VISITORS

by Laura Anne Gilman

  “I worry.” It was barely more than a whisper. “I can’t help it. I can’t stop.”

  Ease up on the angst-o-meter, as Cordelia would say, Buffy thought. This isn’t easy for me, either, in case you missed that little fact.

  “Yeah,” she said out loud. “But you stay away so it doesn’t show so much, is that it?”

  “What do you want me to do, Buffy?” His voice rose, his emotions cracking through the chill mask just the smallest bit. “Do you want me to stay? Do you want me to go away forever?”

  “Yes,” she said softly, not making it clear which option she meant—not so sure about it herself—and he sighed, defeated.

  “Angel . . .”

  “Be careful, Buffy. I knew creatures like this invader when I was . . . a long time ago. Don’t belittle it. This thing is mean. Be careful.”

  “I always plan to be careful,” she said—speaking now to the empty shadows.

  “But,” she added very softly, “sometimes I just don’t get a choice.”

  CHAPTER 7

  It is, Ethan Rayne thought, much too early in the morning. So early that dew still spangled the grass, etc, etc, and the sky was just starting to show color. So early, in fact, that he was seriously considering giving up this whole business and going back to bed.

  In that disgusting excuse for a hotel?

  On second thought, it was worth a little discomfort—the operative word being “little”—to both disconcert the Ripper and gain himself a potentially useful supernatural . . . pet. He had definitely contacted it on Saturday night, even though he couldn’t hold the contact and was too tired to do anything about it on Sunday.

  Now, though . . . Trying not to wince at the chill, Ethan settled himself on the bare rock he’d found. Granite, unusual in this land of limestone, and as magically neutral as he could find. Carefully unwrapping his chosen herbs, Ethan began his spell . . .

  Willow frowned, looking about at the impatient group of students in the classroom around them. “You think someone maybe locked her in the bathroom, or something?”

  Buffy shook her head, trying to stifle a yawn. “No way. The walls are so thin, you could hear her yelling.” She suggested in turn, “A long-lost relative left her money and she quit?”

  “Nobody here gets that lucky. Oh, no, I’ve got it! Snyder finally lost it, and started foaming at the mouth, and he bit her, so she’s gone to the hospital.”

  “Ooo, I like that one,” Buffy said approvingly.

  “You always get those details in.”

  Willow blushed and shrugged. They were playing the old school game of Where’s the Teacher? So far, Ms. Ellis was ten minutes late for seventh period. Rules said you had to wait for twenty minutes before class was called on account of teacher no-show. Of course, they could have gone and told someone they were teacherless.

  Yeah right, Buffy thought, watching two more students decide that they had better things to do and slip out the classroom door. Like that’s going to happen. Odds are, they’d stick us with one of the student teachers, and they’d be so maddened with power they’d actually try and give us homework, or something.

  Xander had suggested that they leave as well, about three seconds into the no-show. Buffy had been all for it, but Will hadn’t been real big on that idea. Something about unexplained absences and a desire to see Buffy actually graduate. And, anyway, if they had shown up in the library when Giles knew for a fact they had class . . .

  No, Willow was right. Better to hang here. No need to give her Watcher any new excuse to fuss.

  And when did my idea of cutting class turn into hanging in the library? That’s as pathetic as anything Cordelia ever gave abuse for.

  But it wasn’t easy to just sit here. Last night, after she had finally been able to go to bed, Buffy had heard that stupid giggling again. Surprise, surprise, when she’d dragged herself out of bed to hunt, she hadn’t found anyone. And when she’d gotten back into bed again, it was to dream that she was trying to stake a shadow that kept whistling at her.

  Not a good way to get some quality rest.

  I have got to find that critter and kick the giggles out of it. Yeah, and instead of sitting here, we should be looking through the books and Will’s computer files, make sure no one got the dancing blues last night while I was—

  “Oh, hey, did I tell you?” Xander asked, leaning forward in his chair, and Buffy nearly drove an elbow into his ribs before she realized who it was.

