by Nancy Holder
“Yes, Xander, put a sock in it,” Giles said, suddenly behind him. Hearing the American colloquialism in his arch British tones made Willow giggle softly.
Xander shut up, taking the empty seat next to Cordelia. He shrugged and remained silent, but looked upward as if to say, “Why me?”
Ordinarily well groomed, Giles looked a bit rumpled now. He’d pushed up his sleeves and opened his collar. A lock of brown hair dangled onto his forehead, glued by perspiration. Without preamble he began, “I stayed here late last evening, conducting a total inventory of the occult holdings.” He gently set three dusty volumes on the table. “It’s a painstaking task and demands some concentration, as I’m sure you all understand.”
“I’m sure we do,” Willow said softly. Buffy elbowed her, but the Rosenberg girl still smiled. Of the five gathered in the school library, she was the only one who seemed genuinely relaxed and happy.
Giles continued. “What I found was disturbing,” he said. He glanced at Buffy. “You were right,” he said. “The book that I thought might have been mis-shelved is missing.”
The Slayer smiled broadly, pleased with herself.
“That’s not good news, Buffy,” Giles said.
Buffy’s smile faded.
“The book is nowhere on the premises,” Giles said. “I inspected the stacks as well.”
“So Inga took it,” Xander prodded. “So you complain to Snyder, or we go to the nurse’s station—”
Buffy shook her head. “No,” she said after Giles had nodded permission to interrupt. “I checked on that yesterday. We don’t have a Nurse Inga.”
“Well,” Willow said. “She didn’t last long.”
“That’s not what Buffy means,” Giles said. “I confirmed it with the administration. Not only is Mrs. Forman still the school’s attending nurse, she’s very happy in her role. No one else has interviewed for her job, or even applied for it.”
“Oh,” Xander said. He blinked as the meaning of the words sank in. “Oh!”
Giles nodded. “It appears we’ve had an impostor,” he said. “I can only assume that she was sent on some manner of reconnaissance mission. Now—”
“Not an impostor,” Xander said, interrupting.
Cordelia nodded in instant agreement. “Impostors,” she said, emphasizing the plural.
At Giles’s prompting, and in short, precise sentences, she told the assembled group about her and Xander’s near encounter with the cheerleader in the courtyard. Being Cordelia, she emphasized points that the others didn’t find nearly as interesting as she did: the disappearing cheerleader’s outdated hairstyle and unfamiliar school colors. “Even after that, we checked some more,” she continued. “She wasn’t in any of the classrooms, or anywhere else she could have gotten to. I even checked the girls’ locker room.”
“I offered to,” Xander pointed out.
This time it was Xander who got an elbow in the ribs, and not from Buffy. He winced and eyed the ceiling again.
“And you were going to tell us about this when?” Buffy asked.
“Now,” Cordelia said in simple explanation.
“Well, in the future, in events of an occult nature—,” Giles began.
“It was a cheerleader,” Cordelia said, raising her voice. “Not a werewolf or a vampire or a hobgoblin. I had drills and homework, and, you know, it’s not like I get to use any of my study periods to actually study anymore!”
No one had anything to say to the outburst. For a long moment the library was nearly silent, the only sound the tap-tap of Cordelia’s fingertips, which she had begun drumming again.
“Yes, well,” Giles said at last. He seated himself and reached for the first of his books. As he fanned the pages, dust billowed from between them and hung in the still air.
“A girl’s got to have her priorities,” Cordelia said. “And it’s not like I can’t hold my own against any girl from another squad.”
“We agreed to tell you about it together,” Xander said, sounding conciliatory. He smiled very slightly as Cordelia shot him a grateful glance. “And, like the lady said, we’re talking cheerleader here, not creepy emissary from the outer darkness.”
“There’s where you may be in error,” Giles said mildly, still paging through his book. His tone was mild, but he quickly moved into lecture mode. “Tell me, do any of you know what ectoplasm is?” he asked.
None of them answered. He shook his head sadly before continuing. “Ectoplasm is—”
“The visible but immaterial substance that makes up the physical composition of ghosts and similar occult manifestations,” Buffy said, cutting him off. She spoke with the singsong cadence of someone reciting from memory. She smirked.
