Shakedown, page 16
The Tremblor released Angel’s collar and he dropped to the ground. He got to his feet slowly. “Where are you taking me?”
To the Grounding. They will decide your fate.
“Just the people I wanted to talk to. Lead the way.”
That’s exactly what I intend to do .
Angel followed the sound of shuffling footsteps. Behind him, the earth continued to fall in on itself.
* * *
When Cordelia got to the office, Doyle was already there. He was in Angel’s office, staring at the map Angel had stuck up on the wall. There was still broken glass everywhere.
“Doyle? What are you doing?”
“Lookin’ for inspiration.”
Cordelia threw her bag down on Angel’s desk. “I thought you said you had a plan?”
“Yeah, well, my plan was to come here, look through Angel’s notes and steal his plan. So far, all I have is this map and a bunch of push-pins.”
“You better come up with something quick. Angel’s depending on us.”
“I know, I know. Okay, let’s pretend we’re him. How would he go about rescuin’ somebody from a bunch of demons?”
“First thing he’d do is find their clubhouse.” Cordelia dumped some glass off a chair and sat down.
“Right, except I’m pretty sure he’d call it a lair.”
“Whatever. Then he’d get something big and sharp and go hack them to bits. Simple.”
Doyle rubbed his temples. “Let’s back that up a step, shall we? First we gotta locate the club—the lair.”
“Okay. How?”
“Well, we know it’s underground. That’s a start. And . . . and we know the other locations where the Tremblors have struck.” Doyle pointed to the map. “See—the push-pins.”
“Great.”
They both stared at the map for a moment.
“Now what?” Cordelia asked.
“Give me a second, willya?” Doyle stared hard at the map. Angel had drawn a triangle connecting three of the points: the firehouse, the lifeguard station and the flight attendant’s residence. There was a fourth point now, just off to the right: the graveyard. It didn’t quite match up with the others, though; if he connected all the pins, it just gave him a lopsided rectangle.
“Wait!” Cordelia said, excited. “You’re not connecting them right—look!” She grabbed a pencil from Angel’s desk and drew a line between two of the points, then two more angled lines branching away from the first pin. It formed a perfect arrow.
“There!” Cordelia said triumphantly. “That’s where the lair is!”
“Cordy, d’you really think demons commit crimes that point out their secret headquarters? With an arrow ?”
“It was your idea, Doyle.”
“Yeah, but . . . I was lookin’ for somethin’ a little more mystical , y’know? Not a freeway sign . . .”
Cordelia shrugged. “Okay then—what kind of pattern do you see?”
“I don’t.” Doyle scowled. “It’s that one point that’s throwin’ everythin’ off. It’s almost as if there’s a point missin’ . . .”
Doyle took a pin and added it to the left of the triangle, across from the fourth one. He looked at it for a moment, then grinned and took the pencil from Cordy.
He connected the five points in a continuous line without lifting the pencil from the map. When he was done, he’d formed a five-pointed star—a pentagram.
“Bruce Wayne, eat your heart out,” he said.
Two hundred and forty sunless years had given Angel better-than-normal night vision, but he was still glad to see a faint orange glow of light ahead.
The tunnel emptied into a low-ceilinged chamber. It seemed to be constructed rather than natural; the walls were a combination of craggy rock and hard-packed earth. Oddly shaped columns of stone were spaced evenly around a low-lipped crater in the center of the room. The orange glow was coming from the crater; a pool of molten rock there threw off both light and intense heat.
Baasalt. You have returned . The voice that echoed inside Angel’s head was deep and sonorous. But this is not the Fourth sacrifice we were told of.
“That’s right,” Angel said. He saw that the columns were actually Tremblors encased in stone. He could just barely make out the shapes of their bodies and faces in the rock. “You’ve made a mistake. I’m not a gravedigger.”
No. You are a vampire, Baasalt thought. Is this not so?
“Well, yes—”
You have the scent of one who spends a great deal of time below the surface.
“I use tunnels to move around during the day, but—”
You were dead and buried at some point?
