With Fulcanelli dead, however, Regnier felt lost in Europe. The New World beckoned. It would have been too painful to live out the remainder of his days in Europe, and magicians such as he had many days to live. Fulcanelli had been nearly two hundred years of age at his death. There had been much vigor in him even then. Regnier was not even one hundred thirty. Such were the life spans of those who engaged the other dimensions of existence.
The New World, he thought now, as he gazed out over the harbor and felt the salty breeze against his face. And a new life.
Though his house was only newly begun, his excitement was such that he had determined to spend the nights on his land in the small cottage the builders had erected for him. A fire had been laid by his servant, whom he had sent home, and he looked forward to an evening of solitude and books.
Accordingly, he had brought his valuables—his magick arcana, his grimoire, and his most precious and private possessions, including the locket he had given to Giuliana, the beautiful Venetian he had loved and married . . . and whose bones lay in Italian soil, so very far from him now.
He opened the trunk. The filigree locket lay on top. His heart caught as he opened it. With his finger he traced the oval of her face, the dimples on either side of her smile. A famed beauty, particularly in these days when blue eyes and blond hair were considered the most desirable of feminine qualities. In Italy, blonds were the most desirable of all.
Giuliana, his Giuliana, slaughtered while he was on a fool’s errand. That wretched bastard Fulcanelli, that ignominious and vile creature, to take his revenge on so innocent a head . . .
Peace flew from Regnier’s heart as if it knew it had no place there. He balled his fists as tears coursed down his cheeks at the memory of his lost love. He would never love so fully again, of that he was certain.
As he wept, he spied his journal, slipped carefully into the side pocket of his traveling valise. Such tales lay within as would astonish the staid and religious population of this young town.
Composing himself, he lifted up the journal and opened it, seeking solace among the pages. He had to remember this: though he had lost everything he counted precious in this world, yet had he won.
2nd September, 1666
All the city rages with a terrible fiery aspect. Churches, public halls, hospitals; Troy herself did not suffer so. St. Paul’s is utterly destroyed. The cries and lamentations of the populace are piteous to hear: children scream in panic; mothers wail for their babes; men shout orders to demolish the houses which still stand, in the hope of my Lord Mayor that the fire shall starve.
But this fire feeds like a fiend on the wicked. For the most wicked who ever walked this earth hands it morsels like a lapdog. I have seen Fulcanelli standing atop the Tower of London with his black wizard’s cloak about him. That he was waiting for me to espy him was clear by his broad, triumphant smile as I raised my fist at him and extracted my wand. On another day, I should have been more circumspect about my magick, but this was the end of the world. Thus, I drew lightning down upon him, causing a clamor among those around me, but he dispelled my weaponry with a wave of his hand. A moment later, he had disappeared from view as the smoke rose up from the burning city.
I despaired. For had it not ever been thus, that he taunted me and escaped my wrath? A merry chase he had led me for almost a century. Fulcanelli, base servant of the Fallen One!
3rd September
I have passed the hours of day and night in vigil and practice of my art. Today I shall find Fulcanelli, for I am certain he is yet within the city. I shall find him and I shall kill him.
4th September
In my pursuit of the fiend, I have witnessed many horrors, but none so powerful as the fire-storm of London Town. I searched through the hellish scene ever more resolved to end the life of the one who had started this terrible fire.
I saw him—but a glimpse—then lost him to a huge cloud of smoke.
But such was my fury that I dashed into the smoke, casting spells to guide my way as if I were blinded by the conflagration. My heart thundered with the certainty that I was but footsteps behind him, and then a wall of flame shot up around me. I was much injured, but I cared not, for the flames were blue, and this signified his sorcerous attempts to thwart my progress. I swore that this day I would kill Fulcanelli.
Through that wretched, doomed city he fled me. On Tower Street, Fen-church Street, and so many other paths and roads, I ran with a vitality no man could wield save with magick, until I reached the Thames, burgeoning with goods floating upon it, and men in boats, and people diving into the water as their clothing burned upon their backs.
