Buffy The Vampire Slayer - Immortals #5 - Shadow Lands

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Shadow Lands (The Immortals #5)

Leslie <bastet@mckennas.demon.co.uk>

July 12, 2000

Prologue

Hallowe’en 2018

Eleven thirty p.m.

In a small, run-down, desecrated cemetery in a small,

run-down desecrated area of Chicago, three students

searched by torch-light for a speciﬁc mausoleum.

Sophomores in the University of Chicago, they were

each majoring in the somewhat esoteric, yet hugely

popular subject of Parapsychology. As a sideline, they

had also chosen the related course of Occult Studies.

Ever since before the birth of the new millennium, stu-

dents from all over the United States were more and

more drawn toward Chicago’s university to study in its

renowned halls. The Faculty of Parapsychology was

one of the largest in the country and with the upsurge

of interest in all things New Age, prospective students

ﬂocked toward it. Recently applications had far ex-

ceeded demand as young people found themselves fas-

cinated - in some cases obsessed - by what lay beyond

most humans’ understanding.

Three such people, lucky enough to gain entry by

virtue of high grades, intelligent interview technique

and the sheer strength of their belief that they would

be granted a place, were Sally Adams, Peter Harvey and

John Knight. During their time at the university, they

had struck up an unlikely, yet strong friendship based

on their mutual interests. However, they all held rather

different views on their chosen subject and held many

ﬁerce debates amongst themselves.

It was Peter Harvey, a thin-faced, intense looking indi-

vidual, who had instigated tonight’s little escapade, but

the others had gone along with it almost gleefully. After

all, what else were they going to do on Hallowe’en? Go

trick or treating? No. Too old, too pseudo-sophisticated

for that. A Hallowe’en ball? No way. They sneered

down their well-educated noses at dressing up as fan-

tasy characters. Too grown up to pretend. And why

bother to pretend, when they could do the real thing?

Hallowe’en, after all, was the night that things were sup-

posed to happen.

Sally Adams, Peter Harvey and John Knight were hoping

to do exactly that. Hoping to make things happen.

"Thought you said it was easy to ﬁnd. Thought you said

you’d been here to check it out."

John Knight’s voice was sceptical, but that was only

to be expected. He was, after all, the sceptic of the

group. It was an oft-stated fact that he’d only come

along tonight to prove Peter’s little pet theory wrong.

Peter, the true believer, who maintained that there was

a kind of life after death, was going to be made to eat all

his words. One by one. And John would enjoy feeding

the unsavoury meal to him.

"Told you, I checked it out the other day. But it looks

different at night. Kind of... darker."

A little snigger from John here.

"Darker, yeah. Right. Wouldn’t have thought of that, it

being night and all."

"Shut up and look..."

Sally, on the other hand, kept her mind open, as she al-

ways did. Inquisitive mind open, careful mouth shut.

Instead of joining in the argument that was rapidly boil-

ing up between the two young men, she concentrated

on searching. Consequently, it was she who found what

they’d been looking for.

"Hey guys..." she called. "This is it."

Two more circles of torch-light joined hers. In the triple

beams of light, a low sepulchre made of dark marble

that had obviously not been cared for in many decades,

if it had ever been cared for before. Surrounding the

tomb, a surprisingly high fence of rusty iron railings

into which a wrought iron gate had been set. Naturally,

the gate was locked.

"Oh great, we’ll have to climb over," John groaned. He

cast an evil look in Peter’s direction. "You didn’t say any-

thing about chains and locks."

Peter shrugged.

"Yeah, well, didn’t think it mattered. We’ll just feed the

equipment through the bars, then climb over. No big

deal, right? I mean, you’re certainly big enough and

ugly enough. We can help Sal, right? If she needs it, of

course," he added hurriedly, seeing Sally’s frown, indi-

cating that she didn’t like being thought of as the help-

less female of the group.

"Wonder why it’s fenced round though?" Peter added,

as if the thought had only just occurred to him. John

laughed.

"To stop Breton escaping?" he quipped, but Peter shook

his head.

"Shouldn’t mock," he cautioned. "Breton was said to be

powerful..."

"Powerful purveyor of crap," John interrupted rudely.

"C’mon, are we going over or not?"

Brief silence, then both Peter and Sally nodded in agree-

ment. Bags were pushed through spaces and one by

one, they ascended the fence, dropping down onto the

other side.

Once over, they examined the structure more closely.

The marble was badly worn, and there was no deco-

ration. Just a plain, simple tomb, except for the small

plaque on the front wall: FRANCIS BRETON. Died 1835.

There was no mention of a date of birth, or an eulogy

indicating that the said Francis Breton would be sadly

missed, or that he was a dear husband or father, or

anything else, to anyone. Just that simple legend. But

this mattered nothing to the three students who stood,

about to cross the threshold to the tomb’s interior. Be-

cause they knew who Francis Breton was, and were not

surprised that he had died unmourned.

The late, apparently unlamented, Francis Breton had

been a necromancer and before he had died, at the

comparatively young age of thirty-eight years old, he

had boasted of inﬁltrating the lands of the dead and

commanding their legions. Condemned by ordinary

people and churchmen alike, Breton had eventually

died during a mysterious ritual. Or so the legends went.

It was this mythical ritual that Sally Adams, John Knight

and Peter Harvey hoped to recreate tonight. A ritual

that would open the doors between the bright land of

the living and the shadow lands of the dead. The fanci-

ful story surrounding Breton’s death didn’t scare them

off, only enhanced their desire for a little excitement.

Even if nothing happened tonight, as John continually

predicted, they would at least know they’d spent the

most haunted night of the year in a dead necromancer’s

tomb performing an honest-to-God magical ritual.

