Ghost Roads

by Christopher Golden

  “The boy isn’t here,” Micaela said.

  “What?” Angel snapped.

  “But the Sons of Entropy took him,” Buffy said. “Where else could they be keeping him?”

  “You’re wrong,” she said. “I’ve learned a great deal in the days I’ve been captive here. My fath . . . I mean, II Maestro often uses creatures of the dark to do his dirty work. In this case, he bargained with a pair of vampires. They stole the child away from his school in England, and in exchange, my father was to provide them with an artifact called the Spear of Longinus.”

  Buffy and Angel exchanged a glance. Then she looked back at Micaela. “But the Spear isn’t here,” she said.

  It was in Boston, at the Gatehouse, but she didn’t trust Micaela enough yet to tell her something she might not already know:

  “And that’s why the boy isn’t here,” Micaela said. “II Maestro said that without the Spear, he would have to use force to take the child away from this vampire, this . . . what was his name?”

  Micaela’s brows knitted, and Buffy stopped paying attention. What difference did it make? The boy wasn’t here. That meant it was time for them to not be here either.

  “What’s the best way out of here?” she asked.

  “They were preparing to sacrifice you in the vineyard,” Micaela said. “We should probably go right out the front.”

  “The wolfs getting heavy,” Angel said. “I vote for the front. Anybody gets in the way, they’ll regret it.”

  “Let’s go,” Buffy agreed.

  They popped out into the corridor, glanced around, and started for the front of the villa. No one appeared to bar their progress. All of the acolytes must have been with Fulcanelli or guarding the buildings at regular posts outside, Buffy reasoned.

  Moments later, they were approaching the door when they heard the sounds of a struggle outside.

  “God, what now?” Buffy asked.

  Micaela snapped her fingers. “I remember the vampire’s name now. An odd one, which was what confused me.”

  Angel reached for the door.

  “It was Spike.”

  Buffy turned to stare wide-eyed at Micaela. Angel nearly dropped Oz’s unconscious form as he turned, letting his hand fall away from the door.

  From outside, a man screamed in agony—a long, high, keening wail.

  The door tore off its hinges as two acolytes slammed against it from outside. They fell to the floor, one dead, one nearly so. Framed in the open door, in the moonlight streaming in from outside, Buffy saw three Sons of Entropy attacking the tall, lithe, familiar figure of Spike. He’d grown his white-blond hair out a bit, but there was no mistaking him.

  “Look, boys, I’m here for the Spear, and I mean to have it,” he said, sounding entirely reasonable, just before he snapped one acolyte’s neck.

  Yep, Buffy thought. Same old Spike.

  “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Angel said, his voice raspy and dangerous.

  Spike looked up, blinked in surprise, then laughed as he crushed the face of another acolyte beneath his boot heel.

  “Well, isn’t this lovely,” he said, “it’s a bloody reunion. Not that it doesn’t give me grand spasms of pleasure, but what brings you lot here? Don’t tell me you’re after the Spear as well?”

  From behind them, deeper inside the house, Buffy heard shouting. Something about the Slayer having escaped. That was bad.

  “We’re gonna have company in a second,” she said, glancing at Angel. Then she looked at Micaela. “How many are there?”

  “At least thirty.”

  “How many magicians?” Angel demanded.

  “I don’t know,” she said nervously. “Most of them are new faces to me. The ones who are most skilled have already been sent off on other errands, I think. In America, and here as well.”

  “Yeah, but there’ve gotta be a couple who know the hocus-pocus.”

  Spike stepped over to stand in the doorway, hands on the frame as he leaned in and cleared his throat.

  “Hello?” he said angrily. “Have you forgotten someone? What is going on?”

  Buffy shot him a withering glance. “The Spear isn’t here,” she said. “We’re not here for that. We’re here for Jacques Regnier.”

  Spike grinned broadly. “Ah. All right, then. I’ll make you the same offer I made old Lefty inside, all right? You get me the Spear, and . . .”

  Buffy spun and kicked Spike in the chest, sending him tumbling back out of the doorway and clearing a path for them.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” she told Angel.

