Buffy The Vampire Slayer - The Lost Slayer - The King Of The Dead

by Christopher Golden (lit)

  Buffy is staring at it when her mother pops into the room, a bright smile on her face.

  "You're up!" Joyce Summers says, her astonishment only half mockery. "The smell of pancakes luring you from bed?"

  "Yeah," Buffy says slowly, but she is still troubled as her gaze returns to the purple and pink mask. There's some red in it, too, she notices for the first time.

  Slowly, Buffy turns to focus on her mother Joyce is almost bubbly. She loves Sunday mornings, the jazz and pancakes tradition, the time to share with her little girl who isn't so little anymore.

  But now Joyce stares back at Buffy and the smile melts from her face as though it were a mask of ice, re­vealing an expression of despair beneath. She tries to hide the look, but cannot.

  "Did I spill something on my blouse?" Joyce asks, picking at her shirt anxiously.

  "Mom," Buffy begins.

  "I should get back to the pancakes. They'll burn."

  "Mom—"

  "No!" Joyce snaps, panic flooding from her eyes. "Don't!"

  "Mom—" Buffy's heart is breaking.

  "Don't say it, Buffy!"

  "You're dead, Mom."

  Her mother's face goes slack and her arms drop to her sides as though all the energy, all the life, has been sucked from her. Drained from her. She shakes her head slowly, softly, and her words come out as a moan.

  "Why did you have to say it?" Joyce Summers asks her daughter, weeping now. "It's Sunday morning."

  Behind her, in the darkened hallway, Buffy sees an­other figure moving. Someone else in the house.

  Daddy? she thinks. But that has to be just because of the mask, because her father isn't here. Doesn't live here. Never has. Never even calls anymore.

  Then he steps into the room.

  Giles.

  Glasses on. Patient, knowing smile.

  "Maybe you should go back to sleep now?" he sug­gests kindly. Paternally.

  He takes Joyce in his arms and she collapses there, weeping, asking him why.

  Buffy glances at the windows. The sun shines through, warm and bright. The wind had been dead be­fore, but now a strong gust blows in and the carnival mask falls from its nail on the wall and shatters on the floor. Tsking in sympathy, Giles moves to pick up the pieces. When he reaches to touch the shards of her fa­ther—her father's gift—he slices his index finger.

  He does not bleed.

  "You're not dead," Buffy says to him, eyes welling with tears.

  Giles glances up at her as though he has not quite heard.

  Buffy narrows her gaze as she studies him, and she sees it then. The glasses and the benevolent gaze are a mask of ice, like the one her mother had worn.

  "No," Giles agrees. "Not dead."

  "But you should be," Buffy tells him.

  And his face begins to melt, but now it is not ice melt­ing. It is his flesh, peeling and blackening in the sun, running like wax. Still, there is no blood.

  Another voice, off to her right, by the windows. "Buffy."

  She turns toward the voice and sees Angel standing in front of an enormous pane of glass. Not her room. Not her windows. The shine burns through the window and silhouettes him and he stands with his arms out as though crucified, his eyes closed.

  Buffy says his name. Angel opens his eyes and gazes down upon her, but he does not smile.

  "He thinks like a vampire now. He doesn't under­stand love."

  She realizes then that Angel's clothes hang heavily upon him because they are sodden with blood. It drips steadily from the edges of his jacket and the cuffs of his pants.

  A noise by the door, and Buffy turns to see that her mother and Giles are gone. The room is dark now, no sun, no light, yet somehow she can just make out the shape of her door and the end of the bed.

  Downstairs the music has died. The acrid odor of burning pancakes fills her nostrils and bile rises in the back of Buffy's throat. She closes her eyes against the darkness.

  Buffy woke with her head under the pillow, the stiff, starchy sheets wrapped around her legs. The smell of burned pancakes was still in her nose. She sat up quickly and swung her legs over the side of the bed, then rubbed her face vigorously with both hands as though she could erase the dream.

  Her hands were dry.

  Surprised, she glanced at her palms, then gently traced the skin under her eyes. No tears. And yet she was sure she was crying, had felt the tears welling in her, even subconsciously. When she woke she had known that if she opened her mouth it would be to sob.

