“Mom, did Willow call?”
“No, dear,” Joyce Summers said, momentarily looking up from the silk flowers she was arranging on a table in the foyer.
Buffy sat at the kitchen table and stared at the telephone on the wall. She’d been over an hour late getting back from an uneventful patrol with Angel—no bones, caches, or creatures wanting to go bump in the night—and thought for sure Willow would have phoned by now. It was possible she’d forgotten their plans, but that was very un-Willow-y. Buffy called Willow’s mother and found out that Willow had indeed left home with plans to stay overnight at Buffy’s, but had mentioned something about seeing Oz first.
Buffy tried Oz’s number next, figuring boyfriend-change-of-plans happened. But Oz hadn’t seen her since school let out. He said he’d been at the Bronze with Xander and Troy, at least until Troy rushed out after an irritated Cordelia. “Willow never showed,” Oz said. “But I wasn’t expecting her . . . .”
“Hmm.”
“What’s happened?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe nothing. Let’s not jump to panic-button-pushing mode yet. It’s still early. I have a few more calls to make. If I come up empty, we’ll all meet at Giles’s place.”
* * *
Rupert Giles was holding a cup of tea but it had been awhile since Buffy last saw him take a sip. She supposed just holding the cup helped him think. He was staring at the jack of clubs playing card she’d handed him even while the others discussed the last time they’d seen Willow. Cordelia had been the last to arrive. Buffy had almost decided against calling her, but it was possible Cordelia had had contact with Willow and it was better to leave no stone unturned. Fortunately, Cordelia had shown enough concern for Willow’s welfare to join them here, even if she had made some comment about lost beauty sleep before she was three steps through the door.
“So Willow had no idea you were at the Bronze?” Buffy asked Oz, who was too nervous to sit down. His hands were stuffed into his pockets, his head down, deep in thought, probably replaying his entire day as it related to Willow, in his mind.
“Reasonable assumption,” Oz said. “Not many other places to hang.”
“Cordelia, you didn’t see her at all?”
“I was only there for a minute,” Cordelia said. “Just long enough to see that Troy had joined their”—she pointed in Xander’s and Oz’s general direction—“drooling club. They wouldn’t have noticed Willow if she’d been dancing on one of the pool tables.”
“That’s not fair,” Oz said, frowning and irritated.
“I’m guessing Troy’s apology was a big old waste of time,” Xander said.
“What apology?”
“He ran out after you,” Xander said.
“Well, not right after,” Oz said. What he didn’t say was that Troy hadn’t felt all that guilty until the end of Vyxn’s dedication song.
“I never saw him after I left.” Cordelia sighed, then added wistfully, “He promised me a screen test with the producers of Wanderlust. But I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction now.”
“Wait a minute, Cordelia,” Giles said, finally looking up from the jack of clubs. “You’re saying that Troy is missing as well?”
“Well, I haven’t talked to him.”
“Giles, are you thinking—?” Buffy said.
Giles nodded. “He fits the pattern.”
“What pattern?” Cordelia asked. “Hormonally charged guys?”
“The hormonally-charged-guys-who-get-eaten-by-ghouls pattern,” Xander said, catching on.
Giles came out from behind his kitchen counter. “We must be sure. Try to get in touch with him.”
Cordelia nodded. “I’ll try his mother’s number,” she said, taking her cell phone out of her pocketbook. “But if he answers, I’m hanging up. I refuse to talk to him.” She waited while the phone rang, mouthed “his mother” to the group, then asked if Troy was available. She hung up the phone. “She hasn’t seen him since he left for the Bronze.”
“And he was last seen leaving the Bronze,” Giles said.
“Where Willow may have been going when she disappeared,” Xander added.
“Troy and Willow,” Cordelia said. “You don’t suppose they could have . . . run off together?”
“Hardly,” Giles replied, not giving the idea a moment’s consideration.
“You’re right. Willow is definitely not his type.”
Giles sat down on the sofa. “It’s possible whatever has been attacking these other young men also attacked Troy after he left the Bronze.”
“Young men?” Cordelia said. “Willow may dress a little frumpy, but she’s not a guy.”
