Ghost Roads

by Christopher Golden

  “Not working for him,” Buffy said, remembering the savagery of the Wendigo, which had unwittingly saved her life back in Sunnydale, “but at least under his control. No question, in the nasty sorcery department, this guy makes our old pal Ethan Rayne look like Daffy Duck with a magick wand.”

  Now Angel knelt over the dead monster and stared at the rows of needle teeth in its mouth.

  “Incredible. A manticore,” he said. “Face of a man, body of a lion. Reputed to steal babies, cut-them up, and eat them. I’ve never seen one before.”

  “Another in a limited edition series of monsters with human faces,” Buffy said grimly. “Like whoever this II Maestro guy is.” She stared down at the creature, who stared back at her with glassy, blank eyes.

  “And when I find him, this is exactly what I’m going to do to him,” she seethed.

  She glared at Oz and Angel.

  “For starters.”

  Chapter 6

  HERB’S WHAT HAPPENED,” ANGEL SAID, shining his flashlight over a long, ramplike plank covered with dirt and bones that had crashed down under the weight of Buffy and the monster. “This was the entrance to the room we’re standing in. The catacombs were used in World War II by the French Resistance. This was probably a secret meeting place.”

  “And now it’s a secret dying place,” Buffy said, then glanced around and realized she’d lost track of the AK-47 somewhere. Not that it mattered. It hadn’t been her kind of weapon. Not at all.

  Suddenly, the manticore exploded into flames. The three watched without much expression.

  “Maybe II Maestro sent that manticore after that guy, but he might have sent him after us as well. And more little goodies could be on the way.”

  She nodded. Better to be a moving target than a dead duck.

  “Okay.” She sighed. “It’s going to be light soon. Where’s the nearest ghost road?”

  “According to Antoinette Regnier, there’s supposed to be one inside the bell tower in the Cathedral of Notre Dame.”

  Buffy smiled wryly. “See? I knew we’d have a chance to go sightseeing on this trip.”

  * * *

  That evening, Giles wandered Sunnydale alone.

  “ ‘The moon was a ghostly galleon,’ ” he murmured, quoting the poem by Alfred Noyes as he looked up at the sky. He put his hands in his jacket to warm them, remembering another chilly night when he had done so: New York, the librarians’ convention, the night he had met Micaela Tomasi.

  It was an uncommonly foggy night in Sunnydale, and the shrouded moon loomed huge as its light was thrown against the whirling mists. Thick blankets of vapor covered every street, every storefront and lamppost. Walking through it gave one a sense of swimming through the murk of a fully submerged town. Giles knew of three such. Tonight, Sunnydale could be counted as the fourth.

  He thought of London and felt not precisely homesick, for Sunnydale had become his home. Perhaps nostalgic was the better term. Wistful for a time when things had been simpler, and he had not been the Slayer’s Watcher. He had worked at the British Museum, biding his time on the chance that he would be called to serve a new Slayer. Done things such as memorize romantic poems about lives that at the time seemed so much larger and more exciting than his own. Not realizing then that his life would become just like that, and that he would long for the relative ease and boredom he was forced to relinquish.

  However, he was not complaining. The actual burden of duty rested on shoulders far more slender—and yet more powerful—than his. It was a small thing that was asked of him: to devote his life to helping her.

  She was asked to risk her life, hour by hour, minute by minute. And that demand was never rescinded, until she did indeed die.

  His footsteps rang on the pavement as he walked, his gaze never resting long on one location. He was on patrol, alone tonight for various logistical reasons, including the fact that he needed to be alone. It was all well and good that Joyce Summers had a safe haven from the breach inside her home, but Giles was unused to sharing his own safe haven with anyone. The need for secrecy about his role as Watcher had isolated him to such an extent that he found that, by habit and inclination, he preferred his own company to that of most other people. Even lovely, intelligent people such as Joyce.

