VISITORS

by Laura Anne Gilman

  “The korred?” Giles dropped his lecture in favor of more interesting news. He shortened his longer stride to hers as they walked on through the cemetery, and gestured for her to continue.

  “Yeah. I think I even saw its eyes glowing, back in the bushes over by the fence. Weird. It’s been staying just a couple of—hey!”

  “What?” They both stopped, Giles looking alarmed.

  “It’s gone. I mean, the creepy feeling on the back of my neck . . .” She turned, staring intently into the night behind her. “Yeah. It’s gone. Guess Watchers aren’t as much fun to stalk.”

  “Perhaps. I admit, I had hoped that it would become bored, and wander off on its own by now. Its arrival, this close to the Battle of the Bands, worries me.”

  “How come? Hey, if it takes out some of those bands—”

  She stopped as he gave her the usual glare. “Okay, right. Bad idea. But it’s not like anyone would miss some of them.”

  “While I’m pleased to hear that you’re finally beginning to develop some musical discrimination, having the korred in the same vicinity as that large a festive gathering could become rather . . . unpleasant.”

  “Why? I mean, if it likes to make people dance, then wouldn’t that be a really good time to catch it? Because it’ll know they’re already in the mood to dance, and if we’re there, it’ll come right to us.” Buffy made a motion with her hands, which Giles took to indicate something being wrapped up to her satisfaction.

  “We might capture it, yes. Or it might feed off those already gathered before we could stop it. I would prefer to avoid that particular risk if possible.”

  “Oh. Right.” More powerful korred, plus unpleasantly dead teens. “Second rule, do not offer monster a smorgasbord.”

  They walked in silence for a few more moments.

  “Giles?”

  “Hmmm?”

  She thought for a moment about telling him that Angel had stopped by the other night for a little Cryptic Guy chat, but decided almost immediately that was a definite Not. It fell into the category of too much hassle for too little usable news. Instead, she brought up the concern that had been chewing at the back of her brain all night.

  “Since the first night the korred showed up, the vamps have been playing least-seen. And the few out are newbies, practically falling on my stake. Do you think . . . That’s not normal, is it? I mean, as normal as it gets around here, anyway. Do you think maybe the vampires are scared of this thing?”

  Giles shook his head. “That seemes unlikely. The korred is an earth creature, a purely natural super natural creature, if you will. A demon should have no reason to fear it.”

  “Oh. Just a thought.”

  “And a good one,” he reassured her. She perked up. It wasn’t often her thoughts got complimented. “But perhaps, if there has been no demonic activity, you should go home now, and get some sleep?”

  “Don’t have to tell me twice.”

  It hissed to itself, stirring restlessly this way, that, pacing in looping circles and getting nowhere. Someone was summoning it, using magic to try and bend it to their will. An annoyance, nothing more, like an itch that could never be scratched, yet wasn’t strong enough to harm—the korred snarled, then froze, willing itself to breathe slowly, fade into the shrubbery around it as the danger passed.

  In its frustrated rage, it had become careless, had come too close again, so foolishly close—the fearless human girl had almost seen it. That silly wooden spike couldn’t kill it, of course, but it was not ready yet for a final confrontation!

  Besides, the creature thought, a little more calmly, someone with so much intriguing power as that young human must never be slain like a mere meal.

  Picking up the track again, it followed at a more cautious distance, learning all it could of its prey.

  But the female was no longer alone. An adult male human had joined her, dimming her glow with his mere presence. Frustrated, the korred snarled anew. Magic in that one, muted, so muted. Was he the one who had cast that annoying itch of a spell?

  No matter, no matter. The korred could wait. It had not survived all the long ages by rushing unknown prey.

  Besides, even if the man hadn’t borne that strange glimmer of magic, he was simply too old to provide the proper . . . enjoyment. Younger life forces, the korred knew from its long experience and the more recent . . . mischance, were always far richer, far sweeter.

  Ah yes, and since a younger human usually possessed greater endurance as well, the act of taking was always far, far more entertaining. More . . . satisfying.

