“Okay, so, maybe no Boston,” Willow said, nodding reasonably. “I just wish I knew what was happening with Buffy and Oz.”
“And Angel,” Cordelia volunteered.
“Angel can take care of himself,” Xander said coldly. Then he leaned in to smile at Willow, trying to cheer her up. “Hey, Will. He’s okay. Buffy would call if there was a problem.”
“If she could,” Willow said quietly.
“She would. You’re her best friend, Will. She would find a way to let you know.”
“Yes, Willow,” Giles said. “I concur entirely. She would find a way.”
“You think?” Willow swallowed hard. She didn’t even like to think “Oz” and “problem” in the same paragraph, never mind the same sentence.
“I know,” Xander insisted, giving the table a little pound. “Buffy’s . . . Buffy.”
“And so perfect,” Cordelia muttered.
“Hey, do you mind?” Xander said sharply.
“It’s okay.” Willow smiled bravely. “I know what you’re trying to say, Xander.”
“So do I,” Cordelia said, giving Xander a look.
Xander scowled back at her.
Willow lowered her eyes, pretending to read her book.
Giles felt for Willow. For all of them. The reestablishment of calm was, paradoxically, creating a state of high anxiety. Just this morning, he had had to practically order Joyce Summers to remain in his condo. She had been determined to move back into her home now that the breaches in Sunnydale appeared to be stabilized. As if reestablishing a presence in her home would be an act of strength, and not merely one of defiance.
He knew it might seem paradoxical, but now was when they most needed to stay on their guard. If there was going to be a storm, this was the calm before it.
The last moment of calm any of them might ever know.
“All right, then,” he said. “Now that we’ve all agreed we’re actually pleased to be rid of Springheel Jack, the Flying Dutchman, and that horrid sea monster, perhaps you might all continue with your research,” he said with asperity. He sipped his tea and went back to his office.
He shut the door and for one moment allowed himself to feel the sum total of his fear. But only for one moment.
It was all he could handle.
Joyce smiled and sipped her glass of chardonnay as she checked the chicken in the oven. The scent of rosemary filled Giles’s condo. The sun had just set, and she had lovely new candles for the table. It had been a wonderful idea to invite the kids over, if she did say so herself. She was glad all the parents had agreed, even though they had been a little surprised to discover that the gathering was to be held at the school librarian’s home. Joyce had not volunteered that she was staying there, but had casually pointed out during the conversation how special Giles was to all the kids, and that his birthday was coming up. That made sense.
Even if it wasn’t true.
Everyone was ragged with worry, and she figured it would help them to be together. With a good meal and a change of scenery, perhaps they would be able to relax just a little.
The doorbell rang. She glanced at the clock. It couldn’t be Giles, because he didn’t ring—after all, this was his home—but if it was one of the kids, they were a little early.
She checked the peep hole. It was a nice-looking young man, in a delivery uniform, holding a large, attractively arranged vase of flowers.
“Yes?” she said, opening the door.
Brother Forrest thought the deception was going rather well, right up until the woman mentioned that she had never heard of Sherwood Florist, and where was it again?
That was when Brother Dane took out his gun and pistol-whipped the woman, striking her much too hard on the skull.
The youthful Dane caught his breath and muttered, “Chaos’ name,” as she collapsed into the arms of Brother Forrest, who glared at his fellow acolyte. Both were dressed as florist delivery men, and both were armed, just in case.
“What the hell did you do that for?” Forrest demanded, throwing his arms around the unconscious woman to keep her from slipping to the floor. “We were supposed to scare her, not give her brain damage.”
The hand supporting her head came away bloody. He stared at it, then felt the back of her head, moving his way up her scalp.
“I—I—” Dane held out his hands, noted the gun still in his hand, and stuffed it into the pocket of his delivery jacket. “She’s the mother of the Slayer. I thought she would struggle.”
“And if she did?” Forrest blinked at him. He could not fathom such stupidity. “She’s not the Chosen One. Her daughter is.”
