Giles stood at the top of the State House steps with Micaela, waiting to die. Not that he wanted to die—far from it. But he had never imagined being surrounded by so many demons and flesh-eating monsters without at least having some kind of weapon in his hands—no sword, no crossbow, not even a sharpened stick. If anything went wrong, they were both going to be very dead, very quickly.
“You bring me to the nicest places,” Micaela said, a mischievous glint in her eyes. In the moonlight she had an ethereal glow.
“You inspire the romantic in me,” Giles replied.
They exchanged a nervous grin and then both of them flinched at the sound of the State House doors being unlocked. Coming here had been the only logical next step. Either Buffy had had to surrender her cell phone or it wasn’t working in the meeting chamber. Walking up the steps, they had received hundreds of suspicious looks and many hungry glances, but no one had challenged them.
Not until they’d knocked on the door.
Micaela had made a joke about coming to the Emerald City to see the great and powerful Oz. Giles hadn’t been in the mood for humor. Their knocks at the door had been answered by a nine-foot demon with a bulbous head and a face that twisted with octopuslike tentacles. Xander had seen a number of them at Lovecraft’s grave, but prior to this Giles had been certain that the Yurgoths were extinct. Apparently not. They had told the demon that they needed to speak to the arbiter, and that if he did not fetch her, the arbiter herself would deal with him.
It had locked the door, leaving them waiting.
So when they heard the click of the locks being drawn back, and the door swung inward, Giles fully expected to see the Yurgoth again. Instead, Buffy poked her head out the door, a wary curiosity on her face.
“Giles? You get that this is a bad time, right?”
Before he could reply, the door swung wider and he saw the Yurgoth behind her, along with a demon with blue-tinted, stringy hair, and eyes as wide as a character from Japanese animation.
“Who’s this? What’s it about, eh?” the demon with the blue hair asked.
Giles stared at him a moment, then looked at Buffy. “It’s absolutely vital that Micaela and I speak with you a moment, alone.”
“Impossible,” said the stringy-haired demon. “She can’t leave while the Dark Congress is in session. She’s the bloody arbiter, you fool.”
Buffy turned to look at him. “Back off, Dyer. I’ve got this.” She shifted her gaze back to Giles. “Cutty Dyer. Kid-snatcher or something. Water demon. He’s the speaker for the Congress. And he’s impatient. What’s going on?”
A breeze blew the door open farther. Grit flew up from the floor and stung Giles’s eyes. He blinked to clear them, wiped something away, and saw that Micaela was doing the same thing. When he could look at Buffy again, a new figure had joined them. Behind her and the speaker, Trajabo had appeared. His body was sculpted from sand like a statue. Giles thought of the street performers he had seen in tourist cities from New Orleans to Barcelona, men and women who kept perfectly still until it was time for the illusion that they were carved from stone to be undone. Trajabo had his head wrapped like a desert tribesman, only his eyes visible, but even that cloth seemed to be made of sand.
“This isn’t the ideal situation to—”
“Rupert,” Micaela interrupted. “We don’t have time. Cards on the table.”
Buffy gave him an urgent look and nodded in agreement.
“Right. So be it.” He studied Buffy’s face, glanced at the speaker and then Trajabo, then looked back at the Slayer again. “the Council has records of Malik and each of his allies as Champions. But Micaela and I performed a locating spell, searching the city for the influence of the Powers in individuals. The short version is that there aren’t any.”
With a sound like sandpaper on wood, Trajabo stepped nearer. The speaker, Cutty Dyer, shifted to let the desert demon closer to Buffy. Giles stared at them, wondering what help he could be if they meant her harm.
“What are you saying?” Buffy asked. “Malik and the others have left? Not what I expected, but not exactly Earth-shattering news.”
Micaela took a step toward Buffy, her gaze urgent. “We don’t think they’ve left.”
Buffy frowned. “But that would mean . . . they’re not Champions?”
Giles pushed his glasses farther up the bridge of his nose. “We can’t be certain of anything. This warrior you met might not even be Malik. But they do meet the descriptions of the individuals in the Council’s journals.”
“There’s something else,” Micaela said.
Buffy sighed. “Isn’t there always?”
Micaela took the map from her back pocket and unfolded it. She held it outstretched in her hands so that Buffy could see the area that she had marked.
“This road here, along the Seekonk River, is called Riverside Drive. The location spell found an anomaly all along the road on both sides, a place where the influence of the Powers is slightly greater than elsewhere, without any obvious explanation.”
Another gust of wind, more powerful than before, buffeted them. Giles swore aloud and shielded his face. Buffy wiped away grit that had stuck to her lips and tongue. Micaela brushed at her hair. As one, they all noticed that Trajabo was gone.
