The Evil That Men Do

  “Mark,” Giles said.

  “Mark,” Xander confirmed. “He must have found something very useful under the seat. Like a baseball bat.” He frowned. “Nothing I noticed, though.”

  “Ah.” Giles grimaced. “I moved quite a lot of weapons the other day. Put some on the backseat. I imagine something must have rolled onto the floor.”

  “Oh, how nice.” Xander helped him to his feet. “And for the lightning round, so to speak, Where’s Willow?”

  Giles turned around, must have registered the absence of both car and Willow, and turned back to Xander.

  The high beams of the minivan caught them both as Mrs. Rosenberg drove up.

  She leaped out of the van and ran to the two of them.

  “Mr. Giles. What happened?”

  Giles looked at Xander. He said, “Ah, I was carjacked, actually.” He hesitated.

  Xander stepped up to the plate. “By Mark Dellasandro.”

  “Oh, my God.” Mrs. Rosenberg covered her mouth. “Willow. Was she with you?”

  Giles hung his head. “I’m afraid so. I’m terribly sorry.”

  For a moment Xander thought she was going to scream. Then she clamped her mouth shut, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.

  “Get in,” she said. “We’re going straight to the police.”

  Xander sighed in frustration and mouthed to Giles, Library.

  As Mrs. Rosenberg headed around to the driver’s side, Xander said aloud, "Library.”

  Giles opened the front passenger door of the minivan. “We can’t. We’re witnesses. Victims. We have to report this to the police or it will go very badly.”

  Xander doubled his fists, wishing for all the world that he had something to hit. Giles put a hand on his shoulder. Then, silently, Giles climbed in beside Mrs. Rosenberg while Xander slid into the backseat.

  Neither one was buckled in before Mrs. Rosenberg hit the turbo-charge.

  Buffy sagged with frustration as she and Angel returned to her house. They had spent hours in fruitless searching. It was almost dawn, and Angel would have to stay out of the sun until nightfall. So until she caught up with the gang, she would essentially be on her own.

  Gee, a nap on my own would be nice, she thought wistfully.

  Together they headed for the kitchen door, Angel standing aside as Buffy hurried in.

  She set down her Slayer’s bag and crouched beside her mother. Joyce was asleep, or maybe passed out, her head on the table. Her handcuffed wrist looked swollen.

  “Maybe I put them on too tight,” Buffy said, fishing in her pocket for the key.

  Angel examined her mother’s wrist as Buffy quickly unlatched the cuff.

  “No, it looks okay,” he said, with the voice of authority.

  “Okay. Let’s get her into bed.”

  Buffy started to lift her mother over her shoulder, but Angel said, “I’m taller. It’ll be easier for me.”

  “Macho man,” she shot at him, but let him do it. She was tired. Besides, there were stairs.

  She picked up her satchel and drew up the rear, touching her mom’s hair, hoping she wouldn’t have a hangover. Her mom was a very light drinker. Some nights she just went all crazy and had a wine cooler with dinner, and the results were very funny.

  On the way through the living room, she glanced at the phone machine. No messages.

  Damn. Now she was really worried.

  Buffy pushed open her mother’s bedroom door and helped Angel gently lay her on the bed. She took off her shoes and pulled the sheets over her, then kissed her cheek.

  “Mmf,” Joyce murmured.

  Angel and Buffy tiptoed out. Buffy shut the door and led the way into her own bedroom.

  They both glanced at the bed at the same time. Angel walked to the window and peered out between the blinds.

  “I’ll have to go soon.”

  Buffy set down her Slayer’s bag and stretched, making her back crack. The trio of vampires was the only battle action they’d seen, but she felt very worn down.

  “Tell me more about Helen,” she said. “Tell me everything, so I can deal with her when the time comes.”

  Angel nodded seriously. “She’s got to be stopped. But Buffy, she may be the one you can’t stop.”

  Buffy swallowed. “Are you saying she’ll kill me?”

  “I would never let that happen,” he said in a rush.