  A thin dark tongue swept across sharp little teeth and it shuddered, feeling hunger blazing through it, hunger roused by the magic itch and not yet appeased.

  More strength would be needed to take this young one. Strength it would find from easier sources.

  Slipping through the darkness, the korred stole off to begin a new hunt, once more following the hints of young humanity to the place where the air was heavy with that harsh, loud music. Settling down behind a bush, it curled up with the patience of a predator. This time, surely, there would be prey . . .

  There was. The korred uncurled suddenly with a soundless hiss of pleasure, staring. Ah yes, yes, at last! This was a young human male . . . older than those still within the human place by a few mortal years, but still young enough . . . As the korred watched, he saw the young one leave the human place as though thrust out, stammering out broken oaths as he staggered away.

  The korred followed. The human’s path was erratic at best, and sometimes he cursed, then giggled. And once he stopped to stare at the sky. Just stare. The korred looked up, too, puzzled, but saw only the faint glow of an ugly, hazed sky.

  But humans were never predictable. Which was one reason they made such delicious prey. The korred’s lips drew back from its teeth in a grin. And it began its song.

  To its amazement, the human didn’t even try to resist. Instead, eyes wide and wild with what could almost have been . . . awe, he began to dance. Head thrown back, he twisted and leaped and pranced about, and the korred, bewildered by this—this willing sacrifice, began to feed . . .

  But something wasn’t right. The glow was odd, too bright in places, dimmed in others. The korred shook its heavy head, sweat matting its heavy hair. Strange, strange, the world exploding in color-light. Funny trees, funny no . . . terrifying dark, dark. Not warm-dark like a cave, but cold-dark, cold-dark like ice in the vein, ice in the brain—

  The korred broke off its taking, staggering away. The sky whirling in broken shards around it, the korred dove into the bushes and began to burrow as though to escape the madness that clogged its senses.

  It never even noticed its victim continuing to dance behind it, the human finally crying out in pain, curling in on himself, and falling to the ground.

  CHAPTER 10

  Sunnydale High School, home of the Razorbacks, a monument to higher learning and social education. Starting point of young people headed toward a bright future, so forth, so on, so yawn.

  Buffy winced. Sunnydale High School, place of noise, was more like it!

  To her left, echoing out from an open window somewhere, a really shaky singer was doing his or her best to be heard over a really clumsy bass line. To Buffy’s right, echoing from who knew where, some drummer wannabe was working on the same riff over and over—and getting the beat wrong every time.

  No doubt about it. The Battle of the Bands was rapidly escalating into a war. And she was just itching to get in there and play UN Peacekeeper. Maybe start by putting that drum kit over the doofus’s head . . .

  “Remember, Buffy. Violence isn’t always the answer.”

  Buffy turned to Xander in surprise. “You reading my mind?”

  Xander grinned. “No need. It was all over your face. That wonderful I’m-going-to-kick-something-through-a-wall expression we all know and love. And fear.”

  “Okay. Point taken. Sorry. I’m kinda missing on the sleep thing this week; it mak
es me irritable.”

  “Buffy! Wait!” Willow came scurrying up, struggling to catch her breath. “Did you hear the news? I mean, about the college guy?”

  “Yeah,” Xander said. “Just what we need: an idiot on a drug trip has a heart attack near the Bronze—Snyder’s gonna love that, even if the guy wasn’t from Sunnydale High.”

  “A heart attack,” Buffy said uneasily.

  Willow had her facts down cold. “He’s still alive, but the official report said his system was already so screwed up with drugs that he was a—a ‘heart attack waiting to happen.’ So it couldn’t have been the korred, right?”

  “Right. I guess.” The noise from the bands was growing louder. And more painful. That stupid drummer had gone off the beat—again. And the singer was yowling worse than Oz on a bad moon.

  “Let’s go find Giles before I hurt someone.”

  It was quieter in the library—but only a little less crowded. The Invasion of the Student Teachers continued in full force. All six of the Librarian Posse were already settled in the library, somehow managing to take up all the free work space with their books and papers.

