Angel liked Willie's, but he
didn't like Willie. At Willie's, the gossip was always good and
the blood was always fresh. Not always human, but always
fresh. Willie, on the other hand, was obnoxious, and he smelled
weird.
Angel had been in Sunnydale for a few weeks, waiting for news.
Whistler had told him to come here, and then had disappeared.
Just like a demon to bail on you when you needed him, but Angel had
felt like he could handle the situation.
Until he started hearing the
rumors. The Master. The Harvest. This was not good.
Then he heard the biggest
rumor of all. The one he'd been waiting for.
He was sitting in a booth in
a corner of Willie's bar, sipping a glass of warm B positive, when a
couple of vamps plopped down at the table next to him.
"Damn, you think it's really
true?" one of them said to the other.
"Sounded like bullshit to
me," said the other. "Slayer." He made a scoffing
noise. "Some chick can kill vamps? Yeah, right."
"You've never heard of the
Slayer?" Angel spoke without thinking, but it didn't
matter--these were immature, ignorant vamps, probably Turned less than
a decade ago.
They turned to look at him,
disdainful. "Who the fuck are you?" one of them said.
He returned the other
vampire's regard steadily. He, with 240-odd years to their ten or
twelve,
was not the one in danger here. "She in town?"
The vamp's mouth tightened,
yellow eyes flashing. Angel hated the ones who stayed in
demon-face all the time. They thought it was cool, he knew, but
among the Order of Aurelius it was considered a flaw in character, a
lack of control. As much as he chose now to distance himself from
that past, he still held those prejudices.
"I said, who are you?" The
young, stupid, poorly trained vamp came to his feet, glaring down at
Angel. Angel smiled placidly back.
Then came to his feet,
grabbed the other vamp by the skull, and twisted his head off.
The babyvamp had never had a
chance, Angel was that fast. The second youngster sat gaping as
Angel dusted off his hands. "Now," said Angel. "What have
you heard about the Slayer?"
#
He gave her a cross. A big,
chunky, silver one. The salesclerk at the jewelry store had given
him an odd look when he'd refused to touch it. Buffy had taken it
from him and looked at him with nearly as much disdain as he'd gotten
from
the vamps at Willie's.
And why not? He could
deal with other vamps, with demons, but he had no clue whatsoever how
to interact with human beings.
Especially her. He got
close to her and he could swear his heart started beating.
He'd come off like a
stalker, he was certain. Of course, that was exactly what he'd
been doing. His neck still ached where she'd kicked him. He
smiled a little,
rotating his head, feeling the bruise.
But the smile faded.
She was so young, so small, so alone. And before this was over,
she would have to face the Master. Angel knew far too well the
kind of power his grandsire possessed. He could only do so much
for the little golden Slayer girl--the rest she had to manage on her
own.
He hoped she was up to the
task.
"She did it. I'll be damned."
Somehow, she had defeated the Master's minions. She and her goofy
friends. It seemed an unlikely combination--and he couldn't
remember
ever having heard of a Slayer with sidekicks--but it had worked.
She was something special. He'd known that the moment he'd first
seen her, when Whistler had taken him to LA. He'd never wanted
anything
in his life as much as he'd wanted, then, to help her, to make
something
meaningful out of the waste of his existence. For her.
At Willie's, the babyvamps were gathered in clusters, panicky,
yammering
about the Slayer. Idiots, all of them, convinced until tonight
that
the Slayer was nothing more than a myth, a boogie-girl invented by
humans
to scare the demons in the world. And now here she was among
them. Slaughtering them.
He couldn't help laughing at the depth of their stupidity.
Six of them sat at the table next to his customary booth; they turned
almost as one to glare at him.
"What's so damn funny?" one of them demanded, yellow eyes glinting.
He placidly sipped from his glass before answering. "You
are." He shook his head in amazement. "You seriously didn't
believe in the Slayer? Don't they bother to teach fledglings anymore,
or do they just Turn you and set you free?"
"She's a girl," one of the babyvamps protested. "How can she kill
us if she's so small?"
"Slayer's always a girl," Angel said. "One girl in all the world,
to stand against the forces of darkness. Which would be you
guys."
He chuckled. "Doesn't look like such a big job, after all, from
where
I'm sitting."
"Who the hell do you think you are?"
If nothing else, Angel thought, he'd been doing a good job of pissing
these guys off. Once again, he avoided the question. If he
answered, "Angelus," he might get some reaction, perhaps a bit of
respect, but he didn't want to. He'd left that name, and all it
represented, behind him
in Romania nearly a century ago.
"I suppose you think the Master's a myth, too," he said.
"No way. The Master's real. He's stuck underground.
That bitch of a Slayer stopped the Harvest, or he would have risen
tonight."
Angel nodded. "The Master made the one who Sired me," he
said
then, carefully. "I am of the Order of Aurelius, and none of you
is worthy to lick the bottoms of my shoes."
One of the miscellaneous babyvamps gaped at him, recognition rising on
her face.
"Angelus," she said.
Angel didn't answer.
"Who?" said one of the other vampires.
"The Scourge of Europe." She was warming to the topic, eyeing
Angel
with growing enthusiasm and more than a little lust. "If half the
rumors are true, you're...spectacular."
Angel had had enough. He stood slowly, peering down at her in
disdain. "Time to start some new rumors."
He turned and walked out of the bar, straightening his jacket and
summoning some of the imposing presence he knew he'd carried as
Angelus. If he was going to be some kind of evil-fighting hero,
he might as well try to be cool about it.
Lurking around in the sewers and the basement under Sunnydale High
didn't
seem to Angel to be the best way to impress the new Slayer, but he
supposed
it didn't really matter as long as he didn't get caught. And when
was she ever in the basement or in the sewers, anyway? Well, at
least not on off-hunting hours.
