by Mel Odom
“You’ve had problems with Hollings?” Angel asked Whitney.
“Nothing we couldn’t handle tactfully,” Schend assured.
“‘Tactfully’ isn’t what I would call it,” Whitney replied disgustedly. “Hollings has stalked me a few times, hired a couple guys to steal some of my . . . personal things, and used his position as the show’s major sponsor to set up dinners and casual dates. Those few dates have been anything but casual. If I hadn’t learned martial arts for the show, I wouldn’t have been able to defend myself.”
“Now, there’s a suspect,” Cordelia said. “Have you checked into Davis Hollings?”
Schend continued shredding the paper napkin, obviously not comfortable with the topic. “Davis Hollings isn’t exactly the kind of guy you can do that with.”
“Translation,” Whitney said sarcastically, “the studio is afraid to push Hollings. And they’re afraid for me to push him.”
“We’ve tried to arrange it so Whitney is never left alone with him,” Schend said. “We’ve been somewhat successful.”
“It’s still like being around an octopus with attention deficit hyper activity disorder.” Whitney shrugged. “But I have to admit things have been better for the last couple months. He’s kept his distance a little better.”
“How long ago was the first attack?” Angel asked.
“About three months. After the first one, Hollings offered to put his own security staff around me. And to let me live with him in his private fortress.”
Doyle glanced at Angel. They sat at the table in his living quarters after Schend had left and while Cordelia was showing Whitney the bedroom. “What do you think? Hollings gets upset, hires a bunch of thugs to scare the living daylights out of Whitney, then sets himself up to be the hero?”
Angel considered it. “Maybe. Except that every-thing’s gotten extreme. Driving the wrecker through the diner wall was definitely over the top.”
“Like you’ve never seen someone go over the top before because of homicidal and hormonal urges,” Doyle pointed out.
“We’ll talk to him,” Angel agreed. “We’ll have Cordelia look into Davis Hollings’s background and see what she can find out.”
Angel turned his attention to the symbol he’d drawn. The word atonement written under the mysterious symbol might not have been put there for her, but for him. The cases that he usually got came from one of Doyle’s visions, as this one had, but this one had come with its own baggage, bringing those memories of the swordswoman all those years ago. Maybe the word had been put under the symbol this time to further draw his attention.
He didn’t know, but he had the definite impression he was going to find out.
CHAPTER NINE
Clifden, Ireland, 1758
Angelus stared at the young swordswoman at the other end of Danann’s Tavern as he rose from his seat at the table.
Over a dozen vampires remained within the tavern, all of them rising to their feet now. They hissed and growled as their faces changed to reveal their true dark natures.
Angelus let his features change as well, feeling more confident as two of O’Domhnallain’s men involuntarily took a half-step back. The young giant himself stood firmly behind Moira, who hadn’t flinched at all.
“Ye have but six men and a woman among ye,” Darius challenged, “and ye dare to come in here and make wartalk.”
“You count six men and a woman,” O’Domhnallain replied, “but I know our Lord guides our destinies as well. We don’t stand alone.”
Darius spat onto the floor in front of Moira. “Well, at least ye won’t die alone then.” He stepped forward, his broad cutlass fisted at his side.
Three crossbow quarrels exploded through the window to Darius’s left. Angelus heard the rattle of breaking glass even as he watched two of the quarrels sink deeply into the vampire captain’s chest.
Both the quarrels that struck Darius missed his heart. He roared with rage and yanked the wooden shafts from his body, snapping them and dropping them to the floor.
The third quarrel pierced the heart of a vampire standing just behind Darius. The vampire exploded into dust.
“Of course,” O’Domhnallain said in a mocking tone, “there are a few more men waiting outside.”
“Ye damned cheat!” Darius roared.
“I never claimed to be an honorable man,” O’Domhnallain replied. “Only a God-fearing one. Evil knows no honor except as a tool to use against those who recognize the sanctity of life.”
