by Nancy Holder
“The red one.” Joyce smiled tightly.
If Principal Snyder had suddenly come unhinged, the best thing to do was humor him. The Mayor wouldn’t ignore his disturbed state and might even use it as grounds for dismissal. She could only hope, for Buffy’s sake.
Joyce hurried back to the cashier’s table. During the thirty minutes remaining before the sale officially opened, she could answer any questions the cheerleader had about the pieces she had brought from the gallery.
Besides, Ms. Calendar or one of the girls might have hand lotion she could use. Her skin was much drier than usual, and her hands itched. Large flakes of skin peeled off when she scratched them.
CHAPTER FOUR
On her way to the library, Buffy ducked into the restroom to check on Cordelia. Besides the unfortunate fact that Cordelia knew the Slayer secret and was therefore owed certain inner sanctum considerations, Giles would need as much information as Buffy could get.
Since Harmony would rather die than share with a social outcast, Buffy quietly opened the door and hugged the wall as she slipped inside. Cordelia sat cross-legged on the floor in front of a closed stall. Harmony had locked herself inside.
“This is getting ridiculous, Harmony.” Cordelia fidgeted with her silver necklace, a sign that she was antsy and bored. “You can stay locked in there feeling sorry for yourself, or you can come out and look in the mirror. It’s not as bad as you think.”
“Yes, it is,” Harmony sobbed.
Cordelia rolled her eyes, but her tone didn’t betray her impatience. “A few teeny-weeny little lines won’t kill your chances with Jake. Well, they might. He is the Razorbacks’ star tight behind or rear or—”
“End.” Harmony sniffled. “He’s the tight end.”
“Whatever. Anyway,” Cordelia continued, “they’ve developed all kinds of new therapies to make old people look young.”
“I’m not old!” Harmony wailed. “My life is over.”
Buffy couldn’t take her eyes off Cordelia, who obviously hadn’t looked in the mirror lately. If she had, she wouldn’t be calmly chiding Harmony about overreacting to suntan creases.
Cordelia’s sleek brown hair was slowly turning to straw. Her pink manicure had sprouted black dots, and the dark decay had spread to all her front teeth. If Harmony’s tiny lines were getting worse at the same rate, she’d look like a shar-pei before fifth period started.
Buffy backed out of the restroom as silently as she had gone in and speed-walked to the library. There was a measure of cosmic justice in Cordelia and Harmony’s cosmetic disintegration, but she didn’t have time to deal with two hysterical girls. If the cause was a magickal spell or curse, Giles was their only hope of reversing the effects.
Even if it’s a scientific something—a gene mutation or a failed chem-lab experiment or pollution run amok—Giles is still the go-to guy, Buffy thought.
Her Watcher was shelving books on the upper tier. Very few students used the school library, but he could hardly discourage all non-Slayer access. Sometimes he had to do what librarians do.
Buffy got straight to the point. “You know that weird feeling I had this morning?”
“Something happened?” Giles pushed the book cart aside and hurried down the short flight of stairs.
“In a nutshell.” Buffy counted off the odd maladies. “Principal Snyder’s gone totally bonkers and may have holes in his head. Harmony’s aging, and Cordelia’s decomposing.”
“Literally, or are those colorful figures of speech?” Giles asked as he slipped back into his tweed jacket.
“Literally,” Buffy said.
“I see,” Giles sighed wearily. “I was rather hoping you’d get your wish for a slow weekend, and I’d have time to finish cataloging this shipment of books before someone steals another one.”
“So I take it the lactose manuscript hasn’t shown up on the vampire black market?”
“That’s du Lac manuscript,” Giles corrected. “And no, the trail’s gone completely cold.”
Buffy was sorry for Giles’s loss, but she needed his immediate attention. “The only other weird thing was the shock I got from Jonathan’s bullwhip. Although, that might have been a static shock—like you get from a doorknob.”
“That happens when friction causes a frantic exchange of electrons, especially between insulating materials,” Giles explained. “Leather-soled shoes acquire extra electrons from the carpet and a negative charge builds up in your body. When you touch something with the opposite charge, such as a door-knob, the electrons rush out and you feel a shock. There can be an enormous buildup of voltage.”
