The arm stretched out, impossibly long, the fingers extending into claws as it reached for her. The blood-red sky swirled and shifted behind the silhouette. She ducked away, but the hand still reached for her, began to close around her throat…
Buffy gasped. She stared at the ceiling of her bedroom and realized that the sheet was wound around her neck. She reached up and untangled it with trembling hands, then glanced at the clock and groaned. She was in the Dead Zone: get up and spend a couple of hours wasting time around the house or go back to sleep and risk snoozing through the alarm. She ran her hands through her hair.
"This was supposed to make life easier," she muttered, then rolled onto her side. Tardiness seemed a risk worth taking.
Matti put the whistle to her lips and blew. "Bell's gonna ring in ten, so hit the showers." Her students shuffled past her toward the mouth of the tunnel. She watched them go, then turned and looked up toward the top of the bleachers. It was practically a reflex; maybe she would see him standing there, shaking his head. He wasn't of course. He never would be. Matti clicked her tongue and turned away. Being sidelined by the Knights had been hard, but maybe it had been for the best.
Buffy felt the tightness between her shoulder blades as she walked along the sidewalk. She scanned the hedges, the corners of the buildings, the shadows under the trees, her unconscious mind identifying any spot that might harbor an attacker. She was angry at her fellow students for their ignorance of the world's perils, and yet she envied them their blissful stupor. Once you had looked the bad guy in the eye, you remembered what you saw there, even after the villain was gone.
Buffy stared into the bathroom mirror. There was no need to go out; in fact, history said that going out was a bad idea. How many times had a simple evening out at the Bronze turned into a bloodbath? Was there any need to expand that circle? All she had to do was pick up the phone and call Bryn, make up some excuse, hell, why even bother with an excuse? Adults could change their mind; they did it all the time, but she had not made the call. She had dressed and done her makeup, and now the face that looked back seemed so bland, so… she grabbed a tissue and wiped her mouth hard. The strawberry-pink lipstick she'd so carefully applied smeared over her face. She continued the assault until all the offending lipstick was gone and her mouth glowed red of its own accord. She exhaled, looked down at her makeup case, and picked the stub of an eyeliner pencil. The point was blunt, and when she traced under her eye the line it left was thick and sooty. She pulled back and looked at the mirror for a moment, then leaned in and moved the pencil to the other eye.
She looked at her renewed reflection and her eyes narrowed in approval. That person looked ready for a rumble.
The RAV's paint glittered under the glow of the parking lot's security lights. Buffy got out, slammed the door, then checked the lock. She forced herself to slow down; her nerve endings screamed and her skin felt as though the light evening breeze was a rasp. Every side street on the drive over had caused her fingers to tighten on the steering wheel, every car that approached in her peripheral vision caused an adrenaline spike. Even now, she felt moisture gathering at the base of her spine and under her arms. There was a steady stream of students headed toward the Union; the muscles of Buffy's shoulders tightened as she neared the sidewalk. It was the darkness: it amplified the stress she felt the sun was out; now the inky valleys between buildings looked like portals to the underworld. She forced herself to breathe evenly, willed her fists to unclench as she merged with the flow of students. The lobby of the Union was brightly lit and a couple of the food vendors were still open. The bulk of the crowd was headed down a flight of stairs; Buffy followed.
The Cage was in the basement of the Union, at the end of a long hallway on the west side of the building. The lighting in the hall was intentionally dim. Buffy snorted and let go a cynical chuckle: UCS was going to a lot of trouble to make a nice room look run-down like the Bronze. She felt the thump of drums and the pulsing of an insistent bass as she approached the door and saw Bryn scanning the stream of arrivals. She started when she saw Buffy.
"That's, uh, not your usual look," Bryn said.
Buffy shrugged. "I thought I'd try something different."
"Well, mission accomplished," Bryn said. "I've just never seen you with eyeliner like that. Seriously love the lipstick, though."
"It's called Wild Plum."
Bryn cocked her head to the side. "Well, it's a look for sure." She tilted her head the other way. "Are you okay?"