Inside the tomb, it was fairly bare. Just a plain dirt ﬂoor

and plain marble walls. In the centre, Breton’s sarcoph-

agus. None of them intended on opening the sarcoph-

agus of course. They had only come here for atmo-

sphere, because it seemed more ﬁtting that Breton’s rit-

ual be done in his tomb, in his dead presence.

Peter was rummaging in his bag for the candles he’d

brought with him for illumination. The ritual - written

in an archaic language that none of the students un-

derstood, but which Breton himself had conveniently

translated - stated that they needed thirteen black can-

dles. John had scoffed at this, as he scoffed at every-

thing else. Thirteen candles indeed! And black at that!

But Peter had insisted they carry out the ritual to the

letter.

While he placed the candles in the speciﬁcally de-

scribed shape around the ﬂoor, John and Sally set up

the rest of the equipment.

"Borrowed" from the faculty’s labs, along with the

precious ritualistic texts, there was a tape-recorder,

temperature sensitive equipment, and a video camera

that would record proceedings as they happened. If

tonight’s escapade was discovered by anyone in author-

ity, the chances were high that all three would serve

a prison sentence. The texts themselves were appar-

ently priceless, as a piece of historical curiosity, if not

for their magical properties. As it was, Sally had had to

use persuasion of the most intimate kind to convince

her boyfriend, who worked in the university archives, to

let her borrow the texts, or else none of the trio would

have been here tonight at all.

When the equipment was set-up and running, some

way away from the area where Peter would perform the

ritual, the trio slipped long black robes over their con-

ventional clothing. This wasn’t essential, but Peter had

felt there was some beneﬁt in wearing ceremonial garb.

This, he told the others, would focus them, get them

into the right frame of mind.

"So," Peter said, his voice sounding slightly breathless

in the chill atmosphere of the tomb. "Are we ready?"

John cast a ﬁnal look at the instruments, made sure they

were working properly. Everything was whirling, wind-

ing and gauging efﬁciently so he nodded.

"Yeah, go on. Amaze us." A smirk indicated that he was

only amazed that he’d allowed himself to be talked into

what he evidently considered a supreme waste of time,

but Sally shook her head.

"You’ve seen things," she argued. "Heard things that

couldn’t be explained. You told us."

"I have," John agreed. "But it doesn’t mean I believe

it’s supernatural. You know, Professor Kershaw says

that most paranormal phenomena are made by the

minds of the people who experience them. Ghosts,

poltergeists, demons. They all come from us. From the

power of our mind which projects..."

"I know, but..."

"Hey, guys," Peter interrupted; he sounded irritated. "If

we’re gonna do this, we have to say the words at mid-

night."

John rolled his eyes.

"See what I mean? Putting special signiﬁcance on in-

signiﬁcant things?" He shrugged. "Well, go ahead. Like

I said, amaze me."

Peter picked up the ceremonial knife that had belonged

to Breton, and which was reputed to have been used in

his last ritual. With this knife, at the appropriate mo-

ment, Peter would "cut" the Veil that was said to sep-

arate the dead lands from the living. On the night of

Hallowe’en, according to ancient tradition, the Veil was

at its thinnest and was easily torn.

"On this night, when we revere the Dead, our ances-

tors, we seek to sever the Veil so that we might speak

with them and honour them." Peter made a cutting mo-

tion in the air with the knife. "Open up the door to we

breathing creatures, so that we might end the separa-

tion between us and the Land of the Neverborn. Let us

speak with the great Deathlords, so we might better un-

derstand all human fate. And let us listen to the knowl-

edge and wisdom of the Restless Ones." Another move-

ment of the knife, a vicious slicing movement which de-

picted the shape of a door. "Show us your Mysteries, so

that we will no longer fear the greatest journey a man

will ever take. The journey to the Land of the Dead."

Here he paused and nodded at the other two. This was

the part that none of them much relished, but that Bre-

ton categorically stated was necessary. The spilling of

living blood. John had originally laughed at this when

Peter told them what was involved, asked why they

didn’t just cut a virgin’s throat while they were at it.

Then said it was just as well, because virgins were in

short supply on campus.

But Peter had ignored this scepticism, and explained

patiently that the dead on the other side of the Veil ap-

parently demanded something warm and tangible as

an offering before they would open the door to those

who sought their wisdom. And Breton had recom-

mended the freshly spilled blood of a human who still

lived. Or, in their case, humans, plural.

So now, all three stood with their wrists extended to-

ward Peter’s knife.

"We offer the warmth of our life to you, the Neverborn,

the Deathlords and the Restless Ones. Partake of our

living life-force so that you might be given substance to

share the lore of the unknown with us."

He swept the knife across his wrist, careful not to sever

a main vessel. Soft blood pattered to the ﬂoor. Again

the knife swept down, this time over Sally’s wrist, and

she gasped, as much in shock as in pain, although she’d

been expecting it. Then he cut John’s skin. John made

no sound, but smiled wryly as though he couldn’t really

believe he’d agreed to any of this.

Dead silence as the blood ﬂowed gently down, gradu-

ally stopping as the small wounds slowly began to clot.

Only the sound of the instruments whirring in the back-

ground disturbed the utter quiet.

"Nothing," John said after a few moments. He sounded

pleased, and Peter cursed under his breath. Sally was

looking around her, a frown on her pale face.

"I thought..." Peter began, then sighed. "I’ll say the

words again."

"Don’t bother." John’s voice was heavily sarcastic. "It’s

not gonna..."

A candle went out. Sally whirled round.

"Just a breeze," John said. Another candle went out.

