Out of the Madhouse

by Christopher Golden

  Now, having been awakened from a deep sleep, she listened intently as Herr Giles quizzed her on the legend of the Gatehouse.

  “According to the stories, the Tatzelwurm was most assuredly captured by the Gatekeeper and kept within the house,” she said, nodding, though the handsome Engländer could not see her. Thank goodness, with moisturizer all over her face and her hair in old-fashioned curlers.

  “In Boston,” he said.

  “Ja. Even so. All the evidence points there.”

  “Very good. Vielen Dank.”

  “Wait! You must fill me in,” she said unhappily, and gamely trying out her American slang. “I’m dying to know what’s going on.”

  “Later, Frau von Forsch. I’m sorry, but I’ve much to do.”

  “You promise you will tell me?” she asked.

  “I promise.”

  “Then, until later.”

  He said, “Indeed.”

  He disconnected first. Slowly she hung up.

  “Well, friend Giles,” she murmured, “what are you up to now?”

  “That is precisely what we would like to know, also,” said a voice in the room.

  She cried out as a figure stepped from the shadows behind her open bedroom door. Dressed in a monk’s robe, it was very tall, and its face was hidden from her view. It glided toward her as if it had no feet.

  The air surrounding it crackled a deep blue.

  In its right hand, it hefted a thinly tapered, jagged blade.

  “You will tell us,” it promised.

  * * *

  Giles hung up and looked at the trio of young people standing behind his chair, Buffy standing slightly in front of the other two.

  “Well,” he said, “we must devise a way for some of us to go to Boston. Buffy, for certain.”

  Buffy eyed him. “Boston.”

  “Yes.” He nodded.

  “In the middle of the school year.”

  “I know it’s going to be a stretch,” he conceded.

  “And we’re going because?”

  “I believe we’re needed.” He took in the three of them, and was struck by the strange dichotomy of their young lives. He would have to think of a clever ruse indeed to spirit Buffy and possibly a number of her cohorts out of Sunnydale, since telling their parents and school officials the truth—that the Slayer was needed to thwart an evil menace of a supernatural nature—was clearly out of the question.

  “Who’s needed?” Xander asked. “Us? ’Cause, y’know, I might be best put to use as a blunt instrument. Monster comes up, Buffy can just pick me up and beat the thing to death with my rigid, screaming form.”

  Giles rolled his eyes heavenward. “Xander, please. I don’t have time to figure out what’s happening to the Gatehouse and coddle your fragile teen male ego at the same time.

  “Angel must stay behind, of course. It’s too dangerous for him to travel by plane. In my absence, it would seem that Willow ought to remain in Sunnydale as well. If I cannot bring my library with me, having you here as home base is the next best thing,” Giles told her.

  Willow beamed. “And, if, y’know, there’re any more big huge spookables, I may be able to help with some of the spells I’ve been researching.”

  Giles frowned. “You’d best take care with such things, Willow. I know I don’t have to warn you. You’re a sensible girl. But magick is not to be trifled with. Have a care, and only cast spells you are confident that you are prepared for.”

  Willow nodded.

  “Of course, Oz will want to stay with you,” Giles said, talking to himself now. “I suppose it will have to be just Buffy and myself. Pity. If the Gatehouse is in as much jeopardy as I believe it is, we could use all the help we can get.”

  Xander cleared his throat. “Um, hello? What was that about my fragile teen male ego?”

  “Oh, yes, Xander, I apologize,” Giles said. “Your help will be greatly appreciated.”

  “It’s a plan, then,” Xander said, nodding. “And, y’know, though she’s not real keen on coming to anybody’s rescue, I have a feeling the lovely Miss Chase won’t want to miss this. She can scare the bad guys off by showing them her American Express bill.”

  Giles’s mind was whirling with suspicions and fears, worries and wonders, and so, when he happened to glance over and see Buffy staring quite intently at him, he was momentarily taken aback.

  “Buffy?” he said. “What is it?”

  She raised an eyebrow. He recognized it as her patented sarcastic look. “In the midst of all your grand travel plans, you left something out. Boston, why?”

