Ghost Roads

by Christopher Golden

  Xander looked a bit downhearted, but pointed to the long pile of rocks that jutted into the ocean. Willow and Cordelia turned. Cordelia squinted, even though that was the straightest road to crow’s feet ever invented, except for going out in the sun without at least SPF 25 on.

  “I don’t see a little red boat,” Willow said slowly.

  “Good.” Xander grinned at them. “Then maybe no one else will.”

  “Did you put it there?” Cordelia asked.

  “Yup. It looked lonely. I befriended it.” He rubbed his hands. “So. We go to school, all right? Because if we don’t show, either the principal will send the Imperial Stormtroopers to our houses or our parents will ground us for life.”

  The girls nodded glumly.

  “We’ll find Giles,” Xander said comfortingly. He put his arms around both their shoulders. Cordelia smiled bravely.

  “And he won’t be chicken nuggets, like that last guy they found on the beach,” Xander added.

  “Oh, God!” Willow burst into tears.

  This time, Cordelia joined her.

  * * *

  “Florence is the ancestral home of the de’ Medicis,” Oz read from his guidebook. “Interesting. It’s where the original Bonfire of the Vanities took place. Wigs, musical instruments, books of poetry, and works of art all went up in flames.”

  “Musical instruments,” Buffy mused from the front seat of the minivan, as Angel took a turn at driving. “They must have heard Glorious Mélange.”

  Oz smiled at her and flicked his flashlight back on the page.

  “The guy who ordered the burning was a fanatic monk who got burned on the same spot a year later. Savonarola.”

  “The lead guitarist,” Buffy said. “Anything about a Court of the Roses? A villa there?” Angel had told them the information he had extracted from the acolyte he’d tortured in Paris.

  “No,” Oz replied. “I guess we’ll just have to ask when we get there.”

  They were still in France, headed for the Italian border. Oz had gathered up some books in a small shop near the Cathedral of Notre Dame and occasionally read passages aloud to her and Angel. Sometimes Angel added observations, and Buffy realized he’d roamed all over the continent during his life as Angelus, the Scourge of Europe.

  “After the world gets saved, I’m thinking backpacking around Europe. Eurail passes,” Oz said. “Willow, me, anybody else who’d like to go.”

  Buffy looked out the window at the darkness. After this, it would probably be back to Sunnydale for the rest of her natural life. Slayers didn’t exactly get time off for exotic vacations. Not even sick days, really.

  She thought of the little boy they were searching for. Jacques. His life was similar to hers: he had to live in the Gatehouse, with the occasional foray to gather up some monster or demon. She couldn’t imagine having to be the Slayer at eleven. At least she’d had a few good years of blissful ignorance.

  A few years of blissful freedom.

  Angel made a sudden left into a side road. Badly paved, it led into a thick wood. The beams of the minivan pierced a hole of light in the dense growth of trees that overhung the road. Shadows flashed by, and Buffy sat up a little straighter.

  “See anything?” she asked. “Someone following us?”

  “Just evasive maneuvers,” Angel replied. “I don’t think we should trust anyone from here on out. Except each other, of course. No matter what they appear to be, we have to behave as though they are the enemy.”

  After a few minutes, Angel said, “Let’s stop a minute. Stretch our legs.”

  Buffy, who had to go to the bathroom, said, “Good idea. But we can’t linger.”

  “No lingering,” Angel concurred.

  “Machiavelli lived in Florence,” Oz added, as Angel pulled the van into a particularly dense copse and killed the engine. “All the schemers like it.”

  “Guess so,” Buffy said. “Must have a hellmouth or something. Or a breach.”

  “Good point.” Oz flicked the guidebook shut. “So, maybe with Willow, we skip Florence.”

  Buffy smiled wistfully. The car ticked noisily as she pushed open her door and hopped out.

  “How are we doing on gas?” she asked Angel. “We’ll need some before daybreak.”

  They had taken to paying for everything they could with cash from teller machines so as not to leave a trail of credit card receipts. But despite all the precautions they took, they had to assume they were being followed. It was the best way to stay on their guard.

