Buffy the Vampire Slayer 2

by Nancy Holder

  Xander snapped his fingers and bounced to the rock-and-roll beat of Buddy Holly’s “Peggy Sue” on his way back to men’s shirts.

  Willow was folding and pricing clothes from another box someone had dumped. She didn’t ask about the music or his conversation with Oz. She announced, “The glow-green shorts are missing.”

  “Now that’s odd.” Xander could see why someone might want the hunting vest, but not the can’t-miss-me-in-the-dark underwear. Unless Michael is hiding some bizarre fashion preferences under his bland public image.

  When Michael crept into the cafeteria, trying not to draw attention, Xander dropped him as a suspect. The boy wouldn’t have come back if he had found his amulet.

  “Nothing happened?” Giles eyed Buffy over the top of his glasses. It was a classic look of adult disbelief designed to rattle teenagers who were hedging the truth.

  “Nope.” Buffy wasn’t rattled, but she wasn’t trying to hide anything either. Perched on the edge of the library study table, she met his skeptical stare with a look of unflinching conviction. “No new vamps rising from cemetery cradles, no aspiring Frankensteins or demons that want to be real boys looking for body parts, no monsters itching to put a Slayer notch on . . . whatever they notch—”

  Giles cut her off. “Yes, I get the picture. It’s a trifle alarming, actually.”

  Buffy frowned. “Right. I can’t sleep unless I’ve had to fend off a few fiends before going to bed.”

  “Hmmm?” The Watcher looked up.

  “Why is no evil deed for one night a problem?” Buffy asked, puzzled. “Even vampires and demons must need some down time now and then.”

  “Not really,” Giles said. “Not unless they’re plotting or saving their strength for a particularly horrendous event.”

  “Is there a Watcher rule against humoring a Slayer’s desperate desire to forget about killing or being killed for a couple of days?”

  Buffy knew the answer, but the question had to be asked anyway. If she didn’t remind Giles that she was a girl with friends and non-Slayer activities, he would assume she had finally decided to accept the restrictions of being the Chosen One. Sooner or later he’d have to accept that she wouldn’t give up control of her dreams or her destiny.

  “Forgetting could be deadly, don’t you think?” Noting her look of consternation, Giles changed tactics. “And what would you rather be doing than keeping evil at bay this weekend?”

  “The school rummage sale? We’re raising money to send the marching band to the state competition in Sacramento.”

  “Of course.” Giles smiled tightly. “Tooting horns and clanging cymbals while hiking in lockstep is so much more necessary than the preservation of life on the planet.”

  Buffy stiffened. “Is something threatening the planet?”

  “No, I was just—” Giles pulled up a chair. “I just don’t want you to get so involved in other, inconsequential things that you let down your guard.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got this weird Slayer sixth sense that warns me when . . .” Buffy frowned.

  “When what?” Giles asked expectantly.

  “Last night I had a feeling that something was . . . off,” Buffy explained. “Angel felt it too, but . . . nothing happened.”

  “And now?”

  Buffy shrugged. “I can’t tell if I’m sensing something weird or if talking about it makes me think I am.”

  “And you’re absolutely certain that nothing happened right before this feeling started?”

  “Michael Czajak lost a protection charm.” Buffy matched the Watcher’s worried frown. “Actually, his mom gave it to the rummage sale.”

  “Do I know him?”

  “Probably not,” Buffy said, “but he claims this gold medallion protects him from Sunnydale’s goblins and ghouls. So . . . do charms work?”

  “Some,” Giles admitted, “but there’s no all-purpose protection spell or talisman. Generally speaking, they have to be conjured for a specific threat, and even then their effectiveness is usually limited.”

  “So we couldn’t have made a thingy to protect me from the Master,” Buffy stated flatly.

  “No.” Giles averted his eyes. He still hadn’t forgiven himself for her almost-permanent death at the Master’s hands. “If that had been possible, I would have done it.”

  “I know.” Buffy smiled, but now she was on edge. “So what are the chances that Michael’s missing amulet has me feeling like mystical centipedes are drag racing in my veins?”

