Ghoul Trouble

by John Passarella

  She arrived at school and, specifically, the library much earlier than was her custom. Even Principal Snyder seemed surprised as he filled in his little clipboard chart. Probably wished he could tag my ear and monitor my progress like a migratory bird. Since he secretly wanted her to fail and ultimately face expulsion, she took satisfaction in knowing she had probably ruined his current mood, if not his entire day. Her own mood was tempered by the realization that her two big exams were only a couple hours away.

  As she walked into the library, Giles looked up from an oversized and water-stained Watcher tome, its leather binding exhibiting extreme signs of distress. “Oh, Buffy, good, you’re early. Before I forget—and I know you have a lot to be concerned about—Mrs. Burzak made me promise to remind you—”

  “About my exams,” Buffy finished. “Believe me, as much as I would like to, it would be impossible for me to forget about them now.”

  “I take it from her tone that they are quite serious, academically, that is.”

  “Quite,” Buffy said dryly.

  “If you’d like,” Giles said, “perhaps I could be of assistance, in some sort of tutoring capacity.”

  “No time,” Buffy said. Then she noticed Oz sitting quietly at the table where Willow usually worked her computer search miracles. “Hey, Oz.”

  He looked up, seemed a little dazed. “Hey.”

  He had dark circles under his eyes, his hair seemed even more unkempt than usual, his clothing rumpled. Buffy guessed he probably hadn’t slept much if at all. “We’ll find her, Oz,” Buffy said. “Tonight. I promise.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Buffy, I’m afraid we have something else to be concerned about,” Giles said.

  “Solitaire?”

  “Yes, but how did you—oh, of course, but—” Giles looked down at his book, cleared his throat, looked back at her and shook his head.

  “Giles, spill,” Buffy said. “I’m too tired to be any more worried.”

  “I’m afraid it’s worse than we imagined,” Giles said. “I’ve found references to a vampire with a terrible history of destruction dating back to Renaissance Italy. He was known by a different name then, Dies Pedes, or Day Walker, for his mythic ability to walk in the sun. He sought out and destroyed powerful vampires, who feared him because of this legendary immunity to the rays of the sun. Apparently, a favored tactic of his was to attack them during the day, while they were especially vulnerable.”

  “So this Day Walker did have access to some sort of magic talisman?”

  “The actual mechanism of his invulnerability to sunlight is, I’m afraid, pure speculation.”

  “What makes you think Solitaire and this Day Walker are one and the same vamp? Maybe Solitaire just found the magic charm in the undead lost and found.”

  “I cross-checked the journals of two different Watchers spanning a seventy-year period,” Giles said. He removed his eyeglasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. “In the first, an extremely distraught Watcher recounted the murder of his Slayer at the hands of Dies Pedes. The subsequent journal contains a brief paragraph—speculation really—by a Watcher in his latter years, based upon minimal evidence—well, timetables, method of operation, various comments in the underworld underground that—”

  “Cut to the chase, Giles.”

  “Yes—absolutely,” Giles replied, apologetic. “The short of it is that the second watcher believed Dies Pedes became Solitaire, perhaps taking the new name out of a fascination with the one-player card game or simply to reflect his solitary duelist nature. Probably both.”

  “So this artist formerly known as Dies Pedes killed a Slayer?”

  “Over three hundred and fifty years ago, yes,” Giles replied. “However, there is no further contact with any Slayers. Otherwise, I would have found something sooner.”

  Buffy had a thought that probably only another Slayer might have. A Slayer or Solitaire himself. It just had a certain . . . clarity. “You know why, don’t you?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why there’s been no contact with Slayers in all that time.”

  “Well, he’s been presumed dead for a long time now. I’m not sure what you’re—”

  “He proved he could do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Proved he was up to the challenge. The duelist proved he could kill a Slayer,” she said. “Been there, done that, time to move on.”

  “I see,” Giles said. “But then why—?”

  “Why me? Why now?” Giles nodded. Buffy smiled wryly. “He must think I’m no ordinary Slayer. A special challenge. He wants—”

  Oz had been listening all along. Now he stood up. “—a rematch.”

