Shakedown Read online

  “True enough,” Angel admitted. “But I think there’s more to it than that.”

  “I’d say you were right,” Doyle said. “Considering what I found last night.”

  “You found something?” Cordelia asked.

  “Sorry, Cordy,” Doyle said. “I forgot your memory is a bit spotty about the evenin’s festivities.”

  “He found a room full of catalogued objects,” Angel said.

  “What kind of objects? Monkey’s paws, heads in jars, that kind of thing?”

  “That’s the strange part,” Doyle said. “They were really ordinary things. Kid’s toys, old blue jeans, photo albums. Nothin’ ominous about them, except the fact that they were so carefully arranged and labeled.”

  “Maybe the Serpentene are just really anal,” Cordelia said. “I dated a guy like that once. He sewed little labels inside his socks.”

  “Or maybe the objects are cursed,” Doyle said.

  “Right,” Cordelia said. “Don’t put on those pants— they’re the cursed pants! You’ll look fat— forever ! Puh- leeze , Doyle—that’s the kind of idea a TV executive would come up with.”

  “What about voodoo?” Angel suggested. “Snakes figure big in tropical mythologies. Maybe they’re using the items for sympathetic magic.”

  “They want people to feel sorry for them?” Cordelia asked.

  “No,” Angel said patiently. “Sympathetic magic is when you use an object connected to a person— usually something they’ve owned, or a photo of them—in a mystic ritual. Whatever you do to the item has the same effect on the person.”

  “Or maybe they just have a hard time throwing anything away,” Cordelia said. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t get a creepy evil vibe from them at all; I had a really good time. The part I remember, I mean.”

  “I don’t know,” Doyle said. “That’s not the impression I got. I felt like somethin’ was wrong.”

  “Doyle, you just felt out of place,” Cordelia said. “Just because these people appreciate the finer things in life—and by that I do not mean cheap beer and pay-per-view wrestling—it doesn’t necessarily follow that they’re evil.”

  “Well now,” Doyle said. “You sure went from ‘forked-tongues-give-me-the-willies’ to ‘Rah! Rah! Go Snakes!’ pretty quick. Maybe Angel should take them up on their offer, too.”

  “What offer?” Cordelia asked.

  “It’s nothing,” Angel muttered.

  “Oh, that’s right,” Doyle said. “You’d already slipped into a coma by the time Angel mentioned it. Seems that Galvin wants Angel around full-time; offered him an apartment if he’d take a job with them as a security guard.”

  “Security consultant,” Angel said. “And it wouldn’t be full-time; I’d still work here . . . I’d just live there.”

  “So you’re actually considering this?” Cordelia asked.

  “I didn’t say that. I’m just telling you what the offer was—”

  “I think you should take it,” Cordelia said.

  “—what?”

  “Seriously,” Cordelia said. “Think about it. I mean, after all, they are your kind.”

  “Just because they’re demons doesn’t mean—”

  “I meant young and good-looking,” Cordelia said. “Who knows, they might even convince you there are other colors besides black.”

  “He can’t just move in with a client in the middle of a case,” Doyle protested.

  “Look,” Cordelia said. “There is nothing worse than being an outsider. You have no idea how difficult it was for me in high school—it was almost impossible to avoid losers like that.”

  “You think I need a group to belong to?” Angel asked.

  “Well, duh —it’s not like there’s a vampire-with-asoulprivate-detective Web site.”

  “Actually, there’s a few,” Doyle said.

  “Anyway,” Cordelia continued, “this is probably as close as you’re ever going to get to having drinking buddies—and rich friends are the best friends.”

  “Well, it was nice having a conversation that didn’t end with one of us crumbling into a pile of dust,” Angel admitted. “But Doyle’s right; it wouldn’t be appropriate for me to involve myself that closely with a client, especially one we don’t know the full story on. So—what have you found out?”