“It was only three days—”
Close enough. You will suffice.
Baasalt. It was the other mind that spoke—Angel realized it had to be one of the ones embedded in the columns. This is—unprecedented. The Fourth must balance the other three: one who braves flame, one who braves water, one who braves the Void— and one who cares for the earth. This one is a warrior, not a caregiver.
He is a creature of the earth , Great Batholith, Baasalt countered. That is sufficient for the ritual.
But what sort of Tremblor will be born of four warriors?
A new kind. One that will not be content to hide inside the Body of the World and play games. One that will seek new experiences, new challenges. New territory.
There was a long silence.
“It seems,” Angel said, “that there’s a difference of opinion as far as my suitability goes. In a situation as critical as this one, you really should err on the side of caution. And—I’m nobody’s sacrifice.”
He lunged for Baasalt, and grabbed the pickax sticking out of the Tremblor’s head. He yanked with all his strength and pulled it out.
(!!!!!!!!!!!!) Baasalt’s telepathic scream was like a lightning bolt through Angel’s head. Stunned, he dropped the pickax and fell to his knees.
Baasalt , thought the Batholith. Are you able to function?
I . . . survive, came Baasalt’s reply. Though I cannot say the same about the two warrior-priests this one ended. Do not let their destruction be in vain.
You slew two warrior-priests? Even though his brain felt numb, Angel could tell this was directed at him.
“I was protecting your so-called Fourth,” Angel managed. “And I’m not going to let you murder the other three, either.”
He is a protector, the Batholith mused. Perhaps not quite a caregiver . . . but you are correct, Baasalt. He will suffice. Take him to the others.
The First Warrior-Priest hauled Angel to his feet and took him away.
* * *
“Are you sure this’ll work?” Cordelia asked for the fifth time.
Doyle sighed. They were on the freeway, on their way to Appletree Estates. “For the last time, Cordy, I don’t know. It makes sense, though, don’t it?”
“It just seems kind of . . . goofy.” Cordelia shrugged.
“Yeah, well, so does usin’ somethin’ you put in pasta sauce to drive away the undead, and that seems to work just fine.”
“What about what Angel said? About the Serpentene not mentioning their involvement with Wolfram and Hart?”
“That bothers me, too,” Doyle admitted. “But we can’t pull off this plan by ourselves.”
Galvin met them at the door. His eyes were heavy and his hair slightly rumpled. “I’m sorry, I’m still not quite awake,” he said apologetically as he let them in. “Come on downstairs, I’ve got some Jamaican Blue Mountain brewing.”
Once in Galvin’s place, Doyle explained the situation. “I think I know how to beat these guys, but I’m gonna need your help.”
“Whatever you need is yours,” Galvin said.
“That’s what I was hopin’ you’d say. I understand you’ve got some studio connections . . .”
They put Angel in another cave, and sealed the entrance with a boulder. It was pitch dark.
“Are you a doctor?” said a woman’s voice.
“No, but I am a friend,” Angel answered.
A light flared in the darkness. It came from a Zippo lighter held by a stocky, brown-skinned woman in jeans and a denim shirt, her hair cut close to her scalp. She was crouched beside the lifeguard Angel had failed to protect; the man was slumped with his back to the wall. His eyes were glassy and a steel bar projected from the juncture of his shoulder and neck.
Angel drew closer. “Is he—”
“Still alive,” the woman said. “Whatever they doped us with seems to have slowed down his metabolism. I’ve stopped the bleeding, but I can’t take the bar out without starting it up again. I’ve got some medical training, but not enough to do surgery in a cave.”
“‘I’m Angel,” he said, getting to one knee to take a closer look.
“Fisca. How come you’re not drugged to the gills? When I first got here, I was sure I was back in Minneapolis at my grandmother’s house. Could taste her oatmeal cookies and everything.”
“I like to do things the old-fashioned way. I picked the severe-beating option instead.”
She flashed a quick smile, but her eyes were frightened. “Why are we here? What do they want from us?”
