Willow sighed. The Nine of Pentacles, the last card Justine dealt, had been ambiguous. Basically, a single decision would determine the course of her life for better or worse.
What decision?
Willow had no idea. It didn’t matter now anyway. She couldn’t do anything about any of the predictions until Buffy and Giles freed her from the Tarot trap. In the meantime, she would continue to resist the contagion of despair emanating from the depressing surroundings.
She listened to the storm rage outside the Tower and thought about Oz—both hers and the fictional land that had trapped a young girl from Kansas. Dorothy had made it home with a pair of red slippers and a simple mantra.
I’ve got the Slayer.
* * *
Buffy glanced at her three inert friends. Soon-to-be-dead friends according to Giles. Not an option, she thought with resolve. “Can we stop the mental downshift if we have the paintings?”
“I’m not sure.” Giles stared at his notes, preoccupied with some fascinating fact Buffy hoped was a key to everyone’s salvation. “Create fate . . . Perhaps, the new deck Justine is making may determine a person’s destiny.” Giles hesitated, as though the thought had just struck him. “Rather than simply predicting it.”
“You mean Justine could design the future to order?” Buffy asked. “Just make anything happen that she wants to happen? Like deal-a-demon for fun?”
“Or profit.” Giles wearily rubbed his eyes under his glasses. “If so, she would have the power to manipulate people and events at will once the painted deck is finished.”
“But it’s not finished—yet.” Too agitated to sit still, Buffy slid off the chair.
“No, not until the last four paintings have been empowered. Presumably by Kali.” Giles adjusted his glasses and leaned back with his hands behind his neck.
“Which won’t happen until after Willow, Xander and Oz—” Buffy stumbled over the word, sickened by the thought.
“—are dead.” Giles visibly balked, also unable to accept that outcome. He tapped his notes with his pen. “But we have time, Buffy. Not much, perhaps, but there must be a means of reversing the process. This word ‘Hovan’ might provide a key, if I can find a reference.”
“Before Justine got to Willow, only two of her paintings had any color,” Buffy said.
“The infusion of Xander and Oz’s mental matrixes is responsible for the changes.” Giles gave Buffy a pointed look. “We have to retrieve all of the paintings Justine has in her motel room.”
“And not because you want to brighten up the library walls.”
“Hardly.” Giles sighed. “Two reasons, actually. I suspect we’ll need the paintings to retrieve Xander, Willow, and Oz’s minds once I’ve deduced how. Then, assuming Willow’s mind is empowering the third Tarot painting—”
“There’s still a fourth!” Buffy jumped up. “If we have it, Justine won’t be able to finish the deck.”
Giles glanced at his watch. “Unless we’re too late and she’s already found a donor.”
“On my way.” Buffy fished Oz’s car keys out of his pocket and frowned when Giles looked at her askance. “I may be the Slayer, but I can’t carry four huge paintings back here from the motel. Oz’s van is probably still parked outside Justine’s room.”
“Yes, well . . . be careful. At least, there’s not much traffic this time of night.”
“I’ll take the back roads,” Buffy solemnly promised.
“Make absolutely certain no harm comes to the paintings,” Giles warned. “The empowering essences might be damaged or destroyed with them.”
Turning my friends into mindless vegetables, Buffy thought, if they survive.
Buffy maintained a steady jog on her way across town. She had been back and forth to the Golden Lantern Motel so many times now her feet had memorized the route. Lulled by the steady rhythm of her stride, her thoughts settled on her friends and their predicament, which they wouldn’t be in if it weren’t for their loyalty to her. The thought grated on Buffy’s conscience. If after graduation they stayed in Sunnydale to fight by her side, they’d always be in constant danger.
If they survived the Tarot threat, Buffy would urge them to leave and follow their dreams after graduation. Before it’s too late. . . .
Since Willow, Xander, and Oz were all incapacitated, Buffy and Giles would have to figure out Justine’s game plan and how to stop her by themselves. Cordelia had stopped volunteering for active demon duty after her breakup with Xander and Anya didn’t care about anything except Xander. Saving him might rally the ex-demon to fight, but that’s as far as her motives could be trusted. Buffy didn’t want to take the chance Anya would barter with Kali: Xander’s life in exchange for everything and everyone else.
