Revenant

by Mel Odom

  A woman screamed, and Angel was suddenly aware that the diner had occupants. The floor space ran straight back with chairs and tables scattered across it. The kitchen was in the back with a pass-through window that ran all the way across. Men in factory coveralls, women with shopping bags, and two kids were hunkered under the tables or against the walls on the floor beneath framed seascape puzzles. All of the diners and waitresses had wide, anxious eyes. The little boy and girl were crying, and were held by scared mothers.

  “Are you one of them?” a gray-haired man asked.

  “No,” Angel said.

  “Oh, my God!” a woman screamed, pointing at Angel. “You’ve been shot!”

  Realizing that the damage was more than could be easily explained away, Angel sat up and covered the side of his face with one arm. He morphed his face back to human. “It looks worse than it is.” He twisted his head and looked out the window.

  “Who are they?” a waitress demanded.

  “I don’t know,” Angel replied. He focused on the building across the street above the alley where he’d come from, scanning the fire escape for Buffy and Willy, but finding neither of them.

  “We were watching those guys on the news,” another man said. He held a thick paper towel compress against a leg wound. “They were just out at Peppy’s Miniature Golf Park. They shot the mayor.”

  Tortured rubber shrilled out on the street, drawing Angel’s attention. Buffy was still nowhere to be seen.

  The man from the wrecked sedan deliberately aimed his weapon at the stricken vehicle. Flashes screamed from the weapon on the back of his forearm and tore into the gas tank, then exploded the sedan into fiery ruin. The vehicle jerked up and slammed back down, wreathed in flames. Without pause, his dark sunglasses flashing reflections of the twisting flames, the young gang member grabbed the decapitated corpse by the jacket back, then flung the dead man on top of the burning car.

  Another sedan braked to a skidding stop only a few feet from the man. The guy in the passenger seat got out and took a seat in the back. The man that had shot Angel slid into the passenger seat. The driver peeled out before the door closed.

  The police sirens screamed louder, drawing nearer.

  Knowing staying there to be questioned by the police was not an option, Angel raised up and walked over to the wounded man. “How bad is it?”

  “Not as bad as your face,” the man assured him in a shaking voice. “Buddy, you better lie down, because I don’t see how you’re standing now.”

  Angel surveyed the man’s leg, knowing from the spreading bloodstain that the man had a good chance of bleeding out before an EMT arrived. He could also smell the sweet elixir of the blood, calling out to him seductively. His throat hurt and his mouth salivated. His face trembled, from the pain and from the instinctive urge to morph and feed. The appetite made him a demon, but his ability to turn it down kept him human.

  “You’re bleeding too much,” Angel said in a hoarse voice. “Move your hand.”

  “If I move my hand, I’m going to bleed more.” The man sounded hesitant and afraid.

  “You’re liable to die if we don’t shut the bleeding down.” Angel stood up on his knees, spotted the red and white checked tablecloth on a nearby table, and grabbed it. He yanked the tablecloth off with a quick snap that sent the plates and glasses atop it crashing to the floor. He looked at the waitress only a few feet away. “Sorry.”

  “I think that could be the least of our worries,” the young woman said.

  Angel shoved the man’s hands aside and stuck a finger inside the bullet hole in his pants. He ripped the material easily, taking the pants leg off. Blood pumped with every heartbeat, running across the floor like an artesian well. The scent was intoxicating.

  After he folded the tablecloth, Angel wrapped it over the wounds in the front and back of the man’s leg. “The bullet went through,” he told the man, “but it nicked an artery. When the EMTs get here, make sure you tell them that.”

  “Sure,” the man replied in a paper-thin voice.

  Angel studied the man’s pasty features and dilated eyes, pinpricks on a field of red webbing. The heartbeat at the side of the man’s neck was rapid and irregular. Angel glanced at the waitress. “He’s going into shock. We need blankets or coats, something to keep him warm.”

  She nodded but didn’t move.

  “Now,” Angel told her sharply.