“One question, Mr. Wizard,” Buffy said, annoyed by the lecture. “Could static electricity build up in the end of a bull-whip?”
“Under normal use? Not likely, but not impossible, I suppose.” Giles frowned, thinking.
“Okay, but what about the other things?” Buffy asked. “Can a disease go from the first symptom stage to the patient’s falling apart in less than an hour?”
“Poisoning could cause a rapid progression,” Giles said. “So could a toxic chemical compound or a parasite, perhaps a mutation.”
“I thought of that,” Buffy said.
“But from what you’ve told me, the victims don’t have the same symptoms.” Giles removed his glasses and nibbled on the frame as he paced. “Are you sure the effects were limited to Principal Snyder and the two girls? There wasn’t anything strange about anyone else?”
“Not that I noticed, but”—Buffy hesitated—“I wouldn’t have seen the sores on Principal Snyder’s head if he hadn’t taken off his hat.”
Giles looked surprised. “He was wearing a hat?”
“An old-fashioned one he found in the sale stuff. He really wanted me to like it.” Buffy made a face. “I said it looked great. If Snyder’s sudden soft spot for students is permanent, I don’t want to lose the good-graces points I just got.”
Giles resumed pacing. “Were Cordelia and Harmony wearing anything that was donated to the sale?”
“I didn’t actually see Harmony,” Buffy explained. “Cordelia was wearing an outfit I’ve seen before—except for her necklace. She’s in charge of jewelry for the sale, but I don’t know if that’s where she got it. I think she’s allergic to anything used.”
“We must find out,” Giles said. “Identifying a common denominator won’t tell us if the problem is scientific or magickal, but at least we’ll have a sound starting point—especially if all or most of the sale items could have been contaminated by the same agent.”
“Almost everything was stored in the basement.” Buffy paused. “Mom.”
“What about your mother?” Settling his glasses on his nose, Giles started toward the doors.
“She’s bringing some donations from the gallery.” Buffy rushed out with him, jogging to match his lengthy stride as they hurried down the hall. “If she’s not here yet, I need to stop her.”
Jonathan and Andrew were arguing in the hall outside the cafeteria. Buffy was trying to reach her mother’s cell phone. Giles stopped to demand that Jonathan hand over the whip.
The usually timid boy refused. He stuffed the whip in his locker, slammed the door closed, and stood in front of it with his arms folded.
“Are either of you feeling anything unusual?” Unwilling to physically force a student to obey, Giles resorted to a less confrontational method: inquiry. “Headaches, nausea—”
“My wrist hurts,” Jonathan said.
“That’s because you keep snapping that whip at me!” Andrew’s temper flared. “And I’m getting really tired of being shocked.”
“Repeatedly?” Giles asked.
“Yeah.” Andrew glared at Jonathan. “And it hurts worse every time.”
Buffy left a message on her mom’s voice mail, but she was positive it was too late. Her mother was a stickler for rules. She would have turned off her cell phone in the school. “I think she’s already here, Giles. Come on.”
Buffy sa
w her mom the instant she entered the cafeteria. She was helping Deirdre arrange the gallery pieces on the collectible table and, judging from the animated conversation, educating the girl on the histories and values. Hiding her dismay, Buffy smiled and waved.
Spotting her, Buffy’s mom started to leave the table. Deirdre, however, still wanted her help and pulled her back. Joyce shrugged and held up a finger, signaling Buffy that she’d break away as soon as she could.
Take your time, Mom, Buffy thought. In addition to the danger of contracting a creeping crud disease, having her mother around made being a fully functional Slayer harder.
“Hello, Mr. Giles,” Ms. Calendar greeted him with a warm smile. “I’m surprised to see you here.”
“You are? Why?” Giles asked, perplexed.
“We don’t have any books with a copyright date older than 1943,” she joked.
“You’re not referring to a book published in 1943 by a Hungarian chap called—” Giles caught himself and coughed self-consciously. “Actually, I think it’s important to support the student body in its charitable efforts.”
