BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER
ODIUM
CHAPTER TWO: THE PYRAMID
The sand crunched under Buffy's sandaled feet as she stood beneath the
glistening stars. The cool desert air ruffled her long hair and she shivered
slightly before continuing forward. Then, slowly out of the darkness, the
sloped sandstone walls appeared. The pyramid was enormous. It stood before her
like a giant obelisk of defiance, its peak so high that it pierced the moon in
the night sky like a stake through a vampire's heart. There was something about
it that felt darkly familiar. In the deepest recesses of her soul Buffy felt
fear of the place well up and threaten to burst over into her being. But for
reasons she couldn't explain she began to walk toward it. Inside that place
blackness waited for her. Blackness that was darker even than the surrounding
night. As she moved forward the sound of the sand crunching softly underneath
her feet began to die away. Something cold and wet touched at her toes and continued
to rise, but still she moved forward.
Suddenly a cloud crossed the moon, plunging the desert into
pitch-blackness and breaking the spell the sight of the pyramid had held over
her. Then the moon was back as the cloud moved past. Buffy stared up at the
peak of the enormous sandstone tomb. Had something just moved up there? The
liquid around her ankles splashed thickly against her ankles. Buffy bent low to
examine it in the darkness and her mouth fell open at what she saw. For
hundreds of metres in every direction she could see deep red blood seeping up
out of the sand, forming a moat of crimson that surrounded the pyramid. Slowly
she began to walk backwards away from the pyramid, her earlier subdued fear now
beginning to spiral out of proportion. Her eyes flicked up to gaze at the top
of the pyramid and once more she saw something move up there. Without
hesitation now, she turned and ran. Her feet pounded the sand as she raced away
from the pyramid without thought for what lay in the other direction. All she
knew was that she wanted to be anywhere but here.
She cursed loudly as her sandaled foot collided with something buried
beneath the sand, sending her tumbling to ground. Muttering darkly to herself
she turned and began to sweep the sand away from what it was that had tripped
her. Slowly but surely the object began to take shape. It was a sword. Its
blade was pitch black and the metal did not even glimmer in the moonlight. It
was as if no light touched the thing. Gingerly she reached out to touch the
blade. The steel was cold, colder even, than the breeze that chilled her bones.
Carefully she wrapped her other hand around the blade. Suddenly a heavy boot
fell upon her hand, grinding it flat to the ground. Buffy winced in pain as she
tore it free and glared up at what had done it. The figure who stood there
watching her wasn't a man. He had a man's face, a man's figure, but still, he
was not a man. His dark eyes were full of a cold hatred that pierced her heart
in a way no mere man's ever could. Slowly, and without taking his eyes off her,
the figure bent low and swept the blade up out of the sand. It stood for a
moment, testing the blades balance. Cautiously Buffy clambered to her feet. The
figure seemed to be paying more attention to the sword than it did to her. She
began to back away from the figure but the moment she moved she felt the tip of
the sword touch lightly against her abdomen. The figure leaned threateningly
forward out of the darkness, his face now mere centimetres from her own. In the
pale moonlight she could now see more distinct features staring back at her.
Thick black hair was tied back in a ponytail that tumbled to his waist and
etched into the pale skin next to his right eye was a tattoo of the same sword
that was now pressed lightly against her. His lips peeled back in a feral snarl
of contempt revealing glistening white fangs that seemed to ache for her blood.
"Slayer." King hissed as he drove the blade forward.
*****
Buffy rolled over in bed, sweat streaming off her as she glanced at her bedside clock. It read three twenty seven a.m. Groaning quietly she clambered out from beneath the sheets and padded across the upstairs hall of her house to the bathroom. Reaching for the switch the light clicked into life bathing the small room in its radiant glow. Buffy gazed at he haggard expression in the mirror.
"Just a nightmare." She said trying to reassure herself. The truth was that not all of her worst dreams were 'just nightmares' and she hated it. Having prophetic visions in your sleep could wreak merry havoc on your body clock. She reached out and twisted the tap running cold water into the basin. What if this one wasn't just a dream either? The last time King had been around she'd had one of her prophetic mind jobs as well. She cupped her hands and splashed the cool water across her face, washing away the sweat that soaked her brow. Maybe she had better tell Giles. Quietly she snuck down stairs to the phone and dialled the Watchers number.
Outside something flickered across the moon.
*****
Gibson stood at the entrance to the museum as the early morning sunlight appeared over the distant horizon listening to the distant rumbling sound of the approaching truck. The chorus of birds echoed across the parking lot as he pulled a cigarette from its grubby packet and lit it. Acrid smoke filled his lungs as he dragged deeply on it, the tip glowing brightly in the pre dawn light. He smiled as the enormous vehicle swept in over the tarmac carrying its precious cargo of antiquities.
