The world roared in a fire storm; explosions buffeted Angel and nearly ripped his hair from his scalp.
Then he was falling. Through smoke and unbelievable heat and screaming, falling like a boulder.
This is gonna hurt, he thought, trying to stay limp. Your chances were better than if you tensed. Unless this is Die Hard V and I land on an awning, or in the pool —
He did neither.
Am I hurt?
As he plummeted into unconsciousness, Angel had no idea.
Doyle took a deep breath.
“I would cry, ‘For Queen and country,’ but y’know, we formed our own government a few months ago,” he said.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Cordelia piped up. “Do you have a green card? Because if you’re in this country illegally, Angel could face serious jail time. Plus a fine, you know?”
Doyle looked at her with astonishment. “I was sent here by the Powers That Be,” he reminded her.
She shrugged. “Okay. That’s fine. They can send someone down to Immigration if Angel gets busted. That’s all I’m saying.”
She waved her hand at the monster. “That’s it,” she added. “You can go battle that weird thing now.”
Doyle took a breath and raised the baseball bat over his head. He yelled, “Chaaarge!” as he dashed toward the creature.
It roared and waggled its hind end at him. Doyle brought down the bat and smacked it hard, bracing himself for impact.
The thing exploded into hundreds of pieces. They were brittle and shiny like fired ceramic, raining down on him like a rain shower. Then they clattered to the floor, rat-a-tatting like buckshot.
For a moment, there was stunned silence throughout the room. Then Celia started jumping up and down and cheering.
“Good job,” Father Wahid said.
“Let’s move along. Kris,” Cordelia said. “Downstairs. Let’s look. Now.”
Meg opened her eyes. She was confused and disoriented.
Lying on her bed at the Rais compound, she nodded to herself as her memory returned.
I told Jusef I was going to take a nap after our hypnosis session. He had to leave me to lead the sedhekah.
Something tugged at her mind. She lay quietly, trying to figure out what it was. Nothing came, and she turned over on her side.
She was weary. She felt as if she’d gone jogging.
I have to be careful. The doctor told me overexertion can make the tumor grow, she reminded herself. And I want to be around for a long, long time.
Her smile was bittersweet. She was finally standing on the brink of stardom, and she had to be extra careful of her health.
This must be how Naomi Judd felt. Having to quit after they’d struggled so hard to make it to the top.
Well, as Jusef likes to say, Miracles occur every day.
She yawned and stretched.
My head hurts, she thought. It hurts a lot.
Ignoring the pain, she sat up.
No rest for the weary. We’ve got a show to do. We’ll send old Bang Rais off with a concert that’ll snag us a mainstream label.
She smiled and went to take a shower.
Angel woke slowly and painfully. He couldn’t figure out where he was, except that it was dark and full of smoke.
He hurt all over. He wasn’t sure if he could move. In his weakened condition it would be much harder for him to deal with injuries.
He raised his head. It was pitch dark. The smoke made his eyes water, and his head was spinning.
Inhaling sharply — not out of necessity, just habit — he lifted his head. He groaned.
“S-someone,” came a hoarse whisper, followed by a lot of coughing.
“Hello?” he managed.
“I’m . . .” The voice trailed off.
Angel rolled over on his side. He rested a moment. Then he got to his elbows.
“Hello?” the voice called querulously.
“I’m here. Hold on.”
The smoke was rising; it seemed a bit thinner as he inched along what must be a cement floor. Shards of glass punctured the sides of his hands as he made his way across them.
It seemed to take an hour to cover perhaps a foot. Then his hand grazed a pointed, heeled shoe. A woman’s shoe.
There was a yelp, almost inhuman. Then the voice rasped, “I thought you died.”
“I’m here.”
He put his hand gently over her instep. She burst into tears.
“Oh, thank God,” she murmured. “So . . . so scared. Cold.”
She was in shock, he realized. It was stifling in the room or whatever it was they were in.
