Ghost Roads

by Christopher Golden

  But any time he thought that way, the impression drained away the moment he looked into Claude’s eyes. Dando had never seen eyes like that. Not even in the mirror.

  “He’s upstairs in the projection room,” Brother Claude said, and smiled mischievously. “I’ve done my part, Dando. I called to tell you the news. If you have a problem with that information, I suggest you take it up with him. He is, after all, our commander now.”

  With an eloquent scowl, Dando turned and retreated from the storage area, then started up the steps to the projection room upstairs. At the top of the steps was another thick metal door. He gripped the knob firmly, felt a peculiar heat in the metal as he turned it, and then he flung the door open and marched straight in.

  Three steps, and he stopped, blinking, astounded by what he saw.

  His bald pate gleaming in the weird light, Brother Lupo sat at the center of the projection room, magickal blue energy crackling around his blind, white eye and the scars on his brow and cheek. Lupo’s single good eye darted around the room, but he didn’t seem to notice Dando’s entrance at all.

  The two square windows through which movies had been projected when the Sunnydale Twin was still in operation showed only the night beyond. Other than the tiny bit of moonlight shining into the room, the only illumination came from Lupo’s magick. It spread around the room in a grid of straight and curved lines that Dando took several moments to realize was a map of the town. There were small bursts of energy glowing at perhaps a dozen places on this quivering, floating map that stretched from wall to wall. And, very near its center, not far from where Lupo sat, a large patch of energy glowed savagely red.

  As Dando watched, one of the smaller, blue patches began to glow white. Lupo smiled to himself.

  “Yes,” whispered Brother Lupo.

  Just as the white turned back to blue again.

  Lupo growled, “Damn!” and his one good eye snapped up to glare at Dando.

  “I assume, Brother Dando, that you have some purpose for being here and interrupting me?”

  “What are you doing?” Dando asked, his anger having leaked away long ago.

  Lupo grunted with dissatisfaction, as though Dando should know perfectly well what he was doing. And Dando could not escape the thought that Lupo had every reason to expect such knowledge from him. However, Brother Dando was nowhere near the magician that Lupo was. This very moment proved that, at least. But Dando still felt slighted by II Maestro’s choice.

  “The creatures of chaos, denizens of the Other-world, have begun crowding the ghost roads, just as II Maestro planned,” Lupo explained with exasperation. “The destruction of that barrier has begun. But unless we can reopen the breaches that were so painstakingly created between the ghost roads and this world, the chain reaction he desires will never take place. It will be quite a task to merge Otherworld and Earth, and this is only the first step.

  “With help from the Gatekeeper, and from the Watcher, that little amateur spellcaster who has allied herself with the Slayer has managed to bind these breaches quite well,” Lupo said with great frustration. “I am endeavoring to shatter those bindings, but it is no simple task.”

  Brother Dando nodded, fascinated. Then he remembered his purpose and pulled himself up to his full height.

  “That’s all well and good,” Dando said, “but even more reason for II Maestro to have chosen me for command. You have too many tasks to see to as it is.”

  Lupo looked up, brows furrowed with disdain. “That is not for you to decide,” he said coldly.

  “But why were we not told that the activities of the Sons of Entropy here in America were to be consolidated under one commander? We are used to receiving more personal attention from II Maestro,” Dando complained.

  “Perhaps he is simply too busy to hold the hand of each of his acolytes,” Lupo suggested, glaring at Dando. “The grand plan of chaos that II Maestro has spent his considerable life developing is not for us to understand. We have only to obey. Each of us has a duty that contributes to the plan, each of us has been allowed to understand only his part in that plan. Now, as we come together for the final battle, we will all begin to understand far better. So he has vowed to me.

  Dando stared at the crackling blue energy, nodded grimly, and turned to go. At the door, however, he paused and glanced back in.

  “I still think I was the better choice,” Dando said. “My military training gives me an edge you cannot possibly have.”

