Buffy the Vampire Slayer 3

by Nancy Holder

  No, she thought wearily. This is definitely a job he’s going to want to finish himself.

  It seemed strange on this otherwise serene spring night that her thoughts were so chilling and bleak. In fact, it was more than strange. It was unfair. Mature as Buffy had become in the last few years, when the weight of the world was placed firmly on her shoulders, there was still a small petulant part of her that from time to time would cry out from the depths, It’s not fair! Grace had forgiven James for killing both of them when she tried to deny their love. There wasn’t a jury in the world that would convict Buffy when the day finally came for her to take Angel’s life. But the question of forgiveness plagued her. Was she going to have to forgive Angel before she killed him in order to find some sense of peace? Did she even have the power to forgive him? Or, more importantly, herself?

  It wasn’t fair.

  But in the life of the Slayer, that’s just the way it was.

  Unlike Buffy, Sunnydale High School freshman Josh Grodin had already finished his weekend homework. This was a good thing, since the last few hours sitting cross-legged on the floor in a circle of his own blood chanting by candlelight had left him exhausted, sweaty, and in no mood to think about algebra.

  Josh was raising a demon.

  At least, that’s what he hoped he was doing. It had taken him the better part of six months of hoarding his paper route money to afford the beetle dung, newt eyes, iddlywilde root, and various other strange components the spell required. Had he been forced to also purchase a spell book from the quaint little magic supply shop he’d found on one of Sunnydale’s seedier downtown streets, he’d have been a junior before he would have had a chance to make this work, but thankfully, the book in question had been found in the school library tucked between two reference books he’d been seeking about twentieth-century American poetry.

  He hadn’t bothered to check the book out. A handwritten notation inside the front cover and the absence of a date stamp tab in the back indicated that this book was the personal property of the school’s quaint British librarian, Mr. Giles. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, and though Josh thought of himself as a good, respectable kid, he had quickly thrust the spell book into his backpack the moment he’d found it, only realizing later that this time last year he would never have thought of stealing from the school, or the librarian, let alone had the guts to attempt it.

  But then, everything had been different a year ago. Josh had been a good student with a few close friends, and was a promising forward on the all-city soccer team. His father had been holding down a full-time job as a plumber’s assistant, and his mother had been alive.

  Three months after Josh’s mother had been diagnosed with cancer, she’d gone from the solid place on which his life was centered to a pale shadow of her former self. Alone in his room he had sobbed nightly for what seemed like distant delirious months as his mother teetered on the brink between life and death. At the time, he had believed that was as close to hell as he would ever come in this world, but once she was gone, he had been shocked and sickened to learn that hell had many circles and his mother’s death had only granted him access to the first and most mundane.

  His father, Robert, had taken his wife’s death even harder than Josh had. What had been in his mother’s lifetime a slightly annoying tendency to toss back a few too many beers once in a while with his fellow plumbers had become a daily ritual. It began with the top being popped from the first of at least a case of beer, followed by several bottles of harder stuff that usually left his father in a self-induced comatose state by the wee hours of the night. From this, he would awake midmorning in time to make a quick trip to the nearest liquor store and begin the process again by early afternoon.

  Disheartening as the beginning of the process was to watch, and disgusting as the end was to witness each night, the problem was the middle, the hours when Josh usually returned from school or practice to find his father alert and belligerent, waiting on the living room sofa to pick a fight.

  At first, Josh had tried to understand and be patient. Even when the abuse had escalated from verbal torments to the occasional shove or slap, Josh had reminded himself that his father had to be feeling as bad as he did. Surely, this would pass. But as the weeks turned into months, Josh had slowly come to accept the reality that his mother wasn’t the only parent he had lost. The monster that now padded around the house in his father’s old pajamas bore no resemblance to the man who had raised him.

  Josh was alone and defenseless. He had no idea where to turn. Even the school nurse didn’t question him when he told her he’d broken his arm in a skateboarding accident or received that huge black eye from an errant soccer ball. He needed help, and the answer to his prayers had come in the form of a dusty old book and an ancient incantation that would wake the spirit of a demon known as Hector, who, the spell promised, would be bound to protect the one who raised him until the end of time.

  Josh didn’t think it would take that long for his dad to get the message. A few rounds with Hector would surely be enough to make him understand that using his son for a punching bag was no longer an option. Maybe his father would just leave. Josh didn’t like to think much about what would come after that. He vaguely imagined himself surviving through the next few years on cereal and TV dinners. But whatever it was, it couldn’t possibly be worse than the life he was living right now. Hector would come and save him, and the rest he’d figure out later.

  The problem was he’d been chanting the incantation over and over for the better part of five hours, and so far, no Hector.

  Josh considered reaching out of the circle to grab the book, which was resting open on his bed only a few feet away, but he worried that breaking the plane of the circle, something the book clearly instructed him not to do once the ritual had begun, might mean he’d have to start again from the beginning, and he didn’t think he had that in him. He was also afraid that the blood he had procured by opening a vein in his arm and that had dried some time ago might no longer have the potency required to call the demon.

