Not Forgotten

  Wooden walkways extended over the carp pond and ended at the front door. As Angel glided along it, a man rushed by, carrying what looked to be a wadded-up black robe in his arms.

  Uh-oh, costumes, Angel thought. Didn’t bring one. Not going near the store.

  “Hey,” he said to the other man.

  The man turned. He looked startled.

  “I’m sorry,” he said in heavily accented English. “This is a private function.”

  “I know,” Angel replied. He gestured for the man to come closer. “It’s just, the thing is . . .” He spoke very quietly.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t hear you.” The man approached. “What?”

  “I’m mumbling,” Angel mumbled.

  “Please speak up,” the man said, coming right up to Angel.

  Angel put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “This is my first meeting. I forgot my robe.”

  The man frowned. “It is not.” He opened his mouth as if he were going to shout.

  Angel steadied him with one hand clutching his shoulder, then rammed the fingers of the other hand directly into his solar plexus. The man contracted but Angel held him upright, half-dragging him to the side of the small building.

  There, behind some bushes, he let the man slip to the ground. He scooped up the robe and threw it on over his head.

  Hood, he noted approvingly. Hope there’s not a password.

  He sent out his thoughts. Meg?

  He waited.

  Meg?

  There was no answer. Worse, he no longer felt connected.

  He spared a moment of concern for her. Then he hurried around to the door in the center of the front of the building. He pushed it open.

  Stairs led downward. If he’d been moving any faster, he would have fallen down them.

  He took them easily, as if he had every right to be there.

  At the bottom were two doors, one on his right, and one on his left.

  How much you want to bet if I open the wrong one, I die?

  Just then, a man came out of the one on the right. He was drying his hands. He looked up and gave Angel a brief nod as Angel ducked his head and passed him, grabbing the door before it could close.

  He went in.

  It was the men’s room.

  A robed man at the urinal glanced his way, then went back to business.

  When in Rome, Angel thought. Casually he crossed the room and went into a stall.

  * * *

  Father Wahid laid the unconscious limo driver behind some bushes and said, “If I weren’t a priest, I would kill this man.”

  “It would be a good idea,” Cordelia said, making a face. “But so would Ferragamos for less than fifty dollars, and you know that’s not gonna happen.”

  “I was going to go with nuclear fusion, myself,” Doyle ventured. At her look, he added, “But shoes are good.”

  She appeared mollified.

  Doyle walked to the limo. The passenger door hung open. He said, “I’ll drive.”

  “You can drive a limousine?” Cordelia asked. “I’m impressed.”

  “Sure.” Not that I ever have.

  Everyone got in, Celia hovering close to the priest. He put his arm around her and said, “We need to go somewhere safe.”

  “I vote we go to Angel’s,” Cordelia suggested. “Not that it’s necessarily all that safe, but that if he can, Angel will either show there or call. Plus, there’s tons of weapons.”

  Father Wahid said, “It would be wonderful if he had the kris.”

  Doyle started the engine. Gear ratios, he thought, eyeing the stick shift. What are they and more important, why does it matter?

  “What’s a kris?” Cordelia asked.

  “In ancient times, they were sacred swords. They could ‘cut’ words. In Indonesia, we believe in mandi. Thoughts, when spoken, take form and become real. Solid. Words. Strung together, they wield great power. They can become spells.”

  Celia raised her hand as if she were in school. “And prayers.”

  “Yes, my child,” the priest said approvingly.

  “Kind of like in comic books?” Cordelia asked. “Those little balloons with the words in them?”

  The priest smiled. “Yes, I guess. At any rate, there is a kris — just one — that can cut the power of the Book of Latura. If I had it, I could destroy the Book.”

  “Well, Angel has a lot of weapons,” she said. “So there’s yet another reason to go to his place. Okay?”

  Doyle took a breath and put his foot on the gas. The car shot backward.

  “Whoops. Reverse,” he muttered. “I knew that.”

