Soul Trade (ANGEL) - Softcover

His YA book series THE FALLEN for S&S was turned into a series of TV movies that have aired to strong ratings on the ABC Family Network. SLEEPER CODE AND SLEEPER AGENDA, a YA two-part story for Razorbill/Penguin, was an ALA *Top Ten* Quick Pick in 2006.

Tom lives in Stoughton, Massachusetts with his wife and their dog, Mulder.

Chapter One

Angel wrenched the slathering canine's head violently to one side, the junkyard dog's neck breaking with a wet snap. He tossed the still twitching body into the path of the slowly advancing pack of dogs in hopes of deterring the animals from attacking further.

"See what happens to bad dogs?" Angel said, as he eyed the savage pack before him.

His investigation into a recent rash of child abductions from some of the poor neighborhoods surrounding the junkyard had brought him to Dead End Salvage. The dogs were supposed to watch over the place, but the average watchdog would never have been this savage.

The pack leader, a mangy, gray-furred beast that looked to be a cross between a German shepherd and a Saint Bernard, bent down to sniff the corpse of its dead pack mate. The dog's wild, glassy eyes never left Angel as it took a single lap at the blood that trailed from the dead animal's nose. The four other dogs watched their leader, sniffing and mewling at the scent of death that now hung in the junkyard air.

The animals' movements were stiff and jerky; a strange, milky film covered their eyes. Angel felt a small pang of compassion for the beasts. It was obvious their actions were not their own.

Of course, compassion could be costly. Angel glanced briefly at his ravaged forearm and the torn material of his black coat. He felt the throb of the bite wounds that bled freely beneath the cloth. He flexed his hand and wiggled his fingers to make sure they were still in working order. There was pain, but not enough to concern him.

He really had no idea what he was up against. Not this time. All he knew was that children were missing, and he might be able to help.

Angel had been reading newspaper articles about the missing children. Nosing around, he learned that a viscous, foul-smelling fluid had been found at more than one of the crime scenes. The police pathologists were perplexed by their discovery that the fluid had come from some kind of animal, but one unknown in the annals of science. Angel could read between the lines. Demon, werewolf, whatever it was, the thing wasn't likely to be something the LAPD could handle. It was up to him. He had started working the case in his spare time. What little of it there was.

Now he was here, bleeding and without backup.

A sixth child was missing and the police seemed no closer to a solution. There was no obvious sign of the supernatural, but with each abduction, the possibility loomed larger that the perpetrator was not human.

Angel had studied maps of the area and decided to begin his investigation in a junkyard that bordered the neighborhoods from where the children were stolen. Amidst the stacks of twisted metal and the refuse of society, creatures that hunted in shadow could easily create a lair hidden from the curious eyes of humanity. Angel and Doyle had agreed to meet at the junkyard at sundown, but the demon halfling never showed. Impatient, and with the possibility that the children still lived, Angel had gone in alone.

He had scaled the razor wire-topped fence with ease, jumping down into the yard. Walking among the stacks of flattened automobiles and piles of discarded appliances, he had begun the search. Angel looked for a sign, something that would tell him if he indeed faced a supernatural threat, and if so, what sort. Only children had been taken and a foul-smelling fluid had been found at each crime scene, which made him suspect that some kind of earth dweller might be responsible. A troll, perhaps.

Angel had little fondness for any of the supernatural creatures that stalked the world in secret, but he had even less for trolls. Maybe because they preyed primarily on children. Whatever the case, Angel hated trolls.

At the moment, however, he was none too fond of dogs, either.

The pack of junkyard mutts snarled and circled him, trying to trap him between them. The pack leader leaped over the corpse of its fallen comrade with a guttural snarl. Angel caught the beast's muscular bulk in mid jump and stumbled backward into a stack of flattened automobiles. He gripped the matted fur of its neck, feeling the powerful muscles coil beneath.

"And me without a newspaper," he grunted, trying to keep the beast's snapping jaws from closing on his face.

The animal's breath was rank with the odor of death and decay, a smell the vampire was all too familiar with. The dog's paws raked at Angel's body, trying to rip through his clothes and the flesh beneath. Angel brought a knee violently up between the animal's legs. The leader howled in pain and rage as Angel threw its thrashing body away from him.

The dog skidded across the ground with a yelp, scattering the others in its wake. Quickly it regained its footing, shook the dirt from its fur and glared at Angel with hate-filled eyes.

