City Of

by Nancy Holder

  She recognized him. Then she collapsed into his arms.

  “He was here,” she said brokenly.

  He held her. “It’s just a dream. It’s okay now.”

  “Don’t let me go,” she pleaded.

  She held on even tighter, rocking a little, touching his hair, his face. He struggled with the memories of the last time he had been touched . . . when he had held Buffy in his arms.

  It had happened very long ago. In another world, in another place. Now he had to forget that moment.

  He put his hand over hers, responding. And then he caught himself and gently pulled back.

  He knew she was frightened, but he had to ask her about what he’d learned.

  “Did your friend Shanise have a tattoo on her left shoulder?”

  She nodded. “A daisy.”

  Damn. “I think she was murdered.” There was no gentle way to say it. “And there’ve been others. He picks girls with no families, no one to care.”

  She looked at him, then away, very frightened.

  “You don’t have to be afraid,” he told her. You have someone who cares, he added silently. “You’re safe here.”

  Still looking away, she said, “No.”

  “Yes,” he insisted.

  But he had lost her attention. Because she was looking at a crumpled slip of paper on the end table.

  The one Doyle had given him: TINA, COFFEE SPOT, S.M.

  “Why do you have that?” Her voice rose as she pulled away from him, standing. “You knew who I was when you walked in there last night!”

  “No,” he protested, “I didn’t. I just . . . had your name.” He was frustrated beyond words. “It’s complicated.”

  She was terrified. “I’m sure. Big, complicated game Russell is working on my head. What’s he paying you for?”

  “He’s not. You have to —”

  “You’re just like him!” She shoved him away and grabbed a lamp. “You stay away from me. I’m getting out of here.”

  He couldn’t let her leave. It was a death sentence for her if she did.

  “Let me —”

  She hurled the lamp at his head and ran out the back door.

  She ran for all she was worth, down the hall, past Angel’s car into the covered parking lot. Angel appeared, running after her.

  “Tina!”

  She kept going, leaving the covered lot, Angel right behind her. As she raced into the sunlight, he grabbed her arm.

  “Please listen to —”

  The sun hit his hand on her arm and it burst into flames. Rushes of pain ignited his body as Tina screamed, and he wrenched his hand back into the shadows, howling in pain.

  In his extremity he morphed into his vampire visage. Tina’s screams became bloodcurdling shrieks, and she ran as if for her life.

  Angel collapsed against the building, cradling his hand, breathing hard, watching her go.

  I’m going to lose my security deposit, Tina found herself thinking, in a strange mixture of everyday thinking shot through with blind panic. She was trying hard to make plans, stay focused, but all she could think about was how Russell’s spy had turned into a monster before her eyes. Was calling himself Angel some kind of a joke?

  She grabbed a small traveling bag and dumped it on the open sofa bed. Always had that spring that stuck into my back; this place is a dump; oh, my God, he just changed into a — a demon or something. One minute he’s this handsome guy and —

  She bent down and lifted up the thin mattress, took out her trusty .38. Back home, she’d blasted fruit cocktail cans with it. She had never dreamed in a million years she’d ever really need a gun.

  She threw a few things in the bag.

  Then she sensed a presence and spun, pointing the gun straight out.

  At Russell.

  There he was. The pain man. Mid-forties, charming, so incredibly well-dressed. His full lower lip curved in his signature smile, his hair slicked back. He looked so good, it was hard to believe he was the worst news on the planet.

  “Tina. What are you doing?” he asked, his voice filled with concern. “Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick about you.”

  She kept the gun pointed at him. “What did you do to Shanise?”

  He looked a little surprised. “Nothing.”

  Her voice shook. “I want the truth, Russell!”

  “She wanted to go home,” he said reasonably. “I bought her a ticket to Pensacola.”

  “No. She’s dead.”

  His surprise turned into puzzlement. “What do you mean? She called me yesterday. She’s trying to get back into school, wanted me to pull strings. Who’s been telling you these things?”

  She held her ground, but she was uncertain. She didn’t know what to think.

