Then he thought he heard the sounds of a struggle behind the curtain.
With monumental effort, he managed to turn his head.
Backlit as if by a brilliant moon, two figures were thrown into silhouette on the curtain. One was hunched over Mr. Russo’s bed, choking the very life out of the one who struggled. Giles blinked as the figures blurred in and out of focus.
“No,” he rasped.
The room spun crazily as he extended his hand toward the violent scene. The only sound, other than his own tortured whisper, was the desperate choking.
From somewhere deep inside himself, Giles found untapped reservoirs of strength. He catapulted himself out of his bed and grabbed the curtain with both hands. But the effort took too much out of him, and he sank to the floor, taking the curtain with him.
There was no one behind the curtain.
Mr. Russo’s hospital bed was empty.
Footsteps rushed in from the hallway. The overhead fluorescent flicked on.
Someone put an arm around him. He looked up, expecting to see the night nurse. Instead, he was greeted by the sight of a young man with sandy blond hair, who said, “Mr. Giles, Mr. Giles, are you all right?”
“What . . . what happened to Mr. Russo? Who are you?”
Just then someone else raced into the room. As the young man helped Giles to his feet, the newcomer, a woman in scrubs, said, “Mr. Giles, you shouldn’t be out of bed.” Then she glanced past him to the fallen curtain and said, “Oh, dear. Did you need to use the bathroom? You should have used your call button.”
“No, I did not,” he protested, as she came around to his other side and together with the sandy-haired man, they half led, half dragged Giles back to his bed. “There was a man there, attacking another . . .” He trailed off, his sense of discretion taking over. “I had a nightmare.”
“Not a surprise, with your fever,” the woman said. She huffed. “Where’s Lopez? Off sneaking down to the Coke machine. Oh, well, your nephew here can help us.”
Deftly she smoothed the sheets and fluffed Giles’s pillows as the other man sat carefully on the side of the bed. Giles frowned up at him; the man’s silent gaze pleaded with him to say nothing.
The nurse continued, “Now, you just slip into bed and I’ll call the doctor in to check you over. You had a bad fall.”
“Nothing hurts,” he assured her. “I’m fine.” And he was; he felt better than he had in . . . days. The lethargy had dissipated; the surreal sense that he was witnessing terrible events rather than having bad dreams was gone.
“Now, now. We’ll be the judges of that.” She wheeled over the electronic temperature gauge, slipped a plastic cover over the thermometer, and popped it in his mouth. “Leave that in, all right? I’ll be back in less than a minute.”
As soon as she left the room, Giles pulled the thermometer out and demanded of the young man, “Who the hell are you?”
“Watchers’ Council,” the man replied in a whisper. “They sent me to replace Micaela. Ian Williams caught me up on the whole business.”
“Still missing?” Giles asked unhappily.
The man nodded. Giles noticed now that he looked exhausted. His face was pasty and there were rings under his eyes. “We think someone’s been trying to keep you here.”
“Trying . . .” Giles frowned. “Please, give me my glasses.” He couldn’t think if he couldn’t see.
“With magick or with poison,” the man went on. He handed Giles the glasses. “Either that, or they were trying to kill you slowly enough that it wouldn’t raise any attention. My name’s Matt Pallamary,” he added, extending his hand. “I’m very honored to meet you, sir.”
Giles sighed to himself and shook the man’s hand. “I’m sure the pleasure is mine,” he said politely. He gestured to the empty hospital bed across the room. “I was absolutely positive I saw that man murdered.”
“He died yesterday,” Pallamary informed him. “His corpse was wheeled out of here while you were delirious with fever.”
“Poor man. Was there any evidence of foul play?”
“No. I heard one doctor whispering ‘PPPBBB’ to a nurse.” When Giles shrugged in ignorance, the man translated, “‘Please put pine box beside bed.’ Terminal, in other words.” He moved his shoulder. “My aunt is a doctor. She tells me these things.”
“How very ghoulish,” Giles commented.
