“We are jin,” the leader had told her. “Demons. We rise from the pits to rip away the souls of the dead as they fly to heaven. You can rest assured our master has fed well today.”
She sobbed. “I don’t know, I don’t know.”
“Hold her,” the leader said.
His face grew. It stretched from forehead to chin by at least a meter; as she watched in horror, rows and rows of teeth grew in crosshatches over his face. His eyes receded and teeth grew in the sockets.
“There’s much darkness in you,” he hissed, his voice raspy and soft. “There’s much to eat.”
The teeth extended forward, separating from what had once been his face except for thin filaments of pulsating, blue protrusions.
“The Book — where is it?”
“I don’t know, please, please!”
The teeth bulleted toward her. The first one to reach her pierced her cheek, and she shrieked wildly and closed her eyes.
Then nothing touched her. She opened her eyes.
The demon was gone, and his followers with him.
All that remained was a shower of iridescent blue sparks.
In the distance someone shouted.
Meg crumpled to the ground.
CHAPTER NINE
Cordelia was dreaming about shopping. All the stores carried her size only, and all the shoes were not only fashionable and comfortable, but good for her feet. In fact, if you clicked them together three times —
“There’s no place like home,” she mumbled.
“Miss, miss, wake up,” said a man with an accent.
Then she was being half-carried, half-dragged into warm, fresh air. Her dress caught on a sticker bush, but she was pushed forward. Her pantyhose ripped.
She began coughing. Her eyes rolled back in her head when she tried to open her lids. Someone was pounding her on the back.
She yowled, “Ow!” and pulled herself out of someone’s arms.
It was a frail man the color of walnut dressed as a Catholic priest. Beside him, watching very intently, was the little girl who had left the note in her purse.
Cordelia said fuzzily, “Celia?”
The girl broke into a smile. “That’s me, ibu.”
“Cordelia,” Cordelia said. She rubbed her forehead. She had a terrible headache. “Where’s Doyle? What’s going on?”
“I’m Father Wahid,” the priest told her gently. “Your friend is going to be all right.” He gestured to the right of the limo, which was canted at an odd angle on a deserted road. They were on a hill, overlooking the lights of the city.
“Hey,” Doyle said, hanging his head out the limo’s door and giving her a slack smile. “How about this?”
“What is the ‘this’ that this is?” Cordelia demanded. “What did you guys do, rob the limo?”
“No, no,” Father Wahid said quickly. “We saved your lives. They were going to kill you.”
“Slice you up,” the little girl said, in a bizarrely cheerful tone of voice.
“Celia,” the priest reproved.
Cordelia tried to get to her feet. “Where’s the driver?” She winced. “My head is killing me.”
“We knocked him out,” the good Father informed her. “Which is a hell of a lot better than what he was planning to do to you.”
“Father, don’t say hell,” Celia said, imitating his stern voice.
“Forgive me, my child.” He smiled kindly at Doyle as Doyle walked unsteadily toward them. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I do when I have a vision,” he told Cordelia. To the priest, he replied, “Like someone set an explosion off inside my head.”
Doyle regarded the priest. “Who are you, anyway, and how did you find us?”
“And what do you want?” Cordelia added.
“First and foremost, to save your lives,” Father Wahid said. He indicated his clerical collar with a bit of self-mockery. “I am a servant of God,” he observed.
“And secondly, since we both battle a common enemy, I wish to join forces.”
“That enemy being . . .?” Cordelia asked suspiciously.
The priest shrugged as if the answer were obvious.
“The Devil.”
She traded looks with Doyle, then moved her shoulders. “Works for me.”
“How do you know we’re battling the Devil?” Doyle asked. “For all you know, we were on the Devil’s side, and we had too much to drink at the wake for Bang Rais. Passed out in the back of our limousine, as it were.”
Father Wahid cocked his head. “You don’t know about the jin, do you?”
“Father, I’m Irish,” Doyle retorted. “I know about every form of alcohol ever fermented or brewed.”
“That’s such a stereotype,” Cordelia said. “Have you ever had Kristal champagne?”
Doyle thought a moment.
“Can’t say that, no.”
She was only slightly dashed.
“Okay,” she said to the priest. “So, gin.”
“Jin. Demons. Agents of the supernatural. There are good ones, and bad.”
“That’s hard to believe.” Cordelia rolled her eyes. “About the good ones, I mean. I’ve never met a demon I could stand. Except for my boss. And he’s a special case.”
Father Wahid frowned and looked at Doyle. “But what about . . .? Never mind.”
“Angel’s a special case,” Cordelia repeated. “But I wouldn’t go so far as to say he’s a good demon. A good guy, maybe.” She wrinkled her nose. “Not that good a boss, because the pay sucks. But on the other hand, he doesn’t want to charge people for helping them, and —”
Father Wahid cleared his throat. “I have employed jin to help me in my battle.”
“Angels,” Celia cut in.
The priest tousled her hair. “Angels. What else can they be?”
“Demons?” Doyle ventured.
“We just went through that,” Cordelia said impatiently. “There’s no such thing as a good demon.”