  Besides, the last woman who had spent an appreciable amount of time in his apartment had been Jenny. He found himself thinking of her more often, and with a resurgence of his grief, now that another woman was there. Joyce’s makeup in his bathroom, the press of lipstick on a glass—the minutiae of femininity served to remind him that what he had once had was gone forever. Now his worry was for Micaela, and it was difficult for him to entertain the thought that she, too, might be dead. He didn’t want Buffy’s mother to know that her presence caused such pain for him, and so he kept his feelings carefully hidden. Which made him lonelier still.

  Now, in the fog, he was on full alert. Two high school boys were missing, and the kids at school were talking about seeing things down at the beach. Things besides the Kraken, the enormous sea monster which, for all he and the others knew, still lurked beneath the black water. There was the off chance that this fog was merely a trick of the weather, and that the stories were only stories, but he sincerely doubted that. Not here. Not now. They surely indicated another breach. Poor Willow would have to do another binding spell.

  He had nothing but the highest admiration for the way Willow had stepped into Jenny’s shoes, as it were, becoming the group’s spellcaster and researcher of the arcane. Giles had no time for learning rituals and purchasing supplies for them, as he spent his time training the Slayer and researching ancient texts for prophecies about the various demons and other forces of darkness she must battle. That Willow so handily supplemented his work and aided Buffy was helpful indeed, and he was most appreciative.

  He appreciated all their efforts, in fact. Over time, Xander had found his place as Buffy’s second-in-command, and he could also be an elegant tactician, though he would never believe it of himself if Giles were to mention it. Cordelia, who had once seemed so . . . superfluous, served as the voice of practicality when Giles’s own British predilection for tact and discretion hindered the stating of the obvious. Oz was a calming influence, often acting as Willow’s second. They were an incredible group of kids, the Slayer’s band.

  She was lucky to have them, and he was fortunate that they were so loyal to Buffy—

  “Help,” called a voice. “Oh, God!”

  Giles cocked his head. The call was nearby. As were the accompanying footsteps, frantic and uneven.

  “No! No!” came another shout.

  To the northwest, then. As quickly but as quietly as he could, Giles ran in that direction. He remained silent. The element of surprise might be the most effective weapon he had.

  Giles reached a row of warehouses, touching the damp aluminum siding as he felt along the side. This damnable fog. He could see nothing.

  There was another clatter of footsteps. The boyish voice yelled, “Oh, God. Oh, my God!”

  Farther away this time. There was a muffled cry, followed by a creaking sound that reminded him of something he couldn’t quite place.

  Then he looked up. His lips parted and his face prickled with alarm.

  The moon was descending.

  But it was not the moon. It was a large, glowing shape, slowly lowering toward the ground, and his first thought was that it was a UFO.

  Giles took a step left. His right hand made contact with something metallic—a Dumpster, he guessed—and he felt along it as he inched backward. There was a space between it and the building; he wedged himself into the hiding place, his head craned upward.

  Then a fierce wind whipped up, slapping granules of grit against his cheek. He pressed himself against the building as something flew out of the Dumpster—a piece of cardboard, a torn box—and hit him in the face.

  The force of the wind increased, shrieking in Giles’s ears, thwarting his ability to hear. For a momen
t he hoped that the wind would dissipate the fog, but if anything it seemed thicker.

  The shrieking rose and fell. After a few seconds Giles realized that voices keened within the shrieking. They were desperate and filled with rage.

  The voices blended into the notes of a song; then the notes became words, and Giles’s heart thundered against his ribs as he listened:

  We ride the Dutchman, we,

  Damned souls, doomed souls.

  We ride the Dutchman we,

  As she sails on straight to hell.

  The Flying Dutchman? Here in Sunnydale? This was bad indeed. Antoinette Regnier, the ghostly mother of the current Gatekeeper, had mentioned to Giles that the Dutchman was bound into the Gatehouse.

  The wind continued to blow; then, gradually, Giles was aware that the fog was thinning. Immediately he looked up. Above him floated the rotted hull of a sailing vessel. Barnacles and bones, both human and animal, clung to the decayed, curved timbers. A large chain dangled from the port side; attached to the end was an old-fashioned three-pronged anchor, rusted and covered with more barnacles.

