AT THE EAST END OF Sunnydale, still within the town limits but long past anything that actually passed for “town,” lay the Sunnydale Twin Drive-In. Or what had once been the Twin. One after another, the nostalgic buyers had come along, dedicated to “doing it right” even if that meant making no money at all. Eventually, reality set in. There were people willing to operate the drive-in purely for pleasure, without any profit at all. But so far, nobody had been willing to run the place at a loss.
Too far out on the edge of town. Too far from just about everything else. Past the desolation that had once been the two-screened drive-in, there were only some thick woods, Route 17, several mom-and-pop stores and then, when you started to get close to the next town over, an ice rink.
Teenagers sneaked in often enough, mostly to drink or have a bonfire in the lot. One of the screens was ruined, half of it having collapsed during a nasty thunderstorm back in ’95. Most of the speakers had been ripped from their stands, swung around some local kid’s head by their wires, and thrown at the screens or at the little cement projection booth and concession stand that looked like nothing so much as a bomb shelter.
But there hadn’t been any invading teenagers in the past few weeks. Anyone who even came close to the fence had the sudden and irresistible urge to be far, far away from the Sunnydale Twin. It wasn’t any one particular thing, but just an overall feeling that drove them off.
It was black magick.
* * *
Brother Dando turned off his headlights and then drove his Jeep up through the break in the trees, down a small hill, and through the section of fence that he personally had torn down weeks earlier. Then he was in the Twin’s lot, and he headed straight for the concession stand, using only the light of the moon and stars to keep him from slamming into a row of speaker posts.
He braked to a stop, put the Jeep in neutral, set the brake, and pulled his keys from the ignition. Dando was angry as he leaped from the Jeep, but it was an anger he was doing his best to hide.
His best was simply not good enough.
Dando slammed through the door, bringing the two guards lounging inside to their feet, minor magick crackling around their hands. When they saw him, their faces fell, their eyes searching for something, anything, to focus on.
“Brother Dando,” gasped the younger of the two, whom Dando thought was named Ramsey. “Our apologies for our, ah, lax security. Your entrance was . . . abrupt, and we . . .”
“Oh, shut up, you idiot,” Dando sneered. “Where is Claude?”
Brother Ramsey blinked. “Um. Brother Claude is in the storage area, seeing to the feeding of the prisoner.”
With a snort of derision, Dando stormed along a corridor whose decor made it look more like a bathroom than anything else. He reached the double metal doors to the storage area, where the drive-in’s owners had kept shelf upon shelf of popping corn, candy, cups, liquid butter substitute, and just about everything else they needed.
As he entered, Brother Claude was closing the opposite door. Beyond that door was the room one owner after another had used as an office. It had held the safe, and so could be locked up quite tightly. There were no windows, and only that one door. It was perfect for holding someone prisoner. Which had been quite convenient, since they had never expected to need to hold anyone prisoner. Not until the order had come from II Maestro, surprising them, as many of II Maestro’s orders did. Particularly today.
“Claude, what the hell is going on?” Dando snapped.
The other acolyte turned to look at him, and much of Dando’s anger fled instantly. Claude was thin and wiry and had delicate features. He had wispy brown hair, a thin mustache, and wore wire-rim glasses. Dando had often thought Claude would look more at home applauding politely in a box at the opera than slipping on a hood and intoning some arcane ritual.
But any time he thought that way, the impression drained away the moment he looked into Claude’s eyes. Dando had never seen eyes like that. Not even in the mirror.
“He’s upstairs in the projection room,” Brother Claude said, and smiled mischievously. “I’ve done my part, Dando. I called to tell you the news. If you have a problem with that information, I suggest you take it up with him. He is, after all, our commander now.”
With an eloquent scowl, Dando turned and retreated from the storage area, then started up the steps to the projection room upstairs. At the top of the steps was another thick metal door. He gripped the knob firmly, felt a peculiar heat in the metal as he turned it, and then he flung the door open and marched straight in.
