DO NOT CONTACT ME FOR ART COMMISSIONS!

From the author. . .

This story is complete and will end up around twenty chapters. I'm just doing the final editing and will upload on Fridays. Warning! There will be some mature content later on but it will be clearly marked for you to skip over if you wish.

Enjoy!

The Curse of Camelot

Chapter One

"Giles? You're English, right?"

The Sunnydale Highschool librarian was standing on the second floor balcony with a stack of books in his arms. He rolled his eyes heavenward behind gold-rimmed glasses and muttered, "Grant me patience." He shelved a book before glancing down at Xander, who was dragging his backpack across the tiled floor toward the large study table in the center of the room.

"I'll neither confirm nor deny until I know the reason for the question," he called down, moving to another bookcase.

"Literature," Willow answered him, slipping through the double-doors. "As in English literature."

"As in hard," Buffy groaned, following Willow inside. She threw her backpack on the table and dropped into a chair across from Xander. "And I've got slayage going on almost every night. When do I have time for schoolwork?"

Giles frowned down at Buffy. "I thought it's been rather slow of late, actually."

Eyes narrowed, she gave him a look that dared him to contradict her. "Serious slayage, Giles."

"Hmm. So I take it you're needing my help as a librarian—"

"And your Englishness."

"—rather than a Watcher," he finished. "Assignment?"

Willow had already pulled several papers from her backpack and placed them in a neat pile on the table. She lifted the top paper and began to read.

"Many know the legend of King Arthur of Camelot but little is known of his father, Uther Pendragon. This early king is often described with conflicting attributes regarding his character and role in Arthur's famous rise to power. Assuming that Uther is Arthur's father, respond with a 2,500 word essay describing the likely characteristics of Uther based on Arthur's own attributes."

"I honestly didn't understand a word of what she just said." Xander sent Giles a confused look. "Was that English? The sounds were familiar but words-no-make-sense."

"I think it's like the old saying about the apple," Willow told him. "Like how it doesn't fall far from the tree?"

Xander's eyes bulged. "When did fruit come into the picture?"

"It means 'like father, like son,'" Willow clarified, then wrinkled her nose. "Or, maybe, the reverse in this case?"

Buffy's forehead thumped against the table. "Giles, help! Head hurting . . . ."

Giles shelved the last book and disappeared from view. A few minutes later he came down the stairs with a fresh stack of books in his arms and distributed them evenly around the table. The covers were worn, the pages yellowed, and the corners softened. They also had a dusty, stale odor that was, in Buffy's opinion, the smell of sheer boredom if boredom had a smell. She had lifted her head high enough to stare at the book in front of her with loathing. Was that gum stuck to the spine?

"All of these books contain some commentary on Uther Pendragon," Giles was saying. "A mysterious character, he is sometimes described as a warrior king, rising to power through ruthless methods. Other stories portray him as an ordinary man who fell victim to common temptations such as greed, envy, and lust. I suggest you start by skimming these and then I'll retrieve the books on Arthur."

Xander looked as though Giles had set a dead possum in front of him. "You don't happen to have one of those yellow summary books, do you? This one is rather thick . . . . "

"Much like yourself but you've never let that hold you back," Giles said dryly. "Best to get a move on."

Willow had already opened her book and was already taking notes. With a defeated sigh, Xander opened his.

Buffy had poked hers until it was a safe distance away from her nose then returned her head to the table where she promptly fell asleep.

"Sorry, I don't know anything about that stuff." The vampire gave Buffy a commiserating shrug. "I was more of a numbers guy. Now if your problem was algebra, you'd be in good hands." He blinked down at his hands then, as if just remembering they were covered in dirt. He'd only clawed his way free from the grave less than an hour before. "Evil hands now, I guess." He made a quick, dismissive gesture. "Whatever. You know what I mean. Sorry about the assignment though, that's rough."

Buffy twirled the wooden stake between her fingers, appreciating the way her fresh nail polish caught the moonlight. "Right? As if I weren't out here practically every night busting my ass and saving the world. Hero-work should mean less homework."

"Yeah, but look on the bright side," the vampire said as his face shifted into its demonic form. "You won't have to do the assignment because you'll be dead!"

"Promises, promises," Buffy quipped before back-flipping away from the vampire's lunge. She landed lightly on a headstone then spun into a roundhouse kick that sent him crashing into a vault. Flipping forward off the headstone, she dropped to a knee beside the stunned vampire. "Thanks for trying though," she added, before driving the stake through his heart.

