Out of the Madhouse

by Christopher Golden

  “I thought the Watcher was the one closest to the Slayer,” Regnier managed. “But now I see her face in your golden eyes. I hear her heartbeat in your veins. You love her. All here love her.” He gestured to the pile of objects. “Make the cuts,” Regnier said to Angel.

  “No,” Cordelia said anxiously.

  “I’ll do it,” Xander volunteered. “We, um, have some issues with Angel and blood.”

  Jean-Marc shook his head. “Bloodletting is not for you. The circle must be drawn by a pure-hearted youth. That is you.”

  Xander grunted in frustration. “Later, I’m going to think about that, and I’ll probably be insulted.”

  The Gatekeeper looked up at Giles. “If I die before we finish this work, the best we can hope for is that the madness of my house will possess the Sons of Entropy.”

  “As it did us?” Giles asked quietly.

  Regnier slowly shook his head. “The Slayer stands for order, and so you were able to impose order on the house. These are the minions of Chaos. They serve madness.”

  “So they impose madness on the House, and your little freak zoo escapes into Sunnydale, and there’s some big blastorama and the Otherworld comes into our world, and school’s out forever,” Xander said in a rush. “Not a good idea, Mr. Keeper, sir.”

  “We must do what we can,” the Gatekeeper said. He nodded at Angel. “Cut them across the palm, and pray to your gods—if you have any—as you do it.”

  “I don’t think he’s allowed to pray,” Cordelia piped up.

  “For Buffy, I can do anything,” Angel said grimly.

  He picked up the Spear of Longinus. A sharp burn sizzled his skin as he carried it back to the others.

  Giles straightened his shoulders and held out his hand. He gazed levelly at Angel and whispered, “On the road of the dead, the ghost road. Who did you weep for?”

  Angel dropped his eyes a moment, and murmured, “You know who.”

  Giles’s eyes welled. He held out his hand.

  No one spoke as Angel drew the blade across Giles’s palm.

  “Collect it, quickly,” Jean-Marc told Cordelia. He coughed, and in his throat there was a rattle. Angel knew death was knocking at the threshold.

  He moved to Xander, and took his blood.

  * * *

  The panther and the demon fought, claws flashing, talons slicing. Each howled in fury. The demon was bleeding badly, the panther faring only slightly better. The white-haired sorcerer had tried to intervene, but for some reason his magick did not work on the panther.

  Fascinated by the struggle, Buffy’s captors began to loosen their grip. Beside her, Oz, also now a prisoner, turned to her and raised an eyebrow.

  She gave him a little nod.

  * * *

  The house shook around them. Monsters walked the halls. The Gatekeeper was barely conscious.

  Xander had drawn the circle in blood. The mingled scents filled the air, combining with their fear.

  Angel held on tightly to Cordelia’s hand. It was bound to his with one of the white sashes. His other was tied to Giles’s. Each of them had been bound to the other.

  And they were all bound to the Slayer.

  His ghostly mother cradling his head, the sorcerer chanted in Latin, which Angel knew:

  Behold, those who would belong to the Slayer.

  These are her followers, those by whom she is beloved above all else.

  Though they part from her a thousand leagues, their spirits stay with her.

  Their hearts stay with her.

  Their souls stay with her.

  Suddenly, the Gatekeeper’s face twitched, and he opened his eyes wide.

  “What?” Giles snapped. “What’s wrong?”

  “It isn’t enough,” the Gatekeeper replied.

  Cordelia whimpered. Xander swore loudly.

  “What about Oz?” Giles asked quickly.

  “The ritual has found him already. Though he does not realize it, he is contributing as well. It isn’t enough.”

  Xander’s eyes lit up. “Cordy!” he snapped, “Give me your phone!”

  Cordelia looked at him as though he were crazy, but she went for her bag and dug out the phone without arguing.

  “Listen, we’ve tried using this thing from in here, but the signal can’t get out of the house. You’ve got to make it go through,” Xander told the Gatekeeper.

  “I will try to . . . I will manage,” he said weakly.

