The Harvest

by Richie Tankersley Cusick

  In one far corner stood a good-looking young man. He was talking to a girl, but from where they were standing, neither Giles nor Buffy could really get a good look at her.

  Giles cast Buffy a doubtful look. “But you don’t know—” he began, while Buffy vehemently interrupted.

  “Oh, please! Look at his jacket. He’s got the sleeves rolled up. And the shirt . . . deal with that outfit for a moment.”

  Again Giles looked perplexed. “It’s dated?”

  “It’s carbon dated! Trust me—only someone who’s been living underground for ten years would think that was the look.”

  “But . . . you didn’t hone . . .”

  Buffy scarcely heard him. She leaned farther out over the balcony and murmured, “Oh, no . . .”

  The vampire was still chatting with the girl in the corner. Only now he was motioning her to come with him, and as she finally stepped into view, a sick feeling of dread rose in the pit of Buffy’s stomach.

  “Isn’t that—” Giles began.

  “Willow.”

  “What is she doing?”

  “Seizing the moment,” Buffy threw back at him as she started for the stairs.

  For one brief instant she caught a glimpse of them—the vampire and Willow—moving toward the back door near the stage. She fought her way down the steps and through the mobs across the floor, but when she looked again, Willow had disappeared. Worried, Buffy scanned the room, then headed for the backstage door. She felt as if she were moving in slow motion; the closer she got to the stage, the more crowded it seemed to grow. In frustration, she finally managed to wrestle through the rest of the way and shove open the door.

  The shock of the darkness took her by surprise, but only for a second. It was empty backstage, cool and strangely muffled. There was no one about, and Buffy moved slowly, cautiously, along the postered brick walls, ready for anything. She passed an old chair propped in a corner and on impulse, she snapped off one of its legs, holding it close to her like a makeshift stake. After the noise and crush of bodies inside the club, the place seemed vast and mysterious. At last she found the exit door. It opened into an alley, but this, too, was deserted, and with a growing sense of danger Buffy headed back for the main door.

  She didn’t expect him to be there as she turned the corner.

  With lightning speed Buffy grabbed the shadowy figure, threw him up against the wall, then held him there, two feet off the ground.

  She stared fiercely into the vampire’s face . . .

  And realized too late that it wasn’t a vampire at all.

  Cordelia hung there in her grasp, wearing the same dumbfounded expression that her other friends wore as they trooped out of the bathroom.

  “Cordelia!” Buffy stammered, while the girl continued to hang there, gaping at her.

  “Excuse me . . . could you be any weirder?” Cordelia burst out. “Is there a more weirdness that you could have?”

  Sheepishly, Buffy let the girl down and lowered the stake discreetly to her side.

  “God,” Cordelia sneered. “What is your childhood trauma?”

  Buffy tried to recover herself. She faked a cheerful expression and asked brightly, “Did you guys see Willow? Did she come by here?”

  “Why?” Cordelia shot back. “Did you need to attack her with a stick?”

  With a red face and shaken nerves, Buffy quickly retreated, leaving Cordelia and her entourage still gazing after her in disbelief.

  “Excuse me,” Cordelia grumbled, pulling her flip phone from her purse. “I have to call everyone I’ve ever met right now.”

  Buffy hurried back to the stage door and let herself into the club. She spotted Giles at once, waiting for her at the foot of the stairs, and she went over to join him.

  “That was fast.” Giles looked relieved. “Well done. I’d best go to the library. This Harvest is—”

  “I didn’t find them,” Buffy said, her frustrated glance going around the room.

  Giles stared at her as though he’d misunderstood. “The vampire’s not dead?”

  “No, but my social life is on the critical list.”

  “What do we do?”

  “You go on. I’ll take care of it.”

  “I should come with you, no?” Giles offered, but Buffy shook her head at him and started off again through the crowds.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “One vampire I can handle.”

  She didn’t really see Jesse as she brushed past him. She had her mind on other, more important things, and Jesse was too busy talking to a girl even to notice that Buffy had gone by.

