Shakedown, page 9
Doyle jerked a thumb at himself. “Good guy,” he snapped. He pointed the tire iron at the Tremblors. “Bad guys.”
The Tremblors attacked.
They moved as one, unified by telepathy. The first Tremblor charged Doyle, while the other two moved to either side, trying to get to the lifeguard.
Doyle swung the tire iron. It connected with the Tremblor’s head with a solid clang! but didn’t slow him down. The Quake demon swatted him aside with one clawed hand; Doyle sailed through the air, stopping when he hit the side of a Volvo. He fell to the ground with the breath knocked out of him.
He staggered to his feet. His right shoulder and arm were completely numb, but he picked up the tire iron with his left. “Okay,” he wheezed. “Now you’re in for it . . .”
The lifeguard had turned to run, but he’d only gotten a few steps away when one of the Tremblors lashed out with his tail, catching him behind the knees and sending him to the concrete. Instead of trying to get to his feet, he rolled under a Cadillac before they could grab him.
Which is when Angel’s car crashed through the security gate.
The gate, the kind that lowered from the ceiling like a garage door, caught on the bumper and tore off. The convertible, wearing the gate like some kind of huge metal flyswatter, roared up to the pair of Tremblors and slammed into them, picking them up and carrying them backward until they broadsided a minivan with a crash of rending metal.
Angel leapt out of the driver’s seat.
This time, he had a pickax.
The remaining Tremblor was dragging the lifeguard out from beneath the Caddy by one leg. Angel drove the pickax full-force into the back of the demon’s head.
It stuck there.
The Tremblor whirled around, tearing the handle from Angel’s hands.
You again, the demon thought at him.
“Telepathic, huh?” Angel said. “That’s right, me again. And this time you’re on my turf.”
Your weapon is useless . The Tremblor ignored the pickax completely. He advanced on Angel, his tail thrashing angrily.
“Aaaaaah!” Doyle yelled, and ran at the Tremblor with his tire iron held high. He let his demon half surface as he charged; his complexion darkened to blue-gray and his face transformed, spikes erupting from his skin like fast-growing thorns.
He swung the tire iron as hard as he could, catching the pickax at the juncture of its shaft and its head, and succeeded in driving the point of the pick a few inches deeper into the demon’s skull.
The Tremblor paused.
( . . . ) he thought. He didn’t move.
Angel began to cautiously edge around him. The Tremblor stayed motionless.
“Good job,” he told Doyle without taking his eyes off the Tremblor. “I think you stunned him.”
“Do you hear that, or is th’noise just inside my head?” Doyle asked groggily. A low rumble shook the air, growing louder every second—and then the gate pinning the two demons to the minivan suddenly exploded outward. A flying chunk of metal clipped Doyle on the side of the head, and he collapsed without a sound, reverting to human as he did so.
Angel wasn’t as lucky; steel bars impaled his neck, torso and one of his legs. The pain was enough to drive him to one knee, but that was fine; as long as he could still feel, his head was still attached, which meant he’d survive. Decapitation wasn’t as widely used as a stake through the heart, but it would destroy a vampire just as surely.
The two Tremblors he’d pinned to the minivan were now free. One stalked toward the lifeguard, who was sitting sprawled on the ground. There was a metal bar projecting from just below his collarbone; he was touching it gingerly, his face pale with shock. The Tremblor grabbed him unceremoniously by the arm and began dragging him toward the hole in the wall. Halfway there, the lifeguard passed out.
The other Tremblor approached Angel, who managed to get to his feet.
You fought well.
“I’m not finished.”
Yes, you are. Your ally is unconcious. You are badly wounded and weaponless. You cannot hinder us further.
“Fine. Mind if I leave, then?”
You are free to go.
Angel turned and began to limp away.
* * *
The Tremblor watched him go, then gave the mental equivalent of a shrug. His people were tenacious—warrior-priests especially so—but these Skin-Dwellers seemed like creatures ruled by whim, their motives and reasoning as changeable as mercury. He doubted if this one had the memory, let alone the will, to interfere with their sacred mission again.
