Immortal

by Christopher Golden

Buffy frowned, gestured with the stake into the office. “Maybe you’re not paying attention,” she suggested. “You realize you’re trapped? I’ve dusted you twice myself, but there are four of us out here, and the only way you get anywhere is past us.”

  “I don’t need to get past you,” Veronique said.

  Then, without any further explanation of her words, she lunged at Buffy. But instead of attacking, as Buffy expected her to do, Veronique grabbed her by the front of her sweatshirt and hauled her forward into Giles’s office and threw Buffy across the room and into Giles’s desk. Before the Watcher and the others could follow, the vampire slammed the door and easily tipped a glass-faced bookcase over to block them from entering. At least for a precious few seconds.

  Buffy was already up. Already moving toward her.

  Veronique faced her, and for the first time, Buffy thought there seemed to be more than raw fury in the vampire’s stance. The Slayer moved in fast, launched a kick at Veronique’s face. The vampire spun and brought her forearm up to block the kick, to grab Buffy’s ankle in midair and spin her out of the way.

  “Be careful, Slayer,” Veronique said triumphantly. “I’ve been watching you. I know your moves.”

  Buffy punched her in the face, and when Veronique went to defend against another, similar attack, Buffy tried to bring the stake down to her chest. Veronique slapped her hand away, then cracked Buffy a savage backhand across the face, rattling her teeth and sending her crashing into the downed bookcase, forcing the door closed again after Giles had wedged it open a few inches.

  Veronique lifted up Giles’s desk chair. Scowling, she brought it crashing down onto the bookcase . . . but not on Buffy. The Slayer had rolled clear at the last second. She vaulted to her feet and moved in quickly, ducking Veronique’s blow to drive an open palm into the vampire’s chest. But Veronique backpedaled, turned Buffy’s strike aside, and dodged in to punch the Slayer in the face.

  Buffy was staggered.

  “I told you, I know all your moves,” Veronique sneered.

  “All the ones you’ve seen,” Buffy countered.

  In the blink of an eye, she dropped to the floor onto her palms, as though she were an Olympic gymnast, and swept her legs around with blinding speed to knock Veronique off her feet. The vampire tried to roll free, to get back up, but Buffy didn’t give her time. The Slayer slammed her down on her back, grabbed her hair, and drove her face into the hard floor of the office.

  Buffy had nothing against staking a vampire in the back — against the undead, there was no honor in battle — but she wanted Veronique to see her face as she died. She turned her over, and still the vampire struggled. She lifted the stake above Veronique’s chest.

  “What was that phone call?” Buffy demanded.

  “The end of things between us,” Veronique replied hatefully.

  “No,” Buffy told her, realizing Veronique would never tell her what she wanted to know. “This is the end.”

  “Oh, I’ll be back,” Veronique said. “You mean less than nothing to me, Slayer, because I always come back. But you won’t see me next time until it’s too late.”

  Buffy brought the stake down hard, and it splintered the bones of her chest as it crashed through to pierce the heart. What remained of Damara Johnson erupted into a cloud of dust.

  A moment later, brushing dust off her sweats, Buffy shoved the bookcase out of the way and hauled open the office door.

  “What was that phone call about?” Willow asked right away.

  “Wish I knew,” Buffy replied.

  Giles looked troubled. After a moment, he let out a long breath. “If I had to hazard a guess,” he said, “I would think that aside from taunting you about our inability to stop her, it would seem that she wanted to be certain we were occupied here while her followers were involved in something elsewhere.”

  “Makes sense,” Buffy agreed. “Any ideas what that might be?”

  “Something mighty nasty,” Oz suggested.

  Giles removed his glasses and glanced distractedly away. “I suppose we’ll find out.”

  Seventeen Missing in Horror Film Mystery

  Sunnydale — In one of the strangest events in the recent history of Southern California, at least seventeen people are known to be missing after not returning from the final showing of a horror film at the Sun Cinema here two nights ago.

  When workers arrived at the Sun yesterday morning, they found the theater open, including the box office and the projection booth. On the seats inside the theater, police found pocketbooks, several jackets, sweaters, and other items of clothing, some torn and stained with blood.

