by Nancy Holder
“Cleopatra,” Angel filled in. “Her lover, Marc Antony, was killed in battle, so she killed herself.”
“Huh,” Buffy said, her heartbeat picking up. “That’s pretty extreme, you know?”
“Dying for love, yes, that’s extreme,” Angel replied, nuzzling her cheek. “Also, not very practical.”
“Ooh, that’s kind of pretty,” she said, pointing upward.
Angel followed her line of sight. About ten feet above them, garlands of silk roses hung from the ceiling. Gold-painted cherubs and spangly hearts were twined into the garland, and a large ruby heart hung from the center. By the way it sparkled, he assumed it was made of glass. Light moved and drifted inside it…. There was something about it…
He felt dizzy for a moment. Something silvery shimmered in his line of vision. He tried to blink or turn his head but he…
“She’s the Slayer. She wants you,” a voice whispered seductively inside his head. “Can you imagine what that would be like? All that strength, that stamina, possibly matching your own?”
His arm around her tightened. He felt her warmth. Her heartbeat quickened. The rhythm of her blood roared in his ears.
“You’re so beautiful tonight,” he said huskily.
Her eyes widened. “Thank you.” Her lips were moist, her eyes shiny.
“She wants you,” said the voice. “Listen to her heartbeat.”
Lub-dub, take-her, lub-dub, take-her…
He turned to her, cupping her chin with his fingertips. Yes, of course she wanted him.
His lips met hers in a long, soulful kiss. There had been other kisses, of course, but none like this. It was as if all Angel’s senses were heightened: touch, smell, sound…and taste. He had not been able to taste the pungent bitterness of his black and tan, but he tasted Buffy. And she was sweet.
“Oh, Angel,” she breathed, putting her arms around him and drawing him closer. Her strength excited him. “This is nice.”
He kissed her again. And again. And again.
“Yes,” said the voice inside his head. “Go for it.”
“Whoa,” she said, catching her breath and laughing a little. “Maybe we should slow down, you know?” She smoothed back her hair. “Are you feeling extra…um, are you?…”
“I’m just me,” he assured her. “Me with you.”
Her beautiful blond hair. He caught it up, smelling it, closing his eyes as fresh desire washed over him. He inhaled her scent.
“God, you smell so good,” he said.
“Vanilla,” she said. “New.”
“It’s great.” He sniffed her neck. Smelled the blood. He caught up her hand in his and kissed her fingertips.
“Wow,” she murmured. Her heartbeat was faster. He could hear it so clearly.
“Buffy, I can’t get over how beautiful you are.”
She was blushy. It was so adorable.
“You’re sure you’re not, like, enchanted, are you?” she asked.
“You know how I feel about you,” he said, smiling.
She put her arms around him. “That’s nice,” she said.
So innocent. So lovely. So alive.
One swan boat back, Cordelia stared up at the pretty rose garlands accented with the big red glass heart. Its bloodred glow reminded Cordelia of flames. Flames reminded her of passion. Passion reminded her of the names of perfume. Perfume reminded her of shopping. And shopping made her hot.
“Cordy,” Xander protested. “Um, hello, we’re not in a closet?”
“Shut up,” she said, kissing him so that he would.
He kissed her in kind—who would have ever guessed that Xander Harris was a good kisser, truly the best she had ever had? His lips were warm and he didn’t smell bad, and he put his hand on the back of her neck and it was better than all the closet groping they had shared.
Then Xander murmured, “You said you didn’t want anyone to see us together.”
“Well, it’s dark,” she said reasonably.
“Does this mean we’re seeing each other?” he panted, breathless after another kiss.
“Whatever,” she whispered. Kiss, kiss, kiss-kiss-kiss—
Wait.
“No,” she informed him. “It does not mean we’re seeing each other.”
A beat, and then Xander said, “Fine.”
They each scooted to the opposite side of their swan boat.
And didn’t speak for the rest of the long, boring, long, lame ride of boring lameness.
Chapter Five
All done.