The other dogs padded closer under the watchful eyes of their leader. They spread out, licking their chops, nervously sniffing at the air. Angel glanced down. A small puddle of blood from his bite wound was forming in the dirt near his feet.

The four dogs crouched, hackles raised around their necks, the dark flesh of their jowls peeled back to reveal nasty yellow teeth. Angel felt his own transformation begin. The flesh of his brow grew thicker, more pronounced, his incisors elongated to vicious points. In this form he was more in tune with the dogs' savagery, their madness. It wasn't natural.

"Last chance to be my best friend," he growled.

The dogs attacked. Angel lunged to the right, grabbing hold of a rusted metal bumper from a classic fifties car. He wrenched it away from the body of the flattened vehicle and swung.

The bumper connected with the first of the leaping beasts, its jaw practically torn from its face with the force of Angel's blow. It fell to the ground in a heap. The dog tried to stand, but slumped back to the ground and then grew very still. Another of the pack lunged. It ducked beneath the next swing and dove for Angel's side. The snarling vampire thrust the heavy bumper into the dog's mouth, preventing it from burying its teeth in his flesh. Then he brought the bumper down onto the dog's skull with a sickening crunch. The dog didn't make a sound as it flopped on its side, dead. Angel kicked the corpse away. He bared his fangs to the remaining beasts and advanced, holding the blood-flecked bumper.

"Now who's top dog?"

The dogs backed away to join the pack leader; the beast had taken up a defensive stance in front of the rusted-out remains of a black minivan. The three dogs came toward him, barking and snapping their jaws, and then returned to guard the van. Angel realized there was a reason they didn't want him near that particular hunk of junk.

That answered his question. These weren't just watchdogs. Something held an unnatural influence over them. Another of the dogs leaped at him and he swung the twisted bumper. Its spine shattered in mid leap as metal brutally connected with flesh and bone. Angel moved toward the van, holding the bumper menacingly. The wary dogs backed away.

"Do I have to kill you too?" he asked the two survivors.

The pack leader cocked its head quizzically and stared deep into Angel's yellow demonic gaze. The other dog continued to bark frantically.

"I'm the boss now. The pack is mine," Angel said forcefully. "Go." He could see their survival instinct was still strong despite the supernatural influence. He made a sudden move toward them. "Go on, get out of here."

The dogs hesitated, then began to whine, apparently struggling with the power commanding them and their own instincts.

Instinct won. Tails bent between their legs, the two slunk away from the minivan. When they had trotted off a ways, the German shepherd-Saint Bernard mix turned and let loose with a series of ferocious barks as if to warn him not to assume that because they were retreating, it meant he had beaten them. The pack leader padded confidently off into the shadows of the salvage yard, its surviving brother tagging close behind.

Angel studied the wreck of the van. The windows were covered in thick mud and dust that prevented him from seeing inside. The wheels had been removed, making it sit flush with the ground. A powerful stench wafted out of the van. If the dogs' behavior hadn't tipped him off, the smell would have clinched it: Angel knew he was in the right place. He discarded the bumper with a clatter of metal, then reached out and gripped both rear door handles. With a surge of vampiric strength he ripped the doors off their hinges and tossed them to either side.

"Knock, knock," he called out. He might be the scourge of the forces of darkness, but he wouldn't want them to think he was rude.

The inside of the van was stripped down to the bare metal. The stench was nearly palpable. Though he did not have to breathe, he put his coat sleeve to his mouth and nose to lessen the effects of the offensive odor, just in case he was tempted to inhale.

Where is that smell coming from? Angel wondered as he ducked his head and crawled inside.

The stench grew steadily stronger. He felt the movement of air on his face before he found the hole. The metal floor of the van was missing and a large hole had been dug into the ground. With deep regret, he inhaled. The horrible odor wafted up from the tunnel, carried on the slightest current of air, and now that he had gotten a better whiff, it confirmed his suspicions.

Troll. Angel snarled in disgust.

He glanced around the dirt floor and found further evidence he was in the right place: a pink barrette, a tiny sneaker, a broken action figure. The vampire crouched over the gaping hole and felt his rage growing. He reached down and let his hand run over the smooth earthen interior. His fingers came away covered with a thick, awful-smelling substance.

