by Nancy Holder
“Well, I was a manly sixth grader,” Ford explained. “I couldn’t be bothered with someone that young.”
Buffy said brightly, “It was terrible. I moped over you for months. Sitting in my room listening to that Divinyl’s song, ‘I Touch Myself.’ ”
Ooops. She ticked her glance over to Willow and Xander, then to Ford. “Of course, I had no idea what it was about.”
Ford scratched his cheek and Xander gave a we-knew-that wave and politely waited for her to move on. Willow just sat there.
Move on Buffy did. “Hey,” she said to Ford, “are you busy tonight? We’re going to the Bronze. It’s the local club and you have to come.”
“I’d love to,” Ford said. “But if you guys already had plans … would I be imposing?”
“Only in the literal sense,” Xander assured him.
“Okay then.” He sounded very pleased. “I gotta find the admissions office, get my papers in order.”
Buffy said, “Well, I’ll take you there.” To Willow and Xander, she said, “See you guys in French.”
“Good meeting you,” Ford said. Buffy’s friends returned the compliment.
Was this turning into a better day or what?
* * *
There was no joy in Xanderville. He watched Buffy glom on to the new/old boy with the happy face his own personal bag of tricks had failed to provide her.
“This is Ford, my bestest friend of all my friends,” he mimicked Buffy. “Jeez. Doesn’t she know any fat guys?”
Meanwhile, Willow was staring off into space, until she kind of activated, looked very startled, and said, “Oh. That’s what that song’s about?”
* * *
Bank shot!
Or something. As the music rocked and the usual suspects danced the night away, the eight ball dropped into the pocket of the pool table.
“Ford, you made it,” Buffy said, joining the Slayerettes plus one. And the one was already lining up his next shot while Xander anxiously chalked up the tip of his cue.
Ford smiled at Buffy. “It wasn’t hard to find.”
Willow said, “Buffy, Ford was just telling us about the ninth-grade beauty contest.” She smiled. “And the, uh, swimsuit competition.”
Buffy frowned in mock seriousness, even though it was a pretty embarrassing story. “Oh, God, Ford. Stop that. The more people you tell about it, the more people I have to kill.”
Ford hit the nearest ball with his cue. “You can’t touch me, Summers. I know all your darkest secrets.”
Xander drawled, “Care to make a small wager on that?”
Buffy shot a warning look from Xander to Ford and said, “I’m gonna go grab a drink. Ford, try not to talk.”
Buffy walked to the bar. As she arrived, the man in front of her turned to go, drink in hand. It was Angel.
Buffy said in a low voice, “Oh.”
He brightened at the sight of her. “Hey. I was hoping you’d show.”
He looked good, in a dark shirt with thick designs. It looked old-fashioned, like the girl’s dress. Buffy wondered if Angel liked what she herself had on: all black, dressed to kill, but not to Slay.
“You drink,” she noted, surprised, indicating his coffee cup. “I mean, drinks. Non-blood things.”
He replied with a flirtatious smile—or the closest thing to a flirtatious smile he had ever flashed on her, “There’s a lot about me you don’t know.”
Her face fell as she said coolly, “I believe that.”
* * *
Ford looked over at Angel with Buffy as Willow and Xander checked him out. Willow said helpfully, “That’s Angel.”
“He’s Buffy’s beau,” Xander added, clearly hoping this was disappointing data for Ford. “Her special friend.”
Ford studied him. “He’s not in school, right? He looks older than her.”
Xander said archly, “You’re not wrong.”
* * *
Buffy looked up into Angel’s face and asked the question she did not really want to ask, but knew she had to. “So, what’d you do last night?”
He shrugged. “Nothing.”
She hadn’t wanted to ask because she hadn’t wanted to know if Angel could, and would, lie to her. So she pressed, “Nothing at all? You ceased to exist?”
“No, I mean I stayed in. Read.” He frowned slightly, as if confused by her line of questioning.
