by Nancy Holder
“You want to blindfold me?” she asked incredulously. She looked at Doyle, who was frowning.
“Only for a few moments. Perhaps as long as two minutes.” He smiled. “We’re in a public place. Nothing will happen to you here.”
She touched her hand to her chest. “Actually, technically, um, since this is your compound, it’s not a public place. Oh.” She stared at Doyle.
He stared back.
Not a public place.
Angel will need to be invited to get onto the compound, or he won’t be able to take one single step onto it.
It was part of his vampire deal: he couldn’t so much as walk into her apartment if she didn’t invite him the first time.
She looked past Doyle to see an L.A. police car driving slowly through the crowd. It was leaving.
“But we’re being carefully protected,” he said, looking in the same direction. “As wealthy people, we’re always careful. Always friendly with the authorities, and always very polite in our adopted countries.”
He took her hand and brushed his lips against her knuckles, looking up at her with his dark, soulful eyes.
“No harm will come to you. I promise it.”
Doyle said, “What about me?”
Slamet chuckled. “No harm to you, either.”
Doyle gestured to the scarf. “You’ve only got one blindfold.”
“You’re a man,” Slamet said.
“Yeah.” Doyle sounded as if he wasn’t sure. He glanced at Cordy. “I’m not feeling too well. Would you mind very much if we left?”
She hesitated. Then she thought, What am I doing? It’s definitely time to book.
“Okay, Doyle. I’m so sorry,” she murmured to Slamet. “He’s had a lot of health problems ever since, um, the war.”
“Hey,” Doyle protested, then clamped his mouth shut.
“War?” Slamet looked puzzled.
“Yeah, so . . . limo?”
“Of course. Let me have it brought around.” Slamet looked dithery. “It might take a few minutes.”
“But it was just here,” Cordelia said.
“It’s crowded on the compound,” Slamet explained.
He gestured for a very beefy looking guy to walk over. The guy had on a suit but he didn’t look at all like the suit type. He looked more like the muscle-tee-on-the-beach type.
He came over and folded his hands in front of himself.
“Please see to our guests,” Slamet told him. Then he inclined his head and walked away.
“I’m not liking this,” Cordelia murmured.
“Me, neither,” Doyle muttered under his breath. “And I can’t exactly fight my way out of here with this many people around.”
She closed her eyes and murmured, “I invite you, I invite you, I invite you.”
“Tap your heels together three times,” Doyle suggested.
“Oh. Okay.” She did so.
In an amused tone, he said, “Now repeat after me, ‘There’s no place like home.’ ”
“Ha ha. Very funny.” She opened her eyes. “Doesn’t work, huh?”
“Cordy, if you could just throw out random invitations to vampires on the wind like that, there’d be no point to it.”
“And there is now?” she asked.
He nodded. “It’s all quite complicated. Believe me, it’s complicated.” He rolled his eyes. “So’s the fact that human beings need to sleep. But nevertheless, it is a fact.”
“Okay.” She didn’t get it. But she supposed it didn’t matter. “Let’s just get out of here, okay?”
Then she sighed. “Why is it that all the rich men in this town turn out to be evil? When I had money, I wasn’t evil.”
“It’s what you have to do to get rich in this town,” Doyle suggested. “Or maybe it’s just an unfortunate coincidence that you keep running into the men who believe that.”
Slamet found Jusef with Meg. She was slumped in one of the high-backed wicker chairs Slamet’s aunt — Jusef’s mother — had always preferred. Jusef was seated across from her. He had a cell phone on his lap and he was sipping a glass of champagne.
Slamet hurried up to them. He did another double take as he looked down on the young woman. Her eyes were glazed and her jaw was slack. But other than a few slight — and superficial — differences, she and Cordelia Chase bore an amazing resemblance to each other.
“Slamet,” Jusef said. “Good.” He tapped his cell phone. “I’ve got interesting news. When the limo went to pick up Cordelia Chase, she had two men with her.”
Slamet frowned. “Two?”
“And all three of them were carrying protective amulets. Against various subspecies of Asian demons.”
Slamet’s lips parted.
“And she seemed like such a nice girl,” Jusef drawled. “This is some kind of setup. They know who we are.”
“Two men.”
Jusef took another sip of champagne. He looked relaxed, but Slamet saw that his hand was trembling.
If Jusef’s frightened, we’re in bad trouble, he thought worriedly.
“She only showed up with one,” Slamet told him.
“I know. The other one just beat the crap out of two of our best.” He drained off the champagne. “But listen to this, Slamet. Someone moved the body of Ernesto Torres. To a very public location.”
“Who would do that?” Slamet asked, even more worried.
“Someone who wants us to get caught.”
Without warning, Jusef flung his champagne glass to the ground. The delicate crystal shattered into dozens of brittle shards that ricocheted into the air.
“A traitor. We seem to have an awful lot of them in our midst, don’t we?”
Slamet ran his hands through his hair. “What are we going to do?”
“Yes?” Jusef asked sharply.
A servant stood in the door. His voice was measured and respectful.
“Pak, the guests are waiting for the sedhekah to begin.”
