Miserere by Starlet2367
Summary: A summer-reading post-ep for Tomorrow.
Spoilers: Tomorrow, Season Three.
Notes: The
working title for this story was Leave Tomorrow Behind, which is
exactly what I wanted to do after I saw Tomorrow. Frustrated with the
way Mutant Enemy threw the pieces off the board, I vowed to do
something to fix it. After I finished, I found that, in my attempt to get the
characters back to square one, the story had actually grown a
theme.
So I changed the name
to Miserere.
I like the fact that
it means "mercy." It's also another name for the 51st Psalm, which is a
plea for mercy, but more, it's a story of forgiveness.
In that Psalm God
reveals that forgiveness is a revolutionary form of sacrifice. It requires
us to leave the old ways behind. To see ourselves for what we
really are: flawed, insecure, righteous, and frail—and to allow
that knowledge to humble us in the true sense of the word. Not by
making us less, but by showing us our true place in the world.
It's the kind of
sacrifice that the main characters in this story are forced (or choose) to
make. And though they all give up something precious as a result,
what they gain in the end is an expanded knowledge of
forgiveness—and love.
Thanks
to
my writing coach, Ebonbird, for showing me how much more was possible—and
making me work for it. To Tonya and Somogyi whose comments helped make a good
first draft into a story worth reading. To Lark for the yeast that made the
Challah rise. And to Julie Fortune for reminding me of the story I always meant
to tell. This story wouldn't
have happened without the proliferation of what-really-happened theories spawned
by the Strangers, especially Ebonbird, Prima and Penny Century. Big kiss to
Florrie, for giving me the link to the UK football site.
Miserere - n. 1, the
51st Psalm. 2. a prayer or expression of appeal for mercy. [L: lit., have pity]
"Kye-rumption....
It's when two great heroes meet on the field of battle and recognize their
mutual fate." Fred, Offspring.
***
Fred rolled over and
grabbed the shrilling cell phone. "'Lo."
"Hey,
sleepyhead," Gunn said.
"Mmm,
hey." She curled her body around the sound of his voice.
"...Time's it?"
"About
eight-thirty. Thought I'd swing by, bring my girl some breakfast."
In the background she heard him rattle a bag. "Bet you can't
guess what I got."
"Wait, wait,
don't tell me." She laughed sleepily. "Um, two breakfast burritos,
large, with extra salsa. A, um, donut...no, no, a cheese danish.
And a chocolate chip muffin."
"Damn, you're
good! What gave it away?"
"Well, it
wouldn't be that I gave you the menu last night before you left,
would it?" She kicked her legs and stretched luxuriously.
"Aw, man, you
got me."
Fred sat up on the
edge of the bed and the strap of the white, baby- doll
nightgown slid down her arm. "That I do."
"That you
do."
She glanced around
the room. As usual, it was littered with clothes, take-out
containers and books. Through the phone line she heard a car honk.
"Where are ya?"
"Comin' down
Wilshire. 'Bout to open the courtyard gate--" The hinges creaked.
"Hear that?"
Crud. That didn't
leave her much time. She hopped out of bed, kicked yesterday's
jeans toward the hamper and shoved the empty containers out
of sight.
"Uh huh, sure
do." She jerked the covers up over the pillow. "That means
you're getting close. I should probably get out of bed and make myself
decent." The tin of Altoids rattled when she opened the bedside
table drawer.
"Not on my
account, baby."
"Oh,
Charles." She giggled then popped a mint. The phone on the nightstand
rang. "Shoot. Can ya hang on a sec? The phone's ringing."
"Let Cordy get
it."
"She's probably
not here yet. Hang on--I'll be right back." She dropped
the cell phone on the bed and answered the blinking landline.
"Hello?"
"Is this Angel
Investigations?"
A painted wooden box
sat, lid askew, on the nightstand. "Yessir." She peered
into the container and started sifting through the contents.
"We help the hopeless. How can we help you?" One of her elastic
hair bands had gotten tangled in the tines of a small voltage tester.
She pulled the band free and slipped it on her wrist.
"Ma'am, this is
the vehicle impoundment center of LAPD."
The next trick was
finding her hairbrush. She dropped to her hands and
knees and lifted the bed skirt. Sure enough, it had gotten kicked under
with the food containers and now leaned precariously against Tuesday's
Moo Goo Gai Pan.
"Uh huh?"
She scooped the brush out and knelt next to the bed, where she
began smoothing out the night's tangles.
"Do you own a
`67 Plymouth convertible?"
Her hand stilled,
mid-stroke. "My boss does. Why?"
Her eyes widened as
she listened. "Abandoned? At Point Dume? When?" She
tapped the brush against her palm. "That can't be right. He went out
there last night to meet--"
"Knock,
knock," Gunn called.
"Hang on."
She scrambled to her feet and opened the door for Gunn.
"Yes," she said, waving him in. "I'm authorized to pick it up. Yes,
we'll be there in an hour. Thank you very much." She hung up.
Gunn dropped the
brown paper bag onto the dresser. "What's goin' on?" He
grabbed her blue flowered robe off the back of the chair.
She pitched the
brush toward the bed where it bounced off and landed on
the carpet. "LAPD found Angel's car at the Point." She took the robe
from him and threaded her arms through the sleeves. As she knotted
the sash her eyes widened. "Oh, my God, Gunn."
He put his hands on
her shoulders. "Don't even go there," he said, patting
her gently. "Probably Cordy had a vision or something and they
took off."
"Sun's been up
for hours." Panic thickened her voice. "Angel always calls
if he's gonna be out past sunrise." She pulled away from him and
started pacing.
"Look,"
Gunn said, and his deep voice went into "soothe" mode. "Why don't
I go up and check his room? You never know. He might have had car
trouble and had her drop him off here."
"Good
idea." She turned back toward the bed and the robe flared like Angel's
duster. "And while you do that, I'm gonna call his cell phone."
"Which is
probably in his jacket downstairs." He smiled. "Why not start
with hers?"
Fred had the phone
in her hand, watching as Gunn made his way out the door.
"I have a bad feeling about this," she said to his retreating back.
"I'm sure
everything is fine," he called as he disappeared down the hall.
Five minutes later,
he was back, looking significantly less calm, and Fred
had called every number available for Angel and Cordy. "No luck?"
she asked, nervously snapping the hair band on her wrist.
Gunn shook his head.
"Hasn't been in all night, from the look of it. You?"
"Nothing."
They stared at each other.
"Okay, so
what's the plan?"
"I'm the
physicist, not the strategist."
"Okay. Let's
get the car first then drive over to the Point and see what's
what. You remember those directions?"
"Yeah."
She nodded. "Just let me get dressed. I'll meet you downstairs
in ten."
***
Wes woke up wrapped
in sheets that smelled like Lilah.
"Oh, God,"
he groaned, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes.
The clock on the
nightstand read 9:24. Sun bore down brightly through the
slats of the half-drawn shade.
Wes rolled out of
bed, stripping the sheets as he went.
He dumped the soiled
linen into the bathroom hamper and turned to the sink.
The mirrored medicine cabinet reflected him back, pale and unshaven.
His hand appeared, first in the reflection, then on the door
handle and the cabinet opened with its usual metal-hinged squeak.
Unthinking, he
reached for his razor. Light caught the blade, throwing
off a sharp-edged gleam. The razor fell into the sink with a clatter.
That queasy,
morning-after feeling intensified.
"Dammit,"
he muttered. With a trembling hand he picked the razor up and
looked at it, then, again, at the scar on his throat.
A tug of war: to
shave or not to shave. His face was nearly hidden by stubble,
but the doctor said to wait until the scar was completely healed.
He set the razor back in the medicine chest and closed the door.
His shoulders
slumped and for a moment he stood, braced against the sink.
Then he turned and
twisted the knob in the shower. Spray hissed against
the plastic liner as he adjusted the water well into the red zone.
Slowly, feeling the pull of sore muscles, he stepped over the edge
of the tub. The sting of scalding water against raw flesh was a shock.
Somehow he hadn't connected the reality of Lilah's nails with what
she'd carved out of him.
He lathered his body
in the same pattern as always: left arm, right arm;
left leg, right leg; face, torso, genitals. Then he stood, eyes closed,
arms hanging limply, until the water ran cold.
Finally, shivering,
he turned off the tap, got out of the tub and dried
himself. He closed the curtain with a lethargic tug and draped the
towel over the rod, making sure to line up all the corners. Then he
went to the bedroom to dress.
As he pulled on his
shirt, he noticed that the knuckles on his right hand
were scraped. There was a dull roar in his head, the flash of Lilah's
mocking eyes, and the jarring feel of bone meeting flesh.
When he came to he
found himself kneeling on the floor wearing only his
boxers and unbuttoned shirt.
He looked slowly
around the room, noticing the exposed mattress and discarded
comforter. Through the open closet door he could see a pair of
pants trailing from a hanger. He stood, joints crackling, and focused
on setting everything to rights.
At last he slipped
into his jeans and shuffled to the kitchen. There he
pulled down the teapot Fred brought over that morning in the hospital.
His hands clenched on the antique bone china and in its rounded
edge he saw her hot, accusing stare.
There was a dull
"chink" and the sound of glass shards hitting tile.
"No," he cried. The pot--his grandmother's--lay in pieces on the
counter top. He scrambled to collect them, ignoring the way the raw
edges shaved his fingers open.
"Have to fix
it," he muttered. But the pieces kept slipping out of his
trembling hands, breaking into smaller and smaller shards. It didn't
take long to figure out the pot was beyond repair.
He set the remains
carefully on the counter, pulled a couple of paper towels
off the roll, and wrapped them around his bleeding fingers. Then
he went to collect the paper from the hallway.
It wasn't the first
time he'd been unemployed and alone. One would think
he should be used to it by now.
***
They pulled into the
impound lot and Gunn turned off the
engine. "Okay.
Guard says we go to the window and tell `em who we are."
They climbed out of
the primer-coated truck and walked to the window.
"Hi," Fred
said to the uniformed guard behind the glass.
He nodded at her.
"You here to pick up a car?"
"Yes, sir. I'm
with Angel Investigations. Our company car was impounded
last night." She pulled out her license, a copy of the registration,
and the insurance papers.
"That'll be
three hundred dollars," he said.
"Okay."
Fred reached into her bag and pulled out a wad of bills. "I wasn't
sure how much it would cost," she said sheepishly, as she counted
out twenties.
"You let her
carry that much dough?"
Gunn shrugged.
"Not much choice," he replied with a smile.
The guard grinned
back. "I heard that." He took the money from Fred and
stuck it in the drawer then he reached behind him to a hook- covered
board and pulled off a set of keys. "I'll drive it out," he said,
and he disappeared into the garage.
A moment later the
door rolled up and he drove the black Plymouth out into
the bright, morning sun. "Honey of a car," he said. "Rides real sweet."
"Should,
considering the money we put into it," Fred said. She glanced
over his shoulder, her eye caught by a bright flash. "Oh, my God."
She grabbed Gunn's arm. "Is that…?" She pointed toward the rows of
cars inside the garage. A yellow Jeep sat next to the space vacated
by Angel's car.
Gunn skimmed the
license plate. "Oh, shit." He whipped around and pinned
the attendant with his gaze. "Hey, can you check on something for
me?"
"What?"
the attendant asked, glancing up from the Batmobile.
"That
Jeep," he said, nodding toward Cordy's ride. "It belongs to our other
co-worker. Can you tell me where you pulled it in from?"
The attendant
shrugged. "You can't pick it up unless you're on the registration
or the insurance papers."
Gunn nodded. "I
know. It's okay. We can leave it here. We just need to
know."
Fred clenched his
arm tighter. "Yeah, it'd be real helpful."
The attendant
wandered back to the office. "Hang on a minute."
"Thanks,"
Gunn said. He reached up and tapped Fred's hand gently. She released
his arm, slid her hand down, and laced their fingers together.
By the time they
made it to the office he was nodding. "Uh huh. Belongs
to Cordelia Chase."
"When was it
brought in?" Gunn prompted. "Can you tell us that?"
"Oh,
sure." He ran his finger down the page. "Uh, about one o'clock. Huh.
