Bad Bargain

by Diana G. Gallagher

  Principal Snyder hovered by the door, lying in wait for Ms. Calendar. A small, balding, disagreeable man, he blocked her way as she exited. “How late are you and these kids going to be here?”

  Xander and Michael waited on the stairs behind her.

  “Another hour or so. We can come back early tomorrow morning to finish up.” The teacher waved the boys into the corridor and rolled her eyes as Snyder locked the basement access door behind them.

  * * *

  Buffy gasped, shocked. For five dollars, the soft leather skirt was a bargain she couldn’t pass up. Pulling the must-have item off the stack, she continued down the clothes aisle to the men’s section where Willow was arranging shirts.

  “Where are you stashing stuff, Willow?” Buffy glanced around to make sure no one else was listening.

  “Stuff to buy tomorrow that they won’t let us buy today?” Willow asked pointedly.

  “Well, yeah.” Buffy was not going to feel guilty. Saving money was one way to prove to her mom that she had changed her irresponsible ways. However, the bottom line of being budget conscious was having a wardrobe that became progressively more dated with each passing day. “I can’t be the only early shopper here tonight.”

  “Hardly!” Willow laughed. “Everybody’s doing it, except me. But that’s only because I haven’t found anything worth getting in trouble for.”

  “But if you had something, where would you put it?” Buffy bent over to look under the table.

  “Well, I wouldn’t put it in a box under a table,” Willow said with certainty. “That’s the first place Ms. Calendar would look. Half the stuff people are hiding will be back on the tables by morning.”

  “Good point.” Buffy clutched the skirt tighter.

  “So if I found a men’s shirt I wanted, I’d put it in women’s slacks or sweaters or something.” Willow tugged the skirt until Buffy let go. “And I’d hide a skirt in a stack of men’s shirts.”

  “You’re sure?” Buffy frowned.

  “Would you look for chic leather in piles of plaid?” Willow held Buffy’s gaze for a knowing moment, then slipped the folded skirt between cotton knits. “Don’t worry, Buffy. Nobody that’s cool enough to know that skirt is worth a lot more than five dollars is going to get anywhere near this old guy stuff.”

  “I hope you’re right.” Buffy tried to look busy and innocent when Ms. Calendar walked into the cafeteria behind Xander and Michael Czajak. The teacher and Michael turned in opposite directions down different aisles. Xander kept coming toward them.

  “Hey, Buffy. Are you having fun yet?” Xander dropped the box on the table.

  “I didn’t volunteer to have fun, Xander.” Buffy peered at the tangle of clothes in the box and wrinkled her nose.

  “All slay and no school project makes Buffy . . .” Xander looked at her expectantly.

  “Really annoyed,” Buffy said. Then she realized Xander wasn’t trying to be difficult, and softened her tone. “I just want to spend a couple of days battling bargain hunters and not you-know-whats.”

  “For real?” Xander didn’t look convinced. “We’re not doing this to avert some diabolical threat?”

  “Other than enduring Cordelia’s disdain at the checkout table because we’re buying cast-off clothes? In a word, no.”

  “I like the extra credit part,” Willow said.

  Buffy smiled. Extra credit couldn’t boost the redheaded whiz kid’s GPA past the 4.0 she already had.

  “Okay, so the no-class thing is a plus, and I never miss a chance to score Slayer points, but . . .” Xander lowered his voice. “Look, I don’t want to burst the wishful-thinking Buffy bubble, but the you-know-whats don’t have a charity exemption.”

  Buffy leaned closer. Xander was right, and she appreciated his honesty, but there was a critical fact he had overlooked. “A tired Slayer is a dead Slayer.”

  “Point taken. Not literally,” Xander replied.

  “Looks like Michael’s in trouble,” Willow said.

  “For what?” Buffy followed Willow’s gaze across the room.

  The box Michael Czajak had brought up from the basement sat untouched. He had been caught looking through “miscellaneous junk” that had already been sorted and priced.

  “I warned you once, Michael,” Ms. Calendar said sharply.

  Michael cringed.

  “Isn’t she taking Principal Snyder’s no-early-student-shopping rule a little too seriously?” Buffy asked.

