The Gatekeeper Trilogy, Book Two - GHOST ROADS

by Christopher Golden

  Drusilla sighed and rolled her eyes, then hung her head sulkily. “All right,” she replied. “I’ll behave.”

  “Good girl,” Spike said, and smiled.

  He threw his cigarette to the ground and stubbed it out with his boot.

  “So, we’re just going to follow your dream?” Oz asked doubtfully. “Sort of a Man of La Mancha thing?”

  Buffy raised an eyebrow and shot him a look. “Giles’s phone machine is full or something and the Gatekeeper’s line isn’t even ringing. You wolf out tomorrow night. Angel’s been living on what we’ll kindly call K rations. If we’re very lucky, Il Maestro is not certain where we are right now. If we start poking around, he’s going to find us in about thirty seconds.

  “The dream was pretty clear. So was our information.”

  “Roses,” Oz said.

  “Roses,” Buffy repeated. “And the Dome thingie.”

  “Duomo,” Angel corrected her.

  “Whatever. Would you rather sit around here?” She rolled her eyes. “We’ll just go up in the hills until I can match up the landscape—”

  “In the dark,” Oz pointed out.

  “Hey.” Buffy narrowed her eyes at him. “If you want to stay here and wait for an open phone line to America, fine. Me, I’m gone.”

  The three of them stood just outside a trattoria where Buffy and Oz had enjoyed a hearty meal just after dark. Angel had disappeared during dinner, and Buffy didn’t ask where he’d been, but she had nasty little visions of him lurking in back alleys and looking for vermin.

  She couldn’t wait to get home. She wanted her mother’s cooking. Which had never seemed like anything special—unless compared to Xander’s mother’s—until now.

  “So let’s go,” Angel said urgently. “We’re close.”

  “Keep your pants on,” Buffy said with much irritation, just before she registered exactly what she’d said.

  Neither of them so much as looked at the other.

  Instead, Buffy let her eyes rove over the city. Florence, or Firenze as it was called in Italian, had the most beautiful architecture of any city Buffy had ever seen. The illuminated domes and spires looked as though they were made of marble and mother-of-pearl, and for all she knew, they were. The colors were amazing as well, pinks and oranges and greens and earth tones that were incredibly subtle.

  “That way,” she said, pointing between twin spires that shot into the sky.

  “You’re certain?” Angel asked.

  “Dream,” Oz reminded him.

  Buffy led the way.

  The city was behind them, and the three of them crouched uncomfortably in what remained of the alternatingly rotten and overrun vegetation that was all that remained of a once vital vineyard. Dead ahead was an amazing, sprawling Italian villa. The architecture was extraordinary. The grounds were expansive. A century earlier, Buffy thought, it must have been one of the most amazing homes in the region.

  But now . . .

  “It looks like nobody’s lived here since Angel was in diapers,” Oz said with amazement. “I know, y’know, dream and everything, but is this the same place?”

  Angel glanced at her, his own doubt plain on his face.

  Buffy only nodded.

  “Our buddy the Maestro is in there,” she said confidently. “It’s exactly as I dreamed. Well, except that in the dream it looked new. And there were roses, which there aren’t now. But this is the place.

  “Besides . . .” She shrugged. “Can’t you feel it?”

  Oz cocked his head to one side, then glanced at the house. “I do feel a bit, I don’t know, nauseous. I thought that was the clam sauce from my pasta.”

  Buffy shook her head. “It’s coming from in there,” she said.

  “What is it?” Oz asked.

  It was Angel who answered.

  “It’s chaos.”

  For about an hour, Buffy, Angel, and Oz watched the villa. Satisfied that no one knew they were there, they crawled closer on their elbows and stomachs like commandos.

  Buffy murmured, “Be careful.”

  “Nothing but,” Oz murmured back.

  Angel said, “I smell blood. Human blood. And very fresh.”

  Buffy took a breath and said, “Fresh as in still kicking?”

  “Buffy, it’s my nose, not a Geiger counter,” Angel returned testily. Then he shook his head and said, “Sorry. I don’t know.”

