The boy said, “That doesn’t matter. I’ve got something to offer you.” Spike looked up. “I’m pretty sure this is the part where you take out a watch and say I’ve got thirty seconds to convince you not to kill me,” the child continued. “It’s traditional.”
Who did this little pipsqueak think he was? “Well.” Spike slammed the book shut and threw it on the ground. “I don’t much go for tradition.”
He flew at the boy and grabbed his ear. The boy’s eyes widened with fear and he began to pant. Good. It would make his blood so much richer.…
Drusilla put her hand on Spike’s shoulder and said, “Wait, love.”
She had that tone she got when she saw things: call ’em visions, whatever. He had learned to trust her instincts. If not her pet-care habits.
“Well?” Spike demanded of the boy.
“Come on. Say it. It’s no fun if you don’t say it.”
Spike growled, “What? Oh.” He rolled his eyes. With absolutely no enthusiasm, he ran down the litany. “You’ve got thirty seconds to convince me not to kill you.”
The boy was thrilled. “Yes! See? This is the best!” He came down a little, but he was still beaming like a traffic light. “I want to be like you. A vampire.”
Spike was amused. A little disappointed that it wasn’t something more bizarre, but amused. “I’ve known you for two minutes and I can’t stand you. I don’t really feature you living forever.” To Dru, he said, “Can I eat him now, love?”
“Well, feature this,” the boy continued, undaunted. “I’m offering a trade. You make me a vampire. And I give you the Slayer.”
Spike had to admit the boy had his attention now. He had everyone’s attention.
* * *
Buffy’s mom had another late night at the gallery. Buffy was home alone, making cocoa, when Angel appeared at her kitchen door. He said, “Buffy. May I come in?”
Buffy took a moment to compose herself and said, “Sure. I thought once you’d been invited you could always just walk in.”
“I can,” he replied, walking into the kitchen. “I was being polite.” She put her hands around her warm cup. She felt cold, down her heart.
He continued, in a serious, urgent voice. “We need to talk.”
She swallowed. “Do we.” She picked up her cup and headed for the dining room. It wasn’t really a question. She wanted to ask him, Don’t you love me anymore? How can you lie to me about another girl after all we’ve gone through together? But she kept those questions to herself.
He followed her into the room. “It’s about your friend, Ford,” he said. “He’s not what he seems.”
She looked up at him, at the dark eyes and the mouth that was always sad, even when Angel smiled. It occurred to her that she had never heard him laugh.
“Who is these days?” she asked shortly.
Angel was missing, or ignoring, her jibes. “Willow ran him down on the computer.”
“Willow?” She was stung. Willow had invaded an old friend’s privacy and not even bothered to tell her?
“We found this address. We checked it out with Xander and it turned out to—”
“And Xander?” Buffy echoed. “Wow, everybody’s in. It’s a great big, exciting conspiracy.” She sat down.
Angel paused. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the people I trust.” She looked up at him, looked at him hard. “Who’s Drusilla?” Angel’s face fell as if she had told him of the death of someone close. Though shaken, she refused to give up now. “And don’t lie to me. I’m tired of it.”
He looked tired, weary, and very sad. “Some lies are necessary.”
“For what?” she demanded.
“Sometimes the truth is worse.” He gazed away, then back at her. “You live long enough, you find that out.”
“I can take it. I can take the truth.”
“Do you love me?” he asked, searching her face.
She was startled. “What?”
“Do you?”
And here it was, the question lovers always ask each other, ask themselves. The Slayer’s vampire boyfriend, asking it of her. Had she not asked herself the same question over and over, trying to make sense of it?
Her eyes welled. “I love you,” she admitted. “I don’t know if I can trust you.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t do either.”
“Maybe I’m the one who should decide,” she answered defiantly.
He waited a beat. Then, as if what he would say next would cost him dearly, he began.
It came out in a rush, as if he wanted it over and done.
“I did a lot of unconscionable things when I became a vampire. Drusilla was the worst. She was an . . . obsession of mine. She was pure and sweet and chaste.”
“You made her a vampire,” Buffy said slowly, as the awful truth dawned.
“First I made her insane. Killed everyone she loved, visited every mental torture on her I could devise. She eventually fled to a convent and the day she took her holy orders I turned her into a demon.”
For a moment Buffy couldn’t say a word. She couldn’t even look at him.
“Well, I asked for the truth,” she said slowly, wondering how to heal after knowing this of him. Wondering if she could still love him.
* * *
But Angel looked for no forgiveness. His thoughts were only of Buffy’s safety. “Ford’s part of some society that reveres vampires. Practically worships them. I don’t know what he wants from you. But you can’t trust him.”
* * *
The next day at school Buffy’s thoughts were crowded with all the things Angel had told her the night before.
“Buffy!” Ford cried.
Including the fact that she couldn’t trust an old friend.
“Ford,” she said, and tried to smile. His own smile seemed predatory, calculated.
“I had a great time last night,” he told her. Then he chuckled and said, “Well, an interesting one.”
Masking her feelings, Buffy replied, “I’m glad.”
“Do you want to go out again tonight?”
She made herself smile. “I’m not busy.”
