by Nancy Holder
He let it fall back against him, back to the burned spot. Left it alone.
Rosalie’s sink was piled high with dirty dishes. Nicky found a chipped coffee mug with a cartoon cow on it. He rinsed it out, dumped the water, and filled it from the simmering pot. Before the liquid cooled he threw his head back and poured the contents of the cup down his throat. It burned, like swallowing flame.
Then the pain was gone. He felt nothing. He touched the amulet on his naked chest, moved it aside. The red mark was already starting to fade.
Tomorrow, it would be real. He was ready for it.
The Night of the Long Knives.
Tara sat alone in the Bronze, letting the music wash over her.
She had wandered Sunnydale all evening, hoping to find Willow. So far, she had not succeeded. She had come here thinking that Willow and Buffy might drop in. While seemingly every other teenager in Sunnydale had passed through the doors during the space of the evening, Willow had not.
Tara was on her third cup of chamomile tea. She knew she couldn’t sit here much longer, watching everyone else paired off and having fun. But when she left here, there was no place else to go, nowhere she could think of to look that she hadn’t already tried. So she’d have to head to the apartment she’d been renting all summer, and she’d be alone there, too.
Only with the four walls around her, she would feel much more alone than she did here.
One more cup, she thought. Another half hour. If she hasn’t shown by then, I’ll go home and get some sleep.
If Willow hasn’t called me, then she’s involved in something really important.
And anyway, I haven’t been at home for her to call.
She had periodically checked her answering machine, but there had been no messages. Logically, Tara knew that if Willow was running around with Buffy, helping out in some kind of emergency, she wouldn’t have time to leave a message anyway.
Tara sipped her tea and twirled her hair around two fingers of her right hand. She sat and watched the dancers and partiers as the bass thrummed up through the floor, through her stool, and into her bones. The Bronze was one of the few places people under twenty-one could go to listen to music, hang out, drink coffee.
Willow had told Tara that she, Buffy, and their friends had hung out at the Bronze almost every night. “Sometimes we were too broke to buy anything, so we asked for hot water and snuck in our own tea bags,” Willow had added, chuckling to herself. Tara hadn’t known if that was some kind of inside joke or not, but she’d smiled anyway.
However, the Bronze wasn’t the hangout now it had been then. Since Willow and the others had started at UC Sunnydale, they’d spent less time here. Willow said it wasn’t as close to campus, and what with classes and homework and fighting evil, time seemed to be more precious for everyone.
Tara knew the feeling. Her own high school life seemed far away now, and its pursuits less important and meaningful than they had been. She’d been shy and awkward, a total outcast, and it hadn’t been until she’d met Willow that she’d felt truly accepted by another person.
Friendships, studies, even Wicca . . . everything was more serious in college. Tara hadn’t known Willow and the gang then, but it was true for her and she believed it to be for them as well.
She smiled to herself. A lot had changed since high school. Just leaving home, going to college, did that.
Most especially, finding Willow changed her.
They had met in a Wiccan group, but the other girls—except Willow—were more concerned with talking the talk than walking the walk. Willow had seemed very different, somehow—more real, more attuned to the forces that turned the world around. Tara found herself drawn to Willow, and was delighted when the opposite turned out to be true as well.
And they had found, by working together, that their powers were increased when they combined them. Separately, each girl was gifted. But together, they were really a force to be reckoned with.
Tara had never felt as good about herself in her life. Willow gave her that gift.
And another gift. Tara couldn’t quite bring herself to call it love.
Not yet.
But there was time.
Speaking of time, her self-imposed half-hour deadline had come and gone, as had her last cup of tea.
She slipped off the stool and threaded her way through the crowd, out the door. As it closed behind her she heard the thump of the bass fading away.
It doesn’t matter, really, if I don’t see Willow tonight, she knew. Willow was in her life, for keeps. That was what mattered.
Feeling slightly reassured, she decided to head back to the apartment. It was only a few blocks away, upstairs over a hardware store.
The streetlights pierced blooms of shadows that spilled over the curbs and alleys; things skittered in the darkness that might be cats or rats, or something evil that could suck off your face. Despite the quiet, the air thrummed with menace. Death whispered on the night breezes, as it always did in Sunnydale.
Most of the citizenry had no idea that their deceptively pleasant little town was situated on a Hellmouth; nor had they any conscious awareness of all the steps they took to avoid being outside alone at night. People in Sunnydale were nervous after dark, and the tension was like the emanations from the power lines over by the substation: low-grade enough to ignore, but strong enough to affect their behavior.
Tara, new to the place, and more acutely focused on her feelings and emotions because of her interest in the arcane, felt the wrongness. It was as if the angles and lines of the buildings and streets didn’t quite add up; as if everything was askew and there was no hope of its ever being put right. Sunnydale kept people nervous. They went to places like the Bronze, where there was always a crowd.
But they didn’t wander the streets after dark. They didn’t like to be out alone.
At some deep level, they knew.
Tara almost envied them their surface-level denial. She knew what kinds of things lurked in the shadows—everything they were afraid of, and then some. It was hard to carry on a day-to-day life once you realized that every nightmare you’ve ever had couldn’t compare with the reality of the evils that walked at night.