"Getting cold in here," Sally observed.

"It’s coming on for winter," John pointed out. "Of

course it’s getting cold."

"No..." Sally rubbed her arms briskly. "It’s getting really

cold."

She walked over to the temperature gauges, peered at

them in the dim light. The temperature had gone down

by ﬁve degrees. Just below freezing now. She related

this fact to the others. Peter looked impressed but John

just smiled.

"Be a frost tonight..." he began, and an unearthly wail

split the air, cutting his words off short. "What the

Hell?"

That had unnerved him, Peter was glad to note. Again,

heavy silence as they waited for something else to hap-

pen. Nothing did, except it got colder still, so they

shuddered, despite the heavy robes they wore over their

clothes.

"I think we should go," Sally began; she sounded ea-

ger to get out of there. Whether it was because she was

half-frozen, or whether it was because she was afraid,

she couldn’t deﬁne in her own mind. Whatever, she

just wanted to put distance between herself and the at-

mosphere of this suddenly unappealing place that was

rapidly coming to feel like deepest winter.

"Oh, c’mon, Sal, just a few moments longer?" Peter

was even more breathless; excitement made his voice

shake.

"I don’t see..." Sally began, then stopped abruptly,

transﬁxed by what was happening. John too, was star-

ing; still his expression was sceptical. But not as scepti-

cal as before.

"Are you doing that?" he asked Peter, referring to the

blood drops, that were now rising in thin strands up

into the air, to form the exact shape of the "doorway"

that Peter had cut with the knife. Peter shook his head

vehemently.

"No..."

The rest of the candles blew out; the temperature

dropped several more degrees. Sally hitched in a sob-

bing breath.

"What’s happening?" she asked in a high quavering

voice that sounded like a little girl’s.

"It’s happening, of course," Peter said from out of the

darkness, sighing with exhilaration. "God, it’s working.

We’re gonna..."

Another eldritch shriek, louder than before. The blood-

deﬁned door-frame shimmered now, clearly visible, like

skeletal stripes of red neon. The trio stood, hypnotised

by what they were seeing. For once, John had nothing

disparaging to say. His mouth just opened and closed

like a land-stranded ﬁsh’s.

"I think we should get out of here." Sally again. Now

she sounded frantic. Her open mind was suddenly way

too open. Open to dead voices that whispered, teased,

and sent a sane person mad. "Oh God, can’t you hear

them?" Yes, madness in her voice.

More shrieks now, high pitched sobbing. Screaming,

gobbling laughs that held the secrets of insanity. And

above the cacophony, a new sound. That of a whirling

wind that increased as the ruby-neon light faded and

the outline of the doorway became black on black.

John was the ﬁrst to crack. It is said that when a sceptic

has his views suddenly and forcibly changed, he will be

the one who has the most intense reaction. So it was

with John. Rushing to the door of the tomb, he tugged

on the iron handle. Found it wouldn’t budge.

"Jesus, guys, come and help me..."

No reaction from Peter, who stared, transﬁxed at the

black hole. Issuing from it, borne on the phantom

wind, nebulous shapes. Not human forms, but wisps

of vapour, like tendrils of smoke.

John wasn’t certain, but he thought he could make

out features within the mists, the sparks of things that

might have been eyes. They whirled around Peter and

Sally, entwining themselves around them, as though ex-

ploring the warmth they emitted. The temperature in

the tomb had gone down even more. The breath the

humans expelled was now turning to ice crystals.

"Help me," John said again, but his voice had fallen to a

whisper, and he didn’t think either Peter or Sally heard

him. His hand, numbed from the bitter cold, had fallen

away from the door.

Sally, he saw, was hyper-ventilating, her hand at her

throat, as though breathing was hard, getting harder.

John thought he saw a ﬁnger of mist probe at her lips, as

though trying to gain entry. She tried to thrust it away,

but it encircled her hands and John saw tens of tiny

icicles form there. A moan burst from her mouth and

the mist immediately leaped toward her open mouth,

pushed itself inside, and disappeared. Sally gave a ﬁ-

nal, strangled sound, and John watched in horror as she

became still and silent, evidently freezing from the in-

side out. With a sound like breaking glass, her body

shattered into a hundred tiny pieces and more mist

emerged from the wreckage of a once pretty girl.

"Pete, for Christ’s sake..." John managed, but like Peter,

he was paralysed by what he had just seen and was still

seeing.

The doorway was expanding now; inﬁltrating more into

the real world until the difference could barely be seen.

John brieﬂy - almost mindlessly - wondered if it would

eventually open so wide that it would take over the

whole area. The city. The world. Then Peter started

sobbing. True, John couldn’t hear him properly over the

screeching and wailing of the entities that were steadily

issuing from the gateway, but he saw tears streaking his

thin cheeks, watched as they froze to his skin.

Peter clutched his chest, his face suddenly contorting

in pain.

"Oh God..." Like Sally’s, his breathing became rapid.

John ran back to help him, ﬁnally freed from his terror-

induced trance. When he reached Peter, he saw that his

friend’s lips were becoming blue, and not just from the

intense drop in temperature. Peter fell into John’s arms.

"Pete?" John said, trying not to think that Peter was dy-

ing, that Sally was already dead. "Pete?"

No reply, just those harsh, laboured breaths and the

agonised expression that indicated sudden heart fail-

ure. Peter went lifeless in John’s arms, and John knew

that all the shaking and pleading in the world wouldn’t

bring him back. And worse, John was now alone with

the unquiet, eternally restless Dead he had helped to

summon. Brieﬂy, he wondered if Peter and Sally were

among them now...

