Buffy the Vampire Slayer 1

by John Vorholt;Arthur Byron Cover;Alice Henderson

  “Wow!” was all he could say as he staggered past them.

  Angry and sad, Willow had a sudden urge to kiss Lonnie in front of Xander, and her face must have broadcast that loud and clear. Lonnie hovered closer, and she sensed that earthy, animal smell about him. Before she had a chance to meet his tender lips, Willow wrinkled her nose and sneezed!

  “Sorry,” she said with a sniffle. “I must be allergic to something. I don’t understand it—I’m usually only allergic to dogs.”

  Anger flashed on Lonnie’s handsome features, then he tipped his hat back and was once again charming. “Lots of stuff growing around here, especially ragweed. Let’s catch up with them, okay?”

  As long as Lonnie was being a gentleman, Willow wasn’t going to be frantic about this strange site for their date. In many respects, it was better to be with a gentleman than a raving maniac like Xander.

  A fleeting shape caught her attention before it vanished behind a tree trunk. It was too low to the ground to be human—it had to be a dog or some other kind of animal. Maybe that’s why I sneezed. Willow hoped it wasn’t a skunk. She watched the tree, but she didn’t see any other sign of movement.

  Then she heard voices, and they weren’t coming from Xander and Rose, who were only a few feet ahead of them. The voices were coming from down in the hollow, where mausoleums and fancy tombstones decorated the city of the dead.

  Rose had mentioned a white spire, and there not only was one, but about ten people were milling around it. At first, this was reassuring to Willow, because they were obviously living people. But the more she thought about it, the stranger it seemed that they would go to a cemetery at midnight and find a bunch of people already there. Once again, she told herself that the carnies couldn’t be vampires. They lived in the sun; they ate corn dogs.

  “You weren’t kidding,” Xander said puzzledly. “There really is a party here.”

  As they strolled toward the gathering, Willow realized that half of these other people were carnies and the other half were local kids. They were all on a mass double date!

  She turned to Lonnie and asked, “What’s going on?”

  “It’s just something we do in every town,” Lonnie said with a shrug. “We don’t know if there’ll be a decent club or a park, but every town has a cemetery. So we just have a party there one night after work.”

  “You could’ve told us,” Xander muttered. If anything, he was more disappointed about seeing all these people than Willow was. She hoped that he would go home disappointed.

  “Oh, lighten up,” Rose said, running a red-lacquered fingernail under Xander’s chin. “The more, the merrier.”

  Doing a quick count, Willow saw there were exactly seven carnies and seven local kids, counting the four of them. Among the carnies were the red-haired woman and the dark-haired guy she had whipped at poker. Apparently, the old guy, Hopscotch, had not been able to get a date.

  The carnies sat about on the tombstones with studied indifference, while the local kids looked awkward and confused. Whatever they had expected to happen this night, it wasn’t hanging around in a cemetery, staring at one another. But as long as Xander’s plans were upset too, Willow wasn’t going to complain too loudly.

  “What do we do now?” she asked. “Charades? Kevin Bacon?”

  “We’d like to put on a little show for all of you,” Lonnie announced. He nodded to his fellow carnies, and they climbed down from their perches and formed a rough line in front of the grave under the white spire. All of them were carrying some kind of bag or purse, and one of them lit a bundle of dried leaves. A pungent, spicy smoke filled the dark hollow in the cemetery.

  Willow and Xander drifted closer to each other. From the side of his mouth, Xander whispered, “I hope they’re not going to try to scare us.”

  “They already have,” Willow answered. “I’m ready to bolt when you are.”

  “Let’s see what happens.”

  “A hundred years ago,” Lonnie began somberly, “a great man lived in this town. His name was Spurs Hardaway, and this is his grave. He was a showman, like us. In fact, you might say he was our inspiration and guiding light.”

  Lonnie exchanged a confident look with his fellow showmen. “Spurs enjoyed all types of sports; best of all, he loved to hunt. In honor of Spurs and his favorite pastime, we do a little show that we call the Coyote Dance. Tonight we have the perfect audience and the perfect moon gazing down upon us. Let us begin with a song.”