The street was unusually dark. There were lights on in a few windows in the two-and-three-storied buildings on either side, as well as the standard set of street lamps lighting the sidewalk. But the shadows seemed more dense than usual, impenetrable.
She was still more than a block from her place when the shadows came alive.
And came toward her.
A black shape seemed to rise from the center of a shadow, up against some storefronts. It reared up in front of her and then struck. She sensed a breeze, heard a faint rustling sound, and then felt something like a claw scrape against her cheek. She threw her arms up in self-defense, and took a step backward.
The shadow came at her again.
This time, it landed solidly in her midsection, knocking the wind out of her. She fell backward, landing painfully on the sidewalk.
She rolled to her feet just in time for the next assault. This time the shadowy claw came at her face again. Tara sensed it, and dodged. It swept past her, the rush of its passing very tangible indeed. But when she batted at it with one fist, her hand passed right through it.
She didn’t know what she was fighting, but she knew it wasn’t a fight she could win with her hands.
She didn’t need to. Something else Willow had given her was confidence in her other skills. She retreated, halfway down the block, then stopped and turned to face the shadow being, racking her brain for some kind of spell she could use against it.
As it came toward her, advancing and pulling back like liquid flowing down a gentle slope, she came up with one.
“Dark of soul, dark of night,” she spoke loudly, struggling to keep her stammer at bay. As she said the words, she projected her will toward the shadows, visualizing golden ropes wrapping around the formless black. “By Hecate and the Green
Man, I bind you in chains. By the power of the Goddess, I hold you fast.”
The spell seemed to work. The shadow still bulged toward her, but the black tendrils ceased in their advance. The thing made no more attempts to strike at her, writhing instead as if to escape invisible bonds.
Tara allowed herself a faint smile.
That was when it broke free and came at her again. It splashed to the ground and bounced up at her, catching her under the chin with the shadow equivalent of a boxer’s fist. Her head flew back and she lost her balance, sprawling on the sidewalk again.
And something else came up from behind her, another shadow—but with a form to follow.
“Leave her alone!” it shouted, stepping over her. When it was clearly framed against the shadow, between it and her, she recognized him.
Riley Finn. Buffy’s boyfriend. He stood tall, facing the shadow thing with only his fists.
“Riley!” Tara called. “Be careful!”
He glanced over his shoulder at her, tossed her a devil-may-care grin. “Always.”
As she watched, the shadow monster attacked him. A tendril shot toward Riley but he dodged it, leaping high into the air as it passed harmlessly beneath him. When it sent a second one, Riley turned and twisted, kicked and chopped the air, and though his hands and feet didn’t connect with anything substantial, the shadow seemed to withdraw from his advance.
Tara attempted a different spell. “B-beast of shadow . . .” She hesitated, not remembering the words. Her panic was getting the better of her.
She tried again. “Beast of shadow, fiend forlorn, show yourself in solid form!” she shouted. “Mass and weight you have now found, binding you to solid ground!”
As she spoke the words, the thing seemed to shrink in on itself and to coalesce. Its shape was still amorphous, its outlines vague. But this time, when Riley kicked and punched at it, she could hear the impact of his blows. It tried to take a swing at Riley, but he avoided its attempt and trapped its blobby arm, wrenching it forward into the light. Riley looked as though he was battling the tar baby of the stories, except that he wasn’t becoming covered in it. He was winning.
But the creature got in one good shot that sent Riley sailing. Tara rushed to his side. By the time she reached him, he was already scrambling for balance, ready to face the thing again. Blood trickled from his mouth and nose, and his forehead was scraped.
Something changed in his eyes. Tara looked away from him, down the street.
The shadow monster was gone.
The street was normal again, all the shadows where they belonged.
“The one that got away,” Riley said.
“That’s okay,” Tara told him. “If your f-face got any more banged up Buffy would give me such hell.”
“You were great,” Riley said, favoring her with one of his radiant smiles. “But those spells of yours—they always have to rhyme like that?”
She grimaced. “Sucked, huh. I couldn’t remember the words. I feel like Sabrina. On TV.”
“I’m just kidding you, Tara,” Riley said reassuringly. “You were great. I couldn’t figure out any way to fight the thing.”
“I managed to bind it for a minute, before you came along.” She rubbed her upper arms. “But it’s hard to bind something with no solidity, I guess.”
“I think that’s the thing that’s been attacking people all over town,” Riley told her. She nodded. “We’ll have to come up with some way to battle it. Probably making it take solid shape is the best first step, like you did there. But then, once it’s solid it has to be defeated or confined quickly.”
“Probably I should have reversed the order of the spells,” Tara said, thinking aloud. “S-solidified it first, and then bound it.”
“Could be,” Riley agreed. He smiled at her. “We’ll try that next time.”
She was confused. “Next time?”
“We’re a good team against that thing. We should go back to Giles’s place, report on it, and see if he can figure out what it is. Then we should get back out on the street and see if we can find it again.”
“Anyone ever tell you you’re a glutton for punishment?” she asked him, flattered beyond words for being included in the plan.
