by Nancy Holder
“Yup.” Willow raised her chin proudly. “I am pleased to announce that the experiment was a success.”
“Now, mi’jo,” Salma’s grandmother said to Salma’s father, “I know you don’t approve, but—”
The silver-haired man embraced his mother. “In this case, Mama, of course I approve. It’s just that in the case of Nicolas and Salma, I—”
“Where is Salma?” Salma’s mother said. “Dios mio, they took Salma!”
“Calma, calma,” her father urged.
He spoke in rapid Spanish to Elfredo, who answered likewise and took off.
“They’re searching the house,” Doña Pilar explained to the gringas. Her eyes were shiny with tears. She grasped the crucifix around her neck and murmured a prayer, then crossed herself fervently.
On an ornately carved wooden coffee table, a portable phone rang in its base. Everyone stared at it for a beat. Then Señora de la Natividad picked it up and said in English, “Hello?”
She listened for a moment, her face a dawning mixture of relief and disappointment. “Buffy, for you,” she said, holding it out. She began to cry. Doña Pilar and Señor de la Natividad went to her and put their arms around her.
“It’s me. Tara,” Tara said. “Um, is Willow there?” her own sweetie? “Yes. Hold on.”
Buffy was amused. Was Tara actually too shy to call
“Wait! Wait!” Tara blurted. “I have some things to tell you. First of all, Nicky de la Natividad is definitely mixed up with the local gang here. The Latin Cobras.”
“Oh.” Buffy was sorry to hear that, although at this point it didn’t come as a surprise. She was glad to have confirmation because it would give her a direction to go in. But for the family’s sake, she was saddened.
“Also? He set the DeSola oil field on fire. For his initiation into the gang. It’s all burned up.”
“That’s some prank. Makes UC Sunnydale fraternity hazing look like kid stuff.”
Buffy was aware that the room had gone silent. Everyone was watching her, listening to her, straining for some message about Salma. She shook her head to keep them from anticipating good news.
“It should have been a suicide mission,” Tara continued, “but he survived. There wasn’t a scratch or a burn on him. The Cobras are taking him to Los Angeles to meet up with the gang they’re connected to, to explain how to do it. We think there’s some big gang war brewing, Buffy.”
“Okay.”
“Riley’s heading your way to see what he can do about Nicky, since you guys are busy with Salma.”
Maybe, Buffy thought. She could hear the bodyguards searching the house. Occasionally they called to one another in Spanish. Buffy didn’t speak much Spanish, but it sounded pretty much like, “We are in big trouble.”
“When did he leave?”
“Just a few minutes ago. He asked me to call you right away. He didn’t want to lose a second.”
“Of course,” Buffy said, touched that Tara felt the need to explain why Riley hadn’t called himself. “Would you like to speak to Willow?”
“Oh, um, y-yes,” Tara said.
Willow smiled, realizing at once who it was. She took the phone and said softly, “Hi.”
Buffy turned to Salma’s parents. But they’d both dismissed the phone call as unimportant, clearly concentrating their attention on the disappearance of their daughter.
Maybe I won’t have kids after all, Buffy thought. She had a quick mental image of some little girl begging to spend the night at Aunt Willow and Aunt Tara’s, to play with Miss Kitty Fantastico and do witchy stuff.
Elfredo returned to the room and spoke quietly to Salma’s parents. Salma’s mother broke down weeping, and her husband escorted her from the room.
Willow had hung up the phone. She took Buffy by the arm and led her over to Doña Pilar. In a low voice, she said, “We need to talk. In the kitchen.”
“Bien,” said the elderly lady.
As unobtrusively as possible, Doña Pilar led the way. Their bubbling pots of toil-and-trouble were scattered everywhere, and a thick spicy odor pervaded the room. Buffy sneezed.
“See?” Willow said. “I told you you were allergic to mugwort.”
“What do you have to tell me?” Doña Pilar asked Willow. “Please, tell me quickly. Then let’s set to work on a finder’s spell for Salma.”