He was lurking now because he'd heard Buffy was trying out for the
cheerleading squad. And he'd heard that while he'd been lurking
yesterday. He was getting to be quite the accomplished
lurker. Soon he might
even be able to skulk efficiently. Wouldn't look great on a
resume,
but still a useful skill.
He found a vent where he could see into the gymnasium to watch the
tryouts. Lots of lovely, nubile girls jumping up and down.
This cheerleading thing didn't suck.
Where was Buffy? He didn't see her right away. He
recognized
one of the other girls, though--tall and sleek and pretty, with long
brown
hair. He'd seen her with Buffy, but he didn't think they were
friends.
In fact, he'd gotten just the opposite impression.
So pretty, all of them. Their tinkling, girlish laughter drifted
to him. So did their smells. Soft, musky,
woman-smells. In his day, these girls would have already been
married and nursing babies. To him, they smelled ripe, ready to
take, like sex and blood and a really good, belly-warming meal.
Times like this, skulking in alleys eating rats seemed more and more
like
a sensible lifestyle choice. If he stayed here too long, it was
going to be the donut shop incident all over again, except without the
bad 70s music.
He missed the bad 70s music. Didn't understand in any way, shape
or form why people made fun of Barry Manilow. Manilow was a god,
plain and simple.
Can't smile without you, can't something without you I can't laugh
and I can't sing I'm finding it hard to do anything you know I feel sad
when you're sad and what the hell comes after that...
Damn, that was a good song. How could anybody argue with
that?
And trying to remember the words was keeping his mind off the gorgeous
girls bouncing up and down just a few yards away from him.
There she was. Buffy. Golden and beautiful and oh, so
incomprehensibly young. He stilled, just watching her. Her
laughter came to
him and made his eyes water.
He wasn't crying. This was worse. He was trying to
change. His eyes stung and burned as he fought back the
demon. No one could see him here, but he'd be damned if he was
going to let his baser parts take control right now.
He sat very still for a long moment, taking in the smells of
brilliantly
beautiful, consummately edible girls, and willed the demon back.
He had to have control--if there was one thing he needed absolutely to
master before he could be any use to the Slayer, it was that.
Finally, he won. But he knew, now, that he was simply too hungry
to be here right now. Reluctant, and after one last, long look at
Buffy, he slipped away.
Okay, shit. That hurt. The smell of his own blood hitting
the air made his throat tighten. Borrowed or not, it was still
blood,
and he was hungry.
The other vampire, with his vicious metal claw-hand, could take him,
Angel
knew. And, after 240 years, Angel had become rather attached to
being
not dead. Well, at least as not dead as anyone in his condition
could
ever expect to be.
So he ran. Sometimes running like a lily-livered piece of shit
was
just necessary.
He took a circuitous route back to his apartment, but he was pretty
sure
the other vamp hadn't followed. At home, he examined the wounds
on
his upper arm. They were deep, but they would heal. Not as fast
as
they would have back in the day when he ate better and generally took
better care of himself, but still fast.
He pulled a bag of blood out of the fridge. More than once,
recently, he'd wondered if at least part of his problem was that he
still insisted on drinking human blood. Maybe if he switched to
animal blood, the cravings wouldn't be as intense. Whistler had
told him about several places in town where he could stock up on pig or
cow blood, butcher shops where no questions would be asked. But
he hadn't taken that plunge yet.
He emptied the first bag in a few swallows and pulled out
another.
He was so damned hungry. He was hungry all the time, it
seemed. Not the horrible, gnawing, sickening hunger that had been
his constant companion, those decades he'd spent in alleys feeding on
rats, but hunger just the
same. Insistent, ever-present. He had become so
undernourished during those years. Whistler had commented on it
during their first encounter.
He'd been bigger before, he knew for a fact. He'd thrown away a
lot
of clothes over the years not because of changes in style--though that
was obviously a consideration--but because they were just too big for
him. He'd been robust and healthy, a strong, solid man--now he
was a scrawny little
punk who could barely fill out a T-shirt.
It was okay, though. It made him look a little closer to Buffy's
age, made it easier for her to accept him. He hoped. He
hadn't
actually spoken to her since that day in the crypt, when she'd gone to
rescue her friends.
He was going to have to talk to her now. She needed to know about
this claw-hand vamp. Angel couldn't take him, but surely Buffy
could.
He finished the second bag of blood. His stomach felt full now--a
little sloshy, even--but he knew he would be ravenous again in a matter
of hours. Until he fed his way back to his normal body weight,
the
cravings would continue to plague him. Nothing he could do about
it.
It was too late, now, to catch Buffy. He'd have to try early
tomorrow night, at the Bronze. She would be there--she nearly
always was. For now, he needed sleep, and, when he woke, more
blood.
#
He watched her a few nights later at the Bronze. Buffy had killed
the clawed vamp, but there was another story floating around, something
about a giant bug-woman. Stupid babyvamps were always making shit
up.
In any case, she was happily alive and in one piece, laughing and
talking with her friends, the little red-haired girl and the goofy guy
who watched her with big eyes full of teenage hormone-y love.
Angel didn't like him.
But she was still wearing Angel's jacket. As if he were her
boyfriend or something. Like maybe he meant something to her, as
if maybe she'd actually been affected by him when he'd talked to her,
given her that
hokey, "I'll be around," line. Maybe he wasn't as inept as he'd
thought. Maybe he had one small cool bone in his body, somewhere.
He could smell her from where he waited, could thread her scent out of
the hundred others that packed the room. And it was mixed and
mingled with his own scent, the odors of his body he'd left inside that
coat.