And there, on a large and elegant ebony barge, I saw him. Perhaps a dozen monks of a sort had gathered round him as the oars pulled. They wore hooded black robes and I could not see their faces. I understood these to be some of his loyal followers and acolytes, the secret band he has seduced into his influence.
He stood in their midst, his back to me. But I spied his withered arm and his gray locks, and knew him as my nemesis.
Before he had a chance to act, I called the flames forth from my very fists, and they arced out over the water. The fire caught in his hair and his coat, and in an instant he writhed as a pillar of flame.
His followers began to shriek and run in all directions. I heard one screaming in the sorcerer’s native Italian for water.
But the humanity in Fulcanelli had withered long ago, not unlike his atrophied limb, and he crackled and burned as a husk of evil. He was fully ablaze in a trice, and he whirled in a circle, a column of flame.
He turned round; perhaps in some way he was able to see me. And in the case that he could hear me, I shouted, “For Giuliana, and all the innocents you have butchered!”
One single blue flame shot weakly at me from the pillar of fire, and then he was no more, only smoke and cinders.
Half of his accursed band fell to the deck of their vessel, wailing and shrieking. The others turned toward me, and I could see by the subtle gestures of their hands that they were preparing to turn their own black magick against me.
I prayed to God, and to the wind, and capsized their vessel. With satisfaction I watched them tumble into the water. Their heavy black robes began to pull them down.
I would have run at them then, ensuring that each was dispatched, but at that moment a most beautiful child held out her hands. Her face was coated with soot and her long, dark hair was tangled and matted. She wore a singed nightshirt.
I lifted her up, and with a hard look at the sinking barge, I quitted the scene. Fulcanelli was dead; of that I was certain. If one or two of his depraved retainers survived, what did I care? They would prove no match for me.
21st September
Tomorrow I leave England and quit Europe. The New World beckons. Many others of my kinsmen have sojourned to the town of Boston, and my runestones have directed me there also.
I leave with both anticipation and melancholy. Yesterday I placed the lost child in an orphanage in the countryside, and the nuns there were happy to receive such a pretty and sweet soul. The Mother Superior and I spoke together over a glass of excellent porto. Incredibly, her order boasts of a convent in Venice, and she had heard, through her sisters, of the death of my adored wife (for Giuliana was much beloved for her charitable works).
She and I have therefore promised to correspond. She assures me that she will keep me informed of the progress of the orphan, whom she has named Juliet, after my wife.
Of Fulcanelli’s followers I have seen no sign, and thus conclude that they have scattered.
Giuliana, you are avenged.
And my heart, though shattered and never to be mended, is glad of it.
Richard M. Regnier, Chevalier and Sorcerer Dover, England
Regnier closed the journal and slid it into his coat. He was cold; the twilight was bitter. Others—his new neighbors—had remarked on the chilliness of the season, but France had often been unseasonably cold. Italy, never. Wh
ere Giuliana had smiled, there the sun warmed all icy fields and frozen hearts.
He traced the shape of the foundation. It would be a splendid house; even now, those Bostonians who followed the staunch example of Colonel Winthrop, casting off ostentation and living simple lives, discussed the “palace” that would soon grace the hillside. He smiled to himself; palace it was not. He had lived in palaces. To his thinking it would be more like a villa, a lovely Italian country house such as Giuliana would have loved. Indeed, the decorations and the gardens would speak of Tuscany and Venice . . . and always, always, of Giuliana.
But for now, he had a humble cottage made of stone and wood, and a warm fire. It occurred to him that he might buy a little dog to serve as companion in this new phase of his life.
Smiling faintly at the notion, he bent down, hefted the trunk, and carried it to the cottage.
For two hours he read by candlelight a delightful account of the exploits of Marco Polo. He felt himself to be on a wonderful holiday, no longer vigilant, no longer responsible. In this extraordinary town, he could become an ordinary citizen.
Who happened to be a sorcerer.