  “I suppose it makes perfect sense in his worldview,” Giles said. “At least we know what you’re up against.”

  “Not feeling comforted,” Buffy said.

  “If Solitaire really has been around more than five hundred years, living as he has, challenging one powerful vampire after another to duels to the death, he must be incredibly powerful.”

  Buffy slumped in a chair and shook her head. “I’m starting to think this was a real bad day to skip my Wheaties.”

  * * *

  The baroque doors of Angel’s mansion rocked with the first impact. The second time Solitaire kicked, they burst open with a crash loud enough to wake the undead. Well, that is the basic idea, Solitaire thought. “Honey, I’m home!” he called as he stepped into the great room. Gotta love the classics.

  “Angel, come out and play!” he called. “It’s a beautiful day!”

  Silence.

  “Need some convincing?” Solitaire crossed to the east side of the great room. “Here, I’ll show you!”

  As befitted a vampiric abode, heavy draperies covered all the windows. Solitaire tugged down the curtains from the east side window. Sunlight blazed across the room, almost dividing it in half. Dust particles danced in the bright beam, giving it an eerie physicality. Next Solitaire crossed to the opposite window and ripped its curtain down as well. Ambient light brightened the room even more.

  Solitaire strode to the fireplace and removed a long poker from the holder beside the mantel. He swung the poker like a baseball bat, admiring the whistling sound it made with each stroke. “Need an alarm clock to get out of bed?” Solitaire called. With his feet spaced wide apart in front of the mantel, he swung the poker inches above the shelf. Any vases, pieces of crystal and sculpture that didn’t shatter instantly shot across the room and smashed into the far wall.

  Angel appeared in a dark doorway on the other side of the fireplace. He raised the back of his hand to shield his eyes from the unexpectedly bright room. His gaze lingered warily on the shafts of light slicing through the room. The floor was now a patchwork design of light and dark, where the light sections would be as lethal to him as lava. Yet the floor was the simplest part of the three-dimensional trap. The air, crisscrossed with beams of light, felt as if it were electrified. Angel’s skin practically itched at the nearness of the sun’s rays.

  “Ah, the sleeper awakes,” Solitaire said as he walked about carelessly, sunlight rippling up his black slacks, red vest and topcoat as he moved from one area to the next His hands blazed with light but did not burn. Likewise his face remained unblemished by exposure to the light of day.

  “Get out,” Angel said.

  “Not so fast,” Solitaire said, purposely stopping in the middle of the widest shaft of light “I hear you and the Slayer are quite close.”

  “Stay away from Buffy,” Angel said, his jaw flexed as he ground his teeth together. For the moment, it was an empty threat. Angel was helpless as long as Solitaire waited in the light.

  “I’ve waited long enough.”

  “It’s not gonna happen.”

  Solitaire chuckled. “I would like you—the pet vampire—to deliver a message to Buffy,” Solitaire said, slapping the end of the poker into his open palm. “I’m afraid it’s a very painful message.”

  * * *


  “I’m sorry, Giles. It would be way too painful in your present condition,” Buffy had said when she saw her Watcher waiting for her in the library during her study period wearing his padded suit, the one designed to protect the wearer during attack dog training or, in their situation, Slayer training. Concerned that fatigue and worrying over her missing friends would dull her reflexes, Giles had suggested she incorporate a workout into her study period. What she hadn’t known was that he planned to fire questions at her mind while she fired fists, elbows and feet at his—mostly protected—body. Buffy had no intention of adding further injuries to those already inflicted on her Watcher by Solitaire.

  “Perhaps you make a good point,” Giles had conceded, nudging his eyeglasses up the bridge of his nose. With his padded gloves on, the minute adjustment had looked about as awkward and comical as attempting to play the piano while wearing oven mitts. “I’ll get the heavy bag.”

  While Giles had brought out the specially rigged punching bag, Buffy had changed into a crop top, loose sweat pants and sneakers. For the past fifteen minutes, she’d been pounding the bag with a series of kicks and combination punches, any one of which probably would have taken a heavyweight boxer down for the count. It had been a quick way for her to purge the enormous amount of nervous energy that had been building in her since Willow and then Xander had gone missing. And she’d even managed to successfully answer several of the sample test questions Giles had thrown her way.

