The Gatekeeper Trilogy, Book Two - GHOST ROADS

by Christopher Golden

  He shrugged. “Maybe on this trip we should institute a ‘don’t ask don’t tell’ policy about my feeding— I mean eating—habits.” He raised a hand. “I’m not going to feed on humans, Buffy. Which means my choices may be rather limited.” He decided not to tell her that their quaint little inn in the Cotswolds had a rat problem. Granted, it was slightly smaller than it had been when they’d arrived.

  When Whistler had found Angel in Manhattan, he had been surviving—barely—on rats. With any luck, they might run into a butcher shop. And he was currently weighing the possibility of that British delicacy, blood pudding.

  “Oz,” Angel said, “when do I make that right?”

  “Should be in about five miles or so, I think.” He tapped the map that was spread over his knees. “Cool. There’s Hampstead Heath. Sting has a house there.”

  “Byron, Keats, and Shelley used to walk there,” Angel said, vividly recalling the three wild-eyed poets. Though they had written poems about vampires, they had never realized they had walked with one.

  “Also cool.” Oz sounded impressed.

  “Look, there’s a restaurant,” Buffy said, happy to see through the windows that there were actually people inside. “I can cheek on my mom, too.”

  The restaurant resembled a gray cinderblock. It was definitely lacking in old-world charm, which, Angel hoped, did not mean they were lacking in rodents. He turned off the road and pulled into a gravel parking lot.

  “You two go ahead,” he said, dawdling over pulling the keys from the ignition.

  Buffy pushed open her door. “Okay.”

  She led the way; Oz brought up the rear.

  Angel got out and slipped into the alley, vamp face morphing at the sound of rustling in the restaurant’s brimming trash cans.

  Slightly disgusted with himself, he moved into the darkness.

  Buffy sounded so far away that Joyce wanted to burst into tears. But she kept her cool, determined not to upset her daughter.

  “I’m fine,” she insisted, flushing, as though Buffy would instantly know she was lying.

  She was not fine. She was exhausted. According to Willow and Giles, the breach in their house might be on the verge of reopening at any time. Knowing that a monster might be disgorged in your living room without warning did not make for restful nights.

  Neither did constantly worrying about your daughter.

  “You don’t sound fine,” Buffy insisted.

  “Well, I’m worried about you.”

  Joyce glanced at Giles, who had raised his brows slightly, obviously wishing he were speaking to Buffy himself. He’d come by as soon as school had let out, and Joyce had been glad of the company. Even more so, now that Buffy had called.

  “Look, Buffy, Mr. Giles is here,” she said, knowing full well she was choosing the coward’s way out of a confrontation with Buffy. “I think he wants to talk to you.”

  “Thank you,” Giles said, taking the phone without looking at Buffy’s mother. And in that moment, she realized he was going to tell Buffy what was going on. She flared and shook her head.

  “Yes, hello, Buffy,” he said, pushing up his glasses. “You’re all right, then? And Williams gave you . . . yes, well, good. Please keep me informed on your progress. Now listen.”

  He looked up at Joyce as if to ask for her forgiveness. “There’s a breach in your house. We’ve bound it for the moment, but nevertheless, it’s here, and your mother is determined to stay here.”

  He listened, nodding. “Yes, yes, I quite agree.” He looked hard at Joyce. “Yes. With a friend, for the time being.”

  His mouth formed a perfect O. Curious, Joyce leaned slightly forward.

  “It’s a thought, yes. I do suppose it may the best thing,” he said. His face was a brilliant shade of scarlet.

  He handed the phone back to Joyce.

  “Buffy?” Joyce said.

  “Mom, start packing. You’re moving in with Giles,” Buffy said sternly.

  Buffy joined Angel and Oz in the restaurant. Oz smiled at her and said, “Tonight we’re having ploughman’s lunch. Which has nothing to do with plows. Or lunch. It’s the only thing they’ll serve us this late, because the kitchen is technically closed.”

  “This is a very strange country,” Buffy muttered.

  “Everything all right?” Angel asked her.

  She huffed. “Oh, just that my mom’s been living in our house, which has a breach in it that Willow bound, but now it looks shaky, so I told her to go live with Giles. And don’t even start with me.”

