by Nancy Holder
“That’s what they seem to think. They want to be turned. They have all these romantic ideas about what it’s like.” She made the “ew” face.
He took that in. “Yes, well, they’re not alone there.”
“I know. That’s why it’s so hard to convince them what a mistake they’re making. I mean, even if Angel went to see them . . .” She trailed off meaningfully.
“Yes, Angel, young girls, I see what you’re getting at. The whole billowing coat thing, redux. No, what we need is an ugly old vampire with a skin condition. And possibly a hump.”
She looked pleased. “That might do it. Know any?”
“Sorry, no.” He shook his head. “What about this Kostov? Have you ever heard of him?”
“No. He’s apparently made friends with the leader of these Lost Girls, Pat. He’s promised to come by and turn all of them. I don’t know when. Pretty soon, I think.”
“But not tonight?” Wesley framed his question in the form of a question.
“No, not tonight. They made me take them out for dinner. If you can call it that. Burgers at a fast food joint.” She patted the epicenter of her heartburn. “Better than blood, but not by much. They wouldn’t have left the library if it was tonight.”
“So we have a little time. We should tell Angel about it, and see if he has any ideas. Have you tried calling him?”
Cordelia smiled ruefully. “I tried his cell phone. It’s turned off.”
“Well, no surprise there,” Wesley sighed. “In the meantime, we can do some research.” He sighed and raised his book from his lap. “See what we can find on Kostov, for one thing. And I’m intrigued by their hiding place.” He cocked his head. “Why the library?”
“Bookworms?” she guessed. “I don’t know, Wesley.”
“I just find it odd.”
“So that’s it? The answer is, wait till Angel gets home? Why did you make me tell you, then?” She scowled at him as he began to scan his book some more. “I broke my promise for nothing.”
“So sorry I twisted your arm,” Wesley said. He looked up from the page. “And that’s also a metaphor.”
Wesley watched Cordelia pore over some vampire texts, looking for anything she could find on Kostov. The poor girl was clearly exhausted and ready for bed, but something about these girls had gotten to her. She seemed unwilling to let herself sleep until she’d figured out something that could be done to help them.
For his part, Wesley felt much the same, even though he hadn’t met them. He had been a Watcher, and Watchers were trained specifically to work with teenage girls, direct their activities, and keep them safe from harm, when possible.
Of course, the girls a Watcher worked with were Slayers, and he had not, to be brutally frank with himself, been the most effective Watcher ever. How many Watchers had not one, but two Slayers reject his services at once? No, that had to be a record that would stand for ages in the history of the Watcher’s Council.
He’d been fired from the Council, after that. Buffy and Faith had continued on their respective paths, and he wanted to be around to help them, even on an unofficial basis. Now Faith was in jail, here in Los Angeles, and Buffy was still in Sunnydale.
But the battle went on, the struggle against evil, and he was here too, helping Angel where he could. Buffy, after all, had Giles, but Angel had no one. And if Faith ever got out and needed him, he’d be close by for her.
Not that I can ever imagine her admitting that she needs me.
He signed on to the Internet and began researching the Los Angeles Public Library, hoping to find some reason that the girls might have chosen that particular place, out of all the places in the city where they might have camped out, to stay.
He didn’t have to look for long.
“Cordy,” he called. “Cordelia.”
She put her book down and came to stand beside him.
“Listen to this,” he said. “You said your young friends lived underneath the library, in a closed-off section, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Are you sure it was actually part of the library?”
“What?” She looked off into the distance, as if revisiting the library in her mind’s eye. “It looked like it to me. Same basic architecture and everything. But it was dark. Why?”
He indicated the screen with his head. “It says here that, according to legend, there was once an entire city underneath the library. Stretching all the way from there to Dodger Stadium. It was inhabited by ‘Lizard People,’ who vanished from there five thousand years ago.”
Cordelia leaned over his shoulder, scanning the screen. Her fragrance was an interesting mixture of raw onions, perfume, and the microwave popcorn they’d shared about half an hour before.
“I didn’t see any lizards down there,” she said. “Some dust bunnies, maybe.”
He tapped the screen for emphasis. “This is supposed to have been a lost race who built underground cities all up and down the coast, thousands of years ago. Then they vanished. Nobody knows why or where. The cities held about a thousand inhabitants each, with all their supplies and stores of food. Various people have searched for the city, but they’ve never found it.”
“So what makes you think it exists?” she asked, turning to look at him.
He clicked to the next page. “I don’t necessarily think it does. I just find it interesting that this is the place your would-be vampires chose to hide out. Really, how many runaways can you think of who would hide out underneath a library?”
“Not many, I guess.”
“Exactly.” He went to the next screen. “I wonder if these girls know something about the legend. Or if they were drawn to that place by the lost race, or something.”
Cordelia shook her head. “I really think you’re reaching here, Wesley. I think they picked the library because they found the passageways underneath, and because it’s warm and dry and open to the public.”
“You may very well be right, Cordelia. I simply think it’s a fascinating coincidence.” He tapped the keys with his fingertips, frustrated that he’d found nothing more about the Lizard People.