  “Hey, jumpy, aren’t we?”

  “I just don’t like loud noises in my ear, okay? Even when the sun’s up and shining.”

  “Sure. Listen, I think I’ve got a line on a job. Money for Bronzin’, here I come!”

  “That’s cool,” Willow said admiringly. “Where?” “And is that why you were saying those words over and over again to yourself?” Buffy asked.

  “Auditioning?”

  Xander stared blankly at her. “What words?”

  “‘You want fries with that?’”

  Willow giggled, and Xander put on his hurt face.

  “You mock me.”

  “I see target, I take aim, I achieve scorage. It’s a simple equation, but one that gives me a happy.”

  “Sure, mock all you want. But the job market is not a pretty sight around here. Even less when your sole marketable skills revolve around dead things.”

  “And obscure ways to kill people made of bugs,”

  Willow added helpfully. “Don’t forget that. ‘Xander Harris, Exterminator. No night calls, please.’”

  “Now there’s a depressing thought,” Buffy said.

  “Do you realize that I have absolutely no marketable skills? Except working out. And beating bad guys up. Hey. I could become a personal trainer.”

  Willow blinked at her. “You need to get, like, a dietician’s license, or something, to do that, don’t you?”

  “Oh.” Buffy sank back down into her seat, her enthusiasm notably muted. “More school. Great.”

  Just then, the door swung open, and Snyder walked in, followed by—

  Buffy groaned. Yeah, one of the student teachers. The really skinny one, who muttered a lot.

  “All right, wake up and pay attention. This is—”

  Snyder paused, and turned to the young woman beside him. She muttered something which Snyder obviously didn’t catch either, and he continued without missing a beat, “—who is going to be monitoring this class while Ms. Ellis is otherwise . . . indisposed.”

  Buffy jotted her teacher’s name in her notebook, with a question mark after it. Anyone upped and disappeared in Sunnydale, it usually bore looking into. Even if the person only ran screaming from the city limits.

  “You’re to listen to her as you would Ms. Ellis—no, correct that. You’re to pretend you are actual students, eager to learn, and listen carefully. Is that understood?”

  A faint and ragged chorus of “Yes, Principal Snyder” replied. The small man glared around the room, reserving a particularly venomous stare for Buffy, and then abandoned the student teacher to her fate.

  She sat on the edge of the desk, pushed the hair out of her face, and revealed an impishly triangular face with an equally impish grin. And her voice, away from the intimidating nonpresence of the principal, was low but clear.

  “Since Principal Snyder neglected to tell me what this class is for, and since I wouldn’t trust any of you as far as I could throw you to tell me what you’re supposed to be doing here, what say we have a nice, peaceful study hall? You do your homework, and I’ll do mine. Deal?”

  The “deal” which came back at her was much more enthusiastic than the previous response. Finally, a student teacher who doesn’t seem to have a major bug up her butt!

  Thus released, Buffy, Xander, and Willow pulled their chairs together, and returned to their discussion.

  “How weird is that?” Xander asked softly, shooting a glance at a student currently skimming through an intimidatingly large-looking textbook. “How could someon
e know that fast that they want to be a teacher? I mean, weren’t they traumatized enough in high school? They didn’t even give the wounds time to heal!”

  “Yeah,” Buffy said. “And then there’s college. Assuming any college will take me. Even with decent test scores, it’s not like my list of extracurricular activities exactly sparkles. Especially after that incident with the cheerleading team.”

  “Hey, it’s not so bad,” Willow said. “We just need to find a school that’s looking for people who . . . who have talent but haven’t applied themselves yet.”

  “Gee, thanks, Will. That makes me feel better. What am I supposed to do, look for a college with a high vampire population?”

  “Well, you never know. But hey, at least Giles is going to be there with you. Me, though . . .”

  “Look, Will, you know college is right for you. And they’re going to be falling all over themselves to grab you, from Caltech to MIT, I bet. So no more worrying.”

  “But . . .”

