“It’s a deal, Elliot Grundy,” the demon had said. “All of it. And when we are finished you will have no concerns about your looks.”
The demon’s words echoed in Elliot’s mind as he stared down at his left hand, the graying flesh, and the two thick fingers, instead of four, now opposing his thumb. All of the fingernails were gone, having fallen off in the past day. The skin of the hand felt tough, as he imagined sharkskin or elephant hide might feel. “Yunk’sh”—seemed odd to call the demon by its name—“I need to ask you a question about our pact.” Elliot held up his hand for display. “It’s not quite human anymore,” he said. “Really puts a crimp in my keyboarding.”
“It will be fine,” Yunk’sh said. “What you are experiencing is overlap . . . or transference. I borrow from your physicality and you reflect back my true nature. As the ritual nears completion, there is some spillover from the substance I absorb from my victims.”
“So what happens . . . at the end, I mean?”
“I will have real substance, not your borrowed substance, to sculpt my new body. I will pull the combined substance from all my victims back into that new, re-spawned body. You will revert to normal.”
“Uh . . . except for those minor physical improvements you promised with the pact. Right?”
“As you wish,” Yunk’sh said. “In the interim, you must hide your differences from your kind. Agreed?”
Elliot nodded. A small price to pay for all the power and prestige he would have after it was all over. And except for an occasional fast-food run, he already spent most of his time in the apartment. Had to keep up the disability act, after all. Besides, Shirley felt sorry for him and was always offering to run errands for him, to spare his sore back. I’ll take her up on her offers, that’s all. Can’t beat having a full-time gofer downstairs. “I’ll be fine,” Elliot told the demon. “Just fine.”
Angel had spent several hours reading through the case folder for each murder, looking for patterns. If he could see the big picture, maybe he could predict where the demon would strike next. Nine victims so far, including the most recent, Greg Schauer. All basically between twenty-five and thirty-five years old. That leaves, what? Angel thought. A few million potential victims still out there. Six female to three male victims, indicating a two-to-one preference for women—basically a meaningless statistic. No way of knowing if another man or a woman would be next. All but one had been single, and the exception to that trend apparently had difficulty remaining faithful. Meaning what? The victims were all dating or looking to date.
Some had been killed in their homes, while others had been killed on isolated or dark streets. Statements from witnesses who saw the killer meet his victim in a public place shortly before the murder indicated that the meeting seemed prearranged rather than spontaneous. So the victims had agreed to meet their killer, possibly for the first and last time.
Angel sighed. “Looking for love in all the wrong people.” If you consider demons people, he conceded.
Doyle knocked on the doorframe. “Look at you, keeping all this fun to yourself.”
Angel looked down at the folders and photographs spread across his desk. “Actually, I’m in the mood to share.”
“Ah, be careful what I wish for, is what you’re sayin’.”
“No good deed goes unpunished,” Angel replied, gathering the folders into a haphazard stack. “Two heads are better than one.”
“In that case, let’s make it three heads,” Doyle suggested. Then, as he leaned back out in the reception area to be sure Cordelia could hear him, “Although, in Cordelia’s case, it would be a big head we’d be adding to the mix.”
“Better big than thick,” Cordelia commented as she joined Doyle in the doorway.
“What exactly are we discussing here?” Doyle asked with a wry grin.
“I don’t know, Doyle,” Cordelia replied. “Either your drinking problem or your gambling problem.”
“Not my way with the ladies?”
“Delusions would fall under the drinking problem.”
Angel had the folders tucked under his arm. “I think she has you,” he told Doyle.
“A rose with many thorns, that one,” Doyle said softly.
Cordelia observed him for a moment, trying to read his expression. Giving up, she turned to Angel. “So . . . pretty gruesome stuff?”
“Take a look,” Angel said, dividing the files into two stacks. He practically had the contents memorized, and they needed to get up to speed quickly. Cordelia took her folders and returned to her desk, while Doyle sat in a chair to begin his perusal. “Nine murders. Male and female victims, twenty-five to thirty-five years old. With one exception, all were single and lived alone.”
