Buffy the Vampire Slayer 3

by Nancy Holder

  Vampiric possession. It had seemed just a theory last night. Now it seemed one of the most horrifying possibilities she had ever encountered.

  Despite technological advances that would have made futurists such as H. G. Wells and George Orwell faint with amazement, the world’s scientific community hadn’t been able to make an international phone line that didn’t have that hollow, tinny quality that Giles found so annoying. It had taken him several phone calls to finally track down the phone number he was looking for, and when he finally did, he hesitated to use it.

  In Sunnydale, it was just about noontime. But in Tokyo, Japan, it was already five o’clock the following morning. He didn’t relish the idea of waking a seventy-three-year-old man at the crack of dawn. But then, he didn’t have much choice, and even less time to quibble over social courtesies.

  After he’d dialed the number, Giles was pleased to hear it ringing clear on the other end. Hollow and tinny, yes, but at least without that horrible echo that sometimes accompanies international long distance and makes real conversation almost impossible.

  There was a click, the sound of the phone being picked up on the other end. “Mushimushi?”

  “Ohayo gozaimasu,” Giles said, in the little Japanese he had learned for this call. “America kara, Giles desu …”

  “Ah, the esteemed Professor Giles,” the man replied in perfect English. “This is Kobo. It is an honor to speak with you. Your Japanese is excellent, but if you would be so kind, I would enjoy taking this opportunity to practice my English.”

  Giles smiled to himself, despite the gravity of the situation. He had never spoken to Kobo before, but he knew the man by reputation. And his response fulfilled Giles’s expectations completely. For Giles’s Japanese, what little of the language he knew, was horrible. Kobo had offered to speak English not because he wanted practice—he was obviously fluent—but because he wanted to save Giles the embarrassment of speaking Japanese so very badly.

  The Japanese culture was so completely different from American culture—or any Western culture, for that matter, including his own—that at times it was difficult for Giles to remember just how different.

  The Japanese would never address a subject directly when it could be gotten to by a more circuitous route. And certainly, they would never embarrass someone else, or even allow them to embarrass themselves, for fear of humiliating themselves, or losing face, as they called it.

  Kobo was a traditionalist. Giles would have to tread carefully in this conversation in order not to offend the old man. However, he did feel that he possessed a certain advantage in that he was British, more reserved than an American, and, one hoped, less brash and impatient. At least, that was how he had been when he’d arrived in Sunnydale.

  But when one spent the majority of one’s time in the company not only of Americans, but Southern Californians, and to add to that, Southern Californian adolescents, one could no longer assume that one’s cultural reflexes remained intact. After all, even the sarcastic young Xander had referred to him recently as “one happ’nin’ dude.” And only with a certain amount of irony …

  “Thank you, sensei,” he said, using the Japanese word for “teacher,” the highest title of honor there was in that language beyond prostrating oneself before the gods and the Emperor. Besides, it was an accurate title: Kobo was a professor at Tokyo University.

  “Please forgive me for waking you at this unconscionable hour, but I am in the midst of a rather urgent matter, and I had hoped you might be able to illuminate certain areas where my own records and research are lacking.”

  There was silence for several moments at the other end. If it hadn’t been for the crackle and hiss of the open line, Giles would have thought he’s lost the connection. When the Great Teacher spoke at last, his words came as a great surprise.

  “I knew your grandmother,” the old Japanese man said.

  “My …”

  “She was the greatest Watcher I ever knew,” Kobo-sensei continued.

  “That’s very kind of you,” Giles said, slightly taken aback. “She spoke very highly of you as well, sensei. In fact, she often said that everything that she knew she learned from you.”

  “Ah, no, it was she who was the teacher, Professor Giles. Your grandmother was already a Watcher when I knew her,” Kobo replied. “I would be honored to be of whatever humble assistance I can.”

  Giles pushed up his glasses and leaned on his elbow as he gestured to the piles of books on his desk, despite knowing the man couldn’t see him.

