Buffy the Vampire Slayer 3

by Nancy Holder

  I should have what I want. And I want … everything, she thought.

  Without moving her head, Cordelia opened the bag and felt inside for the flashlight. There it was.

  She laid it across her lap. The clown swayed as it juggled; she could almost hear music as it danced. Calliope music, drifting on the wind.

  She got out of the car.

  Holding the flashlight down by her side, she shut the door and walked purposefully toward the jewelry store entrance. She put her hand around the knob. It was locked.

  So not a problem.

  She invented a limp and hobbled to the section of the window where the clerk stood with the choker in her hands. Making a sad face, she gestured to the door.

  Closed, the clerk mouthed.

  Cordelia could tell she recognized her. She should. She was in Yasumi, like, three times a week, lusting after that choker. It was one of the most expensive items in the store, and that was saying a lot because, hey, matched saltwater pearls the size of marbles were very rare.

  And very wonderful.

  The calliope music caressed her ears.

  With an apologetic smile, she pantomimed having to pee.

  The clerk debated.

  Cordelia pressed her hands together: Please?

  The woman relented, walking to the front door with the choker in her left hand.

  Cordelia tried very hard not to let out a whoop of sheer delight.

  She glanced around.

  The clown had vanished.

  The woman opened the door. She was wearing a black sweater and black pants, and she had on a single teardrop black pearl pendant and matching earrings. Cordelia had to restrain herself from tearing them right off her.

  “Thanks,” Cordelia said brightly.

  “Hi. It’s Cordelia, isn’t it?”

  “Uh-huh.” Cordelia gestured to the necklace with her right hand as she hid her flashlight behind her back using her left. “Wow, great timing. I was just about to break your window to steal that.”

  The woman laughed. “You have such excellent taste,” she said. “The bathroom’s in the back. I’ll show you.”

  “Thanks,” Cordelia said again.

  The woman led the way. Cordelia followed. The clerk pulled a ring of keys out of her pants pocket and inserted one of the keys into a door with a placard that said EMPLOYEES ONLY.

  “Here we go,” the woman said as she pushed the door open.

  “Yes,” Cordelia said. “Here we go.”

  She transferred the flashlight to her right hand, raised it over her head, and brought it down hard on the back of the clerk’s head. The woman grunted and crumpled to the floor.

  Cordelia fell to her knees beside the woman and eased the choker from her limp grasp. Nice sweater. She thought about taking it, but she was in too big a hurry. She put the choker in the pocket of her pants.

  She grabbed the clerk by the wrists and dragged her into the bathroom. It was functional and nothing more; you’d think a store that charged the prices Yasumi did would have something a little nicer.

  There was a skylight of frosted glass; in the moonlight Cordelia caught sight of a roll of silver duct tape on a white wood shelf above the toilet.

  She picked it up. There was a box cutter, too. How handy. She retrieved them, then bent down and wound the tape around the woman’s head, completely covering her mouth. Then Cordy wrapped her wrists together, and then her ankles.

  She remembered from all those cop shows that she should wipe for prints and keep the evidence.

  Then she grabbed up her flashlight and wrapped her sweater around the bathroom doorknob, making sure the door locked after her.

  As she began to cross the showroom, she glanced at the assortment of black velvet boxes laid on the counter. The clerk had been putting everything away.

  I’ll need earrings to go with this, Cordelia thought as she stopped in front of a mirror on the counter to put the choker on. Boxes were piled up all around it. And rings. And pins. I’ll take it all!

  There were footsteps behind her. Catching her breath, she glanced into the mirror. She saw nothing.

  Oh my God, is it a vampire?

  The footsteps drew closer.

  And something growled.

  Just before it sprang.

  It was nearly eight fifteen at night, and they were making progress.

  Willow looked up from the Hans Von Der Sieben website and said to Ms. Calendar, “Here’s something. His name was actually Caligarius. He was called ‘Hans of the Seven’ because it was said that he lured people into his cult with ‘pleasures of the flesh.’ But in reality he was snaring their souls by getting them to give in to temptation.”

  “Let me see that,” Ms. Calendar said.

