“Or the guy you saved just dumped his brother’s body,” Cordelia added.
“Oh, sure. They’re tourists with funny accents, and his brother is eviscerated by a monster, so hey, it’s Dumpster time!” Xander said, huffing.
“He thought Springheel Jack was in a gang,” Cordelia persisted. “You didn’t exactly see him screaming hysterically?”
“No, because I believe that’s your own private Idaho,” Xander shot back. “You know, not everyone goes around shrieking at every little demonic thing that pops up.”
“Oh, is that right?” Cordelia shot at him. “Mr. Macho Man?”
Buffy frowned, glanced at the two of them. She hated to admit it, for several reasons, but it was possible Cordelia was right. If the two guys were illegal immigrants, it was more than likely that he had not gone to the police, and had wanted to hide any evidence of his presence here from the authorities.
Before she could reply, the sky cracked open with a blast of thunder that rumbled through the air like a tidal wave about to crash down on their heads. They covered their ears a moment and just stood there.
With her hands clapped over her ears, Buffy let her eyes wander aimlessly over the black Pacific, moonlight flickering off the crests of each wave. Then something broke the surface of the water. Something huge, with massive tentacles or arms, and far too many of those for Buffy’s tastes. It was the biggest living thing Buffy had ever seen, and she only got a glimpse of it. Of part of it.
“Oh my God,” she said, as the skyquake echoed off into the sky. Xander and Cordelia followed her gaze, and they saw what she saw. “Now how in hell do I slay that?”
Giles slept fitfully and woke with a feeling of profound anxiety just after two in the morning that Sunday. He tried, with moderate success, to get back to sleep, but when his eyes fluttered open again and he saw that it was nearly half past three, he sat up painfully in his hospital bed. He quickly calculated the time difference between New York and London—it would be half past eight there now—then picked up the beige hospital phone and asked for an outside line. He dialed the number he’d been using, and then listened to it ring on the other end: two, four, eight times. The Council would not be so unrefined as to have an answering machine, of course. What would their message say, after all? But at the very least, there ought to be a butler or maid already about at . . .
On the eleventh ring, a deep male voice answered. He recognized it as belonging to Ian Williams, the new assistant he’d spoken to earlier.
“Yes, hello. It’s Rupert Giles,” he said quickly. “Sorry to disturb you at this early hour . . .”
“Early here, Mr. Giles, but an ungodly hour where you are,” Williams said. “Has something happened?”
“Precisely my question,” Giles replied. “Your Miss Tomasi was here yesterday afternoon. She left about a quarter to two, and was due to return last evening by seven. She never appeared, nor did she phone with a message. No word at all. I’ve tried her hotel, left word for her, but there seems to be no sign of her. What with the news she brought me, I was a bit alarmed. I would look for her myself, of course, but I have one more round of tests tomorrow before the doctors will release me.”
On the other end, there was only silence. Finally, a speculative “Hmm.”
“Ian?” Giles asked.
“Disturbing news, Mr. Giles,” the man said. “Disturbing indeed. I suppose we must fear the worst. You’d best check out with due haste, allowing for doctor̵7;s orders, of course. You might want to make a brief inquiry into Micaela’s whereabouts, but if she doesn’t turn up right off, you ought to head home straightaway. The Chosen One must be your first priority.”
“Yes,” Giles said, mind already racing with the nastiest of possibilities, for both Micaela and Buffy. “As ever.”
He returned the phone to its cradle, but could not sleep. The man’s words echoed in his mind.
I suppose we must fear the worst.
Giles thought of the twinkle in Micaela’s eye, the way her hair shone, even without the sun. Her knowing laugh.
I suppose we must fear the worst.
The horror of it all was that Giles had experienced the worst. He knew what that might entail. His concern for Micaela went beyond mere fear, dread building upon dread, and far along the path to terror. And, given the odd way Buffy had been behaving, and the little she had told him about what was happening in Sunnydale, he was also concerned for the safety of the Slayer and her friends.