  Buffy took her flashlight and walked away from the boys, who must have figured out she had private business to attend to and left her alone.

  The forest was chilly and smelled of fresh earth. As she walked along, she saw a ring of mushrooms and smiled, delighted. Giles had told her that in England they were called fairy rings and were taken as evidence of the presence of fairies. Once he’d seen a ring and had spent all day looking for magickal sprites. He’d gotten in big trouble with his mother, who had spent all day looking for him.

  Tears stung her eyes, and she wiped them away angrily. She was worried sick about Giles. She had tried to push her fear for him to the back of her mind so she could concentrate on the task at hand, but it was always there, like a low-level hum from an old TV set.

  * * *

  As they stood waiting for Buffy to return, staring off into the woods, Oz glanced at Angel.

  “It’s tough for her,” he said.

  “It’s tough, period,” Angel replied grimly. “We should get going.”

  “Miles to go before we sleep. Want me to drive?”

  Angel shook his head. “I’m good. You two should get some sleep. We can try the blanket-in-the-back thing again this morning. I’m just a little concerned about crossing the Italian border.”

  Oz considered. “It might make sense to get you a room someplace. You could catch up later.”

  “We’ll see.” Angel straightened as the bushes rustled. “Hey, Buffy, we’re going,” he called.

  The forest erupted.

  Dozens of foot-long creatures swarmed at Oz and Angel, crashing down from the trees and springing from the forest floor. Angel flailed wildly, trying to grab one. Finally he caught one around the head and held it into the headlights of the beam as more sprang at him, biting. It was some kind of winged reptile, its blue-and-green head lizardlike, a furl of ridged scales around its neck. Its tongue was very long, and it hissed and spit at him. He ducked, but the creature’s saliva ate a hole in his turtleneck sweater. With its sharp claws it dug into the flesh of his arm and tore a stinging scratch from the inside of his elbow to his wrist.

  “Damn!” he shouted, hurling it to the ground and stamping on it. “Oz, get in the van!”

  But Oz was there beside him, ripping the little monsters away from Angel. For some reason, not a single one of them had attacked Oz. All they wanted, it seemed, was Angel, and they were all over him, nipping and scratching. They never stopped moving.

  Then Buffy burst from the bushes, shouting, “Yeowww!” as she ran headfirst toward the van, then contracted and rammed her shoulders against the door, crushing the three lizard creatures savaging her head and neck.

  “What the hell are they?” she asked, kicking and punching for all she was worth. But the creatures could fly, and she succeeded only in stunning a couple as they darted out of her reach.

  “No idea,” Angel said, moving closer to her and ripping one of the things away from her.

  Buffy tried to do the same, but there were too many of them. Their combined weight was almost too much for her. Angel tried to help, but even he was having trouble.

  “What the hell are these things?” Oz shouted, tearing the lizards off Angel and Buffy. They still would not go near him.

  “They’re Draco Volans,” came a voice. “Compliments of II Maestro.”

  There was an explosion. Then the air above them shimmered with rosy light, and the creatures began to chitter and then to scream. One by one they dropped
off Angel and Buffy and fell limply to the ground. The tree above them waved left, right, then disgorged at least twenty of the creatures, their bodies raining down on Buffy and Angel.

  Buffy shouted, “Show yourself!”

  Someone staggered from the opposite direction, heading directly toward the van. He wore a hooded robe, and he was drenched from head to toe in blood.

  He held out his hands and pointed to Buffy and Angel, murmuring in a foreign language.

  “Back off, pally!” Buffy snarled, and raced toward the hooded man.

  “Buffy, no, it’s Latin,” Angel said, as the man tried to dodge Buffy. “It’s a healing spell.”

  “Oh, yeah?” She grabbed the man around the neck. Her fingers were slick with his blood. “It must not work too well. Look at him.”

  The man gazed at her. “Please, I saved you. From the manticore. I shot it.”

  Startled, Buffy released him. “You’re the catacombs guy.”

  His head dipped forward. He held out his hand, and she guided him slowly toward the van as Oz and Angel moved to join them. Buffy realized that both she and Angel seemed to be mostly healed, despite the blood on their clothes.

