She wanted to scream. The silence was destroying her. But she didn’t dare make a sound, for fear that she might attract the Minotaur’s attention.
Twist and turn. Right and left. Dead end or optical illusion. It wasn’t long before she was exhausted from both terror and exertion. But she would not give up.
And then she found the bones.
“Oh, my God,” Joyce whispered, before she even realized she had spoken.
Her heart trip-hammered with the fear that she might have been heard. She pressed her back against the cold wall and waited, eyes darting from side to side. After half a minute of silence, she began to breathe a bit more easily, and she allowed her gaze to return to the bones strewn along the path ahead of her. Many were half buried in the dirt, probably trampled underfoot in mud until they became a part of the structure of the labyrinth itself.
The victims of the Minotaur. How many creatures have died within these walls? she wondered. The question chilled her, but an even more disturbing question posed itself almost immediately. How many have ever escaped the labyrinth?
She prayed that someone had escaped. It would be easier for her to believe that. To know that it was possible.
Joyce knew she should get moving, but she could not. Her feet seemed frozen to that spot, in among the bones. There were several skulls, entire rib cages, and the various bones of the arms and legs, including a long, thick shaft of bone which she knew must be a femur. Yet she saw only one, and wondered, with a twist of nausea, where this dead man’s other leg had come to rest.
That’ll be you, Joyce, she thought. If you don’t get moving.
So she moved. Slowly at first, and then with more speed. There were a great many more bones, and a pattern revealed itself. Where the bones were, that was the path to the center of the maze. To the lair of the Minotaur. It was the only thing that made sense. And if she wanted to reach the other side of the labyrinth, she would have to pass through it.
Something wasn’t right, though. She hadn’t heard the beast again, and it hadn’t come after her. For half a second, she entertained the idea that the sound she’d previously heard hadn’t been the Minotaur at all, that the thing had been dead for ages, its bones lying within these walls somewhere along with those of its victims.
But she pushed that fantasy away. It was too seductive to allow into her mind—the kind of thinking, of relaxing, that might get her killed.
A cool breeze rushed through the walls of the labyrinth, and Joyce shivered, glanced up at the moon and the stars. Another strong wind blew her hair across her face.
Suddenly she knew. It was the wind. She hadn’t been able to hear the cars from Route 17 very well for a brief time, because the wind had shifted. Her scent was being carried away from the maze, away from the beast. But the moment the wind shifted, or she succeeded, somehow, in passing by the Minotaur, well then, it would have her scent. And have her not long after.
Joyce wanted to turn, to run back the way she’d come. But there was no exit there.
Instead, she moved forward, following the trail of bones. A little more than a minute later, the labyrinth opened up in front of her. She had reached its center, a wide box made of walls broken at odd intervals by paths that led back into the maze. Bones were strewn about. Piled in certain places. An enormous chair of bones had been built at the center of the labyrinth.
Joyce threw herself back against the wall, as soundlessly as she could. Carefully, she peered around the edge.
It sat there on that throne made of its victims. Its feet were wrapped in heavy leather, tied off with thick rope. A rotting leather loincloth hung down over its upper thighs. Its legs, though hairy, were human enough. But above the waist, it was a massive, heaving bull, its face the snorting, horned head of the bull. Its arms ended in taloned hands, but huge and thick, each finger like the branch of a tree.
Its chest rose and fell.
The Minotaur was sleeping. Joyce stared at it for a long moment, the chill wind making her shiver. Or perhaps it was merely her fear. The beast shifted in its slumber. Its eyes fluttered slightly, but did not open.
The wind died. And began to shift.
Joyce fought back the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks. She bit her lip lightly, to force herself to keep silent. Then, as quickly as she could without stumbling over the bones of those who’d come before, she began to retreat.
She’d have to find some way to get out through the front gate. It was her only hope. No hope. But her only hope. There had to be a way. The breeze shifted then, blowing into her face as she moved away. The thin sweater she wore was little protection against the cold.