  “Look, we both know I live outside the box, but I don’t go around killing my friends.”

  He moved toward her, getting very close. He seemed so kind, so concerned. She was even more confused.

  “I’ve had everybody I know looking for you,” he continued.

  She just stared at him. She was frozen to the spot. Almost before she realized what he was doing, she let him take the gun.

  But it was something of a relief. Maybe if he knew she trusted him . . . if she trusted him . . . he would be trustworthy.

  “If you’re sick of L.A., if you need rent . . . you know I only want to help you.” He sounded so kind. He was so rich and powerful. He had said he would take care of her, and he would, wouldn’t he?

  “Just tell me what you want,” he finished.

  She said mournfully, “I want to go home.”

  “Done. Poor thing.” She let him put his arms around her. “Who’s been spinning your head like this?”

  “I don’t know. I thought you hired him,” she confessed. “He turned into something. . . .”

  He stroked her cheek and looked at her very kindly.

  “It was the most horrible thing I’ve ever seen,” she added, allowing herself to confide in him.

  He said, “Well, you’re young.”

  Then he turned into something that looked like the monster Angel had become — only much, much worse.

  Everything fled out of her except pure horror. Her last gesture was to open her mouth. But she couldn’t move her lips. She couldn’t scream.

  She could do nothing as the demon who had been the multimillionaire Russell Winters chomped down hard and vicious, and killed her.

  SPIKE AND DRU

  Somewhere in Hungary, 1956

  When they arrived close to Halloween, Spike and Dru had had no way of knowing that their rustic little village was about to be invaded by the Soviet Union.

  The loving couple were there because they’d heard a rumor that Angelus had been spotted, and Dru had insisted they look for him. She was always insisting they look for him. King Arthur’s Knights of the Round Table hadn’t looked for the bleeding Holy Grail with the zeal Dru looked for him.

  She had not seen her sire in almost sixty years. No one had. She had no idea if he was alive or dead — speaking in vampire terms — but she had never ceased querying after him.

  They’d been due to meet him in the Carpathians in 1898, have a bit of a jaunt through the Old Country. Chew up some peasants and enjoy the local wine. But the bloke had never shown.

  One year passed, then two, and Dru was fairly much preoccupied with what had happened to Angelus and nothing much else. Her anxiety was understandable, the big noise being her sire and all, but frankly, it got bloody boring. All her talk about the air whispering to her that he was not dead, nor of the living, blah blah. Something about his soul, which they all knew had been put out in a leaky boat when Darla had given him the gift.

  After a time Spike learned to deal with it. Or so he assured her. He even helped her on this fool’s errand. It became something of a hobby of sorts.

  A week before, in Budapest, she had paid some minor chaos demon a handsome sum for the startling information that Angelus had been spotte
d in the Communist Bloc. With a bit more snooping about, some tarot readings, and a couple of visions, they’d settled on Hungary as his most likely hunting ground. So here they were, tally-ho, resuming the hunt.

  Meanwhile the square just outside this little café — Minou — was filled with Soviet soldiers. An incredible number of them. The locals were awash in quaking fear and utter panic.

  Spike feared a stampede.

  “Dru, darling, she ain’t coming, all right? Most likely she’s been run over by one of those blasted tanks. I’d say it’s high time we got out of here,” Spike said, not for the first time that evening, and not for the fiftieth, since this meeting was arranged.

  “She’ll be here.” Dru poked her fingernails through the green oilcloth covering on the table. “If she knows what’s good for her.” She gave him one of her come-hither looks. “Right?”

  “Too right, Dru.”

  A coquette, she. There were times she melted him with her sweet little ways. She was his sire, and he owed her a lot for this great grand thing called being a vampire. He tried to remind himself of that when she went off her head about Angelus.

  Hungary hadn’t changed much in all the years Spike had been a vampire. It was still quite quaint and folksy, despite the fact that the Soviets had invaded it two years before. They were up to their eyeballs in hanged counterrevolutionaries, but everybody still wore embroidered vests and adorable short boots.

