Shakedown Read online

  “That’s . . . very kind,” Angel said, fumbling for words. “Thank you.”

  “You’re very welcome. The basis of a good friendship is simple, I’ve always found: you forgive your companions for not being perfect, and they do the same for you.”

  “We could all use a little forgiveness,” Angel said.

  “Father, forgive me, for I have sinned,” Angelus intoned. “Come on now, I’m sure a good Catholic like you knows the words.”

  The voice from beneath the floorboards sounded weaker. “. . . f–forgive me, Father . . .”

  The voice trailed off. Silence.

  “Come on, now,” Angelus urged. “How can I give you the last rites if you don’t confess your sins first?”

  “Tell her you’re the Pope,” Darla said. “At this point, she’ll believe anything.”

  “Maria?” Angelus asked. “You still there, darlin’?” “. . . why . . . why do I need the last rites? I thought you were going to . . . rescue us . . .”

  “Purely a formality, my dear. In case we don’t make it in time. You wouldn’t want to be spending eternity roasting in Hell over a technicality, would you?”

  “. . . no . . .”

  “Then go ahead. Tell me your sins.”

  “. . . I . . . I had an argument with my mother, the last time I saw her. I was disrespectful when she wanted me to do the washing . . .”

  Darla snorted. “A dispute over laundry. Boring. I don’t want to hear about the insignificant details of her tiny life—”

  “Shhhhh,” Angelus said, glaring at her.

  “. . . and now . . . I don’t know . . .”

  “You don’t know if you’ll ever see your poor mother again,” Angelus said. “Or if she went to her grave with anger in her heart, anger toward an ungrateful child that wouldn’t do something as simple as washing a few clothes. Is that it?”

  A choked sobbing was Maria’s only reply.

  Angelus straightened up and gave Darla a satisfied smile. “It’s not the big things, darlin’,” he said to her. “It’s the insignificant details that worm their way into your soul . . .”

  Doyle was lost.

  At least, that’s what he was going to tell any of the Serpentene if they questioned where he was, which was strolling down the hallway away from the party.

  In Doyle’s experience, people with a lot of money always had something to hide. Of course, sometimes that thing was just a big heap of money, but not always. More often than not it was something illegal, immoral, or really disgusting. The Serpentene had gone from completely secretive to we-want-to-bebestfriends way too fast for Doyle; he’d been around enough scam artists to recognize the taste of blarney when it was being fed to him.

  So it was time for a little look around—without a guide. Hopefully, he could discover something useful. Why, he might even impress Cordy . . .

  “This is impressive,” Cordelia said. “What did you say it was called again?”

  “Lagavulin,” answered Maureen, taking a sip from her own glass of cut crystal. She and Cordelia were standing by the bar while a young Serpentene named Ian poured them drinks. Ian, Cordelia decided, had a kind of Sting-like quality to him, but with better hair. He was wearing a charcoal Armani suit and managed to make it look casual.

  “I’m not really much of a hard alcohol kind of person,” Cordelia said, “more of a white wine spritzer girl, you know? But this is really yummy— how much did you say it costs?”

  “Around two hundred a bottle. But it’s not the best Galvin stocks, not by a mile. Try some of this.” Ian poured another shot into her glass. “It’s called Glenfarcus, and it’s older than you are.”

  Cordelia took a sip. “Wow. It’s so smooth . . . is that the right term, or do you have your own scotchy language like wine drinkers? It goes down real easy, anyway.”

  “Aye,” Ian said with a grin. “Aye, that it does . . .”

  Doyle had been up and down three hallways before he found it, in a room marked STORAGE, just off the telemarketing center. The door wasn’t locked.

  The room was lined with shelves. At first glance, Doyle was reminded of a police evidence room; everything was bagged and tagged.

  But he wasn’t looking at rows of impounded weapons and drugs. The items on the shelves varied so widely he wasn’t sure what they had in common: they ranged from toys to canisters of film. He picked up a teddy bear in a clear plastic bag and looked at the tag. “S. Powell, 12/25/57,” he whispered to himself. “Kinda late for a Christmas present . . .”

