Ghoul Trouble

by John Passarella

  “Who—him? He’s not—I mean we’re not friends—”

  “You kept glancing over there,” Troy explained. “I thought—”

  “He’s hard to miss, making a spectacle of himself over there,” Cordelia said. “Just no accounting for tastelessness.”

  Troy looked to Vyxn, listened for a few moments and decided, “They’re not that bad.”

  “They’re not that good.”

  “I don’t know. They kind of grow on you.”

  “Like a fungus.”

  Troy laughed. “Same old Cordelia.”

  “Well, you’re looking good,” she said. “No change there.” He was smartly dressed in a chocolate brown jacket and a cream-colored, mock turtleneck.

  “You still look great, Cordelia. I’ve really missed you.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “But I read the tabloids. What about all those starlets throwing themselves at you?”

  Troy grinned. “They pale in comparison.”

  “Still the sweet-talker,” Cordelia said, but soaked up the compliment anyway.

  “Maybe we could get a table in the back,” Troy suggested. “Might be a little quieter. The music is a little . . . distracting.”

  “No argument here.” Cordelia stood, grabbed her glass in one hand and placed her other hand on Troy’s arm, entertaining the faint hope that Xander might glance and see that Cordelia Chase could do much better than date the likes of him. “Mind if we take a slight detour?”

  “Not at all.”

  Cordelia led him to where Xander sat bopping to the music and stopped. “I thought you weren’t—”

  “We’re not,” Cordelia interrupted him.

  Xander finally glanced up. “Cordelia? What’s up?”

  “Xander, do you remember Troy Douglas?” She paused for effect. “Before he became a big movie star and moved to L.A., he and I used to date. Each other.”

  Xander pointed at Troy. “Hey! I know you!” he said. “You’re that SkinSure Pimple Boy!”

  “That was a few years ago,” Troy said.

  “I never forget a pimply face.”

  “We’re going to get a table in back,” Cordelia said.

  “Well, good. Good for you,” Xander replied, a forced grin on his face.

  Cordelia smiled, turned on her heel and walked off with her new guy in tow. Xander followed her progress for a moment but then the music pulled him back.

  * * *

  Xander sat through one song after another, barely giving Cordelia a second thought. Finally, the band finished their first set and Lupa announced they would take a ten-minute break. She ran her hands through her wild black hair and blew Xander a kiss, but as she walked offstage, her gaze drifted over to Buffy’s table and her brow furrowed slightly.

  Xander sighed and shook his head. He felt dazed, as if he’d been sleeping with his eyes open. When he glanced up, Buffy, Willow and Oz were standing beside him. Buffy and Willow were clutching their textbooks.

  “Hey, Xander,” Willow said. “Who’s the guy with Cordelia? He seemed familiar.”

  “He’s a real honey,” Buffy commented, glancing back to where Xander assumed Cordelia and Troy were sitting.

  “One of Cordelia’s old flames,” Xander said absently.

  “Not really narrowing it down,” Willow pointed out.

  “Troy somebody,” Xander said. “The SkinSure Pimple Boy.”

  “Oh, I know,” Willow said. “Troy Douglas. He’s that hot guy on Wanderlust, the soap opera.” She cleared her throat. “Not that I actually watch those shows. But didn’t he move to Los Angeles?”

  “He’s just visiting,” Xander said.

  “And yet Cordy is already making with the moves on him,” Buffy noted.

  “She’s showing off,” Xander said. “Just trying to make me jealous, I guess.”

  “Is it working?” Oz asked.

  “No,” Xander said. “Okay. A little bit. But I’m completely over her. I wonder if he has a limo? Cordelia is really impressed with limos.”

  “I’ll leave it to you to find out,” Buffy said. “We’re leaving. I’m supposed to patrol with Angel and after that, a late night cuddled up with my red zone books.”

  “And I have that whole Sunnydale Hellmouth history to commit to paper,” Willow said gloomily.

  “Or not commit to paper,” Oz suggested.

  “That is the question,” Willow said and groaned.

  Xander craned his neck, looking for Cordelia. “I’ll catch you guys later.”

  * * *

  “Are you sure one of them is the Slayer?” Lupa asked Rave.

