So far, he was staying out of trouble, but he didn’t seem to be having any adverse impact on the thing. He wasn’t sure it could be beaten. This wasn’t like the demons he usually went up against, the kind some experts referred to as subterrestrials. Those demons had existed on Earth long before humans rose to prominence, and though they were outnumbered now, they still made their homes here, or nearby, beneath the attention of the mortal community.
But this demon, Orias — he lived somewhere far different. Some called it the Otherworld, some called it Hell, some had still other names for it.
Angel had spent time there.
He was in no hurry to go back. And he could understand why this thing, once it was released here on Earth, would not be anxious to return, either.
As he sparred with it, a plan occurred to him. The thing, as he’d suspected, seemed to be all one entity, in the form of three. But they remained joined at all times. The fist never let go of the snakes. The lion kept the horse between its knees at all times. If he could separate the components, he might be able to beat it.
And beating it would be crucial. It was strong, a ferocious opponent. But he knew it was nothing compared to the might of Balor. If Mordractus could succeed in summoning the God of Death to the earthly plane, it wouldn’t matter that he’d have had to kill Angel to do it. Everyone else Angel had ever cared for would be at Mordractus’s mercies, too.
The horse wheeled on him and lashed out with powerful hind legs. He heard the wind whisper past his scalp as the slashing hooves just missed him. He dodged, but instead of moving away from the thing, he dived closer, beneath the horse. It bucked, trying to come down on him, but he kept clear of its hooves.
And then he reached out and grabbed one of the snakes. When he had it firmly in his grasp, he tugged and jumped away.
The lion did not let go. Instead, it whipped the snake back over its head, drawing Angel close to it, and snagged him with its other arm.
It opened its mouth wide. Angel felt its hot, fetid breath on his face.
That, he thought, was a big mistake.
The hot day had finally turned cold.
They always did in Southern California. No matter how hard the sun pounded the city, the heat radiated back out into space. The Pacific kept the climate temperate, not too hot and not too cold. At night, after the sun went down and the earth released the heat it had stored up, the mercury dropped fast. Sometimes it was still boiling at ten, but by midnight a jacket was required.
Kate didn’t have a jacket. She’d been standing out-side this bank for twenty minutes, and she felt every degree slip away. Now she wrapped her arms around herself and marched briskly up and down the block across from the bank, trying to keep warm. She kept to the shadows between the widely spaced streetlamps, the nearest of which that worked was on the far end of the block. She didn’t think they’d have a lookout on the street, but there was no way to be sure, and she wanted to avoid being spotted if she could help it.
Backup was on the way, though, and as soon as they were here she’d be able to call in the bank manager to get the door opened. Another hour and they’d have this wrapped up. She’d sleep in her own apartment tonight.
She — is that a light? she wondered. There had been a momentary glint in one of the bank’s windows. Or had there? Had it simply been the reflection of a car passing on the cross street, or the light of a distant airplane, or her imagination?
No way to tell from here, Kate knew. She looked up and down the street, scanning carefully with her trained eyes, mentally dividing the street into sections and checking each section one after the other. There was no one watching. There were no occupied cars.
She crossed.
Western Standard Savings and Loan was in a storefront that had been made by combining two existing storefronts into one. There was a single doorway, but she could see where the other doorway had once been, the door removed and glassed over. All the windows were tinted against the bright L.A. sun. To see inside, she had to push her face against the glass, shield her eyes with her hands.
In the distance she heard sirens. Her backup, at last. She breathed a sigh of relief.
And saw the light again.
It was definitely coming from inside. Someone was in there, and there could only be one reason. She reached for her weapon, keeping her gaze focused on where the light had been. Wouldn’t do to lose sight of them now.
Behind her she heard a car squealing around the corner. Finally the LAPD had her back. She unholstered her automatic, stepped back from the bank door, braced herself.
A car door opened, a gun cocked.
“Drop it, Officer!” she heard
. Oops.
The lion head sniffed Angel.
The lion’s eyes narrowed, peered at him.
“You’re not human,” the lion said. “You have the stink of Hell on you.”
“Very perceptive,” Angel agreed. With his free hand he tapped his ridged forehead, his protruding fangs. “Not human.”
The lion released him. “What is this, some kind of scam?”
Angel straightened his clothing. “What happened to the ‘thees’ and ‘thous’?” he asked.
“That’s for the benefit of that clown,” the lion said, waving a furry hand at Mordractus. “He’s still working from texts that are hundreds of years old. He thinks he has to use that kind of language or I won’t get it.”
“Don’t believe him,” Mordractus warned Angel. “Orias is a born liar. He’s able to see inside your mind, to tell you what you want to hear. He can speak in a thousand tongues, but everything he says is a lie unless he’s commanded to speak the truth.”
Angel turned to the magician. “Yeah, and you’ve got my best interests at heart, right?”
“At least I’m human,” Mordractus said. He looked even older now, the strain of performing the ceremony having sapped the years from him.
“Like that means anything to me,” Angel said. “So what’s the deal? He can only hurt humans?”
