Buffy the Vampire Slayer 3

by Nancy Holder

  She groaned. Dead end.

  She leaped back through one panel’s worth of space and found another empty section to her left. Then to her left again. Then to her right.

  The calliope stopped playing.

  “Oh my God!” Stephanie cried somewhere offstage. “Help us, someone! Help!”

  “I’m here!” Buffy shouted. “Keep making noise!”

  “Oh my God! Something’s wrong with their faces. Their faces are … their faces …”

  She trailed off. Buffy went superalert, fearing the worst.

  “Stephanie?”

  “My face,” Stephanie said slowly.

  Uh-oh, sounds like she’s going into shock.

  The Slayer knew she had to pick up the pace. She flailed her arms as she began to run, crashing into another mirror. She tried to jump straight up, but the mirror reached down from the ceiling.

  “Stephanie?”

  She heard nothing.

  “David?”

  Nothing, squared.

  Then she whipped around a corner and flew down a straightaway.

  Stephanie!

  “Okay, you’re all right,” Buffy told her, coming up behind her and putting her hands on her shoulders.

  “Oh my God,” Stephanie whispered without turning around.

  “I know. It’s okay now. Let’s go save your brother.” Buffy wrapped her hand around Stephanie’s and turned to go.

  Stephanie stumbled, but she otherwise didn’t move. She was staring at herself in the mirror.

  “I’m so beautiful,” she said. “I am the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

  Wow, she had gone completely catatonic or something. “You are a thing of beauty,” Buffy humored her. “Now, come on.”

  Stephanie turned her head and studied her profile. “I never realized how perfect my nose is.”

  “We have got to go. Now,” Buffy said, putting her hands on Stephanie’s shoulders and looking hard into her myopic, very ordinary hazel eyes.

  “But I’m—I’m so beautiful.” Stephanie gazed back at the mirror.

  Buffy hoisted Stephanie off her feet and slung her over her shoulder, firefighter style.

  “Wait, no, I want to see myself!” Stephanie pleaded, reaching out with both her hands. “Am I still hot? I need to see if I’m still hot!”

  “You so do not,” Buffy muttered, and picked up the pace. Lucky thing about being the Slayer: Carrying a squirming body didn’t slow her down terribly much.

  She hustled on, stretching out her right hand as she held on to Stephanie with her left.

  And then she found David. One vamp was holding his limp body; the other was diving in for a good chomp.…

  “Hel-lo,” one of the vamps said as it turned and spotted Buffy, with Stephanie still over her shoulder.

  “Hel-lo,” Stephanie cooed at it. Oh, God, she was flirting with a vampire.

  “Shut up,” Buffy said sternly. She set Stephanie down. “Stay here.”

  “My eyes,” Stephanie sighed happily. “Do you see all the gold flecks in them?”

  “Glad you’re listening,” Buffy said. Then she launched herself at the vamp that was holding David, rushing it as she extracted the extra tree branch from the sleeve of Angel’s jacket.

  The vamp tried shielding himself with David. Buffy reached down and slipped her arm behind David’s knees. Then she lifted him up like a curtain, ducked underneath him, and rammed the tree branch through the vampire’s heart.

  It shrieked as it dusted. Number five came at her, and all she had to do was take another lunge forward and dust that one too.

  The other one took off. Buffy let it go as she caught David and set him down. He was only semiconscious, which was a good thing because it would keep the cost of his therapy down once this was all over and he started acting out. There were puncture holes, but the bleeding had already stopped, which was a good sign unless it meant that he was dead. Which he was not.

  The dead don’t drool.

  She tore off a section of his god-awful sweater, breaking the ends, and wrapped it around his neck like a scarf. He was wearing a green-and-brown-plaid button-down shirt beneath the sweater. It was hideous. He looked even nerdier than before, and she honestly had not thought that would be possible.

  “David, wake up. We have to go,” Buffy said to him, giving him an experimental shake.

  “Hey, what?” David murmured, half-opening his eyes. “You’re not Stephanie.”

  “Shh,” Buffy urged him. “Can you stand?”

