by Nancy Holder
They put their arms around each other’s waists, touching heads, gazing into the mirror.
A voice whispered: “Mirror, mirror, on the wall, whose souls are the fairest of them all?”
“Ours,” Stephanie said, reaching forward to touch her image.
Her hand slipped through the surface … and then long, skeletal fingers grabbed her on the sides of her face and yanked her forward.
A bicycle horn blatted.
Outside, the carousel started up, drumming and clashing.
David shouted and held on to Stephanie, but she was pulled through the mirror, pulled … and he with her.
One scream, just one …
And the fun house plunged into blackness as maniacal laughter echoed through the twists and turns.
In the freak show Fairyland the eyes of the girl in the glass coffin flew open. They were completely black.
She pounded her fists on the top and sides of the glass. She kicked.
Vaclav, the Gypsy’s helper as well as the assistant in the Quasimodo costume, watched from the curtains, his fists clenched so tightly that blood dribbled from his palms.
Light flashed all around the girl in the glass coffin.
Opening the coffin lid, he reached out a hand to the girl. She blinked as if she had never seen a hand in her life.
Vaclav sobbed once, hard, as his heart broke. The coffin hadn’t worked. She was still ruined. And Vaclav knew whose fault it was.
He hated Professor Caligari.
Hated him with a vengeance.
As the carnival devoured the successfully tempted, Professor Caligari leaped off the Ferris wheel and soared through the air. Like a bat on the wing, he glided through the night wind, laughing as he landed on the shoulders of the Seven: his faithful jesters, Messrs. Vanity, Envy, Greed, Lust, Gluttony, Anger, and Sloth. The clowns capered and pranced.
“Have you been playing, Tricksters?” Professor Caligari asked the merry clowns with their painted-on faces and whirligig wigs.
In answer, they carried him to a shiny black dais before his wagon. As one, they fell to their knees, stretched out their arms, and buried their faces in the sawdust, salaaming the Great One.
Through the Employees Only gate the carnies poured in from the carnival grounds. Another day done. A few more souls absorbed. They would gather momentum. It was almost time. And then …
Shrouded in darkness, some of Professor Caligari’s loyal followers shambled out of their human skins, gathering them up and wadding them into rolls like sleeping bags. Tentacles popped free, faces caved in. Some rolled, some slithered. Some burrowed.
Others, who actually were human but in many cases centuries old, kicked back with cigarettes and popped open beer cans. The fire-eater from the freak show lit a fire.
The carousel creatures detached from their poles, stretching their backs and rolling their heads after long hours of being ridden by humans. The skeletal woman who rode the chariot materialized and took up the reins. Her phantom baby suckled at her desiccated ribs.
Madame Lazabra and Vaclav joined the gathering. Madame Lazabra carried a black velvet box studded with jewels. Vaclav was wearing a pair of jeans and a dark gray sweatshirt. He wore an earring in his left ear and tenderly held the hand of a beautiful young girl, who stumbled forward like a hypnotized maiden in an old-fashioned horror movie.
Her name was Sandra Morehouse, and she had hung herself last night while Professor Caligari was busy with their intrusive guests. His hold on her had wobbled after she had suddenly remembered that a month ago she had shot a man dead because he wouldn’t give her his wallet. Apparently that moment of clarity brought remorse so great that she had tried to end her life. A few hours in the magickal glass coffin in Fairyland had restored her—physically, at least.
Returned as well to his control, she would never again remember what she’d done. Of course, she would also never remember her own name, either.
One had to make trade-offs.
Still, it was a pity. Professor Caligari had thought she might make a fine wife for Vaclav, the Gypsy boy who had joined his retinue in 1856. Without his frightening makeup appliances, Vaclav appeared now as he had when he had joined the carnival, tempted by his lust for the fortune-teller. He had been strong and young, and so, rather than allow the soulcatchers to absorb his soul, Caligari had put him to work.