Looking toward the ever-growing rent in the air, he

knew he had been wrong to disbelieve. Knew that there

were things beyond death.

And knew, as he watched something terrible birthing

itself into the living world, shambling toward him, that

those things were worse than anything life could ever

dish out.

Because some deaths, he now understood, were not the

end. Some deaths did not lead to Heaven, Hell or even

rebirth.

Some deaths, John understood even as he slowly died,

were eternal...

One

Hallowe’en Night 2018

Seven thirty p.m.

Sitting before her dressing table mirror, Buffy reﬂected

that the last thing she needed was to attend a Hal-

lowe’en ball. What, she wondered, applying a second

coat of mascara, was there to celebrate? As far as she

was concerned, ghosts, demons, ghouls and any other

denizen of the supernatural races were nothing to get

excited about, let alone throw parties in their honour.

Maybe she was too sensitive - okay, she was too sensi-

tive - but as far as she was concerned, they could all go

to hell and stay there. Make her life easier.

"Not so exciting maybe," she admitted, muttering

through a blood-red mouth, pouting at herself. "But

deﬁnitely easier."

Still, there was no getting out of it, although she’d tried

her hardest. Even this afternoon, she’d purred around

Morgan in an attempt to get him to phone and call off.

But Morgan, who could see right through her, had just

grinned and reminded her that he’d already accepted

the invites, the costumes were ready, and besides, did

she really want to disappoint Willow and Xander, who

were looking forward to a little fun? Dropping the sweet

innocent act, which never fooled Morgan anyway, she’d

gone off and sulked for a little while. Then, deciding to

accept the inevitable, she’d come upstairs at around six

and decided that she’d just as well make the best of it.

But she still didn’t want to go.

Buffy knew that at least part of her reluctance was be-

cause of the occurrences of - oh, had to be almost

twenty years ago now - that Hallowe’en night in Sunny-

dale. Wrongly assuming that her then-lover, the vam-

pire Angel, would like her better as a demure eigh-

teenth century damsel, she had hired a beautiful, old-

fashioned dress.

Mistake. The owner of the costume hire shop had

turned out to be Ethan Rayne, an evil magician asso-

ciate of Rupert Giles. Rayne had cursed the clothes

and turned their wearers into the characters they had

dressed as. Consequently, Buffy had lost all her Slayer

powers and became a useless, fainting female. Almost

got herself killed. Buffy didn’t much fancy that happen-

ing again. A very good reason for not going tonight. She

had never dressed up for Hallowe’en since that night.

Just in case.

Still, shouldn’t be a problem this evening, Buffy

thought, standing, twirling in front of the full-length

mirror. Tonight, just to be on the safe side, she had

dressed as an Amazon, one of the legendary mythic

race of female warriors. True, she thought, she looked a

little like that character in the old TV programme, Xena,

but better that than becoming a simpering wimp. In

fact, Buffy thought, smirking a little, she quite liked it.

Her dress was black leather, a few inches above knee

length. Sewn from the waist were strips of thinly beaten

silvery metal, that were in turn joined to an ornately

decorated silver breast plate. Around her waist, a

studded leather belt from which a mock sword hung.

Around her neck, a silver choker, and on her arms,

snake bracelets slithered upward from thick wrist-lets.

Her shoulders were bare, and she had dusted opales-

cent shimmer-powder over them. Her hair, she had

gelled back and plaited into a single thick braid, dec-

orated it with silver twine. The ﬁnal touch was a pair of

leather sandals, which laced all the way up to her knees.

All in all, Buffy thought, narrowing kohl-rimmed eyes,

she looked pretty damn good. Dangerous. And at least

no one could accuse of her not making the effort in the

costume stakes.

She studied herself further then, not from vanity, but

from a sudden sense of total weirdness. Here she was,

thirty-eight years old, frozen in time as a young woman

in her early twenties. No lines. No signs whatever of

growing older. Never would be. Totally bizarre, thinking

about it. To never feel the natural aging processes that

nearly all humans went through. True, she could still

get ill, but her illnesses were never long drawn-out; her

immortal body restored itself quickly. True, she could

feel pain and be wounded, but the wounds - the phys-

ical wounds, anyway - mostly healed within a few mo-

ments. Unless they were serious, of course.

Once she had felt lonely in her immortality, her eternal

youth. Now she accepted it, mostly felt blessed for it.

Because now she had Morgan, the three children, and

Morgan’s son, the priest Ramirez. Six immortals to ﬁght

evil now, not just her one. And Willow and Xander, of

course, although...

A bang on the door, which then opened, interrupted her

musings. A ﬁgure swathed from head to toe in black, so

that only the eyes were visible, poked its head round.

"You ready?" The tone, slightly mufﬂed by the costume,

suggested mild impatience.

"Yeah, yeah."

"For someone who was whining only this afternoon

about how much they really didn’t want to attend this

event, you’ve certainly pulled out all the stops."

Buffy wrinkled her nose.

"Just as well look good," she muttered. A smile, then

another pout of the crimson lips. "Do I, Morgan?"

She saw his eyes crinkle, knew he was smiling. He came

into the room, shut the door behind him.

"You know," he said, removing the fabric from around

his mouth so he could speak more easily, "We don’t re-

ally have time for me to show you exactly how good

you look." His eyes travelled over her, scrutinising care-

fully. "You’ll do, I suppose." A smirk. "Of course, if you

wanted to be really historically correct, you should con-

sider going bare-breasted."

"Should I?" Back to a pretence at wide-eyed innocence.

A game she loved to play with him.

"Oh, yes. The Amazons always went bare-breasted into

battle. Known fact. And it’d certainly cause a stir in the

hallowed halls of the University."

