Shakedown, page 10
To do what? Lay waste to the Skin of the World? Where then would we find sacrifices for the Crushing of Souls?
It is not the Skin of the World I suggest we attack. It is the Void itself.
The Grounding gave the telepathic equivalent of a collective gasp. Unthinkable!
Nothing is unthinkable. I understand that now . . . listen to me. There are places where Blood from the Heart of the World flows onto the Skin. Sometimes, it explodes upward with great fury—and the Void is filled with minute bits of the Blood of the World.
This we know. The Void transforms them and they settle, to become one with the Body of the World again.
But is it only the Blood which is transformed? Is not the Void itself changed by having the Blood within it?
These are questions with no answers.
But the answers can be found, if only the questions are asked. And here is the question which I ask of you, the question which must be asked. What would occur if the Blood at the Heart of the World was unleashed upon the Skin—not at one or five or a dozen spots, but hundreds, thousands of places simultaneously? Unleashed with the full force and majesty it is capable of? What would happen then, esteemed council members?
The Grounding was silent once more. It was hours before they communicated again, the equivalent of a lengthy pause. Finally, their leader, the Batholith, broadcast his response.
The Void, terrible though it is, cannot be mightier than the Heart of the World. Should we unleash its full power, the Void would be filled.
The Void filled. It was a concept no Tremblor had ever even considered, at the same time both exhilarating and blasphemous.
We need to think on this. Go and fulfill your mission. Bring the Fourth to us—and we will discuss this idea further.
As you wish.
Doyle and Cordelia waited downstairs in the office.
“It’s not like he’s actually torturing him,” Cordelia said.
“ ’Course not.”
“And we are trying to stop something terrible from happening.”
“That we are.”
Cordelia picked up some papers from her desk and opened a file cabinet. “And it’s not like we could just ask . ‘Excuse me, Mr. Demon? I understand that you’re trying to wreck the city and all, and I was just wondering if you could share a few of the details with us.’ Like that would work.”
Doyle poured himself a cup of coffee. “Highly unlikely.”
Cordelia started cramming papers into file folders. “So it’s not like Angel has a choice. And hey, it’s not like he hasn’t done this kind of thing before, right? I mean, this way at least his hundred years of torturing experience aren’t going to waste.”
“Hard t’argue with that.”
Cordelia whirled around and glared at Doyle. “Will you please stop agreeing with me? I feel bad enough as it is.”
Doyle put up his hands in surrender. “Take it easy. I know this is hard to justify—though you were doin’ a bang-up job, I gotta say—but it is necessary. Angel won’t actually hurt him, just scare him a little.”
Cordelia sighed and collapsed into a chair. “I know, I know. I just hate feeling guilty, okay? I’m not used to it.”
“Just remember, we’re on the side of the angels.”
“Please, Doyle. Bad puns are not the way to cheer me up.”
“Well, I don’t know if there’s such a thing as a good pun . . .”
Angel came in. “I think I’ve gotten all the information out of him I can.”
“Is he—” Cordelia began.
“What?”
“Still in one piece?”
“Not really. He sort of shattered, actually.”
“Shattered?” Cordelia said.
“When he hit the ground. After I threw him off the roof.”
“Angel, that was not called for,” Cordelia snapped. “I mean, sure he was a hideous demon, and sure, he would have killed you given the chance—okay, he probably would have killed all of us. Actually, killing everyone in the city seemed to be on his to-do list. Never mind.”
“Relax,” Angel said. “I was kidding. He’s still cowering in his box.”
“So what did you find out?” Doyle asked.
“Possibly the location of the next target. And get this—even though they’re still missing someone close to earth, they aren’t going after a Serpentene victim.”
“Why not?” asked Cordelia.
“He didn’t know, but as far as the Serpentene goes, the Tremblors don’t seem to bear them any personal ill will. Apparently the only reason the Serpentene’s home was attacked was because the Tremblor’s mysterious allies asked them to.
“What he does know is that earth is the element most vital to the ceremony, and has to be chosen with care. He knew which direction they were headed in next, and when the snatch was going to take place. He gave me a mental picture of around how far away it was.” Angel motioned them to follow him into his office, where the map was still spread out on the floor. “And that would put the location of the next kidnapping around . . . here.”
“I know that area,” Doyle said. “There’s a big graveyard, right there.” He tapped the map with one finger.
“A graveyard. Makes sense,” Angel admitted. “I just wish I knew why they’d given up on the Serpentene, especially after they’d returned to trash the place. Something isn’t right.”
“So, I guess we’re stakin’ the place out?” Doyle asked.
Angel nodded.
Doyle stretched and yawned. “Better get some shut-eye then, don’t you think? Must be close to bedtime for the dentally-enhanced.”
“Good idea.”
“All right, then. ’Night, boss.” Doyle waved goodbye to Cordelia and headed for the door.
After Doyle had left, Cordelia asked, “Is it hard? The torture, I mean.”
“It’s—emotionally draining.”
“Is that because you find it difficult to hurt another living being, or just that you’re out of practice?”
“Actually, you’d be surprised how easily it all comes back. Like riding a bike, I guess.”
