City Of

by Nancy Holder

  The limo glided toward the sprawling mansion. The enormous building was like a castle, one of those places where people live in a room for years and no one realizes they’re there. It was beautiful, perfect, oozing wealth and wonderful networking possibilities. Talk about being connected. She could scarcely believe her good fortune. But she had to believe. Absolutely believe.

  The limo approached a huge iron gate. There was a guard in a little building who hit a button. The gates swung open.

  As the car glided through, Cordelia intoned, “‘People will be attracted to my positive energy and help me achieve my goals.’ Oh, yeah.”

  Happily she popped a nut into her mouth.

  Behind the limo, the large gates swung shut with a clang.

  ACT FOUR

  In Angel’s apartment Doyle looked on, obviously impressed, as Angel wrapped up an array of gear: timer, detonators, plastique explosive, a small set of tools, rope, and a few odds and ends.

  “Wow. You’re really going to war here.” Doyle looked thoughtful. “Guess you’ve seen a few in your time.”

  Angel surveyed his materiel. “Fourteen. Not counting Vietnam. They never declared it.”

  Doyle nodded. “Well, this is good. You’re taking charge and fighting back.” He looked curiously down at Angel’s collection of stuff. “Do you really need all this?”

  Angel did a quick mental run-through. Yes, he needed it all. If he could have carried anything else — a grenade launcher, if it would have helped — he would. Whatever it took, this was Russell Winters’s last night on earth.

  He felt another pang as he thought of Tina and said simply, “A Girl Scout told me: Be prepared.”

  “Well, best of luck.” Doyle looked very concerned and extremely sincere. “I got some fairly large coin riding on the Vikings tonight, but I’ll be with you in spirit.”

  Angel stopped him. “You’re driving.”

  Doyle registered a wee bit o’ shock. “What? But . . . no. No, no. I’m not combat-ready,” he insisted. “I’m just the messenger.”

  “And I’m the message,” Angel retorted.

  In Russell Winters’s mansion Cordelia told herself giddily that she should have brought a canteen and a compass. It was that big. That fabulous. That gorgeous.

  Wow.

  He has a house as big as a football field.

  Wow.

  He has a butler.

  He wants to meet me.

  Wow.

  She wanted to pinch herself, but she didn’t want to leave a mark. Not that he would care. Okay, he might care. But he wouldn’t care because he expected her to do anything with her arms. And he wouldn’t want to look at her arms. He didn’t care about anything about her, right? Except whatever it was that had attracted him to her. Her laugh? Her smile?

  She hadn’t even realized Margo knew him or would send him the tape of the party, and she didn’t know what he looked like, anyway. To be honest, when the butler had answered the door, she’d almost chimed in with “Hi, Mr. Winters.”

  The butler moved along silently, and Cordelia was sure he could hear her heart pounding. Finally, finally, things were going to start being positive. Life was good. The future was good. Because she mattered.

  Eventually she was ushered into what had to be Russell Winters’s home office. Spacious, elegant, and reeking of lots of money on interior design, it was bigger than her entire apartment. She had a brief moment where she imagined herself giving her thirty-day notice on her rat trap, and then there he was, rising to greet her.

  “Hi. I’m Russell,” he said in a friendly voice. “Thank you so much for coming.”

  He waved the butler away. The man silently left.

  Cordelia thought, Show time. She figured she should still try to impress him. You never really knew when you had clinched the sale.

  Not that she was selling anything. No way. Except her image. And her positive energies.

  “So,” she began, smiling brightly. “Nice place.” She gestured. “I love the curtains.” Wow, there are tons of them. “Not afraid to emphasize the curtains.”

  He shrugged somewhat modestly. “I have old-fashioned tastes.”

  “I grew up in a nice home,” Cordelia assured him. “It wasn’t like this, but we did have a room or two we didn’t even know what they were for.”

  He smiled.

  “Then the IRS got all huffy about my folks forgetting to pay taxes for, well, ever. They took it all.”

  “And Margo says you’re an actress,” he said. “That’s going well?”