Three steps, and he stopped, blinking, astounded by what he saw.
His bald pate gleaming in the weird light, Brother Lupo sat at the center of the projection room, magickal blue energy crackling around his blind, white eye and the scars on his brow and cheek. Lupo’s single good eye darted around the room, but he didn’t seem to notice Dando’s entrance at all.
The two square windows through which movies had been projected when the Sunnydale Twin was still in operation showed only the night beyond. Other than the tiny bit of moonlight shining into the room, the only illumination came from Lupo’s magick. It spread around the room in a grid of straight and curved lines that Dando took several moments to realize was a map of the town. There were small bursts of energy glowing at perhaps a dozen places on this quivering, floating map that stretched from wall to wall. And, very near its center, not far from where Lupo sat, a large patch of energy glowed savagely red.
As Dando watched, one of the smaller, blue patches began to glow white. Lupo smiled to himself.
“Yes,” whispered Brother Lupo.
Just as the white turned back to blue again.
Lupo growled, “Damn!” and his one good eye snapped up to glare at Dando.
“I assume, Brother Dando, that you have some purpose for being here and interrupting me?”
“What are you doing?” Dando asked, his anger having leaked away long ago.
Lupo grunted with dissatisfaction, as though Dando should know perfectly well what he was doing. And Dando could not escape the thought that Lupo had every reason to expect such knowledge from him. However, Brother Dando was nowhere near the magician that Lupo was. This very moment proved that, at least. But Dando still felt slighted by II Maestro’s choice.
“The creatures of chaos, denizens of the Other-world, have begun crowding the ghost roads, just as II Maestro planned,” Lupo explained with exasperation. “The destruction of that barrier has begun. But unless we can reopen the breaches that were so painstakingly created between the ghost roads and this world, the chain reaction he desires will never take place. It will be quite a task to merge Otherworld and Earth, and this is only the first step.
“With help from the Gatekeeper, and from the Watcher, that little amateur spellcaster who has allied herself with the Slayer has managed to bind these breaches quite well,” Lupo said with great frustration. “I am endeavoring to shatter those bindings, but it is no simple task.”
Brother Dando nodded, fascinated. Then he remembered his purpose and pulled himself up to his full height.
“That’s all well and good,” Dando said, “but even more reason for II Maestro to have chosen me for command. You have too many tasks to see to as it is.”
Lupo looked up, brows furrowed with disdain. “That is not for you to decide,” he said coldly.
“But why were we not told that the activities of the Sons of Entropy here in America were to be consolidated under one commander? We are used to receiving more personal attention from II Maestro,” Dando complained.
“Perhaps he is simply too busy to hold the hand of each of his acolytes,” Lupo suggested, glaring at Dando. “The grand plan of chaos that II Maestro has spent his considerable life developing is not for us to understand. We have only to obey. Each of us has a duty that contributes to the plan, each of us has been allowed to understand only his part in that plan. Now, as we come together for the final battle, we will all begin to understand far better. So he has vowed to me.
Dando stared at the crackling blue energy, nodded grimly, and turned to go. At the door, however, he paused and glanced back in.
“I still think I was the better choice,” Dando said. “My military training gives me an edge you cannot possibly have.”
Brother Lupo didn’t even look at him this time. Instead, he concentrated on a blue patch on the energy grid. At length, he said, “If you have a problem with this choice, you may take it up with II Maestro himself when he arrives.”
“Here?” Dando asked in astonishment.
“Soon,” the other replied.
* * *
In the maintenance closet, Joyce came awake slowly, rubbing gently at the spot on her head where she knew there ought to be a great deal of pain. And yet, there was no pain.
None.
