Unseen #2: Door to Alternity

  “I’d say evil’s a good guess,” Xander pointed out.

  All three men dodged as two more leaves whistled through the air at them, driving into the ground behind them. One of them skated across the street, kicking up sparks where it struck the pavement.

  “Y’know, maybe Paul Bunyan would be more help,” Xander breathed.

  “I don’t think any mythological woodsmen are likely to come to our aid,” Giles said. “We’ve got to deal with this ourselves. And quickly, I should say.”

  Riley was already on his feet and running toward it. He zigged and zagged, dodging flying leaves the tree thing fired his way. In a flash, he was under the spread of its branches. The thing reared back as if threatened, and it brought its limbs in toward its trunk, as if to trap Riley there.

  Got to do this fast, then, he thought, before it does. He tugged a knife from a case on his belt and opened it. One of the branches swiped across his face, cutting him, but he dodged the worst of it and pressed on. Blood trickled down his forehead. Behind him, over the rustle of leaves and the creak of the branches, he could hear Giles and Xander. He hoped they were keeping out of harm’s way.

  Another branch pressed against the small of Riley’s back, its sharp-edged leaves slicing into him. This one seemed intent on crushing Riley against the trunk. But since that’s where he wanted to be anyway, he went along with it. Drawing the hand with the knife back as far as he could, he drove it with all his strength into the trunk.

  The tree shuddered, leaves quaking as if caught in a windstorm.

  Riley dragged the knife down, splitting the tree open. Sap ran, red and thick as blood, from inside it.

  More branches closed on him now, more leaves cutting him all over. He freed the knife’s blade and slammed it home again, higher up this time, opening a second wound in the tree’s trunk. The tree writhed and twisted in his grasp, but its own branches kept him close. Again, he sliced downward, both hands on the knife’s handle for leverage, making the wound as big as he could. More of the bloody sap flowed from it.

  He knew he was bleeding himself, pretty badly, from some of his wounds. Question is, he thought, which one of us can hold out the longest?

  Yanking the knife out, he thrust once more. This time, the tree let out a scream from someplace deep within, a tortured, strangled sound that chilled Riley to his soul. It bucked, its branches fluttering. Riley pushed off from the trunk with hands and feet, breaking the grip of the branches, and threw himself away from it.

  The tree did a slow pirouette, branches waving wildly, and then fell over backward on the park grounds. It twitched a few more times and then fell still.

  Riley, breathing hard, did a quick inventory of body parts. He seemed to still have everything, though he’d lost a bunch of blood. Giles and Xander came up beside him. Xander clapped him on the back. “Well done,” he said. “And can I just say, timber?”

  “You can say it,” Riley panted. He glanced back toward the tree, and then gestured to something beyond the tree, a shimmering, golden circle that seemed to hang in the air like a painting on a wall. “But can you tell me what that is?”

  Giles stared at the circle. He took his glasses off, rubbed his eyes, and replaced them, and then he stared some more. “I daresay I can’t begin to imagine what it is,” he said at last.

  “Well, I’m stumped,” Xander admitted. He started toward it. “One way to find out, though.”

  Both Giles and Riley grabbed his shoulders, pulling him back.

  “No,” Giles insisted. “No one goes near it until we can do some research, try to figure out what it might be.”

  “Good call,” Riley said. He was feeling light-headed. “Anyway, I think maybe I need to tape up some of these wounds, you know? I’m losing some blood here.”

  “I thought you were just trying to lure Cheryce out of hiding,” Xander joked.

  Riley wasn’t up to laughing. He looked back at the golden circle again, and as he watched it, it blinked from existence as if it had never been there.

  “Yow,” Xander said. “Did you guys see that, too?”

  “It was there, and then it vanished,” Giles declared. “Incredible. Absolutely incredible.”

  “That’s my word for it, too,” Xander said. “Without the drama-queen intonation.”

  Ignoring Xander, Giles put an arm around Riley’s shoulders. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you home.”