  Other items were marked the same way, just a name and a date. He examined an old pair of jeans, a framed photo of someone’s grandmother, a cookbook—he couldn’t figure out the connection between them.

  And then he heard footsteps.

  “Gluck?” Galvin asked.

  “Gluck is good,” Angel answered after a moment’s consideration. “Especially Armide . Although Haydn’s Symphony Number 22 in E-Flat is still one of my favorites.”

  Galvin was seated at the piano now, and he tinkled out a few notes. “I was there when Haydn was appointed Kapellmeister to Prince Esterhazy, in 1761,” Galvin said. “Quite the affair.”

  “You’re older than you look.”

  “But not quite as well-preserved as you,” Galvin said with a chuckle. “Long life—another thing we have in common. But unlike vampires, we do age; we just shed our skins every few years, which keeps us looking young. I’ve let this skin get a little wrinkled on purpose—a patriarch should look the part, don’t you think?”

  “How old—or young—you look does matter,” Angel admitted. “I saw Mozart on his first European tour. He was six years old. Sixteen years later, when Beethoven went on his first tour, they claimed he was six—actually, he was eight.” Angel shook his head. “People always lie about their age in show business . . .”

  The footsteps receded. “Time t’go,” Doyle muttered to himself. He waited another minute, then slipped out the door.

  Back at the party, no one even seemed to notice he’d been gone; Doyle wasn’t sure if he should feel relieved or insulted. One feeling was becoming more and more clear, though.

  Doyle didn’t belong.

  It wasn’t something coming from the Serpentene; they all smiled and responded pleasantly whenever he tried to join a conversation. Problem was, Doyle couldn’t relate to anything they were saying. He didn’t know much about the stock market or antique furniture or vintage wines, and after his fifth failed attempt to start a discussion on the merits of the Dodgers versus the Padres, he gave up.

  Doyle had never felt like he fitted in, even before he’d learned about his half-demon heritage. People seemed to sense there was something strange about him; it made him work all the harder to be likable. Be quick enough with a drink or a joke, and they won’t have time to reject you, Doyle told himself . . . but still, nobody seemed to hang around very long. He had many acquaintances but few friends. Sometimes, he thought that’s all he really wanted—a true friend. Somebody who accepted him for himself, somebody who wasn’t a demon or a vampire or anything else—just a nice, normal person. Somebody to make him feel like he belonged.

  Of course, he thought to himself. And who do you fancy? Miss Cordelia Chase, who wouldn’t touch a demon with a ten-foot pole-ax and a note from her mother. Ah, Doyle, you must be outta your mind.

  He joined Cordelia at the bar. And despite Cordelia’s often-stated aversion to creatures demonic, she did seem to be enjoying herself. . . .

  “You know, I can’t decide which one is my favorite,” Cordelia said. “Now this one I like. I really, really do.” She lifted her glass and drained it. “Mmmm. It tastes like dirt, but in a good way. A good way, y’know?”

  “That’s the peat,” Maureen said.

  “Well, old Pete definitely knows his Scotch, that’s all I have to say . . . but that one’s good, too. And that one. And that one. And that one, too.”

  “Uh, Cordy?” Doyle said. “How many have you had?”

  “Just a few,” Cordelia said. “To be soshabubble. Excuse me.”

  “I think she’s had enough,” Doyle said. “Stay here—I’m gonna get Angel.”

  “And where would I go?” Cordelia said with an exaggerated shrug. “I’m happy right here . Even if here is five stories underground with a buncha snakes. N’offense.”

  “None taken,” Ian said with a grin.

  “—saw Handel’s Messiah in London and Berlin,” Angel was saying to Galvin when Doyle walked up. “And in my opinion—what?”

  “Cordy’s a little—well, looped,” Doyle said. “I think we should take her home.”

  “All right. Galvin, it looks like we’ll have to be leaving. Thank you for your hospitality, though.”

  “Our pleasure,” Galvin said. “It’s been a while since I had this enjoyable a discussion about music.”