Probably a Duergar, he thought. Duergar trolls were an extremely rare and ferocious breed of earth dweller. They excreted a viscous, malodorous perspiration that acted as a kind of lubricant as they burrowed tunnels beneath the earth. Angel recalled that the Duergar also had the ability to control some of the lesser animals like rats, carrion birds and dogs. Trolls were always bad news, but the Duergar were the worst of the bunch.

Angel wiped his hand on his pants and stared into the tunnel. If those kids were down there, he shouldn't hesitate. But he also knew the last thing he should do was to go in without backup. None of which would have been a problem if Doyle had bothered to show.

Where are you when I need you, Doyle? he thought. It suddenly occurred to him that Cordelia might know where to find him. She was probably still at the office. Angel reached into his coat pocket for his cell phone, then let out an exasperated sigh. He'd left it on the seat of his car, which was parked on the street a couple of blocks from the salvage yard.

It wasn't the first time Doyle had forgotten an appointment, but they had specifically discussed the importance of this job that morning. The smell of troll drifted up from the hole to remind him that he had a decision to make. He made it. Again, he had no choice but to do this alone. Angel dropped into the wretched tunnel. His final thought before being enveloped in a cocoon of stench and darkness: Doyle better have a damn good excuse.

Doyle drifted in a mental fog. He didn't really know where he was. It felt as though he were floating in space...then suddenly he was in his apartment. Confused, he looked around. His place was much neater than he ever remembered seeing it. I must have cleaned it and forgot, he thought, as he took a deep breath of the room's uncommonly clean smell.

The room stank of garbage.

"Doyle?" a voice asked from somewhere in the room.

He turned and looked into the eyes of beauty.

Cordelia Chase was in his apartment. Odd, he didn't recall her coming in. Maybe that's why he had straightened up. It made sense.

Cordelia smiled at him and his heart began to beat faster.

His neck throbbed; a twinge of pain shot up from his throat to the side of his face.

Doyle walked toward her, returning her smile with one of his own. "Cordelia," he said, looking sheepishly from her face to the floor and then back to her. "Nice of you to drop by."

She was still smiling at him. He could feel the warmth of it. It's like the sun, he thought, as he looked deeply into her eyes.

His hands began to tremble. Here was the opportunity he'd been waiting for. Cordelia Chase, the woman of his dreams, in his apartment. His immaculate apartment that he didn't remember cleaning. He'd had a thing for the raven-haired beauty since the first time he saw her. When she started to work with Angel, and Doyle got to see her every day...well, to say his attraction to her grew was an understatement.

"Francis..."

Doyle was startled. She'd never called him by his first name before.

"Francis, there's something I've been wanting to tell you for a very long time."

Doyle was stunned as she took his hands in hers.

Her thumb rubbed across his knuckles and Doyle noticed they were no longer in his apartment but at the office, downstairs in Angel's living quarters.

"Weird," he muttered. But he dismissed the bizarre transition to listen to what Cordelia had to share with him.

She held his gaze with dark, moist eyes and squeezed his hands in hers. "I've had to build up an awful lot of courage to say this and I hope I don't scare you away."

Wet, he thought. Something's soaking through the back of my pants.

Doyle pushed the inane thought from his mind and returned his full attention to Cordelia. "You won't scare me, darlin', what is it?"

"I love you, Doyle. I've loved you from the first time I saw you."

For the briefest of moments he heard the melodious music of a harp, but that sound morphed into a cacophony of car horns.

This was more than he ever hoped for -- a fantasy come true.

"I've grown more than a bit fond of you as well," Doyle said, as he brought Cordelia's hands up to his mouth to kiss them.

His lips fell upon nothing. He kissed only air. Cordelia now stood on the other side of a pub he often frequented by the name of Taggert's. She held a hand full of darts. It looked like she was getting ready to start a game.

"Are you ready?" she asked.

Was he ready? Doyle knew that in order for the two of them to be happy he had to share with her his darkest secret. But should he risk it? He had waited so long to tell her how he really felt. Now that he knew she felt the same, did he want to chance driving her away?

Taggert's smelled of garbage, rotting vegetables, like his apartment, and he looked about for the source of the offensive aroma. His gaze was drawn back to Cordelia, who watched him expectantly.

Now or never, he decided. If she can't take the fact that I'm half Brachen demon, well then, it just wasn't meant to be.

The pain in his neck grew sharper.

Doyle walked across the pub...