Pallamary continued. “I brought you a rose quartz. In fact . . .”—and now he stammered with acute mortification—“I . . . I had just gotten back here when you fell. I can’t help but think it was my fault, sir. If I hadn’t left to go get it—”
“Nonsense,” Giles cut in, more sharply than he’d intended. Truth be told, the mention of rose quartz had broadsided him. After Jenny’s death, Willow had given him Jenny’s rose quartz and told him it was purported to have healing properties. Perhaps he should have brought it with him to New York.
“I’ve got to get out of here,” Giles said. “I must return to Sunnydale at once. If someone’s trying to keep me here, it doesn’t bode well for the Slayer.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Tell that woman I want to be discharged at once.” With determination, he threw back his covers.
“But, Mr. Giles, it’s the middle of the night.”
He started to swing his legs over the side of the bed. “Then I’ll simply walk out.”
Pallamary frowned. “Please, sir, there’re just a few hours until morning. They’ll be more accommodating then. Besides, you have had a bad fall, and it is possible you were hurt.”
Giles said, “That doesn’t matter.”
Pallamary very gently blocked his way. “I’m very sorry to contradict you, but it does matter. As you say, the Slayer may also be in grave danger. You need to be in good shape in order to help her.”
Giles paused. There was that. He didn’t know if Pallamary had an inkling about the strange goings-on in Sunnydale. Buffy had been growing more and more evasive in their phone conversations, and Giles just knew that things were worse than they seemed. With Watchers being murdered, and odd happenings by the Hellmouth, Buffy would need him nearby. Something serious was going on, and Giles was determined to find out what it was. Still . . . he was a practical man by nature.
“All right.” Giles sighed heavily. “I’ll wait until morning. But then I’m leaving. And you’ll drive me to the airport, yes?”
Pallamary inclined his head. “It would be my pleasure, sir.”
Standing on Dead Man’s Walk, which overlooked the ocean, Angel thought about the impending sunrise and wrestled with the desire to linger and watch it. Not wrestled, exactly. He didn’t have a death wish. But a part of him yearned for it, accompanied by a fleeting bravado that urged him to dare it, in the same way that a human might fantasize about stepping off the lookout for the thrill of terror that would surely accompany the act.
Angel knew he could not stay for the sunlight. But he had compensations. The brightness of a blue summer sky, the shimmering of a dew-colored spider web, the sparkle of sunbeams on the ocean white-caps—none of these could compare with the brilliance of a soul. And while most of the world walked around completely ignorant of the fact that souls were real, Angel fully comprehended the reality—and the gift—of possessing one. He knew he enjoyed a state of being beyond both human existence and vampiric immortality, and that he might be the only individual ever to do so.
There was a beauty inherent in that, as well as an almost unrelenting loneliness. The darkness, and the dawn.
Staring once more at the horizon, he turned to go. The Kraken was not going to show its face—or its tentacles—tonight. Angel had very much wanted to check it out for himself, see what they were up against, and he had come up to the lookout with the hope that it would be visible from this height. The waning moon had still been casting a good deal of light on the nighttime water. No such luck, however.
He began to walk back down the path, his boots occasionally crushing a
piece of ice plant lodged in the sandy soil. The soft night breeze brought the tang of salt with it; idly he licked his lips and thought about a restful day in the darkened rooms of the mansion.
Then he heard an almost subaudible growling; it rumbled toward him as if it came from something moving beneath the ground.
Angel stopped, looking left, right, then in a small circle. The growling sound increased in volume, as if it had reached the surface now. It was coming from the left, he decided, moving toward the sound. Then it seemed to switch, echoing off the rubble of what had once been a ruined lighthouse, but could not even be counted as that any longer.
After a couple of minutes he gave up. He had no time to investigate. Aware that in the last few days the others had been ambushed several times, he continued down the path with greater care. Every muscle in his body went on full alert, ready for a fight.
Squinting, he crouched and bent forward. There were tracks in the sand like the long, deep ridges from the tires of an off-road vehicle. Yet the tracks were smooth, without patterns. Something in the depressions sparkled in the flashlight beam; he knelt on one knee and scooped up a sample, examining it. It looked like bits of glass.
