“You’re so hilarious.” Cordelia made as if to punch him, then stopped and dropped her hand to her side.
“It’s okay,” Xander told her. “Even though I’m somewhat godlike, you can still smack me.”
The house shook again. More plaster tumbled down.
Xander turned and gave Willow a wink, saying, “Sandwich.” He kissed Cordelia on her lips. “Later.”
* * *
Then he strode away, aware that they were watching him. He was amazed at what had happened to him. He was the Gatekeeper. He, Xander Harris, the guy voted most likely to be mediocre, to not do anything with his life except serve as Riker to Buffy’s Picard.
Which actually was quite an accomplishment, when you thought about it.
But around here, he was Picard, Kirk, Sisko, and—God help him—Janeway, all rolled into one.
Okay, not Janeway. Scratch that. She talked like a Conehead and he did not get her fashion sense at all.
“So beam me up, Scotty,” he muttered, as he went to battle the Sons of Entropy threatening to invade the Gatehouse.
His Gatehouse.
Raising his chin, squaring his shoulders, he marched down the curving staircase that led to the house’s entryway. From there, he threw open the front door, daring the massing acolytes to attack.
One did, a scrawny man with Asian features, sending a bolt of pulsing lightning straight for him. Xander repelled it with a murmured word of magick and a flick of his wrist. Returned to sender, it exploded in the chest of the Asian man. The acolyte burst into bits.
Xander watched in satisfaction as a ripple of fear went through his enemies.
“Next,” he shouted, taunting them.
“Who . . . who are you?” one of them called to him.
He grinned. “Well, I’m not the homecoming king,” he replied. “But I’ll do in a pinch.”
Chapter 8
CLOAKED IN BLACK, BROTHER CLAUDE crossed his arms and watched as Brother Lupo directed the tying of the sacrifice to the hastily erected altar inside the service tunnel. Subterranean Sunnydale was a warren of dark and eerie passageways and sewers, and natural cave formations, perhaps speaking to a communal need, conscious or otherwise, to burrow down away from the sun and sleep in the lap of Hell.
Some of the underground places housed truly fascinating and unique demons and monsters, a smorgasbord of evil that must have kept the Slayer very busy. Claude was still mulling over the implications of a man-sized skeleton, part human, part fish, they had found while preparing the altar. Intriguing. A kelpie? He wasn’t sure. Small animal skeletons and bones with a human appearance had been scattered around it—its prey, perhaps? He squinted and noted approximately a dozen or so tiny skeletons he was sure were those of Dark Faeries.
How wonderful, to revel in the beauties of the Hellmouth!
But he must pay attention to the matter at hand. As coleader of the group, he must give their ritual due reverence.
The three acolytes who bound the young girl were clumsy with nervousness. Everyone in their band—numbering almost two dozen—was anxious and uneasy. And with reason: though Claude and Lupo had managed to convince them that to remain with Il Maestro was to die, the two had not been foolish enough to guarantee their survival if they sided against their old master.
Thus, the sacrifice to chaos.
One of many sacrifices they had made in the last few hours, actually. The altar and the dirty, damp tunnel floor were awash in blood. This one, their last, was some pretty young thing they’d dragged into the car when no one was looking. Her tender beauty would greatly please the dark lords.
Claude was still sorry they hadn’t taken the Slayer’s mother. She would have been a very powerful sacrifice. Without the proper rituals, her death in the maze would be a ridiculous waste. And her presence had done nothing to lure the Slayer into Fulcanelli’s orbit.
Proving further what an imbecile he was.
Claude sucked in his breath at this errant thought. Old habits died hard, and though he had gone against his onetime leader, he had not shed the automatic response, developed over years, of showing Il Maestro proper respect at all times, in thought, word, and deed.
The sacrifice was now fully bound, and the acolytes moved away from the altar. They still wore the hooded robes of their former order, the Sons of Entropy. Claude and Lupo had discussed it, and decided that there was no time to outfit them in something else to ritualistically set them apart from the world they sought to overrun. But now, looking upon the brethren as they moved in the dark, dank tunnel, he wondered if that had been a mistake. If they felt like traitors rather than courageous warriors.