“Oh.” So he was lying to her, and he was good at it, too. If she hadn’t seen him “reading” last night, she would believe every word, every flicker of his expression. What had she expected from a guy who could keep secret from the Slayer that he was a vampire?
Angel kept peering down at her. She knew he knew something was up with her.
She walked back to the group. She really didn’t want to go into it right then.
If ever.
* * *
Buffy rejoined her friends at the pool table, aware that Angel was trailing behind her.
Ford asked, “Didn’t want that soda after all?”
“Not thirsty,” she said uncomfortably.
“Hey, Angel,” Willow greeted him. Buffy looked down, away, anywhere but at her vampire boyfriend.
“Hi,” Ford said.
Now she was forced into hostess mode, and she tried to make the best of it. “This is Ford. We went to school together in L.A.”
The two guys shook. Ford’s eyes widened. “Whoa. Cold hands.”
Xander drawled, “You’re not wrong.”
Angel’s face was a mask as he regarded Ford. “So, you’re here visiting Buffy?”
“No. I’m actually here to stay,” Ford replied. “Just moved down.” They were facing off. Buffy had to admit that Ford pretty much held his own against the older, suaver guy. Her older, suaver, two-timing guy.
Perhaps to smoothe things over, as she often did, Willow gestured to the pool table and asked, “Angel, do you want to play?”
“You know, it’s getting really crowded in here tonight,” Buffy blurted. “I’m a little hot.” She looked at Ford, deliberately excluding Angel. “Do you want to go for a walk?”
“Uh, sure,” Ford said. “That’d be nice.”
Buffy looked first at Angel, then at the Slayerettes. She murmured, “See you tomorrow.”
She and Ford peeled off. Angel stood stonily as they passed him.
“Good night,” he said stiffly.
“Take care,” Ford answered.
* * *
An awkward silence followed the awkward scene.
Xander piped up, “O-kay. Once more, with tension.”
Angel’s eyes narrowed. “He just moved here?”
Xander lined up a shot. “Yeah. And, boy, does he move fast.” Zing!
Angel looked pained.
“Well, Angel,” Willow ventured, “you could still play with us.” But he had vanished. She didn’t know how he did it. She said to Xander, “See? You made him do that thing where he’s gone.”
* * *
Buffy wondered what Angel thought of her grand exit as she walked along with Ford. Was he hurt? Did he care beyond the male-ego thing of caring?
“So, that was your boyfriend?” Ford asked innocently.
“No,” she said, then reconsidered. “Well, yeah. Maybe.” She gave a little laugh. “Could we lay off the tough questions for a while?”
Ford shrugged. “Sorry. So, what else do you do for fun around here?”
As he was speaking, Buffy heard the sounds of a scuffle around the corner. Time to think fast. Superman would look for a phone booth. And she?
“Um, uh, my purse!” she cried. “I left my purse at the Bronze. Could you get it for me? Thanks!”
“Uh, okay,” Ford said.
“Good. Run. Thanks.”
Taking off at a trot, he left to do she asked. As soon as his back was turned Buffy raced around the corner.
* * *
Intrigued by Buffy’s behavior, Ford stopped walking toward the Bronze and turned around. He started moving sl
owly toward the alley. A girl raced past him, sobbing with terror. Ford glanced at her, then inched closer to the corner, more intrigued than ever.
Sounds of fighting broke the stillness of the night. A trash can lid sailed through the air like a Frisbee.
Ford turned the corner.
* * *
It was not a very good vampire. Stupid, slow, and easy to hit. However, it wasn’t all that easy to tire. Finally she threw it against the wall and staked it. There was that moment where it shrieked and held its shape in dust, then exploded.
She whirled around and headed back to the Bronze. Talk about your awkward interruptions. All she needed now—
Was what she had. Ford was staring at her.
“Oh, you’re back,” she said awkwardly.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
Thinking on her feet after a battle was not her strong point. She blurted, “There was a cat.” Yeah, right. He was going to believe that in a million years. Still, she had to finish what she had started. Keeping her eyes big and innocent, she spun her very bad web. “A cat, here, and then there was, another cat. And they fought, the cats, and then they left.” It was a not-good lie delivered in a not-good way. Maybe she should be proud that she was so honest.
