The Harvest

by Richie Tankersley Cusick

  Buffy pulled his arm down. “Gee, can you vague that up for me . . . ?”

  But Giles’s voice had dropped even more. Buffy had to strain to hear.

  “As far as I can tell,” he explained, “the signs point to a crucial mystical upheaval very soon—days, possibly less.”

  Buffy gave him a narrow stare. “Come on. This is Sunnydale,” she reminded him. “How bad an evil can there be here?”

  CHAPTER 5

  Night had fallen.

  And yet it was always night in this dark and evil place, this secret, hidden place where even the flickering candlelight could not quite penetrate the heavy blackness. Shadows slid across damp, crumbling walls, oozing into corners and crevices, slithering silently over the blank, staring faces of broken statuary.

  And the human figures, too, resembled statues—strange, soulless reminders of death and decay—as they knelt upon the ground, their faces bent in supplication.

  An ominous chanting rose and fell around them . . . rose and fell . . . echoing on and on through the chamber.

  Luke kept himself apart from the others. Apart and well ahead of the rest, an imposing figure even upon his knees, his eyes and senses keenly alert. He was large and powerfully built, with wide nostrils and narrowly angled reptilian eyes, thick lips, and a jutting brow. To an innocent onlooker, he might have passed for a young man in his twenties—yet the truth was, Luke was much, much older than that. His clothes reflected long-ago and long-forgotten eras, but spoke definitively of none.

  The chanting became louder now . . . more intense. Luke gazed for a long while into the calm, thick surface of a dark red pool. A pool of blood.

  “The sleeper will awaken,” Luke pronounced.

  His voice was deep and resonant; his face was a vampire’s face. His breath smelled of graveyards and rotting corpses.

  “The sleeper will awaken,” Luke said again. “And the world will bleed.”

  Slowly he dipped his finger in the blood.

  “Amen.”

  And as the candles guttered wildly, the dismal ruins around him were illuminated, but only for one brief instant—the ruins of a church long buried beneath the earth. Stanchions and arches leaned at broken angles, sheeted rock pushed in from all sides. The shiny pool of blood spread itself thickly over what once had been an altar.

  The chanting swelled in volume.

  It filled the chamber with devotion and despair, trembling every shadow, every heartbeat.

  And the faithful waited.

  CHAPTER 6

  Buffy stood in front of her bedroom mirror, agonizing over her fashion statement of the evening. Holding up an outfit that was shockingly scanty, she spoke aloud to her reflection.

  “Hi! I’m an enormous slut!”

  Somehow it wasn’t quite right. She replaced it with the second outfit, this one a much plainer version, and took another careful look at herself.

  “Hi! Would you like a copy of the Watchtower?”

  Still not right. Frustrated, she threw them both down.

  “I used to be so good at this,” she grumbled as her mother came into the room.

  “Are you going out tonight, honey?” Joyce asked her.

  “Yeah, Mom. I’m going to a club.”

  “Will there be boys there?”

  “No, Mom, it’s a nun club.”

  Her mother ignored the mild sarcasm. “Well, just be careful.”

  “I will.”

  Buffy could sense the conversation easing into serious territory. Both she and her mother regarded each other a little uncomfortably.

  “I think we can make it work here,” Joyce insisted. “I’ve got my positive energy flowing. I’m gonna get the gallery on its feet—we may already have found a space.”

  Buffy tried to sound enthusiastic. “Great.”

  “And that school is a very nurturing environment, which is what you need.”

  “Mom . . .”

  “Oh, not too nurturing. I know. You’re sixteen; I read all about the dangers of overnurturing.” Joyce hesitated, then added truthfully, “It’s hard. New town and all. For me, too. I’m trying to make it work. I’m going to make it work.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re a good girl, Buffy. You just fell in with the wrong crowd. But that’s all behind us now.”

  “It is,” Buffy reassured her. “From now on, I’m only hanging out with the living. I—I mean, the lively . . . people.”

  Her mother looked relieved. “Okay. You have fun.”