  Seated beside Cordelia, Father Wahid crossed himself and murmured a prayer.

  “That goes double for me,” Cordelia said.

  Angel couldn’t help but stare at the epic but grisly architecture of the underground temple. The rib cage that converged overhead; the hundreds, if not thousands, of human skulls lining the walls. The hideous murals — the darkest of nightmares, endowed with form.

  I wonder how much this place cost, he thought. In dollars, if not in lives.

  He looked at the demonic statue reclining around the metal altar — talons, spines, tentacles, fangs — all of it stained with blood.

  So that’s the big noise, as Spike, my old vampire nemesis and idiot “grandson” — so to speak — would say.

  The other men in their long, black robes were standing around a fire in the lowered center of an ornate brass table that resembled the altar. Angel was cautious about getting too close. He didn’t look at all like the man whose robe he’d filched.

  One of his fellow minions held up a small gong and touched a padded hammer to it. The sound was melancholy.

  “In the name of Latura,” he intoned.

  “Latura,” the others chorused.

  “Bang Rais is dead. He will not rise.” He waited, then smiled. “His son, Jusef, will never die.”

  “Let it be thus,” the group said.

  “We have given Latura many sacrifices. We have done all he has asked. Let us continue to do his bidding.”

  “Latura.”

  “I have located the Book.”

  Everyone turned toward the altar, including Angel.

  A tall man stood on the burnished metal surface. As he opened his arms, flames rose from the base and flickered a safe distance below him.

  He threw back his hood. For a moment, Angel thought he was his adversary from the apartment fire. But while this man resembled the other very closely, he was clearly much younger.

  “I, Jusef Rais, have found the Book,” he repeated. “And now I will send jin to retrieve it.”

  The others began to cheer and raise their fists. Angel copied them.

  Imitation. It’s not just the sincerest form of flattery, it’s a survival technique.

  As the others cheered, large, green, flying monsters flapped from behind the altar. Their faces were snub-nosed, their mouths jutting masses of pointed teeth. With reptilian eyes, they scanned the group. Black, pointed tongues slavered as drool dripped from their mouths.

  “They’re starving,” Jusef explained. “When they bring me the Book, they will feed.”

  “Latura!” the man beside Angel yelled. The others took up the chant. It went on for at least five minutes.

  Which in reality is a very long time.

  “Once the Book is in my possession, I will sacrifice thousands for Latura’s sake.”

  “Latura!”

  “I will speak the words that will lead our Dread Lord from his eternal hell of darkness.”

  “Latura!”

  “I will give him the vessel in which he shall be reborn.”

  “Latura!”

  “Behold! The vessel!” The man reached down behind himself and grabbed hold of something. He squatted as he leaned over and picked it up.

  “Latura!”

  He turned back around, rising gracefully as he did so.

  “Latura!”

  A woman, bound and gagg
ed, lay limp in his arms. Her eyes were blank and dead.

  “Latura!”

  It was Meg.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Doyle was just beginning to get the hang of driving the limo when he realized they were getting close to Angel’s building.

  He didn’t think it would be a very good idea for such an ostentatious car to appear outside their building, especially with that Lockley girl breathing down their necks, so he parked on a side street a few blocks away. When he explained his reason to the others, Cordelia murmured, “Well, there is a God,” and Father Wahid actually chuckled.

  They kept to the shadows, for the most part able to skirt around the denizens of the night. One panhandler was especially aggressive, making such a scene that Doyle finally capitulated and gave him what he hoped was a one-dollar bill. It was too dark to tell.

  “Thanks, man,” the panhandler said. He stepped under a streetlight. He was wearing the most raggedy jeans Doyle had ever seen. Also, a ripped T-shirt featuring a large, very fierce-looking Komodo dragon. Beneath the drawing were the words, CLUB KOMODO.

  “Wait,” Doyle said, but Cordelia swept up beside him and said, “We’d better hustle, Doyle.”

