Sanctuary

by Jeff Mariotte

  Fred’s heart leaped when she saw that the person coming through the door was in fact a person, one hundred percent human-looking, and not some kind of hellbeast.

  The first thing he did after he’d closed the door behind himself, before he even looked her way, was to sniff the air.

  So maybe not so human after all? Fred wondered.

  “Blood,” he said, his voice calm and even. Fred would have thought it was a pleasant voice, under other circumstances. “Cut yourself.” It wasn’t a question.

  Now he looked at Fred. She’d tucked the hinge pin into the waistband of her skirt, but the rest of her mess was in plain sight. She held up her bloody arm. “A little, yes,” she said. “I don’t suppose you have a bandage on you? Or maybe an emergency room doctor?

  “You won’t need one,” the man said.

  Angel™

  City Of

  Not Forgotten

  Redemption

  Close to the Ground

  Shakedown

  Hollywood Noir

  Avatar

  Soul Trade

  Bruja

  The Summoned

  Haunted

  Image

  Stranger to the Sun

  Vengeance

  Angel: The Casefiles, Vol. 1—The Official Companion Endangered Species

  Angel: The Longest Night, Vol. 1

  Impressions

  Sanctuary

  Fearless

  Buffy/Angel Crossovers:

  Unseen #1: The Burning

  Unseen #2: Door to Alternity

  Monster Island

  **Seven Crows

  **Cursed

  Available from Simon Pulse and Pocket Books

  The Essential Angel Posterbook

  Available from Pocket Books

  (**coming soon)

  This one is for Andy, who looks so good in green.

  Historian’s note: This story takes place in the third season of Angel, before the episode “This Old Gang of Mine.”

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  First Simon Pulse edition April 2003

  Text copyright © 2003 Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation.

  All Rights Reserved.

  SIMON PULSE

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster

  Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  The text of this book was set in New Caledonia.

  Library of Congress Control Number 2002117779

  ISBN 0-7434-8793-1

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonSays.com

  Thanks to Lisa Clancy and Lisa Gribbin of Simon & Schuster, Debbie Olshan at Fox, the gang at Mutant Enemy, and the cast of Angel. Also big props to Tara, Howard, Ryan, Maryelizabeth, Holly, and Dave. They keep me safe.

  Chapter One

  “Do you ever get that all-dressed-up-no particular-place-to-go feeling, cats and kittens? I know I used to, but that’s why I opened Caritas. Now I can just roll out of bed, don my finest duds, et voilà, someplace to be, to see and be seen, a sanctuary for the spirit, a haven for the hideous. Outside it’s a dark world and getting darker, but in here it’s all bright lights and big dreams. And speaking of big, our first performer tonight is Mif’tal, a Nemchuk, as big as Moby Dick but with a heart to match. Mif’tal’s a pussycat, people, and he’s here to thrill with his rendition of ‘Like a Virgin.’” Lorne paused for a moment, ticking his red eyes to the right to watch the behemoth shamble onto the elevated stage, and then leaned into the microphone, speaking sotto voce. “But don’t get the wrong idea, folks. Mif’tal’s married, and it’s just a song.”

  He surrendered the stage, and the Nemchuk took the mike in one enormous, clawed hand, beginning to sway as the music swelled from the speakers. Mif’tal wasn’t quite as big as the Host had implied, but he was massive and muscular, with sharp-edged fins protruding above each eye like a fifties-era Buick, and a mouth that seemed overstuffed with multiple rows of tiny, daggerlike teeth. His skin was green, but lighter than Lorne’s, almost the color of mint ice cream. When he sang, his voice was raspy, but he carried a tune well. Angel watched Lorne flash a smile at Mif’tal’s mate, sitting stage side at one of the small tables, and then work his way through the room to the table where the Angel Investigations gang waited.

