UNSEEN: THE BURNING Page 7

  “This better?”

  Preston stared at him for perhaps a full minute.

  “Y-yeah, let’s just k-keep it like that,” Preston stammered. “Holy sh—”

  “I’m not threatening you,” Angel said. “I just don’t think we have a lot of time to fix this, and I can’t do it without you. Now, let’s talk about possession.”

  “How’d you do that?” the attorney blurted. His face was chalk white and he was beginning to sway.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Yeah, it does.” Preston wiped his forehead with a trembling hand. “It matters a whole of a lot, excuse me very much.”

  “I’m a freak of nature. Let’s leave it at that.”

  Preston looked like he wanted to say more, but maybe he wasn’t sure what that would be.

  “I can’t deny that,” Preston agreed. “I still don’t see how it’s going to help Mr. Flores any.”

  “I just have to get in to talk to him.”

  “Visiting hours are between ten and three tomorrow. Be my guest.”

  Angel pointed toward his teeth. “Jails are sort of on the high-security end of things,” he explained. “If I could get in through tunnels, or even wearing a blanket, I could go during daylight. But jails, you pretty much have to be able to walk in the front door.”

  Preston blinked. “Oh. You’re a . . . oh.”

  Angel nodded. “An oh.”

  The lawyer looked terrified. “I had hepatitis in college,” he said in a rush. “I can’t give blood.”

  “I figured you were pretty bloodless to start with,” Angel said. When the man stared at him, he smiled. “Bad lawyer joke.”

  “Ha,” he said tightly, “ha.”

  “It’s got to be tonight,” Angel persisted. “And I can’t get in without his attorney walking me in.”

  “I know I’m going to regret this,” Preston muttered. “But if it’ll keep you from doing that thing with your face, then I’ll do it.”

  “I promise.”

  Sunnydale

  “Anything?” Willow asked when she came back inside.

  Buffy had already decided to lie. She didn’t want Salma to be any more terrified than she already was.

  “I couldn’t see anything,” she replied, deadbolting the door, a very normal precaution to take. “Vast amounts of nothing. Nothingness as far as the eye can see.”

  “Which,” Willow added, glancing out the window, “it’s night.”

  “Right. So, visibility’s not very far.” She forced a little smile and walked into the room. Salma was sitting on her couch, and Willow was curled up like a cat in an overstuffed chair with a throw over her lap.

  “They could clean out that Dumpster a little more often, maybe.” Buffy took a seat in a chair opposite Willow’s, at right angles to Salma. There was a coffee table in the center, and two cups of tea were steaming there. Also, some fashion magazines in Spanish and a Sunnydale Yellow Pages.

  “What’s up in here?” she asked.

  “Just talking,” Willow replied, reaching forward and picking up her teacup. “Salma was telling me a little about her family.”

  “Would you care for some tea?” Salma asked.

  “That’d be nice.” Buffy was glad to give the nervous girl something to occupy herself.

  Salma rose. “We’re drinking peppermint. Is that all right?”

  “Homegrown,” Willow said, smiling, raising her eyebrows. “From her grandmother.”

  “Sure, thanks. Did you say your folks live in Los Angeles?” Buffy asked as Salma moved into the kitchen.

  “That’s right,” Salma said, calling back to her.

  Buffy looked at Willow and held out her hands in a helpless gesture: Didn’t find anything.

  Willow frowned and motioned to Buffy, holding an invisible stake her in hand: vampires, maybe?

  Buffy shook her head. She made a face: not a clue. But whatever it was that had been out there was something she would want to talk to Giles about. Soonish.

  “I used to live there. What part do you guys live in?” Buffy asked.

  “Laurel Canyon,” Salma said.

  Buffy turned to Willow and mouthed “rich.” “Nice up there in the hills.”

  “Yes,” Salma said.

  “Salma’s grandfather made a lot of money in Mexico,” Willow offered aloud.

  The kettle whistled. Apparently Salma had kept the water simmering in case Buffy wanted to join the party.