  “I saw them dust a vampire,” Rave said, smoothing her Mohawk-ponytail. “The redhead had a crossbow. The blonde had a stake.”

  “Only one can be the Slayer,” Carnie said.

  “But which one?” Lupa asked.

  “Don’t Slayers work alone?” Nash asked, fingering her spiked collar. “You said the Slayer worked alone. Four against one. Easy pickings, you said.”

  Lupa looked at herself in the mirror, which was bordered with small globe lights, half of them burnt out. “It’s nothing we can’t handle,” Lupa said. She ran a heavily lacquered fingernail down her blushed cheek. In the wake of the nail’s pressure, her skin shaded a mottled, reptilian green. In a moment her cheek was flushed human pink again. She had put their small troupe at risk, coming to this place, the Slayer’s home turf. Yet while there was much at risk there was much to be gained. “Just a slight complication.”

  “Me, I don’t like complications,” Nash said. “Maybe it was a mistake coming here.”

  “Are you questioning my judgment?” Lupa asked, staring hard at Nash.

  The drummer tugged at her collar for a moment before looking away. “Who me? I do what I’m told.”

  “See that you do.” Lupa had always had the strongest voice for compulsion, even when their troupe had numbered a dozen, which meant she was not only the lead singer but the troupe leader as well. As troupe leader, her responsibilities were twofold: keep the troupe well fed and keep their numbers strong. The former had never been a problem. Once the pretty young boys heard her sing they would always come back for more. They just couldn’t help themselves. And each successive night made the impulse that much stronger. And once she had the house full, had their complete and undivided attention, all Lupa had to do was look past the glare of the stage lights and decide which one of them would be the evening morsel. Personal contact, a few whispered suggestions and dinner practically served itself. No, the singing and the compulsion it engendered had never been a problem. Where Lupa had failed was in maintaining the strength of the troupe. In the past twenty-five years, since the day they had abandoned their distant home, their numbers had dwindled through disease, desertion and the occasional mishap. The last one to fall, Viola, had died at Lupa’s own hands after she attempted to wrest leadership of the troupe from Lupa and disband Vyxn. Unwilling to let go of the old ways, Viola had always railed against the idea of performing in public. Her treachery had not been unexpected. Well, Viola was old meat now. Let her rot.

  “Lupa?” Rave said. “You about ready?”

  Lupa nodded, but couldn’t resist reestablishing her authority before they went back on stage. “We will have our fill here as elsewhere. Did you see how easily I put the boy under my . . . influence?”

  Carnie laughed. “That one’s ripe for the plucking.”

  “He’s one of them,” Rave said. “He was with the Slayer, whichever one she is.”

  Lupa smiled. “You see,” she said, looking specifically at Nash. “One less complication.” She turned back to the mirror, adjusted her leather costume and briefly puckered her human lips—yet another layer of costuming. They walked as unseen predators, drifting among their helpless prey. Part of leadership, Lupa realized, was confidence, and she had much to be confident about. She retained firm control of the troupe with her goal close at hand. She sensed their fortunes were at a turning point “And in the end, I will have
the Slayer.”

  * * *

  Xander decided to show Cordelia that her little display had had no effect on him whatsoever, so he casually made his way to her table. Only to find her laughing at something Troy had just said, staring into his eyes and touching his hand. All bad signs. Xander realized Cordelia was no longer playacting to make him jealous. So naturally, he was becoming jealous.

  “Hey, Cordy,” Xander called.

  Cordelia gave him a withering stare. “Oh, is the teeny-bopper show over?”

  “I see Acne Avenger has been making time while I’ve been enjoying the show.”

  “Look—Andrew, wasn’t it?”

  “Xander,” Cordelia corrected Troy.

  “Cordelia and I were just discussing old times.”

  “Besides,” Cordelia said, “who I spend time with is none of your concern anymore.”

  “Right,” Xander said, hardly mollified.

  Cordelia smiled, not above fanning the flames a bit. “Xander, Troy was just telling me he’s been nominated for a daytime Emmy.”

  “Daytime? Does that mean it has a curfew?”

  “It’s an award for soap opera acting,” Cordelia said.