So it’s up to Giles and me. That was how the system had worked for centuries, though: a Slayer and her Watcher working together against the forces of darkness. That hadn’t changed just because the Watchers Council had fired Giles. Her friends were an invaluable asset, to be sure, but she and Giles could handle this gig solo.
The dark streets were quiet now that the clubs had closed. As far as Buffy knew, Justine thought Sunny-dale was just another sleepy small town with no defense against her mind-robbing Tarot deck. Certainly, the artist didn’t know that a vampire Slayer with enhanced physical powers and senses was aware of her murderous activities. Still, Buffy broke into a run, anxious to get to the motel and secure the paintings. On the Hellmouth, nothing could be taken for granted.
A shrill scream sounded from a twenty-four–hour gas station mini-mart two blocks from the Golden Lantern. Pulling her stake, Buffy automatically darted toward the complex at the intersection, assessing the situation as she charged to the rescue.
Rob Chambers huddled behind a display case that had been dragged in front of the doors. Cordelia was searching the store for weapons. Everyone else had taken cover. A woman shrieked when the monsters broke a window.
A fourth vamp, wearing a greasy, mechanic’s coverall, dropped the body of a woman by the gas pumps when he saw Buffy barreling toward him. Snarling and roaring, the spindly demon raced to meet her head-on.
Either too new or too retarded to recognize a fatal pointy thing when he sees it, Buffy thought, running with her stake raised. A split second before the un-dead beanpole could meet his destiny on the wooden spike he leaped to the side.
Buffy whirled to face him, spread her arms, and smiled. “You want to dance? Here I am.”
Yellow eyes glittered under the ridged vampire brow and fangs gleamed when he grinned. “I don’t dance.”
“Neither do I.” Spring-coiled, Buffy rushed and ducked under the long arms the not-too-bright vamp tried to throw around her. A swift kick knocked his legs out from under him and her stake plunged into his heart before he hit the ground. “Not with undead freaks anyway.”
Buffy was off across the parking lot before the dust cloud cleared. The vampire trio was so intent on storming into the store through the shattered windows they didn’t hear her coming. She leaped in after them and joined a free-for-all of fangs and fists.
The teenaged cashier, a jogger—obviously an out-of-towner, she thought—and a cowboy in jeans, western hat, and boots, were fending off one of the vamps by the counter. A teenaged girl hurled canned goods at a second vamp and squealed in short, staccato bursts. A squat, round vampire stood between Buffy and the brawl, staring down an elderly woman in a straw hat with a handbag dangling on her arm.
Like he can’t quite make up his mind if he wants aged or freshly brewed, Buffy thought with a quick glance at the girl. The vamp in a grungy business suit caught one of her cans and threw it back. She ducked, still squealing.
The three men by the counter were clinging to the younger, brawnier fanged menace who spun trying to shake them off.
Rob stared at the scene in wide-eyed horror. Cordelia had disappeared.
Okay, Buffy thought, tightening her grip on her stake. Show’s over.
When the sho
rt vamp snarled and grabbed at the old woman, Buffy closed the distance in two strides. The woman screamed and clamped her eyes shut just before Buffy landed a swift kick to the vamp’s rib cage. He staggered into the aisle display shelves. Cereal boxes and assorted jars smashed on the floor. As Buffy raised her stake to finish him off the hysterical old lady bashed her over the head with her handbag.
“Go away! Go away!”
“When I’m finished.” Buffy yanked the purse free and tossed it over her shoulder.
The girl’s steady stream of squeals became a high-pitched scream when Suit Vamp lunged toward her.
Cordelia ran out of a back room carrying a broom and whacked the vamp in the business suit over the head. The blow had no effect except to divert the demon’s attention from the girl to Cordy. “You guys really know how to spoil a perfect evening.”
The short vamp recovered and tackled Buffy around the legs. Keeping her grip on the stake, Buffy flipped the vamp as she fell backward. He dove into another display, knocking it over. Up and on her feet instantly, Buffy staked the dazed vampire on the rebound. “That’s one vamp with a short shelf life.”