“Yes, it is.” Ms. Calendar smiled as they looked deep into each other’s eyes.
Buffy nudged Giles to get him back on track. “Except certain student bodies are having a really bad day.”
“What? Oh, yes.” Giles drew Ms. Calendar over to the wall where they wouldn’t be overheard.
It was 11:50, ten minutes before the sale opened. Housewives, retirees, and wealthy bargain hunters were probably already lined up at the building entrance Principal Snyder had designated for rummage sale use.
Buffy made a quick survey of the room as she moved aside with Giles and Ms. Calendar. As before, nothing seemed wrong at first glance. Willow was straightening the stacks of shirts. The blue scarf and a furry white thing—her illegal early sale acquisitions—were on the chair. Oz ran back in and hurried over to Xander at the music table. Devon either had blown them off or hadn’t returned. Xander was wearing the camouflage vest. Michael Czajak was looking through everything on every table, still searching for his lost protection charm. As she watched, he jerked his hand out of a woman’s handbag and put his thumb in his mouth, as though something sharp had stuck him.
Or bit him? Buffy wondered. Karl Torlette, a lanky basketball player, sat with his head in his hands. Traci Benedict was curled up in a donated reclining chair, asleep or unconscious.
Her sweeping Slayer gaze stopped on Principal Snyder. He still wore the hat, but he had taken off his shirt, shoes, and socks. Barefoot and bare-chested, he stood with several colorful and drab, narrow and wide ties hanging from his neck and arms. His movements were spastic, like a robot that had short-circuited and couldn’t complete a command. A thin line of blood had dried on the skin in front of his ear.
“How sure are you about this?” Ms. Calendar asked Giles.
“I’m sure,” Buffy said, interjecting her opinion into the discussion. “Something’s not right.”
“I wish we could be more specific,” Giles added, “but until we know more, we should isolate the affected areas.”
“A quarantine?” Ms. Calendar frowned. “The cafeteria or the whole school?”
“The whole school, I’m afraid,” Giles said. “We don’t know what it is, where it started, or how far it’s spread. Will you contact the school office and have them post teachers at all the exits? No one can be allowed to enter or leave.”
Ms. Calendar hesitated. “We can’t tell the staff they might be infected with something. They’ll panic.”
“Excellent point.” Giles ran his hand over his head and stared at the floor. “I might be able to conjure a ward to seal the building, to keep everyone inside in and everyone else out”—he looked up—“but it will take time.”
“Just tell the teachers a rival school gang is loose in the building,” Buffy suggested, “and Principal Snyder doesn’t want them to get away before the cops arrive.”
Giles nodded. “That might work temporarily.”
Buffy glanced at the deranged principal. “And he won’t contradict you.”
“At least the sale hasn’t started.” Ms. Calendar spoke as she moved to the intraschool phone on the wall. “And I’d better call the Mayor. Maybe he hasn’t left his office yet.”
With the initial emergency response implemented, Buffy’s thoughts focused on her mother. So far the evidence suggested that the unknown bad thing was probably connected to the sale donations. The gallery items hadn’t been inside the school when the first symptoms erupted. Her mom might not be infected—yet. No one could leave the school, but her mother would be safer in the library.
Xander came up as Buffy turned to go get her.
“The vest looks good on you,” Buffy said.
“It’s a little tight, but I’m afraid to take it off.”
“For what reason?” Giles asked.
“If I put it down”—Xander looked at Buffy—“someone might hide it as a childish act of revenge.”
“Let’s just call it even, okay?” Buffy didn’t want to be distracted by silly, adolescent games. “We’ve got other things to worry about.”
“Right,” Xander agreed. “Like Willow.”
“Willow?” Buffy’s heart lurched with alarm. “What’s wrong with Willow?”
“Her personality’s taken a distinctly nasty turn.” Xander tugged on the sides of the zippered vest, trying to loosen it. “She’s turned into a supershrew, just like that Kate lady in the play.”
Giles looked stunned. “You’re familiar with The Taming of the Shrew by William Shakespeare?”
