Out past Route 17, the Los Viejos forest rose in the chill air. The National Park Service had saved it from development decades earlier, and though its edges had been chipped away in favor of “progress,” it was one of the largest forests in the area.
Deep inside the forest, there was a clearing. In the center of the clearing, something shimmered. All around it, the meager light that managed to leak through the canopy of trees had been absorbed, sucked away like the marrow from a bone. Only darkness remained. Darkness and cold, and it emanated out from that clearing through the forest.
None of the people who passed by in their cars on Route 17 noticed anything out of place. The darkness that now crept across the forest, claiming it tree by tree, could not be seen from the outside. It was as if the forest itself had grown somehow deeper. As if it existed both in this world, and in some other.
No, passersby did not notice anything amiss. But of the few people who stepped into the forest that afternoon—a boy and girl skipping school to spend the day together; an aging professor out for a walk, careful not to let his pipe ash fall where it could endanger the woods; a conservationist who’d appointed herself guardian of this particular stretch of trees—none of them were ever heard from again.
There are those who would believe, ever after, that these four were still lost in the forest; that their cries for help could still be heard.
At the center of the clearing, something shimmered. Across the forest floor, over roots and stones and twigs, the darkness spread.
It was half past three when Giles guided his faithful and expensively repaired Citroën into the parking lot at Sunnydale High. He was greatly relieved to note that Principal Snyder’s car was not in the nearly empty lot. They’d taken forever at the garage. When he’d finally returned to his own apartment, a multitude of messages from Buffy and her friends awaited him on his answering machine. Unfortunately, he had no way to reach them at the time, but was greatly relieved to hear all their voices. He imagined that Angel had found Buffy, and Buffy had been able to warn the others about the Hunt.
He expected that last night they had likely gone off on some brave but ill-informed errand or other. Perhaps, given the problems they all seemed to be having with their parents—a product, Giles believed, of the fact that they would soon graduate and no longer be within the province of their parents’ authority—they might have gone home after all. In that case, he could surely manufacture some excuse to ring them at home.
Giles reminded himself that, with Buffy, he needed no excuse. Joyce Summers was not pleased with her daughter’s status, but she was aware of it.
He pulled his jacket more tightly around him as he walked toward the school. The temperature had dropped at least twenty degrees since morning, and though the meteorologists continued to deny it, Giles was certain there would be rain. One did not generally have this kind of weather disturbance without some precipitation.
Under the burden of all that had happened in the past day and night, Giles used his keys to let himself into the school. He nodded at the kindly fellow who had taken George’s place on the maintenance crew, and idly wiped his glasses with a handkerchief before returning them to their resting place atop his nose.
Light footsteps echoed from around the corner, and as Giles arrived at the doors to the library, Oz stepped into view.
“Ah, perfect timing, Oz,” Giles said happily, and with Oz at his side, pushed open the library door. “I may need your assistance in locating . . .”
“Giles!”
The Watcher looked up into the angry face of the Chosen One.
“Where the hell have you been?” Buffy demanded, hands on hips.
In spite of it all, Giles couldn’t help but smile.
“It is a shame that Angel wasn’t more forthcoming,” Giles said with his usual distracted air as he searched through the papers on his desk. “I did however, receive some information from a colleague which might prove useful. And Jamie and his son dropped by to add more pieces to the puzzle.”
He emerged from his office and handed a sheet of paper to Buffy, who sat on top of the library counter next to Willow. Buffy scanned the fax sheet, frowned, and handed the paper to Willow.
“Without going into the value of dead art forms and all, how exactly is a poem going to help us figure this out and help Roland?” Buffy asked, raising an eyebrow as she looked expectantly at Giles.
Xander and Cordelia sat at the study table, where Cordy was painting her nails by the light of a banker’s lamp. Oz had turned one of the chairs around and now straddled it, leaning his chin on his crossed arms. Buffy thought he looked adorable, and knew that meant they’d probably receive no help from Willow. She’d be too busy also noticing how adorable Oz was.