  “That felt good,” Buffy said, slightly out of breath. Her face, arms and bare midriff were covered in a healthy sheen of sweat as she danced nimbly on the balls of her feet to keep her muscles loose. “You don’t know how bad I’ve been itching to pound something.”

  Giles had removed and stored his padded suit during her warm-ups. He cleared his throat. “In retrospect, may I say I’m most appreciative you declined my services as punching bag.”

  “Never kick a man when he’s down,” Buffy said. “Now, vampires on the other hand . . .”

  “Would it therefore be safe for me to inquire about this morning’s calculus exam?”

  “Calculus was derivative,” Buffy said with a grin.

  “Ah,” Giles said, noting her humor. “So I suppose your upcoming history exam will be—”

  “Repetitious,” Buffy replied. “Although the poor grades will not be repeating themselves. Power of positive thinking.”

  “Well, I must say, you’re in a much better mood.”

  “One test down, one to go.” Buffy shadowboxed three quick jabs, then lashed out with a shoulder-high kick. “All the waiting and worrying was driving me crazy. But tonight—” She dropped to a crouch, palms flat on the tiles, and snapped her heel out with enough force to shatter a demon’s kneecap. Assuming, of course, the imaginary demon actually had a kneecap. Some of them lacked caps, knees and all. Buffy stood, hands triumphantly planted on her hips. “Tonight we find Willow and Xander, after which I intend to make goulash out of a few marginally talented ghouls.”

  “You must not forget about Solitaire.”

  Buffy pounded her right fist into her left palm. “If he knows what’s good for him,” Buffy said, invigorated with renewed confidence, “Solitaire will get on the next bus out of my town.”

  * * *

  Solitaire walked casually out of the light, swinging the poker overhead like it was an ax and he was splitting firewood. Angel lunged forward, keeping in relative darkness as he caught the brass shaft in his hands and tried to pull it from Solitaire’s grasp. Solitaire was expecting that tactic and shoved it toward Angel, causing him to lose his balance. Next he swept the poker in a circle, using Angel’s momentum to spin him around toward the light.

  At the last moment, Angel let go of the poker to avoid the beam of light. He’d come too close. It felt as if an oven door had been opened right behind him. Solitaire had no such constraint. He took the direct path and clubbed Angel with the poker as he staggered back toward the mantel. The sharp metal tip of the poker dug into Angel’s shoulder, tearing the cloth of his shirt. Angel growled, sprouting his fangs and vampface.

  He picked up a heavy armchair and hurled it at Solitaire. Solitaire dropped his poker as he swatted the chair aside. Even as Angel dove for the poker, Solitaire sprang forward and kicked it across the floor, where it slid into a patch of light. Pulling up short, Angel stood just outside the light—until Solitaire shoved him into it.

  Startled, Angel nevertheless rolled with the shove, tucking into a somersault even as flames began to erupt on his face and hands, his clothes smoking and dangerously close to combustion. One hand shot out and grabbed the heavy curtains Solitaire had torn from the window and pulled them over his body like a cloak, while die other arm managed to grab the poker as he rolled back up into a standing position beyond the light Panting, he smothered the hot spots that prickled all over his body with the heavy, musty curtains. But the pain and the real danger of combustion proved a fateful distraction.

  Solitaire strode right through the light and lashed out with a side kick beneath Angel’s solar plexus, slamming him into the wall. Next he gripped the shaft of the poker in both hands and spun Angel around, toward the light once again. Hands already numb from burns, Angel relented and released the poker, spinning awkwardly on his heel to hop away from the light. The curtain he’d draped over his back spun free, casting a fleeting shelter of darkness until it fluttered to the floor.

  With a low, one-armed swing of the poker, Solitaire caught Angel behind the right knee, which was supporting all his weight, and tugged. Angel toppled over, slapping his palms to the floor to catch himself even as the back of his head felt as if it were inches from a blowtorch. He twisted away from the sunlight that had almost ignited his hair, rolled across the floor away from the east side of the great room where the sunlight was the most direct and the deadliest.

