by Nancy Holder
“Xander?” she asked.
“Buffy, what’s—”
Giles interrupted. “The projector, Buffy. It’s the projector. That’s the secret of his power.”
“Of course,” Buffy said.
“No,” Cagliostro said, speaking in his own voice again. “No, you—”
Willow had watched Buffy enter the projection booth. Angel stood with his back to the door, serving as rear guard, fighting off an army of apparitions that sought to follow the Slayer inside. Willow watched as Angel’s arms rose and fell in merciless, killing strokes. Heads and arms and other body parts flew, then faded into nothingness. It was like seeing Horatio at the bridge, or the last stand at the Alamo. With his back covered, the vampire could make his stand and hold it for a very long time.
At least long enough for Willow to be of some help.
She still held the petite axe, and she kept it at the ready to defend herself, but there was no need. No one and nothing tried to stop her as she made her way to the rear wall of the projection building. Heavy cables entered the structure through fixtures on the blind wall. Willow eyed them. Her own words came back to her: “It looks like some kind of fiber-optic network,” she’d told Buffy as they’d noticed the silver cords that led to the projector’s rays.
Whatever the system Cagliostro used, the projection equipment was part of it. Projection equipment needed power. Actually slicing the cables with her axe would be dangerous, even fatal, but if she could throw the weapon . . .
Willow raised the axe and took aim.
Buffy’s machete really wasn’t well balanced for throwing, but she made do. Only one of the paired projectors was running, which made her choice of target easy. She cast the machete like a dagger, fast and hard. Heavy tempered steel, honed to a razor edge, buried itself with gratifying effect into the projector’s switch box.
Lightning struck. Long, liquid sparks sprayed and splashed as the machine’s housing sundered. They were nothing like the pale tendrils that Buffy had seen outdoors, but savage, searing bolts that split the air and burned it with their passage. The projection shack filled with the stink of ozone as the projector shuddered to a halt and died.
Cagliostro died too.
He died screaming, with the accumulated fury and frustration of a life that had gone on for entirely too long. Haloed in electrical fire, he shook and convulsed, and then seemed to collapse into himself in obedience of some strange geometry. As Buffy watched, he dwindled and twisted in ways that made her eyes hurt. It was as if he were falling away from her in all directions at once, only to be lost in an infinite distance.
She tore her gaze from where he’d been and turned to Giles. They were alone in the small room now; the bikers and gunfighter had vanished as thoroughly as their creator, albeit with less spectacle. Dark spots danced in her vision as she reached to untie his bonds, and it took her a moment to realize that they were gone too.
“They belonged to the cowboy,” Giles told her as he stood.
“Gunslinger,” Buffy corrected him, but she hugged the Watcher, hard enough to make him gasp. “You’re safe? He didn’t hurt you?”
“I’m fine,” Giles said, wriggling free. “But what on earth is that cacophony?”
It sounded like a hundred car horns were blaring, and when Buffy and Giles stepped outside, the reason was obvious. The screen had gone black. Angel, certain now that the war was over, offered an explanation. “I think they want their money back,” he said.
“But—but—everyone got in free!” Buffy said slowly.
EPILOGUE
That’s when the screen went dark,” Willow said. She seemed disappointed. “Before I could even throw the axe, I mean.”
“Don’t worry, Will,” Buffy said. “It was the right idea. You just weren’t the only one to have it.”
“Well, sure, but—”
“Next time, you can save the day,” Buffy said. “Really, I promise.”
Willow beamed.
They were back in the school library, seated again at the table. Giles was watching nervously as Xander examined the lens that Giles had retrieved from the ruined projector. Perhaps three inches across, it was thick and convex on both sides. It was heavy, too—much heavier than ordinary optical glass. Whatever it had been crafted of, the substance didn’t seem to bend light—an odd property for a projector lens.
“So that’s the little toy that caused so much trouble,” Xander said. He plucked the bit of crystal from the velvet-lined box where Giles was keeping it. “Doesn’t look like much,” he said.
“It’s only a tool,” Giles said, still watching Xander carefully. “Think, Xander. How much use would a lens be at a puppet show, or in the days before magick lanterns? Balsamo’s basic abilities were his own, I think, though we may never know how he gained them. The lens was but a means to focus and direct them.”
“I thought he said the Hellmouth—”
“I said, basic abilities,” Giles reminded him. “The lens gave him focus, but the Hellmouth made him stronger.” He paused. “Even so, be careful with that. I want very much to study it, which means I don’t want you to damage it.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Xander said. “Anyone ever tell you that you worry too much, G-man?”
“Maybe it’s diamond?” Cordelia asked. It was like her to ignore the most interesting aspect and focus instead on the most materialistic one.
Giles shook his head. “A form of crystal, I think. Possibly Latverian.”
“Where do you think he got it?” Willow asked.