  Willow wouldn’t exactly call it singing—not those strange whoops, cries, and guttural groans. The carnies looked properly spooky as they swayed and twitched in the silvery moonlight, surrounded by tombstones. All of the local kids were now bunching together, as if they were on the opposite team, waiting for a kickoff.

  “Well, their singing bites,” Xander murmured, “and their dancing is not much better.”

  “I’m ready to go when you are.”

  As the smoke from the flaming torch swirled around them, the carnies began to remove their clothes. It wasn’t a sensual striptease—just people ditching their clothes, as if they were about to take a shower.

  Xander grinned at Willow. “Hold on, things are looking up!”

  A few other kids giggled, but the possessed performers paid no attention to them. They continued stripping, singing, and swaying—as if no one in the whole world were watching them. That was the most disturbing part of their act. Just when Willow thought things couldn’t get any weirder, they reached into their duffel bags and pulled out old coyote skins, which they draped over their shoulders.

  Xander looked at her and shrugged. “Costumes.”

  “This is too weird,” Willow said, “I’m outta here.”

  She started to walk away from the twitching carnies, with two more local girls right behind her. Before they got ten feet, they were stopped short by the sound of low growls. The three girls stared in horror as half a dozen coyotes leaped upon tombstones and paths, cutting of their escape.

  She heard gasps and shouts from the others, and she whirled around to see the seven dancers down on their hands and knees, trembling and growling as if possessed. The smoke swirled around them, making them look as if they were changing shape. As Willow stared more intently, she realized they were changing shape.

  They were morphing into coyotes!

  Triumphant howls echoed all around them as the coyotes cut loose in unison. She now realized that they were surrounded by at least fifteen coyotes. That didn’t even count the ones writhing on the ground, turning into coyotes.

  His eyes wide with fright, Xander sidled closer to Willow. “Next time, I’ll listen to Buffy.”

  “Been there, thought that,” she admitted.

  A deep groaning sound came from behind them, and Xander, Willow, and the teens whirled around to see the grave under the white spire start to shudder. The earth and withered flowers crumbled away, as if an earthquake had gripped that grave and no other. They heard splintering noises—as if the coffin under the soil was also breaking apart.

  Suddenly, several coyotes attacked the grave and began to dig furiously, trying to free whatever was in there. Trembling, Willow lifted her eyes to read the name on the grave: Spurs Hardaway.

  Some of the other teens tried to make a break for it, and they were instantly surrounded by vicious coyotes. Snapping and growling, the canines herded them back into a frightened huddle. When one boy didn’t move fast enough, a dark brown coyote lunged and bit his calf. Shrieking, he hobbled after the others. The number of coyotes had doubled, and Lonnie and his friends were … gone.

  Everywhere Willow looked, there was something horrible going on, especially behind her. Thanks to the frantic digging of the coyotes, the grave was open, and something was pounding its way out of its coffin. Chunks of rotted wood flew outward, and skeletal fists reached toward the sky.

  “Release me!” groaned a low voice that wasn’t remotely human.

  From the full moon overhead came a bright beam of light, w
hich struck the sphere at the top of the white spire. It exploded as if hit by lightning, and sparks and debris flew everywhere. Willow ducked to the ground, and she was sorry she did, because now she had a level view of the open grave.

  She gaped as a grotesque, worm-eaten corpse rose slowly from the pit. The monster was wrapped in a ragged bear skin, complete with rotted head. Smoke, leaves, and wind swirled all around this gruesome apparition as he threw his skull back and cackled.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s good to be back!”

  The coyotes howled and yipped triumphantly, while the teens whimpered in terror.

  “Okay, guys,” Xander said, backing away from the zombie astride the grave. “You scared us—that was really … something! Can we leave now?”

  The coyotes seemed to laugh, and the gruesome corpse spoke in a hollow voice. “Not yet. You haven’t seen my best trick.”

