Close to the Ground

by Jeff Mariotte

  “The entire Karinna situation was meant to lure you in,” Mordractus explained. He had reached the end of another line and was continuing it back toward the others. He was painting a five-pointed star. Each line passed the central circle without intersecting it, or each other, but they contained the circle within the star’s center. “To make you focus all your attention on her, without thought of your own safety. There was an attack on you, weeks ago.”

  Angel remembered. The four guys who had come out of nowhere and been easily beaten back. “Right.”

  “They made a pathetic attempt. I’m embarrassed even to admit that they worked for me. And after that I was afraid that you would be on your guard. I needed you distracted, putting someone else’s problems above your own. I needed you to be thinking about someone. I chose Karinna Willits because I believed that she would put you in mind of someone else, someone you tried to save but couldn’t. I hoped that you would be extra involved in trying to keep this one safe. It seems to have worked.”

  The girl in Rumania. How could he know about that? Angel had forgotten it himself, until seeing Karinna had reminded him of her. He asked Mordractus.

  “Careful research,” the magician explained. “Once I knew who you were, it was not terribly difficult to retrace some of your past movements, find those who knew you when. In the old days you were quite well known, and you are well remembered to this day. I tracked down some of your friends, and some who are not so much your friends. Tirbol sends his regards, by the way.”

  “He’s alive?”

  “And doing quite well, apparently. All this . . . unrest in Eastern Europe. Victims have been quite easy to come by, and no one asks questions when one more corpse turns up. He seems to be thriving.”

  “Remind me to make a trip out there.”

  “I would, Angelus, but instead I remind you that you won’t live to see another sunrise.”

  “What time is it now?” Angel asked.

  “No harm in telling you,” Mordractus said. He rose from his painting. It seemed to be done — a pentagram, drawn around a circle on the floor. Angel recognized preparations for a black magic summoning. “You slept through the night. It’s probably about ten in the morning now, though I can’t be sure. I can’t wear a watch in here — nothing machine made, while I’m preparing the circles.” He waved a hand at his own clothes. “This is all sewn by hand, by three virgin sisters.”

  “They roll cigars for you, too?”

  “I’m afraid that a sense of humor isn’t one of my strong suits, Angelus. You may very well be funny. I wouldn’t know.”

  “I thought you watched TV. Don’t you get sitcoms over there? Seinfeld? Friends?”

  “I’m sure I do, but I don’t watch them. At any rate, as I was saying, it’s morning. The ceremony will take place tonight. By tomorrow you’ll be an empty vessel and I will be immortal. I would thank you for the gift, but you are not giving it willingly, are you?”

  “You got that right.”

  “No matter. I have always taken what I need—I pride myself on it, in fact.”

  “I just bet you do.”

  Mordractus began to paint another circle, a bigger one, all around the outside of the pentagram. The diameter of this one was probably twelve feet. “I have a bit more painting to do,” he said. He touched his lower back. “Hard, at my age, all this bending over. Then I need some time to prepare myself, purify myself, for the ritual ahead. You will spend the day here, and when I am ready for you, I’ll have you brought to your position in the circle.”

  “Don’t feel like you have to explain yourself to me,” Angel said.

  “But I do. I want you to know that your sacrifice is not in vain. You are helping me to accomplish a great task. When I am through with you, when my youth and vigor are restored, I will be able, come the equinox, to finish what I have started these long months ago. I will be able, finally, to summon Balor from the Otherworld.”

  “Balor?” Angel asked. This name he knew. Ancient King of the Fomorians and god of Death. If this guy could really summon Balor to modern-day Earth, it would be a catastrophe like nothing the planet had ever faced.

  “You know of him?”

  “Heard the name. I know who he is supposed to be, in the legends.”

  “More than just legends,” Mordractus said. “Like all legends, this one has a basis in truth. Balor is there, and he will be here. When he is here, he will belong to me. He will be mine to command.”