  “Lesson plans,” Elaine explained over the chatter and rustling of papers, giving Buffy a We’re-not-at-all-sorry-for-the-inconvenience smile. “Have to get them organized. You know.”

  “Yeah. Whatever.”

  “And they ‘simply must’ take over the whole library while they do it,” Giles murmured to Buffy as he passed.

  “Giles, we can’t even talk in here! Not with Them here. And outside, well . . .”

  “I know,” he said dryly. “I’m not going to start a lecture about modern music, or young people who’ve never even heard of The Who.”

  “The what?” Xander asked, intentionally picking up on the straight line.

  “Exactly. You might want to consider leaving campus for lunch. Your digestion will certainly benefit. We can reconvene in my apartment this evening, where I have most of the books we’ll need, just for the duration of this . . . invasion.”

  “That’s ‘meet in Giles’s apartment for now,’” Willow translated for Xander.

  “Hey, I got that!” he said, insulted.

  Behind them, the Librarian Posse continued their chatter, Giles looked like he was about to lose his unflappableness, and Buffy and the Slayerettes fled.

  * * *

  It had been a very long day. And his real work was only just beginning. Rupert Giles felt a twinge in his lower back that had nothing to do with the groceries he was loading into his car. Wincing, he straightened slowly—and then a vaguely familiar silhouette at the corner of his vision caught his attention. He put the last bag into the boot of the car, and closed the lid, staring after the figure, which was rapidly walking away.

  No. He had checked every single motel, hotel, and fleabag dumpster in town, to no avail. Ethan had to have more of a self-preservation instinct than to taunt Giles and stay within reach . . .

  Then again, the bastard does thrive on being unpredictable.

  Dropping the keys in his pocket, the Englishman strode after the now-vanished form, his long legs eating up ground. Any second now . . .

  Aha! Turning a corner, he reached out and grabbed his quarry by the shoulder, spinning him around.

  “Rupert!” Ethan Rayne gave him a patently insincere smile. “What a delightful surprise. I was just on my way to see you.”

  “You’re beginning to show signs of a death wish, Ethan.”

  His former friend’s face showed nothing but wounded innocence as he tried to free himself from the Watcher’s grasp. “Now, now, Rupert. I’m just passing through, thought that I would stop by and give my regards . . . How are your young charges these days?”

  “Don’t start with me, Ethan. I’m in no mood for your little games.” Not now, not ever again.

  “Yes. I know. Simon-pure, our Ripper these days.”

  “I repeat what I said about a death wish.”

  Ethan’s smile narrowed. “Some new trouble in town, is there?”

  Giles felt himself tense in sudden, tightly wound anger. How dare this—

  No! He is trying to anger you. He always does. Don’t play his childish game.

  Forcing himself to relax with an effort, Giles asked coolly, “What do you know about that, Ethan? Is it, perhaps, your doing?”

  The other man shook his head sorrowfully. “Coal to Newcastle, my dear Ripper. Your delightful little town is more than capable of creating its own chaos. Not that I don’t admire its totally random style . . . Have you ever thought of fumigating?”

  Giles’s fingers tightened on the other man’s shirt, pulling him closer. “I swear to you, Ethan, if I discover that you have had anything to do with anyone in this town getting so much as a hang-nail—”

  “Careful, Rupert. You don’t want to make a scene in public now, do you? Very bad form for a high school librarian.”

  Unfortunately, Ethan was right. Much as he wanted to shake the truth from the man, Giles forced himself to release Ethan and back off.

  “Much better!” Ethan said, straightening his jacket. “And it’s not as if you have any proof of wrongdoing, is it?”

  No, it was not. Giles might have his suspicions, but there was absolutely no way to pin the recent occurrences on his old chum—much as he would like to do so. “Go away, Ethan.”

  With a wicked smile, Ethan went. Giles stood where he was, watching, then at last turned back to his car.

  Wonderful. A korred, the Council, and now Ethan. I would almost have preferred another mass vampiric uprising.

  Willow settled herself on the sofa in Giles’s living room, legs curling under her.

  “Okay,” she said, consulting her laptop. “You were right, Giles. Sheila Humphries. She’s the one who knew what a unicorn horn looked like, even if she said it wasn’t one, which it was.”