  “Then we have to hurry,” Buffy said, and picked up her pace.

  They got to the perimeter of the villa, an amazing array of withered vines and foliage, tumbledown buildings, and then the central building itself, a truly lovely ruin of salmon-pink rubble overrun with bougainvillea. It gave new meaning to the word estate, and Buffy had seen a few of those when she and her parents lived in L.A. The walls and corners and courtyards seemed to go on for miles, dotted with the remnants of gardens and fountains.

  “It’s kind of like your place,” Buffy whispered to Angel.

  “Times twenty.” Angel touched her hand. “Look.”

  It seemed impossible. A trio of figures in hooded robes were sharing a bottle of something. Furtively glancing around like naughty fraternity students— and Buffy knew whereof she spoke—they took turns chugalugging from the curved bottle.

  “A million kabillion lire that that’s a nice Chianti,” Buffy said.

  “And another million kabillion that those robes are one-size-fits-all,” Oz replied.

  Buffy smiled at him grimly. “Great minds think alike.”

  They stood then and rushed the trio. Before the three had time to realize what had happened, they lay in a heap, unconscious, possibly dead, and Buffy, Angel, and Oz were slipping on their robes.

  Buffy pulled her hood over her blond hair and said, “How do I look?”

  “Not like Pamela Lee,” Oz said.

  “I guess that’s good.” She glanced at Angel.

  “It’s good,” he said. He drew his hood forward. “Okay?”

  She couldn’t see his face. She said, “Okay.” Next she checked Oz. His features were hidden.

  “Hey, whoa, there’s a knife in my pocket,” he said.

  “And I thought you were just glad to see me,” Buffy quipped. She felt in her own pocket. “Look at this.”

  It was a rose quartz wrapped with some kind of string.

  “I have one, too,” Angel said.

  “Make that three.” Oz held his up.

  “Or four,” Buffy muttered, as a hooded figure approached them. She tensed her muscles. “Get ready to rumble, boys.”

  “Buffy, take it easy. These guys are all over the place,” Angel cautioned.

  “Buona sera,” said the newcomer.

  Buffy crammed her hands in her pockets and let Angel make the nice talk. He spoke with the other guy in Italian for a few minutes. Then the other guy moved off, saying something over his shoulder.

  “It’s the rose quartz,” Angel said in surprise. “It’s some kind of ID. As long as we’re carrying, we’re considered part of the crowd.”

  “Maybe that’s how Il Maestro knows who to fry,” Buffy suggested. “Maybe that guy in Paris dropped his, or something.” She took a breath. “Well, let’s test that theory.”

  They walked forward slowly. Despite what Angel’s buddy had said, Buffy expected at any moment to be challenged. Her reflexes were on full alert; there was nothing in her that was not ready for a fight.

  And yet, to her astonishment, they blended right in with the clusters of acolytes on the grounds. There weren’t as many as Buffy would have expected, but if they decided she and the boys were barbarian invaders, their numbers could pose a problem.

  The big test was entering the villa itself. For a second, as Buffy crossed the threshold, she thought they had been discovered. Someone was yelling, and, with all the built-in guilt of a high school senior, Buffy froze.

  The yeller was an acolyte with an Australian accent, carping about not having been chosen for something or other. Apparently some kind of rit
ual.

  When they entered, he looked up, and Buffy almost totally freaked, imagining he had seen her girlish face. “Ah,” he said conspiratorially, “here come some other second-class citizens. It’s standing room only down there, folks. If you want to hold the knife, you’ll have to wait until next time. And then you’ll have to get in line behind me.”

  They moved on.

  Then Buffy heard a scream echoing up from the lower levels of the ruined villa.

  “Here,” Angel said, darting into a corridor.

  There were more screams, of mortal terror. Buffy bit her lip and allowed Angel to hustle her farther along the corridor. Then they reached a flight of stairs leading down. The stairs were covered with leaves and dirt, and spiderwebs stretched across their entry.

