by Nancy Holder
“What is it?” Willow asked. Buffy could tell that her friend was desperately trying to make sense of it. “It looks—it looks like some kind of fiber-optic network.”
“No,” Angel said. “Those are silver cords,” he said.
“Huh?”
“I told you, Cagliostro was a dabbler. He followed a lot of belief systems,” Angel said. “He told me once about spiritualism, and about out-of-body experiences.” He paused. “The silver cord is what ties the spirit to the body. He pulled their souls to him. He’s feeding on them.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It’s easier here,” Cagliostro said. “I imagine I have your Hellmouth to thank for that. I can do more than I could ever do before.”
He was still speaking through the gunslinger, but his voice had a curious echoing quality now. It was somewhat like hearing a stereo broadcast with the channels out of phase, and the effect varied as the gunslinger paced back and forth.
“It’s hardly my Hellmouth,” Giles said. He knew the meaning behind the alchemist’s words, though. Sunnydale sat atop the Hellmouth, a portal that led to nearly every imaginable evil. Most texts characterized the Hellmouth as a mere gateway, but that was simply a concrete image intended to make things more easily understood. Certainly, the Hellmouth was a hole that led to various hells and such, but it was a cauldron, too, seething with endless dark power. He knew that the drive-in was outside the town limits, but it perched at the very rim of the Hellmouth. Here, now, with someone like Cagliostro in command, surely enough stray energies drifted up from its depths to make a difference.
“You can’t imagine how it feels,” Cagliostro said. The gunfighter’s body paced steadily, as if to expend nervous energies. “I can do so much more now. I’m in so many different places, so many different forms—”
The gunfighter’s outlines shifted. He became shorter, squatter. His serape lengthened into an overcoat and his hat restyled itself. “See what I mean?” he asked. “I developed the ability to field agents like this centuries ago, and to direct them to act on my behalf. But it’s only since coming here that I could extend myself into them, and exercise my other abilities through them.” He was Dick Shamus now.
Yet again Giles tested his bonds, in the vain hope that the rope might have vanished along with the gunslinger who had brought it. No luck. The ropes indeed were gone, but steel handcuffs had taken their place. Even Cagliostro’s props had made the transition from one identity to the next. “You really do like the movies,” Giles continued.
Dick Shamus nodded. “The images, the color, the verve—vastly more impressive than mere puppetry. Mr. Edison was quite a fellow. I had dinner with him once, you know.”
“I hadn’t,” Giles said drily.
“I was in the magick lantern business then,” Cagliostro mused. “Stage shows, with projected images. A transitional form. Better than puppet shows too. It served my purposes well enough.”
“And before that?”
Dick Shamus reverted to the gunslinger. “Minstrel shows. Before that, puppet shows. Punch and Judy, and that rot. Any mass entertainment that draws crowds,” he said. “Anything that brings the cattle to me, so that I may connect with them. They come, I drain their spirit-force, and I add it to my own. In olden times, I had to do it directly, but now, here—”
“You have these—these proxies,” Giles prompted.
Cagliostro nodded. “Extensions of myself, made from the stuff of souls. Mere puppets anywhere else, but here, they are extensions of myself,” he said again. “I can use them to—”
“Prey on anyone unfortunate enough to make their acquaintance,” Giles said.
“Harvest is a more appropriate word, I think,” Cagliostro said. “And not anyone. It varies by population. I’ve found more here who are susceptible to the charm than anywhere else. I don’t know why, really. It must be the Hellmouth, either strengthening me or weakening them. The numbers rise by the minute.” He paused. “Isn’t it odd? I’d sent the wolf and the others out merely to get the lay of the land, and instead, they’ve fed me.”
“You’re a monster,” Giles said.
The gunfighter laughed, a stereo chuckle that was deep and complex. When he spoke, the seated Cagliostro’s lips moved too, and words emerged from both mouths. “I’m but a dabbler and an explorer,” he said. “In all my journeys I’ve never pretended to be more. But I think that when the time comes to leave this pleasant community, I may well be something more.” Two heads tilted, and four eyes gazed at Giles. “I might be something like a god.”