  He nodded. She helped him to his feet, but he drooped over her shoulder and she picked him up. Then she turned to Stephanie, who was staring at herself again and said, “Earth to Stephanie Hahn. Your brother is wounded and we need to get out of here.”

  “Wh-what?” Stephanie blinked as if someone had slapped her. She was coming out of it, whatever “it” was. “Who—Buffy Summers? From school?” She looked around. “Where are we?”

  “Somewhere we shouldn’t be,” Buffy replied. “Come on.”

  Clearly perplexed, Stephanie took Buffy’s offered hand. Her brow wrinkled as she gazed at her brother.

  “Where are we? What happened?” Stephanie asked again, stumbling along behind Buffy. Buffy didn’t like having her there. It was a vulnerable position. But Buffy had to remain on point, which was even more vulnerable.

  No time to worry about it; she hustled along as fast as she could, bumping into mirrors, finding the path. There was a flash of red in the corner of one mirror; of green in another.

  “What are you doing here?” a voice demanded. It was low and deep, and from a darkened doorway about ten feet to the Slayer’s right.

  Moonlight silhouetted the figure of a man. Tall, thin, and hunched, and wearing a dress? There was some kind of hat on his head.

  A harsh fluorescent light flicked on.

  His face was thin, and long, and etched with lines like muddy ruts in a road. Long white hair tumbled down over his shoulders. He wasn’t wearing a dress, but a black satin bathrobe covered with stars embroidered in black. His red hat was the kind of hat an organ-grinder monkey wore, with a tassel and all that. Not that she had ever actually seen an organ-grinder monkey. But she had read about them during her Curious George period.

  His bony hand was on a light switch. Dark, purple veins bulged through the white skin. His fingernails were way too long. This was not a person who was going to stare into a mirror and tell himself he was hot.

  “Ah,” Buffy said. “Hi.”

  “Hey,” Stephanie added, letting go of Buffy. She sidled toward him. “New in town?”

  “Yes, I’m new in town. This is my carnival, and you kids are trespassing,” he snapped at her. He crossed his arms over his chest. He had hair on his ears, and the pupils in his eyes were a little too big.

  Buffy’s jangle vibes were off the charts.

  “Sneaking around, destroying my property …”

  The scrap of sweater had loosened around David’s neck, revealing the vampire bite. Moving fast, Buffy covered it with her palm and said, “No destroying—just wacky teen pranks. We came here on a dare and we kind of got lost and now it’s time to say good night, and we are so sorry.”

  “This is your carnival?” Stephanie said, drifting closer. “Wow. That’s so cool.” She actually fluttered her lashes. “I’m Stephanie. Most of my friends call me … Stephanie.”

  You have no friends, Buffy wanted to say. Was she actually coming on to this weird guy?

  The man swept his gaze up and down Stephanie, grinning with dark brown teeth. “You are very lovely,” he said.

  “I know,” she cooed, smiling at him like smiling at him was doing him a favor.

  He seemed charmed, which increased his skank factor. He tore his attention from Stephanie to David and said, “Is he all right?”

  “Just too much fun,” Buffy said. “He, ah, he goes to bed early because he’s a jock. …” She winced. There was no way David Hahn could be mistaken for a person who ex
ercised. He was thin and skinny and the destined-to-be-picked-on size.

  “I see.” He ticked his glance from David to Buffy. “And how are you feeling?”

  It sounded like a trick question. She kept her eyes wide and innocent as she answered, “Great! Never better. I’m all about staying up late and … leaving.” She nodded at him. “So, we’ll just do that.”

  At that moment David raised his head and blinked a couple of times. He looked at Buffy, then at Stephanie, and said, “Hey.”

  Buffy took that as her cue. “And I am feeling so very much all right that I can walk my friends home now. So.”

  “I was practicing my calliope,” the man said, his voice shifting. He was changing the subject. “I would have heard you sneaking around if I hadn’t been so devoted to my instrument.” He pulled back his lips, which would technically be termed a smile. Lots of dark brown dental problems. “Would you like to stay and listen for a while?”

