Buffy the Vampire Slayer 2

by Nancy Holder

  This one hadn’t.

  The quasi-werewolf was on top of her now, pinning her with his weight. His claws found her throat and began to squeeze. From the wolf-man’s snarling lips she could feel hot breath against her skin. Buffy’s hands found the creature’s wrists and she squeezed too. The monster grunted in pain, but his grip didn’t falter, not even when she increased the pressure and felt bones grind together.

  She felt something else, too, and some corner of her mind duly took note of it. Even as she applied crushing force, she could feel the creature’s pulse in her hands, strong and vital.

  The thing had a heart, then. Why hadn’t the stake done its job? That was a question for later, something to ask Giles. Perhaps he’d favor her with one of his rare direct answers.

  The wolf-man’s attack had driven the air from her lungs, and she was having difficulty filling them again. Her own pulse pounded in her ears and spots swam before her eyes. The dark night seemed to grow darker. He was trying to kill her and was doing a reasonably good job.

  She gritted her teeth and redoubled her efforts to free herself. The angle made the work awkward, but she struggled to pull the wolf-man’s arms apart. The monster’s clawed hands shifted, just a bit, and Buffy sucked cool night air greedily. Her vision began to clear.

  As the world came back into focus, she saw another pair of hands. Angel’s. He reached around from behind and grasped the wolf-man’s chin with his left hand, then clamped his right fist atop the brute’s head. The vampire forcefully yanked back and up, which made a sound like pottery breaking. Buffy’s grasp broke as the beast released his grip on her neck. Angel tore the creature away from her.

  “Thanks,” she said. She managed a smile. He’d shifted into full vampire mode, the handsome contours of his face morphed into something harsher, but he was still a welcome sight.

  “It was my turn,” he said. The words came in a rush as he pivoted. Moving with inhuman speed, he slammed the wolf-man against the nearby crypt’s marble wall. Before the creature could react, he repeated the action a second and third time. When Angel let go at last, the beast’s eyes had closed. For a moment he remained standing, slumped against the wall, and then he slid into an unconscious heap. It was like watching a cartoon.

  Buffy pulled herself together and stood, waving aside Angel’s offer of help. She gathered up the weapons bag and took hasty inventory. The compact and collapsible crossbow, the bolts, the knives, and the other implements were all there. Only the single stake was missing.

  “That’s odd,” she said.

  “Hmm?” Angel asked.

  She pointed at their attacker. Even in the shadows her stake was conspicuous. It was buried deep into their assailant’s chest, but that chest still rose and fell steadily. Even with a stake in his heart, he was still breathing.

  “Shouldn’t he be, like, dead?” Buffy asked. “I mean, very dead?”

  “I don’t know,” Angel said. Usually cool and unflappable, he too seemed puzzled now. Warily, he knelt and examined the damaged monster. He sniffed, and shook his head. “He’s bleeding,” Angel said.

  Buffy wondered if the wolf-man’s blood tempted Angel, then forced the question from her mind. It seemed rude, somehow.

  “Lots of blood,” Angel said, musing. He opened the varsity letter jacket. Beneath it was an equally absurd football jersey. It glistened wetly beneath the moon’s rays. “Between this and the neck, he should really be dead.”

  “It’s a wooden stake, not silver,” Buffy said. Some intuition, vague and half-formed, prompted her to reach again into her weapons bag. “Doesn’t it take silver, for werewolves?”

  “But this isn’t a werewolf,” Angel said. He looked up at her again. “I mean, I’ve met werewolves. They’re not hind-leggers. Strictly all fours.” He pointed at the night sky. “Besides, it’s not a full moon.”

  “So,” the Slayer said, “it’s not a werewolf but, rather, an incredible simulation of one.”

  The conversation had taken on an absurd, otherworldly feel, Buffy realized. She was standing in the moonlight, talking to her more-or-less boyfriend, comparing notes on the operational specifics of werewolves. What had her life come to?

  “Whatever he is, he’s down for the count,” Angel said. He shrugged. “What now?”

