Xander turned to see Principal Snyder right beside them. He immediately began to talk.
“Principal Snyder! Great Career Fair, sir. Really. In fact, I’m so inspired by your leadership, I’m thinking of principal school. I want to walk in your shoes.” Xander hesitated, glancing down at the principal’s feet. “Not your actual shoes, of course. Because you’re a tiny person. Not tiny in the small sense, of course . . .” His voice trailed off. He nodded emphatically. “Okay. Done now.”
Principal Snyder didn’t even grace this with a remark.
“Where is she?” he asked Willow.
Willow looked innocently back at him. “Who?”
“You know who.”
“Oh . . .” Willow hesitated, “you mean Buffy? I just saw her—”
“And don’t feed me that I-just-saw-her-a-minute-ago-she’s-around-here-somewhere story,” the principal snapped.
Willow looked like a cornered puppy. “But I did—see her a minute ago. And she is—around here somewhere.”
“For what it’s worth—” Xander began, but Principal Snyder cut him off.
“It’s worth nothing, Harris. Whatever sound comes out of your mouth is a meaningless waste of breath. An airborne toxic event.”
“I’m glad you feel comfortable enough to be so honest with me,” Xander returned amiably. “And I only hope I’m in a position one day to be as honest with you.”
The principal gave him a curious look. Almost as though he were studying some rare and dangerous insect.
“Fascinating,” he mumbled, and moved off.
“I’d love to stay and chat,” Xander turned his attention back to Willow, “but I have an appointment with the warden on standard riot procedure.”
“Okay,” Willow said. “See you.”
She gave a forlorn little wave as he disappeared into the crowd, then jumped as someone came up behind her.
“Willow Rosenberg?” a voice asked.
Willow turned. Two men were standing there, one on either side of her, both wearing identical dark suits and extremely somber expressions. There was an air of supreme authority about them, rather than of danger, yet still Willow shrank back.
“Come with us please?” one of the men said to her now.
Willow’s eyes widened. “Excuse me?”
“Let’s walk.”
Reluctantly she allowed herself to be led past several booths, to a velvet cordon, then up into the elevated section of the lounge, which was now hidden behind a dark curtain. Two freestanding walls separated this area from the general population, and as Willow was led inside, she felt strangely like Alice in Wonderland dropped down the rabbit hole. The space had been refurbished into a deco salon. Soft lighting illuminated the area, while a gentle bossa nova played from hidden speakers. On one wall hung a company logo, and as Willow squinted at it, she realized it very much resembled that of a giant company in the computer industry.
A white-gloved waiter approached her. He held out a silver tray of hors d’ouevres.
“Try the canapé,” one of her escorts said. “It’s excellent.”
But Willow was feeling too overwhelmed to eat just now. “What is all this?”
“You’ve been selected to meet with Mr. McCarthy, head recruiter for the world’s leading software concern,” one of the men explained. “The jet was delayed by fog at Sea-Tac, but he should be here any minute.” He paused, then added politely, “Please. Make yourself comfortable.”
He turned with his partner to leave, but Willow stopped them.
“But I didn’t even get my test back,” she said.
“The test was irrelevant,” the first man replied. “We’ve been tracking you for some time.”
“Is that a good thing?” Willow asked nervously.
“I would think so. We’re extremely selective. In fact, only one other Sunnydale student met our criteria.”
Before Willow could ask any more questions, both men exited through the partition. In stunned silence she watched them go, then turned around to view her surroundings.
For the first time she realized she wasn’t alone in here. Another student was sitting on the couch, looking completely unfazed by all this strange formality. As Willow took in his thick reddish hair, baggy clothes, and wide, friendly mouth, she recognized him at once as the one she’d gotten tangled up with in the hall on Halloween. But she’d been wearing her ghost costume then, she reminded herself—of course he wouldn’t remember her.
