by Various
“Ambitious demons,” Angel replied. “That’s why they came to us, plus resemblance. One of their front men saw you at Caritas and Lorne told them about us.”
The man dipped his head. “There is enmity between the families. Something to do with an ancient oil lamp, I believe, and who has legal claim to it. The lamp comes with the throne, you see.” His face became a study in pissed off. “These jinn have traveled all the way from the Emerald Mountains of Kaf to kill the prince.”
“At a party given by the French ambassador,” Gunn said slowly, still trying to get the picture.
The lackey shrugged. “Well, you know the French.” He frowned at Gunn. “You do speak French?”
Gunn hesitated, because of course he didn’t speak French. He spoke some Spanish and bits of various Asian languages, most of which was unprintable, but French was not a language he had picked up fighting vampires and demons in Los Angeles.
The vampire said nothing, but Gunn knew his home-boy’s eyebrow language, and Angel was bummed. No French, no gig.
We must be gonna get a whole lot of dead presidents for this job, Gunn figured. And baby, do we need ’em.
As usual, Angel Investigations was stone broke, and he had a whole lot of friends who had “conveniently” decided to start celebrating Kwanzaa on top of Christmas. In other words, a long list of people dunning him for gifts. And he hadn’t even figured out what he was going to get Angel; he was stuck between a gag gift—a T-shirt from the Cedars-Sinai Hospital blood bank—and the easy way out—something black to wear.
“He speaks French,” Cordelia chimed in, “if I get to keep my dress. And Fred gets hers, too. Because of the French.” She looked at Angel.
Gunn got it: Cordelia spoke French. So she would have to go.
But Fred stays here.
“Ah.” The man lifted a brow in appreciation and glanced at Angel. “A haggler. You would do well in Bodisahtva, chère mademoiselle.” He crossed to Cordelia and raised her hand to his lips. “I apologize, Miss Chase. I did not realize it was to you I should look for the terms to Mr. Gunn’s employment.”
Gunn couldn’t tell if the man was being sarcastic or what.
“He can speak French,” Cordelia said through gritted teeth. “He took it in high school, remember? And he has been to Paris several times.”
He looked over at Angel, who shrugged as if to say, “Your call.”
There was a huge amount of commotion in the lobby. Gunn turned to watch as the prince swept from the circular couch toward the office. His show runner—the guy in the office with Gunn—swallowed hard and gave Gunn a look.
“If you speak French,” he blurted, “I will double the price we have already agreed upon with Mr. Angel.”
Man, he’s shaking, Gunn thought, glancing at the dude’s hands. He’s scared to death of what’s going to go down if he has to tell the prince that I haven’t signed up for this gig.
“I speak French,” he said.
“Thank you, thank you,” the man said in a rush. Then he collapsed onto the floor, forehead down, butt up, as the prince hovered on the threshold.
“Well?” Royal Guy said imperiously. He lifted his nose just like an honest to goodness snob and examined Gunn from head to toe. “Yes. The likeness is remarkable. Do you not think so, Mr. Mbong?”
“Indeed, Your Royal Highness,” said the guy on the floor—Mr. Mbong. His voice was muffled on account of forehead crushed into linoleum. “And he is a demon hunter.”
“Who speaks French,” Cordelia sang out.
The prince stared open-mouthed at her. Gunn thought, Uh-oh. A mere female has spoken in the presence of the His Royal High-on-himself-ness.
“Um, that is, he speaks French, Your Majesty,” Cordelia added contritely. Then she flashed that trademark knock-’em-dead Cordy smile and asked silkily, “You want me to kneel?”
The prince was entranced. For a second all he did was stare at Cordelia, and then he walked across the room and took her teacup from her, handing it to Angel without looking at it, and lifted her to a standing position as if she were the most fragile, daintiest flower in all of Bodisahtva.
“How delightful of you to so inform us,” he said to her. “And no, fair American lady, you do not need to kneel…at the moment.” His tone was as smooth as the dulcet tones of Ricky Martin. He put Gunn in the mind of his first-grade teacher, Mrs. Delgado, who used to call Gunn her “big, big, big helper.” Then give him some bogus job like dumping her wastebasket.