  “He owns some factories,” Salma went on. There was a clink of china. “He pays very fair wages and employs many people. He is well-respected. But sometimes, in Mexico, the wealthy become the targets of kidnappers. He wanted to live in the United States, where it is safer.”

  “We have kidnappers here, too,” Buffy observed.

  “This is true. But not so many, I think.”

  “So the family moved to L.A.?” Even saying the city’s initials gave Buffy an involuntary mental shudder—she had lived there until her parents split up, and she burned down the high school gym, so already unpleasant associations. Toss in Angel and his possessive claim over it, and the whole place was just a little too emotion-laden for comfort.

  Salma saved her by returning to the living room with a tray. On it were gold-and-black cups with Buffy’s tea, sugar, and creamer. Also, a small plate of chocolate-chip cookies and—get out! yum!—chocolate truffles.

  “Yes, shortly after my brother was born.” Salma set the tray down. “My father also grew up in Mexico, before my grandfather became so wealthy. I think my father was really responsible for the move, when he became a parent. He was always worried about us.”

  Buffy took her tea and tasted it. It was hot, and full of minty goodness. She spooned in some sugar and stirred. Then she set it down and picked up a truffle.

  Total heaven.

  “Do you think that’s what you saw outside? Someone watching you, stalking you?”

  Salma shook her head agitatedly as she sat back on the sofa. “No. What I saw was not human. No human can blend into the shadows like that. I do not know what it was, but I know what it wasn’t.”

  “Okay,” Buffy said, luxuriating in having her mouth completely stuffed with extremely delicious chocolate.

  “Whatever it was, it seems to be gone now,” Buffy told her. “But, just in case, how about if you stay inside at night for a few days? Give me a chance to try to clear this up.”

  Salma laughed. It was not a sound Buffy had heard often. “You don’t have to worry about me,” Salma said. “I don’t think I’ll come out from under my bed for a few days.”

  “Oh,” Willow interrupted. “We were going to talk to Salma about the list.”

  “What about it?” Salma asked.

  “I ran some of the names you gave me, of your brother’s friends, through the computer,” Willow explained. “I wanted to show you what came up.”

  “We can use mine,” Salma offered. She got off the couch and led the way to a spare bedroom that she used as a study.

  Let’s bring the truffles, Buffy thought, but she suffered in silence.

  In the study, there was a big wooden desk with a bright orange computer on top.

  Willow sat down in front of it and started tapping at the keys. Salma and Buffy watched her work quietly for a few minutes. Then the tapping stopped and Willow gestured to Salma. “Come here,” she said. “Look at this.”

  Salma went around to Willow’s side of the desk. Buffy followed even though she had already seen this once.

  “This guy is Enrique Almeida,” Willow said. “Also known as Ricky the Rocket. He was once arrested with a grenade launcher stolen from the Sunnydale Armory.”

  The man on the screen looked angry and dangerous. He was shirtless, and dark, illegible tattoos snaked across his chest and shoulders. His unshaven face was set into a scowl. Willow had explained that the Sunnydale Police Department’s gang unit took Polaroids of suspected gang members when they were stopped on the streets, and that’s what this
was.

  Salma put a hand over her mouth. “And he knows my brother?”

  “According to that address book you found. And look at this . . .” Willow typed again, then stopped. The picture on the screen changed to a mug shot, face on and profile, of a man with a flat, broken nose and cruel, hard lips.

  “Jorge Cota. Arrested seven times since he reached adulthood two years ago. Juvenile records are sealed, of course, so I can’t get to them. But chances are, he’s got one.”

  “Oh, Nicky,” Salma said plaintively.

  “One more.” Willow bent to the keyboard again. Stopped. “Domingo Ribeiro. Or Deadly Dom. He once killed three clerks in a clothing store in order to steal a designer jacket.”

  Another mug shot loaded onto the screen. This man looked small, almost girlish. But his eyes were like a shark’s, flat and dead-looking.

  Salma’s eyes were filling with tears.

  “I think that’s enough, Willow,” Buffy suggested gently.