“She could have witnessed . . . whatever it was,” Buffy suggested, changing what she was about to say when she noticed Oz’s distressed expression.
“We should look for clues at the Bronze,” Giles said.
“Xander, Oz, did you notice anything unusual after Troy left?” Buffy asked.
“Let’s see He left after the band’s second set,” Xander said. “Place was quiet, kinda subdued during the break, music on house speakers, some guys playing pool. Band finished up with a third set. Just a few songs.” Xander shook his head. “Nothing unusual.”
“Still, the Bronze is the last place where anyone saw Troy,” Giles said. “I believe we should go there and look for something, anything, that might tell us what happened. I’ll round up some torches—er, flashlights.” Giles was about to place the playing card on the coffee table when he paused and looked up at Buffy. “I just remembered.”
“Remembered what?”
“Just a minute.” Giles walked over to a magazine rack that was home to several folded newspapers. He flipped through them, then pointed at an article on the front page, skimming aloud. “There! ‘Violent altercation at a disreputable establishment. EZ Rider. Several killed, others injured.’ Aha! A playing card was left on the body of a biker chap known as . . . Warhammer.”
“You think the French guy who talked to my mom is related?”
“French guy?” Giles asked. “Oh, the name. S.O. L’taire. Solitaire.”
“Giles, is this any time to be thinking of card games?” Xander asked.
“Solitaire,” Giles repeated. “I recall reading in the old texts something about an unusual vampire who called himself Solitaire.”
“Vampire? This Solitaire guy showed up at Buffy’s house in the morning,” Xander reminded him.
“Yes, a bit problematic, that,” Giles said, pushing his glasses up on his nose.
“Sounds more like a con man,” Xander said. “An incompetent con man, I’ll admit. But not a creature of the night.”
“What about him asking to be invited into the house?” Cordelia said.
“Con man code of ethics?” Oz ventured.
“There’s something wiggy about him,” Buffy said.
“Quite right,” Giles said. “I think it best we erred on the side of caution. Buffy, you and the others check the Bronze. I’ll stop by your house and perform the spell to uninvite this Solitaire. Just to be safe.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Buffy said. “We’ll pick up Angel on the way to the Bronze.” Xander gave her a quick look at the mention of Angel’s name. She realized he was thinking of the last time they had had to perform the uninvite spell on Buffy’s house, during the time Angel had lost his soul and reverted to his evil Angelus incarnation.
Giles closed the door behind them and then hurriedly gathered his things in a worn, black satchel: an old, leather-bound volume containing the proper incantation, the necessary ingredients for the spell, along with an extra vial of holy water, a metal cross, a wooden stake and a crossbow with several quarrels. He didn’t expect to run into a vampire on the way to the Summers’s residence but, as a Watcher, he saw no harm in preparing for that possibility.
A quick rap of knuckles against his door. Probably Xander, Giles thought, and wondered what he could have forgotten. He dropped the satchel on the sofa and opened the door. “Yes—what is it?”
Nobody was there.
Giles leaned out and instantly a hand gripped his throat so tightly he couldn’t breathe. The tall, muscular man stepped out of the shadows at the side of the door without easing his grip. He had close-cropped blond hair and a deeply lined, pale face with broad cheekbones and thin, cruel lips. He wore a black overcoat over a red leather vest.
“I thought they’d never leave,” he said. “Now invite me in, Watcher.”
Giles realized his options were limited at the moment He had to buy himself some time. “By . . . by all means, do come in,” he croaked.
The man shoved him backward, causing Giles to lose his balance. Giles exaggerated his clumsiness a bit in order to clutch at the satchel on the sofa. He hadn’t zipped it shut yet and could just see the butt of the stake resting near the top.
Giles watched as the intruder slammed the door shut, then leaned against it When the man took a playing card—a ten of diamonds—from a vest pocket and began to pick under his fingernails with it, Giles realized who he was. Sometimes knowledge is power. “I demand to know who you are,” Giles said. He clutched at the edge of the satchel flap, hoping it would appear to be a nervous tic.
“Buffy Summers must be an extraordinary young woman,” Solitaire said.
