Impressions Page 7

  Deliberately, Angel put his foot over the collar almost hidden in a shallow puddle. “He’s not here,” he said. “Let’s get you back aboveground.”

  The boy’s smeared face took on an obstinate expression. “I saw him here. He hunts them big old rats.”

  “It’s a big place,” Angel said simply. “He’s not here, here.”

  Or most of him wasn’t.

  Angel fought the sudden impulse to say, Look, kid, the cat’s lying all around you in little bits and pieces, with most of him stuck between this demon’s teeth. He’s not coming back home, ever, so get your butt moving! Instead, extra gently, he held out his hand. “Let’s go. I think you need a Band-Aid or two, and I have some with Blue from Blue’s Clues.”

  That produced an extra-loud snuffle, as if the boy suddenly realized he indeed had a scratch here and there. He said doubtfully, “You do?”

  Not really. They belonged to Cordelia. “I definitely do.” He retrieved the flashlight, and by the time he straightened he had a little boy clinging to his other hand. Ignoring the sweet smell of young blood, he led the boy back out to the early evening streets.

  • • •

  “We’re in trouble if we’ve got to jog this whole strip.” Gunn climbed out of his truck at the parking lot in the area defined by Pico and Venice and La Brea—and San Vincente itself, which held the median strip part that originated right here. He wished he’d chosen footwear that was less street commando and more joggerly. Then again, he wished he knew why the Miquot was riled up in the first place…and most of all he wished he knew why Cordelia had the faint smudge of worry on her brow when she looked at Angel. Of all of them, she knew him best…if she was worried, Gunn was worried.

  Wesley exited the passenger side and slammed the door. “We won’t be the only ones in trouble,” he said. “Joggers up against a Miquot…I can’t imagine what would possess a Miquot to stoop to such an easy target.”

  “Take it easy on the door.” Gunn shot him a scowl and added, “And how can a demon be possessed?”

  “Just a figure of speech.” Wesley looked down at his loafers, then looked at Gunn over the hood of the truck. “Not that I don’t appreciate this fine parking job, but…”

  “You thought we were going to cruise the strip park?” Gunn asked. “Sure, maybe we can go slow enough in the left lane to incite an L.A. freeway shoot-out. That’d be a nice break from Miquot.”

  “It’s hardly the freeway,” Wesley said, in patient mode, opening his door again.

  “People have tempers everywhere,” Gunn said, climbing back into the truck. “Or hadn’t you noticed lately? Anyway, she’d better not get so much as scratched.” He patted the dashboard and waited for the chance to pull onto San Vincente so they could prowl along the green strip with its random trees and regular bisections of slanting left-turn lanes.

  “Just drive,” Wesley said, an edge finally creeping into his voice. “I’ll watch the median. Oh, and roll down that window.”

  “The better to hear their screaming,” Gunn muttered. More innocents in the way of trouble…he wasn’t sure why L.A. didn’t wise up.

  Because Miquot don’t attack joggers.

  Not usually.

  No, usually they were more of a tough bounty hunter type, going in for the big game, growing their own knives from their arms at will and taking on what challenged them.

  Uneasily, he wondered what else might be going on in L.A., what other not usual things were coming down just as he started a fresh batch of kids as neighborhood demon watch. A fresh batch of cocky, overconfident kids who present him with the opposite problem Angel faced in his impersonator. These kids were so full of themselves that they didn’t leave room for seeing how someone else went about it. They were ready to strike out on their own, make their own names…and if he didn’t get them turned around, meeting their own dire fates.

  Yeah, bad timing.

  “Is that—?” Wesley said, pointing across the steering wheel at a flash of yellow. Someone behind them honked, then pulled around to pass on the right, gesturing nastily.

  That particular shade of yellow, the way the figure clung to the trees and shadows…“Looks like it,” Gunn said, jerking the truck into a left-turn lane and ignoring the horn that sounded behind him. He bumped up on the grass, half-on, half-off the road, and cut the engine. “Plan?” he asked, groping in the space behind the seat for their weapons bag.

  Wesley held up the crossbow he’d prepared, and a handful of bolts. “Turn him into a pincushion from afar. Then, when he notices—”

  “You got enough bolts there so he’ll bother to notice?” Gunn asked dryly.

