VISITORS

by Laura Anne Gilman

  “Maybe.” But then Buffy realized what she’d said. “About what it’s eating, I mean. Not about the pets. I mean—” She gave up. “Giles, what do you— Giles?”

  He was rummaging about in the card catalog with the air of a man who’s completely forgotten what he’s looking for. “How is it,” Giles complained over his shoulder as he hunted, “that the addition of a mere half-dozen more students can so disrupt one’s schedule?”

  “’Cause you’re a creature of tweedy habit?” Xander suggested, earning himself a glare from the Watcher.

  “Why do you say it that way?” Buffy wondered, distracted for a moment from the weight of worry.

  “What?” Giles straightened, turning to look at the little group, his full attention finally caught.

  “Schedule.” Buffy pronounced it in the British fashion: “Shed-ule. That’s so weird. Why do you do that?”

  “I, erm, perhaps for the same reason you Americans pronounce it ‘sked-jule,’ which still sounds rather odd to me. Regional dialect differences, enhanced by extreme—why this sudden interest in linguistics?”

  Buffy shrugged. “No real reason. Just enjoying a brief Watcher-Slayer moment. Is that a crime?”

  “No.” Giles stopped to push his metal-rimmed glasses more firmly up the bridge of his nose. “But it does make one suspicious.”

  Willow giggled, and Xander marked off a hash mark in the air. “Score one for the Watcher guy.”

  “Huh. Thanks for that vote of confidence, Giles. You really do know how to make a girl feel wanted, don’t you?”

  Reassured that her mood was nothing more than the normal snappishness that came of being stalked and not being able—yet—to strike back, Giles returned to his task. “Merely the experience of being your Watcher. Damn. The books I need haven’t yet been added to the library’s files. Xander, I shall require your assistance this afternoon. There are several boxes of journals in the back storage room that I will need you to bring up.”

  “Oh, great,” Xander groused, resigning himself to an afternoon spent having unfun. “Dust and dusty books. And spiders, I bet.”

  “Hey, Giles,” Willow said, “wasn’t cleaning out storage rooms posted as a work-study project in the principal’s office?”

  Giles blinked, trying to recall the details of what the staff called the “student slave labor” list. “Yes, I believe that it was.”

  Xander perked up a little at that. “Work-study? As in, pays actual cash?”

  “A small stipend, but yes, it does.”

  “I take it all back. I even take back stuff I haven’t said about you yet.”

  “How . . . gratifying.”

  “Great,” Buffy groused. “Xander, who’s already got a job lined up, has yet another cash cow land in his lap. And I’m stuck borrowing and begging.” She made a pitiful face at her Watcher. “Can’t I do the clean and carry? I could probably do it faster than Xander anyway. And it could double as my workout for the afternoon.”

  “You have responsibilities already, Buffy.” Giles’s voice was stern, but his eyes were sympathetic. “First and foremost, to find the korred and remove it as a threat.”

  She met his gaze, and clear in both their minds was the knowledge that it might already be too late. Buffy could hear Xander and Willow talking about the storage rooms, trying to guess how much junk was back there. And she was aware, all over again, of the fact that no matter how her friends tried to help, no matter how many times they put their lives on the line, they could never really understand what lived in her soul.

  She was the Slayer. Giles was the Watcher. And whatever happened in Sunnydale, happened on their watch.

  The blood was always on their hands.

  “Yeah,” Xander said, breaking into her morbid thoughts, “but how’re you going to get rid of the Librarian Posse while we do all this loading and hauling?”

  “The—?”

  Willow giggled, and Buffy rolled her eyes at his confusion. “The STs, Giles,” she translated. “Student teachers. You know—your groupies?”

  “Who’ve latched onto this very room as a prime hanging place?” Xander added, then looked around. “Except when they’re all meeting, with the principal. Like now.”

  Buffy grinned. “And it’s not just ’cause they’re heavily into books, Giles.”

  “I—I’m sure you’re mistaken.”

  “No, that’s a pretty accurate description,” Cordelia said. “Weird, but accurate.”