  “Yeah,” Xander agreed, “especially since he’s just trying to find something that belongs to him. His mom cleaned his room.

  “Bummer,” Willow said as the teacher pointed Michael toward the door. Embarrassed by the public reprimand, the boy fled.

  “No fair.” Buffy frowned. Since Michael seemed to value his status as a nonentity, she had never tried to get to know him. However, her Slayer soul was sensitive to any injustice. Invasion of privacy wasn’t trivial, but parental concern always trumped a kid’s territorial rights. Ever since her mother had moved her diary—a narrowly averted catastrophe Angel had observed from her bedroom closet—she had kept her room Mom-proof clean.

  Willow turned to Xander. “What did he lose? If we find it, we can stash it for him.”

  “Gold medallion on a gold chain with red and green stones,” Xander said. “It’s an amulet.”

  “As in magickal?” Willow asked, her interest moving beyond sympathy for Michael’s plight.

  Xander shrugged. “Michael thinks so. He says it protects him from Sunnydale’s evil element.”

  “Is he just guessing or has it been field tested?” Buffy asked.

  “If Michael had a close encounter with a demon and he’s still around to talk about it, then maybe the charm works,” Willow muttered thoughtfully, more to herself than her friends.

  “If charms could protect people from the big bads, my job would be a lot easier,” Buffy said.

  “And safer,” Xander added. “Which raises the question: If there’s a protection charm that works, why is Giles holding out on us?”

  “He’s not.” Willow’s brow knit with consternation. “He wouldn’t. . . . Would he?”

  “Probably not, but someone should find out.” Xander snapped a finger toward Buffy.

  “I’ll ask.” Buffy tossed Xander a shirt from the box. “In the meantime, it’s fold and stack, not stake and dust.”

  “I guess playing merchandise mart beats hanging out in the cemetery.” Xander shook out the shirt and matched the shoulder seams.

  Unless I’m meeting Angel, Buffy thought wistfully.

  “The music helps.” Willow moved to the beat of a Beatles song. “Someone should make sure Devon ‘spins the plates’ tomorrow.”

  Xander smiled. “ ‘Platters.’ It’s ‘spin the platters.’ ”

  “Platters or casseroles, Willow’s right.” Buffy slapped a price sticker on a blue-plaid flannel. “Music makes people feel good, and they buy more stuff.”

  Xander looked at her askance. “Tell me again why we care if the marching band goes to Sacramento next month.”

  “Principal Snyder is going with them to chaperone,” Buffy said. “Friday through Sunday, Sunny-dale will be Snyder free.”

  “Well, since you put it that way . . .” Xander set the shirt down and paused. “What’s this?”

  “That? Nothing.” Willow winced as Xander pulled Buffy’s leather skirt out of the stack.

  “Mine.” Buffy snatched the garment from Xander’s hand and hid it in the shirts again. “I’ll never find another one like that for five dollars.”

  “Women!” Xander scoffed. “Can’t resist a bargain.”

  “I can’t,” Willow agreed.

  Buffy eyed Xander narrowly.

  During the next hour, they unpacked a half-dozen boxes containing clothes, curtains, bedding, and other household goods. Buffy pretended not to notice when Xander hid a camouflage vest in a bright orange blanket. She waited until he took an empty box to the discard pile in the corri
dor, and then she moved the vest to another hiding place. Tomorrow, after he admitted that guys could be suckers for a good deal too, she’d give it back.

  When Ms. Calendar announced that everyone had to be out in fifteen minutes, Buffy begged off early. “All this nonlethal activity has been fun, but I promised Mom I wouldn’t be late. And you know Giles—he’ll get all preachy if I shirk Slayer duty.”

  “Patrolling home instead of strolling home?” Xander asked.

  “Something like.” Buffy headed toward the doors before Xander and Willow could offer to tag along. Angel was almost always tracking her when she checked the local cemeteries for new vamps. More often than not he wanted to talk, and talking usually led to kissing—unless she had company.

  To all outward appearances, Sunnydale was no different from any small American town on a Thursday night. Sparse traffic cruised well-lit streets and idled unmolested at red lights. A few oblivious joggers ran along park paths, while dog walkers stayed on the sidewalks. Cats yowled in backyards, and TVs blared through open windows. Nothing seemed amiss. No demonic threat registered on Buffy’s Slayer radar, but something didn’t feel right.