Buffy lifted her shoulders. "Sure. Why wouldn't I be?"
"You just look a little… flushed? And kinda sweaty."
Buffy made 'no-big-deal' face. "That's the sheen of party anticipation."
Bryn nodded. "Well, okay. Shall we?"
Buffy inclined her head toward the door. "After you."
The volume jumped up considerably as they pushed through the door. The stage at the far end of the room was occupied by a quintet of musicians; Buffy recognized the song they were pummeling, a version of Our Lady Peace's 'One Man Army'. The tune's title brought a sardonic smile to her lips. The dance floor seethed in the dim, recessed lighting, less individual dancers and more segments of some great, undulating beast.
Buffy could practically feel her pupils dilating, but the acid burn in her stomach didn't come. She drifted toward a corner as the sensory overload of the music and lights matched her interior turmoil. It was weirdly soothing. Her eyes roved over the room, assessing the situation and wondering when one of the dancers would start tearing off the arms of the others. It was disorienting, but at least this stress seemed familiar. She felt her shoulder blades relax a little. The band finished the song, then launched into another. Buffy didn't recognize it; maybe it was an original. Her eyes continued to rove over the crowd, the familiar vigilance an odd comfort.
"Hey." Buffy jumped, and one hand formed an involuntary fist before she realized the speaker was Bryn, who held out a plastic cup. "Here." She shook her ridiculously blond head. "You need this." She was not alone; a girl midway between Bryn and Buffy in height with eyes that sparkled even amidst the lights of the dance floor was attached to Bryn's left hip. "Oh, Buffy, this is Emily. Emily, Buffy." She extended the cup.
"What is it?" Buffy said.
"Punch." Bryn raised her own cup to her lips.
Buffy nodded and took a swig. She coughed, holding the cup away from her body while barely managing not to spill it. "Punch?" she gasped.
"Well, maybe punch plus." Bryn wiggled her eyebrows. "It's got a little octane boost."
"I'll say." Buffy took a couple of short, quick breaths and felt the subtle burn just under her ribs. She ran her tongue around her teeth, then looked at the other girl. "I'm surprised the school is serving jet fuel."
Bryn grinned. "Oh, yeah, about that." She leaned forward and her voice dropped to the equivalent of a conspiratorial whisper; given the volume of the music it was a modest shout. "This isn't really an official official school party."
"What do you mean?" Buffy's eyes narrowed.
Emily stepped forward. "It's really kind of a big private party. Some guys rented the Cage, hired the band, provided the, uh, refreshments."
"Which you assumed I would want." Buffy squinched one eye.
"Well," Bryn said, her eyes twinkling, "you did lean on me about Cordelia's parents." She shrugged. "Karma chameleon."
"Oh my god," Emily exclaimed. "You're not, like, an alcoholic or anything, right?"
"No," Buffy said, shaking her head. "Not a problem."
"Whew." Emily's eyes got big. "That's a relief."
Bryn made a face. "Sorry if I went too far. You mad?"
Buffy looked up at the other girl. The erstwhile Slayer's eyes looked large and dark in the strobing lights. "I told you I don't do frats."
"It's not a frat. It's just a party."
"In the Cage. A school facility." Buffy looked skeptical.
"Yes, the Cage, which can be rented, which is what these guys did." Bryn swept her arm in a wide circle, punch sloshing over the rim of her cup. "We've been over this already. It's a party, only, instead of being at the Bronze or something, we're at the Cage." She lifted her glass. "With adult beverages." Bryn's face radiated concern and sympathy verging on pity. "You really need to loosen up. I mean, not to be Cruella DeVille, but you look kinda like an undertaker sizing up potential clients." She grimaced. "I really do apologize if you're upset, but nobody should look this miserable at a party."
Buffy looked away to her left. "A little warning next time, okay?"
Bryn pouted. "If I had warned you, would you have taken a drink?"
Buffy exhaled through her nose. "No. Probably not."
