by Ray Garton
Giles put a hand on Buffy’s shoulder and stepped forward.
“Excuse me, officer,” he said, “but I can explain this, I assure you.”
The police officer put the light on Giles’s face for a moment. He passed it over the faces of the others, then returned to Buffy. He smiled and his head bobbed a few times.
“That’s quite a blade you got there, young lady,” the police officer said. He held out a hand. “Why don’t you hand it over before you hurt somebody? C’mon, you first.”
Buffy looked to the right of him, into the corner, and focused her eyes carefully on Ravana’s face. The twenty eyes were finished and glowed a dull red, but it seemed the red glow was getting stronger, brighter. The mouths were still yammering, but as she watched them, she realized suddenly they were no longer entirely silent.
She heard a distant, ghostly sound, voices, speaking rapidly, even wildly, in an unfamiliar language. The faint sound was synchronous with the movements of Ravana’s mouths. Buffy turned to Giles.
“It’s almost done,” she said.
“Hey!” the officer barked. He sounded angry, but his eyes twinkled mischeivous, and the spirit of a smirk darted around the corner of one corner of his mouth. “I thought I told you to give me that sword!”
When Buffy looked at the cop again, she noticed his badge for the first time. Something about it didn’t look right; without moving her arm, she flicked on her flashlight and aimed it at the cop. His badge reflected a flash of light. There was nothing engraved or embossed on the badge . . . it was a shiny, star-shaped piece of perfectly smooth metal.
“Give it to me, dammit!” the cop snapped again.
“Okay, take it.” Buffy drove the long blade straight through the middle of his upper body.
The cop’s mouth fell open and he made a groaning, gurgling sound. Willow and Cordelia stifled screams, and Giles gasped.
She pulled it out just as fast as she’d put it in, and dropped her flashlight to the floor as she clutched the handle with both hands. Stepping clear of Giles and the others, she spun around as she moved toward the cop.
The blood-streaked blade caught and reflected a strobe of lightning as it flashed first through air, then through the cop, just above the waist. He shrieked as he hit the floor in two pieces.
Giles was the first to be splashed with green goo.
Both pieces of the cop fluttered, dreamlike . . . shifted and warped as the horrible scream continued. The cop’s appearance broke down, liquefied, became taut, then reformed. The Rakshasa abruptly stopped shrieking and used its arms to crawl toward the stubby, kicking legs.
Buffy didn’t let it.
She brought the blade down on the head rapidly, repeatedly. It melted into a mound of the green gelatinous substance. Buffy stepped back from it and watched as it disappeared.
But the legs did not.
All of them stared down at the hairy, scabrous legs, which continued to kick wildly. At the top of the legs, though, from just above the waist, something was growing.
The rest of the Rakshasa’s severed body was being replaced.
“Evil flatworms,” Xander whispered. “Are we done yet?”
Buffy swung her sword like an ax until the growing, kicking legs were gone.
As she stood up straight, wet strands of hair stuck to her face. The babbling voices were louder, their words more distinct, though foreign. She bent down, picked up her flashlight, and turned it on Ravana as she stood.
Lips writhed in fast motion. No longer still, the arms reached and stiffened and swept up and down, back and forth; palms opened, fingers pointed, fists clenched and hammered air. She was watching a passionate but silent orator one didn’t need to hear in order to know it was malignant.
And the voices were louder, clearer. All the same voice, but gibbering differently at the same time.
“We don’t have much time,” Buffy said. “Willow?”
Willow came to Buffy’s side, unzipping her bag.
“You ready?” Buffy asked.
Willow nodded. “Sure, the sooner the better. ’Cause I think I’m gonna need to get to a bathroom soon.”
Buffy turned to the others. “Spread out a little. Verrry slowly.” She looked up.
The endless red eyes were still there. She couldn’t tell if they were watching her . . . they were just there.
“Okay, let’s go,” she muttered as she turned and walked toward Ravana. Willow was right behind her.