“Damn it,” Cutty Dyer said, shaking his head.
“You were the one who wouldn’t let them talk to me alone,” Buffy reminded him.
The speaker of the Dark Congress looked old and weary. “Trajabo vowed to give you until dawn. We’ll simply have to trust him to keep to his word.”
Giles stared at him. “That’s it? He overheard our suspicions regarding Malik and vanished. You’d have to be a damned fool not to see cause and effect. He’s going to try to hunt Malik himself!”
“Rupert,” Micaela warned.
But Giles ignored her, glaring at Dyer.
“Boys, kinda not the time for a school yard brawl, okay?” Buffy said. She stepped out the door.
As she did, Dyer grasped the back of her shirt and hauled her back in. Buffy responded on instinct, spinning and knocking his hand away, then striking his chest with a flat palm. Dyer staggered back and sprawled on the marble floor of the rotunda. The Yurgoth hissed and reached for Buffy, who dropped into a battle stance.
“Try it.”
“Buffy, stop. You don’t have time for this,” Giles said.
“You’ve got to get out there and find Malik,” Micaela said. “Champion or not, we’ve got to find out the truth. Our best guess is that the concentration of influence from the Powers has some connection to Malik and his crew.”
“Fine. I’m going,” she said, glancing at Cutty Dyer. “Hold the fort. Don’t let them kill each other while I’m gone.”
Dyer’s wide eyes had narrowed at last. Sour and grim, he stood up, one hand massaging the place where Buffy had struck him.
“You can’t leave, lass.”
“Should be pretty clear that you can’t stop me,” Buffy replied.
“You don’t understand. If the arbiter leaves while Congress is in session, then the Dark Congress is over. Kandida will have died for nothing.”
Buffy threw up her hands. “What do you want from me? Trajabo’s gone. I’ve got a decent lead on Kandida’s killer. I’m going to go and take a look. You’re telling me there’s no way for me to get out of here?”
Micaela crossed her arms, staring at the speaker. “There is a way.”
A flicker of alarm crossed Dyer’s features. “Don’t be—”
“Substitution,” Micaela added. “I’ve read up on the Dark Congress since we discovered what was really going on here. The arbiter can leave whenever she wishes, as long as she chooses her own substitution.”
Buffy stared at Dyer. “That true?”
The water demon nodded, stringy hair falling across his eyes.
Giles flinched when Buffy reached out to tap his shoulder. “Tag. You’re it.”
“What? No, Buffy. You cannot seriously—,” he began.
“Just did.” Buffy reached out and pulled him into the State House. The speaker stared at him with open loathing. After all, he was no Slayer, nor a demon or anything supernatural at all. He was an ordinary man.
“Rupert Giles, Cutty Dyer. Cutty Dyer, Rupert Giles, the new arbiter. I’m out of here.”
She stepped out the door. Giles called for her to come back, but Buffy ignored him, turning instead to Micaela.
“You with me?”
Micaela shot Giles a regretful glance. “Sorry, Rupert. You know it’s the only thing to do.”
“Good,” Buffy said. She reached into a pocket and pulled out her cell phone. Flipping it open, she glanced at the phone, apparently to make certain she had a signal, and then she handed it to Micaela. “Call everyone in. Tell ’em where to meet me. The numbers are programmed in.”
“But I should—”
“No,” Buffy said. “You shouldn’t.” She took the map from Micaela, wondering how long it would take her to find a taxi.
Giles could only watch as Buffy descended the stairs, nearly at a run.
“Gather the others,” he told Micaela.
She nodded, a forlorn expression on her face. Reluctantly, he stood by while Cutty Dyer swung the door closed and locked it, shutting Micaela and the rest of the world out, and them inside.
“This is quite troubling,” the speaker said.
Giles turned to the Yurgoth, who hissed at him again, tentacles writhing on his face, reaching out toward Giles but not quite attacking—not yet.
“Buffy’s going to be the death of me,” he said to himself. “Possibly tonight.”
Dyer laughed softly. “Now you know how my kind feel.”
* * *
Improvisation had become the theme of the night. Not that Buffy’s cab driver had appreciated that fact very much. The white-haired, solidly built man had been sitting behind the wheel reading a book by the dome light in his cab when she tapped on his window. He had seemed disappointed to have a fare but had nodded and invited her into the cab. They were driving by the time Buffy told him where she wanted to be taken.
“Nah, come on. You don’t wanna go down there.”
“I don’t?”
The driver shook his head. “Nah. Nothing but trouble down there. Not a spot for a tourist stroll.”
“How do you know I’m a tourist?” Buffy had asked.
