by Nancy Holder
“I wasn’t going to buy them,” Xander shot back, flustered. Cordelia held him with a dark-eyed stare, daring him to spill their tawdry secret. She knew he wouldn’t. The instant their relationship came out of the utility closet, it would be over.
“Why not? No one but you would ever see them.” Smiling smugly, Cordelia lifted the shoe box in her hand. “Got any jewelry or interesting trinkets?”
“Sorry.” Willow shrugged. “Just shirts and shorts.”
Xander tried to look annoyed as Cordelia sauntered away. He didn’t expect life to be fair, but sometimes he wished it wasn’t so weird.
“How much are we charging for shorts?” Willow asked.
“Three dollars.” Xander handed her the green boxers and picked up the empty box. “If you’re tired of sorting clothes, I can look for something more interesting.”
“No, clothes are good.” Willow dangled a long strip of stickers. “I’ve got all these three-dollar price tags.”
“They won’t go to waste. Every dad in town donated classic shirts nobody else wants either.” Xander took a couple of steps, then looked back. “Should we be worried about Buffy? Because she’s late, I mean.”
“If she was late to slay or late for a date, I’d worry,” Willow said, “but she’s just late for school.”
Xander frowned. “Except she wanted this extracurricular gig and talked us into it.”
“It’s still school.” Setting the marker and stickers aside, Willow began to sort the shirts by size.
Xander hurried outside the cafeteria and down the corridor. The access doors to the basement were usually locked, but since the rummage sale donations were stored there, the door by the cafeteria was propped open. At the bottom of the stairs, Xander started to heave the cardboard box into a corner with the other empties. Then he noticed a short, thin high school boy pawing through boxes that hadn’t been unpacked yet.
Although most of the sale items had been moved upstairs, several boxes were still stacked along the wall or piled on tables. The floor was littered with clothes and books the boy had dumped during his frantic search.
“Looking for something?” Xander asked tensely.
The teenager spun to face him, poised to bolt at the slightest provocation.
Xander relaxed the instant he recognized the culprit: Michael Czajak, another miserable misfit.
A quiet kid with slicked-back hair and tormented eyes, Michael rarely talked to anyone. At the beginning of the school year, he had started wearing black T-shirts—no logo—and jeans. It was hard to tell if he was trying to hide any trace of personality or displaying his true dark colors. The boy was so introverted and strange that he made Jonathan and Andrew look like hunks with an acceptable modicum of cool. “Spooky” was the first word that came to mind as Xander stared him down.
“The sale doesn’t start until tomorrow, Michael.”
“My mom, she—” Michael paused, clearing his throat. “She cleaned my room—”
“Don’t tell me. She donated one of your prized possessions to the rummage sale,” Xander guessed.
Michael nodded.
Xander felt sorry for him. Having personal space invaded by a neat freak, suspicious, or just plain curious mom was every teenager’s nightmare. Something usually turned up missing, beginning with privacy and almost always including treasured or forbidden possessions. His parents didn’t care what deep dark secrets he kept from them, but he played it safe and never wrote anything down.
“A journal? Videos?” Xander guessed.
“A medallion,” Michael said.
After several silent seconds, Xander realized that Michael wouldn’t elaborate without prodding. “Can you describe it? So I’ll know it if I see it.”
“It’s a sunburst, gold with red and green stones on a gold chain.”
Xander frowned. “You might have to check with Cordelia. She’s the boss of the good stuff.”
Michael looked stricken at the mention of Cordelia’s name. That wasn’t an uncommon reaction among those who preferred being ignored to being a victim of Cordelia’s verbal barbs.
“But Cordelia doesn’t wear anything fake,” Xander added. “So if it’s just cheap costume jewelry—”
“That’s what my mom thought.” Michael’s tone betrayed the hurt and contempt teenagers often felt for adults who didn’t understand them. “It’s priceless, but the amulet only protects me—”
“From what?”
Michael hesitated, then sighed as though he had already said too much and had nothing more to lose. “Supernatural evils. Sunnydale is overrun with them.”
