When Yunk’sh reappeared in Elliot’s bedroom to declare his success, Elliot was retching over a bucket and appeared in desperate need of target practice. On the bedspread was a scattered mound of bright orange powder, like radioactive waste. “Good . . . for you,” Elliot said. “Now . . . before my head explodes . . . please get the hell out of here!”
“I will need time to process the latest sacrifice,” Yunk’sh said agreeably. “Just know that the end is near.”
“Speak for yourself,” Elliot said, retching again.
Yunk’sh grimaced at the wet, violent sound and dematerialized.
Back in the offices of Angel Investigations, Doyle had pulled a chair up beside Cordelia and had his arm comfortingly around her shoulders. Her voice was still hoarse, and now and then she had a coughing spasm. Occasionally she would shudder with the aftereffects of fear, revulsion, and probably a little bit of shock.
Angel stood in front of her, looking apologetic. “Cordelia, I’m sorry—”
“Forget it,” she said. “You promised you wouldn’t let me die, and I’m still alive. That was our deal, right?”
“Yes. And you’re being good about—”
“No, it’s my fault,” she added. “I never asked about assault and battery, kidnapping, and near-strangulation.”
Angel frowned. He couldn’t blame her for being upset, but wasn’t sure how to mend the fences, regain her trust. Fortunately, the telephone rang. Angel held up his hand and grabbed it. He listened for a moment, then mouthed a single word, “Kate.” Doyle and Cordelia exchanged a nervous glance. He listened a short while longer. “Hollywood? Yes. Yes, that is interesting. Hold on a second.” Angel covered the mouthpiece. “Apparently the demon couldn’t wait another night.”
Cordelia’s eyes went wide. “He killed number eleven?”
Angel nodded. “In Hollywood. Different M.O. Looks like he confronted some guy outside a parking garage.”
“How’d he know the guy’s zodiac sign?” Doyle asked.
“There were signs of a struggle. The police found the man’s wallet and driver’s license next to the body.”
“Go,” Cordelia told Angel.
“I don’t want to leave you here alone after—”
Cordelia wrapped one arm loosely around Doyle’s waist, and he wasn’t exactly complaining. “Doyle will comfort me. Won’t you, Doyle?”
“I’m your man,” Doyle said, sitting up a little straighter.
“If you’re sure you’re okay . . .”
“I’m not,” Cordelia admitted. “But your staying won’t help me feel any better. I just need some time to get over the shakes. Now go. Stop this thing.”
Angel spoke into the telephone again. “On my way,” he said and hung up.
“Angel, what are you gonna tell Kate? I mean, about tonight.”
“I’ll play it by ear,” Angel said. “Whatever I decide to tell her, she’s won’t be happy about it.”
“There’s an understatement.”
Angel headed for the door. He looked back at Cordelia, still ambivalent about leaving her so soon after she’d nearly been strangled. But she was right: she was safe now, and he had to deal with the bigger problem. Just before he left, he said to Doyle, “Take good care of her.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Angel ducked under the yellow crime scene tape behind Kate Lockley, who wore a white cable-knit sweater over jeans with her detective’s shield clipped to her belt. Red-and-blue police lights strobed the night. An ambulance was parked nearby, headlights and red flashers on.
A couple of plainclothes detectives and several uniforms milled around the area while the crime scene techs took measurements, photos, and video. The medical examiner finished with the body, ripping surgical gloves off his hands as he spoke to two paramedics. Across the street, a KNBC news truck had already arrived on the scene. Two uniforms kept the reporter and cameraman at a safe distance, nominally to preserve the crime scene. Angel would have to slip by the news crew when he was through.
The wash of light revealed the body, mostly a pile of clothes doubled over at the waist, translucent skin showing above the collar and cuffs. “Other than the remains of the victim, a completely different M.O.,” Kate was saying. “Accosted on the street. Looks like they slammed his head against the support here.” She indicated a smear of blood. “Wasn’t enough to kill him. Wallet on the ground, no cash or credit cards in it. Since robbery wasn’t a motive in the other slayings, we think somebody came along afterward and took anything of value, including the shoes. No way to know if the killer or killers examined the victim’s license before or after they killed him.”