  “What did you say your name was?” Jesse asked again, hoping this time his luck might change.

  She didn’t look familiar to him. Definitely not from class . . . not even from campus. Though of course, he had no way of knowing that she’d broken into the school last night. That she’d been on a date with a certain young man . . . the same young man found dead just this afternoon, stuffed inside a locker . . .

  “Darla,” the girl answered, smiling at him.

  She had a really cute face, and Jesse smiled back.

  “Darla. I haven’t seen you before. Are you from around here?”

  “No, but I’ve got family here.”

  “Have I met them?”

  Darla’s smile widened. Her teeth were pretty and white. “You probably will,” she promised.

  CHAPTER 9

  Cloistered within the moldering walls of their sanctuary, the disciples continued their ritual.

  It was a ritual as ancient as evil itself, and slowly, slowly, the impassioned voices rose as one. Soon the ceremony would reach its long-awaited climax. And where this church had once resonated with the heartfelt vows of the virtuous, the only sounds that filled it now were these mocking prayers of the damned.

  Beside the altar Luke suddenly looked up.

  He stared for a moment, eyes wide with religious fervor, and then he began to back away. As though in obedience to his signal, the others also began moving back, their voices quivering with expectancy.

  Still, Luke prayed above the pool. Without warning, a head thrust up from the bloody depths, and Luke started, staring in wonder, taking yet another step away.

  The head continued to rise, and with it the tall, elegant figure of a king long sleeping, his massive body gleaming with dark, rich blood.

  The Master was the most powerful of all the vampires. Born Heinrich Joseph Nest some six hundred years ago, he was dressed completely in black, both frightening and awesome to behold. His face did not resemble anything human; he was as much demon as man. His regal bearing spoke of invincibility—commanded reverence, submission, and undying loyalty. As he stepped forward, extending one hand, Luke grasped it with humble and utter devotion.

  “Master . . .” Luke mumbled.

  Again the Master moved forward, his face still cloaked in half darkness. Luke withdrew several respectful paces and the Master looked about for a moment as though considering.

  “Luke.”

  “Master . . .”

  “I am weak.”

  “Come the Harvest, you’ll be restored,” Luke promised.

  “The Harvest . . .”

  “We’re almost there. Soon you’ll be free.”

  The Master walked past Luke. Once more he reached out his hand, but this time, as he did so, the air before him began to ripple slightly, forming a sort of mystical wall that enclosed him.

  Abruptly he pulled back his hand.

  “I must be ready,” the Master said. “I need my strength.”

  “I’ve sent your servants to bring you some food,” Luke reassured him.

  “Good.” Then, as Luke started out, “Luke . . .”

  Luke stopped at once. “Yes?”

  “Bring me something . . . young.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Willow was definitely having second thoughts.

  As she and her date walked along through the dark, she could feel herself growing increasingly nervou
s. He hadn’t said half a dozen words since they’d left the Bronze, and there was just something different about him that hadn’t been so obvious back there in all the noise and bright lights. And all the people, she thought to herself.

  “Sure is dark.” She made a feeble attempt at conversation, but it didn’t make her feel any braver.

  “It’s night,” her date replied.

  “That’s a dark time.” Willow nodded. “Night. Traditionally.”

  They walked farther. Again she tried to start a conversation.

  “I still can’t believe I’ve never seen you at school. Do you have Mr. Chomsky for History?”

  The boy didn’t answer. He just suddenly stopped.

  Willow glanced around uneasily. “The ice-cream bar’s down this way,” she directed him. “It’s past Hamilton Street.”

  She watched as his hand reached out, as it firmly took hold of hers.

  “I know a shortcut,” he said.

  And then he led her toward the cemetery . . . into the darkness of the woods.

  * * *

  Buffy couldn’t find Willow anywhere.

  With growing anxiety, she hurried around from the back of the club and saw Xander coming down the sidewalk, his skateboard tucked under one arm.

  “You’re leaving already?” Xander asked, but Buffy wasn’t in the mood for chatting.