  Crunching like a pile of bones, the monster slumped forward and was completely covered by the ratty bear skin. The mangy pelt looked a million years old. As he coyotes yipped and yowled and the teens wept, the old bear skin swayed back and forth. Lightning crackled in the sky, and the moon turned a horrid shade of red.

  Willow blinked because she couldn’t believe her eyes. Black hairs on the back of the pelt began to rise and twitch. Must be static electricity, she thought.

  Xander gripped her hand, frightened. “It’s all our parents’ fault for moving to the Hellmouth.”

  “I know,” Willow said.

  For some reason, the coyotes stopped howling and they began to look around, puzzled. A few of them even loped off toward the street, and the others trailed after them, uncertain what to do. The terrified local kids seized the moment and ran like jackrabbits in the opposite direction. Willow was about to do the same when she heard a roar that was so thundering it shook the trees to their roots.

  She whirled around to see an enormous grizzly bear rearing over her and Xander. It had to be at least ten feet tall—a thousand pounds of teeth, gristle, and muscle! The primeval monster roared again, sounding furious and very, very hungry.

  “Say no to fur!” a voice shouted.

  Willow and Xander flopped to the ground as a lithe figure came bounding through the air behind them. It was Buffy! Doing gymnastic flips, the Slayer flew over their heads and smashed into the chest of the grizzly bear. The beast roared in outrage and staggered backward, clawing at something shiny in its fur.

  Willow realized that Buffy had stabbed it with some kind of sword—she could only see about two inches of the handle. With a loud grunt, the Slayer hurled herself into the grizzly one more time, knocking it back another ten feet. The bear’s enormous bulk smashed into the white spire with such force that the whole thing teetered, crumbled, and fell. Tons of white marble came thundering down around the wounded animal.

  Buffy rolled away at the last moment as the entire monument imploded into the earth. The bear’s anguished growls became strangled human cries—then nothing at all—as chunks of marble crushed the creature. After a few moments, a haze of dust and a sickly stench of death rose from the grave, but nothing else.

  Xander instantly turned to Buffy. “Hey, we believed you the whole time! We were just keeping an eye on them, because you were, like, nowhere to be seen.”

  “Thanks,” Willow said. She didn’t have enough breath left to say more than that, but she really meant it.

  Buffy sighed. “I hope my mom doesn’t check the sterling silver.” She snapped her fingers. “Giles!”

  The three of them jogged across the cemetery and out the main entrance. In the street, they found Giles sitting in his car, with about twenty coyotes clawing at the vehicle. He had his window down a crack and was blowing on something—but making no sound.

  He saw them and Buffy waved. A moment later, Giles started up his engine and drove off slowly, with the coyotes bounding playfully behind him.

  “Too bad,” Buffy said. “I think your dates have dumped you—for a guy with a dog whistle.”

  “Why be coyotes?” Xander asked, totally confused. “Isn’t it fun enough being humans? Especially when you look like that?”

  Buffy shook her head. “It’s a long story. Let’s get a good night’s sleep and meet tomorrow morning. We can all go together to see them. Now that they don’t have a leader, maybe we can talk some sense into them.”

  “Will you walk us home, Buffy?” Willow asked.

  The Slayer smiled and put her arm around her friend’s shoulder. “Sure. Was he at least a good kisser?”

  “Yeah.” Willow grinned.

  AFTERWORD

  Buffy, Willow, Xander, and Giles drove out to the vacant lot about noon the next day, but they were too late. The carnival was gone—every bolt, compressor, and stuffed animal. In the spot where the Ferris wheel had stood the day before, there was nothing but the ashes and dying embers of a large bonfire.

  When they stopped to poke around the fire, they noticed the charred remains of several animal skins. That seemed to have been the purpose of the fire—to burn the skins.

  “Hopscotch said that the spell would be broken if we stopped Spurs Hardaway from coming back,” Buffy remarked. “Maybe now they’re free to live their own lives.”

  “Human lives, let’s hope,” Giles added.

  “I hope they find peace,” Willow said.

  Buffy felt eyes gazing at her back, and she turned to see a lone coyote standing high on the hill behind the vacant lot. She waved at the old coyote, and it turned and loped away.