He was laughing a little, and she didn’t know whether to

believe him or not, strongly suspected he was making it

all up, playing his own games.

"Anyway," he continued. "We wouldn’t get out of the

house if you were, so maybe it’s just as well." The smile

faded then, his silver-grey eyes clouded. "And we don’t

really want every man in the place ogling you, do we?

Well, not too much."

"Don’t we?"

Morgan shrugged, lightened his mood again, but Buffy

knew he’d meant what he just said. Ever since she

was almost raped by Gared Madon, the embodiment

of Armageddon, several years before, Morgan had been

somewhat over-protective of her. He’d more or less got

over it recently, but occasionally mild insecurity sur-

faced. Not that he was worried about her betraying

him, but Morgan never wanted her to be put in such

terrible danger again. Buffy pointed out that she was a

Vampire Slayer - danger went as part of the deal - and

most of the time, Morgan accepted that and let her go

her own way. But sometimes, she knew, he still worried.

"Car’s coming for us at eight," Morgan reminded her

now, apparently over his brief fear that every man at-

tending the ball would want to drag her off.

"I know. Are Willow and Xander ready?"

Morgan laughed again.

"Oh yes." He looked at her again, that same apprais-

ing stare that turned her insides to jelly, that still never

failed to make her heart lurch. "You know, maybe we

should call off..."

He took a step toward her, black robes swirling like

smoke around him. The black robes of an ancient

Bedouin war lord, complete with head-dress and sword

belt at his waist. He looked, Buffy thought, like some

romantic sheik from an old black and white movie.

But ﬁerce too, predatory, every bit the ruthless warrior.

Laughing, she held out her hands and pushed him off

before he could touch her.

"No way," she said. "You’ll mess up my make-up."

"Oh, well, that’s charming, I must say." Pretend hurt in

his voice, on his tattooed face. "Your make-up’s more

important than me, is that what you’re saying?"

"Absolutely."

"Not even a kiss?"

"No! I spent ages getting this lipstick looking right."

A pause; she looked at him from under her blackened

lashes. "You can kiss it off later, if you’re good."

"Promise?"

"Promise. Maybe..."

She skipped out of his reach and went out the door, and

he followed her downstairs to the large lounge, where

Willow and Xander were waiting for them. Dressed as

Morticia and Gomez Addams, they made a somewhat

astounding-looking couple.

Once more, Buffy felt a certain strangeness creep over

her. Although Willow and Xander weren’t immortal

like she was, they both retained the bloom of youth.

Looked younger, in fact, than they had before the threat

of Armageddon. Buffy put this youthfulness down to

Willow’s powerful Wiccan magic. She had stopped

the magical plague that had threatened Chicago, that

had almost killed Xander, and ever since, they hadn’t

seemed to age a day.

Buffy wondered how long this state of affairs could

go on. It was almost painful, seeing her friends stay-

ing young. Sometimes she found herself waiting for

them to suddenly get older. Would they, she often pon-

dered, torturing herself, look late twenties right into

their eighties, and then suddenly dissolve into lines and

wrinkles and inﬁrmities, like vampires caught by sun-

light? When those thoughts struck Buffy, she almost

couldn’t bear it. To think of Willow and Xander, so

beloved to her, dying caused her immense sorrow.

Of course, she had discussed this in private with Mor-

gan. Was Willow’s Wiccan power granting them eternity

in some way? Might she and Xander become immortal

too, one day? Morgan said he didn’t know. Obviously

something had happened to them during that terrible

time, something wonderful, but exactly what it was, he

couldn’t say, and refused to hazard a guess. But he had

told Buffy not to get her hopes up too much.

"I think it’s just delayed," was all he’d said, the only the-

ory he would offer. "Just be glad of that, make the most

of them." He hadn’t added: While they’re with us, but

Buffy had seen the thought in his head and shut it off

quickly.

So now, she was taking his advice. After all, they were

still relatively young, Willow and Xander. Plenty of time

to love them. And she loved them now.

"I have to say, Will, that you are the most voluptuous

Morticia I’ve ever seen," Buffy remarked.

Willow smiled in return. Under her pale make-up, she

still looked radiant with her own special enchanted

beauty. She had temporarily dyed her hair jet black, and

it somehow suited her, as did the long, clinging black

velvet dress she wore, and the startling dark eye make-

up. Only one thing detracted from the slender form

she presented - a tiny bump in her lower abdomen that

pronounced her four-month pregnancy. After all these

years - her son Jordan had just turned thirteen - Willow

had become pregnant again.

Xander, who was dressed in a somber black suit, had

slicked back his hair and grown a small moustache

especially for tonight, drew Willow close to him, and

beamed with husbandly pride.

"Best Morticia I’ve ever seen," he said, dropping a kiss

onto her head, his hand slipping over the small bulge,

then going around her waist.

"Oh, please..."

Another voice, somewhat cutting, and deﬁnitely not

impressed, joined the conversation. Ceri, Buffy’s

daughter from her relationship with James Harrison,

her long ago Watcher, looked up from the book she was

reading. Some dry old tome on demonology. She was

frowning, blue eyes dark with disapproval.

"You know, you all should grow up." Her eyes held Xan-

der’s, as though to say: Especially you. "Going to a Hal-

lowe’en Ball. Bit childish, I think."

"Ceri..." Buffy began.

"You know, Ceri, it’s better to be a bit childish than to

have no sense of fun at all." This from Xander, who

was obviously a little put-out that she’d looked at him

speciﬁcally. "You’re only acting so sour because you

weren’t asked to go along too."

