Shakedown Read online

  Since breathing was more or less optional for vampires, that wasn’t a problem. However, the fact that he was now buried alive—well, buried undead, actually—was. At least he was alone; the Quake demon was gone, or at least no longer had Angel in a vibrating death-grip. The dirt around him wasn’t that tightly packed, either; he must be close to the surface.

  As Angel started to claw his way upward, he couldn’t help thinking about Darla. The first time he’d done this was after she’d bitten him—but then it was his own grave he was digging his way out of.

  He remembered the panic of waking in his own coffin, of thinking there’d been some terrible mistake, of pushing up on the lid and feeling the heavy weight of wet earth holding it down. He’d pounded on the lid until it smashed under his new strength, and then he’d frantically, blindly clawed his way upward. Even though his body no longer needed air, his brain hadn’t figured that out yet; his lungs burned with a desire they no longer had, a need they merely imagined.

  Angel had never known the difference between want and need back then. If he wanted something, he took it; if he needed to brawl or drink or womanize, he did it. It was all the same, and when he’d become a vampire, he’d continued in much the same way. His needs changed, but his attitude toward them did not.

  And then he’d regained his soul, and everything was different.

  Suddenly, all he wanted was relief from the immense burden of guilt that descended upon him, and when he realized no relief was possible, he had wanted to suffer. No—he’d needed to. He’d needed to atone for all the mayhem, all the corpses strewn in his wake, and for a hundred years he’d done exactly that. He’d lived as little more than an animal, drinking the blood of vermin and sleeping in sewers. It had taken him a century to find the desire to do anything other than exist.

  There was a very clear line between what Angel wanted and what he needed, now. What he wanted, deep down, was what everyone wanted: to be happy. But if Angel were ever to experience even a single moment of true happiness, the Gypsy curse placed on him would rip the soul out of his body, transforming him once more into the monster known as Angelus. Angel could never have what he wanted.

  But he could have what he needed—because all he needed was to fight back the darkness that he used to live in. To make the shadows of the world a little safer.

  Twenty minutes later, Angel’s head popped out of the middle of a baseball field. The sky was the rosy color of predawn, droplets of dew glinting on the green crewcut of the grass. Angel pulled himself out of the earth just behind first base, then took out his cell phone—luckily it hadn’t been crushed. He made a quick call as he headed for the nearest manhole.

  All the way back to the office, he couldn’t get that hymn out of his head.

  “Demon Urban Professionals? We’re working for Duppies?” Cordelia said, putting her issue of Vogue down on her desk. “Great. How do you kill one— drive an Ikea catalog through its heart?”

  “Expose its stock portfolio t’direct sunlight,” Doyle offered from where he sprawled on the office couch. “Might even have to carry a hood ornament from a Mercedes, instead of a cross.”

  “Very funny,” Angel said. “But—demons or not— they have a real problem.”

  “Big deal,” Cordelia snorted. “They’re demons, right? Just because they can afford pedicures for their little hooved feet doesn’t mean we’re suddenly best buds. I say, let them eat dirt.”

  “A major earthquake could have all of California eating dirt,” Angel pointed out. “Including you.”

  “Oh,” Cordelia said. “Good point. Plus, having Hollywood destroyed would not be good for my career.”

  “And it doesn’t sound like they’ve got hooved feet, either,” Doyle said. “Actually, they sound pretty normal. For demons, I mean.” He glanced over at Cordelia.

  “Normal? What about that tongue-flicky-thingy? Please.”

  . . . please . . .

  “—isn’t that right, Angel?” Doyle asked.

  “What? I, uh, wasn’t paying attention.”

  “I said, y’can’t judge a book by its cover. Or a demon by its tongue, for that matter. And speakin’ of tongues, Angel, what were you planning t’say if you got caught wanderin’ around down there without a hall pass?”

  “Actually,” Angel said, “I came up with this really clever cover story. I was going to tell them—”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Cordelia said. “I mean, if the cover of a book doesn’t matter, then why are there so many different kinds? What do they pay cover artists and graphic designers and photographers for? If covers really weren’t important, books would all look the same and people would think Fabio was a brand of stain remover.”