  “About the Serpentene?” Cordelia said. “Not much. The building is owned by a corporation called Appletree. They own a few other concerns, all of which are members in good standing of the Better Business Bureau. No criminal investigations, no lawsuits, no horrible cult murder-suicides. Pretty clean for a bunch of salesdemons.”

  “Well, I haven’t found out much more, but what I did find out isn’t necessarily good,” Doyle said. “According to some texts, the snakes the Serpentene are descended from is the snake—the one that tempted Adam and Eve.”

  “Half the demons in the San Fernando Valley make that claim,” Angel said. “It’s like saying your ancestors came across on the Mayflower.”

  “Well, it’s all I got so far,” Doyle said. “But I do have a line on a potential gold mine of information. Guy by the name of Graedeker, trades in a lot of occult merchandise. If it has t’do with buying, selling, and black magic, he’s the one t’talk to.”

  “Okay, you follow up on that. Now, getting back to the Quake demons—any possible weaknesses?”

  “Well,” Doyle said, “I found this: ‘Only that which opposes it can oppose it.’ It’s definitely talkin’ about the Tremblors, but damned if I know what it means.”

  “Sounds like it doesn’t mean anything,” Cordelia said. “It’s like saying, ‘that which you eat is eaten,’ or ‘that which you bought on sale was marked down.’ ”

  “We’ll keep it in mind,” Angel said. “Now, if they need four victims, they may already have some or all of the others. I’ll check with Kate on missing persons who might fit the bill.”

  “And I’ll do some more up close and personal research on the Serpentene,” Cordelia said. “Maureen and I made a date to go shopping—she’s going to buy me a new outfit! See you guys later . . .”

  “First things first,” Angelus said. “Let’s go check on our little trapped rat.” He got out of bed and began pulling on clothes.

  Darla frowned at him from where she reclined, nude. “I think I’m getting jealous. You actually care more about your little Maria than this?” She ran one hand down a perfect, creamy-white thigh.

  “Not that it’s not temptin’, darlin’,” Angelus said, flashing her a smile. “But I think you and I both know where my interests lie.”

  Darla shook her head and laughed. “Torment over sex. You are a piece of work, my love.”

  “Some men are fighters, some are lovers. Me, now, I think my true callin’ is somethin’ else; I was born to be a right bastard.”

  “Well, you are good at it. I’ve just never seen you draw one out quite this long.”

  “I know, I know. I think it’s because I never had a pet as a child. It’s just so enjoyable playing with her . . .”

  Darla stretched lazily and got out of bed. “So what games will we be playing today?”

  “I figure she must be gettin’ right hungry by now. Hunger can make you do terrible things—and those other bodies in there with her are just going to waste. . . .”

  But when they got to the ruins of the church, they were not the first to arrive.

  Four men were busy clearing rubble by lanternlight. They were obviously working to uncover the trapdoor in the west corner.

  “Ah, Maria, Maria,” Angelus said under his breath. “You bad, ungrateful girl. You’ve been talkin’ to strangers—and after all the warnings I gave you, too.”

  He and Darla strode forward. One of the men, a dark-skinned Portuguese, looked up as they approached. “You there!” the man called out. “Can you give us a hand? There are people trapped under here!”

  “The Devil you say,” Angelus remarked. He put a hand on the man’s shoulder in a comradely way. “I wouldn’t be gettin’ too worked up about it, meself.”

  Angelus’s arm darted around the man’s neck, his hand grabbing hold of the jaw. He broke the neck with one quick wrench and let the body slump to the ground.

  “You’re getting quite good at that,” Darla commented.

  “I had a good teacher,” Angelus said.

  The other men had stopped working and now stood with their shovels and picks raised in defense. “Brigands!” one of them cried. “You’ll not find us as easy pickings as the bodies of the dead!”

  “Living, dead—it’s all the same to us,” Darla said. Her face transformed into a demonic visage of fangs, yellow eyes and distended bone. She leapt for the throat of the nearest worker.

  Angelus just stood back and watched. After all, she deserved to have some fun, too. . . .