  “Oh, no. No, we’re late as it is. We got kind of lost and … good fun house,” Buffy assured him. She recalled the one vamp getting away. “You might want to lock it up for the night. And maybe go into your … where you sleep, because there’s other, ah, kids out, you know, mischief-making.” And hang some garlic and crosses on the doors.

  “Your concern is touching,” he said. He slid his fingers into the pocket of his robe and fished around. Buffy tensed.

  Then he pulled out a handful of colorful cardboard rectangles.

  “Here are some tickets. Bring your friends. Tell them they can get in free legitimately during our operating hours.”

  “Oh, you are so nice.” Stephanie put her hand on his shoulder. He smiled at her.

  Concealing a grimace, Buffy took the passes, glancing down at them and reading aloud, “‘Professor Copernicus Caligari’s Traveling Carnival.’”

  He unpeeled Stephanie’s fingers from his shoulder and enfolded them between his hands as he bowed from the waist. “At your service. And you are …?”

  “Buffy. Summers,” she said. She didn’t like telling him. She wished she had told him her name was Cordelia Chase.

  “What a lovely name,” he said. “It has a certain … ring to it.” His voice was breathy, fake. She really didn’t like him.

  “That’s nice,” Buffy replied. “So now, good-bye.” She reached out an arm and grabbed Stephanie’s elbow. Then she took a couple of steps forward, making it clear that it was time for him to move away from the door and let them leave.

  “Good night, young Buffy. Dear Stephanie. And friend.” He indicated David with a nod.

  “He’s my brother David,” Stephanie announced. David bobbed his head. He still wasn’t a hundred percent back in the game.

  Professor Caligari made a big deal out of moving aside to let them pass. “Shall I walk you off the grounds?”

  “Oh!” Stephanie trilled.

  “No,” Buffy said quickly. “We are going. So, thank you. And seriously, there are some … gang members lurking around, and it might be better if you locked up for the night.”

  He raised his brows and cocked his head. His hair was so thin that she could see his ears through it. “Such concern. See you soon,” he said, waving his fingers at her, one at a time. He was very creepy.

  Buffy hustled Stephanie and David out of there as fast as she could without dragging them. Stephanie smiled at Caligari until she was walking backward.

  “Come on,” Buffy gritted.

  They walked back through the silent carnival, which Buffy found no less sinister on the return trip. The lightbulbs over the entrance had been turned off, and Buffy had only dim moonlight to navigate back toward the forest.

  “Where do you guys live?” she asked Stephanie.

  Stephanie gave an address that was surprisingly only two streets over from Buffy’s.

  Back onto the main drag, a car whizzed by, and Stephanie waved at it. Buffy figured she was trying to flag down a ride.

  A few vehicles later, a truck flashed its brights, slowed, and pulled up beside them. There were three guys in the back in Sunnydale High School letter jackets, and they started hooting and whistling.

  “Hi, guys,” Stephanie called, waving at them. She wiggled her hips and the guys burst into guffaws. “Can I have a ride?”

  “Oh, yeah, baby,” one of them shot back. “On the rear bumper!”

  “Hey,” Buffy said.

  But Stephanie didn’t seem to understand that she’d been dissed. She just laughed and waved as the truck took off.

  “What is your deal?” Buffy said under her breath.

  Stephanie’s body language did not alter as she said to Buffy, “Try not to be jealous. It’s not my fault I was born this way.”

  “But it is your good fortune,” David piped up, sliding his arm around Buffy. “I can have any chick I want, and you’re the one.”

  Buffy blinked at him. David had sort of activated—maybe it was the night air—and he had the goofiest smile plastered on his face. He was actually posing, his nose lifted into the air, his lids half-closed, his chest puffed out. It would have been pathetic if it had not been so out of character for him.

  He winked at her. “Don’t hate us because we’re beautiful.”

  “Okay,” Buffy said. “I am walking you both home right now.”

  She got them home; how, she did not know, because they put on a show for every car that drove past, waving and blowing kisses. Once she had pushed David into the house so he couldn’t try to do her another favor and kiss her good night, she realized it was nearly 2 a.m.

