Sons of Entropy

by Christopher Golden

  Buffy turned around to look at him just in time to see him grin.

  “This is amusing why?” she demanded angrily.

  He flashed her a guilty look, like a little boy trying to charm his way out of trouble. When she didn’t soften, he shrugged and said, “I believe this is simply proof that all systems tend towards entropy.”

  Buffy stared at him.

  “Disorder is the natural way of things,” he added.

  “Tell that to my mom next time she wants me to clean my room,” Buffy told him. “And see how long you live.”

  Ethan brightened. “Oh, I do so love the sparring bits. Let’s see, how shall I riposte?”

  “You’ll cast another spell, is what you’ll do,” Giles said. He looked at Buffy. “I’m afraid he’s right. Order’s breaking down. We’re going to have to work fast. We can’t tolerate any added distractions. Belphegor must be destroyed, but we’re going to have a hell of a time doing that if we have to fight various and sundry escapees from the Otherworld and, frankly, Hell itself.”

  “Yeah, that would be a major drag,” Buffy drawled.

  Giles gave her a Giles look. “What I mean is, they would simply serve as a distraction from our main purpose.”

  “What Ripper’s trying to say,” Ethan drawled, “is that it would be a bit awkward for you to be dismembered by, say, a family of Rumanian verdulak rather than enjoying the sublime opportunity of fighting the big cheese himself.”

  Buffy shook her head. “Wake me up when you English people start speaking English.”

  Giles said, “What he meant was—”

  “Yeah, okay, thanks.” Over her shoulder, she said to Ethan, “Okay, I give. What are verdulak?”

  Ethan tsk-tsked. “Really, Miss Thing. They’re a type of vampire.”

  “I knew that,” she said.

  She looked out the window at the Milky Way-style barrage of ball lightning arcing across the sky. The heavy rain, the pieces of street shooting up like titanic plates or teutonic plates or whatever that whole continental thing was about. If the world got through this, the authorities in Sunnydale would have a heck of a time explaining all this away. But the funny thing was, they would manage it. And everyone would believe them.

  Pleasantville. Love it or leave it.

  Just then the hedges in front of the school assumed animal shapes—mostly lions and tigers, some bears—and began to move menacingly toward the road.

  “The cosmos has been reading old Stephen King novels,” Buffy said.

  “Good Lord.” Giles nearly lost control of the car. Nothing new there.

  “Please hurry,” Ethan said. “Obviously, my spell has been completely and totally overruled, and someone’s adding new ingredients. Moving hedgerows are not a sign of disorder. Chaotic though they may be.” He sounded both pleased and insulted. Kind of like Cordelia whenever Xander spoke to her.

  Just then, something shot out of the street directly in front of them and aimed straight for the windshield. It was an enormous reptilian creature with flappy, leathery wings tipped with claws.

  Buffy grabbed the steering wheel from Giles and headed straight for the curb. The creature reared its head in frustration and trotted after them, trumpeting in a high, shrill voice.

  “You know what I’m thinking?” Ethan said loudly.

  “That this would make a great ride at Universal Studios?” Buffy replied. She said to Giles, “Okay, drive some more,” and turned around.

  “Please, Ethan, tell me what you’re thinking. Especially if it involves stopping the insanity.”

  “I’m thinking I do know how to stop it.” He smiled broadly. “But I have to confirm a few things. With the books.”

  “Step on it, Giles,” Buffy said.

  * * *

  And the night Giacomo Fulcanelli killed Hadrius, his father?

  It was a winter’s night, cold and bleak, the stars merciless in a punctured sky.

  Of late, Hadrius had grown somewhat forgetful. Giacomo was taken aback by the deterioration in the man. Rather than seize the advantage and thrust a dagger through his heart, he waited to see what was going on with the old devil. It could be a trick. Hadrius was forever testing him . . . and punishing him when he disappointed.

  But tonight, as Giacomo tossed on his pallet and listened to the man murmuring spells to himself down the hall, the wind whistled plans to him, urging him to patricide. The killing of one’s father.

  The murder, if you will, of part of oneself.

  Giacomo listened.