  Brother Lupo didn’t even look at him this time. Instead, he concentrated on a blue patch on the energy grid. At length, he said, “If you have a problem with this choice, you may take it up with II Maestro himself when he arrives.”

  “Here?” Dando asked in astonishment.

  “Soon,” the other replied.

  * * *

  In the maintenance closet, Joyce came awake slowly, rubbing gently at the spot on her head where she knew there ought to be a great deal of pain. And yet, there was no pain.

  None.

  Slowly, with unnecessary caution, she rose to her feet and examined her surroundings. The room was a concrete block without windows, and with a single metal door. There were several vents, but none big enough for her to climb through, as they did in the movies. There were several metal shelving units, some of which held half-used bottles of cleaning solution, but for the most part the place was picked clean. There was an old-fashioned rolling iron bucket with a rotten gray mop sticking up out of it.

  On the floor there was a tray that she assumed was someone’s idea of dinner. The meal consisted of a bowl of plain pasta and two boiled hot dogs which hadn’t seen “hot” in a long, long time. She was supposed to eat, she knew. And at first she rebelled at the idea. That was, until she realized how hungry she was. Add to that her understanding that if they had wanted her dead, poison would not be their weapon of choice.

  She ate.

  When she had finished, she stood up again. Instead of pacing the room, she went directly to the door and began to pound on it, the metal aiding her in her effort to make a lot of noise. There was no way she was going to be in here without at least knowing why.

  There came a voice from beyond the door. “Step back,” it said.

  Joyce steeled herself for something horrible. Vampires. Demons. Evil sorcerers. The man who opened the door was the furthest thing from what she might have imagined. He was well groomed and handsome, in a professorial sort of way. Also, he was smiling, and it wasn’t the kind of smile Joyce would have expected from abductors.

  “Yes, Mrs. Summers, what can I do for you?” asked the man solicitously.

  “You can get me the hell out of here,” she snapped. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but you’d better let me go right now.”

  The man smiled even more warmly. “What I think,” he said, “is that we have captured you, and intend to keep you as a prisoner for the foreseeable future. You ought to keep that in mind when you speak to me. I am, after all, the man charged with keeping you fed and alive. You may call me Brother Claude.”

  Joyce faltered, then. She didn’t know what to say. There was no way she was going to fight her way out. Not right now. And this Brother Claude had, in fact, brought her dinner. Then she shook that thought off. These guys had kidnapped her. She wasn’t going to be nice to them.

  “I remember being hit on the head,” she said.

  “Ah,” Claude said, nodding sympathetically. “Yes. You had a concussion. The brother who struck you has been corrected.”

  “I . . . had a concussion,” Joyce repeated, touching her fingers to her skull again.

  “Oh yes, quite severe,” Claude replied. “But I healed you. I have very little talent with magick, save where it allows for magickal healing.”

  Joyce raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll be very useful to the Sons of Entropy once the world ends,” she said, her voice thick with sarcasm.

  “Despite your tone, I’ll take that as sincere,” said Claude. “It
would not go well for you if I chose to be insulted.”

  With a shudder, Joyce withdrew into the room. “Well,” she said, “I don’t want to insult you, but your cuisine leaves a bit to be desired. Plus, it’s a bit chilly in here, and it would be nice if I could have a blanket and a pillow, at least.”

  “I’ll take it under advisement,” Claude acknowledged, and smiled again. “I like your spirit, Mrs. Summers. No wonder your daughter became the Slayer.”

  Joyce didn’t respond to that. She was shattering inside. All the bravado she had shown this man had been for his benefit, but inside, she was nothing but a quivering mass of fear. Still, she thought, at least he healed me. That must mean they don’t plan to kill me right away.

  The thought gave her pause. For if they didn’t want her dead right away, then why did they want her? The only thing Joyce could think of was . . . bait.

  “You think she’ll come for me, don’t you?” Joyce whispered in horror. “She won’t, you know. She’s the Slayer. The world depends on her.”