  Maybe it was the tone of his voice, or maybe it was getting his mangled face fully turned on her, but the waitress moved, staying low as she crossed the floor.

  “Hey,” a man said, “Joe’s my friend. Is there anything I can do?” He wore the same machine shop shirt as the wounded man.

  “I’m going to put a tourniquet on his leg,” Angel said. “I’ve got to get it tight enough to stop the bleeding and give his body a chance to start clotting. But if the tourniquet is kept too tight for too long, he could lose the leg.” He leaned forward so he could reach a butter knife on the floor. “So you’ll need to loosen it for him every few minutes, just long enough to let the blood back into the leg. There’ll be some bleeding, but that can’t be helped.”

  “Me?” the man asked. “I never done anything like that. Why me?”

  Angel finished tying the knots, then slipped the butter knife into the tourniquet and turned it to tighten it. Once he had it tight enough, the bleeding stopped. “You’ll need to do it in case I pass out.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  Angel waved the man over and surrendered his place. Joe was hazy, all but out where he lay. Angel glanced at the kids, still crying and wrapped up in fetal positions. Anger simmered within him, but he kept a tight rein on it. That emotion could be dangerous to him as well. If he slew one of the enemies he faced and drank their blood, even that might be enough to extinguish his soul again. He still wasn’t sure about the limits of the Gypsy curse that had been laid on him. He moved for the window and stepped through.

  “Where are you going?” the waitress asked as she returned with a pile of coats and jackets.

  Angel didn’t answer. He stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of the diner. Nothing moved out on the street, and nothing moved on the fire escape by Willy’s bar. Buffy. Did they get her? He sniffed the air, searching for her scent. Panic welled inside him, hammering at his ribs. She’s the Slayer; she was born to die in battle. And these guys knew who she was.

  Chapter 10

  RAPID THUMPING FROM THE DIRECTION OF THE BURNING car drew Angel’s attention. At first he thought by some freakish chance the headless man hadn’t been dead after all. Then he stared through the wavering flames and saw a familiar, lithe figure on top of the burning car. The incredible tightness in his chest relaxed and he couldn’t help but smile. Unfortunately, that made his wounded cheek explode in renewed agony.

  Firelight danced on the burnished gold of Buffy’s hair as she reached for the decapitated corpse. She grabbed the dead man by one leg and yanked him down to the sidewalk. The corpse dropped to the pavement, clothing burning in a handful of places. The hair left around the shattered parts of the dead man’s head smoldered when they hit.

  A crowd had started to gather outside Willy’s. Most of them weren’t any more eager to meet the arriving Sunnydale police than they were to meet the Asian gang members.

  Angel crossed the sidewalk to Buffy. She beat at the flames searing the man with her coat.

  “He’s dead,” Angel said.

  Buffy didn’t look up. “Kind of looks like an incomplete Mr. Potato Head. Think I got the clue on that one.”

  The sirens screamed more loudly.

  “We don’t want to be caught here,” Angel pointed out.

  Stubbornly, Buffy beat at the flames on the corpse. “They knew me, Angel, and they tried to kill me. I want to know why. I mean, there are questions like, is my mom going to be next that kind of grab my attention about now.” She hit the flames in a greater frenzy. “Or am I going to go home and find out that she’s already dead?”
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  “Your mom’s all right,” Angel said.

  “And what makes you so sure?”

  “They didn’t come for you,” Angel replied. “They came to rob Willy’s. You happened to be there.”

  “They also knew who I was.”

  “Or they were looking for someone who looked like you.”

  “A lot like me.” Satisfied with the extinguishing job she’d done on the dead man’s arms, Buffy lifted the left one and pushed the sleeve back. She found the picture nestled inside a leather wrist bracelet.

  Angel recognized the picture as Buffy unsnapped and removed the bracelet.

  “Junior year.” Buffy studied the color photo. “Never did like that picture. Made me look too—” She glanced up and saw his face. “Omigod! Your face!” She reached for him, her fingers stained with the dead man’s blood.