The prince turned to his lackey, who was still cowering on the floor and said, “Mr. Mbong, you have done well.” He snapped his fingers at Gunn. “You shall be prepared for the Christmas party.”
Prepared? What am I, a turkey?
Gunn slid a glance toward Angel, who looked blankly back, then to the prince, then to Mr. Mbong. No help there. That guy was not moving a muscle until his Royal Self told him to.
“You will wear my clothes, of course.”
“And a wig, I was thinking, Your Royal Highness,” Mr. Mbong ventured.
“I think not. He’ll wear a turban instead.” The prince smiled as he looked at Gunn appraisingly, obviously liking what he saw. Which is non-royal me.“Now I shall fulfill my royal duty with no possibility of harm to my royal person. It is Providence that brought you to me.” He touched his chest, then his lips, then his forehead, and sent the thought toward heaven.
“That, and one of our business cards,” Cordelia murmured. “Courtesy of Lorne.”
Apparently the prince didn’t hear her. With a curt nod to Mr. Mbong, he swept back out of the room, and after a suitable amount of time in which one could have, oh, cleaned the hotel from top to bottom, Mr. Mbong raised his head, heaved a sigh of relief, and got up off the floor.
As if to apologize for his leader-to-be, he said, “The Lion of Bodisahtva is very young. In fact, he is only twenty-two.” Then he turned and faced them all, sweeping a courtly bow. “I will see to Mr. Gunn’s wardrobe. If I may see you in approximately five minutes, Mr. Gunn?”
Gunn nodded, said, “Sure,” and the man practically ran out of the office.
Gunn gave Cordelia a look. “I swear, girl, someday that mouth of yours is gonna get you beheaded or something.”
“Hey, I was a princess,” she reminded him. “Royal people understand each other.”
“Ohhh.” Fred paled and touched her neck. She cast an unwitting glance at Angel, who was still holding Cordelia’s teacup.
Bad memories, Gunn figured. After all, Angel nearly did cut Fred’s head off, back on Pylea.
He said, “Tell me, Angel, is this gig really worth it? Cuz maybe Cordelia was royalty, but I sure ain’t. I mean, I got game and I can fake my way through anything. But this sounds damn lame.”
“It sounds fun!” Cordelia protested. She jostled Fred in the ribs, and tea went flying over Fred’s jeans. “Right?”
“Lots of fun,” Fred agreed. “Fancy clothes, demons, a nice Christmas party. I haven’t been to a Christmas party in over five years!” She frowned. “Christmas, not big in Pylea. No Christmas caroling, that’s for sure.”
“It’s okay, Fred,” Gunn said gently. “That stuff’s all over. And you’re not going.”
Angel nodded. “Gotta agree there, Fred. There’s no need. I’m sending you in a cab over to Caritas.”
She looked dashed…and then rather relieved.
Gunn glanced back through the doorway. “Okay, then, I’m seeing the high side. A great suit, good food, and money to give us all nice, fat Christmas bonuses.” He grinned at Angel.
At that point Wesley walked up and beckoned to Gunn. “They’re ready to dress you,” he said.
“Why ain’t you going, English?” Gunn asked.
“I will be driving the limo,” Wesley told him. “And Angel’s assignment is to guard the prince back here, in the hotel.”
“But I’m the prince,” Gunn pointed out. Angel should be hangin’ with me.”
“The prince doesn’t see it that way,
” Wesley said. “He has insisted that Angel remain with him.”
Then Mr. Mbong came back, saying, “Please, sir,” to Gunn, who smiled crookedly.
Okay, some weirdness, but I’m going to be wearing the finest suit in Los Angeles, he thought, to a very up-town party. This night is shakin’ out to be pretty good after all.
Angel had to turn his head when Gunn reappeared, attired in the prince’s “evening ensemble.”
He was wearing a purple velvet dashiki that was encrusted with gold and silver embroidery and what looked to be chunks of kryptonite, but was some other glowing green gemstone since vampires and demons were real, but Superman was not. Weird world. His shoes were golden sandals curled at the tips like Christmas-elf shoes. Around each ankle he wore gold bangles hung with tiny jeweled bells, and he had more gold around his neck and his wrists than that amazing holdover from the innocent youth of the Me Generation, Mr. T.