  “I know that one,” Salma said, pointing at the screen. “Domingo. He has been over to visit my brother. I saw him a week ago.”

  Buffy put a comforting hand on Salma’s shoulder.

  “I know this looks bad,” she said. “It is bad. It looks like Nicky is involved with a gang. According to the police reports, these guys are all part of a Sunnydale gang called the Latin Cobras. They’re vicious and deadly.”

  “What can I do?” Salma asked. Her voice shook.

  “You can sit tight,” Buffy instructed her. “This isn’t my usual area of expertise. But I’ll see what I can do to track Nicky down. If I can get him away from his friends, then it’ll be your job to convince him that this isn’t really how he wants to live his life.”

  “These Cobras,” Salma said. “They are a powerful gang?”

  Buffy wanted to pull her punches, but she’d already glossed over her experience outside in the shadows and she didn’t want Salma to think this whole situation was problem-lite.

  “Yes,” Buffy said. “They’re of the bad.”

  Salma looked like she was about to cry. Buffy glanced at Willow, and the redhead stepped up to the plate.

  “The Cobras are associated with a gang in L.A. that’s a majorly powerful gang.” Willow took a breath. “One of the worst in the country, and they’ve sprouted offshoots all over the place.”

  “Ay, Dios,” Salma murmured, pressing her fingertips against her cheekbones. She closed her eyes. Willow looked upset but Buffy gestured for her to keep going.

  Willow complied.

  “They’re called the Echo Park Band. From what I hear, they’re kind of like the Crips and the Bloods rolled into one, except without the niceness.”

  Tears rolled down Salma’s cheeks.

  “I don’t mean to upset you,” Willow said.

  Buffy felt sorry. It was occasionally hard to remember how sheltered some people were—compared to the Scoobies and she herself, anyway. But she was glad Willow had been blunt.

  “We just wanted you to understand what we’re up against,” Buffy interjected, giving Willow a chance to collect herself. “This isn’t going to be easy, Salma.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” Salma said, clenching her fists. Scared yes, and freaked. But determined.

  Buffy liked her a lot in that moment.

  “I just want to know that Nicky’s okay. I just want my brother back.”

  “We’ll work on that.”

  Salma’s face brightened a little. “At least there’s one good thing,” she said. “I guess I don’t have to worry that he is mixed up with something supernatural.”

  Buffy remembered the sound she had heard outside, the silken scrape of shadow against stone. She remembered the way the shadow had seemed to move. And she thought, That isn’t necessarily so . . .

  Los Angeles

  Cordelia was somewhat insulted by the way they treated her, like she was some middle-aged mom or something. She really wasn’t that much older than these girls were. But she was out of high school—graduated, not just dropped out, like these girls had—and had a job, albeit one that didn’t come with anything resembling a steady paycheck. So to them, she was part of the establishment that they had turned their backs on.

  Unless there was a free meal in it.

  They had exited the library through a tunnel that led across the street and into an abandoned storefront on the other side. From this building, they could go in and out of the library without being seen. They led Cordelia out and around the corner to a fast food restaurant on Hope Street. All eight girls ordered, and Cordelia covered the thirty-dollar tab with a mental wince.

  They took over two tables in the rear of the dining area and chowed down greedily on flame-broiled burgers and fries. In between bites, they told Cordelia a little of their personal stories.

  At sixteen, Pat was the oldest and biggest of the lot—the group’s natural leader. Little Kayley was the youngest, and Pat felt very protective of her—a fact Cordelia had already learned, at the point of a knife. Kayley had just turned fourteen a few days before. She was barely over five feet tall, with close-cropped blond hair and huge blue eyes. Spread between them were Amanda and Holly, both Goth through and through with pitch-black, dyed locks, dark-rimmed eyes, and black lipstick; Jean, a petite black girl with narrow brown eyes that seemed to view the world with suspicion and distrust; Nicole, a blonde who was almost as tall as Pat and twice as loud; and Keri and Erin, a pair of identical Korean twins.

