One Girl In All the World (Volume 2) Read online

  Text copyright © 2023 by Disney Enterprises, Inc.

  All rights reserved. Published by Hyperion, an imprint of Buena Vista Books, Inc. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Hyperion, 77 West 66th Street, New York, New York 10023.

  First Edition, January 2023

  Designed by Tyler Nevins

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Blake, Kendare, author.

  Title: One girl in all the world / by Kendare Blake.

  Description: First edition. • Los Angeles ; New York : Hyperion, 2023. • Series: Buffy: the next generation ; book 2 • Audience: Ages 12–18. • Audience: Grades 10–12. • Summary: Frankie Rosenberg, the world’s first slayer-witch, has hordes of demons—both of the real and the metaphorical variety—to contend with when a rebooted Hellmouth begins luring evil back to Sunnydale.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2022021453 • ISBN 9781368075077 (hardcover) • ISBN 9781368075169 (ebook)

  Subjects: CYAC: Witches—Fiction. • Vampires—Fiction. • Demonology—Fiction. • LCGFT: Paranormal fiction. • Novels.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.B5566 Onk 2023 • DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022021453

  Visit www.HyperionTeens.com

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  PROLOGUE

  PART ONE: SUNNY DALE: THE DEMON DESTINATION

  CHAPTER ONE: THE VAMPIRE-WELCOMING COMMITTEE

  CHAPTER TWO: HOT UNDEAD LIBRARIANS

  CHAPTER THREE: WHEN YOU GO LOOKING FOR TROUBLE IN SUNNYDALE . . .

  CHAPTER FOUR: THE BIG BAD POETRY CLUB

  CHAPTER FIVE: FUN WITH ORACLES

  PART TWO: THE DARKNESS IS COMING

  CHAPTER SIX: HOPE, FEAR, AND RE-HOPE

  CHAPTER SEVEN: SCHOOL’S OUT FOR MURDER

  CHAPTER EIGHT: NO ONE LIKES SURPRISE HOUSEGUESTS

  CHAPTER NINE: NICE TO MEET YOU, LET ME PUNCH YOU IN THE FACE

  CHAPTER TEN: WELCOME TO OUR OOL. THERE’S NO P IN IT, BUT THERE MIGHT BE A DEMON

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: HOT DEMONS ARE SLAYER CATNIP

  PART THREE: WHO PUT A QUARTER IN THE HELLMOUTH?

  CHAPTER TWELVE: HELPFUL ADULTS

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN: THIS SLAYER OR THAT SLAYER

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN: AT LEAST WE DON’T NEED A MAGIC BONE

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN: SCOOBY DOOBY DON’T

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN: TWO SLAYERS, NO WAITING

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: IT’S LIKE A SWISS ARMY SCYTHE

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: RANDY DEMONS (NOT DEMONS NAMED RANDY) AND HORNY DEMONS (OF THE HORNED VARIETY)

  CHAPTER NINTEEN: THE PAST RETURNS

  PART FOUR: THE DARKNESS, LIKE SOYLENT GREEN, IS PEOPLE

  CHAPTER TWENTY: JUST ONE OF THE SLAYERS

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: STALKING WITH THE STALKER’S STONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: HIS GIRLFRIEND’S BACK, AND YOU’RE GONNA BE IN TROUBLE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: NOT EVERYONE CAN PULL OFF LEATHER PANTS

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: GRIM REALLY DOESN’T HAVE A TYPE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: THE AMULET OF JUMANJI

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: BUSINESS AS (UN)USUAL

  PART FIVE: THE WEAPON OF THE SLAYER

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: A DEMON FOR ALL SEASONS

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: FLASH FORWARD: ONE NIGHT LATER

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: FLASHBACK: THE NIGHT BEFORE ON THE RE-CLOSED HELLMOUTH

  CHAPTER THIRTY: AND NOW WE’RE ALL CAUGHT UP

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: THE WORLD IS DEFINITELY DOOMED

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  The woman cut a slim silhouette against the sunset as she walked along the deserted highway. It was a long walk on the way to nowhere: This particular road had been bypassed and blocked off—she’d slipped past two very broken-down ROAD CLOSED signs—and ended on the edge of what was briefly the great Sunnydale sinkhole. Of course that sinkhole didn’t last; it was quickly shored up with dirt to become the shiny New Sunnydale, with a much lower elevation.