  Wesley ignored him in a dogged way. “Then he should be weakened enough that between the two of us—”

  Decisive, Gunn said, “I’m bringing more bolts. And another crossbow. I’ll load, you shoot. If we’re going to pincushion him, let’s do it right.”

  “Fine.” Wesley hopped out of the truck as the first scream broke through the traffic noise. He headed for it at a run.

  Gunn hesitated, and then followed his impulse to grab the entire weapons bag and bring it along.

  These Miquot…too nasty to take any plan for granted.

  Hefting the crossbow and weapons bag, Gunn sprinted after Wesley, the sparse trees and cars a blur to either side. Damn thing ought to have chosen a better spot. One that wasn’t so out in the open, where so many once-blithe people could witness the previously unbelievable.

  Where two innocent women weren’t playing a horrifying game of keep-away from a yellow, fin-headed killing machine. Gunn could see them clearly now—enough to know they hadn’t wasted time trying to understand what attacked them or why; they’d split up, working to defend each other, not with strength so much as distraction. Brown hair up in saucy jogger’s ponytails, matching outfits…mother-daughter team. As Gun and Wesley reached decent crossbow range, the Miquot closed in on the daughter, and the mother kicked it and ran. The Miquot whirled to follow.

  That’s not right. Miquot were not stupid; they were not distractable. They were dangerous, intelligent, and cunning and as well-trained as any Slayer. Gunn set the crossbow to his shoulder; Wesley’s twanged beside him, and the first bolt buried itself in the Miquot. Gunn aimed and—

  —thwap—

  —his bolt sprouted from the Miquot’s arm. “Hah,” Gunn said. “Try growing more knives from that—”

  “You had to say it,” Wesley murmured, cranking his crossbow string back with fervent effort as the Miquot sprouted several nasty blades along its arm and tore one off to fling at them—

  —missing?

  “He missed!” Gunn said in surprise, setting another bolt into place. Aim and fire—

  “So I noticed.” Wesley released another shot; it buried itself in the Miquot’s throat, which actually staggered the demon. The joggers weren’t slow to take advantage of their reprieve…they grabbed each other’s hands, cast Wesley and Gunn identical, terrified looks, cast the Miquot an even more terrified look, and ran.

  The Miquot yanked Gunn’s arrow from its arm and threw it to the ground, heading for both Gunn and Wesley even as they released a simultaneous third salvo.

  “Pincushion,” Gunn said, not hesitating as he reached for another bolt. “Not doing much good.”

  “None of this makes any sense,” Wesley admitted, backing up several steps as the Miquot’s reorientation became a charge. “How those women survived even a moment—”

  Gunn backpedaled, gave up on the crossbow—no way to get it cocked in time—and fell back to its convenient secondary function as the Miquot came within strides of them and turned for Gunn’s own personal self. He met the demon head-on and bashed it across the head. More wood splintered an instant later as Wesley did the same from behind.

  The demon turned on Wesley, beyond fury, beyond thought, leaking nasty Miquot blood from every wound. Wesley made a noise of profound surprise. “That shouldn’t have worked!” he cried, stumbling back over the wea
pons bag with just enough time to pick the whole thing up and fling it at the demon. The Miquot knocked it away and leaped on Wesley.

  Great. No crossbow, no weapons bag, berserker Miquot who didn’t seem to know enough to grab his own homemade knives—

  Gunn gave a feral grin. He jumped the Miquot, wrapped himself around the demon—who had wrapped himself around Wesley. All three of them crashed to the ground. With a fierce tug, Gunn freed one of the Miquot’s arm-knives and plunged it into the demon. A couple of times, just for good measure…

  As Wesley struggled free, the demon gave a grunt and collapsed.

  Slowly, Gunn and Wesley climbed to their feet, checking themselves for serious injury even as they eyed the Miquot. The muscled, trained, excessively strong, perfectly intelligent Miquot who had, in essence, just stupided itself to death.

  Gunn gave a little shake of his head; Wesley did the same. Together, they said, “This just isn’t right.”

  And it wasn’t.

  Angel walked the boy to the sewer exit closest to his home and headed back for the Hyperion. Cordelia didn’t emerge from hiding, leaving Angel free to worry about the toll of the visions on Cordelia and to dwell on his annoyance at having gotten nowhere with the hunt for his fake self—not to mention resisting the ever-present pressure of grim emotion.

