Cordelia looked indignant. “My mom likes you.”
“Oh, yeah. Like cellulite.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “I thought you didn’t believe in lying.”
“Well.” She shrugged. “Maybe she doesn’t like you as my boyfriend, but she doesn’t dislike you as a person.”
“Oh, I’m dancing on the ceiling now.” He gestured at the window of the shop. Buffy turned and looked. Still struggling with his map, Giles was halfway to the car.
“I’ll go buy these family heirlooms. Then I suggest we follow that redcoat,” Xander said.
“Next stop, weirdness,” Cordelia said.
Buffy nodded to herself. “Hopefully,” she replied.
Boston, October, 1666
Richard Regnier woke with a start.
The cottage was dark and very, very cold. His candle was out, the fire, dying embers. Those were natural enough, if one has slept a long time. It was not the chill nor the shadows that sent a frisson up his spine.
It was the sure sense, developed over a lifetime devoted to magick, that something was horribly wrong.
He flicked his wrist and produced a small ball of light that hovered an arm’s length in front of his chair. Cautiously he stood, his gaze traveling around the room, searching for an intruder. There was no one else in the room, at least that he could detect.
Still, he could not shake the feeling that he was in danger. He cursed himself for abandoning his habit of keeping his wand ever present at his side—with the death of Fulcanelli he had grown lax—and moved swiftly across the earthen floor to his traveling valise. He unclasped the fastener and grabbed up the wand. Regnier was capable of great magick without it, but the wand gave that magick focus.
There came a low rumbling, as if from deep within the earth. Regnier looked down at his feet. The rumbling grew louder. The cottage walls began to tremble and then to shake violently. Loud cracks ran up the walls of stone. The embers in the fireplace leaped out of the grate.
Regnier was thrown to the floor. He hit his head on the corner of his chair, and for a moment he was stunned.
As he sat up slowly on the rolling floor, something dark formed in the dirt. It was darker than the night shadows in the room, darker than any blackness he had ever seen. It absorbed the light around it, and yet he could still see it. Though he did not touch it, he sensed that it had form, substance.
The rumbling grew louder. He hunched over the puddle, if puddle it was, and held his wand over it, commanding it in Latin to do no harm.
Suddenly a high, frigid wind whistled through the cottage, so loud his ears throbbed. His belongings were flung against the wall. The pages of his books fluttered like panicked birds. Cold pierced him as if someone stabbed at him with a frozen sword. He cried out and repeated his incantation.
Unaffected by the gale, the puddle rose from the floor and hovered in a circle beneath his wand. Regnier examined it at the same time that he backed away, keeping a respectful distance until he could discern its nature.
There was a clap as if of thunder. The room exploded with light as brilliant as the sun. Regnier was thrown back hard. He slammed onto his back and immediately rolled to his side, covering his eyes.
Still the wind raged; he dared to pull down his hands and squint at the light.
It was gone.
The black circle had rotated so that it now hung vertically in the center of the room. The air around it seemed to shimmer as a pool of water broken by a stone or the movements of life beneath the surface. The texture of the world, the fabric of reality, seemed somehow false now. The circle was a flat, motionless, oily black, and the shimmering around it made it seem a scab on the flesh of the world.
Regnier struggled to his feet, his hair flying in the wind, and attempted to take a step toward it, but he could not move any closer. The circle expanded. The rippling air around it swirled with color, a gossamer rainbow frame around a portrait of deepest ebony. The air around this scar, this new wound on the heart of reality, glowed now a brilliant blue that jittered and vibrated. Once more the cottage’s structure was assailed. Regnier’s muscles tensed, his bones ached, and he felt that he might shake apart.
From the center of the circle a strange, hulking figure appeared, spilling from the oily blackness as though it were a babe forced unwilling and unaided from its mother’s womb. It shrieked with a ghastly voice and then fell to the floor as it tumbled out of the circle.
At once the circle disappeared, taking all forms of chaos with it, save the creature it had disgorged. The rumbling ceased. The wind dissipated.
