Buffy the Vampire Slayer 2

by Nancy Holder

  Buffy shivered, turned to Giles, and hugged him. Willow put her hands over her ears.

  “She’s not listening to you, Great Pumpkin!” Xander shouted. “You are so toast!”

  “Over,” Willow agreed, and looked at Buffy.

  Buffy frowned.

  “I don’t like that look,” Willow said. “I know that look.”

  “Giles?” Buffy said. “What’s he talking about? I thought if we torched him, he’d, y’know . . . scarecrow, fire? As in, finito completo?”

  Giles sighed, reached two fingers under his glasses to rub the smoke from his eyes.

  “I’m afraid not, Buffy. He’s telling the truth. Unless we can trap the spirit, the actual demon Samhain, into that scarecrow body, destroying it will only stop him for this year. He’ll be free to come at you again someday,” Giles explained apologetically. “But we’ll be better prepared next time. We hadn’t any idea what we were facing, but now that we do, we will be ready. And one must remember that he gets weaker as the years pass and faith in his power withers.”

  Buffy stared at Giles. Then she glanced up at the window of the burning barn, where the green flames of the laughing pumpkin mouth were still blazing, mocking her. Threatening gleefully.

  “We are not pressing pause,” she said, determined. “We are pushing the stop button.”

  The Slayer held out her hand. “Xander, give me your Swiss Army knife.”

  Xander pulled the requested multipurpose and much-valued, had-it-since-third-grade knife from his pocket and reluctantly handed it over.

  “Giles, give me the ward thingy,” Buffy demanded, and held out her other hand.

  “What are you going to do?” Giles asked.

  “If this magick is a ward, a kind of barrier for him, do you think it’ll trap him in that scarecrow body, kind of pin him in there?” she asked.

  “Well, there is a certain logic to that, but there’s no way to know. You’re just guessing!” Giles snapped. Clearly he was grasping her plan. And not liking it, because blazing infernos and really pissed-off demons were not healthy for Slayers and other living things.

  “Uh, Buffy, going back in there would be an extreme lock-me-up-for-my-own-good, okay? Just wanted to get that straight,” Xander babbled.

  “Buffy,” Willow said quietly. “Please don’t.”

  They didn’t want her to do it. Buffy didn’t want to do it either. The fear was still there. Samhain wasn’t gone yet, the scarecrow body not destroyed. Her stomach churned and she chewed her lip, fighting off the terror.

  The yew stick was thin enough, but too long. She sawed the back end of it off, then used the knife to whittle a point on the wax-coated burning end. Her fingers got a little singed, but the magickal flame did not go out.

  “How much time do I have before this thing is useless?” she asked. “How will I know?’

  Giles shrugged. “When the fire goes out, you’ll know,” he said. “I’m sorry I can’t do better than that.”

  Buffy finished whittling, stared hard at Giles. “You’ve done great, Giles. Saved my life. A lot of lives, probably. I wanted to run away tonight. I did run away. I let you down—”

  “Never—,” Giles began, but Buffy went on.

  “I’m not going to run again. Not ever,” she vowed. “I’m the Slayer. No matter what. You’ve never told me how long you expect me to live, but you have told me I have a duty. I’m going to honor that, Giles.”

  Buffy picked up the crossbow, which Xander had carried down from the orchard, and slotted the sharpened yew stick into the weapon. It was larger than the bolts the crossbow usually took, and not totally straight, but it would do.

  It had to.

  She turned and marched into the burning barn. When the others called after her, she pretended not to hear.

  Samhain stood, burning, at the edge of the hayloft and looked down at her with fury. The entire loft was in flames and would probably come crashing down any second. It didn’t matter. The demon had to be destroyed forever. She wasn’t even certain that her plan would work. But she had to try.

  “I knew you’d come back,” Samhain roared, his voice penetrating the deafening crackle of the inferno around them. “No true Slayer could walk away from this final confrontation. That’s why Erin Randall died centuries ago, and why you will die now!”

  Screeching, trailing fire, parts of his scarecrow body dropping to the floor of the barn, Samhain launched himself from the hayloft. Straw claws lashed at Buffy.