That's interesting. About the same time as his," he said, jerking
a thumb toward the convertible. "I remember his only 'cause we
don't get that many in here."
"So you were on
shift all night?"
"Yeah, twelve
to twelve. Three on, four off."
"Good
schedule," Gunn said. "So, if you found his at the Point, where'd
you find hers?"
The guy frowned in
concentration. "Hang on," he said, glancing at the report
again. "Abandoned on the side of the highway." He pointed to the
report. "My first guess would be that she ran out of gas, but she had
three-quarters of a tank." He leaned on his elbows, his eyes sparking
with curiosity. "What happened, if you don't mind my asking?"
Gunn shook his head.
"We don't know. They didn't come in last night, didn't
call. They're good about checking in."
"Maybe they
just, you know," the guy said. He waggled his eyebrows.
"If they never
even met, how could they, you know?" Fred asked, voice tight.
The attendant shook
his head. "People want to be together bad enough, anything's
possible." He held up his hands. "All I'm sayin' is there weren't
any signs of foul play at either site, 'cause if there were, I
wouldn't be holding the cars in General."
Fred nodded.
"Okay. You've been incredibly helpful."
"Hey, it's a
quiet morning. Glad to do it." He nodded toward the convertible
again. "Hope you find 'em."
"Me too."
Gunn took Fred by
the elbow. "Come on. Let's get the car back to the hotel.
Then we head to Cordy's, check out her place."
"And after
that?"
He shrugged.
"Guess we just do what we do."
"What does that
mean?"
"Well, we're
detectives, right?"
Her face cleared.
"Oh, right. We detect."
***
"So, y'all
didn't hear anything? Anything at all?" Gunn popped a peanut
in his mouth.
They were at a bar
on Figueroa that had always been Angel's last resort.
The lights were on as the cleaning crew worked. The room smelled
of spilled beer and ammonia, and in the light of day, the place
looked dingier than it did at night. Which was saying something.
"Nope,"
the first-shift bartender said as he counted the till. "Not about
them, anyway."
Fred pulled the
cherry off the little red sword and chewed thoughtfully.
"So does that mean you heard something else?" The sword fell
to the napkin beside her Shirley Temple.
"Seems like
there's a new Big Bad in town," the bartender said, glancing
around the bar. He leaned closer, spoke under his breath.
"Mosta my clients are of the demon variety."
Gunn nodded sagely.
"Which is why we're here," he said, rattling the ice
in his Coke glass. "'Cause you're always the one we go to first for
news about the demon world." He glanced at Fred. "Always say that,
don't we? Need demon news first, go to Jim-Jim's."
Fred nodded.
"You bet," she agreed. "So, what'd you hear?"
The bartender
glanced from one to the other, obviously not buying their
poor attempt at bullshit. "Nothing you couldn't find out anywhere
else," he said. "Dude calls himself The Destroyer." He shook his
head. "Heard he looks more like Peter Pan, but that didn't stop him
from taking the head off a Durstler last night."
Fred and Gunn looked
at each other. "Oh, crap."
"You said
it," Fred muttered.
The bartender
dropped the cash tray into the register and closed the machine
with a bright ding. "What, you know the guy?"
Fred pushed away
from the bar. "Can't really say." She glanced at Gunn,
eyes full of worry and fear. "You ready?"
He laid down enough
money for their drinks and a healthy tip. "Yeah. Thanks,
man. We'll see you around, huh?"
"I'd stay clear
of him," the bartender called. "He sounds like bad news."
"Thanks,"
Fred replied. They exited into late afternoon. "Holy crap," she
said, turning to Gunn. "Connor's the Destroyer?" She shivered despite
the heat. "That's crazy."
"Yeah, but it
makes sense if you think about it."
"Makes sense,
how?"
Gunn slid his
sunglasses on. "Well, he was what the sluks were running
from, right? Plus, he really likes killing things."
"But what about
Angel and Cordy?" She paused, brow furrowed. "Say Connor
is the Destroyer, what does that have to do with not being able
to find Angel and Cordy?"
Gunn looked up and
down Figueroa. The restaurant across the street held
a mix of wilting tourists and overly-tanned locals. Normal folks who
never had to think about things that went chomp in the night. And it
was his job to make sure they never did.
He began turning
over options. "Maybe nothing."
"We need
help," Fred said. Her eyes widened as an idea struck. "Lorne- -we
should call Lorne."
"Why? He split
to Vegas."
"Because we
need him. We need *someone*," she said. "We can't do this alone."
He put his arm
around her and walked her toward the truck. "I don't know
why not," he said. "I've been thinking. Why can't we just do a locating
spell and find 'em ourselves? After that, we can work on tracking
down Connor."
Fred pulled back.
"Magic? Us? Charles, that's like asking me to go on TV
and impersonate Julia Child. Ya can't just," she waved her hand wildly,
"suddenly think you're an expert because you once heated some fish
sticks."
He took her hand.
"Well, I say let's give it a shot. I mean, we have the
books. We know where to get the supplies. I'll even help you do it,
okay?"
"What do you
mean, you'll help *me*?" she squeaked. "When did I become
the spell caster?"
"You *are* the
resident genius, right?" he reminded her, opening the passenger
door and helping her in.
***
Wesley sat on the
couch staring blankly out the window. Sun slashed him
across the face and chest, where before there had been only the soft
glow of ambient light. Must mean the day was getting on, then.
"Really should
get up from here," he whispered, as he rolled the bottle
of Glenfiddich between his palms. There was much to be done: organizing
his books, catching up on correspondence, giving the place a
good, thorough cleaning. Now that he was free, he could focus on anything
he chose.
Free. Ah, yes. He
tapped his fingernails against the glass, and the flat
ping rang through the silent apartment.
He was certainly a
free man, now. Free of all entanglements, of all commitments.
He could go anywhere, do anything, and no one would care.
He rubbed his chest
absently and thought, again, of Connor. In his weaker
moments, Wesley had dreamed of finding him and bringing him back
safely. But someone obviously beat him to it.
His laugh felt dry
in his throat.
Connor fought with a
boy's exuberance, spending energy as if he had pockets
full. Against Angel's spare, lean moves, Connor was an explosion,
a dervish.
And yet the core was
there. In those few seconds he witnessed, Wes saw
in Connor the makings of a fighter every bit as good, if not better
than his father.
Death into life,
death made flesh. A chill walked over Wesley's spine.
Was Connor Angel's
Shanshu, then?
Wes shook his head.
Prophecies. What good were they when they led you down
the wrong path? He bounced the bottle absently against his knee. As
far as he was concerned, they were near useless. He wondered if he would
ever find itself within him to believe one again.
"A crisis of
faith," he mumbled. Then he blinked, realizing what he'd said.
"A crisis of faith," he repeated. What was the remedy of this sort
of crisis, he wondered. Years of church, years of schooling, even
years of living in the real world hadn't prepared him for such a loss.
He stared into an
abyss so large that it was impossible to see the edges.
An abyss whose mouth was opening to consume you as you waited, helpless
and unable to fight back.
He lifted the bottle
and against his cheek the glass felt cool and dense.
Out the corner of his eye, the five fingers of Scotch rocked, waves
against a dock. He licked his lips and let the memory of its warm
burn and peat-smoke flavor comfort him.
He had promised
himself he wouldn't start drinking until five and if he'd
failed at keeping the big promises, he refused to fail at the small
ones. So he set the bottle on his knee again.
It was so clear now,
how Angel and Cordelia had rescued him from a life
that was going nowhere. How they'd made room in their tight circle
for him. Neither of them knew the wall their connection threw up
around them, the way it blocked everyone else out.
Despite that, they'd
been a family. Meant for each other. Or so he'd believed.
Cordelia, no matter
what she'd said about there being no one for them,
had certainly jumped at the chance to pair up with Groo. He'd seen
what that did to Angel, who had--sometime when Wes wasn't looking--fallen
in love with her.
He stared at his
hand, at the fingers wrapped tightly around the long,
glass neck, at the fleshy pad of his thumb resting against the cap.
His skin whitened when he mashed it against the black plastic, went
pink again when he relieved the pressure.
Maybe they'd all
just needed to relieve some pressure. Maybe that's why
Cordy had been so quick to leave with Groo. After all she'd been through
she certainly deserved some pleasure in her life.
Of course, she could
have called to check in. Though he didn't know why
he had expected it. After all, Cordelia's first instinct was hardly
to think of others.
He slapped the
bottle down on the coffee table.
If Cordy had been
there, none of this would have happened.
He stared out the
window, jaw clenched.
And then the anger
leached out of him like evaporating steam. He could
blame Cordy if he wanted to. But, really, he was the one responsible.
If it weren't for him, their family would still be together,
and he wouldn't be sitting here alone, waiting for evening to
give him permission to drink.
A golden slant of
sun fell across his knees. He stared at it until his
eyes watered. Then he glanced at his watch. 5:07. The black plastic
top unscrewed with a cooperative snick-hiss.
He didn't bother
with a glass.
***
Connor and Justine
stood back-to-back, surrounded by a ring of vamps.
"Call yourself
the Destroyer, do you?" one of the demons jeered.
"With good
reason," Justine said.
"Well, come
on," taunted another. "Destroy me." He got close enough that
his long-armed slap brushed Connor's temple.
Over the pounding of
his pulse Connor barely felt the blow. The blood filled
him, temples to wrists to ankles. It tasted like a hot blade on
the back of his tongue.
Father had trained
him to honor its beat. It separated him from demons
and carried him in battle.
"Aren't you
gonna say anything, Peter Pan? Or maybe I should call you Wendy?"
The vamps laughed,
pulling their already distorted faces into something
uglier. The breeze danced down the sticky concrete and his nostrils
flared at the sour smell of their dead flesh.
It was strange that
Angelus had not smelled that way.
Angelus disguised
his demon nature well, but that did not deliver him of
wrongdoing. He deserved every pain that a demon could feel. Every pain....
The liquid heat of
Connor's pulse flashed like Quar-Toth's red lightning.
With a cry, he slipped into its core.
In less than a
minute, the dust of six vamps wreathed the air. War drums
pounded in his head and over them he heard a moan, a human sound,
and he remembered Justine.
She leaned against
the wall, clutching her side. At her feet lay a shattered
stake.
He slipped his own
stake into his pocket and went to her. "Can I be of
assistance?"
She laughed harshly,
and he saw then that she was not injured, merely breathing
hard. "Gettin' old's a bitch."
Connor turned toward
the sodium glare of the street lights. "Father used
to say that."
"I'm sorry. I
didn't mean to--"
"Do you need
anything? Food? Drink? Rest?" He looked over his shoulder.
"No,
thanks." Her smile was bright, her eyes fevered.
It was a look he
understood. Before he could think better of it, he continued,
"I feel at home with you."
Justine's eyes
widened. "You do?"
He strained against
the mouth of the alley, water at a dam. "Are you ready
to continue?"
The blood was
calling. He forgot to wait for her response. ***
A loud bang rocked
the Hyperion's lobby.
"Oh,
crap," yelped Fred. "I think we just blew up the table."
"Angel's gonna
be pissed," Gunn said, waving away the cloud of crimson
smoke. "You think we can fix it?"
Fred leaned down and
inspected the scorched wood. "Nope. It's a goner."
She sighed. "So's the spell book, the candles and the...." She
looked up at him, eyes watering in frustration. "I suck at this."
Gunn walked around
the table and rubbed his hand across her back. He could
feel the tension coiled in the long, thin line of muscle. "You did
better than I would've."
"I doubt
it." She stood and leaned her head on his shoulder. "What are
we gonna do? They *need* us."
Gunn glanced around
the too-quiet office. It unnerved him. He was used
to it being full of voices, ringing phones, movement. Now it felt
open, empty. Like it should be boarded up and left for the pigeons.
He decided to just
spit it out, the fear that had been nagging him all
day. "Honey, we don't know that," he said, as he gazed out at the echoing
lobby. "They may not need us at all."
She touched his arm,
drawing his gaze back to her. "I don't believe that."
Her chin trembled. "They're not dead, Charles. I'd know it if they
were."