Slowly, with unnecessary caution, she rose to her feet and examined her surroundings. The room was a concrete block without windows, and with a single metal door. There were several vents, but none big enough for her to climb through, as they did in the movies. There were several metal shelving units, some of which held half-used bottles of cleaning solution, but for the most part the place was picked clean. There was an old-fashioned rolling iron bucket with a rotten gray mop sticking up out of it.
On the floor there was a tray that she assumed was someone’s idea of dinner. The meal consisted of a bowl of plain pasta and two boiled hot dogs which hadn’t seen “hot” in a long, long time. She was supposed to eat, she knew. And at first she rebelled at the idea. That was, until she realized how hungry she was. Add to that her understanding that if they had wanted her dead, poison would not be their weapon of choice.
She ate.
When she had finished, she stood up again. Instead of pacing the room, she went directly to the door and began to pound on it, the metal aiding her in her effort to make a lot of noise. There was no way she was going to be in here without at least knowing why.
There came a voice from beyond the door. “Step back,” it said.
Joyce steeled herself for something horrible. Vampires. Demons. Evil sorcerers. The man who opened the door was the furthest thing from what she might have imagined. He was well groomed and handsome, in a professorial sort of way. Also, he was smiling, and it wasn’t the kind of smile Joyce would have expected from abductors.
“Yes, Mrs. Summers, what can I do for you?” asked the man solicitously.
“You can get me the hell out of here,” she snapped. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but you’d better let me go right now.”
The man smiled even more warmly. “What I think,” he said, “is that we have captured you, and intend to keep you as a prisoner for the foreseeable future. You ought to keep that in mind when you speak to me. I am, after all, the man charged with keeping you fed and alive. You may call me Brother Claude.”
Joyce faltered, then. She didn’t know what to say. There was no way she was going to fight her way out. Not right now. And this Brother Claude had, in fact, brought her dinner. Then she shook that thought off. These guys had kidnapped her. She wasn’t going to be nice to them.
“I remember being hit on the head,” she said.
“Ah,” Claude said, nodding sympathetically. “Yes. You had a concussion. The brother who struck you has been corrected.”
“I . . . had a concussion,” Joyce repeated, touching her fingers to her skull again.
“Oh yes, quite severe,” Claude replied. “But I healed you. I have very little talent with magick, save where it allows for magickal healing.”
Joyce raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll be very useful to the Sons of Entropy once the world ends,” she said, her voice thick with sarcasm.
“Despite your tone, I’ll take that as sincere,” said Claude. “It would not go well for you if I chose to be insulted.”
With a shudder, Joyce withdrew into the room. “Well,” she said, “I don’t want to insult you, but your cuisine leaves a bit to be desired. Plus, it’s a bit chilly in here, and it would be nice if I could have a blanket and a pillow, at least.”
“I’ll take it under advisement,” Claude acknowledged, and smiled again. “I like your spirit, Mrs. Summers. No wonder your daughter became the Slayer.”
Joyce didn’t respond to that. She was shattering inside. All the bravado she had shown this man had been for his benefit, but inside, she was nothing but a quivering mass of fear. Still, she thought, at least he healed me. That must mean they don’t plan to kill me right away.
The thought gave her pause. For if they didn’t want her dead right away, then why did they want her? The only thing Joyce could think of was . . . bait.
“You think she’ll come for me, don’t you?” Joyce whispered in horror. “She won’t, you know. She’s the Slayer. The world depends on her.”
“She’d better,” said Brother Claude. “We’re all counting on her. Especially you.”
* * *
After he finished listening to the last cut of Tori Amos, Spike emerged from the room he shared with Drusilla in the little cottage. He’d been half dozing, because he was bored and restless and frustrated, but now it was time to get something done or he would have wasted the entire night.
He had a cigarette halfway to his lips when he realized she wasn’t in the main room.
“Damn,” he whispered, then chomped on the end and held it in his teeth without lighting it.
