Spike sprawled to the ground. Buffy yanked him back to his feet.
“You know what?” she said cheerfully. “It’s good to be me.”
Again she let loose on him, throwing him viciously into the wall. Spike grabbed an iron bar, trying to fend her off, but Buffy wrenched it away from him. Beating him mercilessly, she stood back and watched as he collapsed once more to the ground.
Spike lay there, stunned. Then, after several seconds, he staggered drunkenly to his feet and took off.
An unsettling peace descended at last, broken only by the frightened crying of several bewildered children. As Buffy stood there, Xander, Cordelia, and Angel all moved toward her, shocked but alive.
“Hey, Buff,” Xander greeted her. “Welcome back.”
Buffy smiled at him. “Yeah. You, too.”
“You guys remember what happened?” Cordelia regarded them incredulously.
“It was way creepy.” Xander frowned. “Like I was there, but I couldn’t get out.”
Nodding emphatically, Cordelia turned to Angel. “I know the feeling. This outfit is totally skintight.”
But she could see that Angel wasn’t listening to a word she said. He was totally focused on Buffy.
“You okay?” Angel asked quietly.
Buffy stared back into his eyes—those dark eyes she loved so much—and she could see the worry they still held for her, the unmistakabe relief and concern.
“Yeah,” she smiled.
He took her arm and guided her outside, leaving Xander and Cordelia to stare after them.
“Hello?” Cordelia’s mouth dropped open in disbelief. “It felt like I was talking. My lips were moving—”
Xander’s advice was glum. “Give it up, Cordy. You’re never going to get between those two. Believe me. I know.”
Considering this, Cordelia turned back to the dazed little group of trick-or-treaters.
“I guess we should get them back to their parents,” she said.
“Yeah. It seems like everybody is—” Xander broke off, his eyes going anxiously around the room. “Where’s Willow?”
He realized suddenly that he hadn’t seen her leave. That he hadn’t seen her at all, in fact, since he’d snapped out of his spell.
Willow wasn’t sure what had happened either. One minute she’d been standing with the others back in the warehouse, but now she was coming back to consciousness on Mrs. Parker’s front porch, lying there underneath a sheet.
Groggily, she pushed the costume away. It took a few seconds for her head to clear, to get to her feet and stand up again. She felt alive, at least. Back in her own body and in one piece.
Willow looked down at the sheet and started to throw it over her head.
And then she stopped.
With a boldness that was new to her, she tossed the sheet aside and strode off across the yard.
There was a van stopped at the intersection as Willow started across the street. She held her head high and looked determinedly forward, unaware that Oz was in the driver’s seat, watching her every move.
Oz was totally enchanted.
As he watched the confident rocker babe fade out of view from his headlights, a slow smile spread across his face.
“Who is that girl?” he murmured.
EPILOGUE
Buffy came out of the bathroom. Dressed in comfortable sweatpants and tank top, she looked like herself again as she paused in the doorway of her room. Her face was scrubbed clean; her hair was brushed and shiny, hanging soft about her face.
Her bedroom was dark. The only light glowed in from behind her, gently illuminating the figure on her bed. Angel had been lying there, deep in thought, but now he looked up at her with concern.
“Taa-daa.” Buffy struck a pose. “Just little old twentieth-century me.”
She crossed the room and sat down next to him. Angel gazed searchingly into her face.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked.
“I’ll live.”
He hesitated a moment. He’d come close to losing her tonight, and he fought back the urge to pull her into his arms, to never let her go.
“I don’t get it, Buffy,” he said at last. “Why’d you think I’d like you better dressed that way?”
Buffy’s eyes lowered. How could she ever explain to him how important it had seemed to experience that long-ago life Angel had lived, to be a normal young woman, the sort of woman Angel might have loved, to share some secret part of him she’d probably never know.
And yet Buffy realized it had gone even deeper than that. It had also been a longing to understand who Angel truly was, to gain some special insight into the human he once had been. And to bring herself closer—now, today—to Angel’s heart.