Something about that smell just seemed *right*. Made his body
stir
and tingle. It made it hard for him to remember that, in this day
and age, sixteen-year-old girls weren't considered old enough for the
things he was thinking. Before he'd been Turned, he'd bedded
scores
of women her age and even a little younger, without a second
thought.
But now, in more enlightened times, age of consent laws
notwithstanding,
Buffy was still considered a child.
She wasn't a child. She was the Slayer.
And Angel knew, with a certainty that made him ache, that, sooner or
later, he was going to have to tell her what he was.
NEVER KILL A BOY ON THE
FIRST DATE
Angel generally could read
Latin fairly easily, but translating this book was giving him hives. He
closed it, holding his place with one finger. It was musty and missing
a few
pages, but it was the right text, he was certain. He'd seen several
references to the Anointed One already.
The vampire gossip circles
were alight with the news. The Anointed One was coming, the prophecy
was to be fulfilled. Angel had heard about the Anointed One roughly
fifty years ago, but the rumor then had proved to be false. This time
he thought it had a more genuine ring to it.
Owen. What the hell
kind of goofy stupid name was Owen, anyway? And why was Angel
thinking about that instead of getting his nose back into the archaic
Latin, which had apparently been translated into Gushundi and back,
with some transpositions along the way to make it that much harder to
work out...
It was just so weird. The
Slayer on a date. That was wrong. Then again, this Slayer had a mom,
and friends at school, and had tried out for the cheerleading squad.
She just broke all the rules. She probably hadn't known them in the
first place.
Otherwise she wouldn't be hanging out at the Bronze when ancient
prophecies
were hitting the fan all around them.
God, that Owen was such
a squirrel. What the hell did she see in him? Just a few days ago
she'd been trouncing around the Bronze in Angel's leather jacket. That
was supposed to mean she belonged to him, not that she could run around
with some goofy teenager...
He dragged his thoughts
back to the book in his hands, opening it back up. The Anointed One.
Teamed with the Master. And Darla was in Sunnydale, too. Angel had
sensed her presence. It had been tenuous at first, but now he was
certain of it. He hadn't seen her--he'd gone to great lengths to
prevent that--but he knew she was here.
Had Owen given Buffy a coat?
Jacket? Sweater? Anything? Probably not leather.
Transliteration. That was
it. The text hadn't been translated into Gushundi, but just recreated
in the Gushundi alphabet. And the Gushundi alphabet was partially
mystical, so he'd need some of that whatsits, that transcribing powder
stuff, to
get the missing serifs back.
The whole thing made his
head hurt. He knew where he could get the powder, and he was pretty
sure he could just beat it out of the guy rather than having to
actually pay for it, so that was no problem.
The problem, really, was
what all this meant for Buffy. There had to be more to this than just
the Anointed One, and the Master--it had to be bigger, a larger
confluence of
events--
Maybe he could just bite
Owen. But no, that would be wrong. That he could even entertain the
idea scared him a little. He shouldn't think like that. Couldn't.
Control was imperative, and he was having enough trouble without
thinking about biting somebody.
Live, fresh, warm blood.
"Shit."
He tossed the book onto
the table. He couldn't read any more of it, anyway, not without the
powder. And he had a feeling accurate translation was imperative.
He went to the fridge and
pulled out the plastic container of blood he'd bought at the butcher
shop yesterday. Pig's blood. Whistler had said pig's blood would be
better
than cow. Pork was more like people, he'd said, and Angel had thought
that sounded ridiculous until he remembered something he'd read
somewhere
about cannibals referring to white men as long pork. So maybe Whistler
was right.
The plastic lid was coated
on the inside with thick, cold blood. Hesitant, he sniffed it, then
licked it off. Shit, that was nasty. Whistler actually expected him to
live on this stuff? If this was supposed to taste more like people,
what did the cow blood taste like?
Maybe if he heated it up.
No. The thought of warm blood--any kind of blood--made his stomach
twist. He'd been drinking it cold for years now, to make it less
like a real
feed. It seemed to help, but not as much as he would have liked.
He sipped the blood out
of the container, forced himself to swallow. This would take some
getting used to. But maybe it would be worth it, if someday he could go
through an entire day without feeling that hot craving, like gun metal
at the back of his throat.
It was gross, but it was
filling, and by the time he'd finished the pint, his taste buds had
gone a little numb from the chill, making the blood barely palatable.
In time, he supposed it might be acceptable. Human was better, though.
Human, warm, B positive. Female. That was the best.
Pushing that thought back,
he tossed the empty plastic container in the trash and picked up the
book again. Time to go after the transcribing powder. Whatever was in
this book, he needed to read it, so he could pass it on to the Slayer.
Because that, whether she
knew it or not, was his job.
Angel's contact for the
transcribing powder had been out when he dropped by, so he'd decided to
swing by the high school, instead. Keeping to the sewers as the sun
came
up, he snooped around in the ventwork for a while until he ascertained
that Buffy's class had gone on a field trip to the Sunnydale Zoo.
So he probably wouldn't
see her today. He'd hoped for at least a glimpse before he went back to
the shaman's house.
Maybe it was a good thing he
hadn't. This stalking routine was starting to feel uncomfortably
familiar. His obsessive streak had started to show, the same little
quirks that had driven him to pursue Drusilla.
That was the demon, he knew.
Liam had never been so obsessive. Or compulsively organized. The
demon's obsessive/compulsive, AR tendencies made the blood lust that
much worse, but it also gave Angel a tool to use against it. Careful,
meticulous organization of everything around him--his apartment, his
clothes, hell, even his hair--kept him distracted.