“Does it work?” Xander blurted out. Everyone in the Slayer-know could use a heavy-duty protection charm, but Giles had never suggested making one. Since the Watcher wouldn’t want them harmed, he had assumed there was no magick powerful enough to protect them from the superthings Buffy had been chosen to fight.
“I haven’t vanished or burst into flames,” Michael answered. A defiant gleam shone in his dark eyes.
The other boy’s defensive attitude reminded Xander that he had to mask his interest. The residents of Sunnydale rarely—if ever—spoke of the many disappearances, deaths, and other incidents of magickal mayhem that plagued the town. Only a privileged few knew that Buffy Summers was the Vampire Slayer, and they were sworn to keep her secret. Appearing to be as deaf and blind to the weirdness as everyone else was the surest way to do that.
“Neither have I,” Xander retorted, flipping his hands palms up, then over again. “Still here, no burns.”
Taking the flippant remark as a put-down, Michael turned his back and resumed rummaging.
Xander didn’t like slinging insults at tongue-tied nerds, but it had the desired effect. Tossing the empty box, he picked up another box of clothes and turned toward the stairs. He heard Michael muttering, but the boy’s back was to him and he couldn’t make out the words.
Probably cursing me out for thinking he’s a fool. The funny thing was, whether the amulet was effective or not, Xander knew that Michael was smart to take precautions.
“Looks like you’re working hard, Xander.” Ms. Calendar paused halfway down the stairs to look in his box. “More clothes.”
“And even more clothes,” Xander said, glancing back.
The computer teacher scanned the unpacked boxes. “I had no idea we had this much left to unpack.”
“I just hope most of it sells so we don’t have to pack it all back up again,” Xander said.
“That would be nice.” Ms. Calendar focused on Michael. “Let’s go, Mr. Czajak!”
Michael’s head snapped around. “I—I have to find something.”
“Sorry, Michael,” Ms. Calendar said, “but you know the rules. Nobody can buy anything until we open for business tomorrow.”
“But my mom—”
Ms. Calendar silenced him with a raised hand. “Grab a box and take it upstairs.”
Michael lifted a box.
Xander caught his eye, but he didn’t correct Ms. Calendar’s mistaken assumption that Michael was a volunteer. He didn’t care if Michael pretended to work while he looked for his missing charm.
Principal Snyder hovered by the door, lying in wait for Ms. Calendar. A small, balding, disagreeable man, he blocked her way as she tried to exit. “How late are you and these kids going to be here?”
Xander and Michael waited on the stairs behind her.
“Another hour or so. We can come back early tomorrow morning to finish up.” The teacher waved the boys into the corridor and rolled her eyes as Snyder locked the basement access door behind them.
Buffy gasped, shocked. For five dollars, the soft leather skirt was a bargain she couldn’t pass up. Pulling the must-have item off the stack, she continued down the clothes aisle to the men’s section, where Willow was arranging shirts.
“Where are you stashing stuff, Willow?” Buffy glanced around to make sure no one else was listening.
“Stuff to buy tomorrow that they won
’t let us buy today?” Willow asked pointedly.
“Well, yeah.” Buffy was not going to feel guilty. Saving money was one way to prove to her mom that she had changed her irresponsible ways. However, the bottom line of being budget conscious was having a wardrobe that became progressively more dated with each passing day. “I can’t be the only early shopper here tonight.”
“Hardly!” Willow laughed. “Everybody’s doing it, except me. But that’s only because I haven’t found anything worth getting in trouble for.”
“But if you had something, where would you put it?” Buffy bent over to look under the table.
“Well, I wouldn’t put it in a box under a table,” Willow said with certainty. “That’s the first place Ms. Calendar would look. Half the stuff people are hiding will be back on the tables by morning.”
“Good point.” Buffy clutched the skirt tighter.
“So if I found a men’s shirt I wanted, I’d put it in women’s slacks or sweaters or something.” Willow tugged the skirt until Buffy let go. “And I’d hide a skirt in a stack of men’s shirts.”
“You’re sure?” Buffy frowned.
