by Nancy Holder
They were now both poised for battle. Ten kinds of tension cracked between them like a whip.
“Jealous much?” Buffy asked sweetly.
Angelus threw back his head and laughed, but there was no joy in it.
“Get over yourself,” he replied.
“You first,” she tempted, then dropped her right shoulder as if she was about to turn away and, as he instinctively moved in, rewarded him with a quick spin-kick that landed squarely midshoulder and sent him reeling to his left.
Once the battle was on, all thoughts melted away. There was nothing in the world but this moment, this fight. There were plenty of demons that Buffy could fight these days with half a night’s sleep and one hand tied behind her back. Angelus wasn’t one of them.
The past few times they’d met like this, Buffy had developed the distinct impression that Angelus was toying with her. He parried her punches and kicks with a graceful ease, never inflicting too much damage when he went on the assault. She pressed hard, taking each advantage that came her way, forcing Angelus farther from the main street, leading him into the more densely wooded park.
Once they’d found a little privacy, Buffy intensified her attack. A solid punch to his head sent him reeling back, and she followed it with a roundhouse kick that knocked him to the ground. In any other fight, this would have been the moment to go for the kill, but Buffy stepped back, not from fear or hesitation but simply because she knew Angelus and how he fought. He was trying to lure her into a position that would reverse their momentum. He wasn’t seriously damaged by anything she had inflicted so far, and he wasn’t tired. But if she hadn’t fought by his side a hundred times before this, she would never have suspected it.
He rose from the ground with a smile on his face. “That all you got, gorgeous?”
“Oh, I’m just getting warmed up,” she replied, catching her breath.
Angelus’s retort was a direct charge that threw Buffy to the ground on her back. He tried to pin her down, but she carried his weight forward, throwing him off, and scurried in the opposite direction as he recovered.
“Looks like someone’s learning some new moves,” Angelus taunted. “Is your little hot Toddy teaching you more than history? Almost makes me sorry I was your first. I might have actually enjoyed myself if you’d known a little something about men instead of making me do all the work.”
There were two interesting pieces of information in this last remark for Buffy. The first was that Angelus knew at least some of the specifics of her study sessions with Todd, which would indicate that he was watching her more closely than she was aware. The second was that even though he was hiding it in an insult, he really didn’t like the idea of anyone being closer to her than he was.
Of course those two thoughts would only rise to Buffy’s conscious mind several hours later when she was replaying the fight in her head and dissecting it, free from the emotional intensity of the immediate conflict. All she heard at that moment were the words “sorry I was your first.”
She’d told herself a thousand times that the things Angelus said to hurt her had nothing to do with what Angel might really have thought about their first and last night together. But every time Angelus pricked her with this particular barb, Buffy immediately wanted to claw at his eyes, pound his face into a bloody pulp, and refuse to let up until he was a mangled, miserable, tortured shadow of his former self.
But even this short time to grieve had taught her something else. Angelus wasn’t the only one who knew how to play dirty in a fight.
So instead of lashing out with her fists, she rose calmly from her crouch and, squaring her shoulders, said simply, “What Todd and I do in my bedroom is none of your concern. He’s taught me things that a cold, lifeless stiff like you never could. He’s not one to waste his time whoring and gambling and drinking himself into oblivion like you did back in the day; he’s worked hard to earn what’s his. He pleases me, Angel, on a level you never could.”
For a moment, there was silence. Angelus seemed to pale a little more in the moonlight, but that could have been a trick of the darkness. Only when he leaped forward, throwing her to the ground and pinning her hands above her head, did Buffy feel a tiny surge of delight in knowing that she had actually managed to hurt him.
He lowered his face to hers, giving her a moment to fear the fury she saw in his eyes even as the Slayer inside her sought a maneuver that would throw him off of her.
“Never forget this,” Angelus hissed. “There is nothing you can love in this world that I cannot take away from you.”
“No, Angel,” she replied, “there is nothing in this world that you can keep me from loving—not anymore.”