Suddenly resolute, Giles could remain still no longer. With a careful hand, he removed the intravenous needle from his arm and slid his legs over the edge of the bed. He still felt slightly woozy, and he allowed himself a moment before rising. Then, a deep breath, ignoring the pain in his head and back, and Giles stood up, decidedly uncomfortable in the cotton pajamas the hospital had provided.
He stood for a moment, unsteady, and then moved carefully to the closet where his clothes were hanging. His other things were still at the hotel, but the clothes he had been wearing that night had been laundered and brought to him here.
Giles reached for his shoes, bending to retrieve them. A spike of pain shot through his back and neck to his head. Giles grunted and put a hand to his head, even as his legs went numb and buckled beneath his weight. He fell to the floor in a heap, his glasses skittering across the cold tile.
When his eyes flickered open again, he was back in bed and an unfamiliar doctor was shining a penlight into his eyes.
“Micaela,” Giles croaked.
“Whoever she is, she can wait,” the doctor said gruffly. “Maybe you’re getting stir-crazy, Mr. Giles, and I can’t blame you. But there’s a reason you’re still in this hospital. Maybe you’ll listen to the doctors the next time.”
Then Giles drifted off again and didn’t open his eyes until long past morning.
In an extraordinary garden that rambled across the grounds of a palatial estate in Kyoto, one of the finest cities in the world, Kobo Sensei screamed.
He lay in the dirt of his garden, feeding the earth and the plants there with his blood, his very life. Kobo Sensei’s time as a Watcher had ended many decades earlier. He was an old man now, and had dreamed often about dying in his garden, but in those dreams, he had slipped gently away from a world he had served long and well.
Nothing like this.
The blade split the flesh of his wrist and traveled lightly under the skin, opening him as he himself had prepared fish tens of thousands of times in his life. Once again, Kobo Sensei screamed.
But he did not give them what they wanted. He did not answer their questions, only some of which he knew the answers to.
Except for his screams, Kobo Sensei was silent.
Around him, in a semicircle, stood seven men in dark cloaks, with hoods that covered most of their faces from view. Even with the little sun that still lingered in the sky, he could tell little of them from their appearance. Men of different complexions, sizes, and shapes, but all men. Beyond that, it was clear they knew something of magick.
And a great deal about pain.
The blade came down again, this time to a point several inches below his navel. Its tip pressed into Kobo Sensei’s abdomen, split the skin, and again, began to travel up.
Mind and body growing numb, Kobo Sensei gritted his teeth and glared at his hooded torturers. He vowed to himself that he would not scream again, and Kobo kept that vow.
He was silent unto death.
WILLOW SAT IN THE SCHOOL LIBRARY, FEELING A BIT creeped. She was alone. With the books that lived there, true. And the library’s trusty computer. Her only other company was the glow of the green glass study lamp and the comforting tapping of the keyboard. It occurred to her that if she could remember the name of the hospital Giles was in, she might be able to hack into his medical records and find out exactly what was wrong with him. Any medical terminology she was unfamiliar with would certainly be available on the Net.
Her job had proven to be a complicated one. It w
ould be fairly easy to discover the nature of each phenomenon or monster they had encountered over the last week, but what Willow wanted to know was if there had been other instances where they had all appeared at the same time. Entering SPRINGHEEL JACK, SKYQUAKE, SEA MONSTER, she told the search engine to locate only those matches containing all five words.
No matches found.
“Oh, bother,” she said, frustrated, and deleted SEA MONSTER. Or maybe SKYQUAKE was the problem. Maybe there was another term for it they hadn’t thought of.
She left the search and clicked on her bookmark for the Library of Congress subject headings index, SKYQUAKES wasn’t listed at all.
Yawning, she frowned and squinted at the screen. It had so been listed. She’d checked.
She sat back and thought a moment. Typed SKY QUAKES, with a space between the two compound words.
Nothing.
Then she glanced up at the clock. She was startled to see it was much later than she’d imagined. If she left now, she would get home right on time. After all, she could resume her search once her parents went to bed, on her home computer. Except that the school’s local area net was behind the firewall, meaning that she couldn’t access it from home. So she’d have to save more searching in Giles’s files for tomorrow.