  Angel held out his hands. “I didn’t say a word. But . . . Giles? And your mom?”

  “No, not Giles and my mom. Sheesh. You slept in my bedroom and didn’t do anything.” She looked away, very much regretting having said that. Because it was true that he had slept beside her bed with her full knowledge before she had known he was a vampire. And he had also sneaked into her room many times when he had been Angelus, taunting her in the morning with drawings he had made of her sleeping, letting her know he could have tried to break her neck and was only biding his time.

  She looked down and said, “We should hit the road. I’m not hungry after all.”

  She pushed back her chair and dashed for the exit.

  Angel grabbed her elbow.

  “Hey,” he said.

  She caught her breath. “I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable back there. It was a stupid thing to say.”

  “No, it wasn’t.” He slid his hand down to her wrist, and then to her fingers. “Buffy, I know this hasn’t worked out the way we hoped. Neither one of us. But I’d like to know that we still mean something to each other. As friends, if nothing else.”

  She looked down. “As friends,” she said dully. “Nothing else. That’s all it can be.” She looked back up to him. “And the world may be ending, and we may die, or I might—it’ll probably be me first.” She shrugged. “Your track record’s better—”

  She waved her hand awkwardly. An ID bracelet she’d been wearing on her wrist beneath her sweater somehow came undone and clattered to the floor.

  Angel bent to retrieve it. Straightening, he held it out to her.

  “Keep it,” she said. “I got it for you anyway.”

  She walked on, not wanting to be there when he read the inscription: For Angel. Always. Buffy.

  They got in the car. Oz came soon after, carrying a brown paper sack.

  “You got me a doggy bag,” Buffy said, touched.

  “A hungry Slayer is a cranky Slayer,” he riposted.

  “And a sluggish Slayer,” Angel added.

  “All right.” She reached for the sack. “Feed me, Seymour.”

  They followed the map to a place called Hain Mews, which was not inside London proper. They sped down one narrow alley after another, past row houses of red and white brick and buildings of painted wood and darker brick. Oz liked England. He promised himself he’d come back someday with Willow.

  “217 Redcliff. It should be here,” Buffy was saying to Angel. “Right here.”

  “Maybe it’s magickally invisible,” Angel replied.

  “Or indescribably delicious,” Oz offered, then shrugged. “Sorry. I’m getting a little punchy.”

  “Maybe we should find someplace to stay,” Buffy suggested.

  Then they turned a corner, and there it was. Behind large, elaborate wrought-iron gates, a gabled mansion was silhouetted in the moonlight against banks of night clouds. The roof line was a clutter of turrets and chimney tops, reminding Oz of something the Addams Family might winter in. All the arched windows were dark.

  Angel doused their lights as well.

  “I’ll get the gate,” Buffy said, hopping out of the car. She strode up to the twin gates. They were chained together, the chain secured by a giant padlock. Buffy snapped it easily and pushed the gates open.

  Angel waited for her signal, got it, and quietly slipped from the car as well. Oz followed close behind.

  Five seconds later, t
hey were on the grounds of 217 Redcliff. They crept into a copse and watched the house. All was still. Buffy motioned for them to follow her.

  “Keep to the shadows,” she whispered.

  Oz trailed Angel, who caught up with Buffy. They started motioning in shorthand, and Oz was struck by all the history these two shared. It was dark, and he was beginning to tire, so he had a hard time following what Buffy wanted them to do, but basically it had to do with fanning out.

  Suddenly Oz had a sense that they were being watched. He cleared his throat, but neither Buffy nor Angel heard him. He tried to look over his shoulder without being obvious, but he could see nothing.

  “Guys,” he whispered, but they had moved out of range.

  Two years ago, Oz would have completely ignored his unease, chalking it up to paranoia. But since he had met Willow, and through her, Buffy and a lot of stuff that Buffy fought and killed, he had learned to take his instincts seriously.

  Stopping, he slowly turned.

  Swooping at him with lightning speed was what first appeared to be an enormous bird with black, leathery wings. But as it divebombed right for him, he saw that its head was human, with eyes like white-hot coals.

  Suddenly, Oz was slammed to the ground as Angel threw him down, and Buffy landed beside them. Oz grunted and said, “I can’t breathe.”