“Help me grab that table, laddie.” Darius grabbed the table in one hand, gesturing to Angelus to take the other. “We best get that damned window closed.” His men surged forward and held the warriors at bay.
More quarrels ripped into the room. One embedded in Darius’s back while another pierced Angelus’s left arm. Angelus ignored it and lifted the other side of the table.
Darius gave a loud battle cry as they raced across the small tavern and flipped the table so the top would meet the window. Before they had it in place, two quarrels thumped into the tabletop. Grease-stained rags tied around the shafts trailed flames, splashing them across the weathered wood where they burned greedily.
Angelus held the table in place while Darius took a long knife from his boot and slammed it home through the table into the wall above the window. When he finished, the table hung from the knife.
“Now let’s have at them,” Darius snarled. His eyes gleamed fiery red with madness and bloodlust.
Darla threw a chair at the swordswoman. Moira stood her ground and swung her sword, breaking the chair into pieces. One of the vampire sailors went down with a blade through his heart, but it allowed two more vampires to grab the swordsman and yank him to the ground. Their fangs savaged him, making short work of him. The man’s shrill cries of fear died as suddenly as the man himself.
Angelus ripped the bandages from his burned right hand that he might better grip the sword. His blackened flesh cracked and tore, spilling fresh blood.
Three more men charged in through the door to join O’Domhnallain’s forces.
There were few real swordsmen among Darius’s group. The captain himself was no mean exception, but the others seldom stood their ground for long. Then the three men at the back of the human group drew bottles from their riding cloaks, broke the necks from them, and started shaking the contents over the nearest vampires.
Vampire flesh smoked and sizzled when the liquid touched them.
“Holy water!” one of the stricken vampires screamed, falling back as huge blisters formed on his face and neck.
Darla stripped away the skirted part of her dress, leaving her in the blouse top and drawers, freeing her legs so she could move more easily. She flung the lower part of the dress over the nearest man, covering his head and shoulders. The man struck out blindly, boldly overextending himself.
Moving with almost impossible quickness and knowing hands, Darla seized the man’s arm and broke it with a crunch. She tore the sword from his hand, then raised it and cleaved the man from crown to chin while he remained under the dress. Even as the man stumbled and died, Darla pulled him to her to act as a momentary shield from his companions, then drank heavily from the wound.
The young swordswoman advanced on Angelus, her weapon pulled back and poised to strike. Glacial hatred shone in her eyes. She swung.
Angelus parried the blow and returned a thrust of his own that the woman narrowly avoided. They fought in silence for a moment, blades reduced to hissing steel as they found a common battleground among the others.
“I thought you were dead,” he said.
“You were wrong, hellbeast.”
Even though he knew he’d dislocated her right shoulder, her arm never seemed stronger or surer. He blocked a strike that would have taken both his eyes if it had landed, dodging back quickly and running into one of Darius’s crew.
The big vampire held a double-bitted ax that he swung at full strength, roaring the whole time. Moira slid easily
under the blade, touching down briefly with one hand splayed before her, then lunging up to shove the metal-sheathed wooden blade through the vampire’s heart.
Angelus regained his balance just as the vampire he’d bumped up against turned to dust. The swordswoman charged through the swirling remnants, her swordpoint darting at Angelus again.
Before Angelus could do more than turn, she ran a foot of steel through his stomach. It felt as if his guts had been set on fire. He lifted a foot and kicked her back, causing her to pull the sword from his body.
She rolled and got to her feet, a smile on her face. For a moment her gray-green eyes looked black. She lifted her sword again and came at him relentlessly.
“Who are you?” Angelus demanded as he was driven back.
“I am your final death and your doom,” she promised evenly. “I will be your final judgment, hellbeast.”
The blade flashed faster and faster, narrowing Angelus’s defense till he was no longer totally able to protect himself. The sharp point glided into his flesh again and again, as deftly as a clothier’s needle darting a seam. He burned every time she touched him.
