The Gatekeeper Trilogy, Book Three - SONS of ENTROPY

by Christopher Golden

  Then the great portcullis was raised, and Hadrius, in black armor and a terrifying black helmet decorated with red devils, appeared astride an enormous black horse.

  In his right hand, clad in a black leather gauntlet, he held aloft a sword of uncommon size and heft.

  “Not to fear, boy,” he said to Giacomo, as two squires raised the boy across the great saddle. “This night will see you avenged.”

  And they rode, oh, how they rode! Cutting them all down, the smug peasantry toasting and feasting the destruction of Natalia Fulcanelli! In the tavern and in their beds, every child, every man, every woman.

  The best, saved for last: the peasant and his whore, burned to death with magick.

  “It is La Brûlure Noire,” Hadrius told Giacomo, “and before I die, I will make you its master.”

  And he did become the master of the black burn.

  Thus was he known as Il Maestro.

  Now, in the rude little storage closet, Il Maestro grunted with anger. He narrowed his eyes into slits as the vicious edge flashed in a field of crackling blue energy. The blade thirsted, and he, the most skilled and feared of sorcerers on so many different planes, appeared to be incapable—for the time being—of giving it what it desired most. What it had once savored so lustfully.

  The blood of a Slayer.

  In 1539, Maria Regina, the Chosen One, had been easy to subdue, easier still to sacrifice to Fulcanelli’s lord, Belphegor. The power of her death had coursed through Fulcanelli’s veins like an incredible drug. In all his hundreds of thousands of days as a sorcerer, there had been only a handful of moments which rivaled that thrill, that ecstasy. One had been the slow death by torture of Giuliana Regnier, the wife of the first Gatekeeper. Another, when he had finally mastered La Brûlure Noire and burned a rival to death.

  Like the blade, he thirsted for another such moment. Had believed that the glory was almost upon him. Now, however, something was going terribly wrong. He wanted the heir, Jacques, for his power and for revenge on the Regnier clan, but thus far, he had been denied the boy. It was absolutely unsupportable to Fulcanelli that that should be the case. It should have been an easy matter to pluck him away, body, soul, and small, beating heart.

  Likewise, the Slayer should be dead by now, at his hand, with this very sword. And yet she still lived.

  “There is no justice in the world,” he groused, then smirked at his own ridiculous choice of words. He had long ago stopped believing in justice. In fact, its absence usually benefited him.

  But nothing was going his way. Unbelievable as it seemed, two of his lieutenants, Claude and Lupo, had turned against him. Even more unbelievable, some of the brothers had joined the two traitors. Others were considering it, discussing it. Weakness and duplicity traveled in Fulcanelli’s wake.

  And while it was true that he had planned to give every single one of his followers an eternity of endless torment in return for their loyalty, and not the princely power over the earth that he had promised them, he nevertheless counted it a profound insult that he had been betrayed.

  Those who insulted him once should not count upon living long enough to insult him twice.

  However, Brother Claude and Brother Lupo were nowhere to be found. That concerned him further. Heretofore, none of his followers had been able to hide from him. Dare it, and they were ashes before they realized they’d been caught—

  On the sword, in the field of blue, a darkness formed. Within the darkness, the familiar silhouette of horns and trunk blurred, then coalesced. Belphegor’s face crystallized upon the blade, spinning slowly like a sun as Fulcanelli tried to mask his fear at the appearance of his sponsor without Fulcanelli having summoned him.

  “My lord,” he said, with what he hoped was humility. He inclined his head, thought better of it, and prepared to kneel.

  The blade stopped moving and pointed directly at the base of his throat.

  “Giacomo,” Belphegor said with deceptive softness. “I grow impatient.”

  “Yes, yes,” Fulcanelli said with nervous asperity, then realized what he was doing and cleared his throat. He said slowly, “Yes, great lord. I know. I’m making progress.”

  “Progress.”

  “Yes.” Fulcanelli swallowed. Thus far, Belphegor had needed him as much as he needed Belphegor. But the barriers between worlds were growing weaker with each passing moment. The demon had insisted that the blood of the Slayer was necessary for his purposes, but was that true, if Micaela could serve as her replacement?

