Hesitantly, Giles asked, “What makes you think these coyotes you battled were, in reality, human?”
“The way they looked at me. Bad breath. Lazy attitude. And a pierced nose,” Buffy answered. “And the wiggin’ out they were doing in the cemetery. That’s our next stop.”
“It is?” Giles asked warily. He stopped at a shelf of old books at the back of the room, perused the titles, and pulled out four dusty volumes.
“Why would someone want to be a coyote?” Buffy asked.
Giles frowned thoughtfully. “In this modern age, it would be foolish to be a werewolf. Wolves are too rare, except in the wilderness of places like Alaska and Siberia. But if you were a coyote, you could roam all of the western United States, much of Mexico and Canada, and live close to people. No one would think it odd to see you on the street. After all, coyotes usually don’t attack humans.”
“Well, these do,” Buffy muttered.
Giles opened a book, flipped a few pages, and pointed to a passage. “‘Coyote is a popular character in Native American literature and mythology. He’s the hero of many tales, and he’s usually depicted as a trickster. He’s a cunning, curious figure with a penchant for the ladies. Coyote has been known to exchange his skin with that of a man in order to bed the man’s wife.’”
The proper librarian raised an eyebrow at this improper suggestion, then went on, “‘In one story, Coyote was given the job of guarding the moon, but he used his lofty position to spy on humans and learn their secrets. Coyote is often associated with the moon.’”
“No kidding,” Buffy muttered. “Were coyotes we’re talking about, not storybook coyotes.”
Giles leveled her with a gaze. “You do know that coyotes are famous for their odd ways. I don’t know what you saw them doing, but it could be a natural behavior.”
“Giles, remember your job description,” Buffy said with frustration. “I decide what’s wiggins, and you decide what it is.”
“Uh, yes, I see,” the librarian said, adjusting his glasses and gazing deeper into his tome. Buffy hated putting the Watcher in his place, but Giles had to trust her gut instinct on this.
“You can laugh at me later, if I’m wrong,” she promised.
“I’ve learned not to laugh at you,” Giles said testily. He flipped a few more pages.
After a few minutes of reading, he reported, “I can’t find anything about werecoyotes in particular, but there’s plenty in here about skinwalkers. You might recall, a skinwalker is a type of sorcerer in Native American tradition. A skinwalker can turn himself into an animal by wearing its skin and performing a secret ceremony. Skinwalkers often live in groups away from other people, and they are considered dangerous and to be avoided.”
Buffy shuddered. “That sounds like them, all right. Then I should look for coyote skins.”
“I believe that shooting and skinning coyotes is illegal,” Giles replied. “Are you ever going to tell me what happened to you?”
“Yes, while you drive me over to the cemetery. First, one more question. Do you know what a Coyote Moon is?”
“I presume it’s a phase of the moon and not some new restaurant.”
“Moon phase, not burrito phase.”
Giles set down his stack of Native American books and searched out a new volume. After a moment of study, he said, “Yes, it’s here—a rare phase of the moon. I’m sure you know what a Blue Moon is.”
Buffy nodded confidently. “Sure, a song they play on the oldies channel.”
The librarian winced. “No, it’s the second full moon of the month. Of course, most months don’t have two full moons, so a Blue Moon is relatively unusual.”
He located a passage in his book and began to read: “‘Coyote Moon is a folk term used in the southwestern United States for a rare phase of the moon. A Coyote Moon is a Blue Moon which rises red on the ninth lunar month in August. The appearance of a Coyote Moon is often associated with trickery and magic.’”
“And all that other wiggins stuff about coyotes,” Buffy added.
Giles squinted thoughtfully. “This is late August—the right time of year for a Coyote Moon. I haven’t gotten out much, but I think it’s nearly a full moon.”
“It is, believe me.”
“I should run some calculations and see if a Coyote Moon is coming tonight or tomorrow.”
“Later,” Buffy replied. “That was just something I heard—it might not be related. Right now, we’ve got to go to the cemetery and see whose grave was getting the coyote treatment. Then warn Willow and Xander.”