  Blood was also found spattered inside the box office, behind the concession stand, in the aisles, and, perhaps most notably, inside the projection booth itself, including on the lens of the still-running projector, so that the screen in the empty theater was showing nothing but a splash of blood when authorities first arrived.

  Despite the overwhelming evidence of foul play, however, local authorities were not yet ruling out the possibility that the entire gruesome scene was little more than an elaborate prank or hoax, but they expected to have more information in the coming week. Thus far, however, police have admitted that none of the missing patrons has been located, and many of their cars, as yet unclaimed by relatives, remain in the lot at the . . .

  Chapter Eleven

  “Are we almost there?” Xander groused. “Or is this Bataan Death March, the Sequel?”

  Xander had no idea what time it was, but he, Tergazzi the demon, and Angel had walked east across town, leaving beautiful Sunnydale in their wake, then down into a ravine left muddy by the rain that allegedly never happened in Southern California. Now they were tromping across open land. The moon and a flashlight were their only source of illumination; when Xander stepped on something that gave way squishily beneath his shoe, he winced and didn’t try to see what it was.

  “Don’t you know the saying?” the demon asked, turning back to look at Xander. He wore a hat low over his forehead, and he looked fairly ridiculous, even for a minor demon. “All things come to him who waits.”

  “Pithy,” Xander said. “Also, generally untrue.” He was beginning to smell a rat. Or else Tergazzi was wearing Eau de Roadkill. Or else I stepped on a dead skunk.

  Angel said, “Definitely untrue. We’re done. C’mon, Xander.” The vampire hung a U and started back across the field.

  Xander wasn’t sure if Angel was bluffing, but he caught up with him and said, “I’m missing the New Match Game for this.”

  “Next time, miss the dead squirrel, too,” Angel bit off. Dead Boy was clearly pissed off.

  “Wait, you guys,” Tergazzi called, catching up with them. “I’m not conning you. I really have the book.”

  Angel glared at him. “Have you ever heard of taxis?”

  The demon was clearly distraught. “I didn’t think you guys would get in a car with me.” He slogged along beside Angel, trying to keep up as the vampire strode along, his duster flapping like bat wings. The demon’s hat blew off, and he grabbed it, holding it against his chest. “Enclosed space, you know, like that.”

  “Yeah, like you could take us,” Xander shot at him, glancing for affirmation at Angel. But DB only rolled his eyes.

  “Look, I’m, um, kinda short,” Tergazzi said, waving his hands in front of Angel’s face. “Vegas. It’s like a drug with me. It makes me crazy.”

  Angel swept by him. Xander was trying to keep pace, but one of the things vampires had on humans was endurance.

  And, man, do I not want to go anywhere near there, Xander thought, as an image of Buffy popped into his mind.

  “Veronique,” Tergazzi pleaded. “This book’s got the whole prophecy. I swear it.”

  Angel stopped. “How convenient.”

  The demon bobbed his spiny green head. “My thinking also. It’s, like, karma.” He mimicked tossing a pair of dice. “The minute you two walked into Willy’s, I thought, ‘Hey, tonight my luck is
gonna change.’ ” He smiled hopefully. “Same for you, looks like.”

  Angel glowered at the little guy. “How much farther?”

  “Half a mile, tops.”

  Angel kept glowering.

  “Three-quarters. I swear.” He held up his hand.

  Angel glanced at Xander, who had finally managed to catch his breath, then glared at the demon again. “If that book’s not in my hands in twenty minutes, your luck’s going to run out.”

  “Sure. Sure,” Tergazzi said, bobbing his head. “No problem, Angel. Not a problem at all.”

  “I didn’t say you could call me Angel,” the vampire said stonily.

  “Not a problem.” Tergazzi raised his hands. “What would you like me to call you?”

  Angel pointed in the direction they had originally headed. “Just get the book.”

  “You got it. It’s as good as in your hands.”

  As promised, they walked for about another fifteen minutes. Then the demon veered off the level fields and urged them toward a stand of trees. Angel frowned and murmured to Xander, “I don’t like this.”

  “Should we split?”

  Angel looked at Xander thoughtfully. “Maybe you should.”

