by Nancy Holder
Buffy smiled, glanced around the Bronze, and noticed at least half a dozen others who were probably vampires. Still, as long as she could keep an eye on them and they weren’t misbehaving, she was determined to enjoy herself. The Slayer had been called upon to do her duty, and she had done it. The other vampires appeared not to know what had gone on downstairs, or else they didn’t care that five of their kind had been destroyed. After all, they were not the most warmhearted bunch.
“I’m glad you told me the assistant manager shut the basement door. Otherwise I might assume there was some kind of major plot to dust me. I think we’ll be okay now,” Buffy replied hopefully.
Apparently sensing Buffy’s uncertainty, Willow sighed and raised her eyebrows.
“You must be a little rusty, huh?” she asked, changing the subject. “I mean, what with things having been so quiet until now. I assume the French kid, Jean-Pierre, is still alive.”
“He’ll be pretty light-headed from loss of blood, but he’ll live,” Buffy replied. “So will the others. And actually, I didn’t feel rusty at all. Just . . . pumped.”
“Pumped,” Xander repeated, then shook his head in disbelief.
“Others?” Willow asked. “How many people were down there?”
“Five people, five vampires,” Buffy replied. “Kind of like the buddy system, you know? Everybody pick a partner with fangs.”
“Five?” Xander said, disturbed. “Next time, we are definitely part of the fangface posse.”
“It was fine,” Buffy insisted. “I was fine.” It was true, too.
“Okay, whatever you say.” Xander’s eyes widened. “But how about wearing my jacket? You’ve got, like, blood, all over your blouse. Red is very in now, or so my many fashion-conscious friends tell me, but I think it clashes with the pirate queen motif . . . or goes too well. Just wear this.”
As Xander slid his jacket off, Buffy glanced down at the blood on her blouse and made a totally grossed-out face. She thanked Xander distractedly as she put the jacket on.
“Much better,” Willow said.
Now it was time to start researching what kind of strategies were necessary to have a social life.
Buffy bobbed to the music of Children of the Night, practically humming along even though she didn’t understand a word. Major Halloween grunge points for wearing costumes and for effort, but the band was years late and too musically challenged to be anything but a Seattle-schooled garage and cover band.
Sad commentary. They were the best band Buffy had seen at the Bronze. Then again, it was Sunnydale, after all. Boca del Infierno. If there was a rock ’n’ roll heaven, they’d have a hell of a band. But rock ’n’ roll hell was listening to mediocre covers of mediocre music, and that’s what you got here in the Bad Place.
Still, Buffy was up. So up, the quality of the music was about three thousand miles from the point. The drought was over, it was raining vampires, hallelujah! She would gladly have swayed to Motörhead, if that was all she could get by way of tunes.
Xander and Willow gossiped, and Buffy chimed in when she had something particularly juicy to add or if she wanted more details. Gossip without the gory details was like black-and-white horror movies, all bark and no bite.
CHAPTER FOUR
Xander had zeroed in on a hottie none of them knew—but to whom Buffy had given a yes-this-chick’s-alive stamp of approval—and moved in to ask for a dance. Or the somebody’s-dad-had-too-much-to-drink-Hustle that passed for dancing where Xander was concerned.
To Buffy and Willow’s severe nonsurprise, the girl had blown him off.
“I just don’t get women,” Xander sighed as he pulled up a stool.
Buffy and Willow glared at him.
“Not you guys,” he backpedaled. “I mean, you’re not, like, women women. You’re my buds, not catty females who . . . you’re not into that girlie stuff, that . . . You two are the ultimate women of the millennium. Feminist ideal. Women. Great. Men. Root of all evil. Cordelia, shallow witch. Buffy and Willow . . . not.” Xander swallowed, eyes wide, and glanced at Buffy and Willow hopefully. “Just didn’t want you guys—uh, girls, to get the wrong idea.”
“Wrong idea,” Buffy repeated, eyebrows raised. “Of course not.”
She glanced at Willow, nodded, and they each reached out and grabbed hold of one of Xander’s ears.
“Oowwwww!” he howled.
“That was an almost-save, Xander,” Willow told him. “But close only counts in—”
“Horseshoes and hand grenades,” Xander finished. “I know, I know, now let go, okay? You know I love you guys.”