“What are we going to do?” Slamet asked. “What’s the use of anything? With your father dead . . .”
Jusef silenced him with a thundering look. Slamet closed his mouth.
“We’ll be there in a minute,” Jusef snapped.
“Yes, pak,” the servant replied. He bowed his head and withdrew.
“Everything’s unraveling. It’s unraveling,” Slamet said. His voice was shrill.
“Calm down,” Jusef barked. “Let me think.”
Meg was there in the room. She was aware.
She couldn’t move, but she could see, and hear, and think.
She saw Jusef take the hypodermic needle out of a leather case. She saw him plunge it into a vial and pull it back out. The barrel was filled with something green and viscous.
No, she begged as he positioned the needle against the crown of her head.
He pushed the needle in.
How it penetrated her skull, she did not know. And she had heard once upon a time that the brain felt no pain. It was possible to operate on it without anesthesia, if need be.
But she felt every millimeter of the sharp needle as it was thrust inside her head. Past a sting, it was the most painful sensation she had ever felt. It made her eyes bulge and ache. The inside of her nose throbbed. The back of her head felt as if it had erupted into flame.
He’s killing me, she thought wildly.
Summoning her force of will, she tried to do everything she could to stop him. But she could only lie limply in her chair like a string puppet, staring at him.
“Meg?” he asked, moving his face toward hers. “Meg, are you awake?”
How long have you been doing this to me? she thought. Why have you been doing this to me?
She said nothing, did nothing. He seemed satisfied that she was unconscious.
He put the needle back in the case and snapped it shut. In the quiet of the sitting room, the sound was so startling that she would have jumped out of the chair if she had been able to move. But she couldn’t.
&nbs
p; So maybe that’s what’s saving my life right now.
“When I count to ten, you’ll awaken,” he said to her. “Meg, when I count to ten, you will remember none of this.”
Yes, I will. I will. I will.
I’ll remember everything.
Angel?
I’ll remember everything.
Angel?
“One, two, three, four . . .”
Cordy and Doyle were still trying to decide what to do. She had her hand in her purse on her cell phone.
“If I call the police, they might pick up my signal,” Cordelia said.
“If they’re on the up and up, they’ll be pissed off for the embarrassment, but that’ll be the extent of it,” Doyle observed. “If they’re not cool, we want them to know the police are on their way.”
“Okay, then.” Cordelia flipped open her cell phone. “Oh.” She bit her lower lip. “Battery’s dead.”
Just then, their limo rolled up.
And Jusef Rais was striding quickly toward him.
“I understand there’s been an illness,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”
“Yes. We have to go,” Cordelia said firmly. “Now.”
Jusef opened the limo door. “May I call you?” he asked.
“Oh, God, I’m surprised you still want to,” she blurted, then caught herself. “That’d be nice.”
“Do you have a card?” he queried. “Something to write on?”
“Um, no, not on me.”
“What’s that?” he asked.
Cordelia and Doyle both turned around. Cordelia swallowed. One of Angel’s business cards sat on the leather seat.
“Oh, good, I thought I’d lost that,” she said.
Doyle moved to the door to retrieve the card, but Jusef got to it first.
“Angel Investigations?” he asked, looking long and hard at it. Probably at the address, Doyle figured. Then her eyes widened as she saw her purse on the soft leather seat.
“Oh, it’s this side . . . it’s a business a friend of mine runs,” she said. “Like he’s a guardian angel. For helpless . . . teen runaways,” she finished lamely. She glanced at Doyle.
“Yeah,” Doyle said. “We give him a hand now and then.”
“Or, used to. Actually, we’re no longer friends,” she continued. “It was all just too . . . grubby, you know? I mean, those kids hardly ever wash.” She shrugged. “I’ve been meaning to toss these cards out, but I keep forgetting.”
“You’re not in contact with him anymore, this friend?” Jusef asked.
“No way. I haven’t talked to him in, oh, months.”
“Me, neither.” Doyle held his hand out. “We’ll just toss that.”
“No, you can write your current phone number on it,” Jusef told Cordelia.
“Oh.” She shrugged. “Got a pen?”
He produced a beautiful Mont Blanc fountain pen. She gave it a second glance, then scribbled down a fake number.
“There.” She handed it to him.
“Well, I’m very sorry your evening was cut short,” Jusef said earnestly.
“Thanks. Good night,” she said.
“Good night,” Doyle added.
Jusef picked up her hand and brushed her knuckles with his lips. Doyle took her other hand and urged her into the vehicle.
They got settled.
As the limo glided through the gates, Doyle thought he heard a shriek.
Cordelia gasped. “What was that?” she said to Doyle.
Pressing her face against the tinted glass, she tried to roll down the window. It wouldn’t budge.
Doyle turned on the speakerphone that patched them them through to the chauffeur.
“Did you hear that?”
“Yes, pak. It was a peacock,” the man said.
“Oh.” Cordelia looked at Doyle and gave a fakey little laugh. “It sounded like someone being murdered, for heaven’s sake.”
“Yes, ibu,” the chauffeur said. “It did.”