Slowly she raised her eyes again. He was watching her so intently, she felt drawn into the dark depths of his stare.
“I—I just wanted to be a real girl, for once,” her voice was barely a whisper. “The kind of fancy girl you liked when you were my age.”
For me, Angel thought to himself, you almost sacrificed yourself for me.
To Buffy’s surprise he laughed softly and shook his head.
“What?” Buffy asked, slightly hurt by his reaction.
“I hated the girls back then,” he admitted. “Especially the noblewomen.”
Buffy’s look was dubious. “You did?”
“They were just incredibly dull. Simpering morons, the lot of them. I always wished I could meet someone . . . exciting.”
A soft, lazy smile crept over his lips. He leaned toward Buffy.
“Interesting,” he added.
“Really.” A warm glow of pleasure spread through her. Her heartbeat began to quicken. “Interesting—like how?”
Angel’s smile widened. He knew she was baiting him, and he was all too willing to play along.
“You know how,” he scolded her.
He leaned in closer. Their lips were almost touching, and Buffy could feel the faint stirring of his breath against her cheek.
“Still,” she sighed innocently, “I’ve had a hard day, and you should tell me.”
“I should,” Angel teased.
“Oh, definitely . . .”
And as Angel’s lips closed over hers, Buffy surrendered to his long, deep, passionate kiss.
On the morning after Halloween, Giles stood alone inside Ethan’s Costume Shop.
It was as if the place had never even existed.
Empty display cases, stripped shelves, overturned mannequins—not a single thing remained anywhere to suggest that a businesss had recently thrived within these walls.
Giles walked slowly around the room, his face pensive. His footsteps echoed ghostly upon the floor.
And then something caught his attention.
There—just across from him—a small rectangular card was propped on a vacant counter.
Giles went over and picked it up.
He stared down at the handwriting, at the three words slashed in bold, black letters.
BE SEEING YOU.
There was no expression on his face now as he finally looked up.
But his eyes were thoughtful—and hard, and cold.
THE SECOND CHRONICLE: WHAT’S MY LINE? PARTS 1 AND 2
PROLOGUE
With Halloween over, Buffy tried to resume her life with a fresh sense of purpose.
Once again Sunnydale had been saved from certain tragedy, and in the process she’d discovered that she much preferred being herself rather than some helpless female. In the days that followed, she clung to the reassurances Angel had given her—the way he’d touched her that night, the truth in his eyes, the desire in his kisses. She wanted so much to believe that their love could transcend all the obstacles facing them, and that her own life could be just as fulfilling as that of any other young woman her age.
Yet, deep down, Buffy still wasn’t convinced.
It was Sunnydale High’s Career Fair that brought everything back again, those painful reminders t
hat she was—and always would be—different.
She was sitting with Xander in the lounge that day, staring glumly down at her test form. Banners hung from the walls, reminding students that Career Fair Starts Tomorrow, and at a table across the room, the school guidance counselor sat sagely behind another sign which read, Vocational Aptitude Tests.
As Buffy lifted her eyes, she saw Willow come in and grab a test, then walk over to join them.
“Are you a people person or do you prefer keeping your own company?” Xander read solemnly from his test. He paused, his brow furrowing. “What if I’m a people person who keeps his own company by default?”
“So, mark ‘none of the above,’” Buffy said.
“There is no box for none of the above. That would introduce too many variables into their mushroom-head, number-crunching little world.”
Willow beamed Xander a smile. “I’m sensing bitterness.”
“It’s just, these people can’t tell from one multiple choice test what we’re supposed to do for the rest of our lives,” Xander grumbled. “It’s ridiculous.”
Willow’s eyes widened. “I’m kind of curious to find out what sort of career I could have.”
“And suck all the spontaneity out of being young and stupid? I’d rather live in the dark.”
“We won’t be young forever,” Willow reminded him.
“I’ll always be stupid,” Xander shot back. And then, when nobody commented, he added, “Okay, let’s not all rush to disagree . . .”
