The Evil That Men Do

by Nancy Holder

  In three nights, we will kill the Slayer. Meter will protect us forever, and make us her dark gods on earth. And then, he and I will hunt together, as we once did.

  She stood watching, miserable, wretched, quaking with fury.

  Standing a short distance away, hidden by another tree, Julian dug his fingers into the bark and tore out huge chunks of wood as he watched Helen moon over Angelus.

  She will not betray me a second time.

  She will die first.

  Chapter 5

  DOWN IN THE BAT CAVE, JORDAN THOUGHT FROM HIS vantage point behind a large rock. A nervous wave of giddiness swept over him. He had been sent by Willy to see how the renters were doing, but how they were doing was not something Jordan might be able to explain to anyone.

  Swathed in black from head to toe, Helen sat before a marble dressing table. It was covered with skulls topped with red candles. The wax as it melted looked like blood. In the distance, water trickled. Bats squeaked. Farther away, muffled sounds of construction intruded upon the stillness.

  She was staring into a mirror, putting on makeup.

  “How beautiful am I today?” she whispered to the mirror, uncapping a tube of lipstick. She sensuously ran it along her lips, blotted them together, and leaned toward the glass. From his vantage point, Jordan could not see her reflection. Which was fine. Because if he couldn’t see her, she couldn’t see him.

  “Grace, how beautiful am I?” she asked, reaching for one of the skulls. She faced it toward the mirror as if allowing it to see. “He still loves me. I know he does.”

  She turned the skull around toward herself, took up what looked like a jeweled ice pick, and made stabbing motions at the empty eye sockets.

  “He watched me kill you,” she whispered. “It was . . . transcendent.”

  Then she brought the skull to her mouth and kissed the death’s-head grin. She set it down.

  “And he watched me kill you, ”she cooed. “Slowly. It took almost a week.”

  She laughed and wrenched the candle off the top of the skull. Turning it upside down, she jammed it into the empty cavity, carefully passing the flame all over the interior.

  “Slayers last so long.”

  She seemed to lose interest in the skull. Setting it on her lap, she checked her lipstick in the mirror. Then she reached her hands forward and cupped another skull, which she lovingly lifted above her head.

  “Demetrius,” she whispered. “I never stopped loving you.”

  The skull raised high, she plucked another one up and brought it up to face the other.

  “My darling,” she moaned. “Oh, Diana . . .”

  She began to moan, making a low, agonized sound that froze Jordan’s blood. This is one weird chick.

  The moan became a wail as she clutched the two skulls to her chest and rocked back and forth.

  “Angelus, Angelus,” she keened. “Angelus, come to me. Love me.”

  Footsteps sounded in the dark passageway. Jordan flinched, terrified, but he couldn’t help craning his neck to see who it was.

  Julian, the blond Englishman, swept in. He was dressed in a long robe covered with a kind of rectangle of purple, and a sort of backwards headband of gold leaves in his hair. He carried the same two goblets as when Jordan had first met them.

  “Julian,” she cried, whirling around with the skulls in her hands. “Don’t lock me up! Don’t do it!”

  She started shaking and sobbing. The blond man pulled her to a standing position. The skull in her lap tumbled to the ground with a thunk.

  “Helen, why would I?” he asked in a silky singsong voice. “Have you done something wrong?”

  “No. No,” she said quickly. She was trembling.

  Talk about looking guilty.

  “The Watchers Council has forgotten about you,” Julian went on. “No one seeks you out. By the time they realize what’s going on, we’ll be gods, and they won’t be able to touch us.”

  “We need the ashes,” Helen said. “We have so little time.”

  “We have killed eleven,” Julian said, satisfied, as he took a sip. “We need seven more.” He handed her a goblet. “The Slayer has six followers. I include her Watcher.”

  “Ah.” She stared down at the goblet, obviously afraid to drink from it.

  “We’ll get her through them. And then we’ll take her heart. Beating as we pull it from her chest.” He lifted the goblet, then poured the contents on the floor — looking so very much like blood.

  Uh, this is not what I signed up for, Jordan thought, wigging.