“Before,” Angel concluded. “Otherwise the street would be littered with bodies. This murder fits the pattern. The killer was looking for this specific astrological sign and killed when he found it.” Besides, Angel thought, the demon needs his sacrifices alive.
“Funny you should mention that,” Kate said, nothing humorous in her tone. “Two witnesses came forward. Apparently they talked to some street psychic who tried to guess their birth sign. He promised them twenty bucks if he guessed right.”
“Pay them? Unusual, don’t you think?”
“Definitely not your typical hustler.”
“If he guessed right, he wanted them to prove it,” Angel said. “Witness descriptions match this time?”
Kate nodded. “Small, slender man. Long, dark hair. Goatee. Black suit with silver stars and moons embroidered on it. Of course that doesn’t match any of the other descriptions of the killer, but at least they’re describing the same guy now. A definite improvement.”
“He wanted to look harmless, maybe a bit eccentric, playing the part.”
“A master of disguise?”
“Definitely,” Angel said and left it at that. A matching description was a meaningless lead. Kate wouldn’t find the killer by circulating a witness sketch.
“You know something you’re not telling me,” Kate said.
Angel nodded and turned his back to the crime scene unit. “I almost had him tonight.”
“What!”
“I set a trap,” Angel said.
“Tell me you didn’t go into those chat rooms,” Kate hissed.
“None of the chat rooms you gave me.” Angel explained quickly how they had set up false identities in various local chat rooms using the remaining zodiac signs as bait.
Furious, Kate struggled to keep her voice down. “You may have ruined our only chance of catching this guy!”
Angel said nothing. There was nothing he could say that she would understand or accept.
Finally, Kate sighed. She placed a hand on her forehead and brushed it back through her blond hair, then shook her head in disbelief. When she spoke, her voice was controlled. “Because of your little stunt, he’s already changed his M.O.”
“He was desperate,” Angel said. “The cult only needs one more sacrifice before—”
“Before what?”
Angel forced himself to shrug. “I don’t know.”
She looked back toward the victim for a moment, made a decision. “When I leave here, you’re coming with me. I’m taking a full written statement from you. Understood?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” Kate said. “Then you’re through. I want my files back.”
“Kate—”
“I’m serious. If I find out you’ve been talking to witnesses or looking at crime scenes or visiting chat rooms I will arrest you for obstruction of justice and anything else I can throw at you.”
Angel couldn’t blame her for overreacting. As far as Kate was concerned, his interference had driven the killer in a new, dangerous, and unknown direction. But nothing had changed. The demon had his eleventh victim now and only needed one more. If the Vishrak demon completed his cycle and was re-spawned, Kate’s threats of arrest would be the least of his concerns—and hers, as well.
Cordelia had slipped out of Doyle’s grasp.
Instead of sitt
ing in her chair, huddled against him, she was up and pacing the reception area, rubbing her left arm vigorously, as if trying to chase a preternatural chill out of her bones and failing miserably.
“No matter how well you think you know someone,” Cordelia said. “Appearances can fool you. Doyle, he looked as normal as you do.”
“I can imagine,” Doyle said noncommittally.
“Strange, though,” Cordelia added. “Why would the demon appear to me as you and not as the stud muffin combo platter I requested?”
Doyle frowned, not at all sure he’d come out of that comparison with the tiniest bit of his dignity still intact. “You really saw me?”
Cordelia nodded. “He must have known who you were, who we were.”
“How could he?” Doyle asked, hoping she’d come to the logical conclusion and realize what it meant. It would be so much easier for him, for what he had to tell her about himself, if she could only admit she had feelings for him first.
