Buffy the Vampire Slayer 1

by John Vorholt;Arthur Byron Cover;Alice Henderson

  The vampire dashed into the midst of the roiling mass of people. Buffy followed, immediately slowed by the writhing throng of bodies, and she cursed her bum leg. She clawed her way past a woman in a muddy gown, squeezed by a man who apparently hadn’t taken a bath in his entire life, shoved past a guy hawking etchings of a recent hanging, and emerged in a small pocket of space.

  She whirled in all directions, searching for the vampire. Twenty feet ahead she saw his brown, frizzy head weaving through the crowd. She pushed on in that direction. A hand grabbed her and shoved her as she moved. People shouted at her, asking her brusque questions in French. She ignored them, couldn’t understand them anyway.

  Then a mass of shouting sprang up, and simultaneously the crowd roared, “Vive la nation!” A rotten cabbage sailed by her head, followed by a stream of decaying tomatoes. She jumped up and down, trying to catch sight of the frizzy head. The crowd was too thick, too vast to see over where she was. She spotted a wooden staircase climbing up the side of a nearby building. Thrusting through the crowd, she reached it, finding it clogged with even more people. Why were they all just standing around like this, shouting?

  She pushed by a young boy and his mother and climbed a couple of steps, searching the crowd for the assassin’s head.

  She saw him nowhere. She scanned the crowd for five minutes, searching for his unkempt brown hair. A sea of hats stretched out before her. She didn’t see a single bare-headed person. She’d lost him.

  A renewed frenzy from among the crowd brought her gaze up. “Vive la révolution!” they shouted in unison.

  From this vantage point she saw the reason for the gathering. She stood at the edge of the Place de la Révolution. In the center loomed a high platform with a guillotine on top. Four soldiers of the Republic stood on the stairs leading to the execution platform.

  A wagon had arrived, carrying a young girl no older than twelve and two adults, who could have been her mother and father. Though they were grimy now, their clothes had at one time been very expensive, the height of Paris fashion. Aristocrats, Buffy realized, going to the guillotine.

  Her mind traveled to the Scarlet Pimpernel miniseries she’d seen once as a little kid, with Anthony Andrews as the gallant English hero saving aristocrats from the guillotine. For a second she expected him to arrive, swinging into view from a grappling hook slung over a nearby building. But as the soldiers dragged the crying and pleading family from the wagon and forced them up the small stairs to the execution platform, Buffy remembered it was just fiction.

  She couldn’t believe these people were going to be executed. What crime had they committed? Being rich? Being extravagant? The crowd seethed with hatred, throwing more rotted lettuce heads and melons at them. One putrid tomato hit the mother in the face, and she stood shocked for a moment, the seeds and pulp dripping off her cheek.

  Then the guards shoved her forward, and the family piled up on the platform. They grabbed the little girl. She screamed in terror as they shoved her toward the guillotine.

  Buffy couldn’t just stand there and watch. “What’s wrong with you people!” she shouted. “She’s just a kid!”

  A few people turned to stare at her, but most kept their eyes firmly fixed on the anticipated execution.

  Buffy couldn’t bear it. She leaped off the stairs, shoving the watching mother and son out of her way, and surged into the crowd. She knew she shouldn’t change history. If that little girl lived, she could forever alter the future. But Buffy didn’t care. She couldn’t just stand by. She pressed forward.

  So little space existed between bodies that she’d only pushed forward a few feet before she heard the sickening snick of the guillotine blade. The crowd screamed with delight, urging the soldiers to send the next prisoner up.

  She continued to fight forward, shoving people, knocking them out of the way, not worried about using her Slayer strength. If they had a few bruises tomorrow, so be it. She shoved a few feet more and heard the second downsweep of the guillotine.

  Again the crowd roared with satisfaction, cheering and thrusting their weapons into the air.

  Buffy couldn’t see the guillotine at all now. She pushed people aside, winnowing her way through the throng. The guillotine blade screamed down for the third time. The crowd jumped and cheered, jostling her violently. An elbow came down on her head, then a knee in her back.