  * * *

  She decided on the tight slacks, the powder blue shirt, and the knit tank top to go under it. She decided to put her hair up on top of her head.

  And then she decided to walk to the Bronze.

  As Buffy left the safe lights of the suburbs behind, she soon found herself entering the deserted city streets on the edge of town.

  She turned a corner, wondering how much further she’d have to go. The sidewalk stretched endlessly before her, camouflaged in shadows, and her footsteps echoed hollowly in the dark. She couldn’t get that day’s events out of her mind, all the people she’d met, all the strange things that had happened. Lost in thought, she continued along the pavement until slowly it began to dawn on her that she wasn’t alone.

  There was another sound of footsteps now.

  Footsteps behind her . . . footsteps walking where she had walked . . .

  Buffy whirled around.

  She could see a figure standing there, shrouded in blackness. Just far enough away so that she didn’t feel quite comfortable confronting it.

  The figure didn’t move.

  And though she couldn’t actually see its face, she had the distinct, unsettling impression that it was looking straight at her.

  Turning quickly, Buffy went on.

  The figure followed.

  Buffy picked up speed. She could hear the footsteps again, sure and measured behind her, taking their time. With a twinge of fear, she turned the next corner and went even faster.

  The figure kept coming. Not hurrying at all . . . keeping a discreet distance.

  On impulse, Buffy ducked into an alleyway, quickly assessing her surroundings. A large pipe spanned the enclosure some ten feet above her. A cluster of smelly garbage cans blocked the other end.

  With one smooth movement, Buffy swung herself up onto the pipe, her body poised in a handstand. She waited for the figure to turn into the alleyway, and then she dropped down on him without warning, her legs locked over his neck. Throwing herself back, she tipped him over, then rolled and slammed his body onto the ground.

  He was on his feet instantly, but she grabbed him and threw him up against the wall. As she closed in, she suddenly realized he was making no move to attack her. Instead he put up his hands.

  “Is there a problem, ma’am?” the young man asked.

  He seemed faintly amused at the situation. Buffy eyed him suspiciously, getting a good look at him for the first time.

  He was strikingly handsome. Tall and dark, with prominent cheekbones and thick hair, and an unmistakable aloofness in his deep-set eyes. Yet there was something else there, too—glowing far back beyond his gaze—a strange sort of knowing that made Buffy feel slightly uncomfortable. He’d moved swiftly and easily during their scuffle—with a fighter’s grace, she’d noted—but now he simply stood there looking back at her.

  “There’s a problem,” Buffy shot back. “Why are you following me?”

  His voice was calm. Matter of fact. “I know what you’re thinking, but don’t worry. I don’t bite.”

  It wasn’t at all what she’d expected to hear. She took a step back from him, her face perplexed.

  “Truth is, I thought you’d be taller,” the young man went on. “Or bigger: muscles and all that. You’re pretty spry, though.”

  “What do you want?” Buffy demanded.

  “Same thing you do.”

  “Okay, what do I want?”

  The amusement left his face.

  �
��To kill ’em. To kill ’em all.”

  Buffy felt a split second of surprise. “Sorry!” She announced, recovering herself neatly, doing her best impression of a game-show host. “That’s incorrect, but you do get this lovely watch and a year’s supply of Turtle Wax . . . what I want . . . is to be left alone.”

  He gazed at her steadily. “You really think that’s an option anymore? You’re standing at the mouth of hell. And it’s about to open.”

  Slowly he reached into his coat. When he withdrew his hand again, he was holding what appeared to be a small sort of jewelry box.

  “Don’t turn your back on this,” he warned, throwing it to her. “You’ve got to be ready.”

  Buffy’s chin lifted defiantly. “What for?”

  “For the Harvest.”

  He turned from her then and started back the way he’d come. Buffy called out after him.

  “Who are you?”

  “Let’s just say I’m a friend,” he said quietly.

  “Well, maybe I don’t want a friend,” Buffy answered, exasperated.

  His smile was strangely secretive. “I didn’t say I was yours . . .”