She was wrong. As Oz slouched comfortably on the cushions, holding a plate of food, he glanced up to see Willow staring at him. It wasn’t often that his face showed emotion. But it certainly did now—with the coolest hint of delight.
After a brief hesitation, Willow moved to the couch and she sat down next to him.
There was a long, awkward silence. Both of them stared straight ahead.
It was Oz who finally spoke. Leaning over with his plate, he offered it to Willow.
“Canapé?”
CHAPTER 4
Giles tried to keep up with Buffy as she hurried through the cemetery. It was clear to him that her feelings were still hurt—she was obviously trying to lose him.
“Buffy,” he sighed. “Please. Slow down.”
“Get with the program, Giles,” Buffy tossed back. “We have work to do, remember?”
“You’re behaving in a terribly immature manner—”
“Bingo. Know why? I am immature! I’m a teen! I’ve yet to mature!”
Giles struggled for the proper response. “I was simply offering a little constructive criticism—”
“You were harsh,” Buffy set him straight. “You act like I picked this gig. But I’m the picked. Too bad if I want a normal job.”
Something must have happened, Giles thought to himself, wishing like hell he knew what it was. It just wasn’t like Buffy to go around feeling sorry for herself like this. He looked around at the sun-dappled headstones and tried to collect his thoughts.
“What you have is more than a . . . gig,” he reminded her firmly. “It’s a sacred duty.”
He recognized the “been there, heard that” look she gave him over her shoulder. He scrambled faster, determined to calm her down.
“Which shouldn’t prevent you from eventually procuring a more . . . mundane form of employment if you like,” he added. “Such as I have.”
“It’s one thing being a Watcher and a librarian.” Buffy remained stubborn. “They go together—like chicken and . . . another chicken. Two chickens. Or something.” Then, noting Giles’s look, “You know what I’m saying—you can spend all your time with a bunch of books, and no one blinks. But what can I do? Carve stakes for a nursery?”
Giles conceded at last. “Point taken. I suppose I’ve never really thought about—” He broke off, thought a moment, then brightened. “I say—have you ever considered law enforcement?”
Luckily for Giles they’d reached the mausoleum now, so she didn’t even have to come up with a scathing reply.
“This is the place,” Buffy said.
She pulled open the heavy iron door and went in, Giles following.
She’d remembered to bring a flashlight with her; now she flicked it on, playing the beam all around the gloomy interior. After a moment, she led Giles over to the vault in the far wall, where the door was still standing open.
“May I?” Giles asked softly.
“Be my guest.”
He took the flashlight from her, then shone it into the empty vault.
“It’s a reliquary,” Giles explained, “used to house items of religious significance. Most commonly, a finger or some other body part from a saint.”
“Note to self,” Buffy quipped. “Religion—freaky.”
Giles turned back around, going over the rest of the wall with the flashlight. Now they could see something else they hadn’t noticed before—bold letters carved into the granite above the doorway.
“Du Lac . . .” Giles read the name aloud. Immediately Buf
fy could hear the recognition in his tone along with unmistakable concern. “Oh dear . . .”
“I hate when you say that,” she said flatly.
“Josephus du Lac is buried here.”
“Was he a saint?”
“Hardly.” Giles frowned. “He belonged to a sect of priests who were excommunicated by the Vatican at the turn of the century.”
Buffy raised an eyebrow. “Excommunication and sent to Sunnydale. Must have been big with the sinning.”
“Remember the book that was stolen from the library by a vampire a few weeks back?” Giles rushed on. “It was written by du Lac and his cohorts—” Frustrated, he broke off. then added, “Damn it. In all the excitement, I let it slip my mind.”
“I’m guessing it wasn’t a Taste of the Vatican cookbook,” Buffy said hopefully, but Giles ignored her.
“The book is said to contain rituals and spells that reap unspeakable evil. However, it was written in archaic Latin, so nobody but the sect members could read it.”
