Buffy the Vampire Slayer 1

by John Vorholt;Arthur Byron Cover;Alice Henderson

  She laughed. “You’re going to bed? This early?”

  “If you don’t mind,” he told her.

  “Of course I mind,” she said. “You’re supposed to entertain me.”

  Ugh. What a brat. Buffy could barely stand listening to her.

  “Well, perhaps I’ll bow out just for tonight. But if you want to come by later, I’ll probably be recovered. I can entertain you then.”

  He grabbed her, kissing her deeply.

  Buffy’s stomach knotted.

  Darla moaned with pleasure, then looked up at him coyly. “Until then, my darling.”

  They parted. Angelus exited the alley, walking past Buffy’s hiding place. Darla entered the pub.

  Just as Buffy prepared to leave, the assassin showed up. He pulled out a piece of paper, checking the pub name against it. Then, nodding, he folded the paper and entered. So Lucien really had planned this from the beginning. He must be having a laugh right now, guarded by the very person who was instrumental in his plot to kill Marguerite.

  “Darla, I presume?” she heard him ask.

  “Who wants to know?” she murmured in a sultry voice.

  Buffy stood up. She ran down to the mouth of the alley and peeked around the corner. Angelus walked some distance away. He passed a different pub, then stopped. It was one of the many Buffy had checked for the assassin. Angelus turned back around. He gave a quick glance toward the alley, then walked inside the bar.

  Buffy breathed a sigh of relief. Good. She’d just changed events. If he held true to form, he’d be in this different pub, drinking, for most of the night. If Darla went looking for him at home to join her in Slayer-killing fun, he wouldn’t be there.

  She’d done it.

  She hoped.

  Buffy darted out of the alley and ran back to the others.

  They waited where she’d left them, Giles now leaning over and groaning in pain.

  “He needs to get to a doctor,” Willow said. “He needs some painkillers or something.”

  Buffy studied her Watcher’s gray face and furrowed brow. “Well, I think I did it. I think I was successful. We can go.”

  Shakily Giles stood, and once again produced the incantation to return them to 1998. He spoke it, unhaltingly this time, the spell practically memorized.

  The portal emerged, spinning hypnotically. They dove inside, tunneling through space and time, somersaulting and spinning dizzyingly.

  The velocity decreased, and Buffy braced for the launching sensation. She shot out, landing this time on soft grass. It was day, and she closed her eyes against the dazzling sun.

  She rolled to a stop beneath a merry-go-round. Willow tumbled out, landing beneath a seesaw, and Xander and Giles were thrown into a patch of weeds near the sidewalk.

  Buffy got to her hands and knees, peering out into a well-maintained city park. Sunnydale looked as it should. No burned-out cars. No swooping winged creatures. No stench of fire.

  And Angel?

  She helped the others up, then told Willow and Xander to get Giles to the hospital.

  “Where are you going?” Willow asked.

  “The library.” She didn’t need to explain more. Willow understood. Buffy had to see if Angel was alive.

  “What if Sunnydale’s all Road Warrior meets Blade Runner?” Xander asked her as she hurried away.

  “Run,” she called over her shoulder.

  She covered the distance to the high school in a matter of minutes, leaping over fences and cutting through backyards. It was still the weekend, she guessed, seeing no cars in the parking lot.

  She ran to the side door of the library, opened it, and ran inside.

  Lucien paced in the cage. He looked up when she entered.

  Angel sat in a shadowed corner, reading a book. His head lifted, and a broad smile spread over his face. “Buffy.”

  “Angel!” She ran to him, embracing him, kissing him. It had worked. She held him tightly, not letting go.

  “Mmmm … you should travel back in time more often,” he told her, hugging her back. She knew only hours had passed since he’d last seen her. But she had seen him killed and resurrected.

  She held him, not letting go, and turned her head toward Lucien.

  He’d stopped pacing and stood glaring out at her.