  “Xander,” Giles said, “what are you . . .” and then he got it. “Willow!” he said excitedly.

  Xander started to dial.

  “She’s not home!” Angel said suddenly. “Oz told her to go to Buffy’s mom’s house. Try there.”

  Xander swore, disconnected, and began to dial again.

  * * *

  Willow sat staring at the television in the Summers living room, but was only tangentially aware of what was happening on-screen. She was tired, and had started to nod off several times before her mind strayed into areas she’d rather it stay away from. Joyce had called Willow’s mother to say that she was going to help at the gallery, unpacking for an exhibit. The excuse had worked, but Willow didn’t know how long she could stay before it would become obvious that she was doing something else.

  Together the two of them had watched meaningless cable gibberish until Joyce had drifted off. The woman was not sleeping comfortably. She murmured in her sleep, and the way her face scrunched up from time to time, Willow thought she was having a nightmare.

  Maybe a series of nightmares.

  But she didn’t want to wake Mrs. Summers. She only wished she could get some sleep too. But though she had closed her eyes from time to time, sleep would not come.

  And then it did. Simple as that.

  Several minutes after Willow had finally dropped off, the phone rang and pulled her roughly from her dreams. On the second ring, with Mrs. Summers still barely stirring on the sofa, Willow reached for the phone. She glanced at the clock: not quite late enough for her mom to be calling to complain.

  “Summers residence,” she said, still slightly groggy from her interrupted descent into unconsciousness.

  “Willow, thank God!” Xander shouted over the phone.

  “Xander? What’s wrong? What’s happening?” Willow cried, deeply frightened by the tone of his voice.

  Mrs. Summers was up now, and she came across the living room toward Willow, reaching for the phone.

  “That’s Xander?” she asked. “What is it? Has something happened to Buffy?”

  Willow shushed her angrily, held up one hand to prevent further interruption.

  She listened to Xander, her face draining of all color, eyes growing wider by the moment. Joyce kept gesticulating at her, and after a moment, Willow held her hand over the phone and looked at Buffy’s mom.

  “You’d do anything for Buffy, right?” Willow asked.

  “I’m her mother, Willow,” Joyce said anxiously. “I’d die for her.”

  Willow only nodded. With a frightened expression on her face, she said, “Find something sharp.”

  * * *

  The cellular phone lay, the line to Sunnydale still open, on the floor at Xander’s feet. They had rejoined hands. Three thousand miles away, Joyce Summers and Willow Rosenberg were bleeding for Buffy. Somewhere downstairs, Oz fought at her side.

  The Gatekeeper began again.

  Behold, those who would belong to the Slayer.

  These are her followers, those by whom she is beloved above all else.

  Though they part from her a thousand leagues, their spirits stay with her.

  Their hearts stay with her.

  Their souls stay with her.

  To one another are they true, for the sake of her.

  Their loyalty is one living thing among them, no matter the future, no matter the past.

  This is their bond, and this is the Slayer’s strongest weapon. Beyond battle, beyond force, this is their greatest gift.

  “You must know thi
s in your bones,” the Gatekeeper whispered. “Over and beyond your ability to fight the darkness, you must be her light. You have proven your prowess and your courage against monsters and demons, but now you must surrender. You are the Slayer’s, and you will always belong to her.”

  He closed his eyes. “Even if you never see her again.”

  * * *

  Giles, Angel, Cordelia, and Xander stood tall and steadfast, hands clasped. Blue light crackled around the cellular phone and seemed to leap into the air toward the Gatekeeper. A fierce, searing wind howled through the room.

  Cordelia’s hand jerked and her eyes widened. Angel gave her hand a squeeze. She closed her eyes and murmured to herself, “I’m not moving I’m brave I’m not moving.”

  As the wind burned Angel’s face, the ceiling crashed down around them. Snakes wriggled from the floor.

  Ghostly specters writhed in the mirrors. The mirrors shattered in their frames, and a dozen dark creatures stepped into the room: trolls; a skeleton heavy with rotting flesh; a headless woman, her neck spouting gore; another panther.

  Cordelia whispered, “Buffy Buffy Buffy Buffy.”