He turned her toward
him, massaged her shoulders comfortingly. "I'm just
sayin'…."
She slapped the
charred spell book. "Maybe I can't do this, but someone
can." She ducked out of his embrace and went to the desk.
"Someone in here can do this," she said, yanking the Yellow Pages
out of the drawer. "And I'm gonna find `em."
***
Wes stared into his
drink, watching the Scotch's rich caramel color break
down under the melting ice. The Pogues filtered through the speakers,
Shane MacGowan's bleeding Irish vocals the perfect background
to Wes's sour mood.
On the telly Man U
was beating the holy hell out of Chelsea. Normally,
he'd have been pulling for Chelsea just because he despised Manchester
United, but today he found himself secretly pleased when the
camera caught a Man U forward brutally working the heels of Chelsea's
star player.
"Is this seat
taken?"
His back stiffened.
"Yes," he said, not bothering to turn around.
"That's
funny." She slid the chair out. "Seeing as how you're one of only
three people in here, and the others look as lone-wolf as you."
He sighed. "Lilah,"
he said, turning to face her. "Once wasn't enough?"
She smiled, a slight
quirk of lips. "With you? More than."
He blinked against
the whiskey haze. "Why are you here, then?" He tapped
his glass absently with his fingertips.
She picked it up and
sniffed. "Mmm," she said. "Bartender? Another round
for him and one for me, please." She set the glass down. "For a guy
who's got nothing left to live for, you sure can pick your Scotch."
He shrugged. "A
man's got to have some standards."
Lilah laughed.
"Oh, yes. Some."
Wes stared at her
sullenly while the match raged on the screen behind him.
"Order
up," the bartender called.
She went to the bar,
paid, and came back with two tumblers. "Here's to
standards." She tapped his glass with hers and took a sip.
Wes went back to
watching the match.
"Too bad the
ref didn't catch that foul. Chelsea might've had a chance,"
Lilah commented.
Wes glanced at her,
his brow arched. "Showing basic knowledge of my country's
home sport, Lilah? If it weren't so obvious a ploy to ingratiate
yourself, I'd say I was impressed." He turned back to the game.
"I should get
points for effort, though, don't you think?"
"If I give you
points will you leave?"
"Poor Wes.
Turned out by his family. Nothing to do but drink and brood."
She sighed dramatically. "All that education going to waste. It's
such a shame."
"Like you
care."
She snorted.
"Oh, but I do." She ran her finger up his sleeve. "I care
a lot about that enormous...brain of yours."
"You're so
predictable. You think I didn't see the ad you ran in the paper?"
He slid his eyes away from the match. "VP of Research, Lilah? Why
didn't you just write my name in the blank and be done with it?"
"There's an ad
in the paper by that title? My, my. What were the odds?"
"Oh, please.
Quit playing games."
"But, why, when
I've finally got a worthy adversary?"
"What, you
couldn't get a hit off of Angel, so you thought you'd give me
a go?"
"You're hardly
second best, Wesley."
"I didn't say I
was. I said you were a low-class--"
"Now, now,
Wes," she interrupted. "That's not very nice. Especially when
I'm just a company girl going the extra mile for my employer." She
leaned in, voice low and seductive. "But you'd know all about that,
wouldn't you?"
"Would I?"
"Oh, I'd say
so. Interpreting prophecies, saving the boy all by your lonesome.
Bet you're doing a lot of things by your lonesome these days."
He grunted.
"You know, Wes,
I've been asking myself something."
"Why you
exist?"
"No, although
that is a question for the ages. More like, what do you have
to lose? You're already damned. Why not team up with people who can
fully appreciate your intelligence and put it to good use?"
"You call
working for a company that's the personification of evil putting
my skills to good use?"
She rolled her eyes.
"Don't be such an innocent. We don't embody evil any
more than anyone else does." She tapped a well-manicured nail on the
table. "Including you."
He flinched.
"Ah, I see you
wondered about that. Realizing you'd played right into Holtz's
hands, that'd have to grate."
"You have no
idea what grates on me, Lilah. If you did, you wouldn't be
sitting here."
She covered his hand
with hers and said, in a disarmingly sympathetic voice,
"Seems to me that, in your world, the good guy never wins. I mean,
heck, the good guy got his throat slit and lost all his friends."
She leaned forward. "Maybe, you should give the other side a
try."
As she drew closer,
the Budweiser sign's neon flashed illuminated the faint
traces of a fist-sized bruise on her jaw. Well hidden by make- up,
but obviously not more than a couple of days old.
His scraped knuckles
tingled and his head filled with a dull roar.
When he came to she
was staring at him, eyes as sly as her
smirk. "I'm
sorry, what did you say?"
He swallowed back a
burst of acid and said bitterly, "What do you get when
you mix a misinterpreted prophecy, a resurrected vampire hunter, and
a baby stolen and returned grown like some sort of comic book character?"
Her smile widened.
"The bad punch-line to a cosmic joke?"
Wes flinched.
"No. My life." He shoved away from the table, reached into
his pocket, and dropped several bills next to his sweating glass.
"Well, as much fun as this little chat hasn't been, I believe it's
time for me to go."
She watched him out
of cat's eyes. "If you're sure." She stood, smoothed
her skirt, and smiled deliberately when his gaze followed the
movement of her hand. "Why don't I walk you out."
***
Lorne sat at the
small, round table in the corner of All Bets Are Off,
nursing his drink and listening to a client sing.
"Hey,
Lorne," Mickey, the bartender and owner of All Bets, yelled over
the din. "You got a phone call."
Lorne laid his hand
on the lapel of his lavender silk jacket and made a
"Me?" expression.
Mickey nodded.
"Some girl. Got a guy's name."
He blinked.
"Fred?"
"Yeah. Sounds
right." He jerked a thumb toward the office door.
"She's been on hold a coupla minutes." He went back to mixing a Caucasian
for the line-backer sized demon down the bar.
Lorne slurped the
Seabreeze to vapors and left the empty glass on the table.
"Be right back."
Mickey nodded.
"Take your time."
He walked into the
office and picked up the phone. "Fred?"
"Hey, Lorne!
How are ya? I'm doin' fine!"
The roar of the bar
muffled Fred's voice like cotton. Lorne put his hand
over his ear and leaned as far away from the open door as possible.
"Everything
here is, um--so you work at a place called All Bets Are Off?
That's kinda funny, 'cause the reason.... "
Lorne tried to keep
up with her and the singer, who barreled through the
second verse of Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'."
"...that time
Gunn made that bet and was supposed to, um, lose his soul,
and, um, Angel rescued him?"
The singer warbled
into the bridge, skidded into the high note, and the
speakers whined.
"Fred, sweetie,
I'm having trouble hearing you."
"Can ya hear me
now?"
"Hang on a
sec." He kicked the door shut with the toe of his ostrich Stacy
Adams and lowered the bar's roar to white noise. "There. God have
mercy on us all."
"Huh?"
"Nothing. How
you doing sweetie?"
"Fine, thanks.
You?"
"Not bad. If
you don't mind living with a bunch of drunk gamblers in the
middle of the desert."
She giggled, a
brittle sound. "I've never been to Vegas but I'd love to
see it. Maybe sometime…." She trailed off, until there was nothing left
but the humming phone line and the bass reverberating through the
closed door.
He leaned against
the edge of the desk. "Fred? Everything okay?"
"Um, well,
remember earlier when I was talkin' about that time Gunn sold
his soul, and Angel rescued us and all?"
"Mmm hmm."
He was pretty sure she hadn't called just to reminisce but he
was still waiting to pick up the clue train.
"Well, we're,
uh, kinda in a similar situation now."
Lorne's eyes
widened. "Gunn sold his soul for another truck?"
"What? No! I
mean, we're in another one of those situations where someone
needs to be rescued. Only this time, it's not us. It's Angel,"
she said in a shaky voice. "And Cordy."
His fingers tapped
the desk in time with the pumping bass. "Crap. I was
afraid of something like that."
She sniffled.
"You were?" Her voice was muffled by what was probably the
shirtsleeve she was wiping her face on.
Lorne winced at the
thought. "Yeah. I got a, uh, message right before I
left."
She gasped.
"You did?"
"Uh huh. Let's
just say, the odds of me staying alive in LA this summer?
About as good as winning Twenty-One with a two and a three."
"But…but….
What about us?" Her voice rose with panic. "Making it through
the summer alive, I mean?"
"You're human,
sweetie."
"What does that
have to do with--" There was a moment of silence. Lorne
could practically see the colors of the Rubik's cube lining up in
Fred's gi-normous brain.
"Oh," she
said.
"Yeah. Young
Connor isn't exactly the most open-minded of raging killers."
"Oh, crap. You
think maybe he.... But he seemed to be so thrilled to be
home."
"Honey, let me
tell ya, the only thing that kid's thrilled about is collecting
trophies. And I don't mean of the bowling variety."
"But he's
Angel's son. And Cordy purged him of all the ick. You said so
yourself."
"That she did.
Of the Quar-Toth ick. But not the rest of it. He was raised
in a hell dimension by a psycho. There's not a whole lot she could
do."
Fred was silent for
a moment. "Okay, well that makes my next question even
more important than I originally thought."
"Shoot."
"We need a
locating spell. To find Angel and Cordy. Without them…."
"No helpless
being helped?"
"Not even
us," Fred said. "And let me tell ya, I'm beginning to feel pretty
darn helpless."
"Okay. Got
paper?" In his mind, he could see Connor's aura, filthy with
vengeance and hate. Lorne ran his hand over his horns, scratching
around the base of the one on the left. It only itched when
he got nervous.
"'kay,"
she said. There was the barest glimmer of hope in her voice.
"Call this
number." He rattled it off.
The scritch-scratch
of Fred's pen could be heard across the
miles. "Okay, I
got it. Now who is it?"
"Dame Dorothy.
She owns a metaphysical bookstore. Does some dabbling on
the side. If she can't do the spell, she knows who can."
"Okay."
Fred's voice was stark with relief. "Look, I don't wanna get you
in trouble, so I won't keep you."
"It's okay.
Management's easy here. Plus, the guy singin'? Sounds like
Edith Piaf on steroids."
She laughed.
"It's good to talk with you, Lorne. Maybe, if we take care
of this, and you know, get everyone back, you can come back, too."
He sighed.
"When I can. Until then, I'm thinking about you."
"Me too,"
she said. "Oh! There's Charles with the food. Talk to ya soon?"
"You bet."
The line went dead.
He dropped the handset back on the cradle, and stood,
hand on the phone, thinking. "As dear old mom always said, better
the Scum Pits of Ur than the canyons of Trelinsk," he muttered.
The bar was dark,
hot and smoky when he opened the door. He made his way
back to his table, nodding to Mickey as he passed.
"Everything
okay?"
"Yeah," he
said, scratching his horn. "Everything's fine."
***
They called Dame
Dorothy at daybreak.
"She's
what?" Gunn asked, not quite believing what he'd heard.
Fred slumped in her
desk chair. "On vacation." She waved the phone back
and forth. "Message says they're closed for summer holiday. Be back
in two weeks."
"Shit."
Gunn shoved his hands in his pockets. "What now?"
She sat quietly,
chewing on her lip. Then she shoved back from the desk,
grabbed her purse, and hustled toward the door.
"Fred?"
Gunn called, running to catch up. He grabbed her arm, brought her
up short and got a good look at her face. "No. No *way*."
She jerked free and
started for the door again. "It's the only way," she
said, voice sharp.
He dogged her all
the way to the street, where the a.m. commute was already
in full swing. "Fred." A garbage truck grumbled into the alley
and started backing in. The reverse-warning beeps shrilled.
"Fred!" he shouted. "Listen to me!"
She whirled.
"No!" She was giving him the full Pylea treatment now: jaw
set, mouth trembling and eyes wild. "I tried the spell and blew up
the table. We can't get Dame Dorothy."
He zeroed in on her.
"Dammit, Fred." The blue-breezy, LA morning faded
into the background. "He told me not to ever come back. Any of us."
Fred closed her eyes
and her face went tight. "I know," she whispered.
"D'ya think I'd go if I thought we had a choice?"