Angelus’s grip around her wrists tightened. But she no longer worried about having pushed him too far. Finally, he was the one who was knocked off balance by her. The power of this knowledge was intoxicating.
She was about to embrace the advantage and throw him off her, setting up for the kill, when he bent his face closer, his lips almost touching hers.
“Finally,” he said softly.
Finally what? A part of her mind that she refused to give voice to demanded.
But he answered her unspoken question when he continued, “You’re almost worth killing.”
“And you’re almost a bad memory,” she replied, thrusting her knee into his back.
But her knee met empty air. In a flash, Angelus was gone and Buffy rolled over onto the ground, winded and weak. She waited for the sobs to come, rising from the depths of her wounded heart and pouring out onto the dry earth.
They didn’t.
Instead, a cold chill made her shudder as she realized that, great as her victory this night was, it had come at a price that would probably cost Todd his life.
CHAPTER SIX
There was no easy way for Buffy to tell Todd everything he needed to know about the danger in which she had unintentionally placed him. She knew that somewhere out there a Slayer handbook existed. Kendra had told her about it shortly after they’d met and Giles had confirmed its existence though admitted he’d never shown it to her because he hadn’t felt it would do much good. As she toyed with the telephone in her bedroom, Buffy wondered if “Uncomfortable Conversations with Cute Boys Who Might Want to Date You” was a chapter she’d find there.
If she ever learned that it was, she was going to kill Giles for not sharing, but she seriously doubted the words “Cute Boys” even appeared in the handbook, unless they were followed by the words “are usually eaten alive by …”
She did the best she could. At least Todd hadn’t answered the phone when she called, so she managed an almost intelligible message, including the high points of the jealous ex-boyfriend who had learned that Todd was tutoring Buffy, and not inviting any strangers into his home if he could help it. Truth was, if Angel wanted Todd dead, there was little short of guarding him twenty-four hours a day she could do to protect him, and somehow she knew Giles would never go for that idea. At any rate, she was pretty sure that Todd wasn’t going to be looking at her with that sweet, mysterious kind of hope in his eyes anymore once he heard her message. Maybe it was for the best. Besides, what was with that angry phone call near the park?
Then again, who died and made me center of the universe? Buffy thought as she changed into her pajamas. Odds were, whatever Todd was so upset about had nothing at all to do with her.
Contrary to her usual routine, Buffy’s head hit the pillow within minutes of hanging up the phone. It was as if her pre-bedtime ritual of an hour of anxious love-life ruminations had never existed. The next things Buffy was conscious of were the sun sweeping through her bedroom window and her alarm blaring in her ear. Unfortunately, she still felt as though she’d been up all night.
As she entered the kitchen, she realized with alarm that she wasn’t the only one in her house this morning who was sleep-challenged. Joyce stood before the stovetop, a griddle of burning pancakes before her. Even the rancid smoke rising to her no
se wasn’t enough to wake her. Buffy’s mom was literally asleep on her feet.
“Mom!” Buffy shouted, startling Joyce into a conscious state as she grabbed the griddle and moved it off the stove and into the sink.
“Where am I?” Joyce muttered.
“Trying to set the kitchen on fire,” Buffy said, running water over the griddle and forcing the burnt pancakes down the garbage disposal. “And while I appreciate the effort, haven’t we discussed avoiding heavy machinery until you’ve had your coffee?”
“I’m sorry, honey,” Joyce replied, moving gingerly toward the coffeepot and pouring herself a large cup. “I don’t think I slept a wink last night.”
“Are you still doing inventory?” Buffy asked.
“Am I? No, we finished yesterday afternoon,” Joyce replied. “I guess I’m overtired.”
“Stress will do that to you,” Buffy said, then added, “Maybe you should take the day off and get some rest.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Joyce snapped. “Haven’t you come across the definition of the word ‘responsibility’ in any of your tutoring sessions?”
