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Part 2
Willow was deep into her research when Giles entered the warehouse they were using as a base of operations. She didn’t look up.“I think I might have found a way to get to Buffy. It’s a long shot, but there’s a reference here to a type of portal, one that can shift multiple individuals between planes,” she said, reading from a translation she had made. “There’s no name given here, but …”
“It’s called a Romanovsky Gate,” said the Dark Hunter.
Willow looked up with a start.
“Oh,” she said, blinking. “Oh.”
“Ah, yes,” said Giles. “Willow, this is Elisa Hunter. She’ll be … consulting with us in Buffy’s absence. Miss Hunter, may I introduce Willow Rosenberg, my resident expert on all things computerized and, it would seem, a good number of other things, as well. I’m sorry, Willow, what about this … this …?”
“Romanovsky Gate,” said Hunter.
“I’ve never heard of it,” said Giles.
“Almost nobody has,” said Hunter. She turned to Willow. “Where did you come across the reference?”
Willow looked questioningly at Giles.
“It’s all right, Willow. Miss Hunter is on our side. At least for the moment.”
Willow nodded and said, “It’s from a partial inventory list from a fifth century monastery in what is now St. Petersburg, Russia. Apparently, the reliquary contained several artifacts, one of which was described as …”
She glanced down at her notes and continued. “… as ‘a large and nigh indestructible Portal of unChristian origin’. It goes on to say that the monks attempted to destroy what they thought of as an unholy object, but they were unable to damage it ‘with any weapon forged in the world of Man’. So they warded it and locked it in a sublevel of the monastery. The important thing is that it says clearly that before the ward was laid on it, ‘several Creatures of unholy nature did emerge from the Portal all in one group, and it was by the Grace of God alone that the Brothers did’st cast them back into the Pit’. Giles, that means that more than one person can use the Portal at a time. If we left the Portal open, we could go to Hell, find Buffy, and bring her back. Assuming, of course, that any of this is even accurate, and assuming the Gate still exists, and assuming we wouldn’t have all of Hell coming through an open Portal, and which I guess is kind of a lot of assuming.”
“Fascinating,” said Giles as he moved over to examine her work. “Still, I can’t imagine the Watchers never heard of this.”
“Maybe they did and they just didn’t tell you,” said Hunter. “Wheels within wheels, machinations within agendas.”
There was a time when Giles would have dismissed her statement out of hand. No more, however. “Yes, very possibly. So, explain to me exactly what a Romanovsky Gate is.”
Willow shrugged and shot Hunter a sharp look. “That’s all I know, but your friend seems to know something.”
Hunter had a distant look in her eyes when she spoke. “A Romanovsky Gate is one of the most dangerous mystical artifacts ever created by mankind. It allows multiple individuals to cross between the various planes of existence. I thought I tracked down and destroyed them all a thousand years ago, after the Slayer, the Thousand Defenders and I stopped the First Apocalypse. But it’s always possible one or more eluded me. Most of the Defenders were dead along with the Slayer who fought with me at the time, and there was just so much ground that those of us who remained could cover. If a Romanovsky Gate does still exist, then we must take possession of it before the other side does. It may be our best chance to stop the Second Apocalypse before it can get started.”
Willow looked confused. “The First Apocalypse? The Thousand Defenders? Giles, what’s going on here?”
Giles took a deep breath. “I’m afraid it’s a long story.”
* * *
If there was any advantage to having spent over two and a half centuries as a vampire, it was that you got to know their weaknesses better than anyone, the Slayer included.
You also cleaned up on long-term investment vehicles, thought Angel. Too bad he’d been such a basket case after getting his soul back the first time that he never took advantage of that. Jimmy Stone certainly had. No abandoned tenement basements or rat-infested sewer or subway tunnels for him. Jimmy Stone, the up and coming star of the Boston vamp syndicate, had bought a two hundred year-old mansion a stone’s throw from Harvard University and all those tasty coeds. Then he’d brought in a particularly discreet construction firm and put in three sub-basements in the place. It must have cost a fortune.
