UNSEEN: THE BURNING

  “It’s the next right,” Paco told Enrique. The SUV rounded the corner.

  Lights shone from a single-story stucco house. The front window was aglow, the curtains pulled back, and strings of little lights resembling chili peppers were looped along the eaves.

  As Enrique pulled up slowly, he flashed the SUV’s lights twice. The answer was three guys carrying rifles, who moved from the porch of the house and lazily came down the cement steps in front of it. A big black dog jumped around their legs, excited, and barked at Enrique’s car as he pulled to the curb.

  “Hola, mano,” he said to the guy who walked up to the window. They went through an elaborate handshake. Then everybody relaxed.

  “Nicky, these are our brothers, eh? Our hermanos,” Enrique said. “Treat them with respect.”

  “Claro,” Nicky said absently. He was already studying the house, wondering if he could try to trade the secret to Che for a high-ranking position in the gang. This was not Che’s house, he knew—before he left L.A. to live in Sunnydale, he had been to Che’s for summer barbecues a couple of times. Gangbangers grilling burgers, swilling beer, trying to act like suburban Anglos. It was kind of funny, but Nicky had always felt comfortable there, nonetheless.

  The door opened, and a guy wearing an eyepatch and holding a rifle, bobbed his head at Nicky.

  “It’s a party, eh?” Nicky asked, pointing to the house. He was impressed that they didn’t hide themselves away from the cops. L.A. cops were a lot rougher on gangbangers than Sunnydale policia, he had heard. Maybe not in this neighborhood, though.

  Eyepatch shrugged. Without a word, he escorted Nicky up the stairs.

  On cue, the door opened.

  Nicky went in.

  The other two climbed back into the SUV, and it pulled away.

  Buffy could not turn down a free ride—not in the endless sprawl that was L.A.—so Elfredo sent two armed guys along with her in his own vehicle. She was a bit disappointed to discover that it was a mundane blue Toyota Corolla. But that made sense; it was less likely to be noticed.

  Wrong. The area they traveled to was the land of rust buckets and flashy lowriders, complete with neon undercarriages. The Corolla was a symbol of the middle class—not a lot of that in a depressed area like this one.

  “Where to now?” one of the big muscle guys asked Buffy.

  From the backseat, she leaned forward and peered through the windshield, scrutinizing the area. Back in the 7–11 off the 101, she had discovered the Echo Park gang was led by a guy named Che. The guy in the 7–11 had also confirmed their ties to the Latin Cobras. The gang really did hang out in Echo Park, and most of them lived near Glendale Boulevard, just a couple of blocks away.

  Also, that there were rumors of something to go down soon, something huge and bad, which had to do with Russians.

  All that and three Icees for fifty bucks.

  “Glendale Boulevard,” she said, pointing to a street sign. “Left here.”

  The driver—his name was Sandor—complied, and there they were, firmly in gang territory. In fact, as they rolled to a stop at the first intersection, a guy wearing a hair net strode over to the driver’s side and rapped on the window.

  Sandor pulled a gun before he unrolled the window and stuck it in the intruder’s face.

  “Sí?” he demanded.

  “Hey, I got three guys across the street, pointing straps straight at this car,” the other guy sneered.

  Shrugging, Sandor cocked his weapon. “I’m not pointing my gun at them. I’m pointing it at you.”

  Buffy said from the back seat. “Where’s Che?”

  Hairnet frowned. He said nothing.

  “We’re supposed to go to the meeting. We’re L.C.,” Sandor said.

  “You? With that accent?” Hairnet scoffed. “Hey, man, Che’s not here, okay? They went somewheres else to have the meeting. It’s too hot around here, you know?”

  Too many cops, Buffy mentally translated.

  Then another guy walked up. He had on a thick woolen cap and a plaid shirt with only the top button buttoned. He looked at Hairnet, then down at Sandor.

  He spoke to him in Spanish, and Sandor replied in Spanish. Hairnet joined in.

  Then the new guy called, “Hey, little girl in the back seat. It’s your chance to come have some fun, baby.”

  Everyone switched to English.

  Sandor said, “Watch it, bro. That’s my woman.”