  She stopped. The family was dead.

  Disgusted and horrified, Buffy pushed her way backward, working toward the alley next to the stairwell she’d used. Someone bumped into her sore leg, and she sucked in a sharp breath, then pressed on.

  After ten minutes of struggling past more elbows, arms, and feet in her path, she emerged from the crowd. Locating the alley, she ran to it, wanting to find the others.

  They had a huge advantage this time. She had already staked one of the assassins, and she knew what the other one looked like. They could move quickly this time, perhaps staking the other vampire before even finding the Slayer.

  Some of her stress dissipated.

  She hurried down the narrow alley back toward their entry point. When she arrived, Willow and Giles spotted her. “How far away did you land?” Willow asked her.

  “I got one of them!” she told them. “The vampires landed right next to us! I saw them come out of the portal and everything!”

  “I thought I saw a strange glimmer in the sky as I landed,” Giles said, “but it vanished almost immediately.”

  Buffy went on. “I staked one right off the bat. The other one got away, but I know what he looks like.”

  “Remarkable,” Giles said.

  “That’s fantastic!” Willow agreed.

  “Where’s Xander?”

  “He went off searching for you,” Willow told her.

  Buffy hooked her thumb in the direction of the guillotine-occupied square. “There’s a really angry mob over that way. I don’t think it’s safe.”

  Just then a breathless Xander ran out of the shadows. “There’s a really angry mob over there. This place isn’t safe!”

  He rested, leaning over, hands on his knees.

  “It’s okay,” Giles told him. “We’ve landed during the Reign of Terror.”

  “And that’s okay?” Xander asked incredulously.

  “What’s the Reign of Terror?” Buffy asked.

  “One of the bloodiest parts of the French Revolution, when unbelievable numbers of people were sent to the guillotine. Most of them had been fingered by Robespierre, the Revolution’s public accuser. Eventually they even cut his head off,” Willow explained.

  “Eeeek,” said Xander.

  “I guess they didn’t want to eat cake,” Buffy said.

  “It will all be fine,” Giles reassured them. “Just be sure to wear your liberty caps and Republic rosettes.” He pointed to the red, blue, and white ribbon cockades he’d made them all put on before leaving. Buffy’s liberty cap slouched loosely on her head, and the wool itched.

  And be sure not to put on any short pants!” he added.

  “Excuse me?” asked Xander.

  “Short pants. The nobility and bourgeoisie wear them. One of the strongest groups in the revolution, the Sans-Culottes, wear long pants.”

  “The French Revolution was fought over knickers?” Xander asked, amazed.

  “No, Xander,” Willow told him. “It was more what the knickers represented. Wealth and the extravagance of the bourgeoisie and the nobility.”

  “You’re going to fit right in, Will,” Buffy said.

  “Well, the peasants had a point,” Willow pressed. “All those rich aristocrats prancing around in their fancy pants, spending money willy-nilly on chocolates and extravagant carriages and clothes that were the latest fashion. The peasants couldn’t afford the latest fashions, and their moms weren’t exactly pressing to have them fit in and be popular or anything. And then there were the bourgeoisie, pretending to be so fashion-conscious and self-righteous, insulting the peasants every day and putting them dow
n in front of the drinking fountain, when really the aristocrats were just a bunch of shallow cheerleaders who probably couldn’t even memorize their own locker combinations.”

  “Uh, Will?” Xander asked. “We still talking about the French Revolution here?”

  “Yes!” she said defiantly, sticking her chin out. “It was exactly like that.”

  “Well, okay, then. Just checking,” he told her.

  “Giles, where does the Slayer live?” Buffy asked.

  He reached into his satchel, pulling out a small notebook and a map of Revolution-era Paris. “It’s near the intersection of Rue Saint Honoré and Rue de Richelieu, near the Place du Carrousel. But we need to be careful. It’s a very wealthy part of town, and tensions will be high there.”

  “Let’s go. I say we stick to our habit of finding the Slayer first and waiting for the assassin to come to her,” Buffy said. “Meanwhile, I’ll keep my eye out for the guy.”