  She thought of torturing him, forcing him to reveal the location of the artifact. But she would wait for Xander. Too bad.

  Three hours later, with Giles resting at the hospital with Willow, Buffy and Xander returned to the small room. Xander powered up his metal detector, sweeping the floor and walls. Before long it beeped repeatedly, revealing the loose brick and the artifact within. He pulled it out, emitting a long, slow whistle when he took in the gem on top.

  “Bring this to Giles,” she told him. “He’ll know what to do with it.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I have someone to dust.”

  “Have fun.”

  “I intend to.”

  They parted, and Buffy returned to the library, pushing through the double doors. Lucien looked up nervously as she entered.

  “Your plan has failed,” she told him. “And I’m afraid there’s no reason to keep you alive any longer.”

  His glare melted away into fear. She walked to Angel and held out her hand to him. He reached into his pocket, produced the key to the cage, and placed it in her palm.

  She strode to the cage and unlocked it. Lucien drew farther back inside, pressing against the file cabinets.

  “Time for a suntan,” she told him, grabbing his arm. He struggled, bringing his hand up to strike her. She blocked the blow, dragging him out. He cleared the door of the cage and she spun him around, using his own weight to wheel him outward. She let go and he stumbled with the momentum, grabbed a desk, and stopped himself, still in the shadows.

  “Give my regards to oblivion,” she told him, and, leaping up, kicked him in the chest. He shot backward into a blinding patch of sunlight. Instantly his body caught on fire. Screaming, he flailed helplessly, then exploded into a plume of ashes.

  She stood, catching her breath, steadying herself against a table. It was over.

  Angel crossed to her in the shadows, pulling her into his arms.

  That night at Giles’s place, Xander and Willow sat with the wounded Watcher on the couch. Buffy sat next to Angel, balancing on one arm of his chair. He stroked her back.

  Her leg gave a twinge, and Giles’s arm hung in a sling. In front of him sat a cup of the hard stuff, Earl Grey.

  “Next time, let’s not get shot,” she told him.

  “Agreed.”

  “And next time,” Willow said, “let’s visit the Galapagos Islands before they’ve been discovered by humans, or take a nice, relaxing vacation on a virgin beach in Hawaii.”

  “A virgin beach that gets the Sci-Fi Channel,” Xander put in.

  “And has ancient ruins to explore,” Giles added.

  “At night,” Angel put in. “You guys had all the fun this time.”

  “Fun,” Xander said. “Last time I checked, fun was riding Space Mountain at Disneyland, not fighting for survival on an American battlefield, or almost getting sacrificed in blood rites.”

  “You were not almost sacrificed,” Giles told him in exasperation.

  “How do you know? They could have been working up to that just as we left.”

  “Yes, I’m sure they were, Xander,” he retorted. “After being in your company for several hours.”

  “Well, I for one caught up on my reading,” Angel said.

  “Oh?” Giles asked. “Did you read Deserot’s Compendium of Bothersome Demons and Musical Instruments of the Third Century? I left it for you.”

  Angel shook his head. “I couldn’t get past the nose flute section. That whole bit on cleaning mucus out of—”

  “Ew!” Buffy said. “Too much information.”

  “Yeah. That’s what I thought,” he said. “So I settled for Tess of the D’Urbervilles. You left it
at my place.”

  “That book must be downright cheerful for you, Angel. Enough brooding in it?” she asked.

  He gave her a wry smile. “Not quite. I’m reading Les Misérables next.”

  “Perfect,” Willow said, grinning.

  Buffy leaned back against Angel, who slid his arm around her. They’d done it. Here they all were, a little scratched, but alive. She’d not only met other Slayers, commiserated with them, and protected them, but she realized more than ever how valuable her friends were. Without them, she wouldn’t be alive. As Angel stroked her arm affectionately, and she looked across at the others, she realized how much she had to be happy about.

  And heck, this year she might even pass history.

