The Evil That Men Do

by Nancy Holder

  Moving swiftly, the four of them climbed into Joyce’s car. As Giles sat behind the wheel, Buffy scanned the area.

  “Anything amiss?” Giles asked.

  “I think it’s okay,” Buffy said to Giles. “I thought I saw a shadow, but nothing’s carjacked us. So far.”

  Giles drove the car out of the faculty lot and onto the streets of Sunnydale. Behind Buffy, Xander nervously drummed the armrest. Buffy scanned the landscape, which was dotted with clumps of people still under the influence of the Madness Potion, standing atop cars and bashing in the windshields while others cheered them on, looting, fighting.

  Then the van turned onto Route 17. Sagging with exhaustion, Buffy thought of the many nights her mother waited at home with no idea where her daughter was. She pitied the Rosenbergs. As soon as they were finished with this, they’d drop Willow off first thing.

  Buffy closed her eyes to rest, leaning her head back on the headrest.

  She jerked awake at the scream of police sirens. She stared into the rearview mirror as Xander muttered, “Oh, my God.”

  There had to be at least a dozen police cruisers behind them; and in a long parade behind them, at least twenty civilian vehicles. All were bearing down on the minivan.

  “We’ve been spotted,” Giles said.

  “Punch it,” Xander said. “Floor it.”

  “I am.” Giles glanced in the rearview mirror. “Damn it.” He looked over at Buffy. “If something happens,” he said quietly.

  “Reservoir, got it.” She patted his valise, which contained the two flasks of antidote.

  The sirens were gaining on them. A car pulled abreast the van and a voice blared over a microphone: “Pull over. We are armed.”

  Willow lowered her voice and began chanting. The cruiser kept up with the car. Tight-lipped, Giles kept driving, while Buffy peered around him at the police officer. So far, he hadn’t drawn his weapon.

  “Plan B is?” Buffy asked dismally.

  “I slow down, you jump out with my valise, and get to the reservoir,” Giles said. “Dump in the antidote. Hide the urn.”

  She waited. When he didn’t go on, she said, “And what about the other part? The sacrifice and the curse?”

  “Pull over immediately,” the police officer boomed.

  And now his gun was out. Buffy glanced at Giles, who nodded and said, "Plan B.”

  “No,” Willow cried. “Give my spell a chance.”

  “I will shoot,” the cop said, taking aim at the front tire.

  Willow took up her chant again. More Latin, Buffy guessed. It seemed all the really good spells — except for the Restoration of the Soul — were in Latin. She crossed her fingers that Willow pulled it off, then nervously uncrossed them in case doing so made for some kind of jinx.

  Suddenly a dense fog tumbled toward the car, rushing head-on like an enormous ocean wave. Buffy braced herself in case there was something in it, while Giles continued to drive, steely-eyed. Willow’s voice rose excitedly.

  “Keep going, chica,” Xander urged her.

  The fog engulfed both them and their pursuers. Giles turned off the car lights, muttering, “I should have done that in the beginning,” and sped on.

  “Giles, I think Plan B is still our best bet,” Buffy insisted. “You’re going to be forced over.”

  She gathered the valise against her chest and opened the car door. The fog rushed in, icy, damp fingers molding themselves over her face and body.

  Giles swerved off the road and onto bumpy terrain. Buffy nearly tumbled out, but she kept her grip on both sides of the door. There was a dizzy moment; then she plunged from the van, rolled over on her shoulder, then executed several more rolls over the muddy ground.

  Remaining off the highway, Giles put the van in reverse and drove backwards in the dark and the fog. Sirens screamed past them. Then he turned off the car.

  “Um,” Willow said, but Xander highly approved.

  “This is called silent running, Will,” he informed her, finding and holding her hand. He gave it a pat. “At least, when it’s submarine movies. We’re eluding their sonar, so to speak. They don’t have any way of knowing where we are.”

  “Except that I can’t maintain this spell for much longer,” she said.

