Ghost Roads

by Christopher Golden

  Maria Regina took her other hand and stood facing her.

  “We are Chosen Ones. We were handed a sacred obligation,” she insisted.

  “Yeah,” Buffy retorted. “To save the world. Not every single world in the galaxy.”

  “To fight the forces of darkness,” Maria Regina insisted.

  Buffy groaned. “Do we have to do it now? I am so on a mission—well, actually, you know my mission—can’t you find some other Slayers to help you out? I hear Kendra’s around.”

  Maria Regina shook her head. “She’s walked on.”

  “Walked on?” Buffy raised her brows. “To?”

  Maria Regina shrugged. “Who can say? The light? I don’t know.” She added bitterly, “I’m still here, am I not?”

  Buffy looked at Angel, who shook his head slightly. “We have to go, Buffy,” he said quietly.

  Without warning, a horde of demons shimmered into existence, surrounding them. Their faces were hideous—sores bled from the crimson skin of the nearest. A fat, slobbering demon launched himself at Angel, while two green monsters with glowing hollows for eyes grabbed Oz, their tentacles whipping around him and squeezing tight.

  And more were coming.

  “The breach has ruptured!” Maria Regina shouted as she went into action. Grabbing the two green, tentacled demons, she crushed their heads together; then, as they swayed, she began ripping their tentacles from their bodies. Green ocher spurted everywhere, covering Buffy and the others.

  Oz slumped to the ground. Buffy had just enough time to push him out of the way before the red demon launched itself at her. Buffy contracted into a ball and executed a forward roll as the demon sailed over her. Then she stopped herself with her hands and back-kicked the demon as it whirled around and prepared another attack. As it staggered, it collided with Angel’s back. The vampire grabbed it around the neck, stooped, and yanked it over his head like a rag doll. It sailed down on the neck of the hideously fat demon, and the two crashed to the ground. Savagely growling, Angel kicked them until they stopped moving.

  Next, Buffy went to help Oz, glaring angrily at Maria Regina, who was having a difficult time with a single, very short monster whose main mode of attack appeared to be hissing.

  No wonder she died, she found herself thinking as she grabbed at the blue demon, only to watch his arm dissolve into maggots. She was momentarily startled; Cordelia and Xander had run into a demon like this who’d been an assassin with the Order of Taraka, sent to kill Buffy.

  “M.R.,” she called, “a little help here, please.”

  The short demon roared flame at Maria Regina. Perfect. It was a fire breather. Buffy tackled it and forced it down on its stomach, lifted it up, and turned on her heel. The flames shot out at the maggot creature, burning it to a crisp.

  “Maria Regina, is this your lunch break?” she asked angrily.

  “I’m sorry. I’m . . . I’m somehow sapped,” the dead Slayer said, sounding confused. She came to Buffy and touched her. There was another jolt of electricity.

  “Hey,” Buffy protested, “what are you doing?”

  Maria Regina frowned. “I don’t know. Perhaps it’s because my time is over, and you’re the Slayer now. But I feel rejuvenated somehow. I feel that now I can fight!”

  “Well, that’s just ducky, because there’s a lot to do around here,” Buffy said, as she jumped into the air, spun completely around, then kicked an oncoming monster full in the face. The creature had a sharp executioner’s axe in its grip. When it went down, the axe clattered to the ground. Buffy kicked the weapon out of its grasp, made a double fist, and slammed down hard.

  Maria Regina picked up the axe and said, “I’ll finish him off.” She kicked the monster, and Buffy moved off to get the next guy. She thought about asking for the axe, but Maria Regina needed some kind of extra edge. So far, Buffy didn’t.

  To her relief, Oz was up and holding his own against a very human-looking demon. Its taloned fingers sliced in the air, reaching for Oz as he pummeled its face. Then Oz kicked it hard in the groin. The thing went down, and Oz slammed its face into the ground, then stomped on its neck.

  “Strong work,” Buffy called.

  “Buffy, look out!” Oz shouted.

  She turned just in time to see the monster she had left to the other Slayer racing toward her with its axe back in its possession.

  Buffy backhanded it without even looking, then grabbed the axe and sliced open its abdomen.

