"What he does know is that earth is the element most vital to the ceremony, and has to be chosen with care. He knew which direction they were headed in next, and when the s.n.a.t.c.h was going to take place.

He gave me a mental picture of around how far away it was." Angel motioned them to follow him into his office, where the map was still spread out on the floor. "And that would put the location of the next kidnapping around . . . here."

"I know that area," Doyle said. "There's a big graveyard, right there." He tapped the map with one finger.

"A graveyard. Makes sense," Angel admitted. "Ijust wish I knew why they'd given up on the Serpentene, especially after they'd returned to trash the place. Something isn't right."

"So, I guess we're stakin' the place out?" Doyle asked.

Angel nodded.

Doyle stretched and yawned. "Better get some shut-eye then, don't you think? Must be close to bedtime for the dentally-enhanced."

"Good idea."

"All right, then. 'Night, boss." Doyle waved goodbye to Cordelia and headed for the door.

After Doyle had left, Cordelia asked, "Is it hard? The torture, I mean."

"It's-emotionally draining."

"Is that because you find it difficult to hurt another living being, or just that you're out of practice?"

"Actually, you'd be surprised how easily it all comes back. Like riding a bike, I guess."

"Or dragging someone behind one . . . did you find anything else out?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know-like hisname?"

"Rule of torture number one: never personalize your victim. If you start thinking of them as a person, you can't be objective about what you need to do."

Cordelia looked at Angel and arched her eyebrows. She waited.

Angel sighed. "His name is Maarl."

"Iknewyou couldn't pa.s.s up a chance to grab some high-quality angst. That's like me saying no to a shoe sale."

Angel sat down behind his desk. "Well, I never was much good at the objective part. The victim's name was usually thefirstthing I got-made the whole process more intimate."

"Okay, that's the kind of statement that makes me sorry we're on a first-name basis. And people say they're amazed at the things that come out ofmymouth."

"Anyway, I wasn't going for more angst-I was trying to get inside his head. Get a feel for what the Tremblors are like, for who they are and what they want."

"How very Hannibal Lecter of you." Cordelia frowned. "But don't we alreadyknowwhat they want?"

"We know what they're after, but we didn't know why. Now I do."

Cordelia picked up a stack of books on Angel's desk and started reshelving them. "Is this something I want to know, or will I sleep better in blissful ignorance?"

"It's how they reproduce."

"There's a joke there that's...o...b..ious I'm glad Doyle's gone home."

"Uh-right. Anyway, the Crushing of Souls ritual doesn't just cause an earthquake; it collects all the souls of the people who are killed by the quake. Then it basically . . .compressesthem. It takes a thousand human souls to make one new Tremblor, apparently because their bodies are so dense."

"Tell me about it. My chair is toast." Cordelia put the last book on the shelf and straightened a mace that was hung next to the door. "So instead of s.e.x, they have to kill a bunch of people and use this ritual to squish their souls into a new demon. Sounds like the Play-Doh factory I used to have."

"Sounds like my s.e.x life . . ."

Cordelia laughed, then covered her mouth. "Sorry. I keep forgetting you actually have a sense of humor."

"It's a common mistake."

"So what do these demonsdowhen they're not running around kidnapping people?"

"They think, mainly."

"About what? Different squishing techniques?"

"Theoretical mathematics, a lot of the time. They design and play telepathic games that make threedimensional chess look like tic-tac-toe. They meditate."

"So they're like-geeks."

"Excuse me?"

"You know, a geek. Anybody in high school who spent all their time doing math, playing chess, and was incapable of having s.e.x."

"Outsiders." Angel nodded.

"Oh, don't try to make them sound all romantic. They werelosers. I should know." Cordelia sat down across from Angel.

"Because you were a winner?"

"That goes without saying. But Idateda loser."

"Xander."

"Yes, and please don't say that name without spitting.Canvampires spit? Anyway, if even a loser like him could find people to hang out with, it goes to show that there are no such things as outsiders- just a bunch of little groups of insiders. Some groups just dress better than others."

"That's one way of looking at it. As long as there are others like you around."

"Well, there was n.o.bodyreallylike me, so it was a bit of a struggle. But I managed."

Angel looked at her, but didn't say anything.

Cordelia frowned. "What? Oh, you're talking aboutyou. Well, what I said still applies; there's n.o.body really likeyou, either."

"Thanks. That's very rea.s.suring."

"There's n.o.body really likeanybody,Angel. Everybody's different."

"So everybody's alone?"

Cordelia rolled her eyes. "You know, you're like a walking advertisment for Prozac. My point is, people don't hang together because they're all exactly the same."

Angel looked thoughtful. "I guess not. They come together because they have common interests, or common enemies, or even for financial reasons."

"Um-sure. And because being alone sucks."

Angel winced. "Doyle isn't the only one making bad puns."

"Sorry. Anyway, shouldn't you be getting some Z's?"