  “Hey.” Xander raised his chin. “I’ve held up my end of lots of fights.”

  Tergazzi whistled three times. Xander and Angel both tensed.

  Then a light blinked on and off three times.

  “Okay.” Tergazzi smiled at them. “Coast is clear.”

  He whistled three times again.

  The light blinked on and off three times again.

  “Is there a point?” Xander said.

  “Sorry. Precautions. You know how it is.” The demon gestured them forward. An owl hooted, and Xander nearly jumped out of his skin; luckily, he caught himself before he did anything obvious and, hence, embarrassing.

  Why do I care so much about what Angel thinks, anyway? he thought angrily. Just because Buffy thinks the sun rises and sets on him — ha ha — doesn’t mean I have to compete with him.

  Oh, yes, it does.

  “Jeez, you stink,” Angel muttered to Xander. “Next time, watch where you’re going.”

  “Oh, excuse me, Mr. Fee Fi Fo Fum. Since I’m not a freakin’ demon, I can’t see so well in the dark.”

  Angel grunted in response, which took Xander aback. Maybe he had just scored a direct hit. He could always hope.

  “Someone’s coming,” Angel said.

  “Wow. I’ll say.”

  She was tall and tan and — what was the word Xander was searching for? — developed? With shiny black hair that tumbled over her shoulders and brushed the tops of her . . . developments, which were encased in silvery spandex atop a pair of shiny black leggings, she was most definitely a babe.

  “Hey, Queenie,” Tergazzi said happily. “Ya miss me, baby?”

  “We got customers?” she asked, batting her eyes at Angel.

  “Believe it.” The short demon came up to her and put his arm around her waist. He pulled her close and gave her a proprietary squeeze. “For the book.”

  “That’s great, Terry.” She bent over and gave him a kiss on his spiny head. “I knew something good was going to happen tonight.” She giggled. “I mean, something else.”

  The demon preened. “Some babe, huh? We met in Vegas.”

  “Really,” Angel said, deadpan.

  “Yeah.” The woman — Queenie? — chomped down hard on a wad of gum and nodded. “I never was with a demon before. It’s very exciting.” She leered at Angel. “You know what I mean, honey?”

  “Yeah, he does,” Tergazzi said curtly. “He’s a vampire.”

  Her eyes widened. “Really? Wow.”

  “Hey.” Tergazzi gave her a light smack on the hip. “Go get the book.”

  “Sure, baby.” She gave him a little-girl pout. “I didn’t mean anything. You know I’m your girl.”

  As she turned, she gave Angel a little wink. Xander caught it. Angel did, too. But the demon was oblivious. His gaze was glued to her as she walked back into the stand of trees and disappeared.

  “Ain’t she something? Chick like that, she could have all kinda men. But she knows where the smart money lives.”

  “Just get the book,” Angel said.

  “She is, she is.” Tergazzi gestured. “She’ll be right back.”

  Sure enough, Queenie hurried back, carrying an enormous dark shape in the dark night. Xander strained forward, very curious. He wasn’t sure he had ever seen such a thick book.

  Queenie set the shape down on the ground. It was some kind of box, Xander realized. With a flourish, Tergazzi opened the lid. Then he aimed the flashlight beam down.

  Angel swore. Xander did, too.

  The box was filled with half-charred fragments of ancient pieces of what appeared to be sheepskin, if Xander remembered his ancient writings on the black arts.

  “What is this?” Angel rushed the demon and grabbed his coat by the collar. The demon’s legs flailed for purchase as Angel hoisted him off the ground.

  “It’s all there, I swear it.” Tergazzi tried to loosen Angel’s grip, but no way was he getting anywhere. “It was like that when I got it.”

  Angel released him. He dropped to the ground on his butt. Queenie bent over him and made sad comforting noises.

  “It’s true, Mister Vampire,” she said in a come-hither voice. “It’s the real deal.” She leaned forward so Angel could get an eyeful.

  Angel sighed heavily. Xander said, “Hey, man, it’s better than nothing.”

  “I’m not so sure of that.” Angel narrowed his eyes at Tergazzi. “If you wasted my time . . .”