This kind of obsession
wasn't good, though--the kind that had him lurking through the high
school, fighting a swell of rage that Buffy wasn't here.
He forced himself to leave,
forced himself to think about something else. He was here because she
made him want to be something better. This wasn't better.
Lurking through the shadows
in the alleyways, occasionally taking to the sewers, he made his way
back to the shaman's house. The path took him through a shaded pathway
lined with shops. They'd been closed when he'd come by before, but now
they were open, the lights on inside. A collection of shininess in one
window caught his eye. Had Darla or Dru been there, they would have
stood there for hours staring at the trinkets before heading inside to
eat the shopkeeper.
Angel stood looking at the
trinkets for a few minutes. Something had grabbed his attention, but he
wasn't sure what.
Then he found it. He needed
this, for reasons entirely his own. He had barely enough cash to cover
it and still be able to get the powder. Suddenly taut with purpose, he
went into the shop.
The shopkeeper looked up
with a smile. "Good morning, sir. How can I--"
"The silver Claddagh ring,"
Angel said.
The man looked a little
taken aback, then a little nervous. "Um...the woman's ring?"
"No, the man's ring. I want
it for me."
"In what size?"
Angel faltered. "I'm not
sure."
The man eyed him warily.
Angel pulled in a deep breath, making himself relax. He didn't need the
oxygen, but air calmed him. He stood still--but not too still, because
that
freaked people out--while the shopkeeper sized the second finger of his
right hand, then retrieved a ring from a locked cabinet under the
display case. Angel watched him. His blood was O negative and his
heartbeat slowed from seventy-two beats a minute to sixty-five while he
sized Angel's finger.
"Here you are, sir. Would
you like to try it on?"
Angel took the ring out
of the box and slid it on, heart-down. The shopkeeper twitched a
little.
"Traditionally, one wears the heart facing outward if one is--"
"I know," said Angel curtly.
He pulled a handful of cash out of his pocket and laid it on the
counter.
"Then did you want a ring
for a lady?"
"No."
The shopkeeper sniffed,
then picked up the wad of cash, counted it, put it in the cash register
and gave Angel back his change. "Thank you, sir. Come again."
Angel spun and headed back
out, the odor of O negative hot in his nostrils. He clenched his right
fist, feeling the bulk of the ring.
You belong to her, you
do this for her, remember that. Remember that.
#
The shaman was home this
time, and answered Angel's knock.
"I'm Angel. We spoke
yesterday on the phone."
"Yes, of course." The shaman
turned away, leaving Angel on the threshold. Angel tried to step
forward and was rebuffed by the invisible barrier of the door. The
shaman was human, then. Angel hadn't been sure.
"I can't come in," he said,
a little miffed.
"I know," said the shaman,
and disappeared into the depths of the house.
Okay, that was annoying.
Understandable, but annoying. Angel shifted impatiently, waiting.
"Yeah, some time this decade would be nice," he muttered after a few
minutes.
Finally, the shaman returned
with a small, dark blue, velvet bag. "Transcribing powder, correct? For
Gunshundi?"
"Latin transliterated into
Gushundi."
"Three hundred dollars."
Shit. The ring had been
a hundred and fifty. "Two hundred."
"Three hundred."
"Two-twenty-five."
"Three hundred."
More than irate, Angel
popped his fangs. "Two-twenty-five. No more."
The shaman laughed. Angel
blinked. No human had ever laughed at his demon face before. "Ooo,
scary."
"Do you have any idea who I
am?" Angel growled. But it was hard to be fierce and threatening when
you couldn't go through the front door.
"Yeah. You're Angelus,
right? 'Cept I hear some gypsies in Romania hacked off your balls."
"I still have my balls,"
Angel grated. "Both of them, point of fact."
"Maybe so, but you ain't
gonna bite me. Give me three hundred dollars and you can have the
powder."
Angel closed his eyes,
collecting himself. He felt his forehead reconfigure, the sting as his
teeth retracted. "Fine." He looked at the shaman again. The man was
grinning. Angel really, really wanted to bite him, and not because he
was hungry, either. "Look, all I have is two hundred dollars."
"Then you should go."
Angel pulled a ring off
his left hand and held it out. "That's a real emerald. You can get two,
three hundred for it easy. I'll give you this plus all my cash."
The shaman's expression
shifted, softening a little. "Damn. It's that important?"
"It's for the Slayer."
The shaman studied him.
"You ain't shittin' me?"
"I'm not. I swear." His
intensity probably did more to undermine his sincerity than back it up,
he knew, but it was all he had. He had no skill with emotional subtlety.
"Should have said so in
the first place." He held the bag out to Angel. "I'll take a hundred
bucks, call it even."
Relieved, Angel pulled out
his wad of cash and handed the shaman two fifties. "Thanks."
The shaman reached past
the threshold to trade the bag for the money. "Vamp working for the
Slayer, huh? That's a new twist."
"I have a soul," Angel said
wryly. "Makes me do some crazy shit."
The shaman laughed. "Yeah, I
guess it would."
Angel tucked the bag into
his coat pocket and clenched his fist against the bulk of the new ring.
Everything for her. Everything.
What have
I done? God, God, what have I done?
He started running
as soon as he got out of the Bronze, and didn't stop until he slammed
the door of his apartment behind him.
He could still
smell her. That thick, sweet, musky odor that had filled his head for a
hundred and fifty years. She had left it in his apartment when she had
come to mock him, taunt him.
Darla.
He had killed his
Sire. For this he should die. For this he should walk out into the sun
and let himself burn. This, the unpardonable sin of the Order, to have
killed the one who Made him.
He sank into a
chair and let his head fall into his hands. He was shaking still, and
his face was wet.