“I sort of had an idea. It’s a secret. I kind of want to surprise you.”
“I like surprises.” What Slayer didn’t?
“Can you meet me here?” he asked.
“Sure.”
He was pleased. “At nine?”
“At nine.”
He bent and whispered in her ear, “It’s going to be fun.”
* * *
Xander and Willow were sitting morosely on the stairway, reminding Buffy of the many times she herself had been sent to the principal’s office.
Willow said anxiously, “Hey, Buffy. Did, uh, Angel—”
“He told me everything,” Buffy could hear the chilliness in her own voice, and wished it wasn’t there. Wished there was no reason for it be there.
Willow went on, “I’m sorry we kept stuff from you.”
“It’s okay,” Buffy told her. She almost meant it.
“When Angel came to my room he was just really concerned for you,” Willow told her. “And we didn’t want to say anything in case we were wrong.”
Dear Willow. Buffy could never stay angry at her. She put her hand on Willow’s arm.
Xander said, “Did you find out what Ford is up to?”
“I will,” Buffy replied. She left.
* * *
They watched her go. After a moment Xander registered what Willow had said and stared at Willow in shock.
“Angel was in your bedroom?”
Willow looked pensive. “Ours is a forbidden love.”
* * *
And here they were, the True Believers. What did Ford make, the thirteenth guest? He went down the stairs of the Sunset Club.
“Chantarelle,” he said to the lovely blond clad all in scarlet and jet. She wore a large red choker with a big hunk of red glass in the center. “Is everything ready?”
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The nerd formerly known as Marvin bustled up and said, irritated, “Of course it’s ready. Hi. I took care of it. I always take care of it.”
Chantarelle’s eyes lit up. She said, with awe in her voice, “Is it time? Tonight?”
Ford asked her, “Are you nervous?”
“Yes,” she admitted. “No.” She straightened her shoulders. “I’m ready for the change. Do you really think they’ll bless us?”
“I know they will,” Ford told her proudly. “Everything’s falling into place.”
Diego cut in. “What about your friends? Are they coming?”
Ford blinked. “What are you talking about?”
“Your friends,” Diego filled in. “They came last night. Two guys and a girl.”
Chantarelle added, “One was mean.”
Ford’s stomach did a flip. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”
Diego was irritated and defensive. “I have to do everything around here. Sorry, Mr. Flawless Plan Guy. It slipped my mind.”
Chantarelle frowned. “It’s going to be all right, isn’t it? They’re not going to let us down?”
Ford didn’t have time for this. “It’s going to be fine.”
She persisted, “I need them to bless me.”
Exasperated, Ford repeated, “It’s going to be fine.”
“No. It’s really not,” said a voice.
Ford turned. Buffy was coming down the steps.
Ford’s face hardened. He glanced at Diego, and murmured, “It’s kind of drafty in here.”
Diego sidled off as Buffy drew near.
* * *
Buffy knew she had to keep her wits about her, but she was hurt and angry as she stopped on the stairs to look down on Ford. Still, she hid it all inside. She had gotten very good at that.
“I’m sorry, Ford,” she said airily, moving down again. “I just couldn’t wait until tonight. I’m rash and impulsive. It’s a flaw.”
Ford shrugged. “We all have flaws.”
“I’m still fuzzy on exactly what yours is.” She reached the floor and faced her old friend. “I think it has to do with being a lying scumbag.”
“Everybody lies.”
“What do you want, Ford? What’s this all about?” she asked.
“I really don’t think you’d understand.”
“I don’t need to understand. I just need to know.” And she was not requesting information; she was demanding it.
He said, “I’m going to be one of them.”
She digested that. “You want to be a vampire.” “I’m going to,” he said.
“Vampires are kind of picky about who they change.” And then it hit her: “You were going to offer them a trade.” She was shocked beyond words. Her old friend had been planning her death.
Ford said, “I don’t think I want to talk anymore.”
Buffy grabbed him and slammed him up against the wall, hand against his throat. “Well, I still feel awfully chatty. You were going to give them me. Tonight.”
“Yes,” he said gruffly, his vocal cords constricted by her grip.
“You had to know I’d figure it out, Ford.”
Ford smiled. “Actually, I was counting on it.” He started laughing, then coughing, then wheezing as he grinned at her.
She stepped back, wary, and let him go. He kept laughing and coughing. It gave her a wiggins. “What’s supposed to happen tonight?”
“This is so cool! This is just like it played in my head. The part where you ask me what’s supposed to happen—it’s already happening.”
The big door slammed shut. Immediately Buffy raced up the stairs to it and pulled. She couldn’t open it. There was no doorknob and no other way to open it.
She turned around to face Ford. He was halfway up the stairs, the others grouped around him like some macabre class picture.
“Rigged it up special,” he told her. “Once it’s closed, it can only be opened from the outside. As soon as the sun sets, they’ll be coming.”
Buffy appealed to him. “Ford, if these people are still around when they get here—”
The guy in the blue cape said, “We’ll be changed, all of us.”
“We’re going to ascend to a new level of consciousness,” the blond bimbo, Chantarelle, explained. “Become like them, like the Lonely Ones.”