“Yes, well, it’s more than a poem, you see,” Giles said. “According to my colleague, it’s an actual account. Nonfiction, if you will. This ‘elfin king’ or Erl King was apparently the commander of a large group of such creatures. According to legend, the Erl King led the elves and dark faerie—Angel’s ‘wee folk’—on a Wild Hunt across the countryside, appearing almost as phantoms at night. The souls of dead hunters rode with them, and wild animals ran at their sides as well.”
Giles drew breath to continue, but Oz interrupted him.
“It’s Odin.”
They all looked over at Oz, who never interrupted.
“Beg pardon, Oz?” Giles said.
“From Norse mythology,” Oz explained, then tilted his head to one side as if in apology. “It’s sort of an interest of mine. When I was in fourth grade, I read this one book, Thunder of the Gods, about fifty times.”
“Odin was the king and the father of all the gods,” Xander added.
Buffy shot him a doubtful look.
“Hey, I study my mythology,” he said angrily, then bit his lip as they all continued to stare at him, waiting for a truthful response. “Okay, okay. So I read it in a Thor comic book. That’s kind of like studying.”
“Yeah,” Willow agreed. “If, you know, the test is to name all the members of the Justice League.”
“Which I can do.” Xander smiled with self-satisfaction.
“Yes, Xander, perhaps another time,” Giles said, and turned back to Oz. “Now, Oz, I’m quite familiar with Norse mythology, but I can’t say I recall any connection to the Wild Hunt.”
Oz rocked a bit in his chair. “It’s also known as the Great Hunt. The Vikings believed that on stormy nights, Odin rode ahead of a pack of mounted hunters, with these sort of ghost dogs tracking their prey. They pretty much partied and trashed the area until sunup,” he explained.
“Also, the legend said that if you got to see the faces of the Huntsmen, you would be, like, teleported away or something. And if you talked to them, you would just die.”
Buffy felt a chill run through her.
“That fits,” Cordelia said idly, looking up from her nail painting. “Angel didn’t let Buffy look at these guys.”
“Indeed,” Giles said thoughtfully, and nodded at Oz. “Well done, Oz. Thank you. It occurs to me, however, that there are any number of similar legends, from all across Europe. Spectral, nocturnal processions of huntsmen, horses and hounds, ghosts and witches, that sort of thing appears in many different tales.
“One such myth said the goddess Diana led the Hunt, punishing the lazy and the wicked. Another had Hecate as the leader. My friend in Germany pointed out a local Wild Hunt legend about a rather benevolent goddess called Holda, who seems almost heroic until one notes that the souls of unbaptized children were snatched away as her Hunt passed by.”
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence then, as Giles paused, blinked, and glanced at Buffy. She knew they were all thinking about the large number of crib deaths the night before. Buffy met Giles’s gaze for a moment, and then turned away.
“What about . . . ?” Oz began, then frowned, searching his memory.
“Oz?” Willow slid off the library counter and went to pull up a chair by his side.
“Gesundheit,” Xander said weakly, obviously unable to stop himself.
None of them even acknowledged that he had spoken.
“Hern the Hunter,” Oz went on. “The Norse mythology books talk about him as the major alternate for Odin in those stories.”
“Indeed,” Giles agreed. “Hern the Hunter is perhaps the most common among the mythological figures presumed to lead the Wild Hunt. They rounded up the souls of the unbaptized, the hopeless, and were particularly fond of the souls of those who’d taken their own lives. And, of course, anyone foolhardy enough to gaze directly upon the Hunters themselves. Legends describe Hern as a shaggy man with antlers like a great stag. Though some note that local British legends claim he was one of the huntsmen of Henry the Eighth, who betrayed the crown and hung himself for his own crimes.”
“Antlers,” Buffy repeated. “You said Jamie Anderson saw a guy with antlers last night.”
Giles nodded. “Which would lead one to presume it is this Hern fellow.”