Gibson wasn't what most people imagined when they thought of a museum curator. He was tall with sandy coloured hair and taste in fashion that would have put most of Hollywood's elite to shame. He knew plenty of people that did fit the image though. One of them was even living here in Sunnydale. Gibson simply couldn't understand how good old Ripper had lasted in the country for five years. Being brought up in the north of England Gibson was used to the cold and cloudy side of the weather, not the hot and sunny. A cold day in Sunnydale was a heat wave back home. Added to the stifling heat were the mystical energies emitted from the Hellmouth. Anywhere else they would be a background hum, a distant and vague sensation, but here they were clear as day and the constant barrage of sensation was causing him some wonderfully head splitting migraines.
He was jolted back from his thoughts as the truck rumbled to a stop in front of him with a screeching of brakes. Three men jumped down from the cab. Gibson frowned at the sight of them. Two of them seemed typical truckers but the third… There was something different about him. He was tall and well built with dark hair that was greying at the temples. Gibson liked to think he had a good sense for people, able to judge any book by its cover so to speak, but this one? He couldn't get a handle on him at all.
As the two truckers began to unload the cargo the greying man made his way over to Gibson.
"Are you the curator?" he asked. His tone was terse, as if he had something better to be doing. Gibson smiled politely at him but dropped it when the expression was not reciprocated.
"I am." He said, imitating the other mans clipped manner. Over by the truck, the other two men were busy hauling a pair of large wooden crates down onto waiting trolleys.
"Sign here." Said the greying man producing a clipboard and pen. Gibson snatched the clipboard away and began to scribble an indecipherable signature.
"The darkness is fought by us…" Said the man. Gibson raised his eyebrows in surprise at the words that had just been spoken.
"What did you just say?" he asked.
"The darkness is fought by us…" The man repeated.
"…While we watch and wait." Finished Gibson. He smiled again and extended his hand. "You must be Marcus." He said. The greying man reached out and took the proffered hand. His grip was carefully measured, as if the he had had to practice it to achieve the desired affect.
"We have much to talk about." Said Marcus as he stepped past Gibson and into the museum. Gibson watched as the two trolleys and their contents were hauled up the steps and inside the building. He hoped that this was a good idea. Turning on his heel he followed the others inside.
The foyer of Sunnydale museum was so immaculately clean that Gibson almost winced when the crates were slammed heavily to the ground. Cautiously he stepped closer to the crate marked with a red X on the lid.
"Is this it?" he said, exhaling a cloud of smoke as he spoke. Marcus didn't seem to be paying him any attention. Instead he was busy inspecting his surroundings.
"It's in there if that's what you mean." He said as he examined one of the arches that lead to the rest of the museum. Gibson glanced warily at the crate. Why did it have to be here? He could have thought of a thousand safer places to take the thing. Instead the Council was relying on this freak of nature to guard it in the one place on Earth even he wouldn't have taken it.
"Wouldn't it be safer somewhere else?" asked Gibson. The Reaver paused by a pedestal that held an ornate china pot and turned to regard him carefully.
"Do you think distance matters to him?" he said simply. Gibson shrugged.
"It would certainly take him longer to reach it." He said.
"But he would find it eventually. No, it stays here, because here it can be of use to us." He strode past Gibson and began to inspect the main doors to the building.
"You're counting on the Slayer to stop him aren't you?"
"Maybe." Said Marcus. He knocked lightly on the wooden frame of the double doors.
"But didn't you tell the council that he defeated her once before." Marcus began to trace the doorframe with his finger.
"The Council always reads meaning into what simply is not there." He sneered contemptuously.
"What's that supposed to mean?" said Gibson, feeling a little hurt by such a blatant accusation. Marcus turned and gazed at him through steady grey eyes that made Gibson shudder.
"What I'm saying is that if he had defeated the Slayer when they first met, she wouldn't still be here. She beat him once and she can do it again." Gibson gave a sigh of surrender and turned to look back at the crate. It sat motionless, as if what was inside was nothing more than another ancient artefact, another pretty bauble to add to the museums collection. But Gibson knew that wasn't true. He could feel the raw energy emanating from the crate. What was inside had a great deal of raw power simply waiting to be harnessed. It was difficult to even drag his eyes away from the wooden box.
"Do you think he'll come for it?" he said, turning his head to look at Marcus. The greying man walked over to the crate. He paused for a moment before reaching down and wrenching the tightly sealed lid clean off. The moment he did it, Gibson could have sworn the temperature in the room dropped a degree or two. Carefully, the Reaver reached down into the crate and grasped something with both hands. With a slight grunt he withdrew his arm, bringing the contents of the crate out into the open. Gibson hadn't imagined it to be so large. Grasped tightly in Marcus' hand was a frankly enormous double-handed broadsword with a pitch-black blade and slightly serrated edges. He turned to look at Gibson.
"Count on it." He said.