“Yes, I . . . I guess I panicked, Brother,” Dane said dejectedly.
Forrest scowled at him. “I sponsored you. I recommended you for this mission. And now I’ll probably die alongside you when Il Maestro hears about this.”
Dane’s eyes bulged. “Surely we won’t be . . . I mean, we have her. It was our job to get her.”
“But not like this. We had a plan.” Forrest gestured to the limp body of Joyce Summers, draped over his arms. “Put the flowers down. Then help me get her downstairs.”
Dane carried the vase into the apartment. He looked around and said, “Where?”
“Just put them down,” Forrest bit off. “Come here. Now. Put her arm around your shoulder. I’ll do the same. If anyone notices, we’ll say she had too much to drink.” He laughed bitterly. “As if anyone would believe that. One look at her and you would guess she’s dead. And if she dies, she’s no good to us, is she?”
Dane swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.”
“It won’t matter how sorry you are, Brother Dane.”
At the bottom of the stairs, Brother Lupo waved angrily at the two acolytes he had sent upstairs to kidnap the Slayer’s mother.
“You idiots!” he hissed. “Unbelievable! Get her in the car.”
The back door of a dark blue Lexus opened. Forrest went in first, then helped pull the woman into the car. Dane gathered up her feet and stuffed them into the car. Then he stood uncertainly beside the vehicle and said, “Ah, where should I sit?”
Brother Lupo, who had been sitting in the front seat with the driver, made a show of glancing at the backseat, where Forrest and the unconscious woman were ensconced.
“In the trunk,” he said.
Dane blinked. “Brother,” he said unsteadily. “I was nervous.”
Lupo stared at him. From his vantage point, Forrest saw the milky white eye begin to glow a deadly blue, and he looked quickly away.
Then he heard Dane cry out. Just once, a strangled shout of pain or surprise that was quickly cut off. Brother Lupo had killed him, destroyed him with magick.
Brother Ariam, who was driving, reached forward and pulled on the lever that opened the trunk. The light from the street was momentarily blocked out as the trunk opened. The car bounced once from an increase in cargo weight. Then the trunk slammed shut.
Brother Forrest heaved a sigh of relief as Brother Ariam slipped back into the driver’s seat. He was to be spared, at least for now.
Then he felt a sharp prick at his temple. Something tore through his head and he moaned low in his throat, once. He understood: Dane had been his responsibility. His failure was Forrest’s failure.
The woman who lay next to the dying Brother Forrest on the backseat roused herself slightly. She murmured, “Buffy.”
He managed a weak smile. It was a brilliant plan, kidnapping the Slayer’s mother to draw the Slayer out.
His smile disappeared just before his soul slipped from his body and went off to receive its just reward. As he died, Forrest’s soul knew terror. For he knew what that reward would be.
Chapter 12
Villa Regnier, outside Florence
April 1666
THE AFTERNOON SKY ABOVE THE ROLLING LANDSCAPE was dark and overcast, threatening a spring storm. In the barn, the horses nickered uncertainly and tossed their heads, their eyes widening as Giuliana Regnier, th
e signora of the house, glided among them. She had been restless all day, moving from the bustling kitchen to the clucking henhouse to the more peaceful barn, not finding whatever it was she was looking for, and still having no idea what that was, precisely.
Thunder rumbled. She put her hand protectively over her rounded abdomen. The babe within seemed restless as well, which frightened her. He (for she was certain it was a son) had at least two more months before it was time to greet the world. Her midwife had examined her yesterday, assuring her that all was well. But today Giuliana’s back ached and she couldn’t seem to stay in one place. She worried that these were portents that something was amiss with her child.
Everyone in the villa was on edge today. Concetta, the cook, had slapped the chambermaid and told her to get her filthy hands out of her kitchen. Two of the field hands had come to blows over a young girl in the village who, it turned out, was betrothed to someone else entirely, a young Florentine from a very good family apprenticed to a banker.