  “Oh.” Giles sounded surprised. “In that case —”

  He never finished the sentence. There was a terrible wrench of grinding metal, and then a single shout and the sounds of a scuffle. Xander’s door was next, yanked out, and huge, rough hands grabbed him and dragged him out of the van.

  “Willow!” he shouted. “Run!”

  “Get the girl!” a low, gravelly voice bellowed.

  “Hey,” Xander protested. “You can’t do this! We’re Americans!”

  “We’re not,” the voice replied.

  Then a damp cloth was clamped over Xander’s nose and mouth, and he felt himself passing out.

  “No.” His eyes rolled back in his head. His own voice was an echo as he went somewhere else.

  * * *

  Buffy half-ran, half-climbed up the steep slope toward the reservoir. The fog was gone; she saw dozens of taillights heading out of town and wondered if Giles and the others had managed to outrun the convoy. The two flasks and the urn in the valise had survived her leap out of the car. That was something.

  Wet branches whipped her face as the wind picked up again. She forced them out of her way, then ducked down to get her bearings. Not far now.

  Using outcropping bushes and rocks, she pulled herself up the slippery slope, a slight thrill of triumph washing over her when she spied the concrete steps that led from the base of the dam to the top. With a burst of speed, she hustled on up to the base.

  She took the steps two at a time. The gate was still unlocked from the last time she’d been here — evidence of the chaos that had taken over the town — and it squealed loudly as she pushed it open and dashed to the water’s edge.

  Crouching, she opened the valise and pulled out one of the two flasks. In the moonlight, the liquid inside looked not blue, but yellow.

  She popped open the cork.

  “Let this work,” she breathed, her own version of a spell, or a prayer, or both.

  At that moment, shapes flew out of the darkness and charged her. Buffy set down the flask, straightened, and made a one-eighty, pummeling a leathery, winged demon as it swooped clown on her, claws slashing her forearms Until she headbutted it and kicked it in the midsection. By then, several vampires had surrounded her. Staying focused, she took note of each as she dealt first with the tall, bald one on her right, then the one in the middle, then the one to her left. Three remained; by dropping to her knees, she made two of them collide with each other. The effect would have been comical if she’d had time to laugh.

  Crouching, she broke off a length of branch from a manzanita bush and ran it through the third vampire as it flung itself at her. The dusting was startling as it exploded in midair.

  She sprang to her feet, fully prepared for the next onslaught, when a blond male vampire stepped from the shadows and said, “Slayer, wait.” He had a British accent.

  “What, you guys need to catch your breath already?,” she asked, scanning her perimeter. More demons stepped from the shadows. More vampires. Lots and lots of them.

  “No, but he does.” The vampire pointed toward the reservoir.

  Buffy hazarded a glance. About twenty feet from shore, a small figure flailed in the water. It disappeared beneath the surface, then popped back up.

  “Buffy!” Mark called. “Buffy, run!”

  She clenched her fists and glared at the vampire, who shrugged. “Not our doing. If you willingly accompany us, we’ll let you rescue him. Or we can continue the battle while he drowns.”

  Nothing inside her believed him, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to cooperate once she saved Mark. But she said, “Agreed.”

  Buffy pushed her way past the vampires and demons. She couldn’t spot the flask she’d already opened and put on
the ground, but the valise, which still contained the second flask and the urn, lay at the water’s edge. There was perhaps a three-foot drop from the embankment to the lake itself. Taking a deep breath, she made a show of taking off her jacket and dropping it over the valise. Then she scooted it with her foot over the edge, covering the splash with a jump of her own.

  As she had anticipated, the water there was shallow. She caught at the valise and pulled it along with her as she dashed thigh-deep through the chilly water, then scooted off and began to swim.

  Mark had gone under the water again. She felt inside the valise and found the second flask. Uncorked it. Poured it into the water. Hoped one was enough.

  Still holding the valise, she swam as hard as she could for Mark.

  It was easy to find him from his splashing and struggling. She got him in a lifeguard hold and said, “Take it easy. I’ve got you.”