He turned to Baasalt to see if he was all right. The strange implement still jutted from the back of Baasalt’s head, and Baasalt hadn’t moved since he’d been struck the second time.
He reached out with his mind and touched Baasalt’s presence gently. Baasalt? Are you whole?
( . . . * . . .)
This was something the Tremblor had never heard before. He didn’t know how to respond; it was unprecedented. Tremblors did not deal well with change, and change in themselves was almost inconceivable.
I don’t understand, he projected. Could you repeat that? He thought he heard a roaring noise, but ignored it—the Skin of the World was a noisy place.
Angel rammed him with the Mercedes.
The car plowed into the demon, knocking him onto the hood. The vehicle continued to accelerate until it rammed headfirst into the far wall. It did a good job of embedding the Tremblor there.
The airbag inflated on impact, saving Angel from a serious head injury. Unfortunately, it also violently wrenched aside three of the metal bars currently stuck in his body.
This time, the pain made him pass out.
CHAPTER SIX
Baasalt was a creature made of rock. His body reacted to tempered steel the way a biological organism might react to a concentrated stimulant— and when the tip of the pickax penetrated his brain, he had an epiphany. The walls between memory and thought shattered. Connections sparked throughout his mind. Ideas started to generate spontaneously. His was not a race given much to imagination—but that was exactly what suddenly engulfed his mind.
He was barely aware of the outside world. It didn’t seem important anymore.
The rush of imagery and concepts eventually slowed to a manageable pace, and he came back to himself. He looked around with new eyes.
One of the metal bugs had pinned Maarl to the wall. Feldspaar was standing at the tunnel entrance, the unconscious form of the one they had come for slung over his shoulder. Another unmoving Skin-Dweller lay on the ground a few feet away.
Maarl does not respond, Feldspaar thought at him.
Leave him, Baasalt thought. The Third of the Four is the important thing. We must go before we attract more attention; the Skin-Dwellers will swarm over this place like metal bugs to an abundant source of energy.
Feldspaar’s thoughts showed the analogy confused him, but he turned and trudged into the tunnel. Baasalt followed him.
He almost forgot to collapse the tunnel behind him to forestall pursuit. He had a lot to think about. . . .
When Angel came to, he was confused. At first he thought someone had wrapped him in a burial shroud, but he was sitting behind the wheel of a car.
Maybe they were going to bury him in the car. Maybe it was a car he really liked.
Then he realized the shroud was just the punctured remains of the airbag. The pieces of metal sticking out of his body had ripped several large gashes in the material.
Through the cracked windshield, he could see a Tremblor right in front of him.
It was the one he’d hit with the Mercedes, and he wasn’t moving. Actually, he seemed embedded in the concrete wall—but somehow, Angel doubted he was dead.
He grabbed the bar protruding from his own chest, gritted his teeth and yanked it out. He did the same with the others, as quickly as he could. All this commotion was going to attract attention.
He climbed out through the shattered driver’s window and looked around. Doyle was sitting up, rubbing a bloody gash on his head, but the other Tremblors and the lifeguard were gone.
He limped over to Doyle and helped him to his feet. “You okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. Just don’t ask me anything hard, like my name.”
Angel inspected the front of his convertible. It was bashed in a bit, but the shockwave the Tremblors had generated to destroy the gate didn’t seem to have affected it. He started it up, backed away from the minivan and parked next to the crashed Mercedes.
Angel popped open the trunk and got out a crowbar. “Doyle, give me a hand.”
“What’s up?” Doyle said. He pulled a flask out of his pocket and took a long, deep swig.
“We’re taking a little something home with us.”
The Tremblor sat slumped in the chair. A heavy towing chain was wrapped around his body, pinning his arms to his sides. The demon hadn’t moved for hours, not since they’d pried him from the wall and hauled him across town to the office.
