CHILD of the HUNT

by Christopher Golden

  “They think your accent is cool.” She smiled weakly. “Some of the girls want to know if you know Prince William.”

  His smile was sad. “Lie to them.”

  “I do,” she said painfully. “Every single day.”

  Jamie inclined his head. “Mrs. DeMarco. Mr. DeMarco.”

  The two men left together, Jamie leading the way. The screen door banged behind them.

  “What is it with you?” Mr. DeMarco yelled at his wife. “Always with the priest, always with that damn shelter. What about me? I’m falling apart.”

  “Artie, I’m sorry,” Mrs. DeMarco said. “It’s just that I have a chance to do some good—”

  “Yeah, you done real good with that little piece of work. When she comes home, I’m going to beat her—”

  “You are not going to touch her!” she shouted.

  Jamie ticked his glance toward Giles as they got into Jamie’s police car.

  “That’s the way people think all of us are,” he told Giles. “They think if your kid has run away, there’s a reason. You’re molesting them, or you’re beating them. It’s never . . .” His voice trailed off. “It’s never that they just left, and you have no idea why.” He wiped his forehead. “Man, I could use a drink.”

  “Steady, old man,” Giles said.

  Jamie sighed, nodded. “I know. I’ll find out tomorrow if I still have a job. Need any help at the library?”

  “It’s a dismal job, really,” Giles said. “Being a high school librarian, I mean.”

  “So’s being a cop in this day and age.”

  They traded looks of commiseration.

  “Could you drop me at the library?” Giles’s car was in the shop. Not the one where Artie DeMarco worked. One where they told him it would probably be cheaper for him to buy a new car than to fix his ancient Citroen.

  He had told them to salvage his car at any costs. Newer was not better. Not even in America.

  Joyce parked her car and glanced uncertainly around. The shelter was in the worst part of town and in a very run-down building, so bad that on the second story, all of the windows were broken. It was brick, and with a lot of work—a tremendous amount of work—it could be charming. It must be a very old building. Brick was unusual in southern California because of the earthquakes.

  She couldn’t help but admit to some disappointment. When she’d offered to hold the benefit, she’d pictured a sunny little place somewhere, kids playing Ping-Pong, that sort of thing. Naive, she knew, especially when compared to the reality: raucous music, so loud she could barely hear herself think. Posters about AIDS, teen pregnancy, and suicide had been pasted on either side of the peeling brown door. It hadn’t been like this when she was a girl. Why, in her high school, there hadn’t been a single—

  Oh, yes, there had.

  Her hand on the door, she froze.

  There had been a girl named Elise Alexander, and she had killed herself. Handfuls of pills. No one knew exactly why. Some said it was a boy. Some said something awful had happened to her. It was the talk of the school, and yet no one really knew anything.

  Now Joyce vividly recalled her own mother saying, “That poor girl. She had nowhere to turn.”

  So maybe it didn’t matter that as she opened the door she was greeted by the din of what passed these days for music, a choking cloud of cigarette smoke, and a handful of very hostile young faces staring back at her. Boys with enormous, elaborate tattoos and girls in makeup that hardened and aged them. The kids all tensed as she stood in the doorway. Pasty white faces and closed, angry dark ones.

  Frightened ones.

  She paused on the threshold, scanning for Liz DeMarco.

  A boy about Buffy’s age strutted over to her. He wore jeans belled so big around the legs you could fit a mop bucket in them. His faded T-shirt said THE MERMEN A GLORIOUS LETHAL EUPHORIA.

  “You a social worker?” he asked with disdain. “Or a cop?”

  “Neither,” she said. “I came to see Mrs. DeMarco. She’s a friend of mine.”

  “Liz?” He gestured with his head. “She’s in the back.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled at him. He didn’t smile back. Instead, he slouched away and noisily straddled a metal folding chair. Glowering beneath a sign that said, NO SMOKING. CALIFORNIA STATE LAW, he lit up a fresh cigarette, stared at Joyce, and exhaled the smoke in a long, slow breath.

  She pitied him. It took so much effort to be that angry. He must figure he had just cause.

  Maybe he did.