  It was a long walk. She wasn’t tired; she was a slayer after all—it took a lot more than cooling desert and flat asphalt to wear her out—but she was weary. Weary in her bones, weary in her soul. She adjusted the bag on her shoulders and kept going until she reached the spot where their bus had stopped after they’d defeated the First. Where Buffy had gotten out and looked over the destruction. Where she had started making plans for all of their futures.

  The woman kicked pebbles and watched them roll down the hill, now a nice, sloping decline rather than a sheer drop-off into hell, and frowned at New Sunnydale glittering below. All of those people, living like nothing had happened. Sinkhole? What sinkhole? I’m sure that collapse was just a one-time thing. No reason to waste all this prime California real estate.

  She scowled down from beneath her hood. They were idiots, all of them. Optimistic idiots. The entire place was cursed; she felt it the moment she portaled in. The wrongness. The wicked current pulsing through the soil. The…Hellmouth residue, getting all over everything. She knew she had a slayer’s senses, but there was no way that regular people didn’t feel it. That much seeping evil left a mark. It weaved through a person. It became a part of them, so much so that the whole damn citizenry had evacuated before it all went down, without having to be told. They just knew.

  But people were people, and they’d rebuilt it anyway. Like the people who had rebuilt the Overlook Hotel. Or the ones who kept on building houses on top of old cemeteries without moving the bodies first. Those were just movies, sure, but the rebuilding was realistic. When it came to their own destruction, humans were predictably industrious. So New Sunnydale had risen from the ashes. And then the red witch had returned to watch over it and to raise her little abomination.

  The woman swallowed. It felt foolish to even set one foot on that unstable ground, but she did it, one foot after the other, down and down and down, through shrubs and young trees, past silent bulldozers and construction equipment—because even after eighteen years, the city was still a work in progress—until she reached the street. From there she let her slayer sense guide her, but even if she hadn’t had it, she would have known the way to the Hellmouth by following the school signs. In grand Sunnydale tradition, the idiots had built the high school right on top. Again.

  When she reached it, she stood outside, staring at the brick and the stark white walls, the flowering vines with their blossoms closed for the night. New Sunnydale High School was clean and crisp, lit by so many streetlights that it was a challenge to find shadows to slip into. I am not evil at all, it declared. But it was lying.

  She broke in through a back door near the sports field—and by “broke in” she meant opened an unlocked door without permission—and made her way to the basement.

  And to the Hellmouth.

  Being so close to it sent goose bumps up and down the backs of her arms. It made her want to run away. It made her want to scream. And even though there was no definitive marking, no X-marks-the-Hellmouth, she knew just where it was. And it felt like it knew just where she was, too.

  She walked to it and took off her pack, then reached inside to pull out a large, glowing orb. It was bright and almost pretty; the green swirled through with flecks of blue like bits of glitter on a sea of thick paint. It looked a little like a bowling ball, if bowling balls could throb, and it cast the entire space in a strange, ethereal green. After a moment of deliberation, she grab
bed a fire blanket off a shelf and used it to cover the orb before setting it down on top of the Hellmouth.

  She let go of it gently, expecting it to roll. But it stuck. So firmly and so fast she wondered if she’d have been able to pick it up again. Not that she bothered to try. It was where it belonged. A nice welcome-back present for the Hellmouth. Something to draw its favorite demons, like a demon magnet, or a demon beacon.

  It would give the new slayer something to do.

  The woman stood.

  “Phase one commenced,” she said before tugging her hood down lower and slipping out of the school the same way she came in.

  Sunnydale Cemetery was a pretty nice place. Green. Spacious. Bordered and dotted with leafy trees that whispered in the dark. White stone pavilions had been erected here and there to serve as a housing for flowering vines, and the hedges were full and well groomed, planted in rows and groves so as to create corners and private spaces. For mourning, or picnics—concealing crouching demons or what have you. The point is, some landscape designer had an absolute field day, and the end result was more akin to a park than a resting place for the dead.