“Here’s my coat,” he told her. Slightly more mobile, he managed to peel it off. It adhered to his upper back and along his triceps, indicating that he was bleeding there.
I must have fallen through a window, he thought. Or a skylight. The Bonaventure has glass elevators, too. And a revolving restaurant.
“Here,” he said. “I’m draping my coat over you.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. The woman was weeping. “Please, tell me your name.”
“Angel.”
“Are you Hispanic?”
“No. Irish, actually.”
“You don’t sound Irish.” Her voice was slightly stronger but still barely audible. But he was glad she was talking. That was the best way to keep her from panicking. Or becoming unconscious.
“I haven’t been home in a long time,” he told her.
“I’m from L.A.,” she offered. She paused. “It’s my wedding anniversary.”
“Oh.” He didn’t know what to say. He wondered what had become of her husband. If he was looking for her in a blind panic. If he’d been hurt in the fire.
Or worse.
“Our fiftieth. Our golden.”
“Congratulations,” Angel said hoarsely.
“My husband’s been dead almost a year.” There was a long, shuddering pause. “I’m here alone.”
He realized now that the shoe he had touched was beaded. She was all dressed up. With somewhere to go.
But no one to go there with.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“We had no kids.” She began to cough again. “No grandkids, of course. He was a professor.”
The coughing overtook her. Angel found her shoulders and held onto them, more for comfort than anything else. He couldn’t do much else. If she passed out from smoke inhalation, he couldn’t give her CPR. He didn’t have the lung capacity. Air not an issue.
“We have friends,” she murmured. He thought she was rambling. “Many are gone.”
He kept hold of her shoulders.
“But I . . .” She took a breath. “I did something.”
He closed his eyes. She assumed they were going to die here; she was going to confess her deepest, darkest secret to him.
“I had a baby. I was a young girl.” She started crying. “All my life, I’ve wondered. Boy? Girl?” She lowered her voice. “He was Oriental. It was very frowned upon.”
“They wouldn’t let you get married,” he ventured.
“He loved me. . . .” Her voice trailed off again.
Angel heard the crackling of flames, the roar of fire winds. The fire was getting closer.
“I’m going to explore a little,” he said. “Try to find a way out.”
“No,” she pleaded. “Don’t leave me alone.” She moved her hand to his as he held on to her shoulder. “Please, young man. I’m so terrified.”
He started to object, but something tugged at him, and he said, “All right.”
“My child would be all grown up. Every year, I’ve kept track of how old she would be.” She sighed. “I don’t know if it’s a girl or boy. But I always pictured a girl.”
Between coughing spasms, she cried harder. “I don’t even know if she knows about me. Back then, people didn’t tell children they were adopted. It was such a shameful secret. I never even told my husband that I’d had a baby.”
Angel blink
ed, surprised.
“We were so innocent in those days,” she added with a rueful laugh. “He probably thought my little stretch marks were part of a woman’s normal appearance. I didn’t have many,” she added proudly.
“But you never told him.”
“I never told him,” she whispered. “I never told anyone. My mother sent me away to have the baby. It was what we did in those days. No girlfriends, no sisters, no one knew.” Her voice grew faint. “No one ever knew.”
“It kept you alone,” he said.
“It was my secret,” she murmured. “A secret like that, a terrible secret, it sets you apart for life. At first I thought I would forget.” Her sorrow cut him as she wept against his hand. “But how could I ever forget?”
“Now I know,” he said. “I know, and before I . . . die, I’ll tell someone else.”
“You understand,” she marveled. Again, there was a long silence. Then she said, “How could you, so young, know pain that deep?”
“You did.”
“I did.” She took a breath. “I’m Roberta Anne Hartford. My maiden name was Anderson. I gave birth to my daughter in Cincinnati, in 1947. I named her Mae. It sounded Chinese.” She keened. “I never saw her father again. I don’t know what happened to him.”
“I’ll find out,” Angel told her. “Tell me everything you can remember. Everything.”