  He clamped his fingers around her arm and pulled, trying to break her grip. “Let me go. I have to die. I poured it in.”

  She flushed. She should have realized a smart kid like him would have figured that one out. She kept her grasp around his chest and shook him gently. "No. No one is dying.”

  As he struggled, his face went under and he came up, sputtering and coughing.

  “Slayer, we’re waiting.”

  The blond vampire stood observing at the water’s edge. Buffy sized up the situation: maybe alone, she could swim deeper into the lake, try to make a break for it on the other side. But weighed down with Mark, there was no chance.

  “Buffy, let me go,” Mark begged. “If I die here, I can save people.”

  “No, they aren’t going to kill you.” She winced and hoped that was true. Rule #217 of the Slayer’s Handbook: Thar be no honor among vampires.

  However, sometimes life surprised you.

  Buffy got to the shallows and looped the handle of the valise over an outcropping bush as surreptitiously as she could. Then she helped Mark straggle along. The blond vampire reached out a hand and Buffy ignored it, making her way up the embankment unassisted. Then she turned and helped Mark.

  “Why’d you let me do that?” she asked the vampire.

  “You would have damaged some of my followers,” he replied simply.

  “How’d you know I would come back?”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t. But I would have retrieved you.” He pointed to the winged demon.

  He clapped his hands. “Chain her.”

  “Oh, please.” Buffy rolled her eyes as two vampires came forward with a heavy set of handcuffs separated by a length of very thick chain.

  “Hercules himself could not break these,” said the vampire. “However, you are a Slayer, and another matter.”

  At his nod, the two vampires clamped the cuffs around her wrists. Then someone came up behind her, grabbed her head, and clapped an evil-smelling rag over her nose and mouth.

  Mark shouted, “Don’t hurt her!”

  Unfortunately, Buffy struggled.

  Therefore, pain was in the equation.

  * * *

  Buffy snapped awake inside a metal cage. Her hands were chained on either side of her, the chains bolted to the floor. Not the newest of experiences for the Chosen One, but not her favorite, either. No matter what Angel said about handcuffs.

  Angel . . .

  Outside the cage, in a cavern dimly lit by torches, Helen was leaning over her, fully vamped out in a black metallic corset, a chain mail skirt, and — oh, yeah, her vamp face. Her eyes glittered darkly. Buffy saw at once the madness there.

  “The Slayer,” she hissed, leaning over Buffy. “I should kill you now.”

  “That pleasure has been reserved,” Julian said, coming up behind Helen and putting his hands on her shoulders.

  Helen stiffened. “It is my right and privilege.”

  “I have something in mind for her. Something that will thrill you beyond words.”

  Her face contorted into anger, which he could not see. But Buffy could.

  “Oh?” the vampire said between clamped fangs.

  He smiled indulgently. “Yes.”

  As he walked away, he looked for the dark vampire to follow him, but she remained with Buffy. Julian shrugged and disappeared into the shadows.

  Helen looked down at her prisoner with contempt, and trailed her fingers along the chain link.

  “I will kill you,” she said simply. “I don’t care what Julian wants. It is my right.”

  “Who died and made you Slayer slayer?” Buffy snapped, pulling on her chains. The bolts held. It was a professional job.

  “Diana did.” Helen leaned over as if she were talking to a child. “Let me tell you something. In the battle between good and evil, good must inevitably lose. Evil acts. Good reacts. Therefore, good is always one step behind. It can’t keep pace.”

  “No,” Buffy said. “I don’t believe that.”

  “You believe that you will die fighting evil,” Helen continued, pressing her face into the chain link. Blood rose along the diamond pattern, but she gave no indication that she felt it at all. “And there will be more evil after you. The next Slayer will die. And the next.”

  She straightened and stared down at Buffy; in the muted light, she looked like a Grecian statue, cold and haughty, hard and unyielding.

  “And they say I’m mad.”

  “Evil doesn’t create,” Buffy countered. “It only destroys.”

  “I was created by evil,” Helen retorted.

  Buffy tried to move her hands, but her chains held. “You were created by despair. You thought you had been abandoned.”