  Finally Wes and Gunn staggered in, the worse for wear. Slumping onto a roundchair, they eyed him. Compared with them, he was enviably intact.

  “Saved a kid,” Angel told them, all modesty.

  “Saved the joggers,” Gunn replied. “Where’s Cordy?”

  “Sleeping off the last vision, I think,” Angel said. He sat in a neighboring roundchair and rubbed his hands over his face, unaccountably weary. Or maybe entirely with reason, given the unceasing battle against the feelings from within and without. Against Angelus.

  Wesley frowned. His gray tattersall shirt was torn and spattered—L.L. Bean could probably expect a new order soon—and his usually starched posture looked more than a little wrinkled. At first glance, Gunn looked in better shape, but at second, it became evident the bounce was quite gone from his step and somehow he’d lost a shoe. Still obviously thinking about both boy and joggers, Wesley said, “So many in such a short time…it hardly ever happens.”

  “It’s happening,” Angel said flatly.

  Gunn rested his head against the back of the roundchair. “At this rate we might as well just split up and patrol the streets tomorrow. Might save her some headaches if we’re already on the spot.”

  Considering how close he’d been to the boy, Angel thought not. But he said nothing, having come to understand one thing about his formerly fellow man…people liked to take action. In fact, they liked to take it so much that sometimes they made up action to take.

  From the second floor came Cordelia’s anguished cry. They stiffened, exchanging glances, immediately recognizing the impact of another vision.

  Wesley said, “Here we go again.”

  • • •

  “I don’t know,” Cordelia sobbed, and at that moment the anger within Angel was entirely his own, fury at The Powers That Be who would allow such a burden to fall on her. Awkwardly, he nonetheless sat on the edge of the bed and put his arm around her. That she let him do it—that she actually leaned into the touch—did not strike him as a good sign.

  From the grim tightness of Wesley’s features, he was thinking much the same. Gunn paced at the doorway as though guarding it, his expression smoldering.

  Monsters and demons might be easier to fight.

  “It’s okay, Cordy,” Angel said, though he thought it wasn’t. “Just tell us what you can.”

  “There’s just too much—” She snatched a giant handful of tissues and sniffed loudly into them. “The Slith and the Miquot—”

  They exchanged glances over her head.

  “Cordelia,” Wesley said gently, when no one else did, “we took care of them.”

  “Evidently not enough!” she snapped at him, a flash of temper that didn’t last. “I’m sorry, it’s just that these…these…”

  “We know,” Angel said. But they didn’t. Not really.

  “You don’t remember anything else?” Gunn kept his spot by the door, easing just a little closer.

  “I wish,” she said miserably. “Miquot, definitely. And…people dying. I mean they must be. All that blood…” She curled away from Angel and pulled the pillow over her head.

  Wesley caught Angel’s eye, jerked his head toward the door. Feeling utterly conspicuous in conspiracy, Angel followed him out of the room. Fred slipped by them to take Angel’s place on the edge of the bed, murmuring comforting words in a voice too soft to be heard.

  “I don’t remember ever seeing her like this,” Wesley said, pitching his voice low. “There was that time she was hospitalized, but heaven forbid this should be another such episode—”

  “I don’t think it is,” Angel said quickly, perhaps a little too quickly.

  “That the time I was watching her for you?” Gunn said, and shook his head when Angel gave the slightest of nods. “I saw plenty of that. This isn’t it. This is just…lots of things to have visions about.”

  “Except there’s not enough detail there to do anything about whatever she’s seen,” Wesley said with some frustration.

  Gunn gave a little laugh. “Look at us, Wesley. We couldn’t do anything about it even if we could. I mean, I’m not saying I couldn’t rise to the occasion—”

  “Certainly not,” Wesley agreed.

  “—but we’re all done in. And face it, if this keeps up, we’re going to reach the point where we have to decide between saving a few people and figuring out what’s going on.”

  “As for tonight…,” Wesley said thoughtfully, looking into the room.

  Cordelia still hid under the pillow while Fred crooned some sort of lullaby; Angel doubted the others could hear it. He said, “There’s an after-hours clinic not far from here. I’m taking her. They’ll give her something strong.”