  “Oh, yeah, it’s great.” Sound positive. Radiating positive energy is not lying. “I’ve had a lot of opportunities. The hands in the Liqui-Gel commercial were almost mine by like one or two girls, and, well . . . it’s not everything I . . .”

  She trailed off, her facade crumbling. She looked at him and felt forlorn, wondering what he would require of her.

  Wondering if she would have the courage not to do it, especially if it was something really icky.

  Some vampires live in basements, and some live in aeries, Angel thought as Doyle rolled the convertible to a stop beside the guardhouse in front of the Winters mansion. It reminded Angel of the stately country homes of long-ago Galway and the surrounding countryside. Most of them were museums now, or part of the Public Trusts scheme.

  Angel climbed out and approached the guard. The guy sat before more monitors than a Las Vegas casino security department. They showed the property from several angles — entrance, rear, east and west sides. Bushes, trees. Lots of trees. And ghosts.

  No, make that marble statues.

  “Hi. I think we’re lost,” Angel said to the unsmiling guard. “I’m looking for Cliff Drive — hey, what ya’ watching? Is that the Vikings?”

  Angel leaned over and looked at the monitor that showed his car and the front of the house. He reached out, grabbed the transmitting wire from the video camera on the gate, and ripped it out. The monitor went snowy.

  “Hey,” the guard said angrily. “What are you —”

  He was fishing for his gun as Angel knocked him out.

  Angel said to Doyle, “Tie him up. I’m out in ten minutes or I’m not coming out.”

  “Ten minutes,” Doyle repeated.

  Angel grabbed his gear and bolted.

  At the wall Angel leaped, grabbed the edge, and pulled himself upright. He ran along it into the night.

  Finally he reached the section closer to the house. He stopped and crouched low as an armed guard walked the property. The man didn’t appear to know anything unusual was going on. He was just making his rounds.

  He turned a corner, and Angel ran on along the wall. Then he leaped, landing on the roof of the mansion. He scrabbled over the roof and jumped again.

  He landed in the side yard. After checking for guards, he attached plastique and the detonator to an auxiliary generator. That’ll make a nice explosion.

  He headed along the corner of the house to the fuse box and started working on it next.

  He’s so understanding, Cordelia thought hopefully. Such a great listener.

  She sat with Russell Winters in his study, and he was all ears as she opened up to him far more than she had intended.

  “I’ve tried really hard, you know? Usually when I try at something I succeed right away. I just thought this would be . . . but I don’t have anybody. I don’t even have any friends out here.”

  “Now you know me,” he reminded her. “And you don’t have to worry anymore.”

  She looked down. He can’t just be nice, she told herself. Otherwise, this would be just like living in a movie, and I have left all that kind of stuff behind me right where in belongs, in Sunnydale.

  “What do you want me to do?” she asked.

  “Just tell me what you want.”

  She tried to collect herself, knew she was trying to stall the conversation. Everything she wanted, he could give her. A career . . . but she had talent, she knew she did. She needed help getting started.
Just a tiny break.

  A break wouldn’t cost too much, would it?

  She crumbled a little. “Oh, God. I’m sorry.” She wiped her eyes. “Here I am getting all weepy in front of you —” She looked around for a mirror. One mirror. One single mirror.

  “I probably look really scary. I finally get invited to a nice place with no mirrors and lots of curtains and hey, you’re a vampire.” She looked at him.

  He was caught off guard. “What? No, I’m not.”

  She raised her chin. “Are, too.”

  He moved away from her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m from Sunnydale,” she announced proudly. “We had our own hellmouth. I know a vampire when I . . .”

  Oh, my God, what am I doing?

  “. . . am alone with one in his fortress-like home and you know I’m just so light-headed from hunger I’m wacky and kidding!” She laughed. “Hah hah . . .”

  Off his look, she added weakly, “Hah.”

  Uh-oh.

  * * *

  Angel finished rigging the third auxiliary generator he’d attached to the wall.

  Good, he thought. This puppy will blow right on cue.