  “Don’t know,” Buffy said. With most such encounters, disposing of the evidence wasn’t a problem. Vampires collapsed conveniently into dust. Elementals found their, well, element and disappeared. Robots had a welcome tendency to explode and reduce themselves to components that defied easy identification. But a wolf-man, unconscious—

  “I don’t know how long he can last like this,” Angel said, echoing her thoughts.

  “Put him out of his misery?” Buffy asked tentatively. She didn’t like the idea. It was one thing to slay in battle, but executing an unconscious foe was something else entirely.

  “Misery. That’s another point,” Angel said. Satisfied that their foe was, indeed, out like a light, he turned to face her. “Werewolves are usually victims themselves. They’re cursed.” The vampire paused, clearly troubled.

  Buffy knew why. He had a curse of his own. “Maybe, if we can restrain him, Giles can give us an answer.”

  “How do we do that?” Angel asked. There were times when he was annoyingly pragmatic. “Do you have anything?”

  “Not really,” Buffy said. She thought for a moment. She wasn’t in the habit of bringing handcuffs on her patrols. “Maybe we can box him up?”

  “Where?”

  Angel was still kneeling, facing her. She looked past him, at the crypt. “There,” she said. “We could come back—”

  She noticed the movement just in time. Behind Angel the wolf-man’s eyelids fluttered, then opened a split second later. The brute rose to his feet, moving at a startling speed that belied his injuries. Clawed hands neared Angel’s throat.

  Buffy no longer worried about executing an unconscious foe. The realization came almost as a relief, but then the thought faded and trained reflex took over. Inside the weapons bag, her fingers found the hilt of a boka, a bent knife with two razor-sharp curved edges. It was shorter than a machete but better balanced and just as deadly. Buffy hurled the blade without pausing to look, think, or take aim.

  The boka spun through the moonlit air, passing over Angel’s shoulder. Genuine sparks, harsh and electric, flew as the weapon sliced though the wolf-man’s neck and dug into the stone beyond.

  Heart strikes usually worked. Thus far, at least, outright beheadings always did.

  “There,” she said. “Next time’s your turn again.”

  “I’m not keeping count,” the vampire replied, turning to look behind him.

  The wolf-man collapsed once more. This time, however, the creature’s form slumped forward, caving in on itself. The contours of his remains softened and faded. As they watched, his substance seemed to evaporate, boiling away, first into mist and then into nothingness. In moments, flesh, blood, and clothing alike had all vanished completely. Only Buffy’s stake and blade remained.

  “Blood’s gone,” Angel said. He sniffed again. The vampire had a terrifically keen sense of smell, a handy ability, but it wasn’t one of his most endearing qualities.

  “I can see that,” Buffy said. “He cleaned up after himself. And I thought vampires were tidy.” Seeing the pained expression on Angel’s face, she shrugged. “Sorry,” she said meekly. “Nothing personal.”

  “No, it’s not like that,” he replied. “It’s the blood. The blood scent should last for hours at the very least, but it’s gone already.” He retrieved her weapons and handed them to her. The blade was chipped where it had struck stone, but both instruments were spotlessly clean. “What was on these and in the air is gone,” Angel continued. “There’s no residue at all. It’s like he was never here.”

  “The bruises on my neck say different,” Buffy said, but without any particular concern. Slayers healed fast. “He wasn’t a werewolf, then?”

  �
��I don’t know what he was,” Angel replied.

  “Definitely one for the books, then,” Buffy said. “Giles’s books, that is.”

  Angel nodded in agreement. He knelt to study the soil where the wolf-man had fallen. The surrounding grass was bent and disturbed but perfectly dry. Angel seemed fascinated by the phenomenon of blood that could disappear without a trace. Buffy put it down to professional interest.

  She put the boka back in her bag where it belonged, but kept a secure grip on the stake. The night was still young, after all.

  The band was just about to start its second set when Aura made her escape. Cordelia was a sweetheart with a fashion sense to die for, but even Aura found some of her guidance overbearing—especially when it came to guys. Harmony Kendall might hang on Cordy’s every word, but not Aura. The Queen of Sunnydale High was a fine role model and companion, but Aura didn’t need a second mother. When she saw Cordelia’s features compose themselves into the familiar expression that promised a lecture, she rose without comment. She wiggled the fingers of her left hand in a parting gesture. Harmony noticed and waved back. Cordelia, focused intently on the world beyond their shared table, didn’t seem to notice.

