Out of the Madhouse

by Christopher Golden

  Cordelia patted Xander’s hand. “Us, too,” she announced. “I have cheerleading practice at the crack of dawn.” She rolled her eyes. “Why they continually schedule those things outside of school hours just baffles me. 1 mean, you would think they’d be more considerate. It’s hard to look good at seven-thirty in the morning and be burning up with school spirit.”

  “Not for you,” Xander said pleasantly.

  Cordelia opened her mouth, an aggravated look on her face, and then closed it again, dumbfounded, as she apparently realized that Xander had just paid her a fine compliment.

  They all left together, Buffy heading the parade with Angel in tow. On the stage, some poor fools were getting heckled for the crime of not realizing that grunge was so over there were kids in the audience who had still been in diapers when Seattle was the altrock destination of choice.

  Outside, they swept past the new bouncer, the guy who’d replaced Bruno a couple of months back, and then turned right to trudge over to an alley which was the one spot where Cordelia and Oz could usually find a parking space.

  Buffy lifted her face to the night breeze. She could smell the ocean, and for a moment she thought of Los Angeles and her long-ago life, when being the Chosen One meant you got a rhinestone tiara and a bouquet of red roses, not a lifetime’s supply of holy water and enough garlic to open up your own Italian restaurant.

  Under his breath, Oz was singing “Let’s kill time,” and Buffy realized that as bad as the band had been, the song was actually kind of memorable. In a melancholy way.

  They were halfway down the alley when something scrabbled along the roof of the Bronze. They all glanced up at the thing, which darted along, leaving behind a shadowed blur.

  In the distance, a woman started screaming.

  Without hesitation, Angel and Buffy fanned out, flanking the others. She reached into her bag and pulled out a stake. She held it out to him, only to see him withdraw another stake from inside his duster. Buffy approved. A good workman comes with his tools, Giles had told her more than once.

  “Help!” someone shrieked. “Oh, my God!”

  Buffy’s legs pumped as she covered ground almost as fast as Angel. Together they rounded a corner, sprinted toward a screaming woman. But Angel was in the lead, and the woman took one look at him and ran in the opposite direction. Buffy realized that he must be in full vamp face, but wasn’t concerned. If the woman could run, she was basically unhurt. It was time to redirect their focus on whatever had attacked her.

  Then Buffy heard the scrabbling noise from above. The monster was back on the roof. Angel came up beside her, and they watched it as it rushed back across the tops of the buildings. It seemed to fly, or leap, almost like a flying squirrel, a long coat or cloak billowing out behind it.

  “It’s Batman,” Angel said.

  “I don’t think so,” Buffy replied grimly.

  It was heading back toward Buffy’s friends. Angel must have realized it at the same time, because as she broke into a run back the way they’d come, he kept pace with her. She rounded the corner again, and saw them standing, talking, where they had first seen the strange creature on the rooftop.

  “Run!” Buffy shouted, closing the distance to her friends as fast as she could.

  The shape soared into the air above them, cloak unfurling like giant bat’s wings. Its head fell back as it sailed, and a plume of blue flames erupted from its mouth.

  “Yow,” Xander said. “Name that demon.”

  It landed heavily on the roof on the other side of the street, its hands making a terrible scraping sound like fingernails on a chalkboard. Buffy followed it with her eyes, but it was almost impossible to make it out in the darkness. It stood far back on the roof and seemed to regard them for a moment. Then it rushed toward the edge of the roof, passing beneath a series of overhanging lights so fast the effect was like a strobe.

  “Run,” Buffy said to the others. “Now.”

  Cordelia broke ranks first. With a tiny shriek she turned around and ran back toward the Bronze. Two mistakes in one. The first was running. The second was running away from Buffy and Angel.

  The thing threw itself off the roof and dove after her. More blue flame shot from its mouth, lighting up Cordelia’s retreat as well as the thing itself. It was manlike, with a hideous, fanged mouth, black eyes like holes in its face, and pointed ears, and it was wearing some kind of white, oily armor.

  Pretty, it was not.

  “Cordy!” Xander shouted, racing after Cordelia.