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Giles said. His hand had slipped over the butt of the stake. Slowly, he inched it up into his hand, hidden from Solitaire’s view.
“I must admit I was quite impressed when I heard rumors of a Slayer who had defeated the Order of Taraka,” Solitaire said. He was flicking his finger over the edge of the playing card now. “I couldn’t help but wonder if she was up to a greater challenge,” he said. “Me, for instance.”
“Who are you?” Giles asked, turning the stake over in his hand so he’d be ready to strike with it when the moment presented itself.
“If you don’t know who I am by now, Watcher,” Solitaire said as he stepped away from the door, “I will be greatly disappointed.”
Giles swallowed hard, tightened his grip on the stake even as he felt his palm become moist with sweat.
“Here’s a clue,” Solitaire said and snarled, flashing a pair of long fangs at Giles as his brow and snout furrowed in the characteristic manner of a vampire. He moved another step closer.
“I do know what . . . what you are,” Giles said. “Just not why you’re here, exactly.”
“I want you to pass along a message to your Slayer—”
“I have a message—” Giles lunged with the stake, striking down at Solitaire’s chest. His wrist was caught in a vice-grip, the point of the stake quivering mere inches from Solitaire’s chest. Giles strained, with all his strength. The grip on his wrist tightened. He heard bones snap. Shooting pain blinded him for an instant.
“Do I have your attention now?” Solitaire asked, forcing Giles down to his knees with the pressure he exerted on the Watcher’s damaged wrist.
Giles grimaced. “A . . . a message, you say?”
“Yes,” Solitaire said. He dropped the ten of diamonds at Giles’s knees, then pried the stake out of the Watcher’s numb fingers with his free hand. Solitaire flipped the stake in his hand so that he held it by the narrow end. “Tell your Slayer she’ll be dying to make my acquaintance.”
“How terribly original of you,” Giles said, then gritted his teeth against the pain.
“This isn’t original—” Solitaire snarled again and whipped the butt of the stake against the Watcher’s head. “—but effective.”
Giles felt himself falling away. The darkness rose up to claim him.
* * *
After searching outside the Bronze for a while, Xander finally asked the obvious question. “What exactly are we looking for?”
Of course, the Bronze had been closed by the time they arrived. Only feeble street lamps cast wan light and shadow on the front and sides of the building, more a deterrent to arsonists than a source of real illumination. They had arrived with three flashlights and a lot of ground to cover. Oz took one flashlight, preferring to search alone, while Buffy paired off with Angel, which left Xander and Cordelia working together in an uneasy détente.
“I don’t know, Xander,” Buffy said, finally responding to Xander’s question. “Footprints?”
“On asphalt?” he asked.
“Matchbooks,” Cordelia suggested. “They always find matchbooks in the movies. Leads them to the nightclub where the killer hangs out.”
Xander glanced at Oz who, fortunately, hadn’t been listening, then glared at Cordelia. “What? What did I say?” she asked.
“We’re already at the club,” Buffy said patiently. “We need something to lead us back to—back to whoever or whatever is involved in this.”
Xander wandered back toward the Dumpster located at the side of the Bronze. Not wanting to be left alone in the dark, Cordelia followed him. Shortly after they had arrived, Xander had flipped open the heavy metal lid and cast his flashlight beam into the smelly debris. He had been so relieved not to see a body sprawled in the beer-soaked cardboard and lumpy garbage that he had looked no further. Now he had returned to his starting point. “I don’t suppose anyone has scuba gear handy?” No one said anything. “Okay, I’ll settle for a clothespin for my nose.” He shrugged. “Didn’t think so.” He handed Cordelia the flashlight, then hoisted himself onto the edge of the Dumpster.
“You’re not actually getting in there, are you?” Cordelia asked.
“Are you volunteering?”
“That is totally disgusting.” Cordelia shuddered.
“No, he’s right,” Oz said, having stepped up beside them when he saw what Xander had in mind.
When Oz grabbed the edge of the Dumpster to lift himself up, Xander held up a hand already coated with coffee grounds. “I got it, Oz. Not enough room in here for both of us and all the . . . leavin’s. Just shine your light down here if you would. Maybe it will scare away the rats.”