“I’ve not forgotten a thing,” she replied. “I can’t remember my driver’s license number. Sometimes I have to count back to remember how old I am. But I’ve never forgotten a thing about him.”
She coughed again. “He was eighteen when we met. He was here to become an engineer.”
She told her story until it was done. Her voice growing hoarser, fainter, her eyes spilling with tears from the fire and from grief, she told it even as the firefighters started hacking at the walls to save the two of them.
She told it even when her chest, too filled with smoke, began to rise and fall like a hummingbird’s.
She told it when the paramedics shown a light in her aged yet beautiful face and announced, “Fully dilated. Sir, we’re so sorry.”
With the sheet over her still, frail form, she told her story.
Because, as he followed the stretcher out, Angel committed it to memory with every fiber of his being.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Father Wahid shouted, “This is it!”
It was a silver-and-black sword, wickedly curved. He sliced the air with it.
“So that’s a kris,” Doyle commented, giving it a once-over. “I’m actually a little disappointed. Thought it would look more magickal, somehow.”
“Things are not always as they seem,” Father Wahid told him.
“I suppose.”
“Now I’ve got to get the Book,” he announced. He seemed positively gleeful.
I guess since we’ve got all the pieces, Cordelia thought, now we can pass Go and collect the $200.
“Doyle, you go with him,” Cordelia said.
Doyle nodded. “You stay here and take care of the little girl.”
“Will do,” she said. “Plug in my cell phone in the limo. If Angel calls, let me know.”
Doyle nodded. “I will.” He turned to Father Wahid. “You’ve got to tell us where the Book is,” he said. “My vision had something to do with Meg Taruma, and she’s not here. I need to be able to put the pieces together for Angel.”
“Vision?” Father asked neutrally.
“She’s in a club.” The T-shirt! Doyle clapped a hand to his forehead. “Club Komodo.” He looked expectantly at the priest. “Please. You’ve got to tell Cordy so she can tell Angel. It’s not like we’re going to tell the Raises.”
Still, the priest was clearly uncertain. He said, “I’ve managed this long without sharing it.” His hands shook. “You can’t know what it’s been like, hiding out, wondering if the next sound I hear is death coming for me.” He coughed into his hand. “And I’ve been ill.”
He’s kind of whining, Cordelia thought, mildly annoyed. We’ve just reached true yay and I, at least, am giddy and up. As Buffy used to say.
She smiled to herself. Wow, we’re doing as well as the Slayer, just about. Except for stopping the bad guy from either taking over or destroying the world.
In our case, destroying seems more likely.
“Didn’t you say the stars align tonight?” Doyle pressed. “Isn’t this the most powerful night and like that?”
The man sighed. His shoulders slumped. “No, you’re right. If something happens to me, someone will have to complete the work.”
His voice dropped to a whispered, “There’s a warehouse. A sweatshop. A hellish place. Some of my parishoners work there, hoping one day to pay off their passage and enjoy the great life they believed was waiting for them here. I hid the Book in a copy of English as a Second Language.”
“Yeah, a few innocent people died because the Raises were searching for the copy with the Book sewn into it,” Doyle commented. “Not that we’re blaming you,” he added quickly.
“Right,” Cordelia assured him. “Because we understand that sometimes people die even if they’re not directly involved.”
“So. The sweatshop,” Doyle said.
“The actual Book of Latura is in that warehouse. It’s on Seventh.” Father Wahid gave the street number.
“Close to Fashion Alley,” Cordelia said knowledgeably.
“Thank you, Father,” Doyle said.
“I pray to God I haven’t signed our death warrants,” Father Wahid murmured.
“Better ours than the world’s.” Doyle smiled wanly. He turned to Cordelia. “Tell Angel to check out Club Komodo. It may be a fancy name for Hell.”
She swallowed. “Witness my surprise.”