The three glanced up at the sound of Cordelia’s voice. She was heading straight toward them, test form in hand, flanked by her usual group of Cordelia wannabes.
“‘I aspire to help my fellow man,’” she read aloud. “Check.”
She stopped, making a decisive mark on her paper. And then she cocked her head and frowned.
“I mean, as long as he’s not, like, smelly or dirty or something gross,” she clarified.
“Cordelia Chase,” Xander sighed, “always ready to offer a helping hand to the rich and pretty.”
Cordelia regarded him with a frosty smile. “Which, lucky me, excludes you twice!”
She moved off again, her Cordettes tittering as they followed. Xander leveled an impassive stare at her back.
“Is murder always a crime?” he asked hopefully.
Buffy glanced down the list of questions in front of her. Then she looked up with a frown.
“Do I like shrubs?”
“That’s between you and your God,” Xander said.
“What’d you put?” Buffy asked Willow, craning her neck to see.
“I came down on the side of shrubs.”
“Go shrubs,” Buffy agreed, settling back in her seat.
“Okay.” Then she put down her pencil, her frown deepening. “I shouldn’t even be bothering with this. It’s all moot-ville for me. No matter what my aptitude test says—I already know my deal.”
“Yep,” Xander nodded. “High risk, sub-minimum wage . . .”
Buffy held her pencil in front of him. “Pointy wooden things.”
“So why are you even taking the test?” Willow asked.
“It’s Principal Snyder’s ‘hoop’ of the week,” Buffy said wryly. “He’s not happy unless I’m jumping. Believe me, I wouldn’t be here otherwise—”
“You’re not even a teensy weensy bit curious about what kind of career you could have had?” Willow broke in gently. “I mean, if you weren’t already the Slayer and all.”
“Do the words sealed and fate ring any bells for you, Will?” Buffy snapped. “Why go there?”
She stopped, shocked at her outburst. Willow’s face looked positively stung.
“You know,” Xander informed her, “with that kind of attitude you could have had a bright future as an employee of the DMV.”
Buffy nodded, wilting beneath his glare. “I’m sorry. It’s just, unless hell freezes over and every vamp in Sunnydale puts in for early retirement, I’d say my future is pretty much a nonissue.”
The question of Drusilla’s future lay heavily on Spike’s mind—it was practically all he could think about these long, tortured nights.
Now, while Drusilla stood at one end of the dining table laying out her beloved Tarot cards, Spike paced anxiously at the other end, a Latin/English dictionary clutched in his hand. He’d instructed Dalton to join them this evening. Of all Spike’s followers, Dalton was the one best educated, the one most learned, the only true scholar in the bunch. So as Spike continued to pace, Dalton pored carefully over a large manuscript spread out on the table in front of him.
“Read it again,” Spike ordered.
Dalton hesitated, adjusting the spectacles upon his hideous vampire nose. “I’m not sure . . . it could be Deprimere ille bubula linter.”
Spike flipped quickly through the dictionary. He stopped at one page, then read slowly, “Debase the beef . . . canoe.”
Dalton kept his eyes on the table. Spike slammed him in the head with the book.
“Why does that strike me as not right?” Spike demanded.
Drusilla turned to him, humming. In her delicate white gown and black lace shawl, she looked even paler than usual. Swaying softly, she held out her arms to him, opened them wide . . .
“Spike? Come dance.”
Instantly Spike bristled. “Give us some peace, would you? Can’t you see I’m working?”
The second the words were out, he regretted them. He saw the look on Drusilla’s face, the hurt and betrayal in her wide, strange eyes. Her bottom lip quivered, her eyes filled with tears.
“I’m sorry, kitten.” Spike went to her, tender now, remorseful. “It’s just, this manuscript is supposed to hold your cure. But it reads like jibberish.”
Still wounded, Drusilla turned away from him. Spike followed, desperate to appease her.
“I’m frazzed is all,” he told her. “I never had the Latin. Even Dalton here, the big brain, even he can’t make heads or tails of it.”
