He smoothed back his hair and straightened his duster, when all at once, just like in that Michael Jackson video he liked so much, shapes moved toward him from beneath the tree. Their steps were awkward and disjointed; their gait distinctly uncontrolled.
As they moved into the moonlight, their eyes were blank and their mouths hung open.
“Zombies. Crikey, what the hell is going on?” he shouted. “I have a rescue to conduct, d’you mind? So I’ll just be on my way.”
They
Walked
Toward
Him.
“Oh.” He was more annoyed than anything. What were zombies going to do to him?
A lot, it seemed, if there were enough of them. And there were a lot. A whole bleedin’ army of the buggers. They stumbled and lurched on, intent upon surrounding him, perhaps to have a nibble, even though, God knew, a vampire would probably taste like dried leather to a flesh-eating ghoul. . . .
Soon, he was completely overrun with them. They were like really big lice; no matter how many he picked out, there were more to take their place. Disgusting.
Kicking, punching, much with the chop-socky and every other trick he’d learned. Heavy boots, heavier fists; Spike head-banged them and shoved them, one against a file of them, like dominoes. He tore out large sections of them, only to face their reinforcements.
Bad news: at long last, he was beginning to tire.
And that was when Xander, of all people, happened along and called from the entrance gate, “Damn, Spike! What’d you do, blow your subaudible zombie whistle?”
“Ha, ha, very funny,” Spike answered, as he rammed his fist into the face of an oncoming zombie. Its face crumpled inward and the lower jaw popped off. Spike barely took note. “I’m sure Giles and Tara are to blame.” Spike puffed out an explosive breath. “All that bleedin’ magick. Come on in here and help me.”
“And why?” Xander asked, stuffing his hands into his pockets.
“Do we really need a retake about you being one of the good guys and all that rubbish?” Spike groused at him.
Xander shrugged but nevertheless joined the fray, putting the lie to the Scoobies’ constant verbal threats that if Spike eventually proved to be too much trouble, none of them would harbor any reservations about staking him through the heart. Here he was, being a lot of trouble—as he usually was—and this fine young bloodbag was risking his life to save Spike’s. It was enough to warm Spike’s heart.
No, actually it wasn’t.
So they fought together. Xander tripped them up, usually by, well, sticking out his leg; and Spike punched them in the face so hard that their faces left their heads. There was mold everywhere, and desiccated skin and flesh. Brittle bones cracked. Xander kept saying, “Ew, yuck,” like a ninny, and Spike experienced the nearly uncontrollable urge to haul off and hit him. However, he was no stranger to the chip-induced pain that would create. As long as that damn chip was inside his head, harming humans was verboten.
As long as . . .
They kept fighting together. Fight, fight, fight. Xander said, “Spike, let’s book. There’s too many of them and I’m getting tired.”
“You big nancy-boy,” Spike jeered.
Xander shook his head. “I take time out of my valuable schedule to save your butt, and this is the thanks I get?”
At that moment, a zombie shambled over and ran directly into Spike’s face. It crumbled into an icky mess that left ooze the consistency of blood pudding all over Spike’s nose, cheeks, and chin.
“What are you doing here, anyway, Harris?” he asked.
“Like I said. I came to save you.” Xander looked at him. “Well, okay, I didn’t know you were in trouble. But I thought someone should, you know, check in on you.”
“Since when have you given a fig about me?”
“Since you can fight monsters and we’ve got more monsters than we can handle,” the boy said frankly.
“And I can’t hurt you.”
“That’s pretty much right. Makes you an asset—that’s what Riley calls you. Well, one of the things. You should hear what Buffy calls you.” Xander flashed him a sneer. “Anyway, you’re an asset that we can use. So, since you’re an asset, I figured someone should come over and drag your worthless carcass back to Giles’s for a strategy session.”
“Strategy.” I am not flattered, Spike reminded himself. “Sounds like another of Riley’s words.”
“They have a way of rubbing off on you,” Xander said. “Whether you want them to or not.”
“Doesn’t sound like you like him,” Spike observed.
