CHILD of the HUNT

by Christopher Golden

  As one of them sank its teeth into Buffy’s hand, Angel whipped his head up. As if they shared one mind, the creatures immediately leaped away, then skittered into the copse of trees. Shrieking and laughing, they darted like animals under bushes, reappearing on the other side, massing in groups, then breaking away, racing headlong for the trees.

  “Let’s finish them off,” Buffy said, panting as she half-limped, half-ran after them. She was bleeding. She hurt all over.

  “No, Buffy,” Angel said. “They aren’t alone.”

  She pressed against the stitch in her side and tried to catch her breath. “What?”

  “Someone called them off,” Angel told her, pointing toward the trees. “With a hunting horn.”

  Buffy frowned. “Yeah, well, we’ll kick Horn Guy’s butt, too,” she said.

  She started forward again. Then she felt a sudden rush of dizziness, tripped over an outcropping of rock, and fell to her knees. Something on the ground shone brightly in the moonlight.

  “Buffy,” Angel said, dropping down beside her. “You okay?”

  “Hey, look at this.” She stared at the locket in the grass. The moonlight glinted off a shiny, heart-shaped locket . . . engraved with the name CONNY.

  “Oh, God,” Buffy said.

  Xander had gone to the lounge for snack food. Cordelia was just saying goodbye to Giles when Buffy limped in to the library, holding the locket. Angel trailed behind, staring back over his shoulder as if he expected the devilish creatures to attack once again.

  “Good Lord, what happened to you?” Giles demanded, rushing toward Buffy. “Cordelia, go to the girls’ bathroom and get some paper towels and water.”

  Cordelia, looking freaked, ran past Buffy and stopped at Angel. “Wow, you guys look awful,” she said, “except, of course, that you look better in general,” and ran on.

  “What happened?” Giles asked, as Buffy slowly sank into a chair at the study table. She groaned.

  “It’s a good thing I’m the Slayer and he’s a vampire,” Buffy said, “or we’d probably be dead.”

  Giles began examining her wounds. “You were attacked?”

  “No,” she said. “We went bowling.”

  “Fair enough, it was a stupid question.” He went into his office and came back with a first aid kit. “Angel, you should sit down as well.”

  Gingerly Giles applied some antiseptic to the cuts on Buffy’s arm. It stung a little, but she barely noticed as she stared at the locket.

  Angel crossed the room slowly. His silk shirt and leather pants were ripped, revealing parts of his thighs and a peek of his right hip. There was a long scratch on his chest that crossed from one side of his rib cage and plummeted toward his other hip. And as for his face . . .

  She caught her breath. He was gazing at her. He smiled painfully, and she knew he missed her, too. Missed her touch. Missed touching her.

  Resolutely, she made herself look away.

  “These things . . . I saw them once, a long time ago. As a boy,” Angel said, his voice tinged with irony and sadness. “I thought I had had a nightmare. I cried out for my mother.”

  “Indeed?” Giles listened intently as he put gauze over the biggest cut on Buffy’s arm. Then he stopped and examined her skin more closely. “These bite marks are identical . . .”

  “We’ve found our interdimensional raccoons,” Buffy said.

  Angel shrugged. “Until now, I always thought I’d really dreamed them. We used to call them the wee folk.”

  “Leprechauns?” Buffy asked, astounded, wincing as Giles applied more antiseptic to her arm. “Like in those movies?”

  “No.” Angel described them to Giles, searching for the right words. “I don’t have any idea if those legends are true, but these are completely different creatures. They’re elfin, but very tiny, almost gnomelike.”

  “Dark faerie?” Giles mused.

  Angel shrugged. “We called them the wee folk. Not nice creatures. If anything went wrong, we believed they did it. If your milk soured, or your child got sick—”

  “Or you failed math,” Buffy added. “Useful.” She remembered the locket. “We found this.”

  Giles put down the kit and looked at the locket. “Conny.” He was quiet for a moment. “Buffy, do you recall my mentioning the woman who runs the runaway shelter? I believe her missing daughter’s name is Connie.”

  “Connie DeMarco,” Buffy said. “Yeah, I know.” Her voice was ragged. “Only, I’m thinking—well, okay, hoping—that it’s a different girl. Conny somebody else.”