Gunn deflated. Drew
her close; thought through the options. "Let me go,"
he finally said.
She shook her head
and he felt the imprint of her cheekbone against his
chest. "He'll respond better to me."
"Honey, you
bitch slapped him all to hell when he was in the hospital.
What makes you think--"
She pulled back and
looked at him. "Trust me on this." Her dark eyes were
liquid, pleading.
He sucked in a
breath. "Y'know how much I hate this, right?"
"What part,
specifically? The part where we're stuck here alone looking
for answers to questions we can't even articulate?"
He snorted.
"Yeah, something like that. Only I'd've said, why are the two
non-demon, non-spell-casting folks left to solve the problem?"
Fred's eyes widened.
"Oh, my God."
"What?" He
shook his head. "What'd I say?"
Her hand flew to her
mouth. "Oh, my God," she repeated. "What if we were
supposed to be left alone? What if someone's doing this on purpose?"
Gunn's lips thinned.
"You know I'm gonna be kickin' some major booty if
that's the case."
Fred shuddered.
"Before you go booty-kickin', let me see what kind of help
I can get from Wes."
"Okay. But I'm
driving."
"You don't have
to—"
"I'll drive you
over and wait in the truck while you go in," he stated
firmly. At her look he softened. "Look, I just think we shouldn't
be alone right now, just in case."
She took a deep
breath. "That's smart." Her eyes closed. "I wish I knew
where they were."
Gunn wrapped his arm
around her waist and guided her toward his truck.
"Don't worry. We'll find 'em."
***
Fred raised her hand
to knock then dropped it back to her side. "Now, Fred,"
she said, pretending her mother was standing next to her. "You just
get out there and do it, girl." The familiar words of encouragement
spurred her on.
Before she could
lose her nerve she knocked. Under her knuckles the door
was hard and unforgiving. She waited for a few minutes and knocked
again.
"Crap,"
she whispered. "He's not...."
The door opened.
"...here,"
Fred finished.
Wes hissed.
Fred stuck her foot
in, wincing when the door smashed it against the jamb.
"Wes, I need your help."
His jaw clenched.
"I told you people never to come back." He blocked the
door with his body, and all she could see was the sleeve of a rumpled
t-shirt. He was unshaven and his hair was wild. The slice on his
throat gleamed angrily against his pale skin.
Fred's lips
trembled. "I know you did. And I wouldn't be here if I hadn't
tried everything, but I did. But we can't find them," she said,
eyes filling against her will. She dashed the tears away with a frustrated
move of her hand. "They disappeared."
"Ask me if I
care," he said, glancing over his shoulder. "Now leave."
She shook her head
and put her hand on the door. "Please, Wes. I know you
don't care about Angel. But it's Cordy, too. They're just...gone."
His eyes narrowed.
"Maybe he finally shagged her. Got a little too happy
and took her down Mexico way. I mean, it'd be a little sunny for
the likes of Angelus, but you never know--"
Enraged, she banged
her fist on the door. "Goddammit, Wesley, I don't know
what happened to you--"
His eyes went to
flint. "Shall I replay it for you, little Fred?" he said.
"How about all those hours where I lay on the ground bleeding to
death? Or the part where none of you came to hear my side of the story...that
setting off any bells?" His voice was thick, black smoke.
"Or…I know…what about when the man I *thought* was my best friend
tried to kill me while I lay defenseless in my.... Hey!"
She shoved hard,
forcing the door open and stumbling into the room.
"I've had enough, Wesley," she shouted. "Enough of your bitterness
and your betrayal and your not coming around. You know, you
could have fixed this if you'd just told someone about the prophecy.
But, no, you had to--"
"Wesley, did I
hear someone?" Lilah glided out of the bedroom, wrapping
herself in Wes's long, striped robe. "Oh, hi," she said with a
twist of her lips.
Fred's face paled.
"What is *she* doing here?"
Wes glared at Lilah,
who ignored him, and instead took her time cuffing
the sleeves with calculated, graceful moves. "Honey, I know you're
still awfully young, but I'd think it'd be obvious what I'm doing
here." She smiled at Fred, all bottomless eyes and sex-tumbled hair.
"Lilah,
leave."
She blinked.
"In your robe? What will the neighbors think?" But, after
blowing a kiss at Wes, she left them alone, closing the bedroom door
behind her with a soft click.
Wes's gaze slammed
into Fred's. "Happy now?"
"How could
you?" she asked, voice cracking like a china plate hitting the
floor.
Wes shoved his hands
in the pockets of his jeans. He held her gaze defiantly.
"How could I not?"
"I thought
better of you," she said. "I thought...." The ice storm of her
breath rattled through her. "I can see I was wrong."
She walked through
the open door and into the hall. The shiver that ran
across her shoulders chased away the numb shock, and left behind a
cold, determined fury.
The sound of the
slamming door echoed through the hallway.
***
The hot water ran
out thirty minutes ago. His skin, pink from the friction
of wet terrycloth, stung under the cold needles of spray.
He slapped the water
off and yanked the towel off the curtain rod. Who
did Fred think she was? Coming into his home and demanding he help
her. He dried his hair roughly and stepped out onto the mat.
"Thought I'd come crawling back at the snap of her fingers, did she?"
He dropped the used
towel on the floor and stalked to the bedroom. The
rumpled bed reminded him of Lilah, who had departed quickly once the
fun was over. But not without a parting shot.
"You sure you
don't want to reconsider that job offer?" Her eyes had sparkled.
His gaze focused on
the uncovered bruise. His fist clenched. "Go to hell,
Lilah."
She smiled, a sales
girl at the perfume counter. "What if I got you the
kid?"
The wheels in his
mind spun like tires on a gravel road and he hesitated
just long enough for her smile to widen. "Get *out*," he shouted,
realizing he had, once again, given more away than he should.
Lilah knew when to
retreat. "You change your mind, you know where to find
me." The door closed behind her, leaving only the lingering scents
of Chanel and malice.
Wes pulled on jeans
and a clean t-shirt, shoved his feet in his driving
moccasins and grabbed his car keys. His skin felt too tight and
he knew if he stayed he'd break more than his grandmother's tea pot.
He wove through the
morning traffic like a New York cabbie, stomping his
brakes and blowing his horn and flipping off anyone who got in his
way.
Finally he made it
to the PCH, hit the power window buttons and turned
up the radio. Cool, salty air pounded through, ruffling his now-dry
hair and filling his ears with its roar. KCSN was still playing
the news every half hour and, tired of hearing about the rest of
the world's problems, he punched the buttons randomly until he found
someone playing rock.
The Clash's
"London Calling" vibrated the speakers against the console.
A non-smile twisted his lips. "How appropriate," he drawled.
"Hello, Father," he said, as the imagined conversation spun out.
"How kind of you to call." He gripped the steering wheel, acutely
conscious of the motion tugging the torn skin of his knuckles.
"Just fine, thanks. Why, no, it's all going swimmingly. Except
for that part where I misinterpreted the prophecy and got my friend's
baby stolen."
He gritted his
teeth. A mini-van had pulled in front of him where the road
narrowed at Malibu and had yet to reach the speed limit.
"Dammit," he said. "Would you go *on*?" He blew the horn.
The way news
traveled in their world it was likely his father already knew.
And equally likely he was distancing himself from his son more even
quickly than usual.
Wes hung his head
out the window, saw no one coming, and hit the gas. The
Jeep lurched forward and he whipped around the van, glaring at the
driver as he passed. "Like the rest of us don't have lives," he growled
at the blond behind the wheel. "Like we don't have places to be."
It hit him, then,
how alone he really was. And how justifiably angry. If
it weren't for him, Connor wouldn't be alive today. Angel had been traveling
a path of destruction, fueled by spiked blood and spiraling violence.
Wes willingly
sacrificed his own life for Connor's. And none of them saw
it. Instead they huddled around Angel as if he were some sort of… of….
Like he was perfect.
"No, he didn't
fire us, leave us to fend for ourselves and get shot up
by zombie cops. Didn't bang his sire and risk everyone's life because
he felt cold and dead. News flash, Angel," he said, whipping out
of traffic and onto one of the canyon roads. "You *are* dead."
Ahead the tarmac
twisted up and around, and he slowed the Jeep to follow
the curving path. The Clash had long ago blended into something
less rewarding and he slapped the dial again.
Classical music
poured through the car. He let it wash over him, let the
fugue build on the speakers and in his head until he had no recollection
of driving, until he was surprised to look up and find himself
at some sort of dive just off of the 101. The clock on his dash
read 11:54.
He pulled into the
gravel lot and as he got out, he saw the sea breeze
had cleared the sky of the yellow ozone haze. It was a beautiful
day, blue and perfect. He slammed the door and made his way into
the bar, unable to get out of all that beauty fast enough.
As if it had gotten
a good look at the clock, his stomach rumbled. No food
since…he couldn't remember when. The bar was dark and even though
no one smoked indoors in California anymore, the scent of thousands
of cigarettes permeated the building from scarred linoleum floor
to dark wood beams.
He slid onto a stool
at the bar. "Do you serve food?"
The bartender shoved
a menu at him. "Yeah." Her long red hair was slung
into a messy ponytail and several strands had slipped free to halo
her pale skin. Her coloring and sharp features reminded him of Justine
and he had to force himself not to get up and leave.
"Burger,"
he barked. "Fries. Coke, no ice."
She yelled the order
into the kitchen in a voice flattened by too many
years in the Valley and came back with his Coke. He sipped the warm
drink, felt the burn that only made his urge for Scotch stronger.
Unable to avoid it
any longer he replayed the morning's events. He kept
getting stuck on Lilah's parting shot. Connor—she could give him Connor.
"To what end, though?" he whispered, rolling the glass between
his hands.
His intuition fired,
the same insight that told him to go after that prophecy.
He told himself not to trust it, but he couldn't shake the feeling
that there was something important there. Something he needed to
know.
The bartender
dropped his plate in front of him. He pulled a paper napkin
out of the holder, spread it in his lap and took a bite of the burger.
His stomach lurched, then settled as the food hit. He closed his
eyes and chewed, letting the protein fuel his thoughts.
He needed to
research.
When he'd left the
hotel, he'd only taken the barest minimum of books.
He planned on restocking when he and Connor got situated.
Wolfram & Hart
had books. Probably more than he'd seen since his days at
the Council.
His heart pounded.
Was he actually considering…?
He shook his head
and took another bite of his burger. Connor. That boy
had the power save or ruin mankind. And if his track record was any
indication, the future did not look good.
None of this would
be an issue if Angel had-- He cut himself off. Had life
with his parents taught him nothing? He set his half-eaten burger
on his plate.
Depend only on
yourself, his father told him countless times. And then
he forced Wes to learn independence by abandoning him.
Those bastards he'd
once considered family couldn't teach him something
he'd already learned.
He dropped a ten on
the bar and stalked into the summer afternoon, slapping
on his sunglasses to cut the blue-bright glare. Gravel kicked
up under his tires as he pulled out of the lot and headed for the
freeway.
If Connor was indeed
the Destroyer, he couldn't be allowed to live. But
none of the other players would sacrifice him. Wolfram & Hart wanted
to maximize his dark potential. Angel wanted to save his son, regardless
of the consequences to the rest of the world.
Wes knew what it
meant to stand alone, to do the right thing no matter
the cost. What if he considered the resources Lilah offered as a
means to an end? He could study the boy and the prophecies. If Connor's
evil nature showed signs of manifesting, Wes would do whatever
it took to stop him. With the fire-power of Wolfram & Hart behind
him, he stood a much better chance of succeeding.
Doing so would pit
his interests against Wolfram & Hart—and Angel Investigations.
In war one must sacrifice the few to save the many. If
he had to choose between saving the interests of the other players and
saving mankind, he knew which one would win.
***
They came across the
girl in the alley, half-drained, the vamp hanging
over her like a wraith.
Connor descended, an
avenging angel, and dusted the demon before it could
lift its head.
The girl lolled
against the concrete block wall, eyes glassy and staring.
The musty smell of urine permeated the air and from the rip in
her throat, blood bubbled, water from a spring.
