Sanctuary

by Jeff Mariotte

  “I might have seen a Skander grab her,” a feminine voice said. It was Misty, Lorne realized, the half Brachen.

  “You said you saw a Polgara take her through a portal,” he reminded her.

  “I know, but it was dark, and there was all that smoke. It could have been a Skander, I guess. Anyway, it could have cast a glamour.”

  “Did you even see a portal at all?” Lorne demanded angrily. “Or was it too dark for that, too?”

  “I…I guess I’m not sure. You know, I wanted to help, and I thought I saw…something…”

  “Well, I don’t see a Skander,” someone said. “I guess it portaled right out of here.”

  “There you go,” Virg shouted, redeemed. “That proves it. He wouldn’t have run if he wasn’t guilty.”

  “You were trying to get out of here a few minutes ago,” the Wifflin reminded Virg.

  “We all were,” Virg said. “I just spoke up for all of us.”

  “I still don’t trust you, Kailiff. Your kind is always up to something.”

  “What about the Shrenli?” someone else asked. “That girl, Fred, she’s young, right? Maybe the Shrenli ate her!”

  “Folks, let’s not get carried away,” Lorne said into the microphone. As long as he had the mike, at least he could still be heard over the general din. For what little good that does, he thought.

  “Well, we should at least check her. Smell her breath or whatever.”

  “What we don’t want is for everyone to start suspecting everyone,” Lorne said. “We don’t want chaos. I’ll admit that if the Skander is gone, that looks bad, because he knew I wanted everyone to stay.” He peered out beneath the spotlights, looking to see if the Nemchuks were still here, and finally spotted them. They had taken another table, this one close to the door, but they hadn’t left. “And I’ll tell Angel that, and he’ll decide what action to take.”

  “Maybe the Kailiff and the Skander are working together,” someone suggested.

  “Like I’d have anything to do with one of those portal-hopping jamokes,” Virg said with a sneer. “Gimme a break.”

  “Gladly,” the Wifflin said. “Arm, leg, or neck?”

  “Come on and try me, buddy,” Virg replied. The two were barely separated by a few feet now, and well out of Lorne’s reach. All he could work with was his voice.

  “People, calm down,” Lorne pleaded. “No violence. Look, we’re already making progress. We need to find out what happened to the Skander, and we need to do it without hurting one another or breaking the rules of sanctuary.”

  He heard a reaction, but he couldn’t make out the words coming from the crowd in the back of the room, or even tell if they were reacting to him or to something else. But as he tried to bore through the gloom, he saw the crowd part and a figure approach the stage. A strangely familiar figure. As it stepped up and into the lights, he couldn’t believe he was seeing it.

  Green skin, red horns and eyes, blond hair. A strikingly powerful jaw. All wrapped up in a terrific iridescent yellow suit.

  “Very convincing,” the figure said, extending a long-fingered hand toward him. “You almost had me convinced you were me. Only when you took my physical form you didn’t bother to duplicate the personality. Now hand over my microphone and get off my stage.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Allen Cavanaugh lived up in the Hollywood Hills, off Laurel Canyon, in a Spanish-style house set back from the road and shielded by enormous hedges. Angel parked on the street and approached on foot, watching the windows for signs of life before he went to the door. The house was one of those gone-to-seed places that would have commanded a medium-range price on the flats but up here would cost more than a million. From a second-floor balcony it looked as if Cavanaugh would have a terrific view of the lights of L.A. At ground level, all Angel could see was the house and fence, and the tops of some eucalyptus trees on the downslope property next door.

  From what Angel had learned online, Cavanaugh was a couple of months behind on his mortgage payments, so he might be losing this place soon. Of course, any insurance settlement he collected because of the fire across the street from Caritas might help there. Cavanaugh had pumped a lot of money into buying the land and starting up the building, but then the economy had flattened, commercial real estate leasing slowed, buildings were standing empty all over town, and he hadn’t been able to sign any long-term tenants to help cover the cost of finishing the building. He was on the hook for the whole cost of the job. And without long-term tenants, he ran a good chance of paying to finish the building and then finding himself with a mostly empty building that drew no income. He’d have the additional expenses of paying for utilities, maintenance, and taxes. All in all, he either needed an economic miracle or a fire.