  “Well, to be honest, I have had little time to even begin my own research on the matter at hand. At the moment, I’m still attempting to put together a hypothesis from which to begin.”

  Giles told the retired Watcher all that had happened in Sunnydale thus far, including the behavior of the vampires that had been stalking Buffy, as well as the events at the museum, and Willow’s, and now Xander’s, disappearance. As he hadn’t heard from Buffy since she and Cordelia had left, he had to assume something was going on. Given Buffy’s position as Slayer, and their geographic location on the Hellmouth, it was a safe assumption.

  “If you know anything about this Sanno deity, it might be helpful,” Giles mentioned. “I am a bit confused, however, because I’ve found no Japanese references to vampires at all in Japanese legend.”

  “Excuse me, please, Giles-sensei. Though I am certain your research was exhaustive, I can only suggest that the texts you consulted were unfortunately incomplete. The truth is that there are few, if any, Japanese vampires in Japanese legend,” the old man said, his voice crackling over the line. “In our stories, vampires are usually portrayed as Chinese, due to the historical rivalry between our two nations.”

  “I see,” Giles said carefully, not wishing to force the professor to rehash any painful past history of his nation.

  “In fact, most of them probably were Chinese in antiquity. China was a more advanced nation, where the undead were more likely to be discovered and effectively hunted. Japan must have seemed fertile territory at the time.”

  “An excellent point,” Giles allowed.

  “You honor me.” The old man cleared his throat. “As for Sanno, if he is the Mountain King from the legends I am familiar with, I know him as Oyamagui no kami. I’m sure he has other names. It’s an old legend, and not one that is often repeated. Though I do seem to recall …”

  The old man paused for a moment before continuing. “Excuse me, please, but are the collected Watchers’ journals available to you, Professor Giles?”

  “Yes, of course.” He would be horribly remiss as Buffy’s Watcher if he did not have a full set.

  “How fortunate. Do you recall Claire Silver?”

  Giles searched his memory for several seconds before recognition hit him. “I have examined her journals,” he said, “but the last time I did so in depth was years ago.”

  Silence again on the other end of the line. Giles thought again of the Japanese traditions of honor and face, and wondered if, despite his required compliments, Kobo might be quietly disapproving of Giles’s lack of knowledge on this subject. Of the Watchers left alive, Kobo-sensei was one of the most respected. The idea that the man might look down on Giles’s performance as a Watcher had not actually occurred to him until now, pressed as he was to help Buffy, and now that it had, the tone in the older man’s voice was unmistakable, no matter how hard he tried to hide it behind politeness.

  “I respectfully suggest, Giles-sensei, that a man of your scholarly achievements might find Claire Silver’s journals instructive,” the old man said. “I seem to recall discussion of the King of the Mountain in them. But the last time I read them was a very long time ago, when I still had a Slayer to watch over. Thus I have allowed the story to slip from memory.”

  There! Giles thought. That was a barb, for certain. An implication that Giles himself had been lax in his duties by not committing more of the Watchers’ journals to memory. He ignored it. The information he required
was more important than saving face for himself.

  “But Claire Silver was a Watcher in Britain in the nineteenth century,” Giles countered. “What has that got to do with ancient Japan?”

  “Sadly, I have told you all I can remember, Mr. Giles,” Kobo said simply. “I fear that I have wasted your valuable time.”

  Giles paused before replying. The old Watcher had admitted he didn’t know everything. But for Giles not to defend the man, even to himself, would be a direct insult. Kobo might have insulted him, but he had done it indirectly. Even if it was just for appearance’ sake, or for the memory of his grandmother, Giles would do what was expected of him.

  “Oh, no, sensei,” Giles insisted, “you have been a great deal of help. Your wisdom and experience are unparalleled and you honor me with your assistance. I thank you. I am certain that this conversation will be of great help. It might even save the life of the current Chosen One, as well as several of her friends.”

