Buffy the Vampire Slayer 1

by John Vorholt;Arthur Byron Cover;Alice Henderson

  Beyond the coyotes was a black open space with spooky tendrils of fog drifting through marble tombstones. A chill wind blew from the old cemetery and made Buffy shiver. Since coming to Sunnydale, she had often encountered vampires in the crumbling mausoleums of this place. In fact, it was practically a vampire retirement home.

  Staying in the shadows so as not to be seen, Buffy lifted her binoculars to her eyes. She tried to forget her memories of the cemetery in order to concentrate on her mission. What do the coyotes find so interesting in that tree?

  By watching their eyes and where they were jumping, she pinpointed something large and tawny-colored, trying to crawl to the uppermost branches. One of those thin branches snapped, and the poor thing plummeted toward the slavering jaws below. The coyotes went nuts, yapping and leaping in a frenzy, but their prey managed to get a grasp at the last second and swing itself to safety. It gave a pitiful yowl for help.

  The coyotes had treed a cat! Not content with dog-kabobs, they were going after kitty-kabobs!

  Buffy knew she couldn’t stand idly by and let them munch on a kitty after playing football with it for a while. She had to intervene, but then she would lose her opportunity to observe them unseen. At the moment, they were acting disgustingly like regular coyotes—as if nothing could be more exciting than treeing a cat. If she were logical, she would forget all about her crazy theory and go home to bed. After all, coyotes had to eat too.

  Fortunately, Buffy had never given in to logic. She had to save the kitty, but how? In a melee, she wasn’t sure she could fight the whole pack of coyotes at once. Three or four she could handle, but not fifteen or twenty. But if she waited too long trying to think of a plan, the kitty might be toast.

  Suddenly, the scene brightened as if somebody had turned on a giant streetlamp. Buffy looked up to see the clouds parting overhead, and an almost-full moon gleamed in the heavens like a beacon. The yipping of the coyotes stopped, and they all looked at once at the moon, ignoring the cat. They held so still, it was as if the moon were a glow-in-the-dark satellite dish and they were receiving signals.

  Buffy hugged the side of the house, hoping not to be spotted by their sharp eyes. She needn’t have worried, because the pack turned in unison and bolted in the opposite direction—toward the cemetery. With high leaps, they cleared the wrought-iron fence and vanished amidst the lonely tombstones and tendrils of fog.

  There seemed little point in staying hidden—unless the pack stopped, she would never catch them. Buffy jogged down the sidewalk directly under the tree where the frightened cat had taken refuge. She looked up and saw the feline clinging to a branch like a stone gargoyle.

  “You’re down to eight lives now,” she whispered. “Go on home.”

  At once, the cat leaped to the ground and scurried across the street and under a house. Buffy nodded with relief and continued her run toward the cemetery. With an effortless leap, she cleared the spear tips of the iron fence and landed on the soft earth of a large grave. She rolled onto the grass, jumped to her feet, and brushed herself off.

  It was an old cemetery, and they packed them in, except for the mausoleums and monuments in the well-to-do section toward the middle. Despite the bright moon, it seemed darker here. The cemetery was in a vast hollow, so the fog was thicker, and there were no streetlamps or house lights to spoil the darkness.

  Buffy put the binoculars to her eyes, not expecting to find the coyotes unless by some miracle they stopped. If they were using the cemetery only as a shortcut to get somewhere else, she had probably already lost them.

  Patiently she scanned the landscape of gnarly trees and creepy tombstones for any trace of movement. Buffy also listened for their cries, but she could hear nothing expect the wind rustling ominously through the trees. Somewhere a gate clacked open and shut in the wind, lending an eerie rhythm to the sounds of the cemetery.

  I should’ve brought some backup. A nice stake or two … just in case. Squelching her fear, Buffy kept the binoculars glued to her eyes. She finally spotted a four-legged figure cutting through a patch of fog. It raced across the ground, then leaped to the top of a mausoleum. Fog obscured her vision, but at least she had a direction in which to head. Of course, the animal was headed toward the well-to-do section with all the fancy mausoleums and monuments.