“Easy, Mom. It was just a suggestion,” Buffy replied, a little wounded by Joyce’s tone.
“I know, Buffy. I’m sorry,” Joyce said sincerely. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me this morning.”
“Hopefully nothing that a bowl of cornflakes won’t cure,” Buffy replied, pouring cereal for them.
“I think your faith in the power of corn might be misplaced, but I guess it’s worth a try.” Joyce smiled. “At least they don’t have to be cooked.”
Fifteen minutes later, Buffy was on her way out the door to join her mother in the car when the phone rang. “Hello?” she answered briskly.
“Hey, Buffy, it’s Todd,” came a slightly husky morning voice through the receiver.
Damn.
“Hi, Todd,” Buffy said, attempting to sound as cheerful as possible. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to hear from him. She just wasn’t looking forward to hearing him tell her that he didn’t tutor crazy people and ending their relationship right then and there.
“I got your message,” he began.
Here we go.
“Okay,” she replied.
“It was …”
Insane?
“Really sweet of you to worry about me,” he finished.
Buffy heaved an audible sigh of relief.
“It’s probably nothing,” she lied. “I just … I’ve had problems in the past—”
“Oh, you don’t have to explain,” he interjected. “I was just wondering …”
“Yes?”
“Well, we’re only supposed to do four sessions a week, but I thought you might want to get together tonight.”
“Oh.” Buffy smiled in genuine surprise.
“Or, if you’re not up for it, maybe we could just get some coffee, or something.…”
Joyce lay on the horn from the driveway, and Buffy jumped.
“I’d really like that,” Buffy said honestly. “Thing is, I’m not sure what the rest of my day is going to be like yet. Can I call you later?”
“Sure,” he replied, Buffy’s spirits rising even more at the faint disappointment she was sure she heard in his voice.
“Great,” she said. “Talk to you soon.”
“Can’t wait.”
Willow didn’t know what was wrong with her. Ms. Hegel was giving a perfectly fascinating lecture on the symbolism of dreams, and she’d been keeping her dream journal for weeks in preparation for this section of her life sciences course, excluding, of course, her favorite recurring dream that featured her and Oz swimming in the inflatable backyard pool Xander had popped when he and Willow were seven. Sometimes she was naked in the dream, though Oz was always fully clothed, and usually wearing mittens. Still, she didn’t think that particular dream was any of Ms. Hegel’s business, so she hadn’t felt too bad about leaving it out. The only other omission in the journal was for the past few days and that hadn’t been intentional. Willow simply didn’t remember having any dreams since Monday, and she didn’t think she’d be graded down for that since she already had two full spiral notebooks completed on the assignment.
The problem was, she couldn’t concentrate. Though Ms. Hegel seemed less perky than usual, Willow didn’t think that was the issue. Xander sat next to her, his head resting in his right hand, eyes closed, and a small pool of drool collecting on his desktop. Behind him, Cordelia’s head kept nodding forward only to snap back up every thirty seconds or so.
Two rows back, it sounded like Susan Walker and Ellie Thompson were training for a synchronized-snoring competition. In fact, everyone in class was either asleep or on the verge, and Willow herself felt like she could easily have nodded off without any effort at all. Ms. Hegel droned on, seemingly oblivious, which was also most unusual.
No matter what she did, Willow couldn’t force herself to concentrate. Stifling a yawn, she opened her textbook to the section Ms. Hegel was covering, determined to read along, when she paused over the section immediately preceding that on dream symbolism, entitled “Sleep Disorders.”
Five minutes later, Willow had excused herself from class and was headed for the library. She had been tempted to wake Xander, but he looked so cute when he was asleep. And he would have insisted on bringing Cordelia, which was never a plus, as far as Willow was concerned.
When she arrived, she was pleased to see that Buffy was already there, talking with Giles.