Spike went to the door of the room where they had kept the boy prisoner. He figured they’d been pretty easy on the kid. They took him to the bathroom half a dozen times a day, whether he needed to go or not. He got to sleep in a real bed. Even got fed pretty regularly. Just last night, Drusilla had brought home a pair of eager fishermen for supper. When they were drained, and Spike had dragged them down the path to the docks, he’d come upon their haul from the day before.
The kid had fresh fish during the day, and he’d have it again tonight.
If Drusilla hadn’t tired of playing baby-sitter.
He saw that the door was still locked, and he was immediately relieved. Which still begged the question of where Dru might be. And he ought to check in on the kid in any case. No reason she couldn’t have popped in for a nip and locked the door again on the way out.
But when he pushed the door open, the kid rolled over on his side. His eyes were wide with horror, but they relaxed a bit when he saw who his visitor was.
That pissed Spike off a bit.
He stepped into the kid’s room. The boy wore no gag. They’d dispensed with that by the third day. He knew nobody could hear him scream up here, not in time to help him with one of his vampire captors always so close at hand. They’d left his legs free, too. But his hands were cuffed behind him with police shackles, and without them, he wasn’t going anywhere. Not locked up tight like they had him.
“I’m thirsty,” the boy said.
Spike frowned. He took out his lighter and lit the cigarette dangling from his lips. He went slowly to the edge of the boy’s bed and sat down, smiling amiably. He took a long drag on his cigarette.
“You’ve got it beat, don’t you, you little wanker?” Spike asked, smiling.
Jacques blinked. Looked unsure of himself now.
“You figure Drusilla’s got bats in her belfry, but I’m a reasonable enough sort, for a vampire,” Spike went on. He scratched a phantom itch on his head, then offered an amused nod.
“Not far from the truth, actually,” he confessed, and now he stared hard at the boy, his face darting in close, his eyes beginning to turn an odd shade of yellow.
His face changed, brow protruding, eyes sinking back into his face even as his fangs elongated until he flicked his tongue over them lovingly.
The boy cried out in fear and struggled to move backward on the bed, even as Spike crawled after him like a jungle cat.
“Don’t start to get the idea that I’m fond of you, Jack-me-lad. If Dru takes a bite, it might make you worthless to us. That’s bad. But if we don’t get what we want soon, I might just rip your throat open with my own teeth and feed her your life in a fluted champagne glass. She’d like that, my baby. Girl’s got class.”
He bore down on Jacques.
“You’re a unique child, aren’t you? Daddy’s a bloody magician or whatever, right? But that don’t mean much to me, you stupid little sod. To me, you’re just another meal.”
He stood back, took another drag on his cigarette, and his face slowly returned to normal. He blew smoke at the boy, then went back to the door. Before he closed and locked it again, he took a last look at the terrified child.
“They haven’t given us what we want yet, Jacques. Neither one of us is the patient sort. You might want to think on that.”
* * *
When he stepped into the main room, Drusilla was standing silhouetted in the open door. From outside, the scents of the sea drifted into the house, and Spike relaxed immediately.
“Spike,” Drusilla said, in her usual singsong voice. “Are you terrorizing the poor boy?”
“Yes,” Spike said, walking toward her and holding out his hands.
She took them and turned him into a little dance, a little twirl, as she said, “Oh, goody!”
Together they walked back out onto the small porch of the cottage. They sat on a bench, and Spike smoked as Drusilla watched the waves roll in. Most of the fishermen had cleared out for the night after bringing their ships back into the wharf area just down the shore. Now it was just the waves and the wind and the calls of the night birds.
“Still thinking of Spain, pet?” Spike asked, glancing sidelong at her.
“I rather think I’m starting to like it here,” Dru replied, cocking her head to one side. “Fve begun to hear calliope music all the time. Can you hear it, too? There’s a carousel in my head, and the horses go up and down.”
With a shake of his head, Spike sighed.
