by Nancy Holder
“Phantom Dennis,” Cordelia groused, wearying of the game.
Then Kayley Moser’s picture showed on the screen; Cordelia sat forward and said, “Dennis, wait.”
The sound went up, and Cordelia leaned forward, listening. The gist was that more disappearances were occurring, and Kayley’s parents had offered a reward of $100,000 for information on her whereabouts.
“That’s a whole lotta sling-back pumps,” Cordelia breathed. She was very worried for Kayley, and also mystified yet again by the strangeness of growing up: Kayley had been convinced that her parents didn’t care a thing about her, yet here they were, offering a fortune for help in finding her.
If only she had been around to see this effort—or if it had been made while she was here to appreciate it. But it looked like it might be too late now. Wherever Kayley had vanished to, it seemed unlikely that she got L.A. channels.
About then, Angel dragged into the living room from outside, looking, well, like he’d been dragged in, and murmured, “Hi, Cordelia.”
“Coffee’s on the stove, blood is in the fridge,” she said, still watching the broadcast. “And you need to hit the streets.”
Angel watched along with her. “Already my plan,” he said.
He padded into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. “There’s no coffee in here,” he muttered. “Then, oh. Right. Coffee pot. Kitchen counter.”
She grinned to herself.
Angel was so not a morning person.
Kate Lockley read through the abbreviated report filed by Bo Peterson at the end of his shift that morning. She had put in a request to have copies of any paperwork generated by, or involving, Peterson, Manley, Fischer or Castaneda, routed immediately to her desk.
There was precious little detail in the report—an unknown subject who broke a shop window with a garbage can lid, and then escaped on foot. He had to file a report of some kind, she figured, since the store’s alarm had gone off and two units had responded. But she couldn’t remember, in all her years of police work, a report that used so many words to say so little.
It also disturbed her that it had been these two particular units that had been close to the scene, after what Angel had told her about them. The thought of four dirty cops, possibly involved in a homicide, sickened her. Sure, we have a tough job, and there are a lot of temptations along the way, but how come so many of us think we’re above the law we’ve sworn to protect?
Do men like them think no one sees what they’re doing? That they’re invisible?
To make it worse, she found herself oddly annoyed that it was Angel who had brought these four losers to her. But it didn’t do any good to shoot the messenger, as much as she sometimes thought she might enjoy that. She wondered how his investigation was coming along.
Guess I’ll have to pay him a visit, she decided. She glanced up at the morning sun. After he gets some sleep. She was exhausted, but not sleeping well these days. There were periods where her father’s death—and the events leading up to it—bothered her more than usual. It was almost cyclical, but she couldn’t point to any particular cause for it. But during those times, woe betide the bad guy— or vampire —who crossed her.
Angel liked to play fast and loose with things like procedure and rules. She used to think he wasn’t big on sharing unless he had to, in order to get his man . . . or demon . . . or other loathsome, creepy thing from hell. Lately, however, she was beginning to realize that Angel gave her things he didn’t need to, because he wanted her to catch her criminals, too. That should make her trust him.
I don’t.
But I trust him more than four dirty cops.
She stood, yawning, and stretched beside her desk. I’ll give him a few hours, she thought.
“Hey, Detective, rough night?” asked a young officer, passing through the squad room with a rolling cart of evidence files. She was fresh out of the Academy, ready to do her bit for Xena and the American way. She wore no makeup and her hair was tucked under her cap.
Kate shook her head. The woman continued, “What about all the missing kids? Anything on that?”
Kate found herself grinning inside. This was one ambitious rookie, looking to put herself in the loop, trying to befriend her higher-ups. Kate liked that. She liked her.
“Nope.” Kate shook her head. “Have you heard anything on the street?”
The cop shrugged. “People are scared. They’re talking about the Rapture.” She chuckled. “That’s when all the good people go to heaven and leave all us sinful bastards behind.” She snapped her fingers. “Just like that. Folks around you disappear, and you know you’re screwed.”