  She never did, as far as Aura could tell. Cordy thought that it was her world, and everyone else just lived in it.

  The Bronze was hopping, at least by weeknight standards. The table area and dance floor were crowded enough to make Aura’s path zig and zag as she threaded through the other patrons. Most of them were familiar. A few times she paused to exchange niceties with other high school girls who weren’t as pretty or as smart as she was. College girls were another matter; Aura eyed them warily, and they did the same to her. Aura knew that she was beautiful, and so did they, but competition was ugly.

  She was looking for the sleepy-eyed stranger. Aura didn’t care much for biker types, but something about this guy appealed to her, and she wanted to address the issue. Neither of her tablemates seemed poised to compete. Cordelia wasn’t very quick on the draw lately; Aura had begun to wonder if she was seeing someone. And Harmony was sticking to the Queen of Sunnydale High like a blond shadow. But there were other girls aplenty in the Bronze tonight, and Aura didn’t see any reason to let them have a chance.

  The band started its second set as she glided past the bar. TDQYDJP was soon into a bluesy-salsa-reggae thing about good love gone wrong. In a world full of pairs, Aura’s target stood at the dance floor’s edge with his back to her.

  “Hey!” she said, tapping his shoulder. Her prod met with pleasing resistance. Aura liked hard muscle.

  He turned. Up close he looked even better. His eyes had a mesmerizing intensity. They burned, half hidden beneath drooping lids.

  “Yeah?” the guy asked. It was less a word than a questioning grunt, but Aura didn’t mind. She’d never been much for conversation.

  “Looking for someone?” she asked. She smiled up at him.

  “Yeah,” the guy said. This time the grunt sounded a bit like “yes.”

  “Good,” Aura said, her smile widening. “I’m someone.”

  And then they were off, their bodies moving in perfect rhythm.

  Aura felt as if they’d taken flight together. The world seemed to fall away, and the throbbing beat carried them along, a perfect matching pair. Like two leaves on the wind, they swept across the dance floor, turning and spinning and spiraling in wild abandon.

  She was making a bit of a spectacle of herself, she knew. Aura accepted her beauty as a fact of life, and she knew she looked good in motion. Some corner of her mind noticed that other Bronze patrons were watching them, and she noted their expressions. The guys were properly enthusiastic or amused; generally speaking, the girls seemed envious or scandalized. Aura didn’t care. The night was young and so was she; the rest of the world could go to hell.

  Their track carried them back to the dance floor’s edge. The music faded as the band ended its first song and started the next. Aura took advantage of the moment to pause and catch her breath.

  “Wow!” she said.

  He smiled. Broad, sensuous lips pulled back over his movie-star teeth as he leaned in close. He didn’t say anything, but words didn’t seem very important just then.

  “Yeah,” Aura said, still drawing the club’s smoky air into herself. As if of its own accord, her head titled back a bit, presenting her half-open mouth. She closed her eyes, readying herself for his kiss.

  It never came.

  After a too-long moment, Aura’s eyes opened, darting from side to side in dismay. She was alone—not absolutely alone, but alone in a crowd. The dance floor was still crowded, but the only person who really mattered to Aura was gone. Her partner had vanished without a trace. She flushed in confusion and embarrassment and more than a little anger.

  Ditched. She’d never been ditched before. It defied reason.

  Standing nearby was another couple, the purple-haired girl and the bald fatty, who had evidently made their peace. The next song started, low and slow, and they moved out onto the dance floor again. Aura saw the girl shoot her a puzzled glance.

  “Hey!” Aura said to her. The Goth was college age or older, and she certainly didn’t look like anyone Aura wanted to meet, but that didn’t matter right now. “Hey, you! Did you see where my partner went?”