  He rose from his bed barehanded and tiptoed through the drafty keep.

  Years before, the wise woman, whose daughter Hadrius had so viciously butchered, had killed herself on a night just like this. Now it seemed to Giacomo that her ghost glided alongside him, begging him for vengeance.

  But Giacomo had learned his lessons well. He did not hate Hadrius. Nowhere inside his bones lived the wish to pay Hadrius for his cruelty. He observed only that it was necessary to kill his father if he had any hope of inheriting his role as the most fearsome conjurer of the black arts in this plane. Simple ambition, a clear direction, a need—those were the things that sped him along the hall. And against such clarity of thought—without accompanying emotion—Hadrius had no defense.

  Giacomo simply came up behind him, put his hands around the old man’s neck, and squeezed the life out of him.

  His father put up surprisingly little struggle, and when his head plunged into the boiling cauldron of noxious liquid, no dark shadow rose out of him, as Giacomo had expected to see. The man simply died.

  Giacomo was almost disappointed.

  It was not until centuries later that he remembered how to hate again. And that was when Richard Regnier threatened his position at the court of Francis I, in the sixteenth century at Fontainebleau.

  * * *

  But that was another story. Now, as the day began, he found himself at the entrance to what was so charmingly called a residential hotel—a storage facility for the indigent.

  Never mind the niceties; he waved his hand at the desk clerk, who handed him a key. Then he stumbled inside, into a barren room with a bed and a small table. He lay on the bed, closed his eyes, and willed himself to be made whole.

  The world awaited.

  It cried.

  It begged.

  Despite his pain, he smiled.

  Chapter 16

  As GILES PRESSED THE GAS pedal to the floor—no guarantee there that the car would actually go any faster—the section of road that had disgorged the flying reptile blew up in a hail of blacktop and concrete so hot that it was molten. Gobs of it pelted the hood of the car, burning holes right through the metal. So far, the engine still worked.

  “Giles!” Buffy shouted, “Reverse. Reverse!”

  “You know my car hates reverse,” he retorted, but made the gearshift scream anyway.

  They began to back up.

  “Um,” Ethan said, “also not a good idea.”

  Buffy turned to look just as Micaela let out a scream.

  The dead were on the march.

  Rotting corpses, some in their moldy Sunday best, staggered mindlessly toward the Gilesmobile. Eyes missing, still they stared. Their jaws clacked together like some kind of demonic windup toys. Among them, ex-folks in a worse state of decay—cleaned skeletons missing limbs or skulls—dragged themselves along.

  Surrounding the zombie army, hideous, bruise-colored demons with scarlet wraparound eyes and enormous, fang-infested mouths rode black, fire-breathing horses that glided over the road. Whips snapped over their heads and lashed at the cadavers that lurched and staggered.

  “Let’s go sideways,” Ethan suggested, and Buffy was sure he was about to whip up a nifty spell to do just that when something tall and gelatinous shot up from the ground to their right. Like a large beach ball, it rolled slowly toward them. It glowed a sickly green, and where it touched the road, the blacktop melted.

  On the other side of the car, a stream of Othe
rworld creatures appeared on the horizon and rushed the car in a frenzied panic. Trolls, unicorns, sprites, a man in Victorian clothes, and Buffy’s old friends, the panther guys, swarmed from what had to be an enormous breach just out of sight. The first rank slammed into the side of the car as if they didn’t understand that it was solid. The car was rocked wildly from side to side, everyone inside thrown around like dolls.

  As Ethan shouted in fear and Micaela started a binding spell, someone—or something—managed to yank the left-hand passenger door open. As Buffy tried to scramble over the seats, an enormous figure made of green leaves and green vines pulled Ethan out of the car.

  Then he disappeared into the mob.

  “No,” Buffy cried, not so much because she cared about the sorcerer, but because he was the only one among them who had the slightest idea how to kill Belphegor. “Give him back, you guys!”

  Okay, time for a Slayer assessment of the sitch: Ethan was nowhere to be seen, and the creatures kept coming. On the other side, the gelatinous thingie lumbered toward them. Hell itself looked to be opening up in front of the car, and the dead were massing at the rear.