Cordelia held up a color photograph showing a stretched-out, desiccated skin with a tape measure next to it to show the height of the victim. “Okay, somebody is taking crash dieting to a whole new level.”
Doyle shook his head. “Whatever this demon is, it sucks everything right out of them, doesn’t it?”
“All that remains is the skin and some powdery bone residue.” Angel leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, head lowered in thought.
“Sucks out the cream filling.” Cordelia shuddered. “Could the demon be feeding off them?”
“Possibly.”
“Or maybe the demon’s a serial killer gone off the deep end,” Doyle suggested.
“These murders seem too . . . premeditated,” Angel said. “If this demon just wanted to kill, it could overpower any human it found alone. Instead, it’s choosing its victims, setting up meetings. A lot of effort for the thrill of a kill.”
“Carefully selected victims,” Doyle mused.
“We need to determine what its motivation is,” Angel said. “Then maybe we can figure out who or where it will strike next.”
“Why,” Cordelia said, not making the word a question.
“Well, isn’t that obvious?” Doyle asked her. “Helping the helpless and all that.”
“No,” Cordelia said. “I mean we need to find out why it’s doing this.”
Angel pushed off the wall. “She’s right, Doyle. This isn’t just premeditation we’re seeing. It’s purpose. This demon is planning something.”
“I hate surprises,” Doyle remarked.
Cordelia was staring at the tape-measured remains again with a look of disgust. “Maybe it’s just trying to disprove the saying: you really can be too thin.”
“Where’s Ginger Marks?” Doyle asked, flipping through the contents of a folder.
“Who’s Ginger Marks?” Cordelia asked.
“Victim number eight,” Doyle said. “There’s no photo of her skin.”
Angel frowned. “Somebody stole her remains.”
“Oh, that is so gross,” Cordelia blurted out. “Somebody stole a human skin?”
“Another why we need to answer,” Angel said.
“Why? I’ll tell you why. It’s because there are too many perverted freakazoids running around.”
“That may be. But we have to be open to the possibility that somebody has a specific use for the skin.”
Cordelia squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head vigorously. “I do not want any mental pictures to form.”
Angel smiled. “Relax, Cordelia. I meant a supernatural use.”
“Okay . . . amazingly, that is better.”
“So what now?” Doyle asked Angel.
Angel had an idea. “The demon that appeared in your vision,” he said. “Could you describe it?”
“The vision was a little vague,” Doyle said. “I just got an impression of tentacles whipping about. What do you have in mind?”
Less than a half hour later, Angel had sketched an image, mostly in silhouette, of the demon based on Doyle’s description. Every few minutes, Angel would show the drawing to Doyle and ask him where it seemed off. When he finished drawing the man-shaped demon with a serpentine tongue and fingers that were transformed into tentacles, Cordelia c
ommented, “I’ve dated a few guys who would fit that description.”
Doyle arched his eyebrows. “You’ve dated demons, then?”
“No, just guys with octopus arms and slobbery tongues.”
“Oh,” Doyle said, slightly deflated.
Angel glanced at him, knowing the half-demon was looking for any opportunity with Cordelia, since she was anything but an equal opportunity dater when it came to demons, half-demons, or anything listed in the demon column of the species handbook.
Doyle cleared his throat. “I think I might know someone who could give us a lead on this demon. Care to bring your drawing along, with an after shot of one of the victims to see what we can get out of him?”
“Fine. But let’s leave a copy of the sketch here. Cordelia, cross-reference our research volumes and the on-line database. Maybe we’ll find something to match our . . . silhouette.”
“Sure,” she said. “And I’ll research the victims on-line. Try to find something linking them together.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Just then the door opened, revealing Chelsea Monroe of L.A. After Dark. On her earlier visit she had worn a meticulously tailored gold metallic suit. This time she had opted for silver, with a sheer emerald-green silk blouse. “I’m back,” she said. “I think you’ll want to hear what I have to say, and I’d like to take you out to a late dinner to discuss it.”