“Back off, Biz Boy.” Holding the broom like a spear to keep Suit Vamp at bay, Cordelia turned her scathing glance on the screaming girl. “Will you please shut up?”
The girl kept screaming as Suit Vamp snatched the broom out of Cordelia’s hands and snapped the handle in half.
“Now look what you did!” Cordy glared at the snarling demon and grabbed one of the broken shafts back. When the vamp attacked, she plunged the pointy end into his chest. “Thanks.”
The girl watched the vamp disintegrate, then passed out herself.
“Incoming!” Cordelia yelled as Buffy leaped past the shocked grandmother.
Buffy ducked the flying cowboy the large vamp threw across the store like a rag doll.
Cordelia tucked her broom handle under her arm and walked over to Rob, who was still cowering by the display case barricade. “This little disturbance isn’t going to affect your review of the art show, is it?”
At the counter, the cashier and the jogger struggled to free themselves from the large vamp’s grip on their collars.
Buffy dashed to the front of the store. Her stake thwacked into the large vamp’s back just before his fangs sank into the jogger’s neck. Then she sprang through the broken window without breaking stride or looking back. She didn’t have time to answer questions or calm shattered nerves. The undead were up and about town prowling for prey. As soon as she got Justine’s paintings back to Giles, she had to patrol.
* * *
The Golden Lantern Motel parking lot was full of vans and cars. Visiting artists were tucked in and safe from undead intruders. Buffy’s relief was only momentary, though. Oz’s van sat outside the end unit, but the dragon-mobile was absent. Unable to see into the room through the darkened window, Buffy slammed against the door, breaking the lock. She burst inside ready for a fight and flicked on the light.
Justine, her belongings, and the paintings were gone.
“Now what?” Buffy’s eye traveled to the phone on the nightstand. When in doubt, call Giles.
Giles was silent for a moment after she explained that Justine’s room was empty. “I doubt she’s gone . . . from Sunnydale, that is. Or perhaps I should say, from the Hellmouth.”
Buffy hesitated, stricken by a chilling dread of the underworld portal. Her voice was tight when she spoke. “How does the Hellmouth fit into this?”
“Kali.” Giles sighed. “I haven’t confirmed anything yet, but it’s entirely reasonable to assume the goddess must be present to empower the paintings when Justine finishes the deck.”
Buffy nodded. “Makes sense. Let’s just hope Justine hasn’t found a mind to transfer into painting number four.”
“Yes, that would probably be disastrous,” Giles agreed. “You must locate those paintings before Justine initiates the final phase.”
“I’m out of here.” With Oz’s keys in hand, Buffy left and got into the van. She could cover more territory patrolling on wheels, even though it would cut down her response time. Nothing I can do about that. The vampire threat seemed tame compared to a Tarot deck that would allow Justine to manipulate the future at will.
Easing the van into gear, Buffy pulled slowly out of the parking lot onto the empty street and headed toward the mansion to find Angel. The dragon-mobile was easy to spot, but there were hundreds of places Justine could hole up in Sunnydale. Scouting the hotels, motels, warehouses, and underground system of tunnels and pipes to find the artist wouldn’t be a problem.
If we had a week.
CHAPTER 11
A dozen artists were waiting for Joyce when she arrived at the gallery before the festival opened Saturday morning. The collective mood was angry and frightened.
Not a surprise, Joyce thought as she shoved through the crowd to open the gallery. According to the morning newspaper, two artists had been killed the night before—by muggers. The police department had received several calls reporting break-ins and violent disturbances. The two deaths were tragic, but Joyce knew that the situation would have been much worse if Buffy hadn’t been out patrolling. Not even the Slayer could be expected to be everywhere at once.
“I want a refund.” An older gentleman with a beard stormed inside on Joyce’s heels.
“Me, too,” a woman’s shrill voice added. “I’m not staying in any town that can’t keep its streets safe for law-abiding citizens.”
“I’m from Ridgecrest,” another man piped up. “We haven’t had a crime wave since the Gold Rush a hundred and fifty years ago. I want to be gone within the hour.”