  Pushed by the throng, a green ghoul dove in after Micaela, but between her spell and the stake in Buffy’s hand, at least Micaela managed to stay inside the car. But for how long?

  “Look,” Giles said, pointing. “That’s the cause of their panic.”

  In the distance, behind the hundreds of Otherworld inhabitants, a row of the same bruise-colored demons that were herding the dead had fanned out on horseback and were forcing the creatures forward. Though many of the Otherworld beings were running away from them out of animal instinct, others clearly knew what the score was: demons everything, and everybody else, goose eggs.

  Buffy said, “I’ve gotta get Ethan.”

  “No,” Micaela blurted, reaching out for her. “They’ll kill you.”

  Giles pushed up his glasses and dodged another flying lizard-thing as it rammed the windshield. Its left wing broke the glass at the same time that it spit some kind of acid at Giles, who expertly dodged it. The spray shot through the car and took out half the back window.

  “She has a point,” Giles said. “About the killing bit.”

  As he spoke, the gelatinous creature collided with the passenger’s side of the car, and the Gilesmobile began to melt.

  Then the first column of the army of the mortally challenged made contact with the rear bumper and began to push it toward the fiery chasm that yawned directly ahead of them.

  At the same moment, the driver’s door was ripped from its hinges, and something very tall, dark green and brown and covered with scales and gills and spikes wrapped around Giles’s head and arm.

  “Giles!” Buffy shouted, her hands glomming on to his other arm. But the pain from the spikes made her jerk back in surprise; before she could realize what was happening, much less do anything about it, Giles was whisked out of the car.

  She flew after him. Her heart was pounding as she punch-kicked a troll that leaped into her path, then rammed her fist into the face of a small, fleshy creature that seemed to be all eyes. With that one, she wasn’t sure where it came from—Hell or the Other-world—and come to think about it, the line between demon and Otherworldly monster was sort of disappearing for her.

  On the other hand, some of the monsters from the Otherworld looked downright terrified of the demons. So, okay, no picnic for the boys from limbo, either.

  “Out of my way!” she bellowed at the dozens of things that blocked her path. “Slayer coming through! Giles. Giles!”

  Part of her realized that she was doing it again: she was allowing herself to be distracted from what was necessary by trying to save someone she loved. Her first priority had to be Ethan. The world was counting on her to stop Belphegor. Millions—billions of lives—depended on her, and yet, here she was, willing to throw it away for one man.

  But he wasn’t just a man.

  He was Giles.

  And it didn’t matter. She was out of the car now, and she was committed. The right side of the Giles-mobile was little more than a pile of oozy spare parts and the hair-gel monster was still rolling; Buffy had no idea if Micaela had survived. Sad to say—Giles’s new flame or not—the daughter of Il Maestro was low on her list of priorities. She knew Ethan should be at the top of it, but even as she threw a fierce roundhouse kick into the face of a tree-woman, still she searched for her Watcher.

  The tree-woman staggered backward, but each time Buffy succeeded in pushing back one attacker, a dozen more took its place. She knew it was only a matter of time.

  She was going to die, and the world was going to end.

  “I’m sorry,” she breathed, thinking of Willow, Oz, and Xander in Boston. Her mother, at Angel’s house. Giles.

  And, as always, Angel.

  Angel, who had been to Hell and back, and might return there this very day.

  “So very sorry . . .”

  Buffy’s head whipped up. The words were hers, but the voice was not.

  She couldn’t help the intake of breath, the moment of sheer panic that froze her to the burning ground. The demons and monsters had all drawn back, terrified of what was coming.

  Rising from the cavern that had once been the road, covered with steam and blood, Belphegor towered over her.

  “Sssslayer,” it greeted her. Its tentacles slithered toward her. Its seven mouths opened and something streamed out, something thick and black and reeking. She covered her mouth to keep herself from throwing up.

  “At last.”

  “Yeah, it’s about time,” she said, choking back her intense desire to retch. “Time for you to do that whole ‘whence you came’ bit. Time for me to abandon my ladylike pretensions and kick your demon ass!”