Together they walked outside. The sun and fresh air felt good after the dankness of the tomb.
“Then everything’s cool,” Buffy tried to sound encouraging. “The sect is gone. Worm food like old du Lac, right?”
But Giles looked even more pensive than usual. “I don’t like it, Buffy. First the book is taken from the library. Now vampires steal something from du Lac’s tomb—”
“You think they’ve figured out how to read the book?”
“I don’t know.” Giles shook his head, his eyes deeply troubled. “But something’s coming, Buffy. And I guarantee, whatever it is—it’s not good.”
CHAPTER 5
At the Sunnydale Bus Depot, a bus was just pulling in. It squealed to a stop in a huge cloud of exhaust, and the doors hissed open.
None of the passengers seemed remarkable. Inconspicuous faces in a weary crowd, they stepped off the bus and disappeared just as noneventfully through the doors of the terminal, all bound for ordinary destinations.
Except for one.
This passenger was a veritable giant, standing a good seven feet tall in his enormous boots, and carrying a hard four-hundred pounds on his massive frame.
Greasy hair tangled over his shoulders. A thick, milky cataract covered one eye. His other eye was set deep in fleshy scars and carbuncles he called a face.
His name was Octarus.
And he was on a mission.
A mild-mannered man was striding down the sidewalk on Revello Drive, whistling and carrying a briefcase. He had a round moon-face and a sharply receding hairline, and he wore a suit much too large for his slight build.
His name was Mr. Pfister, and he was also on a mission.
He paused for a moment in front of Buffy’s mailbox, reading the name Summers stencilled there.
Then he turned and headed up the walkway of the house next door.
He climbed the stoop and rang the doorbell. He mechanically adjusted the knot in his tie. And when a tired-looking housewife answered the door, he gave her his best salesman’s smile.
“Mrs. Kalish?”
“Yes?” the woman answered suspiciously.
“I’m Norman Pfister, with Blush Beautiful Skin Care. I’m not selling anything, so I’m not asking you to buy.” He held up his briefcase so she could see. “Just to accept a few free samples.”
The woman’s suspicions wavered. “Free?”
“Absolutely.”
She considered this a moment before letting him in. Mr. Pfister walked past her, and she shut the door behind him.
There was no one else on this quiet street this afternoon.
No one to hear when Mrs. Kalish screamed.
* * *
At the airport, a 767 had just come in for a landing.
As the huge jet engines revved down, the hatch opened to the cargo hold, and a baggage handler climbed inside. He was wearing a Walkman, with heavy metal blasting between his ears. He stopped for an instant and squinted into the dark recesses of the compartment as sunlight blasted in from the opening behind him.
Strange . . .
The young man peered over toward the cargo netting. For a second he could have sworn there’d been a dark silhouette between those crates.
He shrugged. Probably only shadows . . .
He busied himself with the luggage, downloading it onto the conveyor belt. He paused long enough to fake the wild motions of a guitar solo, basking in make-believe applause.
And then he thought he saw it again.
Something darting behind that netting, just out of signt.
“What the hell—”
He killed the tape and started toward the shadows.
“Hey!” he called bravely. “You’re not supposed to be in here.”
No answer. He stopped, his courage faltering.
“Come on—” he started, but never got to finish.
The blows came out of nowhere, rocking him back on his heels. He fell in a heap on the floor, moaning slightly.
From some distant spot through his pain, he thought he heard the echo of footsteps. He thought he
saw a shadow fall across him, then step over . . .
Slowly he lifted his eyes.
She was standing there, silhouetted in the doorway, gazing down at him.
A young woman—tall, slim, and exotic-looking—with mocha-colored skin and tight-fitting clothes.
Her forehead was high and wide, her cheekbones finely sculpted; her long black hair had been knotted at the back of her head, where it hung down her back in a thick ponytail. But it was her eyes which struck fear into the young man now—for even though he tried to look away from them, her stare seemed to hold him.