“The Rapture,” Kate repeated. “That’s what they’re saying?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Kate sighed. “Maybe they’re right. That would explain a few things.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the cop said again, uncertainly.
Kate looked at the woman’s name. “Valdez,” she read off her badge.
The cop nodded. “Yes, Detective Lockley.”
“You’re a good cop, Valdez,” Kate said. “Stay that way.” She gave the woman a halfhearted salute, and walked toward her squad car in the late morning sun.
Sunnydale
Spike woke up extremely groggy, and alone. Hang on, that’s not right, he thought, as she shook himself awake.
Having prevailed upon his fellow Englishman and Willow’s girl chum to put poor Cheryce back in order, they’d performed various magicks for the healing of vampires— thank God ol’ Rupe left the bloody Council; they’d excommunicate him for that, ha —then insisted Spike take her elsewhere, in case she woke up hungry. He understood their concern and, frankly, agreed with it. His brilliant trailer park queen was a woman of impressive appetites. There was no telling what she’d do to the lot of them once she recovered.
Fun to watch, but the mess . . .
He’d considered taking her back to her trailer, but change of plan: he’d have a better chance of not getting kicked out again if he took her to his place. Xander drove him over, Spike doing the blanket-over-the-head trick, and together they got her into home sweet home.
Then he carefully laid her inside the sarcophagus he usually slept on, pushed back the lid, and took a snooze himself.
Worn out, still hung over, he let himself drift down to the deepest levels of slumber. He had a dream, which unfortunately starred Dru, who then turned into Harmony, and the blond hair and face changed a bit. Then he realized he was dreaming about—
“Huh?”
Spike woke up.
He frowned, unable to recall the image of his dream girl, reached for his pack of cigs, and realized that the lid he’d been asleep on had been moved. Rather than sitting atop the stone vault wherein his lady love should lie recuperating, the slab was lying on the floor.
“Cheryce?” he said, as he struck a match to the cigarette, lit it, and took a puff. He exhaled and got to his feet, kicking up a few dry leaves as he walked back to the sarcophagus and peered in.
It was empty.
“Huh.”
He shuffled over to the door and cracked it open. The daylight was hideously bright; he shut the door before a single ray could burn him and leaned against it.
If his heart could have pounded with anxiety, it would have. Cheryce was missing, and there was no subterranean tunnel connecting this crypt to the rest of the graveyard. To leave the tomb, one would have to go outside, in broad daylight. It had been nearly dawn when he’d brought her here, and he certainly would have known if she’d gotten up and gone out before first light.
Someone had either taken her, or she’d disappeared, just like those kids Buffy’s pals had been discussing on the phone with Cordelia.
Not a good thing. I’ve got the chip, she’s gone, maybe dusted, maybe yanked out of my dimension. At any rate, I’m back to square one.
He slid down onto his arse to finish his cig as he considered what to do.
Best go looking for her, then. O
nce the sun goes down.
Or find some other way to get to them what knows how to get this bloody thing out of my head.
Los Angeles
His name used to be Tony Tataglia—Tony T, on the streets back in Philly—but now that he was almost in Hollywood, he was Anthony St. James. He loved that name, loved to say it. The first road sign he’d seen that said Los Angeles, he started using it. “Hello,” he said in a deep voice. “I’m Anthony St. James.”
He had planted himself at the Cowtown Burger Ranch, but nobody was picking up hitchhikers today, looked like. He had politely gone from table to table, trying not to look pitiful, threatening, or hungry, asking if someone could give him a ride “into town.” That could mean a whole lot of different places in the sprawl that was Los Angeles, Tony knew that; but he was getting progressively more anxious about finding a place to park his carcass that was closer to the action than a fast-food restaurant with a HELP WANTED sign in the window.
A trio of girls in beautiful dresses burbled in, laughing and chatting on cell phones. Rich girls. Party girls. Tony T’s spirits rose. Chicks, he was good at.