  But no tears.

  Somehow she knew, then, that it was the younger Buffy in her, Buffy-at-nineteen, who was crying. But those tears never appeared on the cheeks of the woman whose body she inhabited. After all she had been through, Buffy-at-twenty-four was harder, more callous.

  An image of Xander swam into her mind, and she un­derstood that if it were not for the bizarre twinning of her soul, Buffy would have been like him. Without her younger self to temper the bitterness within her, she might have been just as numb and cold as he had be­come. As long as he had no hope, he had nothing to sur­vive for. His despair might well get him killed.

  All or nothing, Xander thought. The day had finally come when they would stop all this sitting around crap, saddle up, and head across the border. They would take Sunnydale back, kill Giles and every other leech that got in the way, or they wouldn't be coming back at all.

  Which was just fine with him. Xander had been wait­ing for this day an awfully long time.

  He had woken up hours before dawn, checked and double-checked his gear with only the light slipping under his door from the hallway to guide him, then suited up. When he knew there was nothing more that he could do, he popped The Wild Bunch into the DVD player and lay back on the bed. He didn't want to bother anyone else, so he left the sound off. Not that it mat­tered. He had seen the film dozens of times and knew most of the dialogue inside out.

  The Wild Bunch. The Outlaw Josey Wales. Once Upon a Time in the West. Red River. Stagecoach. Nearly every DVD on the shelf was an old Western. He watched them over and over. Regular television was no distraction, for it was a joke to him to watch the news or even a sitcom, and think that the world on television was one that most people believed in.

  They had no idea.

  He might have read a novel, but he found that he had no patience for books anymore. His mind tended to wander into places he never wanted it to go.

  On screen, the climactic battle erupted. Even without the volume, Xander could hear the gunshots. A bunch of men with no ties, nothing to lose, dying because they fi­nally found something to stand up for.

  A knock at the door. He glanced at the clock. 4:57 a.m. Xander slipped off the bed, grabbed his gear and opened the door. Oz stood in the corridor with Abel and Yancy. The werewolf was jittery, like he'd had too much caffeine, but over the years Xander had come to recog­nize that trait in him. He always got that way before a fight.

  It was the animal in him.

  "Time to roll," Oz said.

  "Rolling," Xander replied.

  Down the corridor, they met Buffy and Willow on the way down the stairs. All the other operatives were al­ready outside, Xander knew. Or on the way out there. The grunts had been ordered to have everything pre­pared to move out at five a.m. precisely. But the group led by the Slayer was supposed to be different. Special. Ms. Haversham had handpicked this little squadron for the main event, the attack on Giles himself. So the rules that applied to everyone else didn't apply here.

  'Cause we've been doing it longer, Xander thought. Killing monsters. We 're better at it 'cause we know how they think.

  Buffy hung back. "Xander. Got a minute?"

  He glanced at her, then at Willow. She seemed sur­prised. Xander nodded toward Oz to let him know he and the others should go on, and when he went down the stairs, Willow went with him.

  "Yeah?" he said, studying Buffy.

  There was a kind of anger in her eyes that was not re­ally anger. Something she want
ed to say, maybe a lot. Xander had the feeling whatever it was, it wasn't any­thing he wanted to hear. For a moment he thought she was going to spill it, all the things that were on her mind.

  Then whatever tension had built up in her seemed to subside. Buffy smiled, but there was no amusement in it.

  "I wish I could bring that wall down," she said.

  "What wall?"

  "The one around you."

  Then she reached up to grab him behind the head, stood on her tiptoes, and kissed him once, gently, on the lips. There was no romance in it, no passion, but he swallowed hard and forced himself not to look away.

  "I love you, Xander," she said. "I did then and I do now. You still have people who care about you."

  Her smile went away. Now her expression was grim, eyes dark. With the strength of the Chosen One, she gripped the back of his neck and shook him once.

  "Don't die."

  In the room that had once been the mayor's office, Giles sat across a small table from a Borgasi demon named Ace Tippette and sipped tea. Ace was not a tea drinker, but Giles had provided him with a glass of Ken­tucky bourbon. They had been in that room, across that table, long enough for the tea to get cold and the bour­bon to get warm. The Borgasi seemed to wish he were elsewhere, but Giles would not relent. He gazed at the demon expectantly.