“I like Riley just fine,” Xander countered. “You’re the one I don’t like.”
It occurred to Spike that he could tell the lad to sod off. There was very little percentage in him fighting the baddies while Cheryce was off somewhere, and him still chipped up. But Tara had all that magick and maybe they could do some kind of finder’s spell for Cheryce, and he could threaten her with a good staking if she didn’t tell him about the chip.
Ought to get her hot, at least.
“Right, then,” Spike said through a grimace. “Let’s book.” He sighed. “Sure was a good time.”
Superheroes A and B disappeared into the night.
Willy had fixed up the Alibi. Now it was Willy’s Place. He had a deep fryer because some of the demons liked onion rings. The jukebox had a few new CD’s in it, which Willy had picked up at the Runaway Project garage sale for a couple of bucks apiece.
But Willy himself had not classed up. Once a snitch, always a snitch. Willy cost less than an order of fries. He cost less than ketchup.
“Buffy,” Willy said nervously from behind his varnished wood bar, as the Slayer and Riley sauntered through the front door. “What brings you to my place of business?”
“Business.” Buffy was not smiling. Neither was Riley.
“Oh.” Willy looked so much less than pleased. “Um, like, a drink?” He reached for a bottle of Old Reliable.
Riley grabbed Willy around the collar and hoisted him up to eye level. “Like, who killed Rosalie Estrada?”
“Huh?” Willy was goggle-eyed. “She’s dead? Who is she?”
“On the news. On the radio. On the computer,” Buffy intoned, unimpressed by his act. Much as she regretted anyone’s death, the loss of Rosalie Estrada was mainly important to her as a stepping-stone—if she knew who had killed the girl whose body had turned up, she could leverage that against the killers for information about Nicky.
“We’re guessing you’ve heard about it.” Riley narrowed his eyes as he glared at Willy. “We’re guessing you’ll tell us about it. Now.”
A few demons started observing the goings-on. Those who knew Buffy was the Slayer usually kept their distance. Those who didn’t quickly found out from those who did. There was honor among demons, of a sort.
Occasionally.
For a price.
“I’ve heard about it,” Willy admitted. He lowered his voice, his eyes big and wary and not at all obvious with the guilt thing. “You want to get me killed?”
“I’ve been good all year round, Willy,” Buffy replied coldly. “Santa owes me. And he knows who’s on my list.”
Riley took charge, hovering over the man, who seemed to shrink from the heat of Riley’s scowl. “Word on the street is you’re in thick with the Latin Cobras.” That wasn’t true; neither Buffy nor her sweetie had heard one about that. But Willy was the dumbest snitch on the planet Earth.
“Let’s go in my office,” he said quickly. Smiling too brightly at his patrons, he said, “I’ll be back in a flash. You won’t even miss me.”
“You got that right,” one of the barflies slurred. A few others chuckled at the humor.
“Man.” Willy led the way down the hall and into his tiny, messy office. “You’re going to get me killed one of these days.”
Buffy and Riley waited. Willy raised his hands and said, “All right, all right. I do a little go-between work for the Latin Cob
ras and their, um, mother gang.”
“The Echo Park Band,” Riley filled in.
Willy paled. “Jeez, you guys know everything. Why bother me, huh? I’m just trying to get along. Pay my taxes, live decent—”
Buffy pushed him against his putty-colored filing cabinet. “Who killed Rosalie?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I swear.”
She pulled him back from the cabinet, then pushed him back again. “Who, Willy?”
“Murder. It’s not so nice,” he whined. “I try to stay out of that kind of thing. I got a mom in Jersey Heights.”
Buffy glared at him. “I’ll beat it out of you if I have to, Willy, but I am not leaving here without the name of Rosalie Estrada’s killer.”
“Okay.” He held his hands chest high. “Only, no more hitting, all right? I just spent a fortune replacing my front teeth.” He gestured for her to draw closer. “It was two Cobras named Little King and Dom,” he whispered. “If you ever tell anyone how you found out, I will personally go to your worst enemy and offer him my services.”
