Buffy the Vampire Slayer 1

by John Vorholt;Arthur Byron Cover;Alice Henderson

  “This will give you some idea of how popular Spurs Hardaway was.” Giles picked up the coffee-table book he was reading and set it in front of her. Buffy had thought it was a book of paintings, but now that she got a closer look, she saw that it was a collection of old theatrical posters.

  On the left page was a colorful painting depicting a long-haired mountain man surrounded by wolves, buffaloes, bears, and mountain lions. Below this was a scene of Indians on horseback circling a flaming covered wagon.

  Banner headlines on the poster proclaimed, “Spurs Hardaway and the Thrilling Magic of the Wild West! Witness the Vicious Indian Attack! Gasp at Animals Never Before Seen in New York! Relive the Magic and Romance of the West!”

  On the right page was another heroic portrait of Spurs Hardaway, this time wrestling a bear. Below that was an illustration of what looked like a rodeo parade, with lots of bespangled cowboys and Indians. At the bottom of the page was a scene of Spurs and a mountain lion inside a golden cage. But the writing on this poster was all in French.

  “That’s from his triumphant European tour in 1889,” Giles said, pointing to the French poster. “By all accounts, Spurs Hardaway put on a magnificent show, with a cast of more than two hundred cowboys and wild animals. It was a combination rodeo, stuntman, circus, and magic act.”

  “So he was the Siegfried and Roy of his day.”

  “Who? Listen to this—his most famous magic trick was to climb into a cage, have the cage covered with a velvet curtain, and then turn himself into a wild animal! There are eyewitness accounts of Hardaway turning himself into a wolf, a mountain lion, and a bear.”

  Buffy narrowed her eyes at the Watcher. “Just because he did that trick doesn’t mean he really turned into a wolf or a bear.”

  “Au contraire,” Giles answered triumphantly. “Spurs Hardaway claimed that he really could turn himself into a wild animal, a trick he said he learned from the Plains Indians. At the time, his critics dismissed this claim as mere publicity, but what if he were telling the truth? We know that skinwalkers exist, and there were reportedly other performers in his troupe who could turn themselves into animals.”

  “Wow,” Buffy said, getting a queasy feeling in her stomach. “But it could still be a trick—magicians do it today.”

  Giles shook his head. “Not like Spurs Hardaway did it. He did this trick everywhere—in circus tents, stadiums, saloons, even in jail cells. Turning oneself into a bear or a wolf is not a simple trick—you need a proper theater with a stage that has a trapdoor. Do you remember the badges on his tombstone?”

  “Yes.”

  “In his youth, Spurs Hardaway was an Army scout and a federal marshal, and he spent many years living among the Indians. That was before they learned to be wary of white men.”

  “So he took Skinwalking 101,” Buffy said. “But what is his connection to Sunnydale?”

  “In 1895, he retired here, although his Wild West show kept touring without him. In fact, Spurs owned a great deal of land in the area—he was one of the founding fathers of Sunnydale. Suspicious, isn’t it? I think he knew that he was right on top of a tremendous source of occult energy, although he may not have known how to access it.”

  “But he was mortal. He did die.”

  “Yes, and that’s highly suspicious too.” Giles paused for dramatic effect. “On his eighty-first birthday, Spurs was shot to death in his home—with a silver bullet. His murderer was never caught.”

  Buffy rose to her feet and began to pace. “You know, it’s not much of a leap from being in a Wild West show to being in a carnival. City after city. Bad food after cheap food. Sawdust. Stuffed animals. It’s the same kind of job, really, only the scam is different. Suppose the carnies are his followers from way back when, and they’re still touring. Only now they can’t do a Wild West show—p.c. police and all—so they have to do a cheesy carnival.”

  “It makes sense,” Giles agreed.

  Buffy frowned. “No, it doesn’t. Most of them are too young. They’re hardly older than me.”

  “Not necessarily,” Giles said. “They could derive tremendous power from skinwalking. Throughout the ages, shape-shifting has been regarded as an advanced shamanistic skill. Anybody who has mastered it has undoubtedly mastered other spells, and the ability to look young could be one of them. When he died, Spurs Hardaway was said to look no older than a man of forty, even though he was eighty-one.”