The driver had glanced into the mirror and smiled. “You’re not from Providence, honey. That much I know. I’d say Florida or California. Maybe the Pacific Northwest, but you don’t look all that earthy to me.”
“California,” she had admitted.
“You don’t want me dropping you off on Riverside Drive.”
Buffy had pulled a bunch of cash out of her back pocket, all the money she had on her.
“Actually, I do. I’ve got a little over a hundred and twenty dollars here. I’ll give you every penny if you drop me off and let me have your tire iron.”
That had silenced him. He had kept driving, staring at her in the rearview mirror. A few minutes later, she saw the river out the passenger side window, moonlight glinting on the water. When he stopped, it was slowly, car rolling to a halt.
“You sure about this?” he had asked, eyes kind and concerned.
“Very,” she said, handing the money up to him.
The driver took it. Buffy had gotten out of the cab while he counted it, and then he’d popped the trunk and climbed out as well. He went to the trunk, retrieved the tire iron, and handed it to her.
“You watch yourself, all right?”
Buffy had smiled, stood on tiptoes, and kissed the man on his stubbly cheek. He blushed a bit and looked away, then closed his trunk.
“I don’t wanna read about you in the morning papers,” he said.
“I can take care of myself,” Buffy told him.
The driver slid back behind the wheel and closed his door. “Yeah,” he said, taking her measure through the open window. “I figure you can.”
It had all worked out quite propitiously. Buffy had been in such a hurry leaving the State House that it had never occurred to her to ask Dyer for weapons. She had nothing on her at all. Getting the tire iron from the cabbie had been a moment of pure inspiration, and she was glad of it. As she walked along the Seekonk River, ignoring the parked cars and the sounds that came from the open windows—sounds of a sticky summer night—the only thing she had seen that would have made a decent weapon was a length of chain wrapped around a fence on the other side of the road. Breaking the lock would have been easy, but carrying the chain around would have been cumbersome when she already had the tire iron.
So she walked, and she wondered what she was going to find. Buffy had almost expected the air down by the river to have some kind of magickal electricity, that frisson of weirdness that sometimes crackled around supernatural locations and events, like the way the air felt right before a storm. But the road seemed utterly ordinary.
Even at night, in the moonlight, it was easy to see that the city of Providence had dropped the ball when it came to Riverside Drive. The riverbank was strewn with garbage. Nobody came down here at night except people who wanted to do things without being seen. She passed a group of teenagers drinking and tossing their beer bottles into the river, seeing who could throw them the farthest. Buffy went by without slowing. A couple of the guys called obscene things after her, but they did not try to pursue her.
The road must have run for two miles. On one end, where the cabbie had dropped her off, was some kind of yacht club. By the time she approached the other end of the street, Buffy had almost given up on finding anything, and anxiety had set in. If Micaela and Giles had misread the results of their spell, there was no telling where Malik was, or if he was even involved in Kandida’s assassination.
And she only had until dawn before Trajabo started tearing the Congress—and the city of Providence—apart looking for his girlfriend’s killer. Demons in love. Always trouble.
A Salvation Army thrift store stood at the far end of Riverside Drive, a blocky building with two tractor trailers sitting as though abandoned on one side of the parking lot. Other than those trailers, only one vehicle sat in the lot: a black SUV of the type supposedly favored by drug traffickers.
The headlights came on, momentarily blinding her. Buffy shielded her eyes, blinked, and then tried to peer through the bright glare to make out any more details of the SUV.
Buffy kept walking. When she got to the end of the road, she stopped at the entrance to the parking lot.
The SUV’s doors opened. Behind the glare of the headlights, she could only see black shapes climbing out of the massive black vehicle. The one at the driver’s door ducked back inside and then the headlights winked out. Silence and darkness descended upon the parking lot. Buffy could hear the river flowing by, and then she heard the crunch of heavy boots on gravel.
Her eyes adjusted. The moonlight gave greater shape to the four figures that approached her—one tall and thin, one even taller and massive, one dwarfish, and one woman who seemed to slink with predatory, feline grace.
“We’ve been waiting for you,” Malik said as they drew closer and the moonlight picked out the details of his face, the darkness of his beard. “I’d begun to wonder if you were not quite as intelligent as I thought.”
Buffy read their body language, and it confused her. From the moment she saw the SUV parked in the lot, she had known it had to be Malik and his cronies, and had expected them to try to kill her. But now, as she tested her grip on the tire iron, she studied them and realized that none of the four seemed ready to make any move.
“All hell is going to break loose, Slayer,” said the woman, Simone, in her French accent. Her red hair shone in the moonglow. “This is precisely what we predicted. You have come to join us?”
