The Evil That Men Do

by Nancy Holder

  He drew in his breath. “I am betrothed.”

  How cruelly he said it, with what harshness. Helen wilted, humiliated beyond endurance. She drew away, pulling her hand away from his and scooting off the rock.

  He jumped off and moved to assist her, his right hand gripping her waist, his left, her hip. She wanted to move against him, but she curled away, abjectly humiliated.

  “I’m so sorry,” she murmured. “Don’t tell Diana.”

  “Helen, please tell me,” he pressed. “Why doesn’t she allow herself to freely love me?”

  “She . . .” She closed her eyes against the tide of her emotion: did she recognize her betrayal, or even then, did she try to convince herself that it was out of concern for him?

  As the sun set, and the moon rose, he sat in stunned silence as she poured out the story she had sworn never to tell another living person. She broke her word, as deliberately as one might.

  “I can’t thank you enough,” he whispered, taking up both her hands and kissing them fervently. “You are like the goddess Juno, as merciful as you are beautiful.”

  She soared the heavens, she descended the depths. She had betrayed her closest friend.

  She had found a way into the heart of the man she worshiped.

  He said, “I need time to think on this.” He smiled in a strange, stricken way at her. “The breaking of a betrothal is not an easy business.”

  “Indeed,” she said unhappily. She was reeling. She had done it.

  He left her there, walking away. She hugged her knees to her chest. Her first impulse was to run to Diana, but of course she could not do that. She had changed their relationship forever.

  No. Diana did that, she reminded herself. Diana changed it.

  Her heart searched itself, seeking forgiveness.

  Far away, in Rome, Caligula the Emperor sat arrayed in splendid robes and jewels, quite at home among the shrieks of pain and madness in the torture chambers beneath the Games arena.

  A gladiator had been bound to an altar before him, and behind that stood an immense statue of Meter, Caligula’s dark mother. From her eyes blazed fire, and her mouth dripped with the poison Caligula had concocted, in secret, and administered to his victim. After studying its effects, the emperor would sacrifice him. And eventually, when the stars were right, he would bring Meter forth, into the world.

  With his golden cane, he moved the living man’s viscera, frowning with impatience as the man screamed in agony.

  “Oh, please,” the emperor muttered, then lifted the cane out of the steaming mass and leaned his chin on it. “Julian, do you see anything?”

  The vampire leaned over the bound victim, and Caligula waited, breathless. It was the custom of this time and place to read fortunes in the organs of animals, birds, and corpses. Only in the merciless court of the emperor did one seek destiny in the flesh of living human beings.

  Though the night was chilly, it was hot in the dungeon, where torture fires blazed. The stench of death was thick, and the shrieks of other captives ruined Julian’s concentration. He shrugged and yawned. It was near sunrise, and he was weary.

  “It augurs well, my lord,” Julian told the emperor.

  Caligula thrust forward his lower lip. “You always say that,” he pouted. "’It augurs well.’ What on earth does that mean?”

  Julian knew Caligula was seeking reassurance, demanding compliments. The emperor was as needy as he was insane. “That you are blessed, and Fortuna walks beside you,” the vampire asserted.

  “Bah.” Caligula shifted his weight.

  “Is it not so?” Julian asked.

  The truth was, he was sick of Caligula and his madness. Of his childish, unending demands for reassurance that he and he alone was master. Julian could snap his neck in an instant. Had, in fact, been promised much if and when he accomplished the deed. . . .

  “My lord,” said a guard, visibly out of breath. He was half-chasing, half-escorting a youth crowned with a glorious head of dark, curly hair. Julian grinned to himself. The spindly, bald emperor needed this boy, but Caligula detested him for his every attractive attribute. Which the lad, Demetrius, possessed in abundance.

  Demetrius fell to his knees and said in a rush, “Great Caesar, I greet you.” He inclined his head. “Noble Julian, I bring you both excellent news. I have confirmed it. My betrothed, Diana, is the Slayer.”

  “Ah.” Caligula thrust his tongue between his lips and sat back in his chair. “So. All that work of wooing her was worth it.”