  “An amateur spell?” Giles stood up and adjusted his glasses. “I rather doubt it, but we are on the Hellmouth. You might want to keep an eye on this Michael fellow, as a precaution.”

  “Okay.” Buffy slid off the table and glanced back as she headed toward the swinging doors. “Should I tell Ms. Calendar you think the rummage sale is inconsequential, or would you rather owe me one?”

  “What? You—” Giles looked stricken. “I’d rather not have cause for harsh words with anyone, thank you.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Buffy grinned as she pushed through the doors into the hall. For all his stiff and pompous ways, Giles could be reduced to sputtering incoherence when it came to Jenny Calendar. It was sweet, and despite her teasing, she wouldn’t do anything to ruin things for him.

  As she headed toward the cafeteria, Buffy wondered if the crate of Joel Shavin paintings had arrived at the gallery yet. Her mom had to take delivery before she could leave to bring the art donations to the school. Buffy wasn’t worried about her own reputation in the community, but Ms. Calendar had mentioned the unique pieces on flyers and in a newspaper article about the school sale, hoping to attract customers from Sunnydale’s upper crust.

  Michael Czajak stayed in the shadows along the wall. The cafeteria had been transformed into a bustling retail enterprise overnight. Students and teachers were still busy unpacking and pricing sale items, rushing to finish before the noon deadline in two hours. Sorting everything into categories would make the sale more convenient for shoppers, but it didn’t make his search easier. It kept him rooted in hiding near the objet d’art and jewelry tables where Cordelia Chase was clearly in charge.

  “What did you find?” Cordelia asked when Harmony set a box on the end of the table. “You look like you uncovered Blackbeard’s treasure or something.”

  Harmony bubbled with enthusiasm. “I just happened to be looking over Oz’s shoulder when he almost gave this box to that zero-charisma Zanzibar—”

  “You mean Xander Harris?” Cordelia asked, looking into the box.

  “I guess. Does it matter?” Harmony scoffed. “Anyway, I thought we should have that old-timey metal compact and that silver picture frame and that . . .”

  Tuning out Harmony’s annoying voice, Michael stared at the glass display cases. Gold and silver gleamed under the overhead lights, and he could discern splashes of color—blue and purple, as well as red and green. He had only begun to dabble in magick and didn’t know much beyond the fundamentals. However, it seemed likely that his amulet would make itself known to him somehow—if the spell had worked.

  Twelve hours had passed since Michael had sent out his mystical call, but there was no sign of his protective charm. Without the amulet, he was vulnerable to every horror that inhabited the dark recesses of the town. Closing his eyes, he recited the incantation again.

  Cordis fortis, deiciere,

  Adesdum prospecto hodie.

  He repeated the spell in English for good measure.

  Heart of power, thrown away,

  Come back to me today.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Cordelia tried to ignore the freaky loser hanging out in the corner, but his silent presence was getting on her nerves. She spun around, dark eyes brimming with scorn as she lashed out. “Go hover somewhere else!”

  Recoiling from the sharp rebuke, the boy stopped talking to himself and scrambled to get away from her.

  Harmony grimaced. “He’s so white, like a ghost or something.
Could anybody be more repulsive?”

  “Zanzibar?” Cordelia shuddered to cover her earlier slip. Xander had rescued her from the old science lab fire, and he was a great kisser, but that didn’t obligate her to defend him. It wasn’t her fault he was a buffoon with candy lips.

  Are these things great or what?” Opening an engraved metal compact, Harmony removed a fluffy pad. She pretended to powder her nose, then studied her reflection in the small mirror. “Should I get a tan this summer or stick with the pale porcelain doll look?”

  “Too much sun causes wrinkles and cancer. Oooh.” Cordelia carefully untangled a filigreed silver necklace from a gold sunburst on a heavy chain. “This silver one is mine. The rest can go back to the odds-and-ends table. It’s just costume junk.”

  “I have a crow’s claw!” Still gazing at herself in the mirror, Harmony pulled the skin around her eye tight.

  “That’s crow’s feet,” Cordelia said, clasping the delicate silver chain around her neck.

  “But I’m only sixteen!” Harmony squealed.