Willow glanced at Buffy almost guiltily. Buffy totally understood; it wasn’t fun to lay more problems on the shoulders of any of the de la Natividads. But while it might make sense to keep Salma’s parents in the dark—so to speak—her bruja grandma needed to know what was going on.
“Your grandson is involved in a gang,” Willow said, not pulling any punches. “A bad one. And he set an oil field on fire tonight. No one expected him to live through the explosion, but he survived without a scratch.”
The woman stared straight at Willow for perhaps a full minute. Then Buffy realized she was swaying. She grabbed a wooden kitchen chair and set it behind Doña Pilar, who sank into it gratefully.
“Ay, Nicolas,” she keened. The tears came hard. As she sat and cried, she looked somehow younger, like a little girl instead of the ancient woman she was. Her grief washed away the years.
Buffy traded glances with Willow and they waited respectfully. But Buffy’s blood was pumping; she hadn’t really come down from the battle yet. She was thinking, C’mon, let’s go! But she wasn’t sure where.
“The things that are missing,” Doña Pilar said slowly. She sighed heavily, pulling herself together. As her cheeks dried, the age came back to them, the lines seemed to multiply, and deepen. “My grandson has performed a ritual of some sort. From what you are telling me, I believe it to be an ancient Aztec ceremony called the Night of the Long Knives. In it, a warrior invokes the darkest of powers and is bound to serve them.”
Buffy groaned. “And now they’re loose in Sunnydale,” she said, jumping ahead.
The bruja shook her head. “If that is where he performed the ritual . . .”
“It is,” Buffy assured her.
“Then perhaps that is why they have come there . . . I have never performed such a ceremony, and I’m not precisely clear on all its facets. But the evil inside one is thrown off, and the dark magick one uses in conjuring increases its powers many, many times over.”
“And it breaks the windows of your parents’ house and kidnaps your sister,” Buffy said.
Doña Pilar covered her face. “I don’t know. I don’t think so, but it might. Or this might be something different. There is much loose in the world tonight, I fear. Not all of it can be laid at the feet of my grandson. Ay, Nicky. Mi amorcito. Y Salma, mi angelita.”
Willow put her hands on the woman’s shoulders. “We’ll get right to work,” she said, wearing her resolve face. “This very minute.”
“Sí, sí,” said Doña Pilar. “Not a moment to lose.”
She rose. “Willow, we’ll need those herbs in the green jar, eh?”
“What can I do?” Buffy asked, looking around. She picked up a pot crusty with something brown. “I’ll just wash these dishes.”
“No!” Willow and Doña Pilar both shouted at the same time.
“Buffy.” Willow came over to her and gently took the pot away from her. “Maybe it would be better if you found something else to do.”
“Okay.” She frowned. “Like what?”
“Um . . .” Willow thought for a moment. “Footprints. Outside,” she suggested. “A ransom note. You know, stuff like that.”
Buffy shrugged. She had an idea of her own. “All right.”
Both witches smiled briefly at her as she left the kitchen. She hurried upstairs to her room, snatched the phone off the nightstand. Please, she thought, please have your phone on. She dialed the number. It rang. After a moment, he answered.
“Yeah.”
“Is that how you always answer your phone, Angel?” she asked. “Not very professional.”
“Buffy?” She could hear the surpris
e in his voice. It had been a while since they’d talked. “What . . . where are you?”
“I’m here,” she said. “L.A. Up in Laurel Canyon.”
He seemed to hesitate. “Work or play?” he asked.
“Most definitely work,” she said quickly. “You know me. All work and no play makes Buff a dull girl.”
“Right.” Noncommittal.
“You sound like you’re driving,” she said with forced cheerfulness. “Are you driving?”
“I’m driving. Heading over to Cordelia’s.”
“Oh?” she asked, immediately aiming a mental kick at herself for the way it sounded.
“My place sort of . . . blew up,” he said. “I’ll tell you all about it later.”
“Okay. So anyway,” she went on, “there’s this situation I thought you should know about.”
“What kind of situation?” he asked, with evident interest.