  “Maria!” she shouted, then turned to see the other Slayer on her hands and knees, her face away from Buffy. “Hey! Are you hurt?”

  Buffy ran toward her.

  Angel outpaced Buffy, reaching the downed Slayer before she did. He was in full vamp face. Buffy felt a flash of fear for him, not sure that Maria Regina would remember that Angel was on their side.

  “Angel, stay back!” Buffy cried.

  “Buffy?” he said, but he was looking down at Maria Regina and not at her.

  “What?”

  He looked up at Buffy.

  In that moment, Maria Regina—or whatever had passed for her—flipped in the air and flew straight for Buffy, knocking the axe from her hand.

  She wore Buffy’s face. Buffy’s hair. Buffy’s body.

  For one second too long, Buffy was stunned. Then, as her impostor launched a full-scale attack—using her battle techniques—Buffy pulled herself together and fought back. The other Buffy parried each blow, blocked each kick.

  “You will lose, Slayer,” she hissed. “And Hell will have its day.”

  “And it’ll be pretty dam cold there,” Buffy retorted. Her eyes ticked the merest bit toward Angel, who was advancing on Buffy’s double.

  “Don’t try it, vampire,“ the doppelgänger threatened. Then she laughed. “I know everything you will try. I know all your schemes. Your tricks.”

  “Then we’re not playing poker,” Buffy said.

  “There’s that poker motif again,” Oz said numbly, as he grabbed up the axe. “Um, we still have demons.” He swung gamely at an advancing monster cloaked in black fur and sporting horns all over its body.

  Buffy said to Angel, “Help Oz.”

  He glared at the impostor. “But—”

  “Do it,” Buffy said.

  He moved away.

  The double laughed, keeping her distance from Buffy. “You blundered, Slayer.”

  “Yeah. I should have asked to see proper ID when we first met,” Buffy said, assuming a classic fighter’s stance as she observed her adversary. Her trained mind assessed the possible attack moves the other Buffy might initiate, planned defensive maneuvers. Played for time. “Too late for that now, I guess, Maria. Or were you ever Maria Regina?”

  “This force was once the shade of the dead Slayer. I knew her . . . intimately. I’m the one who killed her.”

  “There was a Star Trek episode like this. Come to think of it, about a dozen of them,” Buffy said. “It’s a cliché, even in the afterlife, don’t you think?”

  Her double smiled brightly at her. “You fell for it. You let me touch you. And now I have your essence. If you destroy this shade, you will kill a part of yourself. It is your shade now. You will die even younger than the fates have already decreed.”

  “Oh, yeah? Well, my future hasn’t been written,” Buffy said, though she was chilled by the double’s words. “Unfortunately for you, yours has. Oz!”

  In that moment, Oz threw the axe to her. She caught it, lunged, and in one clean arc decapitated the impostor. The demons disappeared in an instant, as though they had been drawn there merely as part of the doppelgänger’s ruse. Her head sailed into the air, then landed with a thud at Oz’s feet.

  He stared down at it, then at Buffy. “The Chosen One,” he said evenly. “I knew her, Horatio.”

  To her amazement, Buffy burst into laughter. It took a few minutes for her to calm down, and by then, she wasn’t sure if she was laughing or sobbing.

  Chapter 7

  AFTER THE DEBACLE WITH M
ARIA Regina, Buffy pretty much figured it wasn’t worth the aggravation of the ghost roads to find Kendra, if she was still walking them. Without a plan, and with too many wicked things that way coming, she suggested they bail.

  Everybody agreed, and so they checked back out of the bell tower at Notre Dame cathedral and started wandering around, wondering what to do next.

  The three kept to the shadows in the streets of nighttime Paris. It was a truly beautiful city. All the famous monuments were splashed with light—the Eiffel Tower, the Church of the Madeleine, the Hôtel des Invalides. The bistros were crammed with people slightly older than Buffy and Oz, engaged in deep conversations that required lots of coffee in cups as big as soup bowls and many cigarettes. Angelus had smoked. Angel did not.

  “Everyone here dresses so cool,” Buffy murmured, looking around and feeling kind of skanky. That’s what came with clothes you could cram into a backpack and not enough opportunities to shower.