Cordelia snatched her purse from the corner of her desk and started to rise. “Great! There’s this new place I’ve been dying to try, and . . . oh, you meant just you and Angel.”
“I’m afraid so,” Chelsea said with a sympathetic smile. “For now, anyway.”
Angel glanced at Doyle, who waved a hand at him. “It’s okay. We’ve got some time. Dink, my associate, he don’t come out till after midnight anyway.”
“Even so . . .” Angel began.
“A word, if I might,” Doyle said, gesturing toward Angel’s office.
Angel glanced at the auburn-haired, green-eyed woman who was waiting for his answer with a confident smile. “Excuse us for a minute.”
“You know what?” Cordelia said, coming out from behind her desk. “I’ll keep Chelsea—I mean, Ms. Monroe—company while she waits.”
Once they were inside Angel’s office, Doyle said what they were both thinking. “Cordelia’s networking.”
“What’s on your mind, Doyle?”
“You,” Doyle said. “And her—Chelsea Monroe. Well, mostly you. I think you should let her take you to dinner.”
“Why’s that?”
“It’s not enough for you to protect and save humans.”
“It’s not?”
“No,” Doyle said. “It would do you a world of good to actually be one of them now and then.”
“There’s no point, Doyle, she—”
“Maybe she just wants dinner. Maybe she just wants to dance. And maybe she just wants an exclusive interview. You’ll never know unless you give her a chance. Besides, all this isolation from human contact isn’t good. Listen, all I’m sayin’ is, you gotta learn to have a little fun now and then or what’s the use?”
“But you know what happens if I have too much fun,” Angel said. “If I act too human.” Angel still had nightmares about what he’d become, after making love to Buffy. One moment of true happiness and he’d lost his soul, become the destructive, evil Angelus. Jenny Calendar had lost her life because of that one moment in which he’d forgotten his demonic nature. At least then he hadn’t known he would lose his soul. Now he couldn’t claim ignorance. He’d left Sunnydale and come to L.A. to avoid seeing Buffy all the time, seeing her and being reminded of what they could never be to each other again. He’d owed it to her to let her get on with her life, a normal life. Well, as normal a life as the Chosen One, the Slayer, could expect to have. For him, self-imposed isolation made it easier to forget things that would forever be denied him.
“I’m not sayin’ you should walk her down the aisle,” Doyle said, as if reading his mind. “Just take some time to enjoy being human. No harm in that.”
“What about you?” Angel asked. “Why haven’t you taken your own advice to seize the moment? To tell Cordelia how you feel about her?”
“I’m just waiting for my boyish charm to wear her down,” Doyle said. “That way when she learns about my demon half, it won’t matter.”
“It’s not a mask, Doyle. It’s part of who you are, and you have to live with that. So will she if you two ever get together.”
“Well, it’s not the sort of thing you blurt out to a girl, a human girl. It takes time.”
Angel suspected it was Doyle who still needed time to adjust. He had never really come to terms with his own identity, being half Brachen demon. After his twenty-first birthday, when he’d discovered the other half of his identity, Doyle’s life had spiraled out of control. Angel suspected that Doyle would need to accept himself before he would truly believe that somebody else would accept him for who and what he was. “Someday,” Angel said.
“Oh, that will be a day, won’t it?” Doyle grinned, a gleam in his eyes. “So it’s settled. You’ll let the lady take you out for dinner and maybe a little dancing?”
“I’ll listen to what she has to say,” Angel said. “That’s all. Wait for me.”
“Can’t blame a guy for tryin’.”
“I just love your outfit,” Cordelia said. “The whole metallic look. Very bold.” Cordelia had placed her chair in front of her desk, angling it to face Chelsea, so she could give the television hostess her undivided attention.
“Thank you.” Chelsea had removed the silver jacket and folded it over her arm. Her green silk top was backless, with spaghetti straps.