  “No, Xander!” Buffy cried, and sped up, her lungs burning now as she caught up to where Willow and Oz stood, trying to figure out what to do next. Buffy solved the problem for them. “Don’t move!” she snapped.

  Cordelia glanced back at Xander, then up at her pursuer and screamed.

  Xander reached for Cordelia just as Buffy caught up with him. She grabbed his arm, holding him back, and yanked him hard out of her way. She was the Slayer. She was supposed to keep him safe. Keep them all safe. Xander lost his footing and went down hard. Buffy tried to leap over him, but her legs became tangled up in his fall, and she went down as well. It took her a moment to free herself. Buffy leaped to her feet as the creature settled down to the street between her and Cordelia.

  It opened its mouth as if in a roar, and a volley of flame shot from its gullet and caught Cordelia on the back of her head. Instantly, her hair began to burn. Cordelia shrieked wildly, her hands flailing in utter panic. The thing reached out for her, and its talons snagged her dress, tearing the fabric. Cordelia barely noticed as she batted at her hair, but from one small scratch on her back, she’d begun to bleed.

  Then Angel vaulted past Buffy. He reached Cordelia first and pulled her down onto the pavement, where he covered her head with his body, smothering the flames.

  The monster turned to face Buffy. Inhuman eyes wide, it seemed to examine her. It lifted its right hand to its mouth and licked Cordelia’s blood off the single talon with which it had scratched her. Buffy raised her stake. The thing ignored her, turning its attention back to Cordelia.

  “Hey, ugly!” Buffy snarled as she went after it. “You’re gonna hurt my feelings if you keep this up.”

  Then, somehow, Xander was in front of her, between Buffy and the monster, going after it. He reached out, got hold of its black cloak, and tugged. The thing turned, opened its mouth . . .

  “Xander!” Buffy shouted, and tackled him. Hard.

  Blue flame crackled as it jetted from the thing’s mouth, burning the air above them as they tumbled to the pavement. A second later and it would have been Xander’s face crackling with fire.

  “Ow, damn it!” Xander shouted.

  But Buffy was already up and swinging. She connected with the monster. It looked like a tall, thin man, and as it opened its mouth, she landed a savage roundhouse kick to the side of the monster’s face. It howled and staggered backward, raking the air between them with hands that ended in thick, metallic talons. Flame vomited from its mouth.

  Buffy ducked, bent sideways, and snapped her left leg up straight and hard, catching the thing in its midsection.

  The thing was momentarily off balance. Angel rushed it from the side and slammed it against the metal siding of the warehouse behind it. It fell to one side, violently crashing into a line of trash cans, which spread their refuse over the sidewalk.

  Quickly, instinctively, Buffy and Angel moved into position, trapping the thing between them. She looked at Angel; he nodded once at her, and they attacked from either side. But as they rushed it, the monster rose to its feet, bent its legs, and leaped up, soaring into the air. It landed on the hood of a Toyota fifteen yards away. Metal squealed and crunched beneath its weight.

  “Oh, my God,” Willow said, as she and Oz stared after it.

  It sprang against the side of the building and crawled up it like a lizard, arms and legs scrabbling furiously. It reached the edge of the overhanging roof, grabbed it, launched itself up and over it, and continued on
. In a few seconds it was gone.

  The squeal of metal was like an echo of the thrash pulsating from the open door of the Bronze down the street.

  Another squeal, like a horrid guitar riff.

  Then nothing.

  Catching her breath, Buffy jogged toward Cordelia. “Is she okay?” she called, passing Willow and Oz, who were also loping toward Xander and Cordy.

  Xander was on his knees, cradling Cordelia’s head in his lap. “Yeah, no thanks to you,” he snapped, glaring up at her. “God, Buffy, I was there. Why’d you knock me down?”

  “I was worried that . . .” she said, and then stopped. It had been reflex, pure and simple, that had made her push Xander out of her way. She hadn’t thought about it. She had simply done it. The second time, she’d saved him from getting his face scorched. But the first, it was just . . . she was the Slayer.

  “If you had just let me help her instead of making me scrape up my arms until they looked like hamburger meat, her hair wouldn’t be falling out in smoking little clumps,” Xander continued.