  He got fire.

  I’ve got to look myself up online sometime, Angel had thought on his drive into the hills. I hope my entire life isn’t laid out for anyone to find, like this poor schmuck’s is. He figured the police would have no problem finding the same information on Allen Cavanaugh that he had, which meant there would be an investigation into the fire and Cavanaugh would still lose his Hollywood Hills home. But he’ll be trading it for an eight-by-eight cell. If he was lucky, he’d go down for insurance fraud instead of arson—fraud would earn him federal time, and federal prison was Club Med compared with State.

  Satisfied that he wasn’t walking into a trap, Angel approached the house’s big front door and rang the bell. Nine-inch iron bars caged off a little panel the occupant could open to look out through, which meant the door was from the days before home invaders wouldn’t think twice about shoving a gun barrel in someone’s face as soon as they opened the panel and demanding entrance. Angel pushed the doorbell button again, leaning on it, and after another minute or so he heard shuffling footsteps from the other side. Allen Cavanaugh—Angel had seen pictures, online—yanked open the little panel and scowled at him. “Haven’t you guys wasted enough of my time?” he demanded. His eyes were puffy and ringed with dark flesh, probably from lack of sleep, and his short hair was matted on his left, sticking out at every angle on the right. He had a white sleeveless T-shirt on.

  “I don’t know what guys you mean,” Angel said. He thought he’d go for sympathetic and polite, and then if that didn’t work, turn to scary and hitting. You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, Cordy always says. Of course, raw meat brings them out too. I still don’t get why I’d want a bunch of flies, but I’m trying.

  “You. Cops, insurance, whatever. My lawyer left twenty minutes ago, and do you have any idea how much money a lawyer wants to come to your house in the middle of the freaking night? If I have to get him back there, I’ll be better off just taking the loss of the building.”

  “I’m not with the police or an insurance company, Mr. Cavanaugh,” Angel said. Polite, he reminded himself. Honey. “I just want to ask you some questions about the fire at your building.”

  “Press?” Cavanaugh asked. He said the word as if he’d just bitten into something rotten, causing Angel to believe that this option was even less popular than the others.

  Angel handed him a business card through the bars. “Let’s just say I’m a concerned citizen,” he said.

  Cavanaugh studied the card for a moment, blinking and holding it close to his eyes. “Private?” he asked.

  “That’s right, sir,” Angel replied.

  “That means I can tell you to take a hike. And then maybe I can finally get back to bed. So take a hike.”

  Screw honey, Angel thought. Vinegar’s better. He willed the change to come over him, felt his fangs extend, his forehead ripple and bulge, his brow lower. As he went vamp Cavanaugh’s sleepy eyes widened and he gripped the bars with one hand, knuckles white against the black iron. Angel closed a hand around Cavanaugh’s.

  “Let me in,” he said, voice low and menacing. “Or I’ll pull you out through the bars. And you won’t fit in one piece.”

  Cavanaugh trembled under Angel’s hand
. “I…I can’t…,” he managed to squeak.

  “Can’t what?”

  “Can’t open…the door…with you holding me.”

  That made sense. Angel let him go, and Cavanaugh fiddled at the lock, then swung the door open. “Invite me in,” Angel commanded.

  “Come…in,” Cavanaugh said hesitantly. He stepped out of the way, and Angel, now that he’d been invited in, crossed the threshold. When he was inside he closed the door behind him, shutting the little panel as well. Cavanaugh had crossed the tiled entryway and had pressed himself against the far wall as if trying to merge with the white stucco.

  Once in, Angel lost the vamp face. It had done its job. Cavanaugh was plenty scared, but he might talk more easily to Angel the man than Angel the vampire.

  “I just want to hear about the fire,” Angel told him. “I already know about your financial troubles. But why tonight? Why at that precise moment? Who are you working with?”