Money talked, even among the undead.
It bought Jimmy Stone power and influence in his circles, and it also bought him the finest security system money could buy to safeguard his daylight rest.
But for all his wealth could purchase for him, it couldn’t anymore change what he was and the impulses that drove him than a new coat of paint could turn a junkyard El Torino into a Rolls Royce. He was still a vampire. He still had a vampire’s needs. He still got the urge to feed.
And blue blood was just as tasty as any other. Harvard University had become Jimmy Stone’s favorite stalking ground.
Angel was no Slayer. But he’d been a vampire long enough that he could sense them nearly as well as Buffy could. Whether it was instinct or sixth sense or a combination, he couldn’t say. What he could say was that it worked, and it would give him the edge he needed to kill Jimmy Stone.
Stone was careful. Too many victims, taken too obviously, would have brought down an FBI manhunt for a serial killer. So he nibbled at the fringes, taking just enough to keep his snacks hidden among the statistics. Girls went missing all the time. Some ran away with boyfriends, some ran away from boyfriends, some just plain ran away. Few of them ended up happier for having done so, but they were still better off than the ones who simply, one day, disappeared never to be seen again. There were many ways for people to die. Jimmy Stone was one of them.
It wasn’t a gig that could last forever, but it was good while it lasted. As far as Angel was concerned, it wouldn’t last past tonight. He could still think like his old self, he knew where he’d go to stalk his prey, the type of victim he’d look for. He even had a good idea of when the hunger would come over Stone. That impulse wasn’t random. Environmental influences came into play — the phase of the moon, the time of year, a dozen subtler things he couldn’t even really quantify. Demons were creatures of elemental natures. They were driven by their environment as much as by their intellect.
So Angel was confident that some time over the next few days, Stone would show. It was just a matter of being in the right place at the right time.
Angel found the victim he would have chosen walking back to her sorority on a lonely street. She was more than a little drunk. Easy meat.
He stayed well behind, out of the streetlights. He would have time. Stone was an old vampire, almost as old as he himself had been, and with age came a certain perverse delight in toying with victims like a cat played with a mouse.
Stone appeared with the disconcerting suddenness of one of his kind, almost seeming to materialize out of thin air. That was how all the old wives’ tales of vampires shape-shifting or assuming an ethereal form came about. It wasn’t true. Vampires were just very, very fast. The girl stopped, swaying a moment, and then she looked Stone in the eyes and he had her trapped. Few who weren’t specifically trained to do so could resist a vampire’s hypnotic gaze.
Angel made his move. He covered the intervening space quickly, before the preoccupied Stone could notice him.
“That’s no way to treat a lady, Stone,” he said.
Stone turned on him and bared sharp fangs, his face demonic. The girl came around after a moment and ran unsteadily away. No doubt she would think it had all been an alcohol-induced nightmare in the morning. Better for her if she did.
“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” cautioned Angel, calling attention to the handgun he was holding.
Stone laughed. “What do you think you are, a Slayer?”
“Nope. She plays fair. I cheat.”
“That gun won’t do you much good, hero,” said Stone.
“This? Let’s see — a tranq gun with a big-game dart filled with holy water where the tranquilizer should be. Hmm. I think it might do some good.”
Surprise and fear crossed Stone’s face in the instant before Angel fired. Then the emotions were replaced by pain as the water burned like acid through long-dead organs.
It wouldn’t finish him, but it gave Angel the advantage he needed. He drew a sharp stake from under his coat and moved in quickly, thrusting the weapon home decisively.
Stone disintegrated into a fine mist of ash that drifted down to the sidewalk to form a low gray mound. Angel prodded the ashes with the tip of one loafer until he found what he was looking for. He bent down and picked up a signet ring from Stone’s remains.
“Better luck next time, Jimmy boy,” said Angel as he disappeared into the night that had once been his prison.
* * *
Capitalism had come to Hell.