  “What is it?” Buffy cried.

  “The Skree,” Angel answered, and Oz knew right off there was more to that story. “We’ve been set up.”

  “Then let’s rumble,” Buffy replied.

  Angel and Buffy got up fast. Oz could breathe again, and then he was right behind them. He wasn’t quite as durable as a vampire or a Slayer, but he’d been known to whale on a few monsters in his time.

  The Skree emitted a chilling scream that made Oz’s eardrums clatter. And, okay, nasty-looking winged beastie. Welcome to England.

  “Okay, bird,” he said. “Give me your best shot.”

  “Oz, get out of there!” Buffy shouted.

  At the same time, the Skree slammed Oz in the head and dug its enormous, taloned claws into his denim jacket. Before he knew what was happening, the Skree had lifted him into the air. Buffy and Angel stood below, fists raised in his direction.

  “Jump, Oz!” Angel cried. “It’s your only chance.”

  Oz looked up at the bird and down at the receding landscape. Jumping did not really appear to be an option.

  But then again, neither did dying.

  She was tall, she was lanky, and she could gut a fish in ten seconds flat.

  Andy Hinchberger was in love again.

  Oh, sure, his fiancée, Lindsey, had torn out his heart with her smiles and her promises, but he had finally faced facts. She was not coming back, and it was time to heal and move on.

  Her blond hair pulled up into a wild tuft of a ponytail, Summer Simpson wore a pair of overalls, an olive green T-shirt, and a pair of ratty tennis shoes caked with blood and salt water. She was oblivious to Andy’s stare as she stood at the taffrail of the Lizzie S. and smoked a cigarette. The orange glow at the tip was like a running light, a tiny beacon in the night sky as the fishing boat plied the black waters. Maybe she was sending out an SOS: Mayday, Mayday. I need you, Andy Hinchberger. Right here, and right now.

  It occurred to him that he should go check in with his boss and see if there was anything that needed to be attended to. The Lizzie S. was doing something illegal, which was nothing new. The Lizzie’s skipper, Dale Stagnatowski, had gone all crazy ever since the death of his son, little Timmy. Not death, exactly, but anybody with half a brain knew that when a seven-year-old goes missing for a year, he’s not coming back. Maybe Dale knew it, but his wife didn’t, and she was pretty crazy by now herself. Her way of dealing with it was to drink—she thought Dale didn’t know, but he did, and it grieved him—and help with the Sunnydale runaway shelter. She spent so much time there that Dale didn’t bother going home much anymore.

  Dale’s way to deal was to push his luck.

  Andy took a swig of root beer—he had sworn off alcohol when he had met Lindsey and found he liked the clearheadedness that came with twenty-four/ seven sobriety—and leaned his head on the rail. The deep waters off the town of Sunnydale were said to harbor a sea monster. The town wags claimed the Lisa C. had met up with it a couple of weeks before and washed up on shore in matchsticks. So had the first mate, Mort Pingree, in pieces like chicken nuggets.

  The official story was that the boat got stuck out on a sandbar or a shoal, couldn’t get free, and had been torn apart by the rocking of the waves. Likewise, Mort’s body had been battered apart on the rocks, not chewed on by some big rubber monster from Atlantis. The area was declared off-limits until the shallows was located.

  Funny thing was, nobody was patrolling the area for a shallows. Andy hadn’t seen a single harbor-police vessel, or any Coast Guard cutter, going anywhere near the quarantine zone. Nobody was pulling out the sonar. Nobody was looking for anything.

  Dale figured it was time to make a run and grab all the fish they could while the “wusses” obeyed the rules. So here they were, maybe with a great white down there, or even a lost whale. But not a sea monster. And if the Lizzie S. got stopped and boarded by the authorities, it was Dale who would get in trouble, not his two lowly assistants.

  As Andy lifted his head and watched, Summer finished her cigarette and chucked it into the water. He smiled and wondered if it would be rushing things to ask her what she was doing once they got back to port. He was curious to know what a classy woman like her was doing working a trawler. Maybe she was mending a broken heart, too. With any luck, she was ready for the rebound. He could always hope . . .