Buffy couldn’t help it. She laughed. “Yeah, that’s not really on the agenda.”
Bors, the dwarf, clucked his tongue. “I told you, Malik. She’s blind.”
The hulking Tai said nothing, as always.
But Malik took several steps toward Buffy, leaving the others behind, stopping only a few feet away from her. His eyes had a hypnotic quality, a strange kaleidoscopic effect that she hadn’t noticed before. Buffy gripped the tire iron harder, just in case he had some kind of mesmerism power.
“It isn’t too late,” Malik said.
“For a bunch of demon hunters sitting out here in the middle of nowhere, you guys are pretty well informed.”
Malik cocked his head. “Don’t you think we have our sources, Slayer? Do not insult us.”
“Sources? Like from the Powers? The only problem with that is you aren’t really Champions,” Buffy said. “Any of you.”
The other three went very still, glancing at Malik, wondering what he would do.
“Oh, but we are,” was all the dark-haired warrior said. Buffy could see the hilt of his sword sticking up from the scabbard that he wore across his back, but Malik made no move to reach for it.
“You should have listened from the beginning,” Simone said, taking a step closer, watching Buffy closely. “But if you will not stand with us, you would be wise not to attempt to stand against us.”
“Depends on what your next move is, I guess,” Buffy replied. She wished she knew for sure if they had been involved with Kandida’s death. They were all zealots, all bloodthirsty, and they had predicted that things would fall apart. But that didn’t mean they had murdered Kandida. So she asked them.
“Did you kill her?”
Malik smiled. “There will be war now over her death. The only way to stop it is to eradicate them all—all of the monsters who have gathered for the Congress—before this city spins further into chaos.”
“And if I disagree?” she asked.
The warrior’s smile vanished. “Then you’re just another monster.”
* * *
Xander sipped a pint of Ipswich Ale that he’d been nursing for forty-five minutes. He figured one beer wouldn’t hurt, given that all he was doing was sitting around waiting for Faith and Oz to come back, or for Giles to give him new marching orders. He had left messages by now at the hotel for Giles, Micaela, Buffy, and Willow, not to mention on Buffy’s cell phone.
He was bored out of his mind. So bored, in fact, that the demons and childhood bogeymen and folktale monsters in Dunphy’s Irish pub were starting to seem like pretty good company. The Red Sox game was still going on above the bar—or maybe it was a double-header or something. Or ESPN was on and they kept showing bits of the game over and over again.
To kill the time, he’d gotten to talking to some of the demons and listening in on their conversations. One of the nicest of them, a Russian Kurlow demon whose name was something like Tralfaz—only it couldn’t actually be that, because Xander knew Tralfaz came from an old Jetsons cartoon—had bought him the Ipswich.
The creatures in Dunphy’s were not members of the Dark Congress. They had come to Providence just for the spectacle, for the rare camaraderie of a peaceful gathering, and for the party. Word had reached them of Kandida’s murder, and opinions were loud and varied on the subject of who might have perpetrated such a crime, knowing the possible consequences. Xander paid close attention to these musings, trying to keep track so he could pass them on if his friends didn’t come up with the killer.
One opinion that nearly all the demons and monsters in the pub shared was surprise that Trajabo had agreed to give the arbiter until dawn to find his beloved’s killer. Apparently, the demon of the desert was well known for his temper. Many of Dunphy’s patrons admired him for his self-control, but others thought it showed weakness.
Xander kept his mouth shut except when he needed to ask a question to prod further discussion, and when he did, he chose his words carefully.
What astonished him most was how comfortable he felt in that environment. Given that at any other time, most of the creatures in the pub would gladly have eaten his brains, he felt remarkably calm—calm enough to be bored.
Until the winged serpent slid across the floor and rose up like a cobra beside him. Once upon a time Buffy had fought and destroyed a demon called Machida who’d had a similar appearance—like a man-size snake with arms. But Machida had not had wings. This thing had moist, leathery things that twitched and rustled as it swayed back and forth, staring at him with hideous orange eyes.
“I know you,” the winged serpent said.
Xander cocked his head. “I . . . don’t think so. I’m not from around here.”
That brought a ripple of good-natured laughter from the other creatures in Dunphy’s. Xander smiled, but then the snake-demon darted its head toward him and he let out a cry that was almost girlish. The winged serpent hissed, showing its fangs and forked tongue, but it did not bite him. Instead, it seemed to be smelling him.
Xander didn’t try any other wisecracks. He had a feeling his girly squeal might have detracted from his audience support.
“I know you,” the snake said again. “You were there at the revelry at Lovecraft’s grave. You were there at the massacre.”
