Free Buffy the Vampire Slayer - Buffy Season4 02 by The Lost Slayer 02 Dark Times # Christopher Golden Page B

of here? You’re not trying to leave, are you?” the woman said, horrified.
    “You want to stay?” Buffy asked. “Where’s the phone?”
    “On the wall in the kitchen,” the man said. “You passed right by it. But please don’t talk to anyone like this on our phone. They’ll hear you. They’ll think we’re involved.” Buffy had already started back toward the kitchen, but paused at his words. She turned to stare at him again.
    “What do you mean ‘they’ll hear’?”
    “They listen,” the woman replied.
    With a sigh, Buffy shook her head. “Of course they do. Can’t have anybody spilling the blood-soaked beans, now, can we? Still, they can’t listen to every phone twenty-four hours a day. They’ve got you scared ‘cause you never know when they’re listening.
    “Look, it doesn’t matter anyway. We’ll be gone by the time anyone can get here.” She regarded them closely. “I’m Buffy. What are your names?”
    The couple exchanged a tired, frightened glance. The woman stood up first, followed by her husband, but they kept their distance.
    “I’m Nadine Ross. This is my husband Andrew.”
    “Nice to meet you. Sorry about the door. Come into the kitchen.” Buffy led the way, and the Rosses followed. “Have a seat,” she said, gesturing toward the breakfast table. They slid chairs out and stood gazing at her anxiously as she picked up the phone.
    There was a strange clicking sound before the dial tone.
    Buffy stared at it for a second. Of all the phone numbers she knew by heart, most of them would be useless now. Her mother’s. The numbers of all her friends in Sunnydale. But there were two others, one that she had used only a few times, and another she had never even dialed, yet she knew both of them by heart.
    The first was a Los Angeles number. Angel’s number. Holding her breath, Buffy dialed, but the number was out of service. She closed her eyes and held the phone against her forehead. Where are you, Angel?
    “Please,” the woman whispered behind her.
    Ignoring her, Buffy dialed information for Los Angeles. She asked for the number for Angel Investigations, but the operator said there was no listing under that name. Wesley Wyndam-Pryce?
    Again, no listing. Cordelia Chase?
    Unlisted.
    As disappointed as she was, this last bit of information fanned a tiny spark of hope in Buffy’s chest. It might be unlisted, but Cordelia had a phone number. Somewhere in this insane world, someone she knew still lived.
    Buffy thumbed a button on the phone to disconnect, then waited for a new dial tone. There was only one other number she might call for help. It was a long sequence. Time might have caused part of it to change. Given that she had only memorized it, but never used it, she feared that she might have gotten it wrong.
    Her chest rose and fell more quickly as she punched in the numbers. She felt the eyes of the people whose home she had invaded, and she shifted uncomfortably under their fearful, accusing gaze. Somewhere on the other side of the Atlantic, a phone began to ring. Buffy let out a shuddering breath of relief as the tinny sound reached her ears. There was a click as the call was answered.
    “Yes?”
    The voice was British. Buffy had never heard such a welcome sound.
    “This is Buffy Summers.”
    A pause, a harsh intake of breath. “That isn’t funny. Who is this?”
    “Who the hell is this?” she snapped, angry and frustrated. “Put Quentin Travers on the phone!” Another pause. “Dear God, it really is you, isn’t it? My name is Alan Fontaine, Miss Summers. Quentin Travers is dead. Where are you?”
    “Behind enemy lines and headed south,” she said. “Can you help?”
    “Hold on.”
    She heard a muffled sound and assumed he had put a hand over the phone. Dull voices could be heard, and a moment later, Fontaine came back on the line.
    “Do you know Donatello’s? An Italian restaurant just off your one-oh-nine freeway?” Buffy thought about it, found a vague