Her eyes were large and black, curiously almond-shaped. They were at the same time feline, feral, and altogether ruthless.
The eyes of a hunter. The eyes of a predator. To the young man’s relief, she suddenly turned and jumped down onto the tarmac.
Her name was Kendra.
And there was much she had to do.
CHAPTER 6
School had been over for hours.
As soon as Buffy and Giles had returned from the cemetery, they’d called Xander and Willow to an emergency conference, and the four of them had been gathered in the library ever since, discussing the du Lac tomb.
“So Giles is sure that the vampire who stole his book is connected to the one you slayed last night?” Willow asked Buffy. “Or is it ‘slew’?” she frowned.
“Both are correct,” Giles said absentmindedly as he paced among bookshelves. At last he emerged from the stacks with a yellowed periodical. “And yes. I’m sure.”
He set the magazine down before them. They could see now that it was a National Geographic, published in 1921.
“Du Lac was both a theologian and a mathematician,” Giles explained. “This article described an invention of his, which he called the du Lac Cross—”
“Why go to all the trouble of inventing something and then give it a weak name like that?” Xander interrupted. “I’d have gone with ‘Cross-o-matic!’ or ‘The Amazing Mr. Cross!’ . . .”
He broke off as they all stared at him. Giles, ignoring Xander, opened the magazine, indicating a discolored photograph of the cross, while Willow began to peruse the accompanying article.
“The cross was more than a symbol,” Giles went on. “It was also used to understand certain mystical texts, to decipher hidden meanings and so forth.”
Buffy looked up at him, frowning. “You’re saying these vampires went to all that trouble for your basic decoder ring?”
Giles regarded her blankly. And then he said, “Actually, I guess I am.”
“According to this,” Willow said, still intent on the article, “du Lac destroyed every one of the crosses, except the one buried with him.”
Again Buffy frowned. “Why destroy his own work?”
“I suppose he feared what might happen if the cross fell into the wrong hands,” Giles replied.
�
��A fear we’ll soon get to experience for ourselves, up close and personal,” Xander reminded them.
“Unless,” Giles murmured, “we preempt their plans.”
Willow leaned forward onto the table “How?”
“By learning what was in the book before they do.” Giles paused, regarding them with grim purpose. “Which means we can expect to be here late tonight—”
Willow beamed. “Goody! A research party!”
“Will,” Xander admonished her, “you need a life in the worst way—”
“Speaking of,” Buffy broke in cheerily, “I have to bail. I promise I’ll be back bright and early, perky and ready to slay.”
The look Giles gave her was perplexed. “This is a matter of some urgency, Buffy.”
“I know,” she said quickly. “But you have to admit, I lack in the book area. You guys are the brains. I’d just be around for moral support—”
“That’s not true, Buffy,” Xander deadpanned. “You totally contribute. You go for snacks.”
Buffy glanced at Willow. Girl-thoughts and secrets flew between them.
“She should go,” Willow agreed. “You know, gather her strength.”
Giles considered this a moment. “Perhaps you’re right. There may be fierce battles ahead.”
“But Ho Ho’s are a vital part of my cognitive process,” Xander argued.
Buffy gave him a look. “Sorry, Xand. I have something I really need to do tonight.”
She hurried out of the room, leaving Giles and Xander totally bewildered.
The ice-skating rink looked beautiful tonight.
Like some magical place, Buffy thought, and she smiled to herself.
She was completely alone, and as she skated round and round on the ice, moonlight filtered in from the high windows, bathing her in a soft silvery glow.
Buffy breathed deeply of the cool air. She came to a stop, savoring her freedom, then took off again, picking up speed. She’d been afraid she wouldn’t remember how to skate, but now she realized she shouldn’t have worried. Every technique came easily back to her. She moved gracefully, effortlessly, her hair blowing gently around her face.
THE ANGEL CHRONICLES, Vol. 2 Page 8