“I suspect he made it,” Giles said. He claimed the stone and eyed its rim. Minute symbols were etched there in an undecipherable language. “Latverian crystals are sensitive to astral energies, and he probably began with one of those.”
It was Monday. Sunday had been a day of recovery and happiness. The news had spread that all thirty of the sleepers had awakened, and that no more had been found. News media were speculating that it was some form of food poisoning and had turned their attention to the mysterious doings at the drive-in. Oddly, no one seemed to draw a connection between the two events; the team consensus was that Cagliostro’s charming disclaimer had endured past his death.
“How is your mother, Buffy?” Giles asked.
“Mom? Fine. Just embarrassed about falling asleep at the movies,” Buffy said. “I’m surprised she was there at all, after all this Barney character’s talk about ‘something bad’ happening years ago.” She looked disgusted. “Turns out that ‘some-thing bad’ in grown-up talk means ‘losing your investment capital.’ But everyone is fine. Mom, Jonathan, Aura, everyone. There’s some bellhop who says he’s going to write a book about the whole thing.”
“What about you, Xander?” Giles asked. “That must have been quite an experience.”
“Oh, yeah,” Xander said. He mock shuddered. “Kind of creepy, really. Going to be a while before I sleep well. Not that I’m complaining.”
“I’d like to discuss it with you at length. You actually stepped outside your body without the years of training that such things require,” Giles said.
Willow offered up a theory of what had happened, elaborating on what she’d discussed before: Cagliostro’s web of sorcery was something very much like an astral Internet. As long as his was the only waking mind online, he ruled the network.
“But when Xander put himself online, it was like adding a second file server without the right trafficking protocols,” she said. “The network locked up and the system crashed, at least for a moment.”
“Of course,” Giles said.
“You didn’t understand a word of that, did you?” Buffy asked him.
Giles didn’t answer directly. “All that matters is that it gave you the opening you needed,” he said. “And whatever it was that Xander did, it was astoundingly dangerous.” He placed the lens in its box. “I’m certainly glad that Cordelia thought to use a pillow for insulation when she pulled you free.”
“Well, it’s like
she keeps telling us—,” Xander began to say.
“I’m not stupid,” Cordelia interrupted.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Christopher Golden is the award-winning, bestselling author of such novels as Of Saints and Shadows, The Myth Hunters, and Soulless. A lifelong fan of the “team-up,” Golden frequently collaborates with other writers on books, comic books, and scripts. During his tenure with Buffy the Vampire Slayer, he wrote or cowrote more than a dozen novels, several nonfiction companion books, dozens of comics (including the comics-writing debuts of Amber Benson and James Marsters), and both Buffy video games. Golden was born and raised in Massachusetts, where he still lives with his family. His original novels have been published in more than fourteen languages in countries around the world. Please visit him at www.christophergolden.com.
Nancy Holder has published more than seventy-eight books and more than two hundred short stories. She has received four Bram Stoker awards for her supernatural fiction. Among her books for Simon Pulse, she is the coauthor of the New York Times bestselling Wicked series and the Once upon a Time novels The Rose Bride and Spirited. She lives in San Diego with her daughter, Belle, their two cats, and their two Corgis. Visit her at www.nancyholder.com.
Diana G. Gallagher has written young adult and adult novels in several series: Buffy the Vampire Slayer; Charmed; Smallville; Sabrina, the Teenage Witch; and others. She lives in Florida with her husband, five dogs, three cats, and a cranky parrot. Her hobbies include gardening, politics, and grandchildren.
Pierce Askegren was born in Pennsylvania. At various points in his so-called career, Pierce was a convenience store clerk, bookstore manager, technical editor, logistics analyst, and writer for business proposals and industrial instruction materials. At one point he knew an alarming amount about wireless communications protocols. Pierce also wrote extensively for Marvel Comics characters, having authored or coauthored five novels featuring Spider-Man, the Fantastic Four, the Hulk, and the rest of the gang.
THE VAMPIRES LIVE ON. . . .
BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER 3
CARNIVAL OF SOULS
BY NANCY HOLDER
ONE THING OR YOUR MOTHER
BY KIRSTEN BEYER
BLOODED
BY CHRISTOPHER GOLDEN AND NANCY HOLDER
Turn the page for a sneak peek . . .
It was Tuesday.
After nightfall.
In Sunnydale.
And Buffy Summers the Vampire Slayer was out on patrol instead of at the Bronze with Willow and Xander (and hopefully Angel) because Giles had figured out that tonight was the Rising.
The Rising of what, Buffy’s Watcher did not know, but it was easy to guess that it probably meant vampires. Maybe zombies. Something that rose from graves, anyway.
Something that kept her from the fun other sixteen-year-olds were having.
Sighing, Buffy trailed her fingers over the lowered head of a weeping cherub statue and waved her flashlight in an arc.
“Here, rising guys,” she called plaintively. “Ready to play when you are.”