“Very good,” Giles said, impressed.
“There’s another definition too,” Buffy said. “For biologists. Outer part of a cell.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Giles said, clearly a bit chagrined. “You’ve proved your point. You’re up to date on your readings. Good show.”
“So we’re working with ghosts?” Willow asked. “Like, maybe Sunnydale High is built on an old nurse’s cemetery, or Cordy’s phantom cheerleader was from the class of fifty-two?”
“Believe me,” Cordelia said, “those have never been the school colors.” She spoke with great disdain. “I don’t care how far back you go.”
“Tell us about the books,” Willow said eagerly. She liked books. “The ghosts and the books.”
“I don’t know that they’re haunts,” Giles said. He seated himself and steepled his fingers, considering how best to explain. “You must understand, many of the books that I’ve brought with me are from the Council archives, very old and difficult to replace. Even the least of them date back to a time when books were hand-bound and produced in very small number for highly demanding patrons.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Buffy said. “Written in human blood, bound in human skin—”
“No,” Giles said forcefully. “Or, rather, not entirely. I refer more to much younger books, typeset rather than hand-scribed. The nature of the production process was such that it discouraged specialization. Books tended to be compendia, rather than focused works.”
“Okay,” Buffy said, and nodded. “Omnibi.”
“Omnibuses,” Willow corrected. The eyes of both Cordelia and Xander began to glaze, but neither said anything. Perhaps they didn’t want to prolong the discussion.
“I won’t trouble you with the titles,” Giles said, “but someone seems to have absconded with four key works addressing the mechanics of what we now call psychic phenomena.” He paused. “These were what passed for scientific works in their day. Sections deal with mind reading, mesmerism, transubstantiation of souls and base matter, spiritualism, psycho-etherics, even phrenology.” He glanced at Xander. “That’s the study of head bumps,” he said.
“I knew that,” Xander said, but he didn’t look like he expected anyone to believe him.
Giles resumed. “One thing that all four books have in common is that they have sections pertaining to ectoplasmic constructs.”
“Ghosts,” Buffy said.
“Or something similar,” her Watcher agreed.
“The ghost of a werewolf?” Buffy asked skeptically.
“Not necessarily. It could be something more complex,” Giles said. “And, at any rate, we cannot be certain that those sections are why the texts were taken. The commonality among the books is intriguing, though.”
“You really know your stuff, Giles,” Willow said, awe-struck.
“Yeah, I mean, I can’t even keep my comics straight,” Xander said, only to receive a withering glance in return.
“I know the collection well, but I don’t have them memorized,” Giles said. “I do maintain an annotated catalog, though. That’s how I was able to identify the missing works and get at least an approximate idea of their contents.” He paused. “They aren’t particularly noteworthy volumes. Many books of greater rarity and importance were on the sa
me shelves.”
“But what does any of this have to do with the wolf-man?” Buffy asked.
“Possibly nothing. But it may have everything to do with him, with Nurse Inga, and with Cordelia’s cheerleader.”
“Hey, she’s not mine,” Cordelia said.
No one acknowledged the comment. After a long moment of silence Buffy bit the bullet and fed Giles the prompt. “Well?” she asked.
“I think our measure’s being taken,” Giles said. Even under his habitual reserve, his voice carried a concerned quality. Something that was not quite worry colored his words as he continued. “I think that, whoever our visitors are—whatever they are—they’re here to investigate us and the extent of our knowledge.” He looked at Buffy pointedly. “Perhaps of our strength, as well.”
“So we’re talking minions here, huh?” Xander asked.
Giles nodded.
“But—but why use something so, well, goofy?” Willow asked.
“Whatever do you mean?”
Willow fidgeted a bit. She traced an idle pattern on the tabletop as she chose her words. “I’m just saying it’s funny,” she said. “The details are all wrong. The wrong school colors, the wrong kind of werewolf. If they aren’t haunts, why not get the details right?”
