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Sunday Afternoon
Things were bad in Sunnydale--worse than they had been for quite some time. There had been a murder on Friday night, and two on Saturday. All three bore similarities, and the police were afraid that they had a serial killer on their hands. And it would be one of the flakier ones, the police agreed. Each victim had been almost drained of blood through wounds on their necks, but almost no blood had been found at the scene. Then they'd been decapitated. Overkill.
Only a few people in town knew how lucky they had been. They knew that it could have been much worse--it could have been carnage. The Scoobies were wondering just why Angelus was being so restrained. "It isn't natural," said Xander, slouching on Giles' couch. "I mean, as pent up as he's been, I would have figured he'd start off with a spree. You know, a mouthful here--a mouthful there--just enough to kill."
"And he's making sure that they don't rise again," said Willow. "At least we know he isn't gathering an army of minions."
"Cold comfort," said Giles. "We can, however, be grateful that the presence of Angelus seems to have driven most of the other vampires out."
"The ones who still have working brains," said Oz. "They all know Angelus by reputation, and figure that they'd better vacate till they know how territorial he's feeling."
Buffy was pacing, her turns so quick that her hair swung in a bright arc. She paused, slapping her fist into her palm. "Well, Drucilla and Spike haven't left. I caught a glimpse of them last night, but they disappeared before I could catch up to them."
"Call me crazy," said Oz, "but I kinda thought that stopping to make sure their prey didn't finish bleeding out was pretty important."
"Well, if you'd kept up with me we could have done both," Buffy snapped.
"I can't run that fast except during the full moon, and then you wouldn't want me around someone with a fresh wound."
"Stop it, you two," said Willow wringing her hands. "This is no time to fight with each other."
"She's right," said Giles. "Now, no progress on finding their lair, eh?"
Xander smoothed out a map of Sunnydale on the coffee table before him, and started tapping it with a pencil. "We've hit all the cemeteries, which were clean. Well, as clean as places that deal mainly in dirt can be. The mansion they were staying in last time has burned down. I tried to get records on abandoned houses, but you'd be surprised how snarky town hall can be about that sort of thing."
"We'll have to take is street by street," said Buffy.
"Since the last few muscles, that could be hazardous," said Oz. "As in peeking through a window might earn you a bat upside the head."
"Or a bullet through it," said Xander. "My Dad dug out his old army pistol. I now announce myself before I enter a room. Guns and booze are not a good combination."
"Xander!" said Willow, horrified. "You should persuade him to get rid of it."
"Yeah, right Willow. Ever seen one of those 'they'll take my gun when they pry it from my cold, dead fingers' bumper stickers? My dad figures he should earn a commission on each one of those. If things don't break soon, I think I'm going to sleep with Oz in his van."
"Don't yell at Willow," Buffy growled.
Xander's voice rose. "I'm not yelling!"
"You're..."
"Stop it!"
They did. Everyone turned in astonishment to look at Giles. "I know that we're all on edge, but snapping at each other is no way to deal with it, so just bloody calm down!" He took a deep breath. "Thank God Scribe is out of this. I'd be going insane if I had to worry about her as well. And that's another reason why we need to get on top of this. She'll be back Monday evening. It will be sundown soon." He bent over the map. "How shall we share out the search areas?"
Scribe turned around, pasting an automatic smile on her face. She felt that she needed to put up a good front for the sake of Sunnydale High's library. In consequence, she'd smiled so much that her facial muscles were beginning to ache, but she managed one more. It was the convention director, and she was glad that she'd made the effort. "Hello, Mister Ablemarra."
"I must say I was a little disappointed that Mister Giles couldn't attend. I was hoping he'd give us the British perspective on some of our issues."
*Like whether or not plastic dust covers for paperbacks was a waste of funds, and the finer points of the Dewey Decimal system?* "He was so looking forward to coming, but you know--family problems."
Ablemarra sniffed, clearly thinking there were few family problems serious enough to keep a librarian away from this sort of conference. He smiled tightly. "Well, at least he sent a charming substitute. I have been gratified to see you in most of the seminars."
*Because I checked out prices. Damn, tourism is expensive in San Francisco. I'll need to save up some more before I can really enjoy myself here.* "That's why I'm here, sir. Rupert is counting on me to bring back all the latest theories and innovations."
"Good, good." He glanced at the plate in her hand, frowning. "But aren't you eating?" He gestured at the long, crowded table. "We've gone through a lot of expense and trouble with this buffet."
"And a lovely thing it is, too," she agreed. "And I have had a few nibbles. The cheese puffs and fruit salad are excellent."
He made a quick, but unmistakable, estimation of her weight. "Don't tell me you're dieting."
The smile was becoming more of a teeth baring. "No. I'm sure the food is delicious, but it just isn't anything I'm interested in eating. The sushi, sashimi, ceviche, and steak tartar are an... interesting choice."
