ANGEL ™: avatar

by John Passarella

  “How am I to appear for this one?”

  “Standard hunky surfer boy—blond, six feet plus, muscular but not bulky.”

  Yunk’sh transformed himself, his flesh and features moving with the grace and fluidity of quicksilver. It was almost frightening how fast Yunk’sh could now alter his appearance. “Satisfactory?”

  Elliot appraised the demon’s appearance, firing off suggested revisions to his new look. With each request, the demon’s skin and hair changed without delay. “Good, but lose some of the tan. Cool. Now make the hair a little darker. Stronger chin. Little more to the nose, I think the chin’s overpowering it. Great. Let’s see, something’s missing. Ah, stubble. Let me see some five-o’clock shadow. Not quite. Add another day. Excellent. Oops, we better put a shirt on your back. White, casual . . . make it silk, good, nice contrast with the rough stubble look. Add a gold chain. You told her you were an Aries, so put a ram’s-head pendant on it. Terrific! Now smile for the camera.” Elliot held up his Web camera and set the software to snap a digital still image of the demon’s face and upper body. “Wait a minute . . . you forgot teeth! Thank you. And . . .” Click. “Perfect.”

  Elliot turned to the computer and clicked on the Send Photo button. “That should impress her.” He typed, “What do you think?”

  The electronic woman said, “Wow! I think I’ve had naughty dreams about you.”

  “Out of the ballpark!” Elliot exclaimed, pumping his fist in the air. Then he typed, “I showed you mine. Now show me yours.”

  Cordelia looked up from the screen. “He wants a picture of me. What now?”

  Doyle glanced at Angel, who shrugged.

  “Thanks for all the help,” Cordelia remarked. “I’ll need to wear something to stand out in the crowd.” She typed her response, saying it aloud for their benefit. “Sorry, no camera or scanner here. So look for me at the bar. I’ll be wearing a short red dress and black heels.” She frowned and told them, “I’d better make that black flats. If I have to run for my life from the vacuum demon, I am so not doing it in high heels. I’d wear my black Sketchers, but I think he’d get suspicious.”

  “He might,” Doyle agreed. “But you’re in jeans, not a red dress, let alone a short one.”

  “I’ll change on the way,” Cordelia said. “We have to drive by my place to get to the club anyway.”

  “Set up the meeting,” Angel said. “One hour from now.”

  Cordelia nodded, then turned her attention to the chat room screen. She began typing the final arrangements.

  “What about Kate? Should we involve her in this?” Doyle asked softly.

  Angel shook his head. “We’ll only have a few minutes to catch and kill this demon while he’s in human form. Kate would try to make an official arrest.”

  Doyle nodded. “And while she’s readin’ him his rights, he’ll simply vanish out from under her.”

  “Right. And she’s not likely to stand by twiddling her thumbs while I chop off the demon’s head and burn the body.”

  Doyle flashed a wry grin. “The police frown on civilians performing public executions, do they?”

  Angel nodded. “It frightens the tourists.”

  Cordelia signed out of the chat room. “What are you two babbling about?”

  Doyle cleared his throat. “Um, we were just talking about security arrangements.”

  Cordelia poked a finger in his chest. “It’s simple, Doyle. You let me die and I’ll come back and haunt you forever.”

  “What?” Doyle indicated Angel. “This one’s off the hook, then?”

  “If I die, Mr. Brood over there will torment himself plenty without my help. I’ll save all my rattling chains and bloodthirsty shrieks for you and you alone.” Doyle had his hands up, palms out. Cordelia shuddered as real fear gripped her. “Seriously. You guys won’t let me die, will you?”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “All set, big guy,” Elliot said. “Number eleven in about an hour.”

  “Excellent, Elliot! I—” Yunk’sh roared in agony, doubled over, and pressed his hands against his head so hard that flesh squeezed out between his fingers like tan Play-Doh.

  Elliot stumbled out of his chair. “What’s wrong?”

  His breathing ragged, Yunk’sh whispered, “The cult.” With effort, he straightened up, but his face was a mess, a real-life Picasso. “They have found my remnant corpse.”