Booted feet gritted on gravel. The sound made Buffy turn just in time to see someone or something emerge from the darkness between two parked panel vans. She saw a figure in black leather with skin that was as white as bone and hair that showed as purple even in the poor light. Reflexively, the Slayer raised her machete and swung.
“Hey!” The voice was girlish and angry. Cardboard containers of popcorn and soda flew, scattering their contents as Buffy’s target tried to dodge.
It was a civilian on her way back from the concession stand. Just in time, Buffy pulled back and changed the path of her blade. There was a tearing thump as the machete slammed into one of the panel vans, embedding itself deeply in the metal.
“What is your problem, witch?” the Goth girl asked. She made a great show of brushing popcorn from the front of her outfit. “You made me drop my stuff!”
“Sorry,” Buffy said. An apology certainly seemed in order, but her heart wasn’t in it.
“Otto is going to kill me!” the girl said.
Heaven might know who Otto was, but Buffy didn’t. “Really, I’m sorry,” she said.
“You’re going to pay for that,” the Goth girl said, but then her mouth opened in a silent O of surprise. She’d seen Buffy’s machete and boka, and realized the Slayer’s companions carried weapons too. “Hey,” she said, turning even paler, “I don’t want any trouble.”
“You won’t get any,” Buffy said, brushing past her. Calling back over her shoulder she said, “And get out of here if you can. Walk out if the entrance is still blocked.”
She’d just finished speaking when the next wave of attack came.
Xander was being stupid again, Cordelia realized as she re-entered the hospital room. She was out of breath from her hasty patrol of the corridor, but she managed to draw enough air into her lungs to shape the words. “Get away from that!” she commanded.
He tore his gaze from the thread of light. It was much thicker now and flared where it met Jonathan’s chest. Xander’s fingertips were inches from the gleaming line.
“Huh?” he asked, startled. The sudden movement almost brought him into contact with the tendril, and Cordelia gasped in concern. “Okay, okay,” he said, drawing back. “It’s just—it doesn’t look like much.”
“Neither do the others,” Cordelia said. She was relieved, but she still watched carefully in case Xander did something that was, well, Xander-like.
“Others?”
She nodded. “I checked every room I could find without getting caught. Everyone I could find who’s like—like him, has one of those things coming out of their chests,” she told him.
According to news reports, the hospital held thirty victims of the mysterious sleeping sickness. Cordelia had found only half that number, but they had all been much alike. Friends or strangers, teenage or adult, they all lay unmoving beneath white sheets, with silvery luminances sprouting from their chests like some strange plant.
Worst of all was Aura. The sight of her had nearly made Cordelia weep. Her friend’s skin had paled further, and the heart monitor’s panel suggested that she was at the lower margin of safety. She’d thumbed the call button but left Aura’s room before anyone had arrived.
“All of them, huh?” Xander said. He leaned closer to the strand and eyed it suspiciously. “It doesn’t look like much.”
“Maybe not one, but I assure you, seeing more than a dozen of those things will give you the creep
s,” Cordelia said.
“Huh.” Xander was repeating himself. “I wonder what it is?”
“So do I,” Cordy said. “And once Buffy gets back from the drive-in, I’m sure that she and Giles will tell us all about it.”
“I wonder how it connects up?” Xander asked, speaking more to himself than to her. He brought his fingers close to it again. “I bet I could tear it loose.”
“Xander!” She nearly screamed his name, but she was too late.
He’d already touched it.
After a certain point the process became monotonous. Dodge, hack, then dodge or strike again. There were nights when slaying had a certain rhythm to it, like an elaborate dance of strike and counterstrike, but not tonight. This was extermination, pure and simple.
