The Fatal One stroked its sore-encrusted face and laughed heartily.
“So, you have lost control of my brother, and you wish to go against him?” it asked. “And you wish to squander my armies to do it?”
“Exactly,” Il Maestro said boldy.
“And you propose to do this how?”
Fulcanelli realized he had been shortsighted to depend on mortal followers. True, some of the Sons of Entropy had been first-rate sorcerers, but there was nothing like minions of Hell to really get the job done.
“First I’ll kill the Gatekeeper,” he assured his new sponsor. “Then I’ll overrun the ghost roads and take Belphegor down in Sunnydale, where he has gone to kill the Slayer.”
“Ah, yes, the Slayer.” The demon leaned forward from his throne of bones and skins and flexed its jagged fingernails as it folded its hands. “Any chance you will deliver her to me?”
Fulcanelli hesitated. “Is that your price?”
The demon smiled evilly. “I am not that foolish. The power of a Slayer is a temptation indeed, but I have lived this long without it. Still, if you gave her to me, I would look upon you most kindly. In this world, and the next, and the next.”
It smiled broadly at Fulcanelli. “I don’t suppose it would surprise you to know that there are worse places than Hell, and that I have friends who rule them. Friends who could prove very helpful to you.”
“Prove it,” Fulcanelli said.
Blinking, the demon threw back its head and burst into laughter. “Your tone with my brother was very different. With me, you speak as an equal.”
Though he was fearful, Fulcanelli had learned over the centuries to hide his feelings very well. A legacy from his father. Now he managed a careless shrug. He had learned an important lesson in his dealings with Belphegor: not to show quite so much deference. The most powerful demons took and took, and they did not stand on ceremony; they did not give you respect unless you demanded it.
“I have given up the charade of courtesy,” Fulcanelli said. “My previous ally, Belphe—”
The demon raised his hand. “Please, do not speak his name. You know it is a source of power.”
The sorcerer shrugged. In time, he would learn this demon’s name as well.
“As you wish,” he said.
“That’s better.”
The demon clapped his hands. “I will join with you, mortal man. I will give you warriors to battle the Gatekeeper. But if you waste them . . .” He imitated Fulcanelli’s shrug. “I, too, will give up the charade of courtesy.”
For one second, Fulcanelli wavered. One only. Then he said, “It is always good to know where one stands. We have a bargain, then.”
“Indeed,” the demon answered.
* * *
Cordelia wished they had something good to read at the Gatehouse. A guy who was going to live hundreds of years in one place, you’d think he’d subscribe to a few magazines—at the very least, Entertainment Weekly or TV Guide. Or maybe Better Sorcerers and Gardens.
She smiled at her own joke—hey, Buffy and the others weren’t the only ones with a sense of humor; hers just got overlooked because they kept focusing on the tact thing—and rearranged herself on the burgundy velvet loveseat. Everyone was dozing except Jacques, who kept vigil at the window. He was certain that Il Maestro would be back, and with reinforcements.
Cordelia had a feeling he was right. When one hung with the Slayer and her crowd long enough, lots of weird bad stuff seemed more normal than no bad stuff at all.
And sure enough, just as she was about to fall asleep dreaming that Jacques had pay-per-view, he tensed at the window and murmured, “I call upon all gods, ancient and newborn. I summon my guardian spirits. Across the cosmos, I alert my forefathers.”
“Um, so . . .” Cordelia began, then uneasily got up from the loveseat and walked over to Jacques. “What. . . ?”
She looked out the window.
That was when she lost it, completely and totally.
Cordelia had wigged many times in the past three years. When she and Buffy had almost been sacrificed to the reptile god, Machida, of that snooty fraternity, she had wigged. When she thought Springheel Jack was going to toast both her and Xander, she had wigged. In fact, the first time she had found out Buffy was the Slayer, she had wigged.