  “Something has gone terribly wrong at the Gatehouse,” he said.

  “Oh, in that case, I’ll start packing,” she said dryly.

  “I guess this means no party,” Willow ventured.

  “I still need to go home.” Giles smiled at her. “I have one further question for Frau von Forsch. Let me give her another quick ring, and then we’ll leave. All right?”

  “Sure,” Buffy said.

  She turned and left his office. Willow and Oz followed her.

  Giles heard Xander say in a loud voice, “Boston? Is anyone else thinking Boston Massacre? ’Cause, y’know, Boston Tea Party would be nice. Maybe we could say we’re all going to a reenactment of the revolution. Or a big spelling bee.”

  All of which gave Giles pause. Not a reenactment or something as obvious as that, but a history contest of some kind. He could convince the school’s principal of that, say it was sponsored by the ALA or something. And the parents would love it.

  Giles dialed von Forsch’s number in Germany. Figuring she was still awake, he had thought to ask her if she might fax him whatever pertinent information she had about the Gatehouse, since his own research texts were gone. Stolen? he wondered. Was that what they had been looking for in his hotel room in New York?

  He let the German woman’s line ring ten times, but there was no answer. He waited two minutes—he could wait no longer—and dialed again.

  No answer.

  He waited two more minutes.

  Still no answer.

  Finally, he dialed an international operator. After an interminable wait, he was informed that there was a report of some kind of interruption of service at the residence of the party he was attempting to reach.

  He closed his eyes as fear for her washed over him.

  He dialed the Watchers’ Council.

  “Yes, Giles here,” he said softly, when the phone was silently answered. “Please check on Margarethe von Forsch. Immediately. I’m afraid . . .” He could not finish.

  And then, as he listened, his blood ran cold. For he was being informed of the death of Kobo Sensei, the Japanese Watcher who had lost a Slayer. The sorrowful old man had assisted Giles in saving Buffy when a Chinese vampire named Chirayoju had possessed Willow. Now he was dead.

  He had been slowly and brutally tortured to death.

  And now no one was answering at Frau von Forsch’s house.

  “Giles? It’s time for that one last hurrah,” Xander called to him. “We’re having mini-pizzas straight from the dairy case.”

  “Yes. Coming,” Giles said shakily.

  He rose and went to join the others.

  * * *

  Cordelia was in heaven, or the closest thing to it if you weren’t at Neiman Marcus: the Sunnydale Mall was having a gigantic blowout sale, and she had found an amazing pair of shoes in a store she would not usually have deigned to enter. But tonight, on a whim, she had gone in after she’d picked up the supplies for Giles’s homecoming party, and there they were: her size, her color, and way beneath her price range.

  “Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus,” she breathed, hopping deliriously onto the escalator.

  Cordelia preened. She knew she looked great in her black jeans and red velvet tank top with crisscross straps. Xander said red was her best color. Also blue, green, and yellow.

  She carried her prize to the parking lot and flicked off her car’s security system.
She had one hand on her door before she remembered that very strange things had been happening lately—or, to put it more accurately, more strange things than usual—and that Buffy had cautioned everybody to be on their guard. A chill shot through Cordelia. For all she knew, the earth could open up right beneath her feet and suck her down. Or a pack of trolls could rush her and carry her off to a nearby bridge.

  Or when she opened the door, her car could blow up.

  Crazy, all of it. But suddenly Cordelia just couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched.

  She swallowed and looked anxiously over her shoulder. Her stomach clenched. For a moment she stood frozen, unsure if it would be better to get inside the car or stay out of it, go back to the mall or what. Things didn’t look too creepy in the parking lot, although there was a clump of men in dark clothes standing near the exit, and maybe they were staring at her, but that wasn’t abnormal at all. They could just be waiting for the bus.

  She peered into her car, first at the front seat and then the rear. Looks okay. She would have to get in and go pick up Xander eventually, because soon the mall would close.