  Buffy tried to get the crossbow up in time, but she was too slow. The smoke was heavy, her eyes were tearing, and Samhain dropped in front of her, slashing her face and arms with razor-sharp straw fingers. She dropped the crossbow.

  Blood ran from the cuts on her forehead. She didn’t know how deep they were, but she didn’t want to know just now. There was blood on her arms as well. The Slayer ignored them.

  She retreated a way across the barn, and Samhain gave chase. He was burning, falling apart, and he had little time in which he could still use his body to destroy her. The problem was, Buffy had exactly the same amount of time in which to destroy him before he was freed by his own destruction, freed to return in another year.

  “Ssssad in a way, to see you die. But that’s the wonderful thing about Slayers,” Samhain hissed. “There’s always a Chosen One.”

  “That’s right,” Buffy sneered. “Crunch all you want, we’ll make more.”

  He lunged at her. Buffy sidestepped the raking claws; she kicked at the arm and it separated from Samhain’s body at the elbow. Flaming straw and clothing landed at her feet.

  The pumpkin king hissed and went for her again, green flame within the pumpkin head, green fire burning inside the orange. Buffy dropped to her hands and kicked at his scarecrow knee. With the crackling pop of a blazing log, the knee buckled, burning embers flying.

  Buffy had hoped Samhain would fall. He did not. The pumpkin that was his face blackened and bubbled. One half of his head was caved in, green flame diminishing.

  “You’re fast, little girl,” the demon sneered. “Destroy this body, die here in the barn with me, burned alive. I’ll still come back.”

  Buffy stared at him, the fear threatening to overwhelm her again. She pushed it away, determined. The loft crashed down and she turned her eyes away, held up a hand to block the burning wood and hay that flew into the air.

  Samhain came for her then, dragging his ruined leg, but still fast. Buffy was faster. She leaped over him as he dove for her, flipped in the air, and landed in a crouch right next to her crossbow, which was hidden from his view by a piece of charred wood.

  The pumpkin king, the demon lord of Samhuinn, roared with pleasure and the pain of his burning host form. But he was triumphant. He would return. And to kill Buffy, all he had to do was keep her inside the barn. She could hear the burning beams above begin to crack and buckle.

  “Die with me, Slayer,” he whispered.

  “Ever the romantic,” Buffy snarled, and aimed the crossbow at the scarecrow’s chest.

  The remaining pumpkin eye widened as Samhain saw the magickal flame that still burned at the end of her crossbow bolt, saw the white candle wax, and knew what it was she had planned.

  “Trick or treat,” Buffy said grimly.

  She pulled the trigger; the bolt flew impossibly straight and true and embedded itself in Samhain’s chest.

  “Noooooooo!” the demon screamed, and grabbed for the end of the shaft with his remaining claw, but could not remove it.

  She heard the screeching of the ceiling giving way and ran for the open doors. Just as the whole inferno collapsed in on itself, she dove over the symbol Giles had etched in the dirt, rolling to safety, choking on the smoke she’d inhaled, soot on her face.

  Buffy lay on the ground, staring at the fire, listening to the king of Halloween scream in fury and pain. Giles, Xander, and Willow helped her to her feet, and she leaned on them as they moved a safer distance from the burning barn.

  “Wh
oa, pyromania,” Xander said in an awed voice.

  “I’m not sure how we shall explain this to the owner of this place,” Giles said.

  “Wait, uh-uh,” Buffy replied, and grabbed Giles and Willow by the hand, dragging them away. Xander followed.

  “Buffy, what are you doing?” Giles asked. “We cannot simply leave.”

  “Sure we can!” Buffy said, then went into another fit of coughs.

  “Can,” Xander agreed.

  “Have to,” Willow added.

  “I’ve been branded an arsonist once already, Giles,” Buffy snapped. “That’s why my mom and I moved here to the Hellmouth, remember? I’d rather avoid another police investigation.”

  “Absolutely,” Willow agreed. “I mean, you live in the mouth of hell. If you got caught again, I’d hate to think where you’d end up next time.”

  “Indeed,” Giles remarked thoughtfully, then turned to Buffy.