  Giles nodded his assent, and with Willow and Xander still discussing the finer points of the French Revolution and its cruel football players, they headed in that direction.

  Willow looked on in disbelief. “It’s burned down.”

  Buffy stared at the blackened ruins of the house. A light drizzle rained from the sky, hissing on the burned remains. “This happened recently,” she said. She scanned the streets, wondering if the Slayer might still be nearby. The garbage-strewn road before them lay empty. Suddenly hooting and shouting pulled their attention to a grimy side alley. A woman and man emerged, raising a bottle of cheap wine, staggering and leaning on each other. They disappeared down a side street.

  “It’s not the only house that was burned,” Willow said, pointing out several other buildings black with fire scars.

  “Power to the people,” Giles murmured under his breath. “We can still try the Watcher’s house.” He regarded his map. “It’s down this street, a little closer to the library, the bibliothèque.”

  “Now, how did we guess that?” Buffy said ruefully.

  “I’m sure it’s a complete coincidence,” Giles told her.

  “I’m sure.”

  They covered the remaining distance to the Watcher’s house, nervously watching any people who passed them. Shouts resounded. All around, cries pierced the night, and the smell of fires and festering garbage hung heavily in the air.

  “This is it,” Giles announced when they had reached a rather posh-looking town house, complete with ten chimneys and several balconies.

  “And he lives considerably better than you,” Xander said.

  “She lives, actually,” Giles corrected. “She does live considerably better than I.”

  They walked up the short flight of brick steps to the large wooden double doors and knocked. No one answered. Giles called out to the upper windows, and Buffy tried the doors at the side and in the back of the house. All the windows were dark. No one stirred inside.

  “She’s out,” Willow said at last.

  Hastily Giles produced a paper and pencil and scrawled a note in French to the Watcher, warning her of the assassin and stating that he could be recruiting more help. Then he stuck the note between the door frame and the door.

  “How will we find the Slayer now?” Willow asked. “She could have fled Paris for all we know, or even the country!”

  “We can ask around,” Xander offered.

  A group of angry-looking ruffians wearing long pants and liberty hats walked by, giving them a nod. Giles nodded back.

  Willow gave a little wave, smiling through gritted teeth. “This place makes me nervous. I can feel the tension pressing in on me. It’s practically suffocating.”

  “Yes,” Giles agreed. “It is rather like the old cliché about a powder keg.”

  Buffy could feel it too. She could hear the roar of angry crowds in the distance, and her nostrils filled with the smell of scorched wood. The Slayer and her family had been driven out of their home. Poor people wallowed in the gutter with nothing to eat. Armed soldiers and gangs of thugs roamed the streets. Everyone was looking for someone to blame for their misery. Even the king had been executed.

  “I think we need to find the vampire. I know what he looks like, and the sooner we find him, the less time he’ll have to get recruits like Victor did.”

  “Sounds good,” Xander said. “I don’t like the thought of fighting that many vamps at once again.”

  Buffy remembered him spending much of that fight slumped in a limp pile on the grass, but she didn’t mention it.

  “This is an excellent idea,” Giles said. “Because you killed his companion, the vampire will almost certainly seek some sort of backup.”

  “But where do we look?” asked Willow.

  “Vampire bars. Eighteenth-century equivalents to Willy’s?” Buffy suggested.

  How will we find them?” Xander asked. “Hang out in seedy alleyways and wait for vampires to follow?”

  “Good idea,” Buffy said. “And I think we should split up.”

  “What?” Xander cried. “Are you crazy? We can’t split up! That’s exactly what you’re not supposed to do in supernatural situations. As soon as you split up, you’re picked off one by one. Maniacs spear you with pitchforks. Masked lunatics come after you with chain saws.”

  “But we don’t have that much time, Xander,” Buffy insisted. “The more time he has to get help, the more vampires we’ll be fighting when we find the Slayer. Paris is a big city, and who knows how many vampire bars there are? We’ll break into two groups and search in a circle radiating out from our point of entry.”

  “Can I be in your group?” Xander asked.