“Right. I forgot,” he drawled.
“My jin detected the talismans you had with you. As did the Raises. They flew to me and let me know. And Celia and I ventured out of hiding to save you.”
“So, they’re kind of like carrier pigeons,” Cordelia said.
“More like the probes in Star Wars,” Father Wahid replied.
“Okay. All that’s fine. If you believe it,” Cordelia muttered under her breath. “But what’s up with fighting the Raises? I mean, Devil, Raises. They’re not exactly, um, you know, the exact same.”
Father Wahid’s features hardened. His blue eyes became steely. He said, “The Raises have massacred hundreds, if not thousands, of the weak and the helpless. They’ve brought legions of illegal immigrants into this city, only to work them practically to death, and then to sacrifice them to their god.”
“So you’re a political activist.” Doyle massaged his temples. “Which is good. We need people like that. But these guys are maybe doing something really weird, like burning people from the inside out.”
“They worship Latura, the God of the Dead,” the priest said. “Latura demands sacrifices by the hundreds. With the proper rites and incantations, he can be brought forth to walk upon the Earth.
“If that ever happens, everything he so much as looks upon, and everything — and everyone — he touches, will burst into flame and die. Then he will devour their soul. Their place in the universe will cease to exist.”
“You mean, they’ll die,” Cordelia said.
“The place that was meant for them alone will go empty. The balance of this dimension — and all others which hinge upon it — will be permanently destroyed.”
“And, um, it will tip?” Cordelia prompted.
Father Wahid sighed heavily. “Reality will die. Chaos will reign. Forever.”
“Not a good thing.” Cordelia shook her head.
“Not a good thing,” the priest agreed.
“What’s stopping them?” Doyle asked.
?
??They don’t have all the knowledge they need to achieve their goal.” The priest gestured with his hands. “All the writings pertaining to Latura are kept in a single book. It’s the only one of its kind. If they find that book, the world is doomed.”
“Do you know where it is?” Doyle asked.
Slowly the priest nodded.
“You’ve got it,” Cordelia said.
He nodded again.
“And I need your help to keep it,” he said. “The stars are aligning tomorrow night. It will be the most favorable aspect for the triumph of this evil for the next six hundred and sixty-six years. I don’t know if the Raises realize that.
“But Latura does.”
Cordelia scowled. “That does it. I’m asking for a raise. And aspirin. Father, do you have any aspirin? Or Tylenol?”
“How can we help you?” Doyle asked.
“If the Raises don’t know I’ve got the Book, they soon will. They’ve been searching for me for a long time. I think one of their jin spotted me coming out of my hiding place just now. If that’s true, they will array all their demons and dark forces against me.
“They’re formidable enemies, believe me.”
“Can we just take your word for it?” Cordelia asked. Before anyone could answer, she added, “And am I the only one who’s worried about Angel?”
Doyle looked at her. Slowly he shook his head.
“You’re not,” he told her.
“You can’t be serious,” Meg said to Angel as he crouched over her by the wall. “They’re on full alert all over the compound. If they find you, they’ll kill you.”
Angel was touched by her concern. “I’m hard to kill,” he assured her.
“You don’t know the Raises. You don’t know what they’re capable of.”
He gave her a hard look. “And do you? Have you just stood by?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t know. I’m still not sure.”
“Meg,” he said sadly. “People have been dying all over the city, in a very horrible way.”
“We can’t be sure that Jusef’s involved. We don’t have any proof,” she said shrilly.
“Look at me.” Angel’s voice was kind. Soft. “Meg, look. Somehow, our minds are linked. We’re sharing our thoughts.”
She hung her head.
“He saved me,” she murmured.
Nias, 1998
In the jungle Meg lay on the ground. The rains washed over her. The sun baked her.
Near death, she became delirious. She imagined that an Irishwoman with red hair rose out of her own body and began untying her.
The woman said to Meg, “Remember me always. I am Doreen Kenney. You are of my blood. You are not of these people. You are my decendant. I was left for dead, but I survived. Space and time have lost their hold on us, my girl. Remember that. And live.”
* * *
Weeks later, in the hospital, Meg was told that she had somehow freed herself and wandered alone through the jungle for two weeks.
Her little boarders were never seen again.
Her family had been butchered, presumably by the same men who had left her for dead.
Mary Margaret Taruma — Mary Margaret Kenney — whoever she might be, lost her hold on her world as her identity slid away. She made three attempts to end her life, and she was committed to a mental institution. She drifted there, trying to explain to the doctors that unless she knew, really knew, who she was, she saw no reason to live out a life that might belong to someone else.
They labeled her delusional.
“There is absolutely no point to simply being,” she insisted. “If I have no past, I have no future.”
They gave her drugs.
They gave her shock therapy.
She began to forget everything that had happened in the jungle. Or more precisely, to lock it away. To bury it so deeply that no one, not even she herself, could access those memories.
But they were not forgotten.
Then one day, inexplicably, she was set free. They came for her, gave her a pair of jeans, some tennis shoes, and a T-shirt — no bra — and led her to the gates of the institution. They opened them and looked at her expectantly.