Cordelia tried to reason it out. “Well . . . he’s a demon.” Doyle nodded, encouraging her. “And he has this glamour thingy—which has absolutely nothing to do with Glamour magazine, right?”
“Not in the same context.”
“It’s just demon magic.”
Doyle nodded again and decided to help her along. “The power of his glamour is to make the victim see someone he or she desires.”
Cordelia looked at him with sudden comprehension in her eyes. She snapped her fingers. “That’s it!”
Doyle stood up. “Figured it out, have you?”
“Of course,” she said. “I was nervous, wondering if you guys would be there to protect me, so I really wanted to see both of you.”
“Oh.” Doyle was crestfallen. She’d missed it.
“Although why I saw you and not Angel . . . I mean he is obviously the better choice in the bodyguard department.” She noticed his frown. “Not that you’re completely helpless.”
“Oh, thank you. You’re too generous.”
“You know what I mean, Doyle.” Cordelia sighed. “You stalled him long enough for Angel to scare him off.” She ran a hand through her hair. “Maybe this demon just plucked one of the images out of my mind to trick me.”
Doyle tried a different, riskier tack. “You know who I saw?”
“When you looked at the demon?”
Doyle nodded, looked her in the eye, and said, “I saw you.”
“Of course you did. I was standing right next to the demon.”
“Then I should say I saw two of you. Side by side. Both wearing that remarkable red dress. Like twins.”
“That’s odd,” Cordelia said. “I wonder why you would see me . . . see the demon as me, I mean.”
“Why do you think?”
Cordelia shrugged and threw her hands wide. “I don’t know. Probably because you were worried about me and wanted me safe.”
“Well, I was and I did.” But that’s not the half of it.
She walked over to where he stood and placed a hand against his jaw. “Thanks,” she said. “I really trust you . . . and Angel. Otherwise I never would have gone through with this harebrained scheme.”
“That demon really shook you up.”
“That’s an understatement,” she said. She held up her hand, thumb and index finger an inch apart. “I was this close to being dead. I saw a tunnel, all right, but no light at the end of it. Everything was dark. Pitch black.” She shuddered again and raised her hands to her throat. “Feeling those icky demon tentacles wrapped around my throat. So gross. You can’t imagine.”
“You know, Cordelia, not all demons wear black hats. I mean, they’re not all as evil as this Vishrak. One bad apple and all that.”
“Right,” Cordelia said. “Some are more evil than others. Except for Angel. He’s not evil . . . right now. Well, as long as he stays on the straight and narrow and doesn’t have—”
“I mean, besides Angel.”
“After tonight, when it comes to demons, I have to say ‘shoot first and ask questions later.’”
Doyle felt a sting of bitterness.
By the time Elliot woke later that same day, it was close to evening. Since Elliot was the living conduit that gave the demon substance, Yunk’sh’s frantic hunt for victim number eleven, and all the physical manifestations required, had taken its toll on Elliot’s body. He fought for enough strength to roll onto his back, away from the foul-smelling bucket. Scratching his chest, he discovered scattered patches of the rough gray skin. Yunk’sh had warned him the deformities might accelerate during his hunt, which made Elliot wonder what else had changed.
He examined his right hand and was relieved that he still had all his human fingers, although the fingernails were cracked. The itching extended to his scalp and he tentatively explored the area; he was slightly alarmed when clumps of hair came away in his fingers, exposing scattered bald patches. Judging by touch alone, the rest of his face had remained human. Looking down his body, he saw that the right leg and foot seemed normal although his kneecap was tough and gray. Not great, but he should be as mobile as the day before.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and shoved himself to his feet, waiting for a momentary light-headedness to pass before lumbering into the bathroom, wearing only his Bart Simpson boxers.
Squinting into the bathroom mirror in the unforgiving light, he examined the reflection of his face, grateful that he hadn’t sprouted a third eye or a pair of horns. The bald spots were a little unnerving but a baseball cap would hide them.