Giles snapped his book shut. “You don’t have any proof at all about these so-called werecoyotes, do you?”
“Nope,” she admitted. “If I saw one of them pull on a ratty old coyote skin and morph into a wild animal, I would tell you.”
“All right,” Giles said, tapping the pockets of his sweater-vest. “Let me find my car keys and get a notebook, and we’ll be on our way.”
• • •
Willow studied Lonnie’s chiseled features, blond stubble of beard, and blue eyes, and she thought: It’s probably hard to take a bath when you’re living in a vacant lot. Perhaps that explained the earthy odor emanating from his person. A lot of girls wouldn’t mind it—and Willow wasn’t exactly gagging—but she did like her dates to be a bit more well groomed than Lonnie.
She liked them like Xander. Well, normally she liked Xander’s style, but he had also affected the scruffy carnival look—greasy jeans, a stained T-shirt, and that mustache thing under his lip. The third armpit, she thought with a chuckle. Lonnie, Xander, and Rose turned to look at her.
“Something funny?” Rose asked with a sneer.
“No,” Willow answered, stirring her soda with her straw. “I’m just having fun.”
“Good,” Lonnie said with an easy smile.
The four of them were sitting outside at a table and chairs by a corn dog and lemonade stand. Because the carnival wasn’t open yet and the rides weren’t running, the only people milling around were the carnies and their invited guests. Several kids from town had apparently stuck up friendships with the carnies—Willow saw about half a dozen of them.
It would be great to hang out with Lonnie and Xander at the closed carnival, Willow thought, if only I can get rid of Rose. For some reason, the sexy dark-haired girl didn’t seem to like Willow very much. Or maybe she was just a naturally obnoxious person, like Cordelia.
“Where’s your other friend?” Rose asked.
“My other friend?” Willow smiled. “Oh, you mean Buffy. I almost expected her to be here.”
“And crash our date?” Xander muttered. “I hope not. Buffy doesn’t date very much.”
“Why?” Lonnie asked.
Willow shot Xander a warning look, and he shrugged. “She’s sort of like … like a nun.”
“She didn’t dress like a nun,” Lonnie said with a grin.
“She’s a junior nun,” Xander answered.
Rose shook her head. “Nun or no nun, that was a great throw she made last night, the one that sank Eddie. She should be pitching in the big leagues.”
“She’s more the cheerleader type,” Willow remarked.
“Why are we talking about her?” Xander asked, grabbing Rose’s hand and gazing into her dark, vivid eyes. “There’s only one girl in the whole world for me—my Rose of San Antonio.”
Now Willow began to gag, but she kept her cool. “What are we going to do next?” she asked brightly.
“Let me see,” Lonnie said, tapping his chiseled chin. “We showed you the office, the light panel, the motors, the trailers, the generators, and the trucks. And the air compressor.”
“I’ll never forget the air compressor,” Willow said, trying to sound enthusiastic.
“Would you like to see where we sleep?” Rose asked.
Xander nodded as if his head was on a spring, but he tried to stay cool. “Yeah, yeah! That would be great!”
“Where you sleep?” Willow repeated uncer
tainly. “Don’t you sleep … right here?”
Lonnie gave her a dimpled smile. “Well, not right here in the dirt. We each have our own trailer, although some of us have roommates. Rose and I have seniority, so we don’t have roommates. Do we, Rose?”
“Not unless we want them,” she said with a sly smile. The carny jumped up from the table and pulled Xander up with her. “Enough talk, let’s party.”
Xander grinned stupidly, as if he had been hit on the head by a baseball bat. Like a farmer leading a lamb to the slaughter, Rose dragged the poor boy away from the table. “See you later!” she called back.
Willow leaped up. “Wait a minute! Aren’t we going with them?”
“Why?” Lonnie asked, rising to his feet and towering over her. He touched her cheek with his callused hand and angled her face toward his. “There’s only so much you can do on a double date, before you have to make it a single date.”