“I can hurt whoever I wish to,” Orias said. “I prefer humans.”
“He can’t take you back with him, which is what he wants,” Mordractus argued. “He comes here when commanded, to fulfill a specific function. But left to his own devices, he wants someone to toy with, to ease the boredom of eternity in the Otherworld. Apparently you don’t do for that purpose.”
“Maybe because I’ve been there and come back,” Angel suggested.
“That might be it,” Mordractus agreed.
“If I wanted you, Angel, you’d be mine,” Orias insisted.
“I’m having my doubts,” Angel said. “But let’s see something. . . .” He leaned forward and snatched the grimoire from Mordractus’s quaking hand.
“No!” the magician shouted. “I need —”
He lunged for the book. Angel swept it away from him, and Mordractus lost his balance. His left foot slid across the painted circle.
Orias attacked. With a pounding of hooves and a ferocious roar, the demon swept down upon the ancient magician. The lion grasped his scrawny arm in its free hand.
“At last!” it yelled triumphantly.
“Noooo!” Mordractus wailed. “Angelus, help me, for the love of God!”
“I think you’ve given up that right,” Angel said.
The demon dragged Mordractus back to its circle. All the way the magician begged and pleaded with it, and with Angel to save him.
He flipped through the grimoire. “I’m looking, Mordractus. Really. I guess I’m just not finding the right spot.”
From nowhere, or from everywhere, another strong wind blew in, fluttering the pages of the old book. The glow from Orias dimmed and then went out, and the room was plunged back into darkness. Only the dim glow of coals in the brazier provided illumination. The wind died to nothing.
In the far distance Angel could hear a bell ring three times.
Then all was silent.
He went to the cabinet, rummaged in the da
rk until he could find Mordractus’s stash of matches. With them he lit some candles, and with a candle lit a couple of the torches on the wall.
By the light of the torches, he studied the grimoire. It was in Latin, but he remembered enough of that language to get by. At last he found the spell that would bring closure to this invocation, that would seal the opening so that Orias couldn’t return.
He read the incantation, performed the spell as best he could.
When he was finished, he headed for the stairs, and home.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Angel made it halfway up the dark staircase when the door at the top opened, letting in a shaft of light. A moment later the shaft was partially blocked by a silhouette.
“Everything okay, boss?” the silhouette asked.
“Hunky dory,” Angel replied.
“You’re not — hey!” the guy shouted.
“You’re right,” Angel said. “I’m not.”
The guy started down the stairs. Angel charged up at a crouching run and met him, throwing his head to the side and driving his shoulder into the guy’s gut. With an “Ooof!” the guy folded around him. Angel straightened and rolled the guy over his back. He tumbled down the stairs with a howl, thumping and bumping all the way down.
Great, Angel thought. Don’t know how many are up there, but now they know I’m coming.
He stopped just inside the door and glanced around the corner. The doorway was off a kitchen. To his right there was an open pantry, and then a big kitchen, full of avocado-green appliances and ceramic tile, but empty. On the far wall was a door that opened to the dark outdoors.
To his left, though, was a short hallway. And from the hallway he could hear voices, raised in alarm and coming his way.
He chose the right.
He dashed across the tile floor, past a center island cluttered with papers and, well, clutter, and a sink piled high with dirty dishes. The door was locked, but with a thumb-lock in the center of the knob. He turned it, pulled open the door, and ran outside. The night air was scented with pine and woodsmoke.
“There he goes!” he heard from inside. Someone had spotted the door closing. Angel sped for the shelter of the trees.
He figured he could take them. He had before, except for the four demons who had finally brought him down. And even then, if they hadn’t had that enchanted rope, he thought he had a good chance against them.
But they might still have the rope. And who knew what other weapons? Better to be cautious, try to find out how many he was dealing with, and how they were equipped. Or just make his escape and not worry about them. With Mordractus gone, chances were they’d have no beef with him.
Loyalty seldom extended beyond the grave.
He had just reached the treeline when the kitchen door flew open. Two men were outlined in the doorway, looking out. After a moment they went back inside.
Angel thought they might have given up. Maybe someone had already realized that Mordractus was missing, that they were without an employer.
But no, as long as there was no body they’d be uncertain. They’d think he was still out there somewhere, and they’d think Angel would know where to find him.
Well, that much is true, at least. Go to the Otherworld and look for the one screaming in torment.
Leaving wasn’t going to cut it, Angel realized. They knew where he lived. They had found him before, they’d do it again. Or they’d find Cordy, or Doyle. Angel was going to have to stay until he could convince Mordractus’s troops that their boss was history.
He’d have to find a way to talk to them.
He was about to step from the trees when the kitchen door opened again. Powerful beams of light pierced the dark night. One of the beams fell on him. There was a shout, and then the bark of gunfire.
Bullets thwicked into the tree immediately before him. He dived to the ground, hit, rolled behind some brush.
The beams played across the ground. More voices came to the door. Now that he’d been spotted, they’d blanket the area. They’d find him. Guns weren’t necessarily a big problem — the bullets would hurt, but not kill. But guns weren’t the only weapons they had.
