Out of the Madhouse

by Christopher Golden

  On the other end, there was only silence. Finally, a speculative “Hmm.”

  “Ian?” Giles asked.

  “Disturbing news, Mr. Giles,” the man said. “Disturbing indeed. I suppose we must fear the worst. You’d best check out with due haste, allowing for doctor’s orders, of course. You might want to make a brief inquiry into Micaela’s whereabouts, but if she doesn’t turn up right off, you ought to head home straightaway. The Chosen One must be your first priority.”

  “Yes,” Giles said, mind already racing with the nastiest of possibilities, for both Micaela and Buffy. “As ever.”

  He returned the phone to its cradle, but could not sleep. The man’s words echoed in his mind.

  I suppose we must fear the worst.

  Giles thought of the twinkle in Micaela’s eye, the way her hair shone, even without the sun. Her knowing laugh.

  I suppose we must fear the worst.

  The horror of it all was that Giles had experienced the worst. He knew what that might entail. His concern for Micaela went beyond mere fear, dread building upon dread, and far along the path to terror. And, given the odd way Buffy had been behaving, and the little she had told him about what was happening in Sunnydale, he was also concerned for the safety of the Slayer and her friends.

  Suddenly resolute, Giles could remain still no longer. With a careful hand, he removed the intravenous needle from his arm and slid his legs over the edge of the bed. He still felt slightly woozy, and he allowed himself a moment before rising. Then, a deep breath, ignoring the pain in his head and back, and Giles stood up, decidedly uncomfortable in the cotton pajamas the hospital had provided.

  He stood for a moment, unsteady, and then moved carefully to the closet where his clothes were hanging. His other things were still at the hotel, but the clothes he had been wearing that night had been laundered and brought to him here.

  Giles reached for his shoes, bending to retrieve them. A spike of pain shot through his back and neck to his head. Giles grunted and put a hand to his head, even as his legs went numb and buckled beneath his weight. He fell to the floor in a heap, his glasses skittering across the cold tile.

  * * *

  When his eyes flickered open again, he was back in bed and an unfamiliar doctor was shining a penlight into his eyes.

  “Micaela,” Giles croaked.

  “Whoever she is, she can wait,” the doctor said gruffly. “Maybe you’re getting stir-crazy, Mr. Giles, and I can’t blame you. But there’s a reason you’re still in this hospital. Maybe you’ll listen to the doctors the next time.”

  Then Giles drifted off again and didn’t open his eyes until long past morning.

  * * *

  In an extraordinary garden that rambled across the grounds of a palatial estate in Kyoto, one of the finest cities in the world, Kobo Sensei screamed.

  He lay in the dirt of his garden, feeding the earth and the plants there with his blood, his very life. Kobo Sensei’s time as a Watcher had ended many decades earlier. He was an old man now, and had dreamed often about dying in his garden, but in those dreams, he had slipped gently away from a world he had served long and well.

  Nothing like this.

  The blade split the flesh of his wrist and traveled lightly under the skin, opening him as he himself had prepared fish tens of thousands of times in his life. Once again, Kobo Sensei screamed.

  But he did not give them what they wanted. He did not answer their questions, only some of which he knew the answers to.

  Except for his screams, Kobo Sensei was silent.

  Around him, in a semicircle, stood seven men in dark cloaks, with hoods that covered most of their faces from view. Even with the little sun that still lingered in the sky, he could tell little of them from their appearance. Men of different complexions, sizes, and shapes, but all men. Beyond that, it was clear they knew something of magick.

  And a great deal about pain.

  The blade came down again, this time to a point several inches below his navel. Its tip pressed into Kobo Sensei’s abdomen, split the skin, and again, began to travel up.

  Mind and body growing numb, Kobo Sensei gritted his teeth and glared at his hooded torturers. He vowed to himself that he would not scream again, and Kobo kept that vow.

  He was silent unto death.