On the ground, she saw the thick femur bone she had noticed earlier. Now she picked it up, hefted its weight, and began to run with it. Run as fast as she could, no longer so careful about making noise. For the wind had shifted.
The Minotaur was awake. Somewhere behind her, on its throne of bones, it bellowed with rage.
And hunger.
* * *
It had been nearly a year and a half since Ethan had vacated the costume shop he had once run in Sunnydale, and it remained empty. Considering the climate of death in the town, he wasn’t at all surprised. Though it might have had something to do with the spell he had cast on the place. It was a psychic marker, almost like the scent of a skunk, but mental. Those who had come to look at the property had gone away feeling quite negative about it.
The locks had been changed, of course, but it was a simple thing to open them. When he entered, he smiled to himself. There was several months’ worth of dust inside, which led him to think that, after a time, the realtors just gave up on the place. Why bother to clean it up if nobody was going to want it? If Ethan ever needed it again, why, he’d come back and set up shop under another name.
Perhaps a book shop the next time? He did so enjoy books.
Inside, he rummaged around the few racks that had not been emptied by the realtors. All the costumes were gone, of course, but there were shelves of cloth and other materials, some books and papers that he was happy to retrieve.
And the mirror.
It was prepared specifically for a night such as this; a night when he needed to call out to something very dangerous.
In the darkness of the shop, the only light coming from the streetlights outside, and from the moon, he stared into his own reflection in the mirror, and began to chant softly.
“Wanderer of the wastelands, harken now.
Lord of the Vile Flesh, hear me.
Master of the Dark Ways, show him now.
Master of the Secret Passages, let him pass.
Belphegor, Dark Wanderer, Horned Master,
Come to me now, the way is clear.
Let thy majesty be revealed.”
The mirror seemed to flow, as if the reflective glass were liquid, and Ethan could no longer see his own face. The mirror was black, as though it had been burned. And then, deep in that blackness, green eyes the color of putrescent flesh stared out at him. Flashing in the dark within the mirror, the blood-red horns of Belphegor, which resembled nothing so much as huge, gnawed-upon bones, with bits of rotting meat still attached.
“You dare much, little wizard,” the image rumbled.
Then it was more than an image. The horns of the demon began to poke through the shimmering silver of the mirror, into the real world.
“Not really,” Ethan said. “You don’t frighten me, Belphegor.”
At the use of its name, the demon winced. Ethan mentally thanked the dead Trenholm—much good gratitude did anyone—and continued.
“That’s right. Belphegor.” Ethan grinned, though in truth he was quite afraid. He hadn’t toyed with demons much, not if he could avoid it. His misadventures with Giles and the others had made him quite wary, if not exactly cautious. But he couldn’t let the demon know that.
“I’ve called you. I know you can’t make it through, not with all your power intact. That’s why you’re still over ther
e, isn’t it? If it was just a matter of having some weak-minded spellcaster call you up, you’d have been here centuries ago. No, you want something else. You have a plan, don’t you, Belphegor?”
The demon’s eyes seemed to leak something awful. Ethan could smell it, and nearly vomited. Instead, he held the mirror at arm’s length and tried to breathe through his mouth.
“I’ll have your heart,” Belphegor promised. “That’s as much of my plan as I wish to share with you.”
“I don’t particularly care what you wish.”
The demon roared. The mirror shook and nearly fell from Ethan’s hands. He managed to hold on until it subsided.
“What do you want, little man?” Belphegor demanded.
“For once, it isn’t about me,” Ethan said. Then, in retrospect: “Well, not entirely. You need to come through intact. The laws of nature won’t allow such a thing, and you’re trying to change those laws. That much I know. I also know that you want the Slayer. You need her power, or her blood, or both.
“I can get her for you.”