Carl Palmer hoped no one would complain about the missing-person flyers with which he had blanketed the windshields in the carnival parking lot. After all, he was searching for his sister, not trying to sucker people into joining the Sunnydale Athletic Club.
“You there!” said a low, gravelly voice. “What are you doing?”
Carl whirled around.
About ten feet away, a tall, thin man with a mane of white hair stood with his arms folded across his chest. He was wearing some kind of long robe and a little fez. His face was long, his features sharp. And his dark eyes blazed with anger.
“I…” Carl held out his stack of flyers. He had at least a hundred left. “My sister’s missing.”
The man unfolded his arms and gestured for Carl to approach. His fingers were skeletal, his nails like claws. He was a very creepy old guy.
Swallowing, Carl handed him a flyer. The guy smelled…kind of moldy. It was gross.
“Mariann Palmer,” the man read aloud. He cocked his head. “Haven’t seen her.” He looked at Carl. “I see the resemblance.”
Carl didn’t know what to say to that.
“It must be difficult for you,” the man said. “Her disappearance.”
Carl nodded. “Very,” he replied.
The man folded the flyer and put it in the pocket of his robe. Then he swept his arm to the right, gesturing toward the carnival. “Have you been to my playground yet?” At Carl’s look of surprise, he said, “I’m Professor Copernicus Caligari. I own this little traveling entertainment.”
“Oh.” Carl shook his head. “Not really in the mood, you know? No offense.”
“Why don’t you go on in,” the man said kindly. “Take your mind off your troubles for a while. Have a little fun. Indulge yourself.”
“No, I…” Carl sighed heavily and ran his hand through his hair. “We’re a little low on money right now. My mom hired a private detective, but she’s been staying home from work. My dad lives in Texas, so…”
“Oh, this is too much for such young shoulders,” Professor Caligari said kindly. “Here.”
He fished in the same pocket and brought out a small rectangle. “This is a free pass. Go on in. I insist.” He pulled back his lips in a smile, revealing brown, scraggly teeth. His eyes in the moonlight seemed to be gleaming. Carl was still freaked.
And yet…the calliope music sounded so happy. The rides were lit up against the sky. He smelled popcorn and hot dogs.
“Go on in,” Professor Caligari said again.
“Okay,” Carl replied, ducking his head. “Thanks.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” the man said.
The man gestured for Carl to run along. Carl did so, scooting around him. Professor Caligari was nice, but he still smelled weird.
Carl hurried through the entrance arches, waving his thanks over his shoulder, mostly to get away from Caligari. There was so much noise and life. He actually did feel a little better, a little more lighthearted.
He wandered around for a few minutes, until he saw a large blinking disk that spelled out “Midway” in lightbulbs. He ambled beneath it, to discover that he had entered the fun zone: Rows of wooden stalls beckoned with flashing strobes, colorful graphics, and men and women in red T-shirts just like his, wearing head mics and shouting, “Come win a prize, four throws for a dollar, everyone a winner, go home happy!”
The closest stall was maybe twelve feet on a side, painted black and decorated with bloodr
ed dollar signs. Carl’s fellow Sunnydalians surrounded it. He saw some of the super-popular kids from school, tossing coins at an enormous tower of glass bowls, dishes, shot glasses, and vases. Everything gleamed and shined. He figured out the game—if you threw a coin inside one of the objects, you got to keep it.
Cool.
Easy.
He immediately focused on little purple-tinted glass baskets with frosted handles.
Mom would like one of those, he thought. His mother hadn’t had a moment of pleasure since Mariann had gone missing. Maybe a little present would cheer her up.
He fished a bill out of his wallet. It was a twenty. He had just cashed his paycheck from his part-time job at the library.
I’ll just get a dollar’s worth.
The girl working the booth ticked her glance his way. He was startled for a moment. Her skin was dead white. Her lips, bloodred. Then he realized she was a Goth. She was wearing a black hooded sweatshirt unzipped to reveal a red Caligari T-shirt, and a canvas apron around her waist, over black pants. He bet her hair was a deep, shiny black, but her hood obscured it.