  And besides . . . the hair stood up on the back of her neck . . . the clump of guys in dark clothes could not possibly be waiting for the bus. Their dark clothes were nice clothes, and in Southern California, no one who had nice clothes ever took a bus. Buses were for people who couldn’t afford cars. Period.

  More frightened now, she opened the door and slid in, slamming the door and locking it as quickly as she could. She jammed the key in the ignition and peeled out of the lot, realizing she was calling attention to herself but too frightened to slow down. Her car fishtailed as she reached the street and she hung a left, then closed her eyes in frustration because Xander’s house was the other direction.

  She hung a very wide U and jammed back down the road, suddenly finding herself irritated with Buffy. If she’d never met Miss Thing, she probably wouldn’t be in danger right now. Never mind that Buffy had saved her life time and again, and that it was the Hellmouth that drew all the evil things to Sunnydale, not Buffy herself. She was here to slay them.

  But if she, Cordelia, hadn’t been friends with Buffy . . .

  —Suddenly Cordelia shrieked in abject, visceral terror—

  . . . there would probably still be a pasty-faced monster with black holes for eyes sliding headfirst from the roof onto her windshield.

  A monster vomiting torrents of flame that were already melting the glass.

  * * *

  Gathered around the runestone, the men in the parking lot of the Sunnydale Mall stared at the glowing characters as the black pebble shimmered and spun in Brother Dando’s palm. It trailed purple, silver, and blue-white light as it searched the environs for the Slayer. Finally it came to rest and pulsed crimson, a dark, silent heartbeat.

  “Northeast,” Brother Isimo said, nodding to the others. He was dark-skinned, with long, gray hair that tumbled over his shoulders and a distinctive scar etched within the hollow of his cheek. “The Slayer walks the night.”

  Brother Dando smiled. He was very small, nearly a dwarf, yet he was the most powerful among them. He could crush a man merely by wishing it. “That is good. We can proceed.”

  Brother Isimo nodded. “Her mother is not an ally. Her Watcher continues in captivity in the hospital.”

  Brother Dando whispered to the runestone, “There will be no rest for her from us. There will be no haven for her from us. No safe place from us. No asylum from us.”

  “No asylum,” the others intoned.

  “We must make haste,” Brother Kukoff ventured. He was the youngest among them, in terms of his abilities. Yet he was almost sixty-eight years old. “Il Maestro waits for his victory.”

  “Indeed, brother,” Brother Dando said. “We must please Il Maestro in all things.”

  “In all things,” the group chorused.

  * * *

  “Oh, my God, oh, my God,” Cordelia cried as she lost control of the car, drove over the sidewalk, and strafed a row of trash cans.

  Spread-eagled across the windshield, Springheel Jack threw himself against the melted web of glass. He was wild to get at her. His grin told her that. And his horrible, black eyes.

  “I’ve marked you!” Springheel Jack hissed through the flames. “Once I’ve left my mark on the prey, the prey must die!”

  Cordelia winced, and for the first time in days, pain flared up in the slowly healing scratch on her back where the monster had slashed her. Then she screamed again as he lifted one hand from his grip on the metal stripping above the windshield and began to tear at the melted edges of the hole in the windshield.

  The car veered to the left; Cordelia was not so much driving as holding onto the wheel in sheer terror. Her foot was frozen to the accelerator and she had lost all knowledge of how to control the vehicle. All she was capable of doing was screaming and holding on.

  She kept going, kept her foot on the gas; she had no idea where she was going, and in fact couldn’t even think coherently enough for such a notion to occur to her.

  Again, Springheel Jack belched fire, but she jerked the wheel enough to unbalance him, and the flames torched the passenger seat, setting the upholstery ablaze. Cordelia screamed and somehow, in her blind panic, slammed on the brakes.

  Springheel Jack tumbled roughly from atop the car.

  Cordelia didn’t see where he landed, couldn’t see him even now, but somehow she pulled herself together enough to understand that she should make a break for it, now.

  She put the car in reverse and floored it. The stink of burning rubber clashed with the stench of superheated chemically treated fabric. She batted at the fire ineffectually, sobbing.