Ethan saw the way the demon’s eyes flared. He thought he could see its vast rows of teeth, and wondered if the thing was actually smiling. But then it drew back into the mirror, horns sinking once more. He could barely make it out, but from the darkness inside, it spoke.
“And what would you desire in return, man?”
This is it, Ethan thought. “Life,” he replied. “Of the eternal variety, of course. And a small kingdom of my own, shall we say, two thousand souls of my own choosing. Not much to ask for, I believe, when you consider what you’ll receive in trade.”
The mirror went black. Ethan blinked, staring more deeply into it. He brought it closer to his face, and then jerked back as those hideous eyes and filthy horns shot up toward him, bloody maw of a mouth open below.
“I think I’d rather have your heart,” Belphegor roared. “I don’t like you, human. You don’t show the proper respect for your fear. And I certainly don’t need you. If we are able to claim the Slayer, it will speed our invasion. It will hurry the apocalypse along, and bring my reign about all the sooner.
“But if she yet lives . . . it isn’t going to stop us.
“Hell is coming, little wizard.
“I’m coming . . . for you . . .”
“Bastard!” Ethan screamed wildly. “You don’t want to make an enemy of me!”
The demon’s image withdrew, and one of its taloned, pustulent hands shot through the mirror and scrabbled for the front of Ethan’s jacket. With a shout of fear and anger, he smashed the mirror against the wall, splintering it into dozens of tiny pieces. For a moment he saw the claw tips of several fingers poking through the larger shards of broken mirror, and then they were gone.
He’d have to prepare another mirror, when he had the time. Really the safest way to go about such things.
With a snarl, he took one last glance at the shattered mirror, and then headed out the back door once more.
Ethan might have been a useful ally to the demon, but Belphegor had spurned him. Now he would do all he could to destroy the hellspawn. The demon lord Belphegor had made a very dangerous enemy.
* * *
“This is . . . this is nuts!” Xander said, shaking his head.
He sat on the edge of the Gatekeeper’s bed, holding his hands out in front of himself. His fingers were several inches away from each other, and tendrils of electric blue magick sparked back and forth between them.
With a sigh, he stood up and began to walk the length of the room. “I can’t be the Gatekeeper, you guys!” he said. “I have . . . I have school, y’know? And . . . and there’s college to think of, or whatever.”
His eyes wide with horror, he turned to regard Willow and Cordelia, who were both equally wide-eyed.
“And, oh my God, what about my parents? My dad is gonna kill me,” he said miserably.
It was Cordelia who laughed. Of course.
“Xander, please,” she scoffed. “You’re, like, the Gatekeeper now. One of the most powerful sorcerers on Earth? Hello? I really don’t think there’s much your parents can do to you now.”
“Well, they can be pissed at him,” Willow offered. “And, okay, if he still hasn’t graduated, they could ground him, I think. Right?”
Xander shot her a look. “Thanks, Will. Very helpful. Would you pour me a glass of hemlock while you’re at it?”
Willow offered an apologetic grin and a shrug. “It’s the least I can do,” she said. “Xander, I don’t want you to be the Gatekeeper. That would mean you, y’know, here, and everybody else three thousand miles away.”
“Speak for yourself, Rosenberg,” Cordelia replied, moving to link her arm with Xander’s. “I think I’ll stay right here with my all-powerful sorcerer boyfriend. God, wait until those stuck-up bitches at school hear about this one.”
Xander spread his arms, palms up, and stared at them each in turn. A moment passed, and they only looked back at him.
“Hello?” he said at last. “Okay, saving the world. In the midst of battle? Does any of this ring a bell? Has it occurred to anyone that I’m now, like, the last line of defense for the planet Earth . . . and we’re now all doomed to eternal torment of Hell on Earth.”
He collapsed on the bed again and buried his face in his hands.
“Why me?” he moaned.
“Better than death, though,” Willow offered helpfully. “That’s something.”