Worst of all was the news from the winemaster: there was something wrong with the fields. The earth contained a type of mold he had never seen before, and he feared it would harm the grapes. He could not be sure; it was outside the realm of his expertise.
Giuliana tried to tell herself that these things happened; there were days like this in every person’s life. Other vintners had had trouble with rot and mold, and in fact, some wines had prospered from such things in the past. But, truth be told, she was frightened. Her husband, Richard, was far away, and on a dangerous errand: He had received a missive over five months ago from Kilij Arslan, a great Ottoman sorcerer. She had memorized the letter, so often had she read it:
To M. Richard Regnier, Most Renowned Brother in Magic
Cher Monsieur le Chevalier,
I, Kilij Arslan, send you greetings. As my situation is most desperate, please forgive my dispensing with all the civility due a man of your illustrious station and allow me to speak quickly and plainly.
I hold in captivity one whom you have sought, namely, that base conjurer of the black arts named Giacomo Fulcanelli. He was already known to me as a most evil sorcerer and a villain before coming to this our beloved Empire, but I, alas, was unable to persuade my master (Allah give him long life!) to shun him and send him away. For he promised My Lord Suleiman many wondrous things, including prosperity for all his people, and thus was my master inclined to listen not to me, but to Fulcanelli, believing my warnings were those of a jealous rival. Not that I blame my master, for he must constantly attend the needs of his subjects, and Fulcanelli assured him that all good things would flow into our Empire.
Instead, as I’m sure you may well imagine, Fulcanelli has delivered only misery and sorrow, most particularly in the form of a most grave insult to My Lord’s youngest daughter, who has therefore come to an untimely end at her own hand.
The scales having fallen at last from My Lord’s eyes, Fulcanelli has been cast out of favor and sentenced to death. Charged with the wizard’s destruction, I bound him within the walls of a remote desert fortress whose location is known only to me and to my master.
When the evil one realized that I had triumphed over him in this small way, he cursed and reviled not only me, but mentioned you by name several times, uttering curses against you and your house. Of course you were already known to me as a Champion of Good, and I have heard stories of your unending quest to dispatch this creature of darkness from this world. Alas, I have myself been unable to do so; save my success in binding him, he has thwarted every spell of destruction which I have visited upon him.
Therefore I beg you in the name of Allah, Who is most wise and beneficent, to come to my fortress and assist me in the destruction of this evil creature. I fear that the time will soon come when he will overpower my binding spell and free himself. My own life shall surely be forfeit in that moment, although if the loss of it could effect his death, I would count it a small price to pay. Yet I fear my end will count for nothing toward his own death, and in desperation—and with great hopes—I turn to you, oh most revered Monsieur Regnier.
I have enclosed a map with Hamza, my trusted confidant, who brings you this letter and who shall escort you. You will in turn be met by a retinue of my guards, who await your arrival at the border of our Empire.
Written in my own hand, and with cordial greetings to my esteemed brother in the arts.
Kilij Arslan, Court Magician to the Ottoman Empire
Giuliana was abjectly sorry that she had encouraged him to go. For things were not right here in Florence, and he was not here to protect his house and his progeny. He had been gone many months, almost five, and she had not had a letter from him for almost two.
Nor had she informed him of her condition, thinking that it would worry him, or worse, bring him home before his mission was completed. But today she worried for her baby, and she wondered if she had been foolish not to insist upon the magickal protection of her husband. To be sure, the midwife had set wards around the perimeter of the property and given her an amulet to wear, but the wisewoman’s expertise lay in the realm of old wives’ tales, and not in the more enlightened and authentic magick that was the provenance of her husband.
The thunder rumbled again. The horses whinnied uneasily. Giuliana murmured, “Easy, easy, mi bambini,” but she herself was not easy. It seemed dishonest to assure any living creature that all was right with the world, and she reflected that a mother’s duty lay in part in the perpetuation of such a lie. Every lullaby sang of that lie.
And yet, if a child had a mother and a father who loved him and would die for him, was it falsehood to promise the child safe harbor?