The girls let go and Xander rubbed his ears, felt them, possibly trying to be certain they were still attached.
“Well, Buffy,” Willow said. “You’ve saved Halloween, right? And the vampires who hit on Xander and me have Jimmy Hoffa’d, so maybe we can actually hang out and enjoy the rest of the masquerade.”
“Aye-aye to that,” pirate queen Buffy agreed. “I’ve had my share of Halloween tricks.”
“It is so time for the treats,” Xander said.
“Let’s find some chocolate,” Willow added eagerly.
Buffy laughed. They began to move toward the snack bar when the door slammed open and Mr. O’Leary blew into the Bronze.
Glenn O’Leary was the town psycho. Well, besides Buffy, of course. But he’d been at it much longer than she had, and had greater celebrity because it wasn’t just the high school kids who thought he was a few fries short of a Happy Meal. The whole town thought he was damaged merchandise.
Inside the Bronze, raving like a street-corner preacher with a heavy Irish accent, he was very convincing as a nut job.
“They’ve come back for us!” Mr. O’Leary shouted. “The dead are risin’ from their graves, diggin’ out from the earth, wet with Halloween rain. They’re comin’ for us all!”
“So much for treats,” Buffy said miserably.
Long, heavy sigh.
As the band thrashed on, the strange man dropped his hands to his sides and looked defeated. “They’re risin’, sure as I’m an O’Leary,” he insisted, looking bewildered as the kids lost interest and drifted away.
He approached the next person who came near him, who wasn’t a person at all but a vampire, and took his arm. The vampire, whose costume was apparently the leather jacket and hair gel that made him look like John Travolta in Grease, stopped and regarded Mr. O’Leary with amusement.
“What’s that you say, Grandpa?” the vampire asked, egging the old man on.
“Risin’! The dead risin’ up out o’ their graves!”
“You haven’t lived around here very long, have you?” the vampire asked, taunting the old man.
Fang-boy looked around and preened as some nearby partyers chuckled and applauded. He actually looked like a normal, sarcastic American guy for a second or two. Hmm, maybe it was a simple self-esteem problem that compelled them to murder human beings. With some positive reinforcement, perhaps they could be made useful members of society. Like Cordelia.
“Don’t mock me, me boyo,” the old man said. “I barely escaped with me life to come and warn you! I’ve lived here in Sunnydale for near twenty years.”
“Then you should know that around here the dead are always rising from their graves,” the vampire sneered. “It’s dead folks that put Sunnydale on the map.”
“I told you not to mock me!” Mr. O’Leary cried. “I seen it meself, with me own two eyes! Clawin’ and crawlin’ up out o’ their graves, shamblin’ around the cemetery in search o’ somethin’, and I don’t want to know what it is!”
The vampire brushed Mr. O’Leary off and wandered away. The rest of the masqueraders just did their best to uncomfortably ignore the crazy old man. Buffy was sad for Glenn O’Leary. They were kind of kindred spirits. Sunnydale did its best to ignore her the same way it did him—ignore her, and the evils that she saved their bacon from almost every night.
“I so don’t want to even bring this up,” Bu
ffy said, “but have you guys considered the majorly depressing possibility that the old guy isn’t as follow-my-nose Froot Loopy as the rest of the town has an aching desire to believe?”
Willow and Xander exchanged a glance, looked at Buffy, then back at each other.
“Xander, know what I truly hate?” Willow asked.
“In fact, yes,” Xander said. He took a deep breath, and they turned back to look at Buffy again. “You hate when Buffy’s right,” he said. “Which I know, because I’m right there with you. Hate that. Totally.”
“Because when Buffy’s right it usually means blood, death, maybe some recreational flesh-eating,” Willow said, and raised an eyebrow as she stared at Buffy.
“Fine!” Buffy sniffed. “If you guys want, I could just leave you in the dark on all this. Next time there’s some demonic force or serial-killing ape monster on the loose, you’ll be off the James Bond, eyes-only, need-to-know list. Aren’t you thrilled!”
“Not so fast,” Xander said nervously. “Darkness not good. Nobody said anything about—y’know, we’re the Slayerettes, right?”