  “Soap opera acting? There’s an oxymoron for you.” Xander said. “Like jumbo shrimp. Military intelligence.”

  Troy stood and pushed his chair back. Xander stood his ground.

  Cordelia held her arms up between them. “Okay, maybe Xander doesn’t realize many big stars got their start in soaps.”

  “Maybe,” Troy said, sitting back down again.

  “Xander?” Cordelia asked, squeezing his hand, which had, he just realized, curled into a fist.

  “If you say so,” Xander said.

  “Excellent,” Cordelia said. “Truce.”

  Just then, the crowd burst into applause, the male contingent more strenuously than the female. Xander looked over his shoulder and saw that Vyxn was taking the stage for their second set. His breath caught in his throat and he started to wonder how he had drifted so far from his stage-side seat. Demanding a response, Cordelia squeezed his hand again, hard.

  “Y—yes?” he said.

  “Troy and I were just about to step out for some fresh air,” Cordelia was baring a dangerous smile. Xander realized that much.

  “I—uh,” Xander began. What he wanted to say, was about to say, was, I’ll join you after a couple of songs. His gaze went from Cordelia to Troy and back again and felt the jealous sting anew. Just because he was over her didn’t mean he couldn’t play the part of a third wheel. His forced smile was almost a grimace. “Fresh air? Love some.”

  They walked between the tables and past the stage toward the door. Xander looked back at the band and for a moment he thought that Lupa, the lead singer, winked directly at him. Maybe he just imagined it.

  * * *

  Rave drifted over to Lupa while she tuned her guitar. “Looks like you lost him,” she whispered.

  Lupa shook her head. “The hook is firmly set. Just a little play in the line for now. He’ll be back. He won’t be able to help himself. Plenty of time to reel him in.”

  * * *

  “I just don’t get it,” Buffy said to Angel, as they walked down the street to her house. For once, they had had a quiet night of patrolling. Maybe Skull John’s ranks were finally getting a little thin. With no vamps, demons or devil dogs in sight, Buffy even had time to crack open a book or two on top of a tombstone. Studying with Angel in the vicinity, however, was never all that productive. Well, not as long as you defined productive as actual retention of any textbook knowledge.

  “But all the guys did?”

  “Oh, the guys got it, all right,” Buffy said. “Musically, Vyxn was just okay. Tolerable but uninventive.”

  “Well, you said it yourself,” Angel said, quirking a smile.

  “Right,” Buffy said. “Extreme eye-candy factor.”

  “A girl band designed for guys.”

  “I suppose it’s natural,” Buffy said. “Of course, if it was some buff guy band up there wearing leather Speedos with oiled pecs, I would hope I’d have enough composure not to drool all over my shoes.”

  “Of course not,” Angel said. “Being ladylike—”

  “Yes,” Buffy said with a definitive nod.

  “—you’d dab your chin with a napkin.”

  “I’d—Hey!” Buffy said and took a good-natured swipe at his smirking face. He leaned back and caught her arm, used it to pull her into an embrace. She fell into his arms willingly, tilted her head back, kissed his cool lips, and tried not to think about tomorrow. They only had a series of todays, all perfect moments in time with no thoughts of the future.

  “I think this is where I get off,” Buffy said. They had stopped walking in front of her house.

  “See you tomorrow,” he said.

  For a moment, she thought she might cry. But she smiled bravely and backed up to her door, blew him a kiss, then unfastened the lock. When she turned back, he was gone and she wondered which of them the goodbyes were hardest on.

  As she drifted off to sleep, a math book open on her bed, she realized she was wrong. They had more than today. They had a history. And with that history, memories of an intimacy they could never share again. Since she couldn’t make plans for the future and living in the past was too painful, Buffy simply dreamed of today. Her sleep was peaceful.