  Solitaire followed mercilessly, clubbing Angel across the thigh, then the bicep. His steel-toed leather boot slammed into the small of Angel’s back, causing him to bend backward in agony. Spinning the poker like a police baton, Solitaire struck Angel across the chin, then back across the forehead, splitting open his scalp. Angel raised a forearm in defense and felt it crack as the poker came down hard across the bone.

  Laughing, Solitaire clutched and twisted Angel’s damaged arm, using it to pull him across the floor, toward the east windows. Angel groaned, clenching his jaw against the pain and reached up with his other hand to grab Solitaire’s arm. The poker lashed out again, striking him in the face. His vision grayed again but he clung desperately to consciousness. It was an uneven playing field, but somehow he had to find a way to stop Solitaire before he went after Buffy.

  Angel’s back grew painfully hot, his shirt smoldering while Solitaire held him a hairsbreadth away from the sunlight. Acrid smoke filled his nostrils. He gritted his teeth, gnashed his fangs, but his legs refused to support his weight. He thought the right one might even be broken. His arms felt leaden as well. Somehow the pain helped him focus, look for some opportunity to turn the tables.

  “Good,” Solitaire said, breathing heavily despite that infuriating smile. “I have your attention.”

  “Stay away from Buffy,” Angel whispered.

  “You just don’t get it, do you?” Solitaire’s brow contorted in vampiric folds as he bared an impressive set of fangs. “Maybe a bit of fresh air will do the trick.”

  Solitaire dragged Angel toward the doors of the mansion, toward daylight. Angel went limp, forcing Solitaire to drop the poker and support Angel’s weight with both hands.

  “Wait . . .” Angel said softly, with an air of defeat.

  Solitaire paused just before the light spilling through the entrance. “You’re right,” Solitaire said. “If I let the sun burn you to ashes, there won’t be enough left to deliver my message. I’ll say this just once. You ready?”

  “Ready,” Angel said. And viciously head-butted Solitaire, whose nose crumpled under Angel’s forehead.

  Solita
ire roared in anger and heaved Angel backward, which was exactly where he wanted to go. But Angel hadn’t allowed for his lame right leg and, as he leaped toward the gleaming poker, his knee buckled and he fell hard. Solitaire leapt right on top of Angel, grinding his heels into Angel’s back for good measure before stepping down to scoop up the poker.

  Angel reached for the only thing in his grasp, caught Solitaire’s heel and yanked it hard, bringing him down. But Solitaire swung the poker in both hands even as he fell. The sharp, hooked end whistled toward Angel’s face with enough force to flay the skin off his skull. Angel recoiled, twisting his head to the side, avoiding all but a glancing blow to his forehead. This time everything went completely black.

  Angel blinked his eyes open a moment later and was looking up into Solitaire’s enraged but triumphant face. Solitaire’s nose was swollen, a trickle of dark blood oozing from a lacerated nostril. His fist was wrapped tightly in the cloth of Angel’s torn and bloody shirt, bunched at the collar, his knuckles pressing into Angel’s throat. “You lose,” Solitaire hissed. “Now the message. It’s simple, really. Just two words, so I know you won’t forget it. Tell the Slayer . . . she’s next.”

  Solitaire was gone.

  Angel stared up toward the ceiling, not really seeing anything. The pain was a living thing, working its way throughout his body, finding more and more interesting places to torment.

  At some point, the beams of sunlight intersecting the room shifted enough to find him in his small island of darkness. One of his trouser legs started to smoke, the skin beneath it sizzling. The smell, more than the pain, alerted him. He rolled over and crawled facedown, inching his way toward the fireplace, collapsing where the cool darkness seemed deepest.

  One word rose up from his throat, escaped his lips. “Buffy . . . .”

  CHAPTER 12

  At dusk, the four ghouls who comprised Vyxn finally left their run-down house, leaving Willow and Xander alone. The first thing Willow said was, “Don’t suppose you have any more chocolate?”