  Back at the bar, Cordelia was telling Maureen, “I hope you didn’t take that remark about dirt the wrong way. I understand that dirt is very important to you people. Well, it is to me, too . Without dirt there would be nothing for things to be on top of. Except other things. And then everything would have to be balanced . And you know what? That’s not as easy as it looks.” She fell out of her chair.

  Angel and Doyle caught her before she hit the carpet. “Good night, ladies,” Doyle said, shaking his head. “Could we get someone with an elevator key to let us out?”

  On the drive home, Doyle rode with Cordelia in the back of Angel’s convertible. “Please don’t let her throw up on the upholstery,” Angel told him. “If there’s one thing I don’t miss about being human, it’s the smell of recycled food.”

  “Oh, m’fine,” Cordelia said. “Can we stop at a Wendy’s? I want one of those square hamburgers. Hey, howcum they don’t
have square buns, huh? I mean, haven’t they heard of bread? And robots.”

  “What?” Doyle said.

  “Robots. They have square buns.” She started giggling.

  “Geez, Cordy, you’re really loaded,” Doyle said. “I mean, I been on a few benders in my time, and on the hungry-drunk and non sequitur scale, you’re somewhere between a lost weekend and Spring Break.”

  The car slipped through the California night. Oncoming headlights threw shadows across the interior that moved like living things. Doyle could smell the petrochemical tang of asphalt cooling after a hot day, mixed in with a breeze from the ocean. Summer midnight in L.A.

  “I’m cold,” Cordelia said. She snuggled up to Doyle; after a second’s hesitation he put his arm around her.

  “Y’want me to tell Angel to put the top up?”

  “No. This is good.” She looked up into his face. “Y’know, you are actually very cute. Inna Irish way. Did you know that?”

  “I’ve heard rumors.”

  She laughed. “And you’re funny . I like you, Doyle. Inna Irish way.”

  “I think right now it’s more a Scotch way, Cordy. But thanks just the same.”

  A gentle snore came from beside him.

  Doyle sighed.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Darla and Angelus returned to the barge to sleep away the daylight hours, but not before they’d taken a few precautions; they moved the barge from the river to the bay, anchoring offshore to reduce the risk of uninvited visitors. They could still be boarded, but the looters seemed to be concentrating their attention on the smoldering corpse of the city. Before that, though, they had to take care of their “buried treasure.”

  “Maria!” Angelus called down. “I’ve got some bad news, darlin’ . . .”

  “. . . what’s wrong? Oh God, you can’t get us out, can you?”

  “Now, now, dear, nothing like that. It’s just that the Spaniards are comin’.”

  “. . . I don’t understand . . .”

  “Spain is taking advantage of the disaster; they’re tryin’ t’take the whole country. It’s said they’re slaughtering all the survivors they come across. We have to take cover until tomorrow, for fear of bein’ discovered. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

  “. . . no . . .”

  “Good. We’ll be back under cover of darkness, but you have to stay quiet until we return. No callin’ for help—”

  “No. No! You can’t leave us here! Francesco is dead and maybe Estrellita too and we’ll die, don’t you understand? You can’t leave us here!”

  “Well, well,” Darla said with a smirk. “Looks like you pushed her just a little too far. A pity; hysterics are only entertaining for the first minute or so.”

  “I’m not done yet,” Angelus shot back. “Maria! Maria! Calm down, darlin’.”

  “. . . you can’t, you can’t . . .”

  “Shhhhh! Listen. Listen and tell me what you hear.”

  “. . . what? I hear . . . gnawing. It sounds like rats, chewing on wood . . .”

  “Not rats, darlin’. It’s a drill. I’ll be through these floorboards in a minute. There. Can you see the hole?”

  “Yes! Yes, I see it!”

  “Get your mouth underneath it. I’m going to pour some water down . . .” Angelus upended a canteen and watched the cool, clear water gurgle into the hole he’d made. He listened carefully; when he heard Maria’s frantic, choked gulping, he smiled.

  “That’s right, drink deep. We wouldn’t want you perishin’ of thirst while we’re away . . .”

  “Mornin’, Cordy,” Doyle said.