  She tried to mimic his crooked smile, but he only peered at her and said, “Are you in pain?”

  “I’m fine.” She decided it was a better idea to get up off the bed. She sat on her chair and said, “Helen. Dish.”

  “Helen,” he said.

  Rome, A.D. 39

  Julian put on the full armor of a general of the Roman Imperial Army to meet the Slayer and her Watcher. Though Diana was the nemesis of his people, nevertheless she was an exalted personage who deserved his respect.

  With his bodyguards, he trooped down to the deepest dungeons, past the screaming prisoners and the tedious Christians, on their knees and praying in their large group cells. Julian covered his mouth and nose with the edge of his cape as the stench of death and dying wafted around them, a miasma of torment and despair.

  Pots of boiling oil added a viscosity to the mix, the fires casting shadows on the stone walls. The footsteps of the soldiers made many turn and look, torturers and tortured alike.

  And then there she was. On her knees, her arms pulled tight overhead, her face was streaked with mud. There was straw in her hair. Her dress was ripped.

  She saw Julian and the others, and let out an ear-piercing scream.

  Julian was taken aback. He had not expected a Slayer to behave so. He was a little disappointed; he’d imagined their meeting very differently.

  “Greetings in the name of the Emperor, the great Gaius, known as Caligula,” he said, saluting by making a fist where his heart lay unbeating inside him, then opened his hand and extended it forward.

  “What?” Her eyes were enormous. “Please, let me go.”

  There was a stir among Julian’s guards. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Diana —”

  “I’m not Diana!” she shouted. “I’m Helen! I’m not Diana!”

  Julian went immediately to the cell of the Watcher. He was a proud man, well formed despite his age. He lifted his head as Julian rapped on the bars and demanded, “Why did you tell my soldiers that girl is the Slayer?”

  The Watcher smiled grimly. “Why do you think?”

  Julian swore. Tricked! He transformed himself into his true nature and glared at the man. “You shall pay. But before you do, you’ll tell me where she is.”

  There was something in the man’s eyes that gave Julian the impression that he would break rather easily.

  For the second time, the vampire was disappointed.

  “They tortured the Watcher,” Angel said. “For days. Finally he told them that he and Diana had a prearranged hiding place in a grove sacred to her patron goddess, Diana of the Hunt. They sent troops, but she wasn’t there.”

  Buffy nodded slowly. “So they kept Helen as bait.”

  Angel nodded.

  The phone rang. Buffy heaved a huge sigh of relief and grabbed it.

  “It’s Giles, Buffy.”

  “Thank God! We’ve been looking for you guys everywhere. There’s this urn, and we think it’s got something in it; and so we should meet, that is you and I and Willow, if she can get out of going home; to do the research, and —”

  Giles cut in, “Mark knocked Xander and me out and took my car.”

  Her eyes widened. “Willow. Has not been mentioned.”

  “Willow,” Giles confirmed. “She was in the car when he took it.”

  Buffy closed her eyes. “Giles, where is she?” Buffy asked. “Has Mark called you?”

  “There’s no reason to assume that anything bad will happen to her,” Giles said soothingly. “Mark’s terrified, Buffy. He doesn’t know whom to trust. Where to turn.”

  Buffy’s insides c
onstricted. “You’re making me feel so much better.”

  “We’re at the police station. We’ve been here for hours. Mrs. Rosenberg’s with the detectives now. This is the first opportunity we’ve had to use the phone.”

  He cleared his throat. “Ms. Broadman was in earlier. Apparently she was mugged by three individuals in Halloween costumes.”

  “Yeah. Vamps in togas.” She sighed. “Speaking of, Angel’s been filling in some more blanks in the Helen saga.”

  “We’re being released to go home. Xander assures me he won’t be missed — which, while convenient, is sad commentary on his home life —”

  “Giles.”

  “We’ll meet at the library.” He sighed. “I was counting on Willow to do a Net search.”

  “Don’t look at me,” she said.

  “All right. Meet us there as soon as you can.”