  If her mom had happened to look in on her in her bedroom only to find her missing, she would be grounded until she was as old and spindly as Professor Caligari. She’d talk to Giles first thing tomorrow morning about the weirdness of Caligari. And of his carnival.

  Buffy climbed up the duodera pine tree outside her house and flattened her hand on the sill. Climbed into the open window.

  A handwritten note rested on her bed. His handwriting.

  Hey, Buffy,

  Stopped by Bronze, then here. Maybe you’re out

  patrolling.

  A.

  Dejected, she quickly undressed and got into her pajamas—spaghetti-strap T-shirt and long pink pants with navy blue Japanese writing on them. She climbed under the covers and sank her head back on her pillow, sighing as her sore, tired body began to relax.

  Her mind returned to its regularly scheduled dozing: Anywhere But Here. Disneyland. Paris. Bakersfield.

  Okay, not Bakersfield …

  Her eyes grew heavy. She sighed and settled in … and she dreamed: of the Eiffel Tower, and Angel smiling; and flower fields spreading across acres and acres of land; and a river, and a valley, and a man with a long, lined face … and white hair … reflected in a mirror of red-flecked gold and glittering jewels. Caligari, his eyes glowing a deep bloodred.

  The calliope played, sinister and strange, the notes rising and falling …

  And the mirror filled with faces. Men, women, children, stretching in ways that bones could not stretch; eyes pulled wide, narrow, contorted with agony; screaming, writhing, begging …

  … and the calliope wail became their shrieks of terror and despair.

  As the Slayer groaned and dreamed on.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Giles sat by himself at a black lacquer table in the Lucky Pint and drank a black and tan. The Lucky Pint was the closest thing Sunnydale had to a pub, although it more resembled a Chinese opium den than, say, the Plough. The Plough was his favorite pub, all shiny brass and hunter green, located in the Bloomsbury section of London, near the British Museum. Just thinking of it made him homesick. By contrast, the Pint was garish in the extreme, decorated in the scarlet-and-jade-green color scheme Americans seemed to associate with things of the Orient—primarily, Bruce Lee movies and fortune cookies.

  He sighed and tapped the table to the rhythm of the song they were playing. “Piece of My Heart” by Janis Joplin. He used to listen to this very so
ng in London, after he’d gone down from Oxford. That was where he, Ethan Rayne, and the others in their black-magick circle had raised the dread demon Eyghon. They were all dead now, except Ethan; and if Giles had his way, Ethan would be dead one day soon. The sorcerer had tried to kill Buffy, offering her to Eyghon in his place. And Eyghon had possessed Jenny, who still hadn’t gotten over the ordeal, and was only now beginning to thaw toward him.

  If Ethan’s death came tomorrow, it would not be soon enough.

  Buffy had not checked in and Giles was a trifle worried. He still hadn’t figured out what the Rising was, and he wondered, not for the first time, if both of them were on a fool’s errand tonight: his Slayer, out looking for the Rising, and he, here to get information about it. Better to be near a phone, in case Buffy rang him up, than sitting here waiting for an unreliable informant who might or might not show.

  He moved his neck in a slow circle. He had a headache, and he was tired. He looked at himself in the mirrored wall beside his table. God, he looked old. Where had that angry young man gone? The one who had worn working-class clothes and an accent to match, and played the guitar like a very demon?

  That stuffy and proper man in the mirror had swallowed him up, forced him to be someone else, to grow up.

  Ripper, you’re not Peter Pan, he reminded himself. You have a Slayer to guide. You have responsibilities. So get over it, as Buffy would say.

  “Giles,” said a voice, although there was no reflection of its owner in the mirror.

  “Angel,” Giles replied, swiveling his head toward Buffy’s vampire boyfriend. He was tall, handsome, and unsmiling. Precisely the sort of bad boy Giles had been in his day. However, when one was over two hundred and forty years old, one hardly qualified as a “boy.” And bad men were something else entirely.

  “Did you bring Clem with you?” Clem was the name of a demon Angel had located at Willy’s Alibi. This Clem had offered to tell Giles about the Rising—for a small price, of course. In this case, it was not too high, although it was rather off-putting: It seemed he was part of a floating demonic poker game that placed bets using kittens.