by Nancy Holder
Jusef felt as though he had turned to stone. He was completely paralyzed with amazement.
The victor turned and raced down the alley, swallowed up by the night.
It was over.
Jusef began the quest for such power. He hired researchers, mediums, dukun, and fortune-tellers. He bought expensive volumes of occult lore.
He began to make discoveries. Wonderful discoveries. He used them to push his singing career forward.
His father, who had spies everywhere, heard of it, of course. He usurped Jusef’s hopes and dreams. Almost worse, he brought in Jusef’s moronic cousin, Slamet. Jusef did not understand his father’s high opinion of Slamet, who lacked intelligence and ambition, not necessarily in that order.
Father, son, and nephew became skilled in their use of magick. Bang rose to even greater heights in Indonesian power circles. World leaders in the know began to curry his favor. American generals joked about getting “More Bang for your buck.”
After a time Jusef understood his father’s unspoken bargain: His son might use a few tricks here and there to further his career, but the real power must fuel Bang’s ambitions. It was the only way he would spare Jusef from the unwanted mantel as heir to his legacy.
Jusef made more discoveries; and then the ultimate discovery: how to live forever.
Latura was the God of the Dead. And if you served him, you could live forever. Bang made it clear that if immortality were granted to anyone in their family, it would be himself.
But how could he trust me to hand over the secret to eternal life, if just one of us could have it? Jusef wondered.
The answer: He never had. Not if he could move in strange circles of glowing blue light. He had never shared that with his son. And the demon who escaped him, what of that? What had his father fought the last night of his life?
Jusef wondered how Slamet was feeling now, with Bang dead. The gods were supposed to have protected Bang Rais from all harm. Jusef’s father and Slamet had made many vows, sacrificed hundreds of no-accounts here and in Indonesia, to keep Bang safe from disease and injury. That included assassination attempts, which were numerous. And their efforts had been rewarded.
But the three of them had only sketchy knowledge about Latura, based upon some pages in the diary of an eighteenth-century Catholic priest. While they had managed to channel Latura’s power, they had not been able to contact the god himself.
Then Jusef learned something wonderful: There was a Book, a written record of all the knowledge necessary to bring Latura into this world. That was the dread lord’s price for the gift of eternal life. But it could be granted only to one person at a time — someone who would perform sacrifices, learn the rites and incantations, and provide Latura with a properly prepared vessel in which to walk the earth. All this would be explained in the Book.
Jusef became fairly certain that the Book was in a little church near Nias.
He sent men out to search for it. That was also when Jusef took the risk and began systematically lying to his father.
He formed the Brethren of Latura, a super-secret cult of acolytes. He wondered if Bang had learned of them, too, the same as he had learned about the lying.
No matter. He’s worm meat, he told himself nervously.
Then he had learned that the Book had been smuggled to America. Someone had had the brilliant notion of disguising it as a textbook. Some wonderful joke. English as a Second Language. Jusef had begun tracking down the possessors of such a book.
Interesting that they all belonged to the same Catholic parish in Los Angeles.
And that the parish priest was from Indonesia.
And that he had gone into hiding about the same time that Jusef had learned all this information.
And I’m going to find that damn Book, if I have to kill everyone in Los Angeles to do it.
Speaking of killing . . .
“You weren’t trying to steal from that young lady, were you?”
The boy made no answer. Instead he hung his head and cried even harder.
Jusef waited. And waited. If he had learned anything in his years of being the son of Bang Rais, it was that he who made the first move always lost.
Jusef gestured toward the darkness. The flapping of wings echoed against the smoky, blood-drenched walls. The click of talons chittered a fraction louder on the slick, wet floor.
The boy struggled frantically and said, “No. No, pak.”
“Only your sister. And you tried to punish her for it.” The old woman had told him that before she died, in hopes that he would spare the boy.
“She didn’t. I wasn’t . . . I didn’t hit her to punish her. She said I was stupid. That’s why.”
