Summary: The Host of the Caritas Club offers Angel and his friends a cryptic message; Cordelia offers Nightwing a short lesson in 'vampire-ology'; and Amy offers Dick 'motherly' advice.
Author's Note: To avoid confusion, all times given are Eastern Standard Time.
Disclaimer: Nightwing is owned by DC Comics and Time/Warner; Angel and company are owned by Joss Whedon and 20th Century Fox; this is an original story that does not intend to infringe on their copyright. Constructive feedback is welcome!
Copyright January 2002
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Nightwing/Angel: Shadow Dancing
By Syl Francis
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Los Angeles: the Caritas Club
[Friday 0250hrs EST//Thursday 2350hrs PST//]
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The doorkeeper demon checked their Ids, carefully studying their faces and comparing them to their driver's licenses. Satisfied, the massive demon passed them through. As soon as they entered, the strained, off-key sounds of "Secret Love" assaulted their ears.
Wesley looked onstage and grimaced at the seven-foot tall demon that was demolishing the old Doris Day standard. He noticed a pus-like fluid oozing from several skin lesions on the creature's face and neck and gagged suddenly, his stomach lurching.
Turning his head away, Wesley clenched his eyes in disgust. The complete lack of talent amongst the demons who frequented the place never ceased to amaze the dapper demon hunter. Spotting an empty table, he urged his friends to follow him. As they made their way through the crowded nightclub, Wesley couldn't help but wonder at the overall friendly atmosphere that permeated the place.
He looked around. Within seconds, he spotted a variety of dangerous creatures that outside the safety confines of the Caritas wouldn't hesitate to dismember him. An Ebla demon was sitting drinking quietly in a corner table. A Morha and a Gath demon were indulging in a friendly discussion over beers on who had the better powers.
And--Wesley stopped doing a double take--was that a Haksaal Beast downing one Bloody Mary after another? Emphasis on the blood--type unknown! Wesley didn't wait to find out. He hurried after his friends, who'd continued without him.
And all the while "Secret Love" kept jarring his nerves.
"I've got a secret love--!" the off-key crooning jangled in the background.
While the Caritas Nightclub was a safe haven for demons, humans and vampires alike--with an ironclad rule against fighting, killing, or bloodsucking on the premises--Wesley felt that someone should definitely kill Pus-Guy, who was building to a big finish.
"Now, I shout it from the highest hills--!"
And soon. For the betterment of all.
"Even told the golden daffodils--!"
"I can't believe he's heard that song before, much less that he's singing it," Wesley commented. "Quite badly, I might add."
"My secret love's no secret anymore."
"At last! The agony is finally over," Wesley mumbled thankfully when the last notes died out.
"What? Don't you like 'Secret Love'?" Angel asked. "Doris Day's a demon favorite. You should hear them when they break into 'Que Sera, Sera.'"
Wesley and Gunn exchanged glances. Gunn mouthed, 'Doris Day?' Wesley shrugged. Some things were just too scary to talk about.
"Gentlemen!"
Wesley and the others turned at the sound of the new voice--the Host.
As he approached them, the Host worked the crowd. A tall, slender demon with green-toned skin, red eyes, red horns and a ready smile for all who entered his domain, the flamboyant demon was greeted by his admiring guests with waves and smiles from all corners of the room. A few even called out the titles of well-known songs.
"How about 'The Pina Colada Song'?" That came from the Morha demon.
"No, give us some Manilow!" A young-looking vampire couple asked, raising their Bloody Mary's in silent salute.
"'Eleanor Rigby'!" Yet another mysterious patron requested. "Let's hear some Lennon and McCartney!"
The Host smiled and acknowledged each request with a smooth graciousness that promised them everything, but guaranteed nothing. The throngs loved him.
Wesley rolled his eyes. While most of the Caritas Club's regulars frequented the Karaoke Bar to receive a 'soul reading' from the Host, an Anagogic Demon, whose specialty was seeing into the souls of his guests, Wesley knew that there were quite a few who came to hear their demon host belt out the old standards.
Wesley shook his head in wry bemusement. Only in LA, he noted.