“Is there anyone else here?” Angel asked.
“Yeah, there’s a woman in the far corner. From her uniform, she’s either a flight attendant or delivers strip-o-grams. Her nametag says Sarah. She’s still out of it—kept babbling about summer camp and slumber parties. Lucky she finally shut up, or I would have strangled her.”
“Better put out the light,” Angel said. “Save it for when we need it.”
Fisca closed the Zippo with a snap of her fingers, plunging them back into darkness.
“Don’t worry,” Angel said. “I’m going to get us— all of us—out of here.”
He wished he felt as confident as he sounded.
Baasalt didn’t know what to do.
Ever since the pick had been removed from his head, he’d been in a state of shock. He was operating purely on automatic now, going through the motions that were expected of him. He couldn’t think of anything past the next few minutes.
All his ideas were gone.
No, that wasn’t quite true. The ideas were still there, he could remember them all—but memories were all they were. They had been robbed of their vitality, their life. They were no longer visions .
Baasalt retreated to the alcove he called home. It was only a small, empty cave, since the Tremblors had virtually no possessions other than the occasional gemstone, admired for their geological perfection; he’d never been much for them himself. And spaciousness was a repellant concept, of course.
He considered retrieving the pickax from the Grounding Chamber. That would require explaining his actions to the council—and while an hour ago he would have had no problem doing so, now it seemed inconceivable. What would he say? How could he justify himself?
But he had to do something
. Wait. What if he sent someone else to fetch it?
He broadcast his thoughts. Feldspaar. I require your assistance.
Yes, Baasalt?
Go to the Grounding Chamber. Get the surface object I left there and bring it to me.
What shall I tell the Grounding? Tell them I did not share my reasoning with you. Baasalt—are you all right? Your thoughts have changed once more.
I’m fine. Do as I say!
Yes, First Warrior-Priest.
While he waited he closed his mind and meditated. After a short while he could feel the inquiring brush of the Grounding against his thoughts, but he chose to ignore it. He knew they would respect his privacy as First Warrior-Priest.
Eventually, Feldspaar came to his alcove. He had the pickax with him. Baasalt took it gratefully, then told Feldspaar to go. He needed to be alone.
He held the pickax in both hands, studying it. That such a simple thing could cause such changes . . . He ran a rough finger down the wooden handle, saw how the metal head was attached to it. He tapped a rocky claw against the tempered steel and listened to it ring.
Finally, reverently, he raised it to his head.
And found he couldn’t quite reach the hole . . .
“Cindy! Cindy! Look what I’ve got!”
The voice came from the woman in the corner. “Oh, great,” Fisca muttered. “Here we go again . . .”
Angel felt his way over to the corner in the dark. “Hello?” he said. He tried to remember the woman’s name from the police report. “Sarah? Can you hear me?”
“Of course I can, silly. You’re standing right there. Can you see this ?”
“Uh—sure,” Angel said. “What is it?”
“My mom’s credit card—let’s go shopping!”
“Sarah, listen to me. This isn’t real. You have to try and concentrate—”
“Look, I’ll study later, okay? I always do great at History, anyway. Come on, let’s go to the mall.”
Angel sighed. Maybe if I play along I can get her to listen to me. “All right,” he said.
“Great! I know this bitchin’ dress—it’ll look great on you!”
“Uh—totally.”
Angel shook his head in the dark. It doesn’t get much weirder than this . . .
Stick it in my head, Baasalt told Feldspaar.
Once, Feldspaar would have questioned the wisdom of such an action. Now, he accepted the fact that Baasalt’s wisdom was strange, new, and therefore unconventional. He did as he was instructed, sliding the point of the pickax back into the fissure it had previously made.
There was a jolt of neural energy, and Baasalt’s mind was once more filled with exotic visions and ideas. His relieved happiness was so great that even Feldspaar could feel its effects.
Great Heart of the World, Feldspaar thought. What wondrous joy . . .