But the crowning blow was the two-or-three-foot-tall golden headdress that extended straight up like a huge spray-painted hot dog bun, coated with huge gems and topped with a feather. Gunn looked like a bizarre cross between Eryka Badhu, Marge Simpson, and some guy in a Dr. Seuss book.
Moving slowly beneath his towering disco inferno of golden threads, Gunn managed to get through the door. His presentation to the prince for inspection took place in the suite next to Fred’s room, and not a single member of Angel Investigations wanted to miss it. At his grand entrance, Cordelia, bundled in an oversize burnoose, had to struggle not to burst into giggles, and even Wesley’s stiff upper lip quivered when the prince turned to Mr. Mbong and said, “An excellent job. There is no telling him apart from me now.”
“Indeed, Highness. Do you not agree, Prince Govinda?” Mr. Mbong gaily teased Gunn.
Gunn thought about a few answers, and replied, “Oh, I’m not half the looker His Highness is.”
“You are just a me wanna-be, are you not?” the prince asked. He looked around the room for everyone to be impressed by his wit.
“Oh, yeah,” Gunn said dryly.
“Rest assured, you will appear to the public to be every inch the charismatic monarch that I am,” the prince assured him, “or rather, that I soon will be, once my esteemed and most beloved father dies.” He stared hard at Gunn and the others. “That is, if you do your jobs properly. It would be a huge loss to the nation if ‘I’ were assassinated.”
Lotta syllables in that word “assassinated,” but the first syllable applies, Gunn thought.
Then the prince said to Cordelia, “Unveil yourself, please.”
Cordelia unzipped her burnoose and let it tumble to the floor. She was dressed in a golden body-hugging strapless gown. A slit raced from the floor to the center of her right thigh. The slit and hem were dotted with what at first looked like embroidered threads, but on closer inspection were chips of precious stones…hundreds of them. Her strappy evening shoes were also decorated with dozens and dozens of gems.
“Whoa,” Gunn said.
She grinned at Angel, struck a pose, and said, “Well?”
“Very pretty.” He looked uncomfortable, and she was hurt.
“Oh, Cordelia, you’re beautiful!” Fred enthused. “Oh, I wish…” She sighed. “Caritas.”
The prince smiled gently at Fred. “Your ensemble was to have been in silver. I make a gift of it to you.”
“Oh gee, thanks!” Fred burbled. She smiled at Cordelia, who smiled back at her.
Then one of the prince’s men said to Wesley, “If you please, I’ll take you back to the limo. You may complete your inspection and then you will drive Mr. Gunn and his beauty to the party.”
“As you wish,” Wesley said, doing the salaam thing, touching his chest. He left the room.
“His beauty,” Cordelia said under her breath.
“Yes,” the prince said. “It is a tradition in my country for the prince to collect as many beauties as possible.”
“Like trading cards,” Cordelia grumbled.
“Exactly.” He smiled at her happily. “You are my first American beauty.”
After about fifteen minutes, Wesley returned. He was dressed in a black tuxedo and he wore a burgundy-colored fez. His hair was disheveled. The man who accompanied him was not the man he left with. This one was taller, and there was a stripe of green goo on the man’s very nice suit.
When the real prince saw the man, he looked disgusted. He smacked him across the cheek and shouted, “How dare you come into my presence with blood on yourself!”
“Demon blood,” Cordelia translated for Fred, who covered her mouth with her hand.
“There was an altercation in the limo,” Wesley said, sounding angry. “We caught one of the Kaf mountain jinn attempted to rig the limo to blow up. Your other man—I believe his name was Wali—caught the jinn in the act and was killed trying to stop him.”
“He’s dead?” Fred asked nervously.
“His soul shall be received into Paradise, may the One be praised,” the prince said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Now, off with you. ‘I’ don’t want to be late!” He grinned at Gunn. “Don’t drink too much champagne.”
Gunn looked discomfited. His beauty was also not happy.
Cordelia muttered, “Christmas bonus,” and the two swept out of the room.
The limo ride was uneventful, chalking one up for Wesley and the two dozen wards he had installed in the limo. He had also swept the limo for bugs of the spy kind, and found six of them.