As she came toward him, a wind ruffled his hair, and for a moment he smelled something foul in the air, like a backed-up toilet. He grimaced, looking for the source.
Then she approached, and all he smelled was strong, heady perfume.
She smiled, raising her dark, painted-on eyebrows, and said, “Try your luck?”
“Yeah, okay. Can you sell me some change?” he asked her, showing her the twenty.
She took his twenty. “Two rolls of quarters okay? It’s a quarter a throw.”
“I just want a dollar in quarters,” he said. “The rest in bills.”
She made a little face. Her eyes were very dark. He couldn’t see any color in the irises. And there was that smell again. It was awful. He looked around, then back at her. She smelled great.
“Sorry, I don’t have any paper money,” she told him. “Bills get instantly dropped in the safe. All I carry are rolls of quarters. I’ll give you two rolls and you can just save what you don’t use.”
They made the exchange. She pushed his twenty into a metal box with a slot in the top.
The glassware glittered and shimmered almost as if it were magical—like fairy gold, pirate treasure. It was so bright it just about blinded him. He became aware of a silver flash just beyond the range of his peripheral vision. The space between his eyelids and his forehead ached for a second. He felt dizzy. Then it passed.
Stress, he guessed. Every since Mariann ran away, I’ve been maxed out on stress.
He hefted a quarter in his palm, judging the distance, the trajectory. If he didn’t get the basket, he’d get the shot glass sitting next to it for sure. The shot glass was kind of cool, black with a red seven on it. He might like that for himself.
He lowered his arm, took a breath, and held it. Then he tossed the quarter into the air. He watched it catch the garish neon lights—purple, pink, green—before it landed between the shot glass and the basket, on a section of black wood.
“Oh, too bad.” The girl stuck out her lower lip in sympathy. “Want to buy another roll?”
What?
He looked down at his hands. They were empty. The two rolls of quarters were nowhere to be seen.
“I…I played them all?” he asked. He didn’t remember that. He didn’t remember anything past the first quarter.
She gave him a quizzical look. “You feeling okay?”
“Sure.” Whatever.
“You almost had it that one time. I never saw anyone get that close and not actually win.”
He fished another twenty out and handed it to her. “I’d like two more rolls of quarters.”
They made the transaction. He took a quarter and flipped it with his thumb into the air—heads, you win, tails, you win—
“Man, that one was even closer,” she said, theatrically wincing in a gesture of sympathy. “Want some more?”
He blinked. Felt in his pockets. No quarters. None. No more bills, either.
He fumbled through all his pockets again, doing a visible sweep of the ground, of the top of the black wood barrier. Nothing.
“I-I’m out of money,” he told her.
She shrugged. “Better luck next time.”
“But…” He frowned. “I can’t be.”
“Well, you are.” She raised her brows.
“That’s impossible.” He rooted around in his pockets one more time. “How much did I give you?”
She paused, mentally totting it up. Then she looked at him and said, “Eighty bucks.”
He couldn’t believe it. “How long have I been here?”
She shrugged. “Long enough to lose eighty bucks.”
He stared at the glass baskets. “I have to have one of those baskets. For my mom. I have to.”
“I thought you said something about going home and getting some more money,” she said, hooking her thumbs into the waistband of her canvas apron. The silver stud in her eyebrow sported a tiny little seven. He hadn’t noticed that before.
“I don’t have any cash at home,” he said.
“You said you would go home and steal whatever you can find out of your mother’s purse,” she replied.
He felt another strange wave of vertigo. A voice inside his head said, “More than anything in this world, you want a basket. You will do anything for a basket. A basket will make you rich. You need one. You will die without one.”
“Her purse,” the girl repeated.
“Oh, that’s right. I did,” he replied, nodding eagerly.
“And you said that if she caught you, you’d beat her head in.” She reached into her apron and handed him a big, black flashlight. “With this.”