  “Why didn’t they come after you?” Angel asked Oz.

  “Garlic breath?” Oz suggested.

  “Ask Spooky,” Buffy said, then looked the bloody man in the face. “What about it?”

  “The Draco Volans have a thing about wolves,” the man replied, with a slight smile. “I wish I could do more for you all. Q Maestro is tracking you with magick. I was able to exploit the presence of his spell to follow you myself, but now he surely knows that I am here.”

  “In other words, you’re pretty much history,” Buffy said, not unkindly.

  “How well you put it.” He smiled weakly. “Yes, I fear I am very much history.” He winced. “I can’t make it to your car. Please, help me sit down.”

  As Buffy helped him to a sitting position beside the hood of the van, he slid his hand into a fold of his robe. Buffy tensed, on alert.

  He pulled out a photograph.

  “My name is Albert,” he said. “Please tell her I was brave.”

  Buffy took the picture. The woman in it had lovely honey-blond hair, which she wore loose over her shoulders. Wordlessly she handed the picture to Angel.

  “We were misled by him,” the man said. “He promised us power in a new world.” As he clutched Buffy’s arm, blood ran down his fingers. “We didn’t know about the evil.” He coughed. The light began to go from his eyes.

  “That’s a lie,” he said, gasping. He began to loosen his grip. “We did know. We knew all along. And it didn’t matter. But then . . . I fell in love with her. Who wouldn’t?”

  He coughed again. Great gouts of blood burbled from the side of his mouth.

  Buffy turned him over. The back of his coat was ripped to shreds, and pieces of skin and muscle poked from the slashes. She could see pieces of his spine, and wondered how he had lasted this long. If II Maestro’s little remote-control fire was on the way, it would have to hurry to take this poor man’s life.

  “He’s in Florence,” the man said, gasping. “You must get to Florence.”

  Buffy chewed her lip and narrowed her eyes as she watched him dying. Angel shook his head, and she knew what he was thinking. They should trust no one, assume everybody was an enemy. Like Ian Williams.

  “No. That’s not true,” she said slowly, looking hard at Angel and Oz. “He’s in Vienna. It was always Vienna. We just got word from . . . other friends.”

  The man looked bewildered. “Not Florence?”

  “Not Florence.”

  “Ah.” He closed his eyes. “That’s good. He won’t know that you know that.”

  He mumbled a few syllables and moved his fingers. Buffy felt a tingle over her skin and said, “What are you doing?”

  “It’s a weak effort,” he whispered. “But I may be able to blind II Maestro to your presence.” He lifted his hand and mumbled some more. Then his head flopped forward.

  “Micaela,” he whispered.

  He gasped, and was dead.

  Oz looked at her. “Vienna?”

  Buffy just shrugged.

  Around them, the Draco Volans burst into flames.

  * * *

  Giles woke with a start.

  He was lying on the deck of the Dutchman in all its ghastly decay. Set against the black velvet night, the spiderweb rigging hung in tatters. The ship herself was little more than worm-eaten planks barely hanging together.

  Confused, Giles checked his watch. It should be day now. But above them the night was black as death. Perhaps, he thought dimly, perhaps aboard the Flying Dutchman it’s night forever.

  He shifted his gaze, to find ghostly faces peering down at him. Some had no eyes, and yet they stared. The hair rose on the back of Giles’s neck. There was a stir among them, and they fell slightly away, clearing a path, A figure appeared, seemingly out of thin air. It was clad in dull black, and its face was . . . its face . . .

  Giles was chilled to the bone. There was no way to account for the terror he felt, for he was looking at nothing but blank darkness. Yet the sight stirred more fear inside him than anything else he had ever seen, any demon or monster he had ever encountered. He was certain this was its strongest weapon, and why its captives wept.

  Giles knew what he must do.

  The element of surprise could still be his.

  He cleared his throat and stood with his feet spread wide, and said, in a jocular, easy voice, “Captain, I should like permission to come aboard. I’ve a terrible thirst, and I know many sea chanteys, and it would be pleasant to pass a few hours with you and your crew.”