At least, at this website.
“Okay, great. Fascinating,” Cordy said bluntly. “I’ll go back to my highly thrilling reading now.” She picked up something thick and dusty. “Why don’t they have indexes in these books? Do you know how many pages without the name Kostov on them there are in one of those texts alone?”
“I’m sure it’s a substantial figure, Cordelia,” he said gently.
“You got that right.” She went back to the book and resumed paging through it.
Sunnydale
Ruben Velasco had worked for the de la Natividad family for years. He had been with the old man in Mexico, beginning as a security guard for one of his factories there, and eventually joining the household security staff as well. Within a few years, he was the family’s head of security. He supported the move to the U.S.—he knew that security would be easier there, for one thing. And he wanted to be able to bring his own children over, which he would be able to do once his citizenship was established.
He was getting on in years now—at forty-one, he was twice as old as some of the guards who worked for him. But he still put the family’s interests first, and when there were missions of special sensitivity, he made sure he was personally involved.
This mission was one of those.
Salma, Armando and Carolina’s daughter, had gone to college in Sunnydale. The coastal city wasn’t that far away from Los Angeles, but it was far enough to make Ruben nervous. And the fact that she had refused to have a bodyguard there made him more so. But she had seemed fine, even happy to be out on her own.
Until tonight.
Earlier in the evening, her parents had received a phone call from Salma. She had been on the edge of hysteria, saying something about a shadow that seemed to be watching her, outside her own condominium building. As they spoke, she calmed down, eventually to the point of telli
ng her parents that she had overreacted, that she had some friends coming over and would be fine. Carolina had called her again a couple of hours later, and the friends were just leaving. Salma was settled by then, insisting that she had simply panicked for no good reason and was not in any danger.
But Carolina de la Natividad did not believe her daughter. She called for Ruben, and explained the situation to him. Salma must be brought home, she declared. With her brother Nicky missing, the family had to be together. Carolina would not sleep until Salma was safe on the family estate.
So Ruben climbed into a powerful Lincoln Navigator and hurtled to Sunnydale in the middle of the night. The smooth engine purred as bright headlights split the dark empty freeway. At the correct exit he pulled off the highway and headed toward the Pacific.
As he closed in on Salma’s neighborhood, he thought he glimpsed something in the Lincoln’s rearview mirror. He turned to look behind him but could see nothing back there but the empty road and dark buildings. He kept one eye on the mirror and made a turn, then another, then a third, in rapid succession. If there was anyone following him, he would know about it.
He was looking into the mirror when his windshield exploded.
Glass sprayed over him like the water from a breaking wave. It was safety glass, but something cut him, blinding him. He threw his hands up and the big sport utility swerved, slamming into a telephone pole.
Ruben clutched at the door handle and wrenched open the door, spilling himself out of the vehicle onto the street. With one hand he clawed at his eyes, blinking and brushing the glass from them. He could see out of only one, and everything was blurry, but he thought he could see well enough to figure out what had happened to the car.
But he must have been wrong, because what he saw was impossible—a dark shadow moving through the night, coming toward him. When it reached him it had the solidity of a brick wall—tendrils of shadow, like a dozen fists, pummeled him. He took hits to the face, the head, the solar plexus. He tried to fight back, but there was nothing to fight. He went down.
Chapter 8
Los Angeles
AN HOUR LATER ANGEL AND GREG PRESTON SAT IN THE clean, modern room of the recently remodeled jail called the “inmate visitation area.” It was a well-lit facility, looking very little like Angel thought it would. The colors were cool and soothing, not the institutional green or gray he had expected.
Getting in had not been a problem, with Preston’s credentials and a hacked-together license for Angel that Preston made himself. Preston simply told the administrators that Angel was in the employ of his office, and he was admitted under the same rule that allowed lawyers and their clients to consult at any hour. Flores was no happier about being dragged out of bed than Preston had been, but he was less vocal about it.
A uniformed guard walked Flores into the visitation area, stood next to him as he sat down in one of the molded plastic chairs across a table from Preston and Angel, and then crossed to the far side of the room and sat, keeping an eye out but trying not to listen to their conversation.
Rojelio Flores was bleary-eyed, and he moved with the slow, relaxed manner of someone who has been deeply asleep. He wore a dark blue shirt over a white T-shirt, and baggy pants, almost like a doctor’s scrubs, but with L.A. JAIL printed on the shirt in big white letters.
“Sorry to wake you, Rojelio,” Preston began.
“You got good news for me, I don’t mind,” Flores said with a wan smile.
“No news,” Angel said. “Just some questions.”
“Questions that couldn’t wait until daytime?”
“Afraid not.”
“Don’t look at me,” Preston said. “Angel woke me up, too.”
“I’m a private investigator,” Angel explained. “I’ve been out to your house. Do you know what’s going on there?”
The man looked extremely worried. “What do you mean, what’s going on?” He looked at Preston. “Is my family all right?”