  Demetrius nodded. “Not unpleasant work, I might add. Her strength is matched by her passion.”

  “Who told you she was the Slayer?” Julian asked suspiciously.

  “Her best friend. Helen.” He hesitated. “She loves me.”

  Julian smiled. As the saying went, With friends like that, who needed enemies?

  “You have done well,” Julian said. “What is your boon?”

  Demetrius looked up at him with fierce hunger. “As you already know, my lord. To become like you.”

  Julian’s eyes ticked to Caligula, who shook his head. The vampire flared with anger. Such as Demetrius would be a tremendous asset to his demon court.

  Caligula threw away so many treasures.

  “Done,” Julian said, smiling at the emperor. He sank his fangs into the young boy’s throat and drank. The blood was rich, the heart strong and youthful.

  When he was finished, he dropped the husk to the mosaic floor of the dungeon. “He will not rise,” he added, as he wiped his mouth.

  Behind him, Caligula’s captive moaned with terror and pain. The emperor leaned forward, his body tensing with eagerness.

  “Tell me, slave,” he said in a low, gentle voice, “what does it feel like to be disemboweled? Tell me, or he will do the same to you.”

  “Please,” the man groaned. “Kill me now.”

  Losing interest — and because he was no man’s trained dog — Julian turned away, his cape flapping behind him.

  “Where are you going?” Caligula demanded.

  “To rest. And then I shall leave, to capture the Slayer,” Julian replied simply.

  His boots echoed in the cavernous dungeon. His shadow leaped upon the blood-drenched walls.

  His fists clenched.

  His eyes glowed.

  But I shall never give her to you, he thought, seething.

  Chapter 11

  JORDAN RAN.

  After seeing Cordelia down in the secret rooms where the psychos from hell liked to talk about carving people up, Jordan finally lost his nerve. He made some excuse about having to go upstairs to talk to Willy. Then he got the hell out of the Alibi and stole a motorcycle. He drove like a maniac, with no idea where to go, where to hide. After a few minutes, he realized he shouldn’t have split. His only hope for saving himself now was getting back the urn, and he had no clue where Mark Dellasandro was.

  Then he saw the black van.

  They were onto him, after him, and they were bearing down on him. He went into a blind panic, trying to dodge them, not paying any attention to where he was going.

  I’m going to die, going to die, going to die, he thought.

  He jumped off the motorcycle seconds before they rammed it, rolled, and stumbled to his feet. Lurching, he dragged his right foot behind himself.

  Then he realized he was standing in front of Mrs. Gibson’s house.

  They had run him to ground.

  “Help!” he screamed. He ran as fast as he could, some deep-seated instinct for self-preservation over-taking him. His heart was triphammering and his foot hurt so badly he thought it might just tear off his leg.

  He ran around the back and through the kitchen. It stank to high heaven inside the house. His stomach curdled and he fell to his knees on the linoleum and retched.

  He ran into the living room and peered out of the Venetian blinds. There was the van, and about six of them were getting out.

  “Oh, my God,” he whispered, sobbing.

 
“Jordan,” she said behind him.

  She was wearing her vamp face. The moonlight cast glints of midnight blue in her hair. Her eyes glowed golden.

  “I’m done,” he said. His voice wavered. “Totally. I’m out.”

  She chuckled low in her throat. It was unearthly. She said, “Julian bet me the lives of ten men that you would ultimately disappoint us.”

  She glided dangerously toward him, her long, black gown rustling like dead leaves. She wore a golden tiara of intertwined bats in her loose, flowing hair.

  She clapped her hands. Two dark-scaled demons whose heads were crowned with spiny protrusions stepped from the shadows, trailed by the Queen’s blond vampire lover.

  “Take him.”

  The blond vampire put his arm around the waist of the dark queen and licked her cheek. Together, they turned and looked at Jordan, and laughed.

  As Jordan was dragged away, he said desperately, “Please, don’t do this to me! You don’t have to do this to me!”

  She raised an eyebrow. “And yet.”

