The Evil That Men Do

  “Don’t think I will save you,” he said, clapping his hands. Cordy’s hulking trainer, a man covered with scars from the top of his pin head to his thick lack of waist, strutted into the arena from the side door and bowed.

  “Take them back to their cells,” Julian said. “Prepare them for tonight’s festivities.”

  “Festivities?” Cordy repeated shrilly, as the demons led her and Oz out of the arena.

  Transforming into vamp face, Julian smiled at her.

  “As in, let the Games begin.”

  Buffy put the money in the pay phone while Mark cowered behind Willow. Across the street, a gas station blazed out of control.

  Not the best place to make a phone call, Buffy thought, but the first place.

  The sun was going down, and the town was going up. In the distance, explosions shook the ground like bombs going off. Buffy had no idea what was going on, and no idea how to stop it. Right now, her little piece of the rock was saving this kid and getting Willow to the library, where she could help with the research.

  “Giles,” she said, as soon as she knew the phone had been picked up.

  “Buffy. Thank heavens. Is Willow —”

  “With me. Mark, too. I’m bringing them in. A car would be good. Yours kind of died, finally.” About six blocks back, and it wasn’t pretty.

  “Died?” he asked shakily. “Where are you? I’ll send Xander. We’ll locate another vehicle.”

  She scanned the area. “I guess we could keep walking.”

  “No. It’s not safe to go about with that boy in tow. I’ve turned on the local radio news and people are searching everywhere for him.”

  She huffed. “Look, I can deal. If we wait for Xander, we’re sitting ducks.”

  “You can do remarkable things, it’s true. But the odds are stacked against you, Buffy. You cannot fight an entire town.”

  Raising her hand slightly, Willow mouthed, Reservoir.

  “Before I forget, Mark put this drug in the reservoir,” she said. “It’s what made everybody go wacko.”

  Giles was silent for a moment. Then he murmured, “Oh, Lord.”

  Buffy frowned into the phone. “What?”

  “I’m not sure. Just sit tight.”

  “Quack, quack,” she replied. “Over and out.”

  She hung up and looked at Willow. “Giles wants us to stay here and wait for Xander.”

  “Xander?” Willow asked.

  “With wheels.” She shrugged. “That’s all I can reveal, even under torture.”

  Willow raised her brows. “Well, if we’re hiding from everybody, and we don’t know what the car looks like, how will we connect?”

  Buffy shrugged. “Technically, we only have to hide Mark. Not everyone knows he was last seen with us. You.”

  “No. Just all the police officers,” Willow said, gulping as a cruiser crept down the main street. She pulled Mark deeper into the shadows.

  “You guys are going to get me killed,” he said.

  Buffy said nothing. She was watching the sun go down.

  Rome, A.D. 40

  “I’ve found her,” Julian said to Helen as he entered the cell.

  Helen stared at him, all the blood draining from her face. Her lips were numb, her cheeks icy hot. She almost slipped on the straw that covered her floor.

  He crossed to an elaborate chair he had brought her and lounged in it, every inch the patrician Roman nobleman.

  Every inch a vicious killer.

  “Here is my last offer,” he said. “I am going to assassinate the emperor very soon. I entrust my existence to you, telling you that. But the world will turn upside down when that happens, and unless you are on my side, I’ll have no way of protecting you.”

  “Diana,” she rasped.

  “We almost killed her.” He stretched and settled into the chair. “But it takes a lot to kill a Slayer.”

  “She is of the gods.” Helen’s throat was so tight she could barely speak.

  “Perhaps. But the fact remains that she is dying, and I am not. And I know where she is.”

  He leaned forward. “I’m going to bring her here. I can heal her. You know I can. I have healed your many wounds.”

  She closed her eyes and waited for what she knew she would hear.

  “You know my price already,” he said.

  She opened her eyes and gazed at him with blinding hatred. “I will never become like you. I don’t care if she dies. She never tried to save me.”

  “Oh, but she did.” His voice was lilting, gently mocking. “She’s tried many times. I suppose I failed to mention that before.”

