Out of the Madhouse

by Christopher Golden

  Buffy offered that innocent smile again. “A trap? You’re joking.”

  Xander grumbled a bit, then rolled his eyes. “Okay, I guess I asked for this.”

  Together, they jogged along the side of the warehouse into which the Bronze had been built. At the alley, they paused to survey the area.

  “Gone,” Xander observed.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Right.”

  Side by side, they stepped into the alley. Beyond a pile of wooden palettes and an enormous blue Dumpster, a car was parked, lights out, about thirty yards away.

  Xander frowned. “Maybe we should wait for . . .”

  “And put even more of us in danger? I think we’ll handle this ourselves.”

  “Your call,” Xander said.

  But when he reached the stack of wooden palettes, he took a moment to work a board free. Xander didn’t mind fighting, really, but it was always comforting to have a thick piece of wood in your hand if you were going to have to bash someone’s head in. Or, at the very least, prevent the same from happening to you.

  The danger was tangible. It hung around them like thunderheads just before a storm, like the moisture that soaked the air and promised not only rain, but a torrential downpour. Yet, in spite of that, Xander felt the wood in his hands and the presence of Buffy at his side, felt his muscles tense and thought, Now this is right. This is the way it should be.

  Maybe she was the Slayer. And maybe he wouldn’t be in Sunnydale forever. But as long as he was, they were a team. All of them.

  As if that thought were their cue, the doors of the sedan opened. The windows were darkly tinted, and the dome light did not go on, but the full moon was bright enough to pick out the blind white eye and bald head of the man they’d been pursuing, the man they’d saved from Springheel Jack. He had been in the driver’s seat. The other three were very ordinary looking, with the exception that they, like the bald man, wore long, navy-blue greatcoats that looked too warm for the weather.

  Oh, that and the fact that the one who stepped out from the passenger side looked an awful lot like a . . .

  “Vampire,” Buffy whispered.

  Before Xander could reply, she whipped her hand under the hunter-green silk shirt she’d been wearing open and untucked over a tank top. From the waistband of her pants, at her lower back, she withdrew a nasty-looking stake.

  “What, you had a feeling?” Xander asked, as the four men began to walk toward them, Reservoir Dogs style.

  “A good worker always comes with her tools,” Buffy replied.

  “And thank you, Giles,” Xander said, holding the length of wood in front of him.

  “We meet again, Chosen One,” Baldy said, his voice a lot more menacing than Xander remembered it.

  “Last time, I saved your life,” Buffy reminded him, as though it might make some difference.

  “Indeed, and in return, I give you yours,” the man said. “Provided you come with us without an argument or a fight.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  The man’s milky-white eye seemed, somehow, to focus along with the other. He stared at her.

  “You will come with us, willingly or not. But if you fight us, your friend will die.”

  Buffy seemed to hesitate a moment. Xander snorted in derision. They might have her over the barrel if they threatened his life, but he didn’t plan to give Buffy a choice.

  He moved fast enough to surprise even himself. Before the bald man, the vampire, or the others could even credit the idea that he was attacking them—and without the Slayer—Xander waded in and slammed the length of wood against the vampire’s head. Jagged board tore vampire flesh, and blood ran from the wound as the vampire roared and spun to face Xander in full vamp face.

  “Lupo?” the vampire snarled, apparently awaiting his orders.

  The bald man—Lupo—nodded his head. “The Slayer is to be taken alive. The boy is your supper.”

  The vampire laughed. It was a thin, gangly creature, but Xander knew better than to underestimate it. In fact, he knew just what to do with it.

  “Vampire,” he said cordially.

  The thing lunged for him.

  “Meet Slayer,” he added, and dove out of the way.

  Buffy stepped in, spun into a high kick that connected solidly with the vampire’s jaw. There was the crack of breaking bone, and the vampire grunted in pain. It turned on her, but it was too late. Buffy slammed the stake home with both hands, and then let it go.