  Giles took off his glasses, polishing them with a little more vigor than was really needed. But the edge of his lip curled up in a brief smile before he put his glasses back on and faced them, all seriousness once again.

  “Xander!” Cordelia snapped. “Stop that.”

  “Me? I wasn’t doing a thing.”

  “Just gawking and drooling like some—some freshman, that’s all!”

  “Hey, I was just imitating the Posse!”

  Buffy wasn’t listening to them. She was thinking of the korred . . . What’s it up to? Angel knew about it . . . but Angel wasn’t exactly her primary source for information these days. It was too awkward. Too painful. And too dangerous to spend much time with him.

  But if he knew about this thing, firsthand knowledge, maybe, then it would be worth getting in touch with him again. Purely for research purposes, of course.

  Then she looked up at Giles, and set her jaw. No. Maybe not.

  “Giles?” Willow said suddenly. “It’s going to kill someone, isn’t it? The korred, I mean. It’s going to escalate, from pets to people.”

  “Hello? Didn’t I say that already?” Cordelia asked, mildly indignant.

  “Not necessarily,” Giles replied to Willow. “The korred is not quite on the same level as, say, a vampire. It does not require human deaths in order to exist.”

  Buffy thought he was being just a tad optimistic.

  “What, it just kills because it’s bored?” Xander asked. “Then here’s hoping there’s something good on TV every night.”

  “Not TV,” Buffy corrected. “Me. It’s stalking me, watching me—I must really fascinate it somehow. So long as I keep doing . . . whatever it is I’m doing, the korred won’t cause trouble for anyone else. Right?”

  “That, er, is one theory, yes. Although I am not sure that bored is quite the word we were looking for.”

  Willow nodded. “It’s a good theory. I like it. Oh, not that I think it should follow you around all the time, Buffy, I—”

  “S’okay, Will. I know what you meant.”

  “But why?” Xander asked. “I mean, not that the Buffster’s not worth following around all night—ow!” Cordelia had given him a slap on the arm.

  “I suppose,” the Watcher said thoughtfully, “that it may be attracted by her, well, call them ‘Slayer qualities.’ A supernatural aroma, if you will.”

  “Are you saying I smell, Giles?”

  “But why here?” Xander asked, saving Giles from having to come up with an answer. “Why now? I mean, not that Sunnydale isn’t a hopping vacation spot for the undead, but what would bring Laughing Boy out there to us?”

  “That, Xander, is an excellent question.”

  “It is? Do I get extra credit for good questions? Can I maybe make up questions instead of having to give answers? I could get into that.”

  Giles ignored him. “Why now, indeed . . . what could possibly be so special about now?”

  Willow blinked. “No such thing as korred holidays?”

  “Hardly. And there is absolutely no mythic significance about this time of year that would pertain to a creature of its background. No, there has to be something different, something . . .”

  “Whoa.” Buffy sat straight up. “There is, Giles. I mean, think about it. Who’s here who wasn’t here before?”

  “The student teachers!” Willow gasped.

  Giles frowned. “Perhaps.” He went into his office, and came out with a small date book. Three of the days were already circled in red, indicating O
z’s monthly bouts with wolfiness, but since they were two weeks in the future, he disregarded them. “You say you first became aware of the korred, what, four days ago?”

  “Yep.”

  “And the teachers were here for their orientation on the seventh, which would have been two days before . . . Yes, that could be it. Certainly, a link between the student teachers and the korred is possible; although it is also entirely possible that the timing of the two events may simply be coincidence.”

  “You know how I feel about coincidences, Giles. Way too often, it’s two halves to the same problem. I say we shake one end down and see if an answer to the other half won’t fall out.”

  “An interesting approach” said a sudden, cool, faintly accented voice. “If somewhat . . . undisciplined. Ah yes, here you all are.”

  Panner stood in the doorway. His cane was gone, but he still looked like he had stepped out of an over-forty edition of GQ.

  Cordelia perked up at the elegant sight. “Here we are. Who’re you?”