  Ace ran a hand over the porcupine-like quills on his head and the back of his neck, and sighed for perhaps the thirteenth time. The black, wet nostrils that were about all he had for a nose twitched, and both sets of slitted eyes gazed about the room, avoiding Giles's face until at last he had no option but to respond.

  "Ya gotta understand, the Borgasi ain't exactly a war­like race. I mean, all right, we understand the need to break kneecaps now and again, and we've buried our share of problems in the desert, but our clan has been living pretty peaceably alongside the humans in Vegas for, what, fifty, sixty years. Hell, they're most of our business these days. Since organized crime let us have a piece of things, Vegas runs smooth. Thanks to us, the place calmed down enough to become a freakin' tourist Mecca, you know? We don't wanna mess up a good thing."

  Giles nodded once, then took a sip of his tea. He gri­maced at its temperature and set the cup down on the saucer. Contemplatively, he tapped a finger against the tip of his nose.

  "You do seem to have quite a comfortable life out there in the desert, Ace. But let me suggest that perhaps you really aren't considering the larger picture here. You've seen a great deal of my operation on your visit tonight. I have revealed even more of it in some detail as I laid out the part I wish the Borgasi to play. Too much, I fear."

  "Whoa, hold on there, chief. Nobody saw anything you didn't want them to see. We're here to parley, not to stick our noses in," Ace protested.

  The vampire king smiled thinly. "Yes, well, putting that aside for the moment, let me see if I can cast this in a slightly different light for you. I'm expanding. Slowly, but quite inexorably, I assure you. I have one hurdle in my way. Much like walking a dog in Los Angeles, it is a mess I cannot avoid but am prepared to clean up after. I expect to have overcome that hurdle and have the detri­tus of its destruction cleared away within three or four days. After that time, I will continue to expand my sphere of influence. You could count on two hands the number of days before Los Angeles is in my hands. When I am done there, I will visit Las Vegas and I will take it."

  Ace held up a hand, narrowing his gaze. "What the hell do you mean you're gonna 'take it'? You think we're just gonna clear out?"

  A soft chuckle escaped Giles's lips. He did so enjoy Ace's company. "Perish the thought," he said as he steepled his fingers beneath his chin. "You could run, of course. Or I could destroy you all. But there is a third option I think we would both find preferable. As I com­plete my infiltration of Los Angeles, it would be simpler if, with your assistance, Las Vegas were already under my control. Simpler, and healthier, I think. For the Bor­gasi. After all, wouldn't you rather live as lords above the humans than as shadows among them?"

  The vampire king had recently had the black paint scraped off one of the windows, and he could see that the sky was lightening outside, dawn sneaking in as if to catch the odd, errant night creature unaware. Now Giles offered a half-smile to the demon as he rose and went to close and latch the steel shutters that had been installed to block that single, clear window.

  Giles turned and glanced at Ace again. "Put another way, my friend, wouldn't you rather live?"

  For a second, he thought the Borgasi might snap. They weren't a warlike race, true, but they were danger­ous when the spirit moved them. And proud, too. That was the real peril in baiting Ace, that Giles would tread too roughly on his pride. On the other hand, perhaps peril was not the right word, for Giles had laid out the future for the Borgasi in no uncertain terms. Despite his mannerisms and the absurdity of his nickname, Ace Tippette was not a stupid creature.

  So Giles was not at all surprised when the demon shook his head and threw his hands up. "Not much use arguin' with that kinda logic, is there?"

  "None," the vampire lord replied.

  Ace stood and held out his hand. "All right, Giles. You give the orders, but you'll leave us alone to run things, yeah?"

  Giles shook his hand firmly. "Agreed."

  The Borgasi smiled, his hundreds of tiny, jagged teeth glistening damply. "Gotta say, it's gonna be interesting. Some of the boys got a problem with change. This'll throw 'em for a loop."

  Ace paused and all four of his slitted eyes widened. "Say, when you get all the way to Atlantic City, you think we could have first dibs?"

  "Dibs," Giles repeated. "By all means, Ace. By all means."