"Some people," Ceri said, addressing him directly now,

her eyes positively sparking with anger, "have never

grown up. And like I said, I wouldn’t wanna go to some

stupid dance anyway. And as for that," she said, look-

ing at Buffy now, "I don’t need a babysitter tonight. I’m

more than capable of looking after the twins and Jor-

dan."

Buffy sighed. Ceri sure had a difﬁcult attitude some-

times. Rudeness to Xander, whom Ceri mostly consid-

ered a waste of space, was just one of the ways her inner

insecurities and darkness manifested themselves.

"Ceri," Buffy said carefully, "you may look and act like

a seventeen year old, but in terms of years you’re still

only twelve, and legally, that means I have to provide

you with a sitter. Besides, it’s Ramirez. You like him.

God knows, you spend enough time with him usually."

Ceri shrugged, got up from her chair, book in hand.

"I guess," she admitted grudgingly. "Anyway, I’m going

to my room." A faint smile on her pale features. "Have

a nice time."

"You won’t go out, will you?" Buffy said as Ceri went to

leave. Turning, Ceri smiled. A proper smile now, it lit up

her too-solemn face.

"I can look after myself, mom. You know that." Her

voice was rather too bright, rather too reassuring,

which worried Buffy a little.

"I know. But promise me, don’t go out, okay? Not

tonight."

"Whatever." Ceri turned back, kissed Buffy, then Mor-

gan, then Willow. Finally, as an afterthought, just to be

polite, Xander. "See you later." Then she was gone.

"Don’t know what I’m gonna do with her," Buffy said as

the door closed behind her. "She’s so..."

"Cold?" Xander suggested, and was rewarded by a dig

in the ribs from Willow.

"Xander..." Willow hissed, frowning, but Buffy shook

her head.

"No. No, he’s right, Will. She can be cold. And Xander’s

got a right to complain - he has to live with her too, and

Ceri’s attitude toward him stinks sometimes."

"Well, maybe I deserve it sometimes," Xander admitted.

"I know I annoy her, to say the least. But well... It’s just

me being me, right?"

"Yeah, just you being you, Xander," Buffy agreed.

"I can’t help being a jerk."

"True," Willow said, but she gazed at him lovingly.

"You know, maybe I shouldn’t go," Buffy hedged, but

Morgan shook his head. "I don’t know if I should leave

her..."

"Stop trying to get out of it," he told her. "Ceri needs

her own space, that’s all. She’s solitary, you know that.

Besides, as you say, she likes Felipe. He’s good for her."

The doorbell went. "Too late anyway. He’s here now."

There was noise outside in the hallway and Buffy heard

the twins, Lucas and Kaitlin, squabbling over who was

going to answer the door. There was a lot of squealing

and laughter and excited chatter, then the lounge door

burst open and the room was ﬁlled with noise.

"Hey mom," Lucas said; his eyes went round. "Are you

really going out like that?"

Kaitlin - known simply as Kate - rushed to defend her

mother.

"I think you look great," she said, with an accusing look

at her brother. "Doesn’t she look great, dad?"

"Your mother always looks great," Morgan said

smoothly. "Hello, Felipe," to his other son, Ramirez,

who had foregone his priest’s clothing tonight in favour

of more comfortable, less formal wear.

"Father, Buffy, everyone," he said, with a faint smile, al-

though his eyes were warm. "You all look very... inter-

esting." His voice, with its pronounced Spanish accent,

was amused.

"Wish I could come," Kate said wistfully. "Wish I could

dress up."

"Girl’s stuff," Lucas said disparagingly. "I bet dad and

Xander wish they could stay home. Bet they’re only go-

ing because they have to."

Xander laughed.

"Yeah," he said. "I’d much rather sit around and watch

the football."

Buffy drew Ramirez aside from the general noise, spoke

quietly.

"Watch Ceri for me, Felipe," she said. "She’s in a weird

mood tonight." A sigh. "You seem to understand her

better than the rest of us."

"I’ll take care of her for you, Buffy. Have no fear."

"Not while she’s with you," Buffy said, and kissed his

cheek. "Thanks, Felipe."

"Car’s here," called Xander, and it was time to go.

The car sent by the University wasn’t exactly a limo,

but it was comfortable, and a bottle of champagne had

been provided. Giggling like a bunch of teenagers,

Buffy, Morgan and Xander set about drinking it. Wil-

low, being pregnant, didn’t indulge. Nowadays, alcohol

made her feel sick.

The reason for their attending the University Hal-

lowe’en Ball was thanks to Morgan’s association with

the Ancient History Faculty. Morgan had done a lot of

work for them over the years, including providing them

with a couple of very successful books on the culture

of his own people, the ancient Celts, for which he was

handsomely rewarded.

Of course, the people at the university had no idea of

Morgan’s origins, that he was a druid priest over two

millennia old. Morgan somehow doubted they’d be-

lieve him anyway, even if he told them. But he had been

pleased to offer his services, and nowadays, occasion-

ally lectured, although he was careful not to get into the

habit of it.

Just lately though, he had been discussing with Buffy

whether they should leave Chicago, go elsewhere where

they weren’t known. After all, they’d been here a long

time. Soon, someone somewhere would notice they

weren’t changing at all. A downside of immortality, he

reminded her. They’d have to move around quite a lot,

just to give themselves the chance of a relatively normal

life.

Buffy didn’t want to move - she was happy in the big

house, it was her ﬁrst proper home - but she knew that

what he said made sense. Idly watching the streets go

by, she wondered where her next home would be. They

hadn’t gotten around to discussing that. Although she

rather liked the idea of Europe. Italy, maybe. Then

changed her mind. She’d spent a couple of months

in Tuscany with James, Ceri’s father - Ceri had prob-

ably been conceived there - and decided that maybe

Italy might bring back painful memories. France? Yeah,

maybe...