God, God,
what have I done?
You are not
Angelus.
No, he wasn't
Angelus, not anymore. Not the same creature who had rutted with her on
the floors of convents, drunk from the thighs of nuns while she fed at
their throats. He was someone else now, something else, and he
understood that now more clearly than he ever had before.
Because he had
killed his Sire.
He looked up at his
surroundings. She had mocked him for living above ground, but she had
taught him that, she who always had to have a view. She had taught him
the
art of the hunt, the art of slow torture.
She hadn't
taught him love. That he'd learned from another blonde girl, one he'd
barely spoken to in the months he'd known her.
"You love
someone who hates us. You're sick, and you'll always be sick."
Did he love her?
Maybe he did, but if he wasn't sure, then he certainly hadn't been
ready for Buffy to have that glimpse into his heart. And now it was too
late, because now he finally understood. The dreams he'd had, of being
with
her, loving her, had been just dreams. They could never come true.
Because,
regardless of what he wasn't, he was still a vampire. There was no
changing
that, no changing the fact that he endangered her just by being near
her.
He looked
down at his hands. They were still shaking. Hands that had memorized
Darla's body. Hands that had driven a crossbow bolt into her heart.
He'd known,
when he'd seen Buffy for the first time, that his life had been
irrevocably changed. But never had he imagined it would come to this.
He had killed his
Sire. And he could still smell her dust on his fingers.
#
His heart
hurt. He'd seen Buffy at the Bronze, had left her there more certain
that
ever that he couldn't be with her. More certain than ever that he loved
her.
And the pain
in his chest wasn't just from the imprint of her chunky, silver cross,
burned into his skin. It was the pain of the loss of a dream.
He stretched out
flat on his back in bed and touched the raw wound, traced it, made it
hurt. The ring on his hand felt heavy--another reminder.
Of what he so
desperately wanted, but could never have.
He spent the
next week completely absored in translating the texts, compiling
information about the Anointed One and prophecies concerning the
Master. There were gaps, though, vital pieces of information missing.
It made him wish he'd paid more attention when Darla had tried to teach
him the history of the Order of Aurelius. She'd given him books to read
and he'd mocked them,
drawn obscene pictures in the margins. He'd resented the power the
Order
had tried to exert over him. He was strong and arrogant and free, and
didn't
give a shit about moldy books and prophecies that could be interpreted
a
hundred different ways. He'd been much more interested in planning his
next elaborate slaughter, or cajoling Darla into a three-way with
Drusilla,
even if it meant compromising into a four-way with Dru and Spike both.
Important things.
He forced
his thoughts away from the memories. Not because they were unpleasant,
but because they weren't, and he hated that he could think back on the
things he'd done then and still be aroused by the memories.
Just one more
reason to stay away from Buffy.
Which, of
course, he wasn't doing. He'd lurked around the high school this
afternoon,
had listened to Buffy's voice echo through the vents. There'd been some
concern about the Internet or something. He wasn't familiar enough with
modern technology to understand what they were talking about.
This was
something he really needed to learn. But not right now--he didn't have
the time.
Maybe someday, when things had settled down a little, he could ask
Willow--
But no. Willow
was Buffy's friend, and he needed to stay away from Buffy.
He might have
to see her, though, in order to protect her. The text he was
translating seemed more and more to be pointing toward a confluence of
events, some of them big and powerful and vastly ungood. And the Slayer
seemed to be
in the center of it.
There were
pieces missing, though. References to another text. He struggled
through the bulk of the translation, but it just didn't want to come
together and make any real sense. This was Watcher work. He should go
see Giles.
A vampire
consulting a Watcher. Not really any stranger than a vampire protecting
the Slayer, he supposed. But he had to wonder if Giles would even speak
to him.
First, though,
he needed to pay another visit to the shaman.
The shaman
answered his knock promptly. "You again," he said, without enthusiasm.
"What
do you want now?"
"The book
I was translating. There's stuff missing. It talks about another text.
The Codex. Is that the Pergamom Codex?"
The shaman
considered. "Well, there are a variety of codexes. Codices? Whatever.
But since this text deals primarily with Slayer lore, I'd say the
Pergamom's what you're looking for.
"Do you have
it?"
The shaman
guffawed. "Right. Far as I know, the last copy disappeared about fifty
years
ago."
"Find it for
me."
"Excuse me?
What, you think I can just snap my fingers and make it appear?"
Angel forced
himself to calm down. He'd never get anywhere with the shaman if he let
his fangs pop now.
"Have you
had any reason to look for it recently?" To his surprise, his voice
actually came out fairly calm and even.
The shaman
shrugged. "No, not really."
"Then could
you? Put out some feelers, maybe, see what you can come up with. Check
the Internet." He paused, and the shaman just looked at him. "I'll come
up with some cash."
"Okay. I'll
see what I can do."
"Thanks."
Back in his
apartment, he pulled out yet another text on the Gushundi alphabet and
puzzled his way through a few more pages. If only he could do more. If
only
he could fight beside her. See her. Touch her.
He closed
his eyes, making his thoughts turn elsewhere. This was the best he
could
do for her, for now. It would have to be enough.
Angel
remembered seeing a performance of Oedipus Rex in the
mid-nineteeth century in London. It hadn't been anything like this.
For one thing, he'd spent most of that performance plotting how
to lure the actor who'd played Oedipus into the alley behind the
theater after the performance. He'd been a solid, gorgeous thing, and
he and Darla had shared him to good effect.
Also, in the
mid-nineteenth century, none of the actors had run off the stage to
vomit
from stage fright. Poor Willow.