  What of his, Fulcanelli’s, own blood?

  Fulcanelli wondered if it was time to find another sponsor. Not as a replacement—Belphegor would surely shred his flesh from his bones if he even attempted such a thing—but as protection. It would be a risky matter to approach another denizen of Hell, requiring skill and cleverness. But perhaps it would prove riskier to do nothing.

  Fulcanelli glanced anxiously at the reflection of Belphegor. The demon’s silence was unnerving; yet Fulcanelli knew that the longer he himself refrained from speaking, the less worried he would appear to be. He had perfected the art of conversational brink-manship over the centuries; yet now, faced with his failure and the dangers it posed him, he had to fight hard not to turn into a gibbering fool, intent upon making excuses he himself would never allow a subordinate to make.

  He clenched his fists. He was not a subordinate of Belphegor’s. He was an ally.

  “You seem troubled,” Belphegor said mildly.

  “No, great lord,” Fulcanelli assured him. “Not at all. All is going according to plan.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yes.”

  “That the Slayer yet roams free. That your daughter helps to guard the heir. That your own confederates betray you. All this is part of your plan?”

  Fulcanelli blanched, yet he retained his composure. He moved his hands and said, “It’s true that there have been a number of obstacles—”

  “Obstacles!”

  The storage room began to quake. Rolls of paper towels cascaded to the cement floor, unfurling like party streamers. Plastic bottles thumped to the floor. A jar shattered.

  The sword flew at Fulcanelli. He raised his right hand to stay it with magick, but it sailed past his thumb and sliced open his cheek.

  Fulcanelli shouted in surprise. The blade clattered to the floor and he took a step back from it, touching the wound.

  “Excellent,” Belphegor said. “Allow the droplets to fall on the blade. I shall taste your blood this day.”

  “My lord,” Fulcanelli protested. It would shame him to obey. And he didn’t want the demon to know the flavor of his fear.

  “Do as I say, Giacomo.” The voice was deceptively gentle. “I desire only to commune with you. You are my best beloved one in this sad little realm, you know that. I have no wish to hurt you. Only to know that you are still my friend.”

  Fulcanelli had little choice. He took his hand away from the cut, his fingertips sticking to the already drying blood, pressed again, and smeared his hand over the blade.

  “Ah,” Belphegor sighed with contentment. “Delicious. And filled with power.”

  Fulcanelli said nothing.

  But he knew his time was running out.

  “Buffy, your mother is at the old drive-in,” Giles said, as he and Ethan joined Angel and Buffy in the canning factory. “It’s been transformed.”

  Buffy said, “Let’s go.”

  Angel hesitated and looked at Giles. “Transformed into what?”

  “A labyrinth,” Giles said.

  “Have you seen it yourself?” Angel pressed. “Or did you actually trust his word?”

  “Angel,” Buffy protested. “Let’s just get going.” She glared at Ethan. “He knows that if this is a trap, or a sick joke, I’ll break his neck.”

  Ethan raised his brows. “For heaven’s sake, you’re just loaded with aggro, now aren’t you? Slayer Spice. Girl power. Good Lord, why is the world still extant at all, with a hothead like you as the C
hosen One?”

  “Watch it,” Angel said. His face morphed into full vampire grotesquerie, which Ethan always found fascinating.

  Ethan said sorrowfully, “You don’t trust me. I’m crushed.” He put his hand over his heart.

  Angel put a hand on Ethan’s shoulder and applied pressure. “Crushing can be arranged.”

  “That does hurt,” Ethan said mildly. “All right. Listen. Not far from where we stand,” he said sotto voce, “a small contingent of your dreaded Sons of Entropy recently visited the grocery store.”

  Buffy stared at him.

  “They’re fond of various forms of pasta, as one might imagine. Linguine, that sort of thing.”

  “Did you cast a spell to find them at this grocery store?” Buffy asked suspiciously.

  Ethan shrugged. It was a poor lie, and he wasn’t about to compound his trouble by elaborating. It wouldn’t be wise to let them know that he’d dined with one of the Sons of Entropy earlier, then seen the man killed. It might lead to questions he’d rather not answer. He’d been trying to see what he could gain by betraying Buffy and her friends. Now his only option was to help them. Fine. But it would be best for his physical well-being if they didn’t know he’d tried to sell them out to Belphegor.