  Resigning himself to continue, he began the chant again, hoping he wasn’t making too much of a mess of the words. He thought they might be Latin, but most he could barely pronounce. Then he heard it.

  “Josh?”

  A guttural growl from down the hall, followed by the sound of kitchen cabinets being slammed open and shut.

  “Damn it, Josh!”

  Louder.

  Next would come the footsteps pounding their way down the hall. Then the incoherent shouting that was meant to communicate the rage his father felt at having already finished his day’s supply of whatever had been cheapest when he made his morning pilgrimage to the mini-mart.

  “Where are you?”

  Maybe he’d get lucky tonight. Maybe his father would forget that it was Sunday and Josh was home. Maybe his father would trip over his own feet on his way down the hall and pass out for a few more hours somewhere between the kitchen and Josh’s bedroom.

  Willing himself to remain calm and hold on to some of these happier thoughts, Josh began the incantation again. He could hear his voice rising in fear and panic, but he didn’t care. Truth was, the only thing that could save him this night was probably Hector. If he didn’t show up soon, all bets would be off.

  Suddenly something in the room changed. Josh couldn’t be sure it wasn’t his imagination, but it seemed that the temperature had dropped severely. The next thing he knew, the black pillar candle he held in his hands and all of the other candles surrounding the circle simultaneously blew out. As a twinge of excitement coursed through his veins, a small speck of bright light appeared at eye level and began to flutter before him. The light grew brighter, then, with a crack, the entire house seemed to shake on its foundation. It was like an earthquake that only lasted a fraction of a second.

  In the cold darkness, Josh heard a voice, and it was not at all the voice his imagination had already assigned to Hector.

  “Josh
ua,” the voice said, low, but almost sweet, “are you there, dear?”

  The bedroom’s overhead light flicked on, and Josh turned immediately to face the doorway, where a small, white-haired woman in a pink floral dress with a lace collar and very sensible shoes stood with her hand on the light switch.

  “There you are, dear,” she said kindly. “Do get up, and let’s find a rag to wash that floor. Bloodstains in hardwood can be very difficult to remove, especially when they’ve had time to set.”

  Josh had expected to be frightened when Hector appeared. The sight of this woman, whoever she was, did little to instill terror, though her presence and knowledge of whence she must have come did keep Josh riveted to the floor, despite her benign and almost grandmotherly demeanor.

  “What are you waiting for?” she asked a little more sternly.

  “Who are you?” Josh finally found voice to say.

  “I’m Paulina, dearest. But you can call me Polly. All my friends do,” she replied.

  “I thought, that is, I don’t mean to be rude,” Josh continued, choosing his words very carefully. “It’s just, I was trying to reach Hector,” he finished.

  “Oh, Hector got out of the protector business years ago. I think he spends most of his time now in that lovely dimension where everything is made of shrimp. Or perhaps it’s the one where there is no shrimp. It can be hard to keep track, you know.”

  “B-but…,” Josh stammered, unsure how to begin, let alone end the sentence that was forming on his lips. “How can you …” The question trailed off.

  “Protect you?” Polly replied, her face breaking into a wide and kind of disturbing smile. “You let me worry about that, Josh. And you worry about cleaning up this mess, all right?”

  Josh rose from the floor. He couldn’t say exactly why, but something in Polly’s firm and commanding nature told him that while she might not be the most frightening demon on the block, it probably wouldn’t be wise to cross her. The rags and disinfectant he would need to clean the floor were in the kitchen, and he paused before he reached the door, concerned that he would encounter his father between here and there. Polly had busied herself testing the surfaces of his bookcase and footboard for dust as he crossed the room, humming softly under her breath.

  “And don’t worry about your father,” Polly said suddenly, as if she’d been reading his thoughts. “He won’t trouble us again.”

  “What did you do?” Josh asked, suddenly extremely nervous.

  “What you wanted,” she replied.

  Josh shivered involuntarily.

  Swallowing his fear, he said simply, “Oh, okay. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome,” Polly said sweetly. “And when you get back, we’ll talk about what you’re going to do for me.”

  Josh couldn’t be sure why, but something in her tone and words filled him with cold dread. As he opened the door and quickly scanned the hallway, seeing no sign of his father, he silently wished that Hector had been the one to answer his call. His picture in the spell book had been terrifying to behold, but instinctively Josh knew that he would rather have faced a hundred Hectors than one Polly.

  Drusilla couldn’t sleep. She’d had a very full evening. Hunting in Sunnydale had a particular charm that even months after her arrival had yet to pale. Or perhaps it was just hunting with Angelus again. She had always felt a special bond with him. Of course that was natural between a vampire and her sire. But what she shared with Angelus was something more. He rarely, if ever, hunted merely for the sake of feeding. Had that been the case, any random passerby would have sufficed. Angelus had managed to elevate a simple biological need into poetry. And the past few nights had been particularly gratifying in that regard.