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  John Vornholt has done many things in his life, from being a factory worker to being a stuntman, but writing has always been his first love. He’s written for magazines, television, movies, the theater, and computer companies, and he really enjoys writing books and telling a story one reader at a time.

  John lives with his wife, two kids, and two dogs in Arizona. Check out his website at www.sff.net/people/vornholt.

  Arthur Byron Cover was born in the Dark Ages, a few years before the invention of rock and roll. He is currently old enough to remember a time before Star Trek and Star Wars, if there is such a thing. He repairs his wheelchair himself.

  Today Cover can safely say he’s written several novels, a few of which sprang entirely from his own forehead, a handful of comic books, a couple of animation shows, various book reviews, and many drafts of two movie scripts. He has taught writing classes and has been co-host for a radio talk show dealing with science fiction and its sister genres. He manages an SF bookstore in Sherman Oaks, California, and shoots the breeze a lot.

  Alice Henderson has been writing since she was six. She holds a master’s degree in folklore and mythology, and she has studied the beliefs, traditions, and mythologies of many different cultures, from ancient Sumerian to Celtic and Mayan. In addition to several Star Wars video game manuals and strategy guides, she also wrote Night Terrors, a Buffy the Vampire Slayer title in the Stake Your Destiny series.

  An avid reader, Alice regularly devours books. Her pet rabbit, Captain Nemo, also avidly devours books, but in a different way. She lives in San Francisco, where she is at work on her next novel. Please visit her at www.alicehenderson.com.

  THE VAMPIRES LIVE ON….

  BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER 2

  HALLOWEEN RAIN

  BY CHRISTOPHER GOLDEN AND NANCY HOLDER

  BAD BARGAIN

  BY DIANA G. GALLAGHER

  AFTERIMAGE

  BY PIERCE ASKEGREN

  Turn the page for a sneak peek…

  It was getting late. In the dim moonlight, the statues atop the gravestones in the Sunnydale Cemetery cast strange shadow-shapes across the dark mounds under which the town’s dead lay. How long they might stay buried was in question, of course, since Sunnydale had another name. Early Spanish settlers called it Boca del Infierno. Buffy Summers didn’t need to habla to translate: She lived in the Hellmouth.

  Literally.

  The cemetery provided the clearest indication of the town’s true nature. Weeping stone angels became laughing devils. Hands clasped in prayer looked like ripping claws. Crosses hung upside down.

  Way boring.

  Buffy the Vampire Slayer stood just outside the cemetery and scanned the darkness among the gravestones for trouble. She sighed heavily as she leaned her elbows on the cemetery’s granite wall. October 30 was almost over. She’d been out on patrol for hours, and she hadn’t seen one vampire, one demon, one witch, one anything.

  Well, okay, one witch. In gym. But Cordelia didn’t count. She wasn’t supernaturally evil. She only acted like a broom rider. Buffy understood. Poor Cordelia was cursed with popularity, great clothes, and, no lie, she was a babe. Naturally she had to take her frustrations out on everybody who didn’t have it as good as she did.

  Buffy supposed she should count her own blessings. She and Giles, her Watcher, had both expected the Halloween season to be the equivalent of finals for her Slayer diploma. All through October she’d trained hard, kept in shape, and sharpened up some very thick and sturdy pieces of wood. She was psyched for slaughter. She was pumped for pounding.

  The little things a teenager gets excited about.

  But now, standing outside the graveyard, the only monsters she was fighting were major Godzilla yawns. Buffy was so not thrilled. She hadn’t seen any extreme vampire action for three weeks. Or much of anything else. Zip. Zilch. Nada. She’d been so bored she’d actually started to study. But that novelty was so over.

  Still, no vamp sightings. Wasn’t this cause for putting on a happy face?

  Ever since she’d found out she was the Chosen One, all she’d wanted was to be a normal teenage girl. Maybe even a cheerleader. To have a honey of a boyfriend, hang out with her friends, and try to graduate from high school while doing as little actual studying as possible.