Justine crowded in
next to him and grabbed his hand. She put it on the
wound, showed him how to press the gaping edges shut. "Apply pressure,"
she said. "I'll go for help."
The girl moaned in
pain and twitched away, exposing the rip again. He stared
uncomprehendingly. He'd seen the demon himself, knew it to be a
vamp.
Remembering his
assignment he scrambled after her and pinched her throat
shut. The warm syrup of her blood covered his hand. He could feel
the ends of the wound, nearly as long as the span of his fingers.
She wriggled,
drawing his attention back to her.
"Bit...me...."
She rasped.
"I know,"
he said. "The demon is gone now. There is nothing to fear."
The girl's shining
eyes sought him out. "...hurts...."
He closed his eyes,
unable to look at her pleading face. Behind his eyelids
he saw his father, neck punctured, spilled blood stilled by a lifeless
heart. "I know," he said, voice breaking. "I'm sorry. Help is
coming."
***
Lorne kicked back in
his chair and propped his feet up on the table. The
bar was empty, which was a good thing, because at nearly 2 a.m., he
was ready for a little shut eye.
"So, Mickey,
how'd we do?"
Mickey had one hand
in the till and the other on an ancient adding machine.
He grunted.
Lorne nodded.
"That sounded like the grunt of a good night. Otherwise,
I'd get the moan. I hate that moan. Heard myself make it far
too many times."
There was a rattle
at the door and both men looked up.
"Is this where
Lorne works?" A woman, probably in her early 20s, stood
just inside the door.
Lorne blinked. In
this light she resembled Cordy. Or Cordy before the bottle
of yellow dye hit her pretty little head. "It is," he called.
"I'm Lorne. But we're closed."
She stepped out of
the shadows and into the bar. She was pregnant. Hugely.
And her aura was doing some really funky stuff.
Mickey tallied a
column then glanced up. "Like he said, lady. Come back
tomorrow."
Lorne got to his
feet. "We'd be glad to call you a cab, though."
Her lips trembled.
"No, thanks." She clutched her hands together in front
of her. "I'll just…." She motioned over her shoulder with her thumb.
Something about the
forlorn look, the sagging shoulders and the maternal
vibe got to him. "Look, you really just need to go home, get some
rest. You know, get off your feet?"
She rubbed her
belly. "Yeah. You're right. Thanks, anyway." She turned
and he heard the door slam behind her.
"Go lock it for
me?" Mickey asked, sliding money into the night deposit
bag.
"Sure."
Lorne walked to the door. God, he'd hated to turn her away. But
business was business, and if he didn't get some sleep, he wouldn't
be much good for business tomorrow.
He walked down the
short, narrow hall. When he reached the door, some instinct
made him open it instead of locking it.
The girl stood on
the sidewalk, leaning against the wall, head back, eyes
closed, humming a lullaby. Under her tight shirt he could see the
ripples of the baby moving, a swimmer under the water's surface.
He jolted.
"Hey," he called quietly.
She opened her eyes,
big and brown, and blinked away tears. "Yeah. Hey."
"Honey,"
he said, stepping out onto the sidewalk.
She shied away like
a beaten down dog. "No, really. It's okay."
He shook his head.
"I…you know what I do, right?"
She shrugged.
"Read people. Help them."
"That's
right." He stood over her, a good head taller, and from this close,
her distended belly almost bumped right into him. "When people sing.
I read them when they sing."
She covered her
mouth with her hand. "Oh," she whispered. "So, just then,
you…?"
"Yeah. I didn't
mean to." Lorne put his hand on his chest, as if swearing
the truth. "It just happens."
"I'm sorry. If
I'd known, I never would have...."
He smiled.
"It's okay. Look, just go home, all right?"
She blanched.
"I...."
"Really. You're
aura's telling me that you've been out on the road too
long. People are worrying about you. They need you."
She laughed
hollowly. "No one needs me."
Lorne shook his
head, totally focused on the message, as if the Powers
were pouring it straight through him. "You're the only one who can...."
Then it hit him. This was the same advice he'd given to the last
three customers. He closed his eyes as his words sank in. "Who can..."
he repeated.
"Who can
what?"
"Do what you
do." Lorne's eyes opened. "You're the only one who can face
your demons, sweetie. The only one who can work your own brand of
magic." He put his hand on the woman's arm. "They're not a complete
unit without you."
She stared at him
for a good thirty seconds.
"Look,"
Lorne said, "I'm a seer. I just read what you put out there, and
what you're putting out there is bright and clear. Go home." He stepped
away from her and buttoned his coat.
She blinked.
"But...."
"Listen, I'd
love to stay and chat with you all night, but I've got a plane
to catch."
She shook her head,
brow wrinkled in confusion. "Huh?"
"Just taking a
dose of my own medicine." He grabbed a twenty from his pocket,
stuck it in her hand. "For the road." Then he stepped through the
door and locked it behind him. "Mickey!" he called into the darkened
bar. "I've got some good news and some bad news."
***
Fred kicked the poof
in frustration.
"What am I
gettin' us for dinner?" Gunn asked. He sat in an exhausted heap
on the floor, leaning against the blue, velvet cushions of the round
couch.
"Food's not
gonna help," she said.
His eyebrow arched.
"Wow. Didn't expect to hear that."
She shook her head.
"I don't know what else to do." She sank to the cushions,
then leaned over and put her elbows on her knees. Her hair curtained
her face.
Gunn reached over
and tucked a long strand behind her ear. "Hey," he said
quietly. "There's a reason for this, so that means there's a way out.
We just have to find it."
"I know I'm not
exactly the Cavalry," Lorne said, dropping his bag to the
floor with a thump. "But will I do?"
Fred looked up,
shock and a wild sort of hope on her face. "LORNE! Oh,
my God!" She leapt to her feet and ran to him. Her momentum carried
them into a twirling hug.
"Easy, there,
little filly," he said. Over her head, he met Gunn's gaze.
"Charlie," he said.
Fred scooted out of
the way when Gunn rolled forward and stuck out his
hand. "Since you're steppin' in to save the day? Gonna ignore the flagrant
violation of the nickname rule."
Lorne stepped back.
"Sorry, got carried away." As he took off his sunglasses
and baseball cap he studied their faces. "From the sour pusses,
I'd take a wild guess and say that things haven't improved."
Fred covered her
face with her hands. "Understatement," she moaned through
her fingers.
"Wes is
sleeping with Lilah," Gunn said. "And if that weren't skanky enough?"
He pointed to the paper.
Lorne's eyes trailed
to the article, face-up on the desk. He scanned the
headline, eyes narrowing. "That son of a bitch."
"Now,
Lorne," Fred said.
He shook his head.
"Sorry, sweetie, it's just--"
"I meant, if
you're gonna cuss him, do it right. He's a rat-tailed bastard
and being tortured by Helvroth demons would be too good for him."
Lorne blinked.
"Oooh-kay." He glanced at Gunn.
Gunn shrugged.
"I wasn't there, but she walked in on Wes and Lilah. Kinda
changed her opinion of him."
"Wow."
Lorne put his hands in his pockets. "And I say again, wow."
"It's been
nearly two weeks and we still can't find 'em," Fred said, voice
rising.
Lorne put a gentling
hand on her arm. "Did it occur to you that....?" He
glanced toward heaven, hoping she'd get the clue.
Her gaze followed
his. "They're dead?" She nodded. "Of course it occurred
to me. But I'm not gonna give up just because...you know...."
She swallowed hard. "She's my friend. And he saved me," she said.
"He rode in on a horse and saved me." She put her hand over her heart.
"And, darn it, Lorne, I'm gonna get `em back."
"Then let's go
to work." He picked up his suitcase.
"Let me get
that," Gunn said, taking the bag from Lorne. "Look, I've moved
my stuff here for now, 'cause I don't think we should be alone. It
be okay if I put this back in your old room?"
Lorne nodded.
"Home's where the heart is, sweetie." He patted himself on
the ass. "And last time I checked, my heart was right here." He turned
to Fred. "So, give me the skinny, Skinny." He put his arm around
her and led her to the office.
***
"Your Connor's
making quite the splash," Lilah said. She leaned across
the desk and swiped a leaf of Wes's salad bare-fingered.
"He's hardly my
Connor," Wes replied, spearing a slice of carrot.
"Yeah, well,
whoever he is, he's been tearing up the night. And I mean
that literally." She settled onto the edge of his desk and her short,
navy skirt rode up her slim, toned thigh. She smiled when Wes's
eyes followed the trail of flesh. "You still want me to get him for
you?"
"Whatever would
I do with him?"
She inclined her
head.
He blinked, feigning
mild surprise. "Oh, I see. You thought that's why
I hired on."
"Wasn't
it?" She watched him through narrowed eyes. "Whatever happened
to, `You call working for a company that's the personification
of evil putting my skills to good use?'" she said in a
surprisingly good British accent.
He chuckled and slid
his pawn one square further into the Queen's territory.
"A man's got to eat."
Lilah stretched her
arms over her head in a way that exuded silver- screen
star confidence. He knew by now that it was an act. At heart, she
might have delusions of glamour, but the fact that she was jumpier
than a 12-year-old girl at a horror movie effectively negated them.
He knew better than
to underestimate her, though. If he was David to Wolfram
& Hart's Goliath, then Lilah was his slingshot. And the first rule
of the game was to avoid friendly fire.
"Well,"
she said, folding her hands in her lap like the proper lady she'd
never be. "Putting your motivations aside, I say we track him down
and make him an offer he can't refuse."
Wes finished his
salad and tossed the container into the garbage can next
to his desk. "You do recycle, don't you?" he asked, nodding toward
the plastic.
"What?"
Lilah asked, following his gaze. "Oh, sure. It's a Number 2, right?"
Oh, Lilah, he
thought. What a model citizen you are.
She squinted at him.
"You do that on purpose, don't you?"
"Mmm."
She stood, smoothed
her skirt. "Well, I haven't eaten yet," she said.
"And I have a long afternoon." She examined her meticulous manicure.
"One that'll probably turn into evening." Her eyes met his.
"Which means I won't be seeing you."
"My heart is
broken, I can assure you," he said, reaching for his legal
pad and a book.
"Sure you don't
want to come?"
He glanced her way.
"You mean, to track down Connor?"
She nodded.
"No thank
you," he said, returning his gaze to his book. "I've got a date."
"Really."
She trailed toward the door. "Anyone I know?"
He tugged one of the
long, red ribbons attached to the binding and opened
the book to the page he wanted. "No one you've met, no."
She snorted.
"Right. Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, international man of mystery."
He wrote a note on
the pad, flipped another page. Glanced up. "You still
here?"
"No," she
said, and she disappeared down the hall.
***
Lorne's contact
uttered the final words of the locating spell and the surface
of the map wavered, a long strip of asphalt under the desert sun.
Finally, the landmarks began to take shape again and a dark point
appeared.
"That's
strange," Lorne said, leaning over the table for a better look.
"Uh huh,"
Melissa replied. She was a friend from the Caritas days, an accountant
who dabbled in the white arts. She put her hand on his shoulder
and pushed him gently out of the way. "Now scoot so we can all
see."
"Is he in the
ocean?" asked Fred.
"Looks like
it," replied Gunn.
Melissa marked a
spot with the tip of a Sharpie then leaned back in her
chair. The metaphysical marks swirled away, leaving only a standard
US map with a black ink spot about 20 miles offshore. "Maybe he's
in a boat or something."
"Maybe they
weighed him down and dumped him," Gunn said.
Fred glanced at him,
her eyes filled with horror. "Oh, God."
"Sorry."
He lifted his hands in the air. "Thought we were exploring all
the possibilities."
Fred looked at
Melissa. "But this means he's not dust, right?"
Melissa nodded.
"If he was dust, I couldn't pick him up at all. So this
means he's still alive. Well, intact," she said, with a wry glance
at Lorne.
"Oh, thank
God," Fred said, collapsing in the chair closest to her. Suddenly
she went tense again. "But what about Cordy?"
"I got
something," Melissa admitted cautiously. She pulled out her Palm
Pilot and flipped the case open. "See?" she asked, showing them a
series of hieroglyphics. "The results seem to be a vapor trail instead
of an actual physical presence."