  “Okay.” She disconnected and dropped the portable on her bed. She covered her face with her hands. “Willow,” she whispered.

  “We’ll find her. We’ll find all of them.”

  She nodded mutely. I can’t let her down again, she thought desperately. I will never, ever forgive myself if something happens to her.

  Angel looked at the window. “Buffy, I hate to do this, but I have to go. Or I can stay here.”

  “No, you’ll be stuck in my house all day. My mom will force you to bake with her.” Resolutely, she gestured toward the window. “Do you have time to make it back to your place?”

  “If I go now.”

  “Angel,” she blurted.

  “Willow’s proven herself to be strong and resourceful,” Angel reminded her gently. “She’s held her own before.”

  Buffy said, “I wasn’t there. When she got shot. Because I . . . was . . .”

  She looked up at him, stricken.

  “When I think of all the evil things I did when I was changed,” Angel said softly, “it’s almost more than I can handle. But you know what’s worse?

  “The years after, when my soul had been restored, but I did nothing. I knew about all the evils in the world, but I gave in to the luxury of guilt.”

  “Luxury?” Buffy echoed bitterly.

  “You can’t afford it, Buffy.” He smiled his faint smile. “If you try to keep track of all the times you aren’t perfect, you’ll lose count. And no one else is keeping score.”

  “I’m fine,” she insisted, tension coiling inside her. Now is not the time. And this sure isn’t the place.

  “Okay.” He stood. “Call when you hear anything. I’m a light sleeper.”

  “I know,” she said, then flushed. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

  He said, “It didn’t sound the way it sounded.”

  He left the room.

  Without looking back.

  Angel silently let himself out of Buffy’s house and walked quickly down the street, smelling the approach of dawn. His reluctance to leave her would prove his undoing one day. Sometimes he timed it awfully close.

  He thought of the misery he’d seen on Buffy’s face. What’s she blaming herself for? Not being a robot? Not being on duty twenty-four seven?

  Then he saw Helen at the end of the block, resplendent in all her mad beauty.

  Without breaking stride, he approached her. She held out her arms and glided toward him. Her white face was beautiful, her eyes large and startling.

  “Angelus,” she said huskily, rubbing her body against his. “Angel, my love.”

  He didn’t react to her inviting movements. She drew away with a pout and lifted her chin.

  “Aren’t you glad to see me?”

  He remembered her as they had been when he was Angelus.

  He remembered himself. There was nothing inside him now that wanted her. But there had been a time . . .

  “You know what I am now.”

  She laughed. “A vampire with a soul.” She wrinkled her nose. “What an absurdity.”

  “And yet.”

  She reached her hands around her head, catching handfuls of lustrous hair and letting them tumble to her shoulders. “You were a wild, vicious thing when I loved you in England,” she said softly. “And I loved you as no one else has. I was a wild, vicious thing in your arms. Was I not?”

  He inclined his head. “Yes.”

  “And yet, you left me.” She sounded wounded. “As everyone leaves me. Abandons me.”

  “I regained my soul.”

  “Ah.” She blinked. “That would explain it. If I believed you.” She put her hands on his chest. “How could you resist me? How can you resist me now? I can give you a love potion.”

  “Viagra?”

  She threw back her head and laughed heartily. “Angelus, I’ve always loved your wit.” She kissed his neck. “Come with me, my love. Come to my court. We’ll kill Julian and I’ll make you my king.”

  “We talked about killing Julian before,” Angel said carefully, “but you told me you were his prisoner.”

  “We’re going to take over this place,” she said. “We will reestablish the glory that was Rome.”

  “In the glory that is Sunnydale,” Angel said flatly.

  “We are going to call up Meter,” she announced. “With her power, we will reign supreme.” She twined herself around him. “We will use the beating heart of the Slayer, and the ashes of Caligula.”

  Angel blinked, startled. “You have his ashes?”

  “We will become one with the dark gods.” She caressed Angel’s face. “I would hate to see you destroyed along with the other champions of good.”

