City Of Page 8

  As Dru found her rhythm, at least three people fell, one a fetching young girl, and six or seven of the brutish louts scrambled backward. Two of those hit the dirt and stayed there.

  With a fierce smile on her face, his baby shot off her big guns. She took out at least three more people, and then she went empty.

  Spike bent down and retrieved the soldier’s machine gun. Precisely at that moment someone else sprayed the area with most unfriendly fire. The bullets narrowly missed the top of Spike’s skull as he flattened himself behind the dead soldier, turning the corpse on its side to increase the surface area.

  “Dru!” he shouted.

  Then more bullets flew fast and furious, torrents of them like English rain. Spike covered his head with his hands, shouting, “Bloody hell!”

  A bullet pierced the back of his left hand. It hurt. A lot.

  He dodged right, then zigzagged wildly, glancing about for escape, then finally throwing himself through a dingy, dirty window.

  He slammed into a deserted room. The floor was filthy. Rolling in muck, he stood and darted out of the window frame and pressed himself against the farthest wall.

  His hand was bleeding, but him being a vampire and all, he could work around it.

  Outside, across the alley, Dru screamed. Spike clenched his teeth and balled his right fist. In that moment, as waves of rage and helpless fury roared through him, he transformed. His face became sharp and angled, his teeth, fanged and razor-sharp. His eyes glowed.

  She screamed again. He went into overdrive, casting about for weapons in the half-light of the darkened room. He was in some kind of storehouse. Against the opposite wall, there were several cans of what might be petrol. On the floor, mixed in with pieces of wood and rotten bits of newspapers, the occasional rag.

  Directly beside him was a portable cooking stove. But more important, a pack of matches. Ironically, they were from the café they’d just fled.

  All he needed was a bottle.

  Which was summarily thrown the broken window.

  “Thanks, mate,” he murmured.

  He dropped to his stomach and crawled over to the bottle, ignoring the cuts in his hands as the shards of glass bit into his flesh. He grabbed the bottle, rolling over to avoid the fresh scattershot of bullets.

  For the first time a stroke of luck: There was kerosene in the cans.

  As quickly as he could, Spike sloshed the bottle full. He grabbed one of the rags and stuffed it inside, trailing a decent length out the top.

  Some thoughtful soul had left a pack of matches beside the stove. Spike lit the dry end of the rag, then hurled it back out the window.

  A chorus of shouts rose up, followed by a fairly decent explosion. While that was going on, Spike snuck a peek out the window.

  What he saw horrified him. They had strung Dru up by a lamppost, and they were trying to set her lovely dress on fire. She was clutching at the rope around her neck and kicking furiously. His firebomb had burst perilously close to the dainty bare toes of the left foot of his beloved.

  “Dru,” he whispered hoarsely.

  Her eyes were bulging; she was clutching at the rope.

  It was then that he saw that they were dousing her with water from small bottles — probably holy water, then — and rubbing her feet and legs with something. The stench came at him: garlic.

  They were attempting to poison her on top of everything else.

  He threw back his head and growled savagely. The sound was lost in the shouts and jeers of the mob as they tortured his poodle.

  He ran back to the cans of kerosene. He began unscrewing their lids and throwing them out the window. Most of the crowd had forgotten about him; he avoided the few potshots aimed at him and kept at his business.

  Halfway through dumping the kerosene, he found one more empty glass bottle.

  “Yes, yes!” he exulted, kissing the bottle.

  Suddenly someone shouted. Someone else answered. He looked up.

  They were pointing to his puddle of kerosene and looking not so very delighted.

  Some of the buggers began shooting at him. Others hurled bricks and stones. Plus a half-eaten piece of bread, which he strangely found rather insulting.

  He filled the glass bottle with fuel, stuffed in a rag, and made a kamikaze leap out the window. Like someone in Manchester United, he hook-kicked the bomb. It went up, up, and the barbarians, realizing what it was, began to scatter.