  “And I’ve been telling you since fifth grade that marathon tanning is bad for your skin. Did you listen? No.” Cordelia leaned in for a closer look. Harmony did have creases at the corners of her eyes. “So don’t come crying to me.”

  “But I look twenty!”

  Cordelia wasn’t in the mood to console the distraught girl. She grabbed the compact out of Harmony’s hand and dropped it in the box. “Stop whining. It could be worse. Plastic surgeons can fix premature wrinkles. They can’t cure cancer. I’ll be right back.”

  Ordinarily Cordelia wouldn’t think of wearing anything someone else had owned. She didn’t even buy off the rack at the better boutiques. But it was easy to justify making an exception for the silver necklace. The piece was exquisite, obviously an antique, and a rare find.

  That I haven’t paid for, Cordelia realized when Principal Snyder suddenly stepped in front of her. So I can’t be busted for buying something before the rummage sale opens—only for stealing!

  “Principal Snyder!” Cordelia flashed him her most ingratiating smile, prepared to use her feminine wiles to wheedle her way out of trouble. He was wearing a gray hat with a wide brim and red band. It was similar to the hats cocky detectives wore in the old black-and-white movies her father liked. “I love your hat! It makes you look so . . . debonair!”

  “It does, doesn’t it?” Snyder surprised her with a satisfied grin. “I knew you had good taste, Ms. Chase.”

  “Yes, I do.” Cordelia kept smiling.

  “I should buy this, shouldn’t I?”

  “Yes, you should,” Cordelia answered with an emphatic nod. Apparently the no-early-purchase rule didn’t apply to administration. “It’s definitely you.”

  “Oh, good, because I really like it.” Touching the brim, Snyder whistled a jaunty tune as he sashayed away.

  “Now that was creepy.” The tips of Cordelia’s fingers tingled as she moved on to the trinket and knickknack table.

  “I finally figured it out!” Xander exclaimed.

  “What?” Willow asked.

  “The shirts must be breeding. The minute we think we’ve folded and priced them all, more show up.” Xander bent over and opened the flaps on the last unpacked box. He quickly closed them again and left the box on the floor. “Like tribbles, only we can’t transport them to a Klingon ship to get rid of them.”

  “No,” Willow deadpanned, “we’ll have to sell every single one before they overrun the cafeteria.”

  “Not possible,” Xander said. “The jocks have already pilfered the cool stuff, and the homeless derelicts who might actually want yesterday’s outfits won’t come in to buy them. They’ll just wait until we throw them away and dig them out of the Dumpster.”

  “We’re doomed.” Willow loved bantering with Xander, especially about old movies and TV shows. It took her back to less complicated, carefree times, when spiders and frogs were the scariest creatures she had to worry about.

  “At least we won’t have to feed them.” Kicking the unpacked box aside, Xander collected and nested the empty boxes.

  The original version of “Love Potion No. 9” by the Clovers started playing, and Willow’s eyes lit up. “Oh, I love this song!”

  “Which reminds me”—Xander tucked the empty cartons under his arm—“we had a deal. I asked Oz to keep playing music, so you have to tell me where you hid my camouflage vest.”

  “I didn’t hide it anywhere,” Willow said. “You just assumed I did.”

  “But you know where it is,” Xander stated flatly.

  Willow shook her head. “Sorry.”

  “Can you finish up here?” Xander scanned the room as he spoke. “I’ve . . . uh . . . got to ditch these boxes.”

  And look for your vest, Willow thought as he left. Lifting the last box onto the table, she folded back the flaps and pulled out a pink button-down shirt. A strangled scream caught in her throat when a black spider scurried along the collar. She could help dust vamps and defy demons that had downloaded themselves into metal suits, but she had to draw the line at spiders. She dropped the shirt.

  A blue forked tongue flicked out, snagged the arachnid, and vanished into the pile of clothes.

  Willow had no idea what else was lurking in the box, but anything that killed spiders couldn’t be bad—except frogs. However, the only known frog big enough to fit the blue tongue was the Goliath. Thirty inches long and weighing seven pounds, they looked like giant bullfrogs and were native to African rain forests.