They stopped at the opening of the path between the candles. It was too narrow for them to walk it side by side, so Willow went first.
The instant Willow’s foot moved forward to step on the path, there was a gut-churning shriek, like heavy metal being twisted and torn, crushed and ground together, a cacophany of high squeals with throaty growls behind them, coming down from overhead, making the air convulse, growing louder, closer . . .
Hell opened up on them from above.
The horrible screaming from above frightened Xander so much, he felt as if his bones were melting inside him. He didn’t look up, because he didn’t want one of those creatures to fall on his face. But as he bowed his head and hunched his shoulders, he had the presence of mind to raise his sword so the blade was pointing straight up. It suddenly became much heavier in his hand and Xander raised his head.
A Rakshasa was skewered on his blade, screaming and kicking, glaring at Xander with the promise of death in its red eyes. Xander quickly lowered the sword, and the creature slid off the blade and dropped to the floor.
“Good start,” Xander said as he cut the creature into as many pieces as he could before the next came along, and the next and the next. Up ahead and to his right, another blade flashed in the darkness.
Oz hopped onto an old pinball machine lying broken and black on its side. It made him even taller than the small creatures that ran toward him, jagged mouths snapping. He swung the blade downward; it went through a neck and a horned, reptilian head tumbled through the air. Ran another through, severed an arm from a third. But there were too many of them coming too fast.
Angel became a part of the darkness. Instead of fighting the creatures off, he did what he did best . . . moved through shadows like a ghost and attacked them, leaving none remaining in his path.
The same thing was happening to Cordelia. Her back to a wet, dripping wall, she held the sword in both hands and swung it hard in wide half-circles from side to side. She did some damage with each swing, but not enough. They kept getting off the floor and coming back, with others rushing in behind them.
“Would at least some of you go away!” she screamed.
Something closed on her left leg and sharp points pierced her pants. Then her skin. Cordelia bent her knees so she could reach the creature and beat it with the heavy flashlight, while still holding off the incoming.
Buffy did the same thing in front of the candles, where the majority of the Rakshasa headed upon hitting the floor. More skilled with the sword, Buffy’s movements were quick and economical, and very effective.
“Do it, Willow!” Buffy shouted over her shoulder. “Do it now!”
The soul-chilling cry from above had frozen Willow in place, but Buffy’s shout snapped her out of it. Willow forced her legs to propel her forward along the candle path.
Two more fresh Rakshasa popped from the green blob and ran toward Willow. They darted around her as if she were merely an annoyance, eyes staring straight ahead, hurried to the walls, and started climbing toward the hole to go out for a night on the town.
Willow lifted her sword and brought it down on the pulsating green blob again and again, until it was a thick, liquid puddle and connecting tentacles had collapsed.
No more newbies.
But Buffy couldn’t hold off all of the Rakshasa so eager to stop Willow.
“Look out, Will!”
One of them slammed onto her back, clutched her shoulders, and snarled into her right ear. Its hot, moist breath washed over one side of her face and
into her mouth and nose, as its snout opened wide to bite.
Willow screamed as she swung her left arm around and plunged the long, fat flashlight into the creature’s mouth, down its throat. It made a belching, gagging sound and dropped off her back, taking the flashlight with it.
Willow turned around and chopped the creature a couple times with the deadly edge of her scimitar before kicking it aside. The thing was cut nearly in two diagonally, from shoulder to hip, but still in one piece as it tumbled into the mass of small flickering flames, knocking candles over, throwing angry shadows around the floor.
Realizing its body was virtually in two pieces, the creature pulled itself together with one arm and tried to get up. But it was already in flames. It released a high, guttural shriek before dissolving into a sizzling, smoking mess.
Another was on its way toward her, having shot between Buffy’s legs.
Heart pounding rapidly, adrenaline flooding her body, Willow shouted, “The flame is quicker than the sword!” She swung the sword with both hands, sliced into the oncoming Rakshasa, and knocked him into the other blanket of flames.