  Oh, please. Buffy mentally rolled her eyes.

  Hairnet pulled a gun, and pushed it against Sandor’s temple.

  “What’s going on?” Buffy asked.

  “They don’t believe we’re L.C.,” Sandor said calmly. “They’ve got two hostages from the sit-down with Che. They’re gonna bring them out and have them identify us.”

  “They don’t know us,” Buffy said in a rush. “Only Nicky.”

  There was a pause. Second guy said, “Nicky who?”

  “Come on. You know. The rich guy,” Buffy prompted. “He set the oil derricks on fire tonight. Nicky told us to come up to Che’s.”

  They began discussing in Spanish again. Hairnet said, “Give us your names.”

  “I’m Anita,” Buffy said. “And this is Tomás and Julio.”

  “Yeah. You’re Anita like I’m Albert Gore,” Hairnet said. His second-in-command thought that was pretty funny.

  The second guy walked off. Hairnet kept his gun right where it was.

  “It’ll be okay now,” Sandor told Buffy. “They’re going to call Che to verify.”

  Uh-oh. Buffy wondered if Nicky really did know an Anita, a Tomás, and a Julio.

  She didn’t wonder if “It’ll be okay now” was Sandor-speak for, “We’re screwed.”

  “Um, excuse me?” she said to Hairnet. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

  “Too bad,” he said. Then he huffed. “Okay. Get out slow. You try anything, I’ll shoot your boyfriend.”

  “My boyfriend?” she said flirtatiously. “Not hardly.”

  She opened the door. Part of her had been hoping for something like this. Her anger had been simmering ever since Angel had refused to see her, to help her with this. Usually when she felt this way, beating the tar out of some demons helped. But right now, there weren’t any demons to be had, only criminals who were most likely in league with demons. Close enough.

  Hairnet ticked his glance toward her. She held up her hands to show that she was unarmed.

  “Okay?” she asked. “Where is it?”

  “When Miguel comes back, I’ll show you.” He smiled slightly, revealing a fine specimen of a gold tooth.

  “Oh, okay,” she trilled. “In the meantime, I’ll show you.”

  She shot forward with both hands doubled into a single fist and rammed his arm upward like she was serving a volley ball. The gun went off, high and wild.

  Hairnet lunged toward Buffy as Sandor threw open his car door, smacking the guy with a solid whump.

  Shots rang out from across the street. Must be the second and third guys Hairnet warned us about, Buffy figured.

  She made short work of Hairnet, getting in a strong roundhouse that sent him to the cracked pavement. As he tried to get up, she sent him back down with a good solid punch to his face. She grabbed the collar of his shirt and twisted, pressing her fist against his throat. She knew that Angel might disapprove of her using Slayer force on a human in “his town.” Tough luck, she thought. He’s not here. He chose not to be here. “Now let’s talk about Che some more,” she hissed. “Where is he?”

  “Boyle Heights,” Hairnet muttered. “Sleepy Ramos.” Before she could follow up, the other two guys dashed across the street, guns blazing. Sandor’s fellow bodyguard, Emilio, shouted and grabbed his shoulder.

  Sandor gunned the engine and tried to run the guys down. One was short, one was tall, and they could both run really, really fast. Another neighborhood, another life, they’d be dreaming of becoming pro baseball players.

  As Sandor drove forward, the car cli
pped the tall one. He went down. The short one aimed at Buffy. She gave up on Hairnet, dodged and leaped back into the back seat. As she slammed the door, Sandor took off.

  A firestorm of bullets chased after them; bullets to the left, to the right, above and behind them; it was a complete and total bulleteria. Figures appeared everywhere, like some kind of advanced skill level on a video game, until it would have been funny if it weren’t so deadly. The rear window shattered and Buffy let out a shriek, pressing herself flat against the seat.

  Oh, yeah. Gang neighborhood.

  “You hurt bad?” Sandor asked Emilio.

  Emilio rattled off a bunch of Spanish cursewords—Buffy was chagrined to admit how many she recognized—while Sandor picked up the car phone and punched a number.

  “Yeah,” he said into the phone. “Emilio’s gotta go to the hospital. Sí.” He continued on in Spanish.