  Cordelia managed to glare at him through a pair of sunglasses as she entered the office and took off her coat. “Don’t talk to me. Don’t even think at me until I’ve had coffee.”

  “You . . . sound a little upset.” Doyle rubbed the back of his head and looked uncomfortable.

  “Upset? I spent the first twenty minutes of my day reviewing what I ate over the last twelve hours. Reviewing in a very unpleasant way that I would prefer not to discuss, so just shut up, okay?”

  “Bit of a rough night, I guess.”

  “I wouldn’t know. The last thing I remember is drinking with someone named Pete. Or maybe Glen. Did we go to Wendy’s?”

  “It was suggested,” Doyle said. “But cooler heads prevailed.”

  “Huh. Anyway, the next thing I know I wake up in my own bed, which is doing a pretty good impression of a Tilt-a-Whirl. Doyle, you have to tell me— did I do anything . . .”

  “Anything what?”

  “You know. Embarrassing.”

  “Well, the striptease on top of the bar was a bit much, but I think y’redeemed yourself when you wouldn’t go past your underwear. It’s that kind of restraint that shows real class.”

  “Doyle, I’m warning you—”

  Doyle sighed, then shook his head and smiled. “Cordy, you didn’t do anything . . . wrong. Nothin’ you should be ashamed of. I swear.”

  She squinted at him suspiciously. “Well . . . okay.”

  Angel walked in from his office. He looked up from the open book in his hands. “Morning, Cordelia. How’s your head?”

  “My head is fine. It’s not currently firmly attached and is having a nasty little war with the rest of my body, but I can handle it. Just don’t ask me to do anything loud, like work.”

  “Up to doing some research? Or would the crash of turning pages be too much?”

  “You mean reading about demons? Descriptions of the horrible things they’ve done, the horrible things they plan on doing and the horrible things they do in their spare time? Boy oh boy, my stomach can hardly wait. Maybe I should just go throw up now.”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of checking the Serpentene’s credentials in the business community—”

  “No, I really meant the throwing up part. Excuse me.” Cordelia hurried out of the room.

  Angel stared after her for a second, then shrugged and went back to leafing through his book.

  Doyle walked up to him. “I still can’t believe it.” “Get over it, Doyle,” Angel said without looking up.

  “But it’s never happened to me before.”

  “It happens.”

  “Has it ever happened to you?”

  Angel looked up, considered it for a moment. “Having a girl pass out on my shoulder? Not . . . exactly.”

  “Yeah, well, havin’ someone shuffle off to dreamland while you’re drainin’ the life out of ’em isn’t the same thing, is it?”

  “Look, Doyle, she had a lot to drink; it doesn’t have anything to do with your . . . manhood . If anything, you should take it as a compliment.”

  “How d’you figure?”

  “She obviously trusted you enough to let go.”

  Doyle thought for a moment, then nodded. “I guess that’s one way of lookin’ at it.”

  “And remember—she didn’t vomit on you.”

  “There is that . . .”

  Cordelia returned from the bathroom. “There— fresh as a daisy. Anybody got a breath mint?”

  Angel and Doyle hit the books, while Cordelia made some calls. By midafternoon they knew a little bit more about what they were dealing with.

  Quake demons were also known as Tremblors. They were subterranean dwellers who rarely made an appearance on the surface; the only exception seemed to be when collecting victims for a ritual called the Crushing of Souls. The last time such a ritual was said to be performed was in Japan in 1920, causing a devastating earthquake in Tokyo and Yokohama that killed a hundred and twenty thousand people.

  The timing of the ritual was based on something called the Dance of the Sleeping Giants; unfortunately, the Tremblors seemed to be the only ones that understood what that meant. The ritual itself required four very specific victims: someone close to air, someone close to water, someone close to fire and someone close to earth.

  “Someone close to earth—that would explain why they tried to kidnap one of the Serpentene,” Angel said. “But not why they’d want to destroy their home.”

  “Maybe they’re not after the Serpentene specifically,” Cordelia said. “Could be they’re just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Earthquakes are pretty nondiscriminating.”