Then, as Oz was surrounded by a brilliant light, Willow knew perhaps a fraction of the sorrow Buffy must have felt when she had sent Angel to Hell. Because Oz turned and roared at her just as he disappeared, and she swore he understood what she had done.
Where Oz stood, the light dimmed, and then it was just the four of them.
Willow exhaled. She was cold; she stank; and all she wanted to do was take a hot shower, climb into a nice, warm bed, and sleep for the rest of her life.
After they saved Oz.
Oh, yeah, and the world.
At the moment, a pretty long list.
Xander and Angel both reached her at the same time. Each one took a hand and gently helped her out of the fountain. Her ankle hurt worse than before, and she tried to hide it as she stepped forward. But it gave way and she found herself pressed against Xander’s chest.
“Will, you did the right thing. Jacques will free him as soon as he can,” Xander murmured.
Willow let herself collapse against him for a few moments. They stood in the garden as Willow caught her breath. Then she nodded once, hard, and started to move. But her ankle was still tender, and she had to lean on them for support.
“I’m sorry I’m so stinky,” she said.
“You’re not really,” Xander replied, as he carried her across the courtyard.
“Are you kidding?” Cordelia asked, then glared at Xander. “What?”
Xander glared back. “You know what.”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, the tact thing.” She cleared her throat and said to Willow, “Well, let’s see, you don’t smell as bad as a landfill.” She narrowed her eyes at Xander. “Okay? Effort made. And it doesn’t work for me. I just can’t do it.”
Willow almost smiled, but she was too worried about Oz to manage it. Cordelia looked at her hard, then caught up to them and touched Willow’s shoulder.
“But I can say this, Willow. You did the right thing.”
Willow sighed. Great. Cordelia thought she’d done the right thing. Somehow that didn’t make her feel much better.
* * *
They trooped into the house. In the same lavish room where they had first talked to Jean-Marc Regnier, there was the little kid who was now Gatekeeper, his back turned to them. Cordelia had never been so happy to see anyone in her life—even Xander, including when she thought he had died on the ghost roads—okay, maybe not quite that much—but she rushed ahead of the others to tell him at the very least that she was glad he hadn’t been annihilated.
“Hey, Gate-boy!” she began, excitedly.
He turned around. His eyes were swollen from crying. Bitter, heavy tears streamed down his young face.
Cordelia said, “Oh,” and took a step back.
“Forgive me,” the boy murmured, wiping his cheeks.
“Hey, Jacques, you okay?” Xander asked.
“What’s wrong?” Willow added, in that gentle way she had that usually made Buffy spill whatever it was that was eating her guts that day. Which was usually Angel or some other variation of the boy-girl scene.
“It’s just that . . .” Jacques waved his hand. “This is my life from now on. Though I can no longer sense him, I’m certain Fulcanelli shall return, if not today or tomorrow, then in a year or a century. I saw the ghost of my father for but a moment, and now he is gone. As is the spirit of my grandmother, who has been released.”
He bowed his head.
“In all the world, I am quite alone.”
“Hey, no,” Cordelia said, trying to sound cheery. “You’ve got us. And, well, it’s true that if the world doesn’t end, we’ll have to go back to Sunnydale to finish senior year, but we can always come back for a visit.” She smiled brightly. “I can take you shopping and everything. Get you some great, ah, Gatekeeper fashions.”
He actually smiled, and Cordelia felt a flash of triumph. Let ’em keep their tact. She could win friends and influence people with the truth just fine, thank you.
“You’re an exquisite lady,” he said, and that flustered her a little. Most eleven-year-olds she knew didn’t talk like that. Okay, none. She wondered if maybe she was supposed to curtsy or something, but she just winked at him.
“You’re not so bad, either. Maybe I’ll wait for you to grow up,” she drawled.
“Oh, I won’t marry for at least a hundred years,” he replied. “It’s something in our life pattern, the way the Regniers exist. I don’t understand it, but I know that’s how it will be.”
Cordelia blinked. “Wow. I could be dead by then.” A chill ran down her spine. So not what she wanted to think about.
