to get away. Maybe I should have stayed, she thought. But she pushed the idea away. Priorities. A few miles and a left turn out of view, and she had lost Spike and Drusilla. As she drove through the darkness, streetlights flashing across her face, Buffy kept an eye out for other gray vans, or any vehicle that might try to get in her way.

  She had gotten away, but she wasn’t free. Not until she had traveled beyond the area Camazotz controlled. And Buffy had a feeling that was not going to be easy.

  Chapter 4

  The houses on Redwood Lane reminded Buffy painfully of the neighborhood where she had lived during high school. Perfectly groomed lawns, a smattering of trees—though none of them redwoods—and a minivan or SUV in every driveway. She had abandoned the Mercedes three blocks away, and as she skulked along from house to house, it unnerved her how silent they were. No loud voices, no radios. The few lights inside barely showed through the curtains and shades drawn across every window.

  Six miles from the center of town, and still no one dared breathe loud enough to attract the vampires’

  attention.

  Halfway down the block, Buffy paused in front of an imposing Spanish-style house, and put her back against the stucco just beside a side window. From within, she could just barely hear a television set. In the driveway sat a Volvo sedan, maybe three or four years old. She hesitated only for a moment. Then she slipped around the back of the house and across the patio to the rear door. A heavy wooden door, not a glass slider. That was good. Less noise. Buffy kicked the door open and the three locks on it splintered the frame with a tearing of wood. It crashed open, the sound echoing out into the night. She only hoped that, locked up tight in their homes, no one would hear it.

  “Oh God, no!” someone cried within the house.

  Buffy rushed through the kitchen and into the living room where a haggard looking couple in their late forties cowered in a corner by the television set.

  “How… we didn’t invite you in!” the man shouted, panicked. They thought she was a vampire.

  “No,” Buffy said, both hands up as she approached them. “Just sit tight, right there, and I won’t hurt you. I swear I won’t. Cooperate, and maybe I can even get you out of here.” They stared at her as though she were mad.

  “Where’s the phone?”

  “What do you mean out of here? You’re not trying to leave, are you?” the woman said, horrified.

  “You want to stay?” Buffy asked. “Where’s the phone?”

  “On the wall in the kitchen,” the man said. “You passed right by it. But please don’t talk to anyone like this on our phone. They’ll hear you. They’ll think we’re involved.” Buffy had already started back toward the kitchen, but paused at his words. She turned to stare at him again.

  “What do you mean ‘they’ll hear’?”

  “They listen,” the woman replied.

  With a sigh, Buffy shook her head. “Of course they do. Can’t have anybody spilling the blood-soaked beans, now, can we? Still, they can’t listen to every phone twenty-four hours a day. They’ve got you scared ‘cause you never know when they’re listening.

  “Look, it doesn’t matter anyway. We’ll be gone by the time anyone can get here.” She regarded them closely. “I’m Buffy. What are your names?”

  The couple exchanged a tired, frightened glance. The woman stood up first, followed by her husband, but they kept their distance.

  “I’m Nadine Ross. This is my husband Andrew.”

  “Nice to meet you. Sorry about the door. Come into the kitchen.” Buffy led the way, and the Rosses followed. “Have a seat,” she said, gesturing toward the breakfast table. They slid chairs out and stood gazing at her anxiously as she picked up the phone.

  There was a strange clicking sound before the dial tone.

  Buffy stared at it for a second. Of all the phone numbers she knew by heart, most of them would be useless now. Her mother’s. The numbers of all her friends in Sunnydale. But there were two others, one that she had used only a few times, and another she had never even dialed, yet she knew both of them by heart.

  The first was a Los Angeles number. Angel’s number. Holding her breath, Buffy dialed, but the number was out of service. She closed her eyes and held the phone against her forehead. Where are you, Angel?

  “Please,” the woman whispered behind her.

  Ignoring her, Buffy dialed information for Los Angeles. She asked for the number for Angel Investigations, but the operator said there was no listing under that name. Wesley Wyndam-Pryce?

  Again, no listing. Cordelia Chase?

  Unlisted.

  As disappointed as she was, this last bit of information fanned a tiny spark of hope in Buffy’s chest. It might be unlisted, but Cordelia had a phone number. Somewhere in this insane w
orld, someone she knew still lived.

  Buffy thumbed a button on the phone to disconnect, then waited for a new dial tone. There was only one other number she might call for help. It was a long sequence. Time might have caused part of it to change. Given that she had only memorized it, but never used it, she feared that she might have gotten it wrong.

  Her chest rose and fell more quickly as she punched in the numbers. She felt the eyes of the people whose home she had invaded, and she shifted uncomfortably under their fearful, accusing gaze. Somewhere on the other side of the Atlantic, a phone began to ring. Buffy let out a shuddering breath of relief as the tinny sound reached her ears. There was a click as the call was answered.

  “Yes?”

  The voice was British. Buffy had never heard such a welcome sound.

  “This is Buffy Summers.”

  A pause, a harsh intake of breath. “That isn’t funny. Who is this?”

  “Who the hell is this?” she snapped, angry and frustrated. “Put Quentin Travers on the phone!” Another pause. “Dear God, it really is you, isn’t it? My name is Alan Fontaine, Miss Summers. Quentin Travers is dead. Where are you?”

  “Behind enemy lines and headed south,” she said. “Can you help?”

  “Hold on.”

  She heard a muffled sound and assumed he had put a hand over the phone. Dull voices could be heard, and a moment later, Fontaine came back on the line.

  “Do you know Donatello’s? An Italian restaurant just off your one-oh-nine freeway?” Buffy thought about it, found a vague recollection of the place. “I think so.”

  “That’s the border. We can have an extraction team waiting for you there. One hour.” One hour, Buffy thought. A smile spread across her face. One hour, and then she could begin to make sense of this insane world, this horrid future.

  “If I’m not there it means I’m dead,” she replied. “Oh, and this line is bugged. There could be a Welcome Wagon there waiting for me and for your team.”