  She kissed him full on the lips. “It’s near dawn, my beautiful Angelus. Time to rest. Think about what I’ve said to you while you slumber.”

  She turned and disappeared into the shadows. Deeply troubled, Angel walked on.

  The Yorkshire Moor, 1897

  It was a glorious night for death.

  The mists boiled over the landscape, rising into columns that moved and swayed like phantoms. The single coach that dared a wind-tossed midnight ride creaked and jingled as the outriders beat the horses.

  In a heavy black wool cloak and shiny new boots, Angelus put the spurs to his stallion and galloped after the coach. Though his mouth was smeared with warm human blood, he lusted for more.

  As the moon glowed over the sea of fog, a white shape ran directly in front of his mount. He would have run it down, except that the horse reared wildly, throwing him from the saddle.

  The shape growled and flung itself at him, growling savagely and flying at his neck. He stopped it easily, backhanded it, and it was thrown at least ten feet from him.

  To his amazement, it began to whimper, and then to laugh.

  He got up and cautiously approached it.

  At that moment, he had his first glimpse of Helen. She looked straight up at him in full vamp face and said, “Oh tell me, is it true, vampires still walk the earth?”

  He was startled by her question. In the ensuing silence, she transformed into her human face, and he was even more startled by her beauty. She was exquisite, dark-haired and black-eyed, in ebony taffeta and crimson lace, roses in her hair.

  “Why do you ask?” he queried, suspiciously narrowing his eyes at her.

  “I’ve been a prisoner.” Her voice was breathy, excited. “I’ve not seen another . . . person . . . in centuries, save my jailer.”

  He waited.

  “He walled me up alive. Hunted every night, and forced me to feed off him,” she continued. “I broke my own arm freeing myself from captivity. I spied a weakness in the bolts, and I pushed until they gave.”

  Sure enough, her left arm dangled at her side. Soon, however, it would heal itself.

  She reached forward and grabbed his hand. “Help me, please. I shall be grateful to you from the bottom of my heart.”

  Her icy, evil heart.

  Buffy sat on her bed for a few minutes, breathing deeply so she wouldn’t lose it. Because she was beginning to lose it. She had spent too many hours on
overdrive. How many times had Cordelia pointed out that hanging with Buffy was like signing your own death warrant? Even Willow had said that.

  Willow wasn’t Willow at the time she said that, exactly, she reminded herself.

  Wearily, she stood, replenished her Slayage supplies, looked yearningly at the shower, and left the house. It was still dark, but birds were singing and twittering. Someone’s sprinklers went off.

  Forgot to call them on account of the rain, she told herself.

  “Slayer", she heard someone hiss.

  She froze.

  “Slayer.”

  There it was again.

  She whirled around, every muscle in her body on alert for battle, but there was no one there.

  There. Across the street.

  A black van with tinted windows started rolling down the street.

  Buffy ran for all she was worth toward the van, cutting an intercept course as it picked up speed. It left her in its wake; she pumped her arms and legs to keep up, knowing it was a waste of time and energy but unable to stop herself. She stared down at the empty license plate holder, then scrutinized the van itself for distinguishing marks. Found one: Sunnydale Used Kar Mart.

  So they had bought it here.

  A car passed in the other direction, driver craning his head at the girl running down the street after the black vehicle, drove on. Just another day in Sunnydale.

  Then, in the glare of an overhead streetlight, a head poked out of the side of the van — the door must be open — and Buffy stared at a green, rubber-faced demon who was grinning a snaggle-toothed pumpkin grin at her. He gave her a little wave.

  She gave him something back, not quite as friendly.

  Then something tumbled out of the van, and the van sped away.

  Something that looked like a body.

  “Oh, God, no.”

  She ran.

  It was the longest run of her life, although it was perhaps only a hundred feet.

  The heap was a body.

  “Willow, no.”

  She fell to her knees before she had time to register that it was the body of a guy, not a girl.

  “Willow, Willow,” she groaned, turning it over.

  The smashed, gray face of local druggie Jordan Smyth stared back at her.