“So what’s it like?” Cordelia asked. “Being Chelsea Monroe, hostess of an entertainment news program?”
“Well . . . you get to meet a lot of interesting people.”
“I suppose you have to be bold, to take on the seamy underbelly of L.A. at night.”
“It helps.”
“What the heck is a seamy underbelly, anyway? Never mind. That’s not the glamorous part.”
“Not really, no.”
“Are there lots of openings for entertainment news types? I mean, you meet a lot of famous television and movie directors, and they probably offer you roles all the time. Right?”
“Occasionally, but—”
“See! I knew it. A great stepping-stone. Once they see the talent, it’s just a phone call to business affairs and draw up the contracts.”
“It’s really not as simple as—”
“I have an idea! Maybe I could audition to be your guest host? Have they thought of that? Sure they have. You need time off. Vacations. Everyone gets sick, occasionally . . . well, except for vamp— I mean, everyone. Everyone gets sick, right?”
“I suppose so.”
“So you could put in a good word for me?”
“Well, they do run The Best of L.A. After Dark when I’m unavailable, so I really don’t think a guest host—”
“Oh, you’re right. Who am I kidding?” Cordelia laid her palm on Chelsea’s forearm. “It’s not like you’ve ever been in a halfway decent movie or anything because of that show. You are so right.”
“I am?”
“Absolutely! A guest host gig would be a dead end for me. But thanks anyway.”
“You’re welcome . . . I think.”
Angel’s office door opened. Doyle stepped out while Angel waited in the doorway. “Ready?” he asked Chelsea.
“Oh, we’re done here,” Cordelia said. She slapped the arms of the chair, stood up and carried the chair back behind the desk.
Chelsea grinned as she stepped into the office.
Puzzled, Angel closed the door behind her. “Everything okay out there?”
Chelsea hung up her jacket. “I was afraid I had burst her bubble, but I think she burst mine.”
“Cordelia is nothing if not buoyant.”
Chelsea smiled. “She’
s like a force of nature.”
“Never has a problem filling her own sails.” Angel sat down in his chair and steepled his fingers expectantly. With her jacket on the coat rack, Chelsea was showing more skin, if less cleavage this visit. Her skin was smooth and pale, not a sickly pale, just a sunless pale. Because of the nature of her show, she was a fellow creature of the night. Angel imagined that if she sunbathed at all, she’d be prone to freckling on her cheeks and on the delicate lines of her long, graceful neck. And just maybe he was beginning to stare. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I thought I warned you.” She chuckled. “Anyway, about the dinner offer . . .”
“A gracious offer. Thank you.”
Her smile faltered a bit. “As in, ‘thanks but no thanks’?”
“I have to be somewhere tonight,” Angel said. “Maybe some other time.”
“Rain check logged and recorded,” Chelsea said. “Still, while I’m here, mind if I run an idea by you?”
“Run away,” Angel replied, then frowned at his choice of words. “Sorry. You know what I mean.”
“Of course,” Chelsea said. She picked up a business card from his desk, ran a long, manicured fingernail down the edge. “Let’s recap. You say you help the helpless.” Angel nodded. “Even if the helpless can’t afford to pay.”
Angel shrugged. “Even lawyers take pro bono cases.”
“But they’re required to, by the courts,” she countered. “You’re not.”
“Anything wrong with helping people?”
“Absolutely not,” Chelsea said. “In fact, I think it’s noble.”
For Angel, it was a path to redemption. A way to make amends for a hundred and fifty years of crimes committed while he was Angelus, a soulless vampire. Obviously, he couldn’t tell her that. “I’m not asking for a plaque from the mayor or a key to the city.”
“All the more noble,” Chelsea said. She ran her fingernail across her full bottom lip for a moment, sizing him up. “I have an idea for a segment on my show.”
“On cheating spouses,” Angel said. “And I told you we don’t handle those cases.”
“No, this would be a different segment,” she explained. “On you and your firm. More people should know about you. Truth be told, I think you deserve recognition for your selfless work.”
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