  “With any luck, strong enough to put her out for the night. And then tomorrow…”

  “Let’s just hope it doesn’t start all over again,” Gunn said.

  Angel thought about getting Cordelia home after the clinic, and the reception they were likely to get from a certain overprotective ghost. “Someone better tell Phantom Dennis,” he said, not bothering to hide his unease at the thought of a Dennis tantrum. He returned to the room to scoop Cordelia off the bed, pillow and all.

  “Gunn can do that,” Wesley said. “I’ll drive you to the clinic.”

  “Me?” Gunn said. “Sad day when I find myself explaining things to dead people.”

  “One of you tell him,” Angel said. “Or you’re both going into her apartment ahead of me.”

  Fred made a tsking noise. “Phone,” she said, trailing Angel out into the hall.

  “He doesn’t—,” Gunn started, ready to dismiss her—and then suddenly hesitating, understanding. “Bet he listens to her answering machine!” He and Wesley exchanged a look, then went for the stairs and the lobby phone.

  Fred gave Angel one of her unexpectedly wise looks and said, “Unless, of course, she’s got voice mail. Which I was going to add, but…”

  “I’ll send them in first, anyway,” Angel said, and carried Cordelia down the hall.

  The priests gathered not in the warrior’s shrine, but along a rare stretch of nearly abandoned beach. They sat on a blanket watching the sun set, watching the waves roll in and spill themselves out on the sand, and feeling the pulsing power of the missing warrior’s stone.

  Khundarr said, “I’ve confirmed it. None of us can reach the stone or he who possesses it at his temporary dwelling. But the man never leaves the stone behind when he leaves that hotel. We have but to wait for him to emerge from his dwelling. Kaalesh is there now; shortly I’ll join him.”

  The elder priest said, “I understood him to be protected outside the hotel as well.”

  Khundarr s
hrugged—for a Tuingas demon, more of a shoulder drop than a lift. “This is true. But it is still a more vulnerable situation. We’ll assess the circumstances as necessary. We’ll try to not harm anyone.”

  A fellow under-priest snorted indelicately through his long-nose and said, “To my mind, this human’s behavior indicates he knows he has something that we want back. He does not act like an innocent.”

  “True,” Khundarr said. “But the one who protects him may not have an understanding of the situation.”

  “Then he is a fool,” said the elder. “How can he ignore what happens all around him? Even the Slith are affected. What happened at the produce market is only a hint of the disasters to come.”

  “It wasn’t a disaster,” someone observed, keeping a modest posture.

  “It could have been!” the elder snapped. His intensely wrinkled skin had plumped somewhat in this fresh sea air, and some of his vigor seemed to have returned along with it. “I still haven’t received a satisfactory report on just why it wasn’t.”

  “With respect,” Khundarr said. “There are so many of us in the human world, and so few of us with any real experience. Much of our effort is spent in remaining unnoticed. The rest is focused on reacquiring the stone. We are simply grateful that the Slith left the market before anyone was hurt. That he was goaded into such behavior should be a warning to us all…we must retrieve the warrior’s stone.”

  “On that we are agreed,” the elder said grudgingly. As if he had a choice. The demon-stone feedback loop was already fast spiraling to a point of overload…and once it reached that point, not only would L.A.’s demons go insane, the stone itself would become unstable. Soon enough, if any Tuingas, priest or not, so much as touched it…

  Violent implosion.

  The elderpriest brushed sand off his foot and said, “We owe you much for recovering the young one’s raw deathstone with no incident. Not only is it in preparation for its shrine, but you left no clues for those who…” and here his face tightened in extreme distaste, for he’d seen the condition of the stone when Khundarr returned it.

  Khundarr said soothingly, “I doubt those who had the stone understood the significance of the cleansing treatment they gave it.” On the other nose, he also doubted that he’d left no clues for the people in that huge old hotel. The one had seen him, albeit in the darkness. And the hotel as a whole reeked of supernatural activity. The occupants might not have immediately understood the nature of the very private death rituals of a very private demon clan, but they were more equipped than most to figure it out. Not only that, but the young Tuingas wouldn’t have died there in the first place had the hotel not had some connection to the warrior’s stone.