  “Well, Miss Summers,” he said, “I suppose you’ve learned a lesson this evening, yes? Perhaps you’ll think twice in the future before complaining about a lull in the Slaying business.”

  They all stared at him.

  Buffy was the first to laugh.

  It felt good.

  BAD BARGAIN

  WITH GRATITUDE AND AFFECTION FOR

  MARY PICCIN,

  SISTER, FRIEND, AND CRITTER CHARMER

  CHAPTER ONE

  Are the boxes still in the car?” Buffy looked past her mother toward the driveway.

  “Was I supposed to get takeout?” Joyce Summers walked into the house and kicked off her shoes. “Sorry, Buffy, but I spent all day unpacking canvases for the Joel Shavin show next week, and—”

  “Not worried about dinner, Mom.” Buffy closed the front door and turned with an accusing stare. “Worried about donations—”

  Joyce set her shoes on the stairs, then straightened suddenly. “For the school rummage sale.”

  “Right!” Buffy forced a bright smile. The students at Sunnydale High were raising money to send the marching band to the California state competition. If the band did well, Principal Snyder had promised to hold another fund-raiser next year to pay for new uniforms. Her mother’s well-to-do gallery customers had agreed to contribute collectibles and other items of value. “Did your clients forget?”

  “No, everyone brought everything in, just as they promised.” Joyce smiled weakly. “I forgot to bring it all home.”

  “But we’re setting up tonight.” Buffy tried not to look anxious.

  Buffy’s mom was paying closer attention to Buffy’s comings and goings lately, and the scrutiny was wrecking her Slayer and social lives. If her mother caught her going out or Angel coming in her bedroom window, she’d be grounded until she graduated. Giving up her gorgeous, good-guy vampire boyfriend was not part of the new and improved, more responsible Buffy package. Tonight, however, she had a good excuse for leaving the house, and she didn’t want to waste it.

  “I’m sure Ms. Calendar won’t mind if I bring the boxes in tomorrow morning,” Joyce countered.

  “Probably not, but I still have to go help tonight. It’s extra credit,” Buffy quickly added.

  “Extra credit for what?” Joyce asked as she headed toward the kitchen.

  “For doing our civic duty.” Flashing another smile, Buffy waited. She really had volunteered to unpack, price, and arrange sale items in the cafeteria. “It’ll look great on my transcript when I apply for college.”

  Joyce stopped suddenly and looked back. “When did you start worrying about getting into college? Not that I’m complaining.”

  “It can’t hurt to think ahead, right? Covering all my bases just in case—before it’s too late to rack up those extracurricular points.”

  Joyce stared at her, obviously skeptical and not buying the academic ambitions ruse. She sighed as she continued down the hall. “If only . . .”

  “Okay, all my friends will be there.” Realizing she had overplayed her hand, Buffy tried a modified version of the truth. Willow and Xander were all her friends. Giles and Angel had their own individual categories: Watcher and vampire boyfriend.

  “What about dinner?” Joyce filled the teakettle with water and set it on the stove.

  “Had a sandwich, not hungry.”

  Joyce relented with a hopeful smile. “All right, go. But try not to be too late.”

  Buffy promised as she bolted out the back door.

  Always vigilant, Buffy was tuned to every movement and sound on the street. Sunnydale swarmed with evils that preyed on the innocent and wouldn’t run from a fight with the Vampire Slayer. Staying alert and primed to react wasn’t a strain. It had become second nature.

  The typical teenage aspects of her life were much more complicated, mostly because her mother didn’t know she had been empowered by mysterious forces to kill vampires and other monster meanies. Mostly she saved the world—or at the very least a hapless victim—almost every week, sometimes more often. She had died once, but only for a couple of minutes, and Xander had brought her back. All things considered, sneaking out, neglecting her schoolwork, and spacing on her chores only seemed irresponsible.

  Buffy broke into an effortless jog, eager to get to the school. She wasn’t particularly rah-rah for the marching band, but the rummage sale reminded her of similar events at Hemery High, when she was just a popular cheerleader without a destiny or a rap sheet. She wanted to spend one lousy weekend pretending to be normal.