It was almost too much to bear, seeing her like this, knowing he’d hurt her—and especially in her fragile condition. He looked at her pleadingly, but once more she turned away from him.
“I—I need to change Miss Edith . . .”
And then Spike saw her falter. Suddenly weak, Drusilla tried to grab the table, and Spike rushed to her side.
She was hardly more than a ghost. As Spike gently guided her to a chair, her shawl came loose, revealing dark, ugly bruises along the translucent skin of her arms.
Spike looked away. He could feel the desperation rising inside of him—the utter helplessness so foreign to his nature—and he knelt down at Drusilla’s side.
“Forgive me.” Spike’s voice trembled, dangerously close to tears. “You know I can’t stand seeing you like this.” And then his voice grew angry with frustration. “And we’re running out of time. It’s that bloody Slayer. Whenever I turn around she’s mucking up the works—”
His voice broke off, leaving only the silence. He quickly bowed his head.
“Shhhhh,” Drusilla whispered. Her features softened at his distress; she slipped her fingers beneath his chin and gently lifted his head. “Shhhhhhh . . . you’ll make it right. I know.”
It was the benediction he’d been hoping for. Gratefully, Spike took her hand and kissed it. And then he stood, fierce once again, and more than ready to take it out on Dalton.
“Well?” Spike demanded. “Come on now. Enlighten me.”
Dalton nodded nervously, his fingers skimming over the pages of the manuscript. “I—it looks like Latin, but it’s not. I’m not even sure it’s a language. Not one I can decipher, anyway—”
“Then make it a language!” Spike bellowed, striding over to him. “Isn’t that what a transcriber does?”
“Not—not exactly.”
Spike grabbed him. He lifted Dalton out of his seat with one hand. Miserably, Dalton braced himself for some serious damage.
“I want the cure,” Spike seethed.
At the other end of the table, Drusilla was staring down at her cards again. As Spike prepared to let loose on Dalton, she suddenly stopped him.
“Don’t—”
“Why not?” Spike retorted. “Some people find pain”—he slammed Dalton hard in the stomach, doubling him over—“very inspirational.”
Before Dalton could recover, Spike grabbed him again.
“He can’t help you,” Drusilla insisted. “Not without the key.”
Spike froze. Very slowly he turned to her.
“The key? You mean the book is in some kind of code?”
Drusilla nodded. Spike dropped Dalton in a messy heap and walked back over to where she was sitting. And then he followed her solemn gaze down to the Tarot card she’d turned.
It was an etching of a ruined crypt. A crypt overgrown with ivy, mouldering majestically above a field of tilted gravestones.
“Is that where we’ll find this key?” Spike murmured.
Again Drusilla nodded. A satisfied grin spread slowly across Spike’s face.
“I’ll send the boys pronto,” he said.
Drusilla’s eyes widened hopefully. “Now will you dance?”
“I’ll dance with you, pet.” Spike laughed. “On the Slayer’s grave.”
He lifted her into his arms. And then, as Dalton watched fearfully, Spike spun his beloved Drusilla around and around the room . . . in time to the music only she could hear.
CHAPTER 1
It was usually quiet in the cemetery, but tonight a storm was threatening.
Buffy walked among the graves, every sense alert to potential danger. This would be the last stop on her patrol tonight, and she was tired, eager to get home. Dead leaves tumbled across the ground, scraping over headstones, riding a stiff wind. And yet suddenly there came a different sound—not the stealthy brewing of thunderclouds, but a closer, more distinct sound—one she’d never heard before.
Buffy stopped, listening. The sound came again—tink tink tink—and she frowned, trying to place it. Her eyes wandered slowly over dark tombstones and shadows. And then she noticed something.
The mausoleum stood slightly apart from the other graves, rising high above them in mouldering splendor. Buffy gazed at it for a long time, then finally she began moving toward it.
THE ANGEL CHRONICLES, Vol. 2 Page 6