  A monster with skin like jagged obsidian stalked through the maze of sewers beneath L.A.

  Only the bravest Tremblors were chosen to make the journey to the Upper World, with its searing rays of light and chaotic buzz of activity. Baasalt was one of these, a warrior-priest of the deepest level. As he trudged through the tunnel closer and closer to his objective, his thoughts were devout; in order to attune himself to what he sought, he had to be in a meditative, almost trancelike state. It wasn’t easy to do while wading through filth, the stench of offal in his nostrils, but Baasalt knew how to keep himself centered. His tribe’s history was an oral one, though they spoke mind-to-mind rather than aloud, and he ran through the Sacred Scripts in his mind to help him concentrate.

  The Script he recalled now was the oldest of them all: The First Story.

  And before Everything, there was the Blood that boiled in the Heart of the World. And the Blood pulsed and surged and forced its way out of th
e Heart and into the Body of the World, which was frozen and lifeless. The Blood flowed through the Body, seeking to bring it to Life. The cold of the Body mingled with the fire of the Blood, and it slowed and hardened and took new form. This was the Ig, the First Tribe, and they had dominion throughout the Body of the World.

  The Ig were not satisfied, and they sent forth warriors to explore the very Skin of the World. And behold, they found that the Skin was a wretched place. Its surface crawled with all manner of vermin, and the blessed Dark was burned away by horrid Light. Unseen forces howled their way through a vast Emptiness, and all the Ig who ventured there were destroyed. And the Ig turned away from the Skin of the World, and were content to live within.

  Baasalt nodded to himself. The First Story was easy; all Tremblors knew it, though not all could remember it as perfectly as a warrior-priest. He stopped before a particular storm drain and extended his tail up as high as it would go; a slit opened on the underside and a pale white tuber unfurled itself from within. It thrust itself between the rusted iron bars of the grate above Baasalt’s head and swayed slightly back and forth like the questing head of a worm.

  Yes. He could taste the mark that had been put on this place; this was where she lived. The second one, the one that traveled through the Void that Screamed. She was not here now, but Baasalt could wait. His was a patient people.

  As he waited, he thought of the Skin-Dweller that he had fought. It had foolishly tried to hunt him, no doubt seeking to—what was the term? “Eat” him. A vile concept, one that had something to do with the reek all around. It had fought harder than he expected, but once it had buried itself in its desperate attempt to survive he had continued on his way and given the matter little thought. In truth, he’d felt a little guilty; slaughtering innocent beasts that were only following their instincts was nothing to be proud of.

  As he settled down to wait, he recalled The Second Story.

  After many Ages, a new tribe appeared in the Body of the World. They called themselves the Sedim; they were the ghosts of the Ig who had died on the Skin of the World, and they were made of their crushed bones. They were vengeful ghosts, for they blamed the Ig for their deaths, and for abandoning their bones on the Skin of the World.

  And so the Ig and the Sedim went to War, and great Convulsions shook the Body of the World. The battle went on for many Ages, and the Body of the World was consumed by War. The dead were so numerous that they clogged the tunnels, and the caves, and the Great Dark Spaces; and all about was death. The Body of the World was now the Corpse of the World.

  But the Soul of the World still lived, and its breath was life and magic. It flowed through the bodies of the fallen, and transformed the dead with its mysterious power. They rose up as a new tribe, and they called themselves the Metamor. And the Metamor went to the Ig, and to the Sedim, and talked to them of the End of War; for the Metamor were Peace-makers.

  The Ig and the Sedim saw the wisdom of the Metamor’s words, and decided to battle each other no more.

  That was the end of the Second Story. Baasalt began the Third.

  The Ig, the Sedim, and the Metamor lived in harmony as the Three Tribes. But there came a time when they realized that their numbers were shrinking, for they had no way to reproduce. The Sedim had been born from the bones of the Ig, and the Metamor from the bones of the Ig and the Sedim. Only through Death could there be new Life, and the Three Tribes had forsworn War. Perplexed, they sent a Warrior-Priest to the Heart of the World to ask for advice.