  “I hope you’re sure about that. If the stories are anywhere near true —”

  “They are true,” Mordractus said. As soon as his first was done, he began a new circle, inside the first, the lines about eighteen inches apart. He worked calmly and with intense focus, looking up now and again at Angel as he carried on his conversation. He reminded Angel of a construction worker, matter-of-factly building one more house in a long series of them. “I assure you. His evil eye, that causes mass destruction. His huge size. His ill temper. Balor will stand at my side and ensure my power for all time.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got this all worked out,” Angel said.

  “Believe me, I have given it a great deal of thought.”

  “Then you won’t mind my expressing my opinion about it?”

  “Your opinion would be entirely meaningless, Angelus. I have considered every eventuality. Nonetheless, I have to say that I am curious, so go ahead.” He finished this inner circle and then began to paint names in certain sections of the pentagram. The words were in English and Hebrew letters, and interspersed among them, in a pattern that looked random but certainly wasn’t, were symbols of the Zodiac and other signs that Angel didn’t know.

  “I think you’re nuttier than a fruitcake,” Angel said. “A few bricks shy of a load. A few fries short of a Happy Meal. Out there where the buses don’t run. If you were twice as smart, you’d be a half-wit.”

  “Pointless verbal insults, Angelus? I’m surprised at you.”

  “I’d express my feelings physically, but you’ve got me chained to the wall.” Angel rattled the manacles. “Remember? Enchanted manacles, I’m sure.”

  “Indeed,” Mordractus said. His final touches with the paint were to draw two small, partial circles, near the farthest point of the star. These he left unfinished, though. “And there you’ll stay, until tonight. So remain comfortable. You aren’t getting out of there until I am ready for you to come out.”

  He tossed a final look Angel’s way, then carried the pail and brush back to the cabinet and put them away. Without another word, he slipped through the doorway and padded upstairs.

  In the silence Angel tested the manacles again. No good. He couldn’t budge them.

  He was here to stay.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Doyle looked at his watch. Then he looked at the clock on Angel’s computer. Or was it Cordy’s? Seemed like she was the one who’d gone down to Staples and come back with a trunkload of office supplies when she’d gotten it in her head that Angel should have a real business. And it sat at “her” desk in the outer office.

  Whoever the machine belonged to, the point was that both timepieces agreed that it was 11:30 in the morning and Angel hadn’t come home all night. And Doyle was worried.

  I mean, he told himself, there’s always the possibility that he met someone and had a pleasant night with same, and is having some trouble dragging himself away.

  But this is Angel, he reminded himself. So no, that’s certainly not what happened. The vampire was more of a brooder than a mover, Doyle knew. Women seemed to find him attractive, but it all seemed to slide right past him.

  So where can he be? Outside the sun was high and bright. Angel wouldn’t exactly be wandering the streets — he’d be a crispy critter out there now, so Doyle hoped he was at least holed up someplace dark.

  All kinds of horrible images presented themselves to Doyle when he thought about it. Angel bursting into flames, exposed when the sun rose over Southern California. Angel staked and
dusted, the way he and Cordy always feared he’d end up — the way they knew they might have to finish him themselves, if he ever lost his soul and turned evil again.

  Maybe that’s what had happened — he’d gone bad, and either couldn’t remember his way home or was afraid to come back, afraid that his best friends would have to kill him.

  Or afraid that he’d kill them.

  Either way, it was bad news.

  Doyle reached for the phone, dialed information, and asked for the number of Monument Studios. When he got the main switchboard, he asked for the studio tours department. After a minute’s wait, listening to some annoying soft pop on the hold music, a woman’s voice came on the line.

  “Monument Tours,” she said. “Can I help you?”

  “Yeah,” Doyle replied. “I need to talk to Cordelia Chase.”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Chase is working right now. Is this a personal call?”

  “Personal?” Doyle asked. “Course not. It’s a . . . an emergency. A work-related emergency. Highly work-related.”

  “So you’re on the lot, then? Give me your extension and I’ll page her.”