  The feeling persisted when Buffy entered the cemetery, but she couldn’t pinpoint the source. She couldn’t detect the malodorous essence of a demon in the stench of decomposing corpses and moldy dirt. The chirp of insects and the rustle of leaves were the only sounds. Nothing moved except small animals, the nocturnal predators hunting them, and Angel.

  Buffy sensed the vampire before he emerged from the shadows. His presence had a distinct signature, a unique combination of the goodness emanating from his tortured soul and the primal power that flowed through his imposing physique. She shivered, feeling warm and chilled as he strode across the manicured ground between tombstones.

  Buffy tensed, her breath lodged in her throat, anticipating a kiss when Angel stopped and stared down at her. His words cut the romance out of the moment.

  “Something’s wrong.” Angel turned away, frowning.

  “What?” Buffy asked, mortified. Bad breath? Bad hair?

  “I don’t know, it’s just . . .” A dark scowl creased Angel’s brow. “I’ve had this creepy-crawly feeling all night.”

  “Oh, bad vibes!” Buffy sagged with relief and choked back a laugh. The thought of Angel having the heebie-jeebies was amusing, except for the lethal implications. Anything that unsettled the vampire couldn’t possibly be funny.

  “Sort of.” Angel paced, thinking out loud. “It’s hard to describe.”

  “Like being buried in bugs or smothered in snakes?” Buffy shivered again, this time with revulsion.

  “Not exactly.” Angel paused, one hand on his hip, the other smoothing back dark hair.

  “Oh.” Buffy leaned against a large tree, disappointed that Angel wasn’t being driven crazy with longing for her. Then again, maybe he was, but the new thing—whatever it turned out to be—was getting in the way. “So you don’t have a clue what’s going on?”

  “No,” Angel said, shaking his head. “The demonic street is silent—not a word about anything nasty about to go down.”

  The concept of demonic gossip made Buffy uneasy. The image of fanged vampires and other foul creatures trading predictions of doom over goblets of blood was deceptively comical—and more insidious because of it.

  “But I trust my instincts”—Angel shot her a questioning look—“and yours. Haven’t you noticed anything?”

  “My early warning system’s on alert,” Buffy admitted, “but no four-alarm massacres have broken out. Does a socially outcast kid looking for a protection charm his mother donated to the school rummage sale count?”

  “I’m sensing something much worse than anything a superstitious kid could conjure,” Angel said. “Still, a threat doesn’t have to be big or obvious to be devastating.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” It was getting late, but Buffy couldn’t bring herself to say good-bye. She waited for Angel to make the next move. She had accepted the he-vampire-she-slayer problem, and they were on equal footing with the demon fighting and passionate kissing, but he was still older by more than a couple of centuries. That was a cultural hurdle she hadn’t totally reconciled—yet.

  “I’ll walk you through the cemetery,” Angel offered, holding out his hand. “Then you should probably get home.”

  “Yeah, I probably should.” Buffy smiled and slipped her hand into his. There was nowhere she’d rather be than alone with Angel, even if only for a few minutes walking through a graveyard.

  * * *

  Spike exploded out of his chair when the bottle of vintage French blood hit the wall behind him. He and the ancient text he was trying to translate escaped being splattered, but his train of thought had been thoroughly disrupted.

  “Oh, fits and giblets,” Drusilla said, pouting. “I missed the mark quite entirely.”

  Biting his tongue, Spike watched the red rivulets run down the brick factory wall between pipes. He made sure his seething annoyance was under control before he spoke. “So you were trying to hit me.”

  “Did you hear that, Miss Edith?” Dru murmured into the porcelain ear of her favorite doll. “I think Spike found his voice and a word or two to go with it.”

  Noting the fragile vampire’s pique, Spike stared at the floor. No matter how carefully he chose his words, there was no guarantee he could diffuse her anger or make her see reason. Drusilla was as vicious a vampire as had ever preyed upon the earth. She was also insane. When her twisted mind latched on to an idea, it was practically impossible to dislodge. He wanted nothing more than to cure the wasting disease that had slowly sapped her strength the past few decades. He had devoted his time and energies almost exclusively to the task, but today that mattered not a whit.