  Then he heard footsteps. It was another guard, walking around the corner.

  It was only with split-second timing that Angel was able to pull himself up out of the line of sight of the guard. As soon as the guard passed the generator and disappeared from view, Angel dropped quietly to the ground once more.

  He set the timer he had attached to the generator for ten seconds.

  Why give Winters a chance to get out safely? Better to send him to hell asap.

  Stay calm, Cordelia ordered herself. It was her new mantra. If she could have breathed, she would have done anything to create some more positive vibrational resonances. She needed all the help she could get.

  “You know one of my very dearest friends is a vam — do you prefer ‘night person’?”

  Russell said pleasantly, “Truth is, I’m happy you know. Means we can skip the formalities.”

  All hope of calmness fled. In the vacuum, pure terror rushed in.

  “Please,” Cordelia begged.

  He growled and morphed. She registered shock as she realized he was far more hideous-looking than any other vampire she’d ever seen, before she screamed and fled the study.

  She got to the main foyer, then ran up the stairs. Panting, she flew as fast as she could, but he was right behind her. Easily he grabbed her, and Cordelia just about lost it.

  Then there was the unmistakable sound of something exploding three times — or maybe three things exploding once each — BLAM, BLAM, BLAM!

  And all the lights went out.

  The room was dark, save for shafts of moonlight. The grotesque vampire looked around in bewilderment; Angel could see the arrogance, the creature’s assumption that he was invisible and would always be spared from the consequences of his actions.

  “Russell Winters.”

  Angel stepped out of the shadows.

  “Angel?” Cordelia cried hopefully.

  “What do you want?” The vampire sounded alarmed, if angry.

  Angel could barely restrain himself from attacking. I didn’t realize Cordelia would be here, he thought. But it makes sense. She was at the same party with Tina and me. Cor must have known her.

  He said, “I have a message from Tina.”

  The vampire blanched slightly at the name. So Angel had it figured right: This monster had been the one. It preyed on young girls, feeding their hopes, feeding its need for sadistic pleasure, then . . . simply feeding.

  He thought of Tina’s blood in his mouth. The thing that pretended to be Winters had drained it all away. But they had both fed off her. Under their masks, they were basically the same.

  The realization sickened Angel to his core.

  Winters recovered and said, “You’ve made a very big mistake, coming here.”

  “You don’t know who he is, do you?” Cordelia taunted Winters. “Oh, boy, are you about to get your ass kicked!” She was gleeful, if still frightened. Angel hoped he wouldn’t let her down.

  The two vampires charged each other, trading a couple of quick, vicious punches. Russell knocked Angel hard enough for Angel’s reflexes to go into action: His face changed, and he revealed himself to be, at the core, one of Winters’s brethren.

  “One of us?” Winters said, surprised. “Didn’t you get the owner’s manual? We don’t help them. We eat them.”

  As Spike would say, “Our raison d’être.”

  From his ratchet device beneath his sleeves, Angel produced a stake and launched himself at Winters. Winters held back, getting the better of Angel and holding back his stake.

  The doors burst open and two guards ran in, guns drawn.

  Winters shouted, “Kill her!”

  The two men pointed their guns at Cordelia. Angel threw Winters out of his way and catapulted in front of her as the guards fired.

  He took the bullets, registering for only the briefest of moments the pain as he tackled her and sent them both over the stairway railing. They hit the floor and bolted for the back door.

  Sure, and that’s a few bullets too many, Doyle thought to himself as he sat behind the wheel of Angel’s car.

  Yet there were more.

  “That’s it. I’m gone.”

  He threw the car into gear and burned rubber down the street. The smell of the tires exactly equaled the smell of his fear.

  He was scared, and not proud of it. And Angel was back there, risking undead life and limb to stop the evil Doyle had, essentially, led him to . . . .

  “Dammit.”

  He gave the wheel a sharp yank, catapulting the convertible into a big 180. The wheels squealed like pigs but everything held.