  “I’ve seen the name written down. Your mother had a big list in the gallery, along with their faces.” He examined the necklace. “I’m fairly certain it was spelled the other way. I wonder if I should phone Jamie.”

  “What would her locket be doing around the site of a cattle mutilation?” Buffy asked.

  “There’s more,” Angel said. He looked hard at Giles. “I heard a hunting horn. And the baying of hounds.”

  “Hunters,” Giles said. “There’s nothing to hunt here, in the sense of normal hunting, anyway. No deer or elk, not even ducks. Were they your usual hunters? Camouflage jackets, that sort of thing?”

  “I said I heard them,” Angel replied. “I didn’t see anything.”

  “Because they were up in the forest,” Buffy filled in. “And it was dark.”

  “They called the wee folk off.” Angel daubed at a cut on Buffy’s face. “Buffy’s right in saying the faerie could have killed us, but when the horn blew, they took off.” He glanced at Buffy. “Buffy couldn’t hear the horn. Or the dogs.”

  “It’s all those evil rock concerts I’ve been attending,” Buffy said. “Ruined my hearing.”

  Just then Cordelia burst back in with Xander in tow. “Hey, Buffy, what are you going to tell your mom? I’m thinking car accident, at least.” Then she caught herself. “Oh, that’s right. She knows.”

  “Oh, my God, Buffy, what did he do to you?” Xander cried, then stopped when he saw Angel, nostrils flaring in distaste. “Dead Boy,” he said, by way of greeting.

  “We were attacked by the anti-pixies,” Buffy said. “These weird little thingies.”

  Xander stared down at Buffy with real concern on his face. It was not the smoldering look Angel had given her. Xander was freaked. Angel had known that the Slayer would heal. Xander had forgotten that, or still didn’t quite get it. He was seeing a badly injured friend. Buffy didn’t want to remind him that he had seen it before, and he would see it again.

  “Cordy, no mom could see her kid messed up like this and not have a total meltdown,” Xander said, then added, “I think.”

  Buffy said nothing. It would be another night of climbing in through the window. With any luck, her mom would not be sitting on her bed with tears in her eyes.

  Lately, her luck had not been so good. But it was better than Conny’s.

  Giles said, “Buffy, if you need to go home, Cordelia and Xander can take you. Angel and I will look into this a bit further.”

  Not a temptation. “No,” Buffy told him, “I’ll stay, too.”

  “If you’re sure you’re up to it,” Giles said. She nodded again.

  He looked at Cordelia. “I believe I heard a rumor that some of you have been getting into trouble for staying out late. If that’s the case, I suggest you put in an appearance at home as soon as possible.”

  “Great!” Cordelia enthused. Then she frowned and said, “Oh, but I was so hoping to help you look through all those moldy books for pictures of monsters.” She shrugged. “Too bad. My terrible loss.”

  “Good night, Cordelia,” Buffy said dryly.

  She reached for Xander’s hand. “I’ll take you home.”

  Xander began to protest, but Buffy cut him off. “Xand, we’ve got a lot of eyeballs here,” she said. “Your parents are probably wondering if they should call nine-one-one.”

  He smiled unhappily. “No, Buffy, really, they’re not.”

  “Xander, I’d feel better if
you made sure Cordelia’s car checks out. Who knows where these creatures are hiding?” Giles said. “Obviously, they were in my car. They could be in hers as well.”

  “Ew.” Cordelia made a face.

  “Okay,” Xander said. He took another look at Buffy. “When we find those little monsters, I’m going to take each and every one of them out.”

  Buffy smiled at him. “I know.”

  Cordelia leaned around Xander and said to Buffy, “To hide all those scratches and stuff? Lots of foundation. But apply each coat thinly, let it dry, and then apply the next. You can’t just glob it on. That’s why you look so cakey half the time.”

  Then she smiled kindly and left the library with Xander in her wake.

  Buffy sighed. “The other half of the time, I look so bloody.”

  “So, it seems as though we’ve had an encounter with dark faerie,” Giles said, crossing into his office. “Hmm. I believe I’ve got some reference books.” He began making a lot of book-moving noises. “Quite a number of them, actually.”