An owl hooted forlornly somewhere in the distance and an early-morning dampness had settled over the cemetery. Everything felt still and somehow muffled. The place was dead—literally—and would likely remain so. There had only been four burials listed in the newspaper, and the last one seemed unlikely to come back as a vampire: he'd choked to death on his own dentures.

Of course, it didn't mean other vampires wouldn't stumble into the cemetery, looking for a crypt to crash in for the day, but it was barely two in the morning. It would be hours yet before dawn and Buffy was tired. There was no way she going to wait around that long.

Buffy slapped the ashes from her sleeve as she went to retrieve her things. She knelt between a pink granite headstone and a white azalea bush and unzipped her backpack. She tossed in her spare stakes, an energy bar wrapper, and her water bottle. Then she tossed in the smelly book Giles had given her along with the homework assignment. She hadn't had a chance to look at either of them.

She rezipped the bag with more force than necessary and swung it up onto her shoulders. How was it possible that she'd dusted three vampires—three!—and not one of them knew anything about English literature? She wondered briefly if there was a section in the cemetery reserved for professors and other brainiacs or if vampires just came back stupid. She then wondered if it was racist to think that all vampires (the ones without souls, at least) were stupid. She dismissed the thought with a yawn. It was way too late to get all thinky about it.

And yet, despite the fatigue pulling at her limbs, Buffy found herself suddenly reluctant to go home. Her mom had begun dating some guy—Steve, she recalled with an eye roll—that she'd met at an antique auction. In Buffy's opinion, helookedlike one of those old things her mom would bid on—thinning hair combed in a way that was fooling no one, a slight paunch that he stroked like it was his pet, and feet that he constantly rubbed together. Athlete's foot, Buffy thought suddenly. He probably had athlete's foot.

The way things were going between Steve and her mom, she wouldn't be surprised to find him in their kitchen some night, wearing her mother's pink robe and sporting black socks pulled halfway up his pale legs. He'd probably be eating her favorite yogurt, too, while stroking his belly.

Buffy shuddered at the image. "Freaking gross ." If she had to choose, she'd rather snuggle up to a booger demon. (For clarity, Giles had pointed out that it was, in fact, not mucus but an inter-dimensional plasma, but by that point, Xander's name had already stuck. Regardless of what the slime was, the demon had a definite edge over Steve.)

With a resigned sigh, Buffy stood and headed for the abandoned industrial district. The city had tried to revive the area several times, but the surrounding neighborhoods had complained about the fumes and noise so much that nothing ever came of it. Now it was just an eyesore that everyone wanted to forget existed.

Unfortunately, it made a great hangout for the dead. But even they, it seemed, had better things to do tonight.

Buffy kicked a piece of broken sidewalk into the overgrown grass, humming to herself as she passed empty warehouses and large steel structures painted in dull colors. She paused to appreciate the impressive size of the spray-painted penis on the side of what used to be a plastics factory. She was thinking that whoever had done it must have used a ladder because—

A light flickered from inside the factory.

Buffy immediately ducked low and hurried to the side of the building. The window closest to her had its glass broken out but someone had hammered several crooked boards across the opening. She caught the faint scent of smoke drifting out and something else, something vaguely sweet that she'd smelled before. It wasn't weed though, she would have recognized that odorfrom the potheads at school. No, whoever was inside, it wasn't highschoolers.

A raised voice from inside. Someone sounded really pissed.

Buffy rested her hands against the two boards and angled her head so she could peek inside. A young guy, no older than twenty, was standing on a wide conveyor belt inside a huge open area. He wore a yellow sweatshirt, cargo shorts, and converse sneakers. Between his feet, something was burning. The tendrils of smoke had already filled the large area with a murky haze.

Or perhaps the smoke had come from the balls of fire that seemed to hang in midair of their own accord. They rotated slowly around the room, their light flickering dully off the abandoned machinery.

The guy's neck was abnormally thin, and his Adam's apple jutted out sharply. It bobbed several times, as though he were choking on his own spit. He jammed an accusing finger upward and managed to cough out his words. "And that's another thing—"

A figure high up on a catwalk shifted. It was a demon. His skin was a sickly maroon color, and he wore dark robes that made it appear as though his head and hands weren't actually attached to a body. Two large horns that were very Elk-like grew from either side of his head.