Buffy, who
looked disgusted with the entire proceeding, held her ground. He
supposed that, after facing vamps and demons every night, reciting
Sophocles in front of a crowd of high school students might seem like
not such a big deal.
But, to be
honest, Angel didn't think anybody could have paid him enough to stand
in front of that crowd. If there was one thing he'd learned over the
past few months, it was that high school students were terrifying
almost beyond the telling of it.
He'd listened
to them over the past few days, as he'd skulked around hoping for a
glimpse of Buffy. They had this thing to accomplish, this talent
show, and he'd
thought maybe they'd band together to get it over with. All of
them
seemed traumatized by the concept, or at the very least not crazy about
the
idea of performing. But instead of bonding over their mutual
apprehension, they had turned on each other, denigrating each others'
talents, mocking each other, cutting each other down. The strong
preyed on the weak, trying to drive the shyest ones to tears, carefully
eroding the confidence of the insecure.
They were
worse than vampires. At least he'd played mind games with the goal of a
meal, or at least a good, bloody murder. These evil little
creatures did it
for sheer fun.
Well, okay,
he'd done it for sheer fun a few times, himself, but these little shits
didn't have the excuse of being soulless bloodsucking demons.
Buffy seemed
to take it all on the chin, self-assured and strong, not impervious to
the others' cruelty but able to deal. But every time he heard someone
insult her--especially that God-awful girl Cordelia--he wanted to fly
out of his hiding place and beat the perpetrator senseless.
He supposed
Sunnydale High lost enough students, though, without the interference
of an overprotective vampire. And she could fend for herself quite
efficiently.
He watched the
whole of her performance and was entranced. Intellectually, he knew it
was terrible, but it didn't matter. They were all so young and
fresh, discovering themselves in a way he'd never been allowed to. By
the time he was sixteen, he'd already been informed what his role in
life would be, what he would do, how he would do it. Never mind the
cloak of heir to his father's merchant concerns fit him not at all. It
didn't matter. It was all preordained.
Had this been
preordained? Had his new role as helper to the Slayer been set in
stone before Darla had ever found him in that tavern? He knew it
made no sense, on a
cosmic scale, but sometimes he had nothing else to contemplate when he
was
sitting alone in his apartment waiting for the sun to go down.
Buffy's
performance was over, and the bows onstage were met by scattered
applause. Buffy faced the audience squarely, bold and beautiful.
Then, suddenly, a frown rose between her brows, and her attention
shifted.
She looked
right at him.
There was no
way she could have seen him, hidden as he was inside the vent, but she
looked exactly, unerringly, in his direction. Her frown deepened
a little, her eyes searching.
She knew he
was here.
Startled, he
scrabbled back into the vent, moving backward until he could no longer
see
into the auditorium. How did she know? Had she sensed the
presence
of a vampire, or had she sensed him?
He couldn't
afford, right now, to find out. He slipped back into the
darkness. It was time, once again, to go home.
It wasn't real.
There
was no possible way it could be real. He had no idea what exactly was
going
on, but he knew, he knew this could not be real.
Buffy lay limp
across
his lap, her throat open and bleeding. He could still taste her blood
in
his mouth. He could not have done this. The memory of feeding was clear
in
his head but it was strange, dreamlike. And he was even more certain of
the
unreality when he lifted his own wrist to his mouth, opened a vein, and
offered
it to her to feed.
He would never
do
this to her. He would never again do this to anyone. So why was he
doing
it now?
He bent his
head
back as she fed, feeling the pull of her mouth on his arm. The
sensation
was intense, orgasmic. She sucked a few times, then her mouth went
slack
as she faded into the death that was not death. She would awaken before
sunrise,
and she would be a demon.
His eyes
burned
with the presence of his own demon, and he blinked it back, feeling his
face
change, his teeth and forehead drawing back to normal proportions. His
wrist
ached.
What the hell
was
happening? Not just to him, but to everyone? The entire town of
Sunnydale
seemed to have gone insane, running around screaming in terror at
nothing,
as if their deepest, darkest fears had come to life and were pursuing
them
into the depths of hell.
Was that what
this
was, then? His own worst nightmare, brought upon him by some spell or
curse
that had enveloped the entire town? He wanted to find someone to ask,
but
even now, blinding sunlight pulsed behind the tightly-pulled blinds on
his
window. He was certain this day had lasted too long.
He wasn't even
certain
how, when, or why Buffy had come to him. He'd been asleep, and suddenly
she
was there, in his narrow bed with him, and he had rolled over onto her
and
sunk his teeth into her throat.
And sat now
with
her dead body draped over his thighs, knowing she would awaken in a
matter
of hours, knowing that he couldn't allow it to happen.
She was so
small,
so delicate there in his arms, her round face childish in its peaceful
repose.
He could barely see her as a woman now, in death. Merely a girl, with
too
much responsibility thrust upon her too early. As every Slayer before
her
had been.
He knew so
little
about her, he realized. In spite of the time he'd spent following her,
eavesdropping
on her conversations, reading her diary when she'd been at school--and
feeling
more than a little guilty when he'd lied about it later--he barely knew
what
drove her, what she loved, what she wanted from her life. But he loved
her.
That he could say without question.
He'd never
loved
anyone before. Not like this. He'd loved his mother, and Kathy, but
that
was family love. This was different. He would have died for her,
horribly
and painfully, if necessary. Probably would, if he continued down this
path.
So, even though he
knew
this wasn't real, knew some sort of spell or curse had hold of the town
of
Sunnydale, and knew without doubt that Buffy was still out there,
alive,
and that she undoubtedly would counteract whatever power was at work,
he
knew also what he had to do. Here, now, in this place, faced with the
sight
of Buffy's body lying limp across his lap.