“A couple of them, actually. I came here to bodyguard a girl, a friend of Willow’s who seemed to be in danger from some kind of shadow monster. I think that’s still in Sunnydale, although a different type of creature attacked the house here, and it also seemed to have something to do with shadows, or darkness, or invisibility.”
“But you beat it.” He didn’t sound surprised. The fact that he understood how strong she really was had always pleased Buffy.
“I beat it. Only then, the girl disappeared. Her brother has already disappeared, so maybe it runs in the family.”
“Disappeared like, ran away?”
“I don’t know exactly,” she replied. “Just gone. I have a lead on the brother—he’s mixed up with a Sunnydale gang called the Latin Cobras. And they’re all buds with a local gang called the Echo Park Band. So I figure I’ll find me some Echo Park boys and turn them upside down, see if Nicky’s name falls out. Sounds like what you’d do, right?”
“Sounds just like what I’d do,” Angel said. “You’re not doing this alone, are you?”
“The family I’m staying with has assigned me a bodyguard,” she assured him. “Bodyguard for the bodyguard. He’s very good at what he does. I’m sure we’ll be fine.”
“That’s good,” Angel said.
“You, uh, want to play? Thought it might be your idea of a good time.”
“Ordinarily I would,” Angel said. “But I’m just running to Cordelia’s to get a change of clothes. These smell like smoke—another long story—and I have to meet an informant in a little while. Unless you need—”
“No, I’ll be okay. Just thought I’d ask.”
“I hope I’ll get to see you. While you’re in town, I mean.”
She smiled. That was better than escorting her to the county line. “I’ll make a point of it,” she said. “Or, we will. Me and, you know, Riley. He’s on his way over from Sunnydale.”
“Oh,” Angel said flatly.
“Well, I guess I should go,” Buffy said after a moment. “People to see, you know.”
“Me too,” Angel agreed. “I’m there anyway.”
“I’ll be in touch,” she promised.
“Good,” Angel replied. “You be careful, Buffy.”
“I always am,” she said. They both knew that was a lie. But it was one that she thought made him feel better, so she told it from time to time. She said good-bye to Angel and hung up. She was glad she had called—thinking about calling was always harder than making the actual call. And he hadn’t sounded not-happy to hear from her. But he wouldn’t be joining her on her excursion, so she needed to make other plans. Which meant that she’d still have to see him, which she expected to be even harder than just calling him.
Although, not seeing him might be even worse.
And she was kind of hoping he’d have volunteered to drop everything just to give her a hand. She knew that wasn’t fair—he was probably working on his own cases, and, knowing him, they’d be a lot more important than just two missing kids. Nonetheless, she couldn’t help feeling a little resentment that he hadn’t rushed right over to see her. Together they had saved the world more times than she could count. Why couldn’t he spare a few hours to help her save a friend?
It was all just so complicated.
She returned to the living room, to find Elfredo on the phone. She waited until he was finished and said, “Did you find any footprints?”
He shook his head.
“A ransom note?”
Shook it once more.
“Have you ever heard of a gang called the Latin Cobras?”
Again with the head shaking.
“They’re a gang,” Buffy told him, “in Sunnydale. And Nicky is . . . involved with them.”
He didn’t look shocked. Sad, yes. And maybe a little defeated.
“As I told you, it sometimes happens with these rich Mexican boys,” he said. “I’ve been telling his father for years to be careful. But everyone focused on Salma and left Nicky alone. Our culture gives men so much freedom. Females, still very little. We think it’s for their own protection.”
“In Salma’s case, not such a great theory,” Buffy pointed out. “The gang that Nicky’s involved with has ties to the Echo Park Band. You ever hear of them?”
That set him back. He was most definitely wigged.
“Do we want to call the police?” Buffy asked, mostly to see which way the wind was blowing.
“Not yet.” Elfredo held out his hands. “These people, the de la Natividads, are very wealthy, very private. They are living in a foreign country in a city where, if you might excuse me, the police are known to be corrupt.”
“Ouch,” Buffy said firmly. “Not all of them. And if you want to talk corrupt cops, I’m thinking Mexico would be a better place—”
“All I’m trying to do is explain to you why we’re not calling the police yet. When we have something more concrete to share with them, then, perhaps.”