Pushing back her chair, she grabbed her book bag and turned off the computer. Then, hesitating a moment, she turned off the study lamp as well. The library was drenched in darkness, illuminated only by the light in the hall. The school at night was not a friendly place.
She had nearly died in the school at night. Back when he was evil, Angel had ambushed her and would have killed her, if Buffy hadn’t stopped him.
But tonight Angel was with Buffy, patrolling for more unexpected visitors. Though Willow now stood firmly on the side of welcoming Angel back into their midst, that thought comforted her very little as she walked right beside the very spot where he had held her captive, laughing and squeezing her neck.
Then she was outside, at the top of the steps. She inhaled deeply. The library always smelled of dust and a little bit of mildew. Tea sometimes, too. She smiled softly at the image of Giles in his office, holding a steaming cup in one hand while he turned pages with the other.
She missed him. They needed him.
She wanted him home, now.
And she never wanted anything bad to happen to any of them.
Cordelia came up for air and said, “Xander, this is serious.”
“I know,” Xander assured her, “and I’m taking it very seriously.”
They were parked at Makeout Point, a discreet distance away from the other cars—okay, she was dating Xander, but she didn’t have to hang a neon sign around her neck, did she?—and as usual, Xander wasn’t listening to a word she was saying.
Exasperated, she gave him a slight push in the chest. Her expensive Smash Box lipstick was slathered all over his face.
“What?” he asked, panting slightly.
“College,” she said. “How many times have we been through this? Xander, if you don’t go, you’ll end up working for minimum wage.”
“No, no, Cor.” He smiled at her. “I intend to go right past Go and live on the streets. I’ll lose all my teeth and I’ll write you love poems on the walls of the public urinals. Can you just hardly wait?”
“Listen, moron.” She stared at him. “My parents are probably going to ship me off to Switzerland. Or maybe San Diego. It might be nice if you tried to go to the same place as me. But you can’t if you don’t apply,”
“Hey, I applied to lots of schools. And I got accepted at a few. A couple.”
She made a face. “All those colleges you applied to are lame. My parents would never let me go to any of them.”
“Switzerland.” He looked at her as if she were insane.
She shrugged. “Yeah.”
“My parents can’t even spring for a wild fling on the Matterhorn at Disneyland. How on earth am I going to get to Switzerland? Besides, I don’t speak . . . Swiss.”
“And it is a girls’ school,” she mused, seeing his point. She brightened. “Okay. San Diego. Or maybe a nice private college on the East Coast.”
“Okay, here’s a thought.” He fluttered his lashes at her. “Why don’t you stay here with me and go to community college?”
“It’s beyond me why you aim so low,” she said. “You’re capable of so much more.”
“Yeah, and I’d like to prove that to you right now.” He put his arms around her neck and pulled her close to him. She felt his warm breath on her cheek and her heart caught. “And as for aiming low . . .”
“Xander.” She shook her head. “Why do I even try.”
Suddenly his grin vanished and he looked at her very seriously. For a moment, there was silence. And then he said, “Cordelia, I’m really glad you try. It helps that you . . . y’know, believe in me.”
“I didn’t say that,” she replied defensively.
He smiled. Kissed her.
She kissed him back.
After all, there were a few months left until graduation.
Cordelia had begun the arduous task of reapplying her makeup by the glow of the interior dome light while Xander played a private drum solo on the dash. Her words were almost incomprehensible as she smoothed on her lipstick, but Xander translated: She was making him promise to go see Frankel the guidance counselor again.
“Okay?” she asked, popping the cap on her lipstick and dropping it into her purse.
“He hates me,” Xander said, only half kidding.
“I’m sure he doesn’t. Besides, it doesn’t matter. He’s there to help you. He’s a servant of the tax-payers.”
“Right. Or else he really wanted to be an astronaut, but they were full up.”
She fluffed her hair. “How do I look?”
“Innocent and beguiling.”
“Good.” She smiled at him. “Let’s go home.”