  The two were sitting in the computer lab, each at a Mac. The smart, beautiful dark-haired woman was dressed in one of the long, earth-tone skirts she favored, plus a silky chocolate-brown sweater. And boots. She had such good clothes.

  Because of the job, and the money, and of being grown-up and smart.

  After the weirdness at Giles’s condo, Willow had not gone home as Giles had told her to. She was terribly shaken by what had happened. Buffy and Giles had practically come to blows. If Willow and the others hadn’t been there, she wasn’t sure if the situation between Slayer and Watcher might have escalated.

  So Willow had walked to the school—Giles lived close by—to see if Ms. Calendar was there. Luckily, she was.

  Willow had told her everything—including the fact that she was beginning to suspect that all of them were under a spell.

  “I just don’t know what my spell is,” she said. “I’m so clueless. But I figured you would be able to figure it out.”

  “That’s sweet, Willow,” Ms. Calendar said kindly. “But you’re not clueless. You’re very bright.”

  I’m a nerd, Willow thought. I would give anything to be like you.

  “Temptation. That’s interesting,” Ms. Calendar said, coming around Willow’s chair to lean over her shoulder.

  Willow scrolled down the list, reading aloud. “‘The temptations were seven in number: Lust, Envy, Vanity, Greed, Sloth, Anger, and Gluttony.’”

  Ms. Calendar nodded, scanning silently as Willow read aloud. “Hmm, mine’s gotta be lust,” she murmured, then cleared her throat. “Have the others been exhibiting these traits?”

  “Well, with Cordelia, it’s hard to say because vanity … oh, wait.” She thought hard. “The Hahn twins went into the fun house and they couldn’t stop staring at themselves. That’s what Buffy said, and then they thought they were hot.”

  “Vanity,” Ms. Calendar confirmed.

  “And Giles keeps losing his temper,” Willow continued.

  “He does?” she asked. Willow nodded.

  “Anger,” Ms. Calendar said. “What about Xander?”

  “Oh my God, of course! Gluttony.” She made a face. “He kept burping and I think he ate some cat food.”

  Ms. Calendar wrinkled her perfectly shaped nose. “So, that’s two for vanity—Cordelia and those twins—and anger, for Rupert.”

  “Angel’s been far more, um, physically affectionate in public,” Willow added.

  “That would be lust as well.” Ms. Calendar tapped the screen. “So that leaves sloth, greed, and envy.”

  “Mrs. Palmer was robbed for the money in her purse,” Willow said. “Oh my God, could it be that Carl got infected by greed?”

  “It seems possible.”

  Ms. Calendar even smelled good. Willow flared. Why did Ms. Calendar get everything? And she got nothing?

  “What about Buffy?”

  “I think anger, too,” Willow said. She clenched her jaw. After all her work, Ms. Calendar was going to put the pieces of the puzzle together. She’d solve it and everyone would think she was a genius as usual, and she was not.

  I hate her, Willow thought fiercely. She was staring at the face of Hans Von Der Sieben as her fingers clenched like claws. She has everything, everything
, and I—I just—

  “Giles took this other teacher to the carnival,” she said. “Really pretty. Very smart. Well employed.”

  Ms. Calendar’s lips parted. “Oh.”

  “Yeah. I think he really likes her,” Willow said savagely. That’ll take her down a notch.

  Ms. Calendar swallowed. She glanced over at the list of temptations. “You know, these are also known as the Seven Deadly Sins,” she said slowly. “One doesn’t just yield to them, one commits them.”

  She smiled gently at Willow. “Yours must be envy.” She put a hand on Willow’s shoulder. “I think you are under a spell.”

  Willow was startled. “How—how do you know?”

  “Because you are the kindest girl I know,” Ms. Calendar said. “You would never intentionally hurt someone. Especially not someone you care about. And you care about me.”

  Tears welled in Willow’s eyes. “But I—I … what do you care if I try to hurt you? I’m nothing.”

  “Let me sit down,” Ms. Calendar said, putting her hand on Willow’s shoulder. “We have a lot of work to do.”

  The kittens scattered as Giles slammed his front door shut. Sweat rolled down his forehead as he got a bottle of Scotch from the kitchen cabinet and poured himself a drink. His hands were shaking.