  Buffy sighed. “There’s a surprise.” Maybe I should have gone home.

  “Buffy, Angel, would you like some tea?”

  “Sure,” Buffy said. “If you’re buying.”

  “I’m brewing. “He peered out of the office, seemed to consider his hospitality a moment, and then said, “Angel?”

  “Thanks,” Angel replied, sliding into a chair next to Buffy.

  Buffy’s mind was racing as she tried to make sense of what had happened, to find connections. It seemed somehow that everything that had been happening in Sunnydale of late was connected. Little Timmy Stagnatowski—his parents had only thought he’d run away. But this girl Conny, and Jamie Anderson’s son, they were the real thing. And that boy at the Renaissance Faire. Roland.

  Buffy said, “You know that boy Roland? At the Faire? No, you don’t know that boy Roland. He’s a runaway, Giles. I’m sure of it.” She thought for a moment and picked the locket back up. “Like Conny.”

  A clearing in the forest:

  The Gathering, as the Hunters converged. Shapes shimmered in the moonlight, searching for form as the dark faerie swarmed, cackling and frolicking. The breath of the Hunters blew like fog, the panting of the hellhounds and stallions roiled like smoke.

  A phantom horn blew.

  Dogs bayed.

  Half-crazed, exhausted, and alone, Shock sat crouched behind a boulder as the ugly little creatures pranced. He had followed Treasure’s screams to this place, hitching a ride with a trucker on his way to L.A.

  That he could still hear her screaming baffled and terrified him. He hadn’t been able to find her anywhere.

  Beyond the rock, the little monsters cackled.

  Shock crawled away as silently as he could. He couldn’t handle this alone.

  After all these years, it was time to go home.

  Hours later, heads crammed with stuff about wee folk and dark faerie that still didn’t make sense with what was going on, Angel and Buffy made their good nights to Giles. The librarian, on the phone with various Watchers all over the globe, had stared at them for a beat too long, then given his head a shake and said, “Good night.”

  It didn’t take much to remind Buffy that Angel had snapped Jenny Calendar’s neck, but so often it had been Giles who had come to Angel’s defense when Xander trashed him, reminding him that Angel was Angel now, not Angelus. So it hurt when it was clear Giles was uneasy to see Angel and her alone. They knew they couldn’t . . . be together ever again. They were trying to accept it. Surely Giles didn’t think they would risk Angel’s soul again, in a moment of reckless passion?

  At Buffy’s door, Angel paused and Buffy said, “My mom’s not home. Would you like to come in?”

  Slowly he shook his head. “Not a good idea.” He gestured to her wounds. “You should soak in a hot bath and take some aspirin. You’re going to be sore tomorrow.”

  “You won’t be,” she chided.

  “Maybe a little.”

  Then he kissed her, just a bit. Not a boyfriend kiss. But not just a friend kiss either. Which was fine, because Buffy figured it was time for them to invent a new kind of relationship. Neither of the others had really worked out for them.

  Yet as they stood beneath the stars, torn and cut from fighting side by side, she couldn’t help but tighten her arms around his neck and kiss him the way she used to. And even as she did it, she thought, Oh, God, I’m being so stupid.

  It was Angel who caught his breath and moved gently away.

  Then he turned and walked into the night.

  Chapter 6

  THE NEXT MORNING, AS SOON AS IT WAS A DECENT HOUR, Giles accompanied Jamie Anderson to the home of Liz DeMarco. The streets of her neighborhood were lined with broken-down cars and overflowing trash cans. A family in a tinderbox of a house was holding a yard sale. A box near the curb read USED SHOES 25 CENTS. Two large women in flowered housecoats were pawing eagerly through it.

  They turned left at a combination mini-mart and gas station, then drove two more blocks.

  Jamie pulled over and said to Giles, “Be sure to lock.”

  It was a sad little apartment redolent of gas fumes and motor oil. On the wall above the television set was a statue of the Virgin Mary with outstretched hands. A crucifix hung above a short, dark hallway.

  Giles wondered if he told Mrs. DeMarco of the things he had seen and done, if she would retain her faith. It was even possible that his revelations would serve to strengthen it. However, today was not the day to test her.