“You’re our beacon of light in the darkness,” Willow said, wide eyed and with as much sincerity as she could manufacture on a moment’s notice. “And you’re right, of course. The rest of the town is psycho. Nobody sees anything, or will talk about it. They all want to pretend Sunnydale is as sunny as Sunnybrook Farm.”
“Which is where?” Xander asked, looking at Willow strangely.
“In a book,” Buffy replied, shaking her head. “Where you might think about sticking your nose once in a while.”
“You’ve never read Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm?” Willow asked, horrified.
“Sounds like a girl book,” Xander said, then fumbled, “about a girl. A book about a girl. Named Rebecca.”
“Anyway, you’re right about the major denial that’s happening here,” Willow went on. “Doesn’t it strike you as odd that with all the strangeness that goes on, we don’t rate a Scully-and-Mulder moment or two?”
“Will, I hate to break it to you,” Buffy said with a little wink, “but those guys are just pretend.”
Willow gave her head a shake. “You know what I mean. Giles always has me looking online through the news papers for information about the Hellmouth. The stories are all there—gruesome deaths, missing persons reports, maximum weirdness all over the place—but nobody connects the dots.”
“Because nobody wants to,” Buffy said, understanding. Xander and Willow nodded. She looked again at the raving Irishman. “Maybe it’s time for the Slayer to have a chat with Mr. O’Leary.”
“They’re comin’ out o’ the ground o’ Sunnydale Cemetery!” the old man shouted.
“Hey, Mr. O’Leary,” said an older man, maybe about thirty-five or forty, wearing nicely pressed jeans, a Grateful Dead T-shirt, and a ponytail. He firmly took Mr. O’Leary by the arm and steered him toward the coffee bar. “Why don’t you sit down and I’ll make you a nice cup of Irish coffee.”
Willow gestured at the man in the T-shirt. “That’s Nick Daniels. He’s the assistant manager of the Bronze.” She lowered her voice. “He was a student of Mr. O’Leary’s a long time ago. A lot of people in this room were his students.” She sighed. “He was fired about ten years ago.”
“Coffee!” Mr. O’Leary cried. “Isn’t anyone listening to me?”
Buffy murmured, “I am,” and looked at her two pals. “Looks like I’m on duty again.” She slid off her chair. “Watch my bag for me, okay?”
Xander looked excited. “Okay,” said. “And can we rummage through it?”
Buffy shrugged. “Sure, Xander. It’s not as if I’ll lose my membership in the secret society of vampire slayers if mere mortals take a gander at the tools of the trade.” She gave him a halfhearted smile, envying his status as a perpetual spectator. “Enjoy.”
As Buffy turned to go, she heard Xander say to Willow, “Poor woman. No wonder she’s not dating. Can you imagine her getting to sit through an entire movie?”
“So you wouldn’t want to go the movies with Buffy?” Willow asked.
“You kidding?” he said quickly. “I’d sit through the Meg Ryan chick flick marathon with Buffy.”
As she walked off, Buffy heard Willow sigh, and she wanted to smack Xander. Willow and Xander went together like Shaggy and Scooby, vampires and stakes, studying and passing. Why couldn’t that blind guy see it?
“. . . zombies,” Mr. O’Leary was saying to Nick Daniels as the assistant manager sprayed whipped cream on top of a cup of coffee. Daniels picked up a chocolate shaker and looked questioningly at Mr. O’Leary. “Are you daft, man? What do I care for sugar sprinkles and cream at a time like this?”
“Mr. O’Leary?” Buffy began, coming up behind him.
Mr. O’Leary swiveled on his stool and looked at her. Looked again, harder. His lips parted.
Something passed between them, some strange connection like a very mild electric current. He seemed to feel it too, for he pulled away from her slightly. Without looking away from her, he picked up his coffee cup and took a sip. His hand shook.
“Who are you?” he asked slowly.
“My name is Buffy,” she began. “Buffy Summers. I was, ah, curious about what you were saying.” Nick Daniels leaned on the counter, clearly without plans to move along and do some other assistant-manager type of thing. “About the graveyard.”
He took another sip of coffee and turned his gaze toward Daniels. “Nick, boy,” he said kindly, “would you be making my friend Buffy Summers here a drink with that fancy machine o’ yours?”