  They began to descend, each step punctuated by a shriek. Buffy found herself swearing that she would level this place and sow the ground with salt. She couldn’t stand by, and yet she must. How many people had been sacrificed to the war between good and evil, a war she would die fighting and which might never be won?

  Down they went, Oz murmuring something about Alice and the rabbit hole, and Buffy shook off her friends’ restraining grips as the stairs leveled out to a corridor lit by a single torch. She walked ahead into the semidarkness. She was the Slayer. That was the gig.

  There was another flight of stairs, this one very narrow. Her shoulders grazed the walls as she took them slowly yet deliberately, aware of her backup.

  Before her, a large door glowed red hot. She touched it, brought back burned fingers.

  Angel said, “Allow me.”

  He pushed the door open.

  Again, Buffy took the lead.

  She stepped across the threshold and into Hell itself.

  The chamber was blazingly hot and stank of sulfur. Buffy felt the hair on her arms singe from the intense heat. She forced down a reflexive cough from the stench, instead hiding behind a large stone pillar that was sizzling to the touch.

  About twenty feet directly in front of her, a young girl lay bound hand and foot on an altar. Blood flowed from a deep wound in her chest into a large bowl held in place by a hideously scarred acolyte. To his left, a robed man with striking features pulled his knife from the girl’s chest and laid it on the altar.

  “Thirteen innocents by thirteen blades,” intoned a white-haired man who seemed to be their leader.

  Il Maestro, Buffy thought.

  In front of the altar raged a fire within an enormous circle that resembled a breach, pulsing with purple and ebony, billowing with white-hot orange and purple flames that reeked of putrescence, death, and evil.

  The white-haired man turned toward the shadows on the opposite side of the room and said, “For you, my lord. The first of many.”

  From the darkness a voice boomed, “There may never be enough to appease me. A Slayer’s blood is very rich. This blood is thin. It has no life. It will not satisfy.”

  “I will give you the Slayer,” said the robed man, sounding worried.

  “Yes. Or you will give me your daughter, Micaela,” the voice replied.

  Buffy’s lips parted. She couldn’t just watch this.

  She stared at Angel, who shook his head and pressed his finger to his lips. He took her hand. The contact gave her strength, and the courage to stand by. The courage to be wise.

  The courage to endure, as the girl was untied and tossed, summarily, into the fiery breach. It flared. It grew.

  “More,” said the voice in the shadows. “Many more, if you wish your daughter to be spared.”

  Chapter 14

  JOYCE WOKE UP TO THE ODOR OF CHARRED MEAT. SHE inhaled sharply, as if someone had popped open a vial of smelling salts beneath her nose, and darted her gaze around the storage room to see if it was on fire.

  A pair of large roaches chittered diagonally across the filthy door, which was shut tight. From the ceiling, the weak lightbulb cast more shadows than light, and she was actually glad of that. She didn’t want to see the muck that surrounded her. For the moment she appeared to be alone, but she had already learned not to assume anything where these men were concerned. Including whether or not they actually were men. In Buffy’s world—now part of Joyce’s world—monsters wore many masks.

  Her eyes watered and she put her hand over her mouth as she took deep breaths to combat the smoky odor, which was overpowering her. She was afraid she was going to lose her most recent meal, one of a number of rounds of hot dogs and pasta, which lay heavy in her constricted stomach.

  Suddenly there were noises beyond the door, a scuffling or a shuffle, perhaps stealthy footsteps. She held herself rigid, afraid but resolved not to panic. She needed to stay focused.

  They were footsteps. Very near.

  “Oh, God,” she breathed, shaking. Twin tears coursed down her cheeks. She didn’t know how Buffy handled these kinds of things at all. Because there was no way to stay calm. No hope for focus. The only thing she wanted to do was scream.

  A voice cried out, “Chaos’ name! Brother Lupo, what has happened?”

  “Brother Augustus,” someone replied in a voice familiar to her. It must have been Lupo. “What is the meaning of this immondizia?”

  “Brother Lupo,” said the other voice, clearly shocked. “I don’t know. Is it not . . . is this Brother Ariam?”

  “I have no idea. It could be,” Lupo replied, without a trace of concern. “How did the idiot catch himself on fire?”