It was morning now. They’d spent the night trying to figure out how to interrogate him.
“Jackhammer?” Doyle suggested.
“Too noisy.”
“Dynamite?”
“I’d like to do this without destroying the office.”
“Barney marathon?”
“Without destroying the office or my sanity. Anyway, I don’t want to torture the thing, just intimidate him into giving us some information.”
“Well, we better figure out the intimidating part before he wakes up, ’cause right now I’m the one who’s scared of him.”
The door opened and Cordelia strode in. “And she’s back—Cordelia PI! Coming soon to Fox—”
She stopped dead as soon as she noticed the Tremblor. “Euuw. Is that a Quake demon? I thought he’d look more—Amish.”
“You’re thinkin’ of Quakers,” Doyle said. “The guys that make the oatmeal.”
“Oatmeal is made by demons? No wonder I prefer croissants. What’s he doing here?”
“We’re trying to think of a way to make him talk,” Angel said.
“Well, first you’ve got to wake him up,” Cordelia said. She grabbed a glass of water sitting on her desk and threw it in the Tremblor’s face.
“Cordy, no!” Doyle blurted out.
“Too late,” Angel growled.
The demon’s eyes opened. The chair he sat on began to shake. The chains binding him vibrated furiously—then links started snapping, one by one.
“Hey!” Cordelia said. “Hey, that’s my chair!”
“Get down!” Angel shouted.
All three of them hit the floor as the chain exploded, showering the office with shrapnel. The Tremblor lurched to his feet.
“Great,” Angel said under his breath. “And I’m out of pickaxes.”
He jumped to his feet and faced off against the demon. “Surrender,” Angel said. “Or be destroyed.”
Never!
He swung at Angel and the vampire dodged back, out of the demon’s reach. The Tremblor’s tail thrashed, knocking over the table with the coffeemaker on it.
“Get him!” Cordelia demanded.
“Weapons!” Doyle said, and dashed into Angel’s office. He reached for the first big, sharp thing he saw, a broadsword hanging on the wall. It was almost as long as Doyle was tall; he grabbed it with both hands, slung it over his shoulder and rushed back into the fray.
Angel was doing his best to stay out of reach of the demon’s hands, while Cordelia confused the Tremblor by throwing whatever she could lay her hands on. Doyle stopped, braced himself and yelled, “Back off, y’rocky bugger! This is a magic sword!”
The Tremblor hesitated.
“It is?” Cordelia said. Angel shot her a warning glance.
“What’s the matter, you never heard of the—the sword in the stone? Why, this blade has hacked up more boulders than, than . . .”
“Than any other sword in the stone,” Angel said.
The Tremblor glared at them suspiciously. I have heard tales of such a sword . . . he thought at them.
“Angel, Doyle!” Cordelia snapped. “Get over here, quick!” She threw open the window.
Angel and Doyle exchanged glances. Angel nodded, almost imperceptibly, and they both charged the demon.
Angel hit him high, with a flying kick. Doyle thrust for the demon’s guts with the point of the sword, as hard as he could. Neither blow did any appreciable damage . . . but they did succeed in knocking him off-balance. He fell backward, stumbled, and crashed halfway through the window before grabbing hold of the sill.
And screamed.
“NOOO! NOOOO! The Void! THE VOID!”
He was staring straight up into the smoggy sky. “Too big, too big,” he whimpered. He sounded like he was in shock.
They pulled him back inside, Angel carefully avoiding the sunlight, and the Tremblor collapsed on the floor in a shaking heap. He suddenly seemed about as dangerous as a frightened puppy.
“O’ course,” Doyle exclaimed. “He’s spent his whole life underground—he’s agoraphobic!”
“He’s afraid of sweaters?” Cordelia said.
“No,” said Angel. “He’s afraid of wide-open spaces. Good thinking, Cordelia.”
“Actually, I just wanted you to throw him out the window,” Cordelia replied. “I mean, look at this mess. Can’t you fight outside for a change?”