  He knew Dru loved this kind of cultural thing. Her penchant for the gowns of her own lifetime blended in perfectly. She could swirl and dance to her heart’s content in laces and velvets, and feel herself quite at home in the crush of the cattle.

  Ah, the sweet cattle: It was incredibly easy to find food; everyone was frightened and timid because of the big, bad Russians. All you had to do for a five-courser was to ask to see some papers, watch the poor bloke pale and fumble, and strike.

  Two wineglasses sat on the table. Spike’s was empty, and Drusilla’s was untouched. She kept making little stabbing motions with her fingers and humming softly to herself. It helped to keep her calm, even if Spike did, upon occasion, ask her to stop. Not often, though. She didn’t like him to ask her to stop.

  He wasn’t certain that she could, anyway. It had become a habit. Or a nervous tic. Or an extension of her loopiness.

  “Dru, luv, can you hear that noise outside? That’s the soldiers droning like bees in a honeycomb. Something’s happening. This place is not safe.”

  What Drusilla had failed to tell Spike was that she loved the soldiers. All that heaving noise! She loved the dour, uniformed young Russians.

  In fact, she loved them so much that she had had one for dinner earlier that evening, while Spike had been off arranging the rendezvous with the Gypsy woman who claimed to have seen Angelus.

  Now she burped delicately and smiled across the table.

  “Whoops,” she said, fluttering her lashes a bit.

  Now he reached across the table and took her hand. “You’ve got the longest fingers,” he said. She made a jabbing motion. “Very strong, too.”

  “Would you like my wine?” she asked.

  He looked tempted. He half-reached for it, then saw the pensive look on her face.

  “What?” he asked petulantly, knowing she was all skitterish about if they were finally going to be reunited with himself.

  She shook her head. “My Spike is in a bad mood,” she observed. “I don’t like it. It makes my head ache.”

  “Just nervous, poodle,” he admitted freely. “Promise me that if the old bat comes up dry, we’ll leave.”

  She was all smiles and cuddles. “We could go back to Spain.”

  He grinned at her. “The bulls.”

  She lowered her chin and peered seductively through her upper lashes. “The bulls.”

  “Brilliant.” He reached for her glass and took a healthy swallow. “We can have your birthday party there.”

  She dimpled at him. “I’m reaching that age where a girl doesn’t like to be reminded of her birthday.”

  “It’s a mark of distinction for our kind,” he observed. “The longer you live . . .” He touched his temple. “Brains is what makes you last. And a good upper cut.” He grinned. “And heartlessness, of course.”

  “Grrrrrr.” She made a slicing motion, as if to cut open his throat.

  They smiled adoringly at each other.

  Just then the front door opened, and a figure in a shapeless sort of dress appeared. A scarf completely covered her hair. The figure’s features were sharp and its nose, hooked. The eyebrows were a steely gray, the eyes a steely black. It wore a five o’clock shadow, as they said in America.

  “It’s the Gypsy woman,” Spike muttered. “We ain’t been stood up after all.”

  “Are you sure?” Dru asked uncertainly, then added, “That she’s a woman?”

  “Looks can be deceiving, but I believe she’s a female,” Spike answered, knowing that he sounded mildly defensive.

  The Gypsy looked at Dru and crossed herself. Dru flinched slightly at the insult, but she kept her composure.

  After she made a few stabbing motions and thought she saw Spike’s head shimmer with moonlight, that is.

  The Gypsy shuffled toward them. She was holding something in her hand, and Dru and Spike recoiled as she drew near.

  “Oh, crikey, she’s got garlic,” Spike groaned. “Probably loaded down to the gills with crosses and holy water, Dru. Let’s get out of here. This entire trip is not right.”

  Dru was frightened. She felt that, too — not right — but she couldn’t walk away without knowing if the woman really did know about Angelus.

  So she squared her shoulders and murmured, “Give me a chance with her. Please, Spike.”

  “You’re risking both our lives.”

  “I owe it to him.”