Reluctantly, Willow pulled away from him. “But I … I haven’t seen the fun house yet! Yes, I always dreamed of being inside a fun house … when there was nobody else there.”
She turned and looked for Xander and Rose, but they were gone. In a panic, she feared that Xander might be gone forever. How could she, or even Buffy, compete with a girl who had tattoos?
“Okay,” Lonnie said. “Let’s make your dreams come true.”
Wrapping his brawny arm around her slender waist, he led Willow toward the fun house at the end of the midway. It loomed ahead of them—a metal facade with a painted mural depicting lovely scenes of murder, mayhem, and decapitation. Scantily clad women ran screaming from gooey, bloody monsters.
This was actually not the kind of place that Willow had always dreamed of exploring when it was closed, but she had to back up her lie.
When they got closer to the fun house, she noticed that the entrance was shut and locked with a padlock. “It’s locked!” she said cheerfully. “We can’t get in.”
“Not to worry.” With a smile, Lonnie pulled a hefty ring of keys off the belt buckle of his jeans. “I work here, remember?”
He strode toward the fun house in his dusty cowboy boots and climbed the stairs to the entrance, while Willow stood and mentally wrung her hands. She wondered if she should try to escape, but it took only an instant for Lonnie to unlock the padlock.
If I run now, she reasoned, that will leave Xander alone and unprotected. Well, not exactly alone …
Lonnie pushed the door of the fun house open and motioned toward the darkness. “After you, sweetheart.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Although the sun was shining brightly, Buffy and Giles walked slowly through the cemetery. They could see their destination in the distance, a white spire that towered over the other tombstones and mausoleums. They moved cautiously, not because of vampires or coyotes but because of the police. Two squad cars sat in the parking lot, and Buffy was sure the police were investigating the grave she had visited last night.
Even before they saw the cops, Buffy heard the disembodied voices droning on their radios. She nearly turned back, preferring to wait until after they had left, but she kept walking.
It wasn’t that Buffy feared the police, it was just that they were in her way. Most of the time, they didn’t believe her when she told them the truth. Of course, if they ever did believe her, they would probably lock her up for sticking wooden stakes in dead people who were still walking around. When it came to the supernatural, the police were extremely dense.
She was relieved to see just two uniformed officers standing near the spire and the molested grave. Withered flowers were strewn all over the grave site and the surrounding lawn. The cops weren’t in heavy investigational mode, with yellow tape blocking off the site and techies crawling all over one another. They were just checking things out.
“I presume that is the grave,” Giles whispered. “Should we go down while the police are there?”
“Might as well,” Buffy answered. “I want to find out who called them.”
The pert Slayer strode ahead of the cautious Watcher, and the two police officers turned to observe her. She strode up to the grave, which was covered with fresh holes that looked as if they had been dug by dogs looking for bones.
“Please stay away, miss,” one of the officers warned. “Crime scene.”
“Okay.” Before Buffy stepped back, she took a long look at the letters carved into the massive tombstone. The largest letters spelled a strange name—Spurs Hardaway—and there were Wild West sheriff’s stars beside his name, as if he was some sort of lawman.
“What happened?” she asked dumbly.
“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” the younger of the two cops answered, giving her a friendly smile.
“It’s none of your business,” the gray-haired older cop grumbled. “Why don’t you just run along?”
Buffy glanced at Giles, who was hiding a smile. He knew she hated it when people were condescending toward her.
“Okay,” Buffy said. “I’ll go away. But I know exactly who did it.”
As she strode away, the two cops staggered up the hill after her. “Wait a minute, miss! You know about this?” the younger one asked.
“I have a theory,” she said teasingly. “You must have some clues. Who called you?”
“The groundskeeper,” the older cop answered. “He found the grave all messed up and called us. There’s always trouble in this cemetery—I’d like to pave it over.”
“Me too,” Buffy muttered.
The cop gave her a quizzical look, then gazed at the grave. “It doesn’t look like regular vandalism—more like wild animals were rooting around. So why don’t you tell us what you know?”