  “How I have longed for this. So much so that I’m almost sorry it will be over soon.”

  “That’s what they all say.” She flashed a sharp, brittle smile as she hunkered down into position for battle. She had no weapons. No backup. But hope, she had plenty of.

  “And you know what?” she flung at it. “They’re still longing. ’Cause with me, see, it’s never over. That’s my destiny, right? My responsibility.”

  “To the last, a hero.”

  “Let’s cut the chitchat, all right? It’s really cheapening the moment.” She doubled her fists and took a deep breath.

  If this was it—if she was going to die—she wanted to do as much damage as possible before she went down.

  “If it was in me to spare you, I would,” Belphegor told her.

  Buffy lifted her chin. “What a demon. You’re all heart.”

  “Not at all,” Belphegor responded.

  “I have no heart.”

  * * *

  Angel saw the beams of sunlight across the wall of the Gatekeeper’s parlor and said, “I need to go deeper into the house.”

  He was tired, and the dawn was making him sluggish. He wished that weren’t so; he agreed with Jacques that Il Maestro would probably make an unscheduled reappearance, and Angel wanted to be in fighting trim when he did. But at the moment, he needed to rest. He figured he would be more useful if he acknowledged that fact and took care of himself, but it still frustrated him that it was necessary.

  “Go,” Jacques said with a wave of his hand, as if he were giving Angel his permission.

  “If you run into Oz,” Willow began, and then she brightened. “Hey, morning,” she said eagerly. “No more werewolf.”

  Jacques inclined his head. “You’re right. I can release him.”

  He closed his eyes and murmured to himself, gesturing briefly with his fingers. Then he smiled and looked at Willow.

  “He will be joining us in a few minutes.”

  “Oz?” Willow called out. She looked at the Gatekeeper. “Which way?”

  “Angel will escort you.” Jacques looked at Angel. “Down the hall and to the right.”

  “Thank you!” Willow sang out, racing out of the room.

 
; Angel flashed a crooked smile at the young Gatekeeper.

  “Love,” he drawled.

  The Gatekeeper looked hard at Angel. “Indeed,” he replied, as though a boy of his age could even begin to understand all the meanings encompassed by that one word.

  Jacques turned away, and Angel walked out of the room. Angel followed his directions and came across Willow, who was wrapped in Oz’s arms and planting little happy kisses all over his face. Oz, who was wearing a bathrobe of sorts, wore an expression of pure delight as he returned Willow’s kisses.

  Not for the first time, Angel wondered how Buffy was. The others didn’t talk about it, either, but he knew they were all worried sick for her. And not just because she was the Slayer; no, not because if she fell, the world would fall. It was because they loved her.

  Because he loved her . . .

  A door to a dark, quiet room hung open. By the scent of werewolf, Angel realized this was where Willow had bound Oz. He had been safe in here. Angel would be safe, too.

  He shut the door and crossed into the dark room. Against the wall, he found a soft mattress on the floor, which Oz had not touched. Gratefully, Angel sank down and closed his eyes.

  As he drowsed, he saw in his mind’s eye a shadow drift across the wall. Which didn’t make sense; the room was too dark. Yet the silhouette of a woman wafted through the blackness in slow motion like a cloud . . .

  Or like a dream.

  And though Angel knew this dream was a gift the Gatekeeper was giving him, it seemed so real that in the dream, he held his arms open to Buffy, and she wrapped herself around him. Her heart pounded against his chest; her breath was warm on his neck. He would never forget what Buffy smelled like, a sweet, spicy fragrance that was sometimes a hint of lavender and sometimes a whisper of vanilla. He would always remember how slender she was, yet how powerful.

  Her kisses . . .

  Angel drifted in sleep, and smiled, and sighed.

  Buffy.

  If the gods heard the prayers of vampires, they would keep her safe.

  * * *

  It was a long shot.

  At the last, Fulcanelli sent himself deep into the Pit, and stood now before another demon, one that was the peer of Belphegor. It was red, and very evil; it wore horns and was known to men as the Devil. But it was more than a simple symbol, a figurehead. It was one of the most powerful demons in Hell.