  She hurried to the back and found Liz hunched over a battered desk with a pile of what looked to be bills at her elbow and a checkbook held open with a coffee cup.

  But Liz was not writing checks. She was crying as if her heart had broken.

  Joyce hurried to her, squatted beside the desk, and touched Liz’s arm.

  Liz started, then melted into Joyce’s embrace. She said, “They found her locket.”

  Joyce knew that. Liz had told her that on the phone. But now she said, “Oh, Liz,” and let the woman cry.

  “She’s dead. I know she’s dead,” Liz sobbed. “My baby’s dead.”

  “We don’t know that.” And for sure in Sunnydale we don’t know that, Joyce thought.

  “She loved that locket. She loved that boy. I should have let her see him.” She fought to compose herself. “You know, you worry about if they go with the wrong one. My mother worried about that.”

  She was right to. Joyce had to bite back the words. She thought Artie DeMarco was one of the most obnoxious men she’d ever met. According to Giles, Liz worshiped him, which made no sense to Joyce at all.

  Liz sat up and opened a drawer. “I have a box of Kleenex somewhere,” she said.

  Joyce rummaged in her own purse. “Here.” She handed the other woman a tissue.

  “Thanks.” She blew her nose. “The thing I don’t understand is why she hates me so much.” Liz’s face clouded. “I think she thinks I’m sorry she was born. That she ruined my life. You see we, um, we had to get married. But I’ve always loved her. She’s the joy of my life.”

  Joyce patted her arm. “Kids get mixed up sometimes, Liz.” And so do their parents.

  But Liz would not be comforted with empty platitudes. “Every night I lie awake, going over and over the things I’ve said to her. We’ve had our fights, sure. What mother and teenage daughter haven’t? But for her to believe that I hate her. I’ve never given her any cause to believe that.”

  Joyce didn’t know what to say. She really didn’t. So she did what she had wanted to do so many times with Buffy.

  Hold her, saying nothing.

  Just hold her.

  Buffy lay across her bed, sore and bruised, as Angel had predicted, and heard the front door close. She held the phone to her ear, half-listening as Willow continued, “So I just think you should be careful, Buffy. I’m only telling you this because I care about you.”

  Buffy opened her mouth to protest, but the memory of Angel’s kiss weighed heavily on her mind. “I know we can’t . . . seize the moment again, Will,” she said. “But we, we’ll, we’re trying to find some way to at least stay in each other’s lives.” She sighed.

  “I don’t mean to make you feel bad,” Willow said sincerely.

  “I know.” Buffy sighed again. “You’re a friend to me, Will. I’m glad you’re saying these things because I need to hear them.”

  “It’s not because he tried to kill me,” Willow persisted. “Well, kill me, yes, maybe that has some thing to do with it. A little. But I don’t want him to hurt you. In any way.”

  Tears welled in Buffy’s eyes. “I know.”

  “Buffy?” Joyce called.

  Buffy huffed. “I should go. My mom’s home and I’m sure there’re groceries to bring in or artworks to uncrate or something.”

  “It’s probably ‘or something,’” Willow offered. “Like she wants to take you to the mall for new shoes.”

  “That’s definitely it,” Buffy drawled.


  “What did she say when she saw you?”

  Buffy bit her lower lip. “Now that you mention it, she hasn’t seen me yet.”

  A beat. “You’re pretty messed up.”

  “Well, at least I don’t have to pretend I’m in a gang. Or a rock band.”

  They both chuckled grimly.

  “How is it over there?” Buffy added. They hadn’t really caught up on Willow’s deal with her parents and Oz, and Buffy was sorry.

  “The same, I think. They want me to go out with a nuclear physicist.”

  “Who would be way too old for you,” Buffy pointed out reasonably.

  “Buffy?” Her mother sounded a little exasperated.

  “I do have to go,” Buffy said. “I’m sorry, Will.”

  “Later.”

  Buffy hung up and swung off her bed just as her mother started up the stairs. Crossing the room to her mirror, Buffy glanced at herself. Grimaced. She looked terrible. Keywords: Foundation. Cakey. Car accident. Bloody.

  Sheesh.

  She took a deep breath and faced the doorway.

  “Oh, my God,” her mother said when she saw her.