He wished he had more time before sunup; he would like nothing better than to follow the tracks. But he didn’t. He reluctantly left the ominous growling and the footprints behind on Dead Man’s Walk.
Giles’s hospital-assigned physician was none too pleased to learn that his patient was determined to be discharged. He tried to talk the stubborn Englishman out of it, but in the end there was nothing to be done.
“You’re crazy to just walk out, so soon after that fever, but this isn’t Bellevue. Even crazy people can’t be kept here against their will,” the man had said to Giles.
Giles had failed to see the humor in the doctor’s statement, and rather gruffly thanked him for his care. Then he turned to Matt Pallamary, whom he regarded as little more than a sincere young man who might one day make a decent Watcher, but was not one yet, and said, “The hotel first, and then the airport, yes?”
Pallamary brought his car around—it was a ubiquitous Camry—and came around to the passenger door, opening it with a flourish while the hospital volunteer who had wheeled Giles to the curb helpfully put on the wheelchair’s brake and flicked back the footrests.
After so many days in hospital, the Manhattan air seemed refreshing, even pleasant; Giles thought to mention that fact to Pallamary as he gingerly slid into the passenger side of the front seat and allowed the volunteer, an elderly gentleman, to fasten his seat belt for him.
The reason that he did not mention it was because he noticed that beneath the console for the music system was a small, plastic sort of cubbyhole affair. And in the cubbyhole was the distinctive paper bookmark that was packed with each purchase from one of the bookshops he, Giles, had visited.
As Pallamary came around to the driver’s side, Giles surreptitiously fished out the bookmark and examined it.
On the back was written “Room 1622.”
Giles’s room number.
Before Pallamary opened the door, Giles slipped the bookmark back into place.
Pallamary sat down, put on his seat belt, and shut the door. Pleasantly he said, “Well, that’s over with.”
“Quite.” Giles said, “I just had a thought. I’d appreciate it so much if you would drive me straightaway to the airport, then go back and collect my things and send them on. I’m most eager to return to the Slayer, and it’s quite possible I can route myself through a couple of different airlines in order to get to her side as soon as possible.”
“Oh.” Pallamary looked nervous. “But, um, those are your private things, sir, in your room, I mean. Would you be comfortable having a stranger going through them?”
“A stranger already has,” Giles said, feigning surprise. “Didn’t they tell you? A most peculiar volume was stolen from my room. It was called Convergence: Massed Supranatural Phenomena.”
Pallamary pulled away from the curb and wove the car into the heavy New York traffic. Around them, car horns blared at one another and bicycle messengers dodged bumpers with astonishing grace.
“But I thought nothing was taken,” Pallamary said slowly.
“Oh, no, quite a few things were filched,” Giles assured him. “Didn’t Micaela tell you?”
“Well, yes, now that you mention it,” Pallamary conceded, “she did tell me about that book.”
Giles’s blood ran cold. This man was not from the Watchers’ Council. Giles didn’t know who he was, but he most assuredly knew who he wasn’t.
“Oh, look,” he said, pointing to a Dunkin’ Donuts. “I fancy a cup of decent coffee. How about you? You must have had your fill of hospital cuisine, same as I.”
“Oh. Yes,” Pallamary said uncertainly. “Yeah. It was terrible stuff.”
“Pull over then,” Giles suggested. “I’ll run in. Cream and sugar?”
“Yeah.” Pallamary looked concerned. “That’d be great.” He frowned. “If you feel up to it.”
“I feel fine. Honestly,” Giles announced. “Just hungry.”
Pallamary pulled over, double-parking, as was the custom in Manhattan.
Giles got out of the car and walked with an unhurried gait toward the doughnut shop. He smiled and waved at Pallamary, who was watching him with a wariness that gave Giles pause. Suppose they were being followed?
He went in and said to the young shopgirl, “I beg your pardon, but I was wondering if you have another exit?”
She blinked at him, as if waiting for the reason he wanted to know. But when he offered nothing more, she said, “Well, there’s the one for deliveries.”