The secret to keeping him youthful and strong, of course, was annual stays inside the glass coffin. The magickal prism healed diseases and rejuvenated old bones and hearts. Caligari had created it himself after torturing a Middle Eastern mystic for the secret. All the humans took turns lying in it.
That counted him out, of course.
With a special smile for Vaclav, who he knew must be disappointed that Sandra’s mind was now gone, Professor Caligari spread out his arms in welcome. His long, thin face flickered in the glow from the fire as the monsters, demons, and human monsters gave him their full attention.
“It’s happening,” he announced. “Order in Sunnydale is breaking down. Murders and robberies are going up. The souls of the weakest are ripe for the plucking. In fact, as I speak”—he cocked his head—“two more are joining our traveling company.”
As Professor Caligari gazed into the faces of those who served him, he thought back through the many guises they had worn—as ancient Romans, Druids, witch finders, necromancers, dance-hall girls, snake charmers, contortionists—and the many places they had visited: the Folies Bergère in Paris, the Las Vegas strip, Renn faires, and county fairs. They had lured the unsuspecting with vaudeville revues, belly dances, magic shows, bear baitings, and witch burnings.
“It’s souls I’m after,” Professor Caligari reminded everyone. “And a few warm bodies to join our ranks. It takes a lot of manpower to run an operation like this.”
He gestured to the new recruit, Carl Palmer. Carl smiled dumbly at him and gave him a thumbs-up. Professor Caligari knew that if the young man’s mind were not so clouded, he, Caligari, might have another suicide on his hands. At the urging of Tessa, the girl who ran the coin toss, Carl had murdered his mother for the eight dollars in her purse. Not even enough for another roll of quarters.
But Carl didn’t mind anymore. Caligari had seen to that.
“As you know, Sunnydale is a special place. It’s on the Hellmouth. That means that the mystical energies here are more powerful than other locations in this dimension. Many of the souls we take here will be very, very special.”
He took on the tone and rhythm of an itinerant preacher of the Old West, or a man who traveled the plains in his magick wagon and dispensed potions and told fortunes.
“Friends, our business is the collecting of souls. It is our legal tender. It is our life’s blood.”
To the ignited background music of the carousel, he remembered those traveling days, days of steam locomotives, Comanches, and desperadoes. It had been harder to capture souls back then. There were fewer people, and they lived farther apart. In the pressure cooker of modern life, people cracked faster too. Folks back then were more suspicious. Also more fragile. A lot of them died before their souls could be collected.
“Humans,” the professor said derisively. “They are weak, fragmented, and unclean. They’re easily tempted, easily caught in the web of my soulcatchers.”
The clowns juggled their spheres higher and higher into the air.
“Mirror, mirror, on the wall, I am filled with lust, anger, vanity, greed, gluttony, sloth, and envy,” Professor Caligari intoned, in his special, hypnotic voice. “And when I see it reflected back to me, I seize it!”
The crowd laughed.
“Others … need a little coaxing.” He grinned at his worshipful followers.
“Scare them. Throw them off balance. Kill some, if you wish. But drive them to me. To survive no matter what the cost is their greatest temptation. Humans are so afraid of death that they will barter their own souls to avoid it. And so … I want you to stir it up here in Sunnydale. Terrify t
he inhabitants. Threaten them. Make storms and craziness. Whip them into a frenzy. They’ll find that only here do they feel safe. There’s something about the carnival …”
He snapped his fingers, and at once the carnie clearing wobbled and blurred, and became … the keep of a castle.
A church.
A cave.
“Something about being here that makes them feel safe,” he concluded. “But, of course, Professor Copernicus Caligari’s Traveling Carnival is the most dangerous place in Sunnydale for anyone with a soul.”
“And it’s about to become a lot more dangerous,” came a voice from inside Professor Caligari’s wagon.
The owner of the voice stepped from the shadows. Tall, dark-haired, and blue-eyed, an old “friend” of Sunnydale, and of Rupert Giles, the Watcher of the reigning Slayer: Mr. C. Haos.
Also known as Ethan Rayne.
Beside him, a huge puddle of blackness drooped its head, growling at the assembled masses.