“This is the end, Buffy.” Ford’s face was set, determined, his smile a mask. “No one gets out of here alive.”
Buffy raced down the stairs, looking for an alternate exit. Ford was on her heels.
She said, “There’s gotta be a way out of here.”
“This is a bomb shelter, Buffy,” Ford told her as she pulled back a black velvet curtain and found a bricked-in doorway. “I knew I wasn’t going to be able to overpower you. But this is three feet of solid concrete. Trust me when I say we’re here for the long haul.”
“At least let the other people go,” Buffy said.
“Why are you fighting this?” Chantarelle asked her. “It’s what we want.”
“It’s our chance for immortality,” Cape Guy added.
“This is a beautiful day!” Chantarelle went on. “Can’t you see that?”
Buffy shot back, “What I can see is that right after the sun goes down, Spike and all of his friends are going to be pigging out at the all-you-can-eat moron bar.”
Cape Guy said, “Okay. That’s it. I think we should gag her.”
Buffy gave him a look possessed only by Slayers. “I think you should try.”
Cape Guy persisted, “She’s an unbeliever. She taints us.”
“I am trying to save you,” Buffy insisted. “You’re playing in some serious traffic here, do you understand that? You’re going to die. And the only hope you have of surviving is to get out of this pit right now and, my God, could you have a dorkier outfit?”
Cape Guy looked hurt.
Ford smiled. “I’ve got to back her up, D. You look like a big ninny.”
A little alarm went off. Ford dug into his pocket and pulled out a pager. He smiled triumphantly.
“Six twenty-seven,” he announced. “Sunset.”
* * *
Sunset.
As Spike’s people assembled for the hunt, he called out his instructions. “When we get there, everybody spread out. Two men on the door. First priority is the Slayer. Everything else is fair game, but let’s remember to share, people.”
He went over to Dru. “Are you sure you’re up for this?”
“I want a treat,” she said, her head lolling. “I need a treat.”
“And a special one you’ll have.” He gathered up her hair and smiled into her beautiful face. Their bloodlust rose in one rhythm. It was astonishing how much he loved this girl.
“Lucius!” Spike held up a set of keys. “Bring the car around.”
* * *
Buffy was still trying to find a way out. She raced back up the stairs and felt around the knobless door.
Ford said, “Man, you never give up, do you?”
“No, I don’t,” Buffy replied.
“That’s a good quality in a person. Too many people, they just lay back and take it. But us—”
“Us? We have something in common now?” She walked around the balcony. Ford followed her.
“More than you’d think,” Ford told her.
“Okay, let me explain something to you,” Buffy said, whirling on him. “You’re what we call the bad guy.”
“I guess I am,” he said, as if he hadn’t thought of that before, but he liked it nonetheless.
She looked down at his friends in their ruffles and black lipstick, milling around and wondering what was going to happen next. “These people aren’t going to get changed, are they? The rest of them, they’re just fodder.”
“Technically, yes. But I’m in. I will become immortal.” He wasn’t even ashamed to say it.
She flared. “I’ve got a newsflash for you, brain-trust. That’s not how it works. You die. And a demon sets up shop in
your old house. And it walks and talks and remembers your life, but it’s not you.”
He looked away for a moment, then back at her. “It’s better than nothing,” Ford said.
Buffy was shocked. “And your life is nothing?” He laughed bitterly. “Ford, these people don’t deserve to die.”
“Neither do I!” he flung at her. His voice broke. “But apparently nobody took that into consideration, because I’m still dying.”
She blinked.
“I look good, don’t I? Let me tell you something. I’ve got maybe six months left and by then what they bury won’t even look like me. It’ll be bald and shriveled and it’ll smell bad. I’m not going out that way.”
She turned away.
“I’m sorry, Summers. Did I screw up your righteous anger riff? Does the nest of tumors liquefying my brain kind of spoil the fun?”
“I’m sorry.” She faced him again, with tears of pity in her eyes. “I had no idea. But what you’re doing is still very wrong.”
“Okay, well, you try vomiting for twenty-four hours straight because the pain in your head is so intense and then we’ll discuss the concept of right and wrong.” He gestured toward the others. “These people are sheep. They want to be vampires because they’re lonely, or miserable, or bored. I don’t have a choice.”
“You have a choice. You don’t have a good choice, but you have a choice. You’re opting for mass murder here and nothing you say to me is going to make that okay.”
Ford said, “Do you think I need to justify myself to you?”
Buffy answered, “I think this is all part of your little fantasy drama. Isn’t this exactly how you imagined it? You tell me how you’ve suffered and I feel sorry for you. Well, I do feel sorry for you, and if those vampires come in here and start feeding, I’ll kill you myself.”
For a moment the ghost of a smile passed over his face, and he was the old Ford again, the manly sixth grader she had moped over for months. He said quietly, “You know what, Summers? I really did miss you.”
* * *
A car engine hummed. Tires squealed. They were here.
Maybe there was enough of the old Ford still there, she hoped. Just as Angel’s soul had been restored, maybe she could appeal to what had been Ford before his illness had changed him. She said, “Ford, help me stop this. Please.”