Unseen #2: Door to Alternity

by Nancy Holder

  There were a few cars parked around the house, almost as if there were a party going on. Lights burned in the downstairs windows. But no party sounds, not even the hum of conversation, issued from the silent dwelling.

  “What do we do, Angel?” Wesley asked. “Do we break in? Just knock on the door and see if Mischa can come out to play?”

  “It’s a house,” Angel said. “You might be able to get in, but I need to be invited.”

  “Good point,” Wesley agreed. “So we need an ally on the inside.”

  Angel nodded.

  Just then, Cordelia pointed to a car pulling to a stop at the corner. A young man stepped out of the passenger side, with thick blond hair. A tight blue tee shirt with a surf logo barely stretched across his football player’s broad shoulders. “How about Mischa?” she said. The car pulled away as they spoke, and Mischa headed up the sidewalk toward the house.

  “That him?” Angel asked.

  “Looks like him to me,” Cordelia announced. “And since it was my vision—”

  “Talk to him,” Wesley urged. “Quickly.”

  She glanced at Angel, who nodded again.

  She left the car and hurried up the walk toward Mischa. When she knew he was looking at her, she tripped. “Ohh!” she called as she hit the grass. “My ankle. I think I sprained it.”

  Mischa quickly turned from his path and came to her side. He knelt down and took the ankle in his hands.

  “Does it hurt?” he asked her.

  “Very much,” she emoted, hoping she wasn’t overdoing it. Not like I needed those acting classes to attract a male, she thought. But it’s nice to get some use out of them.

  “I can get some ice from inside the house,” he said. “Ice is good for that, isn’t it?”

  “Ice? Ice is good for pretty much everything, the way I hear it. Except maybe a broken heart, and I don’t have one of those. Just this old ankle sprain.” She made a little-girl pouty face, then allowed it to blossom into a smile. “If you’ll help me up, I think I can walk.”

  He held out his strong hands and helped her to her feet. She walked with a pronounced limp, holding onto his arm, up the sidewalk to the house. Mischa seemed nervous, and she couldn’t tell if it was about bringing a stranger inside or something else. But then, she remembered, she’d had a vision about him, and that meant he was in some kind of serious trouble.

  So nervous is maybe not a bad way to be, after all.

  As soon as he opened the door, she realized this was not the normal house they had believed it to be from outside. There was a foyer just inside the door, but within it, an antique desk like one at which the concierge at an upper-crust hotel might sit, crouched on slender legs. No one sat there now. Instead, a video surveillance system watched the foyer and doorway.

  On the wall by the desk, there was a check-in board with names and pegs to keep track of who was on the premises. Mischa’s name was on the board, and he moved a peg to the spot next to his name to indicate that he was here. On top of the desk was a row of mail slots big enough to put letters or messages in, and a multiline telephone.

  Beyond the foyer, the entire downstairs had been reconstructed. Cordelia saw what looked like a maze of carpeted hallways, painted gray, extending in both directions, with closed doors everywhere. She heard muted voices behind some of the doors. It looked like someone had built a miniature office building into a private home, and did it with a minimum of style.

  “I’m going to take a wild guess that this is not just somebody’s house, is it?” she asked.

  “No, it’s not,” Mischa replied. “But please do not ask any more questions. I can tell you nothing.” He led her down the hallway to the right, which brought them to a kitchen that looked mostly like a kitchen, except that its huge stainless steel refrigerator and range and coffee urn revealed that it was used to cook for more than just one small family.

  Inside the kitchen, Cordelia closed the door and turned to her host. “Mischa,” she said. “My name’s Cordelia. I know you’re in some kind of trouble. I can’t really explain how I know—it’s long and complicated and involves this demon, or half-demon anyway, named Doyle, and—well, never mind, I said I couldn’t explain it.”

  He stared at her, mouth open a little. “How do you know my name?”

  “I know more than just your name,” she said. “Haven’t you been listening? I know you’re in trouble, and I know that we can help you.”

  “We?” he asked.