  Going back into stealth mode, Buffy padded quietly from one tombstone to another, using the fog for cover. She kept her eyes open for other denizens of the cemetery, but they seemed to be minding their own business. Like the rest of the town, they wanted nothing to do with this weird pack of coyotes. Buffy was the only one foolish enough to chase them around in the dead of night—through a cemetery.

  She saw several more fleeting figures, and they seemed to be gathering around a tall white tombstone. It looked like the spire of the Washington Monument, only it had a marble ball on the top. When Buffy looked through the binoculars, she saw that the ball was actually the moon, complete with craters.

  Thanks to a hill and a copse of trees between her and the grave, Buffy couldn’t see more than two or three coyotes at a time. They seemed to be running around in circles, yet they weren’t barking and yipping as if they had cornered some unfortunate prey.

  Buffy knew she had to sneak closer to see what they were doing. Her usual style was to walk right into danger, make a few clever quips to loosen everyone up, then kick butt. She wasn’t used to creeping about on her delicate knees, but this was intelligence gathering. It had to be done. Coyotes were known for being unpredictable and weird, so before she could go to Giles with her suspicions about these coyotes, she had better be sure.

  The Slayer scrambled forward through the tall, damp grass, resting behind tombstones and tree trunks. She kept moving until she reached the top of the hill, where she finally had a decent view of the crazed coyotes. Buffy got down on her belly between two tree trunks and crawled to the edge of the mossy hill.

  She was no expert on coyotes, but this bunch seemed to be acting strangely. They were running in a counterclockwise circle around the spire and the old grave, which was covered with withered flowers. But that wasn’t the strangest thing they were doing.

  Every few seconds, one of the coyotes would leap out of the frenzied race and attack the grave. Whimpering pathetically, the coyote would dig a shallow hole, tossing the withered flowers in every direction. Just as suddenly, the coyote would stop digging and rejoin the race, and another one would take its place.

  If the whole pack really started digging, they could unearth the coffin in a few minutes, Buffy thought. It didn’t seem as if they were really trying to dig up the grave—they were only pretending. But why? She watched this strange ceremony, getting more puzzled by the second. What in blazing underpants are they doing?

  Pretend or not, coyotes digging up a grave was still enough to give her a major case of the willies. Buffy made a mental note to come back in the daytime and see who was buried under the moon spire. It must have been somebody who was important or rich, because that massive headstone didn’t come cheap.

  Mixed in with the panting and running sounds, Buffy heard a low growl. It sounded way too close and too loud—in fact, it almost whispered in her ear. She heard long jaws clack together, and she knew a beast was right behind her, ready to attack. Buffy whirled around and lifted her hand to ward off the attack, but it didn’t come—at least not at that instant.

  Through the mist she saw the old coyote with the yellow eyes, standing about ten feet away. It drew back its slobbering lips, showing her rows of jagged teeth. The hair on its neck stood like a bad punk haircut.

  Hopscotch! Buffy thought grimly. If she wasn’t sure before, she was sure now. She started inching away, wondering how far she could run before the scruffy coyote could pounce on her back or sink its teeth into her leg.

  The wise old hunter was too crafty to take her on all by itself. It lifted its snout and howled in a chilling tone that sounded like Mom calling the kids to dinner. When it was answered by excited yippi
ng, Buffy bounded to her feet and looked for an escape route.

  There was none. In every direction, all she saw were wild-eyed, snarling coyotes charging toward her!

  CHAPTER FOUR

  As the coyotes vaulted toward her, howling like the possessed, Buffy crouched in the graveyard. She saw a shadow move on her right, and she spun her left foot just in time to catch Hopscotch before it could reach her throat. She kicked the old coyote a dozen feet into the bushes, then leaped skyward as two more coyotes crashed under her feet.

  Landing on top of the dazed beasts, the Slayer pounded their jaws shut with flying fists. She looked around—still more were coming from every direction. They were all slashing teeth and smelly hair!

  Buffy did a cartwheel, kicking two of the coyotes in their toothy chops, and she twirled like a hula hoop down the hill—straight into the mysterious grave. She crashed in a heap on top of the wilted flowers, and the coyotes howled with indignation. Their anguished cries brought her quickly back to her senses, and she staggered to her feet. With no other options and coyotes bearing down on her, Buffy started to run.