"You're right. I'll see you in a few hours." Angel got up and headed to the freight elevator at the back of his office. He closed the folding metal gate, hesitated, then said, "Cordelia?"

Cordelia paused in the doorway between the inner and outer offices and turned around. "Yes?"

"Whatwasthe joke that was too . . .obviousto make?"

Cordelia grinned. "Angel, please. When the Tremblors reproduce . . ."

"What?"

"The earth moves . . ."

I don't believe this is a good idea,Feldspaar thought.

I have a theory I wish to test,Baasalt replied.It won't take long.

It was during the period the Skin-Dwellers called "day," when the burning orb that lived in the Void permeated everything with light; it was a condition Feldspaar found unnatural and frightening. They were inside a structure that also filled him with dread; it had a transparent roof and walls, which protected them from the Void but left them exposed to it at the same time. The shade of the plants that the structure was filled with helped somewhat, but even the plants were deformed and surreal; instead of the twisting, gnarly shapes of proper plants that grew into the earth, these were tall and straight and had bright green parts that twitched if you so much as brushed against them.

They were crouched at the end of a long row of these plants, Feldspaar trying not to look up. Baasalt had a small pile of granite chunks at his feet; each was almost too big for his claws to close around.

What are we waiting for?Feldspaar thought.

That.Baasalt pointed.

At the end of the row a Skin-Dweller had appeared. It was at least a hundred feet away, and busy doing something to the plants; it hadn't noticed them.

Baasalt picked up one of the granite chunks and hefted it. He drew his arm back-and did something Feldspaar had never seen before.

Baasalt snapped his arm forward, and let go of the rock. Itflew.

Its flight was halted abruptly when it struck a plant close to the Skin-Dweller. The Dweller looked their way, surprised. It began to walk toward them.

"Hey! What are you doing in here-"

Baasalt selected another rock and repeated the action. Again, Feldspaar was astonished when the piece of granite sailed through the Void; it seemed impossible, a violation of everything he believed in.

This time, the rock struck the Skin-Dweller in the face. There was a wet, scarlet explosion, and the figure crumpled to the floor.

Feldspaar looked to his superior and got an even bigger shock.

Baasalt was lookingup. Up through the transparent roof, up into the Void itself. Feldspaar got a brief glimpse of a hideous, unnatural blue before he slammed his eyes shut-but he could still taste the flavor of Baasalt's thoughts. They were not full of terror, as he would have expected, but instead radiated an intense exhilaration. It was too much for Feldspaar; he turned his own mind away from Baasalt's, though he could still feel the burning ofhis feelings like the heat from a pool of molten rock.

A full minute pa.s.sed.

At last, the intensity of Baasalt's thoughts faded.

Baasalt?Feldspaar asked.Are you . . . all right?

I am glorious. And most importantly-I am no longerafraid.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

Doylehad been completely serious about blowing his money at the track. He'd come dangerously close to actually winning at one point, but fortunately that had proved to be a false alarm.

Now he was down to his last few dollars, and he was about to dispose of them by ordering a drink. He could have gotten rid of them just as effectively by buying something frivolous-like food-but Doyle firmly believed that once you committed to a plan, you stuck to it. Down-and-out was what he was aiming for, and spending the last of his cash on booze seemed the way to go.

And then there was the other thing-the thing hehadn'ttold Angel about.

h.e.l.l,Doyle thought.If this doesn't work, I'll see what I can do about goin' into debt. Goin' deeper into debt, anyway.

The bar he'd picked to spend his last few dollars in was not the kind of place to let him run a tab; it made the dive he'd taken Angel to look like the lounge at the Four Seasons. The only season this place was familiar with was Happy Hour, which lasted from sevenA.Muntil closing and wasn't particularly happy. Doyle supposed that Surly All Day Long just didn't have the right ring to it.

The place didn't even have a proper bar, just an oversized counter in one corner with a bearded giant pouring drinks behind it. It wouldn't have surprised Doyle if he'd been told that the real bartender was lying in a pool of blood behind the bar, and the gentleman drawing a pitcher of beer was actually a psychotic biker with a dry throat and a bad temper.

Not to mention a face covered with the worst tattoos Doyle had ever seen. Either that, or the most artistic birthmarks.

There weren't any booths either, just tables scattered around a small room with chairs that didn't match.

A roach scuttled across his table, made it halfway, and got beaten up by another roach. It was that kind of bar.

The second the whiskey touched his lips, he heard Graedeker's voice.

"Now, what do you thinkhisstory is?" Graedekerasked. He sat down at Doyle's table without waiting for an invitation. Doyle hadn't heard him walk up, but Graedeker was always doing stuff like that. He liked to play the man of mystery.

Graedeker himself looked about as mysterious as a shoe salesman. He had a wide, friendly face, balding on top and jowly at the bottom, with sunken brown eyes and a bulbous nose. He was paunchy but not fat, of average height, and had shoulders that slumped. He was dressed in a cheap beige suit, without a tie.

"Graedeker," Doyle said with a smile. "Who's story are we talkin' about?"