  “My friends, Angel and Wesley, and I.” She tried to appear calm, but inwardly, she was saying, C’mon, c’mon, just believe me.

  “How can you help?” he asked. His voice was shaky as he glanced around. She could see in his eyes, and in the tiny lines around them, the bags underneath them, that he’d been living with fear for a long time. “How can anyone?”

  “I can’t really answer that until we know what the trouble is,” Cordelia explained patiently. “But if you invite them in, we can talk about it and figure out what to do. You’re worried about something, it’s all over your face. We’re the people who can fix it. Is it safe to talk here?”

  “There is no place safe to talk,” Mischa said. Worry furrowed his brow. “You are right, there is trouble. It’s Alina . . . but I do not know what I can do for her.”

  “Don’t tell me,” Cordelia said, holding up her hand. “Save it for Angel. He can do something. Trust me.”

  “How can I?” he demanded. “I don’t even know you.”

  “How can you not?” she retorted. “Alina’s in trouble. You’re in trouble. There’s no one here who can help you, is there?”

  Mischa shook his head. “They’ve made her go too far,” he said. “Too many people lost . . . how will she ever get them back?”

  “Mischa,” Cordelia said firmly. “Let’s bring Angel in. Now. He can help, really. You don’t have any other choice. Angel’s right outside, and he can help if you let him. If you don’t let him, he’ll find another way. So you might as well cooperate.”

  Mischa blinked, and then nodded his head slowly. He and Cordelia went to the front door, and she summoned Angel and Wesley from the car. Cordelia warned them about the video camera, but they decided there was no time to worry about that. At Mischa’s invitation, Angel was able to enter, and they all returned to the kitchen.

  “Okay,” Cordelia said. “Start from the top. Who’s Alina, and what has she gotten involved in?”

  It took the guy a minute to pull himself out of whatever fugue state he had fallen into. It was his moment of decision, his last chance to play it safe or open up to Cordelia and the others. She literally sat on the edge of her seat, willing him to spill. If she had read him right, he would. He had been surviving on a precipice overlooking a chasm for some time, and now there was finally someone on solid ground, extending a hand. He’d take it.

  He did.

  “Alina is the girl I love,” Mischa began. “She’s Vishnikoff’s daughter. And she’s the one making teenagers disappear all over Los Angeles.” He shifted his attention to the three of them, looking at each of their faces in turn. “You know about that?”

  “We know,” Wesley said. “It’s Alina’s doing?”

  “Yes,” Mischa replied. “She didn’t want to. Her parents made her. But something went wrong, some kind of interference. She thinks it’s magickal. So the portals are out of her control, and operating in both directions.”

  “Portals?” Angel repeated carefully. “Maybe we should talk to Alina.”

  “Yes, all right,” Mischa agreed, bobbing his head. He was frightened. “I’ll see if I can get you to her.”

  He led them out of the kitchen and back through the twisting maze of narrow corridors. Reaching the desired door, he held them back with one hand while he opened it and peered inside. Satisfied, he motioned them in rapidly.

  They were in a small, sterile room with empty white walls. A machine dominated it, all shiny steel and plastic, with dangling cables trailing toward the floor. Cur
tains presumably covered a window to the outside, but they were heavy and closed.

  A young girl, fifteen or sixteen with fine, dainty features, sat in a straight-backed kitchen chair next to the machine. Her blond hair was drawn back into a severe ponytail. Her blue eyes opened wide at this unexpected intrusion. “Mischa?”

  “Alina, these people say they can help us,” he said quickly. “I think we should trust—”

  He stopped, cut off by a sound from the corridor. Footsteps, walking quickly toward them. Then the doorknob rattled and began to turn.

  Sunnydale

  As soon as he had arrived back in Los Angeles, Teodor Nokivov had put together a revised war plan with some of his most trusted lieutenants. Feeling that an immediate demonstration of his appreciation to Del DeSola was in order, the next evening Karol Stokovich returned to Sunnydale with a carload of troops, to pay a visit to the Latin Cobras. Informants in L.A. had told them where to look and who to look for, so finding the gang’s headquarters was no problem at all. A lookout, posted on the street corner opposite the house the Cobras were using as headquarters, spotted the car full of men and began to whistle, loud and long. A burst of fire from a MAC-10 stopped him before he could get out much of it, though.