  He threw it back, drank another.

  There was a black book lying open on his table. It was the grimoire he and Ethan had used to summon the demon Eyghon. They had paid a pretty penny for it, and he had carefully packed it away when he’d moved to Sunnydale.

  When did I put it there? he wondered. Has someone been in here?

  He looked around and decided he didn’t really care.

  He carried the bottle with him, drinking from it as he began to turn the thick vellum pages.

  He couldn’t raise Eyghon again. The demon inside Angel had killed it. But there were other dark gods he could call. And he would, just to show Buffy who was boss. Take her down a notch. Make her more malleable, compliant.

  “Kill her.”

  “Yes,” he hissed. The letters swam before his eyes as fresh rage overtook him. Why not? She had ruined his life. All that was precious, all that was dear, she sullied it.

  He pressed the bottle to his lips and guzzled down the alcohol.

  He heard a sound outside his window. Was that a bicycle horn?

  As if in fright—or perhaps to be playful—one of the kittens scampered toward him and leaped on top of his shoe.

  “Get off me,” he said between clenched teeth. “Or I will kill you, too.”

  Everywhere Buffy went, there she was. And that was so very.

  Loved the carnival. Loved herself. And why not? What was not to love?

  She saw her face in a dozen mirrors as she rode the Octopus and the Tilt-A-Whirl. Another dozen in the totally lame Chamber of Horrors.

  Lucky thing I’m so hot, she thought as she strutted down the midway.

  Sensing her power, the other fairgoers glanced at her and hurriedly ducked out of her way. Make way, make way, Slayer coming through! No one protested when she cut in line to go on a ride. When she reached her hand into a little kid’s popcorn bag, he whimpered and ran away, letting her keep it.

  Mmm, wow, best popcorn I ever had!

  She sauntered up to a game booth. People were throwing coins onto plates and into cute little baskets made of glass. No one was winning anything.

  “I’ll show you how it’s done,” Buffy said to a tall guy wearing a UC Sunnydale sweatshirt. She grabbed a quarter out of his hand.

  “Hey!” he said.

  She ignored him, zeroed in on a purple glass basket, and flipped the coin into the air.

  It turned end over end, catching the light, and then it landed with a satisfying clink inside the basket.

  The white-faced girl working the stall jerked up her head. She looked from the basket to Buffy to the basket again, and the look of complete and utter shock on her face made Buffy laugh aloud.

  “What?” she called to the girl. “Haven’t you ever seen anyone win a prize before?”

  “You …” The girl swiveled her head to the left and the right, as if she was looking for someone to tell her what to do next.

  “That’s mine,” Buffy said, pointing to the basket. “And I want it now.”

  “Technically, it’s mine,” the guy said, his gaze riveted on the basket. “Since you used my quarter.”

  The girl hadn’t moved. So Buffy hopped the counter and sauntered toward the display. Now the girl looked even more freaked.

  “Security,” she called, but her voice was barely a whisper.

  “I’ll just take this,” Buffy announced. She bent over and plucked the purple glass basket from the tower of prizes. She smiled at the girl. “You’re freaking out because no one’s supposed to win, right? Because the game is rigged.”

  She tossed the basket in the air and caught it. She saw that she had the attention of the other players and hopped onto the wooden barrier.

  “They’re cheating you, people! And you’re just too stupid to see it!”

  She threw back her head and laughed at them all as she jumped to the ground. Sawdust flew.

  She said to Quarter Guy, “Mine.” Waved it under his nose. “Want to fight for it?”

  He took a step away from her.

  “You’re smarter than you look,” she said. “Guess this is your lucky day after all.”

  With a harsh laugh, she sauntered off. People made way for her. It was her due.

  She reached the end of the line for the Ferris wheel and snickered. Slayers didn’t wait in lines. She started to walk around it, planning to cut, when she heard her mother calling her name.

  “Buffy?” Joyce was standing in line, about six people from the end. That wasn’t good enough for the mother of the Slayer.

  “Hey,” Buffy said offhandedly.

  “Hi, honey, I didn’t expect to see you here,” Joyce went on. “Of course, I don’t see much of you these days.”

