"I've also ordered some special equipment that should be effective against the Tremblors," Angel said.

"It'll be ready in a day or so."

Doyle nodded. "Right. So if a big nasty demon busts out of the ground, I'll have just what I need t'take care of the b.u.g.g.e.r."

"You'll have your cell phone. You'll call me."

"Glad t'see we're on the same page."

Angel got up and slipped on his leather trenchcoat. "Any luck with Graedeker?"

"Well, phase one of the plan went beautifully."

"You lost all your money at the track."

"Yep. I'm still workin' on phase two."

Cordelia stuck her head in. "Guys-bad news. Galvin just called. There's been another attack at Appletree."

"We're on our way."

"Anybody hurt?" Angel asked.

"Thankfully, no," Galvin said. He shook his head ruefully. "Not physically, anyway."

He sat amidst the wreckage of his living room. The grand piano was nothing but splinters and strings, the Pica.s.so, the Rembrandt and the Van Gogh were tatters of ripped canvas. The teak bar had deep gouges in its surface-it looked like it hadbeen used as a scratching post by angry bears. The air was full of the smell of fine Scotch. Not a single bottle had survived.

"This is a tragedy, a real tragedy," Doyle said. He inhaled deeply, and his eyes glistened.

"Oh, they're just things," Galvin said. He smiled, but his eyes were sad. "They can be replaced. What they really destroyed was our sense of security."

Angel eyed the gaping hole in one wall. Dirt spilled out from the edges of the dark tunnel that lay beyond. "You said there were three of them?"

"Yes. They came through in three different apartments. Ignored the residents, but ruined as much of the furnishings as they could. Never said a word."

Angel frowned. "This doesn't quite fit."

"How d'you mean?" Doyle asked.

"Tremors I can see; that's natural for these demons. And grabbing a sacrifice for their ritual makes sense, too. But this-this is terrorism."

Galvin shrugged. "They hate us, that seems plain. Why, I don't know."

"Well, I could try following these tunnels again," Angel said. "But it's too easy for them to set ambushes, or simply collapse the tunnels. I'd rather not deal with them on their own turf, not without a plan."

"What would you suggest we do?" Galvin askedquietly. "They've proved they can invade us at any time they want."

"I know it's difficult, but I'd suggest you relocate temporarily. Just until this is over-"

"No," Galvin said, shaking his head emphatically. "We won't be driven out of our homes! We were exiled once, and we swore we'd never let it happen again. If we have to stay here under siege, then so be it."

Angel sighed. "I can't protect you here. Like you said, they can attack at any time, from any direction.

Even if you armor-plate the walls, they can bring the whole building down on top of you."

"Then you'll just have to stop them before they do, won't you?"

"Nice of Galvin to lend us some wheels," Doyle said. "This Mercedes is top o' the line. Leather interior, CD player, built-in hands-free cell phone-I could get used t'this."

"It's just for the stakeout," Angel's voice said from the speaker. "Don't touch anything. Or spill anything."

"Loosen up, boss," Doyle said. He was parked in the beach lot, a discreet distance from the lifeguard station. "Sun's almost down. You can come out and play soon."

Angel was actually parked in the same lot, a fewcars away. His convertible had been made sunproof through heavy tinting of the windows. "Good. I feel like I'm in an aquarium."

Doyle adjusted the air conditioning. "It's not too warm over there, is it?"

"I'm fine."

"Good, good." Doyle slipped in a CD. He hummed along to the latest Smashing Pumpkins.

"Doyle, I told you not to touch anything."

"Relax, I brought along my own music. That's my, uh, Walkman you hear."

"If you're listening to a Walkman, then how can you hear me?"

"All right, all right." He turned down the stereo. "You know what your problem is? You have an overdeveloped sense of guilt."

"Not overdeveloped-perfected. Took me a long time, but I think I finally got the formula just right."

"Well, it's hard to argue with a century of angstridden brooding, but I'll take a crack at it. You and me, Angel, we're different sides of the coin; you wallow in blamin' yourself, while I'm as guilt-free as no-fat potato chips. Without the monosodium glutamate."

"Okay, genius. What's your secret?"

Doyle leaned his seat back to a more comfortable position. "It's a matter of conditionin'. Take drinkin', for instance; y'know that terrible feelin' of shamey'get after a night of boozin' it up? Even if you haven't done anythin' bad, you feel like you owe the world an apology?'

"Usually I did."

"Well-ma.s.s murder notwithstandin'-that feelin' is an illusion. See, alcohol suppresses inhibitions, right? And guilt is just the stick our inhibitions whack us with when we get outta line. So when our inhibitions get suppressed, so does our guilt. Y'with me?"

"So far."

"Now, when y'sober up, all your inhibitions come back. But because they were pushed down, they spring back, even stronger, along with the guilt. You get this psychological backlash, and automatically feel guilty even if you don't deserve to."

"And you deal with this how?"

"Usually I take another drink. Works wonders."

"Yeah, well, I drank for a hundred years, and felt guilty for the hundred years after that," Angel said.

"Wow. That's gotta be the worst hangover in history."

"I wasn't talking about booze."

"Uh, yeah. O'course not . . ."

"Sure," Cordelia said. "Angel and Doyle get to babysit lifeguards-lifeguards with their sunbronzed, athletic bodies and tiny, stylish swimsuits-and I get to play detective."

She was standing in the hallway of a motel, holding a clipboard and talking to herself. Angel had sent her to see if she could find any connection between Wolfram and Hart and the vanished flight attendant; this was where the woman had lived.

Okay, I can do this,Cordelia thought. She tried to feel the role, to become the person she was pretending to be, just like she'd read in all those books on acting. Well, skimmed, anyway.