  “Our time,” Xander corrected. “Hey, man, you’ve got a lot more of it than I do.”

  “Tell you what,” Tergazzi said anxiously. “You boys just take it. Look it over. It’s useful, you look me up at Willy’s and pay me what you think it’s worth.” At Angel’s dubious expression, he picked up the box and shoved it toward him. “Go ahead. I trust you.”

  “You have no reason to,” Angel retorted.

  “No. Seriously, you have a good rep in the underground. You’re tough but fair.”

  Xander snorted. Angel took the box and snarled at Tergazzi, “Get the lid. We’ll talk later.”

  “Sure. Sure.” Tergazzi stumbled over his own feet as he bent down to grab up the lid. Queenie helped him put it on the box. He gave it a pat and smiled nervously at Angel. “We’ll be in touch.”

  Angel gave him another look. Without another word, he walked away.

  “Good-bye, Mister Vampire!” Queenie called sadly.

  Angel said nothing. Having, apparently, nothing to say.

  After a while, Xander paused for a breather, lungs aching.

  “Tired?” Angel asked.

  “No,” Xander rasped in reply. “I’m good. Let’s get this thing to Giles.”

  Three nights later, Buffy stood before another open grave in Restfield and kicked large dirt clouds into the pit. She was still furious over the way she’d been set up that night — the night of the attack on the Sun Cinema. Veronique had kept Buffy distracted long enough for her hench-vamps to take out three dozen people, and now they’d all gone to ground. There’d been no sign of them for days, except for the grave robbing. And they were getting smarter about that. Buffy had yet even to catch sight of one of them in the act of stealing the dead, much less stop them.

  It was getting bad. News of the desecrations was beginning to show up in the local press. Apparently, some poor little old lady had come to visit the grave of her three-weeks-dead husband, only to find the coffin hacked to bits. Also, one of his shoes had come off.

  When she returned to Giles’s place later that night, meeting up with the Watcher and Willow and Oz, who had patrolled Shady Hill that night, she was quite preoccupied with their predicament and kind of embarrassed that the vampires had been able to rob graves pretty much right under her nose.

  “And did you know the bottoms of the cof
fins are made of cardboard?” she said to Giles as she paced in his living room. “Oh, they say they’re moisture-proof and air-tight, and maybe they are in the great big elsewhere, but the best you get in Sunnydale is like, like, particle board. Did you know that?”

  There had been another grave robbery at Shady Hill, even though Willow and Oz had been on patrol at the time. They’d found the grave while on a final sweep of the cemetery before reporting back to Giles’s place.

  “Actually, yes,” Giles said absently. The box of charred pages was on his desk. Numerous faxes and books were open on the floor, and he was peering over the tops of his glasses as he tried to fit two pieces together.

  “I think you need a new prescription,” Buffy said, glancing at him. “Maybe we all need glasses. I don’t know.”

  Oz gently cleared his throat. “Not to cause additional tension, but Willow is due home.”

  Buffy exhaled. Oz was her ride. And there was no point staying here, anyway. Giles was busy, and she was probably annoying him at the least and distracting him at the worst.

  “I’ll get my jacket,” she grumbled.

  “I’m sorry I have to go, Buffy,” Willow said. “It’s . . . nice hanging out, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, yeah.” With a wry sigh, Buffy slipped on her jacket. Cordelia had bowed out of patrol the day before, pleading her busy social schedule. Xander was home sick with a cold. Angel was moving among the shadows, trying to locate the vampires. Oz and Willow were trying to help, but they’d come up with nothing. And they couldn’t help tomorrow because Willow had to go to a bar mitzvah, and Oz was playing a frat gig at Crestwood College. To put it bluntly, the Scooby Gang were going about their regular lives, on hold until Buffy needed them.

  But this is my regular life, Buffy thought, a little down. The Watcher researching, the Slayer pacing and frothing over some evildoer. We now return the Slayer to her regularly scheduled programming.

  Giles looked up from the fragments and said, “You may be right about the glasses.” He rose and walked them to the door, ever the polite British guy. “Good night, Buffy. Willow, Oz.”

  “Roger that,” Buffy said with a wave. “I’ll check in first thing at the library.”