  Buffy watched him go. She saw his shadow fading into all the other shadows, and then she carefully opened the box.

  It was a cross.

  Small and most definitely an antique. Attached to a long silver chain.

  She glanced up quickly. The mysterious young man had disappeared.

  CHAPTER 7

  A good-sized crowd milled aimlessly around the Bronze.

  It certainly wasn’t a fancy place, Buffy saw at once—in fact, it was kind of a dive—but there was an appealing sort of earthiness about it that seemed to go with the high-school-and-older crowd standing in line. No standards of coolness here either, she noted—just a simple matter of paying four bucks and getting your hand stamped if you were old enough to drink.

  She moved her way up the line, scanning about for a familiar face. There was no one here she recognized. Inside, the place was dark and noisy and absolutely packed. A band blasted wildly from the stage up front, yet the crowds seemed relatively well behaved. A lot of kids were squeezed into the coffee bar at the back, while even more watched the action from the balcony above, lounging at tables set for two.

  Buffy pushed her way through, still looking around for someone she knew. A good-looking guy caught her attention and waved, smiling.

  Buffy smiled and waved back, then suddenly realized the guy was waving to someone behind her. Embarrassed, she lowered her hand to her head, trying to pretend she’d been fixing her hair. She was relieved when she finally spotted Willow at the bar. The girl was shyly ordering a soda, and Buffy hurried over to join her.

  “Hi!” Buffy smiled.

  “Oh, hi!” Willow looked surprised and pleased at the same time. And very out of place in her Peter Pan collar and sweater. “Hi.”

  “Are you here with someone?”

  “No, I’m just here. I thought Xander was gonna show up . . .”

  “Oh, are you guys going out?”

  “No. We’re just friends.” Willow thought a moment, then added, “We used to go out, but we broke up.”

  “How come?”

  “He stole my Barbie.” As Buffy gave her a strange look, Willow explained, “We were five.”

  “Oh.”

  “I don’t actually date a whole lot . . . lately.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, when I’m with a boy I like, it’s hard for me to say anything cool or witty, or at all . . . I can usually make a few vowel sounds, and then I have to go away.”

  Buffy couldn’t help laughing. “It’s not that bad.”

  “It is. I think boys are more interested in a girl who can talk.”

  “You really haven’t been dating lately.”

  “It’s probably easy for you.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Buffy nodded a little forlornly. “Real easy.”

  “I mean, you don’t seem too shy.”

  “Well, my philosophy is—” Buffy broke off. “Do you wanna hear my philosophy?”

  “I do,” Willow said eagerly.

  “Life is short.”

  Willow fixed her with a steady gaze. “Life is short.”

  “Not original, I’ll grant you,” Buffy shrugged. “But it’s true. Why waste time being all shy? Why worry about some guy and if he’s gonna laugh at you? You know? Seize the moment. ’Cause tomorrow you might be dead.”

  “Oh . . .” Willow smiled. “That’s nice . . .”

  Buffy’s glance went quickly around the crowds. As she spotted someone moving about on the balcony above them, her brow creased in a frown.

  “Uh, I’ll be back in a minute,” she promised.

  “That’s okay,” Willow assured her. “You don’t have to come back.”

  Smiling at her friend’s self-effacing attitude, Buffy said again, more firmly this time, “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  She wasn’t sure if Willow heard. The girl’s head was lowered and she was murmuring to herself, “Seize the moment . . .” while Buffy took off again through the crowds.

  It didn’t take her long to find the stairs. She pushed her way up and onto the balcony, then managed at last to squeeze next to the railing that overlooked the stage. She leaned there trying to appear casual, not even looking at Giles, who came to stand just as casually beside her.

  “So, you like to party with the students?” Buffy teased him. “Isn’t that kind of skanky?”

  Giles’s tone was withering. “Right. This is me having fun.” He continued to gaze down upon the stage. “Watching Clown-hair prance about is hardly my idea of a party. I’d much prefer to be home with a cup of Bovril and a good book.”