“I don’t know,” Giles said. “But as I explained to Buffy earlier, I have some additional materials at home that may provide some clarification. Until then, I urge you all to proceed with the utmost caution.”
Jonathan was well aware of his place in the overall scheme of things. Fit but short, shy, timid, and studious-looking, he was not so much an also-ran in the Sunnydale High rat race as he was a spectator on the sidelines. The faculty and other students didn’t particularly dislike him; they scarcely realized that he shared their world. He was as close to a nonentity as you could get. That accounted for his wary expression when Xander sat in the chair across from him at the cafeteria table.
“Hey, J,” Xander said. He deployed his meal, arranging plates, bowls, and a drinking glass in front of himself before setting the plastic tray aside. “Anyone sitting here?”
“Um, no,” Jonathan said. No one ever sat across from him.
“Mind if I join?” Xander had gotten three desserts and was arranging them in order of preference—banana pudding, chocolate cake, gelatin mold.
Jonathan watched without comment. Harris sure could eat. His own meal came from home and was much more modest: egg salad on rye toast, and barbecue-flavor potato chips.
“I don’t mind,” he finally said. Even to his own ears, his voice sounded nasal and reedy. He surprised himself by asking the obvious question. “Where’s Buffy?”
“Huh?” Xander asked, pausing with a forkload of mystery meat halfway to his mouth.
“You usually hang with Buffy Summers,” Jonathan said. Life on the fringes gave him a good vantage point for observation. “Her and Rosenberg. You guys are always together, and it’s like you live in the library or something.”
Jonathan refrained from mentioning Cordelia, even though he’d noticed Xander and her engaged in quiet conversation several times recently. Xander was higher on the social ladder than Jonathan was, but only by a few rungs. Cordelia Chase was at the top. The idea that Xander and Cordelia might spend time together was difficult to process.
“Ocupado, mi amigo,” Xander said, mangling each word. He ate what appeared to be Salisbury steak. That was one thing he had in common with Buffy Summers: a healthy appetite. Maybe when they were in the library they researched recipes and swapped cooking tips.
“Ocupado?” Jonathan asked.
“Spanish for ‘occupied,’” Xander said, with an air of imparting great wisdom. “That leaves you and me more time for manly-man talk, my friend.”
Now Jonathan felt a twinge of worry. He had a passing acquaintance with Xander—less passing than with some other students, perhaps, but still only a passing acquaintance. They had their chance encounters on campus and ran into each other at the comic store and the movie rental place, but that was pretty much the extent of their interaction. Why had Xander joined him for lunch? More important, why was he calling him “my friend”?
Xander finished his entrée of overcooked steak patty with bad gravy, limp green beans, and runny mashed potatoes. He indicated Jonathan’s food. “You going to eat those chips?” he asked.
“Of course I am,” Jonathan said, and ate one to prove his point. It tasted good, so he ate another, then nibbled his sandwich again. He wondered if Xander would take the hint and go away. Xander clearly didn’t want to eat alone, but Jonathan was used to it and didn’t mind.
“Yep, manly-man talk,” Xander said. He drank half his carton of milk with a single gulp. “The companionship of men. There’s nothing like it, is there, my friend?”
“Buffy and Willow were too busy for lunch, huh?” Jonathan asked, trying to keep Xander on topic. He didn’t ask how many others had been busy too. He knew that, socially speaking, the little Levenson boy was the court of last resort.
Xander nodded reluctantly. He said, “Dumb ol’ girls.” His generally clownish expression gave way to a halfhearted scowl. “I am just about tapped out on the ladies just now.”
Jonathan sighed. It was time to take the bull by the horns. “What are you up to these days, Xander?” he asked, careful not to make the question a challenge. “What can I do for you?”
“Ask not what you can do for me,” Xander said. “Ask, rather, what I can do for you.”
Xander rummaged in a pocket and drew out a handbill. He slid it across the table. He’d been distributing the sheets in the hallways and courtyard, even in the cafeteria line. Jonathan eyed the sheet warily. Clearly, Xander had forgotten that he’d already given him one.
Jonathan wasn’t surprised.