Smiling, he felt his head drop to his chest, knew he would soon be drifting. For the first time in decades, he did not look upon sleep as a dangerous lowering of his defenses. Still, from force of habit, he wove spells of protection around himself to stave off potential lurkers in the dark.
He knew he ought to rise and change into his nightshirt, and from there crawl onto his simple cot. In a while, he told himself, and yielded to slumber, peaceful and serene.
* * *
“Cool stuff,” Buffy said hopefully in a loud voice, glancing at Cordelia for moral support.
“Oh, yes, very cool,” the cavalry agreed, bending down and examining a row of snow globes with obvious disdain.
“We need postcards,” Buffy continued. “And lots of other stuff. Requiring us to hang here for a while.”
She touched a display of postcards featuring various famous landmarks of Boston—the Old North Church, the Bunker Hill Monument, the U.S.S. Constitution, and others—none of which they had actually seen in the hours since they had landed at Logan Airport. The visitors’ information center, some historical societies, and a lot of gas stations, parking lots, and coffee shops had so far been the highlights of their first day in the city that was the heart of the Revolutionary era in American history.
Buffy was tired of being in the car, more tired of being terrified by Giles’s driving in a car that actually had some zip—if not much—and eager for some fun before they got down to business. The car had turned out to be more trouble than help. Boston was a labyrinth of construction detours and one-way streets, curving alleys and double parking. The concept of finding an empty and legal parking space seemed almost laughable after a while, and Buffy wondered if they wouldn’t have been better off on foot. Supposedly, Boston had an extensive subway system—what the locals called “the T”—and it seemed like they could get anywhere they needed to go by train.
No such luck. Instead, they double-parked along grassy commons or in front of rows of brownstones or restaurants and retail stores. It really was a maze, though admittedly, a very cool-looking maze. Despite the fact that it was still chilly in Boston this time of year, the more she thought of it, the more Buffy realized that walking around might be preferable just because they would get to look at the city.
But no.
Giles had established which area of the city the Gatehouse must be in, by virtue of its age and the fact that it was supposed to be set on a hill. Other than that, they were on their own. But Giles wasn’t giving up. The car was illegally parked in a tow zone while they stood inside a weird convenience store, which also seemed to carry souvenirs and gifts. Giles quizzed the frumpy woman behind the counter about the existence of Ye Gatehouse—physically describing it and offering the name Regnier, but coming up empty. Buffy and the others had wandered up and down the aisles for nearly five minutes, and boredom was quickly setting in. As she glanced through the postcards, Buffy found one with a picture and some information about the Boston Computer Museum and thought of Willow, Since the plane had taken off, she’d done little else but think about Willow. And her mom. And Angel.
Xander ambled up to them with a pair of Paul Revere–head salt and pepper shakers. “It’s no good, vixens,” he said sadly, using the pepper as a puppet to speak to them. “Giles is absolutely positive that the Gatehouse is within blocks of this very spot and we must be off imeedjutleh.”
“He does not talk like that,” Buffy objected, then moved her shoulders and cricked her neck. “I swear, when I’m old enough to rent a car, the word subcompact will never cross my lips.”
“That word has yet to cross my lips,” Cordelia pointed out. “I’m thinking, why not a limo?”
Xander gave her a look. “Cor, do you have any notion how much a school librarian takes home after taxes?” His eyes widened as he spied the rack of postcards and pointed at a photograph of the harbor. “Ooh, taxes! Boston Tea Party! This is where it all went down.”
“Yes, it’s quite exciting, isn’t it?” Giles said happily. He was carrying a large foldout map, which he was struggling to refold. “History surrounds us. And not a theme park nor some ghastly recreation containing a burger house in sight.”
“Burger house?” Buffy drawled. “You said that, right?”
He blinked at her. Before he had a chance to respond, Xander said, “They’re in the Dutch section of Boston. Burger houses.”
“Not that we’ll see any,” Buffy went on. Then she caught herself and straightened her shoulders. “Which is fine, because we are here on a mission.”