  “Um, hi,” Buffy said perkily. “Did you have a nice time at the shelter?” Then she remembered why her mother had gone there and dropped her act. “How is Mrs. DeMarco?”

  “My God.” Joyce came to her and gently cradled her face. She stared at the bruises. “Buffy, do you . . . can’t you . . . ?”

  Buffy swallowed hard. “Mom,” she warned, “we’ve been over this a million times. I’m the Slayer. It’s what I do. What I have to do.”

  “You’re my baby,” Joyce said softly. “Buffy, let’s talk. Really talk.” She hesitated. “I have to go to the gallery now. And I have a meeting tomorrow night with the police. We’re trying to get the department to organize a runaway task force. But Tuesday evening I want to talk as soon as I get home from work.”

  Buffy said steadily, “Okay, Mom.”

  Her mother let her go. “I think you should stay home from school tomorrow.”

  “Your wish is my command,” Buffy said lightly.

  Joyce left the room.

  Buffy picked up the phone and speed-dialed.

  Willow’s line beeped.

  “Um, hello?” Willow said.

  Buffy smiled. “Let me guess. Oz is on the other line.”

  “Oh, gee, Buffy. I can tell him to call back later.”

  “Never mind. I just wanted to tell you this dumb joke,” Buffy assured her. “It’ll keep.”

  “Oh, no, go ahead. What is it?”

  “It’s okay, Will. Go talk to Oz.”

  They disconnected.

  Buffy whispered, “Me. I’m the joke.”

  On Tuesday afternoon, Oz’s van was parked in front of Willow’s house. Buffy sat in the back with Willow, Xander, and Oz, idly picking at her bandages. Her mother had decreed that she looked passable enough to go to school, and so she’d shown up in biology class just in time to fail a pop quiz.

  Now, glancing up, she caught the movement of the curtains in the Rosenbergs’ living room. Poor Willow. Her parents were spying on her. Buffy’s buddy seemed oblivious, her attention split between the matter at hand and admiring Oz in his bowling shirt.

  Xander clapped his hands and said, “Okay. As former treasurer of the We Hate Cordelia club, and current Semi-Grand Poohbah of World Slayage Incorporated, I open this meeting of We Jolly Four. Or is that ‘Us’?”

  Buffy held out her hands. “Roland’s in trouble. And we all had a wiggins at that Faire. Meanwhile, these evil pixie-things had a locket that belonged to a missing girl. Whose mother runs the runaway shelter, by the way, and is now my mother’s new best friend. And Cordelia’s dress was slashed—at the Faire—like I’m slashed. So I’m starting to wonder if maybe it’s all connected.”

  “Isn’t it always?” Oz said, as if the plain fact should be obvious to them all.

  “I’m wondering, too,” Xander said. “So, shall we take us to the Faire?”

  Oz nodded. “I’m in.”

  Willow nodded. “Me, too.”

  Xander said, “That makes it a foursome. But not a double date,” he added, his tone a little wistful. “Gee, too bad Cordy has a hair appointment. You just know she’d love to come with us.”

  Willow smiled. “She has nice hair.”

  Oz’s adoring look was not lost on Buffy. Or Willow. Or Xander.

  “Okay,” Buffy said. “But you understand, we’ll be crashing. We’re known there now, and if something’s going on . . . well, we already know something’s going on. We just don’t know what it is.” Buffy checked Xander’s watch. He had given up the Tweety Bird for something that wouldn’t humiliate Cordelia. That made Buffy sad. Xander was Xander, not some guy from GQ. If that’s what Cordelia wanted, she should find it, not force-fit him into some fantasy she had.

  “Look,” she said, not wanting to say what she had to say. Because she had no right to force-fit these guys into something they might not be—or might not want to be—either. “Maybe you guys should just sit this one out. Maybe Giles is right.” She looked at Willow. “Your parents are already angry enough with you.”

  “They aren’t angry, exactly,” Willow offered, and jerked as if she had just remembered Oz was sitting next to her. “They just want me to um, study hard so I can go to college.”

  Oz shrugged. “You’re a studying machine, Willow. It’ll be cool.”