Buffy just shook her head. “All you do, Willy, is make it easier,” she snarled at him, showing him her fist. “Every single time, it’s just that much easier.”
“Hey, I cooperate with you, okay? You have no right to threaten me,” he insisted, as Buffy and Riley walked out of the office. “No right at all!”
“And you have no right to exist. Strange world,” Buffy flung over her shoulder.
They walked back from his office through the bar, Buffy catching the expressions of hatred on the facial areas of several of the demons. Nobody challenged her, however, which was par for the course in Willy’s Place. These demons might hate her, but they also feared her. They preferred to conduct their battles against the Slayer on far less level playing grounds.
“Let’s go find Little King and Dom,” Buffy suggested, once they got outside. “Find out what we can about Nicky, then take them to the cops. Serve up some justice.”
“Liking that idea,” Riley replied.
Then he tapped Buffy’s shoulder and gestured skyward.
A long-tailed creature was flying across the moon. It looked like a Chinese dragon. Or some poor little kid’s worst nightmare.
“Also, we need to check on my mom,” Buffy said.
“Liking that one, too,” Riley said.
Together, they moved into the night.
Chapter 6
Sunnydale
HUDDLED IN HER WHITE PAJAMAS IN THE CORNER OF HER living room, Joyce Summers was not having a very good night. She was under siege, with no moat, no drawbridge, and no Slayer on a white charger in sight. Her house was surrounded by so many different kinds of monsters that someone in the underworld should get awards for best special effects makeup. And that’s the best joke I can make at the moment, because if Buffy doesn’t come home soon, these things are going to break in and kill me.
Because some of the monsters were body-slamming the house, and others were rattling her doorknobs. Horned demons, winged creatures, monsters so different from anything she’d ever seen before she didn’t even know how to describe them: things that were half-mist, half-liquid, creatures that were covered with talons or mouths filled with needle-thin fangs. Things that growled, and shrieked, and wailed.
And then, there were the things that were so eerily reminiscent of childhood nightmares: a witch in a pointy hat, cackling as she rode her broom; a scattering of trolls; and a beautiful young girl with pale skin and blue-black hair, wearing a dark gray velvet gown and a snood, surrounded by a tribe of dwarves.
Snow White, Joyce thought, unaccountably comforted by the sight as she looked through the window, still maintaining her distance. Maybe because Snow White was a nice fairy-tale heroine, and not someone who might grind my bones to make her bread.
Something was lobbed against the window, making the glass rattle. Joyce pushed herself farther into the corner, stifling a scream: it was the head of a demon, still fresh and bleeding, its green blood smearing down the window as it tumbled to the ground.
“It figures,” Joyce muttered to herself. “I just washed those.”
Then the outside lights revealed something that gave her hope, but sent her fear skyrocketing: her daughter, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and her boyfriend, taking on the monsters.
They worked as a team, the two young people, Riley setting them up and Buffy knocking them down. Buffy was astonishing, doing backflips and high kicks and whirling in circles, to land at precisely the right spot to attack her enemy. Riley, though obviously weaker and lacking superpowers, was nevertheless impressive. He was tall, and very strong, and while careful, utterly fearless. Joyce noted how often he took his attention off his own fight to make sure Buffy was all right, and a faint smile crossed her face.
As she watched through the window, a demon with skin the color of blood and a wild, leering face appeared in front of her, hands pressed against the glass. Joyce let out a shrill cry. But Buffy saw it—her eyes locked, momentarily, with Joyce’s. She grabbed the thing’s shoulder and spun it around, meeting it as it turned with a sharp kick to the midsection.
The demon’s flesh surrounded Buffy’s foot and, Tar Baby-like, seemed to suck it in, refusing to let it go. Buffy yanked, but the foot was stuck. Buffy made the classic mistake of pushing off the thing with her hand, pressing it against the demon’s chest, but that got drawn into the demon’s gooey flesh as well. The demon, absorbing Buffy bit by bit, clawed at her with big hands, raking sharp fingernails across her cheek and drawing blood.