  This time, Giles actually heard Kobo sigh. “Giles-sensei,” the old Watcher said slowly, as if reluctant to speak. His amiable tone was obviously forced now. “I must applaud your dedication to the Chosen One, for of course I have heard of it. Ah, yet it is most unusual for a Watcher to place the satisfaction of the Slayer, even her well-being, and particularly the well-being of her friends, above the mission of the Chosen One. Few Slayers have ever had friends. You honor her by your loyalty to her many needs, even those that may seem frivolous to an old Japanese man.”

  Giles froze, stared at the phone as if it were the offending object, as if it had insulted him.

  “I apologize if such concerns do not meet with your standard for the appropriate behavior of a Watcher,” Giles snapped. “And, with all due respect, sir, and as you pointed out, at least the Slayer I am responsible for is still alive.”

  He hung up, angrier and more confused than ever. For several minutes, he searched the volumes of journals for those of Claire Silver, but he had been in the midst of reorganizing them when this crisis arose.

  The phone rang. He glanced at it before picking it up, wondering if it was Kobo, ready for another volley.

  “Yes?” he demanded sharply.

  “Giles, it’s Buffy. We’re at the hospital. Xander’s been … um, he’s …” She whispered into the phone. “Attacked, if you know what I mean.”

  “I’m on my way,” he said, rising from his chair.

  “I’m going to look for Willow.”

  “No. Wait for me, Buffy,” he said sternly.

  “But—”

  “Wait.” He hung up and ran out the door, nearly crashing into Principal Snyder.

  “So sorry,” Giles said in a rush. “Must dash. Sorry.”

  “Mr. Giles?” Principal Snyder called after him.

  “Sorry!” Giles called back.

  At the hospital, the nurse was trying to reach Xander’s mother on one phone, even as Buffy hung up with Giles on the other. Their conversation was brief and hushed, and when Buffy was through, she felt even worse about things than on her ride over with Cordy. More than anything, she wanted to run out and find Willow, as quickly as possible. But Giles had ordered her to stay put.

  Buffy was a strong-willed girl—you had to be when you were the Slayer—and she didn’t like taking orders from anyone. But if Giles felt strongly enough about it to try giving an order, the least she could do was follow it.

  So she paced in Xander’s hospital room with Cordelia, who was sunk tiredly into a chair pulled up to his bedside. She’d cried a little when the doctors were fussing over him, and her makeup was a mess, but not once did she ask Buffy if she looked okay. She only held Xander’s hand, half-holding and half-massaging it, as if she could warm him again and take the ghostly pallor from his cheeks.

  He had lost a lot of blood, and there were holes in his neck.

  Could Willow have actually put them there? Willow, a vampire? Buffy wondered if she would have to …

  … would have to …

  “No,” she said, clenching her teeth. She couldn’t be certain what she would do when she found Willow.

  But one thing was certain: It would be very much better to find her friend before the sun went down. For the moment, however, she could only pace.

  By the time Giles got there, she was frantic. Though stunned by the sight of Xander, he briefed her on his conversation with the Japanese Watcher, and she practically pushed him back out the door.

  “Library, Giles,” she begged. “We’ve got questions. You get answers.”

  “I’m not certain I should go,” Giles argued.

  Buffy looked at him, then glanced quickly at the others in the room. Cordelia, who sat next to Xander with a worried look on her face. Xander himself, who was still unconscious, although recovering, according to the doctors. He wouldn’t be running the hundred for a couple of weeks, but he’d be home sucking down chocolate milk shakes and making his mom do Blockbuster runs within a few days.

  Buffy glanced around to make sure Xander’s mother—who had stepped out into the hall to speak with the doctor—hadn’t returned, and then she looked up at Giles again.

  “We need to know what happened to him,” Buffy said, staring down at Xander. It was obvious Giles’s protective streak was overpowering his sense of logic. Buffy was touched. Her Englishman was the best Watcher a girl could ask for.

  “Your job is not to stare at Xander and fret,” Buffy insisted. “That Kobo guy told you where to look for the knowledge stuff, and a librarian’s gotta do what a librarian’s gotta do.”