  “It’ll be cool,” Willow said meaningfully to Buffy.

  “Buffy, look at you,” Xander said. “No offense, but after the other night, you aren’t exactly prime real estate. If you never needed us before—which you did—you most definitely need us now. We’re in. The Slayerettes reign supreme. Period. End of story.”

  “Thanks, guys.” Buffy took a deep breath. “We’ll meet up later, then. I have to go home now. My mom took one look at me Sunday morning and asked me to pencil in plenty of ‘quality time.’”

  She looked at the pitying faces. “Which could mean a long talk about my bizarre direction in life, doubtless disguised as a lecture on my most recent rash of bad grades and unexcused absences, or it could mean a pigout on freshly baked cookies which we, in a moment of bonding, freshly bake ourselves.”

  Xander raised a finger. “If Cordelia were here, she would remind you that lectures aren’t fattening.”

  “And I would be so grateful.” Buffy smiled tightly.

  “Hey, just trying to brighten up your day.”

  Willow bailed while everyone else climbed into seats in the van. Oz started the engine and Xander said, “On your mark, get set, stall.”

  And they were off.

  In the library, Giles shook his head and put aside Phantom Hunts: Myths and Legends. Perhaps these hunters of Angel’s were masquerading as Renaissance Faire personnel. To capture runaway children?

  The library phone rang. Absently he picked up. “Giles,” he said.

  “Rupert? It’s Jamie Anderson.”

  “Yes.”

  He braced himself for bad news about Connie DeMarco. On the Hellmouth, one expected nothing less. Except that Jamie Anderson had not been so much as reprimanded at work for public drunkenness. His superior had taken him into his office and asked him how he was, then meaningfully told him to be careful. That was it.

  And that was good news, after all.

  “Rupert, my boy has come home! My son’s with me here, right now.”

  “Oh?” Giles smiled broadly, quite astonished. “That’s wonderful. Brilliant. I’m absolutely delighted for you.”

  “All these years. I was going crazy . . . well, you know that. You know what it’s like to lose someone . . .” The man broke down into sobs.

  Suddenly a new voice was on the phone. “Um, you the dude found Treasure’s locket?”

  “Treasure . . .” This must be the son. Giles said, “You mean Connie?”

  “Yeah, that’s her. Listen, I gotta talk to you about what’s goin’ down.” He hesitated. “My ol
d man don’t believe me, but I know what I saw. He said I should talk to you, that you do all these occult studies or something. He saw some books in your condo.”

  Oh, dear. I have to be more careful. “Go ahead.”

  “Not on the phone. Can you come to my dad’s?”

  Giles hesitated. He had placed several calls to other Watchers about the dark faerie, and he was waiting for answers.

  “We’ll come on over to the library,” said Anderson, senior, who had apparently taken back the phone.

  “Very good. I’ll see you when you get here. And Jamie, I’m very pleased for you.”

  “Thanks, Rupert. I couldn’t have made it without you, really.”

  Giles smiled.

  They hung up.

  As if on cue, the fax machine went off, and he nodded to himself as he checked his watch. Good show. It had taken someone a mere thirty minutes to reply to his request for assistance. Not at all bad, considering the lack of organization among his peers and his superiors.

  He bent over the machine, reading. It was from Frau von Forsch. She was an excellent researcher, and Frankfurt University, where she was based, possessed an extensive mythology library. On her cover sheet, with some scrawled English: Here you go, freund Giles. The Dark Faerie ride with the Wild Hunt. This I found cited many times. More follows.

  His lips parted in surprise. A poem?

  Erlkönig

  (The Erl King)

  Who rides by night in the wind so wild?

  It is the father, with his child.

  The boy is safe in his father’s arm,

  He holds him tight, he keeps him warm.

  My son, what is it, why cover your face?

  Father, you see him, there in that place,

  The elfin king with his cloak and crown?

  It is only the mist rising up, my son.

  “Dear little child, will you come with me?

  Beautiful games I’ll play with thee:

  Bright are the flowers we’ll find on shore,

  My mother has golden robes full score.”

  Father, O father, and did you not hear

  What the elfin king breathed into my ear?

  Lie quiet, my child, now never you mind: