Buffy the Vampire Slayer - Buffy Season4 02 (9 page)

Still, he knew there was more for him to do in life. It was only that he could not figure out what that might be. Thinking about it made his head ache, but once he started, it was impossible to turn the flow of thoughts off.
Ironic,
he thought, given that his girlfriend was curled up naked under the sheets, half asleep with her head on his chest and one leg thrown over his torso.

“Mmm,” Anya purred.

Xander sighed. Between his general dissatisfaction with the way his life was headed and the fact that despite her vow to rescue Giles, Buffy hadn’t done a damn thing to get him away from the demon Camazotz, he could barely concentrate on Anya. Buffy was acting so weird, that they were all going to go after Giles tonight, to rescue him themselves. He and Anya had even done a Utile old-fashioned trespassing at the ex-Watcher’s house to gather up the weapons they’d need.
It’s not fair,
he thought sullenly.

His eyes fluttered closed. Anya snuggled up closer and Xander felt himself at last begin to relax. Though he knew Willow and Oz were due in the next hour or so, sleep seemed to be his only escape from the confusion and worry that plagued him.

Bamm! Bamm! Bamm!

His eyes snapped open and he stared at the ceiling for a minute, wondering if he had dreamed the knocking. Anya had not stirred at all. Then it came again, a hard rapping at the door that led out into the backyard, the door people used if they wanted to visit him. Willow was early. Anya shifted, moaned a bit, and one eye slitted open. “Make them go away or I’ll put a pox on them.”

Xander smiled down at her uncertainly. “You’re not a demon anymore, sweetie, remember?” She sighed. “There are times …”

But Anya did not finish the thought. Xander climbed out of bed and pulled on sweatpants and a tee shirt as he went to open the door. As soon as it was open a crack, Willow pushed her way in. She had an enormous red welt on the side of her face, and a crazed look in her eyes.

“Xander, we have to find Buffy. She’s not Buffy. I think she’s going to try to leave town and we have to stop her.”

Oz followed her at a more leisurely pace. Xander stared at Willow for a second, then glanced at Oz.

“Hey,” Xander said.

“Hey.”

“What’s all this about not-Buffy?”

Oz nodded. “Possessed, apparently. Body thief, I’m guessing.” Anya sat up in bed, covers clutched at her throat, and glared daggers at all of them. “You are early.” Willow shot her a hard look, then rolled her eyes and looked at Xander again. “Come on. Saddle up. We’re not gonna let this happen. If Buffy—or whoever hijacked her—gives us the slip, we may never get our friend back.”

“Okay, okay, we just need to get dressed. But what about Giles? I mean, not that I was looking forward to sashaying into the lair of the ancient bat-god with a passel of vampires running around the place, but someone’s gotta get him out.”

Oz raised an eyebrow. “Sashaying?”

Willow rounded on Xander then, but there was no anger in her eyes, just fear and a lingering sadness. “Confession? Always kinda hoped I’d leak our plan to Buffy and she’d feel all guilty and go do the rescuing herself. Apparently no longer in the cards. I don’t even want to think about Giles right now, Xander. I can’t, because then I’ll remember how I’m thinking, hey, he’s probably dead, and I can’t handle that grief. It would paralyze me, you understand?”

It was as though, with Buffy and Giles out of action, Willow had just stepped right up to the plate. She was in charge, all of a sudden, and Xander was surprised with how all right with that he was.

“Poor Giles,” Anya said. “It’s Buffy’s fault, you know. If she hadn’t been all high and mighty—”

”
If
Giles is still alive, we have to pray he lasts until morning,” Willow went on. “Whatever this thing is that’s taken Buffy over, Lucy Hanover is following it. Following … her. Right now, that’s our priority. We’re going to find a way to expel this thing out of Buffy. You and Oz may have to hold her long enough for me to do the spell, but—”

Xander held up a hand.
“Un momento,”
he interrupted. “Some evil spirit is holding the reins on Buffy’s Slayer-powered figure, and we’re supposed to hold on to her.” Willow shot him a withering glare.

“Just checking,” Xander added quietly. “Wouldn’t miss it, personally.” On her way south, Buffy passed through Citrus Beach, a tiny, trendy little hamlet with a single block of bistros and shops frequented only by the wealthy and their parasites. In that respect, it had not changed.

As she drove along the strip in Citrus Beach, Buffy slowed the Volvo and peered out the window. The sidewalks were swarming with nightlife, packs of drunken Kakchiquels, their trademark black tattoos gleaming as headlights splashed across them. They sat in outdoor patio dining areas at the bistros, served by human waiters, many of whom had wide, terrified eyes, though others only looked numb, shell-shocked. The vampires roamed the streets in packs like Mardi Gras revelers, crying catcalls at passing cars.

It wasn’t just vampires, either. For each clutch of undead, there were humans as well. Men and women who fawned over the Kakchiquels or gazed at them like obedient lap dogs. Buffy spotted a man on a leash, his head shaved bald, clothed only in ragged blue jeans and garish, obscene tattoos that had been etched into his skin, presumably by his masters.

Amongst the throng she spotted several demons as well.

I should stop,
she thought.
These people..,

The thought dissipated.
First rule of Slaying.
Buffy gripped the wheel tighter, her knuckles whitening, but she kept driving, even accelerated. Several of the Kakchiquels hooted at her as she passed, beastly vampire faces on display for the world to see. Buffy flashed back to the others of their tribe she had known, the grim, silent, deadly killers. These were nothing like the others, and she wondered why.

Questions. Too many questions in her head.

A pair of blond, female vampires clad in tight, red leather pants and matching tops began to move into the street ahead of her. There was menace in their gaze and their stride, and Buffy had to speed up and swerve around them. She checked the rearview mirror and saw one of the twins make a gesture, but they did not pursue her.

Even so, Buffy did not slow down.

Now, more than ever, she wanted to put Sunnydale and Citrus Beach and the Kakchiquels behind her. The lights of the town flashed across her face, but soon she traveled into darkness again. The road wound south, away from Citrus Beach.

I’ll come back,
she thought, a silent vow to everyone still alive behind her. It wasn’t long before she came in sight of Freeway 109, but Buffy did not dare go that way. More than likely, the Kakchiquels would be waiting to ambush her there. Instead, she said a tiny prayer she would not get lost, and took a left onto a secondary road she thought would eventually take her, in a roundabout way, within a quarter mile of her destination.

For several minutes, she drove in silence, not even the radio for company. The smattering of neighborhoods and gas stations gave way to trees on both sides of the road. A gentle rise curved around and through the thick woods, and Buffy became alarmed. She did not recall a forest on this road and she could not afford to become lost.

Keep going,
she told herself.
South. Just get out of here. A few more miles.
The Volvo crested the hill. The road curved again as it began its descent on the other side. There were a few homes in amongst the trees, but these had lights on inside. She was not out of their territory yet, but those lights gave her hope.

The headlights washed over the trees, then the road straightened out. In the darkness far ahead, three cars were parked at odd angles, blocking the way completely.

“Dammit,” Buffy whispered, there in the glow of the dash. Instinctively, she reached out to shut off the headlights, but stopped herself. It was too late. They would have been watching for her, would have seen her coming long before she had noticed them. Her mind whirled. The Kakchiquels must have set roadblocks up along every route south. They were a couple of miles from the restaurant where she was supposed to meet the extraction team. Her foot came off the brake. Almost before she knew what she was doing, Buffy floored the accelerator. Her seat belt was cinched tight, her hands gripped the wheel, and she aimed the nose of the Volvo right at the point where two of the cars ahead met grille to grille.
Don’t die!
an alarmed voice cried in her mind.

Working on it,
she silently replied.

Vampires popped up from behind the cars. Doors opened and others stepped out. From the forest around the roadblock, others appeared, moving slowly down toward the road. Buffy’s fingers flexed on the wheel. The headlights seemed to grow brighter, silhouetting each one of them, and the engine roared as she built up speed.

Buffy grinned.

She was doing better than sixty when the Volvo crashed into the roadblock. Buffy was thrust forward, the seat belt grabbed hold, bruised her, broke a rib, then the airbag erupted into her face and pushed her back against the seat. There was a screeching of metal like nothing she had ever heard, a shattering of glass as the Volvo rammed through the two cars, battering them aside, crushing at least one vampire.

The Volvo’s bumper was caved in, scarred, twisted metal thrust down, punctured the tire. It blew, and the car slewed to one side, then flipped. Buffy struck her head against the driver’s side window hard enough to break it as the Volvo rolled toward the tree line, and for a moment, she was unconscious. When her eyes fluttered open she heard shouts of pain and fury. Her ribs hurt, and it felt as though someone had hammered a nail into each of her temples. She squeezed her eyes shut, then reached up to wipe the blood from her face. It was a surprise to find that the car had come to rest right side up. The airbag pressed her against the seat, but she reached out, clutched a large shard of glass, and punctured it. As she looked out through the shattered glass, the vampires began to cluster around the ruined vehicles they had used for their roadblock. It was steel and fiberglass carnage. The headlights of the one car that was mostly intact shone in oily sparkles off the gasoline that seeped from the other two ravaged cars. The Kakchiquels seemed stunned for a moment, as though they had no idea how to proceed. Then, among them Buffy saw a pale, raven-haired creature rise up, gossamer gown fluttering around her.

Drusilla.

Perhaps thirty yards separated them. The others were dazed, but in a moment, they would come for her, surround the car, drag her out. She counted at least a dozen. If she didn’t move quickly, by numbers alone they might have her.

Her chest hurt with every breath, but Buffy built a wall between herself and that pain. There was no time for it. With the shouts of the vampires in her ears and the ghostly image of Drusilla rising from the wreckage burned into her mind, Buffy released her seat belt and lunged for the canvas bag that lay on the floor. Her fingers closed around the strap and she tried to pop open the door. It was jammed shut from the crash.

She swung the bag out the broken window, then climbed out, tiny shards of glass pinpricking the backs of her legs. The wound she had gotten in her side while fighting August earlier that day—it seemed like forever to her now—tore open again.

“Smell her, puppies!” Drusilla cried in her singsong voice, hoarse with desire. “Like cinnamon and nutmeg. A fox hunt, now! A taste of her boldness to the first to make her scream, but save the eyes for me!”

Buffy shuddered, but would not look away from Brasilia’s crazed, wide-eyed gaze. They thought she was going to run away.

No more running.

Instead, Buffy strode purposefully across the pavement toward them. The vampires had begun to lope toward her, but they paused in confusion when she did not flee. Even Drusilla cocked her head sideways, where it lolled as though broken.

“What’s this?” the lunatic inquired in a childlike voice.

“This?” Buffy rammed a hand into the canvas bag and pulled out a road flare. “This is for Kendra.” She ignited the flare, then threw it skittering across the pavement into the pool of gasoline that spread across the road beneath the cars and around the feet of the vampires. There was a heartbeat when nothing happened, and all eyes turned to the blazing flare.

Buffy sprinted toward the tree line.

With a sound like an enormous flag flapping in the wind, the gas ignited into a sheet of flame. Vampires screamed as the fire engulfed them. Then the first of the gas tanks exploded, and the force of it thumped through Buffy’s chest like the thunder of fireworks on the Fourth of July multiplied a thousandfold. She was thrown off her feet into the undergrowth at the edge of the woods, where she kept her head down.

The other two cars exploded in quick succession and blazing chunks of their frames struck the pavement all around. Buffy felt the heat even through her clothes, and her arms felt as though she had been sunburned. She bled from dozens of tiny wounds, and ached as though she’d been worked over good.

But she was alive.

Buffy stood up, glanced down in surprise to find the canvas bag still clutched in her hand, then surveyed the conflagration in front of her. Most of the vampires had been incinerated already. On the other side of the inferno she could see four or five of them running up the road in the other direction. Sudden motion, much closer, caught her eye. In the midst of the blaze, burning wreckage all around, Drusilla twirled in a mad ballet of fire, her arms flung out like a little girl, her head back. The vampire’s hair had been scorched from her head and her entire body was in flames, yet she danced and giggled in a high, wild, disturbingly beautiful voice.

Then she burst into a swirling tornado of burning embers, ash and charred bone fragments … and then she was only dust, spinning still, blown about and then drifting across the night sky like confetti.

“For Kendra,” the Slayer whispered.

Buffy turned and ran up into the trees, still headed south.