  Buffy rolled her eyes. “You need a personality, stat.”

  “This is a perfect breeding ground for vampire activity,” Giles admonished her. “Dark, crowded . . . besides, I knew you were likely to show up. And I have to make you understand—”

  “That the Harvest is coming, I know, your friend told me.”

  Giles seemed completely thrown off by this remark. He shot Buffy an anxious glance. “What did you say?”

  “The . . . Harvest,” she said carefully. “That means something to you? ’Cause I’m drawing a blank.”

  “I’m not sure. . . . Who told you this?”

  “This guy.” She could still see him in her mind, could still recall their confrontation in the alley. “Dark, gorgeous in an annoying sort of way. I figured you were buds.”

  “No . . .” Giles mumbled, frowning. “The Harvest . . . . Did he say anything else?”

  “Something about the mouth of hell. I really didn’t like him.”

  They were both staring out over the floor now at the kids dancing and partying to the loud rhythm of the band.

  “Look at them,” Giles’s tone bordered on annoyance. “Throwing themselves about . . . completely unaware of the danger that surrounds them.”

  “Lucky them . . .”

  “Or perhaps you’re right,” he conceded. “Perhaps there is no trouble coming. The signs could be wrong. It’s not as though you’re having the nightmares . . .”

  At the mention of the word, Buffy’s face suddenly clouded. She gazed down at all the happy faces below her and said nothing at all.

  CHAPTER 8

  Cordelia stood off to one side at a safe distance from the writhing crowds. She stood there with her usual friends and her usual air of disdain.

  “My mom doesn’t even get out of bed anymore,” she announced, sounding bored. “The doctor says it’s Epstein-Barr. I’m, like, ‘Please, it’s chronic hepatitis or at least chronic fatigue syndrome.’ I mean nobody cool has Epstein-Barr anymore.”

  She stiffened a little as she saw Jesse approaching. He walked right past the others in her group and turned his smile straight on her.

  “Cordelia!”

  “Oh, yay,” Cordelia replied. “It’s my stalker.”

  “Hey, you look great.”


  “Well, I’m glad we had this chat—” she began, but Jesse cut her off.

  “Listen, I, um, do you wanna dance?”

  Cordelia’s tone was withering. “With you?”

  “Well, uh, yeah.”

  “Well, uh, no.”

  She took off, her loyal entourage in tow, while Jesse stood there helplessly, alone with his pain.

  “Fine,” he said, managing at last to muster some dignity. “Plenty of other fish in the sea. Oh, yeah. I’m on the prowl. Witness me prowling.”

  He looked around at the room full of people, appraised the situation, and officially began his prowl.

  Up above on the balcony, Buffy stood watching him disappear into the crowds. She was still shaken by Giles’s comments about the nightmares, and she could feel her defenses starting to crumble.

  “I didn’t say I’d never slay another vampire,” she tried to rationalize. “I’m just not gonna get way extracurricular with it. If I run into one, sure . . .”

  “But will you be ready?” Giles asked earnestly. “There’s so much you don’t know about them and about your own powers. A vampire appears to be a normal person until the feed is upon him. Only then does he reveal his true demonic visage.”

  “You’re like a textbook with arms!” Buffy exploded. “I know this!”

  Giles chose to ignore her outburst. “The point is, a Slayer should be able to see them anyway. Without looking, without thinking. Can you tell me if there’s a vampire in this building?”

  Buffy hesitated. “Maybe?”

  “You should know! Even through this mass and this din you should be able to sense them.” Giles drew a breath, his voice encouraging. “Try. Reach out with your mind.”

  Buffy looked down at the mass of swinging, swaying bodies. Slowly she furrowed her brow.

  “You have to hone your senses,” Giles instructed her. “Focus until the energy washes over you, till you can feel every particle of—”

  “There’s one,” Buffy said quickly.

  Giles stopped. He peered down over the railing, completely nonplussed. “What? Where?”

  Pointing, Buffy tried to show him. “Down there. Talking to that girl.”