  “It looks . . . it looks like the Brûlure Noire,” the other replied in hushed tones. “But only Il Maestro can wield the black burn. Oh, Brother Lupo, is the great one actually here?”

  “No, he’s not. Nor is he expected for another day or two. Now, clean this up before someone trips over it.”

  “But . . . but Brother Dando should know of this,” the second man said tremulously. “No one has ever duplicated Il Maestro’s achievement. If someone in our midst has mastered his secret, we should discover who . . .” The voice trailed off, stammered, “Who— wh—”

  “By the bones, you’re a thick-headed dolt.”

  “Oh, Brother Lupo, I won’t tell,” the other man said in a low, terrified tone. “I will never say a word. Only let me follow you. I will be your faithful slave forever.”

  “I’m sorry, but no. I require someone with a functioning brain.”

  Suddenly Joyce heard a low, almost subaudible, crackling, as if of fire. The second man began screaming in agony, over and over again. Joyce tried to shut herself away, but it was too much. The man’s pain was too real, too close. She turned and retched, hard, falling to her knees as she vomited.

  Smoke billowed under her door and Joyce crawled to the far corner of the room, heaving and coughing and sobbing.

  After less than ten seconds the sounds subsided.

  Her door was flung open. A menacing bald-headed man loomed on the threshold in a black cassock with white symbols painted on it. His hood was thrown back, revealing a scarred face and a milky white eye that glowed blue as he glared at her.

  “What did you hear?” he demanded.

  Wordlessly she shook her head as she looked down at the clear evidence that she had heard something terrible.

  Slamming the door behind him, he advanced on her, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. He was crazy, she tried to tell herself. Or she was. He did not set another human being on fire just now. He did not. No one could do such awful things and be someone who looked at her, talked to her. There was not such evil in the world.

  “Tell me this instant what you heard, or I’ll kill you.”

  “I smelled smoke,” she answered quickly, her words sticking in her throat. Backing up, she ran into the supply shelf. A rotted pack of paper napkins tipped, the tattered bits of paper fluttering to the floor like dying birds. Biting off a cry, Joyce tried to catch her balance by holding on to the shelf. A can of cleanser splatted on top of the napkins.

  “I thought I heard voices,” she hedged.

 
He stared at her, obviously waiting for her to say more. His milky eye was spinning, or the blue light inside it was making it appear as if it were spinning. The veins on his face began to pulsate.

  She added, “Someone was in pain.”

  He narrowed his eyes until they were slits in his doughy face. Then slowly he lifted his hand. Energy crackled around it; tendrils of blue, strobing electricity curled and roiled from his fingertips like sun flares.

  “Tell me what you heard,” he repeated, pointing directly at her. His hand began to vibrate. A tendril of energy began to uncoil.

  “Nothing!” she cried. “I didn’t hear anything!”

  He smiled. “Very good. If you don’t wish to die, stick to that.”

  He turned his back on her and slammed the door shut.

  Joyce trembled, but she did not cry.

  And then it occurred to her that he had not unlocked the door to let himself in. It had been unlocked the entire time.

  She took halting steps toward it.

  The handle turned.

  There was a distinct click.

  She willed herself to find a place of calm. Closing her eyes, she forced herself past the stench of smoke and the realization of what had happened.

  She whispered, “If you kill me, your master will be very angry with you.”

  She shook so hard she slid to the floor.

  Giles stopped the car and said to his passengers, “It’s almost eleven. Time for you all to go home.”

  “Are you nuts?” Xander demanded, leaning forward from the backseat.

  “If you don’t go, your parents will be exceedingly angry with you,” Giles said. “They might ground you. And I need you. All of you.” He looked at Willow, who was seated beside him. Her eyes closed and her head tipped back, she held one of Joyce’s blouses between her hands.

  Without opening her eyes, Willow shook her head. “Nothing. I’m sorry. I still don’t get any vibrations.”

  “Then stop, Willow.” Giles was clearly disappointed, but he mustered a smile when Willow opened her eyes. “You tried your best.”