Brother Lupo began the ritual, with Claude and the others intoning the responses. How many sacrifices had he attended, even performed? Hundreds. And yet, each one was special, if one had the discipline to make it such, and the belief that each one mattered.
On the altar, the girl moaned in terror and tried to struggle. They usually did. It was always a wasted effort. He found it in his heart to pity her, although usually he felt very little, if anything, for sacrifices. At least the end would be quick. Once Lupo stabbed her through the heart—now the bald man held a dagger aloft—she would struggle no longer.
As all held their breath, Lupo paused. Then he put down the dagger and said, “Stand back.”
Claude frowned slightly and cocked his head. That was not part of the ritual.
Lupo stood apart as the others gazed at him uncertainly. His body began to glow almost imperceptibly, with an aura of oily black flame. Claude opened his mouth to speak, but he was mesmerized. The black fire crackled all over Lupo’s frame, engulfing him. Even the girl on the altar was distracted from her plight as she stared, goggle-eyed.
Lupo extended his arms almost casually. Perhaps then the sacrifice understood what was to come, for she strained against her bonds and shrieked behind her gag.
It was not pleasant. The tunnel filled with smoke and several of the acolytes had to move farther down the passage, doubled over with coughing.
But Claude could not stop watching.
Neither could any of the others, who watched in mute astonishment.
Then, as the corpse fell in upon itself into a pile of ashes, anger and excitement mingled in Claude as the acolytes began to fall on their knees in obeisance to Lupo. He must consider his next move carefully. Lupo had been grandstanding, true, but on the other hand, morale among the acolytes had sunk dangerously low. Now they were smiling. Cheers rose up. They had seen one of their leaders achieve the black burn, Il Maestro’s most dangerous weapon of destruction. Their side stood a chance after all.
Lupo gazed levelly at Claude and smiled. Claude did not smile back. If they both survived their war with Fulcanelli, a confrontation between them was inevitable. And Claude could not perform the burn.
But if Lupo did not survive the war . . .
Now he did smile.
Lupo looked mildly uncomfortable.
Claude said, “It’s time to go, brothers. We fight for our lives. We fight for chaos.”
“For chaos,” they intoned.
Lupo moved away from the altar and cracked open a wooden crate. Inside lay a cache of automatic weapons. He picked one up and said, “I want each of you fully armed. No man leaves here without one of these.”
He began to toss them to the brothers, some of whom scrambled eagerly to catch them, others who shied away as if they were hand grenades. The weapons were another surprise, and again, Claude had mixed feelings. He had often argued that the Sons of Entropy should be better armed, especially the ones who were not magickally adept. But the fact remained that Lupo had not consulted with him, and again, he was establishing himself as the generous benefactor of the group.
Claude walked over and picked up one of the weapons. It was an AK-47, and he had used one before.
Many times.
“They’re simple to use,” Lupo said. “Watch.”
While he ran through a quick demonstr
ation, Claude flicked his fingers at the ashes of the sacrifice. They rose into a column in the air, then resettled upon the altar. He examined them for signs and portents, smiling as he found evidence of personal victory.
Lupo was temporarily distracted by Claude’s actions. Claude shrugged and made his face a blank; Lupo narrowed his eyes and returned to his training session.
So. Lines were being drawn. Post-Fulcanelli plans must be made.
Claude walked the length of the tunnel and closed his eyes. He formed a mental picture of an imp sitting on his shoulder, chittering in his ear like an organ grinder’s monkey. Its mottled gray face was elongated, its eyes mere slits of glowing scarlet.
He concentrated until he could feel the pressure of the imp’s weight, the pinpricks of its talons as it balanced on his shoulder. The graveyard smell of it. Its grating, frenetic voice.
“Find the heir. Find Micaela,” he told it.
It gabbled and gibbered, and then it unfurled its leathery wings and flew away.