  The Watcher’s jaw clenched in anger. “They’ve taken a formidable power from the Native Americans and have completely perverted it. It’s possible that they could be very skilled sorcerers.”

  “And they keep their secret safe by living in a carnival,” Buffy added. “Always on the move, going from town to town—so nobody knows that they never grow old.”

  “Exactly! But they are mortal. We know that they can be killed by the traditional silver projectile.”

  Buffy frowned at that notion as she continued to pace. “Yeah, I know we could kill them, but they aren’t exactly vampires. I mean, they aren’t running around ripping people’s throats open. They attacked me, but that’s because they know I’m onto them. Otherwise, they’ve only done small stuff, minor vandalism.”

  “Are you saying, after all this urgency, that these werecoyotes aren’t dangerous?”

  “That all depends. As carnies, they’ll take your money and seduce your friends,” Buffy said bitterly. “As coyotes, they’ll eat your dog and dig up an old grave—but we can’t kill them for any of that. We can’t even go to the police, without giving them a good laugh.”

  Giles pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I see what you mean. They have behaved badly, but not that badly. Plus, there’s the irksome problem that we don’t have any proof.”

  “If only we knew why they’re back here in Sunnydale. Why now? What were they doing in the cemetery last night, looking for bones in their old boss’s grave?”

  The Watcher suddenly looked grim. “There’s one thing I forgot to tell you—about Coyote Moon. I did some calculations, and tonight is a Coyote Moon. Also, it’s exactly one hundred years since Spurs Hardaway was murdered. Perhaps, like a vampire, he can be resurrected one hundred years after his death.”

  Buffy let out a low breath. “Last night, the freaky coyotes did look like they were doing some kind of ceremony.”

  “We’ll never know if any of these theories are true unless we observe them firsthand or find irrefutable evidence.”

  “Coyote skins,” the Slayer said. “If we’re right, each one of them has to have his own coyote skin. I’ve got to find out for sure.”

  “We’ve got to find out,” Giles said forcefully. “I insist upon coming with you. There’s no more useful research I can do here, and four eyes are better than two.”

  She pointed to his glasses and smiled. “You should know.”

  “What can we bring? I may have a few silver bullets in the weapons locker.”

  Buffy winced. “Let’s try not to kill any of them, okay? Some of them are kind of cute. Besides, if we can get proof, at least we can tell Willow and Xander to stay away from them.”

  She gazed worriedly out the window and saw the burning embers of sunset stretching across the sky. “I only hope Willow and Xander are all right.”

  “Ante up, boys,” Willow said, forming her gigantic pile of poker chips into several neat stacks. The tiny trailer was smoky with tobacco and incense, but Willow figured she had won about two hundred dollars from the carnies so far. She could stand the smoke a little while longer, if they could stand the heat.

  She shuffled the deck. “Shall we keep it five-card draw, deuces and one-eyed jacks wild?”

  “How are you winning so much?” Lonnie grumbled. “You didn’t tell me you were a poker shark.”

  Willow grinned. “Well, I do quite well against my family when we’re playing for Monopoly money. I guess that skill carries over into real money. Poker is a mathematical game, after all, with probabilities and risk factors that can be c
alculated. Money management is also important.”

  An old carny with strange, rheumy eyes scowled and picked up his pathetic handful of chips. “Cash me out. I can’t beat this poker witch! Next time, Lonnie, don’t bring no ringers into the game.”

  “Hey, Hopscotch, I didn’t know!” the blond-haired hunk insisted. “I loaned her five bucks so she could play a few hands. Who knew?”

  Willow cheerfully counted the old man’s chips and gave him $3.75. “It was a pleasure meeting you.”

  “Right,” he grumbled. “I’m going outside to keep a lookout for that vandal before we open up.”

  “You have a vandal?” Willow asked in alarm.

  The old man gave her a sneer. “Just someone who wants to screw things up for us. We’ll catch ’em.”

  “Why don’t you tell the police?”

  Hopscotch rubbed the gray stubble on his chin. “We don’t hold with outsiders knowing our business. In the carnival, we have our own brand of justice.”

  “I see,” Willow said with a nervous smile.