But now, as she stared down at the lawn of the Gatehouse, she felt every single part of her body go numb. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she sank to the floor, only slightly aware that she narrowly avoided cracking her head on the leg of Jacques’s overstuffed chair.
Then she went down to a place where it was dark and there was nothing to think about, and she decided to stay there for a while.
* * *
Demons straight from Hell were massing on the Gatehouse. A slathering, bestial band of unspeakably hideous and malformed creatures rushed the wrought-iron gates as Jacques attempted to magickally repel them. Jacques sent forth every ounce of his energy, blood vessels bursting from the strain. Sweat poured down his face; he stank with fear and concentration.
He did not know if these were Belphegor’s minions, or those of some other demon.
He did know that it was possible they were too strong for him.
“Father,” he whispered, feeling horribly alone and inadequate. He closed his eyes and, without words, called for help once more.
None came.
At that moment, the Gatehouse was assaulted by every form of magick ever known to Jacques: crackling tendrils of energy, the gale force of a hurricane and the shock wave of an earthquake. As he fought the attack, he struggled to keep the Gatehouse intact.
As before, he could only succeed at one task.
The Gatehouse flickered in and out of existence. He heard Fulcanelli’s voice inside his head, accompanied by the laughter of the lost and the damned: “So it ends, boy. I shall make you nothing more than a curiosity of the Otherworld, before I destroy you. And I shall destroy you.”
“Father,” Jacques called again, doubling his fists.
The Gatehouse flickered.
With a roar of triumph, Fulcanelli’s troops charged the gates and pushed them down.
* * *
As the room lightened, then disappeared altogether, Angel shouted in surprise and pain. The sun burned his leg and arm, making them smoke. He rolled out of the path of the rays to a dark corner, only to discover that the corner had flickered out of existence.
He got up and ran into the corridor, but that was flickering, too.
He was in trouble. Very bad trouble.
Then Oz, Willow, and Xander raced toward him. Their faces were gray.
“Angel, we’re wading in the deep stuff,” Xander said. “There are major bad guys outside and they want in.”
“I think they’re succeeding,” Angel said.
Around them, the corridor faded and the sun hit Angel. He shouted and went down. Xander leaped on top of him, yelling, “Cover him up!”
The corridor became solid again. Xander slid off him, saying, “Don’t write that in your diary,” and helped him to a standing position.
Willow looked around. “This is really bad. Really bad.”
“It’s been bad before,” Angel said.
Xander nodded. “Except on Tuesdays, when they serve burritos.” He raised his hand. “All in favor of checking out what Jacques is up to?”
It was unanimous.
They dashed into the room where the Gatekeeper stood, a revived Cordelia shrieking at his side. Energy ricocheted around the room, and though Jacques was trying to return fire, he was outgunned.
Angel knew Jacques wasn’t going to win this one.
Nevertheless, he joined the boy at the window and gestured the others over.
“We go together,” he said.
Xander nodded. Willow and Oz held hands. Cordelia whispered, “Oh, my God,” and moved to Xander’s side.
Angel looked at them all for a moment. Then he said what he hoped would comfort them most.
“And your parents, too,” Oz whispered to Willow.
Then the Gatehouse jittered like a neon sign about to go out, and Angel steeled himself for the pain, with one last thought of Buffy.
* * *
Just as Buffy prepared herself for Belphegor’s attack, a decomposing body launched itself at her. She moved to slam it out of her way, then blinked as the body bounced off some kind of shield surrounding her.
“It won’t hold long,” said a voice beside her. It was Micaela, who had bravely climbed out of the car and joined her. “It’s a spell of protection.”
“And it will do no good against me,” Belphegor informed her.
“Yeah, well, you can’t have everything,” Buffy said.
Then, as she watched, Micaela raised her hands and Giles and Ethan rose limply above the heads of the mob of creatures and monsters. Both of them were covered with blood and their clothes were practically torn from their bodies. But Ethan, at least, appeared to be alive, as Micaela magickally lowered them to the ground just behind Buffy.