Maybe this time, Claude thought. He had sent other familiars and other creatures out searching. None had been successful, and he had destroyed each one when it had failed him.
“O great dark gods,” he murmured, “make me the king of this world, and I will gladly become your imp. I will be your dog. I will do your bidding with every breath I take.”
Nothing happened. With this particular prayer, nothing had ever happened.
He tried again. “I will give you power. I will not rest until I have given you the Slayer.”
An icy shiver passed through him and he involuntarily arched his back in surprise. Then he realized that something had passed inside him, and taken up residence.
At long last, his prayers had been answered.
He turned and impatiently clapped his hands. The sound echoed down the tunnel, eerily louder than the movements of the Sons of Chaos as they learned how to use their new toys.
All heads turned in his direction.
“I’ve received direct word from the ones we serve,” he announced. “It’s time.”
“We’re not finished,” Lupo said haughtily.
Claude felt the presence inside him stretch against his muscles and tissues. The bony ridges of his forehead pushed forward at an oblique angle, then sank downward. The cartilage in the ridge of his nose pushed through the layers of sinew and skin and pressed its features onto his. His mouth stretched almost to the breaking point, and froze into place.
His teeth elongated, and sharpened.
He looked at Lupo, who blanched. The others drew back. Then slowly, one by one, they fell to their knees.
“We’re finished here,” Claude retorted, but it wasn’t his voice that spoke the words. Gravelly and deep, it was the voice of something ancient and very evil. One of the old gods, the Lords of Chaos.
“It is time to face Fulcanelli,” the voice continued, “and it is time for him to die.”
* * *
Buffy looked down from their vantage point on the hill behind the drive-in and muttered, “Well, this is just terrific. The one time I need you to be a liar, and you’re telling me the truth.”
Ethan shrugged apologetically. “Sorry.”
Giles raised an eyebrow and glared at the magician. “Ethan, what did you hope to accomplish by keeping the Minotaur a secret until the very last?” He stared angrily at his former friend, now his very untrustworthy ally.
“Dramatic tension?” Ethan quipped. He held out his arms as if he wanted a big hug. “It’s just that side of me, Ripper, the one that likes things to be a little uncertain. That’s what I like about the Sons of Entropy. They’re into it. Entropy, I mean. Disorder. Confusion. That’s the stuff that gets an opportunist like me all hot and bothered.”
He covered his mouth with his fingertips. “Oops. Begging your pardon, Miss Summers, you with your tender youth and all that.”
“Stifle yourself, Ethan,” Buffy sneered. She dismissed him, and returned her attention to the maze. “Can you see her?” she asked Angel, then glanced at Giles.
Giles shook his head. “I’m sorry, no.”
“But I can smell something,” Angel offered, sniffing the air. “Something very musky.”
“It’s the Minotaur.” Ethan shook his head in mock sorrow. “I keep explaining to it that if it would only bathe, it could reel in the ladies.”
“Oh, yeah, and you’re such a babe magnet,” Buffy said flatly.
Then she started moving carefully down the hill, murmuring, “Which way is the wind blowing?”
Giles followed after, and Angel after him. Bringing up the rear, Ethan grumbled, “But I am a babe magnet.”
They reached the outer wall of the maze. For a moment they stood still, clearly stymied, until Buffy took a breath and slammed her foot into the wall. To Giles’s utter shock, she disappeared inside the maze.
Then she popped back out and said, “Yikes.”
“Whoa,” Angel said, looking at Giles. “What happened?”
“Like the Flying Dutchman, and any of the other oddities we’ve encountered, the labyrinth is not supposed to be here. It may have been pulled through from the Otherworld by magick, or simply slipped through, now that the barriers between worlds are disintegrating,” Giles explained. “But with the magickal war being waged, and all the barriers so tenuous, its presence may be only temporary.”
“Meaning?” Angel prompted.
Giles frowned. “At any moment, the maze might be sucked through, and rematerialize in the Otherworld. The Gatekeeper could never return those things that slipped into our world before, but I’d bet now, with the walls so thin, it would be a simple task. In any case, that’s got no bearing on the labyrinth. It was never bound into the Gatehouse, as far as I can recall.”