  Buffy sat on the couch in the living room of Giles’s place, rubbing her eyes and thinking of feather beds. Maybe in a country inn or a bed and breakfast somewhere snowy, with a fire crackling in a deep stone fireplace, Riley Finn’s strong arms holding her as she slumbered beneath a down comforter. In her mind’s eye, Riley nuzzled her neck and she pushed him away. Sleep was all she wanted right now.

  When she opened her eyes again, she knew that some time had passed. She looked around for a clock, saw that she’d been out cold for at least thirty minutes, maybe closer to forty. She felt—well, not rested. But maybe not quite as close to absolute exhaustion as she had been.

  The rest of the house was quiet, unusual because this house, when the Scooby Gang was around, never really quieted. She figured maybe the others had all dozed off as well. Tara had been working on and off with Willow and Doña Pilar, communicating by telephone and other, less man-made methods, on triangulation spells, and the strain took a lot out of her.

  The strain, Buffy thought, as well as the distance— Tara doesn’t like Willow being so far away, and possibly in danger.

  She left her comfortable spot on the couch to make a quick check of the house, to see who else might be around. The thought occurred to her that maybe they had all fallen victim to some sort of sleep spell, which would account for the silence that engulfed the small house. But a tour revealed that this wasn’t the case. Spike and Anya sat on the kitchen floor, Anya sipping from a cup of tea and Spike from a cup of blood, talking about old times. To Buffy, of course, old times meant the 1980s, but these two went back much farther, and Buffy had the sense that the eleven-hundred-year-old Anya enjoyed having someone, if not quite her age, at least closer to it than Xander was, to chat with. Not to mention the life experience, or lifeless experience, in Spike’s case.

  Spike looked up at Buffy as she stepped into the room, and not with an expression that could be construed as welcoming. “Havin’ a bit of a private chat here,” he snarled. His lips were painted red by his beverage choice. “That is still allowed, isn’t it, Slayer?”

  “There’s no need to get snippy,” Buffy said. “I just wanted to see who was around.”

  “Tara’s sleeping in the loft,” Anya told her. “Riley and Giles took Xander on patrol with them—I think Giles took Xander because he was afraid we would have sex in his bed if he didn’t, although what I really wanted—”

  “And my mom?” Buffy quickly asked.

  “I’m right here, Buffy,” Joyce Summers said. She walked in from behind Buffy, bearing a cup of coffee. “I was just outside the front door, enjoying some sun.”

  “It’s not safe out there, Mom,” Buffy warned her, sternly.

  “Yeah, Mr. Sun is not your friend, Joyce,” Spike chimed in.

  “It’s not safe anywhere, then,” Joyce replied. “So we might as well enjoy ourselves while we wait for whatever is going to happen.”

  “But—you shouldn’t take stupid chances,” Buffy pressed on. “You’re—you’re my mom.”

  Joyce set her cup down, put her arms around her daughter. Buffy returned the hug, feeling just the slightest bit awkward with Spike and Anya watching them. “And so proud of my girl,” Joyce whispered.

  The front door banged open then, so they released each other. Riley, Xander, and Giles entered, Riley looking like he’d been through a war.

  “Riley?” Buffy asked, all concern and fear. “Are you okay?”

  Riley smiled his just-had-the-crap-kicked-out-of-me grin. “Yeah, Buff, I’m fine. Just a close encounter with some overly aggressive foliage.??
?

  “Foliage?” she echoed.

  “You should have seen it,” Xander interjected. “I swear, I’m not going outside again without an ax. Or a lumberjack.”

  “Ha bloody ha,” Spike said sourly.

  Los Angeles

  Angel and Wesley were waiting inside Bo Peterson’s house when he pulled his truck into the drive. He killed the engine and a moment later walked through his own front door. Fortunately for Angel, Peterson didn’t know the spell that could uninvite a vampire who had once been invited in. Peterson’s mouth fell open with shock when he saw the two men sitting in his living room. Wesley folded the newspaper he’d been flipping through, set it down beside him on the sofa, and stood up. Angel kept his seat. “Time for us to have another talk, Bo,” he said calmly. The calm was a façade. Peterson made him sick. Any cop who used the badge to cover up, or facilitate, his own crimes, was the lowest of the low to Angel. At least, as far as humans went. There were death demons Angel liked better, because at least they were honest about their shortcomings.