  Poor Angelus had been violated. His body had been invaded by love, and he was determined to purge himself of every last shred of love’s painful and disgusting thrall. She would have thought the toddler they had managed to snatch from its weary mother at the bus depot the very night he’d been possessed would have more than satiated his visceral need to bathe in evil. But each night since then he’d continued to ratchet up both the forcefulness and the foulness of his desires. Dru had found herself struggling to keep up, which was absolutely thrilling.

  But that wasn’t the source of her restlessness. She was troubled by a secret wish she had yet to put into words. Perhaps if she were to share her desires with Angelus, or her longtime lover, Spike, they might subside, but somehow she knew that neither of them, much as they adored her, would have any patience for the scandalous thoughts that refused to give her a moment’s peace.

  Drusilla had been toying with the idea for weeks now, ever since she, Angelus, and Spike had moved from the factory to the abandoned mansion on the outskirts of Sunnydale that they now called home. The mansion had needed work when they first arrived, most of which they had already accomplished. Though they spent much of their time in the spacious den, whose most impressive feature was a vast fireplace, or bathing in the moonlight that fell into the first-floor courtyard, the main floor’s master bedroom, which they had transformed with deep red velvet curtains and a massive four-poster eighteenth-century bed, had become Dru’s favorite room in the house.

  Only a few days after they had arrived, however, she had made her way through the second floor of the east wing.

  Three large bedrooms took up most of the space, but at the end of the hall, Dru had discovered a playroom. She could smell the remnants of many happy hours spent here by the children for whom the room had been built. It left her faintly nauseated. But at the same time, there was a tangible thrill to it.

  Her first thought upon entering the brightly colored room was to wonder if its former occupants had had any sense of how lucky they were to have had such a room at their disposal, or how she would have treasured the opportunity to enter the room while the children played and descend upon each of them, one at a time, filling their tiny souls with terror before they succumbed to the darkness that would be her final gift to them.

  But the thought that halted her in her tracks, and kept her awake these many nights hence, had come second. She found herself wondering why, in all the years she had spent roaming the world, it had never occurred to her. Since her new life as a vampire had begun, she had known all manner of vampires and demons. She had ruthlessly treasured every moment spent playing vile games and making new conquests with her beloved Spike and Angelus. They belonged to one another in a way that no living person could ever comprehend and with a dark depth that was both rich and satisfying. But neither Spike nor Angelus actually needed Drusilla; not the way the children for whom this playroom had been built had needed their parents or their siblings. Drusilla had been desired in life and adored in death. But had she ever been needed?

  There was only one answer before her. It both tantalized and terrified her. Something buried deep within her was actually vaguely repulsed by the thought, which in and of itself made it worth exploring more deeply.

  In her secret, no longer beating heart of hearts, Drusilla had decided she wanted someone to love and need her in a way that neither Spike nor Angelus could ever imagine.

  Drusilla wanted a child of her own.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Buffy was a firm believer in the two-and-a-half-day weekend. In fact, she wouldn’t have found any strong moral objection to a three-, four-, or five-day weekend, come to think of it. If she ever ruled the world, that would certainly be one of the first agenda items she would propose. In the meantime, she was almost as pleased as most of her fellow students that they’d been given Monday morning off and would start this short school week on Monday afternoon. It was a blessing, and such little gifts from the universe were rare enough in the life of the Vampire Slayer. It wasn’t world peace, but she’d take what she could get.

  Why the teachers of Sunnydale would be required to have an in-service day so close to the end of a school year, Buffy couldn’t imagine. Perhaps it had something to do with the extremely paranormal makeover the s
chool had received the previous week when the ghosts who possessed Buffy and Angel had been running rampant. It was possible that mysterious locker monsters, staircase landings that turned to quicksand, and plagues of wasps hadn’t been as easy to recover from as the more tame adventures of the school’s past—for instance, possessed students who ate their principal for lunch.

  Sometimes Buffy was grateful that she had been given the power to fight the world’s demons. But more often than not, as she passed small groups of students relaxing on the school’s sun-drenched front lawn before fourth period trading reviews of the movies they’d seen that weekend, Buffy wished that she were as blissfully ignorant as most of her peers. She vaguely remembered what it was like to live in a world that made sense, a world where the monsters under your bed at night were vanquished by nothing more than a reassuring parent’s smile and a glass of warm milk, a world where a girl was more concerned about which color nail polish was “in” this spring than how to get demon blood out of a favorite tank top.

  Unfortunately, being the Chosen One was a one-way deal. No one had considered whether or not Buffy wanted the job when she was called to be the Slayer. And strangely, knowing all she now did, even she could not say for certain whether or not she would have embraced her calling or refused it, had the “Chosen” part included any input from the “choose-ee.”