  “She’d better,” said Brother Claude. “We’re all counting on her. Especially you.”

  * * *

  After he finished listening to the last cut of Tori Amos, Spike emerged from the room he shared with Drusilla in the little cottage. He’d been half dozing, because he was bored and restless and frustrated, but now it was time to get something done or he would have wasted the entire night.

  He had a cigarette halfway to his lips when he realized she wasn’t in the main room.

  “Damn,” he whispered, then chomped on the end and held it in his teeth without lighting it.

  Spike went to the door of the room where they had kept the boy prisoner. He figured they’d been pretty easy on the kid. They took him to the bathroom half a dozen times a day, whether he needed to go or not. He got to sleep in a real bed. Even got fed pretty regularly. Just last night, Drusilla had brought home a pair of eager fishermen for supper. When they were drained, and Spike had dragged them down the path to the docks, he’d come upon their haul from the day before.

  The kid had fresh fish during the day, and he’d have it again tonight.

  If Drusilla hadn’t tired of playing baby-sitter.

  He saw that the door was still locked, and he was immediately relieved. Which still begged the question of where Dru might be. And he ought to check in on the kid in any case. No reason she couldn’t have popped in for a nip and locked the door again on the way out.

  But when he pushed the door open, the kid rolled over on his side. His eyes were wide with horror, but they relaxed a bit when he saw who his visitor was.

  That pissed Spike off a bit.

  He stepped into the kid’s room. The boy wore no gag. They’d dispensed with that by the third day. He knew nobody could hear him scream up here, not in time to help him with one of his vampire captors always so close at hand. They’d left his legs free, too. But his hands were cuffed behind him with police shackles, and without them, he wasn’t going anywhere. Not locked up tight like they had him.

  “I’m thirsty,” the boy said.

  Spike frowned. He took out his lighter and lit the cigarette dangling from his lips. He went slowly to the edge of the boy’s bed and sat down, smiling amiably. He took a long drag on his cigarette.

  “You’ve got it beat, don’t you, you little wanker?” Spike asked, smiling.

  Jacques blinked. Looked unsure of himself now.

  “You figure Drusilla’s got bats in her belfry, but I’m a reasonable enough sort, for a vampire,” Spike went on. He scratched a phantom itch on his head, then offered an amused nod.

  “Not far from the truth, actually,” he confessed, and now he stared hard at the boy, his face darting in close, his eyes beginning to turn an odd shade of yellow.

  His face changed, brow protruding, eyes sinking back into his face even as his fangs elongated until he flicked his tongue over them lovingly.

  The boy cried out in fear and struggled to move backward on the bed, even as Spike crawled after him like a jungle cat.

  “Don’t start to get the idea that I’m fond of you, Jack-me-lad. If Dru takes a bite, it might make you worthless to us. That’s bad. But if we don’t get what we want soon, I might just rip your throat open with my own teeth and feed her your life in a fluted champagne glass. She’d like that, my baby. Girl’s got class.”

  He bore down on Jacques.

  “You’re a unique child, aren’t you? Daddy’s a bloody magician or whatever, right? But that don’t mean much to me, you stupid little sod. To me, you’re just another meal.”

  He stood back, took another drag on his cigarette, and his face slowly returned to normal. He blew smoke at the boy, then went back to the door. Before he closed and locked it again, he took a last look at the terrified child.

  “They haven’t given us what we want yet, Jacques. Neither one of us is the patient sort. You might want to think on that.”

  * * *

  When he stepped into the main room, Drusilla was standing silhouetted in the open door. From outside, the scents of the sea drifted into the house, and Spike relaxed immediately.

  “Spike,” Drusilla said, in her usual singsong voice. “Are you terrorizing the poor boy?”

  “Yes,” Spike said, walking toward her and holding out his hands.

  She took them and turned him into a little dance, a little twirl, as she said, “Oh, goody!”