  Peterson’s continued existence on the planet infuriated Angel to his core. When he felt this way, he worried a little—this was Angelus territory, he knew. The kind of emotion he’d been comfortable with, in those days. When one was full of rage, it was easy to unleash it on others. As Angel, he worked to hold that back, to channel it in more acceptable directions. But Peterson brought it all front and center.

  Peterson looked questioningly at Wesley.

  “Wesley Wyndam-Pryce,” Wesley offered. “I can’t say it’s a pleasure to meet you, considering what I’ve heard. But it should be an illuminating conversation. I don’t believe I’ve ever spoken with a crooked police officer before.”

  “That you knew about,” Angel put in.

  “Quite so.” Wesley inclined his head.

  “Did I accidentally say something once that made you think you could come around here any time you feel like it?” Peterson demanded angrily.

  “You should have thought of that before you decided to go on the take,” Angel observed, barely keeping the fury that bubbled inside him in check. “You don’t have a private life anymore. You belong to me.”

  Peterson looked defiant, but Angel knew the man could be broken. More easily each time, he believed.

  “I don’t think so,” Peterson objected. But his face was pale and his expression shaky.

  “You keep thinking that,” Angel told him. “But you’ll give me what I want.”

  Now he looked even more uneasy. “And that is?”

  “Who’s Vishnikoff?”

  Peterson blinked. “Never heard the name.”

  “We know differently,” Wesley interjected. He balled his fists and took a step toward Peterson, who outweighed him by about a hundred pounds, most of it solid muscle. “You’re going to sing like a canary,” he said in his best Bogart.

  Peterson looked at Wesley. Wesley looked at Angel. “Not helpful?”

  “Not particularly,” Angel said.

  “Sorry.” Wesley stepped back. “Carry on, then.”

  “Vishnikoff,” Angel reminded Peterson.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Peterson insisted, but if he had ever harbored acting ambitions, it was good he had a day job.

  “Vish-ni-koff,” Angel said again, separating out each syllable. “It’s a Russian name, if that helps.”

  “Why would that help?”

  “You trying to tell us you’re not hooked up with the Russians?” Angel asked, forcing himself to remain in his chair, his casual, outward appearance belying the barely contained rage he felt. He let his anger color his voice, though. “You going to tell me you didn’t sic the Mafiya on me after the first time we talked?”

  “The Mafia’s Italian,” Peterson said. “Not Russian.”

  “Sicilian, actually,” Wesley replied. Angel shot him a look. “Though that’s neither here nor there, really.”

  “This one’s Russian,” Angel pointed out. “I hear they make the Sicilian one look like a troop of Brownies. Now quit wasting our time, Bo, and don’t make me get physical again. We know Vishnikoff has been paying you off. We just want to hear from you who he is and how we find him.”

  Peterson was still standing just inside his front door. Sweat had started to spring from his temples and forehead, and the armpits of his tee shirt were dark.

  “I can’t tell you anything about him,” Peterson said finally. “If I do my life won’t be worth a nickel.”

  Angel fixed him with a steady gaze. “What makes you think it is now?”

  “I’m still breathing.”

  “That could change. You want to see the face again?”

  Peterson shook his head.

  “Then who’s Vishnikoff?”

  Capitulating, Bo Peterson came farther into the room and plopped down heavily in a vacant chair, shoulders slumped with defeat. “You’re right, he’s a Russian.”

  “You might try telling us something we don’t know,” Wesley said. “Unless . . . well, unless you want Angel to get mad at you. It isn’t pretty.”

  Peterson took large gulps of air, like a drowning man trying to breathe. Angel could see the fear that gripped the beefy cop, could smell it on the air, and couldn’t help taking an unwelcome degree of pleasure in it. Once again, he felt the old, Angelus part of himself uncomfortably close to the surface. A moment’s release, he knew, and Peterson would be meat.

  And Angelus, unchecked, would be loosed upon the Earth once more.

  He fought it back, controlled it. Let Peterson go on living a while longer. He needed the man alive, needed the information he had.

  “He—he’s a scientist or something,” Peterson said. “He’s protected by them.”