Yes. Yes! This is what I need—
Baasalt threw his arms wide and his head back in exultation.
The end of the pick struck the rock wall behind him. It drove the other end much deeper into Baasalt’s brain.
The First Warrior-Priest’s mind exploded.
“NOOOOOO!” Sarah screamed.
Angel, Fisca and the lifeguard screamed with her.
It felt like a hand-grenade going off at the base of Angel’s skull. It felt like there was a giant fingernail growing from the top of his head, and it was being scratched down an immense blackboard. It felt like every neuron he had detonated at the same time.
And not, he thought he heard Cordelia say, in a good way.
And then he was somewhere else.
Angel found himself in a shopping mall.
“Oookay,” he said slowly. He looked around carefully.
It was not your everyday shopping mall. For one thing, the roof overhead was made of bare rock, stalactites hanging down like gray icicles. The people around him were behaving normally, but they were dressed in fashions from twenty years ago. Normally Angel didn’t pay that much attention to fashion— two and a half centuries of trends had taught him that basic black was the easiest way to go—but these fashions were exaggerated, somehow; the collars seemed a little too wide, the ties a little too thin. There were a lot of neon colors: bright pink, limegreen, electric blue. Reality seen through a Miami Vice filter.
A teenaged version of Sarah was leaning against the wall beside him, rubbing her forehead. She was blond, pretty but gangly in that coltish way fourteen-year-old girls seemed to have trademarked.
“Wow, what a rush,” she said.
Angel glanced down at himself, half-expecting to find he’d been turned into a pubescent girl himself; thankfully, all he saw was his standard black trenchcoat. “Sarah? Where are we?”
Sarah giggled. “We’re at the mall, spaz. Come on—let’s go shopping!” She grabbed his arm.
Angel let himself be led down the concourse. The stores were a strange mixture of the ordinary and the surreal: the dark mouths of caves were sandwiched between clothing outlets and record stores.
“This can’t be real,” Angel said.
“Look!” Sarah said. “Shoes!” She dragged him into a shoe store.
There was a woman with long, dark hair standing in front of a wall of pumps. She turned at their approach.
“Hi, Angel!” Cordelia said brightly.
“Cordelia? What are you doing here?”
“You tell me—it’s your subconscious.” She looked down at herself, then up again. “Oh, and thanks for not imagining me naked. Or covered in blood.”
“No problem,” Angel answered. He glanced over at Sarah, who was busy trying on shoes. “My subconscious is a shoe store?”
Cordelia gave him a look. “Well, obviously it’s not just your subconscious, is it? I mean, she’s here, isn’t she?”
“Wait. Just before all this, something happened. Some kind of explosion that I felt in my brain . . .” Angel shook his head. “Why is it so hard to think?”
“Well, me boyo, y’must be tipsy, don’t y’know?” said a familiar voice behind him.
Angel turned around. Doyle leaned against a wall, dressed in green jeans, green sneakers and a green T-shirt that read KISS ME I’M AN IRISH DEMON. He had a bottle of green whiskey with a big shamrock on the label in one hand. Little green horns jutted from his forehead. “A mind ’tis a wonderful thing to waste,” Doyle said, and took a swig from the bottle. “Dependin’ on whose mind it ’tis, o’course.”
“Whose mind . . .” Angel muttered. “Not just mine. I’m in Sarah’s mind, too. Something happened to link us together.”
“Well, duh,” Cordelia said.
“The Tremblors are telepathic,” Angel said. He felt as if his mind were clearing a little. “This must be their doing.”
“I’ll drink t’that,” Doyle said cheerfully, and did.
“The caves,” Angel said. “If you two come from my subconscious and the mall from Sarah, the caves must represent the minds of the Tremblors.”
“Whatever,” Cordelia said with a shrug. She picked up a pair of high heels and considered them. “Do you think these are too strappy?”
Angel walked out of the store, leaving Sarah, Doyle and Cordelia behind. None of them seemed to care except Doyle, who waved his whiskey bottle merrily in a good-bye.
