That was when his hands, near her neck now, clamped down over her collarbone, pinching her flesh. His fingers lengthened and hardened, and his nails extended, digging into her flesh, then piercing it, stabbing into her chest, neck, and back. Ginger tried to scream but his tongue had elongated as well and was probing down her throat impossibly far, scaly as a snake.
She tried to push him away, but her hands quickly became too heavy to lift. Her arms dropped to her sides. One by one her silver bracelets slipped off her withering hands, clinking on the asphalt. Her body convulsed, thrashing in his grip until, finally, she succumbed to the rising tide of darkness that swept over her.
While they were joined, the demon convulsed as well, as if he were connected to a live wire. But far from damaging him, each jolt of energy that flowed from her body to his, engorged him with the stuff of her life essence, each pulse a dizzying thrill. Yet the euphoria only lasted for about thirty seconds. Then she simply had nothing left to give. When he withdrew his fingers and tongue from what was left of Ginger’s body, they whipped around like agitated eels. All eleven appendages had become segmented, tapered to hollow points, still shiny with Ginger’s gore. While the erstwhile fingers and thumbs were long enough to reach the ground, what had passed for his tongue was only eighteen inches long. The demon threw back its head and retracted its tongue with a contented slurp. Then he held his arms up, palms facing inward like a doctor who had just scrubbed for surgery, and willed his eel-like fingers back to human dimensions.
With a parting glance at what had once been Ginger Marks, Eddie the demon strolled out of the alley with a newfound spring in his step. Though fully charged, crackling with energy and vitality, he knew the feeling wouldn’t last. Ginger’s essence was just one step in the fateful dance to complete him, to make him whole.
What he left behind—inside the crumpled wine-colored blouse and black Capri pants—resembled a shed snakeskin, but it was human-shaped with tufts of dark hair. All the internal organs, blood, and viscera that had made it possible for Ginger to live and breathe were missing. Even her bones had been reduced to a fine white powder.
The same cool evening breeze that nudged an empty soda can down the deserted side street also fluttered the delicate, translucent flaps of skin that had been the fingers of Ginger’s right hand.
CHAPTER ONE
“Everybody’s using the Web now,” Cordelia Chase explained to Doyle as if he were an inattentive child. “Even people who have a life.”
The moment Angel stepped out of the office she’d begun her campaign to win Doyle over to her plan to drum up some business. Namely, to create a Web site for Angel Investigations.
“So that’s it, then,” Doyle said with his pronounced Irish brogue. “Put up a Web page and all the poor downtrodden masses will flock to our door.”
“Of course not,” Cordelia replied. “The poor don’t have computers. We need more paying clients. Emphasis on the paying part.”
Cordelia was sitting at her desk in the reception area of Angel Investigations in a sleeveless red crop top, black jeans, and stiletto heels. Doyle leaned on the corner of her desk, slouching in his old leather jacket over a green shirt with a rumpled collar. Even though Cordelia complained about her inability to keep up with the latest fashions on her meager receptionist’s salary, being around her always made Doyle feel as if he’d slept in his clothes, out on the street, in the rain. Not that he was complaining. At the best of times, Cordelia took his breath away. The rest of the time, she put a lump in his throat. And while he had yet to work up the nerve to tell her he had feelings for her, well, hope sprang eternal.
Though Doyle imagined that Cordelia made most men feel unworthy of her company, he carried the extra burden of having a father who was a Brachen demon. Sure, he was one hundred percent human on his mother’s side, but how far would that get him with the former Sunnydale prom queen. Cordelia had made it abundantly clear that she had relegated all demons to the enemy column. So it was no surprise that he’d neglected to tell her about his Brachen side. Someday he would convince her that being a half-demon didn’t necessarily make him one of the bad guys. Until then, he thought, no sense dashin’ the dream.
“We help the helpless,” Doyle countered. “It says so right there on our answering machine. In your very own voice, I might add. And generally the helpless aren’t known for their stock portfolios.”
“We’ll still help the helpless,” Cordelia countered. “But would it kill us to find some helpless people with disposable income?”
