by Nancy Holder
Or fresh entertainment for the new pit he would dig …
It stepped across the threshold and was about to shut the door when Mrs. Rosenberg called out anxiously, “Honey?”
“It’s okay, Mom,” Chirayoju answered. “I just need some air. It’s stuffy in here.”
“Stay bundled up. You’ve got a fever, you know.”
“Yes, I know.”
But the fever was coming down. The possession, which had weakened this body, was now strengthening it. Chirayoju could feel its power growing along with its hunger. It had taken all this time to fully exert control over Weeping Willow’s body. Even now, it would have to give up that control at dawn. For now.
But not forever.
As for this night, it must feed, and soon.
It walked, more steadily this time, from the door to the front of the house, and from there to what was known as the street. A car flew by—remarkable creation!—and it knew it would have to have one.
It raised its face to the stars. Their light beamed down on it. A poem came to mind:
Night, absent of soul.
Gardens wither, the earth shakes.
Open, gate of death!
Chirayoju walked down the street, reveling in its freedom. It would walk until sunrise if it wished. It would walk until the feet of this child bled, and it would make the night scream.
Xander gave Cordelia a when-did-you-get-released look of amazement and scratched his head.
“Let me get this straight. You drove over a rock.”
“Or something,” she agreed.
“Or something. And your tire went flat. And now you want me to get out of the car and change your tire so you can go to do these ‘things to do,’ which I assume have something to do with a guy who is not me.”
She said nothing. She only stared at him. Xander stared back.
Finally Cordelia said, “And your point is?”
“Is the word ‘tacky’ even in your vocabulary?” he asked her. “Let me spell it for you. N. O. Way.”
“Fine.” She glared at him. “I’ll just do it myself.” She spread her fingers as if her nails were still wet and scanned the dashboard. “The jack-thing is in the trunk,” she said to herself. “And all I have to do is, um, here!” She brightened and pushed a button. Her emergency flashers began to pulse.
Xander sighed the sigh of the truly victimized and opened his door.
“Thank you!” Cordelia called plaintively after him.
He bent back in to narrow his eyes at her.
“You know, it’s nights like these psychos escape from the nuthouse on the hill,” he said in a low, scary voice. “So if I don’t come back … lock your doors and close your eyes. Because the drip, drip, drip you hear will be the blood running out of my neck. And the smack will be my severed head landing on your front end.”
“Oh, Xander.” She gave him a look. “I don’t know how you can even joke about stuff like that, after all the weirdness you and your bizarro pals have put me through.”
He batted his lashes at her. “Cordy, my sweet. Lest you forget, you are now one of my bizarro pals.”
“As if.” She leaned toward him and grabbed the passenger armrest to urge the door shut. “Just go do it, okay? I’ll be nice to you or something.”
“‘Or something’ will do just fine.” He rubbed his hands together like a mad scientist. “Wa-ha-ha, just fine, my pretty.”
She let go of the armrest and threw her head back against her seat. “Oooh.”
Xander grinned and shut the door. Then he walked back toward where the jack-thing would be, muttering, “Harris, you are such a schmuck.”
The dogs of Sunnydale bayed as Chirayoju glided past their houses. Cats arched their backs and hissed. The moon itself hid behind a veil of clouds. It moved quickly, smelling fresh young blood beating through vibrant hearts. Eagerly it inhaled the aroma. After centuries of imprisonment, it was starving. Not merely for blood, but for what truly sustained it—life. The life essence of living beings.
To begin its reign of terror, though, Chirayoju knew that it would need slaves and acolytes.
And suddenly it knew where to find them. The air sizzled with the presence of other vampires, and it was so delighted its eyes welled with scarlet tears.
It raised its head to gaze at a hill above the town, and small, unmoving shapes upon the hill. They were cars.
Other shapes moved toward them, darting over the landscape like a small band of locusts. They were vampires.