“Good one, Will!” Buffy called back as she turned sharply to her left, swung the sword around, and threw the creature impaled on it into the candles. “Thanks!”
As the creatures screamed, Willow walked backward clumsily with one hand in her shoulder bag. She found the cold metal container, peeled the plastic lid off. She wrapped her fingers around the container and turned around.
The Ravana statuette was directly in front of her, not two feet away. She lifted the container from the bag, held it a moment in front of her as she looked at the gesticulating, chattering creature.
It stopped moving for a heartbeat. All the heads that could suddenly turned to Willow, their burning eyes locked onto her. Fingers pointed to her. The lips moved and the voices — closer now, louder — spoke furiously as one.
Willow stepped forward and poured the powder over the statuette. It clung to the damp surface, making the statuette look like some ghostly octopus.
Ravana’s voice became sharply louder as it screamed at her, wailing like a thousand mad wolves.
She removed the plastic container of liquid from the bag.
A creature hit the back of her legs and buckled her knees. She dropped to a kneeling position until another hopped onto her back and knocked her to the floor. Her sword slipped from her hand and clattered over the floor as another of the beasts jumped on her.
“Buffy!” Willow shouted.
Upon hearing the hellish cry from their materializing lord and master, the majority of the remaining Rakshasa had stopped what they were doing and rushed toward the corner. Having removed the creature that was clamped onto her lower leg, Cordelia found herself free to strike at the oncoming creatures more effectively, because there were fewer of them. So did Oz, still standing atop the old fallen pinball machine. As did Giles and Xander, who were moving in slow circles, their backs to one another, to fend off the beasts.
Buffy backed up the path, swinging and plunging the sword, missing some, hitting quickly enough and often enough to make them drop. But another wave of them came.
Willow screamed, “Buffy! Bufffeeee!”
Turning her head as far as she could, Buffy looked over her shoulder and saw Willow fighting desperately beneath a mound of Rakshasa. Willow’s left arm was raised, the plastic container in her hand.
Buffy spun around a couple times, slicing with the sword, kicking her feet, making solid contact again and again, redoubling her efforts as she moved backward. When her foot struck Willow’s, Buffy spun around and attacked the Rakshasa on top of her friend. They scattered quickly, most into the candles, roaring and shrieking. A pile of rubbish had caught fire and the flames were rising. She snatched the container from Willow’s hand.
“Pour it on the statuette!” Willow shouted as she rolled onto her back and sat up. Her nylon bag had been shredded to string-dangling strips and she pulled the strap off.
“You mean, just . . . pour it?” Buffy asked.
“Yes, and I’ll say the words . . .”
Buffy quickly took the lid from the container and moved to step toward the statuette, listening for Willow to continue.
They were on her before Willow could say the next word. Three, maybe four, from behind and above.
The container left her hand.
Alcohol rushed from the container. It began as a single body of clear liquid, then broke up into smaller, glistening drops as it went down, scattering over the flames.
A tantrum of fire broke out over the candles and rose up, flames licking and whipping upward in ultra-fast motion before it disappeared in a small whoosh.
The alcohol was gone.
Chapter 22
WATCHING THE ALCOHOL SPILL, WILLOW FELT AS IF her insides were running out of her body. Whether her potion would have worked or not was no longer a question. It was gone.
As Buffy fought off the Rakshasa that had jumped onto her like fleas on a dog, Willow tried to get to her feet. One of the creatures rushed toward her before she could get up, followed by another, and one after that.
Unarmed, helpless, Willow braced herself for their impact, the sounds and smells of them, for the tearing of her flesh.
The first one skidded to a stop as its eyes widened, lips pulled back, and mouth dropped open. The other two did the same behind it. Looking directly at Willow, they craned their heads forward and hissed. It was a sound that burned hotter than their red eyes, a gesture bubbling with the most livid hatred. And fear.