  “Unicorn?” Giles had that look on his face, the one he got whenever a new piece of weirdness presented itself to him. Buffy headed that tangent off at the pass.

  “Sorry, Giles, no time for unicorn hunts. Long story, short of which is this Sheila chick knows way more about supernatural stuff than she should. Which gives me a bad case of the suspicious.”

  “Yes,” Giles agreed, “that might very well lift her to the top of our list of suspects.”

  “Anyhow,” Willow continued, “she does have this really weird family history. Which would explain her knowing stuff like that. And how she was able to call the korred to her.”

  “We don’t know for a fact that she called the korred, Will. I mean, Giles said she sounded kinda freaked about being followed, right?” Buffy glanced at her Watcher for confirmation.

  “It didn’t sound as though it were anything she had consciously done, no,” Giles said, balancing two heavy books in one hand as he flipped the pages of another.

  “So maybe she didn’t do it on purpose,” Willow continued. “She’s still number one suspect, right? According to records, and some really neat genealogical folklore stuff I found, she even had an ancestor who was stoned to death as a witch!” Willow shuddered. “Wow. That must have . . . hurt. They . . . don’t do that anymore, do they?”

  “Relax, Willow,” Buffy said. “They don’t. Um, do they?” she added to Giles.

  He glanced sharply up from his reference books. “What? Oh, no, no they do not. Not in America. Not legally, at any rate. I believe that the preferred method is—” He looked at Willow’s face and stopped short. “Well, never mind. Not germane to the point, is it?”

  “Hey, Giles, do you have any, like, diet sodas in here?” Cordelia asked, appearing in the cutaway space between the living room and what passed for a kitchen in Giles’s apartment.

  “I’m sorry,” Giles said somberly. “I failed to stock my refrigerator according to your dietary needs, Cordelia. Next time, I assure you, I will do better.”

  “Next time? How much longer are we going to be in exile?” she said in dismay, coming back out to join the others
, empty-handed. “I mean, okay, the library is geeky enough, but—What?” she asked when Xander tried to muffle her with a hand over her mouth. “What?”

  “Sorry,” he said to the others. “She has these fits, words come out of her mouth, the new medication was supposed to take care of that.”

  “Please, Willow,” Giles said, ignoring Cordelia’s struggle to free herself, “go on. You were saying?”

  “Well. There’s kind of a pattern here. It doesn’t look like Sheila is any sort of, you know, psychic. Or at least not one who knows she’s got any sort of abilities. But she does come from a family with genuine talent. I . . . guess.”

  “You guess,” Buffy echoed.

  Willow hesitated, scrolling through the files. “I mean, there’s evidence they really were, uh, for real. But they don’t seem to have been too reputable. I mean, they even got thrown out of . . .” She looked up from the screen, wide-eyed. “They got thrown out of Cornwall. That was over a hundred years ago, though.”

  Buffy straightened. “Okay. Cornwall. That’s where the korred’s from, too, right? So, connection. Way too freaky, and may I say again I do not like coincidence.

  “So say Sheila really does have a psychic whatever, even if she doesn’t know it. And she smells kinda like home, maybe. So maybe the korred got curious and started following her.”

  “Yes . . .,” Giles mused. “That is quite plausible. The korred followed her to Sunnydale, drawn by the scent of ability . . . and then got, er, sidetracked by your more powerful scent.”

  “You keep saying that, Giles. Should I be, like, showering with some kind of antiweirdness deodorant soap, or something?”

  “I’m afraid that it isn’t that simple.” His tone was a combination of amusement and exasperation.

  “Is it ever? Okay, don’t answer that. So Sheila brought it to us, not knowing, and then it changed its little stalker mind, decided I felt tastier. Great. Any ideas yet how to catch a korred? Or chase it away before anyone gets killed?”

  “Hopefully. Willow, if you would do the honors for the Internet, I will see if I can’t find something in my books about how to lure a korred away from its chosen hunting ground. Xander, you and Cordelia will need to watch for any more missing animal reports.”