  Then she slammed on the brakes and shifted into drive. She pushed the gas pedal to the floor and the car leaped forward.

  If he was out there, she would hit him. She would run the hideous bastard over if it was the last thing she did.

  The car hummed, then roared, as it barreled down the street. She had to roll down the window to clear the smoke; she could barely see out the windshield; and she had a brief, horrible thought: What if I hit someone else?

  But she hit nothing. She bulleted along, going as fast as she could, daring that monster to step in front of her car.

  He didn’t show.

  Yet somehow, Cordelia felt no sense of relief. She still felt those bottomless, black wounds that were the creature’s eyes boring into her.

  He was still out there.

  Chapter

  9

  WILLOW WAS PAINTING HER TOENAILS Rosetta Stone and listening to the new Keb’ Mo’ CD, trying to relax. Between all this Boston stuff and the pressure her parents had been putting on her lately to choose a college, she was a bit on edge. It was either relaxing in her room making her toes pretty or a wild Thelma and Louise weekend in Vegas with the girls. And since the whole Vegas thing might cause, oh, just a little problem in the parental area, she’d settled for Rosetta Stone.

  The thought of college, of leaving, made Willow glance around her room. She was practically an adult. Not a little girl anymore, but nobody would know that from the frilly way the room was decorated. Lace. Floral patterns. Wherever she ended up going to college, Willow promised herself one thing: no stuffed animals.

  Well, maybe one. And her bunny slippers.

  Yup, she thought, I’m a rebel.

  A rebel. Which was why she’d slunk off to her room after a brief and accusatory conversation with her parents. Xander’s mom had happened to mention to Willow’s mother that Xander was going to Boston for a national history fair. Giles had concocted a wonderful cover story—Willow had even helped—but it had come back to haunt her. Her parents now thought she was either not doing well enough to go to the fair or purposely staying home to be with Oz.

  There was just no winning sometimes.

  In truth, she was a little creeped out at being left to essentially hold the fort. She didn’t want the responsibility,
really. But she’d deal. She always had. And she’d have Oz to help her. Then there was Angel. Not quite as comforting—she still got a bit creeped out around him at times—but at least he was strong, durable, and really, really hard to kill. Of course, Oz was really hard to kill as well, him being a werewolf and all.

  Willow let her freshly painted piggies dry and watched the clock. She’d planned to see the others off down at the airport, and it was almost time. Buffy and her mom were going to swing by and pick her up.

  She passed her mother in the hallway, but didn’t stop to chat. It would only be more pressure tactics about college or suspicion about her not going to Boston. With a sigh, she trotted down the stairs, blew her father a kiss before he could rise from his chair, and was out the door.

  * * *

  The streetlights flashed by above the car, casting shifting shadows on the dash and seats. Buffy looked out the passenger window, watching the night. Watching the people, more than anything else. A young guy in gym clothes ran in the opposite direction, headphones covering his ears. He was a honey. A white-haired couple, holding hands like youthful lovers, walked a pair of black poodles. A woman in a dark business suit swung a leather briefcase idly at her side.

  Just people in the night. In the shadows. With no idea what real darkness was like, no idea what real dangers lurked in that dark.

  Unnerved, Buffy turned to face forward and realized that they were almost to Willow’s. Her mother turned left onto a side street. Buffy glanced at her, noted the grim set of her jaw, and wondered again if asking her mother to drive her to the airport had been the wisest course of action. For the others, it was hard to lie and get away with it. Buffy thought that telling her mother the truth was, in a lot of ways, much more difficult.

  The airport was twenty minutes away, and they were already running late. The only saving grace was that the connecting flight out of LAX, the red-eye to Boston, didn’t leave until forty minutes after the puddle jumper arrived in L.A. As long as the plane didn’t take off without them, they’d still be all right.

  Joyce Summers nearly missed the turn onto Willow’s street. When she realized it, and began to back up to make the turn, Joyce cursed under her breath. Again, Buffy glanced at her mother’s face, even as Joyce sighed deeply.