“I suppose not.”
“So are you with me? Can we present a united front?”
Doyle thought about uniting with Cordelia and had to clear his throat. Better get beyond that visual image before you stuff your foot in your mouth, boyo. “Fine. I’ll play devil’s advocate. Though, for the sake of this example, I suppose that’d make me Angel’s advocate. What about the expense?”
“We can do it on the cheap,” Cordelia assured him. “Lots of free stuff on the Internet I can use. It would be like—like another utility bill. And so far we’ve managed to keep the electricity and phones working.” She rapped her knuckles on the desk. “Knock wood.”
“Next problem, then. Do you even know how to design a Web site?”
“I figured out how to print invoices,” Cordelia said. “Not that I get a lot of practice. How much harder can Web site design be?”
“I’d wager good coin it’s gonna be harder than printing invoices.”
“That’s your problem. You wager too much,” Cordelia commented. “This is more like a sure thing.”
Doyle cleared his throat. “I’ve lost more than one shirt on a sure thing.”
Cordelia opened a desk drawer, removed several thick computer manuals, and dropped them with a resounding thud on her desk. “That’s every book the library had on Web site design, except for The Complete Simpleton’s Guide to Web Site Creation, which is a title I found a little insulting.” She frowned. “Although encouraging.”
“I still think you’re insane to try.”
“Doyle, they even have software wizards to do this for you,” Cordelia said. “It won’t be that difficult. And the Web site will be like having another office, with even cheaper rent than this dump. I’ll even set up a subscription service for access to our demon database. I’d bet a lot of people will pay good money for that information.”
Doyle gave a wry grin. “And you say I’m the one who wagers too much.”
“Doyle, some of these sites get ten million hits a month,” Cordelia said. “That’s like . . . the population of L.A. or something.”
“But don’t you find it a bit depressing? All these people parked in front of their computers, ignorin’ their loved ones?”
“They invented chat rooms and instant messaging for that.”
Doyle rolled his eyes. “Oh, brother.” Finally he sighed. “You really believe you can do this?”
“Right from my desk,” Cordelia said, flashing her lovely smile. “In between answering the phone, mailing invoices, and all my—um, auditions.”
It had been a while since Cordelia’s last audition. Doyle wondered if she was tackling this project to take her mind off the lack of chances at stardom. When Cordelia left Sunnydale for Los Angeles she’d assumed it would only be a matter of time—and not a lot of time at that—before she was discovered. Meanwhile, she needed her job at Angel Investigations just to make ends meet.
Since Doyle could offer no help in jump-starting her film career, he figured the least he could do was to offer his moral support in her Web site project. He saw just one problem: “Angel will never go for it.”
“Which is why I’ve decided to keep it a secret from him,” Cordelia explained, then held up her hands as he started to protest. “But just until all the extra income starts rolling in. So are you with me?”
“I’m with you, Cordelia,” Doyle said. “But I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
“Okay, Mr. Doom-and
-Gloom,” Cordelia replied. “But you’re worrying over nothing.”
Angel worried that he was too late. One of the big problems with the visions Doyle received courtesy of the Powers That Be, aside from the splitting headaches they gave Doyle, was that they tended to be vague—brief glimpses of people in dire need of being rescued from what often turned out to be a fate far worse than death. Angel reviewed the tidbits Doyle’s vision had given him this time. A video arcade and a teenage boy in danger from a card-carrying member of the Creatures-of-the-Night Club. And not many helpful details about the exact nature of said creature. Just that it was big.
Leaving the bright lights of the Santa Monica Pier behind him, Angel recalled another detail. Doyle had seen the word “one” in red neon outside the arcade. A telephone-book check had come up empty. Thinking it might be a new arcade, as yet unlisted, they’d called information. Again, no luck.
He was about to climb into his convertible to check out the Beverly Center, when a group of teenagers crossed the intersection. In the direction they were heading, was a blue neon sign that read “Warp” in slanting letters. On impulse, Angel walked several steps across the street. More of the sign came into view. The word “Warp” had a large yellow lightning bolt symbol after it.