“You do know what a drive-in is, right?” Xander asked. When Jonathan nodded, he continued. “Ever been to one?” he asked. “Want to?”
The elevator chime sounded: The cage had reached the penthouse level. Jim Thompson looked at his reflection in the gleaming metal doors one last time, verifying that his tie was straight and his hair neat. Word was that the gent in the penthouse was a heavy tipper, and Jim didn’t want to give him any excuse not to live up to his reputation.
Everything looked fine. The wheeled cart’s burden of covered dishes, utensils, and glasses rattled and clinked as he pushed it along the carpeted hallway. When he reached the appropriate door, he rapped on it once.
“Room service,” Jim said.
“Enter,” came the response. The voice was cultivated but strong enough to be heard clearly, even through the door. “It’s not locked.”
Jim obeyed. Wheeling the cart into the room, he got his first glimpse of the penthouse’s occupant, who was seated at the small desk that matched the rest of the suite’s furniture.
He looked pretty much how the hotel’s day manager had described him. He was lean and well dressed, wearing a dark shirt and linen trousers that reflected the easily elegant style of the very rich. He sat ramrod straight, with perfect posture. Four books lay on the desk before him. They looked old and were big, at least as thick as telephone books, and he closed the one he’d been reading as Jim entered. Even that simple movement the occupant made with a certain panache. Jim was impressed.
The only detail the day manager had gotten wrong was the color of the guest’s hair. Jim had been told that it was white, but it was gray, not the gray of an old man but the gray of iron. Jim wondered fleetingly if he’d dyed it, then dismissed the thought. Who would color his hair gray?
“Your lunch order, Mr. Belasimo,” Jim said.
“Balsamo,” the man corrected him, standing.
Jim winced. “Sorry, sir,” he said.
“That’s quite all right,” Balsamo said. His eyes twinkled. “It’s not a common name in this part of the world, or in this day and age.” He looked at the cart, waiting.
One by one Jim removed the covers and indicated individual courses. “She
-crab soup,” he said. “Caesar salad. Roast beef, center-cut, with asparagus and fresh bread. Mixed fruit.”
“Capital,” Balsamo said. He’d already lifted the wine bottle and was examining the label. He nodded in approval and returned it to its caddy. “You can put all of this on the dining table,” he said. “Open the wine but leave the covers. I’m not quite ready to eat lunch yet.”
Jim nodded. With quick, practiced motions, he arrayed the meal and utensils. As he opened the bottle, he asked, “Will there be anything else, sir?”
“Possibly,” Balsamo said, eyeing him. “What’s your name, young man?”
“Jim Thompson.”
“Tell me, Jim, are you a native of Sunnydale?” he asked as he opened a wallet that was as limp as wet silk. He pulled a bill from it.
“Yes, sir,” Jim said. “Born and bred.”
“I understand that Sunnydale is a town where things happen,” Balsamo said.
Jim knew what he meant. His own life (so far) had been straightforward and without incident, but you couldn’t live in Sunnydale without hearing stuff. Jim heard a lot, much of which he preferred not to believe, but there was no way that at least some of the stories weren’t true.
“Well, yes. Yes, sir, it is,” Jim said.
“Put the meal on my bill,” Balsamo said. He passed Jim a bill. “This is for you.
Jim sneaked a peek. His eyes widened. It was a fifty. “Thank you, sir!” he said.
“Not at all,” Balsamo said warmly. “But tell me, Jim, what time does your shift end?”
“Um, three o’clock,” Jim said. “Are you interested in a tour or something? The concierge prefers that guests make arrangements through his office.” What the concierge really preferred was that the hotel staff not make extra money on the side.
“No, not at all,” Balsamo said. “But I would like to speak with you some about your fair city and about the things that happen here; a native perspective would be especially useful.” He smiled. “I’m quite prepared to compensate you for your time.”
CHAPTER SIX
Fine! Go! But if you get in trouble, it’s on your mother’s head!” Mr. Harris shouted as Xander ducked out the door, car keys grasped in one hand. “I’m warning you!” his father continued. “You only get one call at the police station, and it better not be to me!”