  Two feet weren’t as good as four, and the pack of predators was closing in fast, snapping at her heels and calves. In desperation, Buffy leaped ten feet into the air and landed on top of one of the old mausoleums. She weaved back and forth, trying to get her footing on the slippery marble roof—it was raked at an angle like the roof on a real house.

  Coyotes could jump too, and several of them came hurtling toward her. Buffy lashed out with her fists at the beasts, but they were wiry and quick—and hard to hit. She didn’t dare use her feet, because she didn’t want to lose her balance and tumble off her perch. Since she couldn’t land a full punch, she hit the coyotes just hard enough to knock them off course and send them spiraling to the ground.

  When they started leaping at her from all four sides at once, Buffy was forced to whirl around and kick with her feet. Twice she nearly fell into their deadly jaws, but she caught her balance at the last moment. The excitement of the hunt drove them into a frenzy, and they yipped and yapped as if Buffy were a cat caught in a tree.

  From a distance, it’s entertaining to watch this behavior, but when you’re the prey, it’s no fun at all!

  With her lightning reflexes, Buffy was able to defend the roof of the mausoleum, but she never got a moment’s rest from the enraged canines. Buffy quickly realized that a persistent attack would wear her down. There were enough attackers that some could take breathers, while she had to fight desperately every second. Her coordination and strength couldn’t hold out forever!

  From her precarious perch, Buffy spotted another mausoleum two hundred feet away; she knew it well, and hated it. Inside that dreaded mausoleum was a secret passageway, which led underground to a vampire lair. Who knows what’s waiting there?

  With her feet slipping off the cold marble and her arms getting heavy from smashing at teeth and snouts, Buffy knew she had to do something fast. She dropped into a crouch, sprang forward, and leaped as far as she could off the roof of the mausoleum.

  She cleared the first ring of coyotes and landed next to one that was taking a rest. Instinctively, she grabbed the surprised canine by its bushy tail, swung it around, and threw it into the others. That slowed their pursuit by a second or two, which was all she wanted.

  Running all out, Buffy tore through the cemetery with a pack of Cujos nipping at her heels. She could see her goal, the old mausoleum, shimmering in the fog. But would she make it?

  Sensing that she might escape, the coyotes made frantic leaps and landed on her back. Buffy stumbled and nearly went down under their wiry limbs and sharp claws, but she tossed them off like an ugly coat and ducked inside the tomb.

  Fighting back half a dozen snarling coyotes, Buffy leaned against the heavy marble door. Only the Slayer’s extraordinary strength saved her as she succeeded in slamming the door shut.

  Gasping for breath, she slumped against the cold marble and gazed at her gloomy surroundings. An old crypt, peeling walls, mountains of dust and debris—it looked just like her room. For all her cleverness, she had locked herself in a place that was practically a vampire’s rec room.

  However, Buffy wasn’t about to go outside. Deprived of their sport, the coyotes yapped and yowled in protest, and she could still feel them pressing against the door. There was only one way out, and she had to go down before she could go up.

  Buffy moved reluctantly away from the door, afraid they would discover that she wasn’t holding it shut. Overcoming her fear, she ran toward the secret passageway and ducked inside. There came a crash as the marble door collapsed to the floor, and coyotes poured through a cloud of ancient dust.

  In the dim light, she saw the lead coyotes skid to a stop and back off, whimpering. They sensed something wrong with this place, and she couldn’t blame them. Nevertheless, others behind them were trying to push their way in—the thrill of the hunt was more powerful than a few pangs of fear!

  Buffy couldn’t see any point in standing around watching, because every second counted. She dropped into a crouch and scurried down the dank tunnel, trying not to brush against the slimy, smelly mold that coated the walls. If she met a vampire down here, she had no ammo—not so much as a toothpick! If a vampire met her tonight, it was his good luck, because she was through fighting for one night.