“Would you look for chic leather in piles of plaid?” Willow held Buffy’s gaze for a knowing moment, then slipped the folded skirt between cotton knits. “Don’t worry, Buffy. Nobody cool enough to know that skirt is worth a lot more than five dollars is going to get anywhere near this old-guy stuff.”
“I hope you’re right.” Buffy tried to look busy and innocent when Ms. Calendar walked into the cafeteria behind Xander and Michael Czajak. The teacher and Michael turned in opposite directions down different aisles. Xander kept coming toward them.
“Hey, Buffy. Are you having fun yet?” Xander dropped the box on the table.
“I didn’t volunteer to have fun, Xander.” Buffy peered at the tangle of clothes in the box and wrinkled her nose.
“All slay and no school project makes Buffy . . .” Xander looked at her expectantly.
“Really annoyed,” Buffy said. Then she realized Xander wasn’t trying to be difficult, and softened her tone. “I just want to spend a couple of days battling bargain hunters and not you-know-whats.”
“For real?” Xander didn’t look convinced. “We’re not doing this to avert some diabolical threat?”
“Other than enduring Cordelia’s disdain at the checkout table because we’re buying cast-off clothes? In a word, no.”
“I like the extra credit part,” Willow said.
Buffy smiled. Extra credit couldn’t boost the redheaded whiz kid’s GPA past the 4.0 she already had.
“Okay, so the no-class thing is a plus, and I never miss a chance to score Slayer points, but . . .” Xander lowered his voice. “Look, I don’t want to burst the wishful-thinking Buffy bubble, but the you-know-whats don’t have a charity exemption.”
Buffy leaned closer. Xander was right, and she appreciated his honesty, but there was a critical fact he had overlooked. “A tired Slayer is a dead Slayer.”
“Point taken. Not literally,” Xander replied.
“Looks like Michael’s in trouble,” Willow said.
“For what?” Buffy followed Willow’s gaze across the room.
The box Michael Czajak had brought up from the basement sat untouched. He had been caught looking through “miscellaneous junk” that had already been sorted and priced.
“I warned you once, Michael,” Ms. Calendar said sharply.
Michael cringed.
“Isn’t she taking Principal Snyder’s no-early-student-shopping rule a little too seriously?” Buffy asked.
“Yeah,” Xander agreed, “especially since he’s just trying to find something that belongs to him. His mom cleaned his room.”
“Bummer,” Willow said as the teacher pointed Michael toward the door. Embarrassed by the public reprimand, the boy fled.
“No fair.” Buffy frowned. Since Michael seemed to value his status as a nonentity, she had never tried to get to know him. However, her Slayer soul was sensitive to any injustice. Invasion of privacy wasn’t trivial, but parental concern always trumped a kid’s territorial rights. Ever since her mother had moved her diary—a narrowly averted catastrophe Angel had observed from her bedroom closet—she had kept her room Mom-proof clean.
Willow turned to Xander. “What did he lose? If we find it, we can stash it for him.”
“Gold medallion on a gold chain with red and green stones,” Xander said. “It’s an amulet.”
“As in magickal?” Willow asked, her interest moving beyond sympathy for Michael’s plight.
Xander shrugged. “Michael thinks so. He says it protects him from Sunnydale’s evil element.”
“Is he just guessing or has it been field tested?” Buffy asked.
“If Michael had a close encounter with a demon and he’s still around to talk about it, then maybe the charm works,” Willow muttered thoughtfully, more to herself than her friends.
“If charms could protect people from the big bads, my job would be a lot easier,” Buffy said.
“And safer,” Xander added. “Which raises the question:
If there’s a protection charm that works, why is Giles holding out on us?”
“He’s not.” Willow’s brow knit with consternation. “He wouldn’t. . . . Would he?”
“Probably not, but someone should find out.” Xander snapped a finger toward Buffy.
“I’ll ask.” Buffy tossed Xander a shirt from the box. “In the meantime, it’s fold and stack, not stake and dust.”
“I guess playing merchandise mart beats hanging out in the cemetery.” Xander shook out the shirt and matched the shoulder seams.
Unless I’m meeting Angel, Buffy thought wistfully.
“The music helps.” Willow moved to the beat of a Beatles song. “Someone should make sure Devon ‘spins the plates’ tomorrow.”