“I just hope it’s not mission impossible,” Xander said, stretching and yawning. “I didn’t get much sleep on the plane. Do you guys realize it’s still night at home? We could still be sleeping.”
“If the world weren’t hanging by a thread,” Cordelia said. She gestured to Xander’s salt and pepper shakers. “Are you getting those for your mom?”
Xander nodded. Though she didn’t seem to have any affinity for the kitchen whatsoever, Mrs. Harris collected salt and pepper shakers. Buffy did not see the point. What good was stockpiling something just to put it on a shelf? Now, crossbows. Machetes. Beautiful, handcrafted stakes. Those were things worth buying in triplicate.
“Right then, Xander,” Giles said, folding up his map. “Please hurry and transact your business. The attendant has assured me that there’s a house similar to my description not far from here, wherein resides a crazy old, ah, what did she say? Yes, crazy old coot. He’s got to be our man.”
“Our coot.” Buffy smiled at him. “Hurray.”
Giles did not smile back. “Buffy,” he began, “it’s possible that something is terribly amiss at this Gatehouse.”
She shrugged. “We’ll fix it. Then”—she rubbed her hands together—“sightseeing. We’re three thousand miles from home. We ought to do something fun.”
“Tea partying,” Xander agreed.
“Shopping,” Cordelia said, sounding a little wistful. “I’ve got to bring something home or my mom will kill me.”
Buffy shook her head in disbelief. “Hey, want to trade moms?”
“You wouldn’t want mine,” Cordelia said. “Believe me.”
“Yeah, Buff, ’cause your mom actually likes me,” Xander said.
Cordelia looked indignant. “My mom likes you.”
“Oh, yeah. Like cellulite.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “I thought you didn’t believe in lying.”
“Well.” She shrugged. “Maybe she doesn’t like you as my boyfriend, but she doesn’t dislike you as a person.”
“Oh, I’m dancing on the ceiling now.” He gestured at the window of the shop. Buffy turned and looked. Still struggling with his map, Giles was halfway to the car.
“I’ll go buy these family heirlooms. Then I suggest we follow that redcoat,” Xander said.
“Next stop, weirdnes
s,” Cordelia said.
Buffy nodded to herself. “Hopefully,” she replied.
Boston, October, 1666
Richard Regnier woke with a start.
The cottage was dark and very, very cold. His candle was out, the fire, dying embers. Those were natural enough, if one has slept a long time. It was not the chill nor the shadows that sent a frisson up his spine.
It was the sure sense, developed over a lifetime devoted to magick, that something was horribly wrong.
He flicked his wrist and produced a small ball of light that hovered an arm’s length in front of his chair. Cautiously he stood, his gaze traveling around the room, searching for an intruder. There was no one else in the room, at least that he could detect.
Still, he could not shake the feeling that he was in danger. He cursed himself for abandoning his habit of keeping his wand ever present at his side—with the death of Fulcanelli he had grown lax—and moved swiftly across the earthen floor to his traveling valise. He unclasped the fastener and grabbed up the wand. Regnier was capable of great magick without it, but the wand gave that magick focus.
There came a low rumbling, as if from deep within the earth. Regnier looked down at his feet. The rumbling grew louder. The cottage walls began to tremble and then to shake violently. Loud cracks ran up the walls of stone. The embers in the fireplace leaped out of the grate.
Regnier was thrown to the floor. He hit his head on the corner of his chair, and for a moment he was stunned.
As he sat up slowly on the rolling floor, something dark formed in the dirt. It was darker than the night shadows in the room, darker than any blackness he had ever seen. It absorbed the light around it, and yet he could still see it. Though he did not touch it, he sensed that it had form, substance.
The rumbling grew louder. He hunched over the puddle, if puddle it was, and held his wand over it, commanding it in Latin to do no harm.
Suddenly a high, frigid wind whistled through the cottage, so loud his ears throbbed. His belongings were flung against the wall. The pages of his books fluttered like panicked birds. Cold pierced him as if someone stabbed at him with a frozen sword. He cried out and repeated his incantation.
Out of the Madhouse Page 15