Buffy was dubious. If it has to be more concrete than a blazing oil fire and eyewitnesses, I don’t think it exists on the planet Earth.
Of course, there is the problem of the shadow monsters.
“So, meanwhile, someone has to go check on the Echo Park guys,” she suggested. “Who, I’m assuming, must hang in Echo Park.” A fairly rough section of Los Angeles; in her preSlayer, cheerleading days, she wouldn’t have been caught dead anywhere near Echo Park.
“I have to stay here with the family,” Elfredo said. “Don Armando specifically told me to do so. He’s worried that someone will try to kidnap his mother or his wife.”
She was perplexed. “But what about Salma?”
He checked his watch. “As we speak, three carloads of my men have been searching for her for fifteen minutes. The moment no one could find her, I dispatched them. And by the way, they can get in touch with the police if need be.”
“Oh. Okay.” Buffy shrugged. “Then I’ll go find the Echo Park gangbangers on my own.”
His expression spoke volumes. “Pretty bad guys, huh?” she asked.
“You know of the Hell’s Angels?” he asked her.
She snickered. “Of course.”
“They won’t have anything to do with the Echo Park Band. Too scary.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’m around.”
Elfredo regarded her. “That’s true,” he said simply. “But this time, Buffy, don’t go outside.”
“Sorry.” And she was. It would be nice to have a nice, quiet evening in this big house, maybe watch something on DVD with a mug of Mexican hot chocolate and some homemade churros.
It would also be nice to take a hot bath and spend time with Riley.
But nothing like that was going to happen tonight.
“I gotta,” she added.
Elfredo nodded. “I can’t come with you,” he repeated, starting to dial his phone again. “But I’ll send some of my men. Some of my best. Well armed.”
“From what we know about what Nicky’s mixed up with, those kinds of weapons might not be helpful,” Buffy said evenly. “But that’s the par
t I’m good at. If we run into humans, your guys can do the dirty work. If we run into—well, other stuff—I’ll take over.”
She left Elfredo behind to make arrangements, and walked into the kitchen. Willow was grinding some noxious herbs in a mortar with a pestle while Doña Pilar stood beside her with an enormous book bound in black leather with red lettering.
“Hey.” Buffy looked at Willow. “I’m going to drop in on the Echo Park gang. If Riley shows . . .” She hesitated. “Tell him I’ll be back later. And hi. Tell him hi.”
“Got it,” Willow said seriously. “Hi.”
Doña Pilar set down the book and walked to Buffy. She made the sign of the cross over her head and murmured a prayer. Then she kissed Buffy on the cheek.
“Go with God, little one,” she said.
The banter in the SUV died down as Enrique reached the environs of East Los Angeles, which was not near Echo Park. The meeting was being held in the barrio, for reasons that had not been shared with the emissaries from the Latin Cobras.
Enrique and Paco were very nervous. Not so Nicky. Nobody in the world could hurt him, not even the most notorious gangbanger on earth. He was invincible.
These guys have no idea who they’re dealing with, he thought smugly.
During the drive up, he had gradually realized that Enrique and Paco were afraid of him. Nobody had expected him to live through the oil fire. He, Nicky, had become the most important member of the Latin Cobras. He was their ticket to an even stronger alliance with Echo Park.
Nicky was trying to decide what to tell the leader of E.P., whose name was Che. Divulge the secret ritual but hold back on how to obtain the ingredients? Tell them that because he was the grandson of a bruja, that only he could do it? To be honest, he didn’t even really know which was the truth. He knew it had worked on himself, but not if it could be repeated. But Che was a very powerful man, one of the most influential in Los Angeles. He wanted to be on the guy’s good side.
Then Enrique muttered, “Look. There.”
The neighborhood was dark. The streetlamps had been shot out, Paco had explained earlier. Beneath a half-crescent moon, buildings lined with hedges and dotted with palm trees stood in relief against the flat black landscape. Radio Latina blared banda music from someone’s front steps.