Bit it was not a lightning bolt, he realized as he walked faster toward the sign. It was the letter Z. He ran toward the place, knowing what he would see next. His instinct was confirmed as red neon letters eventually spelled out “one.”
Doyle had only seen part of the sign. The place was called the Warp Zone.
The group of teenagers who had led him to the arcade entered a few steps ahead of him. Amid all the beeping, blooping, zapping, and blasting sound effects, he found it hard to concentrate. There were at least a hundred teenagers in the place. Those who weren’t already mesmerized by battles with space aliens, fighter squadrons, tanks, zombies, mutants, and, yes, even vampires, were feeding dollar bills into machines that spat out tokens needed to begin or renew the mayhem. Hardly any of the teens interacted with one another. Even those arriving in groups would split up and look for an unoccupied pinball machine, video game, or virtual reality helmet. If the Pied Piper of Hamelin ever makes a return visit, Angel thought, he’ll come bearing handheld video games.
Aside from misspent youth, Angel noticed nothing sinister in the arcade. Granted, some creatures of the night were good at passing for human, as he should know, being a vampire himself; even a vampire with a soul had to hide his true nature in public. Yet he doubted a vampire would make a move inside a crowded arcade, so Angel stepped out into the cool night and looked for the shadows. Toward the rear of the arcade, the white exterior walls were riddled with a mosaic of graffiti. With all the beeping and zapping still echoing in his ears, he couldn’t be sure at first if he’d really heard the sound of shoes scuffing cement. Nevertheless, caution won out.
Crouching, Angel peered around the back of the arcade and saw what appeared to be a large, bulky man in a dark overcoat and crumpled fedora ambling down the poorly lit street behind the arcade. The man had one arm wrapped around a teenage boy with straggly blond hair who was wearing a World Wrestling Federation T-shirt over apocalyptically frayed jeans. Judging by the way the boy’s sneakers dragged and flopped along the ground, he was unconscious or worse. By supporting the teen’s weight, the big guy made it appear as if they were walking along together. Near the back wall of the arcade, Angel spotted a fresh pack of spilled cigarettes.
Step outside for a nicotine fix and walk into a supernatural ambush.
Careful not to make a sound, Angel climbed atop a Dumpster against the side of the building. From there, he leaped gracefully to the arcade’s roof, then ran along the length of the building, quiet as a shadow, his raincoat flowing behind him. As he neared the edge of the rooftop, he veered toward the corner, adjusting his angle on the fly, then launched himself toward the ambling figure clutching the boy at his side. At the last moment, Angel lowered his head, brought his elbow up, braced it with his other hand, and drove it like a wedge into the back of the creature.
The creature stumbled with the impact, dropping the boy and crashing into a chain-link fence. Angel felt as if he’d attempted to tackle a tree—a very large tree, with an extensive root system. He rolled and sprang to his feet, marveling that he hadn’t dislocated his shoulder. Still, it hurt like hell. Proverbial hell, anyway, he thought. He’d spent time in literal hell. And nothing hurt worse, by far.
Instead of fleeing or turning to fight, the creature simply lumbered over to the unconscious teen and picked him up again. In the dim light, Angel was still unable to tell exactly what he was dealing with, but the creature seemed to be wearing sunglasses under the floppy hat. And black leather . . . mittens? “I need to see some I.D.,” Angel called, “because, frankly, I can’t figure out what the hell you are.”
The creature all but ignored him.
So Angel charged, this time leaping into a kick. He caught the creature square on the jaw, the sole of one boot snapping its head back and dislodging its hat. Once more the teenager slipped from the creature’s grasp, slumping to the ground. Angel saw that he was still breathing. But now Angel had the creature’s complete and undivided attention. Not really a good thing, just a necessary thing.
With the hat gone, a pair of twitching antennae were now exposed. And what had looked like sunglasses turned out to be bulbous, multifaceted eyes, like those of an insect viewed through an electron microscope. Below a flat nose, the creature had protuberant mandibles, which upon cursory inspection might have been mistaken for a dark beard. All of which meant the creature wasn’t actually wearing leather mittens over its hands. It had no hands. Instead, its arms terminated in crablike pincers. With a quick backhand blow, one set of those pincers struck Angel alongside the head, staggering him as he was climbing to his feet.