  “Oh, no!” Cordelia wailed, clutching at her head. “No!”

  Xander glared up at Buffy.

  “No,” Buffy blurted defensively. “I had to—” She held out her hands. “I’ve never seen anything like that creature before. I didn’t want any of you getting hurt.”

  “I was doing just fine. It’s not like I can’t hold my own.” He raised his chin, very angry, very protective as he cradled Cordelia’s head. “God, Buffy, why don’t you just get a life. Oh, right. You already have one. And this is it.”

  “Xander,” Willow said, shocked, as she breathlessly joined the group.

  Xander glared at Buffy.

  She looked away, into the darkness where the monster had retreated.

  Angel came up beside Buffy. “You did what you had to do,” he said to her.

  She slumped, turned, and started walking home.

  Alone.

  Chapter

  1

  BODIES GYRATED, MUSIC POUNDED THROUGH pitiful speakers, drinks were poured, imbibed, or spilled in mass quantities. A watered-down gin and tonic in hand, Rupert Giles stood in the far corner of the room and took it all in, careful not to show his disdain. That would be unforgivably rude. This might be New York City, the capital city of rudeness, but that did not mean Giles had to behave in a boorish manner. Come to think of it, there were plenty of boors in London.

  Surprised as he was by it, he was forced to admit, at least to himself, that he missed Southern California. At least a little bit. Certainly he missed Buffy and the other students with whom he spent so much time. But there was a certain comfort to the West Coast’s laissez-faire attitude that he had begun to enjoy . . . and which, despite the bacchanalia surrounding him, the East Coast distinctly lacked.

  In truth, great forces had conspired to bring him to Manhattan in late winter. Not the least of which was pressure from his employer, the principal of Sunnydale High School, to at least make an effort to become better versed in modern library science. It seemed the Dewey decimal system just wasn’t good enough for some people anymore. In some ways, books weren’t even the answer. It was all about information now, he thought sadly. And much of that information, however incomplete, however orphaned from any pedigree, was drawn from computers these days.

  His only previous interest in computers had been generated by Jenny Calendar, the woman he’d loved. And that meager interest had died and been buried along with her.

  The other primary reason that Giles agreed to attend this function—“Libraries 2000,” sponsored by the American Library Association, among others—was the fact that many of the events were to be held in the Warwick Hotel, a grand old dame of a building whose granite and gargoyles looked down on 57th Street with all the haughtiness of Britain’s proudest structures. He had stayed at the Warwick on one of his first visits to the United States, and recalled with pleasure an enormous mural of Queen Elizabeth knighting Sir Francis Drake in the downstairs dining room.

  Indeed, in spite of his misgivings, Giles had managed to enjoy himself for the past few days, both with the other librarians he’d met and exploring New York alone. It was an extraordinary city. It was true, he’d discovered (or at least, hypothesized), that one could find literally anything in this city, if one knew where to look. The seminar had, thus far, been a relaxing escape from Sunnydale and from the pressures of his role as the Watcher.

  He felt a bit guilty for having abandoned Buffy, even for a week, but she had nearly forced him to go, even instructed him on what to pack. He had disappointed her, he was sure, in his refusal to “go more cazh” and “leave all that tweedy stuff in the library, where it belongs.” She also arranged for Cordelia to drive him to the airport, a trip he hoped never to repeat, given her penchant for checking her makeup in the rearview mirror. She had even supplied him with an ancient, weather-worn copy of New York on Five Dollars a Day, thoughtfully marking sights she imagined he might enjoy, and which, frankly, he had: the museums and a number of bookshops. It seemed fairly clear that Buffy had actually wanted him to go.

  Who could blame her? He was, at least officially, an authority figure in her life. It would be nice for her to be free of him for a time. Still, Giles looked forward to returning home, and suspected that Buffy would be pleased when he did return. And, thus far, there seemed to have been no urgent crises requiring his attention at home.

  Reluctant as he was to admit it, Giles was having . . . well, fun.

  At least, he had been until he’d entered this room. The invitation, a splashy foldout from something called stacks.com, which was apparently an Internet meeting place for librarians, had announced a cocktail reception in the Cary Grant Suite of the Warwick Hotel. Well, seeing the Cary Grant Suite had proven an irresistible lure for Giles, and it was, indeed, something to see.