“Sorry to hear that, love. I think we’re going to have to move on soon, actually,” he told her. “Those bloody monks of Entropy are having us on, I think. They’ve got to figure since we’re around here, we wouldn’t let the boy be far. It won’t be long until they find our little love nest, if they haven’t already.”
“I’ll miss the fishermen,” said Dru. “Always so robust.”
Then she turned to him with rare focus in her eyes, a look of surprise and pleasure on her face. “Does that mean I get to taste the little veal calf, then?” she asked.
Spike patted her thigh. “Not just yet, Dru darling. I think I’ll take a little jaunt over to Florence first. Find out if this Maestro bloke is holding out on us. If he is, I think I might find a better use for that spear than the bit of social climbing we had planned.”
Drusilla sighed. “It would have come in handy, wouldn’t it, Spike? Never being defeated in battle would be helpful when trying to make an impression on the locals, wherever we decide to settle down next.”
They were silent for a moment, and Spike knew that Drusilla was thinking just what he was. There was unfinished business still out there. But that was for another time.
“Ah, well,” he said, getting up from the bench. “I ought to get moving.”
He went back inside, slipped on the long black leather coat he frequently wore, and came back out again, ready for travel. The battered Mercedes they’d been using since their arrival here was parked just down the road, and he started down the steps without a pause.
At the bottom of the steps, however, he thought better of it and turned to face Drusilla.
“If you get the idea you’ve got company, love, don’t wait. Just get out, and we’ll meet up at the bullfights, eh?” he said. “And, just in case our sparklingly charming little magician friend has got his hands on the spear, don’t kill the boy just yet, hmm? It would be bad form.”
Drusilla sighed and rolled her eyes, then hung her head sulkily. “All right,” she replied. “I’ll behave.”
“Good girl,” Spike said, and smiled.
He threw his cigarette to the ground and stubbed it out with his boot.
* * *
“So, we’re just going to follow your dream?” Oz asked doubtfully. “Sort of a Man of La Mancha thing?”
Buffy raised an eyebrow and shot him a look. “Giles’s phone machine is full or something and the Gatekeeper’s line isn’t even ringing. You wolf out tomorrow night. Angel’s been living on what we’ll kindly call K rations. If we’re very lucky, II Maestro is not certain where we are right now. If we start poking around, he’s going to find us in about thirty seconds.
“The dream was pretty clear. So was our information.”
“Roses,” Oz said.
“Roses,” Buffy repeated. “And the Dome thingie.”
“Duomo,” Angel corrected her.
“Whatever. Would you rather sit around here?” She rolled her eyes. “We’ll just go up in the hills until I can match up the landscape—”
“In the dark,” Oz pointed out.
“Hey.” Buffy narrowed her eyes at him. “If you want to stay here and wait for an open phone line to America, fine. Me, I’m gone.”
The three of them stood just outside a trattoria where Buffy and Oz had enjoyed a hearty meal just after dark. Angel had disappeared during dinner, and Buffy didn’t ask where he’d been, but she had nasty little visions of him lurking in back alleys and looking for vermin.
She couldn’t wait to get home. She wanted her mother’s cooking. Which had never seemed like anything special—unless compared to Xander’s mother’s—until now.
“So let’s go,” Angel said urgently. “We’re close.”
“Keep your pants on,” Buffy said with much irritation, just before she registered exactly what she’d said.
Neither of them so much as looked at the other.
Instead, Buffy let her eyes rove over the city. Florence, or Firenze as it was called in Italian, had the most beautiful architecture of any city Buffy had ever seen. The illuminated domes and spires looked as though they were made of marble and mother-of-pearl, and for all she knew, they were. The colors were amazing as well, pinks and oranges and greens and earth tones that were incredibly subtle.
“That way,” she said, pointing between twin spires that shot into the sky.
“You’re certain?” Angel asked.
“Dream,” Oz reminded him.
Buffy led the way.