Fred squinted at the
screen. "May I?" she asked, holding her hand out.
Melissa nodded and
handed her the Pilot.
"That looks
like physics," she said, excitement tingeing her voice.
Melissa nodded.
"Kind of. It's the same as any other equation—all you have
to do is learn to speak its language."
"Hold up,"
Gunn interrupted. "So what you're sayin' is that you didn't
find Cordy at all, you just found traces of her?" He shook his head.
"Obviously not the math geek in the room, but that just don't make
sense any way you look at it."
Lorne sighed.
"What is it with the merry old month of May?"
Fred looked up from
the Pilot, glazed eyes finding focus. "What do you
mean?"
"Oh, man,"
Gunn said, getting it. "That was when Cordy got sucked into
the portal last year."
"Actually,"
Melissa said, leaning on her elbows. The crisp pin- striped
sleeves of her suit brushed the squared off corners of the map.
"You might be onto something."
"You mean,
besides the definite May-sweeps-month feel to our lives?" Lorne
asked wryly.
Gunn snorted then
sobered. "Say we did find a hot spot, we still stand
a pretty good chance of ending up wherever she's not." He crossed
his arms over his chest. "Even I don't like those odds."
Lorne caught Gunn's
eye. "Well, let's focus on making the odds better,
then." He turned to Melissa. "Can you tell exactly where in the
ocean Angel's located? Surface or bottom?"
"Oh, sure. Hang
on a sec," Melissa said. She closed her eyes, waved her
hand over the paper, and chanted a few phrases. The map swirled and
reappeared in three dimensions. The dot hovered for a moment on the
surface then plummeted.
Fred swallowed.
"Guess that answers our question," she whispered.
"Huh,"
Lorne said thoughtfully. Everyone looked at him. "I was just wondering
why the sharks haven't gotten him."
"I'm getting an
odd reading," Melissa said thoughtfully. "Could be that
I'm just not strong enough to reach that far...or...it could mean
that he's in some sort of...container?"
"Let's hope.
'Cause otherwise he'll be lookin' all pruny," Gunn commented.
"Guys,"
Melissa cut in. "Just thinking out loud, but how are you going
to get him out of there?"
Lorne nodded.
"She's got a point," he said. "There's no way we can get
him out by ourselves."
Fred looked at him.
"Sure, there is."
Gunn cocked his
head. "How?"
"We'll hire a
boat. Get divers to go down and bring him up."
"Us and what
money?" Lorne asked.
"Connor's
college fund," Fred said. "Cordy wanted to buy a boat with it,
right?"
Gunn snorted.
"Don't think this is quite what she had in mind."
"On the other
hand," Melissa said thoughtfully. "It might not be a bad
idea."
Fred nodded.
"See?"
"We math geeks
gotta stick together." She drummed her fingers on the map.
"You know, I just might know someone who can help you." Her gaze honed
in on Lorne. "Remember Jack, who used to come into Caritas? He dated
that blond-haired demon, Nellie?"
Lorne's eyes
widened. "Oh, boy, do I remember Nellie. Bazooms out to *here*,"
he said, holding his hands way out in front of his body.
Melissa laughed.
"Right. The perfect woman for Jack." At Gunn's questioning
look she continued, "Jack's an…interesting guy. Besides having
an appreciation for all things female he fancies himself the next
Mel Fisher."
Gunn arched his
eyebrow. "Think he might hunt up some buried treasure for
us?"
She shrugged.
"Only one way to find out." She glanced at Fred, who was
immersed in the equation on the handheld. "Mind if I borrow this for
a minute?" she asked, tapping her fingers lightly on the open cover.
Fred jumped.
"What? Oh. Oh, sure." She flushed and handed the computer
to Melissa. "Sorry."
Melissa laughed.
"Not a problem." With a deft slide of the stylus across
the screen she pulled up her address book, wrote the number down
on a sticky and handed it to Gunn.
"Thanks,"
he said, glancing at her neat writing. "We'll just—"
Fred grabbed the
note from him and ran to the office. "Uh, I guess we'll
just go call." He loped off, leaving Lorne and Melissa alone.
Lorne sat down in
the chair next to her and leaned in close. "Okay. Now
that the kiddies are gone, spill."
Melissa closed the
cover on the Pilot and set it on the table. "I'm getting
a definite vibe on Cordy. A sort of dark magic vibe." She cast
her eyes to the office, where they could hear Fred talking excitedly.
"Didn't want to say much in front of them, but if I were you?
I'd find her. Fast."
Lorne nodded.
"Yeah. Well, we're kinda out of our league. Our primary researcher
is sleeping with the enemy."
Melissa packed her
supplies in her black leather briefcase. "And your Champion's
sleeping with the fishes." She shook her head. "Lord, you're
in bad shape. But, hey, Jack'll do nearly anything for a buck. At
least that's good news." She glanced at her slim, efficient watch.
"Crap, I gotta run. Late meeting."
Lorne walked her to
the door. "Thanks," he said. "You've given us a lot
to go on."
She stood on tiptoes
and kissed his cheek. "Any time," she said, wiping
a smudge of lipstick off his green skin. "And, Lorne? Watch your
back. I worry." She patted his shoulder. "Gotta go crunch some numbers.
I'll be praying for you."
"You do
that," Lorne said, closing the door and locking it behind her.
***
Connor was as
familiar now with the dark side-streets of LA as he had been
with the shadowed canyons of Quar-toth. It was his favorite hunting
ground. All the bad things liked the dark.
Justine was a half a
block behind. Over the rushing traffic and the sounds
of night life, he could hear her boots clomping on the sidewalk
as she rushed to catch up. It wasn't hard to pick her out in the
crowd; like everyone else, she had her own rhythm.
And for reasons he
didn't question it was starting to grate on him.
The hair on his arms
prickled. Vamps. Somewhere close. He swung into the
alley and found a pack of them pinning a terror-soaked human to the
wall. The vamp yanked the man's head to the side and buried her teeth
in his throat. Blood spurted, leaving a shiny trail on the brick.
The call and
response of Connor's pulse told him to move. He ignored it
and stood silently, watching the demon drink.
Justine rushed in
behind him. "Steven? What the hell are you doing? Shit!"
She rushed forward, staked the drinking vamp and rounded on the
others. The man slithered to the ground, trembling.
Connor joined the
fight, slaying efficiently, but for the first time not
thinking about the kill.
Vamps dusted,
Justine whirled, face twisted with fury. "Wait here with
him." She sprinted to the street.
Connor squatted next
to the man, ignoring the way he scrambled back.
"Don't worry," he said, following him deeper into the shadows.
"I'm not going to hurt you." He pressed his hand to the long,
jagged rip, feeling the edges carefully and superimposing that image
onto the memory of his father's punctured throat.
Connor slid his
tongue over his canines, his incisors. He raised his arm
and bit hard enough to draw blood. Then he compared the indentions
in his skin to the wound on the man's neck. The low, awkward
light of the alley confirmed what he suspected: Angelus did not
kill his father.
Justine's rushing
steps called his attention to her. "Help's on its way."
She fell in next to him. "You idiot! You could've gotten him killed."
"But I
didn't."
"But you
could've." She grabbed him by the shirt. "We're here to kill leeches,
not look at `em. Next time, dust the bastard. Save the stare- down
for one that doesn't have his fangs buried in somebody's throat."
He peeled her
fingers off his shirt. "When I want your advice, I'll ask
for it."
The whiplash crack
of flesh on flesh split the air. Connor raised his hand
to his face, stunned. "You hit me."
"Cross me again
and you'll get worse."
"C-cold…."
The man at their feet shivered.
"Ambulance is
coming," Justine replied. She stood. Shadows distorted her
face until she was unrecognizable. "I'm gonna go wait on it."
She tramped out the
alley, distance shrinking her until he could have crushed
her with one slap of his hand.
***
The Typhoid Mary
pulled away from the dock, engine churning up a wake not
quite big enough to surf. The sun lay down in the water and died.
"How long till
we get there?" Fred pulled her gaze from the streamers of
sizzling peach and flaming blue and looked at the captain, who piloted
the boat lazily. His loose grip on the wheel showed knuckles flattened
from street fighting.
"Couple of
hours," he said around the hand-rolled, unlit cigarette clamped
between his teeth. "Good night for it. `Course, night's good for
a lot of things." His eyes slid from her face to her breasts.
"You a night person, sweetie?"
She knew he couldn't
see anything behind the neon orange life jacket, but
she still crossed her arms over her chest. "Sure. I guess."
He nodded. "My
boys are too." He hitched his thumb over his shoulder toward
the scuba team who were lolling on the benches stern-side. "Do their
best work then."
She glanced at them,
noticed their bulky muscles and razor-sharp eyes.
Tried not to think of what other jobs the night might bring them.
Gunn appeared at her
elbow. She jolted. "Gunn!" she squeaked. "There you
are!"
He shot her an odd
look. "You got your life jacket on okay?" He turned
her toward him, gently uncrossed her arms, and started testing the
fasteners.
"I'm good,
thanks," she said, cutting her eyes to the captain. "Jack, uh,
checked me out himself."
Jack laughed loudly.
Gunn's mouth
thinned, but all he said was, "That's good. Don't want nothin'
happenin' to my girl."
She beamed up at
him. "Your girl. I still haven't gotten used to that."
"Well, get used
to it." He slung his arm around her shoulders and turned
to the captain. "Thanks again for your help," he said curtly.
"Whatever. You
paid me enough." He tapped the map in front of him and the
glare of the overhead bulb showed fingers stained nicotine yellow.
"Haven't been out to the islands for awhile. Do most of our work
in Mexico, now."
Fred tried to look
interested. "Really? One of our friends went to Mexico
a few weeks ago-" About the time Angel's son was taken to a hell
dimension, she finished silently. Gunn's arm tightened around her.
Jack's gold tooth
glinted. "Ever want to see the real Mexico, you just
let ol' Jackie know."
Gunn tensed.
"Right. We'll be sure to let you know. Jackie." He hustled
Fred down the gangway. "Asshole," he muttered.
"He's not so
bad," Fred said diplomatically. At Gunn's look, she lowered
her eyes. "Okay, yeah. He's a total asshole. But he's our best
bet for gettin' Angel back."
"I can't
believe he's Melissa's friend," Gunn said. "Last person I'd expect
a girl like her to be hangin' with."
"Well, you know
how Caritas was. Drew in all sorts. Lorne was real good
about—"
The boat lunged as
they picked up speed, cutting her off mid- sentence.
Gunn steadied them against the rail. "Speaking of Lorne," he
said, shooting a look aft, where they could see him, head over the edge,
losing his dinner.
"Oh, no. I
thought he was feeling better."
"Said he was
gonna turn pink." Gunn chuckled. Fred glared. "I'm not laughing
at him," he clarified. "He looks miserable. It's just…pink?"
"I'm gonna go
check on him," she said, bumping his hip as she went past.
It was a relief to channel the low-grade panic somewhere else. She
slid in next to Lorne and put her hand on his shoulder. "Hey."
He groaned.
"Hey, Fred."
She patted him
awkwardly. "Gunn says you're turning pink."
Lorne laughed. At
least, Fred thought he laughed. It could have been another
wretch. "Right." He stood and wiped his mouth with a wet paper
towel. "That should about do it."
Fred squinted at
him. "Why? I mean, how can you tell? I thought seasickness
was sort of unpredictable, or, rather predictable in that it--"
"Fred?"
"Uh huh?"
"You're
babbling." For a green guy, he sure did look pale. His mouth was
drawn into a thin line that changed his normal, friendly face into
something almost, well, demon-y.
Fred swallowed.
"Oh, right. Sorry. All the excitement must be gettin' to
me."
Gunn joined them at
the rail. "Yo, man. You're lookin' better."
He smiled grimly.
"That's what I was just telling our Fred. Now if you'll
excuse me for a moment, I'll just go freshen up."
"Sure
thing," Gunn said. He turned and looked out at the sea. The boat
bounced over the breakers and turned its nose toward the big waves.
"Lotsa water," he said, clenching the rail so hard that his knuckles
whitened.