Whether that was some metaphysical commentary on the twenty-first century world or it was just another example of the odd, symbiotic and mutually reflective relationship between the two planes, Buffy couldn’t say. But it was definitely more Adam Smith than Dante Alighieri.
It was very much the dark side of commerce, though. Street hustlers, prostitutes both demonic and formerly human, opium dens, gambling houses — if there was a weakness, human or otherwise, Pandemonium catered to and exploited it. How there could be an economy to support it all, Buffy didn’t know, but perhaps in Hell, sin was free.
Free, maybe, but hardly worth the indulgence. That was the thing with Hell, the big irony of the place: you could do any depraved, selfish, or destructive thing you wanted, but you’d get no pleasure from it. And yet, like the gambling or heroin addicts of her own world, the people here were slaves to their addictions long after the thrill or pleasure was gone.
It was sad, and it filled Buffy with a cold urge to wipe the entire city from the face of creation. Maybe she would do just that one day, if she ever figured out how.
She brought her thoughts back to the building before her, a dive called the Brimstone. There were a lot of dives in Hell, from what she’d seen. This one, though, was where the demon Logothel had said she could find someone who could help her. Demons, it turned out, had no principles beyond survival unless they were under a Compulsion Geas. They tended to roll over on just about anyone short of Lucifer himself if given a proper incentive.
Buffy took a last look up and down the crowded street, looking for anyone or anything who might be watching her, then she entered the dim, smoky, dank interior of the Brimstone.
It didn’t take her long to spot the individual she was looking for. She threaded through the grim and unhappy crowd to a booth near the back. The woman seated on the old vinyl bench was preoccupied with a large glass of Scotch that would bring her even less respite from her troubles than its real-world counterpart would have.
Buffy reached the table and stopped.
“Hello, Miss Calendar. It’s been awhile,” she said.
* * *
Slick awoke to find Angel sitting across the room in a burgundy-colored wing chair, pointing a gun at him.
“Hey, man. Gone to firepower, huh? What you packing, man?”
“Holy water. Real effective. Jimmy Stone thought so, anyway.”
Angel tossed Slick the signet ring he’d taken from Stone’s ashes. Slick deftly snatched it out of the air, then reached over to turn on the lamp on the night stand. Vamps could see in infrared, but not with any detail, and the ring was already cooling from Angel’s body heat.
Slick inspected the band carefully and smiled. “Angel, you the man. This is the real deal. You and me, we oughta team up, cut through all the red tape bullshit the Family’s got everything wrapped up in these days. You handle the day jobs, I do the night work. It’s the perfect gig, man.”
“No, thanks. Just want the information. The Romanovsky Gate. Where is it and how do I get it?”
“Yeah, man, whatever. One-track mind. I get the score. So, you wanna put the gun down? I ain’t gonna try to lay the old incisors on you.”
“That’s okay. Don’t try to kid a kidder Slick. You can’t con a guy who’s been there and done that for as long as I have.”
Slick shrugged. “Hey, can’t blame a guy for trying, right?”
“Actually, I can. Talk, or you get a really bad case of heartburn.”
Slick held up his hands in mock surrender. “Whatever, man. You the guy with the piece. All right. Only Romanovsky known to still exist was found eight years ago during the construction of an office building in St. Petersburg. Russia, not Florida. Turns out, they were digging down through some collapsed sub-basements of what used to be a monastery. The thing was on display in Moscow for awhile, then it found its way to the good old U. S. of A. as part of a traveling exhibit. Thing’s in the Smithsonian until September. Hiding right out in plain frigging sight, and nobody but me knows about it because the thing don’t look like nothing. Not like one of those Leifferts you been screwing with, anyway. It’s just a big bas-relief thing, hang it on your wall, say the magic words, and open sesame — gateway to the Abyss, express service to Hell and all points south.”
“You know the spell to activate it?” asked Angel.
“Not a clue. What, you want everything? Try the freaking library. But be careful with that shit, man. You open a Romanovsky, you could end up with half of Hell roaming the streets.”