  Xander scanned the rows of tables lined up end-to-end in the cafeteria. Taped to each table was a neatly printed sign designating a sale category: clothes, household, hardware and tools, auto, furniture, knickknacks, books, and miscellaneous junk. Cheerleaders, football players, and the marching band were pricing and arranging merchandise the students had collected over the past two weeks. Extra credit hounds and goof-offs looking to skip Friday classes had also volunteered.

  Jenny Calendar—computer teacher, practicing pagan, and faculty adviser—supervised the setup from the checkout table by the door. Collectibles, quality jewelry, antiques, and other expensive donations were on the next tables over. Cordelia Chase was in charge of the pricey display. Harmony Kendall, the ditzy blonde of the Sunnydale in-crowd, hovered nearby, basking in Cordelia’s aristocratic aura.

  Xander was also checking out Cordelia and her luscious lips. His sly smile froze as he cast a guilty glance at Willow. She would never forgive his clandestine make-out affair with Cordelia, who had taunted them with caustic put-downs since kindergarten. Not noticing his wandering eye, Willow continued to expound on the inevitability of global decline, the topic of her civics essay, while she scribbled $3.00 on a strip of stickers. Xander looked at her blankly.

  “What?” Willow blinked. “Dead dinosaurs aren’t a renewable energy source, Xander. One of these days the whole world will be running on empty.”

  “But not today.” Xander handed her a folded muscle shirt and scanned the room again. There was no sign of Buffy. With anyone else, parental interference was the logical explanation for a no-show. But Buffy had probably been attacked and detained by a demon. Sunnydale vampires and other dreaded beasties had no respect for her non-Slayer obligations.

  Or her mysterious surge of school spirit, Xander thought. He didn’t know why Buffy wanted Willow and him to participate in the rummage sale, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t to sell junk and hand-me-downs to bargain hunters. Whatever the reason, he’d find out when she arrived.

  Devon MacLeish and Daniel “Oz” Osbourne, members of the local band Dingoes Ate My Baby, were sorting CDs and old vinyl albums. They had plugged in a 1970s stereo turntable someone had donated, and a scratchy recording of The Wall by Pink Floyd was playing.

  Jonathan Levenson and Andrew Wells had staked out toys and comics. Xander had never had a complete conversation with either of the shy, practically invisible boys, even though he had gone through grade school and junior high with them. Their odd looks and personality quirks would have fueled relentle
ss ridicule if anyone popular knew they existed. Noting their furtive looks, Xander assumed they were stashing action figures and other media items for themselves. They were hard-core science-fiction collectors, but Ms. Calendar was enforcing Principal Snyder’s latest law: No one could buy anything until the sale opened at noon tomorrow.

  Xander wasn’t remotely tempted to break that rule. All the men’s shirts were priced at an affordable three bucks, but he hadn’t come across anything in khaki or camouflage. The persistent preference for all things military was an aftereffect of being transformed into a soldier on Halloween. He pulled a wrinkled, cotton button-down from the cardboard box, folded it, and held it out.

  “Too bad we can’t just use magick.” Willow slapped a price sticker on the shirt and dropped it on the appropriate stack. “But there’s probably all kinds of hidden moral implications.”

  “For what?” Xander’s attention snapped back to Willow.

  “Using magick to ensure world peace or cure all the sick people. Would that be so wrong?” Willow’s eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. “Think of it! No more commercials begging for money to feed starving millions! No more depressing educational TV programs.”

  “Programs that we don’t have to watch if we don’t want to,” Xander said, folding another shirt. “Besides, we could have all that without using magick. It’s called science.”

  “Oh yeah, that.” Willow peeled off another sticker.

  “Put enough money and power behind anything, and it’ll get done,” Xander added. “That’s how we got to the moon.”

  “Then it’s too bad we don’t just do it.”

  “Yeah,” Xander agreed, “but the people with the power and money don’t have any problems they can’t solve.”

  The last item in the box was a silky, iridescent green. Xander held up the cloth and stretched it out. “Why would someone donate glow-in-the-dark boxer shorts?”

  “Good choice, Xander.” Cordelia paused in the aisle behind him. “Only a loser would wear those.”