  Cavanaugh shook his head. With his T-shirt he wore red cotton pajama bottoms, and in his fear, arms wrapped around himself as if he were freezing, he looked very small and alone. “I…don’t know what you mean. I didn’t have anything to do with the fire. I told the police that.”

  “I’m not the police and I’m not interested in prosecuting you,” Angel said. “I just want Fred back.”

  “I don’t know who that is,” Cavanaugh insisted, shaking his head again. “I don’t know anyone named Fred.”

  “Did you pay someone to start the fire?” Angel asked. “Maybe they picked the time?”

  “No, honest, I…look, I wouldn’t lie to you,” Cavanaugh told him. “Whatever you are, you scared the stuffing out of me with that, that face thing you do. I’m not going to try to lie to you. I had nothing to do with the fire. Nothing.”

  “But it helps you out financially, doesn’t it?”

  “It helps a guy I owe money to,” Cavanaugh said. “A lot of money. And he’s a guy you don’t want to owe anything to. I didn’t tell the cops about this, but I’m sure he must have set the fire. He’s the kind of guy who wouldn’t think twice about doing something like that. Unless it was easier just to dunk somebody in cement and toss them into the Pacific.”

  Angel thought he understood, but wanted to make sure. “You’re into a loan shark?”

  “Whatever you think you know about me isn’t all there is to know, not by a long shot,” Cavanaugh said. He seemed to be in confessional mode now, so Angel just let him talk. “I’ve been living on credit and loans and the occasional basketball game that goes my way. But not enough games do, and when the building turned out to be yet one more disaster in a whole string of them, I was sunk. I’ve taken so many loans against the place, I’m like that guy in The Producers—if I had a hit I’d be in trouble because I’d owe two thousand percent of what I made. My theory is, the guy I owe the most to finally decided to make back what he can by torching the place, so I’ll collect an insurance settlement that I can just sign straight over to him.”

  “Where can I find this guy?” Angel demanded. “What’s his name?”

  “His name’s Johnny Sacco,” Cavanaugh replied. “But you can’t find him, at least not right away. He’s in the Bahamas. You don’t think he’d be stupid enough to pull something like this when he’s in town, do you?”

  “But he’s got guys who do it for him,” Angel pressed. Guys, or demons.

  “Sure, he’s got guys. I don’t know who they are, though. I only deal with Johnny, and except for a couple of times he’s sent goons around to rough me up, he’s always the one who talks to me.”

  Angel crossed the entryway, and Cavanaugh tried to collapse in on himself, as if he could vanish altogether if he made himself small enough. Angel removed his business card from the man’s grip. “Don’t tell anyone I was here,” he said.

  “No…no problem,” Cavanaugh answered, looking at Angel through slitted eyes. Angel thought he was surprised that Angel hadn’t come over to beat him up. “I never saw you.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Angel said. “Stay out of trouble.” He headed for the door, pocketing the business card as he went.

  “A little late for that,” Cavanaugh said. He sounded bitter. All of his problems had come home to roost, and they were all of his own doing. That might be enough to make anyone a little bitter. Angel went outside and closed the door, leaving Cavanaugh behind, alone with his own troubles and recriminations.

  As he sat down in the car, Angel realized that this whole adventure had gotten him exactly nowhere. He had the name of the guy who’d most likely ordered the torching, but the guy was thousands of miles away. He probably relied on human thugs to do most of his dirty work, but sometimes humans subcontracted muscle work to demons. He didn’t know if it had been humans or demons, or maybe both, who had put together the plot against Fred. But unless he could locate Sacco’s gang, he was right back where he’d been, which was nowhere.

  He glanced toward the east, and thought he could sense the sky beginning to lighten. Maybe it’s an illusion, he thought. Can’t be that late yet.

  Can it?

  Wesley had finished combing the car’s glove compartment for nonexistent clues to the Roshon demons’ whereabouts and was standing outside the vehicle wiping his palms against the stone surface of a nearby shop, trying to scrape off any remnants of Roshon goo.