  Instead, her extracurriculars centered around staking vampires, wasting monsters, and trying to keep her friends breathing long enough for them to graduate from high school. Much joy, what a treat. Smart, cute chick in desperate need of a life. But did she try to get a life? No, she wandered around looking for something undead to re-dead.

  Pathetic much?

  It isn’t bad enough I have to pull the night shift, Buffy thought, but how much more of a waste of time is it to be the Slayer when all the slayees are out of town or something?

  “Yo, dead guys,” she called mournfully. Then she shrugged. What the hell. Her mom would tell her not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Good symbolism: Teeth were a big issue in Buffy’s life. If you had long, sharp, pointy ones, she killed you.

  Not tonight. She was a soldier without a war. All dressed up and no one to destroy. Time to call it a night, she figured. Maybe Willow would come over for some American history tutoring and they could scarf all the Halloween candy Buffy’s mom had bought at the store. Or they could curl up with a good gory horror movie, the way Buffy and her mom used to do before Buffy had to burn down the gym at her old high school to kill a bunch of vampires, and they had to move to Sunnydale.

  Out of the frying pan, into the mouth of hell.

  From deep within the cemetery, a bloodcurdling scream pierced the night. Without hesitation, Buffy vaulted over the cemetery wall. She scanned left and right as she raced in the direction of the scream, dodging broken headstones, bushes, and tree roots. Just in case, she yanked open her shoulder bag and pulled out a stake. Boy Scouts and vampire slayers should always be prepared.

  Another scream, this one louder and more frantic.

  She ran faster, wondering what she would be going up against. One vampire? Two? A tribe of them? Or something she had never encountered before, a Halloween treat from hell? For half a second, she wished she had an elsewhere to be, but she brushed the thought away. She’d been looking for trouble. Now it had found her. She was the Chosen One, after all.

  Another scream—shriek, more like. Now Buffy could tell it was a girl’s voice. Screaming.

  “Oh, God, stop!” it went on.

  Afraid she might be too late, Buffy charged around the nearest headstone.

  A blond-haired girl was struggling and kicking on the long, marble slab top of a tomb. A dark figure held both her wrists in his clutches, and he laughed and lowered his head, aiming for her neck. The girl shrieked even louder.

  Buffy put one sneaker on top of a headstone and launched herself through the air. She tore the figure off the girl and they tumbled to the ground beside the tomb together. She threw him on his back, wrapped her hands around the stake, took aim, and—

  “Stop!” the girl on the tomb screeched in abject terror. “Leave him alone!”

  Buffy glanced up at the shadowed face of the girl’s attacker. It was John Bartlett, who sat across from her in trig class. And his “victim” was Aphrodesia Ki
ngsbury, his girlfriend.

  “What’s your damage, Buffy?” Aphrodesia yelled as John scrabbled away from Buffy. Aphrodesia threw her arms around him. “Insane much? Are you, like, asylum bound or what?”

  Buffy moved away from John, put the stake in her bag as calmly as she could, and cleared her throat. “Sorry,” she muttered. “I, ah, thought you were someone else.”

  She got to her feet. The two kids stared at her. She tried to smile, her face twisted into a grimace of acute humiliation. “Sorry,” she said again. “Ah, happy Halloween.”

  She turned around and squared her shoulders, walking back the way she had come with as much dignity as she could muster.

  “What a psycho,” Aphrodesia said, and didn’t even bother to whisper.

  “Way psycho,” John replied. “She’s a hottie, though.”

  “Jo-ohn!” Aphrodesia whined.

  Buffy could hear them bickering all the way to the cemetery wall. It was that disgustingly sweet bickering people did when they actually had a someone to bicker with. Buffy the Chosen One, the Slayer, the complete moron, went home to concentrate on eating all the frozen yogurt in the house.

  After all, tomorrow was another day. And another night.

  Halloween night, actually.

  And there had to be something to keep a Slayer busy on Halloween.