  “No one with whom you need concern yourself,” Giles said so coldly that everyone stared at him. “Yes, Panner? What do you want?”

  “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your companions? Miss Summers, of course, I have already had the pleasure of meeting. But these must be the others who are aware of who she is. The Slayerettes. Interesting.”

  “You know about . . .” Xander made a wide swinging gesture that could have meant anything from Buffy to the entire history of Sunnydale, and Cordelia ducked out of harm’s way as one arm came perilously close to her face.

  “Panner is . . . employed by the Council,” Giles explained shortly. “Here strictly as an observer, to make notes on our training sessions. Not a common occurrence, but then”—and he cast a warm glance on his Slayer—“Buffy is not exactly common herself.”

  “Indeed,” Panner agreed, making himself comfortable in one of the chairs. “Please. Do go on. I shall be as inconspicuous as a mouse.”

  “More like a snake,” Buffy muttered in Willow’s ear. “Slithery, fork-tongued, and all. And we’re the mice.”

  The teens had gone off to their classes, promising to return at the end of the day and continue research—and clearly glad to be out of Panner’s sight. Giles had to admit he’d wanted to leave with them. Not so much that he didn’t trust Panner. No, it was his own temper that worried him.

  But Panner had hung around for only a few minutes longer, making some blatantly false small talk, then had packed up his notebook and tape recorder, and left.

  Frustrated? Giles wondered. Or satisfied that he’s played out Round One?

  Alone at last, Giles took advantage of the lull to sit down at his desk with the phone book, and resume his search of the local motels and hotels and bed-and-breakfasts of Sunnydale, trying to ascertain if any of them had a man fitting Ethan Rayne’s description staying there.

  But, as before, his search turned up nothing.

  Which means absolutely nothing when it comes to Ethan, he thought grimly. The man was an adept at the art of not showing up officially. But perhaps, just this once, he was content with the suggestion of interference, and not the actual execution of it . . .

  And pigs have sprouted wings. No, Ethan had a reason for calling. And whatever he has in mind, it does not bode well for us . . .

  There was nothing more to be done until Ethan contacted him again—or, Giles thought darkly, until something occurred which he could pin on the other man, preferably with a sharp-edged instrument. Returning the phone book to the drawer of the main desk, Giles resumed his more mundane duties as Sunnydale High’s librarian, reshelving the few books which had been returned that week. He “tsked” in dismay at the sight of a copy of The Deerslayer.

  “I don’t think the spine on this one has ever been cracked open.” Obviously, James Fenimore Cooper had been on some teacher’s reading list, based on the number of similar American titles which had been checked out recently. “If they would only inform me of what they plan to assign,” he muttered, “life would be a great deal simpler.”

  A muffled giggle behind him made him spin around, reaching automatically for a nonexistent stake just in case this was the korred.

  Instead, it was two of the student teachers.

  “Sorry,” the shorter of them said. Elaine, her name was, he remembered after a blank moment. She gave him a rather dazzling smile. “We just wanted to know if you had gotten in the Los Angeles Times yet?”

  “Um, yes. It is over there, on the table with the other newspapers. I haven’t had a chance to sort through them yet.”

  “Thanks.” She grinned at him, then, tugging on the arm of her companion—who can keep track of them all?—went off to hunt through the pile of newsprint.

  Reminded of Cordelia’s comment, and Buffy’s opinions about coincidences, Giles picked up several books which conveniently needed to be reshelved in that area, and carried them over by hand, rather than moving the entire noisy cart.

  “How’re you sleeping now?” he overheard Elaine ask the other ST. “Any better?”

  “Oh yeah. Much. I must have konked out the minute I hit the pillow last night.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Yeah. If I didn’t get some sleep soon, I was going to start looking like the Teacher of the Living Dead.”

  Giles started, then realized she was speaking metaphorically. I have definitely been living on the Hellmouth for too long.

  Satisfied that theirs was merely harmless chatter, he tuned out on the rest of the conversation, only to stop so suddenly he nearly dropped two copies of The Last of the Mohicans.