  Fury rose in her, quickly followed by anguish.

  “You’re lying.”

  “I’m not.”

  She flew at him, unable to control herself. She was a gladiator now.

  He matched her, blow for blow, until at last he grabbed her by the hair and pulled back her head. She was panting.

  “Ah, my lioness.” He bent toward her neck.

  “Great Julian,” someone said behind him, and he let her go.

  Helen’s heart seized inside her rib cage. Two soldiers carried a still form in on a pallet, entering the cell as Julian held open the door for them. They set the pallet on the floor, and it was only then that Helen dared come near.

  Diana’s blond hair framed a face graying with the approach of death. She was covered with a heavy woolen cloak; blood had seeped from her wounds into the cream-colored fabric, lending it a macabre beauty.

  “Oh, Diana, Diana,” Helen said in a rush. Then she felt Julian’s stare. "She never tried to save me.”

  “Then let her die.” He rose. “You hold her life in your hands. The decision is entirely up to you. If you consent to join me, her life belongs to you, and you may do with her as you please. You can tell me to heal her. I’ll even set her free if you desire it.”

  He bowed. “I’ll leave you now. You need time to think. But don’t take too long, sweet Helen. The Slayer’s time has almost run out.”

  Helen raised her chin. “I’ll let her die.”

  Julian turned and left the cell.

  Helen screamed, “I’ll let her die!”

  Xander slipped out of the library and walked quickly into the faculty lot, blending in with the shadows. He had no idea how Giles had filched Ms. Broadman’s keys, and he wished they were anyone’s keys but Ms. Broadman’s.

  Until he found out that his nemesis drove a wicked-sleek, sable black Jaguar XKE.

  “Tell me I’ve died and gone to heaven,” he breathed, jingling the keys.

  “All right,” Angel said as he emerged from the shadows. “If it’ll make you happy.”

  “Dead Boy,” Xander murmured, to hide his fright at being surprised. "What the hell — pardon the expression, since I know that’s a sensitive subject for you — are you doing here?”

  Angel had on all the clothes that made Buffy go girly — the duster, the shirt, the black leather pants. And boots. The tude to match, with his haunted look and those cheekbones. Not that Xander had noticed his cheekbones in anything but a critical, masculine way.

  “I checked Buffy’s house. She wasn’t there. Giles’s phone was busy. So.” Angel looked questioningly at Xander.

  “I’m going to go pick her up right now,” Xander said.

  Angel looked about as happy as Angel ever did. “I’ll go with.”

  Xander wasn’t sure which was stronger inside him, relief, resentment, or alarm. After all, if Angel went psycho, Xander could pretty much count on dying. And if they showed up together, Buffy would figure the vampire for the white knight, even if Xander was the one driving the bitchen car.

  On the other hand, if a fight broke out, Angel was a good thing to have around.

  “Hop in,” Xander said casually.

  Angel looked at him askance. “Do you know how to drive this thing?”

  “Sure.” Xander was miffed. He Slid into the seat and hesitated, searching for the ignition switch. “I, ah, just f
orget a little.”

  “Let me drive.” Angel started to open his door.

  Xander jammed in the key, took off the brake, and screeched backward just like Batman in the car of the ages.

  “It’s coming back to me,” he said.

  Chapter 16

  THE HOUNDS LUNGED AT THE WEREWOLF, BARKING, jaws snapping, eager for combat. Helen held them back just barely out of reach, as the caged beast swung at them and howled. It was hungry; it was raging. The very sight of it made Julian realize that, old as he was, there were still some things in the weary old world that could excite him.

  Let the Games begin, he thought. He had sent one of his minions out on an important mission: to find the treacherous Angelus, and deal with him before he, Julian, came into his kingdom.

  Julian knew his good and faithful servant would not fail him in this.

  If only they could find the urn in time, things would be perfect. Six hundred sixty-six years was a long time to wait for another perfect moment.

  One of the dogs thrust its muzzle between the bars of the cage. The wolf sprang.