Willow said quickly, “Excuse me, but I sort of had to bind my boyfriend into the Gatehouse—”
“And you want him unbound,” Jacques finished for her. He closed his eyes. “He still wears wolf fur. It would be dangerous for him and for you.”
“Then tell me he’s all right.” Willow’s big brown eyes were wide and hopeful. “Or make him all right.”
Jacques touched his temples. “I see him clearly. He’s in a room by himself. He doesn’t like it, but there’s no way he can come to harm.
“You did well, spellcaster.”
“Oh, well, I . . .” Willow shrugged.
Cordelia was a little miffed. True, Willow had pretty much saved their butts, but was that any reason for her to insist on being the center of attention?
“And I would like a heart, and Angel here wants to get back to Kansas,” Xander cut in, stepping forward. “But seriously, Jacques, what should we do now, go to Disney World?”
The Gatekeeper looked at Xander, and suddenly Xander extended his arm. Jacques clasped his small hand around Xander’s wrist, and Xander did the same. It was like they were in the same club. Which Cordelia supposed they were, or had been. The Gatekeeper Club.
“Thank you,” Xander said.
“No, it is I who thank you,” Jacques replied.
“Okay, whatever.” Cordelia waved her hands. “You guys can do this male-bonding-Gatekeeper thing some other time. Because I’m betting there’s something we have to do right now or we’ll all die or explode, am I right?”
Jacques walked a ways apart from them. “I need some time alone to become accustomed to my situation. And to put my house in order.” He shrugged. “So to speak.”
The others chuckled, but Cordelia didn’t get what was funny. Nothing about this was funny.
In fact, it was really sad.
* * *
Outside the Gatehouse, just beyond the edges of the magickal glamour that hid the house from any passersby, Fulcanelli lay wrapped in a glamour of his own. He wasn’t certain if he had successfully hidden his presence from the young Gatekeeper. But since the child hadn’t renewed his attack, he guessed that for the time being he was safe.
The ancient sorcerer closed his eyes and willed fresh human skin to grow over his leathery, scarred face. In the new world of his making, such niceties would be unnecessary. That world, however, had yet to be born, thanks to the brat and his supporters. That damned Slayer.
* * *
“You must not hate your enemies,” Hadrius had said one night, after he had beaten Giacomo senseless. The tall, armored man knelt over Giacomo’s pallet by the fire and examined the wounds. “It is a luxury you must deny yourself. Else you’ll strike when it will do you no good.”
Giacomo made himself look steadily into the eyes of his cruel master even as his fingers wrapped around the dagger he clutched beneath his thin, coarse blanket. He must not give himself away. If Hadrius suspected anything, he would surely put Giacomo to death.
Slowly.
“I hate no one,” Giacomo said, but his voice shook.
Hadrius laughed. Then, without taking his gaze from Giacomo’s face, he tore the blanket back, exposing the dagger.
Giacomo blanched but did not cry out.
“Well done,” Hadrius said approvingly. “The time approaches when I shall truly fear you. But that time is not tonight, boy.”
&nbs
p; Still smiling, he pulled back his fist and slammed it into Giacomo’s face.
Giacomo’s head snapped backward and he collapsed on the pallet. In a trice, the dagger was at his own neck, the point piercing the skin. As he gasped with pain, Hadrius ran it down the length of his throat, etching a thin line that bobbled over his Adam’s apple, then centered in the hollow between his collar bones.
“There are so many ways to torture one’s victims,” Hadrius said, his voice almost wistful. “I shall endeavor to show them all to you, before you succeed in assassinating me.”
Confused, Giacomo swallowed hard, and the sharp point pushed more deeply into his skin. He heard the tear of flesh, and the roar of fear that threatened to overwhelm all his senses as he shut his eyes.
“Coward,” Hadrius said with disdain.
The point went in still further. Giacomo’s forehead beaded with sweat and he gritted his teeth together.
“Fool,” Hadrius jeered, and pushed again.
“Stop!” Giacomo cried, grabbing at the dagger. He was surprised when Hadrius yielded it to him.