All was silent, save for the shrieking of the figure. Regnier approached it slowly, jerking when it raised three heads on one neck and clambered to its feet. It glared at him with three sets of red, luminous eyes and began to growl menacingly. Its body was like that of a dog, blacker than anything he had ever seen, even the circle whence it had sprung. Purple and black serpents writhed along its back, their tongues hissing at Regnier. Then its tail rose above the body, and a hooded cobra darted at him, spitting venom.
“Cerberus?” Regnier asked in astonishment. This was the dog of Hades, the hound that watched over the realm of the dead and forbade the living entrance to it.
The dog cocked its three heads and barked at him. Then it looked around itself, clearly terrified.
Regnier was bemused. The puddle had been some sort of portal, then, depositing this creature where it had no business.
Without warning, the dog sprang at him, all its teeth bared viciously. Regnier dodged it and immediately erected a magickal barrier that protected him from the beast. Cerberus collided with the invisible shield, then collapsed, stunned, to the shattered floor of the cottage.
With a small tremor as its only harbinger, the ebony pool began to reform only inches from Regnier’s right foot. He moved away, fully expecting it to solidify, and to rise and shift as it had done before.
Instead, the puddle seemed to split in two with a thunderous snap, and the two halves slid in opposite directions. The cottage floor shifted with them, the walls themselves seeming to realign to accommodate this unnatural phenomenon. The air was split with a rending crack, and yet the building remained standing.
With a thunderclap, the duplicate portals grew even larger. From one, an odd creature, a beauteous lithe thing with the most gossamer wings, flew into the cottage, a spray of glittering dust trailing in its wake. From the other a blaze erupted. The magician stepped closer to peer inside. Sweat poured down Regnier’s face as he regarded the very threshold of Hell itself.
1st January, 1668
In my hand I hold the letter. Today I should be glad, and yet I am filled with despair.
I have had word from Mother Mary John, with whom I have remained in contact out of my concern for the orphan Juliet, and to whom I have supplied funds for the girl’s keep and future interests. This latest epistle, however, concerns not Juliet, but another child. A boy. My own son, by birth and blood.
While I was in the land of the Turk, lured there by Fulcanelli, Giuliana discovered her happy condition. By the time of my return, she already lay moldering in her grave. When Fulcanelli’s acolytes overran our villa and our lands, I had thought all the servants massacred. With good reason, for I was unaware that Giuliana had engaged the services of a Signorina Alessandra, who was to aid in the care of the newborn.
Signorina Alessandra survives, however, and has recently arrived at Mother Mary John’s convent as a novice, hoping to take her vows soon. It was only at mention of my name in connection with the girl, Juliet, that the Signorina told the story of her service to my family, and what came to pass after Giuliana’s death.
My son still lives. Delivered even as the human devils in Fulcanelli’s service pillaged my lands, the boy was spirited away by Signorina Alessandra at the direction of my wife. A Catholic orphanage in Florence is all the home he knows.
I will write this night and request that Signorina Alessandra give up her dream of the convent and ins
tead fetch my son from Florence and accompany him here, to me, to remain in my employ as his governess.
But my despair is palpable. The boy has never had a real home, and this house is not as I envisioned it in my dreams. My “palace” now stands, and its rooms are filled with monsters. If only I had been able to return the monsters when they’d come without the risk of tearing down that barrier between our plane and the Otherworld forevermore. Or if I had found some way to close the breach when it appeared, lo these fifteen months ago! But that chance has been lost, if ever I had it. The breach proved too large for a magician of my meager talent to close, perhaps too large for anyone to close forever.
Instead, I was forced to use uncommon magicks to seal it, and yet I must remain eternally vigilant. I employed the same magick I used to pen Cerberus that first, terrible night. These magickal barriers have taken form as rooms within my large house, thus keeping this breach a secret. With every stone, every beam of my enormous home, I infused my magick into the seal.
But I must guard the seal for the rest of my life, for it is a fragile thing. My dream of a peaceful life as an ordinary man is over.