So she walked through them, momentarily exhilarated by her freedom.
But she agreed soon enough with the old Janis Joplin song: Freedom was just another word for nothing left to lose. She drifted into drugs, and into terrible ways to pay for them.
A year dragged past. Then Jusef Rais had come along. He had found her in a bar, where she was dancing — oh, not the kind of dancing she had learned as a child; not the ancient, proud gestures of the barong. No, this was the sad bump-and-grind of lost women, watched with disinterest by defeated men.
That night a stir went through the crowd when Jusef walked in. He was beautifully dressed, in every way the perfect image of an upper-upper-class Indonesian; a man who had made it. In the hot, smoky room, redolent of body odor and cheap cigarettes, he was refined and elegant.
Silently he sat, watching her. Her face burned with shame. He spoke to the manager, who gestured to her after she finished the third of her three required dances and picked up her clothes.
He said, “Mr. Rais wants to see you alone.”
She steeled herself. When he had looked at her, he had seen someone he could buy. Why had she allowed herself to stay alive?
Mustering the last ounce of her dignity, she refused to let him ogle her in her dancing costume and put on her street clothes — a faded, modest dress — and wiped off her heavy makeup.
When she entered the room in the back — the one reserved for “private parties” — he stood and applauded softly.
“I knew I was right,” he said.
He bought her a glass of wine. She drank it in two gulps. Emboldened by the alcohol, she asked him, “How much are you paying my bosses for me?”
He smiled. His teeth were perfectly white. He said, “I’d like to offer you a job in a band. A real job. A real band. I own a club in California.
“If you’ll come with me, I’ll make you live forever.”
She didn’t believe a word of it.
Meg looked at Angel and said, “The apparition said that I’m of the blood. I’m not sure what that means, but I think Jusef knows. I am connected to all this somehow.”
He was walking her back through the stand of pepper trees. He said, “Believing that, can you really tell me not to go in there and save my friends?”
She looked frightened. “But you know me. You’re the only person in the world who knows me.”
“I don’t,” he said honestly. Because if I did, you would know me. You would know what I am.
And you don’t.
“I was bitten by some kind of demon, and you’ve been injected with some kind of serum that must produce similar side effects. I think it’s only coincidence that we linked.”
“Karma,” she said, then smiled wanly. “What would Father Hendrik say? I’m a Catholic. We don’t believe in karma.”
“Maybe you should,” he murmured. Her story had been incredible. If what she had told him was correct, there was a chance that she was the descendant of Dorrie Kenney — or whatever Doreen had become.
My destroyer, he thought.
Is she back again to finish the job?
“You’ve got to help me,” he said firmly.
“But I don’t understand. Why do I have to invite you into the compound? You can just walk in.”
Angel looked down at her. “Trust me,” he said, “and do it. You can walk about freely. No one will question your comings and goings. Just go inside and invite me in.”
“You’re a sorcerer,” she guessed. “My apartment building was owned by a magician, you know. But I think he was just a stage magician. Not a real one.”
He wondered if she was chattering because she was afraid. She had good reason to be. She was taking risks for a stranger.
“Come on.” She walked beside him toward the sentry box. After a few steps it
was as if someone had thrown on a switch. She smiled calmly and took his hand, swinging it gently as she smiled flirtatiously at the security guard.
“Music critic,” she told him. “Rolling Stone.”
The sentry waved them through.
Just as Angel passed him, the man said, “Wait, pak.”
Meg caught her breath. Angel raised his brows in brisk politeness and said, “Yes?”
“I disagree with you on Powerman 5000,” he said earnestly.
“I didn’t write that one.”
“Oh.” The man moved his shoulders. “I’m glad. Maybe otherwise, I would have to shoot you.” He laughed.
Angel smiled. “I’ll pass it along.”
Meg tripped ahead. Then she turned to Angel with her hands outstretched and said, “Come on in.”
He walked onto the compound.
The party or wake or reception was in full swing. The milling crowds were thick; Angel looked for Cordelia and Doyle but realized very quickly it was going to be nearly impossible to spot them.
“Look. There’s Jusef,” she murmured, turning her back so that the man wouldn’t see her.
Angel took note. He also watched two other men join Jusef Rais. They looked left, right, and walked into a small building beside a pond stocked with frogs and carp.
“What’s that?” he asked her, once the coast was clear.
She shook her head. “I’ve never been in there.”
Angel decided to take a look.
He said to her, “Wait by the guard kiosk, all right? You need to get out of here.”
She looked uncertain. He touched her arm. “Meg, Jusef’s been abusing you. He’s been poisoning you.”
“Or giving me experimental drugs.”
“He’s using you for something. Trust me.”
She took a breath, nodded.
“By the security guard,” she echoed.
Angel nodded and started to walk away.
“Be careful,” she called softly.
Why start now? he thought.
He moved into the crowd, allowing himself to slowly make his way toward the building. Its dark-blue-tiled roof was square and high, dipping and curving at the ends. The exterior walls were white plaster.