  “How? You said the body was destroyed almost a hundred years ago.”

  “Burned, made uninhabitable, but not destroyed. It lies in San Francisco. The sorcerer must have directed the cult members to it.”

  “But it’s just a corpse. It’s worthless to them. Right?”

  Yunk’sh twisted his neck and concentrated on re-forming ears and the sides of his head. “In the right hands—a sorcerer’s hands—the remnant of my past life still has power over me.”

  “How?”

  “After I complete the ritual cycle, one day and one night must pass before the newly spawned body becomes permanent, before my psyche can adjust to it. A certain spell cast during that period would confound my psychic energy, make it believe it still inhabits the old, ruined body.”

  “They could use the burned corpse to bind you by proxy?”

  Yunk’sh nodded. “But the spell only works if the body is in close proximity. They must bring the remnant corpse to this city to complete the binding.”

  “That buys us some time. Wait, you said this spell only works after the cycle, while you are settling into the newly spawned body.”

  “If one binding method fails, they will try the other.”

  “Unless you kill the sorcerer or destroy the remnant corpse?”

  “Yes,” Yunk’sh replied. “But the wards their sorcerer has cast still cloud their location, at least while I exist in this crippled in-between state.”

  “What happens when you get the new and improved body?”

  “Before they know I truly live again, I will penetrate the wards. And when I find them, for presuming to bind me, I vow to destroy them all.”

  “I’m with you, big guy,” Elliot said, displaying more confidence than he actually felt. “But first things first. Number eleven is waiting. Not to belabor the obvious, but you gotta kill this one fast.”

  Cordelia’s glance darted around the bar and dance floor of Cloud Nine before settling on Angel, standing beside her. She took a tentative sip of her Coke and held the glass in front of her mouth as she said, “Promise me I’m not about to die for a really cool pair of shoes.”

  Angel leaned close to her. “Cordelia, I won’t let you out of my sight,” he promised. “I’d better give you some room, though. I don’t want to frighten him off.”

  “Oh, no, wouldn’t want that,” Cordelia said with some irony. “Wait—where’s Doyle?”

  “By the exit,” Angel informed her. “If I should happen to lose you in the crowd—and I won’t, but just in case—he’ll pick up the tail at the door. We need to get this thing outside to . . . you know . . . finish it.”

  With that, Angel faded into the crowd of twenty-and thirty-somethings who were energetically dancing, drinking, or flirting, sometimes all three at once. Once one entered the place, one almost had to cross the wide dance floor, which was down a step, to reach the bar or one of the small booths and tables. Obviously, the emphasis was on getting people on the dance floor. Cloud outlines were attached along the railing that overlooked the dance area, and every few minutes they drifted back and forth ever so slowly, almost hypnotically. If you’re using a cloud motif, Cordelia thought, the dance floor should be elevated, not down in a pit. To be fair, the place had small elevators for transporting dancers to elevated cloud platforms about six feet above the main dance floor. Those women up there in the short skirts must have an exhibitionist streak in them.

  Cordelia twirled a swizzle stick in her Coke, wondering how she had let herself get talked into being demon bait. The shoes, she admitted. I really want those shoes. But she was starting
to think the shoes had been just an excuse. Working as Angel’s receptionist had turned into something more. Just as dating Xander Harris had gotten her involved in the Scooby Gang, if only as an auxiliary member. Ignorance had been bliss, because once she learned that monsters were really out there, it was hard to pretend she was one of those three little monkeys. She couldn’t just cover her eyes, ears, and mouth anymore. Angel needed her help to stop this demon. If she refused, would she be able to look at herself in the mirror every morning, knowing another person had died because she’d been afraid? The bigger unknown was what would happen if the demon completed its sacrificial cycle. Their research pretty much confirmed they would not want to be around with a twice-spawned demon on the rampage.

  She nearly knocked over her soda glass as someone tapped her on the shoulder.