  Stalker? Did she just say—

  The other one . . . Sheila, was that her name? . . . was shaking her head, laughing. “Nope, not a thing since I hit town. It must just have been nerves from driving down here alone. You know, some of those old towns can get pretty creepy when you’re alone at night. I probably just got the heebies, and it translated into paranoia. See? That abnormal-psych course was good for something! I can analyze myself.”

  “Sheil, look, maybe you ought to take it seriously,” Elaine said earnestly. “Even if you think he’s gone. I mean, you hear about stalkers, crazy guys—maybe you should call the cops or something.”

  “But I haven’t seen anything!” Sheila insisted. “Besides, that’s what I was telling you. Whoever he was—if he even was—he’s gone now. Nobody creeping outside my window. Unless you count that really creepy senior, the one who wants to take me home to meet his mother. Ugh. Seriously Norman Bates material, you know what I mean?”

  “That’s cold. True, but cold. But he probably couldn’t be any worse than your last couple of dates . . .”

  The young women’s talk was clearly wandering off in far less useful directions. But Giles had heard enough.

  “Oh goodie,” Willow chirped, when Giles finally tracked her down between periods, coming out of the computer lab. “Spy stuff. I’m good at that. Nobody ever notices me.” She paused, frowning. “That’s not a good thing, is it?”

  “For the moment,” Giles assured her, “it is a very useful thing. For obvious reasons, I cannot very well follow this girl about, or investigate her too closely. And for much the same reason, Xander—”

  “No. No letting Xander get anywhere near her. Any of them. He’s got enough trouble with the girls he already knows.”

  “And Buffy will be occupied with her own obligations. So I’m afraid I must ask this of you. We need to know as much about the young woman as possible: where she is staying, who she associates with, what her background is. Checking up on her family history would not be amiss, either.”

  Willow nodded, storing all his instructions in her impressive memory. “Okay, so there’s a job for Hacker Girl, too. Um, how far—”

  Giles held up a hand, a small part of him wincing at the words he was about to say. “Should this search go beyond the established legal parameters—”

  “If you didn’t know, you couldn’t
stop me. If I don’t tell you later, you can’t yell at me. Right.”

  He did wince then, mostly at the look of anticipation on her face. You’re encouraging her to break the law, for God’s sake.

  But there was no help for it. If they were to have any hope of getting rid of the korred, they needed to know what had brought the creature here. If this girl was the key, they needed to know everything they could. One way or another, they were going to stop it.

  Hopefully, before it stopped one of them.

  CHAPTER 9

  Midnight. Not a sound other than her own soft footsteps against the cemetery’s gravel paths. And yet Buffy knew that she wasn’t alone. Just as she knew that it wasn’t a vamp watching her.

  Geez. This has been going on for . . . how long? Too long, anyhow. I wish the critter would come out of hiding just once. Her hand closed more tightly about Mr. Pointy. Just for a few seconds. Just long enough. Maybe you can’t make a korred go to dust like a vamp—at least Giles says not—but at least I can make it really, really sorry it picked me to follow.

  The faintest of giggles sounded behind her—but when Buffy whirled, she saw . . . nothing. Again.

  “I’m going to get you,” she promised it. “Sooner or later, I’m going to get you.”

  Yeah. Right. And the Battle of the Bands was going to end in a Disney medley.

  “Buffy?”

  This time, the recognition—familiar voice, belongs to Watcher, do not stake—took over before she could do more than yelp and whirl. The stake flipped in her palm, pointed end away from the newcomer, and she struggled to get her breathing back under control.

  “You people have got to stop sneaking up on me like that. Don’t any of you watch horror movies?”

  Giles tugged at the scarf thing around his neck, then shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. She could never figure out how someone from England could ever be cold in California. Maybe a Hellmouth thing?

  “I should not have been able to, as you say, sneak up on you. If I could do so—”

  “Then so could a vampire, yeah I know. Sorry, I’m a little distracted tonight.”