  The creatures began to converge on the circle.

  “Stand fast!” the Gatekeeper commanded. “Do not falter.”

  There was a scream.

  It was a voice Angel knew well.

  It was Buffy.

  As Angel watched, Xander reached for the sash to untie himself.

  “Stand fast!” the Gatekeeper shouted, in surprisingly strong and ringing tones.

  “But she needs us!” Xander protested.

  “That’s right, she does,” Angel said. “And that’s why we have to stay here, Xander. This is our battle. This one. The other is for her.”

  “He’s right, Xander.” Giles looked pale. “We must believe this. We must know this.”

  Another scream.

  Angel’s eyes bled.

  * * *

  The panther lay dead at the feet of the winged demon. Shouting in triumph, the white-haired sorcerer pointed to Buffy and said to the monster, “Take her to Il Maestro!”

  Dripping with blood, the huge black thing flapped its wings and rose into the air, fighting a blast of fiery wind that cascaded from the ruined hallway above.

  Then it dove for Buffy. Unnerved, her captors let go of her and she screamed once, in surprise. She raised her fists as the creature approached. She barely heard Oz’s shout of warning as it tilted its body backward and grabbed her in its talons. Where it dug into her waist, it drew blood.

  But although her mouth was closed, the scream reverberated throughout the room. The demon clutched her ever more tightly and now she couldn’t even breathe. It rose into the air and crashed through the ceiling. Night had fallen, and when Buffy threw back her head, she could see the moon.

  “Fly!” the sorcerer shouted.

  Below, a wild parade of evil creatures began to leap into the room. The hooded figures blasted them with magickal energy. Within seconds, it was a free-for-all, and Buffy looked mutely for Oz, down amid the chaos.

  She saw him then. Fighting. Bleeding. Staring after her with a fist in the air. And he screamed to her.

  “Fight, Buffy! You can beat it!”

  * * *

  In Sunnydale, Willow and Joyce cried together.

  “My God,” Joyce whispered. “What’s happening? Oh, God, please let my little girl come home.”

  They held on to one another, and each of them felt a tug, as though part of their minds, their inner selves, were being spirited away. They hugged even more tightly.

  “She’ll win,” Willow said to Buffy’s mother. “She’ll come back.”

  * * *

  The rotting skeleton grabbed Cordelia around the waist. She shrieked and said, “Xander, stop him!”

  “Do not move,” the Gatekeeper ordered. “Do not falter.”

  “But—” Xander said, reaching once more for the sash.

  “Do it, and Buffy dies,” Giles said. “Believe in us. Believe in all of us, Xander. But most of all, believe in Buffy.”

  Xander closed his eyes. He saw Buffy as clearly as if she were standing next to him. Saw her big blue eyes. Her smile. Saw how much he loved her, and would always love her.

  Cordelia screamed, over and over again.

  The wind howled.

  The monsters walked.

  He heard Buffy’s scream.

  He saw how many times she had risked her life for him. Saw how many times she had wanted to quit. How torn she was between duty and desire. Between her responsibility to the world and to herself.

  Saw that he was part of all that.

  The wind howled. The creatures descended upon the circle, grabbing at each one of them. Even Giles shouted with fear.

  “I believe,” he whispered.

  And there was silence.

  * * *

  Just as the demon had flown almost completely through the hole in the roof, the ceiling reformed.

  The demon’s legs and claws were instantly severed. The dead talons released Buffy, and she angled her fall to land on the upper story, where the landing once had been.

  Tucking forward, she landed hard, but whirled around.

  The white-haired sorcerer looked up, shouted, “No!” and fire arced from his fingers at the demon’s remains as they plummeted toward him. His magick did nothing; still the sharp talons and huge legs fell. Buffy watched, riveted. The sorcerer tried to run. Too late. As he looked fearfully over his shoulder, the sharp, curved claws pierced his back and impaled him.

  Magickal blue energy crackled around him. It gathered in force, and as Buffy watched, it snapped and buzzed like a live wire.