Angel shook off the blow and moved in close, striking the creature’s broad gut with a flurry of punches. When that proved ineffective, he tried to chop the side of its neck with the edge of his palm. A pincer came up and caught Angel’s hand, squeezing painfully, grinding the bones of his hand together. Blood dripped down his wrist. Before the creature could crush the bones, Angel drove the heel of his free hand into the creature’s face. If it had a nose, he might have driven cartilage back into its brain, assuming its brain was in its head. But it had no nose, and all Angel managed to do was drive its head back a few inches. Mandibles clacked inches above Angel’s face.
He morphed into his vampire mode, displaying creased brow, yellow eyes, and fangs. Then he flexed his wrist, releasing one of the spring-loaded wooden stakes he kept hidden in the mechanism up each sleeve. First he drove the stake into the creature’s wide midsection, but, as he’d expected, it had little effect on what seemed like an armored hide or carapace. Let the eyes have it, Angel thought and tried to pound the narrow end of the stake into one of the glittering eyes. The point skidded off the rounded surface of the eye and over the head, giving Angel another idea. Dropping the stake, he wrapped his free hand around the left antenna. It was rough and bristled with short spikes, like tiny thorns, but the pain of clenching it was nothing compared to what his other hand was experiencing in the crushing grip of the creature’s pincers. Angel yanked hard on the antenna.
The creature shrieked horribly.
Through gritted teeth, Angel said, “Here I thought you were the strong silent type.”
The creature tried to hurl Angel away, even releasing his hand from its pincers. Uninterested in a stalemate, Angel held on to the antenna, though the blood drawn by the tiny spikes made his grip slick. Because of Angel’s momentum, the creature had no choice but to stagger forward bent over. Even as it continued to lumber forward, gaining speed, the enraged creature clutched Angel around the waist and hoisted him into the air.
I have a bad feeling about this, Angel thought about two seconds before the creature slammed him into the back wall of the arcade. It stepped back and lunged forward a
gain, repeatedly ramming Angel into the wall, using its own weight in an attempt to crush Angel in the process. At some point, Angel’s vision dimmed and he must have sagged in its grip because the next thing he knew he was sailing across the back street, bowling over three trash cans full of rotten garbage. Yet he doubted the crashing and banging of metal trash cans would be heard above the otherworldly electronic din flowing out of the arcade.
Angel rolled onto his hands and knees, ready to resume the fight. As he climbed to his feet he realized he must have been groggy longer than he thought because both the creature and the unconscious teenage boy were gone. Shaking his head to clear away the cobwebs, Angel bent down and picked up his stake. He was about to put it back into the spring-loaded mechanism when he noticed the end was discolored, coated with something pale green.
Blood, he realized. So he had hurt the creature after all.
Angel’s face reverted to his human countenance. All the pounding to his head must have dislodged some information stored way back where the synapses were dustiest. He recalled reading something years ago about a beetle-like creature—a Sakorbuk demon! What else did he know about Sakorbuk demons and their—as Detective Kate Lockley might say—modus operandi? Only one thing came immediately to mind: they preferred to eat the flesh of recently dead humans. This demon’s current victim was still alive, but for how long?
Knowing the shambling creature couldn’t have traveled far, especially carrying its prey, Angel loped down the back street in the direction it had been heading before he’d attacked it. Every few strides he glimpsed a droplet of green, almost glowing on the asphalt. Even better than bread crumbs, he decided. Abruptly the trail ended. Either the creature had stopped bleeding or Angel had missed a turn. He backtracked, looped in a circle from the last drop of blood and was about to give up when he noticed a manhole cover in his path. No stranger to the Los Angeles sewer system, Angel removed the cover and was soon underground. As he dropped from the bottom ladder rung, he heard rhythmic splashing to his right.
ANGEL ™: avatar Page 2