  They were all runaways, of course. Keri and Erin, Nicole, and Pat told of abusive homes. Jean and Kayley weren’t abused, but their parents had seemed disinterested, remote. Only Holly and Amanda came from families that seemed to have any substance at all. Their reasons for running away seemed less clear to Cordelia. Holly said something abstract about needing to explore new horizons, new ways of doing things. “I have nothing against my parents,” she said, stuffing another couple of fries into her mouth. “But they’re just, you know, not really my thing right now.”

  “What is your ‘thing?’ ” Cordelia asked her.

  She smiled wide, touching her right canine tooth with the tip of her finger. “Vampires.”

  Great, Cordelia thought. I believe I’m befriending a group of needy runaways, and instead they’re vampire wannabes?

  “They’re not all they’re cracked up to be,” Cordelia said. “Kind of smelly, most of them, if you want to know the truth. I mean, they can be charming sometimes, but you try a regular diet of blood. It’s hell on the breath.

  “Not to mention your looks. Most vampires forget about their looks after a really short time. They can’t see their reflections, so after a while the lipstick goes on crooked, and you never know if your mascara’s streaking. And your hair?” She moved her hands, invoking the international gesture for bedhead.

  “And shopping gets dicey,” she added, on a roll, “so there goes being trendy. You wouldn’t believe how many vampires Buff—people—spot because of their outdated outfits. It’s really not pretty,” she concluded, wrinkling her nose.

  “Like you would know anything about real vampires,” Pat said, grunting with contempt.

  Cordelia raised her brows. “More than you’d believe.”

  Pat raised her chin. “How?”

  “Well, I . . . I am not really at liberty to say. But I know what I’m talking about.” She pulled a face. “Really.”

  “What I thought,” Pat said, disgusted. “Just a poseur. I happen to know a vampire.” She straightened her shoulders. “A real one.”

  “That’s right,” Kayley added proudly. “And he’s going to turn all of us.”

  Ew.

  “Have you really thought this through?” Cordelia asked, not loving the idea one single smidge. “You know, being dead is a big part of the whole vampire bit.”

  “Look at us,” Jean said, gesturing to herself and the rest of her posse. “You think we really have anything to live for? Being dead can only be an improvement.”

  The o
thers nodded wearily, and suddenly they all seemed terribly old and very pitiful.

  “That’s never true,” Cordelia countered, realizing she was up against a lot. But she was willing to give it the ol’not-yet-been-to-college try. “You have all kinds of things to live for.”

  “Like what?” Amanda asked.

  “Like . . . well, clothes.” That didn’t go over well. “Um, sunny days.” She smiled brightly. “Puppy dogs. Playgrounds.”

  “Gag me,” Erin said, and the others stared at Cordelia, completely unimpressed.

  “Okay, that’s a little simplistic, I know,” Cordelia admitted. And I think I stole it from The Sound of Music. “But I’m sure if you think about it, there are plenty of reasons why it’s better to stay alive than to become a vampire and have to go around in the dark all the time.”

  They were not impressed.

  “That’s how we live anyway,” Kayley told her. “We’re never out in the daytime. If we try, we just get hassled. So we sleep through the day and go out at night.”

  “What makes you think he’ll even go through with it?” Cordelia asked. “I mean, he could just drain you all. It’s just as easy for him, and I think maybe even more satisfying.”

  Pat smiled, but the smile looked out of place on her, like that of a child pretending to be a sophisticated adult. “Because I have something he wants,” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  “A never-ending source. I know where the runaways live, where they hang out, where they go when it gets dark. With me around, he’ll never have to go hungry again.”

  Doesn’t seem to be a problem for most vampires, Cordelia thought. But it didn’t look like she’d get anywhere arguing that with Pat. She decided to go back to her other tack.

  “Look, there are all kinds of reasons to live, you guys,” Cordelia said again, practically pleading. “What about your families and friends? What about college, and careers, maybe having kids some day?”

  “I don’t think any of us have the background to be very good parents,” Keri replied, her tone practical, detached. “Our families won’t miss us, and we already are each other’s best friends. So we’ll still be together.”