Eagerly, Chirayoju began to lope toward the hill. Up it climbed, now running, though the body was tired. It willed power into the limbs and pushed blood through the heart. This body was young, but at this rate it would wear out quickly.
When that happened, it would have to find another.
Once he had put Cordy’s spare tire on, Xander sat glumly in the passenger’s seat as she drove down the hill. Cordelia drove past a small blur of a figure on the side of the road and shook her head. “Honestly. Someone is hitching to Makeout Point, can you believe it? Don’t they have any idea how dangerous that is?”
“Who? Where?” Xander asked, looking up from sifting through the CDs in Cordelia’s glove compartment. He glanced back but saw no one.
Cordelia looked in the rearview mirror. “Am I smeared?”
He pointed desperately. “Cor, look at the road.”
“Just tell me if I’m smeared,” she demanded, turning toward him.
“No, no, you are a goddess,” he begged. “You look perfect.” He stared hard at her, doing his best to look entranced by her beauty instead of petrified by her driving. “Honest. Please, please don’t kill me.”
She rolled her eyes. “Xander, you are so superficial.”
Her foot was lead.
His life was over.
The wind whipped around Chirayoju as it glided behind the vampire swarm. There were only three of them—apparently, the other dots had been dogs—and they were scattered and unfocused, little more than ravening beasts. So had it been in China, before Chirayoju had left for the Land of the Rising Sun. And then so had it been in Japan. Few of its kind were truly intelligent. Few possessed the ability to truly lead. And none but Chirayoju had mastered the dark arts as a vampire. The demon within the spirit was flush with pride at its achievements.
No, the others were like children to Chirayoju.
Which was to the good. They were easier to control and dominate.
Chirayoju watched as the hunt progressed. Better to call it a massed attack, for a hunt implied direction and working in concert. They swooped down on the cars, yanking open the doors and pulling out the inhabitants. A young girl with short, dark hair shrieked in terror as a female vampire with long, blond hair dragged her out of the car while another vampire, darker and larger, lifted out a boy in a leather jacket and ripped out his throat.
The third vampire, tall and balding, attacked a car farther down, which allowed the couple in nearer vehicles to attempt escape. However, the other two vampires were too fast for them. For a few heartbeats, there was screaming.
And then there were no heartbeats.
At that instant, Chirayoju stood up and spread its arms. Lightning crackled. The wind shrieked.
It boomed, “Know me as your master!”
The other vampires stopped in their tracks.
“What?” the female cried, and began to rush him.
“Stop!” Chirayoju commanded.
At first his words had no effect. Then it was as if the female vampire were little more than a marionette. She was brought up short as if strings held her back, and Chirayoju reached out to her dead mind, to the demon spirit that lived within, and it was the demon that he controlled. The demon that he enslaved. The demon that he forced to its knees.
“Master,” the girl whispered.
“Hey, man, what’s your deal?” the darker vampire said contemptuously.
Chirayoju turned its gaze on him. Their eyes met, locked. It knew the creature sa
w a mere girl, and willed him to see the truth behind the mask that was Weeping Willow.
The other vampire’s mouth opened as if in pain—or shock. He knew what it saw, now. The vampire remembered death, of course, the time between the loss of his human soul and his resurrection as a vampire. He did not want to face that horrible void again, nor did he relish the even more nightmarish horrors he was promised as he gazed into Chirayoju’s eyes.
Chirayoju stared at each one in turn, pushing its will against theirs. It felt their struggle.
The sky cracked open and rain pelted them. The blood of the victims on the ground mixed with the earth; the mud ran crimson.
Chirayoju singled out the balding vampire and willed him to approach. To kneel. To bare his neck.
“Speak my name,” it commanded.
In a steady voice, the vampire answered, “Lord Chirayoju.”
The moon hung in the trees above the graveyard, casting Angel in a glow of stark white that accentuated his pale skin. His eyes were dark, and as he looked down at Buffy, he touched her cheek with a tentative gesture. His fingers were cold, but his caress warmed her. Her lips were swollen from his kisses.