“No, Giles,” Buffy was saying. “A ballpoint pen. Jeff was convinced Steven stole it and two seconds later, they were at each other’s throats. Just like Larry and the Jell-O yesterday. I’m telling you, all is not as quiet on the Hellmouth as you promised a few days ago. Either everyone here ate some serious cranky puffs for breakfast, or something more demon-y than usual is getting on everyone’s last nerve.”
“As I said, Buffy,” Giles said wearily, “the end of the year is a very stressful period for the students and the faculty. No one gets much sleep until finals are over—”
“Try any sleep,” Willow interrupted.
“I beg your pardon,” Giles said.
“Hey, Will,” Buffy added. “What do you mean, ‘any sleep’?”
“We’re studying dreams in my science class today. Well, me and Ms. Hegel are. Everyone else is in dreamland … or lack of dreamland.”
“In something resembling English, please, Willow,” Giles said.
Willow opened her textbook to the “Sleep Disorders” section as patiently as she could. She noted that Giles’s eyes were bloodshot as he took a moment to clean his glasses and look over the text.
“There are five stages of sleep,” Willow began. “Alpha state is the first and lightest.”
“Willow, am I going to be tested on this material, or is there an abridged version of this theory somewhere?” Buffy interjected.
“Okay,” Willow said, cutting to the chase, “the sleep stages where we actually get our rest occur around REM, the fifth and most important stage of sleep. It’s called REM because there’s rapid eye movement along with increased respiration and deep muscle paralysis at the same time. You move through all the stages of sleep several times a night, but if you never reach REM sleep, you’re not really sleeping deeply enough.”
“So you think no one is getting enough REM sleep?” Buffy said. “But how do you know?”
“What did you dream about last night, Buffy?”
Buffy paused. “Nothing. I mean, I don’t remember.”
“Giles?” Willow asked.
“Well … nor do I,” he admitted.
“REM sleep is also when you dream. When you are deprived of REM sleep long enough, even after just a few days, there are serious side effects.”
“Do they by any chance include sleepwalking?” Buffy asked, immediately beginning to connect the Principal Snyder dots.
“They do.” Willow nodded. “They also include lapses in concentration, increased anxiety and irr
itability, and fatigue.”
“Then it is your belief that the vast majority of the student body is having their sleep disturbed?” Giles asked.
“It makes sense,” Buffy said. “I remember going to sleep every night this week, but I don’t remember dreaming at all and, to be honest, I feel like I could nap for a week right now.” Turning to Willow, she asked, “Is Snyder causing this? Because I wouldn’t mind punishing him for a change.”
Willow shook her head. “I don’t think so. It seems more like he’s a victim, like the rest of us.”
“Well, can’t have everything,” Buffy said in obvious disappointment.
“We have to figure out what it is,” Willow continued. “Giles, are there any references to demons that could cause this sort of thing?”
Giles shook his head. “Off the top of my head, I’d have to say no. What you’re suggesting is very specific and sounds more like a spell than demonic intervention.”
“Do you mind if I take a look?” Willow asked.
“Of course not.” Giles nodded.
“I’ll help,” Buffy said. “Chemistry class was canceled this afternoon. Mr. Olsen didn’t show up or call in, so no one thought to get a substitute.”
“Actually, Buffy, there’s something else we need to discuss.”
“What?” Buffy asked, alarmed.
In response, Giles placed the morning paper in front of her and opened it to an article about an attack on a second-grade T-ball team that had taken place the night before. Buffy stared in shock at a picture of a mother holding the body of her son, eight-year-old Michael Holmes, and sobbing amid the chaos of several ambulances and police cars in the parking lot of a local park.
“Are there Cliff’s Notes?” Buffy asked, noting that the article covered the entire page and was continued in another section of the paper.
“Two young boys, Michael Holmes and Adam Neilson, were attacked last night after a practice session. The coach who was supposed to be looking after them until their parents arrived apparently left to help a disabled man who was having difficulty crossing the street. A parent leaving the parking lot described the man as having light blond hair and using a wheelchair. She also indicated that she thought he might have had a British accent.”