  The vampire exploded into a cloud of dust even as Buffy and Xander squared off against the three remaining attackers, all of whom seemed human. The two men behind Lupo started forward, one toward Buffy and one toward Xander. Xander cringed, shouted, “No, please don’t kill me.” The man grinned and reached for him, relaxed by Xander’s apparent fear into thinking how simple this kill would be. Xander sprang up with every ounce of strength he could muster and swung.

  And missed.

  A fist jammed into his gut, and Xander doubled over. The goon slammed him hard into the side of the building, and it was then that Xander saw the flash of a dagger in the moonlight. His left hand shot out, grasped his attacker’s wrist, and he balled the right into a tight fist and popped the guy in the jaw so hard that he thought he heard one of his own fingers snap.

  The dagger clattered to the alley, and Xander picked it up. Its owner got his footing again, and came toward Xander with an evil grin, in spite of the dagger.

  Which was when Buffy grabbed him from behind, having made short work of the other goon, and drove him headfirst into the grille of the sedan, smashing one headlight and probably fracturing the man’s skull.

  Then they were side by side again, staring at the man the others had called Lupo. Xander had thought for sure the guy would be scared of Buffy now, realizing he’d gotten himself into something he didn’t have control of.

  If he was scared, he didn’t look it. Lupo still had a smile on his face.

  “It has been my pleasure to watch you, Slayer,” Lupo said. “And a joy to see the courage you inspire in those around you.”

  “Great,” Xander said. “Even when I actually get to kick some ass, you still get the credit.”

  Buffy didn’t respond. She was staring at Lupo, and Xander saw why. The scarred, blind-white eye had begun to glow with an arcane blue light.

  “Tch,” Xander clucked. “Why does it always have to be magick? I hate magick.”

  “I’m not much of a sorcerer, actually,” Lupo said. “Even so, I advise you to capitulate.”

  Buffy went after him. She was standing still one moment, and the next she was flying across the dozen or so feet that separated them, one hand out to grab hold of his navy coat and the other balled into a fist to pummel him mercilessly.

  The roar from above made her falter.

  She looked up just in time to dive out of the way as a huge beast with white fur landed on the pavement between them with a thud. It landed on its feet, its long white tail waving behind it, and Xander’s first thought was that someone had mated a mountain gorilla and a polar bear. When it let its head fall back and opened its mouth to roar, Xander felt a surge of nausea and fear run through him.

  This thing is why Cro-Magnon men lived in caves, he thought, and stumbled backward toward the mouth of the alley, searching for some kind of weapon so that he could try to help Buffy.

  “Slayer,” Lupo said happily, “this is a Wendigo. I have called it here to take you. It has only the basest of instincts. All it knows is that you are not to die. Beyond that, I cannot control it.”

  Then Lupo pointed at Buffy.

  “Her,” he said.

  The Wendigo bellowed again, green eyes flashing against white fur. Its mouth was lined with yellowing fangs, and its tail slammed the front quarter of the Lexus and caved it in.

  “Xander, run!” Buffy said. “Find Angel!”

  For a moment, he thought to argue with her. Was she just trying to protect him from this thing? But then common sense kicked in. B
uffy needed major backup, and he just wasn’t going to cut it.

  Xander Harris had never run so fast in his life.

  * * *

  Seconds after Xander took off out of the alley, the Wendigo sprang at Buffy. Its arms were incredibly long, its talons razor sharp, and its tail whipped dangerously from side to side. Buffy had only one place to go . . . forward. She jumped at the Wendigo, inside the reach of the huge beast. Deadly it might have been, but still, it was only an animal, and an animal could be taken by surprise.

  Once.

  She stepped in, slammed an open palm up into the thing’s jaw and heard a satisfying clack as its teeth slammed together. Its head snapped back. Buffy slapped its arms away, then drove killing blows into its chest once, twice, three times. The thing staggered back. Buffy knew this was her only chance—she was only going to get one—and she spun into a kick that would break the Wendigo’s neck.

  It was impossibly fast.

  It grabbed her leg out of the air, fingers clamped on her ankle so hard she felt the bones grinding together, ready to snap. The Wendigo roared in pain and triumph, and held her upside down by one leg. She saw the way its eyes narrowed as it looked at her, trying to decide what to do next. She wondered how hungry it was, and then started kicking, trying desperately to break free.