  “Never mind,” Doyle said. “I’ll find her myself.” He hung up.

  No help there.

  But he had to do something. This sitting around, waiting, not knowing . . . he couldn’t take much more of it. Francis Doyle — the first name was a state secret, more closely kept than the recipe for a nuclear weapon or Coca-Cola, although Angel and Cordy had found out at the same time they learned that he had been married once, to a human woman — owed a lot to Angel. He’d been — was “assigned” the right word? — to Angel by the Powers That Be, to help lead the vampire from his lonely life in the shadows to a point where he was actually getting to know humans again, mixing with them instead of just saving them and keeping score. But over the time they’d been together, Angel had done a lot for him as well. Showed him reserves of courage he didn’t know he’d had. Taught him that he had worth in the world. Introduced him to Cordelia, who was just about everything a man — well, half of one, anyway, say a man/demon — could want in a woman. Except for the part where she hated demons.

  He owed Angel some mighty debts, though, that was for sure. And he wasn’t paying anything back sitting in a chair.

  Cordelia piloted the tram down a narrow roadway between two soaring soundstages. The thing had two cars, and she had to make sure that both of them made every turn. She had found out on her first day behind the wheel that if you made a sharp left, the rear car could snag on the corner and an obnoxious percentage of the “guests” wanted their ticket money back. Then there were the ones who complained of motion sickness after riding with her, just because she kept turning the wheel in whatever direction she was telling them to look, and then correcting it when she noticed an oncoming wall or vehicle. It was enough to give a girl some kind of complex.

  While doing this, she had to keep up a running patter, explaining to the guests what they were looking at, how it was significant to Monument Pictures history, and she had to work in plugs for current Monument releases while she was at it. Which was hard to do, since Monument’s current crop was all duds and losers, as far as she was concerned.

  “On your right,” she said, for the seventh time this week, “you’ll see Stage Seventeen. This classic stage has been the setting for many great movies. Remember Hill Seventeen, the classic war movie? The hill was really a mound of dirt piled up in a corner of Stage Seventeen. Imagine sweeping up that mess when they were finished.”

  The laughter from the guests was just as canned as the line had been. It was a totally scripted “offthe-cuff ” one-liner, as were most of the groaners she had to deliver.

  But you’re on the lot, she reminded herself. She had to remind herself of that several times a day to keep from running over herself with the tram.

  The idea of quitting came to mind nearly as often as self-squishing did. But, while Cordelia had been called many things in her time, “quitter” was never one of them. Not when she was fighting alongside the Scooby Gang against all kinds of icky dead things, or even when she was leading the pep squad in cheering for a team to whom victory was a totally alien concept. No way was she going to quit now.

  “Also, the town square in the movie Fridays with Dad was totally created on this big stage, which is not only the largest on our lot, but the fourth largest in all of Hollywood. This was because the town square on our back lot, which we saw a little while ago, was in use as the town square in the gangster film Election Day, which was shooting at the same time in 1958.”

  “Miss!” one of the guests shouted from in back.

  Great, Cordelia thought. Another obscure question. They were constantly asking about movies she had never seen or couldn’t remember. Who really cared about a bunch of movies made long before anyone she knew was alive? But Olivia Mulroy was on the tram. Olivia was her trainer and supervisor. She was watching for any slip-ups—Cordelia had been on a kind of probationary status ever since the tram-meets-corner incident—so Cordelia knew she had to be on her best behavior.

  “Yes, sir?” she asked.

  “Wasn’t Camp Kidsworth shot on one of the big soundstages here, too?” a man asked. Cordelia caught a glimpse of him in her rearview. He wore a powder blue baseball cap with a gas station logo on it, and his nose looked big enough to apply for statehood.

  Who would care where that fiasco was filmed? she wondered. Every kid actor who hadn’t been able to make a success of a TV series was in it, and it had still done no business at all.