  * * *

  Not too far away, as Xander drifted off to sleep, content with the memory of having sabotaged Cordelia’s plans for a romantic evening with Troy just by hanging out with them, a song drifted up from his subconscious, through some mental back door, a musical virus on an aural loop. In his semi-conscious state, he wasn’t even aware that he was humming the melody and murmuring the lyrics into his pillow. “In the final days . . . I’ll be there for you.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Solitaire soon discovered that Sunnydale, sitting atop the Hellmouth, had its own sewers and an extensive system of utility tunnels. So he was unsurprised to learn that a powerful vampire had decided to set up shop in Sunnydale in those very tunnels. Although more powerful than most humans, vampires were, to his way of thinking, weak-minded creatures. And what better place for an alpha male of the lot to cull a few cronies from the supernatural underworld than a place that drew them as flies to excrement.

  Solitaire had one such weak-minded crony by the throat, dragging him through a dimly lit tunnel. This particular vampire called himself Marcus. He had decided to cooperate wholeheartedly with Solitaire’s desire to find his fearless leader shortly after Solitaire removed one of the vampire’s hands with a meat cleaver. Marcus seemed rather upset at his loss. “Now it will just be like hunting humans with one hand tied behind your back,” Solitaire had told him. Marcus cradled the stump against his chest and whimpered about how Skull John would show Solitaire who ran the show in Sunnydale. He hadn’t even been able to maintain a properly menacing vampface after the amputation. Don’t make vampires like they used to, Solitaire thought.

  They came to a T intersection. “Stop whining,” Solitaire said, “or I’ll rip your other hand off and stuff it down your throat. Which way?”

  Marcus nodded to the right, as if voicing the direction would be a greater betrayal to Skull John than a simple bob of the head.

  Solitaire twisted the vampire’s good arm behind his back and pushed him forward. “How close?”

  “Close,” Marcus said. “You’ll regret this.”

  “Shut up,” Solitaire said without revealing any nervousness. Skull John would present a much more difficult challenge than had Warhammer. A mistake will be more costly this time. Probably fatal. Yet this battle would take his true measure, would show him if he was ready to take on the Slayer he had heard about.

  Just ahead, the tunnel opened into a large cavern with multiple points of egress. Against the far wall was a chair draped in black velvet Slouched on the ersatz throne was the largest vampire Solitaire had ever come across. He was bare-chested and did indeed
look formidable, even more so for the dozen human skulls he wore strung as a necklace around his neck.

  His throne room was less impressive. An unframed print of Hieronymus Bosch’s Hell adorned one rough wall, held in place by masking tape. To the right, against the wall, was a long wooden table fitted with leather straps placed at five points, to secure head, wrists and ankles of human captives. Bloodstains, some black, some still sticky fresh, covered the tabletop. Rickety, ladder-back chairs ringed the table. Orange plastic milk crates, no doubt stolen from a convenience store, lined the left wall of the chamber. A couple of oil-burning lanterns hung from wall hooks provided meager illumination.

  For all his posturing, Skull John looked like the type of imposing vampire who had grown tired of the hunt and simply waited for his underlings to bring him his meals. Solitaire could even imagine Skull John draining the veins and arteries of his victims into a large goblet before drinking the still-warm blood. The goblet would be, he thought, gold-plated.

  Skull John sat up straighter and glared at his visitor and his captive. “What is this? Who are you?” he demanded.

  “Marcus here tells me you’re in charge of this little fiefdom,” Solitaire said.

  “Apparently Marcus has a big mouth,” Skull John said. “Be sure, he will suffer a penalty.”

  “Don’t bother,” Solitaire said, reaching into one pocket of his flowing black overcoat. “This one’s on me.” Solitaire withdrew a smoothly milled wooden stake. Marcus’s big mouth opened a little farther, this time in astonishment. His face transformed into its convoluted vampiric countenance as his fangs appeared. He struggled, hissing in fear, but Solitaire had him firmly under control as he slammed the wooden stake into his chest. Solitaire snapped the necklace with its little metal skull free of Marcus’s neck an instant before the one-handed vampire vanished in an explosion of dust. Solitaire brushed errant dust from his hands and his red leather vest, then he tossed the necklace at Skull John’s feet “You’ll want to find a replacement for this. But first, I have a few questions.”

  “I would have made him suffer more,” Skull John said, stepping down from his velvet-covered chair. He stood with his fists on his hips, classically defiant, still in control of the situation. “Now, who the hell are you? And excluding, for the moment, random insanity, what brings you to my lair?”