Ethan gestured toward Belphegor, but then his eyes closed and his head fell forward on his chest. Buffy shouted, “Ethan, wake up!” and gave him a hard kick.
There was no response.
Then, as clearly as if he were standing next to her talking, Buffy heard Ethan’s voice:
“Born from the bowels of the Old Ones;
The Lord of the Vile Flesh;
His heart a whisper of shadow;
He watches the world of man with human eyes;
The eyes of man, the darkest passage;
The path he must follow, the world which he covets;
Belphegor, scion of worlds old and new;
Wanderer in Darkness, shying from infernal flame;
Yet the dawn of man shall not burn his eyes;
Yet the sword of man shall not cut him down;
For man’s only weapon must be himself”
Buffy looked at Micaela. “What’s going on? Who’s talking?”
Micaela gestured to Ethan. “His subconscious. To you. And you only,” she said pointedly. “Don’t speak aloud.”
“But—”
“Sssslayer,” Belphegor whispered. “I hunger.”
Buffy couldn’t help the tremor of fear that went through her. She had no weapons, and no idea how to kill this thing. But she had to. There was no other way this could come down.
She had to.
But she was losing it. Everything inside her screamed at her to run. This was death staring her in the face.
Her death, and the death of everything.
For an instant, she saw her mother’s eyes and her mother’s smile. Remembered so many things—the first time she’d met Willow; the time when, under Amy’s spell, she had come on to Xander; Angel’s first kiss.
My life is passing before my eyes, she thought desperately. I’m giving up.
Belphegor swiped at her with two of its tentacles. She leaped back, her fear threatening to overpower her. Make her numb. Make her clumsy.
“Micaela!” she shouted. “There’s got to be more.”
But Micaela was chanting a protective spell to shield Giles and Ethan—a spell that might hold back some of the others, but wouldn’t affect Belphegor in the least. She had no words to spare for Buffy.
Then suddenly, Buffy saw the words written down, in what she had to assume was Ethan’s handwriting.
But why should she trust him? For all she knew, Ethan had cut a deal with Belphegor. He was still alive, wasn’t he?
“Ethan, damn it,” she muttered to herself. “Wake up and tell me what to do,” she said.
He remained as he was. But it wasn’t really Ethan she wanted advice from. It was Giles. And maybe her mother, too. The two people whose expectations she had railed against so often . . . now she wanted nothing more than their counsel.
With a sickening expulsion of air, Belphegor came at her with all it possessed—mouths, whipping tentacles—and Buffy’s Slayer reflexes came into play. She dodged and kicked and hit and she would have bitten him if she’d thought it would help.
A wind whipped up. The sky went black and lightning pierced the road around them. Dozens of Otherworld creatures and zombies shot into flame. They ran screaming.
Belphegor was clearing an arena for their combat.
Surrounded by flames erupting several stories high, Buffy leaped forward and grabbed a sword from a trapped man who was half-horse, half-goat, soon to be neither because he was on fire. She had to run him through to make him let go of the sword, and she was a little sorry for that. Then a woman with snakes for hair rushed her, and Buffy cut off her head. The walking dead came, and Belphegor burned them at the same time that Buffy fought them away. For a few bizarre moments, they acted together, toward the same goal.
Then they faced off again. Buffy’s chest was heaving. Her legs were so tired they were shaking. But she kept her chin up and her voice steady as she flung at it, “Okay, you big, ugly thing. No more time to waste. Let’s do it.”
“Excellent,” Belphegor said, with deep and obvious satisfaction.
The windstorm rose around her, fanning the flames of the fire. Cinders singed her and her hair began to smoke. Her arms blistered and the sword was growing white-hot. If she didn’t defeat the demon soon, she would probably burn to death.
She didn’t care what happened to her if she could save the world. Not in this fierce, surreal moment when she faced the one thing even the Gatekeepers feared. This was no minor demon, the likes of which she’d fought and killed dozens of times. This was one of the Lords of Hell, one of the most powerful creations of the inferno. In its path, the Slayer was so very small. This kind of evil was supposed to be confronted by a host of angels, or whatever.
