"I was protecting your so-called Fourth," Angel managed. "And I'm not going to let you murder the other three, either."

He is a protector,the Batholith mused.Perhaps not quite a caregiver . . . but you are correct, Baasalt. He will suffice. Take him to the others.

The First Warrior-Priest hauled Angel to his feet and took him away.

"Are you sure this'll work?" Cordelia asked for the fifth time.

Doyle sighed. They were on the freeway, on their way to Appletree Estates. "For the last time, Cordy, I don't know. It makes sense, though, don't it?"

"It just seems kind of . . . goofy." Cordelia shrugged.

"Yeah, well, so does usin' somethin' you put in pasta sauce to drive away the undead, and that seems to work just fine."

"What about what Angel said? About the Serpentene not mentioning their involvement with Wolfram and Hart?"

"That bothers me, too," Doyle admitted. "But we can't pull off this plan by ourselves."

Galvin met them at the door. His eyes were heavy and his hair slightly rumpled. "I'm sorry, I'm still not quite awake," he said apologetically as he let them in. "Come on downstairs, I've got some Jamaican Blue Mountain brewing."

Once in Galvin's place, Doyle explained the situation. "I think I know how to beat these guys, but I'm gonna need your help."

"Whatever you need is yours," Galvin said.

"That's what I was hopin' you'd say. I understand you've got some studio connections . . ."

They put Angel in another cave, and sealed the entrance with a boulder. It was pitch dark.

"Are you a doctor?" said a woman's voice.

"No, but I am a friend," Angel answered.

A light flared in the darkness. It came from a Zippo lighter held by a stocky, brown-skinned woman in jeans and a denim shirt, her hair cut close to her scalp. She was crouched beside the lifeguard Angel had failed to protect; the man was slumped with his back to the wall. His eyes were gla.s.sy and a steel bar projected from the juncture of his shoulder and neck.

Angel drew closer. "Is he-"

"Still alive," the woman said. "Whatever they doped us with seems to have slowed down his metabolism. I've stopped the bleeding, but I can't take the bar out without starting it up again. I've got some medical training, but not enough to do surgery in a cave."

"'I'm Angel," he said, getting to one knee to take a closer look.

"Fisca. How comeyou'renot drugged to the gills? When I first got here, I was sure I was back in Minneapolis at my grandmother's house. Could taste her oatmeal cookies and everything."

"I like to do things the old-fashioned way. I picked the severe-beating option instead."

She flashed a quick smile, but her eyes were frightened. "Why are we here? What do they want from us?"

"Is there anyone else here?" Angel asked.

"Yeah, there's a woman in the far corner. From her uniform, she's either a flight attendant or delivers strip-o-grams. Her nametag says Sarah. She's still out of it-kept babbling about summer camp and slumber parties. Lucky she finally shut up, or I would have strangled her."

"Better put out the light," Angel said. "Save it for when we need it."

Fisca closed the Zippo with a snap of her fingers, plunging them back into darkness.

"Don't worry," Angel said. "I'm going to get us-allof us-out of here."

He wished he felt as confident as he sounded.

Baasalt didn't know what to do.

Ever since the pick had been removed from his head, he'd been in a state of shock. He was operating purely on automatic now, going through the motions that were expected of him. He couldn't think of anything past the next few minutes.

All his ideas were gone.

No, that wasn't quite true. The ideas were still there, he could remember them all-but memories were all they were. They had been robbed of their vitality, their life. They were no longervisions.

Baasalt retreated to the alcove he called home. It was only a small, empty cave, since the Tremblorshad virtually no possessions other than the occasional gemstone, admired for their geological perfection; he'd never been much for them himself. And s.p.a.ciousness was a repellant concept, of course.

He considered retrieving the pickax from the Grounding Chamber. That would require explaining his actions to the council-and while an hour ago he would have had no problem doing so, now it seemed inconceivable. What would he say? How could he justify himself?

But he had to dosomething . Wait. What if he sent someone else to fetch it?

He broadcast his thoughts.Feldspaar. I require your a.s.sistance.

Yes, Baasalt?

Go to the Grounding Chamber. Get the surface object I left there and bring it to me.

What shall I tell the Grounding? Tell them I did not share my reasoning with you. Baasalt-are you all right? Your thoughts have changed once more.

I'm fine. Do as I say!

Yes, First Warrior-Priest.

While he waited he closed his mind and meditated. After a short while he could feel the inquiring brush of the Grounding against his thoughts, but he chose to ignore it. He knew they would respect his privacy as First Warrior-Priest.

Eventually, Feldspaar came to his alcove. He had the pickax with him. Baasalt took it gratefully, then told Feldspaar to go. He needed to be alone.

He held the pickax in both hands, studying it. That such a simple thing could cause such changes . . . He ran a rough finger down the wooden handle, saw how the metal head was attached to it. He tapped a rocky claw against the tempered steel and listened to it ring.

Finally, reverently, he raised it to his head.

And found he couldn't quite reach the hole . . .

"Cindy! Cindy! Look what I've got!"

The voice came from the woman in the corner. "Oh, great," Fisca muttered. "Here we go again . . ."

Angel felt his way over to the corner in the dark. "h.e.l.lo?" he said. He tried to remember the woman's name from the police report. "Sarah? Can you hear me?"