Unhappy with her thoughts, she left the barn and walked across the meadow toward the villa proper. It was called the Court of the Roses, for its dozens of lovely rosebushes. Richard had designed it himself, after the pleasant and airy buildings of Catherine de’ Medici’s court at Fontainebleau. The de’ Medici had been a Florentine also. So the lovely villa mixed his memories of her and her time with that of his wife. “Queen of my conscience, and queen of my soul,” he was wont to say.
It was quite something to be the queen of a magician’s soul.
“So we should not fear, caro mio,” she murmured to her son. “God watches over us, and so does your father.”
She crossed herself and entered one of the villa’s outbuildings, the fragrant hut where the peasant women dried herbs for cooking and poultices. The entire building smelled of rosemary and lavender, and Giuliana thought she might swoon with delight at the heavy, rich fragrances. Surely naught could be ill in a world that produced such perfume.
Then her abdomen clenched tightly. Groaning deep in her throat, she clutched at it and felt it harden like a rock. Terrified, she took a breath and struggled to stay calm. Too soon, much too soon, she was laboring.
“No,” she whispered to her child. “No, my darling, wait.”
She groaned as another pain ripped through her, making her shudder and fall to her knees.
“Signora?” a soft voice queried. It was Signorina Alessandra, sent to Giuliana by one of the nuns in the nearby convent. Alessandra had worked for the sisters for three years, and she could keep secrets as well as any priest within the confessional. Giuliana was not naive enough to suppose that her servants did not talk with other servants, but she wished to keep the truth of impending motherhood as private as possible.
“Signora?” the voice echoed.
Giuliana moved her hand to the front of her gown, pressing it against her body. When she saw the blood, she gasped and burst into tears. “My child. God help me. Riccardo!”
Her plea for her husband was a wail lost in the booming thunder, much louder now. As she grew dizzy, she lost sense of where she was. After a hazy passage of time, she became aware of rain pelting her and people carrying her into the house. Of being put into her bed. Of straining and screaming.
And then, of the chambermaid, bursting into the room and shrieking, “Men
riding the backs of devils! They come!”
It was then that Giuliana fought hardest against the birth of her child. She wrestled with the Virgin herself to keep him safe inside her body.
But Signorina Alessandra whispered to her, “Lady, if these men are coming to do us mischief, it would be better to give the child to me to hide. I will find safe haven for him. I swear it.”
Grunting like an animal, sobbing with fear and pain, Giuliana gripped Alessandra’s hand and rasped, “Are you an angel of mercy, then? Or do you mean to deliver my half-formed son into the hands of murderers?”
“I swear, I am God’s own child,” Alessandra had replied. “On the blood of the One Who died for us, I swear that I will find a safe place for him, my lady.”
“They will kill him, as they . . . as they have killed his father,” she said, weeping. The pain in her belly caught her off guard, and she screamed. “Riccardo, where are you? You are dead! They’ve murdered you. Fulcanelli, I curse you! I curse your house!”
“Signora, you must stay calm. Stay quiet,” Alessandra said, holding her hand.
“But it is too soon, and they will kill him.” Giuliana whispered. “Oh, Alessandra, I had thought to give my husband the fairest rose in his garden of roses. After the horrors that his life has been, I wanted beauty for him. Joy.”
Tears spilled down her cheeks, and for a moment, it was six years before, when she was but sixteen, and Riccardo Regnier had come to call at her father’s fine home in the bustling metropolis of Florence. She was practically affianced to another, a gallant named Paolo, and she was very much in love with the idea of being in love with a handsome young man.
Then Riccardo strode into her father’s house, in his satins and silks, much more colorful than one might have expected, if one knew his age and his travails. His chin, so firm, his eye, so piercing. He had looked at her and she had felt a connection that extended beyond the physical, though in her maidenly way, she wanted him ardently. It was more than a physical attraction. No, this was something that bridged soul to soul.
The Gatekeeper Trilogy, Book Two - GHOST ROADS Page 19