All Cordelia had ever really wanted was for things to be easy. For a long time, theyhadbeen easy, and she'd taken them for granted. She was pretty, she was popular, she was rich . . . and then things had started going wrong. Weird monsters had started popping up like zits on a teenage boy. She'd fallen for a total loser . . . and then fell for real, on a metal spike that had gone right through her. The IRS had nailed her father for income tax evasion, and suddenly she wasn't rich anymore. Or her parents weren't, which was the same thing.

And then high school had ended.

She missed it. Despite Buffy, despite Xander, despite all the monsters . . . in high school, she'd been on top. She knew how things worked. Now she was out in the real world, and being pretty just wasn't enough, so she'd done the only thing that made sense: she'd moved to L.A. to become a movie star.

Pretty soon-two, three years, tops-she'd be rich and popular again. And then everything would be easy, the way it used to be.

She knocked. A man in his twenties with a long face and bristly black hair answered the door. He was wearing jeans and a Metallica T-shirt.

"h.e.l.lo," Cordelia said brightly. "I'm from Wolfram and Hart. Is Sarah Clark in?"

"Uh, no, she isn't here," the man said.

"And you are . . . ?"

"I'm her roommate, Bill. Look, she's kind of- missing, right now. But I'm sure she's gonna pay her bill."

"That's . . . what I wanted to talk to you about," Cordelia said. "Can I come in?"

"Well . . . okay."

Just think Ally McBeal and you'll be fine,Cordelia thought to herself as she strode inside.d.a.m.n. I should have worn a shorter skirt.

"Now then, Mr. . . . Bill," Cordelia said, consulting her clipboard. "Are you familiar with Ms. Clark's case?"

"Well, I know you helped her out on those drugsmuggling charges, and she was really grateful. But when you never sent her a bill . . ."

"You thought we'd just forget about it. Well, Wolfram and Hart isnotthat kind of firm, mister. We're used to dealing with some very bad customers,and when one of our customers is bad, we take it very-badly."

Bill looked a little confused. "Customers? Don't you mean clients?"

Cordelia sighed, and tried to look sorry for Bill and slightly annoyed at the same time. "You've been watching too much TV, Bill. Aclientis someone who pays what she owes. Acustomeris what we call someone who-youknow."

Bill gulped. "Disappears?"

"She can't hide forever, Bill. Trust me-I know. I'm alawyer."

She left Bill looking nervous and promising to call if he heard anything. "Detecting," Cordelia said to herself with a smile as she walked away. "Nothing to it. And I amsolegal . . ."

The lifeguards left shortly after the sun set. Doyle took the man, who resembled a tanned Mr. Clean with a bushy blond mustache, while Angel followed the woman, an equally tanned, tall brunette. Doyle and Angel stayed in touch via cell phone.

"He's goin' into an underground garage with an electric gate," Doyle reported. "I'm gonna try and slip in behind him . . . okay, I did it, but he's givin' me a funny look in his rearview mirror. Prob'ly thinks I'm some kinda lowlife punk."

"Doyle, you're driving a brand new Mercedes."

"Oh. Right. Kinda hard to get used to. Handles like a dream, though . . . okay, he's gettin' out of the car. Headin' for the elevator. He's stopped. Looks a bit confused. Maybe he forgot somethin' in the car-no, he's headin' for the corner. There's somethin' there, looks like some kind of flower growin' out of a crack. He's bendin' over and smellin' it- Wait. I think I hear somethin', a kind of rumble- the wall's cavin' in!This is it!"

"Doyle! Try and hold them off! I'll be there as soon as I can-"

Doyle grabbed the tire iron from the floor and jumped out of the car. He ran toward the lifeguard, who seemed oblivious. The wall had crumbled into a tide of gray dust that pooled around the lifeguard's knees; it reached halfway up the white stalk of the strange black and red flower that engrossed him. A hulking figure was outlined in the shadows beyond the hole in the wall.

Doyle reached the lifeguard, grabbed him by the shoulder and whirled him around. "Hey! Pal! We gotta get outta here!"

The man looked dazed. "Coney Island," he said. "Hot dogs. Cotton candy. Jennifer Gianni's shampoo."

"Right, sure. I understand." He grabbed the man's wrist and yanked him in the direction of the Mercedes. The man took a few faltering steps, thenstopped and planted his feet. Doyle came to an abrupt halt; the lifeguard was a lot bigger and beefier than he was.

"No, I-I can't leave. It's been so long . . ."

Doyle considered braining him with the tire iron, but then he'd have to carry him. If he didn't kill him, that was.

The strange flower sank into the pile of dust, folding itself up as it went. A second after it disappeared, the shadowy figure stepped forward out of the hole.

"Mother o' G.o.d," Doyle breathed. "Well, I guess it's up to me."

He raised the tire iron and stepped between the demon and his victim.

Another Tremblor stepped out of the hole. And a third.

"Like that's gonna make a difference," Doyle muttered to himself. "I was dead meat after the first one.

After the firstquarterof the first one. This just makes me look stupid . . ."

The first Tremblor stepped forward. He pointed at the lifeguard with one clawed hand, the message obvious:Give him to us.

"You guys have got it all wrong," Doyle said. "This isn't who you want. Really. That's why I'm here.

The boss sent me to straighten y'out before you made ahorriblemistake."

The Tremblor said nothing, but his rocky brow furrowed.Wolfram and Hart?he projected.

Doyle heard the wordsWolfram and Hartinside his head, but mistook them for a burst of fear-fueled inspiration. "Wolfram and Hart! They told me-personally-t'stop this. I mean, t'ask youpolitelyto stop this."

We did as you requested. This is One of the Four; he has the (concept) upon him. We will take him now.