  The Dutchman sank still lower until she was eye-level with Giles. Her sails hung in tatters. Rotted corpses strode her deck. The stench of death was unimaginable.

  On the main deck, a skeleton dragged a boy in a green and white letterman’s jacket by means of a rope around both his wrists. What flesh there was on the skeleton’s bones was sun blackened and crawling with worms.

  It yanked hard on the rope and the boy fell to his knees with a gasp, wobbling for a moment, then crashing face forward on the deck. Around him, the other ghosts laughed, and the eerie echo made the hair stand up on Giles’s head.

  Giles doubled his fists, fighting the urge to act. At this juncture, there was nothing he could do. To make matters worse, he recognized the boy. He had come into the library only last week, requesting some college catalogs. His name was Vinnie Navarro, a new transfer student from somewhere in Chicago, and most unhappy about moving to Sunnydale. Yet he had tried to put on a brave face for his family, and for that Giles admired him. The jacket Vinnie wore was from his old high school. Giles felt a rush of sorrow for the lad, who certainly had had no notion of what was to come when his family had moved here.

  “Join,” said the voice, “or die.”

  It was not offering Vinnie a choice. It was foretelling his future.

  Then the owner of the voice stepped forward on the deck, and Giles had to clamp his hand over his own mouth to stifle his shout of fear.

  It was a figure dressed in old-fashioned black seafarer’s clothes. But where its face should have been, hung a layer of shadow. It blurred and shifted as the being moved its head, but when Giles looked into that shadow, he saw nothing. But what he felt . . .

  Oh, what he felt . . .

  Fear beyond reasoning. The kind of terror that devoured thought and left a grown man a jibbering madman. Death wore that face. And worse than death.

  The figure approached Vinnie, who sank to his knees and burst into tears. From behind him, another ravaged corpse staggered forward. It held in its hands a noose, and it slipped the loop over Vinnie’s head.

  “Weigh anchor and string him up,” said the ghost with the shadowed face. It waved its skeletal hand carelessly and turned its back on Vinnie.

  “Weigh anchor, aye sir,” a voice echoed.

  The chain began to crawl upward. Mastering his fear as best he could, Giles ran forward and grabbed it. The fog surrounded the vessel as it began to rise back into the air. Through the murk he could no longer see the ground. He lost his sense of direction as he dangled, unsure if they were still rising.

  The ship moved forward, trailing him and the anchor slightly behind.

  * * *

  Xander, Cordelia, and Willow stood in the living room of the Summers home and looked at the wobbly circle that hovered waist high.

  “I’m saying this is a job for Superman. Or Buffy, as the case may be,” Xander said.

  The girls nodded. Willow looked tired. She covered her mouth as she yawned, then looked at Xander and said, “I’ve done all the binding I know how to do.”

  “And still it lurks,” Xander said, “with intent to loom.”

  “What are you talking about?” Cordelia snapped. She checked her watch. “Let’s just call in and tell Giles we did the best we could, but it’s still here. Look, one more late night and my mother is shipping me off to a finishing school in Switzerland.” She raised her eyes and looked at Xander. “Is that how we want me to finish senior year?”

  “Only sometimes,” he said earnestly. “Okay, I’m punching in the G-man’s number.” He picked up the Summers’ portable and dialed.

  Joyce Summers answered.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Summers,” Xander said amiably. “How are you?”

  “A little worried,” she said. “Mr. Giles said he’d check in with me over two hours ago. I haven’t heard anything.”

  Xander scowled, which prompted Cordelia and Willow to start whispering, “What? What?” He gestured for them to be quiet.

  “You’re sure the phone was on the hook.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “And if you were talking and there was a call waiting, you took it.”

  “Xander,” Buffy’s mother said, exasperated, “I deliberately stayed off the phone. You’re confusing me with my daughter.”

  “Hmm. Hold on.” He covered the mouth piece and looked at the girls. “Giles is off the radar.”