  Occasionally, Buffy stopped to listen and glance down the tunnel behind her. As far as she could tell, the coyotes were not pursuing her. Nevertheless, she didn’t want to hang around to see if they changed their minds—she just kept plowing ahead.

  Her superb vision and unfailing sense of direction led her to a metal utility ladder, and she began to climb. After pushing off a heavy manhole cover, Buffy emerged in the middle of a power plant, surrounded by electrical wires and towering transformers. That’s all right—they’re better than the coyotes.

  She looked down at her clothes and saw that her jacket, jeans, and T-shirt were ripped and stained, but somehow the binoculars still hung around her neck. Amazingly enough, she had been saved by the vampires’ tunnels. The undead had wisely kept out of the way tonight, and the coyotes had recognized their stench in the mausoleum. She had to think about all of this—and tell Giles.

  Nursing sore muscles and numerous scratches and bruises, Buffy climbed slowly over the fence and shuffled home through the deserted streets.

  The Slayer jumped out of bed and stared bleary-eyed at her alarm clock. After she realized that it was after ten o’clock, she cursed herself for sleeping in. Of course, she had stayed up late last night and had spent the wee hours of the morning dodging a pack of coyotes through a vampire playground, but that was no excuse.

  Wearily, she recalled that it was Saturday, and the first thing she had to do was see Giles. She grabbed her clothes.

  Stumbling downstairs to the kitchen, Buffy found a note from her mom saying she was off playing golf. Golf? They must put something in the water of this place that warps people’s minds, Buffy thought. Mom has never played golf in Los Angeles—that is Dad’s job.

  Well, her mom’s absence was a blessing, because Buffy didn’t care to explain why the clothes she was stuffing into a garbage bag were all ripped up. The only person she wanted to talk to was Giles.

  When she called the librarian’s private number, he didn’t answer. Where could he be? she thought angrily. Giles doesn’t have a life. She thought about how school was starting in a week or so, and she wondered if the high school could be open for staff preparation and student enrollment. It was worth a try. Even if the school was closed, she could sneak into the library and try to find books about coyotes … and werecoyotes. Didn’t Willow say she’d done a report on coyotes? Then the library was the place to start.

  When Buffy got to school, she was relieved to see several cars in the parking lot. For sure, they weren’t students showing up early. Walking quickly past the windows so as not to be seen, Buffy slipped in a side door and dashed to the library. As soon
as she pushed open the unlocked door, she knew the Watcher was in attendance. The place had a musty smell that was like Giles’s personal cologne.

  She found him behind his stacks, bent over a pile of magazines. “Hello, Buffy,” he said cheerfully. “What brings you to school before absolutely necessary? Not studying, I’m sure.”

  “Believe it or not, that sounds better than the real reason,” the Slayer said glumly, “but I’m here on official business.”

  The handsome Englishman gazed over the top of his glasses. “Do you mean the undead?”

  “No, I mean the unbathed and untrimmed. I’m talking about coyotes.”

  Giles smiled and picked up a catalog of computer furniture. “Coyotes are very common in this area. I’ve enjoyed hearing their cries the last few nights.”

  “Well, I haven’t,” Buffy snapped, “because I’ve been out there on the street, part of their dog fest.” She held out a forearm that had a nice grid of scratch marks on it.

  “Oh, my!” Giles said with concern. “Have you had these wounds treated?”

  “Later. I expect to get a lot more of them before I’m done.”

  “Why fight coyotes?” Giles asked in astonishment. “They’re usually not a danger to humans.”

  Buffy rolled her eyes and began to pace. “Before I go into the gory details, is it possible for there to be werecoyotes?”

  “Certainly,” Giles answered. “The phenomenon of humans turning into animals has been reported in the folklore of every culture on earth. In Africa, there are werecrocodiles; in the South Pacific, weresharks. Werewolves are simply the best known in this country because of our European influence. I believe there are tales of werecoyotes in Native American folklore.”

  “Can you look it up?” Buffy asked worriedly.

  Giles moved stiffly up the stairs and into the stacks of rare books that were kept at the back of the library. He seldom allowed anyone to go into the “Reference Only” section unless he accompanied them. With a troubled frown, Buffy slowly followed him.