* * *
The city was behind them, and the three of them crouched uncomfortably in what remained of the alternatingly rotten and overrun vegetation that was all that remained of a once vital vineyard. Dead ahead was an amazing, sprawling Italian villa. The architecture was extraordinary. The grounds were expansive. A century earlier, Buffy thought, it must have been one of the most amazing homes in the region.
But now . . .
“It looks like nobody’s lived here since Angel was in diapers,” Oz said with amazement. “I know, y’know, dream and everything, but is this the same place?”
Angel glanced at her, his own doubt plain on his face.
Buffy only nodded.
“Our buddy the Maestro is in there,” she said confidently. “It’s exactly as I dreamed. Well, except that in the dream it looked new. And there were roses, which there aren’t now. But this is the place.
“Besides . . .” She shrugged. “Can’t you feel it?”
Oz cocked his head to one side, then glanced at the house. “I do feel a bit, I don’t know, nauseous. I thought that was the clam sauce from my pasta.”
Buffy shook her head. “It’s coming from in there,” she said.
“What is it?” Oz asked.
It was Angel who answered.
“It’s chaos.”
* * *
For about an hour, Buffy, Angel, and Oz watched the villa. Satisfied that no one knew they were there, they crawled closer on their elbows and stomachs like commandos.
Buffy murmured, “Be careful.”
“Nothing but,” Oz murmured back.
Angel said, “I smell blood. Human blood. And very fresh.”
Buffy took a breath and said, “Fresh as in still kicking?”
“Buffy, it’s my nose, not a Geiger counter,” Angel returned testily. Then he shook his head and said, “Sorry. I don’t know.”
“Then we have to hurry,” Buffy said, and picked up her pace.
They got to the perimeter of the villa, an amazing array of withered vines and foliage, tumbledown buildings, and then the central building itself, a truly lovely ruin of salmon-pink rubble overrun with bougainvillea. It gave new meaning to the word estate, and Buffy had seen a few of those when she and her parents lived in L.A. The walls and corners and courtyards seemed to go on for miles, dotted with the remnants of gardens and fountains.
“It’s kind of like your place,” Buffy whispered to Angel.
“Times twenty.” Angel touched her hand. “Look.”
It seemed impossible. A trio of figures in hooded robes were sharing a bottle of something. Furtively glancing around like naughty fraternity students—and Buffy knew whereof she spoke—they took turns chugalugging from the curved bottle.
“A million kabillion lire that that’s a nice Chianti,” Buffy said.
“And another million kabillion that those robes are one-size-fits-all,” Oz replied.
Buffy smiled at him grimly. “Great minds think alike.”
They stood then and rushed the trio. Before the three had time to realize what had happened, they lay in a heap, unconscious, possibly dead, and Buffy, Angel, and Oz were slipping on their robes.
Buffy pulled her hood over her blond hair and said, “How do I look?”
“Not like Pamela Lee,” Oz said.
“I guess that’s good.” She glanced at Angel.
“It’s good,” he said. He drew his hood forward. “Okay?”
She couldn’t see his face. She said, “Okay.” Next she checked Oz. His features were hidden.
“Hey, whoa, there’s a knife in my pocket,” he said.
“And I thought you were just glad to see me,” Buffy quipped. She felt in her own pocket. “Look at this.”
It was a rose quartz wrapped with some kind of string.
“I have one, too,” Angel said.
“Make that three.” Oz held his up.
“Or four,” Buffy muttered, as a hooded figure approached them. She tensed her muscles. “Get ready to rumble, boys.”
“Buffy, take it easy. These guys are all over the place,” Angel cautioned.
“Buona sera,” said the newcomer.
Buffy crammed her hands in her pockets and let Angel make the nice talk. He spoke with the other guy in Italian for a few minutes. Then the other guy moved off, saying something over his shoulder.
“It’s the rose quartz,” Angel said in surprise. “It’s some kind of ID. As long as we’re carrying, we’re considered part of the crowd.”