  The chances were slim to none that the spider killer was a frog, and Willow’s scientific curiosity was stronger than her fear. Using her black pricing marker, she flipped over the top shirt.

  Round dark eyes set in soft white fur blinked.

  “You’re not a nasty old frog!” Willow exclaimed, instantly captivated. The size of an average teddy bear, the furry thing had four stubby legs with bright blue paw pads and tufted, pointed ears. The little guy looked like a Japanese anime creature, except that it was alive.

  The animal purred.

  Absolutely certain the odd but adorable critter wouldn’t harm her, Willow placed her hand near its furry face. It snuggled against her palm.

  “Hey, cutie.” Wrapping the creature in a long blue neck scarf, Willow took it out of the box and held it close. She loved her tropical fish, but her mother had never allowed her to have a pet she could cuddle. This time she wouldn’t take no for an answer. She wouldn’t even ask. She’d sneak Cutie in and out of her room and carry him to school in a backpack.

  “It’s okay,” Willow cooed. “You’re with me now.”

  Cutie purred.

  As Buffy hurried down the hall toward the cafeteria, her Slayer sense suddenly kicked in. Her arm snapped out and her fingers closed around braided leather. She pulled, yanking a short, stocky boy out of the empty classroom on her left. He stumbled into the hall but hung on to the handle end of the bullwhip.

  “Jonathan!” Andrew shouted, and ran out behind him. The taller boy had been in Buffy’s biology class last year.

  She looked Jonathan in the eye. “I thought Principal Snyder was the only one who cracked the whip around here.”

  “I just got this.” Jonathan tugged on the whip, trying to pull it out of Buffy’s grasp. She tightened her grip on the main lash. The narrow leather strip, smaller round thong, and cracker that were attached to the end dangled from her closed fist.

  “You’ll lose this if Snyder catches you snapping it in the halls,” Buffy warned. “Someone could get hurt.”

  “Like me,” Andrew said, rubbing his arm.

  “Sorry.” Jonathan swallowed nervously.

  “No, you’re not. Ever since you found that thing, nothing else matters.” Andrew wasn’t happy. “We’re out here playing Indiana Jones instead of guarding our stash.”

  “I can’t help it,” Jonathan said, equally peeved. “Cracking it makes me feel—”

  “Taller?” Andrew sneered.


  Buffy had better things to do than referee a spat between two pathetic jokers. “Just watch it, okay?”

  Jonathan nodded and tugged again.

  Buffy let the end of the whip slide through her fingers. Just before the boy pulled the end clear, a small jolt of electricity shot through her hand.

  “Ouch.” Buffy frowned.

  “Uh-oh.” Coiling the whip, Jonathan took off down the hall with Andrew in pursuit.

  Buffy wished them well in their bumbling efforts to thwart Snyder’s regime, but their mortal fate instantly fell off her agenda. After calling the gallery, she pushed through the cafeteria doors and paused to look for Willow and Xander. Ms. Calendar waved her over to the cashier’s table.

  “I don’t want to press, but . . .” Ms. Calendar caught her lower lip in her teeth.

  “Mom should be here soon,” Buffy said, anticipating the question. “I just called the gallery, and she’s not there.”

  “That’s great!” The tension in the teacher’s slim body eased. “Someone called about the cloisonné urn I mentioned in the newspaper article. They want something nice for their poodle’s ashes.”

  “They want a super-expensive antique urn for a dog?” Buffy’s appreciation of art and artifacts began and ended with ancient weapons and occult books. She didn’t care what happened to the pot, but her mother would be appalled. “Don’t tell Mom they’re going to bury it.”

  “Actually, I think they’re going to keep it on their mantel.” Smiling, Ms. Calendar turned to help a student find the receipt books.

  “Buffy!” Cordelia called from the next table.

  Buffy groaned. Despite the fact that she and her friends had saved Cordelia’s life more than once, the popular cheerleader never, ever wanted to be seen with the “library losers” unless something dreadfully bad was happening. Buffy wasn’t doing bad this weekend.

  Cordelia, as usual, wouldn’t be ignored. She dashed over, glaring with indignation. “I need help, and that’s what you’re empowered or whatever to do, right? Help?”