"Exactly." Bryn scrunched her nose. "We good?" When Buffy didn't reply, the tall girl shook her head. "Again, sorry if I got out of line." Bryn bit her lip. "Am I on your shit list?"
Buffy sighed. After the initial harshness, the glow under her sternum actually felt pretty good. "No. Just… don't spring something like this on me again, okay?"
Bryn ran her index finger over her chest. "Cross my heart." She reached out and touched her glass to Buffy's. "Come with?"
Buffy shook her head, feeling the burn taper off just a bit. "Give me a minute to get my bearings."
"Okay, but don't wait too long. Finish that up and hit the dance floor. We're young, but we won't be forever. C'mon, Em." Bryn winked as she and Emily sashayed away.
"Speak for yourself," Buffy mumbled. "Some of us won't have a chance to get old." She rolled those words around in her mind, then raised her cup.
Bryn's advice and counsel seemed to have been a good idea, solid: after Buffy finished her drink and the warmth spread through her, the atmosphere seemed much more inviting. The music throbbed in the air, its invitation irresistible; she began to sway back and forth, her movements jerky at first, like someone riding a bicycle or swimming for the first time after a long layoff, but, once lubricated, the gears soon meshed and she was honest-to-god dancing. A guy drifted by and offered her another glass. She drained the cup, prepared for the burn this time, and it went down more smoothly. Her limbs relaxed as she took in a bushel of humid, Axe-scented air and giggled, the barest jangle of hysteria sharpening the edge. The thought crossed her mind that her mother might be right; sitting on the porch might not be the most productive way to deal with her shit. Buffy giggled again: the word shit seemed incredibly edgy and witty. The song ended; she stepped away from the crowd, pulled her top away from her shoulders, and hiccuped. Somewhere, she thought, there's somebody filling the glasses.
They weren't exactly filling the glasses, but they were bringing the cups out on trays through a door next to the stage. Buffy snagged one and lifted it to her lips without missing a beat. She took a significant swig, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as she swallowed. Buffy noticed the dark smear on her hand, then saw the girl leaning against the wall, watching her. The girl had black hair, true black, not dark-brown or brunette, but black as a crow's wing, thick and glossy, and if the adjectives 'bee-stung' and 'pouty' hadn't already existed, they would have been invented to describe her lips. Their eyes met; they stared at each other for a moment too long to ignore. Buffy gave a mental shrug: maybe her mom was right, maybe it was time to meet new people. She nodded, then stepped forward, extending her hand. "Hi, I'm Buffy."
The girl's grip was firm, dry, and uninterested. She looked down. "Soledad."
"Soledad, Soledad." Buffy felt the word rolling around in her mouth. "That's a nice name."
"Glad you think so," the other girl replied. "I'm stuck with it." She nodded toward Buffy's cup. "Enjoying the refreshments?"
"What? Oh, yeah." Buffy held her glass by the rim and raised it in front of her. "At first, it was a little surpsris– surprising, but it's pretty good." She was very aware of blinking. "You need one?"
The other girl shook her head. "No, I prefer to let the bouquet of 7-Up and raspberry sherbet breathe on its own."
Buffy nodded, surprised at how effortlessly she formed a response. "So, Soledad, what brings you to this wretched hive of scum and villainy?"
"So, you always talk like this?" The dark-haired girl rotated her cup in her fingers.
"Like what?" Buffy asked.
"Like someone who watched Ghostbusters and never got past it."
"First, that was Star Wars, and, second, I like Ghostbusters," Buffy said, a touch of frost in her tone mixing with the slush.
"I do, too," Soledad replied, "but I don't try to sound like Peter Venkman." She shook her head and turned away.
"Oh, don't leave yet." Buffy leaned forward, enunciating carefully. "Maybe if we start dancing, other people will join in?"
Soledad cast a narrow glance over her shoulder. "Later, Tully."
"It's Buffy!" She hit the 'ff' pretty hard, then scoffed and headed back around the dancers. By the time she reached her original spot, her cup was almost empty and her shoulders were very relaxed. She looked around. Where was the girl with the tray?