Daniels looked at Buffy. “May I have a latte?” she asked, quickly adding, “Decaf? Nonfat milk?”
“Sure.” Daniels looked concerned, as if by going to use the espresso machine, he would leave her vulnerable and helpless. If only he knew. But go he did, and Buffy inwardly sighed with relief.
“Now,” Buffy said, climbing up on the stool beside Mr. O’Leary. She folded her hands and put them on the bar. “Please. Tell me.”
“And why would you be wanting to know, miss?” Mr. O’Leary asked carefully.
She shrugged. “I’m a curious sort of girl.”
“That y’are, lass,” he replied. “But of what sort, I’m uncertain.”
“Give me dish,” she urged. “I mean, please tell me what you saw.”
He stared downward and whispered something. She leaned in. Now he mumbled.
“The dead are risin’. They are coming up from their graves to destroy the living.”
“Um, could you be more specific?” she asked. “That covers an awful lot of territory.”
He frowned. “Who are you?”
“Someone who believes you,” she said softly. “Mr. O’Leary, these dead people. What kind of dead people are they?”
He looked as if he might cry. “Do you know how long I’ve been thought insane? My teaching job—” He swallowed hard. “Everything lost. But it’s all true.”
Buffy covered his hand. “I know, Mr. O’Leary.”
They looked at each other without speaking. A single tear ran down his cheek.
“My country’s folktales speak of heroes. This place is in desperate need of one.”
“I know that, too.” She gave his hand a little squeeze. “Please, Mr. O’Leary, tell me before Mr. Daniels comes back with my coffee.”
“Zombies, they are,” he said in a rush. “Do you know of Samhuinn?”
“Yes, a little.” She wished she’d paid better attention to Giles’s lecture. It occurred to her that she often wished that. She just wasn’t used to doing the listening thing.
“The dark time of year, when the pumpkin king reigns.”
“The pumpkin king?” Confused, she scratched her cheek. “I’m not tracking. What about the zombies?”
“He holds dominion over all.” Mr. O’Leary’s voice began to rise. “Creatures awaken to do his bidding. Werewolves. Zombies. Demons. They strike like warriors to thin our ranks while he sear
ches for the one.”
Buffy was silent while she processed that. Then she said, “The one.” She blinked. Uh-oh. “Would that one be called the, um, Slayer?”
He looked at her blankly. “That’s a name I’ve not heard.”
“Oh.” She brightened slightly. “Good. I mean, oh, how interesting.”
“Interesting?” He stared at her for a moment just as Mr. Daniels put her mug on the bar. Then Mr. O’Leary threw his coffee cup to the floor. It smashed and coffee and whipped cream flew everywhere. “You’re just as thick as the rest of ’em! I didn’t come here to tell stories. I came for help against the forces of evil.”
“What’s going on here?” a woman’s voice asked pleasantly. She was thirtysomething, but barely showed it. Her name badge read Claire Bellamy, Manager. Nick Daniels came out from around the bar and joined her.
“I thought you understood me,” Mr. O’Leary shouted, pointing at Buffy. “That you were going to do something!”
Daniels and Bellamy looked at Buffy. Though she felt bad doing it, she moved her shoulders and said, “I don’t know what he’s talking about.”
“You, you—” Mr. O’Leary sputtered. Then, at the top of his lungs, he bellowed, “You little liar!”
Heads turned. Buffy cleared her throat, trying to hint that they would get more accomplished if he’d be a little sly about it.
“Okay, Mr. O’Leary,” Claire Bellamy said. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave. Nick, a hand?”
Mr. O’Leary raised a finger at Buffy as the manager and assistant manager shuffled him firmly toward the exit. “If more die, it’s on your head, Buffy Summers!”
“Could you say that into the PA system, please?” Buffy said under her breath. “There may be a few people who didn’t hear that.” Not to mention a vampire or two.
From their perches, Xander and Willow made oh, great expressions. Buffy pointed to herself and then to the door. The two jumped down and joined her. Xander said, “Buffy Summers, you little liar person, what are you going to do now?”
“Well, I don’t suppose I’m going to Disney World,” Buffy said glumly. “I guess I’m going to the graveyard.”