The boy stared up at him. Just to be impish, Jusef stepped farther back into the shadows, making himself into a specter.
“Please, pak.” The gibbering child broke into a native dialect, guttural and unpleasant. It was something about his mother, and how heartbroken she would be if her children died. How the authorities would look for them.
“You little slave,” Jusef said derisively. “Do you think your pleas will move me? Jusef of Latura? How you underestimate his power!”
The boy kept begging, kept pleading. His sobs were noisy now.
Far too noisy. Jusef looked up, thinking of the many people aboveground, guests strolling through the compound. He looked back at the boy, who was flinging himself forward, cutting the skin on his little wrists to ribbons. Blood droplets went flying.
The talons skittered eagerly across the concrete.
“Where’s my sister?” the boy shouted. “What have you done with my sister?”
Jusef regarded the child almost kindly. “That was to be my next question,” he told the boy. “Since you clearly don’t know where she is, you have just signed your own death certificate.”
The demon — Jusef’s demon — scrabbled into the light from the overhanging bulb. Four-legged, its skin a shiny green with thick, deep facial features carved deeply into its crimson flesh, its wings fluttered as fast as a hummingbird. With a shriek of fierce excitement, it launched itself at Kliwon.
“I know who has the Book!” the boy shouted.
Jusef was astounded.
“Stop!” he commanded the demon.
But it was too late. Its wide-open mouth engulfed the boy’s face. There were a few whimpers, indicating that the child was still alive, but it really was too late.
Jusef sat slowly down on the floor and listened in darkness to the slurping and the crunching. He looked at the altar to his god and murmured, “For you, my dark lord. Another sacrifice.”
His sister, he thought. Celia.
Priority.
Jusef was calm and collected when he ascended the temple and joined his cousin in the receiving line. The sedhekah would begin soon. The more general reception had already begun.
Jusef saw Slamet at the entrance to the palatial family home. It was a monument to Art Deco, written up in dozens of magazines. The clean lines were delicately detailed with mauve and lavender neon, highlighting a fantastic crystal sculpture of Diana with her bow centered in a full moon above the double doors. Glass bricks glowed warmly with candlelight. Though the body of Bang Rais lay in the ground, an altar had been set up in the living room as a memorial. Guests were invited — translation: expected — to pay their respects to the gods and to the spirit of the dear departed.
In a beautifully cut black suit, Slamet looked every inch the grieving favorite nephew of a very wealthy man. Jusef wore black as well, very cutting-edge Italian, with a collarless white shirt and no tie. Black cowboy boots. He noted Slamet’s look of disapproval and grinned to himself. What a tiny-minded man my cousin is, he thought.
Then a police car glided through the entrance gates. Slamet raised his brows in alarm and glanced at Jusef.
“Now what?”
Jusef shrugged. “I don’t have the slightest idea.”
“Those deaths,” Slamet whispered. “They cannot
be traced?”
Jusef rolled his eyes. “Are we going to start this again?”
“Why didn’t you just kill them in a less obvious way?” Slamet continued. “Or take them somewhere else to kill them?”
“I was flushing out our enemies,” Jusef informed him. “Letting them know we had the power. Making them think we have the knowledge.”
“But they know we don’t have the Book,” Slamet said quietly.
“How? How do they know that? Hell, for all they know, there are two Books. Twenty. It’s all ancient lore mixed in with legend, Slamet. Do you know how many ‘true crosses’ there were in Europe during the Crusades?”
A beautiful Indian somberly approached. Jusef silently bowed. She bowed soberly back. She was, or had been, highly placed in the Indian government. Jusef couldn’t remember who on earth she was.
“Madame Krishnamurti,” Slamet said respectfully. “Thank you for attending our reception.”
“Madame,” Jusef echoed. “Thank you.”
“My sympathies on the death of a great man,” she told them.
Then she swept past.