Joyce watched the whole thing in horror. Riley couldn’t help—he was under a dogpile of demons as it was. And there was nothing she could do to help Buffy; she knew if she so much as set foot outside, they’d grab her and all she’d wind up doing would be serving as a distraction, not an assist, to her daughter.
Buffy strained, trying with all her might to tug her arm or leg free from the demon’s grasp. Nothing seemed to work. But Joyce Summers hadn’t raised a quitter. Buffy, apparently giving up, went limp, and then, with the demon caught off guard, just as suddenly threw herself backward onto the lawn. As she landed on her back and rolled, the demon flew over her. Buffy directed his landing so he hit headfirst. He slammed into the grass with a squooshing sound that Joyce could hear all the way inside, and his head seemed to spread over a patch of lawn.
This seemed to work. Buffy disentangled herself from him and stepped back. As she watched, the demon liquefied, running into the grass, some of him flowing over the sidewalk and spilling into the street, where Joyce had no doubt he’d eventually wind up in the sewer.
She made a mental note to have a gardener tear out the grass in that spot and put in new sod, as soon as possible. Heaven only knew what might grow where the demon’s head had splattered.
With that demon dispatched, Buffy raced for the door. Riley had climbed out from underneath his, and followed. Joyce had the door open in time for both of them to sail over the threshold and into the house.
“Thanks, Mom,” Buffy said, panting. She held her midsection as she caught her breath.
“Thanks, Mrs. Summers.” Riley looked at Buffy and nodded. “Let’s get your mom to Giles’s place.”
“Mr. Giles?” Joyce asked, coloring. It was no secret— not any longer —that she and Buffy’s former Watcher had had sex. Under the influence of cursed chocolate bars, she reminded herself. Not that anyone gives us any slack because of that.
“Everyone’s there, Mom,” Buffy said. “You’ll be safe . . . safer.”
“Okay.” She hesitated. “Do either of you want anything to eat?”
“I’m good,” Riley said politely. “Thank you.”
“Let’s go. Stay between us if you can, Mom. That way we can protect you better.”
Joyce took a breath and nodded. Before she was ready, they were out of the house, Buffy in the lead, kicking and slamming horrible-looking creatures out of the way. A blue, gilled thing slithered on all fours toward them
and Riley rammed his heel into one of its eyes; black liquid jetted into the air and sprayed Joyce’s pajamas.
They made it all the way across the lawn and had reached the sidewalk, when an ice cream truck jangled up beside them, playing a tune Joyce could not identify. Xander was seated in the driver’s seat; he gave a jaunty wave and said, “Hop in.”
They did, and he took off, at, oh, about twenty miles an hour.
Buffy and Riley continued to fight, joined by Spike, who appeared from the interior, slurping on a 50–50 bar. He said, “Evenin’, missus,” to Joyce, then finished off his ice cream and joined the other young people pummeling the demons who tried to board the truck.
After a very, very, very, very long time, they reached Giles’s condo. There were very few monsters around, and Buffy, Riley, and Spike killed enough of them to make a dash for the door.
As they ran up the stairs, Buffy said, “Come on, Mom,” looked down at her, and added, “Why weren’t you wearing a bathrobe?”
“I’m so sorry, dear,” Joyce countered, padding along in her bare feet. “What could I have been thinking of? Perhaps my life?”
“You were the one who used to tell me to put on clean underwear, in case I was in an accident.”
Giles opened his front door.
“I never did,” Joyce protested. “Good evening, Mr. Giles.”
“Good evening.” He smiled as if they had never had sex on the hood of a car and moved courteously out of the way. His smile faded when he saw Spike. “What are you doing back?”
Xander plopped down next to Anya, on the sofa. “It must be cold outside,” Anya observed. She smiled at Joyce’s chest.
“Oh.” Joyce was abashed. She looked to Buffy, who said, “Giles, where’s your bathrobe?”
“Upstairs. In the loft,” he said.
“I’ll get it, honey.” Joyce turned and started up the stairs.
Buffy turned to Giles and she and Riley began telling him about the situation both in L.A. and in Sunnydale. Which was: demons, demons, demons.