  The ones who didn’t, Spike plowed into. He slammed his fingers under the breastbone of one short, pudgy man, ripping it free as the man contracted into a ball of pain. Another, he slammed in the Adam’s apple. He thrust his elbow into the gut of another, then pushed him as hard as he could; the toppling fellow knocked over two or three others, who went sprawling.

  The bomb had by then landed, and the pools of flammable liquid were going up like Roman fountains. Spike clawed and bit and fought his way to Dru as the fires raged. Her poor little feet were raw and bloody; her skin where the holy water had touched it were burnt black.

  She stared down at him, her lips moving, no sound coming out.

  “Hold on, baby!” he shouted.

  He grabbed a gun from someone, shot that person with it, and then aimed it at the rope hanging above her head. He missed it by a mile. Tried again. Another mile.

  He grabbed a Russian soldier and gestured. “Shootsky,” he ordered the man, his fangs at the man’s neck in case the bloke got the bright idea of shooting Dru.

  The soldier was smart. He understood exactly what Spike wanted, and on the first attempt he shot her down. Spike’s pet landed in a fragile heap like a wispy, broken moth. Spike ran to her, but not before he tore out the throat of the Russian soldier and threw him to the ground. As soon as he made sure Dru was all right, he was going to commit a bit of a massacre.

  No sense leaving any of them alive.

  No sense whatsoever.

  One thing was for certain: It was time to leave off searching for Angelus. Now, if he could just convince Dru of that, they both might actually live to see a few more sunsets.

  He figured that would be a more difficult task than killing all these bleedin’ goulash-eaters. But if any man was up to the task, it was Spike.

  So: No more Angelus. As far as Spike was concerned, the bastard was dead.

  He would never tell Dru, but the fact was, Spike realized he was just fine with that.

  In fact, he bloody well hoped it was true.

  Angelus was trouble.

  ACT THREE

  Chces li tajnou vec aneb pravdu vyzvédéti

  Blazen, dité opily clovéc o tom umeji povodeti.

  “Wouldst thou know a truth or mystery,

  A drunkard, fool, or child may tell it thee.”

  — Romanian proverb

  Angel reached Tina’s apartment half on instinct and the other two-thirds on adrenaline. Which, theoretically, should not have been coursing through his body at the moment. But he was literally dizzy with worry for her.

  He should have stopped her. Dodged the lamp more quickly; hell, tackled her if he’d had to. If anything had happened, if something . . .

  He couldn’t even go there.

  So he ran down the hall.

  Her door was ajar, and his hopes exploded.

  He tried to tell himself that in her haste to leave, she’d left the door open.

  But he knew.

  He steeled himself as he went inside, but he knew.

  There she was, on the floor, next to the sofa bed. Stone dead.

  Her throat torn open, her blood drained.

  Still, he raced to her and checked her pulse. There was none, and he had known there wouldn’t be.

  He had failed her.

  He might as well have killed her himself.

  A vampire did this, he thought. Why be surprised? There were practically as many vampires in Los Angeles as there had been in Sunnydale. But Tina . . . and all that evil and monstrousness . . .

  He stopped and saw h
er blood on his hands.

  He stared at it, riveted. Beyond tempted. It called to him, sang to him. Human blood. He remembered the taste, the wonder of it. Couldn’t deny that he had yearned for it, just as Doyle had insisted.

  Before he realized what he was doing, he thrust two blood-covered fingers into his mouth.

  He reeled; his eyes clamped shut at the over-whelming sensation — far more than taste, or smell, or sustenance — it was what he was; the blood was the life — his life and soul; it was his being.

  Oh, oh, more —

  His eyes snapped open.

  What had he done?

  He was sickened. Lurching, he stumbled to the bathroom, sick, and turned the water on hot, hotter than he could stand. He thrust his hands under the nearly boiling gush and washed them, scrubbing over and over until they were nearly raw.

  How could he have done that to her? The last act of betrayal of her sad life.

  Committed by the one person whom she really could have trusted.

  Or should have been able to trust.

  He kept scrubbing, remembering how he had tried to decontaminate himself after his change back from Angel into Angelus. After Buffy’s love had reactivated his curse.