  “Uh, right,” Angel said. “The thing is, I’d like to know a little more about both races. If we’re going to jump into the middle of a war, I want to make sure we’re on the right side.”

  “I vote for the side without demons on it,” Cordelia said.

  “Does that include vampires?” a rich tenor asked from the doorway. “Or just vampires with souls?”

  Galvin strolled through the door. He wore a dark blue silk suit and a wide smile.

  “And you are?” Cordelia asked.

  “This is our client,” Angel said. “Galvin, these are my associates, Cordelia and Doyle.”

  “Doyle! A fine Irish name,” Galvin said, shaking Doyle’s hand. “Meaning the dark stranger, or the new arrival. Perhaps that’s more appropriate for me, eh?”

  He turned to Cordelia. “And Cordelia, another Celt if I’m not mistaken. ‘The sea’s jewel.’ ”

  Cordelia frowned. “Seize my what?”

  “Well, with a fine group of fellow countrymen like this working for you, you have my full confidence, Angel. Allow me to express myself in monetary terms.” Galvin pulled out a checkbook.

  “That’s all right—” Angel started.

  “—perfectly all right, we accept checks no problem,” Cordelia finished. “And being paid at the beginning instead of the end is actually our policy, because we can do a much better job if we can just pay for things instead of worrying about receipts and stuff.”

  “Of course,” Galvin said. He filled in the check, ripped it out of the book and handed it to Cordelia. “I hope this is sufficient for a retainer.”

  Cordelia glanced at it. “That’ll be fine,” she said. She opened the top drawer of her desk and put the check inside, closed the drawer, clasped her hands together in front of her and smiled up at Galvin. “Now—what can we do for you?”

  “Angel already told me what happened when he called,” Galvin said. “I just wanted to come down and have a look around myself. And offer an invitation, in person.”

  “That’s not neccesary,” Angel said. “I only need to be invited to a place once to be able to enter—”

  “No, no, no,” Galvin said with a chuckle. “I meant a proper invitation—to a party. Appletree Estates is having a little get-together tonight, and we’d like you to come. If you’re going to be looking out for our welfare, we’d like to get to know you a bit.”

  “That’s very kind, Galvin, but—”

  “—we couldn’t go unless you let us bring something,” Doyle interrupted.

  “Well, we always appreciate a good bottle of wine,” Galvin said. “And we never turn away a body with whiskey, either.”

  “We’ll see you tonight, then,” Doyle said.

  “Excellent.” Galvin stifled a yawn. “Excuse me. I really must be getting home; I can barely keep my eyes open during the day. Fortunately, my limo has a human driver—I’m sure I’d doze off at the wheel. I’ll see you all tonight.” He nodded good-bye and left.

  “Well, that was—” Angel started, then stopped.

  “What?” Doyle asked.

  “I was just waiting for one of you to finish my sentence,” Angel said. “Since you both seem to be so good at it.”

  “EEEEEEE!” Cordelia shrieked.

  Doyle jumped to his feet and
Angel whirled around, tensing for trouble.

  Cordelia had the check in both hands.

  “Did you see how much this is for? Oh my God! ”

  “Bit of a delayed reaction, Cordy?” Doyle asked.

  “No. I just internalized it until he left. I am an actress, you know.”

  “I’m not sure it’s a good idea to socialize with clients,” Angel said.

  “Don’t think of it as socializin’,” Doyle said, settling back onto the couch. “Think of it as research. You said yourself we need to know more about these Serpentene guys. This is the perfect opportunity to feel ’em out.”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of spending a few hours doing some reading—”

  “Oh, no,” Cordelia said. “Reading or fighting, those are your solutions to everything. You’re like the Bruce Lee of bookworms. You should get out and enjoy yourself a little more—and this check is definitely a reason to celebrate.”