  It didn’t suit the vampire at all. He sniffed and caught the faint perfume of roses. He narrowed his yellow eyes, but the white marble benches only stood out brighter beneath the light of the waxing crescent moon. He was new in town, having caught the number 29 bus up from Phoenix. It had been a long trip. Long hours spent being a sun-fearing lump underneath a blanket, of bored kids running up and down the aisles, of bathroom stops and the sound of plastic wrappers being torn off gas station snack foods. His poor stomach had rumbled—gas station snack foods made the blood nice and greasy, and once the sun went down, he’d considered popping up and eating the whole bus. But then he’d have had to drive the rest of the way, and he was still better on a horse than a stick shift. Besides, he wanted to save his appetite for Sunnydale.

  Sunnydale, California. Mother of the Hellmouth. Cradle of monsters. A town that had seen more carnage than a stack of scary movies. It had been dormant for decades, languishing under the protection of the slayers, and the red-haired witch who broke the world. But lately Sunnydale—or more accurately, the Hellmouth that dwelled beneath it—had started to pulse, and the ears and snouts of demons everywhere turned again toward the heartbeat. The Hellmouth was calling. Begging its children to tear away the facade of the city—the palm trees and street fairs, the coffee shops on every corner—and let it show its true, wicked face.

  As for the slayers, they were gone, whisked away, right off the earth; killed in an explosion said some, or by a massive spell said others. No fewer than five demon doomsday cults had tried to take credit, but the vampire didn’t care one way or another who had done it. He only cared that they were dead, and Sunnydale was his for the taking.

  He paused at a fresh grave and placed his hand against the loosely packed soil, listening for another vampire waking below. He could use a local to show him the ins and outs. In all his hundred years of afterlife, he’d never been to Sunnydale. He preferred to spend his time in the southwest, where he’d been turned. He liked to lure tour groups out to the ghost towns. Then he would set the corpses up in the ruins of an old saloon, like mannequins, to confuse whatever poor sap eventually found them. By his count, he’d killed 4,219 people. More than that, actually, because it had taken him a few years to start counting, marking each with a notch in the holster of his six-shooter, which gradually became notches in a belt: first brown leather, then black, now some clever new leather made from the skins of cactuses. He’d buried belts filled with notches all over the territories of Nevada, and Arizona, down into western Texas. But the cactus belt was new. Notch-free. And he planned to fill it with notches for Sunnydale townsfolk.

  But so far the legendary city of the Hellmouth was falling short of the stories. The streets he’d walked through on the way from the bus station were clean, marked by engraved paving stones and made bright by solar lights. And now the cemetery—with its new, straight headstones and demure marble grave markers. From somewhere not far off, he heard the soft gurgling of a fountain.

  Where were the rowdy demon bars? The demon gambling that went on until dawn, bloodthirsty creatures around a card table racking up huge debts of kittens? Where were the cracked, spider-filled crypts? Where were the foolish teenagers, making out in cars, begging for their throats to be ripped out?

  And then, as if she’d heard his wish, there came a voice through the darkness. A girl’s voice, from several rows of graves over. A soft glow emanated from that direction, too, as if from candles, and he licked his fangs. The little idiot was in the graveyard holding a séance. Humans were a useless lot—useless in his time, and in the century since it seemed they’d only gotten worse—but he did appreciate their constant fascination with the great beyond.

  He crept through the graves, savoring the increasing nearness of the kill, the glimpses of the girl in the space between the headstones. Oh, but she was a pretty thing. Long black hair, straight as a horse’s tail. Tan skin and big brown eyes made warm by the candlelight. Dark red lips. She wore a collar, too, the kind a mean dog might wear, with silver studs and a buckle. That struck him as odd, but he didn’t waste much time considering the fashion choices of his dinner. And she wasn’t alone! His mouth watered as his second course came into view: a fine-looking Black lad sitting across from her in the grass, holding a candle and trying not to get burned by the wax. They didn’t look like they belonged much together; his buttoned shirt was pressed like a good mama would have done it, and his eyes behind the lenses of his glasses were focused and calm while the girl’s were restless and narrowed.