Another wolf-man leaped at her, so she swung one blade to remove his head and the threat. Hollywood’s idea of a vampire—presumably from the same movie that had given form to the ticket-selling priest—lunged with fangs bared, then died as she lopped off an arm with a lucky swing. In real life, that wouldn’t have worked, but Buffy didn’t have time to be thankful for her relative good fortune. Inga was coming at her with a chainsaw and needed to be put down. Buffy dispatched her, only to have to do it again as another kill-crazy Swedish nurse materialized out of nowhere.
“How’re you holding up, Buffy?” Angel called out to her. He was busily decapitating a biker brute but whirled just in time to fend off another priest and then a cheerleader.
“Could be better,” she said, panting. “Could be worse.”
She was serious. The sheer number of assailants was daunting, but they were vulnerable individually. Now that they knew how to destroy the phantasms, it was just a matter of being wary and strong. Even Willow was keeping pace, thanks in part to protective cover from Slayer and vampire. For whatever reason, the movie afterimages were concentrating on vampire and Slayer, and not on their little friend. They were making progress. It was slow, hard work, but the distance between them and their goal dwindled gradually.
Allowing Willow to come along had been a mistake, though. More and more, Buffy was sure of that. The farther they went, the greater the resistance became, and that worried Buffy. Sooner or later, she could be worn down. So could Angel. If either of them was struck down, the balance would tip from their favor and all would fall. They had to reach Cagliostro before that happened.
Three bikers attacked, whipping chains. Buffy sliced at them, first the chains and then the goons who wielded them. As she swung and spun, Angel extinguished a kung fu fighter in midkick. He was in full vampire mode now, and the grin he flashed at her was both bestial and reassuring.
It was good to have a boyfriend who appreciated your profession.
The projection shack neared. The attacks came more furiously, increasing in number and intensity. Buffy swung and cut and swung some more, then called out, “Willow!”
“Yeah?” came the answer. Willow took another slice at some guy wearing an overcoat and a slouch hat.
“This is where you get off,” Buffy said.
“No!”
“Yes!” She made it a command. They were mere yards from the doorway now, and Buffy could no longer spare her friend the protective attention she needed. “Break and take cover. I mean it!”
“I won’t leave you!” Willow said, but her voice was failing. She was wearing down. It was amazing that she’d made it this far, really.
“Now!” Buffy repeated. “It’s time for the professionals to take over.”
Xander felt as if he’d gripped a live wire, fully charged with high-voltage electricity. He managed a grunt of surprise as the hammering force swept through him, a grunt that became a yelp of pain and then silence as his voice fled him.
He tried to pull himself free, but couldn’t. His body was in revolt, the muscles refusing to obey his commands. He could not speak or move, and even the beating of his heart seemed to have stilled. The world seemed poised to go away.
“Xander!” Cordy screamed.
And then he was somewhere else. Somewhere else, and someone else.
Or many someones.
“Remarkable. Your champions are making progress,” Cagliostro said from his chair. His voice still echoed slightly, but the gunslinger had fallen silent. Evidently, the battle that Giles could hear raging outside was commanding more and more of the alchemist’s attention. “You’ve trained her well,” he told the Watcher. “You’ve given her a kind of greatness.”
Giles allowed himself to shake his head. “No,” he said with complete honesty. “Any greatness Buffy has is of her own making.”
Cagliostro didn’t believe him and said so. “I’d entertained fantasies of taking her alive,” he said. “I’ve long wanted to study the inner workings of the Slayer. The blood, the nerves, the elemental tissues—they really must be most remarkable.”
“You’ll never take her alive,” Giles said.
“Defiance?”
“Not defiance,” Giles said. “Simple fact.”
Scarcely had he spoken the words when the booth door flew off its hinges. It bounced and spun as it flew, freed by one savage kick from a nicely booted foot. Startled, both men turned to face the opening, and in it, the trim outline of a girl. Behind her was darkness, filled with half-seen images of battle and thick with the sounds of combat.
“All right, mister,” Buffy said. “Fun’s fun, but the show’s over. I need my librarian back.”