  “Dru, pet, face it,” he said anxiously. “All these years. Either he’s dead, or he’s abandoned —”

  “No.” Dru growled at him. “Down, bad dog!”

  She rose out of her chair.

  The Gypsy woman froze. She held out a cross and said, “Upreiczi.”

  “Isn’t that Rumanian?” Spike asked suspiciously.

  “I don’t know.” Dru felt fluttery. “Gypsies, they come from all over. I —”

  The Gypsy shouted, and the door burst open. At least half a dozen soldiers burst into the room. They were followed by a mob of people, at least thirty, falling over themselves to get to Dru and Spike.

  “Strigoiu!” someone shouted.

  “I think that’s Hungarian,” Spike bellowed as he leaped from the table and tipped it on its side. He grabbed Dru’s arm and began to drag her in the opposite direction.

  “Spike!” she shrieked as her bootheel caught on the leg of their table. She shook it off as he inadvertently yanked on her arm, making her lose her balance.

  She half-fell, half-slid forward on her opposite foot, crumpling into a sort of kneeling, and he dragged her up to her feet. He looked at her hard, yelling, “Come on, baby!” as the mob made for them.

  Gunshots rang out.

  Then Spike was pulling her along, shouting on about the world going mad. From what she could tell as they burst through the back door of the little café, the soldier she had had for dinner had been found. The Gypsy, on her way, had recognized the bite marks and informed the locals. And the Russian soldiers had thought it all some kind of rebellion and followed after to put it down.

  It was actually a bit funny, or so she thought, giggling to herself as Spike led the way down the tiny, cobbled alleyways. He was all worked up over it, rather frantic, actually, and she wanted to tell him to mellow out, as they said these days.

  “C’mon, c’mon,” he ordered her, jerking hard as he slammed into yet another alley and looked up and down the street. Soft lights from windows illuminated their way.

  “Spike, stay cool, Daddy-o,” she said, choking back laughter.

  His eyes flashed. “Dru, this is bloody seri
ous business. Will you please pay attention?”

  She shrugged, still chuckling. She swept her arm in a gesture at the empty alleyway.

  “We’ve lost them, Spike. We’re safe and sound.” She spun in a circle, her black and crimson embroidered skirts billowing. “I’m a bell. Ding, dong!”

  “Oh, God, Dru. Most of the time I find your madness quite fetching. But at the moment . . .” He ran his hands through his long hair. “We won’t be safe until we get out of this bleeding city. These people are at war. They’re terrified of everything. They’d like nothing better than to kill something.”

  “Oh, pish posh, we’re shadows.” She flicked her fingers at him. “Boo. We’re invisible.”

  Then, as if to put the lie to her words, they came.

  From each end of the alley they came. Black berets and blousy shirts, soldiers in the drabbest of uniforms, eyes blazing; some had made it to the rooftops above Dru and Spike.

  As Spike whirled in a circle, the ones on the roofs shouted to the others, running and pointing at the pair.

  Then Dru did something very foolish: She changed.

  Her vampire visage was clear for all to see.

  Everyone froze. She growled at them, her golden eyes darting from the throng of attackers at one end of the street to the mob at the other end.

  Then, as if on cue, both groups charged them.

  Spike changed then, too, and rushed forward with a roar to take on the first man to reach him. He was tall and silver-haired, and he carried a wicked carving knife, which he lofted above his head.

  Spike reached up and grabbed the man’s upraised arm, still running toward him, and used the force of his momentum to dislocate his shoulder. Howling in pain, the man dropped the knife. Spike caught it handily and gutted him like a fish.

  Then he used the body like a shield as two more men reached him, one of them an armed Soviet soldier, the other a local, and stabbed the soldier in the stomach. As the man shrieked and fell, the local tumbled over him, and all Spike needed to do to him was give him a good, swift kick in the temple.

  He hazarded a glance at Dru and couldn’t repress his grin of admiration. Somehow, she’d gotten herself two impressive-looking guns, one in each hand, and she fired them simultaneously. His girl, the six shooter. Who was that American girl with all the brass? Annie Oakley.