Silence in the pub. All eyes turned toward Xander. His mind raced. This was not good, and he wondered how the winged serpent could know such a thing, since all the demons at Lovecraft’s grave had been slaughtered by Malik and his friends.
“That wasn’t me,” he ventured.
The snake actually laughed, a sibilant chuckle that rocked its head and made its wings twitch partially open. “Oh, I know. I saw you, though. I had taken to the air from my perch in the trees only seconds before the killers arrived. I saw them, and I saw you.”
Xander let out a breath. The rest of the monsters in Dunphy’s were still listening, but didn’t seem quite so ready to tear him into tiny pieces.
“It was Malik,” the serpent hissed. “Malik and those other Champions. They are more bloodthirsty than any demon. If Trajabo wishes to take vengeance for Kandida’s death, he does not need to look any further than Malik.”
Xander glanced warily around and when he replied, he did so quietly. “That was . . . really ugly. Slaughter. The guy’s a barbarian. But he’s a Champion for the Powers. Killing Kandida could lead to chaos worse than anything anyone’s ever seen. No Champion would do that.”
The winged serpent sniffed in disgust and started to turn away. “You think not? Perhaps you’re right. But I have seen Malik and some of the others at work before. They are not like other Champions. They hunt monsters, but Malik and his ilk enjoy it far too much. They will kill anything that isn’t human. Your friends should beware.”
“My friends—”
“They will kill anything that isn’t human,” the serpent said as it slithered away. “Demons. Witches. Werewolves. Even Slayers are not human. To Malik, we are all the same.”
Xander stared at the demon as it slithered toward the back of the pub and into a booth. He looked around at Tralfaz, or whatever, who only nodded sagely. None of the other demons were looking at him anymore.
“Oh, crap,” he said.
He took off, leaving the rest of his pint on the bar. By the time he hit the street, he had his phone out and he was running.
* * *
“I’m a monster?” Buffy said. “You and your brotherhood of evil mutants slaughter a bunch of uglies in cold blood without stopping to figure out who’s actually evil, and the monster is me?”
Bors actually laughed. The dwarf had one of those unsettling, salacious laughs that she’d heard at frat parties and bars: suggestive and putrid—a pornographer’s laugh.
Malik shot him a dark look and then faced Buffy once more. A gust of wind swept across the parking lot of the Salvation Army thrift store and rustled the leaves in the trees along the river. Sand skittered in the breeze and for a moment Buffy wondered if Trajabo had arrived, and what she would do if he showed up.
“Evil is not easily defined,” Malik said. His voice was a low rumble, almost a purr. Sexy as hell. But the warrior was deceitful and murderous, and there was nothing at all sexy about those traits. Buffy had seen enough of deceit and murder to last a thousand lifetimes.
“Yeah,” Buffy said. “It’s like art. I can’t define evil, but I know it when I see it.”
Simone narrowed her eyes, stiffening. “What are you implying?”
“Implication is for diplomats. If I have something to say, I say it.”
Her tone made things pretty clear. Tai, the hulking Asian man, took a step nearer to her, off to Malik’s left. Buffy supposed it was meant to be surreptitious, but she noticed. Without moving, she took his position into account.
“As I said,” Malik continued, “evil is not easily defined, so we are more comfortable referring simply to what is natural and what is unnatural. Humanity is part of this world’s nature. What is inhuman is unnatural.”
Buffy tested the weight of the tire iron in her hand and wished she had brought something more efficient—like an Uzi.
“Y’know, I spent a lot of time in high school and college taking crap for not being the most . . . studious girl. But when it comes to Slayer business, I do my homework. The Powers have never interfered with a Dark Congress before. From the research my friends and I dug up, it pretty much looks like the Powers support the idea of the Congress because it’s just so damned orderly. Order from chaos, that’s what they love. Order tips the balance toward peace, peace maybe leads to more and more demons saying sayonara and lighting out for the dark dimensions.”
The amusement that had been in Malik’s eyes vanished. “Now you sound like a diplomat.”
Somewhere far off, a truck engine roared. The river flowed. When Buffy had been walking along Riverside, she’d heard night birds calling, but there was no birdsong now.
“Right. Sorry. Bad me. How’s this for direct, then? Whatever you four are, or were, you weren’t called here by the Powers. You’re not here doing their work. Whatever twisted psycho game you fruity nut-bars are playing here, it’s your game, not theirs. And you’re more dangerous to this world than any of the demons and bogeymen up at the State House.
“You’re the monsters.”
Malik seemed crestfallen. He shook his head.
Tai and Simone each took a step nearer to her.
Bors laughed that obscene laugh again. “Finally. Can we kill her now?”