  “They meandered around for quite a long time, fixating on all the different kinds of coffee to be had.” He shrugged. “Boring lot, those. When coffee brands consume so much of their otherwise precious time. Imagine having that much time on your hands.”

  The hand on his shoulder threatened to pulverize bones. “Get to the point, damn it,” Angel growled.

  Ethan frowned at him. “Do you mind?”

  The pressure increased.

  “I followed them. They went to the drive-in. And I sensed the presence of your mother with a locator spell far superior to anything Rupert’s attempted.”

  The look Buffy gave him told him that Rupert had not recently attempted a locator spell. Then Ethan remembered they’d not gotten that far in their joint magickal studies.

  “All right,” he admitted. “No locator spell here, either. I heard her screaming.”

  The Slayer blanched and looked as if violence was not far off. She pushed past him and said, “Giles,” as she raced out of the canning factory.

  Angel and Giles ran to catch up with her. Ethan followed behind.

  “We’re in my rental,” he announced.

  “Where’s your car?” Buffy asked her Watcher. Rupert obviously understood her distinct unhappiness in allowing the dread Monsieur Rayne to chauffeur her.

  “His is faster.”

  “Bigger, too,” Ethan said airily, “than that death trap Ripper pedals.”

  Briefly, an image flashed into Ethan’s mind of Rupert on an old motorcycle, vintage World War II, with Buffy on the back and Angel in a sidecar. All of them in goggles and white scarves. It was so ridiculous he grinned from ear to ear.

  Even with the world ending, it was imperative to keep one’s sense of humor.

  They reached his vehicle. As Rupert climbed into the front seat on the passenger side, Ethan flashed him a jaunty grin. The old boy didn’t respond.

  “And we’re off,” Ethan announced.

  Angel clenched his fists. He hated Ethan Rayne. The sorcerer had put a demon into Jenny Calendar, however indirectly. Angel had been the one to save her, and ironically, it was a trauma she had only partially recovered from before he, Angel, had murdered her. Angel had often wondered if the ordeal had spurred her to find a way to restore his soul into his own demon-inhabited body. If feeling so defiled and dirty had increased her guilt over the curse she’d known her people had laid on him. Ridiculous as it was to try to pin any of the blame for her death on Ethan, Angel figured the Brit and himself both for ridiculous figures. Fatally ridiculous.

  Buffy said anxiously, “Damn it, Ethan. Faster.”

  They hurtled through the night. Perhaps one minute dragged by. Perhaps two. When you’re over two hundred forty years old, time takes on a new rhythm. As does death, and the contemplation of it.

  “We need a plan,” Buffy said. “We can’t just pull up and ask them to give back my mother.” She said to Ethan, “Did you tell them we were willing to trade?”

  “We are not,” Giles said, “and I will not allow you to think that way, Buffy.” He cleared his throat at her steely gaze. “That is, I would request that you refrain from such notions.”

  “Yessir,” Buffy said with mock obedience.

  “They’re going to know the Slayer’s coming,” Angel cut in. “They have locator spells. Runestones.”

  “I have magick, too,” Ethan said reasonably. “I haven’t honed my skills in the areas of violent offense, I’m afraid. My talents are for more subtle magicks. Though I’ve prepared certain spells, studied up a bit for the bloodshed, you might say. Also, I’m fairly certain I can mask our arrival. And our assault.” He half turned from the steering wheel. “You see, dear girl, your mother’s being held inside the huge maze. They’ve got her in there, wandering about.”

  Angel cast a sidelong glance at Buffy, who tensed as she listened. He understood; he, too, had the feeling that the other shoe had not yet dropped.

  “That’s all. Just frightening her,” he said easily.

  They barreled onto Route 17 and went flying out of town. Buffy’s jaw was tightly clenched. A muscle jumped in the hollow of her cheek.

  “I said to hurry up,” she muttered, leaning forward. Angel could practically hear her grinding her teeth. He reached out a hand and touched her wrist. It didn’t seem to register.