“Fire the tavern!” O’Domhnallain reached for one of the whale-oil lanterns hanging on the wall and smashed it against the back wall of the building. Burning oil dug fiery talons into the wood, scorching it instantly. Gray smoke pooled along the ceiling.
Other members of O’Domhnallain’s group scattered more lanterns, starting new pools of fire. Then some of the warriors outside grew brave enough to smash the table from the window. Crossbows filled the empty space, throwing quarrels with deadly accuracy across the burning tavern into the vampires.
The swordswoman kept up her attack, but never saw Darla come up behind her. Darla had a flintlock pistol in one hand, obviously taken from one of the vampire pirates. She used both hands to aim and cock the weapon, holding it nearly steady.
Warned by the noise of the hammer locking back, the swordswoman turned. Darla fired at pointblank range into the swordswoman’s face. The powder in the flash pan burned in a sudden gray smoke wisp that curled toward the ceiling. The harsh crack of the pistol shot split the air even as fiery cinders spat from the barrel and burned into Moira’s blouse.
The swordswoman fell backward and down, driven by the heavy pistol ball.
“This way!” Darla threw the pistol to the floor and grabbed Angelus by the hand.
Darius gazed at them from smoke-rimmed eyes. A crossbow quarrel protruded from one shoulder. “C’mon!”
Angelus bent down and removed a powder horn from the floor, left there by one of his men who had died or from a human who had left the tavern in a hurry. He grabbed the leather straps of two other powder horns in his other hand.
Darius sprinted for the tavern’s fireplace. He stopped short, kicked a stained carpet from in front of the fireplace, and dug his fingers down into the wooden floor. When he lifted, a hatch opened. He dropped through, followed by another of his men who carried a lantern.
O’Domhnallain and his surviving men surged forward, spotting the escape route.
Angelus grabbed a table splattered with flaming oil and threw it into the warriors. They stumbled back, wreathed for a moment in the flames as their companions tried to help them extinguish the blaze. He dropped into the hole.
Angelus landed heavily on top of Darla. Getting to his feet, feeling the hard-packed ground beneath his boots, he pulled Darla after him. The scent of fresh-turned earth reminded him of the grave, and the air was thick, cloying.
The passageway was scarcely five feet wide and five feet high. The sides, top, and floor were uneven, carved by pick and shovel dozens of years in the past. Limestone pebbles and rocks gleamed in the weak light thrown out by the lantern.
Angelus ran as surefootedly as a cat. The lantern light ahead bobbed from side to side, throwing the passageway into momentary and uncertain relief. Angelus kept one hand running along the passage-way’s side.
Muffled thumps sounded behind.
Turning to take a quick look although he was certain he already knew what it was, Angelus saw one of O’Domhnallain’s men standing in the tunnel under the escape hatch. The bull’s-eye lantern the man held in one hand exploded light in Angelus’s eyes.
“There they go!” someone cried out.
Angelus turned and redoubled his efforts to catch up with the others.
The tunnel direction curved and steadily went downward. The salt scent of the sea became stronger. Occasionally Angelus splashed through puddles that had seeped into depressions in the floor.
A few moments and perhaps two hundred yards farther down, the passageway opened into a large cave. The lantern light glimmered off the watery fingers the sea had thrust into the cave. Stalactites hung from the cavern overhead. Bats fluttered uncertainly, alerted by the swinging lantern.
“Go!” Angelus ordered. He’d already unscrewed the tops of the powder horns. Leaving two of the horns in a pile oozing gray-black gunpowder, he emptied most of the third powder horn over them, then poured a trail that led into the cave five feet.
Footsteps from the arriving warriors pounded down the hollow throat of the passageway.
Angelus took the lantern from his man, then smashed it across the end of the powder trail. The spilled flames licked at the powder trail hungrily, spitting sparks and fire, curling gray smoke above it. The powder burned slowly, but it moved deliberately back toward the waiting horns.