Inspired by the presence of Cerberus, I call myself the Gatekeeper.
And my little son, Henri, who comes to me now in innocence and joy, will one day inherit this terrible mantle.
Thus, I weep for him, for the son of Giuliana. For my son.
Dreadful, his legacy.
But it is his destiny. Fate has chosen the Regniers to guard the world from these evils.
Hell has found me once again.
* * * * *
The shimmering golden dome of the Massachusetts State House shone down from Beacon Hill in the blazing light of late morning. The Little Rental Car That Could circled Boston Common for the fourth time. In the passenger seat, Buffy glanced at Giles and noted the dark circles under his eyes. He hadn’t been out of the hospital long, and already he had made two cross-country airplane trips and a less-than-relaxing search of a maddeningly designed city.
To their right, the green lawns of the Common sprawled out for blocks, gently sloping down toward what appeared to be a very populous business district. But to the left . . .
“Hey, we just passed Cheers!” Xander called out. Nobody responded.
After a moment Xander sighed. “Well, I thought it was cool. Better than another convenience store.”
To the left, some of the narrowest streets Buffy had ever seen—little more than alleys, really—stretched up onto Beacon Hill proper. They were lined with beautiful old brownstones and other buildings that were even older. It reminded her of pictures she had seen of Paris.
Very much, now that she thought of it.
“It’s got to be up there,” she said, as Giles slowed the car for them to examine the street. “We’ve gone tap every one of these streets, and this one looks like it leads to the highest point up here.”
Behind them, horns began to blare.
“Giles, just turn already,” Cordelia huffed.
Giles turned.
The old buildings are probably all condos now, Buffy thought. The sidewalks were cracked, the street cobblestone in some places. Cars were parked on either side so that there was only room for one car to travel the road at a time. It must be a one-way, Buffy thought, though she’d seen no sign indicating that.
The stone-and-mortar houses were beautiful, and undoubtedly very expensive. She could see through oversized windows that many of them were filled with wood and impeccably decorated. But the way they all seemed attached or built right onto one another, it seemed unlikely that any of them were this Gatehouse they were searching for.
“This looks like a nice area,” Cordelia said, half to herself.
“A bit close, I would think,” Giles pointed out. “Certain parts of London are like this, people living almost on top of one another . . .”
“What’s wrong with that?” Xander muttered.
The narrow alley took a slight curve to the left, and Giles slowed the car slightly. They had nearly reached the apex of Beacon Hill, and soon they would start down the other side. There was a warren of alleys up here, but Buffy felt that they were near.
“I feel it,” she whispered.
“Hmm?” Giles glanced at her.
Buffy pointed through the windshield.
“Giles.”
“Oh, my God, Xander,” Cordelia breathed.
“Good Lord,” Giles echoed.
Giles stopped the car. Where Beacon Hill crested, the brownstones had given way to heavy black wrought-iron gates. They abutted the homes on either side, no inch of property unclaimed by someone on this valuable tract of real estate. But behind the gates, framed by thick privet hedges, rose a monstrous and yet somehow beautiful piece of architecture unlike anything Giles had ever seen.
It was a catastrophe, a sprawl of different styles—Queen Anne, Victorian, even some Medieval folly such as Strawberry Hill back in Britain. Chimneys towered over a section of mansard roof, and then a gabled portion, and a turret of exquisite beauty.
A row of windows across the top floor of the house looked like nothing so much as eyes, staring madly down at them.
Everything inside Giles begged him to turn the car around and get Buffy out of there. There was evil here, massive, unbridled evil. Whatever was inside that house was unlike anything the Slayer had been called on to face in the past.
There was death inside.
“I’ll go open the gates.” Buffy unbuckled her seat belt.
Giles pushed up his glasses. “No! That is, they might be locked.”
“And that’s going to stop Supergirl,” Xander said.
“I’ll sound the horn,” Giles said.
“I can take care of it,” Buffy insisted, clearly amused. She gave Giles a lazy half smile and opened her car door.