"Come back to us, Buffy," Willow said, and she jumped

a little, smiled at her friend.

"I was miles away," she said. And she had been, liter-

ally, in her head. She glanced at Morgan, who smiled at

her somewhat sorrowfully. Had he heard her mind me-

andering? Maybe. But even if he hadn’t, he knew her

moods too well. Knew if she was happy, sad, or angry,

just by a certain set of her features, her body language.

His hand squeezed hers.

Everything will be ﬁne, his mind told hers, and she just

smiled. With Morgan, it would all be ﬁne. More than

ﬁne. Where he went, she went. Simple as that.

The car drew up outside the main university building at

about eight thirty. Getting out of the car, Buffy felt the

late autumn chill creep over her body, and she brieﬂy

wished she’d worn a coat. Her outﬁt was a little too

scanty to stand around outside for too long.

"Ball’s in the main hall," Morgan said, producing the in-

vites from somewhere in his costume. They followed

him as he went through the entrance, down brightly lit

corridors. As he walked, several people greeted him in

friendly manner. Obviously, Buffy thought, Morgan was

well liked. So what else was new? Everyone liked Mor-

gan, once they got past the initial shock of seeing the

facial decorations, which were an indelible sign of his

high-ranking priest-hood.

For herself, Buffy had never set foot inside the univer-

sity buildings before. She and Morgan had agreed that

maybe it was best if he didn’t mix the two areas of his

life, because he’d already had several comments that

he must take a magic potion to keep looking so young

for so long. Adding Buffy into the equation would have

made things even more questionable.

Tonight was different of course. A one-off occasion, and

Morgan seemed relaxed and willing to merge private

and public selves for once.

The main hall was an amazing sight. Seeing it, Morgan

laughed.

"They’ve gone to town," he said, giving the door per-

son the invites and stepping inside. "This place is usu-

ally very much the respectable hall of learning. I’m im-

pressed."

Buffy was too. The hall was decorated as a gothic ball-

room. Cobwebby fabric hung from the ceiling, from

the galleried balcony. Fake stone columns had been

erected, into which sconces holding electric candles

had been set. In fact, the only lighting was from elec-

tric candlelight, which ﬂickered in a perfect imitation

of the real thing.

"Looks like Dracula’s castle," Buffy said; the genuinely

eerie atmosphere that had been created made her

shiver. "Hope he doesn’t turn up."

"Well if he does, you’ll be here, won’t you?" Morgan

pointed out. "But it’s not very likely, is it?"

"Anything’s likely on Hallowe’en," Buffy replied, all

senses on red alert, knowing she was over-reacting, but

unable to help herself. "Come on, I need a drink."

"You’ve just had a third of a bottle of champagne," Xan-

der said. "Jesus, what a lush. We live with an alcoholic,

Morgan."

"I know," Morgan sighed. "It’s the only way she can

cope with living with me."

"Well, that’s true," Buffy said. "You’re enough to drive

anyone to drink."

They exchanged glances and laughed. The pretend

bitchiness was just the friendly banter of two people

who could say anything to each other, knowing they

didn’t mean it. Of course, the real arguments were a dif-

ferent matter. Fortunately, they were very few.

Refreshments were free, and Buffy reﬂected that if any-

one wanted to get seriously drunk, it would be all too

easy. Willow stuck with plain mineral water; tasted

like sparkling wine, she claimed. Buffy reckoned that

Willow could actually do that - not turn mineral wa-

ter into wine, of course, but at least make herself be-

lieve it tasted like it. Sometimes Buffy envied Willow her

Wiccan talents, but although Buffy was adept in many

things, the art and science of Wicca wasn’t one of them.

Buffy simply didn’t have the patience. She left the magic

to Willow and Morgan.

They’d been there about ﬁfteen minutes when a man in

his ﬁfties dressed as Julius Caesar approached them, all

smiles.

"Morgan!" he exclaimed. "Glad you could make it. Very

dramatic costume, if I may say. Looks very authentic."

Morgan smiled, shook the man’s hand.

"Glad to be here, Harry. Place looks great." He turned to

Buffy. "Buffy, this is Harry Dudley, Head of the History

Faculty. Harry, this is Buffy, my wife." They’d agreed on

this form of introduction before they’d arrived. It was

easier, they’d decided. And besides, they were married,

kind of. Willow had performed the Pagan ceremony of

Handfasting just after the twins were born, and there

had been the traditional exchange of silver rings.

Buffy smiled, took Dudley’s hand.

"Hi," she said. "Morgan’s talked about you. Glad to

meet you at last."

"Likewise." Dudley frowned. "You must be taking the

same potion of eternal youth that Morgan takes. He

tells me you’ve been married six years. You have to have

been a child bride."

Buffy felt a ﬂush creep over her face. Morgan was right;

this was difﬁcult, and she understood why he was be-

coming anxious to leave.

"Something like that," she said with a too-wide smile.

Hurriedly, she introduced Xander and Willow, and the

awkwardness passed.

"Can’t tell you how useful Morgan’s been to us," Dudley

continued. "His work is so authentic, you’d think he’d

lived it or something. Amazing knowledge for someone

so young. Don’t know what his sources are." He smiled

conspiratorially. "Come on, Buffy, let me in on his se-

cret."

"Oh, I don’t think Morgan would be very happy with me

if I did that." Another wide smile, so wide, Buffy thought

her face might split. She took a hurried gulp of her drink

and cursed Morgan for making her come along tonight.

