Xander ducked as an owl flew overhead, startling him out of his reverie. "Do I look like a rodent to you?" he called after the night hunter, brushing cobwebs and leaves out of his hair.
"I guess I do." Puzzled how they got in his hair, he took notice of his surroundings for the first time. "Forget the leaves—how did I get here?"
Spying The Crypt not too far off behind him, he shivered. If he was going to play vampire bait, he should bring the Slayer with him at least.
The front gates were nearby, and Xander headed off in that direction at a trot. His eyes on his goal, he failed to see the obstacle at his feet before he tripped over it.
Xander went flying over a giant tree root nd landed face first in the grass beyond, his feet draped over the offending root.
Then the root moved.
Xander gave a shout, rolling away and scrambling to his knees before he could fill his lungs again.
The root—or rather the man—sprang to his feet, brandishing a very wicked looking sword at phantom demons before he noticed Xander cowering in a heap.
"You! Get up!" the wild-eyed man hissed. Xander complied.
"Uh, un," he stammered, trying to keep a rubbery smile pasted on his face. "Don't mind me. Please."
The swordsman seemed to come to his senses, and his hard blue eyes narrowed as he gave the frightened boy a good long look. Satisfied about something, he whipped his sword out of sight behind his back.
"Sorry, buddy," he said, offering Xander a hand up.
Reluctantly, he took it, mildly surprised by the strength of the stranger's grip. He thought of the fencing class he'd goofed off through and now wished he hadn't.
"That's ok." Xander tried to laugh, but gave it up. "Just my big feet." He started backing away, hoping he wouldn't trip over a grave marker and be done for.
But the stranger just watched him go, making no more to skewer him with his big sheesh-kababber. When he thought it was safe to do so, Xander turned and sprinted for the gates.
Buffy and the others were never going to believe this one.
Richie watched the boy race away. So much for a quiet night's sleep. He slipped his sword away and ran a hand over his newly-shorn head. It still surprised him not to find a mass of strawberry blond curls up there. But it was time to move on, literally and figuratively in his life, and the old Richie was no more. No more soft curls, no more sloppy thinking. No more blind faith and gullible trust. Only hard edges. A leaner, meaner Immortal faced the world now. Ready for anything, and more than ready to dish it back.
"Maybe there's an all-night diner in this one-horse town," he said with a sour twist to his mouth.
He rolled up his bedding and loped over to his bike. When he had everything stowed, Richie fired up the engine and tooled out of the cemetery in racing form, sending the living denizens of the place to flight.