  “It’s the accessories,” Oz offered. “Scarves. Jewelry.”

  “Yes.” She nodded, appraising a trio of girls who were seated at a small round table. Everything matched or blended in some way, from their rings to their patterned panty hose. “You’re right.” She grinned at Oz. “Career Week? How did they miss your knack for fashion?”

  He shrugged. “Devon’s new honey reads Cosmo. Very heavy on the accessories.”

  “Yeah, especially on the front cover,” she teased. “Big accessories there.”

  Oz just smiled.

  Angel said, “The Parisians have always been known for their fashion sense. At the turn of the century, it was amazing. Those bustles . . .” He trailed off as the other two just looked at him. He shrugged. “They were nice bustles.”

  “And now we’ve returned full circle to accessories,” Buffy said. She gestured to the throngs of people. “So it’s time to tune in once again to the Slayer’s favorite topic: Now what?”

  For a moment the three were silent. Then Oz said, “Maybe this is too obvious. But how about we be obvious ourselves? They don’t know where we’re going, either. So if we nose around, make ourselves available for potshots and murder attempts, with any luck they’ll try to kill us.”

  “You’re right,” Buffy said brightly. “Who’d pass up a chance like that?”

  Oz grinned happily, and then the grin slid away like blood draining from a corpse.

  Angel glanced around at the lights of Paris. “You know,” he said, “I’m thinking if we’re going to be obvious, we should be very obvious. We’re lost in this crowd. How about we go inside somewhere, have a bite to eat? You two must be hungry.”

  “Actually, I’m starved,” Buffy answered. “How about you?”

  “Don’t ask,” he reminded her.

  “Don’t tell.” She took a breath. “Okay.” She looked at Oz. “You in the mood for le coffee and les cigs?”

  “Sure. Well, except for the les cigs part.”

  “Just being French,” Buffy said with a shrug.

  They headed into the nearest cafe, a place called Bistrot de la Place, and Angel went into his Vulcan mind-meld with the waiter, meaning that they both started speaking rapid-fire French to each other. Buffy could tell that Oz was following at least part of the conversation while she, the one who had actually taken French, couldn’t understand a word. It was humiliating. But then, so much about being her was.

  The waiter led them to a table by the window. Angel pulled out some francs and the waiter palmed them, inclining his head like a duke and sniffing, “Merci, monsieur.”

  “Now that I got,” Buffy announced. “You bribed him so we could sit at the window.”

  “See and be seen,” Angel said. He smiled faintly. “With any luck, our friends will show up with another rocket launcher.”

  “There is that,” Oz said flatly. “Hadn’t thought of that.”

  Buffy looked first at him, then at Angel. Her expression was very serious, very determined.

  “Look. Both of you. I’m the Slayer. This is my job. But neither of you is under the obligation I’m under. You can go home if you want. I won’t blame you.”

  Completely ignoring her, Angel raised a hand at a passing waiter. “Garçon,” he called. He looked at Oz. “Coffee?”

  * * *

  They had croissants and baguettes, and even some delicious, hearty soup. While they mopped up drippy Brie, Angel excused himself and returned about fifteen minutes later, absently wiping his mouth.

  “I don’t suppose you were reading the paper in the men’s room,” Buffy said, suddenly finding it difficult to swallow her food.

  Angel sat down and picked up her half-eaten croissant. “Do you mind?”

  “Not at all.”

  He nibbled at the croissant, closing his eyes and smiling in delight, as any guy might. Around the room, young Parisians chatted and debated. They smoked like crazy. Everything seemed so serious with them, so much larger than life. Yet Buffy realized that if they had an inkling that a vampire, a werewolf, and a Vampire Slayer sat among them, they would probably be unable to believe it. They certainly wouldn’t be able to sit there and smoke and argue about what they believed to be the earth-shattering events of the day.

  “Penny,” Angel said to her.

  She shrugged. “I’m probably one of the youngest people in here, but I feel like one of the oldest.”

  He cocked his head at her. “You’re just tired.”

  “Yeah. That’s it.” She looked at Oz. “How many more days do you have?”

  “I’m counting eight,” he offered.