  The dark shapes of trees and fences blurred across the night-blackened windows of Ethan’s car. Angel couldn’t shake his sense that this was bad business, a trap concocted by the British sorcerer. Who knew how many double deals he had going? How many monsters, human and otherwise, he had promised the Slayer’s head on a plate?

  Angel wanted to tell Buffy they should turn back. The protectiveness he felt toward her was overwhelming. But he would be wasting his time, and hers. He knew she was gearing up for the fight, and she needed his confidence in her and his own battle readiness.

  Suddenly, as they flew by a large field and began to pass beneath a bridge, a fog rushed up like an ocean wave and cascaded over them. It spread out and enveloped the car, thick and oily, clinging to the windows.

  “Damn,” Giles muttered.

  Buffy said tensely, “No, it’s good.”

  Angel completed her thought. “It’s camouflage. It means we’re getting close.”

  Directly in front of the car, the fog thinned—the only place where it did so—and Ethan smiled proudly into the rearview mirror.

  “Good work, eh? Seen from the side, they’ll think their silly little trick is working. We’ll pull over in a few minutes and hike the rest of the way in. Good?”

  “You’re a bloody genius,” Giles said sarcastically. He turned to Buffy. “We still need a plan. Now, what I suggest is—”

  “Okay.” Buffy hunkered forward with her hands on the back of Giles’s seat. “We sneak in as quietly as we can. Ethan, you make sure they can’t sense our presence, especially mine. They’re looking for me. You blow it, and I’ll kill you.”

  “Not to fear, m’dear.”

  “Yeah, right,” she snapped. “While I find Fulcanelli, Angel takes on any Sons of Entropy who notice us. With Ethan’s help. They’ve probably got spiny-headed guards or trolls or something guarding the perimeter. Giles, you concentrate on my mom.”

  “That’s a reasonable facsimile of what I was going to suggest myself,” Giles said.

  She sighed. “That’s probably the best we can do. As usual, we’re outgunned and outnumbered.”

  “Outnumbered, yeah, outgunned, never,” Angel said, smiling at her.

  “Oh.” Ethan snapped his fingers and looked up at Buffy in the rearview mirror. “Did I mention the Minotaur?”

  The three stared at him.

  “In the maze. Rather keen on devouring your mothe
r, I’d say.”

  There was silence in the car. Then Buffy’s voice was deadly quiet. “When this is over . . .”

  Ethan Rayne chuckled. “If wishes were horses, dear girl, well, let’s just say my world would be a much more amusing place.”

  Cordelia and Willow walked closely together as they went down one of the main halls of the Gatehouse. The place was enormous, with maybe as many as a thousand rooms folding in and out of earthly space.

  “It was totally freaky when we got here,” Cordelia told Willow. “The house was, like, wigged. One minute we were down in the basement with this worm monster and the next, we’re up in an attic with Antoinette.”

  She tossed her hair. “Xander almost got eaten by ghouls, Buffy had these panther people after her, and I was stuck on the roof in a fire. I would have died if the Gatekeeper hadn’t saved me. Well, Buffy helped a little, too,” she added.

  On Willow’s left, something shrieked wildly, then threw itself against the carved wooden door. She jumped.

  “See, the thing is,” Cordelia said, apparently unconcerned, “the Gatekeeper has to make sure all these monsters stay here. And he has to collect any new ones that come through the breaches. Oh, and pretty things like fairies and unicorns.”

  “Unicorns?” Willow echoed. “Cool.”

  Cordelia nodded at her. “Some of this stuff is neat. But some of it is, eew, possessed or something. There were these sprite things, and Giles thought they were so gorgeous, but then their stomachs started exploding and—”

  There was a terrible howl, followed by a series of ferocious growls. A door down the hall burst open, and Xander appeared. He was sweaty and panting; his hair hung in his eyes, and the T-shirt he wore clung to his chest and arms.

  “Xander, what are you—” Cordelia blurted, but he held up a hand.

  Then he raised his arm and faced the door, saying in a booming voice, “By the gods of old, I bind thee! I call upon Pan, my protector, to subdue thee!”

  The growls turned to yelps, then died away. Xander grabbed the side of the door and slammed it shut.