  Chapter

  6

  WILLOW SAT IN THE SCHOOL library, feeling a bit creeped. She was alone. With the books that lived there, true. And the library’s trusty computer. Her only other company was the glow of the green glass study lamp and the comforting tapping of the keyboard. It occurred to her that if she could remember the name of the hospital Giles was in, she might be able to hack into his medical records and find out exactly what was wrong with him. Any medical terminology she was unfamiliar with would certainly be available on the Net.

  Her job had proven to be a complicated one. It would be fairly easy to discover the nature of each phenomenon or monster they had encountered over the last week, but what Willow wanted to know was if there had been other instances where they had all appeared at the same time. Entering SPRINGHEEL JACK, SKYQUAKE, SEA MONSTER, she told the search engine to locate only those matches containing all five words.

  No matches found.

  “Oh, bother,” she said, frustrated, and deleted SEA MONSTER. Or maybe SKYQUAKE was the problem. Maybe there was another term for it they hadn’t thought of.

  She left the search and clicked on her bookmark for the Library of Congress subject headings index. SKYQUAKES wasn’t listed at all.

  Yawning, she frowned and squinted at the screen. It had so been listed. She’d checked.

  She sat back and thought a moment. Typed SKY QUAKES, with a space between the two compound words.

  Nothing.

  Then she glanced up at the clock. She was startled to see it was much later than she’d imagined. If she left now, she would get home right on time. After all, she could resume her search once her parents went to bed, on her home computer. Except that the school’s local area net was behind the firewall, meaning that she couldn’t access it from home. So she’d have to save more searching in Giles’s files for tomorrow.

  Pushing back her chair, she grabbed her book bag and turned off the computer. Then, hesitating a moment, she turned off the study lamp as well. The library was drenched in darkness, illuminated only by the light in the hall. The school at night was not a friendly place.

  She had nearly died in the school at night. Back when he was evil, Angel had ambushed her and would have killed her, if Buffy hadn’t stopped him.

  But tonight Angel was with Buffy, patrolling for more unexpected visitors. Though Willow now stood firmly on the side of welcoming Angel back into their midst, that thought comforted her very little as she walked right beside the very spot where he had held her captive, laughing and squeezing her neck.

  Then she was outside, at the top of the steps. She inhaled deeply. The library always smelled of dust and a little bit of mildew. Tea sometimes, too. She smiled softly at the image of Giles in his office, holding a steaming cup in one hand while he turned pages with the other.

  She missed him. They needed him.

  She wanted him home, now.

  And she never wanted anything bad to happen to any of them.

  * * *

  Cordelia came up for air and said, “Xander, this is serious.”

  “I know,” Xander assured her, “and I’m taking it very seriously.”

  They were parked at Makeout Point, a discreet distance away from the other cars—okay, she was dating Xander, but she didn’t have to hang a neon sign around her neck, did she?—and as usual, Xander wasn’t listening to a word she was saying.

  Exasperated, she gave him a slight push in the chest. Her expensive Smash Box lipstick was slathered all over his face.

  “What?” he asked, panting slightly.

  “College,” she said. “How many times have we been through this? Xander, if you don’t go, you’ll end up working
for minimum wage.”

  “No, no, Cor.” He smiled at her. “I intend to go right past Go and live on the streets. I’ll lose all my teeth and I’ll write you love poems on the walls of the public urinals. Can you just hardly wait?”

  “Listen, moron.” She stared at him. “My parents are probably going to ship me off to Switzerland. Or maybe San Diego. It might be nice if you tried to go to the same place as me. But you can’t if you don’t apply.”

  “Hey, I applied to lots of schools. And I got accepted at a few. A couple.”

  She made a face. “All those colleges you applied to are lame. My parents would never let me go to any of them.”

  “Switzerland.” He looked at her as if she were insane.

  She shrugged. “Yeah.”

  “My parents can’t even spring for a wild fling on the Matterhorn at Disneyland. How on earth am I going to get to Switzerland? Besides, I don’t speak . . . Swiss.”