  He barreled toward the huge metal grates. “Yaaahhhhhhhh!” he shouted, imagining himself as Mel Gibson in Braveheart. Only that boyo had been Scots, and everybody knew the best demons around were Irish — look at him and Angel.

  No, don’t look at all —

  The car gained tremendous speed and rammed into the gates.

  Which held just fine, thank you very much, unlike the front bumper and hood of the car, which crumpled like a cheap toy. Maybe even one made in America.

  Doyle sat stunned for a moment. Then he said, “Good gate.”

  He backed the poor, smoking car off the gate. The dear creature was lurching but still running.

  And then dropping down in the space Doyle had made were an extremely beautiful girl and Angel, who appeared to be very badly wounded.

  They climbed into the car.

  Of Angel’s prized possession Doyle began to explain, “I had a little . . .”

  More gunshots!

  “We’ll talk later,” Doyle suggested.

  He hit the gas, and they lurched away.

  Angel’s shirt was off. Cordelia had explained to Doyle how to use the forceps to extract the bullets, but Angel supposed Doyle had never had first aid — or anatomy — and it hurt maybe worse than getting shot in the first place.

  Unfortunately, there were a lot of bullets. Ergo, a lot of pain.

  Cordelia said anxiously, “We can’t actually kill you unless we put a stake through your heart, right?”

  Clenching his teeth, Angel gritted, “Maybe you should get one.”

  “Got it.” Doyle dropped a bullet casing next to three others he had extracted.

  Cordelia was vastly relieved. “Finally. I thought I was going to faint while barfing.”

  Angel smiled grimly as they bandaged his chest. That was the Cor Angel remembered from Sunny-dale: always so worried about other people.

  “So it’s over, right?” Cordelia demanded. “We’re both going to be okay. You put the fear of God in that Russell guy. He’s not gonna come looking for me, right?”

  Angel traded looks with Doyle. Great minds think alike.

  Doyle looked just as worried as Angel was.

  It was
a tower of downtown power, and the fancy brushed-steel sign in front read RUSSELL WINTERS ENTERPRISES.

  Inside, in the main conference room, Lindsey sat at the foot of the table, closest to the door. Lawyers lined the sides of the long, polished table, stone-faced and professional, and Mr. Winters himself sat at the head, facing away from the bank of tinted glass windows.

  Lindsey’s briefcase, embossed with the Wolfram & Hart logo, sat opened beside him as he removed the first set of documents.

  “The Eltron mutual trust binder is ready for your signature,” he announced.

  He handed the docs to a smart young woman lawyer on his right. They went down the row of lawyers to Mr. Winters.

  “Also, we spoke to our office in Washington this morning,” he continued, realizing with pride that all eyes were on him. It was a reaction he hid, however. “The new tax law we lobbied will knock three percent off gross taxes and kick up profits accordingly. We were pretty pleased with that down at the firm.”

  That’s enough boasting, he cautioned himself. He passed down some more docs.

  “As to the intruder who broke into your home last night, the local authorities have no information on him, but we have several top private investigators —”

  The door crashed open and a tall, dark-haired man walked in.

  “— looking into his whereabouts,” Lindsey finished evenly.

  Mr. Winters said, “I believe we’ve located him.”

  Lindsey moved to the man, who looked a little ragged.

  He regarded the man — Angel, he believed his name was — and handed him his business card. “I’m with Wolfram and Hart,” he told the vampire. “Mr. Winters has never been accused of and shall never be convicted of any crime. Ever. Should you continue to harass our client, we shall be forced to bring you into the light of day. A place, I’m told, that’s not all that healthy for you.”

  Lindsey smiled.

  Angel glanced down at the card, now in his own hand, and then at Mr. Winters.

  Mr. Winters said, “This is the big city, Angel. It works in certain time-honored ways. You don’t belong here. If I were you, I’d get out while I could. Tell Cordelia I’ll see her real soon.”

  Mr. Winters smiled, holding Angel’s gaze. The stranger looked around, clearly a little defeated by the realization that Mr. Winters had the stronger position — legally and in every other sense of the word.