  “Artie?” she called uncertainly, when Giles smiled kindly through the frayed screen door and asked to come in. He had called ahead, and she had murmured, “Oh, my God,” and asked him to come over right away. Distractedly, she explained that she’d been on her way to Mass, but she would stay home and wait for him and the thoughtful police officer who had returned her call. He had promised to move heaven and earth to find her Connie.

  The small front room was littered with flyers about the shelter, boxes, and piles of what appeared to be used clothing. The couch was covered with grocery sacks. Flushing, she picked one up and looked around for a place to put it back down in the crowded room.

  “Please, sit down,” she said, glancing over her shoulder down the hall. “My husband . . .” She ran her hands through her hair. “He, well, he’s so angry. At her.” She took a breath. “Please, show me the locket.”

  Wordlessly, Jamie Anderson pulled a plastic bag from a manila envelope he carried. The envelope was marked EVIDENCE, POSS. HOMICIDE. Giles hoped Mrs. DeMarco had not noticed that.

  As soon as she saw the bag, she gave a little cry and sat in the space on the couch. She leaned forward and buried her face in her hands. She nodded.

  “It’s hers.” Her voice trembled. She burst into tears. “You found nothing else?”

  “No, ma’am,” Jamie said in a low, soft voice. “It’s very possible it was dropped by accident. That sort of thing.”

  Giles wasn’t sure that she had heard him. She continued, “She had this boyfriend. This . . . Bobby. His family’s illegal. His mother used to clean house for the people who own the garage where my husband works. The father, I don’t know where he is.”

  She wiped her face. “He gave Connie that locket for her birthday. He didn’t know how to spell her name. He barely speaks English. I—I saw them . . . together. I was worried. You can’t be too careful these days. Kids grow up so fast.”

  She took the plastic bag. Jamie said, “Please don’t open it, Mrs. DeMarco.”

  She turned the bag over, staring at the locket through the plastic. Running her fingers over the name. She looked on the verge of losing her composure again, but she held steady. Giles admired her enormously.

  “I’m afraid I lost my temper with her. She made some remarks. I—I insulted the boy. I didn’t mean to. I was ashamed of what I was saying even while I was saying it.”

  “Remarks, ma’am?”

  Mrs. DeMarco looked down at t
he locket.

  “What Liz don’t want to say is, she told her he was a moron,” boomed a voice from the hallway. Then a man in a stained blue work shirt with wet, dark hair strode into the room. It was clear he had just stepped from the shower. In his day, he might have been what one considered a burly man. Now, he had run to fat.

  “I’m Connie’s father. What’s she up to? Did you find the little tramp?”

  “Artie,” Mrs. DeMarco said, raising a face filled with pain toward her husband.

  “She is a tramp, going with all them boys. We’ve warned her. Look at us: got married way too young.” He seemed to catch himself. “Not that we ain’t happy. But Liz here, at least, she could’ve gone to college. That brat wrecked her figure, screwed our futures.” He shrugged. “Then she does this to us.”

  Jamie nodded. “I see.”

  “Oh, you don’t see nothing,” the man said in hostile tones. “You see a cheap apartment with a fat, mean husband. You don’t see the years we tried to make her happy, give her everything. I’m bitter, I’ll give you that. But I wasn’t always. Lot of other guys woulda run, but I stood up. I did the right thing.” He sighed. “I was just a punk kid. Seventeen years old. But I did the right thing.”

  Mrs. DeMarco sobbed on the couch. “What aren’t you telling us, Detective?” she asked. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”

  “Ma’am, I sincerely hope not.” Jamie put the plastic bag back into the envelope. Giles noted that Mr. DeMarco had not asked to see it. “I truly have no other information at this time.”

  She nodded. “I’m going to the shelter after I go to see my priest,” she told him. “If you hear anything . . . ?”

  “I’ll call you there.” Jamie patted his pocket. “I have the number.”

  “Okay.”

  “Good day, Mrs. DeMarco,” Giles said.

  “You’re the librarian,” she said to him. “The kids at the shelter, some of them talk about you.”

  “Indeed?” He was a trifle alarmed. “And what do they say?”