“But that wouldn’t explain the little faerie guys who attacked Angel and Buffy. Unless your Horny man was also the Erl King,” Cordelia said without looking up from her nails.
“The two were never connected in any of my research thus far,” Giles replied.
“So, more research then?” Xander said.
Giles offered a weak smile. “Thank you for volunteering, Xander.”
Xander balked, held up both hands. “Who volunteered? Did anyone hear me volunteering?”
“It sounded like volunteering to me,” Willow said.
“I’m not sure exactly what volunteering sounds like,” Oz added. “But it wasn’t your usual mockery-of-all-things, so, yeah, volunteering.”
Xander sulked.
“Okay, but I still don’t see how more research is going to help Roland right now,” Buffy said.
“This would be Dirt Boy,” Xander noted. “Who needs, I’d guess, watering at this point.”
Buffy glared at him. “He wasn’t always dirt. He was definitely flesh before. Kind of weird flesh, but, y’know, human. Flesh.”
“I’ve been thinking about that, actually,” Giles said. “It is possible that he could be a homunculus or golem of some kind.”
“Gollum?” Willow asked. “Like in The Hobbit?”
“A golem is a mindless creature created as a servant from lifeless materials, such as stone, wood, or . . .”
“Dirt.” Buffy glanced toward the door, both because she wanted to get moving, but also because she was sad for Roland and didn’t want any sympathy from her friends.
“While the golem comes mainly from Hebrew mythology, there are legends of homunculi, creatures of similar creation, which have their origins in many other cultures,” Giles explained.
“Well, Roland has a mind of his own,” Buffy said defensively. “That is, when he isn’t, y’know . . .”
“Dirt, yes,” Giles agreed. “Well, while it’s possible that the passing of the Wild Hunt stole whatever spark of life your friend Roland had, it’s also quite possible that whatever spell gives him the appearance of life only works at night. Which would mean that—”
“He’ll come back to life at sundown!” Willow said excitedly.
“Precisely.”
Buffy chewed the inside of her lip a moment, glanced at the skylight in the ceiling and saw that it was nearly dark already, then turned to regard her friends.
“I don’t know what’s going on with these Wild Hunters, or whatever,” she said. “But I know there’s a connection to Roland and to that Faire. It might be that the troupe putting on the show are the Huntsmen themselves.
“I’m going to go home and get Roland. If he does come around when the sun goes down, I’ll bring him back here. Even if he doesn’t, I’ll bring . . . part of him, for Giles to examine.”
She looked at Willow. “You and Oz, take the van and go get Angel. Soon as the sun goes down, we’re going to need him.”
At Xander. “You and Cordelia, help Giles with the research.”
Finally, to Giles. “Whatever happens, we can’t let the Wild Hunt ride through Sunnydale again. Too many people are dead already. Too many mothers are crying today.”
A short time later the library was silent. Cordelia had long since finished painting her nails, and was scanning through dusty old leather-bound books for any references to the Erl King or the Wild Hunt or Hernia man or whatever. She reached the end of one book and dropped it to the oak table with a heavy thump.
“Ah, Cordelia,” Giles said, glancing up at her over the tops of his glasses. “Would you mind taking a look in the world religion section for a text on Hebrew mysticism? I’ve been concentrating on the mythology rather than the magic. In fact, if you’d look that one over, I can move on to the Watchers’ Journals for some mention of a homunculus or of the Hunt.”
Cordelia had tuned him out as soon as she knew what he wanted. Relieved to get up and stretch a bit, she walked up to the second level of the library and into the stacks. She hadn’t gone very far down the first aisle before she realized that she was in the wrong section. Cordelia started to turn around, and then she heard the whimpering, low and pathetic.
“Hello?” she said softly. “Who’s there?”
“Cordy?” Xander called from down below. “Are you talking to yourself again?”
She walked to the end of the long aisle, toward the back of the library, and the whimpering was louder there.
“Cordelia?” Xander’s tone had changed from teasing to concern, but not quite yet to alarm.