Giles had never been so happy to see her in all his life, and his joy was dimmed only slightly when the nameless gunslinger pressed a loaded pistol against the back of his head.
Willow dropped to her knees. No one seemed to notice—not Buffy, not Angel, not any of the spectral horde who defended the projection booth. She half-crawled, half-walked, and let the tide of battle sweep over her, unmindful and uncaring. They were focused entirely on Buffy and Angel. Whoever or whatever commanded them must have decided that she didn’t matter. Whether deliberately or by utter lack of concern, she was being allowed to retreat.
She hated that. She hated being useless, being the weak link. Most of all, she hated retreating, but there was nothing she could do.
Then she realized that there was.
Cagliostro stood. Still connected to the projector via the glowing umbilical cord, he bowed politely, a complete bow, and smiled at Buffy. “Well played,” he said. “The trap is sprung.”
“Trap?” Buffy said. “You’ve got to be kidding. This wasn’t a trap.” She raised the two blades.
“Oh?” he asked.
“I’ve read up on you,” she said. “I’ve asked around. You’re just a blowhard trying to make the best of a bad situation. I figure, you didn’t think I’d come running, at least not quite as fast.” She paused. “Giles, you okay?”
“I’m fine, Buffy,” came the Watcher’s response.
“That could change,” Cagliostro said ominously.
Every muscle in Buffy’s body was vibrating with tension. “I wouldn’t advise it,” she said. “Now, tell the cowboy to put down his gun, and we can end this easy.”
“I think not,” Cagliostro said. Without the slightest show of concern, he continued. “You’ll put down your weapons. Surrender to me, and I’ll grant your Watcher his life, though not his freedom. If not . . .” He shrugged.
Buffy scarcely looked as she threw the boka. The casual toss was dead on target, though, and felled the phantom gunslinger. “There,” the Slayer said. “We’ll do it the hard way, then.”
“The very hard way,” Cagliostro said as even more agents materialized: the six bikers who had given her and Angel such a hard time the night before. They arranged themselves between her and the alchemist.
“He dies, you die,” Buffy promised. The odds were terrible, but she knew she could beat them. Only one question made her pause.
Would she be freeing Giles, or ensuring his death?
It was as if Xander were everywhere at once, or nowhere at all. He seemed to be seeing
the world from a thousand different angles, all at the same time, and his hearing was even worse. The overwhelming rush of information seemed like enough to make his head explode, only he didn’t seem to have a head anymore. He didn’t seem to have anything but his thoughts and his senses, all of which worked with what had to be superhuman clarity.
He saw Principal Snyder, alone in the Snydermobile, watching Double Drunken Dragon Kung Fu Fight and chuckling as he nibbled a corn dog.
He saw Joyce Summers shake the shoulder of her sleeping escort, and he heard her worried voice ask, “Barney? Are you all right, Barney?”
He saw the girl with purple hair lead her fatso boyfriend toward the drive-in exit, and heard her angrily telling him about her encounter with some uppity blond chick with an axe. If he could have, Xander would have nodded. The Magic Box girl had to be talking about Buffy.
He saw Willow, moving fast in a half crouch, crawl between parked cars and approach the projection booth from its blind side, where the long cables that powered the place hung low.
And then he heard a familiar voice say the kind of words he’d heard so many times before: “He dies, you die.”
“Buffy?” he heard himself ask.
The bikers had been approaching, but now they froze in place. So did the replacement gunslinger who had suddenly materialized behind Giles. Even Cagliostro seemed locked in place, but his paralysis was less complete. Where the others were frozen like a video still frame, Cagliostro had merely paused. An expression of absolute confusion formed on his aristocratic features, and he licked his lips as he looked from side to side.
“Buffy?” he said. “Giles? What’s going on here?”
Buffy blinked, completely dumbfounded. The centuries-old master mage, philosopher, and politician had spoken in a different voice, the voice of a confused teenager.