  “No,” the purple-haired girl said over her date’s shoulder. Her lips were black. “It was weird,” she said, speaking loud in order to be heard over the band’s increasing sound. “He, like, faded away or something.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Xander knew his school and its between-class traffic patterns well. In nice weather, like today, most students cut through Sunnydale High’s central courtyard whenever possible. The courtyard route not only made the trip between school wings shorter, but it was also a nice change from the hallways’ fluorescent lighting and institutional paint scheme. Xander too liked the moments of fresh air and sunshine.

  Seconds after the school bell rang, he was standing outside with his back to one brick wall, about ten feet outside the entrance that led to the cafeteria. The surrounding courtyard sported little islands of landscaped greenery bounded by retaining walls, which served as impromptu gathering places. At this time of day they were empty. Xander purposely ignored the courtyard’s bulletin board kiosk, the official posting place for announcements. He wanted his message received and read, not buried under other postings about garage sales, play tryouts, and policy changes.

  “Here you go,” Xander said as a sizeable segment of the student body surged past. He handed out the orange flyers as rapidly as he could. “Check it out. Something you will enjoy!”

  He knew almost everyone’s name but personally greeted only a few. He was there to pass out paper, not to make conversation, after all. If he tried to make things personal, with a greeting or even a nod of recognition, he was just giving the lucky guy or gal a chance to say no. But if he refrained even from making eye contact, there was a mighty good chance that the sheet of paper would leave his hand and find a new one. Speed was the secret.

  “Take a look,” Xander said. “Tell your friends.”

  Erik Morrison from the wrestling team accepted the flyer without even seeming to notice that it had been offered, and then he wadded it into a ball and let it fall to the walkway. Ralph Ellis, who’d been trying to recruit Xander for forensics competition, took one and tucked it in a pocket. Willow accepted one with a smile, then asked for more and tried to start a conversation before deciding that she really, really had to get to her next class because she hated being late. Jonathan Levenson accepted his without comment, but Jonathan never really said very much anyway. Harmony Kendall reached for one reflexively, then recoiled in horror when she realized that it was an offering from Xander. A teacher he didn’t recognize—a substitute?—just shook her head in rejection and rolled her eyes. John Garcia took three, grabbing them up as if they were some kind of prize.

  Friend, foe, and stranger alike, the tide of humanity moved on
. In the five or so minutes when traffic was enough to make tarrying worthwhile, Xander managed to spread the good word about the drive-in festival to more than a hundred students. He’d need to get more flyers from his locker before trying again.

  “Harris,” said a familiar and disliked voice. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

  Principal Snyder approached. He was a little man with ratlike features. The current joke about Snyder was that he had a face only a mother could love, but even his mother wasn’t sure.

  “Hello, Mr. Snyder, sir,” Xander said. He came to attention, which was probably a mistake. It only made Snyder seem shorter. “Just—”

  Snyder snatched one of the flyers. He read it quickly, or at least enough of it to know what he held. His narrow lips curved in an uneasy approximation of a smile. “A drive-in?” he asked. “In this day and age?”

  Xander nodded. He hoped the confrontation would be brief: The between-class break was nearly over. “Yes, sir, Mr. Snyder, sir,” he said, feeling terribly alone. Most of the other students had made themselves scarce.

  “Huh,” Snyder said, returning his attention to the handbill. Finally, grudgingly, he nodded. “This is advertising,” he said. “I shouldn’t let you do this on school grounds.”

  Xander swallowed nervously. In his mind’s eye he saw a house of cards collapse and a small bag with a dollar sign on its side sprout wings and fly away.

  Snyder folded the sheet of paper neatly and slid it into his jacket pocket. “Go ahead,” he said. “Just clean up after yourself. I don’t like litter, Harris.”

  “Th-thank you, sir!” Xander said, relieved and surprised. Snyder never cut anyone any slack.

  “I mean it. I’m holding you personally responsible,” the rat-man said, then turned on one heel and strode away as Xander watched in disbelief.

  Snyder had smiled. Snyder had actually smiled. That kind of thing just didn’t happen. Clearly, the world had gone nuts.

  “Whoops,” Buffy said as her fingertips grazed her drink can. Even the glancing contact was enough to topple the container, and before she could right it, thick droplets of pink protein drink splashed from its open top. “Sorry.”