Xander, she saw, was smiling a little, obviously amused

at her discomfort. She cursed him too. Only Willow

seemed to share her unease. Still, Buffy knew she’d have

to cover it. Had to learn to deal with it. Her ﬁrst real les-

son in the downside of eternal youth and beauty. Still,

Morgan wouldn’t get away with this...

"So, what do you do, Buffy?" Dudley was saying.

"I look after the children." The words were out before

she realised that maybe it was the wrong thing to say.

Of course, Dudley seized upon her disclosure.

"Children?" he enquired. "Morgan didn’t mention that

you had children."

"Didn’t he?" Buffy looked at Morgan, pleased to see that

he looked embarrassed now.

"Oh, we have twins," Buffy said. Dudley’s eyebrows

raised high on his forehead.

"Twins?"

"Yeah. Boy and a girl. And another daughter too. Of

course, my mother wasn’t too pleased, me getting preg-

nant so young, I mean, I wasn’t even out of school, but

there you go." She smiled sweetly at Morgan, who re-

mained silent. Xander and Willow, she saw, were watch-

ing her, barely able to keep from laughing. "That’s prob-

ably why Morgan didn’t mention it. I mean, he was a

brilliant student, but soo wild..."

"All right, thank you, Buffy, sweetheart," Morgan said

at last; his voice, she was pleased to note, was very

strained. "Harry doesn’t want a life history, do you,

Harry?"

"Oh, I don’t know..."

"No. You don’t. Believe me."

"Oh, yes. Right." Dudley shook his head and Buffy knew

that Morgan had gotten to him, steered his mind away

from the subject. "Anyway, good to meet you all. Must

mingle."

When he had gone, Morgan turned to Buffy.

"You," he said grimly, struggling to keep the amuse-

ment from his voice, "are in big trouble."

"Oh, promises, promises," Buffy said, unrepentant.

Xander was properly laughing now.

"Don’t encourage her," Morgan told him. "I doubt I’ll

ever hear the end of this. Pregnant schoolgirl indeed."

He sounded disgusted. "I need another drink." Another

look at Buffy, who put on her best innocent expres-

sion. "Oh, stop looking so damned gorgeous. How am

I supposed to be angry with you, when you do that?"

He tugged on her hand, pulled her to him, kissed her.

"You’re still in trouble," he whispered. Buffy just smiled.

The evening passed quickly in a blur of dancing, drink-

ing and conversation. Many people knew Morgan,

and they all wanted to be introduced to Buffy, Willow

and Xander. Buffy found it increasingly easy to ﬁeld

questions, although she noted that Morgan was slightly

wary, evidently wondering what far-fetched story she

might come out with.

By the time midnight struck, they were all riding high

on a wave of excitement, and Buffy thought this was

probably the best Hallowe’en ever. Then, almost as

a cliché, the electric candles ﬂickered on and off, as

though someone was intermittently playing with the

switch. People ooh-ed and ah-ed as the lighting con-

tinued to gutter.

"Great effect," Xander remarked, somewhat sarcasti-

cally. "Next thing, there’ll be ghostly noises. Chains

clanking. Could’ve been more original..."

As though on cue, a cold wind blew through the hall,

and Xander shuddered.

"Now they’ve turned the heating off..." His words trailed

away, because the wind wasn’t the result of bad heating,

it was a proper wind that bit into them. "Someone’s left

a door open," Xander continued, but he didn’t sound

like he believed his own words anymore.

"Feels like..." Willow began, then put her hand protec-

tively over her bump. She shook her head.

"Will?" Xander sounded worried. "You okay?" Willow

nodded.

"Just feels like... being haunted..."

Buffy heard herself laughing.

"We’re just being over-sensitive, guys," she said, looking

to Morgan for back-up. Absently, he nodded. "I mean,

we’ve all seen too much weird stuff, right? Right, Mor-

gan?"

"Yes. Right." But Buffy felt he seemed distracted. Then

the chill wind stopped, as suddenly as it had started,

the lights righted themselves, and people began to talk

normally.

"We’ll just forget it then." Xander sounded positively ea-

ger to forget it, and Buffy didn’t blame him. "C’mon,

Buffy, let’s dance?"

She went into his arms gratefully, saw Willow and Mor-

gan dance together, and let herself relax. Whatever that

chilly breeze had been, it wasn’t anything supernatural.

"Memorable party," Xander was saying, when she

caught sight of something that made her stiffen in his

arms, stop dancing abruptly.

"What the Hell...?" she began. Xander frowned.

"Buffy?"

"I saw... I thought I saw..." She shook her head.

"Saw what?" Xander looked in the direction she was

staring in, but what she’d thought she’d seen was no

longer there.

"Have you seen anyone dressed as...?" She shrugged,

not ﬁnishing the sentence, feeling a little stupid.

"What?"

"As the Grim Reaper?" Buffy ﬁnished.

"Well, surprisingly, as it’s a Hallowe’en Ball, no, I

haven’t. But there’s loads of people here, Buffy. Could’ve

been."

"Yeah... yeah... But you know, it looked so real. Like...

like it was looking over us all... Making decisions..." She

tried to dismiss her misgivings, felt totally ridiculous

now.

"Decisions? What decisions? Buffy, you’re scaring me. I

mean, I know I’m easily scared, but..."

Making the decision of who was gonna die." Buffy gave

a fake laugh. "I’ve been drinking too much. Seeing

things. Right?"

Xander’s answering laugh was just as false.

"Right," he said. And they danced again.

But Buffy was left with the impression of a ﬁgure

cloaked in a gore-soaked shroud, holding a scythe en-

crusted with human death, and remembered an old

story she had once read. Recalled a line from it...

And the Red Death held sway over all...

Two

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