  He would eat the girl first. He saw her first after all, and it would be kind of fun watching the calm leave the boy’s carefully composed expression. He wondered if the boy would run. Or if he would try to fight back. He would probably freeze like a frightened deer and simply wait for his turn.

  The vampire crouched, ready to spring. He was so focused on his meal that he failed to notice the other girl running swiftly toward him through the cemetery, her hair in a messy red bun and her legs clad in loose, comfortable organic-cotton pants. She leapt up onto the headstone beside him, and caught him totally by surprise with a flying back kick.

  “Hi!” Frankie said, trying to keep her voice perky and semi-welcoming as the vamp rolled upright in the grass. “Where ya from?”

  The vampire growled and got to his feet in one smooth motion, a twist as graceful as a gymnast getting off a mat. So graceful that Frankie made a mental note to practice it later with Spike. The vampire brushed imagined dirt off his finely cut black suit, and the moonlight caught on the silver of his rather large and intricately designed belt buckle. It looked like a snake, intertwined with a…What did they call those western ropes? A lariat. It looked like a snake entwined with a lariat.

  “That is a really nice belt buckle,” Frankie said, and pointed with the tip of her stake.

  “Thank you, darlin’,” the vampire said, and she wrinkled her nose at his accent. “You’ll be adorning the belt it’s attached to momentarily. The first notch, right about here.” He tapped the space just left of the buckle.

  “Seems like a waste of good leather, marking it up like that,” she said, and to her surprise, he straightened and looked down at it with a shrug.

  “You know, I actually don’t know whether it’ll suit for notching. It’s some newfangled kind of leather, made from cactus skins.”

  Frankie lowered her stake. “Really?” Her eyes widened. It looked just like high-quality leather. “That is such a cool eco-alternative!”

  “Frankie.”

  The vampire looked over the headstones at the other two—Frankie’s friends Hailey and Sigmund—who had stood, still holding their candles.

  “Get that stake back up,” Hailey said. “Eco-friendly or not, the vamp must be dusted.”

  “I know,” said Frankie. “But it seems like such a waste, to let the belt go poof wit
h the rest of him. Think I can wrestle it off him first? Or maybe I can steal it with magic.”

  “I don’t think your telekinesis is fine-tuned enough to unbuckle a belt and tug it through several belt loops,” said Sigmund. “And it’s an unnecessary risk.”

  “I agree,” said Hailey. “But if you can, I wouldn’t mind having that belt buckle. It’s kind of badass.”

  “What is happening here?” the vampire asked. The girl with the messy red bun on the top of her head carried a stake. And she kicked harder than his old pistol.

  “I’m sorry,” said Frankie. “You’re right. This is supposed to be about you. So, as I was saying, where ya from?”

  “Did you come by bus or by car?” Sigmund asked, setting down his candle and picking up his cloth-bound journal. “By train? By cargo plane perhaps?”

  The vampire looked from Frankie to Sigmund and back again. Then he reached out and grabbed Frankie by the shoulders and threw her over three rows of graves. She landed in the grass, but not before bouncing off the headstone of one Michael Truman, 1958–2021.

  “Ow,” she groaned. “Why don’t they make headstones softer?”

  “Padded headstones,” said Hailey. “Definitely something to consider. Watch out on your right!”

  The vampire pulled Frankie up by the arm, and she tried to smile as she looked into his fangy face, buying herself a moment to remember their next survey question. But before it came to her, he backhanded her across the jaw and sent her sailing. At least this time she missed the graves when she landed. The vamp leapt on her again, and she thought she heard him mutter something about a little lady with no manners before she rolled backward and drove her heels into his chin, throwing him into a backflip. He got up with a snarl—much less gracefully this time—and just as she was about to jump in with a fast kick-punch-spinning-kick combination that Spike had demonstrated on her the previous week, the vampire was tackled by a blur of muscle and New Sunnydale Razorbacks letter jacket.

  “Dammit, Jake!”

  “I got him!” Jake cried as the vampire twisted free. “Er, I don’t got him. But I’ll get him!” He threw a punch. The vampire ducked it and sniffed.