Buffy pushed her hair back from her face. "Undertaker looking for clients, huh?" she muttered as she bobbed and weaved to 'Another Night'. Maybe this was what she needed. Maybe her mother had been correct all along (the thought brought a smile to Buffy's face) and what she needed to be doing was not sitting on the porch white-knuckling the night away, but getting off the porch and immersing herself in life. Let the rhythm of the night wash away the distressing memories and strangling dreams. The middle of the dance floor was not the place for deep thoughts, and she found herself drifting out of the crowd. She stood by the wall and swayed in time to the music as her eyes roamed over the dancers. Movement to her right snapped her to attention: the way the girl nuzzled the guy's neck, the way his eyes closed… Buffy was on the move before all the information had registered. She reached out, grabbed the girl by the shoulder, spun her around, her left hand balled into a precise, tiny missile…
"The fuck is your problem?" the girl yelled.
Buffy stepped back. The girl wasn't a vampire, she hadn't been assaulting anyone. She was just a… girl giving a guy a hickey. Buffy hands went to her mouth. "I'm so sorry," she gasped, her mind racing. She turned to the boy. "I just… you… you looked just like my old boyfriend, it was a bad breakup…" She raised her hands, palms out. "Sorry, just being crazy ex-girlfriend."
"Jesus, are you drunk?" The guy hitched his shoulder. "Get lost, you freak."
"Good idea. Getting lost." The burn was back, only it was her face that was red-hot as a fair-sized knot of people stared at her. In the face of that scrutiny, Buffy Summers, who had faced down monsters, vampires, and demons, turned and fled. The heels of her hands hit the doors of the Cage and she stumbled down the hall, the effect of four glasses of punch heightening her embarrassment.
A girl approached from the other side of the glass door, weaving slightly, her lipstick smeared and her eyes surrounded by a raccoon's mask of runny eyeliner. Buffy reached up to push her hair off her sweaty forehead, and the other girl did, too, and that was when Buffy realized she was the other girl, that she was looking at her own reflection and, god, did she look trashed. Couldn't blame the couple necking on the dance floor for their reaction; she definitely looked a little psycho. She blinked twice and carefully lined up her approach: it wouldn't do to ricochet off the doorframe at this moment. Her trailing hand was a little slow to release the door and she stumbled just a bit, lurching into the foyer of the Union basement. She eyeballed the stairs, plotting a strategy to navigate the ascent, and decided that a death-grip on the railing was the best approach. She came out into the ground-floor atrium; the food court was dark and chairs were stacked on the tables, lending a certain post-apocalyptic flair to the moment. Buffy looked toward the exit doors; they seemed very far away, and she decided that it was okay to sit down on one of the benches for a moment, just to gather her thoughts. She lowered herself onto the lacquered wooden slats, elbows on knees, head hanging down.
"So, you having a good time?"
Buffy's head came up. The owner of the voice stood midway between the stairs and the bench. He was a touch over six feet tall, with the sort of hair that looked as though it had obeyed a higher calling when he ran his fingers through it. He wore a blue linen shirt that Buffy estimated cost roughly half as much as her Toyota. His teeth were ridiculously straight and white, which was a description that pretty applied to him all over.
"Good enough," she said.
"Nice." He nodded and stepped toward her. "I'm Patrick."
She swallowed, her tongue sticky in her mouth. "Buffy."
"Nice to meet you." He extended his hand. She reciprocated, but her aim was a little off; their palms ended up smacking together. Patrick leaned down toward her. "Are you okay?"
"Absolutely fine." Okay, absolutely was a mistake; the vowels definitely felt like marbles rolling around in her mouth.
"Do I need to call someone?" His hands were on his knees as he bent over to look into her eyes.
"No," she said. "No. I'm just leaving, just need to get to my car."
He shook his head. "I'm not sure that's a good idea, you don't seem very steady. Here." He extended a hand. Buffy grasped it and stood up, finishing the maneuver with a tiny lurch to her left. Patrick shook his head. "I'm not sure you should be driving. I could give you a lift to your dorm."