“Never show your belly, or men will kick you like a dog,” the man said, rising from the pallet. “Buona notte, mio filio.”
My son. So it was true.
Giacomo shook. He bit his lips so hard they bled. Tears streamed down his cheeks. As he wiped them away, something deep inside him, which may at one time have been his heart, grew hard and cold and proud. The son of Hadrius would be stronger than Hadrius ever dreamed of being. He would be crueler and more heartless.
It was the only way to win his father’s respect.
And the only way to survive.
* * *
Later that same night, Giacomo crept through the keep, feet muffled in fur wraps, in search of the castle wise woman. His wounds were weeping and his forehead was blazing, though each icy breath created a mist. He was sick deep down into his soul; he needed a poultice or he would die a humiliatingly natural death.
Staggering, he nearly knocked over a full coat of armor standing beside an arched wooden doorway, which was always locked shut Tonight, however, it was ajar, and moans issued from it.
Giacomo halted, listening. Who lay on the rack? Whose flesh sizzled beneath a heated blade? He remembered Hadrius’ spoken desire to present to him all forms of torture.
Stealthily, with a repellent fascination, he tiptoed to the crack of light issuing from the opened door and peered with one eye inside.
He was stunned by what he saw: the beautiful daughter of the wise woman, who could not be more than fifteen, lay locked in rapturous delight with Hadrius. And the fearsome lord of the keep, the dread, dark shadow whom all feared, appeared to be nothing more than a naked middle-aged man, pleasuring himself with a slip of a maid.
Now would be the time to do it, to strike him down and end the torment and the humiliation.
“Cara, bella cara,” Hadrius murmured to the girl. “Ti amo, bella.”
He stroked her hair and her face with gentle fingers; she rippled with pleasure and cried out for more.
Then Hadrius turned toward the doorway and spread wide his mouth. His teeth flashed in the light. It was more than a grin, it was a leer. It was the mouth of a beast.
As Giacomo watched in shock, he sank his teeth into the chest of the girl. She screamed and struggled. He grabbed her wrists in one hand and burrowed down more deeply.
His head arched back. Something ripped from her chest, red and beating.
Giacomo turned and vomited. He ran.
* * *
He thought he would never sleep again, but dawn had begun to creep across the stone floor when Hadrius kicked at the pallet. Giacomo bolted awake, his eyes huge, and raised the dagger menacingly.
“Good.” His hands full with a brass platter, Hadrius smiled approvingly. Then he blinked at the dagger and it grew white-hot. As Giacomo cried out and dropped it, it sludged across the foot of his pallet, a puddle of molten metal.
“Now. Let us break the fast together,” the sorcerer said with a smile.
He sat on Giacomo’s pallet and showed him what was on the platter: the main course was the size and shape of a human heart, surrounded by smaller ones. Giacomo felt his bile rise, but this time he forced his stomach not to revolt.
“Better,” Hadrius said. “Now.” From his sleeve he withdrew a golden fork, as it was the custom of the day to carry one’s own cutlery on one’s person.
He handed the fork to Giacomo.
“If you do not eat, I will kill you,” he said. “If you do not enjoy, I will beat you senseless.”
“Father,” Giacomo blurted. It was the first time he had given Hadrius that title.
Hadrius’ face hardened. “Never think to trade on my affections. I have none. I do not love you and I never shall. The best you can hope for from me is my pride in you. And even in that, I shall be most sparing.”
Giacomo looked down at the heart. There were pieces missing from it.
But at least the girl had had one.
He was certain, from this moment on, that if he touched the left side of his chest, there would be no pulse.
Forcing himself to calmness, he took the fork from his father and stabbed the heart. Hadrius produced a jeweled stiletto, and Giacomo accepted that as well.
He cut a bite. Put it between his lips.
“It’s rather like venison, is it not? Gamey. The flesh of nobles is more refined,” Hadrius told him easily, stretching. “Dawn is nearly here. What a day it will be, boy. We’ll have to do something glorious today.”
Giacomo chewed. For an instant he wasn’t certain if he would be able to swallow, but then he remembered that he had no heart.