  The dog’s shrieks would have moved a creature possessed of a warm, living heart.

  Julian praised the gods that his was dead. But, staring at Helen as she threw back her head and laughed, he swore that it pounded.

  Together they entered the dark sacrificial chamber, lit by a single candle. In time, if they succeeded in their plans, they would build a fabulous temple to the goddess, as Caligula had done, and sacrifice all the inhabitants of Sunnydale to her. And then, the inhabitants of the surrounding towns and cities. And eventually, every single living human on the planet.

  Trembling with eagerness, Julian bowed before the statue of Meter. Helen did the same.

  Julian pointed to the bloody pile of human hearts arranged on the altar. They had been cut out of the bodies they had left to rot in the house they had purchased in Sunnydale.

  “Dear Meter,” he said, “we have made more sacrifices in your name. Tonight we conduct the final sacrifices required for your rebirth.”

  The statue shifted. Its eyes blazed.

  One of the hearts on the altar began to beat, and the ground trembled.

  Julian thrilled. This hadn’t happened before. Twice, they had tried to raise Meter, and twice they had failed.

  “My essence has been released into the world,” a disembodied voice proclaimed. “I am here.”

  “Then rise, Dark Mother!” Julian cried, opening his arms. “Take your place with us!”

  The earth trembled again, more violently. “I cannot. The ashes containing my essence are still required,” a disembodied voice echoed throughout the chamber.

  “But you just said your essence has been — ” Helen began, then kept her silence as Julian elbowed her.

  “Whoever has the urn must have opened it,” he murmured to her. “But it’s not enough.”

  “We can give you the heart of a Slayer,” Julian promised. “Tonight, on your special night. Will this be enough?”

  Twice before, they had tried to raise Meter with Slayer’s hearts, but without the ashes.

  “The ashes,” the voice insisted. “The heart as well.”

  The earth shook harder.

  It’s Meter, struggling to rise, Julian thought. “It shall be done,” he said.

  Buffy paced as she, Willow, and Mark waited for Xander to show. Smoke made her eyes water and the stench of burning oil coated the inside of her mouth. It was impossible to see more than a foot or two in any direction. How could they ever expect Xander to find them?

  He may have already passed by us, Buffy thought.

  As if on cue, the hulking shape of a car pulled up to the curb. It idled, the beams barely visible in the murk. Buffy thought she heard the click of a door.

  Mark called out, “Here!”

  “Who’s there?” a deep male voice called. Definitely not Xander. And not anyone she knew.

  “Sssh,” she warned.

  “You’d better answer,” the stranger said. “We’re cops.”

  Mark shouted, “You won’t take me, you crazy bastards!”

  “It’s the Dellasandro kid,” the voice cried out.

  Like some kind of scene in a badly lit movie, more cars roared up, their high beams highlighting the boiling smoke. Doors slammed as figures raced toward them, their flashlights beaming crazily.

  “Willow, get him out of here,” Buffy said, just as someone rammed into her from behind.

  Hey, back off!” She whirled around with a round-house kick, anticipating a solid connection, when a hand grabbed her around the ankle, then its owner jumped forward and scooped her up, preventing her fall.

  “It’s me.” He put her down.

  “Angel.” She tried to squint through the smoke. “What — ?”

  “And me,” Xander said. “C’mon. The Jag’s around the corner. Wherever the corner is.”

  A fist smashed into the back of Buffy’s head. She stumbled into Angel.

  As if they were performing their tai chi exercises together, both moved forward with one outstretched fist and one clenched against their chest. When Buffy found a target, she double-punched it, fists pummeling a solid object she guessed was a face.

  The object dipped out of range and she heard the distinctive sound of a human body collapsing to the ground.

  One down. How many to go?

  “Xander, how ya doing?” she bellowed.

  “No clue,” he shouted back. “Ow! Hey, ouch! Um, just fine.”

  “Willow?” Buffy yelled.

  There was no answer. Buffy hoped that was good news.