  Then suddenly the dark cave flashed with light. Jordan ducked behind the rock. His heart was pounding.

  “Oh, Meter, dark goddess, mother of all that is dead, our protectress,” Julian called. His voice got slurry and dreamy. He sounded high.

  “Mother of all that is dead, mother of dark gods,” he added.

  Jordan positioned himself so that he could peer into the mirror on her dressing table. He couldn’t see the two people, but he did see an enormous statue of a woman with a stone table in front of it. The statue was a woman, sort of, only with her features very distorted. Her eyes were narrow and savage, and her mouth was pulled back in a grimace, her teeth sharp and pointed. She was standing on a pile of bones and skulls.

  “We will bring you the ashes of your son,” Julian whispered, “and the heart of the gods’ champion on earth.”

  “We swear this,” Helen added.

  Jordan shook. I can’t see them. Where the hell are they?

  He crept around to the other side of the rock, knowing it was stupid, but he just couldn’t help himself. Must be those self-destructive tendencies the social workers were always talking about.

  Julian was carving her arm with a wicked-evil knife. It was bleeding badly and he was catching the blood in one of the goblets. She was gasping but clearly into it.

  Whoa. Intense.

  “To our mother, who reigns over the gods and goddesses of darkness,” Julian said, raising the cup.

  He climbed onto the statue, poured the cup into the stone mouth. The eyes appeared to widen in delight.

  “Our victims suffered,” the Englishman assured the goddess. “We have killed many, and we will kill more. And on your special night, we will feed you the heart of a Slayer. And we will give you the ashes of your child, Caligula. And you will live again on earth, and raise us up.”

  “Raise us up,” the Queen intoned.

  “And we shall be as gods,” Julian whispered. “And no one will be able to stop us.”

  From his hiding place, Jordan watched and thought, Holy moly.

  The rich really are different.

  Eight days had passed since Oz had gone missing. Tonight was the first night of his werewolf phase.

  Buffy had failed.

  She was due to meet Xander at the Bronze at eight. She had asked Angel to show, too, in hopes that the three of them could put their heads together and see what they came up with.

  Then the phone rang as she was dressing.

  Giles said, in his old Giles voice, “Buffy, something’s come up. A vigilante group has gone after Mark Dellasandro. Apparently he was spotted in the vicinity of the reservoir.”

  Buffy was half-dressed in a long gray skirt and a T-slip top, the right shoe of a pair of black heels in one hand, the left shoe of some chunky platforms in the other.

  “I think you should go there. Protect him. They’re screaming for his blood.”

  She dropped the unwanted shoe. “Giles,” she said mournfully, “we have police here in Sunnydale. And I’m Bronze-bound.”

  There was silence. Then Giles said, in an even, flat voice, “Oh, I do beg your pardon. I had no idea you were off to have fun while a boy is being hunted like an animal and Oz is still missing. Give my regards to Angel, won’t you? When you join him on the dance floor.”

  “Hey,” she shouted. “Not fair!”

  “Is it? I do apologize, Buffy. For ever thinking you were anything but a bimbo.”r />
  “Giles!”

  She was shouting at the dial tone. She started to speed-dial his number, then threw the cordless onto her bed. She changed into more slayage-friendly clothes — good old sweats, a jacket, how charming — and picked up her bag.

  It Was only nine P.M., but the Bronze was packed. People half-danced, half-groused to Dead Buttercups, a band whose previous claim to fame was that they played Wednesday nights at the Bronze. Hump night — Wednesday — was not a primo spot, but it was certainly better than Monday or Tuesday. It was kind of a B minus on the bell curve of the week. Same with Dead Buttercups — okay band, nothing special. Not even an A for effort.

  The espresso machine was practically smoking, it was being worked so hard. The people who could drink alcohol Were chugging shooters and expensive imported beer. Claire Bellamy and Nick Daniels, the manager and assistant manager of the Bronze, should have been happy. But they were pissy and bossy and unfairly kicking kids out for no good reason than that they felt like it.

  The Bronze was no different than the rest of Sunnydale. High-voltage tension was like a disease, very contagious, and spreading.