  But she knew she couldn’t say that, and she also knew she had no clue what the real answer was. She glanced at Olivia. The woman reminded Cordelia of a vulture — she had a long, sharp beak that shadowed a thin-lipped, down-turned mouth. Her eyes were beady and narrow and always seemed to be watching Cordelia like a scavenger waiting for something to die. Her black hair was slicked tightly to her head and held back with a rubber band.

  “Stage Fifteen,” Olivia whispered.

  “Camp Kidsworth,” Cordelia said with a chuckle. “Wasn’t that a classic. Just the cutest movie. And filmed, of course, on Stage Fifteen, just behind us on the left, now.”

  She eased the tram into a slow right turn. The tour was almost over — another block of sound-stages, then across the main road and back into the parking area in front of the tour office. All the sights had been covered, and she just had to keep the masses entertained for a couple more minutes. Then they’d get back into their cars and drive back to wherever they came from, and until the next group got under way the lot would belong only to those who had a reason to be here and a Monument Pictures ID card to give them access.

  She was dreaming of the few serene moments between tours when she felt Olivia’s talons digging into her arm.

  “Ow,” she said.

  “Blake Alten,” Olivia hissed into her ear.

  “What about him?” Cordelia asked.

  “Right there!”

  Cordelia looked forward, and there, in fact, was Blake Alten. The biggest action star in the world. He had appeared in three of the top-ten all-time global box office champs. Big names in the States couldn’t necessarily open a picture in Japan, or India, or France, or a hundred other countries around the planet. But Blake Alten’s could. And he was crossing the street, twenty yards ahead of Cordelia’s tram.

  “He’s the best,” Olivia whispered. “Always has a few minutes to chat up the fans, get pictures taken, whatever. Catch up to him and you’ll give these guests the memory of a lifetime.”

  “Okay,” Cordelia agreed. She pushed down on the accelerator, and the tram lurched forward at its top speed, which was still only about ten miles per hour.

  “But don’t run into him,” Olivia warned.

  “Thanks for the tip.” Then, into the microphone, Cordelia announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a special treat for you today. Our tour is almost over, but we have a very special guest on the lot today who I think you’ll r
ecognize. You may have heard in the last day or so that Blake Alten has agreed to do a movie for Monument Pictures. That’s Mr. Alten dead ahead, and we’ll see if he can’t stop and visit for a moment. He’s well known for his generosity with his many fans.”

  Behind her the tourists let out a gasp, almost as one, and then the air was full of whispers and questions and noise, all of which Cordelia tried to ignore. She concentrated on piloting the slow-moving tram, making a right turn instead of crossing the street to go back to the tour office, in order to follow the actor. He didn’t seem to hear the tram drawing up behind him, so Cordelia pulled to his right, and came up even with him.

  “Mr. Alten,” she said. “We have some of your fans here, and — Mr. Alten?”

  He continued to walk, eyes staring somewhere ahead of him, not even registering her presence. It was almost like he was a Blake Alten robot instead of the real, human Blake Alten. “Mr. Alten?” she tried again. “Blake?”

  No response. He kept walking.

  “Give it up,” Olivia said quietly.

  Cordelia applied the brakes. “Mr. Alten has a lot on his mind,” she told the guests. “So we’ll just let him get to his meeting or whatever without disturbing him.”

  When he had gone on ahead, she made a left, across the road. They were a block up from the tour office, and she would just need to cross over to the next street and double back. Blake Alten had only cost them a minute. And a big dose of embarrassment.

  Twenty minutes later, after a short break, Cordelia went to meet her next tour group. After purchasing their tickets, they sat in an auditorium and watched a short film about the history of Monument Pictures, loaded with clips from the studio’s classic films. Then the guide came in to meet them, and to lay out the ground rules for the tour.

  She slipped into the auditorium while the lights were still out and the film was wrapping up. When the last clip was finishing and a big THE END was flashing onto the screen, she stepped to the front of the room, where a podium stood just in front of the screen. The last moments of the film flickered over her face, and she held her pasted-on smile until the lights came up.