Xander smiled. “‘Platters.’ It’s ‘spin the platters.’”
“Platters or casseroles, Willow’s right.” Buffy slapped a price sticker on a blue-plaid flannel. “Music makes people feel good, and they buy more stuff.”
Xander looked at her askance. “Tell me again why we care if the marching band goes to Sacramento next month.”
“Principal Snyder is going with them to chaperone,” Buffy said. “Friday through Sunday, Sunnydale will be Snyder free.”
“Well, since you put it that way . . .” Xander set the shirt down and paused. “What’s this?”
“That? Nothing.” Willow winced as Xander pulled Buffy’s leather skirt out of the stack.
“Mine.” Buffy snatched the garment from Xander’s hand and hid it in the shirts again. “I’ll never find another one like that for five dollars.”
“Women!” Xander scoffed. “Can’t resist a bargain.”
“I can’t,” Willow agreed.
Buffy eyed Xander narrowly.
During the next hour, they unpacked a half-dozen boxes containing clothes, curtains, bedding, and other household goods. Buffy pretended not to notice when Xander hid a camouflage vest in a bright orange blanket. She waited until he took an empty box to the discard pile in the corridor, and then she moved the vest to another hiding place. Tomorrow, after he admitted that guys could be suckers for a good deal too, she’d give it back.
When Ms. Calendar announced that everyone had to be out in fifteen minutes, Buffy begged off early. “All this non-lethal activity has been fun, but I promised Mom I wouldn’t be late. And you know Giles—he’ll get all preachy if I shirk Slayer duty.”
“Patrolling home instead of strolling home?” Xander asked.
“Something like.” Buffy headed toward the doors before Xander and Willow could offer to tag along. Angel was almost always tracking her when she checked the local cemeteries for new vamps. More often than not he wanted to talk, and talking usually led to kissing—unless she had company.
To all outward appearances, Sunnydale was no different from any small American town on a Thursday night. Sparse traff
ic cruised well-lit streets and idled unmolested at red lights. A few oblivious joggers ran along park paths, while dog walkers stayed on the sidewalks. Cats yowled in backyards, and TVs blared through open windows. Nothing seemed amiss. No demonic threat registered on Buffy’s Slayer radar, but something didn’t feel right.
The feeling persisted when Buffy entered the cemetery, but she couldn’t pinpoint the source. She couldn’t detect the malodorous essence of a demon in the stench of decomposing corpses and moldy dirt. The chirp of insects and the rustle of leaves were the only sounds. Nothing moved except small animals, the nocturnal predators hunting them, and Angel.
Buffy sensed the vampire before he emerged from the shadows. His presence had a distinct signature, a unique combination of the goodness emanating from his tortured soul and the primal power that flowed through his imposing physique. She shivered, feeling warm and chilled as he strode across the manicured ground between tombstones.
Buffy tensed, her breath lodged in her throat, anticipating a kiss when Angel stopped and stared down at her. His words cut the romance out of the moment.
“Something’s wrong.” Angel turned away, frowning.
“What?” Buffy asked, mortified. Bad breath? Bad hair?
“I don’t know, it’s just . . .” A dark scowl creased Angel’s brow. “I’ve had this creepy-crawly feeling all night.”
“Oh, bad vibes!” Buffy sagged with relief and choked back a laugh. The thought of Angel having the heebie-jeebies was amusing, except for the lethal implications. Anything that unsettled the vampire couldn’t possibly be funny.
“Sort of.” Angel paced, thinking out loud. “It’s hard to describe.”
“Like being buried in bugs or smothered in snakes?” Buffy shivered again, this time with revulsion.
“Not exactly.” Angel paused, one hand on his hip, the other smoothing back dark hair.
“Oh.” Buffy leaned against a large tree, disappointed that Angel wasn’t being driven crazy with longing for her. Then again, maybe he was, but the new thing—whatever it turned out to be—was getting in the way. “So you don’t have a clue what’s going on?”
“No,” Angel said, shaking his head. “The demonic street is silent—not a word about anything nasty about to go down.”