Buffy coughed. Slaying wasn’t good for your health, and the fighting part was only half of it. She’d nearly choked on the other half. The dust settled in; she didn’t feel like it would ever come out, though of course this demanded three showers and a bubble bath afterwards. Covering her mouth with one arm, she wiped some dirt off the coffin. It was smooth stone, less rough under her skin the filth it was covered in. She couldn’t read what it said on the lid, but the faded letters cut into it looked very much like the symbols Giles had shown her.
So, the ancient Greek goddess, or spirit, or hero with a cult—was there one for Slayers out there, she wondered—was really here. She could make sure by opening it, but if this was a spirit situation she wasn’t going to be the one responsible for releasing it. Buffy turned around, intent on reporting back to Giles with the confirmation.
Her hands were cold. It spread upwards as she sprinted out of the formerly sealed room and out of the museum itself. Slayers couldn’t get cursed. Correction: they could, and this was why she couldn’t allow it. No leaving the world without a protector, and no turning her into anything bad.
She felt the cold all the way back to The Magic Box, but nothing else. Buffy stepped in, grateful it was closed for the night. Giles was waiting behind the counter. She began to speak. The words died.
The cold was gone. Something was there behind her. Buffy sighed. “Brought something home, didn’t I?”
“This is why you don’t touch other people’s things.” The voice was powerful. Lady could project. Buffy looked back over her shoulder, assessing.
Tall, dark, and...
At least Halloween was near.