  There was a large bedroom on either side of the enormous parlor that served as a reception room. The suite was at the southwest corner of the hotel, and there were two sets of French doors that opened out onto an absolutely extraordinary balcony. It wasn’t at all like any balcony Giles had ever seen, and certainly not something twenty-seven stories above the city. The enormous stone edifice was more like a large terrace one might see at a stately home in the Cotswolds. At least twenty-five feet wide, it ran the length of the Cary Grant Suite’s outer wall. The granite color matched the sky; it was apparently quite chilly outside, and the forecast had called for snow, but so far none had fallen.

  Giles wondered if he ought to escape to the balcony, despite the cold. It would be a welcome relief from the party. As a rule, the librarians who were attending the stacks.com “cocktail reception” were younger than he, and American. The men wore blue jeans and sneakers with their button-down shirts, and the women, perhaps eager for a chance to dress, wore tiny black dresses or silk pants.

  With his gabardine suit and old-school burgundy tie, Giles knew how out of place he must have appeared. Even that was only a fraction of how out of place he actually felt. He brushed a hand through his slightly graying brown hair, then pushed his glasses up his nose for the hundredth time.

  “Good Lord,” he muttered to himself. “These are librarians?”

  But if he were honest with himself, Giles would be forced to admit that it wasn’t the dress or behavior of these people that had him wanting so desperately to retreat. Nor was it the fact that, with his love of dusty old books and getting lost in the stacks—ironically, the place he felt the most at home, and the polar opposite of the stacks.com party—he felt positively antique, though even the youngest person in the room was little more than a decade his junior.

  No. Worst of all was how much they all reminded him of Jenny. With their sense of fashion and their technical knowledge and the confidence with which they spoke, moved, danced, even breathed, the people crowding the Cary Grant Suite gave him great cause for lament.

  It wasn’t exactly grief, or mourning. Enough time had passed that those wounds had be
gun to heal. He’d even caught his eyes roaming appreciatively from time to time. The thought had occurred to him that he might, at some point, meet someone else whom he would like to have in his life. Someone else to love.

  But he still missed her terribly. Still ached to tell her little things that he’d discovered in his research and wanted to share, only to realize that he had no one to share them with. No one who could truly appreciate what such utter trivialities meant to him. It still hurt.

  With a sigh, Giles edged around several people who were talking loudly together about a “chat room” where they’d apparently spoken with Frank Herbert, the author of Dune. Giles didn’t have the heart to tell them that Herbert had been dead for years, and was dismayed that they didn’t realize it themselves. Dismayed, but not particularly surprised. After all, it all boiled down to Web sites and URL’s, not frontispieces and back matter. A pity.

  He opened one of the French doors and let himself out onto the stone balcony, where a large group of people had already gathered. The sharp wind brought the scent of smoke. Instantly, Giles understood the hardiness of his fellows. Most of them were smokers, exiled to the frozen outdoors by law and the demands of political correctness.

  With a shiver, he turned up the collar of his suit coat, and shoved his hands deep in the pockets of his gabardine trousers. In his room, he had a very nice pair of leather gloves, which he wished he’d brought. Exhaling, seeing his breath curl as if he, too, had lit a cigarette, his eyes scanned the cityscape, the lights and the activity far below. Sixth Avenue was bright with the electricity of life, vivid with every bit of excitement and bluster and spectacle that humanity could muster. That was New York City to him.

  “Breathtaking, isn’t it?”

  Her voice was soft, her tone thoughtful, with none of the razor edge of the city in it. Giles blinked, glanced just to his left, uncertain at first if the woman was speaking to him. But he couldn’t see her in his peripheral vision. Giles turned, and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe.

  She was divine. A tall, yet lithe woman with the most delicate features imaginable. Her faced seemed to glow, and though it might have been the neon burning in the city beyond, Giles chose to deem it some ethereal light. In either case, it made her look almost angelic. A splash of her honey-blond hair fell in a gentle wave across her face, while the rest was done up in a long, elaborate braid that fell down past her shoulders. It was unfashionably long, but Giles thought it quite lovely.