But now they were out of the stretch, and Wesley had driven it away to park with the other drivers. Mr. Mbong, Gunn, and Cordy were surrounded by bodyguards, some of whom had ridden in the limo and others who had taken a separate vehicle. Cordy was on Gunn’s left arm as they were greeted by a man in an Armani tux wearing a pair of very stylish Ralph Lauren glasses.
“Good evening, Your Royal Highness,” said the man in the tux. Then he launched into a barrage of French.
“He’s the Ambassador. Say, ‘oui,’” she whispered.
“Oui,” Gunn blurted, and the French ambassador chuckled.
Then the man bowed, allowing Gunn’s squadron of muscle to walk between them, encapsulating Gunn and Cordy in a protective bubble, and the group swept into a grand, three-story house with more wrought-iron balconies and arched windows than Cordelia had ever seen. It was beautiful.
One of the men touched an earpiece and said something in the prince’s native tongue.
Mr. Mbong whispered, “It is safe to go in.”
Then why are we here? Cordy thought silently.
Angel had seen Fred safely off in the cab. Now it was time to get to work.
Given the number of visitors Angel Investigations had at the hotel these days, Wesley had decided to furnish a number of extra suites for situations such as the one Angel now found himself in. He was seated beside the real prince, who had pushed the leather recliner in which he sat back so that he was almost prone. He was drinking scotch, neat.
The spoiled, arrogant young man had demanded to be entertained. Angel had suggested chess, which had been rejected, and then bridge, also rejected, and then the prince had asked him what DVDs he had. It turned out he was a Bruce Willis fan, and Die Hard it was.
As the two settled in with microwave popcorn, a series of loud explosions rocked the hotel.
“I am being attacked!” the prince shouted, jerking so hard that the recliner fell backward and he tumbled out of it. “I order you to save me!”
Angel shouted, “Stay down!” He ran to the windows and checked them. He grabbed the prince, who shouted back, “Unhand me, infidel!” Then he must have thought the better of it, for he added, “Take me somewhere safe, immediately!”
Angel herded him into his own suite, yelled, “Stay here!” and dashed into the hallway.
By the time he reached the stairs, the lobby was filled with smoke and dead Bodisahtvan security guards. Green-skinned demons with pointy ears and green topknots rode chopped Harleys and wheelied over the carnag
e, hooting and shouting. They were wielding axes and knives, and one of them threw his ax into the chandelier, sending crystal beads flying in all directions like an exploding sun.
Now they were slathering and thundering all over the lobby, until one of them held up a Louis Vuitton traveling bag and ripped it open with his teeth. He dug inside and triumphantly held up a Middle Eastern brass oil lamp that had been polished to a high gloss and was studded with jewels.
“The lamp!” Prince Govinda gasped behind Angel. “Those are Kaf mountain demons!”
Angel glared at him. “I told you to stay! What lamp?”
One of the demons shouted something and they gunned their engines, then roared back into the night through the front door and the windows they had smashed to enter. Their choppers screamed like banshees as they rode away.
“It is the Lamp of the Genie,” the prince said to Angel as they watched the retreating demons. He left the sentence unfinished. “We must get it back!”
“Why’d you leave it downstairs in a duffel bag?” Angel demanded.
“No one was to know I had it. My father…it is the source of our power,” he confessed. “It is what keeps us on the throne.”
“You took it,” Angel said flatly. “Without telling him.”
The prince raised himself up to his full height. “How dare you question my actions! I am the Crown Prince of Bodisahtva! You are nothing but a low-class American bodyguard.” He raised a shaking hand. “Now go and retrieve my possession or…”
Angel waited.
He added, “If they release the genie, Los Angeles will become a wasteland. That is why the owner is so feared, and wields so much power. We could turn the region into a desert with one rub of that lamp.”
Okay, incentive, Angel thought.
“Fine,” he said, and grabbed Prince Govinda around the arm. “Let’s go.”
“What?”
“I have to get it back. I can’t leave you here alone. And all your men are dead.”
Prince Govinda raised himself to his full height. Which, since he was as tall as Gunn, was considerable. “I have more men! They are at that party! Summon them at once!”