  “What?” Willow and Cordelia demanded in shocked unison.

  Removing his hand, he said, “Mrs. S., did he say where he was going?”

  “Yes. On patrol. I think he was going to see about the missing high school students.”

  “Which ones, out of a pool of, oh, say two hundred?” Xander asked sourly.

  “I think he was going to the wharf.”

  “Ah.” He brightened. “That’s good. That’s something we can use. Anything else?”

  “Not that I can think of. He told me not to worry.”

  “Oh, he’s just full of good advice,” Xander grumbled. More heartily, he said to her, “We’ll go find him and we’ll bring him home, okay?”

  “That would be good, yes,” she said anxiously. “I—I’m pretty worried, Xander.”

  “Nothing to worry about. We’ve got everything under control,” he assured her.

  As soon as he hung up, he turned to the girls and said, “Oh, man, do we have a whole pack o’ trouble. Giles went down to the sea again and now he’s missing.”

  “The Kraken,” Willow said, horrified.

  “Eew.” Cordelia sighed. “Switzerland, here I come.”

  * * *

  The chain was pulled taut, leaving Giles to cling to the anchor as the ship traveled over Sunnydale. His arms were very tired, and he began to worry that he might actually let go. The fog was so thick he had no idea where he was nor how high up. His arm muscles ached.

  After a time, the ghost ship pitched forward. It was descending. He wondered if the fog would lift again, but this time there was no lessening of the damp thickness that filled his lungs and made his hands wet and slick.

  Then the rush and roar of the ocean drowned out all other noise. For an alarming instant he wondered if they were going to submerge suddenly, but the vessel glided toward the water with astonishing grace.

  Then a large swell hit the Dutchman—even some of the crew gave a cry—and to his astonishment Giles lost his grip on the anchor and splashed into the chilly water.

  His head bobbed beneath the surface, and all went black.

  * * *

  Buffy didn’t like being on the ghost roads again. But it was light outside the catacombs, and she didn’t want to lose another twelve hours before Angel could move on. The ghost that had approached them in England had warned her away from using this mode of travel, but she didn’t see that she had a choice. Their friend in the catacombs had been pretty certain the Sons of Entropy had been tracking them
when they traveled by traditional means.

  A short discussion had resulted in this fun new journey, but it was a mission with a purpose: Buffy was looking for help, and she would take it where she could get it. She figured if you could go to destinations you held in your mind, those destinations might include the locations of people.

  Fortunately, and to her surprise, the dead were keeping their distance. Most of them were obviously on their way to their final rest, whatever that was supposed to be. The ones that had attacked them before were the lost. But now, even the lost were staying away. Word on the ghost roads must travel pretty fast, she thought.

  Every once in a while, she would catch sight of a blur of a face or the flash of a figure in the distance. Same with Angel and Oz. But for the most part, they were alone.

  At least until the beautiful redheaded Slayer they had met before appeared before them.

  “Oh,” Buffy said, startled. She was actually trying to get to Kendra, who had fought beside her in life.

  “Slayer, I thank the stars that you heard my plea,” Maria Regina said. Her expression was grim. “I was unable to come to you, but I desperately need your help.”

  Buffy was on her guard. She wasn’t looking for more to do.

  “The fiends you now face are weakening the barriers between Earth and the Otherworld. That much you know. But their dark magick is also weakening the barriers that separate the ghost roads from the Otherworld and from Hell itself. Monsters and demons are invading, racing down the ghost roads, claiming souls for Hell. If they can intrude on the ghost roads, there is an excellent chance they will be able to come through the breaches into your world as well.”

  “Which is why I can’t delay,” Buffy said quickly, “and why you have to help me stop the Sons of Entropy—those are the fiends—from doing all the bad stuff.”

  “No. You must help me fight now.” The Slayer stepped forward and touched Buffy on the forearm. A strange electric sensation passed between them, and Buffy drew back slightly at this evidence that even after death, Slayers were different from other people. She didn’t like being different. Except on those occasions when she was wounded so badly a regular person would have died.