  She sighed. “We should call home, see what’s going on. And check in with Jean-Marc, too. I’ll go find a phone.”

  She began to rise, but Angel put his hand on her forearm.

  “Buffy, it worked. We have company,” he said.

  She ticked her gaze left and right without moving her head. “Where?”

  “Outside. Across the street.”

  Buffy saw the shadows thrown across the walls of a news kiosk. No hooded robes. Maybe they were just thieves, but given the circumstances, she had to think they were coming to Mama.

  “Wow, good eyesight. You probably get the really big stuffed animals at shooting galleries,” she said to Angel.

  Oz picked up his coffee bowl and sipped. “That was quick,” he said idly. “I’m thinking that idea worked a little too well.”

  Buffy asked, “Could you tell how many?”

  “No.” Angel lit a cigarette and took a drag. “They might not be our roadies, but they’re skulking around the way those guys tend to skulk.”

  “They’re very skulky,” Oz said. “I noticed that before.”

  “So. We pay our bill, get up, go outside, and get attacked,” Buffy said. “You guys with me?”

  Oz folded his napkin and laid it beside his plate.

  Angel picked up the bill, chuckled. “They charged us extra for the butter. And after I bribed him for the good seats.”

  Buffy scowled and took the bill. She couldn’t read a word. “Get out.”

  “And you even spoke decent French,” Oz added, “at least that I could tell. I thought they didn’t take advantage of people who at least made an effort.”

  “Apparently that’s not the case at the Bistrot de la Place.” Angel pulled out some francs. “I got some cash with Giles’s card at a teller machine, around the corner,” he explained before Buffy could ask. “That’s where I’ve been. I’ll just deduct the bogus charge.”

  “Stiff him.” Buffy was embarrassed. She’d thought he’d slipped away to hunt. “No tip.”

  “You’re merciless,” Angel drawled.

  She picked up her new English sweater—having decided, too late, that she was not really a heavy English sweater user—and her backpack. “Too bad we left the guns in the van.”

  “We’ve got our secret weapon,” Oz said. “You.”

  The trio filed out of the Bistrot de la Place.

  * * *

  “Thank goodness the f
og’s lifted,” Cordelia said, as she, Xander, and Willow drove slowly down the streets of Sunnydale. They’d gone out last night, gone home to fret until morning, and tried again.

  Xander nodded. “Now we’ll be able to see Giles if he’s around here.”

  “Oh.” Cordelia sounded taken aback. “There’s that, too.”

  “Oh, what?” Xander asked irritably. “The fog’s gone so now your hair won’t frizz?”

  Willow sighed and looked out the window. She was very worried about Giles, and Xander and Cordelia’s bickering wasn’t helping her mood or her concentration. She couldn’t help but feel that this was her fault. If she’d been better at casting binding spells, if she knew how to make them last longer, he’d probably be home in his bed, safe and sound. Well, no, not in his bed, exactly, because that’s where Buffy’s mom was sleeping, and oh, she did not want to go anywhere near that.

  Besides, it was almost one in the afternoon.

  “There’s nothing wrong with my hair!” Cordelia snapped at Xander, then peeked in the rearview mirror. “Is there?”

  Then Willow realized that Cordelia was still worried about her new haircut, which had happened because Springheel Jack had set her head on fire. She felt a little more sympathetic—it had felt pretty radical, getting her own hair cut—so she leaned forward and said, “You look good. You always look good.”

  “Well, I try.” Cordelia sniffed. “Not that my efforts are always appreciated.”

  “I’m sure the football team is grateful,” Xander sniped.

  “Now, you just stop that!” Willow smacked Xander on the back of the head. “You be nicer to her.”

  “What?” Xander’s eyes had never been more enormous.

  “Thanks, Willow.”

  Cordelia’s smile had never been bigger.

  When she was through being defender of the vain, Willow fell silent again. The Watcher had been missing since the night before, and they hadn’t been able to find a single sign of him yet. Definitely a reason to worry, by any estimation. The way Xander had it figured, Giles was the Jedi master. Without him, the dark side would start to close in. Willow wasn’t sure who was who in that little scenario, but she figured as long as she wasn’t the Wookie, they were in good shape.