They took a few steps backward and, still hissing, the creatures turned and ran away.
What just happened? Willow thought. She looked down at her legs, her arms and hands. She was all wet, a mess, but nothing had changed. Except . . .
The carving of Rama was hanging on its chain outside her clothes, gently catching tiny shards of light from the fires growing on each side of her.
Willow pressed her hand over it and closed the tiny figure tightly in a fist.
A scream in an unfamiliar female voice pierced the darkness and shattered against the walls.
A male voice, not so unfamiliar, but not immediately identifiable, shouted in a foreign language loudly enough to give the words a whiplike reverberation in the building. Before the man’s voice fell silent, it was swallowed up by a rumble of thunder within the building.
In a single wave, the Rakshasa had stopped what they were doing and hit the walls climbing. It sounded and felt as if the entire building were about to collapse on top of them. The clamor diminished rapidly and stopped.
Once again, the red eyes peered down on them from the upper darkness, and the sounds of waiting began again.
Buffy found it interesting, but didn’t have time to give it any attention. She looked up at Ravana. The red funnel had spun its way up farther and had reached the top of the foreheads. The voices were richer, fuller. Almost complete.
“Will anything else work?” Buffy asked. “Besides alcohol?”
“No,” Willow replied. Her feet slipped as she stood and she staggered a couple steps.
The top of the shimmering twister was moving up the shiny bald scalp atop each of the ten heads. The voices were becoming louder much faster. Too loud.
To be heard over the foreign roaring, Willow raised her voice, nearly shouting, “Buffy, I should tell you —”
“S’cuse me, Will.” Buffy walked toward the spinning swirl around Ravana. Held the sword between both hands. Spun around once for momentum and swung the edge of the blade into the wobbling funnel.
The spinning surface gave way just a bit, but the blade did not pierce it. Instead, the blade was thrown away from the funnel so hard, it nearly flew from Buffy’s hand. It threw her off balance and she almost fell, but caught it back and moved in again, blade point straight at Ravana’s belly. She drove the arrow-shaped tip of the blade straight into the funnel.
The same thing happened. Buffy stumbled backward and bum
ped into Willow.
“Buffy, this fire’s getting real hot,” Willow shouted, “but I should tell you —”
“There is nothing you could do to stop it.” That voice again. Familiar. British.
“Ethan?” Buffy called into the dark. She looked around for her flashlight, any flashlight, found one, and picked it up. “Ethan Rayne?”
“At your service. Now please come here, both of you.”
Buffy stalked toward the voice. She didn’t know what was going on yet, but Rayne was there, he was part of it. She should have paid more attention to Giles’s sighting of the troublemaker.
A woman’s voice, thick from tears, cried, “Ethan? Ethan Rayne! You told me your name was Lloyd Kaufman! Why would you do that? Why would you lie to me! I would have —”
“Quiet!” Rayne bellowed, and Phyllis did as she was told.
Buffy turned on her flashlight, which she’d clipped to her belt after dispatching the policeman-Rakshasa. She could see them up ahead, their shapes, three she knew — Where is Angel? she wondered with a clench of panic — and two more, Phyllis and Rayne and . . . No, there’s another, someone standing very close to Rayne . . .
Willow caught up with Buffy and clutched her arm. “The Rakshasa were afraid of Rama!” she shouted.
“What?” Buffy slowed her pace.
Willow held the small sculpture on a chain with her fingertips. “They were afraid of this. They ran away, didn’t touch me. I-I-I’m not sure what that means, I —”
“We don’t have time to figure out what it means. Give it to me.”
Buffy let Willow drop the trinket into her hand. She stuffed it in a coat pocket and took the flashlight in hand. “It’s just regular old stone, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Carved into the figure of Ravana’s enemy, by the hands of a devout believer!”
“That makes a difference?”
“I don’t know!”
“Come here!” Rayne shouted. But even though Buffy was closer now, his voice was harder to hear because the unnatural voices coming from behind her were louder.