Ford said simply, “Oh. I thought you were just slaying a vampire.”
Her eyes, still wide for her cat routine, bulged. “What? Whating a what?”
Ford smiled at her. “I know, Buffy. You don’t have to lie. I’ve been trying to figure out the right time to tell you. I know you’re the Slayer.”
* * *
Willow lay on her bed with her stuffed animals, wearing her bunny slippers, talking with Buffy on the phone. She said, “Just like that? He told you?”
Buffy’s voice sounded very up. “Just like that. Said he found out right before I got booted from Hemery.”
“Wow. It’s neat.” Willow paused. “Is it neat?”
At her end of the line, Buffy smiled. She said, “Yeah, I guess it is. I won’t have to worry that he’s going to find out my dark secret. It just makes everything easier.”
* * *
In the dark, Ford walked cheerfully along the highways and byways of warehouses and other assorted rundown buildings. When he got to a particularly dilapidated structure, he pounded on the large metal door. Above the door was a painted sign: no words, just a picture of a setting sun.
A little window in the center slid open. The doorman peered out at him, saw who it was, and slid the window shut
The door opened.
Ford walked through to door number two. He patted the arm of the black-lipped guy who was welding the door hinges, propane torch hissing, sparks flying. Yeah, there’d be plenty more sparks where those came from.
Then Ford entered another world, the world of the Sunset Club. He stood on a balcony lined in blue neon, which cast an eerie, sickly glow on the club’s patrons. It was the way they liked it. Below him, couples danced to ethereal music and dreamed of other, darker worlds. They wore black roses and lace, ruffled shirts and capes and, if they could have afforded them, would have slept in satin-lined coffins. The tablecloths were deep, blood red, and everyone drank from goblets. He knew what they were thinking: if only their lives could really be like this…
He started down the stairs. As he reached the bottom, he was accosted by none other than Marvin, the nerdiest vampire wannabe who ever walked in sunlight. He wore a ruffled shirt and a sparkly blue cape that only added to the total pathetosity of his being. No Tom Cruise, this. No Brad Pitt. Marvin he was, and Marvin he would always be.
“Ford? Hi, Ford,” Marvin said edgily.
“Hey,” Ford replied, wishing—not for the first time—that he had someone else to deal with.
“Well? How did it go?” Marvin was all aflutter, like some girl. Ford could hardly stand to be around him.
“Went good,” Ford replied dismissively.
“Good? That’s it? That’s all? Well, when are we—”
“Soon,” Ford assured him. And that, at least, was the truth.
But Marvin was rattled. He said, “Oh, soon. Oh, okay.” He huffed. “You know, you could give me a little more information here. I’m trusting you. I’m out on a limb here—not to mention the lease is almost up on this place. Who’s going to cover that?”
“Marvin,” Ford cut in, eager to staunch the flow.
“Diego,” Marvin corrected him, looking around to make sure no one else had heard the name that must not be spoken. “Come on, it’s Diego now.”
Ford had nearly forgotten. Marvin had changed his name to something more sinister, more romantic. “Diego, Ridalin,” he advised his hyper friend. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
A slinky blond in a long, black, lowcut dress with white, white makeup and crimson lipstick glided up to Diego and Ford with a couple of goblets. Her name had once been Joan, but like Marvin, she had adopted a new persona. Now she was Chantarelle. Ford took one of the goblets, popped open his prescription bottle, and washed down a pill. He continued, “Just make sure you’re ready when I say.” He smiled at Chantarelle.
She smiled back, nervous but excited. “I can’t wait.”
“Well, I still think I should be in on the plan,” Diego grumbled.
“Diego, you gotta trust me,” Ford said, glancing past him to the video monitors hung in strategic places throughout the club. Jack Palance was playing Dracula on the video monitors around the room. Ford stared at the one behind Marvin as he sipped from his goblet. He knew every line, every gesture.