Cordelia jumped back a step, glanced down nervously at her open-toed shoes. “Rats! Yuck—there’s rats? I hate rats. I wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for Troy. As much as I hate to admit it, you and your Scooby Gang have the best chance of finding him”—she glanced at Oz—“and Willow, of course. Wouldn’t forget about Willow. It’s just—I really hate rats.”
“Not real fond of ’em myself, Cordy,” Xander said.
* * *
Giles groaned and struggled up from the darkness that tugged at him like sleep long denied. His good hand fumbled at his scalp, which had been cut The surrounding area was sticky with half-congealed blood, one eye glued shut. His other hand and wrist throbbed painfully. The pain was probably what had roused him. At first he couldn’t remember where he was or what had happened to him.
His hand flopped down to his chest and found something smooth and rectangular there. He raised it to his good eye. A playing card. And it all came back to him. Solitaire. His wrist. The message for Buffy. Then the emphatic blow to the head. Giles sat up, felt only slightly dizzy, so climbed to his feet, using the wall for support. He must drive to the Bronze, warn Buffy. While standing seemed precarious, when he started toward the door, his legs felt as if they were on stilts, his feet so far below him. Definitely in no condition to drive, he thought. He staggered to the telephone and oddly remembered that parents on airplanes were instructed to put oxygen masks on themselves first so they did not pass out before they could place masks on their children. Odd . . . he had no children. He dialed 911. “Thank you, yes, this is, ah, Rupert Giles. I believe I may be in need of medical attention. Yes, it’s—” When his own address did not come immediately to mind, he thought it rather clever of him to refer to his driver’s license for the information. He’d been banged around quite a bit and was probably suffering from a concussion on top of all that, so minor victories were to be cherished.
Oxygen, he thought, while he waited for help to arrive. He stared at the telephone numbers, grasping at a thought that eluded him. “Ah—Buffy, yes.” He checked the time and decided she would still be at the Bronze, unreachable. Cordelia had a cell phone, but he couldn’t recall the number if he had ever known it. Instead he dialed Buffy’s home number. He’d probably wake Joyce, but this was something of an emergency and she would—would The darkness was rising again, too quickly. He felt the telephone receiver slip from his grasp and drop to the floor, although the sound was oddly muffled. Darkness enfolded him, pulled him down with one last, fading thought . . . oxygen.
* * *
If Xander were a pig, he’d probably be delirious by now. He’d rooted his way through every last beer bottle and soda can, the odd banana peel and mound of potato chip crumbs, goopy bread and rolls, rancid chunks of meat and sticky eggshells, soggy cardboard, soiled tissues and clumps of cigarette ashes and the ever popular wads of gum. Somebody had dumped several cartons of Chinese food into the Dumpster. Now bits of chicken and lumpy white rice had found a home in his dark hair. At least he hoped it was white rice. No rats, thankfully, though he had stumbled upon one frightened brown mouse. After which, Xander had insisted to Cordelia that he did not, in fact, scream like a girl. Hey, the mouse could have had rabies for all he’d known.
“Nothing,” Xander said. Nothing that would indicate the presence of Willow or Troy. Everything else one could reasonably expect to find in a well-stocked Dumpster had found its way into his hair, shirt, trouser pockets, socks and shoes. If anything, he was starting to feel a real and abiding empathy for the life of a garbage dump rat. He reached out a brown-stained hand toward Cordelia. “Help me out.”
“Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head as she backed away. “Not till after you’ve bathed—at least several hundred times.”
Oz stepped up, offered his hand and pulled Xander out of the muck. “Thanks, man,” Oz said, indicating the state of Xander’s skin and clothes.
After seeing the grim expression on Oz’s face, Xander felt as if Dumpster diving was the least he could do to help. Xander and Willow had been friends, well, forever, it seemed. There was nothing he wouldn’t do if it meant getting Will out of a jam. But she and Oz had something special and he knew Oz was hurting big time. “No problem, Oz,” Xander said, and flicked a few grains of white rice out of his ear. “Just wish I could have found something useful in there.”