“I think those coyotes did it,” Buffy said angrily. “I live nearby, and I’ve seen a big pack of them running around the cemetery the last few nights.”
The young cop snapped his fingers and turned to his partner. “That’s got to be it, Joe. We’ve had a lot of calls about coyotes all this week. You know, it’s the dry season, and they come down from the hills looking for water.”
Joe nodded sagely. “Yes, I believe we’ve cracked this case, with the little lady’s help. Now we can turn it over to Animal Control.”
“If we only knew why they tore up the grave,” the young cop grumbled.
“Why do I eat doughnuts? Why is the best wrestling on pay-per-view? You don’t need a why with coyotes,” his partner scoffed. “They’re just plain weird.”
Buffy peered innocently at the grave again, and Giles edged closer too. “Is this guy anyone important?” she asked. “Who is Spurs Hardaway?”
The young cop grinned. “Only Joe here is old enough to answer that one.”
The old cop scowled. “How quickly they forget. Spurs Hardaway used to be a big Wild West star toward the end of the last century. I mean, he was as big as Buffalo Bill Cody and Annie Oakley. He had a combination Wild West and magic show, which toured all over the world.”
“So how come he’s buried here?” Buffy asked with amazement. “In Sunnydale?”
The cop shrugged. “I don’t know the whole story. I only know he settled here after he retired from showbiz. He was already old when he died—shot to death, he was.”
“Exactly one hundred years ago,” Giles said, looking at the dates on the tombstone.
“Yes, that would be about right,” the cop agreed.
“It was a big deal back then, this celebrity getting murdered in our little town.”
The young cop looked back at the mauled grave.
“Maybe the flowers on this grave had been freshly watered, and they were only trying to get a drink.”
“More than likely,” the older cop agreed.
Hardly likely, Buffy thought. She turned to Giles. “I think we can go now.”
“Absolutely!” he said, his eyes gleaming with excitement. Now that he had a ton of things to research, the librarian was happy.
“Thanks for your help!” the younger cop called as the
y walked away.
“Anytime!” Buffy answered, marveling that the police had actually believed her about something. Instead of being reassuring, this only made her doubt her own theory. What if they really were just coyotes acting like … coyotes?
“Buffy, I apologize,” Giles said when they got out of earshot of the police. “This case is sufficiently unusual to make me think we should investigate it. After all, anybody who settles down in Sunnydale—near the Hellmouth—is automatically suspicious. First, I’ll research Spurs Hardaway, then I’ll do more work on skinwalkers and Coyote Moon. I wonder if I should ask Willow to help me.”
“Willow!” Buffy’s eyes lit up with terror. “Oh my gosh, I left them alone with those major creeps!”
“What creeps?” Giles asked in alarm.
Buffy jogged ahead of him toward the car. “First, drive me to the carnival, then you can do your research. Come on! There’s no telling what nasty stuff is happening to Xander and Willow.”
“Oh, dear!” Giles muttered, running to catch up.
In the dark stillness of the fun house, Willow melted into Lonnie’s strong arms. She lifted her chin so that their lips could meet, and it was instant polarity—the current flowed from his lips to hers and back through their bodies, molding them together.
I didn’t want this to happen, she told herself, but it’s not too bad. As he kissed her tenderly, she began to lose her regrets. She hadn’t been kissed like this since … well, never!
What about Xander? the loyal part of her brain reminded her. Who? answered the rest of her brain and most of her body.
His kisses moved from Willow’s lips down to her neck, and his blond hair brushed against her nose. Suddenly her senses were filled with the earthy smell of Lonnie’s hair, and she pulled back a bit in surprise.
But Lonnie’s kisses on her neck grew more insistent, and she worried—not that he was a vampire but that he would give her a hickey! As Willow squirmed to get away from him, grimy strings hanging from the ceiling brushed against her face, and she almost screamed.
I’m in a deserted fun house, she told herself, with a guy who thinks I’m a carnival ride!
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