He grinned at them, knowing they saw a good-lookin’ guy in jeans and a GOT FEAR? tee shirt. Tony had kept himself scrupulously clean during his travels, washing down in public bathrooms, rinsing out his wardrobe, and generally not looking like a vagrant. That was the secret to getting rides—out of Philly and into fame. If he had learned anything from the other males in the Tataglia family, that was it.
The chicks grinned back— Whoa, is that Gwyneth Paltrow? Nah! Couldn’t be! —and Tony sauntered over to them as they jumbled up to the register and ordered fries, only to be told that it was still hash-brown time. This caused them to make little chick-pouts at the guy behind the register, asking him, 2please? But the dude was not even smiling, not gonna crack, just stood there like he was guarding the entrance to the Pentagon.
“Hi.” Tony sidled up.
“Can you get us fries?” the tall redhead asked. She was wearing a strapless dark purple wraparound thing that was technically a dress. Before Tony’s sister Angela went out the door in something like that, she’d better have her suitcases packed.
“Not here,” he said confidently, grinning at her. “Back in Philly, maybe.”
“Philadelphia,” the little blonde cooed. “We have a house there.”
“Where?”
She shrugged. “I’m not sure. I’ve never been to it.” Then she grinned wickedly at him. “Who wants to go to Philadelphia?”
The other two girls laughed.
“Not me,” Tony said. “Let’s get fries downtown.”
The three appraised him—the third girl had dark skin and her dark brown hair was very curly and lush—turned and giggled like they were guest-starring on Sex and the City and the blonde said, “Okay.”
They took him outside to someone’s cute little PT Cruiser, popped him into the back with the redhead, and started the engine.
“Do you have a place to stay?” the dark-skinned girl asked invitingly.
Tony grinned at her. “Y’know, I was gonna use this fake name, Anthony St. James. But I’m really Tony Tataglia.”
The girls laughed again. The blonde said, “Do you have any idea who my father is?”
“Nope.”
Merrily they drove away, drove away, drove away.
When Tony disappeared— poof! —from the backseat, they screamed and freaked out and ran back into the Cowtown Burger Ranch. The guy at the register verified their story, which they told for weeks at all the parties they went to. Tony Tataglia: Jesus, the vanishing hitchhiker, or a ghost?
The blonde’s father decided to make an HBO movie about the incident.
So the boy from Philly did not disappear in vain.
Chapter 4
Los Angeles
“WILLOW,” CORDELIA SAID BRIGHTLY. SHE CLUTCHED the front of a terrycloth bathrobe. Pressing an elbow against it to hold it together, she put her arms awkwardly around the titian-haired Wiccan, kissed the air inches from Willow’s cheek. “How . . . unexpected!” “Didn’t Angel tell you I was coming back?” Willow asked her.
“He may have mentioned it, I guess,” Cordelia affirmed. “But you know how vampires are about details.”
No,” Willow responded. “How are they?”
“Oh, okay, I forgot,” Cordelia said. “The place is a mess, and there have been so many people in and out of here, including you, and . . .”
“Cordelia, I’m not here on assignment from House Beautiful or anything like that. I don’t care what your apartment looks like.”
“Of course you don’t,” Cordelia agreed, with a shade of her former, Sunnydale tone. “But . . . why are you back? I mean, not that I’m not just thrilled to see you and everything. Even though, now that the apartment is finally empty for a change, I was about to take a bath.”
“I won’t stay long,” Willow promised. She looked around the apartment, which, now that it didn’t look like a Scooby convention, she thought was a surprisingly spacious, airy place for L.A. She figured spacious, airy places in L.A. probably rented for a pretty penny. “Angel called Salma’s house. He was worried about you, what with all the disappearances going on around the city, and I told him I’d come back over and cast an anti-disappearing spell here.”