  Footsteps pounded through the house behind them. They emerged from the house onto the broad expanse of land beyond the front door. A dirt road led away from it, winding down toward the city, and they didn’t even have a vehicle.

  “You know what we’re going to have to do,” Angel said.

  “Ghost roads,” Buffy agreed.

  “There they are!” shouted an acolyte, who had just come around the front of the house holding a flickering torch. Several others with torches appeared behind him.

  “What about her?” Angel asked, and nodded at Micaela. “Only beings touched by the supernatural can travel the ghost roads.”

  “I can take care of myself,” Micaela said. “In fact, I’m sure I can find you the entrance you’ll need.”

  They looked at her.

  Spike lunged up from the ground, hands reaching for Buffy’s throat. He clamped them around her neck and began to squeeze.

  “Now you listen to me, you little tart!” he snarled. “We had a brief association by convenience. That’s not going to stop me ripping your bleedin’ heart out!”

  Buffy pried his fingers from her throat, matching his strength. She glared at Micaela.

  “Open it,” she said, as even more acolytes came around the house and began to surround them.

  “What are they waiting for?” Angel asked, glaring at the acolytes.

  “II Maestro,” Micaela replied as she began to weave a spell.

  Then Buffy looked into Spike’s yellow eyes and said stiffly, “You’re not going to get the Spear, Spike. Get it through your head. Fulcanelli never had it. But if we don’t get that boy back to his father soon, it’ll be Hell on Earth. The very thing that got you to back me up in Sunnydale. And you know who’ll be the only human left alive? The guy who ripped you off.”

  Spike only glared at her. An acolyte thrust a torch at him, but Spike grabbed it out of his hand and gave him a backhand to the face that sent him sprawling. He tossed the torch at the villa; it crashed through a window, immediately setting the curtains on fire.

  “Good shot,” he told himself, and went on with his conversation.

  “I want the Spear,” he insisted. “For Dru.”

  Buffy blinked, remembering what Micaela had said.

  “You can’t have the Spear,” she told him, “but if you don’t get back to the boy, Drusilla won’t be there. Fulcanelli’s sent some heavy hitters to take him back. She’ll be roasting on a spit in no time.”

  Spike swore loudly, looked around, and then turned back to Buffy.

  “I’ve got no way to get back there,” he snarled.

  “Stick with us,” Buffy said.

  “Slayer!” Fulcanelli shouted.

  Buffy turned and looked back at the villa. She could see inside the open front door, where the flames had begun to spread to the rest of the house. Fulcanelli was striding purposefully down the corridor toward them, ignoring the flames creeping up the walls.

  “Hurry,” she said to Micaela, her eyes still on Fulcanelli, who held his withered left hand against his body.

  “How did you learn to do this?” Angel asked Micaela.

  “I can do a few things,” she said, her voice filled with urgency. “I can reach out and touch the ghost roads, and make them open up for me.”

  “Bloody hell,” Spike whispered to himself, as a breach into the ghost roads began to form.

  It wasn’t like the other
breaches they’d seen, Buffy realized. Rather than a circle in the air, it was more like a rip in the air, almost like a door that Micaela was pushing open.

  “Micaela?” shouted II Maestro, as he saw the girl he thought of as his daughter, standing with the Slayer.

  Buffy smiled at him. Felt the urge to stick out her tongue, but didn’t.

  “No!” Fulcanelli roared, as he emerged from the house. “Stop them!” he demanded, as black flames began to blaze around his right hand.

  The acolytes, who had been awaiting his word, surged forward suddenly. Buffy spun, saw the open breach, reached out and shoved Angel through, with the unconscious Oz-wolf on his shoulder.

  “Look out!”

  Buffy whirled again and kicked an acolyte in the face, then turned to look. There were monsters within the ghost roads, just as there had been the last time Angel traveled them. Creatures with faces like blisters, with no faces, creatures of bone and insubstantial wraiths that flailed and screeched at the intruders.

  This is crazy, Buffy thought. Suicide. But they didn’t have any other choice. It was the only way to get to Jacques Regnier in time.