  “A mass hysteria. Like when people actually thought the Spice Girls were cool,” Xander suggested. “Only, I never did.”

  “Huh,” Willow said. Her bandaged arm was in a sling and her chest still hurt her a lot. “I know you took their CD cover into the bath —”

  “Will, head out of the gutter,” Xander chided, feeling himself flush. “I most certainly did not.”

  Xander let his gaze wander to the entrance to the Bronze. If Willow knew he had suggested she show so that she and Buffy could make up, she’d probably crush his spine, the mood she was in.

  Of course, he was not in a much better mood.

  In fact, he wanted to punch someone — anyone — out. Preferably Broadman, who had not backed down in a week, and was not allowing him in her classroom, which was going to get him expelled. Xander had stopped in today to talk to the vice-principal, Mr. Osborne. The VP had suggested he move up the chain of command. Which meant Snyder. Which meant, why bother?

  So Xander had gone back to Broadman this afternoon, and she had not budged.

  “You must realize that your actions result in consequences,” she’d said to him.

  Xander had glared at her. “You, too.”

  She raised one eyebrow, like that strange woman with all the makeup on Drew Carey, and said, with no small amount of taunting, “Mr. Harris, are you threatening me?”

  “I’ll ask you the same question,” he’d replied. “Why are you doing this to me? What pleasure can it possibly give you?”

  “I’ve never liked you,” she said. “Your brother was a screwup and you’re just like him. As far as I’m concerned, the sooner you Harrises are out of the school system, the better.”

  “Oh, and you’re going to help speed things up.” Xander took a step toward her, and she smiled.

  “I should warn you, I know how to take care of myself.”

  “Yeah, broad man, that figures. No one else would want to.”

  Xander was sorry he’d said that as soon as it came out. It was the kind of stupid, juvenile thing that was sure to end up in some report that she made, some kind of “WARNING, PROBLEM STUDENT ARMED AND DANGEROUS, SHOOT TO KILL” label to add to the labels that were already plastered all over his permanent record: “CHRONIC UNDER-ACHIEVER, THINKS HE’S A COMEDIAN, OFTEN TRUANT, FREQUENTLY TARDY.” And so on, and so on, and so on.

  He expected some kind of snotty reply, but instead, Ms. Broadman made a fist and slammed it down on her desk. She hit the end of a pencil, which went flying à la David Letterman, and ended up clattering in front of the doorway.

  And in the doorway, Vice-Principal Osborne stood, observing the entire thing.

  “You know, Mr. Harris,” Mr. Osborne said, “I was actually coming here to appeal to Ms. Broadman and ask her to give you a second chance. But now I want to kick your butt, you smarmy little cretin.”

  “What?” Xander stared at the man, who, he had thought, was actually a fairly civilized human being. He dressed friendly, in Dockers and sweaters, a sort of throwback to Principal Flutie, who had thought school was about sharing your feelings and developing self-esteem, and who had been eaten by some kids at school possessed by hyenas.

  Maybe this was all part two of that creature feature.

  Xander blurted, “Stop. We’re all under some kind of influence.”

  “Really.” Ms. Broadman pulled back her lips in a nightmare smile. “I’ll have to add that to the report. What exactly are you on, Xander?”

  “No, I don’t mean it like that,” he said anxiously. Then he realized that, just like always, justice was not going to be served at Sunnydale High. Pre-Slayer, it had been just as bad, only without monsters and demons. Of a supernatural sort. That he had known about.

  “I’m not on anything.” He looked at the VP. “I don’t want to kick butts.” He pointed at his teacher. His hand was shaking. “What she’s doing to me is wrong.”

  “Oh, I think she’s got the right idea,” the man said, coming at Xander.“If it entails doing you bodily harm.”

  Mrs. Broadman grabbed his arms from behind just as the man made a fist.

  “Hey!” Xander shouted. Then he pulled a Slayer maneuver, dropping to his knees and contracting into a ball. Ms. Broadman flopped over his shoulders and collided with Osborne, who had been just about to punch Xander in the stomach.

  Xander pushed himself away from the tangle and darted around the sprawling grown-ups, slamming the door shut after him. He ran down the hall, imagining all the awful things he could do to both of them. Thing was, they were pretty awful. Gut-wrenchingly gross, in fact.