  The glovebox had been useless. Roshons liked candy, apparently, as there were wrappers from every imaginable sort of chocolate bar inside, some split open and licked clean. He had also found torn-out pages from tabloid newspapers with stories about incredible giant babies, extraterrestrials who lived among us and supported political candidates, and giant squids that sought victims by reaching thousand-yard tentacles up sewer pipes and snatching people through their own toilets. Oh, and a half-empty package of tissues. But nothing that identified the car’s owners, no loose addresses or telephone numbers, no handy map with “X marks the Fred” scrawled on it.

  Gunn had examined the boot but had already declared it a waste of time.

  Cordelia, meanwhile, had been scouring the neighborhood. She came back around the corner to see Wesley desperately rubbing the wall. “Does it like that?” she asked him cheerfully. She pointed to her own back, between her shoulder blades. “Because if you’re good at it, I have this knot here that I can’t seem to loosen.”

  “It’s just, I want to get this substance off my hands. Who knows what horrible thing it might do to me?”

  “Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing a little soap and water won’t fix,” she admonished him. “Stop being such an old lady. Here, let me see.”

  Wesley held his palms up to her. She looked at him—and then her face blanched. “Yaaah!” she shouted.

  “What? Oh my God, what is it?” he asked, turning his hands around to inspect them.

  “I think she means behind you, English.” Gunn tapped him on the shoulder and gestured over his own. Wesley looked that way.

  Five Roshon demons stood staring at them. They were all quite a bit taller than Wesley, with lean bodies that nonetheless appeared stringily muscular beneath their coats of dense blue fur. Their muzzles jutted forward, and a couple of them pulled back their lips, baring sharp fangs. Wesley was put in mind of hyenas or jackals, if hyenas or jackals were dark blue in color, walked upright, and wore baggy trousers and athletic shoes.

  “What you doing with our car?” the one in front asked. Wesley could make out the words, even though they came in a growl that wasn’t really suited to human language.

  “We…thought it was abandoned,” Wesley said, trying to sound friendly. “We were simply trying to find out who owned it. What a relief to know it’s yours.”

  As he spoke, one of the demons went to the car and stared in. When it looked up again, its canine face was twisted into what Wesley thought was an expression of despair. “The clippings!” it snarled. “Been at the clippings!”

  Or perhaps anger, Wesley realized, judging from its tone.

  “Y
ou look at our clippings?” the one in front wanted to know.

  One of the others asked a question in a tongue Wesley couldn’t understand, a mixture of growls, clicks, and yips. This one’s muzzle was scarred in half a dozen places, and one of its ears had a chunk missing, in a shape that remarkably resembled a bite. A rapid-fire conversation followed, the result of which was immediately clear.

  The demons sprang at them.

  Thinking they were only examining an empty car, Wesley, Cordelia, and Gunn had brought no weapons out with them. They stood in a loose triangle, and braced instantly for battle when the Roshons charged. But the demons were bigger and stronger, and armed with claws and fangs. And there were more of them.

  And that breath…

  Wesley caught the first one that attacked him, grabbing its wrists as it swung its claws toward him. The demon leaned in toward him, snapping its vicious teeth at his throat, and on its exhale Wesley got a face full of the worst breath he’d ever encountered. The smell put him in mind of burning tires, with perhaps a light sewage glaze. He reeled, his eyes watering. It’s no wonder the inside of the car was so bad.

  The Roshon took advantage of his discomfiture to yank one of its paws free. As Wesley tried to recapture it, the demon jabbed forward with it, driving a fist into Wesley’s solar plexus. The wind shoved out of him, Wesley doubled around the blow, and the demon tugged its other paw away. Both paws flailed at him then, one glancing off his cheek and the other slamming his shoulder. Wesley aimed a snap-kick at the creature’s shin and connected solidly, causing it to whine in pain and step back. But it retreated for only a moment and then resumed its attack, claws out and tearing, cutting Wesley’s shirt and skin. Wesley was driven backward until he felt the stone of a building, the one he’d used as a hand cleaner, most likely, against his back. The Roshon made a face that might have been a smile and pressed Wesley’s shoulders against the wall. Wesley grabbed its arms, but couldn’t break its grip. With its muzzle just inches from his throat, the demon paused.