“Your wish. My command. Miss Chase, start your engine.”
Cordelia thrust the key in the ignition and turned it. The engine roared.
“Ooh, tiger girl,” Xander gushed.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “One more crack and you’re walking.”
Xander held up his hands. “I’m saying nothing.”
“See?” she said airily as she fishtailed down the mountain. “You are smart enough for college.”
The Court of King Francis I of France Fontainebleau, 1539
THE LIGHT BREEZE THAT WHISPERED THROUGH THE gardens at Fontainebleau carried a bit of a chill with it, and as Richard Regnier strolled deeper into the sprawling flora, he felt a nearly overwhelming urge to turn back. With a brief glance at the trellises and arches that made the labyrinthine garden about him, Regnier set his jaw firmly and strode on. It might well be that a grim destiny awaits, he thought, but a Regnier never hides his face from the winds of change.
He knew well where he walked; these were paths he had trod nearly his entire life. Word had come by messenger under the seal of the Dauphine herself. Catherine de’ Medici requested his company in the rose garden just after sunset. There were, in fact, many expanses of cultivated roses on the grounds, but Regnier was familiar with the princess’s habits. The spot to which she referred was a sculpted bit of garden, an oval clearing surrounded by dense rose bushes, with a small alcove also carved from the bushes themselves at its center, like the pupil of a scarlet eye. Yes, Regnier knew the way well enough. Thus, he followed the path swiftly, mind and body poised to act in his own defense should the note prove a ruse, despite the Dauphine’s seal.
A high trellis thick with hanging grapevines blocked Regnier’s view of the sculpted roses until he came abreast of the rose-latticed archway that led into the odd clearing, the bloody red eye of the storm. He stepped beneath the arch and into the darkened oval, with only the moon to light his way. Twined roses spread out on either side until they joined like lovers’ hands on the side opposite the entry arch. At the center, the alcove had a visi
tor.
Regnier exhaled with a bit of relief when he saw that the Dauphine had indeed come to meet him. Catherine de’ Medici had never been beautiful, but her tragic heart and troubled soul had always allowed her the gentle illusion that sympathy engendered. Now that illusion had dissipated, and her plainness had revealed itself as merely ugly. The illusion was gone, indeed, but to be replaced by what? Regnier studied her face for an answer, and then he saw her eyes. The Little Florentine began to open her mouth, but even before she could speak, Richard recognized the fury in her eyes, and knew that he was undone.
“Thank you for coming, magician,” she said, her French impeccable and startling for its rarity. “Mine was an odd invitation, I know.”
But Regnier was not soothed by her seeming benevolence.
“Please, madame,” he protested. “I know not what madness Fulcanelli has been whispering into your sweet ear, but by your demeanor alone, I can see that you are greatly disturbed.”
At that, Catherine de’ Medici laughed, and Regnier knew he had no hope at all. But before he could even decide whether to continue to argue logic, or to retreat as swiftly as possible, he felt the presence behind him, and turned to see Fulcanelli standing beneath the rosy arch. The sorcerer’s withered hand was tucked against his ribs, but even that obvious weakness only seemed, somehow, to make him more formidable. And from behind the rosebush where Catherine stood, a pair of Fulcanelli’s acolytes emerged.
“You are a base deceiver, a devil of the worst kind, Richard Regnier,” Catherine de’ Medici said, her anger palpable. “You turned your ear to my secret prayers, and twisted them, thwarting me with every breath. I can only imagine that you are in league with the harridan who has so completely bewitched my husband.”
Regnier held his hands up, about to protest once more, but then thought better of it. Instead, he rounded on Fulcanelli, rage furrowing his brow.
“Demon!” he hissed at the crippled man. “You cleave to this woman and pledge fealty to the house of de’ Medici, and all the while you construct the most evil plots your wicked mind can conceive. She is already under your sway! You have all the power you desire! What can you possibly gain from preventing her the simple joy of motherhood?”
The Gatekeeper Trilogy, Book One - OUT of the MADHOUSE Page 9