“Heel, Malfaiteur,” Ethan said to the Rottweiler, yanking at the wickedly spiked chain around its neck. Then to Professor Caligari, “Thank you, Professor. I’m absolutely delighted to be working with you. It’s such an honor. I want to let you know that I will do all I can to help you with the downfall of Sunnydale. It holds such a special place in my heart.”
Buffy rammed her fist into the vampire’s face again. It was a bloody pulp.
Just like the faces of the three other vampires she had beaten … before she dusted them.
“You guys think you can hold out on me?” she demanded. “The Slayer?”
“N … no,” the vampire managed. It was a mess. Fairly new, and not a good fighter.
No challenge here.
She grabbed it by the arms and executed a mind-bendingly vicious knee strike to its groin.
The vampire howled.
“Remember this moment. No, wait. In about five minutes, you won’t be remembering anything. Because you’ll be a big pile of dust.”
She reached out her hand. Angel handed her the stake, running his hand up and down her arm as she got ready for the death blow.
“You have one more chance,” she said, showing the vamp the business end of the weapon. “Talk to me about the Rising.”
The vampire shook its head. “I just got here,” it insisted. “Came to town last night!”
She positioned the stake against its chest. “One more push and you fit in an ashtray,” she said.
“I don’t kno—”
Dusted!
The vampire exploded.
“God, it excites me to watch you fight,” Angel said, kissing her all crazy.
Crazy, crazy, crazy.
Then Angel hissed. He had vamped. He looked up at the sky and pulled Buffy into the alley beside Willy’s demonhangout bar.
“It’s getting light out,” she realized. “You have to go.” She pressed herself against him. “Now.”
“We have time.” He kissed her again. “Come on, we have time.”
Every part of her yearned to say yes. But she also knew it was too risky. In a few minutes Angel would be in grave danger from the sunlight. Willy couldn’t be trusted to keep him safe, and Buffy had to make an appearance at …
… home, she thought. Oh my God, I am so in trouble.
“Oh my God,” she said aloud.
“Is there a problem, ma’am?” came a voice from the other end of the alley. Woman, Southern twang.
Footsteps walked toward her and Angel.
“Hi,” Buffy said to the red-haired woman standing behind Angel. “Can I help you?”
Angel turned. “Claire,” he said.
The woman smiled. “Oh, hey. Evenin’. Fancy runnin’ into you in another dark alley.”
Buffy looked from the woman to Angel and back again. Her lip curved. Did this chick actually think Angel was interested in her?
“Let’s go,” she said, grabbing his hand.
Buffy and Angel reached her home and she climbed through the upstairs window. Angel stayed below, moving under a purple sky to reach his apartment. Buffy quickly changed into boxers and a baby tee, with no idea if her mother had waited up or what.
She crept downstairs and found her mom in the kitchen, asleep with her head on the table. Her big business checkbook was open. Buffy picked up a piece of paper and inspected it. It was the art gallery’s utility bill. It was overdue.
Another bill was for three months of the services of a security company. Unpaid.
A collection notice for shipping.
And she was going to take me shopping, Buffy thought. Something in her went pffffttt like a balloon. She had been all into herself, all swaggering around and flaunting how cool she was … and okay, Slayer. But also daughter.
She ran her fingers through her mother’s hair. Joyce Summers bolted awake, then smiled when she saw her daughter.
“I … oh, I fell asleep. I thought …” She sat up slowly. “When did you get in?”
“I’ve been upstairs,” Buffy hedged. “I didn’t realize you were in here.”
“Oh. Did you have a nice time? Did you get your homework done?”
The traditional Mom questions. Buffy felt like the worst of daughters, sneaking around and partying while her mom was worrying and scared.
Buffy offered her hand. “Let’s go upstairs.”
“All right, honey.” Joyce glanced down at the field of papers. “I’ll clean this up—”
“In the morning,” Buffy urged.
She put her arm around her mother’s shoulders and slowly they went upstairs together.