  Cordelia screamed as the black-and-blue body of Jordan Smyth was thrown into her cage and the door slammed and locked. Then she ran to him and turned him over.

  Most of his teeth had been knocked out.

  “Oh, my God,” she whispered. “Jordan?”

  His skin was freezing cold. She thought he might be dead.

  He opened one eye, and groaned. “Cordelia. Sorry,” he whispered.

  She touched his forehead. His head was bleeding in several places. "What’s this all about? Why are they doing this? What’s going on?”

  “Not now,” he muttered.

  “They’re going to kill us,” she said urgently. “You’ve got to tell me what’s going on.”

  Just then, a half-dozen vampires swirled into view, carrying torches and laughing among themselves. One of them, a burly man with black scars on his cheeks, capered over to the cage.

  “We’re going to get the rest of your friends,” he said to Cordelia.

  “Why?” she asked.

  He laughed and ran back to the group.

  “Why?” she shouted after them.

  “Sorry,” Jordan whispered.

  “Sorry, my butt!” Despite his injuries, Cordelia grabbed the collar of his shirt and shook him. “Jordan, they’re going to kill us all. Including me!”

  He sighed like he was too tired to even think of it.

  “Listen,” she began, “if you think I —”

  “Keys. In my pocket.”

  Her eyes widened. “What?”

  “They forgot. Keys to the cell.”

  She looked around at their prison. “This cell? And you were just going to lie there and moan?”

  She fished around in his pockets. Her hand wrapped around a key on a satin ribbon. With a thrill of triumph, she pulled it out of his pocket and dangled it in front of his face. Silently he nodded.

  Cordelia scrabbled over to the gate. No one was guarding her. Apparently they figured with her locked in, there was no need.

  Hah, she thought as she slipped the key into the padlock and snapped it open.

  She pushed open the gate. “Okay,” she whispered. “C’mon, Jordan.”

  He shook his head. “I’ll slow you down. Just go.”

  “Don’t be a dumb jerk,” she said harshly, glancing anxiously around. When he didn’t move, she sighed and grabbed his arm. “Damn it, move!”

  He sighed and half sat up. Cordelia looped her arms under his and tried to pull him to his feet. For a few seconds, he didn’t move. Then he heaved himself up and stood.

  “Good, good.” Cordelia gestured for him to follow her and crept out of the cell.

  Get out, she thought as she spied a spear propped against the wall just below a flickering torch. Her heart pounded as she ran over and grabbed it up.

  Jordan was slowly following.

  “Okay. Which way is out?” she whispered.

  He gestured toward the left. Cordelia nodded and dashed that way, craning her neck into the darkness. Which was better, to go down there blind or risk discovery by snagging the torch?

  She decided to go under the cover of the blackness. Waved at Jordan to hurry it up.

  He stared at her. She frowned and said, “Jordan, come on.”

  Then she heard a very distinctive chuckle.

  Turned.

  Julian stood before her with his arms crossed over his chest.

  Before she had time to think it through, she assumed a fighter’s stance and jabbed the spear at him. He looked surprised and dodged it. With a fierce shout, she went on the offensive, rushing him, jabbing high, low, left, feinting right, and nearly catching him on the right forearm.

  Then he growled savagely in his throat, like the monster he was, and his powerful left hand extended and grabbed the spear. Roaring, he broke it over his knee and flung the pieces across the cavern.

  He came toward her, morphing into vamp mode. Cordelia broke into a sob and stumbled backward.

  Behind her, Jordan said, “I — I did what you asked. Now you’ve got to let me go.”

  Julian transformed. He smiled at Cordelia. “Nice try. I’m pleased.” Then his eyes narrowed with contempt as he looked past her to Jordan.

  “I don’t have to do anything,” he replied, “that I don’t want to do.”

  Sunnydale had gone completely mad.

  All through the business district, throngs of people were breaking store windows and looting. They were setting cars on fire. They were fighting each other. People were running down the middle of the street, screaming and chasing each other.

  The night echoed with gunshots.