“Hey, if I wasn’t, would I be dating a Slayer?” he joked. “Come on. We don’t have all night.”
Chapter 7
Los Angeles
AT DINNER, CORDELIA HAD PROMISED KAYLEY AND THE other girls that she wouldn’t tell a single living soul about their plans.
Which, of course, didn’t rule out Angel.
And she knew where to find him—at her apartment in Silver Lake, most likely. He and Wesley had been spending most of their time there since Angel’s apartment and office had been converted into yet more smog.
Being Angel Investigations HQ was only a problem when she wanted to do something personal like, say, sleep. The dating thing wasn’t really working out this summer, so no interference there.
She went straight home after her meeting with the girls. True to form, Wesley was asleep on her couch, with his Argyle socked-feet up and a big book over his face.
“At least you took your shoes off,” Cordelia announced. “Thank goodness for those British manners.” She dropped her bag on her coffee table for emphasis.
Wesley stirred, then suddenly started and sat upright, yanking the book away from his face. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I was doing some research and just thought I should rest my eyes a bit and . . .”
His voice trailed off as he studied Cordelia’s face. “All right, I confess. I went to sleep. It is late, after all.”
She was miffed. “Oh, yes. It’s . . . wow, eight-thirty. I’m out working, and Angel is . . .” She looked around. “Where is Angel, anyway?”
“Out working,” Wesley admitted sheepishly.
“And you’re here minding the fort with those ridiculous socks on my furniture and your face buried in demonic literature.”
“Yes, that’s right,” he replied, on the defensive now. He gestured toward the big book. “Angel and I helped Isabel and Carlos move from their house to a motel. Dreadfully seedy place called the Flamingo, but it looked clean enough, and not too expensive. Angel said it was the kind of place where they didn’t even want to know anyone’s real name. They should be safe there while we find out what’s haunting their house.”
“So you’re fine for fighting demons, but carrying a few suitcases tuckers you out?” Cordelia jibed.
“You’d be surprised how much some people feel like they have to carry with them,” he replied. “Especially the boy. Each and every toy he owns seemed to be his favorite.” He glanced down at the stack of books next to him. “Besides, some of these Renaissance authors are dreadfully long-winded, you know? This one went on and on about the grooming habits of certain Bavarian demons, which could easily be described as nonexistent, I should think, and I found that I just couldn’t keep my eyes open.”
“Why are you reading about them, then? Nonexistent demons?” She smiled faintly to let him know she was teasing him. A little.
“Angel wanted me to brush up on poltergeist activity,” Wesley replied. “These particular demons were quite adept at mimicking poltergeists, causing people to have their houses cleansed and even exorcised, when the actual culprits were on the outside laughing, in some cases literally, their tails off.” He smiled back, equally faintly.
British humor is where you find it, I guess. Cordelia had always suspected that English people actually knew they weren’t funny most of the time, and tried to cover up their shortfall in the ha-ha department by pretending their sense of humor was exotic and therefore incomprehensible to non-English people. Which didn’t work with Americans, because, hello, speaking tons of English?
“Think that has anything to do with the case he’s working on now? I mean, we’re in Los Angeles, not Bavaria, right?”
“It’s a global village, Cordelia. Demons certainly don’t respect national borders any long
er.”
“Did they ever?”
“There’s no evidence that they did, no.”
She sat down next to him on the couch. “So do we know where he is? Or when he’s coming back?”
“No, and no,” Wesley answered. “Why? What have you been up to?”
“Can’t say,” Cordelia told him.
“Why not?” He raised his brows.
She moved her shoulders and raised hers back. “Promised.”
“Very well. A promise is a promise.” He inclined his head. “Good for you.”
She turned to face him. “Oh, Wesley, there are these girls, and they’ve offered themselves up to this Transylvanian Dracula movie extra named Kostov, and they’ve run away from home and they’re living under the Los Angeles main library and I just don’t know what to do about them. They’re just kids, like fourteen- and fifteen- and sixteen-years-old and they don’t have the slightest idea of what they’re getting into.
“But I don’t really know how to tell them that life can be any better than it is for them, and . . . oops. Guess I told.” She covered her mouth with her fingertips and mugged a look of extreme guilt.
“Hmmm,” he pondered in his hmming British way. He kind of reminded her of Winnie the Pooh at times. “Unless there’s more to it than that. But that certainly sounds like plenty. Can we take it a step at a time?”
“Well, cat’s out of the bag now, so we might as well pour it some milk, right?” she asked, feeling chipper.
He yawned. “Is that some kind of metaphor, or another part of the story?”
“Metaphor, Wesley. You are one muzzy guy.”
“Being startled out of a very deep sleep does that to one.” He harrumphed. “Very well, then. Now, these girls. They’re living in the library?”
“Underneath it. In these closed-off sections.”
“And they’ve all run away from home.”
“That’s right. Some of them from abusive parents, others from neglectful parents. It doesn’t sound like any of them really have a lot of reason to want to go back home.”
He looked skeptical. “And their only alternative is offering themselves up as vampire refreshments?”