The police car approached. Slamet said, “What is this? In front of everyone? On the night of Uncle’s funeral!”
“It wouldn’t happen in Indonesia,” Jusef agreed.
The passenger door opened and a blond woman stepped out. She looked familiar. Of course. She’d been on the news, talking about the burnings.
Talking to Meg.
“Mr. Rais?” she queried.
I’ll let Slamet handle this, he thought. He remained silent.
“Jusef Rais?” she continued.
His heart skipped a beat, but he managed to retain his composure.
She flipped open a leather wallet and flashed a badge. “I’m Detective Lockley of the L.A.P.D. I’ve got to ask you a few questions.”
“We’re in the middle of my father’s death observances,” he said. “May I help you another time?”
“Sorry.” She made a moue of apology, but it was clear she didn’t give a damn who had died or what was going on.
“Let’s go into a private area,” Jusef suggested.
Slamet turned to follow. The woman held up a hand.
“Just your brother for the moment,” she informed him.
“He’s my cousin,” Slamet said. He frowned. “Jusef, shall I call our lawyer?”
“You anticipate trouble?” the detective asked smoothly.
Slamet actually flushed. Jusef wanted to strangle him right then and there.
“No, no,” Slamet said quickly, making a lie of his own words. “It’s just that we’re very rich, you see, and very well-known. We need to be conscious of our place in the community.”
“I see.” She shrugged. “You call whoever you need to call, Mr. Rais. I just want to ask your cousin some questions.”
Slamet stomped away, clearly angered. Jusef decided to act reasonable. He smiled and said, “I assume since you’re on duty, you can’t have champagne.”
“Nothing for me, thank you,” she said with asperity.
Jusef didn’t want to push it, so he led her into the house. They walked past a number of servants wearing black mourning bands around their left arms, and into a sitting room his mother had always liked. She had died four years before, and Jusef still missed her.
“Nice,” the detective said, seating herself in a wicker chair with a balloon-shaped back. Frangipangi surrounded her.
Jusef sat opposite her. He crossed his legs and folded his hands.
“A little girl stole the purse of a friend of yours tonight,” the detective began. “Her name was Celia Sucharitkul.”
Jusef couldn’t help his jerk of recognition. He saw that she noted it, and tried to look worried.
“She’s run away, I’m afraid,” he told her, leaning forward slightly. “She had some kind of fight with her brothers.”
“They are . . .?”
He thought a moment. What had the little one been named?
“Kliwon,” he said. “And Decha.”
“Decha was found dead.”
He sat up. “What?”
“Burned to death. We’ve found a number of homicides like that throughout the city. Would you know anything about that, Mr. Rais?”
“No. Of course not.”
Meg, who had seen Jusef and started walking toward him, stood quietly, listening. Her heart was pounding.
They’ve come for me, she thought. They think I’m connected in some way.
In her mind’s eye, she saw Olive’s disfigured body. Her stomach roiled and she wanted to be sick.
Then just as vividly, the face of a man filled her field of vision. He was extremely pale, and his eyes and hair were dark. He looked puzzled.
He looked as if he could see her.
Was he an angel?
“Angel?” she whispered. “Can you help me?”
* * *
Angel was tamping white sage and rosemary into what looked like a tea ball. He waited a beat and then said, “Yes, Doyle?”
Doyle cricked his neck as he looked up from a massive old leather book. “Yeah, man?”
Angel frowned slightly. “Didn’t you just say my name?”
Doyle shook his head. “No.” He looked at Angel again. “Isn’t that the second time that’s happened?”
“Yes.” Angel touched the bite on his head. “I remember once back in Sunnydale, Buffy got some demon’s blood on her. She could hear people’s thoughts.”
“Telepathy,” Doyle identified helpfully.
Angel put down the talisman he was concocting and paged through the book he’d gotten the recipe from. It was a translation called The Demonic Compendium, and it contained some information about Asian demons.