The morsel went down with surprising ease.
Hadrius sat and watched while Giacomo ate the entire thing. When Giacomo had consumed the last bite, he realized he was extremely full. Uncomfortably so. A human heart made for a prodigious meal.
The pleased look on his father’s face made the sinful food lie heavy on his stomach. Giacomo knew the man was intent upon making him into a monster, knew he was many steps closer this morning.
“So.” Hadrius rubbed his hands together and took the platter back. Also the fork, with which he speared one of the tinier hearts and popped it into his mouth. He chewed with relish. “Dress, and we’ll be off on a fine adventure.”
Giacomo inclined his head, quite aware of the jeweled stiletto in his hand.
Hadrius began to leave the chill room. Then he snapped his fingers and whirled on his heel.
“Your mother,” he said, as if suddenly recalling something. “You thought your so-called father and his paramour betrayed her.” He cocked his head and stabbed another small heart. “But now you know better, don’t you.”
He popped the heart into his mouth.
Giacomo stared at him. Nothing registered. Everything inside him, every nerve, every thought, went numb.
“Perhaps you didn’t hear me. I was the one who sent the soldiers for your mother. I as much as lit the fire at the hem of that fine nightdress.”
Still Giacomo gaped. Unbidden, the memory of his mother burning and writhing filled his brain and shot down his spine. Rage ignited within him. It roared as the flames. It shot through him, used him, moved him.
Shrieking, he flew at Hadrius, the stiletto aimed straight for the bastard’s belly.
By an unseen hand, he was thrown the length of the room. He slammed hard against the wall and crashed to the floor. His withered arm burst into flame. He threw back his head and screamed in agony.
“Thus she died. Feeling that. Feeling it all over her body. And I did that to her.”
Giacomo kept screaming. Then he forced himself to shriek, “Why?”
At once the flames were doused, but the pain throbbed up and down his blackened limb. Hadrius stared at him, chewing thoughtfully.
“Why?” Giacomo asked again, assuming the obvious: that Hadrius had tired of her, or that she had betrayed him in some way.
>
“In hopes that I might have this chat with you one day,” Hadrius replied simply. “Only for that, Giacomo. Only as a lesson for you. For the sake of your destiny, of what you must become. Think of that. She meant that little to me.”
Giacomo drew back his lips. Hatred filled every fiber of his being. As soon as he could move . . .
“Uh-uh-uh.” Hadrius wagged his finger at him. “Have you learned nothing? Never hate your enemies. Never.”
His arm burst into flame again.
Hadrius turned back on his heel and left.
Giacomo’s screams echoed beyond the castle walls and into the forest, where the few peasants who dared to enter there crossed themselves and whispered to both the Virgin and the old gods to save them.
They were not saved.
And neither was Giacomo.
* * *
And now, dressed in the guise of a modern-day peasant—a homeless man he was called in these times—Fulcanelli gathered up the scars and wrinkles that once again lined his face and staggered down the street. As the dawn rose, he stumbled toward Boston, knowing that to fight another day, he must rest and recuperate. The young Gatekeeper had let him go, foolishly allowed him to survive. It was a mistake the boy would live to regret only for a short while.
With a smile, he lurched forward, laughing silently to himself when one of Boston’s denizens muttered at him, “Get a job.”
There and then, he created within the man an embolism. As the man clutched his chest and groaned, Fulcanelli laughed silently to himself.
He was fully employed, thank you so for your concern.
Busily ending the world, so that such idiots as the freshly dead man would serve a useful purpose.
* * *
As the Gilesmobile wobbled on the broken street toward the library, the sky cracked open and fire rained down. Then a horde of misshapen figures covered with hair lumbered in front of the car, not even noticing when Giles stepped too late on the brake and rammed one of them. It fell over, rolled, got to its feet, and lumbered on.
“Okay, Ethan,” Buffy said. “Enough with Cousin It, It, and their other brother Darryl. What’s going on?”
“I don’t understand,” Ethan muttered. “The sphere of order appears to be collapsing.”
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