  He turned around to find them all looking at him. I’m in command?

  “I’d better go in first,” he said. “Take a look around.”

  “Good idea,” Cordelia told him. Then she put a gentle hand on his shoulder and said, “Be careful.”

  “Good idea,” he replied, mocking her ever so slightly.

  They exchanged a smile.

  He crossed through the car park and went into the building.

  About halfway down the hall, he heard the pitterpatter of feet that sounded like they weighed fifty or sixty pounds each, stomping across the office floor. The ceiling above him shook with each step.

  He thought about what to do. It sounded immense. It probably had teeth the size of file cabinet drawers. Any weapon that might stop it was probably downstairs, but he wasn’t sure Angel had anything immediately available that would put a dent in it.

  While he was debating what to do, the office door into the hall burst open. The creature bounded into the hall, turned, and faced him.

  It was a kind of half-iguana, half-mammalian creature. Its mouth cracked open, as huge and silly-looking as a circus clown’s, its glowing red eyes reptilian, cold, and scary in the extreme. Its feet were webbed and ended in thick, spiky nails that were split down the middle, almost like hooves.

  It was covered with matted hair, sprouted from the crackled skin made of a smooth, hard, stonelike substance.

  It was a giant Chia Pet gone terribly wrong.

  It stared at Doyle. Then it turned and went back into the office.

  Great. Now what?

  Then he heard the scraping of the elevator. Then there was a tremendous crash.

  He darted into the office.

  The creature had somehow wedged its front half into the elevator. Its weight had broken the cable, and the entire thing had fallen to the basement level.

  Footfalls pounded outside the open door. Cordelia was the first across the threshold, followed by the priest and the little girl.

  “Yow!” Cordelia said, when she saw what had happened.

  “It’s a jin,” the priest said. “A form of demon.”

  “Wonderful. I hope it’s got good insurance coverage,” Doyle said.

  “No. It is wonderful,” Father Wahid said excitedly. “Rather, it might be wonderful. It was sent here for a reason. Someone must believe your friend has something they want.”

  He smiled. “My money’s on Jusef Rais. And the kris.”

  “But I don’t get it,” Cordelia said. “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because of the nature of jin,” he said. “They’re like . . .” He thought a moment. “Like those pigs in France who dig for truffles. Or hunting hounds. They seek out the essence. They find the scent.”

  “Then how come they haven’t found your Book?” she persisted.

  “I’ve kept it hidden through supernatural means,” he said. “But my wards are weakening.”

  “That used to happen to Willow, back in Sunnydale,” Cordelia said, nodding. “It was like her magick got tired.” She looked at Doyle. “Willow Rosenberg. I’m sure Angel and I have talked about her.”

  Doyle nodded. “The witch.”

  “I believe ‘Wicca’ is more politically correct,” Cordelia informed him.

  “Well, whatever she is, we could use her to get downstairs,” Doyle said. “That thing’s stuck, and it’s not happy about it.”

  Somberly they watched the creature thrash and struggle in the ruined elevator cage.

  “Someone has to get down to Angel’s apartment,” Cordy said. “ ’Cuz that’s where all the best weapons live.”

  Heads turned toward Doyle.

  He groaned.

  “You know, when I got this assignment, I was assured I was to be a messenger only. There was nothing about battling monsters in elevators.”

  “Here.” Cordelia handed him a baseball bat.

  He gripped his hands around it and advanced on the creature. It glared at him and roared like the trapped, injured, enraged monster it was.

  “If I survive, I’m writing a letter of complaint to the Powers That Be,” Doyle announced.

  Angel reached out with his mind to Meg, but she wasn’t picking up on him.

  Maybe her fear is so overwhelming that she can’t be reached.

  The robed group of followers was disbanding. There was nothing to be done except to leave with the others.

  For the moment.

  He looked up at her.

  I’ll be back.