  “Xander, have you seen Willow?”

  “Not tonight.”

  “I need to find her. She left with a guy.”

  “We are talking about Willow, right?” Xander sounded impressed. “Scoring at the Bronze. Work it, girlfriend.”

  Buffy was oblivious to his humor. “Where would they go?”

  “Why, you know something about Mr. Goodbar that she doesn’t?” Xander pretended to have a sudden brainstorm and rubbed his hands together. “Oh! Hey. I hope he’s not a vampire. ’Cause then you’d have to slay him.”

  This time he got her full attention. With a look of surprise—and undisguised annoyance—she turned back to stare at him.

  “Was there a school bulletin? Was it in the news? Is there anybody in this town who doesn’t know I’m a Slayer?”

  “I only know that you think you’re a Slayer. And I only know that ’cause I was in the library today.”

  “Whatever.” Buffy was painfully aware of the passing of time. “Just tell me where Willow would go.”

  “You’re serious.”

  “We don’t find her, there’s gonna be another dead body in the morning.”

  Xander hesitated, studying her solemn expression. It dawned on him then that she wasn’t kidding. That she was, in fact, very dead serious.

  “Come on,” he said.

  * * *

  Willow had passed the point of nervousness.

  As she and her date continued on through the woods, she realized she was easing into quiet panic. Her mind spun helplessly as she tried to figure out how she’d managed to get herself into such a scary situation—and how on earth she was going to get herself out again.

  “Okay,” she said at last. “This is nice and . . . scary. . . . Are you sure this is faster?”

  Still her date said nothing. She couldn’t be certain, of course, but every instinct warned her that this probably wasn’t the way to the ice-cream bar. And then, as he suddenly stopped, she realized they were standing outside a small mausoleum.

  Confused, Willow stared at the crumbling entrance. A well of thick blackness yawned before her, and a cold chill crept up her spine.

  “Hey,” her date spoke at last. “You ever been in one of these?”

  Willow tried to keep her voice from shaking, tried to sound assertive. “No, thank you.”

  But he was moving in on her now, pulling her hair back from her neck. Holding her intimately . . . holding her much closer than she wanted to be held . . .

  “Come on,” he tempted her, his voice teasing. “What are you afraid of?”

  And then he pushed her through the doorway.

  Willow stumbled in, terrified. She couldn’t see a thing and she blinked rapidly, trying to adjust her eyes to the dark. After several agonizing seconds, she was able to make out a small room with carved stone walls. A huge tomb took up most of the center, with a stone figure of a man lying on top of it. Behind her was the door she’d come in; ahead of her was a much smaller iron door that was locked shut.

  Willow spun around. She could see her date now, his silhouette filling the entrance to the mausoleum, blocking her escape. Her heart thudded frantically in her ears.

  “That wasn’t funny.” She tried to sound calm and in control, but her voice was dangerously close to tears.

  The boy didn’t respond. Instead he stepped closer, his face bathed in shadows. Willow circled away from him, trying to get closer to the door.

  “I think I’m gonna go,” she told him.

  “Is that what you think?”

  There was no playfulness in his voice. Willow heard the danger there and instinctively took a step back, and then another. And then she turned and squealed as she ran straight into Darla.

  Darla seemed to be appraising the situation. She looked first at Willow and then at Willow’s date.

  “Is this the best you could do?” Darla asked him.

  The boy’s voice sounded slightly defensive. “She’s fresh.”

  “Hardly enough to share,” Darla returned, walking casually down the steps and across the floor.

  “Why didn’t you bring your own?”

  “I did.”

  Darla indicated the doorway just behind her. As Willow watched in fearful confusion, a very dazed Jesse stumbled in.

  “Hey, wait up,” Jesse called to Darla.

  “Jesse!” Willow hurried over to him, relieved. He was clutching his neck and looked slightly feverish. In truth, he didn’t seem particularly aware that Willow was even there.

  “I think you gave me a hickey.” Again he spoke to Darla, who pointedly ignored him.