  Giles was obviously about to protest when Cordelia said Giles’s name. Her voice was so low that at first Giles didn’t hear her.

  “Giles,” Cordelia said again, emphatically. “I’ll be here. I’m not going anywhere, not right now. Whatever happened, I’ll call you as soon as Xander’s able to talk about it.”

  Giles pursed his lips. “You don’t think it would be better if …”

  “I can handle it,” Cordelia said, only half-looking at him. “I’ll find out what happened to Xander. You go back to the library and read Claire What’s-her-name’s journals.” She looked at Buffy with satisfied self-importance. “We all have jobs to do, right, Buffy?”

  “And that’s my cue to start the hunt for Willow,” Buffy said.

  “Take my car,” Cordelia said generously.

  “I don’t have a license,” Buffy said quickly.

  “Yeah, but you can drive it if you have to, right?” Cordelia asked.

  “I’m not sure that’s the wisest course,” Giles began, but Buffy cut him off. Cordelia was right.

  “I think I can manage,” Buffy said. “Okay, I’m gone.”

  Then she turned and almost ran from the hospital. It was nearly one o’clock already. Dusk already seemed too close.

  Of course, in Sunnydale, the night always came too soon.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Ah, this undefended land! These foolish, weak people!

  And, best of all, these demons!

  They flocked to Chirayoju, desperate for a leader. Oni, who had traveled from China with the Buddhist faithful. The vampiric kappa, strange, scaled creatures whose bowl-like heads were filled with magick water. When the water spilled, the kappa lost their powers, but not their yen for blood.

  Blood that Chirayoju found for them in plentiful supply.

  Itself, it had not dined on anything as exquisite as the maiden Gemmyo—although it had sampled at least a hundred humans since it had left Mount Hiei—but its new army of followers had assured it that the Emperor, being holy, would taste the best of all.

  And so, with its minions who now numbered in the thousands, Chirayoju descended like a nightmare upon the capital of this Land of the Rising Sun, called by some Heijo and by others Nara.

  In the forest its army camped and measured the defenses of the Emperor’s palace. Fierce warriors guarded the walls, but within, the court of the Emperor Kammu languished like fat cattle. They were obsessed with the airy culti
vation of art and culture and the monotonous veneration of the Lord Buddha. Nunneries and monasteries littered the wooded hills. A statue of Buddha as tall as eight men greeted the sun daily. Chirayoju was contemptuous, considering the Buddha himself a weak, unambitious being who preached the obliteration of ambition as the key to happiness.

  While the nobles within the palace walls wrote poems and discussed philosophy, the people outside the walls starved. Taxes were high and crops failed despite the fertile land. They were ripe for unrest and rebellion.

  Chirayoju saw much to please it.

  So it left behind its fearful minions and walked the nights among the starving peasants, whispering to them of all the things it could give them—treasures, weapons, and warriors—if only they would call it master. They began to listen. They began to believe. Soon, they looked forward to its nightly visits and its tales of how their lives would be, if only they would deliver the Emperor to it.

  It began to seem natural for them to hate their supreme lord, who was a god on Earth, and to practice the hacking and slashing of mortal combat with their fishing poles and pitchforks. They began to anticipate the battle with the heavily fortified palace, forgetting that they possessed neither armor nor weapons, and unaware that their general, Chirayoju the Liberator, had promised its second wave of attackers their own blood in exchange for their loyalty and aid.

  This second wave were the oni and the kappa.

  Who likewise did not know that it had promised its third wave of attackers the delicious and magickal blood of the oni and the kappa in exchange for their loyalty and aid.

  This third wave consisted of the vampires it made from the ranks of the eta. In the dark of night, alone and in secret, it would fly to the hovels in the filthy quarter of these, the Untouchables of Japan, who butchered animals and tanned their hides into leather and prepared the human dead for burial. Shunned by all except other eta, reviled and cursed, they fully embraced the new life Chirayoju offered them. They would willingly die any death Chirayoju ordered in exchange for the power and freedom it gave them.