“I’m connecting with someone, and I don’t know who it is.” He turned another page. “If you ever see this in the original Latin on eBay, let me know. I never trust translations.”
“That’s a rare one, that,” Doyle said, indicating the book. “Only a couple copies in existence.”
I won’t remember, a voice whispered.
Angel blinked. “I heard it distinctly that time. It’s a woman’s voice. She sounds young. And frightened.”
They looked at each other. “Maybe it’s the woman in the vision we shared,” Angel said.
Doyle held up the sketch Angel had made. They’d drawn it together, both studying it. They’d come up with the fact that her clothes were Javanese, and her dance pose was Balinese.
Indonesian.
Rais was an Indonesian name. A few minutes on the Net, and Angel learned that the Raises were a very wealthy and influential family, both in the U.S. and Asia. Their primary source of wealth was the garment industry.
“Limo’s almost here,” Cordelia called. “The driver just called my cell phone to let me know.”
They had brought her back to Angel’s place so they could work on the mystery of the burnings. None too pleased to be rushed, she nevertheless understood the why of it.
“Okay. Party time,” Angel said.
He and Doyle were dressed in black suits. The night was warm, so no duster. They took the elevator up and met Cordy in the office, who was pacing a little.
Doyle’s eyes widened at the sight of Cordelia.
“You look great,” he said with admiration.
She did. Hair pulled back in a chignon, a few wisps around her face, her black dress was low cut without being inappropriate. She had on a jet choker and matching bracelet, black stockings, and black high heels.
“You guys aren’t bad, either,” she said.
“Here.” Angel held out a small cloisonné ball.
Cordelia made a face. “Ew. What’s that for? It stinks.”
“It’s a talisman,” Angel said. “It should help to ward off evil, if my reference can be trusted. I really need the original Latin.”
“Did you try shopping.com?” Cordelia queried. “I spend half the day — of my lunch hour — there. They’ve got
all kinds of great stuff. That I can no longer afford.”
“Better times are coming,” Doyle assured her.
“Put it in your purse,” Angel told her.
“I really don’t want to.” She shivered theatrically. “I spent a number of hours among the hygienically challenged, and I just sprayed myself with about twenty dollars’ worth of very expensive perfume. Plus this is my good purse, for nighttime, and I can’t afford to get another one if it stays stinky.”
Angel continued to hold it out. “Would you rather burn to a cinder?”
“Do it,” Doyle urged. He looked at Angel. “Where’s mine?”
“I made three.” Angel gestured to his desk, where the other two sat.
He handed one to Doyle and kept the other, sliding it into the pocket of his suit.
“Okay. Doyle, stick close to Cordy. I’ll follow close behind,” Angel said. “If they boot you, Doyle, they probably won’t let me in, either.”
He looked at Cordelia. “And if we can’t get in, what do you do?”
“Pitch a fit,” she announced, “which I am good at doing. As you know.”
“As I know,” Angel concurred.
“You could also say you’re not feeling well,” Doyle suggested.
“Whatever it takes,” Angel said. “Just get the hell out of there. You’re not going in without at least one of us.”
“Okay.” She shifted her shoulders. “Are you sure you don’t want me to wear a wire? Or a wig? Or have a fakey-sounding foreign accent like Doyle’s?”
“Cordy, you’re getting way too into this,” Angel warned. “Throttle back, okay?”
“And for your information, my accent is not ‘fakey-sounding,’ ” Doyle said, miffed. “I was born with this accent.”
“Well, Angel’s Irish and he doesn’t run around imitating a leprechaun.”
“He’s been gone from the home county a wee bit longer than I have, too.”
“Okay, okay. Don’t get all wound up,” Cordelia lectured him. “We need you frosty for the mission.”
Angel peered at her. “What have you been auditioning for lately?”
“Mouthwash.”
Doyle crossed to the window and peered through the venetian blinds. “Limo just pulled up.”