  Once the ice had been broken, the Russians turned their attention to the house itself, spraying the doors and windows with lead. After a few moments, they jumped from the car and rushed the house. Halfhearted return fire failed to discourage the Russians. Within five minutes, the Mafiya soldiers had stormed through the house, finishing off everyone they found inside. A couple of Cobras escaped out the back as soon as the fireworks started, and were presumably still running.

  Karol Stokovich himself walked through the house, room to room, kicking back doors with his automatic rifle at the ready. He found bodies in almost every room, it seemed, and sprays of blood had painted most walls. Acrid smoke hung heavy in the air. Stokovich breathed it in contentedly.

  When he got back into the car, he felt like he had done the job right. The Cobras had been sent an unmistakable message, and when DeSola heard about it—which he would—he would know who had delivered it.

  Los Angeles

  Nicky de la Natividad crept along the shadowed alleyway behind Che’s crib. A streetlight at the end of the alley threw a circle of light about halfway down, so until he cleared that he stayed close to the wall. Beyond the light’s reach, he felt more free to move rapidly toward Che’s back gate. Che had a small fenced yard, mostly dead grass and old playground equipment that had been there when he rented the place. Nicky had been over for barbecues a couple of times on trips to L.A., so he knew what to expect when he approached the gate. He also knew that Che didn’t have guards back here, but had a lookout in front. Or at least, he didn’t think Che had a guard in back. There hadn’t been any during the barbecues. But then again, during the barbecues everyone had been in the backyard, so maybe that didn’t mean anything at all. Suddenly he was not so sure about this plan.

  This had not been one of Nicky’s better weeks, even though it had started out so well. The Night of the Long Knives had been an incredible experience, but since then he had realized, in a most painful way, that the sense of power he had then didn’t last. He’d been shot—his arm still burned from the Russian’s bullet. He’d been imprisoned by his own friends, his gang’s associates here in this city, and he’d had to rely on an old buddy to escape. It was a good thing Nicky was from L.A.—if he’d just been another Cobra from Sunnydale he’d still be holed up in that filthy apartment, or dead.

  But he was, so he knew how to get around in the city. He had two powerful ambitions now: he wanted to get to Che, who he figured he owed for having him held prisoner; then he wanted to get home, to find out the latest with Salma. If she was really missing, someone would pay, big time. After that, he’d put this whole gang thing behind him for good—there was just no percentage in it for him. He didn’t need the money, and the respect turned out to be too highly priced.

  When he got to Che’s back gate, he stooped low and tried to peer through the space between two boards. He couldn’t see anything in the dark yard. Drawing the Beretta he’d taken from Billy Cruz, Nicky jacked a round into the chamber and tried the gate’s handle. It opened. He pushed it in, lifting it slightly in case it started to squeak. At the same time, he shoved the Beretta through the narrow opening, ready to pull the trigger if anyone ’fronted him.

  But the yard was empty. It looked just as he’d remembered it—rusting playground equipment off to the side, a couple of barbecues on a concrete patio, and a back door that led into Che’s kitchen. A few lights burned inside the two-story house, although not in any of the rooms facing the backyard.

  With the Beretta gripped tightly in his fist, Nicky ran across the yard and flattened himself against the kitchen door. He froze there, listening for signs that anyone inside had heard him. He stayed there for a minute, willing the hammering in his heart to die down. By now it was hard to even hold the gun steady in his quivering hands.

  The kitchen door opened easily. Nicky went inside. Che was probably upstairs, but Nicky didn’t know for sure where, or how many were here with him. Rather than go searching through the house and maybe get shot for his trouble, Nicky decided he’d let Che come to him.