  Cloud Nine was located on La Cienega, south of Wilshire Boulevard. Yunk’sh, however, materialized behind the dance club, in relative darkness. Since the cult would be out hunting him as soon as he manifested, Yunk’sh arrived a few minutes after the appointed meeting time to ensure that his eleventh sacrificial victim would be ready and waiting. Several couples and clusters of young men and women milled around outside the club. Yunk’sh slipped through them without hesitation. Even so, his passage caused gazes and double takes. Male or female, they saw in him what they wanted to see.

  While in this temporary form between demonic incarnations, Yunk’sh had the ability to mold his physical matter, borrowed from Elliot’s body through their link, in any way he chose. Unlike these actual physical transformations, which weakened him, his glamour was a more powerful tool to lure prey. This close to the completion of his ritual cycle, his glamour was potent, perhaps even more so than it had been in his first body. Every human within twenty to thirty feet of him would be fooled into seeing someone attractive to them, an object of desire. Sometimes just a type, but often it would be someone they knew or had known. What better way to lure prey than by appearing to them as someone they trusted and loved? Judging by the reactions, the glamour now took less than ten seconds after he was within the effective range of any humans. Early in the cycle, it had taken a few minutes. If he hurried past them, they would look once, maybe a second time, but then he would be gone and, eventually, forgotten.

  After Yunk’sh attained his new demonic body, he would have more control over the glamour, including the ability to project the effect to whomever he chose, to single out specific victims and exclude the rest. While in this borrowed form, unless he made a conscious effort to subdue the effect, he emanated glamour in all directions, like a strong, intoxicating cologne.

  The exterior walls of Cloud Nine were metallic silver. Blue neon cloud shapes flanked the double glass doors. Stepping through the doors into the throbbing bass of dance music, Yunk’sh gazed down across the ring of tables and the long dance floor with its hypnotic mass of dancing bodies, to the bar island beyond. And that was where she waited, wearing a short red dress as promised.

  As he took a step forward, a young blond woman in a glittery silver midriff-baring top and black satin pants over stiletto heels, caught his arm. “Don’t I know you?”

  “I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” he replied without meeting her eyes. Direct eye contact increased the potency of the glamour. With a sigh, he strode through the ring of tables down to the dance floor. When his ritual was complete and his new life began, he would have the luxury of absorbing any victim at any time he chose. For now, though, succumbing to a feeding whim meant he would never achieve the newly spawned body. As Elliot so aptly said, “Keep your eyes on the prize.”

  Yunk’sh crossed the dance floor, taking care not to touch any of the dancers’ bare arms or hands as they whipped around in the rhythmic frenzy of the synthesizer dance track. Touching the exposed flesh of a human would also accelerate the effect and power of the glamour.

  The demon approached the woman in red from behind, reaching out with the energy that fed his glamour. Yunk’sh’s current physical dimensions and features were as Elliot had molded them in his bedroom—the type of man Cordelia desired. But types were a compromise. To be certain she would be attracted to the image he presented, Yunk’sh allowed the glamour, feeding off her unspoken desires, to reshape his body. As he took the final steps toward her, he lost some height, his hair darkened, and his complexion became paler. I am now what she secretly desires, Yunk’sh thought as he reached out to her.

  Three guys had already offered to buy Cordelia a drink. Two others had asked her to dance. So when someone else tapped her shoulder, she was about to tell him in no uncertain terms to buzz off. She spun around, finger pointing, mouth gaping just a bit . . . and aborted her outburst before it began. “Doyle? What are you doing down here?”

  He stood next to her, leaning his elbow casually on the bar. “I . . . I just wanted to talk to you, Cordelia.”

  “Why aren’t you watching the exit?”

  He frowned. “Watching the exit?”

  “Angel said you’re supposed to follow us out. Is any of this ringing a bell?”

  “Angel,” Doyle said as if he’d never heard the name before. “Where is Angel? Right now, I mean? Do you see him?”

  Cordelia surveyed the crowded dance floor. “No, not right this second. But he’s around, watching from the other side of the club.” Cordelia shook her head, angry. “This is no time to start changing the plan, Doyle. The you-know-what will be here any minute. Don’t screw this up. I meant what I said about haunting you forever.”