  “I’m fine,” Angel said, pushing her hand away, ignoring the blood smell that tantalized him even more now that it came from her fingertips. “I’ll just take a really bad picture for a few days.”

  Buffy drew her hand back. “Not funny.”

  “Good,” Angel said, “because when I laugh it hurts like hell.”

  A police car roared onto the scene, turning a ninety-degree angle in the street and stopping in front of Willy’s Alibi. Spotlights on either side of the car flared to life and tracked across the front of the tavern, scattering the handful of regulars who hadn’t already vacated the premises.

  “Show’s over,” Buffy said. “Time for all the suspicious people to flee the scene.”

  “That includes us.” Angel helped her to her feet.

  “If any of those guys are left behind and they have these little trophy cases on their arms,” Buffy pointed out, “the police are going to be asking questions I can’t answer.”

  “Maybe they won’t think it’s a very good likeness either,” Angel said. “Plus, the gang members seem to have cleaned up after themselves.” He hoisted the dead man back up and threw him onto the burning car. The corpse landed with a thud, throwing sparks high into the air.

  “Should have brought the body with us,” Buffy said as she started down the alley by the diner.

  “Would have looked suspicious.”

  Buffy sighed and silently agreed. “We might have found out something more about these guys.”

  Angel glanced back at the blazing pyre, watching as the flames welcomed the dead man back into their hungry embrace. “We’ll find out more. We haven’t heard the last of these guys.”

  “Do you know what’s going on with my brother?”

  Willow froze for a moment, halting her frantic digging through the dresser drawers filled with boy things that she’d never really wanted to know about. Well, actually maybe she’d wondered about them, but it hadn’t been an overly compelling need to know. How many jocks can one guy need? Lok Rong seemed to have them colorcoordinated.

  She glanced back at Jia Li and felt guilty. “Do I look like I know what’s going on?”

  Jia Li sat on the lower bed of the bunkbeds the two smaller Rong boys slept on in the room. She’d deliberately avoided her older brother’s bed. “You look like you know what you’re looking for.”

  “What I’m looking for,” Willow said as she finished emptying the drawer, “is something that doesn’t fit. It’s kind of a standard police procedure.” But what I’m looking for is actually witchcraft materials, which fits exactly with what I think is going on with Lok. However, those things don’t fit in this house, so that’s at least kind of right. Right? She wasn’t sure, but the guilt was really bothering her. And, so far, she hadn’t found any.

  The two younger Rong boys weren’t helping. They lay up on the top bunk and watched her with eager eyes, arms folded up to pillow their chins. “Boy, are you guys going to be in trouble when Lok finds out you’ve been going through his stuff,” one of them said.

  “Yeah,” the other one added, “he’s going to kick your butts. He hates people going through his stuff.”

  Jia Li turned to the boys and spoke rapidly and sharply in Chinese. Both small boys cowed back, pushing away from the edge of the bunk. She sat back down, her face flushed. “Sorry, Willow, but little brothers can be such a pain.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Willow said, moving on to the next drawer.

  “Big sisters are worse,” one of the boys whispered just loud enough to be heard.

  Willow had decided the bedroom was definitely a boy’s room. Fantastically colored anime posters decorated the walls and Gundam Wing action figures formed militia lines against Batman and the X-Men.

  There was hardly anything of Lok in the room except for clothing and a few pictures of him playing sports or skateboarding that he’d left in packages or cheap photo albums. He obviously hadn’t cared very much about them. For a guy, he kept his stuff surprisingly neat.

  Willow still had the headache she’d gotten from the vision earlier. Thankfully, it had dulled to an almost tolerable level. A small anti-headache potion made with meadowsweet that she had at home would allow her to sleep and ensure the pain was gone by morning. Unless it’s some kind of spell hangover from the vision, Willow thought. Or something even more malevolent. She took a deep breath and squelched the panic that vibrated through her. Sometimes really bad spells had delayed reactions. Okay, we’re not going there. She turned her attention back to her search.