"Of course I can, silly. You're standing right there. Can you seethis?"

"Uh-sure," Angel said. "What is it?"

"My mom's credit card-let's go shopping!"

"Sarah, listen to me. This isn't real. You have to try and concentrate-"

"Look, I'll study later, okay? I always do great at History, anyway. Come on, let's go to the mall."

Angel sighed.Maybe if I play along I can get her to listen to me."All right," he said.

"Great! I know thisb.i.t.c.hin'dress-it'll look great on you!"

"Uh-totally."

Angel shook his head in the dark.It doesn't get much weirder than this. . .

Stick it in my head,Baasalt told Feldspaar.

Once, Feldspaar would have questioned the wisdom of such an action. Now, he accepted the fact that Baasalt's wisdom was strange, new, and therefore unconventional. He did as he was instructed, sliding the point of the pickax back into the fissure it had previously made.

There was a jolt of neural energy, and Baasalt's mind was once more filled with exotic visions and ideas.

His relieved happiness was so great that even Feldspaar could feel its effects.

Great Heart of the World,Feldspaar thought.What wondrous joy. . .

Yes. Yes! This is what I need- Baasalt threw his arms wide and his head back in exultation.

The end of the pick struck the rock wall behind him. It drove the other end much deeper into Baasalt's brain.

The First Warrior-Priest's mind exploded.

"NOOOOOO!"Sarah screamed.

Angel, Fisca and the lifeguard screamed with her.

It felt like a hand-grenade going off at the base of Angel's skull. It felt like there was a giant fingernail growing from the top of his head, and it was being scratched down an immense blackboard. It felt like every neuron he had detonated at the same time.

And not,he thought he heard Cordelia say,in a good way.

And then he was somewhere else.

Angel found himself in a shopping mall.

"Oookay," he said slowly. He looked around carefully.

It was not your everyday shopping mall. For one thing, the roof overhead was made of bare rock, stalact.i.tes hanging down like gray icicles. The people around him were behaving normally, but they were dressed in fashions from twenty years ago. Normally Angel didn't pay that much attention to fashion- two and a half centuries of trends had taught him that basic black was the easiest way to go-but these fashions were exaggerated, somehow; the collars seemed a littletoowide, the ties a littletoothin. There were a lot of neon colors: bright pink, limegreen, electric blue. Reality seen through aMiami Vicefilter.

A teenaged version of Sarah was leaning against the wall beside him, rubbing her forehead. She was blond, pretty but gangly in that coltish way fourteen-year-old girls seemed to have trademarked.

"Wow, what arush,"she said.

Angel glanced down at himself, half-expecting to find he'd been turned into a p.u.b.escent girl himself; thankfully, all he saw was his standard black trenchcoat. "Sarah? Where are we?"

Sarah giggled. "We're at the mall, spaz. Come on-let's go shopping!" She grabbed his arm.

Angel let himself be led down the concourse. The stores were a strange mixture of the ordinary and the surreal: the dark mouths of caves were sandwiched between clothing outlets and record stores.

"This can't be real," Angel said.

"Look!" Sarah said. "Shoes!" She dragged him into a shoe store.

There was a woman with long, dark hair standing in front of a wall of pumps. She turned at their approach.

"Hi, Angel!" Cordelia said brightly.

"Cordelia? What are you doing here?"

"You tell me-it'syoursubconscious." She looked down at herself, then up again. "Oh, and thanks for not imagining me naked. Or covered in blood."

"No problem," Angel answered. He glanced over at Sarah, who was busy trying on shoes. "My subconscious is a shoe store?"

Cordelia gave him a look. "Well, obviously it's notjustyour subconscious, is it? I mean,she'shere, isn't she?"

"Wait. Just before all this, something happened. Some kind of explosion that I felt in my brain . . ." Angel shook his head. "Why is it so hard to think?"

"Well, me boyo, y'must be tipsy, don't y'know?" said a familiar voice behind him.

Angel turned around. Doyle leaned against a wall, dressed in green jeans, green sneakers and a green T-shirt that readKISS ME I'M AN IRISH DEMON.He had a bottle of green whiskey with a big shamrock on the label in one hand. Little green horns jutted from his forehead. "A mind 'tis a wonderful thing to waste," Doyle said, and took a swig from the bottle. "Dependin' on whose mind it 'tis, o'course."

"Whose mind . . ." Angel muttered. "Not just mine. I'm in Sarah's mind, too. Something happened to link us together."

"Well,duh,"Cordelia said.

"The Tremblors are telepathic," Angel said. He felt as if his mind were clearing a little. "This must be their doing."

"I'll drink t'that," Doyle said cheerfully, and did.

"The caves," Angel said. "If you two come from my subconscious and the mall from Sarah, the caves must represent the minds of the Tremblors."

"Whatever," Cordelia said with a shrug. Shepicked up a pair of high heels and considered them. "Do you think these are too strappy?"

Angel walked out of the store, leaving Sarah, Doyle and Cordelia behind. None of them seemed to care except Doyle, who waved his whiskey bottle merrily in a good-bye.

Angel strode down the concourse, studying cave entrances as he went. They all looked pretty much the same-and then he saw something that stopped him dead.