  “Here!” Spike said.

  Buffy turned to see him hurl the corpse of a dead acolyte through the breach. The monsters left Angel alone and set upon it like a pack of wild dogs.

  “Go!” Buffy snapped.

  Spike and Micaela followed Angel into the breach.

  “Damn you, Slayer, for taking my daughter from me!” Fulcanelli shouted, and now the sorcerer began to run toward her.

  They were closing in on all sides now. Buffy broke the arm of an acolyte who reached for her. She grabbed the torch from his hands and shoved it into the face of another, who began to scream. She waved the torch around, and then Fulcanelli was standing there, in front of her.

  That burning black magick had engulfed his entire arm. His eyes pulsed with blackness so dark it seemed like ragged tears in the night. Beyond him, she could see the villa burning, flames ravenously consuming the place.

  “Die,” Fulcanelli said, and pointed at her.

  Oily black energy reached out for Buffy and struck her body, and she spasmed as though electrocuted.

  And tumbled back into the breach. Into the ghost roads.

  Micaela drew the breach closed behind her.

  Chapter 17

  DUSK HAD FALLEN, TAKING WITH it the brilliance of the sunset and draining the town of Sunnydale to shades of gray. The cool, still twilight hung like the calm before the storm, a breath held before the plunge. Panthers and leopards growled and paced in the Sunnydale Zoo. Swings in the park swayed ever so slightly. An owl hooted plaintively.

  Gravestones shifted as the restless dead waited for night to fall.

  For most of the citizens of Sunnydale, it was a twilight like any other.

  For Joyce Summers, it seemed as though it might be the beginning of her last night on earth.

  “Now, remember, Mrs. Summers,” the one named Brother Claude said pleasantly over his shoulder, raising his brows like a college professor reminding a student about homework. As he stood beside the ratty couch where she sat in the basement, the dim lightbulb suspended from a chain cast demonic shadows over his features. “Make a sound, and you are dead.”

  Surrounded by hooded figures, Joyce nodded numbly. Although the music from the band upstairs was making the walls throb, the beating of her heart was so loud in her ears that she was half prepared for Claude to kill her for it. She had never known that it was possible to be this afraid and still function. That she could nod her head. And that her heart would continue to beat.

  Since learning that Buffy was the Slayer, Joyce had known fear many times. Seated on Buffy’s bed, clutching a pillow or some prized possession of her daughter’s, she had stared for hours into the darkness. Soundlessly she would stroke the fur of a stuffed animal—that silly, fat pig, Mr. Gordo—her forehead beaded with clammy perspiration, willing her child to come home safely from patrol. She’d practically worn tracks in the kitchen floor, pacing, reaching for the phone, with no one to call. It would do no good to alert the police if Buffy was overdue. And it would be little comfort to speak to Giles, who had no way of telling if that night would be the night Buffy wouldn’t be coming home at all.

  It was a mother’s job to keep her daughter from harm, but in the case of the Summers women, the roles were reversed. No matter how much Joyce wanted it otherwise, Buffy, and not she, was the Chosen One. Buffy and Buffy alone stood against the forces of darkness.

  Joyce prayed to any god who would listen that Buffy would stay away from this place tonight.

  As the figures parted and Brother Lupo, the one with the milky white eye surrounded by scars, approached her, Joyce Summers was shaking from head to toe. She was afraid to die. It was only with supreme effort that she did not cry out. But she was more afraid of Buffy’s death than her own. If, as they planned, she were to be the bait in the trap that caused her daughter’s death, she might as well be dead herself.

  Without realizing it, she moaned deep in her throat as Brother Lupo came over to the couch.

  “Be quiet!” someone snapped.

  Joyce closed her eyes.

  * * *

  “Okay, so where are they?” Cordelia said to Xander, straining to be heard over the latest thrash offering from You Killed My Brother.

  “They must be inside already,” Xander said unhappily. “They’re in there sneaking around, those sneaky SOE’s. How’d they do that? I hate magick guys.”