She had on her black knitted cap and Angel’s black leather jacket, but she was still a little chilly. Maybe it was just because she was walking through Blessed Memories, the cemetery that contained the du Lac tomb, famed in the annals of Buffy’s diary as the cemetery out of which Spike and Dru had stolen a fancy decoding cross called, amazingly enough, the du Lac Cross. They had used it to nearly kill Angel. Since then, it was not her favorite cemetery ever.
Blessed Memories also contained a pet cemetery, a little square of plots with miniature headstones that tugged at Buffy’s heart. TOBY MY PUP RIP 1898. R KITTIE LUCY 1931. She had no time for pets, not even zombie cats freshly risen from the grave. She had hardly any time for anything, what with the slayage and the studying, okay, not the studying; but still and all, it was Sunnydale that was the problem, with all its death and monsters and standard normal-teenage-girl pressures, like having friends and not getting kicked out of school. . . .
If my best buds and I could be anywhere but here, that would be . . . She thought for a moment. She and Willow were really good at that game. Anywhere But Here was created for high school kids, especially those who had to live in Sunnydale.
. . . in Maui, with Angel. . . . Okay, not. Too much sun for a boyfriend who would burst into flames if he stepped into the tropical rays. So . . .
. . . in Paris, with Angel . . . and Willow could be with James Spader—I officially give him to her because I’m with Angel now—and we’re so not eating snails, but oh, I know! French pastries. And we are shopping . . .
. . . for rings . . .
Buffy stopped and cocked her head. Did she just hear something? Snap of a twig, maybe? A cough?
She listened eagerly for a replay so she could head toward it. She waited. Waited yet more. Heard nothing. Turned off her flashlight. More waiting.
Behold the sounds of silence.
She tried to pick up the Paris thread again. French pastries, okay, maybe too early in the relationship to shop for rings, then for shoes. . . . Truth was, she really would be happy to be just about anywhere but here. If only she could just run away, join in the fun-having of other kids her age. Join the circus, even.
Except she didn’t like circuses. Never had. What was with those clowns, anyway? She shivered. She was with Xander on that one: They gave her a wiggins.
Send in the clowns.
Six miles away, just past the outbuildings of Crest College, the trees shivered. The clouds fled and the moon trailed after them, desperate to hide.
Sunnydale, loaded with souls ripe for the plucking . . .
Five miles away.
The clowns materialized first, big feet flapping, overstuffed bottoms wiggling, in polka dots and rainbow stripes, and white gloves hiding fingers that no one should ever see.
A jag of lightning:
A parade of trucks, wagons, lorries. A maroon wagon, its panels festooned with golden Harlequins and bird women plucking lyres, shimmered and stayed solid. Behind it, a Gypsy cart with a Conestoga-style bonnet jangled with painted cow-bells, and beneath the overhanging roof, black-and-silver ribbons swayed. Behind the wagon, a forties-era freight truck blew diesel exhaust into the velvet layers of moonlight. A jagged line, creaking back into shadows, disappearing. Maybe the entire apparition was just a dream.
Thunder rolled, and they reappeared.
Maybe they were just a nightmare.
Spectral horses whinnied and chuffed; it began to rain, and through the murky veil of downpour and fog, the horses’ heads were skulls; their heads were . . . heads. They breathed fire; they didn’t breathe at all.
They began to rot in slow motion.
The clowns ran up and down the advancing line, applauding and laughing at the flicker-show, the black magick lantern extravaganza.
Skeletons and corpses hunkered inside truck and wagon cabs and buckboard seats. Whipcracks sparked. Eyes lolled. Mouths hung open, snapped shut. Teeth fell out. Eyes bobbed from optic nerves.
Things . . . reassembled.
A creak, and then nothing.
Two ebony steeds pulled the last vehicle—the thirteenth wagon in the cortege. It was an old Victorian traveling-medicine-show wagon, maybe something that had crisscrossed the prairies and the badlands, promising remedies for rheumatism and the gout when the only ingredients in the jug were castor oil, a dead rattlesnake, and wood alcohol.
Where their hooves touched, the earth smoked. Black feathers bobbing in their harnesses, black feathers waving from the four corners of the ornate ebony wagon, the horses were skeletons were horse flesh were demon stallions ridden by misshapen, leathery creatures with sagging shoulder blades, flared ears, and pencil-stub fingers. And as the moon shied away from the grotesquerie, the angle of light revealed words emblazoned on each of the thirteen vehicles that snuck toward Sunnydale, home to hundreds of thousands of souls determined to ignore the peril they were in:
PROFESSOR CALIGARI’S TRAVE
LING CARNIVAL
The wind howled through the trees—or was it the ghostly dirge of a calliope?
Too soon to tell.
Too late to do anything about it.
When Aura’s boyfriend dies, she is devastated.
But it’s hard to say good-bye to someone who is not really gone. . . .
From Simon Pulse
Published by Simon & Schuster