  “He must pay a penance for ignoring us.” Dru turned toward Spike, the doll dangling from her fist. The glint of madness burned in the darkness of her corrupt gaze. “Perhaps he should lick the remains of Count Le Clerq off the wall. Can’t have all that royal blood feeding the spiders, now can we?”

  “It’s not a great loss, Dru. The last time we uncorked a bottle of the count, he tasted musty.”

  Drusilla ran the tip of her tongue over teeth as white as her translucent skin. “But he was so handsome, all dressed in blue with a feather in his cap—like the painting, only warmer.”

  “Perhaps you’d like something fresher.” Smiling, Spike stepped closer and drew her slim body into his arms.

  “A dressmaker would be nice.”

  “They’re called designers now, love.” Spike touched his lips to the dark ringlets that framed her delicate face. “But none of them reside in this forsaken hamlet. I could fetch you a plump, young toddler.”

  “I’m not hungry.” Dru pushed away. “I fancy an outing. Miss Edith needs a new frock, all frilly with lace. A hanging’s not the same without white lace to catch the bloody spittle.”

  “And what’s Miss Edith done to deserve hanging?” Spike asked, humoring her.

  “Telling tales of beasties swarming and slithering about”—Dru’s voice became hushed—“all grim with grit and grime.

  “Is something coming?” Spike asked, alerted by her haunted tone. Dru’s ramblings were not always nonsensical. Sometimes the riddles were clues to her prescient visions.

  “They weren’t invited.” Cocking her head, Dru looked at him coyly. “I’ll need a new dress for the party, with velvet wings for dancing on the ceiling.”

  Spike had no idea if her references to hangings, beasts, and parties were the disjointed parts of a premonition or simply inconsequential babbling. As a matter of survival, he couldn’t risk overlooking any threat. However, the bits and pieces of the puzzle had to be coaxed from Dru’s mind.

  “You want to go shopping,” Spike said. For once he could safely satisfy her demented whim. “I know just the place.”

  Chapter Two

  “It’s almost dawn.” Spike nuzzled Dru’s neck, hoping to lure her away from the
tables of used wares. They had been in the school for hours, but she wanted to look through the rummage sale items one more time. “We have to go.”

  “But I need a hat pin, a pearl one—white like chipmunk eyes when the fox bites.” Dru added bright green boxer shorts to the other materials and bric-a-brac in her wicker basket. “And more socks.”

  “You’ve got a dozen pair there,” Spike pointed out impatiently. “All colors and sizes.”

  “Tiny tunics for voodoo dollies,” Dru cooed with a delighted giggle. “But they won’t do without pins to stick.”

  Throwing up his hands, Spike returned to the display cases on the table near the door. As he snapped off the lock and raised the glass cover, he heard a distant door open and close. In her weakened state, Drusilla could barely overpower a teenaged girl. She had only barely escaped Prague, where a brutal mob would have torn her apart and left the pieces to fry in the morning sun.

  Scooping up a handful of jewelry, Spike hurried back across the room. “We have to leave, Dru—now.”

  “But I’ve not finished looking for baubles,” Dru whined.

  “Here.” Spike dropped the tangle of gold, silver, and rhinestone trinkets into her basket and glanced toward the cafeteria doors. He would like nothing better then to cull a crowd of unsuspecting teenagers for breakfast, but his first responsibility was to Dru.

  Dru stared at the glittering jewelry then recoiled with an alarmed hiss. “Fireflies and bloodstones.”

  “Come on.” Taking Dru’s hand, Spike pulled her toward the basement door. The locked dead bolt broke and turned easily in his vampire grip.

  They had entered the school through the main doors under the cover of darkness. At sunrise the only safe way out was through the network of electrical tunnels and sewers that ran underneath the town.

  Dru balked at the top of the stairs. “Maids and knaves to slaughter in the belly of the beast.”

  Spike frowned. Her hesitation was rooted in fear, not obstinacy. They were very close to the Hellmouth, and he assumed the convergence of mystical forces was affecting her addled but highly receptive mind. However, petulant and easily bored, Dru didn’t have the patience for hiding in the school until sundown. They had to go underground to escape.