Cordelia shook her head gravely. “What you need is an anti-alien spell,” she said.
“Anti-alien?”
“Sure,” Cordelia confirmed. “I’ve given this a lot of thought. This has all the markings of alien abductions. Beaming kids up to their spaceships, for, you know, icky experiments and things, and, um . . . probes.”
“Probes?” Willow echoed.
“You know.” Cordelia wiggled her index finger. “Probes.”
Willow made a face. The mental image, she didn’t need. “Got it,” she said. “Probes. What makes you think it’s aliens?”
Cordelia lifted her shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. “Why not? Not everything can be woo-woo other dimensional, you know? I mean, who else would want to steal random teenagers from all over the Los Angeles area? The casting director for one of those lame high school dramas on some start-up network?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Willow told her. She began to draw the items she’d need for her spell from a canvas bag she carried. “But so far, we’re not really checking into the alien angle, as far as I know.”
“All I’m saying is, I think we should also look to the skies,” Cordelia intoned.
After Willow finished with her spell—which didn’t seem to have anything at all to do with aliens, unfortunately — and left, Cordelia continued her bath. She’d become used to bathing with Dennis in the apartment, and had in fact come to appreciate being handed a towel or a hairbrush from time to time when she needed one. She didn’t worry any more about whether or not he was a voyeuristic type—figuring that a ghost, after all, could see as much as he wanted at any time, and it probably all got a little old to him after a while.
But as she bathed, she thought about the disappearances Willow had reminded her of, which of course made her think of Kayley Moser. And thinking of Kayley, she thought about the other girls, the vampire wannabes she had met. They had been under the downtown branch of the Los Angeles Public Library, the last time she had seen them, fighting off the assault of a vampire named Kostov and his cronies. Well, she and Wesley and some people she had later learned were Gunn’s crew had been fighting—the girls had invited Kostov over in the first place, to turn them, in a misguided romantic fantasy, into vampires.
Suddenly stricken with concern, she quickly dried herself off, took her hair down, grabbed a red sleeveless top and dark pants, and headed out the door. She was going to be alone, but she didn’t think that would be a problem— she was only going out to reassure herself that the impossible hadn’t happened, because it was, well, impossible. There were a few hours of daylight left, and Angel was resting up after a tough night. Wesley had gone out t
o track down a demon said to specialize in abducting and eating small children—a long shot, they knew, since it was teenagers, not little kids, who were disappearing. But even if it turned out not to be responsible, Wesley pointed out, if the stories were true, the thing would certainly deserve killing.
Twenty minutes later she pulled up to a curb around the corner from the big library building. She knew a way to get to the abandoned corridors that honeycombed the earth beneath the building through the library, but it was awkward and carried a risk of being caught. So Cordelia bypassed the library’s old California-style entrance and went instead to an empty commercial storefront across the street. Looking both ways to be sure she wasn’t observed, she slipped inside, wading through the detritus of people who used this place as a shelter from the elements, and located the section of wall that slid to one side to allow access into the tunnels. She took a deep breath, holding it against the stench of the first section inside, ducked her head, and went into the cutaway tunnel. A few minutes walk and one creaky staircase later she was in the hallways underneath the library building.
Cordelia’s footfalls echoed off the old tiled floor of the ancient passageway. There didn’t seem to be anyone around. She looked into the nooks and crannies Kayley had shown her, but they were empty. She began to worry more—had the girls found more vampires? Did Kostov somehow survive and come back? Cordelia fought down the sense of dread that rose in her throat. Had the other girls fallen victim to the same force, space aliens or whatever, that had spirited Kayley away? What if—
“Cordelia?” a hushed voice said from behind her. “Is that you?”
Startled, Cordelia almost let out a cry. She clapped a hand over her mouth and spun around. Amanda stood behind her. A girl, maybe sixteen, with an athletic build but Goth-style choppy haircut, pale skin, and dark eye makeup and lipstick, stood behind her.