  No chance. She was going to die.

  The sound of a horn split the night. The Wendigo looked up in abject terror, dropped Buffy unceremoniously to the pavement—she barely turned in time to save herself from some massive cranial trauma—and then the beast turned and sprinted away down the alley.

  Buffy began to stand slowly, painfully, but then she had to dive behind the Dumpster as the sedan roared from the alley and out into the night. She thought about trying to pursue it, but quickly realized how ridiculous the idea was at that moment. Once again she stood, dusted herself off, and then turned toward the mouth of the alley, expecting to see Angel and Xander, at the very least.

  The last thing she expected to see was the huge, shaggy man with antlers sprouting from his head who sat high on a black steed with fire jetting from its nostrils.

  “Roland?” she sputtered, stunned to see the Lord of the Hunt, with whom she had allied herself once before.

  Then she thought of the horn, and the fear in the Wendigo’s eyes. It had been terrified of the sound, because that signified the arrival of the Wild Hunt, a group of supernatural stalkers who would run it to ground and take its head as a trophy.

  “What’s . . . what’s happening?” Buffy asked, incredulous. “Please tell me the Hunt isn’t . . .”

  When Roland spoke, his voice was deeper than she recalled. More of a growl than real words, but she understood well enough.

  “I am here alone,” he assured her. “The Wild Hunt rides less often now, with me as Erl King. And we would not come back to Sunnydale, regardless.”

  “Then how can you be here?” Buffy stared at him, saw the small fires that burned in his eyes, and shivered, remembering the boy he had once been.

  “I came after the Wendigo,” the Lord of the Hunt said. “And I came to warn you. It was called, yes, but it was only able to come through because things are falling apart, Buffy. As things will do. Entropy claims all, in time. But now is not that time, and yet the barriers between worlds are falling. You fight the creatures of Hell, but you have learned that there are other places. Old places, now only myths and legends, which still exist.”

  “Like the Lodge of the Wild Hunt,” Buffy said.

  “Yes, very like it,” Roland agreed. “A thin veil separates the world you know from all the things the world doesn’t believe in anymore, the things that should not or cannot be, and some that never were.”

  “I don’t understand any of this,” Buffy said. “It’s just too much.”

  “Know only this, then,” Roland said, and he cocked his head as if listening to some far-off sound before continuing. Finally, he said, “There are holes in the fabric of things, tears in the veil, and there are things which do not belong in this world which are slipping through that veil.”

  “Like the Wendigo.”

  “Yes,” Roland agreed. “And like me.”

  There was a brief moment of awkward silence before he said, “I will retrieve the Wendigo if I can. And I will keep the Hunt in check. They will not trouble you. The rest is up to you.”

  “But I don’t understand,” Buffy complained. “What’s causing it? I mean, how am I supposed to know how to put all these crazy things back where they belong? I can’t just keep killing them, there are too many. I have to stop them from coming through.”

  “The legends my father told me as a boy said that there was more to being the Chosen One than mere killing,” Roland said. “We each have our destiny to fulfill, Buffy. Yours is to stand between your world and the darkness, to be certain the sun comes up each day. You are the Chosen One.

  “You will find a way.”

  Without another word, Roland spurred on his steed, and the fire-breathing ebony stallion galloped past Buffy into a dead-end alley and simply disappeared.

  Chapter

  8

  TWO DAYS AFTER HE HAD attempted to leave and collapsed, Giles was still in the hospital. After that incident, he was seized with a strange sort of lethargy. He lay in his bed, dozing fitfully, often waking with a start and the dreadful sense that something terrible was happening.

  He dreamed. Some of his dreams were delightful images of himself in another sort of life, freed from the encumbrance of his position as Watcher. He saw himself with a beautiful woman with honey hair—Micaela—the two of them fussing over adorable twin boys on a Sunday outing at the London Zoo. He looked younger, more carefree, as he munched an ice lolly and admired the animals with his family.