  “But we’ll be breaking up the team,” Xander said, a little too lightly. “Scattering us all over the states and whatever. So what? Life, you know? And it’s not like we won’t stay in touch, right?”

  “Right,” Willow agreed uncertainly.

  “Right,” Buffy echoed, with forced enthusiasm.

  “Right!” Xander repeated firmly. “Hey, what are we getting so heavy for? We’re not there yet—and there’s lots I want to do before I yell, ‘Hey world, here I am!’ and the world yells back, ‘So what?’”

  Buffy and Willow both laughed at that, and Xander grinned.

  “All right,” Buffy said firmly. “No more moping on stuff that’s probably gonna be derailed by the Hellmouth anyway. Deal with the problems we’ve got right now. Which means getting down to the Case of the Giggling Stranger, and what I’m going to do about it . . .”

  “No,” Giles said flatly. “Absolutely not. And bring that right foot up higher next time.”

  Buffy kicked, narrowly missing Giles’s chin. “But why? Come on, Giles, it’s perfect.”

  “You don’t understand, do you?”

  “What I don’t understand is why you’re being so stubborn. Let’s face it, it isn’t like you were able to come up with anything better.”

  A pivot on her left foot brought her into striking range, but Giles got out of the way faster than she had expected. Either she was slowing down, or he was picking up new sneaky moves somewhere, because she hadn’t landed a hit on him all session.

  “Come on, Giles, why not?” she persisted, coming at him again, but this time leading with the left side of her body, to draw him off.

  “Because I don’t think that it’s a good idea to bring magic into this. Especially since Willow is not a trained practic—ooof!”

  Buffy stepped back, feeling rather pleased with herself. He’d gone for her right side, suspecting her left was a feint—and she’d gotten him but good with a sharp left kick to the diaphragm. Angel was right. Sometimes the most obvious move really is the one to watch out for, she thought smugly.

  “Very nice,” he managed to wheeze, taking a step back. “But not enough to incapacitate. Try again.”

  “No. You’re just hoping I’ll whup your butt and then feel all happy with myself and stop pushing on this plan. Which is a good plan.”

  Giles sighed. “No. It is not. It is, in fact, a remarkably bad plan. Believe me,” he added grimly, “I have far too much personal knowledge of how easily a novice may bungle a spell.” For a second, his face went blank . . . Then he blinked, and the familiar, comfortable Giles was back. “Now. Stand ready, if you will.”

  Sighing, Buffy fell back into ready mode, balancing evenly and squaring her shoulders as Giles came at her again with the catchpole.

  “All right. Then you come up with something better. And . . .” She dodged under his attack with sinewy grace, twirling like she was on the dance floor—“. . . you get to explain to Will why she doesn’t get to play the Pied Piper of Sunnydale with this thingy. She was going to go out and buy a flute, and everything.”

  Giles frowned. “I didn’t think she played the flute.”

  “She doesn’t.”

  “Oh.” Giles slipped through Buffy’s defenses long enough to land a smart thwack across her shoulders. “If you can’t carry on a conversation and fight at the same time, might I suggest that you spend a little more effort on the physical?”

  No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the Slayer dropped to the floor, her weight supported by her hands while her legs scissored, tumbling him down to the ground in an undignified heap of tweed, the wooden pole falling to the ground above his head.

  “You were saying?” she asked, springing to her feet and dusting herself off.

  “Yes.” He lay there, catching his breath. “Very good. Shall we try again?”

  Buffy sighed. Great. Now he’s going to be peeved at Willow for trying to do advanced magic stuff, and take it out on me.

  So much for getting out of practice early today.

  The korred snarled, very, very softly. That mysterious Something had been pulling at it all day. An ugly, suggestive pull, deep in its innards.

  Someone was working magic on it, from so unfocused and neutral a source that there was no way to locate the magician. The korred had spent the whole day burrowing deeper into the pile of wood and rocks it had found in an empty lot, hiding in its makeshift lair until, with nightfall, the pull faded to the barest of pricklings.