  “And it is a girls’ school,” she mused, seeing his point. She brightened. “Okay. San Diego. Or maybe a nice private college on the East Coast.”

  “Okay, here’s a thought.” He fluttered his lashes at her. “Why don’t you stay here with me and go to community college?”

  “It’s beyond me why you aim so low,” she said. “You’re capable of so much more.”

  “Yeah, and I’d like to prove that to you right now.” He put his arms around her neck and pulled her close to him. She felt his warm breath on her cheek and her heart caught. “And as for aiming low . . .”

  “Xander.” She shook her head. “Why do I even try.”

  Suddenly his grin vanished and he looked at her very seriously. For a moment, there was silence. And then he said, “Cordelia, I’m really glad you try. It helps that you . . . y’know, believe in me.”

  “I didn’t say that,” she replied defensively.

  He smiled. Kissed her.

  She kissed him back.

  After all, there were a few months left until graduation.

  * * *

  Cordelia had begun the arduous task of reapplying her makeup by the glow of the interior dome light while Xander played a private drum solo on the dash. Her words were almost incomprehensible as she smoothed on her lipstick, but Xander translated: She was making him promise to go see Frankel the guidance counselor again.

  “Okay?” she asked, popping the cap on her lipstick and dropping it into her purse.

  “He hates me,” Xander said, only half kidding.

  “I’m sure he doesn’t. Besides, it doesn’t matter. He’s there to help you. He’s a servant of the taxpayers.”

  “Right. Or else he really wanted to be an astronaut, but they were full up.”

  She fluffed her hair. “How do I look?”

  “Innocent and beguiling.”

  “Good.” She smiled at him. “Let’s go home.”

  “Your wish. My command. Miss Chase, start your engine.”

  Cordelia thrust the key in the ignition and turned it. The engine roared.

  “Ooh, tiger girl,” Xander gushed.

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “One more crack and you’re walking.”

  Xander held up his hands. “I’m saying nothing.”

  “See?” she said airily as she fishtailed down the mountain. “You are smart enough for college.”

  Chapter

  7

  The Court of King Francis I of France Fontainebleau, 1539

  THE LIGHT BREEZE THAT WHISPERED through the gardens at Fontainebleau carried a bit of a chill with it, and as Richard Regnier strolled deeper into the sprawling flora, he felt a nearly overwhelming urge to turn back. With a brief glance at the trellises and arches that made the labyrinthine garden about him, Regnier set his jaw firmly and strode on. It might well be that a grim destiny awaits, he thought, but a Regnier never hides his face from the winds of change.

  He knew well where he walked; these were paths he had trod nearly his entire life. Word had come by messenger under the seal of the Dauphine herself. Catherine de’ Medici requested his company in the rose garden just after sunset. There were, in fact, many expanses of cultivated roses on the grounds, but Regnier was familiar with the princess’s habits. The spot to which she referred was a sculpted bit of garden, an oval clearing surrounded by dense rose bushes, with a small alcove also carved from the bushes themselves at its center, like the pupil of a scarlet eye. Yes, Regnier knew the way well enough. Thus, he followed the path swiftly, mind and body poised to act in his own defense should the note prove a ruse, despite the Dauphine’s seal.

  A high trellis thick with hanging grapevines blocked Regnier’s view of the sculpted roses until he came abreast of the rose-latticed archway that led into the odd clearing, the bloody red eye of the storm. He stepped beneath the arch and into the darkened oval, with only the moon to light his way. Twined roses spread out on either side until they joined like lovers’ hands on the side opposite the entry arch. At the center, the alcove had a visitor.

  Regnier exhaled with a bit of relief when he saw that the Dauphine had indeed come to meet him. Catherine de’ Medici had never been beautiful, but her tragic heart and troubled soul had always allowed her the gentle illusion that sympathy engendered. Now that illusion had dissipated, and her plainness had revealed itself as merely ugly. The illusion was gone, indeed, but to be replaced by what? Regnier studied her face for an answer, and then he saw her eyes. The Little Florentine began to open her mouth, but even before she could speak, Richard recognized the fury in her eyes, and knew that he was undone.