  “I’d rather do my research over a pint than a page,” Doyle said. “What do you say? Between the three of us, I’m sure we can—”

  “Um, excuse me?” Cordelia said. “I hope by ‘the three of us’ you mean you, Angel and an imaginary friend, because no way am I partying in a basement full of walking boa constrictors. I mean, sure, I’ll take their money—but what if there’s another quake and we get trapped down there? They’ll turn me into Cordelia-jerky faster than a marooned soccer team.”

  “That’s also a consideration,” Angel admitted. “I don’t want to put either of you in danger.”

  “Look, man,” Doyle said reasonably. “It boils down t’this: somebody’s got t’go, to check these guys out. You’re the one they hired, so you gotta make an appearance. Now, if you go alone, you know you’re just gonna do your lurking-in-the-corner-lookin’uncomfortable thing, and you won’t find out buggerall. Me, though, I know how t’work a room; gimme a couple drinks and a little mood music, I’ll have the clan history on the back of a cocktail napkin in half an hour.”

  “Okay, so you and I go—”

  “—and I’m not goin’ unless Cordy does.”

  “What?” Cordelia snapped.

  “Come on, Cordy, it’ll be fun. And with you there, we’ll learn twice as much. Who could say no to those big, beautiful eyes?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Then it’s settled,” Doyle said. “Tonight, we mingle!”

  “I’ll see you guys later, then,” Cordelia said, getting up and grabbing her coat.

  “Where are you going?” Angel asked.

  “To get ready, of course.”

  “Cordelia, it’s two in the afternoon.”

  “Look, if I have to go to this—this demonfest, I will. But demons or not, they obviously have money and they know how to dress. Unless you want them to treat me like the drive-thru girl at Burger World, you better let me do some preparation. That means new hair, shoes and wardrobe, all on the microscopic salary you pay me. I need the rest of the day, minimum, to put together a look that doesn’t scream Salvation Army.”

  “‘Uh—okay . . .”

  When Cordelia had left, Angel said, “You didn’t have to force her to come along.”

  “Oh, come on, man,” Doyle said, getting up from the couch. “You know as well as I do that not all demons are bad news—but Cordy’s a little unclear on the concept. If I can’t get her to see some demons as at least being on our side, what chance is there that she’d consider dating one?”

  “You’re only half-demon, Doyle.”

  “Like that’s gonna make a difference. ‘Hey, Cordy, only one side of my family hails from the Infernal Pit, but maybe Thanksgiving with your folks is a better idea.’ She’d love that.”

  “Doyle, you haven’t even asked her out yet and you’re already planning where to spend the holidays.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s never too soon to start planning a dysfunctional relationship.” Doyle jammed his hands into his pockets and frowned. “Thanks for goin’ along with this, though. It’s about as close as I can see to me and Cordy going on a date.”

  “You’re going to have to tell her eventually.”

  “I know, I know. Just give me some time . . .”

  A young, blond Serpentene woman in a short black dress met them at the front door of the complex. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Kyra. Come with me.”

  She ushered them through the lobby and into the elevator. Once the doors had closed, she pulled out a key and inserted it into the elevator’s control panel. “This is how we stay hidden,” she informed them. “We rent out the upper floors to humans, but we’re careful to never ride with them.”

  The doors opened on the first Serpentene floor. “Galvin’s the one throwing the party,” Kyra said, leading them down the hall. “Wait ’til you see his place—it’s amazing.”

  “Aren’t you worried the upstairs tenants might hear the . . . festivities?” Angel asked.

  “There’s studio-quality soundproofing between our floors and the rest of the building,” Kyra answered. “We don’t have to worry about noise.”

  Cordelia shot Angel a look. He knew exactly what she was thinking: and it conveniently muffles all sorts of ruckus, like the horrible screams when we murder our party guests.

  Galvin met them at the door. “Angel, Doyle, Cordelia! I’m so glad you made it!” He beamed at them happily. “Come in, come in—let me show you around.”

  The suite was large, at least seven rooms, and full of people. Galvin took obvious pride in showing off his acquisitions: the living room boasted a Picasso, a Rembrandt and a Van Gogh; the master bedroom contained a Louis XIV bed; the library had first editions from Dickens, Poe and Twain. Even the bathroom held a Ming Dynasty vase.