"Don't live in the dorm." Buffy rubbed one eye with the heel of her hand.
"Well, that's even worse. You definitely shouldn't be driving on a city street." He placed a hand on her shoulder. Buffy shook it off.
"I'm okay. I'll be careful." She headed for the exit doors, a little too fast, her hand slipped off the push bar and her nose almost smacked into the glass.
"Here, here." Patrick reached over her head and held the door open. Buffy stepped out onto the sidewalk. The night felt cool after the overheated Cage, and she shivered slightly.
"Tell you what, let me walk you to your car." Patrick's arm went around her shoulders. "Let's see how you feel then." Buffy squinted and nodded; Patrick had pulled her very close. They crossed the sidewalk, and as they stepped down from the curb, his arm slipped to her waist, supporting her. The arm was still there a few steps later, but not supporting her, no, it was holding her closer than she wanted, then he was pulling her to him, his hand was higher than her waist and moving upward.
"Hey," Buffy said, pulling away, "Let's watch the hands." She twisted out of his grasp, a clumsy pirouette saved from a disastrous finish by her preternatural reflexes. She steadied herself, feet planted on the black asphalt between two lines of cars.
"I'm just trying to help." Patrick shook his head. "You don't look okay and you don't sound okay." He looked confused when she giggled. "Did I say something funny?"
She shook her head. "No, I just got a jumbo-sized case of the deja vu. Listen," she said, "I'm fine, okay, maybe not actually fine, but I don't need any help and I really don't need it from a guy with an extra set of hands."
"Don't be scared," he said. "I just want to help." He stepped forward and grabbed her upper arms.
"Yeah. Sure." Buffy twisted inside his grip and things went slightly pear-shaped. She meant to push him away, but maybe it was too many hours listening to the tree frogs chirping about doom, maybe she was just tired, maybe it was too much refreshment, but… whatever the reason, the push turned into a punch just below his sternum. Patrick's breath whooshed out and he sat down on the parking lot, boneless and gasping. Buffy clucked her tongue and grimaced. "I should probably say I'm sorry, but… I'm not, so… I won't."
Patrick struggled to regain his breath; finally he inhaled deeply and became a little less whey-colored. "You c-"
Buffy held up an admonishing finger and wagged it. "No. No. Don't use the 'C' word." An insane euphoria washed over her.
He gasped, "I'll get you." One arm was across his stomach and he turned slightly on one hip.
Buffy nodded. "Thank you."
"What?" Patrick appeared to be having trouble following her train of thought; maybe his brain was short of oxygen.
Buffy looked very solemn, her eyes large inside the fright-mask of her eyeliner. "I was afraid I might have been too harsh. I appreciate you showing me that I wasn't." Appreciate and showing were pretty high hurdles, but she got them out. He scowled and began to draw his feet under him. "Don't." Buffy bent over, hands on her knees, feeling a little queasy: adrenaline and grain alcohol might not be the best mix. "See, knocking you down, that was a little bit of an accident, but if you try to get up, I will kick you." She looked down at her shiny black Chelsea boots. "And these things are hella pointy." Patrick tried for an intimidating glare but just looked pissy. She winked at him. "I'm gonna go now. Don't worry about getting up, in fact, don't think about getting up." She straightened up and swayed a little. "And if you see me around campus, you should make a big circle around me. A really big circle." The last circle was definitely slushy. She cocked a finger at him and swung it around her head, then backed up a few paces. When he showed no signs of trying to get to his feet, she turned and walked away, her senses alert for any sounds of running or scuffling feet. The only footfalls she heard were headed back into the Union.
She found her car; it only took two tries to unlock the door. She climbed into the driver's seat, closed the door, and rested her forehead on the steering wheel, eyes closed. She took a deep breath to steady herself, then her stomach lurched and she barely got the door open before the evening's libations hit the parking lot. She spat, then wrenched the door closed, eyes watering, mouth acrid. She exhaled heavily.
"Okay," she said. "Be very careful."