  Helen’s lip curled. “I had been.”

  “Slayers don’t work that way.” Buffy yanked on the chains. “Slayers risk everything to save people.”

  “Save your breath. And your energy. For the arena.”

  Helen turned her back on Buffy and glided away.

  “She didn’t abandon you!” Buffy shouted at her. “She died for you!”

  Helen made no answer. Then she stopped and made a slow half-turn.

  “Are you forgetting that I killed her?”

  Buffy stared straight at her. “I’m sure she understood. I’m sure she’s forgiven you.”

  Helen snorted. “You’re such a child.”

  The vampire started to leave, then paused. “Angelus,” she said softly. "Have you seen him?”

  She doesn’t know, Buffy thought. She kept silent.

  Stiffly, Helen moved into the darkness.

  After leaving the Slayer, Helen went to Cordelia’s cage. They had removed the one called Oz before darkness had fallen.

  The girl was doing pushups. Helen said, “Hello, dark beauty.”

  Cordelia ignored her.

  “You know that we intend to put you in the arena. And that you will die there.”

  “Bet me,” Cordelia said, raising herself up and down. “Heavily.”

  “If you kill the Slayer right now, I will spare you. And I will keep Julian from you. She’s chained down, and it would be a simple task.”

  Cordelia only grunted. Then she stopped, pushed back into a sitting position and said, “I wish I had the energy to laugh in your face.”

  Helen visited the little redhead next. She smiled gently at her and said, “Greetings. Are you being treated well?”

  “For someone who’s being held against her will by vampires, I guess, yes,” she said nervously. “Where’s Buffy?”

  “She is the subject of our discussion.” She smiled. “I’d like to offer you a trade. Your life for hers.” She showed her the sacrificial knife. “All you must do is cut out her heart. She is restrained. She cannot fight you.”

  Willow gaped at her.

  The vampire stood. “Now. There will be no second chance.”

  The redhead remained silent.

  Helen swept away.

  “Greetings, my handsome one,” Helen said to Xander.

  Xander swallowed. Why is it the monster chicks always think I’m hot?
>
  “You understand that you have been brought here to die.”

  “Well, I didn’t before. Thanks for the update.” He scowled at her.

  She chuckled. “I can prevent it. I will prevent it.”

  He did not stop scowling. “Then I’m happy.”

  “If you kill the Slayer this moment. While she is helpless.”

  Xander stared at her. He finally said, “Are you nuts?”

  She shrugged and moved away.

  “Watcher,” she said to Giles. “I have known many Watchers. The vast majority of them cracked under pressure. They told me everything I wanted to know about their Slayers. Habits, haunts, weaknesses, delights. After that, it was a simple matter to hunt them down.”

  Giles gazed at her levelly. “I sincerely hope that you are lying to me.”

  Her smile was slow and lazy, the smile of an immortal being who knows she has all the time in the world . . . and her captive does not.

  “We intend to sacrifice you to Meter,” she said. “We will torture you slowly, and your death will be hideous. The pain will be unbearable. I will spare you that, if you will kill the Slayer. Right now. She cannot fight you.”

  “Angel was right,” he said slowly. “You are mad.”

  In the temple chamber, Julian knelt before the beating heart on the altar and said, “Meter.”

  “I yet live,” the voice replied. “But I have no form. The ashes rest beside the lake. Fetch them, and I will come forth.”

  “The reservoir,” Helen said, and clapped her hands in delight. “Who shall we send?”

  Someone was coming.

  Xander took a deep breath and braced himself. He had faced death many times and, well, it still scared the hell out of him. But sometimes — on a good day — he could keep his cool.

  A flashlight beam shined in his eyes.

  “Harris, it’s Willy.”

  “Why am I not surprised you’re involved in this?” Xander drawled, glaring at the smarmy bartender.

  “Listen. I’m gonna bust you out. I got a key. You get the hell out of here and go to the reservoir. There’s some ashes there, somewhere. They’re magickal, or something.”