  The small antique brass chest was at the bottom of the third drawer. It measured eighteen inches long by twelve inches wide and two inches thick. As soon as Willow touched the cool metal of the chest and felt the thrill of electricity buzz against her fingertips, she knew she’d found what she was looking for.

  “What is it?” Jia Li asked, getting up from the bed.

  “I’m not sure,” Willow said, “but I think it’s part of what we’re looking for.” She set the chest down on the bureau and hooked a fingernail under the small latch. Grudgingly, the latch lifted and she opened the chest.

  Inside was a small, faded picture that had browned with age and turned brittle. Packets of crushed, powdered and dried herbs that Willow instantly recognized also filled the chest. Gotu Kola was used in meditation incenses. Marigolds were used to invoke clairvoyancy. Mugwort was good for increasing the powers of magical items, cleaning crystals or scrying mirrors, and to aid in astral travel.

  She continued sorting through the packets, identifying them and their uses. Oak leaves and bark aided in binding spells. Sandalwood could be used by a warlock or witch to center and calm himself or herself. Dragon’s blood increased the strength of other herbs. Uva-ursi, though Willow had never used it as such, was said to increase psychic powers. Damiana was often preferred to produce visions.

  A small wooden flute barely fit diagonally in the case. It was no thicker than a finger, with small holes carved into it. Black Chinese dragons, long and serpentine instead of bulky and heavy like their European cousins, ran down the flute on either side of the holes.

  Willow took the delicate instrument from the chest with care. Her fingers slid along the polished surface, finding even the imperfections smoothed over. It’s old. A spark ignited against her fingertips, surprising her with a stinging sensation that caused her to drop the flute. “Oh.”

  The flute tumbled from her fingers to the carpeted floor. The black dragons seemed to gaze up resentfully.

  “What happened?” Jia Li asked.

  The flute doesn’t like me touching it, Willow thought, but she said, “I don’t know. Must have been some kind of static electricity buildup.” Her fingertips still tingled.

  Jia Li bent and picked up the small flute. She offered it to Willow.

  “Just put it back in the chest,” Willow said. Obviously the flute held some kind of power and reacted to anyone who had witch powers. Or maybe it just didn’t like her. “Do you know what it is?”

  “I’ve never seen it before.” Jia Li replaced the flute in the chest.

  “It, uh, goes the other way,” Willow advised. “The ob
jective here is to not let Lok know we’ve been looking.”

  Jia Li turned the flute the other way.

  “It’s Lok’s magic flute,” one of the little brothers said.

  “Yeah,” the other one added. “He plays it sometimes late at night and talks to the shadows.”

  “The shadows?” Willow turned to the boys and brushed her hair from her face.

  “The shadows on the wall.” The boy pointed at the wall near the closet door. “They come when he plays. He only does it when he thinks we’re asleep.”

  “What does he do then?” Willow asked.

  “Sometimes he argues. Most of the time he just gets really mad.”

  “Why?”

  The boy shrugged. “The shadows argue with him. They don’t show him what he wants to see. And sometimes they laugh at him. Then he gets really mad.”

  Willow digested that, remembering the shambling corpse Lok had called from the earthen wall in her vision. “How does he call them?”

  “He plays the flute and uses the candle from the closet. He keeps it up above the door so no one can find it.”

  Jia Li approached the closet door and felt up over the frame. Her doubtful look turned to surprise. She brought out a long, slim candle tinted light green. The wick was burned black on the end and cooled droplets from past burnings made it knobby. The uneven striations and thickness were proof that the candle was handmade.

  Willow knew the candle’s scent would be dandelions and horehound before she smelled it. The flute was made from elder wood, so the candle had to be made with dandelions and horehound. It all added up, and it gave her a clue about what Lok was doing.

  “What are these things?” Jia Li asked Willow.

  “Did your grandfather do anything like this?” Willow asked.

  “I don’t know.” Jia Li looked at the candle and the flute as if they were strange insects. “My grandfather was an herbalist. He grew a number of plants besides vegetables and fruits. People came to his home to buy them and trade them. Those packages contain herbs?”