"Oh, get to the bloody wish already!" the demon groaned suddenly. His bulging yellow eyes widened further with exasperation. "You've been through this three times!"

The guy actually stomped his foot. ""No! She neverlistened to me, either. I summoned you to get revenge on that bitch, and in order to do that, you have to know what she did!"

The demon closed his eyes, and Buffy could hear his deep inhalations echo off the factory walls. She counted ten before he opened his eyes. When he spoke, he sounded calmer. "Clearly this woman has insulted"—the demon's left eye twitched—"your masculinity. A crime worthy of punishment." The look of barely concealed incredulity on the demon's face had to match Buffy's own. This guy was barely out of boyhood physically, and he'd clearly been held back a few grades mentally. Overall, with the sagging yellow sweatshirt and bony legs sticking out of the cargo shorts, he looked more like a freshly plucked hen.

"That's right!" The chicken-boy's excited screech made both the demon and Buffy cringe. "She insulted my masculinity! And she also—"

"No-no." The demon held up a long finger. "No. We don't need to go over the details again. I think it's time you make your wish, and I will exact vengeance upon your behalf."

"Yes . . . my wish . Hmm. I've thought of so many—what about making her bald with no teeth?" He shook his head in a quick dismissal of his own suggestion. "Not nearly bad enough: she'd just get a wig and dentures. It has to be something she can't hide." He rubbed his hands together and went on. "It's hard to choose, really—is there a cure for leprosy? No one would fancy her if her bits and bobs were falling off, would they?" He chuckled to himself then snapped his fingers. "Wait! I've got it! I wish— Aaah!"

Something dark had struck the back of chicken-boy's head, ricocheted off, and landed in a pile of broken glass with a loud crash. It was followed a few seconds later by a whoomph as the boy's unconscious body landed on the conveyer belt.

"I rock!" Buffy pumped a fist in the air once in celebration of her perfect shot. While the chicken-boy had been rambling on about his wish, she'd slipped through another window, this one also broken but unboarded, and had conveniently found a rubber wedge just inside on the floor. She wished her friends had been there to witness her throw—she doubted it would have the same dramatic impact in retrospect. Impact? Buffy snorted at her own choice of words but froze as something creaked above her.

Too late, Buffy remembered the chicken-boy hadn't been alone. She'd forgotten the demon. Her gaze snapped upward to meet yellow ones staring directly at her. "Oh, hey. Umm, hi?"

Buffy didn't wait for a response. She spun on one foot and bolted for the window. Before she could jump through, however, an invisible force seized her. It held her so tightly that her breath exploded from her lungs in a whooshand she was unable to inhale.

Her shoes dragged against the cement floor, through dust and bits of debris, as the invisible hand slowly spun her around and carried her across the factory floor. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. Her feet struck each metal step as she floated up the stairs to the catwalk.

Buffy blinked several times when she finally came to a stop in front of the demon . He was much bigger r than she'd originally thought yet the look on his face was more curious than angry.

"Buffy the Vampire Slayer," he said, tilting his horned head in greeting. "I've heard much about you."

"Nngh eh."

"Oo—my bad." The demon snapped his fingers and the pressure instantly evaporated. Buffy dropped to her hands and knees, her only thought to fill her starving lungs with air as quickly as possible. The zipper on her backpack must have broken from the pressure because items kept tumbling over her shoulders with every inhalation: two wooden stakes, a tampon, a tube of chapstick, a pen, and a crumpled paper which slid across the grating to rest against the demon's robe.

While he waited for her to catch her breath, the demon plucked the paper up with a maroon colored hand. Buffy stole a glance and saw he was reading it. His full lips twisted with amusement, and she knew he'd seen her doodle of a knight with a sword in his chest and little x's for eyes. Buffy considered herself better at short, creative expressions than 2,500 word essays.

"Very amusing," he said when Buffy finally managed to stand.

"Not . . . really," Buffy panted. "It's Mr. Blowski's class. He's a total hard-ass, and Ireallyneed a good grade on this assignment." She paused to cough then continued. "My average in his class has been stuck in the non-passing lane, if you know what I mean."

The demon gave a sympathetic nod. "Completely—the head of the vengeance department is like that. Nothing is ever bad enough for him, and he'sneverhappy with our kill quota." He shook his head. "It's not like he's doing any of the work; he's literally just a head."

Buffy returned the sympathetic nod then grimaced. "Look, I'm not feeling my best here—and I've got an essay to write—so I gotta ask: are we gonna fight or are we good?"