* * *
In his refrigerator Angel had a container of chilled pig’s blood, three pieces of bread, and one piece of cheddar cheese. Her stomach growling, Cordy made Celia a sandwich. As Celia wolfed it down, Cordy nibbled on the extra piece of bread.
The good news is, I’ve probably lost weight, she thought. The bad news is, if we all die, I’ll waste away to nothing.
Celia sat down to watch TV, and Cordelia paced.
Just about the time she couldn’t take the tension any more, the phone finally rang.
“It’s me,” Angel said.
“Oh, Angel! Oh, thank god!”
“We don’t have time for pleasantries,” Angel said. “Do you have anything for me?”
“There’s something about a Club Komodo. Doyle didn’t know where it is. But it was part of his vision.”
“Then I’ll find it,” Angel said.
“Wait!”
But Angel had already hung up.
Angel snagged a ride from one of the paramedics who had rescued him. She was going off duty, and she assured him that Santa Monica was on her way. It was like that in Los Angeles: An hour or more commute to work was not unusual.
She was an extremely cut Texan with long, straight black hair, and she passed the drive time alternately flirting with Angel and describing in vivid detail the grossest accidents she had worked on.
“Motorcycles are the worst, definitely,” she said, making a left against oncoming traffic. Horns blared and she cheerfully flipped someone off.
She’s a worse driver than Cordelia, if that’s possible, he thought, bracing for impact. Also, ruder.
“We call ’em donor cycles.” Her smile was ghoulish. “No, but wait.” She nodded. “The worst are these burn victims we’ve been getting. I don’t know what the hell’s going on with those, but they’re worse than the cycles.”
Bingo, Angel thought. He said carefully, “Burn victims?”
“It’s gangs. Gotta be,” she said authoritatively.
The moon shone on the black water. Angel remembered his dream about Buffy and felt a tug. Back in Sunnydale, the mayor — himself an aspiring demon — had blamed most of the supernatural occurrences in Sunnydale on “gangs on PCP.” It was ludicrous,
but the good people of the little town on the hellmouth had hidden their heads in the sand and accepted the explanation.
Angelenos were only slightly more capable of accepting the truth about the dark side.
“Why do you say that?” he asked. “Why gangs?”
“Well, I’m not a cop.” She sounded a little guarded. “But it’s always gangs these days.” Shrugging, she added, “New people come in, try to steal territory, everyone gets pissed off.”
“And kill civilians?”
She scrutinized him. “Funny, I didn’t notice any bruises on your butt.”
“Excuse me?”
“From when you fell out of the turnip truck. You cannot be this ignorant and live.”
“I’ve been out of the loop,” he ventured.
“What loop? This is not a loop. This is life. Common sense.”
“How are they different from other burn victims?” he asked, trying another tack.
She went with it. “Burned from the inside out. Our guess is they’re forced to swallow some kind of combustible material. The material must be timed to go off inside ’em. There’s gotta be some kind of oxygen source, too, to get it started and/or keep it going. Then, ka-blam. Y’all got yourself a kinda flare-gun effect going on in there.”
She shrugged. “Me, I’d like to go in my sleep. Or having sex.” She grinned at him. “Don’t they call it ‘the little death’ for a reason?”
Before he could answer, she said, “There was a movie with Madonna, wasn’t there? She killed guys on purpose by sleeping with them? I’m sorry, but that’s just dang ridiculous. Not to mention extremely egotistical. Shee-oot.” She winked at him. “I’m off-duty, but I still talk like a lady. That’s all I do like a lady, though.”
She merged into the right lane, barely missing a Mercedes. The other driver slammed on the horn.
“I’m a bodybuilder. I supposed I could kill some guy I was sleepin’ with, if I wanted to.” She gave him another look. “And I guess sometimes a girl wants to, if he’s been a pig. Some men change once they get what they want.”
“Mmmm.” Sex and bitter consequences. The conversation was hitting a little close to home. “How many have there been? Deaths, I mean?”
“At least a dozen.” She made a face.
“They reek.” They do. Death smells bad.