  In the Gilesmobile, Willow sat beside Giles and murmured warding incantations and binding spells over and over again. She was doing everything she could to keep the mobs from the car as Giles searched for a safe place to hide Mark Dellasandro. It seemed a hopeless task. They had each thought of, and rejected, Xander’s, Willow’s, and Buffy’s houses, for much the same reason that they couldn’t go back to Giles’s apartment — vigilantes were roaming from place to place, searching for “the killer” — never mind that by now, others had died in all the bedlam and there were a number of killers running loose.

  Willow said, “We’ve got to pump up the volume on how to stop this, Giles.”

  “Here, here,” Xander said from the backseat. Then, “You okay, Mark?”

  Giles had instructed Mark to lie down on the floor of the backseat. Willow knew he was afraid of what would happen if someone spotted Mark. They would probably all be pulled from the car, and torn limb from limb.

  “Goddess Hecate, heed me,” Willow murmured, rummaging in the bag between her tennis shoes. She’d pulled it from beneath her seat. It was a spare spellcaster’s satchel, which she’d given to Giles to keep in his car.

  “Think of it like an extra set of flares,” she’d told him. “For emergencies, if I don’t have my regular bag with me.”

  A warm, large hand closed over her shoulder. She closed her eyes and put her hand over it. Xander. She could practically read his thoughts. They had been best friends for a long, long time.

  They had loved each other for longer.

  “We’re gonna find them,” Willow said, patting Xander’s hand. “I have on my resolve face, and you know what that means.”

  “Yes, I do, Will,” Xander said gently.

  Then someone threw what at first looked like a beer bottle at Giles’s car. It exploded against the windshield, spreading flames everywhere. As everyone inside the car screamed, Giles swerved around a man in a down jacket and a hunting cap, aiming a hunting rifle directly at them.

  “What’s happening?” Mark yelled from the floor.

  “I’d say we’ve been spotted,” Giles said.

  Willow looked at Xander. He was white-faced. Leaning forward, he said as softly as he could, “Will, if they find this kid, they’ll kill him.” His eyes added, And us.

  Then someone threw something else at the c
ar, and the windshield shattered. The flames blew in, and Giles fought for control.

  “And this would be about the time Buffy would show, if this was a TV program,” Xander said. “Okay, Buff. Any second now. We’re all trapped and powerless, just like you like us. So c’mon, Buffy, chica, honey, my one and only . . .”

  Willow disappeared as she rummaged around out of view. She came up with two very large bottles.

  “Holy water,” she announced.

  She shook it at the flames, but it wasn’t doing much good.

  “I’ll slow down,” Giles said.

  “No!” Mark shouted, lifting up his head.

  Giles was firm. “Just for a moment.”

  Xander looked through the rear window. The angry mob was trailing after, but Giles had put a lot of distance between the car and the bad guys.

  On the floor, Mark was crying. Xander leaned down and patted him. “We’ll make it, kid.”

  Giles peered through the smoky windshield. The fire was out. They passed the city limits; Xander wished that the fact of leaving Sunnydale made him feel better. But evil doesn’t care about street signs, he thought. Or traffic safety. It never yields the right of way.

  Giles said, “We’re overdue for some good, hard research.”

  “Yeah, such as where to hide Mark. C’mon, buddy, you might as well sit up,” Xander said, reaching down a hand.

  The boy huddled on the floor. “No,” he said. He sounded very flat, very wigged. Xander had seen this kind of thing before. They had all gone there on the dawn patrol, once or twice. Sometimes the ookalicious stuff was more than you could take, and you just checked out for a brief spell. Kind of like your own private vacation.

  To the land of silent screams.

  “Where to hide Mark,” Giles echoed as they drove along. The night air blew in through the ruined windshield on Willow’s side, making her hair stream away from her face. Xander thought she looked like a pretty figurehead on a sailing ship. Also, the little girl whose Barbie he had stolen.

  Willow hesitated, then half-raised her hand, as if they were in class. "What about Angel’s place?”

  If Giles hadn’t given her a look, Xander would have physically turned her head around so he could have.