  “Thank you for coming, magician,” she said, her French impeccable and startling for its rarity. “Mine was an odd invitation, I know.”

  But Regnier was not soothed by her seeming benevolence.

  “Please, madame,” he protested. “I know not what madness Fulcanelli has been whispering into your sweet ear, but by your demeanor alone, I can see that you are greatly disturbed.”

  At that, Catherine de’ Medici laughed, and Regnier knew he had no hope at all. But before he could even decide whether to continue to argue logic, or to retreat as swiftly as possible, he felt the presence behind him, and turned to see Fulcanelli standing beneath the rosy arch. The sorcerer’s withered hand was tucked against his ribs, but even that obvious weakness only seemed, somehow, to make him more formidable. And from behind the rosebush where Catherine stood, a pair of Fulcanelli’s acolytes emerged.

  “You are a base deceiver, a devil of the worst kind, Richard Regnier,” Catherine de’ Medici said, her anger palpable. “You turned your ear to my secret prayers, and twisted them, thwarting me with every breath. I can only imagine that you are in league with the harridan who has so completely bewitched my husband.”

  Regnier held his hands up, about to protest once more, but then thought better of it. Instead, he rounded on Fulcanelli, rage furrowing his brow.

  “Demon!” he hissed at the crippled man. “You cleave to this woman and pledge fealty to the house of de’ Medici, and all the while you construct the most evil plots your wicked mind can conceive. She is already under your sway! You have all the power you desire! What can you possibly gain from preventing her the simple joy of motherhood?”

  Fulcanelli dropped his head, shook it sadly, and smoothed imaginary ruffles in the crimson and black cloak that he wore.

  “Dear, demented Richard,” Fulcanelli sighed. “You seek to thrust your guilt upon another, but it is plain for all of us to see. Madame has already decreed your fate, and believe me, it is far kinder than another might have been.”

  For a moment, Regnier could only stare, open-mouthed, at the sorcerer. Then, slowly, he began to turn back to face Catherine. But even as he turned, Fulcanelli’s acolytes fell upon him. Regnier’s right hand began to glow with eldritch flame, but too late. A heavy cudgel struck his temple, and he fell to the ground as though he were dead.

  This was, in fact, Catherine de’ Medici’s first impression.

  “I commanded that he not be killed
!” the Dauphine protested immediately.

  “Please, lady,” Fulcanelli said gently, gliding across the clearing toward her. “These faithful friends have been about such unfortunate work in the past. They would never take a life in error.”

  Catherine knelt at Regnier’s side and laid her hands on his chest. She seemed relieved to feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath her fingers, and Fulcanelli frowned at her concern.

  “You will see him safely to a merchant vessel, and deliver the purse I have provided to the captain for his passage to wherever that ship next sails,” the Dauphine ordered.

  Fulcanelli merely bowed his head obediently. “So you have commanded and so shall it be done, Your Grace,” he agreed. “Though I know not why you would spare one so evil, so duplicitous.”

  The princess glanced up sharply at her advisor. Her eyes roved quickly over the acolytes as they began to lift Regnier from the hard earth of the clearing. Together they stood in silence, Dauphine and sorcerer, until the two men had passed beneath the rosy arch and out of the clearing. At last, when the two were alone, Catherine narrowed her eyes and glared at Fulcanelli with a distrust she had never before allowed.

  “I have had my fill of killing, Giacomo,” she said evenly. “With Regnier gone, you have your wish. If I chose correctly in believing you, perhaps I will also have my wish. But I will not buy my future and my child with more blood. If God does not see fit to give me a babe, I refuse to seek my solace elsewhere. Whatever comes, I am through with death and blood.”

  “We are, none of us, through with such things until we breathe our last, Catherine,” Fulcanelli said darkly. “But I will respect your wishes, and not trouble you with such suggestions any further. I only pray that you will bear the heir that your husband so desires.”