“Yes.” He took it from her. Hefted it. It could pack quite a wallop. “Now I remember.”
“Good.”
“Miss?” someone called to her. It was Principal Snyder, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms over his chest. “When you’re finished flirting…”
“Be right there,” she sang out. She turned back to Carl. His stomach growled and she giggled. “Maybe you should get something to eat. Our hot dogs are to die for. Old family recipe.”
“I’d like to, but I have to hurry,” he said. His stomach rumbled louder.
She laughed. He hadn’t noticed before how shiny and white her teeth were—like little pearls.
“You sound like you’re awfully hungry.”
“I am,” he admitted.
Her smile grew. “So are we.”
“Well?” Giles asked Xander as the six of them regrouped at the exit to the Tunnel of Love.
“Nothing,” Xander said emphatically. “I am lust free.” And no lie there.
Much.
“Me, too. Very lust free,” Cordelia snapped.
“Wasn’t it even fun?” Willow asked.
“Completely lame,” Xander told his red-haired buddy. “You are so lucky you didn’t go on it.”
“No unusual feelings?” Giles prompted.
“I feel less than nothing for this loser,” Cordelia said. “The thought of kissing Xander? Bleah.”
“So, the Tunnel of Love did not affect you?” Giles asked Cordelia.
“It was a bunch of wax statues of famous lovers through history, like Julio and Cleopatra or whatever,” Cordelia said. She counted off on her fingers. “Hokey statues, bubbles, fog, and it smelled like those little trees people hang in their cars.”
“I think it was supposed to be perfume,” Angel said, moving toward Buffy. She smiled up at him.
“Well, Angel’s the one with the good nose,” Xander said. “Oh, wait. That would be for telling blood in live things apart from blood in dead things.”
“It definitely had a Motel Six bouquet,” Cordelia insisted, perhaps missing the point that Xander was trying to make: Buffy’s boyfriend was not normal. “Not that I have ever been to a Motel Six in my entire life.”
“Yep, just bad statues,” Buffy said
. “And as a place to make out, slightly less comfortable than the couch in my hous…than one would expect teenagers to put up with,” she finished. “If a teenager was going to make out in a ride with room deodorizer and the statues that have already been mentioned.”
Ooh, quick save. Xander silently congratulated her.
Giles was parsing the data. “So, it’s your opinion that those rather…love-struck pairs we observed previously were simply enjoying their dates?”
“I guess,” Xander said. “We sure didn’t go all romance novel, did we, Cordelia?”
“Yuck.”
Buffy smoothed her hair. She was all blushy and rosy. Kissage had obviously occurred, but from what Xander could tell, the sanctity of family hour appeared to have remained intact.
“Then how on earth can we explain Harmony’s terrible lapse?” Cordelia murmured, stricken, as she pulled out her cell phone again. “Where was I?”
“Samantha,” Willow said.
“Right!” She pressed a key.
“I still haven’t ridden it,” Willow said, raising her eyebrows.
“We’re forgetting the Hahn twins,” Buffy pointed out. “They went all lookie-loo once they got inside the mirror maze.”
“Maybe only certain rides are cursed,” Willow suggested.
“Like ‘It’s a Small World’ at Disneyland,” Xander agreed. “Everyone knows that thing is the work of the devil.”
“Maybe the Hahns were already enchanted or whatever before they got into the fun house,” Cordelia pointed out. “Maybe they thought they were hot-looking, like, the day before. It’s hard to check your appearance when you’re running for your life. Believe me, I’ve tried. But when they had a spare moment…” She held out her hands as if to say, See where I’m going with this?
Buffy looked at Giles. “Okay, point taken. We don’t know if any of the rides are evil. Maybe there’s something else lurking around here and it’s evil. It could be a monster, or a demon that lives inside the fun house.”
“Or the prices they charge for admission,” Giles grumped. “And parking on top of it.”
“Don’t you have a Watcher’s expense account?” Cordelia asked Giles.