“Yes, well—why don’t I make some coffee, while you all take a moment to calm down. I’m sure we can work something out.” Joyce smiled and fled toward her office, wishing Willow hadn’t picked today to be late. She turned on the large, restaurant-style coffee maker sitting on the table outside the door.
Darting inside, Joyce closed the door to shut out the grumbling artists milling about the showroom and picked up the phone. Buffy hadn’t come home last night and there was still no answer at their house. Joyce kept a tight rein on her anxiety. She tried to tell herself that Buffy was probably in the shower or on her way into town with Willow.
After downing a half-full mug of maximum-strength coffee, Joyce took a deep breath. Fortified, she left to try and save what might be the last Sunny-dale Sidewalk Art Festival. She coaxed the distraught artists into an orderly line and sat at the computer to handle their complaints one by one. An hour later, all but three had decided to stay—at least through the Saturday portion of the weekend event. That was one worry tabled for the day, but another quickly replaced it.
Willow and Buffy had not shown up.
“Giles?” Back in her office, Joyce tightened her grip on the receiver. Buffy was not in the habit of checking in as regularly as Joyce would have liked now that she knew the nature of her daughter’s extracurricular activities. Usually, she managed to control her mother-hen impulses, but sometimes the maternal instinct was stronger than protecting Buffy’s adult self-image.
“I’m fine, thank you,” Joyce said. “Are Buffy and Willow there? The art show’s about to open and I need Willow on hand in the gallery.”
“Actually, I, uh . . . saw Willow . . . earlier.” Giles cleared his throat. “Something unexpected came up and she won’t be able to make it.”
“Is something wrong?” Joyce tensed. “Is Buffy all right?”
“Buffy’s fine,” Giles interjected. “She was patrolling most of the night. Perhaps she turned off the ringer to sleep.”
“Oh, she probably did.” Joyce sagged, feeling foolish as she hung up. Buffy needed to sleep undisturbed if she was going to patrol again at sundown. “Now all I need is someone to watch the shop—”
“Is Xander here?” Buffy’s strange friend—Anya, if Joyce recalled correctly—barged into the office and confronted her as though she was the keeper of
Xander’s date book.
“I haven’t seen him today.” Come to think of it, Joyce hadn’t seen Xander yesterday, either, but she hadn’t really expected him. His volunteer services hadn’t been needed once the artists had finished setting up. She suspected Xander was just avoiding the brazen young woman.
“He’s missing,” Anya announced darkly.
“He’s not missing,” Cordelia said as she strolled in. “He left last night.”
“For where?” Anya demanded.
“L.A. Where else?” Cordelia fixed Joyce with a cocked eyebrow. “I wouldn’t count on a good review in California Art magazine.”
Joyce raised an eyebrow at Cordelia. “You’re talking about the reporter, Rob Chambers? How can he write a review when the show just started?”
“A close encounter with a few fanged punks in the mini-mart probably had something to do with it.” Cordelia rolled her eyes. “That guy has a rubber backbone.”
“I see.” Joyce sighed.
“And no sense of professional obligation. I spend two whole days showing that creep the dim, but brighter side of life in Sunnydale, and he takes off without even asking for my phone number!” Cordelia threw up her hands. “You can’t have too many contacts in L.A., you know.”
“What does that have to do with Xander?” Anya asked.
“Absolutely nothing.” Cordelia paused at the door on her way out. “A word of advice, Anya. Getting too close to Xander will be hazardous to your health.”
“Not your fault, Cordelia.” Joyce sighed and closed her eyes after Cordelia left. A long moment passed before she remembered Anya. The young woman was staring at her. “I’ll tell Xander you’re looking for him, Anya, if I see him.”
“I’ll just wait.” Anya leaned against the wall and folded her arms.
“Here? But—” Joyce didn’t know Anya very well, but she needed someone to watch the gallery while she circulated through the art show. Some high-powered damage control was essential or the remaining artists wouldn’t survive the weekend. “Then would you mind answering the phone and taking messages? Just until Xander shows up—or I get back.”
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