“In this light, you look like me,” he said softly.
“Like a vampire.” Her voice was louder, bolder. “You avoid saying it, like it was a dirty word.”
His laugh was short and bitter. “You’re the Slayer, Buffy. To you, it is a dirty word.”
Buffy cocked her head and gathered up his hand in both of hers. “Angel, for us to move along, we need to move … along.” She stood on tiptoe, raising her mouth toward his. “This ‘hate me, I’m a vampire’ stuff is old territory for us. We’ve been over the worst terrain we could possibly find. I have the map memorized. It’s time to blaze a new trail.”
He looked down at her mouth, and she could tell he was struggling not to kiss her again. Her heart pounded. She could tell he heard the faster rhythm.
He whispered, “You know there’s more to me than we both realized at first.”
“I’ll say.” She put her hand around his neck and urged him closer. “And if I’m not afraid, why should you be?”
“Maybe because I lo—” He turned his head.
She did too. There was something in the air, something that floated across her and threatened to pull her down, or to put its hand over her mouth and smother her. Something that held hands with death.
“Did you feel that?” she asked. “It was almost like a …” She searched for the right words. “Like the air got heavy. Or like a scream in my head.” She frowned. “Something’s wrong.”
Angel nodded slowly. “Something’s very wrong.”
As one, they looked up toward the night sky and all around. Beneath the gravestones and monuments, the dead stayed buried. Through a sheen of clouds, the moon glowed. An owl hooted directly above their heads. All was peaceful. Yet the presentiment of evil lingered like a fog.
“I think I’m getting better at this Slayer thing,” Buffy murmured. “I think something’s up. I think I need to go see Giles.”
Almost unconsciously, Angel draped a protective arm across Buffy’s shoulders. “I think I’ll go with you.”
Together they hurried toward the graveyard gates.
CHAPTER SIX
As Friday morning began, Willow was elsewhere.
Some voice from the real world echoed down the long, twisted dream corridor to her elsewhere, and the first real spark of awareness hit her. Music, from a long way off.
Country music.
Computer geek she might be, but Willow Rosenberg did not listen to country music. Oh, sure, she thought Shania Twain was cool enough, but that wasn’t you-listen-to-country-music? country music. No, having country music on your alarm clock was just inviting ridicule. And, truth be told, Willow had never needed to send invitations. Uh-uh. The Willow ridicule party was eternal, and everybody crashed.
Except Buffy, and Xander, and Oz, and other people who were the objects of vast amounts of ridicule.
Alarm clock. Usually meaning you’re asleep. Or have been.
Only the warmth of the sun streaming through her bedroom window made Willow realize how cold she was. Cold and aching all over like she’d climbed to the top of Everest for a midnight snack.
Midnight … snack. Something weird there. Something she could almost remember.
Then she felt the drool on her chin. Realized she’d been sleeping with her mouth open, even snoring, which wasn’t something she did often, as far as her waking self knew.
Willow’s face crumpled into an expression of disgust as she wiped her chin, realizing at last that she was, indeed, awake. Awake and exhausted and her eyes were burning like she’d been up all night watching infomercials again. Insomnia could make a person do strange things. But no, she hadn’t done anything like that. Couldn’t really remember doing anything last night after coming home sick from school. Except that somehow, she had set her alarm for the dulcet twang of the Grand Ole Opry.
Weird. Weird and disgusting, she thought. How could she ever spend the night with a guy if there was even a chance that he’d see her sleeping with her mouth open with drool on her chin? Uh-uh.
She opened her dry, burning eyes, then gasped and closed them tight as the sun hit her retinas. Willow hissed as a spike of pain shot through her head. She lay a moment, waiting for the pain to pass, assuming it was like the frozen headaches she got when she ate ice cream too fast. But it didn’t pass.