  Willow watched as Jesse took his hand from his neck. She could see blood on his fingers, blood on his throat. She gazed at him for a moment in disbelief, then looked at the other two figures behind her, her eyes going wide.

  “I got hungry on the way,” Darla shrugged.

  Willow took hold of Jesse, pulling desperately on his arms. “Jesse, let’s get out of here.”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” Darla informed her.

  “Leave us alone,” Willow tried to sound forceful, but Darla advanced on her so swiftly that she didn’t even have time to back away.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” Darla muttered, “until we’ve fed!”

  As she spat out the last word, she thrust her face right into Willow’s. And before Willow’s horrified eyes, Darla’s face began to change—to shift and slither into something grotesque—rotting skin, teeth gleaming razor sharp, a grin that was as ravenous as it was evil—

  Willow screamed. She stumbled backward and fell. Through a haze of terror she could see her date laughing now, circling her slowly, his predator’s face every bit as hideous and repulsive as the girl’s had become.

  Willow knew she was going to die. She watched as the creatures closed in on her, knifelike fingernails reaching out, mouths drooling, eyes glistening hungrily. When the voice suddenly spoke out behind them, she thought at first that it wasn’t—couldn’t possibly be—real.

  “Well, this is nice,” the voice said pleasantly.

  Buffy stepped into the room with Xander following.

  Everybody froze.

  “A little bare,” Buffy observed, running one hand across the dusty tomb, “but a dash of paint, a few throw pillows—call it home.”

  “Who the hell are you?” Darla growled.

  “Wow, you mean there’s actually somebody around here who doesn’t know already?” Buffy tossed back. “That’s a relief. I’m telling you, having a secret identity in this town is a job of work.”

  As Buffy held their attention, Xander moved in between the t
wo vampires. Nothing had quite prepared the creatures for this unexpected turn of events, and they slowly loosened their grips on Willow and Jesse.

  “Buffy, we bail now, right?” Xander prompted, but Willow’s date had managed to recover himself a little.

  “Not yet,” he snarled.

  “Okay, first of all, what’s with this outfit?” Buffy baited him. “Live in the now, okay? You look like DeBarge.” Then turning to Darla, she added, completely unperturbed, “Now, we can do this the hard way, or . . . well, actually, there’s just the hard way.”

  Darla stood her ground. “Fine with me.”

  “You sure?” Buffy persisted. “It’s not gonna be pretty. We’re talking violence, strong language, adult content.”

  Even as she spoke, Willow’s date rushed her from behind, charging with lightning speed. With one graceful motion, Buffy whipped a stake out from beneath her jacket and stuck it out behind her. There was a dull puncture sound as the creature impaled himself. He stopped, eyes round with surprise, and then he thudded to the floor.

  Buffy never even looked at him.

  As he hit the ground, his body crumbled to dust.

  “See what happens when you roughhouse?” Buffy told Darla.

  Xander and Willow were speechless. All they could do was stare at the cold, empty floor where a body had lain only seconds ago. Darla, on the other hand, was wide-eyed and wary, but definitely not cowed. She moved slowly around Buffy, preparing to fight the girl herself.

  “He was young,” Darla said in disgust. “And stupid.”

  “Xander, go,” Buffy ordered.

  “Don’t go far,” Darla echoed.

  Without warning she lunged at Buffy. Buffy met her head-on, parrying Darla’s blows with martial arts precision, while Xander herded the others out.

  The three ran as quickly as they could through the woods, Willow and Xander half dragging, half carrying Jesse. No one spoke. They were all still trying to cope with the reality of what they’d just seen back there in the mausoleum. Buffy . . . the Slayer . . .

  As Buffy got in another effective blow, Darla hit the ground painfully. Buffy wasn’t joking anymore. She was sweaty and breathless, and all the humor had drained from her face.

  “You know, I just wanted to start over,” she said peevishly, planting one foot on Darla’s chest. “Be like everybody else. Have some friends, maybe a dog . . . but no. You had to come here. You couldn’t go suck on some other town.”