  “I’m so glad you folks could make it tonight,” Lorne said when he reached them, his smile wide and welcoming. Lorne—more formally, Angel knew, Krevlornswath of the Deathwok Clan, late of a dimension called Pylea—was decked out in a typically colorful ensemble. An open-necked yellow shirt set off his dark green skin and red lips, eyes, and horns well, accentuating the blond highlights in his hair. His Italian silk suit was royal blue and just shiny enough to fairly glow when the spotlight was on him—which was often; Lorne seemed to have been born to the spotlight.

  “We wouldn’t have missed it for the world,”

  Cordelia Chase said brightly. She rose to give Lorne a hug, which he accepted with open arms. “After all, it’s your party, right?”

  “Absolument,” Lorne replied. He released Cordy and spread his arms wide again. “Whatever you darlings want tonight is on the house. After all, what’s a little profit margin between friends? It’s the least I can do to repay you all for what you did in Pylea.”

  Angel nodded. He, Lorne, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, and Charles Gunn had followed Cordelia to the Host’s home dimension when she had accidentally passed through a portal between their worlds. By the time they’d arrived, Cordy had been made a princess, but one who was subject to the whims of the priests who really controlled the dimension. Working with local rebels, though, they managed to overthrow the priests, destroy the Slave-killer console with which the priests ruled, and install a mighty warrior called the Groosalugg on the throne. Returning to their own dimension, they had brought with them a young human named Winifred Burkle, who had been sucked through a portal years before and had spent much of her five years there in a cave, hiding from the Pylean rulers.

  Lorne had promised them a party at Caritas, his karaoke bar-slash-demon sanctuary, as a small token of his appreciation for having freed his world from the scourge of slavery. He preferred Los Angeles to Pylea—there was no music in Pylea, for one thing, and he was looked on as a bit of a social pariah there—but he was nevertheless grateful for what they’d done.

  Now, moving around the table, he extended his arms to Fred. She looked away, still shy about contact with others after her years alone in the cave, but she wrapped her thin arms around him and squeezed the demon tightly. When she sat down again, Angel noticed that her cheeks were crimsoning but her beaming smile was genuine.

  He watched Lorne work the table, clasping hands with Gunn, shaking Wesley’s in a more traditional fashion, as befitted the occasionally stuffy British ex-Watcher, and felt enveloped in a rare cloud of peace and comfort. As a unique individual, a vampire with a soul, Angel was never fully at home in the world of light or darkness. He couldn’t walk in the sun with humans, but it had become his calling to do battle against others of his kind: vampires, demons, and night creatures who preyed upon humans. Most of the people whose lives he saved remained ignorant of the threat that waited for them in the dark hours. So Angel was a stranger to both, caught between two worlds with a foot in each, and only really at rest with the people seated around this table, his surrogate family. And, of course, h
ere at Caritas, where all demons were accepted and the rules, strictly observed, prohibited any kind of combat between them.

  Caritas had been trashed by their reentry from Pylea in Angel’s GTX—the portal had deposited the car right in the middle of the club—but Lorne had rebuilt it, better and brighter than before. Arches behind the bar held glass shelves containing fluids of every description, including many that humans never sampled. Carefully placed spotlights reflected off the tabletops so rainbow-hued beverages seemed to glow from within. The Host was justifiably proud of his renovation, and the party tonight had been intended to show it off, Angel suspected, as much as to express his appreciation for the group’s efforts.

  Finally Lorne stopped in front of Angel, who rose from his seat to embrace the green-skinned Pylean. “The place looks great,” Angel said sincerely. “Really.”

  “Thanks, sugar buns,” Lorne replied. Angel had learned long ago not to make anything of the Host’s somewhat over-the-top endearments. “I couldn’t have done it without—well, you know, without your driving your car through and wrecking it in the first place,” Lorne continued. “But the end result is definitely worth it, I think.”

  “Yeah,” Angel agreed. The club really did look spectacular. He glanced toward the stage, where Mif’tal was wrapping up his Madonna song. “You going to read him?”