  He headed toward the stern just as the fog started to roll in from the sea. It was so thick and so white, almost glowing, that it gave him pause. He stopped on his sea legs, riding the deck as the ocean suddenly got choppier.

  The thick mist tumbled over itself as it approached the Lizzie S. It was mounding and spilling over like the crest of a tidal wave, and he found himself racing toward Summer as though she needed to be pulled from its path. But it was just mist.

  Behind him he heard Dale shouting, “Andy, what is that?”

  Then Summer screamed, and it all went into slow motion: The fog, boiling and foaming as it flooded the deck up to their waists. Dale joining them, screaming. The three standing, frozen in shock.

  The night was cut by the creak and groan of a vessel, long submerged, as it breached the surface—a ship that should be dead now. Was dead now. White water, kelp, and fish poured off the deck as the fog billowed around it. Its hull was a skeletal ribcage of briny, pickled wood encrusted with barnacles and dripping seaweed. A brigantine from the old seafaring days, with two masts and yards of what looked like winding cloth, it could not be sailing, could not be floating.

  From the yards hung skeletons in rows, clattering in the glowing fog and the fierce, brittle wind that rose as the ghostly ship righted itself and made straight for the Lizzie S. Blood dripped from the lines, splashing on the deck. And from each splash rose a nightmare.

  Bodies took form, but severely decayed, the flesh peeling off faces and limbs in strips. The corpses of men, some missing one or more limbs, several headless, worked the lines. A few were nothing but sunbleached bones. Others wore watch caps with enormous holes in them, striped shirts in tatters, and sailor’s trousers that in some cases were mere strips of cloth. Most of the slack-jawed, dead sailors were missing at least one eye; the fog rolled into and out of empty sockets.

  At the bow, the figurehead of a lovely woman raised her arms and shrieked, turning into a hideous crone as the trio aboard the Lizzie S. tried to take it all in.

  Summer was the first to bolt. She ran along the rail as fast as she could, dashed into the wheelhouse, and slammed the door. Andy felt a warm trickle along the inside leg of his jeans and knew that he had lost control of his bladder.

  Beside him, Dale stood, not making a sound, but Andy swore he heard
the man’s heart thundering.

  Then a low, eerie voice reverberated on the fog as the wind whistled its own language: “Vessel, dead ahead.”

  High in the crosstrees stood a figure completely coated in green slime, a spyglass to its eye. The glass was pointed directly at Dale and Andy.

  “Steady as she goes,” came the ghostly order.

  “Aye, sir, steady as she goes.”

  “Andy, look at the helm,” Dale gasped.

  Andy made out the raised platform of the poop deck where the ship’s wheel was manned by a chalk-white man who appeared to be flesh and blood. Huge spikes had been driven through the backs of his hands, nailing them to the wooden wheel. Caked blood covered his hands. His eyes bulged as he stared straight at Andy with a look of agony.

  Then, from behind him appeared a figure that towered over the others, dressed in the somber black of a long-ago Dutch sea captain. Andy could see only the shadow of it, no form. Yet when he looked at it, even from an angle, his blood ran cold. Whatever it was terrified him at a deep, primitive level. Deep inside, he knew that this was something very evil, and that he should get the hell away from it right now.

  Yet he stood rooted to the spot as the figurehead threw back her head and cackled.

  Then the spines of the ship rammed the Lizzie S. on her starboard side. As the vessel listed to port, Andy and Dale slid over the deck, fumbling for purchase on a line, a running light, anything. Andy caught hold of a line and held tight, bracing himself for the sound of a splash.

  The fog washed over him like a huge, sodden net. Cocooned inside, he saw and heard nothing.

  “Dale?” Andy whispered. “Cap’n?”

  A hand touched Andy’s shoulder. Sagging with relief, he took it. He gripped his other hand around the rest and pulled himself to a half-standing position.

  Then he heard the skipper scream.

  From far away.

  From very far away.

  Standing in the fog, he shouted in surprise.

  The hand closed tightly over his.

  Dead hands held Summer. She was forced to stand upright beside Andy while Captain Dale stared defiantly at the lord and master of the ghost vessel, otherwise known as the Flying Dutchman. If she had not been held so tightly, she would have fallen to the deck in a crumpled heap and never gotten back up again.