  “Great Heart of the World,” intoned the

  Warrior-Priest, “give us your Wisdom. We wish to live, and yet only Death seems to bring forth new Life. What can we do?”

  “In the Belly of the World, only Death can bring forth Life, it is true,” said the Heart of the World. “But on the Skin of the World, Life grows in a different way. I can show you this way, but it will require a great Sacrifice of all your people.”

  “We will do anything,” the Warrior-Priest replied.

  “Very well. Your tribes must leave their home, and travel throughout the Body of the World. They must not travel together; each must be alone, as one lost. When they have traveled as long and far as they can, when they are far from their tribe and their home, they must lay down in the Earth and sleep.”

  And the Warrior-Priest returned to the Three Tribes, and told them the Words of the Heart of the World, and they went forth to do as they had been bidden.

  And when all members of the Three Tribes had wandered long and far, they lay themselves down in the Earth; and their hearts were sick with loneliness and want. As they slept, their bodies swelled with longing, and grew until they filled all the Body of the World; and their dreams reached out to the Heart of the World, crying out with their desire.

  “Be still, my children,” said the Heart of the World, “for I will give you what you long for.”

  And the dreams of the Three Tribes flowed together and became as one, and from this dream was born the Fourth Tribe. And the body of the Fourth Tribe was made of Ig and Sedim and Metamor, and given power over the Body of the World. And the Heart of the World named them, calling them the Tremblor.

  “Thank you, Great Heart of the World, for letting us be born,” were the first words of the Tremblor. “But where are our parents?”

  “Your parents are now Giants, sleeping within the Body of the World,” was the answer. “Indeed, they have become the Body of the World, and you will dwell inside them. They will sleep until they are needed, and on that day they will not waken—but they will dance.

  “And the Skin of the World will be laid to waste, and the Tremblor race will grow.”

  Baasalt smiled to himself with teeth like stalactites. The Third Story had always been his favorite— and now, The Dance of the Sleeping Giants was nearly upon them . . .

  The Skin-Dwellers were soft and wet things and they disgusted him, but they were necessary for the ritual. The blood of four specific creatures from the Skin of the World must be mingled with the Blood of the Heart of the World. So it had always been; so it always would be.

  And who was Baasalt to question tradition?

  “Kate,” Angel said. “Got a minute?”

  LAPD detective Kate Lockley looked up from the paperwork she’d been going over. “Angel. Sure, if it’s a minute free of forms in triplicate.” She brushed a strand of blond hair away from her eyes, and leaned back in her office chair. “What’s up?”

  Angel sat down in the chair in front of her desk. “I wondered if I could get some help with a case I’m working on.”

  “Depends. What do you need?”

  “Information on missing persons.” “I can probably do that. Who are you looking for?”

  Angel hesitated. “It’s not a specific person—more likely someone in a particular occupation.”

  “Sex trade?”

  “No, something a little more . . . elemental. Fire, to be exact.”

  “You’re looking for a missing arsonist?”

  “Not necessarily. Just someone connected to the field.”

  Kate frowned and tapped a few keys on her computer. “Well, we can search the files by occupation. How about a firefighter?”

  “That could be it. When did he disappear?”

  “She, Sherlock. And she vanished two weeks ago, right after her shift. Left her car in the parking lot. No leads, no suspects, no known reasons for her to disappear.”

  “Can I get a name and address?” Angel asked.

  “I shouldn’t, but—okay. You didn’t hear it from me.” Kate scrawled the facts down on a piece of paper and handed it over. “Anything else?”

  “Water.”

  “There’s a cooler at the end of the hall—”

  “No, I mean, have there been any disappearances of people connected with water?”

  She gave him a skeptical look. “Connected with water? That could be anyone from a plumber to a surfboard salesman. I mean, I punch in ‘fire’ and my little search engine does just fine; I punch in ‘water,’ there’s a whole bunch of categories it’ll miss. I’d have to go over them personally.”