He nodded smugly. "My idea. All part of the theme of the conference--The Raw Power of Literature." He ate something pale and squishy off his plate, then gave her a stern look over the tops of his glasses. "You should at least try some."
"Very kind of you, but I just couldn't. I've had too many biology lessons to feel comfortable eating animal protein raw."
"Well, then, have some of the sandwiches. There's a wonderful egg salad, chicken salad... I understand that the mayonnaise is home made."
*Blurg*
Ablemarra looked around, frowning. "What on earth was that?"
Miss Mozelle was blinking rapidly. "The representative from Orange County just threw up on the representative from Pasadena." *blug* "And the little old lady from Pasadena just returned the compliment."
It went down hill from there.
When the upchucking slowed down it was determined that a cooler used to store most of the food on the buffet had a faulty thermostat, and what they'd gotten was a rousing round of food poisoning. A grand total of ninety-two percent of the attendees--including the director--ended up having their stomachs pumped, some of the greedier ones being checked into the hospital over night. The rest of the conference was cancelled.
She thought about staying over and just doing the tourist thing. After all, the room was paid for. Then she thought about what the principal might say if he found out she spent a night in San Francisco at the school system's expense without racking up brownie points with the state boards. *There's a chance he won't find out,* she thought. Then, *Who am I kidding? A couple of hundred upchucking librarians? It'll make national news, if not world wide.*
She checked out, and caught the evening plane back to Sunnydale. Giles had insisted that he'd meet her at the airport when she returned Monday, but she decided not to bother him. He had something on his mind, and it was more than likely that he and the gang would be out doing something. She did call, just in case, and got the answering machine. "Hello, Rupert--it's me. You won't believe what happened at the conference. Three words--mass food poisoning. But don't worry, I'm safe and sound. I'll see you Monday." She realized, just as she hung up, that she hadn't actually told him she was home. "Well, no need to worry about it. She could either call him again when she got home, or see him Monday. She took a taxi home.
He wasn't about to leave his blind, though. This was his third night spent staking out Scribe's house. Last night Spike had expressed the opinion that his chosen prey had cleared out completely, and if he really wanted her, he'd better start checking to see if she'd gotten a passport, because if she had any sense she'd be leaving the country.
Angel knew she'd be back, and soon. He couldn't say how he knew, but he did, and he was proved right.
A taxi pulled up in front of the house just after nine, and she emerged from the back seat. He watched as she paid the cab driver and went up the walk. She passed almost within arm's reach of him, but the damn cab driver was still sitting there, watching her make her way to her front door. Bloody good Samaritans were all over the place these days. He was tempted to go out to the cab and rip the driver's throat out in sheer irritation, but he didn't want too waste any more time.
Then she got down to the second order of business--getting comfortable. The shoes came off before she took another step into the room, but she waited till she got back to her bedroom before she commenced the serious undressing.
She got out of the hose and bra as quickly as she could--pretty much SOP when she got home from anywhere. Then she chose her most comfortable at-home outfit--a large, sloppy pink T-shirt style nightshirt that floated down around her knees, and had a large picture on the front of a kitten sleeping in a dish labeled DOG. She went into the kitchen and fixed herself a cup of cocoa. She hadn't had more than half the cup when there was a knock at the front door. *Damn. Figures I'd have someone drop by after I got comfortable.* She hastily pulled on a cotton housecoat and went out to the living room. "Yes?"
"Trick or treat."
She stared at the door. "It's September."
"Hey, this is Sunnydale--it's always Halloween--trust me."
The voice was familiar. "Angel?"
"You could say that."
She opened the door to find him standing on the front step. She glanced behind him. "Where are the others?"
"We aren't attached at the hip." He rocked back and forth on his heels. "Ya know, the weather in California is remarkably fine, but it can still get chilly at night, especially for someone whose body temperature depends on the environment."
"Oh." She stepped aside, and waited.
He smiled at her. "It doesn't work that way. I have that little thing about entering private homes, remember? You have to ask me in--out loud."
"That's right. Well, come in."
His smile broadened, and he murmured, "You have no idea how happy I am to hear that."
Angelus stepped inside.
Giles' House
"Miss Mozelle."
*The good thing about suburbs is the abundance of bushes,* Angelus thought. *The bad thing is that hiding in bushes is damn uncomfortable.*
Scribe dropped her suitcase and over night bag just inside the door, then turned and engaged the locks, and set the chain. She hadn't had to develop the habit when she came to Sunnydale--several years living in a large city had made her very conscious of keeping her doors locked. She called Giles again, and got the answering machine again. "Hello, Rupert, me again. Just wanted to let you know that I'm home. I won't hold you to covering my Monday classes, so I'll see you at school tomorrow. You wouldn't believe the amount of literature I have for you."