"So what brings the latter day Three Musketeers to my place tonight?" The Host asked, looking around them as if searching. "And where's the lovely Seer, our charming Miss Chase?"
The three demon hunters each glanced away at the Host's question. His eyes narrowed in sudden realization. "I see. It is the Seer whom you seek. Not my insight."
Angel shook his head. "No, Cordelia's out of town. We're here on another matter."
The Host held Angel's eyes a moment longer, assessing his words and meaning. "You look for another," he said. "And yet...it's the Seer whom you seek." He spoke so softly that the others almost didn't catch his words.
Wesley stepped forward.
"I-I don't understand," he said. "Is Cordelia in some kind of trouble?"
"Don't you know?" the Host asked blandly. At Wesley's shake of the head, the demon host turned away. "Then perhaps you should find out, don't you think?"
"Look, man," Gunn began belligerently. "If you know something about Cordelia, maybe you should just spill it!"
"I just did," the Host returned calmly. Angel finally spoke up.
"We're looking for a couple of stealth demons," he explained, low voiced. "Gunn's contacts tell him that these demons might be inhabiting a couple of federal agents. The agents questioned a lot of nightcrawlers earlier this evening. They seemed really anxious to find the demons."
"Yeah," Gunn interrupted. "My homeboys tried to talk 'em out of doing something stupid, but they're feds, y'know? Think they can shove everybody around--even demons. Last my boys saw, the guys in black were headed toward the demons' last known lair." He shrugged. "I checked the place out. Nothing."
The Host nodded. He'd been listening attentively to Gunn's account, but he didn't offer any information.
Impatiently, Angel prodded him. "Well? Have you seen anyone who might fit their description?"
"A couple of men in black were here earlier," the Host conceded. "I invited them to sing, but they turned me down cold." He shivered, remembering their icy stares. "Brrrr...! Stealth demons could freeze a fire demon with their chilly eyes."
"Yeah, and the exit wounds they leave behind aren't any fun, either," Wesley muttered. The three demon hunters exchanged knowing looks. Apparently, the federal agents had already 'found' their stealth demons and been possessed as feared.
"Do you know where they were going?" Angel asked.
The Host nodded reflectively. Giving the others a warm smile, he answered, "Wolfram and Hart. Where else?"
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Bludhaven: The Haven Heights Motor Hotel, along Hwy. 61
[Friday 0305hrs EST]
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"Oh-oohh..." Cordelia groaned, holding a cold compress to her forehead. "There's gotta be an easier way."
"I was too late."
Cordelia gave a short squeal, and then glared at her visitor. "At least a vampire has the courtesy to wait to be invited before barging into a person's home!"
"Sorry," Nightwing said, hitching his hip on the cheap motel dresser. He didn't sound sorry.
Cordelia lay back, closing her eyes. "What happened?" she asked, holding the cold compress firmly against her forehead.
Nightwing filled her in as best he could.
Cordelia lay still, not answering. After a moment, Nightwing assumed she'd fallen asleep and was about to head out the window, when her quiet, matter-of-fact voice stopped him.
"She's trying to sire new ones."
Nightwing whirled around. Cordelia was looking up at him, her green eyes steady.
"What do you mean?" he asked, knowing the answer before he uttered the question.
"This vampire--whoever she is--is trying to sire new ones. Probably looking for followers," she added, half to herself.
"How do you know that?" Nightwing asked. He sat down next to her on the couch.
"The whole blood-sharing thingie--it's a ritual of sorts. An icky, vampire-creating ritual." Cordelia grimaced in obvious disgust.
"Go on," he said.
Closing her eyes again, Cordelia nodded and explained.
"Not every vampire victim becomes a vampire. Most don't--they're just so much meat on the hoof. But sometimes--" She stopped, looking at Nightwing to see if he was following her. At his nod, she continued.
"Anyway, this whole 'turning' ritual is tricky. Kinda like the Three Bears' porridge."
Nightwing stared at her in mild irritation. "Think you could be a little less cryptic?"
Cordelia shrugged. "You know--the Three Bears: 'Too hot. Too cold. Just right?"