He slid out
from
under her and carefully arranged her on the bed. If he forced his mind
away
from what he had done to her--but he hadn't done it, he couldn't have
done
it, it was impossible, but what if he had?--he could almost imagine she
was
gently asleep, her hair mussed from lovemaking, that he had held her
and
kissed her and loved her the way he wanted to so desperately.
But no. He had
taken
her, drunk her, Turned her.
He went into
the
living room and retrieved a stake from the front closet. Came back to
the
bedroom, stood over her, looked down at her still, supine body. No
breath,
no heartbeat, warmth rapidly fading. His eyes were hot with tears.
He shoved the
stake
into her chest, and as her body fell to dust on his blankets, he wept.
OUT OF MIND, OUT OF SIGHT
In the fading light of
dusk, Angel made his way to the shaman's house. He'd told Giles he
could get the Pergamom Codex; he hoped he hadn't lied. It had been a
few weeks since he'd asked the shaman to start searching for it--surely
he'd turned up something by now.
But all was not well at
the shaman's house. Angel could smell it before he saw anything.
Vampires. His kindred, in fact, Children of Aurelius. He broke into a
run.
The shaman's front door
was ajar. Angel rushed at it, but the mystical barrier slammed him in
the face. The shaman was still alive, at least. He could hear the vamps
now, inside the house.
"You been sniffing around,
running errands for Angelus, and the Master don't like it," one of them
said, his voice a low snarl. "Where's the book?"
He could smell the
shaman's fear, but no blood. Not yet. "It's Angel!" he shouted from the
door. He didn't even know the shaman's name.
But he heard the familiar
voice from inside the house. "Come in! Come in!"
The mystical barrier
disintegrated under Angel's hands and he threw himself into the house.
He grabbed the first vamp
just as he was about to sink his teeth into the shaman's neck. Angel
swung him around, slammed him into the wall. Only then did he register
that they were in the kitchen. A wooden spoon lay on the counter next
to him; he grabbed it, left-handed, and shoved it into the vampire's
chest. It dusted. Angel swiveled to see the second vamp bent over the
shaman, teeth embedded. He slammed the spoon handle into its back.
Coughing from the dust,
the shaman staggered forward. Angel caught his arm to steady him,
looking at the bitewound on his throat. The tang of fresh blood bit the
air and he fought back his automatic reaction, the lurch of the demon
itching under his skin.
"You all right?" he asked
the shaman.
The man clasped his
bloodied throat, a shell-shocked expression on his face. "Damn, you
have really pissed some
people off."
Angel nodded. "It's a
skill."
"They really don't like you." Angel held
a hand out to steady the shaman again, but he waved it away. "I was
wondering if you were telling the truth about helping the Slayer. I
guess now I know."
"I guess you do."
The shaman withdrew his
hand from his neck, looked at the smears of blood on his fingers.
"Guess I'd better patch this up before you get any funny ideas, huh?"
Angel was offended by the
comment, but he said nothing as the shaman left the kitchen. After a
moment, though, he followed, and stopped outside the bedroom door.
"Did you find the Codex,
then?" he asked.
"You are more than a
little single-minded," the shaman said, his voice muffled by the closed
door. He fell silent for several seconds, leaving Angel to stew
uncomfortably.
Finally, the bathroom door
opened and the shaman said, "I acutally did get my hands on a copy."
"Where is it?"
The shaman gave him an
evaluating look. He had taped a square of gauze over the bite mark on
his neck. Angel could still smell the blood. AB positive. He had a
fridge full of pig's blood at home. Swallowing, he forced himself to
look away from the gauze and into the shaman's face.
"I tracked it down a few
days ago." The shaman eyed him narrowly. "I was having some doubts
about your loyalties. I started looking into it, and this is what I
get." He pressed a hand against his neck.
"So do you believe me now?"
"I do."
He led the way into the
living room, Angel trailing after him. He made a complex hand movement
in front of a bookshelf. A black-bound book appeared where before there
had been a set of Readers' Digest Condensed Books. The shaman picked it
up. "Here you go. Your Pergamom Codex."
Angel stared at it, barely
able to believe it was real. But it was, dark and heavy in his hand,
smelling of old leather and yellowed paper. "How much?"
"It cost me three grand."
Angel gaped at him. "Three
thousand dollars?"
The shaman nodded
soberly. "Afraid so."
Three thousand dollars. He
was going to have to find something more lucrative to do than the bits
and snatches of night work he'd managed to scare up since he'd moved to
Sunnydale. "I don't have it."
"I know you don't. What do
you have?"
Angel dug a wad of bills
out of his pocket. "Maybe three hundred here. I can sell some
jewelry--maybe get you a grand. After that--I'll have to see what I can
scrape up."
"I can put you on a
payment plan."
Angel nodded, assuming the
shaman was serious, but he had a feeling there was a joke being made at
his expense. "I'll get some work somewhere. I can manage it."
"Okay. As long as you're
good for it."
"I am."
He looked down again at
the book in his hands, then headed for the door. But when he reached
the threshold, he turned. "Uninvite me," he said. "Do you know that
spell?"
The shaman frowned,
puzzled. "Yeah, I know it. Why?"
"Just do it. Just in case."
"All right, I'll do it."
He still looked confused, but Angel didn't bother to elaborate.
Clenching his hand tight on the book, he headed back toward the high
school.
She was alive. In spite of everything,
she was alive, and here, and holding his hand. Her hair was wet and lank, her
neck scratched open, her beautiful dress muddied, but she was alive.
He squeezed her hand, involuntarily,
as they followed the others to the Bronze. She looked up at him, her eyes soft,
but still haunted.