They kissed each other good night on the cheek and then Buffy brushed her teeth and climbed in bed.
If I’m so great, why can’t I help my mom? she thought. I was so arrogant tonight. Snotty to Giles … but what was his deal? He was so mean. Oh my God, he dissed me so badly.
She turned over. Her lips were sore from all the kissage. So nice. Angel was so romantic lately … their relationship was moving to a higher level, that was for sure. She had never dreamed a guy could kiss the way he did, be so focused on her. It was almost humbling. But not quite.
If we keep this up … we’ll seize the moment. I’m only sixteen.
But I’m the Slayer.
She began to drift. As the metal flashed in the night … silver …
Now Buffy’s car on the Ferris wheel swung jauntily at the very top, and all of Sunnydale lay at her feet.
“You are the queen of all you survey,” said the voice. “No one else has power like you. You are unique.”
“I’m the Chosen One,” Buffy said aloud. “Me. The Slayer. Tag, I’m It.”
“Super strength, super healing abilities. It must be difficult to pretend all the time. To be forced to conceal your magnificence.”
“It’s kind of a drag,” she admitted. “Especially when I get in trouble for it. School, friends, being the Slayer … it’s hard to juggle it all.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” said the voice. “I can change all that for you. You can shine like the shooting star you are meant to be.”
And then the Slayer was staring into something shiny. Her face stared back at her. She gazed into her own eyes.
“You were meant for greater things,” the voice insisted. “To take pride in your nature, not to hide it like something to be ashamed of.”
“Oh, I’m proud.”
“They don’t understand you. They don’t really help you. When it comes down to the wire, you always have to handle it yourself, don’t you?”
“They’re sweet; they try.”
“But you are the Slayer.”
“It’s a burden,” she admitted. “But they do help—”
“No. They get in the way. They slow you down. You’re only being nice. You would do much better without them.”
Buffy’s face looked back at her. It was kind of glowing.
“Look at you. You have a halo, like a saint. You’re a god. You’re above them. Don’t expect too much out
of them. That is so cruel.”
“I never thought of it that way,” Buffy confessed.
“You need to leave them behind. Handle things yourself. Alone.”
“Alone,” the Slayer whispered, to the sweet cadence of the calliope as it now drifted through her open window.
Because she was not on the Ferris wheel. She was in her bed.
And someone was gazing at her through a frame of curlicues and shining stones; a face, a horrible face, stretching and shifting and glaring and staring. And behind him, David and Stephanie Hahn, strapped down, things with knives moving toward their faces. …
Buffy groaned and turned over in her sleep.
• • •
Thursday, after school.
Xander had been sick all day, and got to stay home. Cordelia had given him a lift over to Giles’s, where they were gathering. Buffy had walked over, but Willow had yet to show.
And there were kittens.
One was gray and white, and one was black, and they weighed as much as a handful of feathers.
“And their names are?” Buffy asked as she nuzzled the black one with her cheek. Xander was lying listlessly on Giles’s couch, examining an assortment of little aluminum pouches of cat food. Cordelia was off in a corner, explaining for perhaps the two-dozenth time that she was allergic to cats. Every once in a while she would sneeze very daintily, and someone would think to mutter, “Bless you.”
“Names? I don’t know yet,” Giles said, with a faint hint of pink in his cheeks.
Buffy was glad things were back to better between them. She figured he didn’t know that she had overheard … what she had overheard. Maybe he’d just been letting off steam. He was under a lot of pressure. After all, he was kind of old, and out of his element.
“How about Barnum and Bailey?” Cordelia suggested. “Since we’re on a circus theme.”
“Carnival,” Xander corrected her. “Theme. Not a cruise.”
“Whatever.”
“Speaking of the carnival, any new thoughts on what’s going on?” Buffy asked.
Giles took a pouch of Little Friskies from Xander and tore it open. “Not so far. I was up half the night with the kittens. They make quite a lot of noise.” He picked up their already brimming dish from beside the couch and started to carry both it and the pouch into the kitchen. “They seem to have no interest in food.”