  Now, its hunger driving it more than its disquiet, it had come out of hiding, hunting. But memory of that magic cast over it warned that there was no more time to play. It still was drawn to that one young human girl who glimmered with strength, but it would not be foolish. First it would feed and enhance its own strength. And then—beware, whatever tries to ensnare it. Beware, glimmering girl. Beware, everything that gets in its way.

  Where would the young humans, the delicious young life forces, be found? It sniffed the air, listened with more-than-human hearing . . . ah, yes . . .

  The korred stole forward, moving silently from shadow to shadow, avoiding the harsh glare of the lights the humans found necessary, they with their night-blind eyes. It followed the traces that cried humanity, young humanity to a human place where the air throbbed and shook with noise. Music, such as had blared from the black box that young human had held.

  Wincing, the korred crouched in the shadows, covering its ears, and waited. Eventually, the prey would be found.

  But as the night wore on, the korred’s temper frayed and at last snapped. Every now and again, the door would open, and young humans enter or exit—but no one came or went from that building alone or even in pairs! It could not hope to snare five, six, eight of the creatures!

  In a sudden burst of frenzied rage, the korred sank its claws into the earth, tearing up great clumps of grass and dirt. Something surged up from its torn burrow—a mouse, crushed to death in one inhuman hand before it had a chance to squeak. The korred tossed the dead thing from it, then licked the blood from its palm, never taking its glance from that cursed human place.

  No! Useless!

  Wild with frustration, it raced off into the night. Any human would do now, any human foolish enough to cross its path—yes! There was a man, not young, ragged and stinking of hopeless poverty and alcohol. Not much to this life force, but the korred began its song. It saw the man look up and let him see it, knowing that didn’t matter. It saw the man’s limbs twitch, then lurch into the first clumsy steps.

  Yes! the korred thought. Mine!

  Its song grew louder, stronger. And the man, his eyes widening with dawning horror, began to dance.

  CHAPTER 8

  Xander finished his breakfast—a Ding Dong and a carton of chocolate milk—and let out a contented little burp. “Breakfast of Champions.”

  Cordelia made a face at his food choices, but her attention never wavered from the glossy color college brochure she was reading. “I don’t know,” she
said thoughtfully. “I think I’ve gone beyond the entire Greek experience, don’t you? I mean, frat boys are so immature.” She shook her head, turning the page of the brochure. “On the other hand, once you get out of Sunnydale, maybe they’re not all sacrificing to demons, and whatever.”

  Everyone ignored her, focusing instead on the problem of the moment.

  “Well, on the plus side,” Willow said with obviously forced brightness, looking up from her laptop’s screen, “there haven’t been any deaths reported recently.” She paused, glancing down at the screen again with a sudden frown. “Just . . . a—a homeless guy got hit by a car. The driver said the guy was just, well, sleeping in the middle of the road.”

  “But he was alive,” Buffy said over her shoulder as she paced. “Well, till the car. What I mean is, it couldn’t have anything to do with the korred. Just a really bad drunk.”

  Willow gave her a hopeful look. “So the korred’s still just a maybe-baddie, and not a must-kill-now baddie. Right?”

  “Um, yes. So far, anyhow.” Buffy swung down into a chair across from Willow, fighting a yawn. “I still need to find a way to get it out of town.”

  “Before it drives you nuts?”

  “Before it gets tired of only stalking and starts to fill its dance card,” Buffy said curtly, shadows under her eyes. She had woken in the middle of the night, feeling the weight of someone’s blood on her hands. Not an unusual nightmare for the Slayer, who couldn’t be everywhere at once no matter how hard she tried. But this nightmare had come with a soundtrack, too. A raw giggle that had almost drowned the screams of the victim.

  Almost.

  Willow frowned. “What I don’t understand is how it’s feeding, if it’s spending all of its time watching you!”

  “Hot dogs, I bet.”

  Everyone turned to look at Xander, who shrugged.

  “Saw a sign up this morning. Missing dog type of sign. Third this month.”

  Willow’s face fell. “Pets are a bad idea in Sunnydale.”