“Run!” Angelus shouted. Trailing the others, he ran, heading through the cold water ahead. The water plunged downward, the green waves tinted by the flickering light of the burning powder and the flaming oil. Soft sand lined the cave floor from years of erosion. Luckily, the water only got waist deep before Angelus was able to head up to land to the left near the mouth of the cave.
The hollow boom! of the exploding powder filled the cave with noise and flushed a gust of heated air out over Angelus. He turned, looking back in time to see a man get blasted from the passageway through the sudden cloud of powder smoke like a ball from a cannon’s mouth.
The warrior had cinder patches sticking to him in places before he landed in the water and disappeared. He didn’t come up again.
“Keep moving, damn ye!” Darius roared. “Them what that blast didn’t kill won’t be getting around any too soon, but the more distance we have betwixt us and them, the happier I’ll be.”
Angelus ran up the steep hillside, ears aching from the thunder that had slammed into them. Still, he laughed, exulting in the carnage he’d created. White foam curlers came in from the sea to splash across the narrow, pebbled shoreline below.
“Stay with the coastline, lad,” Darius instructed. “That cave and passageway was an old smuggler’s route that’s still used now and again, but we’re going to be better off being shut of this place. Mayhap they won’t be after following us immediately, but I’ve got me a feeling they’ll come.”
Ignoring the pain that flared through his burns, Angelus ran. Whoever O’Domhnallain and his warriors were, Angelus had no doubts they would not give up too soon. They were too driven.
But the woman continued to haunt his thoughts as he ran across the hillside. He couldn’t help wondering if Darla’s pistol shot had killed the woman or if she’d been burned in the fire. He felt certain there was no way she could have escaped death yet again.
CHAPTER TEN
Angel woke in darkness, his thoughts still filled with Ireland nearly two hundred fifty years ago. In his mind he kept seeing the red-haired swordswoman falling back from Darla’s pistol shot time after time. Moira’s face remained cold and emotionless the whole time that she fell.
An uncontrolled shiver raced through Angel, and for a panicked moment he couldn’t remember where he was. He peered through the darkness above him, sorting through all the memories.
When the past became too vivid, as it sometimes did because so much of his life had been filled with danger and violence, occasionally it was hard to remember where he was
when he first woke. The office and home in L.A. were still too new to feel entirely comfortable or familiar.
Knowing sleep wasn’t going to return easily, he sat up on the couch in his living quarters. The rooms were quiet around him despite the fact that he knew it was well into morning outside.
“Are you all right?” Whitney stood in the open doorway to the bedroom. She wore one of Angel’s shirts, which hung to mid-thigh on her. She’d bunched the sleeves up around her forearms.
“I’m fine.” Angel sat on the couch wearing sweatpants. He checked the time on the clock on the wall and found it was only a little before nine A.M. These were not his normal sleeping hours, but he’d wanted to rest before the next day. Once he’d gotten her off to bed, he’d tried reading and had fallen asleep before he’d realized it.
“Bad dream?” Whitney asked.
“Yeah.” Angel hesitated. Bad dream, bad memory. “Did I wake you?”
“Not really. I was already awake.”
“Sorry.”
“No problem. I just thought maybe I’d wake you if you didn’t come out of it on your own.”
That possibility presented some real problems. “Waking me isn’t a good idea,” Angel told her. “I don’t usually sleep that deeply, and when I do it’s better to leave me alone.”
“You didn’t seem to have any problems tonight.”
“I guess not.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m glad one of us is going to be rested.”
“Can I get you something to drink?” Angel felt almost invaded with someone in his personal quarters. Doyle and Cordelia came down from time to time, but other than that he usually had the rooms to himself. In this business, that’ll probably change. He got up and walked to the small refrigerator in the kitchen area.
“What have you got?” Whitney sat at the small dining room table in the center of the room.
Angel pushed the blood bags he drank from to the back of the refrigerator, covering them with a bag of salad. “Can I warm you up a glass of milk?” he asked. “Sometimes that helps a person sleep.”