  NIGHT OF THE LIVING RERUN

  DEDICATED WITH LOVE TO MY WIFE, LYDIA.

  With much thanks to David and Bobbi, Lisa and Liz, that Whedon guy, and the cast and crew of Buffy, especially Ken Estes for doing that video playback thing.

  I’d also like to take this opportunity to say hello to my mom, my stepfather, my mother-in-law, my brothers, their wives, my nieces, my cousins, their spouses, their children, my aunts, my uncles, and everybody else associated with family values.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Nothing ever changed in the Master’s lair. Nothing of importance, anyway.

  Oh, a few minions and undead assistants always came and went, but they fit into the nothing-of-importance category.

  The Master had lived in these dreary, monotonous tunnels for nearly thirty years. By now he was deep in the process of going stark raving mad, simply from the razor-sharp dullness of virtually everything.

  The Master felt he was living beneath his station. He felt like a giant, gilded cockroach, scurrying up and down the tunnels in perpetual search of an exit which did not exist.

  That was on the good days….

  Lately the Master had become less prone to shout. For this his lowly, sniveling minions were infinitely grateful—the echoes made their ears bleed. The Master rarely shouted when a plan was going well. And recently he had bragged often about devising his most subtle, devious plan ever.

  Keep in mind, the minions never saw the Master actually working on a plan. He never did anything.

  The minions clung to the faint, doubtlessly futile hope that the Master’s current plan, whatever it was, would succeed beyond his wildest expectations.

  Then, the Master would be gone. Out of here. Splitsville from the Lair. At long last striding the surface of the Earth like a primordial god from the lower depths. Badder than Mars, more twisted than Hades.

  On Earth the scene would be chaos, as the population found itself as close to the lower depths of the spiritual underworld as one could get without actually being there.

  Thus preoccupied with a personal reign of terror of mythological proportions, the Master would have little time to devote to the insignificant minions minding his former prison.

  So that down here, in the place where nothing ever happened, the unworthy minions could walk off the stage of history forever, and never have to do anything again.

  Looking back, Buffy realized the entire adventure had begun long before she’d ever realized it. W
hen had it started? When the Master had begun his manipulations? Had it begun with the idea of the exhibition? Or when Mom had moved to Sunnydale?

  Maybe it had begun with the creation of The Moonman. Or perhaps with Prince Ashton Eisenberg’s Prophecy of the Dual Duels. Maybe the Salem witch trials were the true beginning. It was odd to think that certain events of 1692 could have such a direct bearing on events in 1996. If stranger things had happened, Buffy did not want to know what they were.

  For Buffy personally, it had begun with the dreams. At first they consisted only of a few images that recurred now and then. They had been going on for a few weeks when one afternoon in the library, Giles, from out of the blue, suggested Buffy write down her dreams first thing every morning. “Before you even get out of bed!” he insisted.

  “Why?” Buffy asked, thinking of those images. “And why now?”

  Giles shrugged. “Other Slayers have kept dream journals. It might help you get in touch with your inner warrior.” He handed her a notebook. “This should do quite nicely.”

  “For me? Giles, you shouldn’t have.”

  “You’re welcome, Buffy.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to get in touch with my inner warrior. I can’t be the Slayer all the time. Sometimes, I just want to go to sleep and forget all about this last-stand-against-evil nonsense.” She stopped when she saw her friends’ faces. “Forget it. Bad idea. Never mind.”

  “I think she’s trying to say she wants a life,” Willow said, typing in a series of commands without looking up from her computer screen.

  “A life? Whatever do you mean?” asked Giles, taken aback at the enormity of the concept.

  “Yeah, Buffy, whaddya mean?” Xander teased. “We have times, don’t we?”

  “Buffy, is this some kind of career thing?” Willow asked.

  “A motivational problem?” Giles asked, raising one eyebrow.

  Xander perked up. “A good action movie will make you forget your troubles. There’s a new Jackie Chan–Jim Carrey team-up. We can go together. Tonight.”