“I know,” Oz said, downcast. His flashlight beam shone on the side of the brown Dumpster, revealing a dark, splotchy stain.
They were standing in early predawn light that made the street lamps appear even fainter, but Xander noticed a distinct red hue to the stain and he doubted it was ketchup. He crouched beside the Dumpster and, despite his grime covered hands, was afraid to touch the wetness, afraid to confirm what he knew it must be. Remarkably, he caught a whiff of Cordelia’s perfume as she stepped up beside him—remarkable because it was only in contrast to her scent that he realized how truly awful he smelled.
“Look,” Cordelia said softly, pointing down beside him.
Xander nodded, dislodging a few more kernels of rice. “I know,” he said. “Looks like blood.”
Oz crouched and shone the light on the red stain.
“No,” Cordelia said and picked up a piece of cloth which had been pinned against one of the Dumpster’s wheels. “This,” she said, showing it to them.
“A clothing label?” Xander said, confused.
“Duh—are you guys blind?” Cordelia asked. “It’s Versace.”
Oz frowned.
“Hello,” she said. “Was no one paying attention? Troy was wearing Versace last night.”
Buffy and Angel had just returned from another circuit of the Bronze. She examined the piece of cloth Cordelia held pinched between her fingernails, shining her own flashlight on the label, and realized the significance. “They—it—whatever got Troy,” she said, glancing at Angel, who only nodded.
“I really hate this town,” Cordelia said. “All the great guys get eaten by demons!”
“Oh, no—oh, no!” Xander shouted, pointing at the ground. “Guys, look! The rice—the rice is moving!” He yelled and ran, flicking his fingers through his hair and shuddering. “Oh, God—God! Beyond gross!”
Cordelia looked down to where Xander had pointed. “Is that—?”
Cordelia’s hand went to her mouth. “Oh, I’m gonna be sick!”
“Aim for the Dumpster,” Angel said.
Buffy walked over to where Oz had retreated, now almost oblivious to his surroundings. She put an arm around him. “We’ll find her, Oz. I promise.”
“Willow’s alive,” Oz said softly. “Bet on it.”
* * *
Willow was alive, but she ached all over.
Vyxn had kept her tied up and gagged during the third set of their show, hunched over in a closet in their dressing room. On the other side of the closet, in a large sack, they had dumped what was left of Troy. And there hadn’t been all that much after their set break meal. Despite their ravenous appetite for human flesh, they had been careful to remove all evidence of their attack outside the Bronze. Willow had not been hopeful that her friends would find her any time soon.
She still was not hopeful, especially since she had no idea where she was. They had put her in another foulsmelling sack and dumped her in the back of their van for the trip back to their hideout—lair?
A collar had been fastened around her neck and chained to a long board—with other, matching hooks—mounted to the wall of her room, where she sat and waited alone. The two windows on one side of the room were covered with old plywood. Early morning light streamed through narrow cracks, illuminating a cascade of dust motes. The walls were painted a sickly shade of green and, in several spots, plaster and lath showed through holes in the drywall.
She could hear the four of them, talking and laughing, almost as if they were human, which couldn’t be further from the truth. Willow was no longer gagged but there was no use screaming. Lupa had told her the abandoned house was too isolated for screaming to do her any good. Nash had pretended to scream for help, just to show how hopeless it was. The others had laughed and left Willow alone for a while.
Now the door opened again as Carnie, the redheaded bassist, stepped inside, munching on what could probably be the remains of a human forearm. Beyond her, Willow could see Lupa, Rave and Nash at an old wooden table, busy with their own pounds of flesh. “Leftovers,” Carnie said. “Want a bite?”
“No thanks, I already vomited.”
Carnie laughed. “If you’re gonna be one of us, you really have to get over this aversion to raw human flesh.”
“That’s really not a problem since, actually, I would really prefer not to be one of you.”
Carnie chuckled and shrugged. “You’re either one of us,” she said and, by way of demonstrating, reverted to her mottled green, jagged-toothy self. “Or”—she waved the hunk of forearm in a slow arc—“you’re one of them. Your call.”