  Spike and Dru had laughed so at him. Looked at him askance now and then, utterly horrified at the notion that one of their own had gone rene-gade. Killed his own kind, siding with the humans. Since there was little honor among vampires, they accepted him back; Dru with arms wide open, Spike initially delighted, but never quite losing his suspicion that Angelus was not there to stay.

  Spike had been too right.

  Or had Angelus stayed after all? Did that demon lurk inside, biding his time, waiting for just the right moment to make a rebid for ascendance?

  Angel looked in the mirror, which offered no reflection. But he could see, behind him on the floor, Tina’s body. She bore silent witness to his memories, and his regrets, and to his despair.

  I must never assume I’m the good guy, he thought. It could have been me, literally, under the right circumstances. He was stunned that even now he stared at the wound on her throat with fascination. Even now.

  He crossed to the phone, his gaze never leaving her face. Silently he dialed 911.

  It must have been like this after I killed Jenny, Angel thought. And Giles was there, watching every impersonal, uncaring moment of it.

  Tina’s apartment bustled with activity. A coroner studied Tina’s body while two detectives combed the place for clues. A forensics assistant was dusting for prints.

  All this, Angel could see from his vantage point on a neighboring rooftop. He waited, still and silent, as her body was bagged and taken away.

  Then he turned, grim, stepped up on the roof ledge, and leaped.

  He landed on another rooftop far below and disappeared into the darkness.

  He had so much to make up for.

  He wasn’t certain eternity would be long enough to do it in.

  Russell Winters lived in an enormous, ostentatious fortress. Iron gates secured the stone wall that surrounded it; a guard was stationed in a kiosk next to the gates at all hours of the day and night.

  When you were who — and what — Russell Winters was, you took precautions.

  Which was fine.

  Russell Winters could certainly afford them.

  He sat back with satisfaction in his office and watched the video Margo had shot at the party of Tina. His place of business was large and spacious, and filled with the tools of his trade: computers, huge monitors, paintings, an empty desk, and thick drapes secured against the daylight. Enormous piles of material shielded him from that famous Southern California sunshine.

  From this nest of vast luxury, he kept his finger on the pulse of the world economies. He had more information pouring into this room than some of the large Wall Street brokerage houses received from all their branch offices. He had more money than many small nations. With that money he had bought himself a wonderful existence here in Los Angeles. Beautiful artwork. Exquisite clothes and cars.

  Beautiful people.

  The intercom buzzed and William said, “Mr. McDonald from Wolfram and Hart is here, sir.”

  Ah, another of my precautions.

  “Show him in, William.”

  William, the butler, escorted Lindsey McDonald from the foyer of Russell Winters’s mansion toward the study. It was a trip Lindsey had made many times, and yet it never failed to impress — and inspire — him. Uniformed maids polishing and cleaning; everything speaking of incredible wealth and power. Lindsey aspired to it.

  He would do whatever he could to get it.

  “Hello, Mr. Winters, sorry to disturb you at home,” he said politely as William bowed out, leaving them alone.

  Mr. Winters rewound the video. It was the girl. The young, beautiful, dead girl.

  “A man is only disturbed to see someone from his law firm when he brings bad news,” Mr. Winters said offhandedly, his eyes on the video. “Am I going to be disturbed, Lindsey?”

  “No,” Lindsey assured him, staying poised and professional, although he was very proud of all the good things he had done for Russell Winters in the last twenty-four hours. “The Eltron merger is a go. They caved on everything after you . . . negotiated with their C.F.O. We’ll bring the final drafts to your office tomorrow.”

  Mr. Winters took that in. “Yet you’re here today.”

  Lindsey nodded, glancing at the girl on the screen.

  Mr. Winters said, “She had something, didn’t she.” He rewound the tape again. “It’s a little sad when you kill them so young.”

  Lindsey stared at the girl, then impassively opened his briefcase and brought out a sheaf of documents. He showed them to Mr. Winters.