  “Come on, deal!” growled one of the players, a bare-chested young carny with long dark hair. Hopscotch waved and ambled out the door.

  “You didn’t ante up,” Willow said, and the young man scowled and tossed two fifty-cent chips into the pile. Willow shuffled the cards and dealt to him, Lonnie, a third carny, and herself. She decided not to be so ruthless; maybe she would even give them some of their money back.

  “Remind me never to play strip poker with you,” Lonnie said with a wink.

  Willow blushed. “Okay, I won’t let it cross your mind.”

  “We might as well be playing strip poker,” the guy without a shirt muttered. “Any more hands like this, and I’ll be lucky to have my underwear.”

  “I can only give you fifty cents for your underwear,” Willow joked. “I think that’s more than generous.”

  Lonnie laughed. “I’ll give you two cents.”

  Still smiling, Willow picked up her cards and saw two queens and a two, which was a wild card. Even before drawing any more cards, she already had three queens. No sense denying it, Willow thought cheerfully, it’s my lucky day.

  • • •

  Xander snored loudly as he lay in his bed, sleeping through dinner. He had asked his mother not to wake him—not even for food—because he had a date planned and he needed to rest up for it. As he grinned in peaceful slumber, Xander dreamed of blue tattoos on creamy brown skin.

  When Buffy and Giles strolled into the carnival at sunset, it seemed like a ghost town just coming to life after a long slumber. One by one, the neon lights twinkled on, and the towering machines grumbled to life. With creaks and groans, the mighty arms of the Octopus and the Ferris wheel began to rotate, lighting up the sky with sweeping rainbows of color. French fries, corn dogs, and fry bread bubbled in vats of grease, lending a homey smell to the air. Surfer music blared from crackling speakers.

  It was as if every night were the same, just a continuation of the night before.

  Buffy noticed families with children roaming around the kiddie rides, but most of them would be gone in another hour or so. The carnival after dark was a world of young people, shady people, and night people. Giles stood beside Buffy, gaping at the gaudy attractions and the milling crowd of teenagers.

  “Oh, my,” Giles muttered. “Western civilization is in more trouble than I thought.”

  Buffy sighed. “Well, nobody forces the kids to come here. We do it of our own free will.”

  “Terrifying,” Giles agreed. “So where do we begin searching in this den of depravity?”

  Buffy lowered her voice. “Time for a fashion check. I’m afraid we have to sneak into somebody’s trailer, as I don’t think they carry their coyote skins in their back pockets. I know where Rose’s trailer is, but first let’s see if she’s working at the moment.”

  With Buffy leading the way, they strode down the midway, ignoring the barkers who kept trying to lure them into rides and games. She kept her eyes open for Hopscotch, who was probably spying on her from the shadows, but she didn’t see the old carny. Perhaps he was actually working tonight, since there was a big crowd and all the rides were whirling at once.

  As they walked, Giles gaped at the rides, the games, the food stands, and the people. When he saw a young girl eating a huge spool of blue cotton candy, he followed her for several strides. Buffy had to grab his arm and drag him back into the real world.

  “Did you see what she was eating?” Giles asked in amazement. “It looked like … like ectoplasm!”

  “What’s ectoplasm?” Buffy asked.

  “The nebulous material from which ghosts are made.”

  “Oh, it tastes like ectoplasm too,” Buffy said. “Only with lots of sugar.”

  “It can’t be good for you,” Giles concluded.

  “Does any of this look like it’s good for you? This is one of those places where you can be a kid and an adult at the same time. That’s why teens love it.”

  Squinting through his glasses, Giles surveyed a row of busy game booths. “I see what you mean about the carnival workers looking rather young and fit, but perhaps that’s not unusual. Traveling all the time, living off the land—this would be an occupation for young, fit people.”

  “I know!” Buffy snapped with frustration. “And maybe it’s a coincidence that there’s a pack of coyotes running rampant in Sunnydale at the same time. Maybe it’s a coincidence that they were digging up Spurs Hardaway’s grave, and that he died a hundred years ago today. That’s why we have to convince ourselves of what’s going on before we can convince anyone else.”

  “Is that your real hair?” a voice barked over a loudspeaker, “or are you wearing a muskrat on your head?”