But Sunnydale didn’t have any angels.
It only had Buffy.
Again, unbidden, Ethan’s words snapped into focus. She shook her head, but the words were etched into her eyelids.
He watches the world of man with human eyes;
The eyes of man, the darkest passage;
The path he must follow, the world which he covets;
Belphegor, scion of worlds old and new;
Wanderer in Darkness, shying from infernal flame;
Yet the dawn of man shall not burn his eyes;
Yet the sword of man shall not cut him down;
For man’s only weapon must be himself
Man’s only weapon . . .
Buffy took a deep breath and threw down the sword.
From somewhere beyond the circle, Micaela shouted, “What on earth are you doing?”
“The sword won’t do any good,” Buffy said. “I’m the weapon.”
At that, Belphegor withdrew just a little, retreated maybe one or two inches. Buffy felt a flicker of triumph. What was the rest of the incantation? He watches the world of man with human eyes; The eyes of man, the darkest passage . . .
But what did that mean exactly? She had to fight him herself, that seemed clear. Her own hands, that was all. But what good were her bare hands, no matter how hard she hit, against that? Unless the references to human flesh, man’s weapon . . . maybe the weapon wasn’t only her strength, but its weakness.
But Belphegor did not watch the world with human eyes. Its eyes were crescent-shaped and lizardlike. Red. Not human at all.
Forcing herself to stand upright in the wild wind, Buffy frowned. Her hair streamed behind her. She didn’t understand. She was going to fail because she didn’t understand.
“Ethan!” she shouted. “Giles!”
Belphegor raised its tentacles and they whipped out at her. One of them slapped her in the face and she tumbled to the blacktop. She heard her nose break and felt the crunch of bone, the immediate torrent of blood down her cheeks.
The tentacles lashed at her, ripping out chunks of flesh along her back and the backs of her arms. She tried to get up, but the weight was too great. The pain wa
s unimaginable. She couldn’t groan, couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.
It traveled toward her. She felt its nearness, smelled its rotten odor. She couldn’t help but vomit.
Then the tentacles rose for another onslaught, and the Slayer rolled out of the way and onto her back.
That was when Belphegor leaned over her. And looked at her with its demonic eyes.
And also with the single, massive eye in the center of its forehead, which began to open slowly. The thickness she had assumed was a scar was its eyelid.
It was a human eye. Overly large, true, but not at all like the others.
Belphegor said, “This was too easy, Slayer. You disappoint me.”
Grunting, Buffy managed a flip to her feet. She whirled around and jumped as hard and high as she could. Extending both arms, she took a breath. Her right hand hit Belphegor’s third eye. For a moment it pressed against the membrane, and then pierced it. Belphegor shrieked and tried to jerk away.
Yes, Buffy thought.
Keeping hold, her fingers shoved through the layers, hitting the fluid beyond, and the horned curve of the socket.
Black liquid sprayed her in a torrent. She hung, her fingers grabbing around the socket, and shot her other hand through the ruins of the eye.
Then, with both hands, she pulled outward, yanking the bits and pieces from Belphegor’s forehead.
It screamed with fury and threw her to the ground. Its tentacles flapped wildly. It bent over her with its mouths slashing and cutting.
Buffy fought back with every ounce of her strength, with every fiber of her being. She kicked, she punched, and now she bit.
She hit, and hit, and hit.
She kept hitting, even with the wind died down and the fires banked, and the wail of ambulances keened in the distance.
Until Micaela, beside her on the ruined section of roadbed, touched her shoulder and said, “Buffy, it’s dead.”
* * *
In Boston, the great sorcerer Giacomo Fulcanelli, sometimes known as Il Maestro, shrieked in rage and horror and agony as his barely human, centuries-old body burst into flame and withered in an instant.
Sons of Entropy Page 25