“The Gate’s in Washington D.C. Who’d notice the difference?”
“That ain’t the point. What it is, is I’m a status quo kinda guy, okay? Don’t need to be sharing turf with a bunch of ego-tripping newbies from the Planes. Put a real crimp in my action. So you play it cool, don’t get the world more messed up than it is already, okay?”
“That’s the plan. Now, you going to keep nice and quiet about this, or do I have to do something I wouldn’t regret?”
“No, man. I’m cool. For the previously mentioned business reasons, I don’t want nobody else in on the whole Gate deal. And I definitely don’t need my name coming up in connection with Stone. This is one dead man ain’t gonna tell no tales.”
“Good to hear it,” said Angel, getting up and moving for the bedroom door. On his way out, he said, “And Slick, get some sleep. You look like death warmed over.”
“Ha freaking ha,” said Slick as Angel closed the door behind him.
* * *
The shade of Jenny Calendar looked up from her drink and blinked wearily at the Slayer.
“So, now they’ve sent you to haunt me, too,” she said.
“No, I’m no ghost. I’m real, I’m here, and I’m offering your soul a way out of here while getting myself back to where I belong.”
A range of emotions crossed Jenny’s face. Hope, disbelief, sadness, shame. “Is it really you?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry you ended up here. You deserved better.”
“I don’t plan on staying. Neither should you.”
“Don’t offer hope. It’s a fragile and cruel companion here,” said Jenny.
“It’s all either of us have at the moment. You don’t belong here. Maybe I do, but all the same, I’d like to go home.”
Jenny sighed and looked down at the table top. “I’d heard rumors that you were here. I didn’t know if they were true. I hoped they weren’t. And I never expected that if you were here, you would ever want to see me.”
Buffy sat down at the table and took Jenny’s hands in hers. She looked directly into the other woman’s dark, haunted eyes and said, “Whatever mistakes you made, you did your best to set them right. And a certain former vampire has recently taught me a great deal about the capacity to forgive somebody for her sins.”
Jenny said, “Former vampire? Angel’s not … he’s not …”
“Dead? No. He’s very much alive. He’s human again, Jenny. I killed his demon here in Hell and sent him back to our world.”
Jenny closed her eyes and smiled slightly. “Thank God.”
“Then you don’t hate him for what he did to you?”
“He didn’t do anything to me. I was doomed by my blind and willing acceptance of a legacy that was as cruel and evil as anything Angel’s demon ever did. I died because of that, and I ended up here because the powers-that-be don’t like it when mere mortals get the notion that they have a right to toy with the souls of others.”
“I don’t care what the powers-that-be think about it. You don’t belong here,” said Buffy.
“There’s nothing you can do,” said Jenny.
“Actually, there is something.”
“I doubt it.”
“An act of redemption can get you out, right?”
“I tried that once, when I was still just a ghost. I channeled through Willow, helped her complete the spell to restore Angel’s soul. But that didn’t work out very well, did it? and I still ended up here anyway.”
“That wasn’t your fault. I do need your help now, though.”
“I can’t help anyone. It’s the curse of this Abyss. They set up the conditions to get out, then prevent you from ever fulfilling them.”
“You can help me, Jenny. I’ve developed some abilities since you knew me, and as long as you’re with me, I think I can shield you from the binding commandments they lay on souls here. I’ve done it a few times already, when I’ve needed information from people here who normally would be bound against helping me like that.”
“Is that possible?”
“Is it possible for me to be walking around downtown Pandemonium without having an army of demons trying to score my head as a trophy for their rec room?”
A ray of optimism touched Jenny’s features. “What do you need me to do?”
Buffy shook her head. “Not here. There are too many ears.”
A beat passed, and Jenny asked, “Buffy?”
“Yes?”
“How … how’s Rupert?”
Buffy hesitated before deciding that the truth was probably the best policy in Hell.
“Alone,” she said.
Jenny Calendar closed her eyes again and wept quietly.