That was when they heard the screams. Inhuman shrieks came from beyond that black gate, and after a moment, Giles felt almost certain that, somehow, the agonized wailing was coming from the house itself.
Brother Lupo’s milky eye glowed blue as he glared at the runestone in Brother Dando’s shaking, outstretched palm. His fury was silent, but Brother Kukoff could sense the frustration emanating from his leader like an electrical aura.
He and the others stood in a circle on a sidewalk not far from the Slayer’s home, beneath a gibbous yellow moon. He was tired of this place, and tired of all the walking and searching. He wanted to go home. But if they left without the Slayer, home was the last place they should go.
Brother Dando gave the runestone a tentative tap. It did not pulse. It did not move.
“The Slayer has not returned,” Brother Dando said.
When Brother Lupo did not reply, Dando looked over at him. Lupo’s bald pate looked like a bleached skull in the moonlight. His eye glowed eerily amid the shadowed hollows of his face.
With a grunt, Lupo gave the unsuspecting Dando a savage backhand, his knuckles splitting the flesh over Dando’s cheekbone. The runestone clattered to the pavement. Breaking off a cry, Brother Dando stepped backward and instinctively crossed his hands in front of his face, gently touching his bloodied cheek.
The others swallowed hard. At one time or another, all of them had endured the painful results of Brother Lupo’s temper.
“‘There will be no rest for her from us,’” Brother Lupo said in a low, dangerous voice, mimicking Brother Dando. “‘There will be no haven for her from us. No safe place from us. No asylum from us.’ Your very words, Brother Dando. But we don’t even know where she is, do we?”
Brother Dando had gone chalk white. “Brother Lupo, it’s true, my incantation did not serve. But—”
“But what?” Brother Lupo advanced on him. “Are you saying that I am in some way at fault?”
“No, no, of course not,” Brother Dando said quickly.
At that moment, a sound like a thunderclap made them all jerk. They glanced furtively around. What would it be this time, another troll?
&nb
sp; Kukoff said quietly, “The Slayer has not returned, and for this reason the Hellmouth disgorges monsters of all sorts.”
“Springheel Jack,” Brother Isimo said in agreement. “Walking corpses. So many others.”
“That’s not why they come,” Brother Lupo said angrily. He stared at each in turn. They all flinched from his gaze as if he had struck them, even Kukoff, who was last, and knew there was no blow forthcoming.
Brother Lupo whirled on his heel and stomped down the street.
The others hesitated for a moment, then gaggled after him like a flock of geese.
“Why, then?” Brother Kukoff whispered to Brother Dando as they hurried to catch up. “Why do so many creatures appear? Is it not because she is gone and she cannot protect this place?”
Nursing his jaw, Brother Dando placed the runestone in a small red satin pouch and put it in the pocket of his navy coat. “Il Maestro has many plans,” he said. “He does not share them with all of us. Our task is to capture the Slayer.”
Brother Kukoff was not comforted. “But we cannot control all these monsters. Not even Brother Lupo or Brother Isimo. And if we cannot protect ourselves, they will come after us just as they come after the people of this town.”
He shivered, thinking of Springheel Jack. “We ourselves are in grave danger.”
Dando set his face. “Better to face a horde of monsters and demons than to return to the Master empty-handed.”
“Quickly now!” Brother Lupo called. He made a fist and swiped at the air. Kukoff felt a slap on the back of his head as surely as if Brother Lupo had stood directly behind him and hit him. He quickened his pace.
“The Slayer must return,” Kukoff said to Brother Dando.
Brother Dando looked miserable and very, very worried. “The Slayer must return,” he concurred.
“With love’s light wings did I o’erperch these walls,” Springheel Jack whispered as he vaulted the gate in front of the Chase residence. Then he flew directly onto the roof and landed with a thud. He didn’t care who heard or saw him. All he wanted was the girl who lived here. “Cordelia,” he whispered, and tasted her name on his lips. Though she was not here now, he didn’t mind waiting for her.
The Gatekeeper Trilogy, Book One - OUT of the MADHOUSE Page 16