  “Actually, you haven’t seen her in several weeks,” he informed his firm’s client. “You were in conference yesterday with your contract lawyers when the unfortunate incident occurred. And we’ve located a witness who’s telling the police he saw a dark-complected man with blood on his hands fleeing the scene.”

  Winters was impressed. “Am I paying you fellows at Wolfram and Hart enough?”

  He shoots, he scores! “Yes,” Lindsey said calmly. “See you tomorrow.”

  Concealing his sense of triumph, he returned his papers to his briefcase while Mr. Winters continued watching the video. New scenes from the same party splashed across the monitor.

  “Who’s this?” Mr. Winters asked, interest in his voice.

  Lindsey looked at the monitor. He and Mr. Winters were looking at a vivacious young woman with a terrific figure and lustrous dark hair. Very lovely. Lovelier even than yesterday’s. Stunning cheekbones. And what a smile.

  Thoughtfully he closed his briefcase and asked, “Should I alert the firm that this young lady may constitute another . . . long-term investment?”

  Mr. Winters studied the girl’s image. “I don’t think so. I just want something to eat. That reminds me. Short Brew Food Supplies four hundred thousand shares.”

  Lindsey made a mental note.

  Around Mr. Winters, he always took notes.

  Not that he ever let on.

  The soul of professionalism, that was Lindsey. Face blank of ambition, devoid of greed. He was the perfect lawyer for a man — a thing — in Mr. Winters’s position. Discreet, loyal, nonjudgmental. Whatever Mr. Winters needed the law to do, the law would do.

  Lindsey McDonald would see to that.

  The Los Angeles Underground had been a controversial mass transportation project from the get-go. At least two construction workers had died. It had gone so over budget that some sections of it cost five hundred million dollars a mile.

  With the huge digging machines that were brought in, the construction workers uncovered fossils that were eight and a half million years old. In North Hollywood a digging crew unearthed the original tile floor of the building where the treaty which ended the California phase of the Mexican-American war was signed. In the new tunnels beneath Union Stat
ion thousands of artifacts from Los Angeles’ first Chinatown had been found.

  Rumors were rife that many other things had been dug up; things people could not identify: strangely shaped bones; bizarre objects currently labeled as “Asian Miscellania.”

  It appeared more and more likely to Angel that Sunnydale had nothing on Los Angeles.

  He sat alone in the darkness of one of the subterranean construction tunnels. The distant rumbling of the subway was like the warning growl of a massive animal.

  Doyle approached slowly. Obviously, he knew about Tina’s death.

  Dully Angel said, “She wanted to go home.”

  Doyle was sympathetic. “Yeah.”

  “I’d like to compliment the Powers that Be on a terrific plan. I really saved the day.”

  “It didn’t work out,” Doyle agreed.

  “‘It didn’t work out?’” Angel felt a rush of anger. “Tina died. A vampire ripped her throat out. Was that the grand scheme?”

  “No one controls the future. You’re a soldier. You fight.” He gestured. “Sometimes you lose.”

  That was true. He had lost before. Buffy had lost before.

  Even the best weren’t the best every time.

  “I . . . I cared about her,” he said, the words coming with difficulty. “And it wasn’t enough. I was supposed to help her —”

  Doyle cut him off. “I don’t know. Maybe she was supposed to help you. Maybe she had something to give you.”

  “Like what?”

  “Grief.”

  Angel looked at him, considering.

  “There’s a particularly nasty vampire out there. Rich, protected, can do any damn thing he wants. He’s killed, and he’ll keep on killing till someone’s mad enough to take him down.”

  He got in Angel’s face. “What you need, boy, is a bit o’ therapy. You have great pain. It’s time to share it.”

  Angel considered. How did you share pain like this? It was private. More important, it was necessary for his soul.

  Wasn’t it?

  Rumania, 1898

  In the winter of 1898 Angelus took a coach through the Carpathian Mountains, bound for a rendezvous with Spike and Drusilla. Eavesdropping on the ghost stories the prunish old chaperon was murmuring to her delectable charge, a delicate young heiress, he grinned and wondered what she would think if she knew what kind of monster sat reading a French novel across from her.