"Buffy..." he said, and she lifted her eyebrows in a question. "Are you sure you're all right?"
She stopped walking. They were just outside the Bronze, and she waved to the others with her free hand, gesturing for them to go on without her.
"I'm fine, Angel. All breathing and everything."
"You were dead," he said, and the
word lurched in his throat. "I touched you and your heart was dead and quiet and
you weren't breathing--" He made himself stop as his tone became frantic.
She laid a hand on his face. The touch
surprised him.
"Angel, I'm okay."
"You were dead."
"I'm not now."
He stared down into her round, earnest
face, and suddenly he coudln't help it, couldn't stop himself. He caught her mouth
with his and kissed her, hard and deep, the way no sixteen-year-old girl should
ever be kissed by a 240-year-old vampire. He devoured her mouth, clutching her
to him, suckling the heat from her lips, her tongue.
She was alive.
He could smell the blood from the
scratches on her chest, the mark on her throat where the Master had bitten her.
Claimed her. His Master had killed her. He pushed himself away from her, overwhelmed
by the smell, by the need to claim her for himself. Those rules didn't apply to
him anymore
She turned her face up to him, her lipstick smeared, her lips swollen and soft. "Angel," she whispered, and the sound of his name on her lips made him weak with need. Her eyes drifted open. "What's wrong?"
I love you. God, I love you so much.
But he didn't say it. He wanted to, wanted to let her see into that deep, vulnerable part of his heart, but he couldn't do it.
"Nothing," he said, and kissed her
again, more gently this time. He couldn't make his lips form the words, but he
could make them move against hers, soft and gentle, teasing her, drawing the woman
out of her. He clasped his hands around her waist and held her there until she
made a soft noise in the back of her throat and melted into him.
She gave herself up with such abandon,
such trust. He didn't deserve this. He didn't even deserve to be near her, much
less touching her, kissing her. She was sweet, perfect, innocent beauty, power
and light, and he was--he was just a vampire.
He forced himself away again. This
time he let go of her and took a step back. "You go," he said. "Have fun with
your friends."
Her forehead crumpled in disappointement. "Aren't you coming?"
He touched his fingertips to her face.
"Nothing's changed, Buffy. This still isn't... It's not something that can work."
"Maybe it can," she said wistfully.
He smiled. He wanted so much to believe
her. "Go on," he said. "I'll be around when you need me."
She smiled back. "I'm glad to hear that."
He made himself take another step
back, another, until finally she turned and disappeared into the Bronze.
A few days
after the dance, Buffy disappeared. In spite of what he felt to be some fairly
high-quality skulking on his part, Angel couldn't figure out where she'd gone.
He had a
suspicion, though. The question was who to ask. Not Buffy's mom--she'd given
him decidedly, "what-the-hell-are-you-doing-with-my-daughter" looks when they'd
met.
Giles. Giles
would know. But where would he be? Not at the library--school was out. Or maybe
he would man the library during summer school.
So Angel
haunted the school for a time. No luck. Either Giles wasn't coming in, or Angel
had missed him. He was having a hard time keeping to his customary schedule--he'd
taken some odd jobs here and there, still trying to pay for the acquisition
of the Pergamom Codex.
Finally,
as he lay in bed one afternoon trying to sleep, a thought hit him. He picked
up the phone book and looked up Giles' number.
Sometimes
being 240 years old could make you unbelievably stupid.
Giles answered
the phone on the second ring. "Hello, Giles?" Angel said hesitantly.
"Yes? Who's
this?"
"It's Angel."
"Oh, hullo."
Giles seemed amiable enough. "Can I help you?"
"I was wondering..."
He closed his eyes, not sure why this was so hard. Something about talking into
a piece of plastic just seemed unbelievably awkward. "I was wondering where
Buffy went."
"She didn't
tell you? She went to LA to spend some time with her father."
"Oh." Angel
had suspected as much, but he, too, was surprised Buffy hadn't told him. That
a Watcher was surprised the Slayer hadn't kept a vampire apprised of her whereabouts--something
was seriously screwed up with this scenario.
"Angel?"
said Giles after a moment.
Angel realized
he hadn't spoken in several seconds. "I'm here."
"I wanted
to thank you for getting the Codex. In the midst of--well, everything--I forgot
to say so."
"It's okay."
"How exactly
did you obtain it?"
"A guy I
know tracked it down. Over the Internet, I think. I still owe him money for
it--" He broke off. He hadn't meant to say that.
"Oh, dear.
You owe him money?"
Angel shifted
uncomfortably. It was the disembodied voice, he decided. That was what made
it so weird. "Yeah."
"Not a lot,
I hope."
"Um... three
thousand dollars."
There was
a pause on the other end. "Dear God, Angel, you should have said something.
Of course I'll reimburse you."
Angel opened
his mouth, closed it again. That solution had simply never occurred to him.
Still, it didn't seem right. "I...it's okay. I can pay for it. I've paid nearly
seven hundred and fifty dollars already."
"How are
you getting the money?"
"Just...jobs
here and there. Unloading at the docks. I cooked at a diner for a couple of
weeks. I learned how to scramble eggs." This was inane. He was inane.
"You'll be
all summer paying for it, at that rate. Just come see me and I'll write you
a check. It's Council business, after all."
Angel sputtered
a laugh. "Would the Council approve a check written to a vampire?"
"They don't
have to."
Angel considered.
"All right, but I only want half the amount."
"Why half?
Angel--"
"No," Angel
broke in. "Only half. I'll get the rest." He paused, swallowed hard. "I love
her, too."
Suddenly,
the strange, plastic telephone was more than his 240-year-old brain could handle.
He hung up, stared at it for a moment, then went back to bed.
END.