Have you ever wondered why we don’t do anything? Baasalt thought.
No, I haven’t, Feldspaar thought back. He and Baasalt were returning home with their captive. They had been trudging along for some time, descending deeper and deeper into the earth. Feldspaar had been thinking about Maarl; death was a rare thing among their kind, and he couldn’t bring himself to really believe Maarl could be gone. It was just too big a change.
We live , Baasalt continued, but we don’t affect the world around us. We warrior-priests have our holy duties, but most Tremblors spend their lives merely existing. Don’t you think?
I think you should take that thing out of your head , Feldspaar replied. It doesn’t belong there.
Baasalt had refused to remove the pickax from his skull, insisting it was causing him no harm. It’s some sort of magical artifact, he declared. I see everything as if for the first time.
Your thoughts are strange. They do not flow in an orderly way.
They do not flow—they gush! Baasalt stopped and threw his arms open wide. Oh, I wish I could properly convey the impressions dancing in my brain!
Feldspaar didn’t know what to think about that.
“Talk,” Angel said. “Or I’ll open the box again.”
They were on the roof of their building. Doyle and Cordelia had rigged up a sun-shelter out of blankets for their boss, and a large crate scavenged from the alley made an impromptu cage for their prisoner. Angel sat in a lawn chair underneath his makeshift tent holding a string; the other end was attached to a piece of cardboard serving as the crate’s lid.
No! I will not betray my people!
Angel pulled on the string. A crack of daylight appeared between the top of the crate and the lid.
Aaah! No, no, not the Void! I’ll tell you what I know!
Doyle and Cordelia stood a little way off, Doyle leaning on a ventilator hood and Cordelia with her arms crossed. “It’s kind of creepy,” Cordelia said. “The way it talks without talking? Right into your head . It can’t do some kind of mental whammy, can it?”
“I don’t think we have to worry about his brain power,” Doyle said. “So far, he hasn’t even figured out he can just close his eyes.”
“Tell me about the fourth victim,” Angel said. “Who is it?”
I do not know the Skin-Dweller’s name.
“But you know where to find him.”
Baasalt knows. His tuber has the scent of the marked places.
“Baasalt. Is that your leader?”
He is First Warrior-Priest. It is his duty to find the Four.
“You said there were ‘marked places.’ How are they marked?”
They are marked by our allies on the Skin of the World. It makes it easier to find the Four.
Angel leaned forward in his lawn chair. “Who are your allies on the Skin of the World?”
They are Skin-Dwellers, like you. They speak only to Baasalt.
“Do they have a name?”
I do not know.
Angel yanked on the string, letting the top flap open for just a second. The Tremblor’s horrified mental scream made both Cordelia and Doyle grab their heads.
“Tell me their name! Is it the Serpentene? Wolfram and Hart? Tell me!”
Please let me go, oh please let me go home . . .
There was a slight breeze on the rooftop, and it shifted just then. Suddenly, Angel was sure he could smell lemon trees, and just the faintest trace of burning wood.
Baasalt and Feldspaar stood before the Grounding, the ruling council of the Tremblors. There were six members, and they stood in a semicircle in a cave miles below the surface. They resembled stone columns that reached from the floor of the cave to the ceiling, for they were one with the rock surrounding them.
The warrior-priests had delivered their hostage, and now Baasalt was making his report.
The Skin of the World is a chaotic, disorganized place, Baasalt thought. We accepted the help of the Skin-Dwellers for just this reason; they can navigate the shifting currents of their culture to provide us with what we seek, within the Skin-Dweller’s time span instead of our own. But there is another way, a way to impose the order of our society on the unpredictability of theirs.
Go on.
We must dominate the Skin of the World.
Impossible! It is a seething river of madness!
Then we must dam that river. We must change the Skin of the World into a place of restraint and control. Baasalt began to pace in front of the council, a severe breach of etiquette. The pick in the back of his head bobbed up and down as he nodded to himself. And we can do this, Great Batholith—it is within our power.