  Together they walked back out onto the small porch of the cottage. They sat on a bench, and Spike smoked as Drusilla watched the waves roll in. Most of the fishermen had cleared out for the night after bringing their ships back into the wharf area just down the shore. Now it was just the waves and the wind and the calls of the night birds.

  “Still thinking of Spain, pet?” Spike asked, glancing sidelong at her.

  “I rather think I’m starting to like it here,” Dru replied, cocking her head to one side. “Fve begun to hear calliope music all the time. Can you hear it, too? There’s a carousel in my head, and the horses go up and down.”

  With a shake of his head, Spike sighed.

  “Sorry to hear that, love. I think we’re going to have to move on soon, actually,” he told her. “Those bloody monks of Entropy are having us on, I think. They’ve got to figure since we’re around here, we wouldn’t let the boy be far. It won’t be long until they find our little love nest, if they haven’t already.”

  “I’ll miss the fishermen,” said Dru. “Always so robust.”

  Then she turned to him with rare focus in her eyes, a look of surprise and pleasure on her face. “Does that mean I get to taste the little veal calf, then?” she asked.

  Spike patted her thigh. “Not just yet, Dru darling. I think I’ll take a little jaunt over to Florence first. Find out if this Maestro bloke is holding out on us. If he is, I think I might find a better use for that spear than the bit of social climbing we had planned.”

  Drusilla sighed. “It would have come in handy, wouldn’t it, Spike? Never being defeated in battle would be helpful when trying to make an impression on the locals, wherever we decide to settle down next.”

  They were silent for a moment, and Spike knew that Drusilla was thinking just what he was. There was unfinished business still out there. But that was for another time.

  “Ah, well,” he said, getting up from the bench. “I ought to get moving.”

  He went back inside, slipped on the long black leather coat he frequently wore, and came back out again, ready for travel. The battered Mercedes they’d been using since their arrival here was parked just down the road, and he started down the steps without a pause.

  At the bottom of the steps, however, he thought better of it and turned to face Drusilla.

  “If you get the idea you’ve got company, love, don’t wait. Just get out, and we’ll meet up at the bullfights, eh?” he said. “And, just in case our sparklingly charming little magician friend has got his hands on the spear, don’t kill the boy just yet, hmm? It wou
ld be bad form.”

  Drusilla sighed and rolled her eyes, then hung her head sulkily. “All right,” she replied. “I’ll behave.”

  “Good girl,” Spike said, and smiled.

  He threw his cigarette to the ground and stubbed it out with his boot.

  * * *

  “So, we’re just going to follow your dream?” Oz asked doubtfully. “Sort of a Man of La Mancha thing?”

  Buffy raised an eyebrow and shot him a look. “Giles’s phone machine is full or something and the Gatekeeper’s line isn’t even ringing. You wolf out tomorrow night. Angel’s been living on what we’ll kindly call K rations. If we’re very lucky, II Maestro is not certain where we are right now. If we start poking around, he’s going to find us in about thirty seconds.

  “The dream was pretty clear. So was our information.”

  “Roses,” Oz said.

  “Roses,” Buffy repeated. “And the Dome thingie.”

  “Duomo,” Angel corrected her.

  “Whatever. Would you rather sit around here?” She rolled her eyes. “We’ll just go up in the hills until I can match up the landscape—”

  “In the dark,” Oz pointed out.

  “Hey.” Buffy narrowed her eyes at him. “If you want to stay here and wait for an open phone line to America, fine. Me, I’m gone.”

  The three of them stood just outside a trattoria where Buffy and Oz had enjoyed a hearty meal just after dark. Angel had disappeared during dinner, and Buffy didn’t ask where he’d been, but she had nasty little visions of him lurking in back alleys and looking for vermin.

  She couldn’t wait to get home. She wanted her mother’s cooking. Which had never seemed like anything special—unless compared to Xander’s mother’s—until now.

  “So let’s go,” Angel said urgently. “We’re close.”

  “Keep your pants on,” Buffy said with much irritation, just before she registered exactly what she’d said.

  Neither of them so much as looked at the other.