  Lorne was an anagogic demon—he could read the auras of anyone who sang in his presence. But he shook his head. “Mif’tal knows his path. He just comes to sing.”

  The crowd broke into applause as the Nemchuk ended the song and took a deep bow.

  “You’re on again.”

  “I’m always on, Angel,” Lorne said. His usual smile vanished, and he was serious for a moment, staring into Angel’s eyes. “You did me a solid, Jackson. Anything I can do for you, anytime, you know all you have to do is say the word, right?”

  “I know,” Angel said, certain the demon would live up to that promise. “I appreciate it.”

  Lorne turned on the smile again, neon-brilliant. “Duty calls.” He started back toward the stage. “But you’re off-duty tonight,” he tossed back over his shoulder. “Relax, drink up, enjoy the show.”

  The room burst into honest applause when the Nemchuk finished his number, and as Lorne took the microphone from the demon’s sharp-clawed hand the spotlight settled on him. He opened his mouth to speak, but in the hushed moment before he could get a word out, a muffled boom sounded from outside the club. Lorne’s smile vanished.

  Bedlam reigned.

  “What’s that?” someone shouted. Other voices joined in, creating a chaotic chorus. Demons leaped to their feet, rushing toward the exit.

  “We’re under attack!”

  “An explosion!”

  “A bomb!”

  Angel didn’t think it was an attack—the doors to Caritas weren’t kept locked during business hours, so if anyone did have it in mind to attack the place, they wouldn’t tip their hand by exploding a bomb outside. But it did sound like an explosion of some kind. Angel had had enough experience with those—one had very nearly taken Wesley’s life, and another ally, Doyle, had been lost to a bomb’s blast—to be nervous about the demons dashing outside without knowing what might await them. He tried to shout over the din, but his warnings went unheard.

  Unable to prevent the club-goers from running outside, Angel decided the next best thing was to join them. He shoved his way through the throng—demons of every shape, size, and description, in varying stages of panic or curiosity, all pushing toward the single exit. But even among these creatures, Angel’s reputation was well known, and they let the vampire pass.

  Outside, the world was fiery pandemonium.

  The building directly across the street from Caritas was engulfed in flames. Fire gouted from unglassed windows, and thick dark smoke roiled up into the nighttime sky. Chunks of steel and concrete littered the street, some still smoldering or red-hot. Car alarms blared. Sirens screamed in the distance, already converging on the spot.

  The demons stood transfixed by the sight. Normally their innate caution would have kept them inside, safe from the possibility of being observed by humankind. But whether it was curiosity or concern or sheer weight of numbers, they stood watching the fire with seemingly no regard to their own security. Angel watched as Lorne moved quietly among them, urging them back inside. Out here, faces raised to the fire, eyes wide, flames washing them all in warm yellow light, their individual colors faded and they all looked like they might be members of the same tribe.

  “What’s over there?” he demanded when the Pylean came near.

  Lorne shrugged. “The monstrosity is still under construction. Has been for a long time, but it’s been stalled out for a few months now. I think the developer ran out of money. You want my guess, it’s probably an arson job, to collect insurance money since he can’t afford to finish the building and lease the space out. Either that or some architecture lover on a rampage.”

  “I take it you’re not a fan,” Angel observed.

  “It’s an eyesore. If I’d thought of burning it down myself, I’d have done it long ago. Well, that and if I didn’t have a morbid fear of prison.”

  The sirens were coming closer, and Lorne’s urgency to get his guests back inside increased. “Let’s go, everyone!” he called anxiously. “Off the street, people. We’re going to have company in a minute. Lots of it. And not the kind we want to party with.”

  As he turned back to Angel, a squeal of tires sounded at the corner. “You’ve gotta help me herd them inside, big guy,” he insisted. “It’s not so much that they’ve never seen fire—it’s that some of them love it so much, they hate to leave it behind.”