He knew the lifestyle.
He knew the promise.
He went on, soothing his front man, “A couple more days and we’ll get to do the two things every American teen should have the chance to do. Die young”—he smiled at Diego and Chantarelle—“and stay pretty.”
Then he lost himself in the movie, speaking every syllable just as Dracula himself spoke them, for it wasn’t really a movie, was it? More like a documentary:
“So, you play your wits against mine. Me, who commanded armies hundreds of years before you were born. Fools!”
CHAPTER 2
Willow’s bedtime ritual was nearly complete: a swift face wash, followed by astringent for potential zits, then teeth, and now, her long hair. She had to comb it out every night.
Someone was standing outside her French door. Nervously, she peered through her Venetian blinds.
“Oh!” she cried, stunned. “Angel.” She opened her door making sure there were no parent noises nearby. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to talk to you.” He looked very serious and somewhat unhappy.
“Oh.” She pulled the door all the way open and waited for him to enter. He didn’t move. “Well?”
“I can’t. Unless you invite me, I can’t come in.”
Caught off guard—never in a million years would Willow have guessed that Angel would one day see her in her nightshirt and fuzzy bunny slippers—she replied sincerely, “Oh. Okay. Uh, I invite you. To come in.”
He stepped over the threshold. Willow turned toward her bed. Oh, no! Her bra was lying on her bedspread for all the world—and all the vampires in her room—to see. Hastily she stuffed it under her pillow.
Angel said, “If this is a bad time …”
“No, I just…” She cast an anxious glance at the door to the hallway. It was ajar. “I’m not supposed to have boys in my room.” And she hadn’t, ever. It was just her luck that the first one was her best friend’s vampire boyfriend.
“Well,” Angel said, with the hint of a smile, “I promise to behave myself.”
“Okay,” she said, nodding her head. “Good.”
He sighed. “I guess I need help.”
“Help?” She brightened, eager to have something to do besides stand there in her bunny slippers. “You mean like on homework?” She rethought. “No, because you’re old and you already know stuff.”
“I want you to track someone down,” he told her.
“On the Net.” He gestured with his head toward her computer.
“Oh!” Even better than helping with homework. “Great! I’m so the Net girl.”
She crossed to her desk, sat down, and booted up.
“I just want to find everything I can. Records, affiliates. I’m not even sure what I’m looking for yet.”
She was already in the zone. Poising her hands over the keyboard like one of the Hansons, she said, “What’s the name?”
“Billy Fordham,” he replied shortly.
She stopped. Then typing, she ventured, “Uh, Angel, if I say something you really don’t want to hear, do you promise not to bite me?”
Wow, was he pale. He glowered down on her with his dark, dark eyes and said, with not much joy, “Are you going to tell me that I’m jealous?”
This conversation was making her nervous. “Well, you do sometimes get that way.”
He thought for a moment. Then he said, “You know, I never used to.”
He sat on her bed. “Things used to be pretty simple. A hundred years just hanging out, feeling guilty.” He almost smiled. “I really honed my brooding skills. Then she comes along.” The look on his face was the kind of needing, wanting, haunted, hungry, brooding one that you read about in romance novels. Not that she ever did, but maybe if she had, she would have known what the Divinyls song was about.
He nodded. “Yeah, I get jealous. But I know people and my gut tells me this is a wrong guy.”
“Okay.” That was enough for her. She trusted Angel’s gut. So she continued her search. “But if there isn’t anything weird … hey, that’s weird.”
Angel rose from her bed and stood behind her, looking at the screen. “What?”
“I just checked the school records and he’s not in them. I mean, usually they transfer your grades and stuff. But he’s not even registered.”
Now a little concerned, she typed faster.
Angel said, “He said he was in school with you guys, right?”
“Let me see if I can—”
From the hall, Willow’s mom called, “Willow? Are you still up?”
Willow freaked. “Ack! Go!”
Angel glided to the French door, still inside her room. She called, “I’m just going to bed now, Mom.”