  “By whom?” Wesley asked.

  “You know. By the Mafiya. The Russian gangs. They all look out for Vishnikoff, for his whole family. Make sure no one bothers them.”

  “Why?” Angel demanded. “Who are they?”

  “I don’t know,” Peterson breathed. He looked up pleadingly, and it was just too plain bad that pathetic expressions didn’t work on Angel when they were on the faces of dirtbags. “And that’s the truth. I just know they’re somebody. Somebody big, important. And whatever they do . . .” He paused.

  “Yes,” Wesley encouraged him. “Whatever they do, what?”

  “It’s bad,” Peterson finally got out. “It’s really bad. I don’t want anything to do with it, man.” His Adam’s apple bobbed and his voice became thin and tight. Perhaps unconsciously, he slipped his hands into the hollows of his armpits, protectively huddling in the miserable sphere of guilt he had constructed for himself.

  “I haven’t been a good cop, I know that. I’ve taken money, I’ve done crimes, I’m not proud of that. But whatever the Vishnikoffs are up to, word is that it’s a thousand times worse than anything I’ve ever done, and I don’t want to be part of it.”

  “You don’t have to be,” Angel said. “It’s not too late to change sides.”

  “Yeah, it is,” Peterson argued. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Way too late.”

  “As long as you’re alive, it is never too late to turn a new leaf,” Wesley said. Then, glancing at Angel, he added, “Sometimes being alive is not even the deciding factor.”

  “I turn now, I won’t be alive much longer,” Peterson said.

  “But if you don’t, then how many die?” Angel asked him.

  Peterson stared past Angel, as if seeing a future there that terrified him. He gripped his own upper arms in a pose that looked awkward on such a muscular man—it was a scared little boy’s posture.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll tell you what I know. It ain’t much. But I’ll tell it to you.”

  He started to talk.

  As Peterson had claimed, he didn’t know much. But Angel kept up his end of the bargain, delivering Peterson to Kate Lockley at her office. He had his hands cuffed behind his back, and the few cops who had seen them come in had stared with undis
guised interest. A few of them had seen Angel around before, but most recognized Peterson as a cop, even though he was out of uniform.

  “He wants to confess,” Angel said. “He wants to come in from the cold.”

  Kate held Peterson in a steely gaze. “I’ll listen,” she said. “But I’ll warn you right now, dirty cops make me sick to my stomach. So I won’t like it, and I won’t have any sympathy for you.”

  “That’s okay,” Peterson said dejectedly. “I got enough self-pity for both of us.”

  She led him into an interview room, and Angel and Wesley headed for the elevator.

  * * *

  Doña Pilar took Willow shopping.

  She grew most of her own herbs, but there were other items she needed to purchase. One could only raise so many newts, and she didn’t keep rattlesnakes around at all, so when a spell called for a rattle or a venom sac, a trip to the market was in order.

  But these weren’t things one found at your standard well-lit twenty-four-hour supermarket. One of the de la Natividads’ security guards brought a car around to the front door and picked them up, and then twenty-five minutes later pulled to a stop on a quiet side street in the shadow of downtown. The high-rise financial buildings and fancy hotels were just blocks—and a world—away from this street. On the corner was a mercado, its windows papered with handwritten signs in Spanish advertising specials on manteca, menudo, cerveza, and other staples. Colorful piñatas hung from the eaves, casting odd shadows on the sidewalk.

  The store they needed was next door.

  Doña Pilar pushed open the metal and glass door, causing the bells tied around its handle to ring. A woman rushed out of a back room, smoothing her skirt down. She was no taller than Doña Pilar, and just as dark-complected, but younger, with pitch-black hair and smooth, unlined skin.

  She looked like she’d been crying.

  She and Doña Pilar launched into jet-speed conversation in Spanish. Willow could only follow a few words, but it didn’t sound good. She passed the time by wandering the narrow, tightly-packed aisles, marveling at the wide array of magickal accessories, herbs, implements and books to be had. It was like the downscale version of Sunnydale’s Dragon’s Cove Magic Shop, where she’d first been introduced to many of these items—not as well-merchandised, but there seemed to be even more to choose from here.