  “We’re here.” Buffy held out her hand and stopped Giles as they neared the dunking machine. The same clown she had dunked last night was on duty, and he was making fun of an older man wearing a toupee. Also on duty was his partner, the dark-haired vixen Rose. As usual, she was exchanging soggy softballs and sexy pouts for crisp dollar bills, while making fools out of a long line of men.

  “Xander’s new girlfriend is hard at work,” Buffy said.

  Giles peered through his glasses. “That is the young … woman who is interested in Xander?”

  “See what I mean?” Buffy asked. “That’s just one too many coincidences. Last night, it seemed as if all the carnies were trying to pick up local kids.”

  “Onerous behavior, to be sure,” Giles said, “but they could be normal lowlifes instead of shape-shifting lowlifes. Unless they commit a crime or we can get proof of what they are, we really can’t do anything.”

  “So let’s get our proof.” Buffy steered the librarian toward the rides, away from the dunking machine. Taking a circuitous route to the rear of the carnival, they wound up behind the neon lights and painted facades. Back here, the paint was chipped on the beat-up trailers, noisy generators, and smelly garbage cans. It was like the dark slum hidden away from the warm city lights.

  With Rose’s nondescript trailer in sight, Buffy and Giles crept through the shadows. Hearing voices, they crouched down behind a pile of lumber. They listened warily as two teenagers walked past, taking a shortcut to the parking lot.

  “Okay,” Buffy whispered. “You stay out here and do what you do—watch—while I go inside. If anybody looks like they’re coming to the trailer, knock on the side, then split. I’ll get away as best I can, and we’ll meet back at your car. Okay?”

  Giles gulped and nodded. “I was just thinking that we could be arrested for this.”

  “Somehow, I don’t think this group is big on calling the police. Here goes.” Buffy stood and tried the door of the trailer. It was locked, so she grabbed the door handle and snapped it off, as if it was a dried twig. The door of the tiny trailer swung open, and she had to duck to enter.

  Once inside, Buffy thought about putting on a light, but she could see fairly well. Through a grimy window, the swirling neon rides
splashed a kaleidoscope of colors onto the opposite wall. It was just enough light to see by.

  Buffy tried to ignore the weird smell, which was either incense or Rose’s cheap perfume. Her eyes scanned the cluttered walls and shelves, but she didn’t think that Rose’s coyote skin would be hanging in plain sight. I could never live in this tiny trailer, Buffy thought. There isn’t any closet space.

  When her eyes hit upon the old wooden sea chest, she knew it was the only possible hiding place for the skin. She bent down to open the trunk and discovered that it had a strong padlock holding the clasp shut. If she had all the time in the world, she could probably loosen the lock without anyone knowing it, but she didn’t have all the time in the world. Every second counted.

  Buffy gripped the case in one hand and the shackle in the other and pulled the lock apart with a loud sproing. A small spring shot across the room, and the lock crumbled to pieces in her hands.

  The lid of the old sea chest creaked loudly as she lifted it, and she plunged her hands into the silky contents. It seemed to be full of clothes—only they weren’t clothes exactly, more like fancy costumes with fringe and sequins. Maybe Rose moonlights as a go-go girl, Buffy thought. Her fingers dug deeper into the pile of fancy clothes, looking for only one thing.

  She finally touched it deep at the bottom—the greasy fur of an old pelt! Just as she was about to pull it out and inspect it, a frantic pounding sounded on the wall of the trailer. That was Giles’s signal—somebody was coming! Buffy hoped that the Watcher would get away, but she was not about to leave without her prize, her proof.

  Then she heard another sound, even closer. From somewhere at the back of the trailer came a low, rumbling growl. The animal could be a coyote, but it sounded bigger—much bigger. And inside the trailer.

  A shadow loomed in front of her as the unseen beast lunged for her throat!

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  With no time to think, Buffy lifted the chest and used it as a shield, and the snarling beast crashed into it, splintering the wood and knocking Buffy backward. As slinky go-go outfits cascaded all around them, Buffy and the monster rolled on the floor. She fought to keep the pieces of the chest between them, but the beast was strong and determined. No matter what she did, she felt its hot breath on her throat.