The demon let out a long breath that came out as a hiss. "Yeah, here's the problem," he said. "My client down there already initiated the wish-taking process. Once spoken, it has to be finished." He made an apologetic face that implied it was out of his hands. "It's a contract thing."

"Hmm." Buffy frowned down at the prone figure below. Chicken-boy showed no signs of stirring anytime soon. "Looks like it might be awhile," she hedged.

"Yeah, and that's part two of the problem: I'm already late for date night with the wife." The demon made an irritated noise. "If it were possible, she'd kill me dead. So here's what I'm thinking: that idiot down there summoned me to enact vengeance on a woman who'd wounded his, um, pride."

Buffy lifted an eyebrow. "That small, eh?"

The demon held up two fingers just short of touching and mouthed the words "micro penis."

"Anyway," he continued. "I never learned the woman's identity. And since the wish was initiated, I think it best for everyone to act on my client's behalf for injuries suffered." He paused to glance pointedly at the still form below then back at Buffy.

"Are you freaking serious?" Buffy let out an indigent snort. "I gave him a bump on the head! How does that call for vengeance? Think about it—he was pretty worked up and clearly needed some down time. Honestly, I did him a favor." She glanced down at the boy and saw that a puddle of drool and formed around the boy's face. She felt her heart sink. "Okay. Or not."

Buffy gripped the railing and with all her strength, snapped her leg in the direction of the demon's chest. Her plan was simple: knock him off balance enough that the weight of his horns took him down the rest of the way. By the time he recovered, she'd be out of the building and halfway home.

Things, however, did not go exactly as planned.

Buffy screamed as the demon's fingers encircled her ankle in a near crushing grip. Desperate, she tried to pull free but couldn't. Then, with an almost casual gesture that belied the force of the movement, he tossed her leg to the side where it struck the opposite railing. Buffy screamed again as a new pain exploded up her leg. Gripping the railing for balance, she half-dragged, half-hopped away from the demon. It was a instinctual reaction; Buffy was the Slayer, and she knew when she'd been beaten. The demon was too powerful for her.

As though he'd read her mind, a slow smile slid across his face, revealing two rows of pointed teeth. "I appreciate the effort," he said pleasantly. "I really do. Sadly though, we are out of time."

"Wait! Please . . . what about—" Buffy's mind scrambled as she searched for something to delay the demon. Already she could put a little weight on her injured leg as her supernatural healing kicked in. She hobbled back another step, her teeth chattering as she felt a tendon reattach to the bone. "We could always come back later, you know? Like, after you've eaten? I know I've been feeling a bit hangry. A taco would seriously—"

The demon had formed a fist with his hand and Buffy was once more trapped within an invisible grip. The pressure against her injured leg brought tears to her eyes and blurred her vision, but she could feel herself being lifted up, up, and over the railings.

Floating high above the factory floor, Buffy blinked away tears and strained to look down. Even with supernatural healing, and if she somehow managed to avoid the sharp corners of the machinery, Buffy doubted her brain would be able to un-splat itself from the concrete floor.

This was it, she thought suddenly. This was how she was going to die. She'd always assumed that a vampire would get her in the end—another dead slayer killed by a vampire in a long line of dead slayers killed by vampires. But in all her private musings, she'd never once imagined something like this.

Images began to flash across her mind's eye. Her mom laughing at the movies. Xander riding his skateboard. Willow walking into the library. And finally, her Watcher, Giles. Buffy's heart ached with sadness. Giles would search for her, she knew, when she didn't show up for school tomorrow. He would worry. He would see what had happened to her. He would blame himself . . . .

But deep down, he must have known that death was always her destiny. She'd known it. It was the main reason why she never took school seriously—what was the point? She'd never have the chance to become a doctor or a lawyer or anything.

"Buffy the Vampire Slayer," the demon intoned, drawing her attention back to him. His voice echoing harshly from every direction so that it rolled back and over his following words. "I, Mortga, curse you with . . . " He hesitated, momentarily perplexed, until he noticed that he still held Buffy's homework assignment in his other hand. He looked at her then with a gleeful glint to his yellow eyes. "I curse you, and those closest to you, with Camelot!" He threw his great horned head back as his voice grew to a thundering boom. "And you shall bare it thusly and forever until you see the day where you come to love the curse above all else. And in that day, Slayer, you shall weep . . . for you shall be free."

Then the demon opened his hand and Buffy plummeted.

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