"How do you
think Angel's doing?"
"You readin' my
mind?"
Because he was still
staring out at the choppy waves, she had to lean in
close to hear him. "It is kinda freaky, all that water. Makes ya wonder.
I mean, if he's not in something waterproof, we're talking fishy
corpse. It isn't gonna be pretty."
Gunn nodded.
"One thing you can say about Jack is he's used to bringing
up strange cargo." He paused, as if considering his words, and
turned to look at her. "Are you ready for this?"
Fred glanced toward
slowly disappearing LA, unable to meet his gaze.
"I think so," she said. "I hope so."
Lorne joined them at
the rail. "The bitch is back."
"You look
steadier," Gunn commented. He wove his fingers through Fred's,
gave her hand a little squeeze.
"Dramamine
works fast on me." Lorne took his ball cap off and mopped his
forehead with a handkerchief. "Demon metabolism's good for something,
I guess." He readjusted the cap and tucked the hankie into the
pocket of his khaki pants. "So, what's on the agenda?"
Fred glanced at her
watch. "By my watch we're about an hour-and-a- half
out. I guess now we just sit and wait." She slipped her free hand
into her pocket and fingered the tazer she'd brought just in case.
"Well, it's a
beautiful night."
She slid her gaze
across the darkening sky. "Yeah. Beautiful."
***
Wes found him the
second night, an unexpected surprise, considering the
skill with which the boy moved through the city. He watched as Connor
beheaded a particularly vile N'gahn demon and was struck, again,
by Connor's grace and strength.
But something about
him seemed off. He was edgy, agitated.
Wes knew the
feeling. "You have to bury its hands separately from its body,
or it will put itself back together," he said, stepping out of the
shadows.
Connor stood, sword
in hand, poised over the body of a demon nearly four
times his size. His eyes narrowed and his shoulders, already tense,
went ramrod stiff. "Who are you?"
Wes slid his hands
in his pants pockets. "You don't know me. I'm Wesley
Wyndam-Pryce."
Something moved in
his line of vision, similar to a flash of light. He
didn't realize that it was Connor until the boy was nearly on top of
him. Such speed, some cool, reserved part of his mind thought. The other
part, the one linked to survival, simply short-circuited.
Connor had the sword
at his neck, right up against Justine's scar.
"Why do you track me?"
Wes cleared his
throat to get rid of the stutter. "You interest me." He
raised his hands slowly, put them on the edge of the sword, and pressed.
Connor pressed back
and for a few long seconds Wes wondered whether his
life was, indeed, meant to end with a knife in his throat. But then
the boy pulled away, and Wes stood, feeling dizzy as the blood rushed
out of his limbs and back into his brain.
"How do you
know such things?" Connor asked, pointing at the demon with
his sword.
"I used to be a
Watcher," he said in a voice that trembled. At Connor's
look, he elaborated. "One who looks after the Slayer. Surely you
know of the Slayer?"
Connor nodded.
"Yes. My father told me. Why are you here, then?" He looked
around, as if waiting for a Slayer to materialize from behind the
building.
"I am no longer
in the employ of that organization."
Connor nodded, as if
he were fitting it all together. "But you still watch."
Wes laughed.
"Yes. I guess I do." He pointed to his hip. "I've got a knife
strapped to my waist. I'd like to get it so I can cut the demon's
hands off for burial. Would you mind?"
Connor looked at the
demon, which was starting to twitch, and then at Wes.
He seemed curious, as if he wasn't sure Wes would actually do it.
"Sure." He stepped aside.
Wes nodded.
"Great. Thanks." He pulled out his knife and squatted next
to the demon. Its wrists were as big around as saplings, and it took
several minutes to hack through the tendon and bone. The severed head
groaned once when the first hand fell free and again when Wes severed
the second. After that it stayed still and silent.
Connor stood aside,
tapping his sword against the toe of his tennis shoe.
Wes tried not to let the boy unnerve him, but frankly, he reminded
him a little too much of Angelus not to.
From his pants
pocket he pulled a couple of the large baggies that he'd
gotten into the habit of carrying when searching for evidence. He
bagged the hands, remembering suddenly one of the other times he'd dismembered
a demon.
He, Angel and Cordy
had tracked one into the sewers. Angel killed it quickly,
and as usual, left them to finish the clean-up. Cordy pulled her
knife from her bag and yelled at Angel's retreating back,
"Thanks, Cordy! You don't know how much I appreciate all the hacking
and cutting you do for me!"
Angel's laugh echoed
through the tunnels.
She glanced at Wes.
"Geez. How many times do I gotta tell the guy?"
He peered over the
tail he was slicing through. "Tell him what?"
She wrinkled her
nose. "Kind of an old joke. Angel killed a demon and left
me and Doyle to get rid of it. So I explained to him that it was polite
to thank someone for performing a dismemberment for you." She shook
her head. "You'd think, being raised in the powdered-wig days, that
the boy would have learned some manners."
Wes pushed his
glasses up his nose and glanced down the empty sewer tunnel.
"He's not the most verbal of people, is he?" he replied, still
not sure how to take her humor.
Cordy snorted.
"Oh, please," she said, as she hacked off the first of the
six eyes. "My horse, Keanu, was a better conversationalist."
Such memories, he
thought, zipping the bags shut, and standing. He wiped
his knife with a handkerchief and put it back in its scabbard. Connor
looked at him, and he thought it odd the way time looped.
If he'd known three
years ago that he would no longer be friends with Angel
and Cordelia, and that he'd be standing in a stinking alley dismembering
a demon with Angel's son, he probably would have quit right
then and gone straight back to England. "Well, that's all done."
"You were slow
with it. I could have done it in one stroke."
Wes shrugged.
"I'm better with books than knives, if you want to know the
truth."
Connor smiled.
"We each have our talents. My father used to say that a
lot."
"Did he,
now?"
"Yes."
Connor might have been the one to bring up his father, but now that
the subject was raised, the edginess, which had begun to dissipate,
was back in full force.
"What's your
name?" Wes asked, as if he didn't know, in the hope that the
subject change would give Connor something to focus on. He didn't want
to be on the receiving end of that restless energy again.
"Steven."
Wes blinked,
surprised. "Well, Steven," he said, sticking out his hand.
"It's nice to meet you."
Steven looked
suspiciously at Wes's open palm. "What are you doing?"
"In our world
it's customary to shake hands when you meet. That way you
know the other person isn't carrying a weapon."
Steven took his hand
and shook it cautiously. He held up the sword with
his left hand. "But I am carrying a weapon."
Wes laughed, charmed
against his better judgment. "So you are. But you're
not going to kill me with it, I hope."
Steven looked him up
and down, as if he were considering it. Then he shook
his head. "I have no reason to kill you."
"Nor I,
you." He held up the bags. "How have you been disposing of the
bodies?"
Steven shrugged.
"I just leave them behind."
"Oh,
dear," Wes said, shaking his head. "That will never work." He pointed
to his Jeep, parked across the street. "We'll load it in the truck
then take it away to bury it."
"But that means
I won't get to kill as many demons if I'm spending all
my time burying them."
Wes shrugged.
"If you're going to do the kill, you have to clean up afterward.
At least in this world." He thought how Justine left him, a
bleeding mess, in the middle of the park. Obviously one could shoot for
the best outcome, but the likelihood was that reality would fall far,
far short.
"I don't think
I like this world. Too many rules."
"Yes, well,
they are rather a pain." He smiled, pleased when Connor-- no,
Steven--smiled back.
"You do
it."
"Me? What,
clean up after you?" He laughed. Oh, the irony, he thought.
Haven't I just spent years cleaning up after this boy's father?
"Yes. I'm the
Destroyer. It's only fitting."
Wes couldn't stop
the gasp. "You're the what?"
"The
Destroyer." He puffed up his chest. "Surely you've heard of me."
"Y-yes,"
he finally got out. "I've heard of you."
"I'm known in
many dimensions." He smiled, and his eyes glinted.
In them, Wes could
see Angel's laser-beam focus, Holtz's charismatic righteousness.
If Holtz's moral
compass was off, it was only because Angel spun the needle.
Two men, lives inextricably linked. Fathers to the same boy. And
he *was* still a boy. Just because he said he was the Destroyer didn't
make it so. Best to take this as a coincidence for now. To watch
and wait and only move when he was absolutely sure.
Otherwise he could
just as easily be killing the next Messiah.
"I...I'll clean
up," Wes squeaked. He cleared his throat and glanced at
the huge body on the ground in front of them, suddenly overwhelmed.
Steven cocked his
head and peered at Wesley. "You're a very strange man."
Wes laughed, and
even he could hear how high-pitched and crazy it sounded.
"Yes, I suppose I am."
Steven grinned, a
beautiful, flashing smile that would have disarmed Wes
had he not known the potential for destruction that lay beneath.
"Well, see you around." He tilted his sword at Wesley then vanished
into the night.
***
The water, black
underneath with a thin sheen of twilight, rocked the boat
from side to side. It reminded him of the porch swing at his aunt's
house. You could only get so comfortable because you never knew
when you might tip out.
"So," Fred
said, coming up behind him.
Gunn jumped.
"Yeah. We're here."
"Uh huh.
Lorne's around back. We should join him."
Gunn and Fred
followed the deck around the boat. The first mate adjusted
his mask, made sure his tank was properly strapped on, then gave
the thumbs up. He fell over the edge and disappeared.
"You sure they
know what they're doing?"
Jack lit his
cigarette and took a deep drag. "They're pros, baby. No problem."
The other four went
in like dominoes.
"How
long?" Fred asked, leaning over the rail. Five bubble trails marred
the surface then gradually disappeared.
"Depends."
She looked at Jack,
who stared down at the water. "On what?"
"How he's
staying down." He gestured toward the wheelhouse. "I've gotta
go make sure everything's going okay," he said, and he disappeared
down the deck.
The boat hung, a
cradle in a treetop. The motor rumbled and spewed diesel
fumes and the sea rumbled and spewed spray.
Then Jack turned the
boat lights on. Fred jumped. "Shoot. I wasn't expecting
that."
"We're all a
little twitchy," Lorne said. "Stage fright's got nothin' on
this."
Gunn looked over the
rail. "Where are they? I thought they only had, like,
a half hour of air in the tanks."
Fred shook her head.
"No, they made sure they could stay down longer."
"Someone
shoulda brought a deck of cards. You wouldn't believe what I learned
in Vegas."
They let Lorne
divert their attention with stories and it worked for awhile.
Until one of the divers climbed up on deck.
"Holy
crap," Gunn said, knocking his fist against his chest.
Fred leapt up and
ran to the diver, who was removing his
mask. "What'd
ya find?"
The guy shook his
head. "Nothing, yet."
Fred's shoulders
slumped. "Darn it. I mean, not to imply that you're not
doing your job or anything. Just that I'm disappointed, you know, because
I'm impatient and...."
"Fred,
honey," Gunn interrupted. He put his hand on her shoulder. "He gets
it."
The diver rubbed his
eyes. "We'll keep looking."
"Thanks,"
Gunn said. He pulled Fred back over to the bench. "Sit down.
We've got time to go, yet."
She bent over and
propped her elbows on her knees. "It's just hard to wait.
You know? I mean, we've been waitin' an age already."
They watched as the
diver disappeared over the rail again.
"Waitin' an age
for what, Fred-girl?" asked Lorne.
"For our lives
to get back to normal." She toed the plank with her boot.
"Honey, our
lives haven't been normal since the ballet," Gunn said.
"Now,
now," Lorne commented. "Don't go blaming it all on the Groosalugg."
Gunn shook his head.
"Not doin' that. Just sayin', things changed that
night. After Fred and I hooked up, and Groo and Cordy hooked up, it
seemed like things went downhill."
"Thanks a
lot," Fred grumbled.
Gunn took her hand.
"You know what I mean."
"I'm not sure I
do."
Lorne crossed his
arms over the life vest. "I'm not one to regret much,
but I do miss Wesley."
Fred's eyes flared.
"Don't talk to me about him."
"Just stating a
fact. I mean, he was the brains of the team. But more than
that, he was family."