  Yoikes. Buffy’s right, he thought, as he lost his balance and fell on his butt. We’re all getting possessed.

  Some tall red-haired guy had called out, “Way to go, Harris.”

  Xander had bitten back a furious retort, held on as his brain unreeled a plan to slit the throat of the red-haired guy. Or torture him as slowly as possible.

  Buffy was so very right. By what or who they were getting possessed, he didn’t know. But he did know he wasn’t himself.

  Not himself by a long shot.

  Now, four hours later, as he stood beside Willow at the Bronze, he realized his best ol’ buddy was talking to him. Or at him.

  “She’s always been so selfish,” she was mumbling. “Oh, sure, she acts all sad and tragic to get our sympathy, but she doesn’t care about us. She just got us to like her so we’d help her. She doesn’t even care if we die, except there’ll be fewer of us to help her out.”

  Xander blinked. “Willow?”

  Willow frowned up at him. “She hasn’t been looking for Oz at all. She just makes out with Angel. She’s risking sending us all to Hell by being with him, but she doesn’t care.”

  “Willow, listen, I’ve got it,” Xander said suddenly, finally riffing off something Buffy had said. “Jack the Ripper, yes, only it’s like that Classic Trek episode.” He took her by the shoulders and gazed hard into her eyes. “Some kind of evil entity is inside us, making us all kind of, well, bitchy at least.”

  “I’m not bitchy,” Willow snapped. “I’m fine.”

  “No, Rosenberg,” he said. “Uh-uh. You most certainly are not.”

  “What would you know about it?” she said. Then she reached out and shoved him. “You’ve dated the Wicked Witch of the West.”

  “Willow.” His temper rose. “Willow, take it easy.” His hand made a fist. Willow saw it and sneered at him.

  “You’ll never hit me. You’re not man enough.”

  Xander felt his anger grow “Willow, stop. Just stop.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Wimp. Loser.”

  That did it. Before he realized what was happening, he threw back his hand and slapped her.

  “Oh, my God,” he whispered as she blinked in astonishment. “Willow, I’m sorry. Will —”

  �
�You will pay,” she bit off, turning her back. Then she yelled, “Hey! Who wants to make twenty bucks easy? I need someone to kick Xander Harris’s butt.”

  Angel stood just inside the main entrance of the Bronze and shook his head. This place is a pressure cooker.

  In the alley, he had stopped no fewer than three fights. Not so much because he was a nice guy, but because the alley was too narrow to go around them.

  In the corner of the Bronze by the coffee machine, two girls were screaming at each other. The thrash of the band was covering their words, but if looks could kill, they’d both be history. To Angel’s immediate left, a skirmish had broken out on the dance floor, and the assistant manager looked to be on the verge of joining in instead of stopping it.

  There was something going on, and it was more than a group bad mood. Angel didn’t know what it was, but he did know he had to help put a stop to it. But the answer wasn’t stomping on a few loose sparks such as some back-alley brawls. Someone had to find the fire and completely extinguish it.

  “Hey. Dead Boy.” Xander tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Xander,” Angel said tiredly. Xander knew how much the nickname bothered him, and used it at every opportunity. Sure, Xander liked to riff off people with his sharp wit — proving what Angel would have assumed was obvious to everybody, but apparently wasn’t, that Xander had keen native intelligence.

  But in Angel’s case, there was a whole lot of hostility accompanying the barbs Xander aimed his way. At first, it had been caused by Xander’s pure, unadulterated jealousy as Buffy fell in love with Angel. Then, after Angel had lost his soul and tried to take them all out, Xander alone had opposed the idea of trying to reverse the curse and restore him.

  “Where’s your squeeze? Your babe? Your honey?” Xander asked snidely.

  “Sorry?” Angel asked, frowning. The guy was out of control. His forehead was beaded in sweat and he was pale and trembling. His eyes were darting back and forth, the pupils mere pinpricks. “Xander, are you on something?”

  Xander rammed his right fist into his left palm. “Why does everybody keep asking me that? Man, that frosts me!”