  When he hung up, he said to Buffy, “We’ll drop Emilio off at the emergency room. Then I’m supposed to take you back to the house.”

  “But—” Buffy protested. She wanted to get to Boyle Heights.

  Sandor looked at her in the rearview mirror. She didn’t like the look he gave her, as if he held her responsible for Emilio being wounded.

  Which, she supposed, was not all that far off. But Elfredo had told her to do whatever she thought she needed to in order to find Nicky. These guys had signed on for dangerous duty, and they’d known that when they started. Buffy was always saddened when civilians were hurt in the battle against evil, but sometimes it happened. She couldn’t let herself think about it too much or it would paralyze her.

  “Your boyfriend’s there. At the house. Waiting for you.”

  “Oh.” As if that were the final answer.

  Which, okay.

  She leaned back, then forward again, trying to get a good look at herself in the rearview mirror.

  Sandor chuckled. “You look great,” he said. “Especially for a chick who just took down a cholo from Echo Park.”

  “Good.” Buffy smiled. “Good.”

  Angel glanced at the sky as he tucked his phone away. Still dark, which was good. Still a couple of hours before sunrise. The night had been long and eventful, and he stank like smoke and sweat and fear, but it wasn’t over yet. A long shower would be nice, but he had a feeling that wasn’t in the cards.

  Buffy’s here.

  He found himself disturbed by that—disturbed that she had, apparently, been here for a while, without calling him. Disturbed that something had brought her here from Sunnydale, and that something could only be a bad something. She owed it to him to at least call, if not to come and see him, in such a circumstance. Los Angeles was his responsibility, and it was hard enough keeping up on things without people—okay, Buffy—importing them from other towns. It wasn’t like the newspapers would report such occurrences, since they either completely ignored the unseen layer of life that they didn’t understand or, when pressed, printed only the official “explanations” for events that couldn’t escape public notice.

  Which left it up to him, his network of contacts, Cordelia’s visions, and chance to keep up on the forces that threatened the city and its people.

  Buffy could help, but not by coming into town chasing or running from badness and not telling him.

  He stepped on the accelerator a little harder, stewing in his anger. It’s a good thing I’m not going to see her, he thought. I’d probably say some things I would regret later.

  Riley Finn paced the living room of the de la Natividad house. Which is, he thought, a beautiful house. But he didn’t spend much time looking at it. He was anxious. He paced some more.

  Her eyes red and swollen with crying, Mrs. de la Natividad herself had made him a sandwich and poured him a soda, then excused herself. Now he was waiting in a living room that could have easily contained his parents’ house back in Iowa.

  “Riley,” Willow said, “the bodyguard said Buffy wasn’t hurt. They’re taking someone else to the emergency room.”

  “Yeah,” he answered tersely. He didn’t care what anyone said. He cared how Buffy was.

  The doorknob turned, and Buffy walked in.

  “Riley,” she said happily, hurrying to his arms. He held her for a good long time against him, then gave her a long, deep kiss, which she so nicely returned.

  “What’s been happening?” he asked.

  “Not much.” She sighed. “I was trying to find Nicky. I did, sort of. He’s at a meeting in Boyle Heights.”

  Riley processed that. “Okay. I’ve got something, too. Also, not much. But the guy who owns the oil field down in Sunnydale also owns a shipping company. His warehouses are in downtown L.A., and the Echo Park Band was going to hit them tonight. Like the Latin Cobras went after the oil fields.”

  Perking up, she smiled at him and said, “Let’s go. We’ll try Boyle Heights first, and if that doesn’t pan out we’ll hit the warehouses.”

  His stomach did a little flip. Still, after all this time, with the flips. He loved working with her. Hell, he loved just being with her.

  They turned on their heels and walked out the front door.

  “Bye,” Willow said faintly, her hand raised in a gesture of farewell.

  Chapter 20

  Sunnydale

  AFTER RILEY LEFT, GILES DECIDED THAT THE SCOOBS should go out patrolling. Since he had nothing better to do at the moment, Spike joined them. But it was humiliating, tromping around like a pack of bleedin’ Girl Scouts, and he knew he would be making no friends among the demon populace by being seen with humans, so he eventually peeled off.