  Other dreams were nightmares: monsters of all sorts rose from the Hellmouth and overran first Sunnydale, and then the world. Tens of thousands of innocent people were slaughtered by a hideous army of the undead; not an army, exactly, but legions of incarnate evil; hordes of mindless creatures killing everything in their path.

  As Giles lay in a pool of sweat and moaned, he saw Buffy’s friends cut down, one by one: Xander, hanged and disemboweled; Willow, burned at the stake; Cordelia, sliced to ribbons, her skin peeled away inch by excruciating inch; Oz, weighted down with chains and tossed into an icy river.

  And then, most horrifying of all: Buffy herself, bound within a pentagram, a knife piercing her heart, and a figure looming over her, laughing.

  “No,” Giles panted, waking himself. He struggled to sit upright, but the effort was too great. It was as if a weight pressed against his chest; he had a vision of a hideous creature perched atop him, pinning him down.

  Soft laughter echoed through the room. Giles listened, his heart pounding. It seemed to be coming from behind the curtain, the one that separated him from Mr. Russo.

  After a few moments, the laughter died away. Giles tried to reach for his glasses, then for the call button for the nurse, but he couldn’t move. He could scarcely breathe.

  Seconds ticked by; then, after some unknown span of time, he dozed. As he came slowly to, he heard the laughter again. Something brushed his foot, like fingertips draping over his toes as someone glided past his bed.

  He tried to frame the word Sister, then reminded himself that here they were nurses. But he couldn’t say anything.

  Then he thought he heard the sounds of a struggle behind the curtain.

  With monumental effort, he managed to turn his head.

  Backlit as if by a brilliant moon, two figures were thrown into silhouette on the curtain. One was hunched over Mr. Russo’s bed, choking the very life out of the one who struggled. Giles blinked as the figures blurred in and out of focus.

  “No,” he rasped.

  The room spun crazily as he extended his hand, toward the violent scene. The only sound, other than his own tortured whisper, was the desperate choking.

  From somewhere deep inside himself, Giles found un
tapped reservoirs of strength. He catapulted himself out of his bed and grabbed the curtain with both hands. But the effort took too much out of him, and he sank to the floor, taking the curtain with him.

  There was no one behind the curtain.

  Mr. Russo’s hospital bed was empty.

  Footsteps rushed in from the hallway. The overhead fluorescent flicked on.

  Someone put an arm around him. He looked up, expecting to see the night nurse. Instead, he was greeted by the sight of a young man with sandy blond hair, who said, “Mr. Giles, Mr. Giles, are you all right?”

  “What . . . what happened to Mr. Russo? Who are you?”

  Just then someone else raced into the room. As the young man helped Giles to his feet, the newcomer, a woman in scrubs, said, “Mr. Giles, you shouldn’t be out of bed.” Then she glanced past him to the fallen curtain and said, “Oh, dear. Did you need to use the bathroom? You should have used your call button.”

  “No, I did not,” he protested, as she came around to his other side and together with the sandy-haired man, they half led, half dragged Giles back to his bed. “There was a man there, attacking another . . .” He trailed off, his sense of discretion taking over. “I had a nightmare.”

  “Not a surprise, with your fever,” the woman said. She huffed. “Where’s Lopez? Off sneaking down to the Coke machine. Oh, well, your nephew here can help us.”

  Deftly she smoothed the sheets and fluffed Giles’s pillows as the other man sat carefully on the side of the bed. Giles frowned up at him; the man’s silent gaze pleaded with him to say nothing.

  The nurse continued, “Now, you just slip into bed and I’ll call the doctor in to check you over. You had a bad fall.”

  “Nothing hurts,” he assured her. “I’m fine.” And he was; he felt better than he had in . . . days. The lethargy had dissipated; the surreal sense that he was witnessing terrible events rather than having bad dreams was gone.

  “Now, now. We’ll be the judges of that.” She wheeled over the electronic temperature gauge, slipped a plastic cover over the thermometer, and popped it in his mouth. “Leave that in, all right? I’ll be back in less than a minute.”