  He, Cordy, Willow, and Giles had shown up hours before dusk, waiting at their hiding places, fully expecting to have beaten the Sons of Entropy to the Bronze. Together, Xander and Giles had worked out a strategy for guarding the “entrance and egress” to the Bronze, although Xander had no idea what any of that had to do with baby eagles. He figured they should just call it “securing the perimeter” and be done with it.

  But apparently they’d been tricked, and Xander was monumentally frustrated. With a few more soldiers, they could take down any number of Sons of Entropy and rescue Joyce. Provided their side knew a little something about magick. That had not been on the roster of military knowledge he’d acquired when he’d been transformed into a soldier a couple Halloweens ago.

  But he and the others did have a little magick on their side. Willow, who was currently on patrol with Giles on the opposite side of the building, had provided everybody with scapulas, which were protective talismans with all kinds of stinky herbs in them. Giles had muttered a few words in Latin over them, and that was supposed to keep the four of them relatively camouflaged from the creeps who were holding Buffy’s mom hostage. Off the magick radar, as it were. But it didn’t make them invisible. Just less detectable.

  Before they’d left for the mission, Giles had tried to phone the Gatekeeper for some words of wisdom, but the connection had not gone through. Not a good sign. They should have left someone there to help the old guy, no matter how much he protested that they’d just be in the way.

  As the shadows lengthened and the crowd grew, Xander and Cordelia crouched behind a row of overflowing trash cans, facing the entrance to the Bronze. Xander had moved the trash cans there himself from their regular location in the alley. He figured the Sons of Entropy wouldn’t realize that the cans were not normally here. He hoped like crazy they wouldn’t think to look behind them, but just in case, he planned to move Cordelia and himself to a new hiding spot behind the Dumpsters flush with the exterior of the Bronze itself once true darkness fell.

  “Do you think there’s a ghost road into the Bronze?” Cordelia said directly into his ear. The music was very loud. “Is that how they got in without us seeing them?”

  He shrugged. “Who can say? Maybe they’ve been in there for a while. Maybe they were already there when Brother Claude stopped by for tea at Giles’s place. Y’know, maybe they’re using the element of surprise. The way we aren’t,” he added bitterly.

  They sat without speaking for a while
. Cordelia had on some new perfume. It smelled great, and it masked the odor of the garbage fairly well. He inhaled it, savoring the spicy scent, and let his mind wander back to happier times, happier places. Happier activities.

  “Are you nervous?” Xander asked. He looked at her. “You’re holding your breath.”

  “Only a moron wouldn’t be nervous,” she said. After a few moments, she said, “Can you imagine having to save your mother from religious fanatics?”

  He pondered a moment. “No. Avon ladies, maybe.”

  She sighed. “Our lives are so weird.”

  “True.” He shrugged. “But at least we live in interesting times.”

  “Give me boredom any day.”

  “It’s my constant desire.” He patted her arm. “What I wouldn’t give for an Uzi right now.”

  She rolled her eyes and frowned at him. “All guys ever want to do is shoot things.”

  “Wrong.”

  “And that.”

  “Sums it up.” He gave her a wink. “And that would be a problem why?”

  “Oh, Xander.” Cordelia shook her head like a weary older relative. “There is more to life.”

  “Yes,” he replied earnestly. “In your case, shoes.”

  They heard a noise and ducked.

  Xander peered around the side of the trash can. In the crush by the entrance, this guy stood out by the mere fact that he was trying not to stand out. He wore a hooded sweatshirt, and he was obviously looking for something. Not a date, however, unless she had told him to meet her behind the Dumpster: he wandered over there and dum-da-dum looked behind it. His face was hidden by his hood, and at the moment, he was looking downward.

  But if he snooped on over to the trash cans, they were dead meat.

  Here he came. In the dim light, Xander saw a face striped with scars.

  “Oh, my God,” Cordelia whispered. “I don’t think he goes to Sunnydale.”

  “Me, either.”

  Sweatshirt guy was halfway to the row of cans.

  “Looks like we’re going to have to do something, aren’t we?”