He gargled vigorously for thirty seconds then spit out the mouthwash. He ran cold water in the sink and splashed it into his haggard face to help rouse him before scrubbing at his eyes to get the sleep crust out. When he blinked at the mirror again, he saw the change. His face had become more alien. His eyebrows were gone. The swirling water in the sink was carrying them down the drain. Peering closer at the mirror, he saw that most of his eyelashes had just fallen out as well.
So now I need a baseball cap and sunglasses. If losing his eyebrows and eyelashes was the worst thing that happened to him in the next twenty-four hours, the last sacrifice would be a cakewalk.
He scratched his belly around his navel with the fingers of his right hand. Well, it would have been around his navel if he still had one. But it was gone. That was the easiest deformity to hide, yet of all the changes to his body, it was the most disturbing, because it made him feel most nonhuman. But in a day, maybe two, he would be back to normal—better than normal—and the Grundy Operating System, Elliot’s revolutionary new legacy to the technological masses, would become a reality. As he’d told Yunk’sh, “Keep your eyes on the prize.”
A hot shower made him feel more awake, if no more human. After he stepped out, he was completely hairless, like that odd breed of cat. Also, he discovered that the ridges along his spine extended to his tailbone, which was now protruding a bit, wedge-shaped, and pointing down. “Shit,” he whispered. “I’m growing a tail.”
With renewed dedication to the demon’s cause, he was determined to find the twelfth and final victim in record time. He’d kept a folder with a list of the victims’ names, signs, and other vital details. Some of the chat room sessions had occurred over the course of several days before he broached the subject of a meeting, so conversations had overlapped. He’d had to make all of them feel special, man or woman, according to the part he was playing to lure them into Yunk’sh’s trap.
A master sheet he’d maintained was a quick guide to the twelve signs, listing purported personality traits and how each sign related to the other signs. This cheat sheet had been a perfect tool, since Elliot wasn’t exactly a zodiac kind of guy. He could count on the fingers of one hand—good thing since only one hand still had real fingers—the number of times he’d read his horoscope in the newspaper. While Yunk’sh’s re-spawning window was contingent upon Neptune being in the same constellation it had been in during his initial spawning, the demon needed to complete the wheel of
the zodiac because it encompassed—symbolically, at least—all of humanity in a wheel, a cycle, a circle. And much of magic depended on symbolism. Aside from that bit of knowledge, Elliot was astrologically clueless. So he had used the master sheet to mingle with the astrologically inclined and, after each successful sacrifice, had crossed off the pertinent sign. The process had been a macabre “got ’em, need ’em, got ’em” approach to finding victims, but it had been enormously practical. Especially since Yunk’sh dictated which signs he preferred to acquire seemingly at random. And now all but two signs were checked off.
Elliot reached for a pen to cross off the penultimate sign. Mission accomplished, if not the way we intended. He drew a big X through the sign. One sign left, Elliot thought. I wonder if he was saving the best for last.
Elliot waited while his computer booted, then brought up his chat room addresses and cross-referenced those with his file of potential candidates for the last sacrifice. When Yunk’sh appeared, Elliot wanted to have a plan mapped out for the evening. Maybe Yunk’sh would even let Elliot boot up GOS again while he was out completing the ritual. He should know the ins and outs of his own operating system before he sprang it on the world.
He found only three good candidates in his file, and two of those were in the preliminary stages of the on-line relationship. There was nothing altogether special about this last sign, so he should just pick the easiest target, the woman furthest along in his wooing campaign, and try to arrange a meeting for that night. Since he’d slept away most of the day, the easiest target seemed best. The shortest distance between two points is a straight line, he thought. While he waited for the chat room software to load and go to the correct address, he tapped the two thick fingers of his left hand, his deformed hand, on the desk.
He stopped tapping the fingers.
The easiest target.
Elliot grabbed the master sheet and looked at all the astrological signs he had crossed off the complete list. One left out of twelve. The last sign was . . . his own.
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