  He turned on the kitchen light, then tugged open the refrigerator door. He found a beer inside—to be truthful, there wasn’t much except beer inside, he realized. A carton of milk, a couple of eggs in a plastic egg-tray, and a Tupperware dish covered in plastic wrap that strained mightily to contain something that looked like moss. Nicky screwed the lid off, slammed the refrigerator door and put the bottle down on the table with a bang. He opened some cupboards, and slammed those doors as well. He tried the garbage disposal, which made a grinding noise that didn’t sound healthy. Nicky knew that the disposal shouldn’t be turned on without water running, so he turned the water on full blast, shut off the disposal, and left it that way. Then he sat down at a yellow vinyl-topped table and waited.

  After a minute of this racket, Che ran into the kitchen. His hair was in sleepy disarray, and he wore only a stained white muscle shirt and blue checked boxer shorts. A roadmap of scars marked Che’s arms and shoulders, prompting Nicky to feel, at first, that complaining of his one bullet wound indicated weakness. Then he thought better of that, and felt a flush of embarrassment that he had a bullet wound to begin with. His father and his grandfather had managed to go through life within the law, and neither had ever been shot at. What was wrong with him, he wondered, that he couldn’t do the same?

  Che shut off the water and stared at him through narrowed eyes. “What’s goin’ on in here?” he demanded angrily.

  Nicky pointed the Beretta at his heart. “Have a seat, Che. Let’s talk.”

  “Nicky? Man, what’s up, dog? What you doin’ in here?”

  “Came to see you, Che. You wouldn’t come to see me at that pit where you were holding me.”

  Che shook his head from side to side. “No, you got it all wrong, hombre —”

  “I don’t think so, Che,” Nicky said.

  “Pues, look, man, put that strap away, you want to talk to me here in my own house.”

  “There anybody else home, Che?” Nicky asked. He didn’t move to put the gun down.

  “Just my old lady.”

  “No guards?”

  “Orale. There’s one outside, in front, in his car, that’s all. Look, man—”

  Nicky cut him off. “You wanted something from me, Che, all you had to do was ask. You wanted to be invincible, to have your own Night of the Long Knives. I can’t give you that.You want to take the time to study, to prepare, you have a grandmother who’s a witch can help you with the hard parts, that’s cool, you can do it. But without those things, forget about it. There are no shortcuts, Che. Not to that.”

  Che started to sweat, rivulets running down his temples. He pushed a hand through his thick dark hair. “You don’t need that gun,” he said.r />
  “I think I do,” Nicky countered. “You have the power here. I’m on your turf, in your house, and you’re the leader of the Echo Park Band. One word from you, I’m a dead man. Hell, I’m already a dead man, since you already put out the word.”

  “That’s true even if you’re strapped,” Che said.

  “Not if it’s pointed at you.”

  “Look, what do you want?” He ran his hands through his hair and dropped them in his lap. “I screwed up, okay? I didn’t know if I could trust you, and I wanted to know how to do what you did. If you just told me what you did now, that you couldn’t teach me, that woulda been the end of it. Now you’ve made everything worse. Now we have to kill you.”

  Nicky narrowed his eyes. He was getting angrier by the minute. “Way I heard it, you weren’t taking no for an answer. Because I was saying no, and wasn’t anybody coming to cut me loose.”

  “I was gonna come tomorrow,” Che said feebly.

  “Don’t lie to me, Che. That just makes it worse.”

  “Well, what can I do now?” He jutted his chin out and threw back his shoulders. “You just want to shoot me? That make it better somehow?”

  “No, Che,” Nicky said. “I don’t want to shoot you. I did. That’s why I came here. But sitting around waiting for you to come downstairs, I realized that’s not what I’m all about. I just want you to know I’m not someone you can mess around with that way, you know? You see what I’m saying?”

  Che nodded eagerly. “I got you, man.”

  “Some people you can treat like that. Not me.”

  “Okay, I’m sorry, mano, ” Che said, exhaling. He looked levelly at Nicky, then dropped his gaze. “I didn’t know.”

  “Orale. Now you do.” Nicky kept the gun leveled at Che. He had never killed anyone, but he realized that he could, and would, if he had to. It was a realization that made him feel both powerful and kind of sad.