  It leaped to the nearest hooded figure and enveloped him. The man cried out, then collapsed.

  It left him and went to the next figure. The next. The next. And Buffy knew then that it was not the sorcerer’s own magick, but the power of the Gatehouse. Cleaning up.

  * * *

  By the time Buffy’s friends reached her, all the Sons of Entropy lay dead.

  From the carnage in the stairwell below, Oz slowly rose, blinked, and said, “At some point, if it’s not too much trouble, can someone get me out of here?”

  Epilogue

  THEY STOOD IN THE FOYER of the Gatehouse. The marble sparkled. A cool breeze slipped through Windows throughout the house. The chandelier high above them cast an eerie glow down on them, and on the newly restored grand staircase to the second-floor landing.

  The Gatekeeper had done it all.

  Now he lay once more in the restorative Cauldron of Bran the Blessed. Giles had spoken with the ghostly Antoinette Regnier only moments earlier, and with spectral tears streaming down her face, the long-dead woman announced that her son would likely have to remain in the Cauldron for several days before he would be reinvigorated enough to fend off any further attack. With a proper rest, and with a soaking in the Cauldron at least once or twice a day, he would be able to go on, at least for a little while. But the Cauldron would not keep him alive forever. If the heir was not recovered, chaos would still prevail.

  Giles had found it odd that the ghost would not look forward to her son finally joining her in the afterlife, and said so. Antoinette’s spirit smiled at that. It was not his impending death that saddened her, but the pain he suffered each moment that he clung to life.

  That had been enough to silence Giles.

  Until now.

  “We really only have one choice,” the Watcher explained. “We must go to Europe, and somehow find young Jacques Regnier, and return him to this house before his father dies.”

  They stared at him.

  “Well, I don’t like the idea any better than the rest of you,” he said huffily.

  Which wasn’t entirely true. For Giles had not forgotten about Micaela Tomasi, and the mystery of her disappearance. He hoped that this trip might solve that mystery once and for all.

  “Well then?” He turned his gaze upon the Slayer.


  * * *

  Buffy smiled affectionately at Giles. Glanced around at the others. She knew what they’d done, and how it was done. Knew that they were all there for her. Even Cordelia, which a part of her still found amazing. They would never discuss it after this, Buffy knew, but in spite of all her carping and haughty attitude, Cordelia was a courageous and loyal friend.

  She would never have imagined it

  “Fine,” Buffy said, and idly picked lint off her sweatshirt. They’d all changed into clean and comfortable clothes after the chaos had ended. “Someone’s got to stay here, Giles,” Buffy said. “And I’m not leaving Willow alone back in Sunnydale, so someone’s going to have to go home and back her up. As for the rest of us . . . I don’t know how long the search for the heir is going to take, but it doesn’t really matter. Either we find him in time, or it just won’t matter anymore.”

  They all stared at her. One by one she searched their faces. Giles. Cordelia. Oz. Xander. And Angel. Dear Angel. They’d rarely been this close, and rarely this far apart.

  “First we sleep,” Giles said. “None of us will do anyone any good unless we get some sleep first.”

  Buffy nodded her agreement.

  So, that would be it. Sleep. Just a little. And then the madness would begin again.

  * * *

  Once upon a time, the vineyard had been the pride of his villa. But Il Maestro ages ago had lost interest in grapes. In wine. Power was the only substance upon which he could become drunk. Power, and chaos.

  “Il Maestro?”

  The voice was quivering with fear. Taking his eyes off the lights of Florence in the distance, turning his back on the ravaged and overgrown remains of his vineyard, Il Maestro turned to find Brother Aldo standing at a respectful distance, eyes downcast.

  Il Maestro chuckled dryly, and black fire burned almost invisibly at his fingertips where they hung at his sides. The Frenchman who had taught him to access that darkest of sorceries had called it La Brûlure Noire. The Black Burn. Even now, it began to creep up his arms, enveloping Il Maestro in a sheath of blazing darkness.

  “You’ve come to tell me that the Gatehouse still stands.”

  Brother Aldo said nothing, but he began to cry.

  “That the Slayer is still free.”