  Angel glanced away from Lorne and down the street, toward the corner where he’d heard the vehicle coming. There were no flashing lights, though, which was strange—if it had been a fire truck, he’d expect lights and sirens, not just screeching tires. But he saw no fire truck, just a dark car roaring down the middle of the street toward them, windows rolled down and bristling with what looked like narrow steel pipes.

  “Everybody down!” Angel shouted. He shoved the nearest demons to the ground and hurled himself on top of Cordelia and Wes, driving them down. Others, seeing for themselves what Angel had spotted, flattened. Screams sounded in a variety of voices, human and otherwise, but then all voices were drowned out by the staccato bursts of gunfire from the car as it raced past. In the flashes of light from their weapons’ muzzles, Angel could see that the shooters were demon, not human. Their skin had a bluish cast to it, he thought, and had a texture different from normal human skin—maybe bumpier, or with low ridges or small horns.

  He was on his feet as soon as the gunfire stopped, ready to race off after the car. “Everyone okay?” he asked before he went. “Is anyone hit?”

  A chorus of negatives greeted him. In spite of the density of possible victims, there seemed to be no injuries, so maybe the intent was just to frighten them, not kill anyone. Demons and humans alike found their footing and dusted themselves off. Angel was taking a last look around before going in search of the car when he heard Gunn’s voice, trembling with near-panic. “Anybody seen Fred?” he asked. “She’s gone. Angel, Fred’s gone!”

  “No, she can’t be,” Wesley replied calmly. The voice of reason, Angel thought. Good old Wes. “She’s just gone inside or something, I’m sure of it. Let’s just check.”

  “No, man, I’m tellin’ you, she was right here. Before that car came down, I saw her, back near the door. I was gonna go get her. When I got up, she was gone.”

  “Are you sure?” Cordelia asked him. Her hand trembled a little as she made a flat-palmed gesture to indicate Fred’s approximate height. “She’s little, right? Maybe she’s, you know, standing behind one of those big demons or something.” Her tone didn’t sound as certain as her words, though. “Fred!” she shouted anxiously. “Oh, Fred!”

  “I looked inside,” Gunn said defiantly. “And checked with the
bartender. He hasn’t seen her either.”

  “Fred!” Wesley started calling, and Gunn joined in. Angel didn’t bother adding his voice to the choir, but went back down the stairs and looked around the still largely empty club for himself, just in case. She was small, and had a knack for squeezing herself into tight places. But she wasn’t there. When he came back out, demons streamed in past him. Firefighters really were starting to arrive now, and the demons were finally heading inside, where they’d stay until the coast was clear enough for them to make their way back to their homes.

  Lorne touched Angel’s arm. “Look, Angel, I know she’s a friend of yours—I love her to bits too. But Fred is a bit on the…well, solitary side. She may not exactly be a hermit anymore, but she’s not Miss Congeniality, either. Do you suppose she might have just wandered away someplace while we weren’t looking?”

  Angel shook his head. He’d already thought of the possibility, and dismissed it. “She wouldn’t. Especially with the gunfire. She might find a hiding place and stay in it, but not if she’d heard us calling her. She’d come out for us. And her purse is still on the table. Not that she has much to carry in it, but she likes it.”

  “You’re right,” Lorne agreed. “Which is almost too bad, because it doesn’t really leave a lot of other options.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning, if she didn’t go anyplace of her own free will and she’s not here, there aren’t a lot of choices left. Either somebody booked her a return ticket to Pylea, or she’s been kidnapped.”

  Gunn, Wesley, and Cordelia were the only ones left on the sidewalk with Angel and Lorne now. Fire trucks and emergency vehicles choked the street. Police officers watched as firefighters hooked hoses to a hydrant and began to play powerful jets of water across the burning building. A couple of them glanced toward Caritas.

  “Get back inside with your guests, Lorne,” Angel warned, blocking the Host from anyone’s view. “You don’t want to be seen out here.”