“Maybe that’s how II Maestro knows who to fry,” Buffy suggested. “Maybe that guy in Paris dropped his, or something.” She took a breath. “Well, let’s test that theory.”
They walked forward slowly. Despite what Angel’s buddy had said, Buffy expected at any moment to be challenged. Her reflexes were on full alert; there was nothing in her that was not ready for a fight.
And yet, to her astonishment, they blended right in with the clusters of acolytes on the grounds. There weren’t as many as Buffy would have expected, but if they decided she and the boys were barbarian invaders, their numbers could pose a problem.
The big test was entering the villa itself. For a second, as Buffy crossed the threshold, she thought they had been discovered. Someone was yelling, and, with all the built-in guilt of a high school senior, Buffy froze.
The yeller was an acolyte with an Australian accent, carping about not having been chosen for something or other. Apparently some kind of ritual.
When they entered, he looked up, and Buffy almost totally freaked, imagining he had seen her girlish face. “Ah,” he said conspiratorially, “here come some other second-class citizens. It’s standing room only down there, folks. If you want to hold the knife, you’ll have to wait until next time. And then you’ll have to get in line behind me.”
They moved on.
Then Buffy heard a scream echoing up from the lower levels of the ruined villa.
“Here,” Angel said, darting into a corridor.
There were more screams, of mortal terror. Buffy bit her lip and allowed Angel to hustle her farther along the corridor. Then they reached a flight of stairs leading down. The stairs were covered with leaves and dirt, and spiderwebs stretched across their entry.
They began to descend, each step punctuated by a shriek. Buffy found herself swearing that she would level this place and sow the ground with salt. She couldn’t stand by, and yet she must. How many people had been sacrificed to the war between good and evil, a war she would die fighting and which might never be won?
Down they went, Oz murmuring something about Alice and the rabbit hole, and Buffy shook off her friends’ restraining grips as the stairs leveled out to a corridor lit by a single torch. She walked ahead into the semidarkness. She was the Slayer. That was the gig.
There was another flight of stairs, this one very narrow. Her shoulders grazed the walls as she took them slowly yet deliberately, aware of her backup.
Before her, a large door glowed red hot. She touched it, brought back burned fingers.
Angel said, “Allow me.”
He pushed the door open.
Again, Buffy took the lead.
She stepped across the threshold and into Hell itself.
The chamber was blazingly hot and stank of sulfur. Buffy felt the hair-on her arms singe from the intense heat. She forced down a reflexive cough from the stench, instead hiding behind a large stone pillar that was sizzling to the touch.
About twenty feet directly in front of her, a young girl lay bound hand and foot on an altar. Blood flowed from a deep wound in her chest into a large bowl held in place by a hideously scarred acolyte. To his left, a robed man with striking features pulled his knife from the girl’s chest and laid it on the altar.
“Thirteen innocents by thirteen blades,” intoned a white-haired man who seemed to be their leader.
II Maestro, Buffy thought.
In front of the altar raged a fire within an enormous circle that resembled a breach, pulsing with purple and ebony, billowing with white-hot orange and purple flames that reeked of putrescence, death, and evil.
The white-haired man turned toward the shadows on the opposite side of the room and said, “For you, my lord. The first of many.”
From the darkness a voice boomed, “There may never be enough to appease me. A Slayer’s blood is very rich. This blood is thin. It has no life. It will not satisfy.”
“I will give you the Slayer,” said the robed man, sounding worried.
“Yes. Or you will give me your daughter, Micaela the voice replied.
Buffy’s lips parted. She couldn’t just watch this.
She stared at Angel, who shook his head and pressed his finger to his lips. He took her hand. The contact gave her strength, and the courage to stand by. The courage to be wise.
The courage to endure, as the girl was untied and tossed, summarily, into the fiery breach. It flared. It grew.
“More,” said the voice in the shadows. “Many more, if you wish your daughter to be spared.”