He pushed himself to his hands and knees, and then to his feet, running in a zigzag pattern farther into the trees, away from the house. Moonlight splashed through the pines, and centuries of living in the dark had given Angel amazing night vision, but still it was dark enough to make running difficult and silence impossible. More bullets whizzed through the air behind him.
“You don’t want to do this,” Kate said. She didn’t turn around — there were still armed robbers somewhere in front of her, in the bank. And she still had her gun in her hand, trained in that direction.
The bank door opened. A tall, goateed man in dark clothing stepped out, pointing a MAC-10 at her. He wasn’t looking directly at her, though, but past her — presumably at whoever had just climbed from a car behind her and pointed a gun at her back.
“Waste her, man,” he said.
“No time,” the man behind her said. “Listen!”
She knew what he meant even before the gunman did. Sirens. They were closer now — less than a block away. In seconds the street would be full of police cars.
“Let’s go,” the goateed guy said.
“We’re not getting out of here,” the man behind her responded. “They’re right on top of us. But if we had a hostage — a cop . . .”
A smile split the goatee’s face. His head nodded. “Good thinking,” he said. He beckoned Kate inside the bank with his weapon. “Come on in, Officer. Hand me that automatic. You’re going to be staying with us for a while.”
Kate knew that one of the worst things a cop could do was to surrender her weapon. And one of the other worst things was to allow herself to be taken hostage. A lot of cops tried to substitute themselves for civilian hostages, but it almost never turned out to be a good idea.
But playing hero almost never turned out to be a good idea, either. And with a MAC-10 pointed at her belly and who knew what pointed at her back, for her to make any kind of move would be playing hero. Within seconds after trying it, she’d be a dead hero.
As a hostage, they’d have a reason to keep her alive.
She handed over her weapon.
Doing so went against every lesson she’d ever learned — her father, also a cop, would have words for her later, if she survived. Her stomach was in knots. When the goateed guy took it from her hand, she felt like her soul had just been bared to the world, like she was totally exposed.
He just smiled and tucked it into the waistband of his black jeans.
As she walked past him into the bank, he shoved the MAC-10’s barrel against her ribs. “Don’t try anything stupid,” he warned.
“Don’t worry,” Kate replied.
The guy from the car followed them in. Kate glanced over her shoulder and saw him for the first time as he closed the door, dimming the flashing lights that were even now rolling toward the bank. He was shorter than Goatee, with long dark hair pulled into a ponytail at the back. He also wore dark clothes, only they were covered with dirt. Part of the digging crew, she figured. Goatee must have been a digger as well, but he had been inside cleaning out the vault for who knew how long, and had probably had a chance to dust himself off.
“How’re they gonna know we’ve got her?” he asked.
Goatee thought about this for a moment. Then he smiled again — a snaggle-toothed grin that Kate would grow to despise. “You got a radio?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“Tell them where you are. They come in, you die. Simple as that.”
Simple, Kate thought. Maybe to you.
The magician’s house had been built on the side of a hill overlooking Hollywood. There was a lot of land around it — houses up here were large and expensive, and built farther apart than most of those on the flats. Angel darted from tree to tree, trying to keep some cover between himself and the guys with guns and lights.
His path took him down the slope, and it wasn’t until the city’s lights vanished that he realized he’d dropped into a side canyon, and was no longer on the hillside itself. The tall, straight pines were left behind; down here he was sheltered by live oaks with spreading branches, and tall grasses clutched at his ankles.
There were no more sounds of pursuit, at least that he could hear. That didn’t mean they weren’t out there. Angel believed in optimism, but when his life was on the line, he believed a healthy dose of caution was warranted. They probably were still out there, he knew, but they were probably being more careful.
Which made them more deadly.
Angel moved back toward the house, on an angle, keeping the slope of the canyon between him and where he believed it to be. With a little luck he could come up behind most of his pursuers, who’d be focusing their attentions on where he had been instead of where he was now. Hiding was fine for the short term, but it wasn’t going to do him any good in the long run.
When he thought he was beyond the house, he began to climb. He pulled his way up the canyon’s short steep wall, holding on to the branches of small trees, gripping fistfuls of grass, until he could bring his head above the rim.
Twenty feet away three armed men stood looking straight at him.
He was exposed in a patch of clear moonlight. They had certainly seen him, and within seconds weapons were raised toward him.
He offered a smile. “We’ve got to talk,” he said.
Without a word one of the men fired. Instead of the sharp report of a firearm, though, he heard the thwip of a crossbow. A wooden bolt slammed into his chest.
He fell.
At the bottom of the canyon wall, he landed in a bed of thick, sharp-bladed grass. Sticks and rocks poked and prodded. Every part of him hurt.
But that meant he was alive, or at least, still undead. The wooden bolt had missed his heart. He found an end, grabbed it, yanked the bolt from his chest. The pain was excruciating.
Angel found himself wanting to pass out, but he knew he couldn’t afford the luxury. The guy with the crossbow was still at the top of the canyon somewhere, and he knew his prey was down below, and injured.
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