“Wonderful. So if we go inside, we may be whisked away to another dimension, never to return?” Ethan turned to go. “I’ll sit this one out, if you don’t mind.”
Angel grabbed his arm. “We mind. We mind very much.” He looked at Giles. “The sooner we get in and find Joyce, the sooner we can get the hell out of here.”
Giles closed his eyes. There was not a single part of him that wanted to say what he was going to say. It would only make Buffy angry, and she certainly wouldn’t listen to him. But he had a duty, and so he went through the motion, useless as it was.
“The Slayer cannot risk this,” he announced. “The world—”
“Oh, please!” Buffy cried. “It hangs in the balance, okay? How many times am I going to have to hear that!”
Giles persisted. “If we are taken to another dimension, but not killed, I’m not sure another Chosen One would be called. You would be impotent and—”
“Hey, no need to get personal,” she growled. She put a leg back through the maze wall. “That’s my mom in there. I’m going in. There’s nothing you can do.”
She lifted her chin. “Except help me.”
“All right.” Giles bowed his head. “I knew that would be your answer.”
She flashed him her best little-girl pout. “And I knew you would tell me not to do it.”
She ducked into the maze.
One by one, her team followed after.
* * *
The maze was pitch dark and smelled of rotting meat. Buffy gagged once, then resolutely hunkered into stalking position and began to move forward over the hard-packed earth.
“We need to keep track of our route,” Angel said.
“There’s the right-hand rule,” Giles replied. “Keep your right hand on a surface at all times. If there’s a break, find the adjacent wall and keep touching it with your right hand. It works on any maze. In England.”
“Okay, Alice in Wonderland,” Buffy muttered. “But I’m not doing that. I’m from the guess and stumble on, guess and stumble on school of mazes.”
“Very well, I’ll do it,” Giles said, “but if we get separated, then listen for my voice.”
“Hey, where’s Ethan?” Angel said.
Buffy whirled around, tackled the retreating magician, and threw him to the ground.
“Oof,” Ethan wheezed. “Please, this isn’t a rugby match.”
“Get up.” Buffy was disgusted with him. She got to her feet and yanked him to a standing position.
“All right. Good Lord, who died and made you Xena?”
“Same people who made you Dr. Smith.”
“Sorry, I don’t follow,” Ethan told her.
“Lost in Space?” Buffy prompted. “The cowardly bad guy?”
“We’re from Britain, Buffy,” Giles informed her. “We had Dr. Who.”
“Whatever.” Buffy flung Ethan forward. “One more time, and you won’t be watching any TV ever again.”
“I love it when you’re angry.”
Buffy gritted her teeth and walked behind him. She wished she had a flashlight.
Or not.
The clouds shifted. The mist cleared away, and the full moon shone down upon the labyrinth. The walls were lit up, the ground, littered with bones, was cast in long, jagged shadows.
Everyone froze. Directly before them stood a creature Buffy dimly recalled from her mythology class: a muscular, filthy man wrapped in a piece of cowhide, his head that of a huge bull. Massive horns glinted in the waxy light.
Something trickled down the side of its face.
“No,” Buffy moaned.
With a bellow, the creature charged.
* * *
“Oh, yes,” Fulcanelli rejoiced, as he heard the roar of the Minotaur. His face quivered with delight; he rose from his chair in the projection booth and flung open the door. Instantly, a small throng of hooded acolytes froze in their places, awaiting his bidding.
“The Slayer has arrived,” he said, certain of it with every fiber of his being. “Go into the maze and retrieve her.”
“Go—go into the maze, Maestro?” piped one of them, a very young Australian with a goatee and an earring. “With the . . . beast?”
“I’ll follow in less than a minute,” Fulcanelli assured him. “I have a quick spell to cast, and then we’ll take her down.” He rubbed his hands together. “With any luck, the heir will be with her.” Too much to hope for, surely, but then, Fulcanelli was such an optimist.
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