  There was no indication that she heard him.

  As casually as he could, he sauntered out of the cavern and took the stairs. No one challenged him. The others were in high spirits, chatting about sacrifices and demons as if they were discussing last night’s football game.

  He went outside, only to see Jusef emerge from a different set of stairs. Meg was with him. His suit jacket was thrown over her shoulders, which led Angel to believe that beneath it, her hands were still bound. She walked like a zombie.

  They disappeared around a corner.

  Angel was about to follow when his cell phone went off. He jumped, then grabbed it on the first ring.

  “Oh, thank God!” Cordelia cried. “You’re alive! Well, technically. Angel, you’ve got to get over here. You have some kind of sword we need and there’s a monster in the elevator.”

  Despite the seriousness of the situation, he asked, “Did you call a plumber?”

  “Ha ha. Very funny. Really. We need you. I shouldn’t talk about it on a cell phone, especially if you ever consider running for public office, because someone might listen in. So come home, okay?”

  Meg, I’m sorry, he thought.

  “All right. I’ll get there as fast as I can.”

  He hung up and put the phone in the pocket of his pants. Uneasily he pulled the robe off over his head and walked back around to where he had left the guy he’d knocked out. He dropped the robe in a heap beside him and walked across the bridge that spanned the carp pond.

  No one gave him a second look as he walked toward the gates.

  But as he started to climb into his convertible, a large, winged creature swooped down from about fifty yards above him. It was a demon serpent such as he had fought in the blazing apartment, only much, much bigger.

  The demon grabbed Angel around the waist with massive, knife-sharp teeth. Angel began to bleed as the creature lifted him off the ground.

  Within seconds, they were hundreds of feet above the ground. A fall wouldn’t kill him unless he got impaled through his unbeating heart, but the serpent that carried him along had a major death grip on him. It didn’t appear to be ready to let go of him any time in the near future. It kept flapping its wings, sailing along on a sea of troubles.

  It also didn’t look like it was looking for a la
nding strip anytime soon.

  So, flight.

  Next time I’m taking the bus, Angel thought as the serpent’s talons found new places in his body to slice into.

  The moon was huge and yellow, filtering his blood-coated hands a muddy gray. The creature kept flying.

  Angel began to fade and doze. Suddenly the serpent stretched open its jaws and hissed, startling the vampire awake. Flame gouted from it mouth, and it wasn’t until they went up like torches that Angel realized he and his traveling companion had approached a formation of birds. Those that had been spared cawed frantically, dive-bombing toward the ground.

  The serpent didn’t follow its flame-broiled targets. It continued on its forward path, not deviating one inch left or right.

  What if we reach the mountains? Angel wondered. Is this thing on some kind of autopilot?

  After a time, he realized he’d dozed off again. He raised his head slowly. It felt like it weighed as much as a car.

  Whoa. They’d covered a lot of distance. The shining, mirrored skyscrapers of the City of Los Angeles were getting ready to meet and greet them, possibly to eat them.

  “Pull up,” Angel grunted. “Pull up!” He pulled at the talons, struggling to extricate himself.

  Then the creatures hissed. It opened its mouth and shot flame.

  Now what? he thought.

  Then he realized what: The serpent was challenging its own reflection in the glass exterior of the hotel formerly known as the Bonaventure.

  Its wings flapping violently, it picked up speed and opened its mouth again. It was vomiting flame; huge fireballs rocketed through the night sky and crashed into the exterior of the hotel. Frenzied by the battle, it gripped Angel even more tightly.

  People began shrieking. Angel pounded on the talons, clamping his teeth in frustration as the creature held him fast.

  He tried to assess his best strategy for impact; all he could think of to do was to tuck his head in and bring up his legs. The effort was almost too much for him.

  Buffy, he thought, don’t forget me.

  The serpent charged the wall. The hotel was blazing. The flames made a rushing noise like an immense waterfall.