They drove through Checkpoint Charlie. Then something sweet wafted through the spacious leather interior.
Doyle glanced worriedly at Cordelia.
“Maybe it’s car deodorizer,” she said hopefully. “Do you, um, see any of those little Christmas trees dangling somewhere?”
“Cordy, give me your talisman,” Doyle said.
Then his head fell back against the seat.
“Doyle? Doyle?” she asked frantically. “Help!”
She pounded on the window that separated them from the driver. There was no response.
“No. Help,” she murmured.
She tried to see if a little Christmas tree was dangling from the rearview mirror, but the window between her and the chauffeur was too darkly tinted.
Everything slid sideways. She began to spin.
I invite you. I invite you, she thought fuzzily, fighting to stay awake. Angel, I’m sending out an S.O.S. RSVP, please.
Please, please, please.
Her eyes closed.
The limo glided on.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Angel got a speeding ticket on the way to the Rais compound.
He stood seething while the cop made a big show out of calling in his driver’s license and registration, making it absolutely clear that no one went forty miles over the speed limit on his watch, thank you very much.
This kind of thing doesn’t happen in the movies, Angel thought as he waited for his impeccable credentials to be declared impeccable. Okay, maybe to someone like Indiana Jones.
Not such bad company.
“All right. Everything checks out,” announced tonight’s poster guy for law and order. “You keep this up, the next funeral you’re going to will be yours. Or someone else’s,” he finished with a flourish.
It was a struggle not to state the obvious, but Angel managed. He even accepted the ticket and the astronomical fine attached to it with a good grace.
“Don’t try to fight it,” the cop added, as Angel put the car in gear. “I’ve got the record in my division for most convictions.”
Even through that, Angel kept his calm.
But after he drove away, he was so furious he began to morph into his true face. He felt it, and confirmed it by pressing his fingertips against his fangs and ridged brow. Looking in the rearview mirror was useless, of course.
But realizing he had begun to vamp reminded him that the Rais compound was private property. He wasn’t going to be handed any invitations onto it any time soon.
Do they know I’m a vampire? he wondered. Did the talismans tip them off, or did they already know who I was? And why do they care?
And who’s Latura?
He drove like a crazy man, ready, willing, and able to get another speeding ticket, hoping he could keep his cool if he did. Road rage could easily become an occupational habit in L.A., it seemed like. But lives were at stake, and each second counted.
The lives of those closest to me, he thought. I’ve buried so many friends.
Part of the reason I moved here was so I wouldn’t have any.
But it didn’t appear that the Powers That Be were going to let him off the hook that easily. Doyle liked to point out that to save people, he had to know people. “Get involved. Mix with ’em.”
Otherwise, Doyle asserted, they would mean nothing to him. Humanity would become a faceless blur to him.
And that’s bad why?
Because caring about a person made him, Angel, more of a person and less of a demon, he supposed. To demons, humans were targets. Prey.
They were pretty much interchangeable. That took away their uniqueness.
That denied the importance of their souls.
Which brought him back to the remorse thing. As long as he could remember his victims, face by face, name by name, if he knew them — as long as he suffered on behalf of each one, he kept his own soul intact.
No man’s an island. He could almost hear Doyle saying words to that effect.
Yeah, and there’s lots of fish
in the sea.
And that would be something Cordelia would say.
Help me.
Angel, help me.
He nearly slammed on the brakes.
It was the voice again.
And she knew who he was.
Help me, he sent back, in case they had a two-way connection.
Meg looked up at Jusef and tried to hide the terror in her eyes. He cocked his head and said, “Are you all right?”
She was having trouble walking. She felt numb from head to toe.
“I want you to dance tonight,” he said. “Can you do that for me?”
Can I put a knife through your eye? she thought, savage with fury. Yet she kept it tamped down.
Just like everything else.
“We’ll go down to the club after all this stuff, okay? Let loose.”
She nodded. “I’m really tense.”
“I can feel it.” He eyed her. “Didn’t the session help you?”
“I feel pretty good, considering.” She touched her head. “My head hurts a little.”
He regarded her sadly. She knew he was trying to make her think about the tumor.
I don’t have one, she realized. He made me think I was dying so he could keep doing whatever it is he’s doing to me.
His arm was like iron around her waist. She gave him a sad smile in return and said, “Do you mind if I lie down? I’d like to rest up for the performance.”
“We’ll make it your debut,” he suggested. “I’ll invite some guys to the club and we’ll record it, all right?”
“That would be a dream come true.”
She couldn’t believe it. Maybe it had once been a dream, but no longer.
Then she thought, Maybe the shots are to make the tumor go away. Maybe I’ve misunderstood. He didn’t want to tell me because he didn’t want to scare me. Or give me false hope.
She looked up at him.
“Jusef?”
His smile was so incredible. It was like the sun. “Yes?”
She searched his face. A wariness crossed over his features. It wouldn’t be there if he didn’t have something to hide.
Her insides quavered.
I can’t say a word, she thought. If I say anything, he’ll know I’ve lost faith in him.
“What, Meg?”
“Do you think we’ll be famous?”
“I can pretty much guarantee it.”