“Or dragging someone behind one . . . did you find anything else out?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know—like his name?”
“Rule of torture number one: never personalize your victim. If you start thinking of them as a person, you can’t be objective about what you need to do.”
Cordelia looked at Angel and arched her eyebrows. She waited.
Angel sighed. “His name is Maarl.”
“I knew you couldn’t pass up a chance to grab some high-quality angst. That’s like me saying no to a shoe sale.”
Angel sat down behind his desk. “Well, I never was much good at the objective part. The victim’s name was usually the first thing I got—made the whole process more intimate.”
“Okay, that’s the kind of statement that makes me sorry we’re on a first-name basis. And people say they’re amazed at the things that come out of my mouth.”
“Anyway, I wasn’t going for more angst—I was trying to get inside his head. Get a feel for what the Tremblors are like, for who they are and what they want.”
“How very Hannibal Lecter of you.” Cordelia frowned. “But don’t we already know what they want?”
“We know what they’re after, but we didn’t know why. Now I do.”
Cordelia picked up a stack of books on Angel’s desk and started reshelving them. “Is this something I want to know, or will I sleep better in blissful ignorance?”
“It’s how they reproduce.”
“There’s a joke there that’s so obvious I’m glad Doyle’s gone home.”
“Uh—right. Anyway, the Crushing of Souls ritual doesn’t just cause an earthquake; it collects all the souls of the people who are killed by the quake. Then it basically . . . compresses them. It takes a thousand human souls to make one new Tremblor, apparently because their bodies are so dense.”
“Tell me about it. My chair is toast.” Cordelia put the last book on the shelf and straightened a mace that was hung next to the door. “So instead of sex, they have to kill a bunch of people and use this ritual to squish their souls into a new demon. Sounds like the Play-Doh factory I used to have.”
“Sounds like my sex life . . .”
Cordelia laughed, then covered her mouth. “Sorry. I keep forgetting you actually have a sense of humor.”
“It’s a common mistake.”
“So what do these demons do when they’re not running around kidnapping people?”
“They think, mainly.”
“About what? Different squishing techniques?”
“Theoretical mathematics, a lot of the time. They design and play telepathic games that make threedimensional chess look like tic-tac-toe. They meditate.”
“So they’re like—geeks.”
“Excuse me?”
“You know, a geek. Anybody in high school who spent all their time doing math, playing chess, and was incapable of having sex.”
“Outsiders.” Angel nodded.
“Oh, don’t try to make them sound all romantic. They were losers . I should know.” Cordelia sat down across from Angel.
“Because you were a winner?”
“That goes without saying. But I dated a loser.”
“Xander.”
“Yes, and please don’t say that name without spitting. Can vampires spit? Anyway, if even a loser like him could find people to hang out with, it goes to show that there are no such things as outsiders— just a bunch of little groups of insiders. Some groups just dress better than others.”
“That’s one way of looking at it. As long as there are others like you around.”
“Well, there was nobody really like me, so it was a bit of a struggle. But I managed.”
Angel looked at her, but didn’t say anything.
Cordelia frowned. “What? Oh, you’re talking about you . Well, what I said still applies; there’s nobody really like you , either.”
“Thanks. That’s very reassuring.”
“There’s nobody really like anybody, Angel. Everybody’s different.”
“So everybody’s alone?”
Cordelia rolled her eyes. “You know, you’re like a walking advertisment for Prozac. My point is, people don’t hang together because they’re all exactly the same.”
Angel looked thoughtful. “I guess not. They come together because they have common interests, or common enemies, or even for financial reasons.”
“Um—sure. And because being alone sucks.”
Angel winced. “Doyle isn’t the only one making bad puns.”
“Sorry. Anyway, shouldn’t you be getting some Z’s?”
“You’re right. I’ll see you in a few hours.” Angel got up and headed to the freight elevator at the back of his office. He closed the folding metal gate, hesitated, then said, “Cordelia?”
Cordelia paused in the doorway between the inner and outer offices and turned around. “Yes?”
“What was the joke that was too . . . obvious to make?”
Cordelia grinned. “Angel, please. When the Tremblors reproduce . . .”
“What?”
“The earth moves . . .”
I don’t believe this is a good idea, Feldspaar thought.
I have a theory I wish to test, Baasalt replied. It won’t take long.
It was during the period the Skin-Dwellers called “day,” when the burning orb that lived in the Void permeated everything with light; it was a condition Feldspaar found unnatural and frightening. They were inside a structure that also filled him with dread; it had a transparent roof and walls, which protected them from the Void but left them exposed to it at the same time. The shade of the plants that the structure was filled with helped somewhat, but even the plants were deformed and surreal; instead of the twisting, gnarly shapes of proper plants that grew into the earth, these were tall and straight and had bright green parts that twitched if you so much as brushed against them.
They were crouched at the end of a long row of these plants, Feldspaar trying not to look up. Baasalt had a small pile of granite chunks at his feet; each was almost too big for his claws to close around.
What are we waiting for? Feldspaar thought.
That. Baasalt pointed.