“It’s not like that,” Preston assured him. He looked expectantly at Angel. Angel knew that most people either didn’t see, or chose not to see, a whole range of existence. Things that fell outside the mainstream, things that couldn’t be easily explained by science, occurred on a kind of invisible plane that most average folks turned away from as if acknowledging them would somehow threaten their lives, or at least their sanity. Maybe they were right, but Angel had been walking that plane for so long, he sometimes couldn’t understand why people looked away. Wouldn’t they be better off knowing what’s out there? he wondered occasionally. Aren’t they at more risk from the unseen than from the everyday?
Obviously, Rojelio Flores fell into this category, so Angel decided he had to get specific.
“Poltergeist activity,” he said. “Things flying around. Loud noises.”
Prisoner and attorney stared at him. The only sound was the creaking of Rojelio’s chair as he sat back in it. He glanced at Preston, who made a “don’t ask me” gesture, and then at Angel.
“Sounds like crazy talk to me,” Flores said.
“So Isabel and Carlos haven’t told you about this?” Angel queried. “Or you aren’t talking to me because you don’t trust me?”
Rojelio Flores sat with his arms crossed over his chest, saying nothing.
“Isabel and Carlos trust me,” Angel told him.
“You can say that, but I don’t know it’s true. They aren’t here for me to ask, are they?”
“And they can’t be until tomorrow morning. I don’t know when it’ll be too late for them. I think they might be in danger from this phenomenon, and I want to try to bring it under control. Since it started when you were arrested, I think it might have something to do with you.”
Rojelio dropped the act. “You really think they could get hurt?”
“Even if by accident. Heavy objects flying around the house could hurt anyone.”
He considered. “I guess that’s true, isn’t it?”
“So if you know anything about this, then—”
“Hey!”
Angel was cut off by a shout from the guard on the other side of the room. The three men looked over.
The guard was on his feet, chasing his own clipboard, which hovered about eight feet up in the air—just out of his reach. He jumped for it.
After a moment, it dropped as if released by an invisible hand. The guard caught it before it hit the floor.
Preston rubbed his florid face with one meaty hand. He looked at Angel. “You said . . .”
Angel shrugged. “I said I wouldn’t make the face. I didn’t have anything to do with that.”
He turned back to Rojelio Flores. “Your lawyer is not a fan of the supernatural, Rojelio. Maybe you should start talking.”
Sunnydale
Salma de la Natividad was sleeping uneasily when the doorbell rang. She picked up the phone—it was connected to the building’s security system—and punched the nine. “Yes?” she mumbled.
“Miss de la Natividad?”
“Yes.”
“I’m a police officer, ma’am. My name is Jeff Jacobs. May I come upstairs?”
Her heart skipped a beat. Trouble. Oh, Nicky. “What’s it about?”
“I’d rather tell you in person if that’s all right. There’s a video camera system here, right? You can take a look at my badge on that if you’re concerned.”
“Okay, just a minute.” She went to the tiny monitor on the wall by her front door, and flipped the switch that turned it on. He looked like a cop, and he was holding a badge up to the camera. She jotted down the badge number and then pressed the button that unlocked the door.
A few moments later, he knocked on her front door. She had taken the time to pull on a robe and pour herself a glass of water.
“Yes?” she said again as she opened the door.
“I’m very sorry to disturb you at this hour,” Officer Jacobs said.
Salma stepped back and invited him inside. He came in, but remained standing
formally before the door, which he left open. “What is going on?” she asked.
“You know a Ruben Velasco,” Jacobs said. It wasn’t a question.
“Yes, I know him.” Her heart skipped a beat. “Has something happened to him?”
“He was involved in an accident. A very severe one. He may have been attacked, as well. He has wounds that don’t seem to be consistent with the accident, and he was found well away from his vehicle.”
Oh, Dios, mio. She reeled, holding onto the door. “Where? Here in Sunnydale?”
“Yes ma’am,” Jacobs said. “Just a few blocks from here.”
“What happened?” Salma demanded. She felt tears welling in her eyes, fought to keep them down. She had cried enough lately; it wouldn’t help Ruben to start again. “Is he okay?”
“He’s still unconscious, ma’am. He’s at the Sunnydale Medical Center. They’re doing everything they can for him. As for what happened, well, we’re still trying to piece that together, ma’am. I was hoping maybe you could help.”
“I didn’t even know he was in Sunnydale. Can I see him?”
“I’d give it until the morning. Let the doctors do their thing. May I have a glass of water?” Jacobs asked.
Salma nodded and went to get it. Her hands trembled as she got the glass and turned on the faucet.
Jacobs continued. “I was one of the first people on the scene. Someone heard the crash and called 911. We got there about the same time the paramedics did. There was no sign of anyone else. If he had been attacked, we don’t know by whom. I checked his identification, found a business card with a Los Angeles number on it. I called the number.”
“He works for my family.”
“That’s what I was told. And I was told he was coming to Sunnydale to bring you home to Los Angeles.”
She blinked. “No one told me that.”
“I was told that, too. They were afraid you would refuse to come home. But if Mr. Velasco was here to get you . . . well, I was given to understand that he could be very persuasive.”