  Doyle appeared incredulous. “So Angel hasn’t told you?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “About a minute ago. Angel saw the you-know-what leaving with another woman.”

  “Another woman? Why?”

  “Another woman in a short red dress. Mistaken identity. We need to get out there, so you can lue . . . it away from her. Angel’s waiting. He told me to hurry.”

  “Show me,” Cordelia said. “I don’t believe this. Rushing to be the victim.” But she took Doyle’s arm and when his hand slid into hers she felt a strange tingle.

  Doyle sat alone at a table near the exit, drinking a glass of Murphy’s Irish Stout, the only decent import the club offered. He’d already lost Angel in the crowd a couple times, but all he had to worry about was Cordelia, and she would be easy to spot in that fabulous red number. Since he was posted near the exit and she would need to pass this way with the demon, he wasn’t concerned when the occasional press of bodies obstructed his view of her at the bar, where she awaited the demon.

  The demon was late, but nothing in the dusty tome had guaranteed a Vishrak demon’s punctuality. Generally speaking, demons frowned on order and thrived on chaos. Doyle would gladly blame his demonic heritage for the mess he’d made of his own life. If nothing else, helping Angel’s cause had given him hope of recapturing his self-respect. Knowing he might actually accomplish something worthwhile before the end of the day made a welcome change to a rudderless existence.

  Making the lovely Cordelia’s acquaintance had been an unexpected bonus. Yet she remained unattainable, just out of reach for a half-Brachen-demon. The last time she had seen his quilled blue-green demon face she had hit him over the head with a serving tray. True, she hadn’t known it was Doyle under all those quills and he’d been quick to revert to his human face before she realized whom she’d struck. But there never seemed to be a good time or a good way to show her what he looked like when he let his father’s side out. Each day that passed only made it harder to come clean.

  Doyle tipped back his glass and drained it, then looked back toward the bar. Again the crowd obstructed his view of Cordelia. After a brief moment of panic, he caught a glimpse of red, off to the side. He turned and saw Cordelia in her short red dress, flashing lots of thigh as she hurried up the steps toward the exit. Rather he saw Cordelias—plural—rushing toward the exit. Two Cordelias, dressed exactly alike! Doyle knocked over the empty glass and his chair as he ran to intercept them.<
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  As of about ten minutes ago, Angel had estimated that the dance club was in violation of fire code regulations involving maximum occupancy. Still, they kept coming. And he was having trouble keeping Cordelia in his line of site. Complicating matters was his desire to remain inconspicuous. If the demon showed and noticed somebody continually watching her without approaching, he might suspect surveillance and a trap. So Angel had been forced to keep some distance between them.

  In the past fifteen minutes he’d had several offers to dance from attractive women deciding to take matters into their own hands. Angel politely declined drink and dance invitations, along with the occasional invitation to something even more intimate. Naturally, after watching others abandon their halfhearted attempts, a freethinking young woman decided he was a special challenge.

  She was a tall, slender brunette in a sleeveless lavender silk dress, with an amethyst-and-diamond necklace and, on her wrists, an assortment of silver bangles. “My name’s Ashley,” she said. “What’s yours?”

  “Angel,” he replied absently.

  She planted herself right in his line of sight. “Angel, hmm? That’s perfect. Hard to miss a gorgeous guy standing here all alone.”

  “I’m . . . waiting for someone,” Angel explained. He glimpsed Cordelia, still facing the bar, nervously swirling a swizzle stick in her Coke. Still no demon. Good. Or maybe not good. What if the demon sensed a trap and found an innocent victim?

  “Why not have fun while you’re waiting?” Ashley countered. She ran her finger down the sleeve of his shirt. “I bet you’re a terrific dancer.”

  “You might lose that bet.”

  “Care to prove me wrong?”

  Angel leaned back, noticed a woman beside Cordelia, striking up a conversation, her back to Angel. She was a blonde. That was all he could see from this angle. Cordelia was behaving as if she knew the woman. Another aspiring actress? Angel wondered.