  “You’ve been busy,” Buffy said generously. She took her mother’s hand. “If you want to ride, you really don’t need to wait,” she said. “We can just go to the head of the line.”

  Joyce drew back, firmly planted in line. “Buffy, we need to wait our turn just like everyone else.” She cocked her head, a quizzical expression on her face. “Are you feeling all right?”

  Buffy shrugged. “Never better.”

  “Good,” Joyce Summers said slowly, still giving Buffy the once-over.

  Move along, Mom. Nothing to see here. Nothing going on.

  “This place is fun,” Joyce continued. “I was sitting at home working on the bills … just some paperwork,” she amended. “And I heard the calliope music, and I thought about when you were a little girl. We took you to the circus.” She looped Buffy’s hair behind her ear. “We took you everywhere.” Her voice grew wistful. “There was more money then. I didn’t know how good I had it.”

  She cleared her throat. “Anyway, I decided to come to the carnival.” She wrinkled her nose and added conspiratorially, “I had my palm read in the fortune-teller’s tent.”

  That piqued Buffy’s interest. As she rearranged her hair from around her ear, she asked, “What was your fortune?”

  Joyce laughed softly. “Oh, the usual false optimism they dish out at things like that. Fame, fortune, love.” She made a face. “I must have a sign on my forehead that says ‘Needs encouragement.’ I envy people who can make themselves believe in horoscopes and crystal balls.”

  “Well, some people think they’re real,” Buffy ventured. “The horoscopes and crystal balls.”

  “That’s what I mean. I guess I’m just too grounded in the real world to believe in the occult.” Buffy could hear the strain in her voice. “It would be so nice not to be so well-informed.”

  “We can make our own luck,” Buffy insisted. “Or at least, I can.”

  “That’s my girl,” Joyce said warmly.

  The line moved quickly—lu
cky thing, or Buffy would have been tempted to persuade Joyce to change her mind about cutting—and soon they were in one of the little swinging cars, which were painted black. They looked like black coffins, to Buffy’s way of thinking. But then, her mind ran to things like coffins. And falling to her death from the top of the Ferris wheel.

  “Ours is number seven,” Buffy told her mom as they zoomed backward on the exterior of the massive wheel. Chilly night wind blew in their hair.

  “How lucky,” Joyce teased, sitting back.

  Drunk, in a full fury, Giles had stripped down to his pants. He was bare-chested and barefoot, and he meant business.

  Teach her a lesson. Make her sorry. Make them all sorry. Make them pay.

  He was sweating and dizzy, and so drunk he could barely think straight. But he knew what to do.

  Surrounded by candles, Giles swayed in the center of the pentagram he had drawn on his carpet with melted wax and blood. He had retraced the pentagram on his chest, with a knife. The letters of the profane name of Astorrith formed from the cuts, and threw glowing black light against the walls of his condo.

  Shadows moved over the ancient maps and framed photographs of home, hissing and whispering. The minions of Astorrith had been awakened.

  Blood dripped from Giles’s hands; he had performed the sacrifices and uttered The Names That Must Not Be Spoken, thrice, thrice, thrice.

  “Baal! Cthulhu! Jezebel! Wake your brother Astorrith! Bid him come! I command thee!”

  Lightning flashed across the front window, blacked out in part by a shape—a figure wearing a small pointed hat. Giles figured it was a minion, stepping through the veil. A sign that his spell was working.

  That meant that the dark god would come to him directly. The time was at hand.

  He raised his arms and threw back his head.

  “Astorrith, Dark One! Lord of Revenge and Retribution! I have been wronged and I have suffered! I have been insulted and humiliated! See the slights heaped upon thy acolyte and wreak havoc on my enemies! Vanquish all who plague me!”

  He bent down—it was a long, shaky road—and plucked up the Blade of Astorrith in his right hand and his grimoire in the other. He began to read.

  “Ta-mir-o,” he began. “Dark God of Shadows and Tumult, I summon thee! From the depths of confusion and tumult, rise up! Bring the Wild Ones with you and smite my blood enemy, Buffy Anne Summers! Wreak havoc on her land! Fill her days with storms and monsters!