  Then she was surrounded by forms in the smoke who must have homed in on her voice.

  She felt a cold hand on her shoulder.

  “Angel?” she said.

  The hand squeezed.

  Angel shouted, “Buffy!”

  “What?” she asked blindly.

  Then it came: the unmistakable sound of a dusting. The unearthly scream of a staked vampire, who then exploded into ash.

  Buffy froze. Her lips moved but no sound came out. She couldn’t breathe. Someone hit her, but she barely registered it as she swayed, disbelieving.

  “Angel,” she whispered. Then she called, “Angel? Angel!” It was a shriek of pure terror. Not here. Not now. Not this way.

  “String him up!”

  “Buffy?” It was Xander. “Buffy, help!”

  A wind whipped up, sudden and fierce, and the smoke tumbled over and over itself, like a carpet rolling up. It thinned, and Buffy lurched unsteadily as she ranged over the throng and found no trace of Angel. And no evidence of Xander, either.

  Then she looked up.

  A rope tied around his neck, Xander was being hoisted up by two men who had climbed onto a lamppost and thrown the rope over the arched portion of metal. As he clutched at the rope and kicked, Xander’s eyes were bulging. His face was scarlet. He was strangling.

  Wordlessly, Buffy fought her way through the mob, kicking savagely, pushing burly men out of her way as if they were paper dolls. They had lost interest in her. Xander was the prize now.

  “Xander!” she shouted.

  “It’s the boy. Kill him. String him up!” an old gray-haired woman screeched, waving an old black pocketbook over her head.

  Buffy made her way to the base of the lamppost. A tall, dark man swung a baseball bat at her, but she dropped to her knees and the bat sailed high. She rammed her elbow into the back of his rib cage, using his momentum against him, and he made a half circle, then shouted as the bat continued through and smacked the other side of the streetlight.

  She snaked up the metal column and onto the pole, reaching the first of the two men. Before he realized what she was doing, she grabbed his ankles and jumped, pulling him straight down. As he fell, she lunged for the column, climbed up, and rammed into the other man, who had been sitting astride the curved section. He flailed to keep his balance, then fell.

  The rope around Xander’s neck w
ent slack, but this was not good news. The crowd below started grabbing and shouting; if they got hold of him, they would probably tear him apart.

  It’s the madness, Buffy reminded herself. It’s not them. But they look so evil. . . .

  “Sorry, Xand,” she said, reaching a hand toward him as she straddled the pole. He reached up his hands — good thinking — and she grabbed them, giving the rope some slack. He started coughing and gasping; she got him around the shoulders and pulled him up until he could loop his arms over the pole.

  He jerked behind himself with his head. “Ow, my neck muscles.” Then he looked down. “Did they get Mark?”

  “I don’t know. I think Willow got him out of here.”

  She surveyed the scene. There was a building about ten feet away, and a long pole extended at an angle from the roof like some kind of flag pole. The building was on fire, but other than that, it was perfect.

  As he swung up beside her, she said, “Give me your rope.”

  “It’s all yours. Forever.”

  Together they worked the knot at the nape of his neck, loosening it until Buffy could slip the opposite end through it and untie it. Then she doubled it up a couple times, gauging its length, and nodded to herself.

  “We need an anchor, something to catch onto that building somehow.” She held out her hand. “Give me your shoe.”

  “My shoe.” He frowned. “Why my shoe? Why not yours?”

  She looked at him. “Okay, okay,” he said.

  He reached down and yanked off his shoe. Buffy tied the rope around it, swung it around over her head, and whipped it out toward the outcropping flag pole.

  The rope wrapped around it on the first try.

  “And now . . .” Xander said uncertainly.

  She tugged hard on the rope, making sure it was secure, “We go hand over hand.”

  “And we know we won’t fall because . . .”

  Buffy shrugged. “We don’t.”

  “I knew that.”

  “Me first. Test case,” she said. She looped their end of the rope around the overhang and knotted it well. Gave it a tug. It was holding on the other end by virtue of Xander’s shoe.