Nightwing's look told her he still wasn't following her. "Do you think that you could pretend your studio audience here--me--knows little or less about vampires?
She closed her eyes, sighing in exasperation.
"If you take too much blood--the 'intended' dies. Don't take enough--the victim lives. Take just the right amount--the transference works. Of course, there's this whole gross, blood-sharing part to it, too." She didn't elaborate and Nightwing didn't ask.
"Oh, and usually by the following sundown the new vampire awakes," she added almost absentmindedly.
Nightwing went still. "You're telling me that in less than fifteen hours, I'm going to have a second vampire to contend with?"
Cordelia nodded wearily. "Do you know where they took him?"
"What?" Nightwing sounded distracted.
"The body? Do you know where they took the body?"
"City morgue. Why?"
"Duh--!" Cordelia said sharply, eyes flashing. "You've gotta make sure he doesn't wake up!" At his look of incomprehension, she shot off with rapid-fire precision several preferred methods of disposing of the vampire-to-be.
"Drive a stake through his heart! Cut his head off. Or, um, I know! Cremation! Yeah! That's the preferred method of disposal."
At Nightwing's look of distaste, Cordelia added with irritation. "Nightwing, he's already dead, remember? You'll be doing his soul a favor. Otherwise, he'll rise at sundown and his soul will be doomed for all eternity."
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Bludhaven: City Morgue
[Friday 0430hrs EST]
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"Hmmm...Ronald H. Williams, you say?" The bored attendant didn't bother looking up from his porn magazine. He continued flipping the pages. "Gone."
"Gone?! But he was just brought here! There hasn't even been time for an autopsy, yet!"
The attendant deliberately stopped turning the pages of his magazine, clasped both hands and laid them on top of Miss February. He looked up slowly, stopping momentarily at the nametag--Grayson--and continuing on.
The young police officer was giving him a dark, angry look. His attitude screamed, 'Rookie!'
"Look, Officer Grayson. You're probably new here and haven't learned how we run things here in the 'Haven. But when a family member claims the body--" He reached inside his lab coat and pulled out a thick roll of bills. "--the City is only too happy to comply in order to help the newly bereaved get through their time of sorrow."
"Oh?" Dick asked, his tone ironic. "Tell me--" He picked up the attendant's nameplate from his desk. "--Lopez. For just how much was the City 'only too happy' to turn the body over to the newly bereaved?" He leaned over, grinning in seeming complicity.
Lopez returned Dick's grin.
"Five big ones, my boy. Of course, I'd've done it for nothing if the dearly departed's sister had been willing to--" he stopped, his openly lecherous expression finishing his statement for him.
Dick, feeling a little sick inside, returned his grin. "Look, Lopez...this really puts me in a spot, man. My sergeant wanted me to check something for him on the body--for his report, y'know?"
Lopez nodded.
"Did the sister leave an address--say to a funeral home? Anything where I could maybe track 'em down?"
Lopez shook his head. "No, man--sorry. She didn't leave any address, but--" he stopped, a calculating look coming to his eyes.
"What is it?" Dick's voice dropped, becoming cold.
"With the proper amount of prompting," Lopez began, holding up his wad of money, and then casually putting it away. "I could remember the license plate on the van."
Dick had to fight off a strong urge to reach across the desk and pull the attendant's lungs out. Instead, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. Mirroring Lopez's earlier casual moves, Dick opened his billfold, pulled out two twenty-dollar bills and pausing, gauged Lopez's reaction.
The dishonest attendant rolled his eyes and began flipping his magazine again. "Sorry, but that license plate number is suddenly becoming really fuzzy in my memory."
Dick pulled out a third twenty.
"I'm sorry, Officer Grayson," Lopez said without looking up. "But unless you have further questions for me, I really have a lot of work to do--"
Dick stuffed a wad of bills inside the morgue clerk's right breast pocket. Smirking in triumph, Lopez was about to reach inside his pocket, when Dick suddenly grabbed his wrist in a vice-like grip.
"Talk," Dick ordered.
His expression ugly, Lopez looked like was about to refuse, when Dick pulled out a hundred dollar bill. Holding it just under the other's nose, Dick gave him an icy look.