  “Agreed,” Buffy said. She turned to Giles. “Watch over Willow.”

  “I will,” he said.

  “Where will we all meet up?” Willow asked.

  “We’ll meet in the center square with the guillotine in two hours. There’ll still be a huge crowd there, and it’ll be easier for us to blend in. And safer.”

  Xander raised his index finger. “So you’re saying it’ll be safer for us in the middle of a sea of bloodthirsty people instead of hiding in an alley where the bloodthirsty people can find us?”

  Buffy nodded. “Exactly.”

  “Oh, boy.”

  Together they returned to the city square where Buffy had lost track of the assassin. Then they parted, agreeing to meet there again in two hours.

  Xander walked close to Buffy as they navigated the streets. They watched for vampires, and Buffy worried about Giles and Willow. More so about Willow, because she knew Giles was tougher than he seemed, as long as he didn’t get knocked on the head. At last they spotted two vampires, one with blood clotted in the corner of her mouth. They had already fed for the evening. Perhaps now they’d be looking to socialize.

  Buffy and Xander held to the shadows, trailing the pair in ragged clothes. The male vampire walked with a limp but still managed to swagger with that insufferable undead pride.

  The pair unwittingly led them down a back alleyway to a grimy little pub teeming with all manner of demons, vampires, and assorted spawn from a variety of hell dimensions.

  While the two vampires strolled into the pub, Buffy and Xander crouched down in the shadows next to a reeking pile of garbage. Her leg throbbed from all the walking, and resting it felt heavenly. “How are we going to get in there?” Xander whispered. “We can’t just saunter in there and say, ‘Gee, anyone seen an assassin?’”

  “You’re right,” Buffy whispered. “They’ll immediately sense we’re humans.” She looked down the alley. A lone vampire approached, staggeringly drunk, weaving in the narrow confines of the alley. “What we need is a distraction.”

  Xander tensed. “I’m not the distraction, right?”

  “No. I won’t use you.” She pointed behind the teeming stack of garbage. “Quick! Get behind that!”

  “Get behind it! I can barely stand the reek from here.”

  “Then you’re volunteering to be the distraction?”

 
“I’ll be behind the garbage.” Xander crept over the wet cobblestones, crouching down behind the odoriferous pile of rotting lettuce, coffee grounds, rancid meat scraps, and stained rags reeking of turpentine and urine. “Oh, God.” He stifled his gag reflex.

  Buffy followed partway, pausing at the edge of the garbage pile, lying in wait for the approaching vamp.

  He staggered closer, unaware of them, and just as he turned to step into the pub, she leaped up, grabbing the collar of his shirt. He grunted in surprise as she shoved him into the pub. She ducked back outside as he crashed into a table of horned demons playing cards.

  “Hey, what do you think you’re doing!” she heard one demon shout in a heavy Scottish accent. “You ruined my hand!”

  At the first sound of punching, Buffy ducked her head in the door. The table had erupted into a fight, fists swinging and tails lashing. The next table, jarred by the violence, toppled over. Those patrons, three willowy vampires dressed in elegant clothes, stood up and grabbed the card-playing demons. A horn went through someone’s arm, and a table shattered under the weight of a body slam. As a chair sailed overhead, Buffy studied all the faces in the bar. Plenty of vampires, but not the one she was searching for.

  She ducked back outside as a bottle shattered against the door frame.

  “No luck,” she said to the garbage pile. “On to the next bar.”

  Xander rose, brushing himself off. He sniffed his jacket as he fell in line beside her. “Between this and our last Sunnydale landing, I’m going to smell like a compost heap for a week.”

  “And that’s different how?” she teased him.

  “Hey!”

  They trawled more neighboring alleys, radiating out from the Place de la Révolution. They found two more vampire hangouts, then four, then six. Each time they used a variation of the same method to scan the crowd within, and each time they came up empty.

  “You don’t think that guy has already succeeded, do you? Just did it singlehandedly?” Xander warned.

  She regarded him gravely. “Let’s hope not.” A group of Sans-Culottes walked by, glaring at them.