She rounded the end of the aisle, glanced to her left, and froze, a harsh gasp of breath all she could manage in that moment.
At the rear of the library was a second door which led into the other side of the school. It was usually locked, but when they’d thought Giles might be missing, Buffy had broken the lock to get them in.
Against that door sat a man who held a gun to his own temple.
“Please,” he whispered, fresh tears rolling down his cheeks. “You’ve got to help me do it. It’s the only way.”
Chapter 9
AS THE LAST BIT OF SUNLIGHT BEGAN TO LEAK FROM the sky, Buffy had first begun to jog, and then to run through the neighborhoods of Sunnydale. Though Mrs. Cantwell had actually yelled at her once for doing it, she cut through backyards on her way home. The Cantwell poodle barked ineffectually from behind their sliding glass door, but Buffy didn’t even look back.
When she hit the pavement on Revello Drive, the streetlights had come on.
The sun was gone.
Buffy narrowed her eyes, trying to see her front door, but the pines her mother had loved so much when they bought the house blocked her view. Her legs hurt from the exertion, but Buffy began to sprint. Three houses away, she heard a scream and the sound of glass shattering. There came a loud crash.
“Mom!” Buffy yelled.
She cut across the lawn, bursting between two of the pine trees. The front door was splintered into pieces, one large chunk still hanging by a hinge.
Buffy scanned her yard, looked around the entire area, but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. On guard, she stepped over the threshold into her house, and called her mother’s name again.
From the living room she heard sobbing.
The room was trashed. Not completely. A lot of the furniture would be saved. But there were several crates of things her mother had been unpacking for the gallery, and those were pretty much kindling. A pair of crystal lamps had gone over, and no amount of Krazy Glue was going to fix them.
“Mom?” Buffy asked, tenderly, crouching by her weeping mother and reaching out for her.
“I wish . . .” Joyce Summers croaked, then swallowed and spoke again, wiping her eyes and lifting her chin. “I wish you’d told me we had a guest. He scared the hell out of me.”
“Roland did this?” Buffy asked, horrified.
; “No. It was the others. Not monsters this time, Buffy, just people. They said they were here to pick him up. And then all hell broke loose.” She looked at her again. “All you had to do was tell me, Buffy. Did he hide in the basement all day?”
“Um, the basement. Yes,” Buffy ventured. “He was . . . moving?”
“What?” Joyce stared at her. “Moving! Buffy, I’m not an idiot. He wasn’t hiding in our basement because he was moving.”
“No. I mean, was he moving?” Buffy knew she was losing precious seconds. She switched gears. “The people, Mom. Tell me about the people. Were they just regular people?”
“Buffy, I don’t understand.”
Her mother tried to regain her composure, but now she dropped her eyes and brought a hand to her forehead. Joyce had a small cut on her forehead, and as she brushed her dirty blond hair away from her face, the blood smeared just a bit. After all they’d talked about this week, this was the last thing her mother needed.
Buffy knew she had to persist. “The people. They came to get Roland, and he fought, and they took him anyway?”
“It happened so fast,” Joyce said. “Just before you got here.”
Just as the sun had gone down.
“And there were no . . . horses?”
Her mother just stared at her.
“It wasn’t supposed to be this way,” Joyce said, and Buffy wondered if her mother was even speaking to her anymore, or to herself.
Buffy reached for her, pulled her mother close and held her there, biting her lip to keep her own tears back. At the same time, she knew that time was wasting. If the people from the Faire had come to claim Roland, they might not be sticking around in Sunnydale very long. She would need to call to have someone fix the door right away, but her mother should be safe, she reasoned, as long as Roland wasn’t in the house.
“I love you, Mom,” Buffy said, though she felt the distance that still separated her from Joyce. “I . . . I know you wanted me to be a doctor or something.”
Joyce stiffened. Sniffled, then drew a hand across her eyes as she stared hard at her daughter. Buffy focused on the small crow’s feet at the edges of her mother’s eyes.
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