  Dawn was coming. He was grateful for an end to this miserable, sodding night.

  Then a strange force drew him to the trailer park . . . . . . and Cheryce was still lying on the bed, now reading something in French, and she actually frowned when he opened the door and stumbled in.

  She smiled expectantly. “You ready to hunt, honey?”

  She had told him not to come back until he could sink his fangs into a human.

  He said, “Cheryce, pet, do you fancy going to France?”

  “What?” She stared at him.

  “Some birds, they need a change of pace. I understand that. I hear the catacombs simply reek this time of year—mold from the rains. It’ll be fun.”

  He smiled hopefully.

  She did not smile back.

  “Come on,” he said, “mon petite crème brûlée.”

  Snickering, she closed her book. “Honey, I’m putting you out to pasture, don’t you get it?”

  “Come outside with me,” he said. “Breathe in the stench of the oil fire. And tell me you don’t want me.”

  “I can do that fine right here,” she insisted.

  He took her hand. “C’mon, my little cowgal.” He wrinkled his nose. “The stars are out. The air is filled with pollution. It’s London. It’s Vegas.”

  Cheryce shook her head, but she laughed, and Spike figured he was halfway home. When she let him lead her outside, he exulted, but he kept cool. Just let her introduce me to Woodring, he thought, and everything will be fine. But the catch is, she’ll never do it if she thinks that’s what I want from her. I have to want her for her. And that’s not me.

  “You still love me,” he insisted.

  “I didn’t love you in the first place,” she shot at him.

  But he moved in against her defenses. He kissed her, and she did that thing women do where they stiffen, then melt . . . and then scream . . .

  Something yanked her right out of Spike’s arms as she screamed, and tossed her back and forth like a rag doll.

  “Bloody hell!” Spike shouted.

  It was an enormous shadow; as Spike watched, it blotted out the stars and covered the trailer. Nothing but black, empty shadow, nothing that should have form or substance or teeth. But as Cheryce fought against it, blood started gushing down her neck.

  Spike leaped forward, grabbed her ankles, and pulled. She screamed in pain, but he kept pull
ing. Like him, she would heal, but tear her into enough pieces, and one might as well put a stake through her heart.

  Finally, he managed to tear her out of the grasp of whatever had her. She tumbled into his arms, a bleeding mess—rather like a pasta dish—and clung to him, sobbing. He unpeeled her and pushed her to the ground, and took the thing on.

  Fighting was what Spike had been made for. And this, unlike humans, he could fight. Fully vamped out, he went into action.

  His boots had steel toes and he used them to advantage, leaping into the air and ramming both his feet into a neat front kick, then a sidekick, and executing an aerial three-sixty that sent him crashing into it.

  The shadow retaliated, slamming him. The vampire flew through the air in a high wide arc, piling into the side of Cheryce’s trailer.

  As he tried to regain his footing, the thing oozed over Cheryce again, covering her, and she screamed for all she was worth.

  People—humans—began pouring from the other trailers. Trailer trash, he thought. Mostly white-haired, lined, overweight suntanned meatbags he wouldn’t have looked twice at ordinarily. A few pointed at Spike and screamed, but as he shook his head to make the little birdies and stars go away, he didn’t much care. Cheryce was in trouble—and if he lost her, he lost any chance to get to Woodring.

  He flung himself against the shadow. It was solid. He did it again.

  And there was nothing there, except for Cheryce, who had practically been vivisected.

  “Oh, my God!” a woman screamed.

  Spike made his face go human, and bent over Cheryce. She gestured for him to come closer.

  “If I die, you can have my Elvis,” she said. Then she went limp.

  Spike put his forehead against her chest—well, actually into it, by accident—then threw back his head and hollered, “Nooooooo!”

  His cry echoed through the night.

  Giles, Anya, Xander, and Tara patrolled the town. Tara walked with Giles, leaving the two lovebirds to bicker and kiss, and she and he discussed various fine points of magick. He thought she was a charming girl, quite shy, but well-versed in things Wiccan, to be sure.