  "Excellent." Ace shot him a thumbs-up.

  The Borgasi turned to head for the door.

  "One more thing," Giles said.

  Wet nostrils sniffing the air as if sensing a change in the atmosphere of the room, Ace turned back to him.

  "From now on, you will refer to me as 'my lord' or 'master.' Even 'majesty' is acceptable, though it always makes me feel a bit, oh, I don't know..." Giles tossed a hand in the air and grinned mischievously, "... self-conscious, I suppose."

  Ace grinned back, misreading him. "You gotta be kiddin' me."

  Giles glared balefully at him. "Decidedly not."

  The quills on the Borgasi's head stood up slightly and he reached up to brush at them, forcing them to lay down again.

  "Yeah, no, I mean... not a problem at all. You're the boss, right?"

  "Not the boss," Giles replied. "The king."

  There came a sudden rap at the door and then it was opened before Giles could even ask who it was. Jax glided into the room, practically crackling with anxiety.

  Giles stared at him. "Jax," he said, the single word enough of an admonition to stop the servant in his tracks.

  "Forgive me, my lord Giles," Jax said quickly, duck­ing his head in a rapid bow. "There's a, uh, a matter that's come up. An urgent matter."

  Ace cleared his throat. "Know what? That's no problem. I'll just find my own way out, all right?" The Borgasi glanced anxiously at Giles. "We're at your ser­vice... my lord. Y'know, just buzz me when you want us to do it. We'll be ready."

  Giles narrowed his eyes. "Excellent, Ace. I accept your mangled oath of fealty. Please wait in the corridor and Jax will escort you out momentarily."

  The demon waved his hand in the air. "Nah, that's all—" He paused, glanced sheepishly back at Giles. "Right. I'll wait outside."

  When Ace had left the room, Giles crossed his arms and glared expectantly at Jax. "What is it that couldn't wait?"

  Jax glanced at the door and lowered his voice in al­most theatrical fashion, apparently concerned that the demon would overhear.

  "They're here, majesty. Five border sentries have called in to report a massive incursion along the south­ern border. As many as fifty to sixty vehicles thus far, separated into seven different groups at this count. Esti­mates have their individual numbers as high as three hundred."r />
  "Excellent," Giles replied as he moved to the high-backed chair behind his desk. "A single-front battle. I had thought they would muster up enough operatives to attack from the north as well."

  Jax stared at him. His expression was almost comical. "But, my lord, there are so many. We can only put a handful of your soldiers against them. There aren't more than twenty or thirty sunsuits."

  "Oh, stop being such a mollycoddle, Jax. Granted, despite their vows of loyalty, most of the humans are un­likely to risk their lives to defend me, but some will. Enough to slow them down. And it isn't as though the demons I've been so careful to pamper are going to let their livelihoods be taken away. Under my rule, this is paradise for them. They can't afford not to help."

  To his credit, Jax made an effort to quell his anxiety and stood a bit straighter. "Your orders, my lord."

  Giles sighed. "We've planned for this eventuality, Jax. Give the order. We'll see who obeys it. Losses are acceptable, even significant losses. But loss is not. I will be in the court in ten minutes. The battle will be con­ducted from there."

  "Yes, my lord."

  "Oh, and Jax? Make certain everyone is aware that the Slayer is mine. I want her captured if possible, but under no circumstances is she to be killed. Even if it means giving her safe passage to this building."

  Now Jax dropped all pretense of calm and stared at him in horror. "But majesty, she'll ki—"

  "No," Giles replied firmly. "She will not. I've seen it in her eyes now, felt it in her hesitation. She will do everything she can to stop me, but she will not kill me. That is the chink in her armor, Jax. She will be one of us before we see another dawn."

  There were five vehicles in the phalanx that entered Sunnydale on the shore road, three Humvees and two troop carriers. There was a sense of urgency about the proceedings, but no one was in a hurry. They could not afford to be. Undercover operatives in Sunnydale had pinpointed at least a dozen major nests in town, and each team had been assigned two. They were to clean out the nests, taking out any opposition they met along the way, and then rendezvous downtown to exterminate the opposition they were sure to encounter there.