"Talk," he repeated.
Giving him a weak grin, Lopez nodded eagerly. "Anything for the boys in blue, Grayson. It was a California plate--2RSF--something. The rest looked like it'd been smudged--!"
He gasped when Dick applied added pressure to his wrist. Quickly, Lopez described the van and the beautiful, yet strange female visitor who'd claimed the body. He also mentioned something that instantly caught Dick's attention.
"--Maybe someone was inside. But it was too dark to get a good look. I swear that's all I saw.
Dick squeezed harder, his expression ruthless.
"It's the truth, man! I swear it!"
Dick deliberately reached into Lopez's breast pocket and took out the wad of bills he'd originally placed in there.
"Hey--!" Lopez protested as Dick carefully returned the money to his own billfold. Giving Lopez a friendly wave and a smile, Dick turned to go.
"Have a nice day."
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Bludhaven: The Moonlight Club
[Friday 0500hrs EST]
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Cordelia took slow, measured steps through the alley lying adjacent to the Moonlight Club. After Nightwing left her, she called a cab and came here. She wasn't sure why, she just knew that she had to.
Cordelia looked around the alley, not really knowing what she was searching for. Standing in the middle of the alley, she glanced up at the soaring walls of the surrounding buildings.
The Moonlight Club lay adjacent to a tech firm, a loan company, and a covered parking lot. After a moment, she noticed the dim chalk outline that marked the location where the body lay.
Closing her eyes, Cordelia concentrated, trying to 'see' the attack once more. Nothing. She sighed. It never worked when she wanted it to work.
She was about to turn away, when she stopped.
"Waitaminute," she muttered. She walked back to the chalk mark, and crouched down until she could get a better look at it. She stared up at the MediTech Tower and its attached covered parking.
"No, that doesn't look right!" She stood up slowly and paced for a while, stopping every few seconds to stare at the parking lot and then the tower. She slowly turned a hundred eighty degrees, her eyes traveling up to the Moonlight Club's rotating neon sign. "He wasn't at the Moonlight Club when he died." She was already running as she spoke. "He was looking at the Moonlight Club!"
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Bludhaven: Traveling South on "The Spine"
[Friday 0510hrs EST]
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"~AH-CHOO~" Dick blew his nose for about the hundredth time since the start of his shift. He made a big show of wiping his eyes and then gave Amy a brave smile. "Sorry, Sarge," he croaked. "I'm fine, really."
Amy rolled her eyes in disgust.
"That does it, Grayson!" She picked up the mike and called in that they were returning to headquarters. "You may be all right--but if you sneeze, wheeze, and cough on me one more time, I may not be all right! We're going back to base, and you're going home! To bed! Understand?"
"But Sar-arge!" Dick protested. "I can't go home! With these whacko murders plaguing the city, you know the squad's short-handed as it is!"
He gave Amy his best 'Alfred-I'm-feeling-sick-and-can't-go-to-school-today' whine. Amy glared at him. Dick returned her stare with his most ingenuous, bluest-eyed expression. Even Bruce used to fall prey to that look, he remembered...
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"Alfred, I really think he needs to stay home today, don't you?" a worried Bruce looked up from Dick's bedside.
"Absolutely, sir," Alfred responded drolly. "Such an Academy Award performance deserves reward. Don't you agree, Master Dick?"
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Dick looked away, hiding a sudden grin. He never could fool Alfred.
"And don't give me that hurt, puppy-dog look," Amy said disgustedly. "You're going home to bed and that's an order! Got it, Rookie?"
"But--" Dick started, then sneezed violently.
Without a word, Amy turned on the emergency lights and pressed her foot down on the accelerator. Dick was suddenly thrown back into his seat. He opened his mouth to protest again, but Amy cut him off.
"No buts--!" she snarled.
"Yes, ma'am," Dick said meekly.
Dick slid down in his seat, outwardly the picture of hurt dejection. Inside, he allowed himself a moment of smugness. Barbara was running down the license plate that the morgue attendant had supplied, and Dick was anxious to get back to the case.
"No one told me I had to be the senior partner and a den mother," Amy muttered.
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End of Part 4