  The faceless specter stared at Giles for a long moment. Then it threw back its head and laughed heartily, but both sound and movement stretched forward slowly, as if emanating from another dimension.

  “Permission granted, mortal man. As you are already aboard. And as you have the stomach of a buccaneer and the sense of an ass. In the centuries I have sailed these wretched seas, no man has ever asked to remain on my ship of his own free will.”

  “Well, sir, I may be an ass, but I’m a curious one,” Giles countered, straining to keep his voice from shaking. “I’ve heard many stories about you and your illustrious crew. And it would be my pleasure to spend a few hours in your company.”

  But no more. He had to get off this vessel as soon as he could, hopefully with Vinnie. If he had to leave alone, he must be prepared to do it.

  “Illustrious!” The figured laughed again, and the sound rumbled like distant cannon fire. “A few hours, or eternity?”

  “Grant me a boon, sir,” Giles said, licking his lips as he raised his chin. “If my singing pleases you, release me after the watch sets. If I disappoint, I shall join your crew.”

  “Done.” The figure pounded the railing with its fist, its motions blurred and sluggish, at least to Giles’s eyes. Somehow, Giles managed to stay on his feet, though his knees had turned to jelly.

  Then a flash of movement above caught his attention. He looked up, and would wish for the rest of his life—however long it was—that he had not.

  From the yards swung three bodies among dozens of full and partial skeletons and skulls. Their faces were black, their tongues protruding. They had been hung alive. Among them was Dallas Mayhew, one of Sunnydale High’s most valued football players; the second was his best friend, Spenser Ketchum, and the third was a young woman with a blond ponytail, dressed in overalls and a green T-shirt. Her eyes were missing, and the sockets were bloody.

  For one terrible moment, Giles thought she was Buffy. And he cursed himself for getting himself stuck here, when he should be doing eveything possible to help his Slayer. It had been pure impulse, grabbing the anchor. Or pure stupidity.

  Giles swallowed hard and shifted his attention. The ship rocked in blackness; he could see no shore lights, no lighthouse. He had no idea how far out to sea he was. He wondered if soon he would h
ang from the yards with the others. At least Vinnie was not there. Yet.

  Something very cold touched his shoulder, like ice running over his bare skin, and he turned to find the Captain standing behind him. Giles was afraid that if he looked closely into its face, he would completely lose control. So he turned on his heel and cut an old-fashioned bow, which was probably out of date even when the Dutchman had originally been commissioned, and a living captain and crew sailed her.

  “Captain, Everett Morris at your service,” Giles said. There was nothing to be gained by telling this creature his real name.

  Giles could feel the figure’s gaze on him. It was enough to make his knees wobble.

  “Welcome aboard, Rupert Giles,” it replied.

  “Ah.” Giles sighed. “I should have known better, sir, than to dissemble.”

  “Indeed.”

  The figure gestured for Giles to follow. It did not exactly float over the deck, but its strange, gliding gait was unlike that of any of the crew. It did not seem to be actually present, rather like a projection of something from somewhere else.

  It led Giles up the poop deck and waited regally while one of its dead sailors opened a large wooden door. Then it turned to go down a steep ladderway, gazing up at Giles and saying, “Custom aboard this vessel dictates that I lead the way.”

  “Of course, Captain.”

  Giles watched it descend. With every fiber of his being, he did not want to follow after. His mind was screaming at him to jump overboard and swim as fast as he could, no matter the illogic of flinging himself into the ocean far from shore.

  With supreme effort, he turned around and started down the ladder.

  The hatch above slammed shut, throwing him into utter darkness.

  He went down another rung.

  Something furry skittered over his hand, squeaking. Rat. Slowly he lowered himself to the next rung. He smelled something rotten, and his stomach rolled. He closed his mouth against his gag reaction, took a deep breath, and went down another rung.

  Mister Giles, it’s a long way down, the Captain said. It’s almost like going to Hell.

  “How delightful,” Giles bit off.

  He continued on, his muscles aching, his mouth dry as dust. After a time he felt disoriented, as the ship rocked and the ladder stretched for what seemed like forever. They couldn’t possibly still be inside the ship. Yet in the darkness, he had no idea where else he could be.