  When the tour was over, Galvin apologized for being a poor host. “Here I am blathering over all my worldly goods, and you don’t even have a drink in hand to dull the pain! Come, let’s do something about that.”

  He led them over to the bar, a massive chunk of teak that took up most of one wall. “What’s your pleasure? We have a fine selection of single malts, both scotch and whiskey. Or perhaps you’d prefer wine, or beer? We have Guinness on tap, and an excellent oatmeal stout.”

  “Uh, we brought this,” Doyle said. He held out a bottle-shaped paper bag.

  Galvin took it, opened it, peered inside. “Ah,” he said. “How nice. We’ll just put that here for later, shall we?”

  Doyle looked around the room as Galvin poured drinks. Everyone seemed young, attractive and well-dressed. If this wasn’t L.A., Doyle thought, it’d almost be creepy .

  Maureen, the Serpentene woman Angel had met yesterday, came up to them. She wore an evening gown of pale yellow and emeralds at her throat and ears. “Hello again,” she said.

  Angel introduced Doyle and Cordelia, and they nodded hello. Galvin excused himself as more guests arrived, leaving the four of them alone.

  There was a moment’s awkward silence.

  “So—you’re a demon,” Cordelia said brightly. “What’s that like?”

  “What she means is—” Doyle interjected hastily, “she’s never—uh, she’s not experienced with—”

  Maureen laughed. “It’s all right. We spend so much time hiding, it’s refreshing to encounter honesty for a change.” She took a sip from her glass of white wine. “Actually, if I’m going to be honest— and remember, you started it—it’s a little scary, too.”

  “I can understand that,” Doyle said. “Bein’ afraid of what people might think if they knew the real you, and all. Well, don’t worry; we’re here for a good time, not an interrogation.”

  “Actually, there are a few things I need to ask Galvin,” Angel said. “If you’ll excuse me?” He slipped away.

  “Good ol’ Angel—always on the job,” Doyle said. “If that boy were wound any tighter he could run a clock.”

  “We’re used to it,” Maureen said. “That kind of attitude, I mean. We’re all sort of workaholics, here.”

  “What exactly do you
work at, anyway?” Cordelia asked.

  “I’m a sales rep for Neiman-Marcus.”

  Cordelia’s eyes widened. “What department?”

  “Women’s fashions, mostly.”

  “And I’ll bet you get a big employee’s discount, don’t you—”

  “You know it. You should see the line that just came in—”

  The conversation shifted to fashion. Doyle, whose fashion sense Cordelia once described as “thrift store lounge lizard,” felt his eyes beginning to glaze over after the first two minutes. He excused himself to go use the bathroom; Maureen and Cordelia hardly noticed he’d left.

  “So, Galvin,” Angel said. “Are all the Serpentene Irish?”

  “Aye, it’s where we hail from,” Galvin said, affecting a thick brogue for a moment. He picked his drink up from the white grand piano he’d set it down on. “Not for some time, though. Not a one of us has set foot on our native soil since we were banished. Much like you, we can’t go where we’re not wanted.”

  “It wouldn’t be Saint Patrick who banished you, would it?”

  “Well, of course it was! Where d’you think all those snakes went? To America, land of opportunity.”

  “In the fifth century?”

  “So we had a few detours along the way. I understand you’ve been down a few roads yourself.”

  “I’ve . . . done my share of traveling,” Angel said.

  The smell of the lemon trees mingling with the odor of charred wood and decaying flesh. The cries of the gulls as they fought over the bodies of the dead . . .

  “Yes, you were quite . . . notorious, throughout Europe. Or rather, Angelus was.”

  “That wasn’t me,” Angel said flatly.

  “I realize that,” Galvin said gently. “And I apologize if I’ve offended you. I just thought it best if you understood: we know about your past, and we know that it is history, nothing more. That we do not judge you by the horrific reputation of Angelus, but by the honorable standards you have established since you regained your soul. We know we are not the first demons you’ve helped—but we would like to be the most grateful.”