In fact, by the time she crawled out of bed and dragged herself to the shower, Willow’s headache had only grown worse. It wasn’t a pounding ache, the kind where you could feel the blood pumping through your head. It was more like someone had pounded a nail into her skull.
Even after her shower, Willow didn’t feel much better. Her mother called to her from downstairs, but the words didn’t even register. Nor did she pay any attention to what she was putting on except to note that the clothes were clean.
It was while she was sitting on the edge of her bed tying her shoes that she glanced up at the computer on her desk and saw the little green sprout sticking up from her mouse pad. Willow frowned, a decidedly ill-advised action for someone with a headache so bad that her face hurt.
She stood and walked to her desk. Next to her mouse was a small, crooked bonsai tree, the kind that trendy stores in trendy malls sold to people who couldn’t handle the responsibility of a pet to take care of. But this was nothing from a mall. It had long roots still covered with dirt from where it had been torn from the ground.
“Okay, thanks, but it’s not my birthday,” Willow mumbled uneasily to her empty room.
How the plant had gotten there, of course, was the big question. With the pain in her head discouraging much contemplation—much thought of any kind, really—the only thing she could think of was: maybe Angel?
Running around at night, showing up unannounced at people’s windows. That was kind of vampirelike behavior. At least, Angel-like behavior. But she didn’t think he would do that, unless it was some big surprise for her or something. And, come to think of it, during that whole Angelus thing that nobody really wanted to talk about, she and Buffy had placed a kind of ward over her room to keep him out.
So not Angel. But when she started to consider other options, the nail in her skull turned into a knitting needle. She massaged her forehead, realized she was going to be late for school—as if anyone would notice after a hellish week like this, when Willow Rosenberg and tardiness seemed as inseparable as PB&J. Still, she’d better show up today. Who knew what she had missed this week? Even the days that she had been there, she couldn’t quite remember.
Except for the fact that she’d somehow scored a perfect grade on the pop quiz Mr. Morse gave about their museum visit to the exhibit on the art and culture of ancient Japan. Somehow, through her fugue state, she’d obviously learned something. And if she ever wanted to learn anything again, it was back to school for Willow.
Just before she left, she no
ticed something beside the uprooted bonsai. It was the disk or coin that had fallen from the hilt of that big sword at the museum on Monday. She’d forgotten to put it back after cutting herself; she’d been too distracted. Then it had made its way into the pocket of her jeans, and later disappeared. Or not, considering that it now sat prominently displayed on top of her computer.
Willow felt a little guilty about it. Maybe she should try to take it back this afternoon? As she reached for it, noting its odd engravings, someone started pounding that knitting needle into her brain with a hammer. Willow forgot all about the coin, turned, and stumbled toward the hallway, feeling suddenly as though she was going to throw up.
Strangely, and with great relief, Willow began to feel better almost immediately. The headache never disappeared entirely, but it receded until it was more of a thumbtack than a nail. It still hurt, but she could live with it. She might even be able to pay attention in class.
As she hurried out the door, her eyes ached from the bright sunlight, and she slipped on a pair of sunglasses she hadn’t worn in months. They weren’t her style.
Before.
Buffy sat alone at a round table in the cafeteria, math text open in front of her. The Noxzema-filled plastic tubes the school dared to call baked stuffed manicotti sat untouched on her tray.
She had told Giles about the weird sensation she had had in the graveyard. He was intrigued but could find no specific reason for it. Even now, she supposed he was researching to see if Curse of the Rat-People Night was looming—which it probably was.
She saw Oz and gave him a wave. He smiled and moved on like he was hunting—ah, make that searching—for something. Or someone. Buffy hoped that someone was someone she knew. Known as Willow.
“Two plus two equals?” a voice asked behind her.
It barely registered. Xander slid into the chair next to her and began ferociously tearing into his plate of tubes with a zeal that might have given one the impression that he thought it was real food. Buffy spared a glance and a bemused frown for his table manners, then looked back at her book.