“Or just prolonging the inevitable,” Cordelia added, her face scrunched up in that deep-in-thought look that Xander saw her get every so often. “So maybe being all-powerful isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. But if the kid’s still alive, all we have to do is keep this place from falling apart until Buffy gets him here.”
“We don’t even know if they found the boy,” Willow said miserably.
“Wait—” Xander interrupted. “Cordy, did you say ‘if’? What happens if the kid never shows? Am I the Gatekeeper forever?”
“Well, even if he comes, I think you might have to die for him to inherit his power,” Willow said.
Once again, Xander moaned.
Then, without warning, the house shuddered and the ghost of Antoinette Regnier appeared in the center of the room, above the Cauldron.
“My son’s death has bought some little time,” she said. “But the Sons of Entropy are many. Those few survivors renew their assault, assuming the house undefended. And there will be more.
“Xander, you must perform your duty.”
Cordelia stared at her. “Wait just a minute, he isn’t the real Gatekeeper!”
“You can’t ask him to—” Willow began.
Xander cut them both off. “Guys, thanks. But she can. She has to. And I have to do it. There isn’t anybody else.”
He paused, lowered his head a moment, and then said softly, “Now I guess I know how Buffy feels.”
None of them had anything to say to that. Until, at length, Willow slapped her hands to her thighs and stood up.
“We need Giles,” she said.
“We need Giles,” Cordelia agreed, and reached into her jacket pocket to pull out her thin cellular phone.
She and Willow both turned to look at Xander. He frowned and stared at them, but then he saw the phone and he understood. The Gatehouse exuded some kind of force field which didn’t allow such communications to pass through, at least, not without the Gatekeeper opening a hole in that field.
Xander made an apologetic face, and shrugged. “I’m sorry, guys, I don’t know . . .”
Then, suddenly, he did know. He knew exactly what to do. Cocking his head as though he were listening to something nobody else could hear, he held up one hand and twirled his fingers.
“Try it now,” he said, as surprised by his behavior as the girls were.
When Cordelia dialed the number for the school library, it began to ring on the other side.
* * *
Giles placed the phone back in its cradle. He started slightly w
hen Oz growled in his cage. Then he turned to face Micaela and Jacques again.
“Rupert, what is it?” Micaela asked. “You look so pale.”
He Smiled thinly. “Not to worry,” he replied. “It’s my natural color.”
Then his smile disappeared. He’d made a joke, and Buffy was not there to remark upon the amazing infrequency of such an event. He wished desperately that she and Angel had not already gone out to search for Joyce. He needed her there, needed her to work with him to formulate a plan. As much as she sold herself short, Buffy was actually a passable strategist, and improving with time.
“What’s happened?” Micaela asked.
“My father is dead, isn’t he?” Jacques asked.
Giles went to the boy and crouched down, nodding slowly and sadly. “Yes, Jacques, I’m afraid he is,” Giles told him. “But his death has, somehow, through some accident of magick, granted us a kind of reprieve.”
Micaela shook her head. “But how can that be? If he’s died, the Gatehouse must be in the hands of . . .”
“The new Gatekeeper,” Giles replied.
Boy and woman stared at him in utter incomprehension.
“Somehow, the house itself has decided that Xander—a friend of Buffy’s whom neither of you has met—is actually a Regnier. It has made him the Gatekeeper.”
“With the full power of the Regnier line?” Micaela asked, astounded.
“Indeed,” Giles replied.
“That’s extraordinary,” she said. “That means we can concentrate on the situation here. On finding Buffy’s mother and dealing with my fath—with Fulcanelli.”
Jacques did not seem quite convinced. “Eventually,” he said, “the house will realize its error. I must return before that moment arrives.”
Giles cocked his head thoughtfully. “On the contrary,” he said. “I believe the house will continue to recognize Xander as the Gatekeeper—now that it has done so—until the true heir arrives. Not to worry, Jacques. We will get you home as soon as we are able.”
Sons of Entropy Page 9