At the end of the row a Skin-Dweller had appeared. It was at least a hundred feet away, and busy doing something to the plants; it hadn’t noticed them.
Baasalt picked up one of the granite chunks and hefted it. He drew his arm back—and did something Feldspaar had never seen before.
Baasalt snapped his arm forward, and let go of the rock. It flew .
Its flight was halted abruptly when it struck a plant close to the Skin-Dweller. The Dweller looked their way, surprised. It began to walk toward them.
“Hey! What are you doing in here—”
Baasalt selected another rock and repeated the action. Again, Feldspaar was astonished when the piece of granite sailed through the Void; it seemed impossible, a violation of everything he believed in.
This time, the rock struck the Skin-Dweller in the face. There was a wet, scarlet explosion, and the figure crumpled to the floor.
Feldspaar looked to his superior and got an even bigger shock.
Baasalt was looking up . Up through the transparent roof, up into the Void itself. Feldspaar got a brief glimpse of a hideous, unnatural blue before he slammed his eyes shut—but he could still taste the flavor of Baasalt’s thoughts. They were not full of terror, as he would have expected, but instead radiated an intense exhilaration. It was too much for Feldspaar; he turned his own mind away from Baasalt’s, though he could still feel the burning of his feelings like the heat from a pool of molten rock.
A full minute passed.
At last, the intensity of Baasalt’s thoughts faded.
Baasalt? Feldspaar asked. Are you . . . all right?
I am glorious. And most importantly—I am no longer afraid.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Doyle had been completely serious about blowing his money at the track. He’d come dangerously close to actually winning at one point, but fortunately that had proved to be a false alarm. Now he was down to his last few dollars, and he was about to dispose of them by ordering a drink. He could have gotten rid of them just as effectively by buying something frivolous—like food—but Doyle firmly believed that once you committed to a plan, you stuck to it. Down-and-out was what he was aiming for, and spending the last of his cash on booze seemed the way to go.
And then there was the other thing—the thing he hadn’t told Angel about.
Hell, Doyle thought. If this doesn’t work, I’ll see what I can do about goin’ into debt. Goin’ deeper into debt, anyway.
The bar he’d picked to spend his last few dollars in was not the kind of place to let him run a tab; it made the dive he’d taken Angel to look like the lounge at the Four Seasons. The only season this place was familiar with was Happy Hour, which lasted from seven A.M until closing and wasn’t particularly happy. Doyle supposed that Surly All Day Long just didn’t have the right ring to it.
The place didn’t even have a proper bar, just an oversized counter in one corner with a bearded giant pouring drinks behind it. It wouldn’t have surprised Doyle if he’d been told that the real bartender was lying in a pool of blood behind the bar, and the gentleman drawing a pitcher of beer was actually a psychotic biker with a dry throat and a bad temper.
Not to mention a face covered with the worst tattoos Doyle had ever seen. Either that, or the most artistic birthmarks.
There weren’t any booths either, just tables scattered around a small room with chairs that didn’t match. A roach scuttled across his table, made it halfway, and got beaten up by another roach. It was that kind of bar.
The second the whiskey touched his lips, he heard Graedeker’s voice.
“Now, what do you think his story is?” Graedeker asked. He sat down at Doyle’s table without waiting for an invitation. Doyle hadn’t heard him walk up, but Graedeker was always doing stuff like that. He liked to play the man of mystery.
Graedeker himself looked about as mysterious as a shoe salesman. He had a wide, friendly face, balding on top and jowly at the bottom, with sunken brown eyes and a bulbous nose. He was paunchy but not fat, of average height, and had shoulders that slumped. He was dressed in a cheap beige suit, without a tie.
“Graedeker,” Doyle said with a smile. “Who’s story are we talkin’ about?”
“The bartender,” Graedeker said. “Those tattoos—Good God, eh? Never seen the like.”
“Here’s my theory,” Doyle said. “He’s a tattoo artist himself, right? Comes home to his old lady after a weekend of hard partyin’ with the biker gang he runs with, demands sex, throws up on her halfway through and passes out. Well, she’s had enough. So she gets his electric needle and some ink, and starts to express her opinion of him on his face—but she loses her nerve when she realizes what he’ll do to her when he wakes up. Right about then their five-year-old daughter comes in and says she wants to draw on Daddy, too. His old lady grins, hands over the electric needle and tells her kid to go to it.”
The bar had a waitress, a young woman who might have been attractive; it was hard to tell under the multiple piercings and heavy makeup. She came over to the table and Graedeker ordered a beer from her. She managed the whole transaction, payment to delivery, without saying a word.
“What about her?” Graedeker asked.
“Deaf mute with a chrome fetish. Goes to thrash concerts just to feel all that metal vibratin’ in her head.”
Graedeker chuckled. “Ah, Doyle. I like to watch people, but I could never come up with stories like those.”
“Well, we all have our talents, right? Yours seem a touch more profitable than mine.”
“I take it your finances are somewhat unstable?”
“My finances are dead stable. Emphasis on the dead.”
“I see. Well, maybe I could help you out.”
“I was hopin’ you’d say that.”
Graedeker took a long swig of beer. “You have something to put up as collateral?”