“Excellent. I’d like to use it.” He smiled at her graciously. He had discovered that in America, his accent opened doors—as it were—which were locked to others. “Please.”
“Um, okay. It’s back there.”
She gestured to her left.
Giles turned and held up a finger to Pallamary, then pointed to exactly where he was going. He hoped to give the indication he was off to use the loo. He couldn’t see if Pallamary saw him or nodded back. The sun was glinting on the Camry’s windscreen.
Giles slowly sauntered toward the alternate exit.
The airport terminal was buzzing with travelers when Buffy arrived with Xander. Fortunately, they didn’t have to wait long before Giles’s plane touched down.
“Hi,” Buffy said, rushing toward him as he emerged from the pack of passengers coming in on the New York flight. She hesitated when she saw the bruises on his face and the cut above his right eye, then hugged him anyway. He didn’t look too good in some ways, but in others, he had never looked better. As in: he was here, and she needed him big-time.
And she had missed him and worried about him more than she could have imagined.
“Ooph,” he groaned as she gave him a quick squeeze, then smiled faintly as she gazed at him in concern and let go of him. “It’s good to be home.” He looked past her to Xander. “Where is Cordelia?”
“At your place. We planned a party, just for you.” Buffy brightened. “That you’re paying for, because we’re all broke.”
“Hey, G-man,” Xander said, coming forward and offering his hand. “Welcome home.”
“I told you never to call me that.” Giles shook his head.
“Yeah.” Xander smiled. “Think you did. Sorry.”
Xander took Giles’s single bag, and Buffy fell into step beside her Watcher. “So, you haven’t been able to figure out who Pallamary is working for?”
Giles had called her from the airport to give her the full rundown in case something happened to him on his way back from Sunnydale. As in, his plane blowing up in mid-flight.
“Sadly, no. I take it that you were equally frustrated in your quest to discover the identity of the men who attacked you outside the Bronze?”
“Nada.” Buffy gazed at him. “Are you really okay? Or did you jump ship because of all the weird stuff goi
ng on around here?”
“Hey, he looks okay, doesn’t he?” Xander asked. “C’mon, Buff. Never look a gift Giles in the mouth. Or whatever.”
They walked outside. Oz was parked in the passenger loading zone, and as they neared the van, Willow burst out and ran toward Giles.
“You’re here!” she cried. “I am soooo happy!”
Buffy said quickly, “Don’t hug him too hard.”
“Oh.” Willow looked abashed. “I wasn’t going to hug him at all. Although I would have liked to.” She made an apologetic face at Giles. “I didn’t think it would be respectful.”
“I’m glad to see you, too, Willow,” he said.
Willow asked, “Where’s your luggage?”
“In New York. It’s a long story.”
Willow nodded. Buffy figured that by now Willow was used to long stories. She hoped Giles hadn’t lost anything valuable to him.
“Now, Buffy, don’t you think it’s time I got the full story about what’s been going on around here?” Giles asked. “Rains of toads, skyquakes, mysterious attackers, the Wendigo . . . and why is it I’m certain you’re leaving something out?”
“Well, there’s Springheel Jack,” Xander volunteered.
“Dear Lord,” Giles said, eyes widening. “What else?”
Buffy huffed at Xander. “Narc,” she said. Then, to Giles, “Well, Angel thinks he ran into a Tatzelwurm. Whatever that is.”
Giles put one contemplative finger to his lips. “The Tatzelwurm, you say?”
Buffy looked for confirmation at Willow, who nodded. “Yeah, probably. Rumbling, growling, indentations, glass in the sand?”
“Good Lord.” Giles smacked his forehead. Buffy wanted to tell him not to do that. He was smacked up bad enough as it was. “The Gatehouse.”
When Buffy and Willow just stared at him, he said, “The Tatzelwurm—there’s only one—is said to have been locked up inside the Gatehouse.”
“Only it’s not,” Buffy guessed. “That was a pretty easy one, Alex. I’ll try Less Obvious Observations for two hundred. Meaning, what the heck are you talking about?”
The Gatekeeper Trilogy, Book One - OUT of the MADHOUSE Page 12