“We read it in class,” Xander said. “I even took notes, for pointers on how to deal with Cordelia—and other shrewish females, like Willow the raging maniac.”
“She’s raging?” Buffy frowned.
“Truth.” Xander mimicked a shrill female voice. “‘Get away from my cute thing!’”
Buffy looked at Xander askance. “What thing?”
“Some weird stuffed animal she found.” Xander shook his head, bewildered and upset. “She calls it Cutie.”
“Oh, dear.” Giles squinted, his gaze riveted on Willow. She was sitting in the chair again, rocking with the blue scarf and fuzzy thing. “I don’t believe that’s a toy.”
“What else could it be?” Xander asked.
“Not a myth, as most scholars have assumed.” Giles was suddenly a torrent of information. “It’s a kur, a lesser creature indigenous to the Hellmouth—a demonic rat, so to speak.”
“Hellmouth rats are white, furry, and adorable?” Buffy asked. The concept was difficult to process.
“Apparently, yes,” Giles said. “Every ecological system has lower life forms that support the higher ones, and it’s been hypothesized that the Hellmouth is no exception.”
“And demons eat cute things like treats.” The disgusting idea made Buffy cringe. During one of his dire warnings, Angel had let slip that demons craved kittens.
“Will it eat Willow?” Xander asked, aghast.
“No, but”—Giles jumped right into lecture mode, but this time Buffy was all ears—“such a creature would be completely defenseless in any environment without a protector. The kur establishes a psychic link with a stronger being, who becomes obsessively protective of it. It’s a remarkable, if some what insidious, survival mechanism.”
“That explains why Willow almost bit my head off—verbally speaking,” Xander said. “But how did a Hellmouth rat get into the Sunnydale High School cafeteria?”
“We’ve got more than Hellmouth rats,” Buffy pointed out. “Whatever’s eating Cordelia’s teeth and Principal Snyder’s head are not cute and cuddly.”
“I’m sure,” Giles agreed. “If a kur breached the barrier, then we can assume that other varieties of Hellmouth pests did as well.”
“And infested the rummage sale items we stored in the basement,” Buffy concluded. “So is this the mystical convergence, only-a-matter-of-time, fresh hell breaking loose you warne
d me about?”
“It’s not a manifestation I anticipated, but yes, that would describe it,” Giles said.
Ms. Calendar entered just in time to catch the last few comments. “The school’s locked down, but did I hear you correctly? We’ve got a Hellmouth infestation?”
“Evil bugs and other assorted lowlifes,” Xander said.
“But we closed the Hellmouth,” Ms. Calendar reminded them. “How could anything get out?”
“Closed, yes, but the barrier must have been weakened when the Master was released,” Giles said. “Apparently, it leaks—just enough to let the vermin through.”
Buffy stole a glance at her mother. She was still with Deirdre by the gallery boxes and showing no signs of disease or distress.
A shrill scream echoed in the hallway.
“Sounds like somebody looked in the mirror,” Buffy said.
Cordelia burst through the doors. Her strawlike hair stood straight up, forming a scarecrow halo around her head. Her front teeth were almost entirely black. Wild-eyed and in shock, she stopped in front of Giles and held out her hand.
“They—they just . . . fell off.” Several fingernails lay in Cordelia’s palm. They had turned to brown mush embedded with bits of pink polish.
Giles turned to Buffy and Ms. Calendar. “I’ll go see about casting the spell to seal the building. Let’s just hope nothing has escaped the school.”
“None of the sale items were taken out, so we’re probably good on that,” Buffy observed.
“We’ll find out soon enough,” Giles said.
“Teachers are covering all the doors to make sure no one leaves or comes in,” Ms. Calendar reported. “They didn’t question the gang story, and they’re telling everyone the sale opening will be delayed until the police apprehend the troublemakers. I doubt many people will wait long.”
“Disappointment is infinitely preferable to mystical disease,” Giles observed drily. “Once the binding spell is active, nothing will be able to exit or enter. In the meantime, it would be wise to move everyone with symptoms into an isolation ward. We may be too late to stop the spread within the school, but every precaution must be taken.”