"Family don't
betray you," Gunn rumbled. "If he was family, would he be
off working for the big evil right now?"
Fred sighed.
"Yeah. Especially `cause, without Wes, I'm stuck being the
brains. I hate being the brains."
Gunn laughed wryly.
"Too bad, sister, 'cause you got plenty to share."
"Whatever."
"All right you
two," Lorne refereed. "Don't start picking on each other
just because you're feeling a little tense."
"You're
right," Fred said.
"Yeah.
Sorry."
Lorne looked at his
watch. "I think I'll go ask Jack what's the what."
Fred nodded.
"Please. Maybe he can see something with his sonar thingy."
Lorne waved over his
shoulder.
"Did you mean
that?" Fred asked.
Gunn looked down at
his hands. "What, that things went downhill after that
night at the ballet? Yeah."
"No, that
things went downhill after we hooked up."
Gunn looked up.
"Oh, baby. No." He brushed his lips over hers. "The timing
was odd, that's all."
"Because if you
want out...."
"No. No! That
wasn't what I was saying. All I was saying was--"
"We got 'im!"
Fred twisted her
fingers together. "Thank God," she said. "I've gotta tell
Lorne."
"I heard,
sweetie," Lorne said, bustling down the planks. "And doesn't
that just make you want to stand up and whistle Dixie?"
Gunn looked at him.
"I never want to stand up and whistle Dixie."
"Right,
sorry."
"I'll be
back," the diver said, and, taking the crane hooks in hand, he
dropped over the edge.
The line spun out,
its metallic hiss the high note in the night's dark
symphony.
***
"You lost him?
Again?" Lilah asked, voice climbing in frustration.
"How can you lose the kid who's destroying every demon in
a 10-mile radius?" She hit the button on her keyboard and the player
on the golf game took her swing. It went wide, landing in the rough.
"Dammit!" She gestured rudely at the computer screen. "No, not you,"
she said, returning her attention to the idiot on the other end of
the line. "Look, forget it, I'll do it myself." She hung the phone up,
activated the screen saver and pulled on her jacket.
One quick elevator
ride later and she was standing in front of Wes's closed
door. She knocked. When she got no answer, she turned the knob.
Locked. Well, it was after nine o'clock, after all.
She pulled out her
cell phone, dialed his number, and waited for him to
pick up. Instead she got the machine.
"Wes, it's
Lilah. When you get this, give me a call on my cell phone. Thanks."
She returned to the elevator, hit the button for her floor and
watched as the doors slid shut.
Once in her office
she grabbed her purse, buttoned her jacket and locked
her door behind her. On the way down to the parking garage, she
called her driver. "Meet me on G2 in five."
***
The crane groaned as
they pulled the box out of the water. Ocean sluiced
off steel in sheets, leaving behind a bulky metal container sheened
with wet.
"Bring him
in!" Jack called, motioning with his hand. The diver worked
the controls from the wheel house, drawing the box high enough to
guide it over the rail. He let it down slowly but it still hit the deck
with a jarring thud.
Fred grabbed Gunn's
arm. "D'ya think he's okay?"
"We'll know
soon enough, right?"
Lorne came back with
the cooler in hand. "Got enough blood in here for
ten vamps."
"Figured he'd
be hungry," Fred replied. "Just set it down, please, Lorne."
The divers eased the
box, window up, onto the deck, and started wiping
the glass clean. Fred moved forward. The inside of the box was in
shadow, but the glass was spattered with dried blood and streaked hand
prints.
"Step back,
please," said a diver, who carried a pickaxe.
"Sorry,"
she muttered, getting out of his way.
He nodded to the
crew, who stepped away, too, and drew the axe overhead.
With one long, curving arc, the axe rose and fell, and the point
of the pick cleaved the glass with a whump.
Fred let out a shaky
breath.
The diver repeated
the motion several times until the glass had a fist-sized
hole in it. Then he flipped the axe to the flat side, hung it
in the glass and yanked. There was a crunch, and a series of pops as
the wire gave way, and then the glass crumbled, exposing the inside
of the box to the night.
Fred rushed forward.
"Angel!" she yelled, leaning over the edge.
He lay still as a
corpse, head ridged, fangs extended. The wrists of his
sleeves were brown with dried blood. "Angel," she whispered. Her hands
flew to her mouth. "Oh, God."
One of the divers
pushed her aside and reached into the box. He jerked
once, twice, and fell in.
"No!" Fred
cried. Gunn grabbed the diver and pulled him out. He stood,
swaying, black blood painting his throat.
"Get him out of
here," Jack said, thrusting him toward Fred. She rushed
him to a bench and covered the wound with her palm. It was jagged,
but not too deep, as if Angel were too weak to do much damage.
Or so she thought.
There was a shout as another diver plunged into the
box. He came up, furious, bleeding, and took a swing at Angel. Angel
rose, roaring, a titan from the sea. The look on his face raised
the hair on Fred's arms.
Gunn went for his
crossbow. "Gunn! Wait!" She grabbed her tazer.
"Here!" She threw it at him.
The diver moaned.
"It's okay," she said, half her focus on him and half
on the melee. "It's not very deep. Lorne went for towels."
He rushed down the
gangway. "Here!" He wrapped a long strip of paper toweling
around his hand, then ripped them free of the roll and dropped
the rest to the deck.
"Stay with
him." Fred rushed into the fray. If she could just get Angel's
attention, maybe he'd snap out of it. "Angel! Stop! It's us!"
He paused, and for a
moment she thought she saw him, the man she knew,
walk into the light. But then he faded behind the raging animal.
Gunn snuck up behind
him, tazer in hand. He hit him once, twice, and the
fizzy odor of spent electricity filled the air. Angel collapsed against
the edge of the box, eyes open, staring blankly at the sky.
***
Up this far, the
wind was strong against his face, like a hand or a harsh
mouth. He leaned into it, letting it press itself against him. It
fluttered his short jacket against his thighs, slicked his hair back
and tickled his scalp.
He heard the whine
of tires on asphalt long before he saw her. He couldn't
say how he knew it was her, out of any of the other 10 million
people in LA it could have been. But he did. His stomach clenched
and the nervy, breathless feeling he'd had since her call, expanded
and overtook him.
He picked up the
glance of headlights on gnarled cedar branches as she
made her way up the turns. She was careening toward him, breakneck,
the same way he'd come. His eyes widened as he heard the shush
of rubber against soft, sandy shoulder.
His mind went
spinning out over empty space as he imagined the Jeep hitting
the turn wrong and taking flight. But then she rounded the last
curve and hit the straightaway, and the fear gave way to relief.
He stepped into the
road, breathing in the heat it radiated, left over
from a day of baking like a sleeping snake in the desert sun. It wasn't
full summer yet, but it was close. It pumped up through him, feet
first.
The headlights
slammed the first wisps of coastal fog. He didn't blink
against her glare even though it was blinding him. She brought the
too-big-for-her vehicle to a lurching stop, killed the lights, and
sent him spinning dizzily into full night.
Then she was
clamoring down, crunch of shoes on gravel, jangle of keys
hitting car seat, and coming toward him. The moon caught her, a bow
of light against a brighter star. And then she was there.
Here.
"Hey." Her
lips trembled when she smiled.
He cleared his
throat. "Hey," he said, and from the helpless way his eyes
traveled over her, he knew he was giving himself away right up front.
"You look...." He made an appreciative gesture to her clothes, something
white, that was all he knew, something radiant. God, even when
she wasn't glowing, she glowed.
Cordy laughed, and
the moon caught that too. "I.... Thanks?"
He laughed with her,
a high sort of rumble that felt as if something bubbly
was flying up through his chest. "Radiant, I was going to say."
She rocked from heel
to toe, surging and retreating, and the motion sent
her scent swirling into the breeze, a scarf set free from its wearer's
neck. He breathed, long and deep, letting the familiar, moonlight-scent
of her body mix with the brisk air and sea salt. His mouth
watered, his lips opened and he could taste her on the tip of his
tongue.
"So," she
said, looking up at him, doe-eyed and twitchy.
"So," he
nodded, shoving his hands into his pants pockets. Change rattled,
and the hard disks almost felt cool against his skin.
"Um." She
glanced out at the waves, and the sharp breeze caught her and
yanked her hair off her face. She crossed her arms over her chest and
shivered.
Immediately he
shucked off his coat. "Here." It brought him in close, cupping
him around her. Rounded shoulders filled his palms, then his hands
flattened, stroking down the lapel, past the birdcage of her collarbone
and to somewhere right around her heart, where he stopped and
pulled the edges of skin-soft leather closed.
Holding her was like
capturing a coat full of moonlight. He knew he was
staring at her, could feel himself doing it, but he couldn't make his
eyes move. It was.... She was....
"I'm
what?" she asked, tilting her head at him. One corner of her mouth
turned up, a slinky, silky, saucy little smirk that made him think
of all the flirts he'd ever known.
"Huh?" he
asked dimly. His feet took him closer and her sparkle had him
leaning in. "I'm sorry, I didn't hear you," he lied.
Under his hands,
fisted around leather and over her, he could feel the
rabbiting thump of her heart. He closed his eyes, letting it wash over
him, the surf within her and the surf without. Salt and water, pulling,
sucking, pumping.
"You
said," she whispered, and he felt his body shift as she edged up on
her tiptoes, "that I was...something." By the last word, her lips were
scant inches from his ear and her breath, warm and humid, spread its
mist on his flesh.
She stayed that way,
hung under his body, mistletoe on a branch. Then she
danced, back and down and away.
He followed.
"I...." He shook his head to clear the fog. "I...."
Her laugh was a
light trill. Then her hands came up and out of the coat,
breaking his grip on his lapels and sending his hands flying in opposite
directions like startled doves at a hunt.
She caught them,
mid-flight. "Walk?" she asked. Her hands were warm, a
little damp and so very soft.
"Huh?" He
realized he'd been stroking that fleshy mound behind her thumbs.
She opened her mouth
again, but her eyes, when he finally looked at her,
were glazed. "Angel?"
He watched her
mouth, the way it wrapped around the sounds. Lips plush
and gleaming, damp from lipstick or her tongue, he didn't know. All
he knew was….
"I asked,"
she finally said in a breathless voice, "if you wanted to take
a walk?"
All he knew was that
he was entranced by the spirals of breath, the voiced
consonants, the unvoiced vowels, the way the air traveled from somewhere
deep and dark and came out up here, up here, up here....
"Angel?"
He shook it off.
"Yeah," he said. "Walk."
But when he turned
toward the bluff-side trail she yanked on his hand.
"Wait."
His brow furrowed as
he thought back over the last few moments. Sure he'd
been a little distracted, but he was convinced she'd said--
"I changed my
mind," she said. "Just...let's stay here."
"Whatever you
want." He still had her hands, or she still had his, and
he noticed that they'd somehow gotten their fingers twined and maybe,
even if they'd wanted to, they couldn't have gotten them unknotted.
"I
want...." she said breathily.
He went taut.
She pulled him
closer. "I want," she whispered.
"You want
what?"
She was iridescent,
as if someone had dipped a brush in liquid pearls and
painted her with it. A rainbow of colors refracted under the luminescence
of her skin, tiny vessels filled with liquid life. Pulsing.
Pulsing.
"I...."
She inched up, up toward him, feet arching, toes taking weight,
calves tightening, he could feel it, feel his own legs responding
as she moved.
She unlinked their
fingers, trailed her hands over his hands, his wrist
bones, lost her when she hit shirt but found her again when she clutched
his upper arms.
He took her breath
into him. "Say it," he said, ears ringing, head spinning.
"I didn't
know," she confessed. "I thought...." Her breath fanned out,
ruffling hair and sending flesh jumping. "And then he said...." The
tip of her nose grazed his ear, just grazed it, right at the top.
"And then I realized...." And her lips were there, on his earlobe,
under his ear, soft and sweet and moist and...trailing.
Down his throat,
skimming over wind-chilled flesh. He stood, poised. Waiting.
His entire consciousness focused on that mouth, on the truth of
it, of what it was saying, and what it was SAYING. Not just the words,
but the meaning behind them.
What? What was the
meaning behind them?
"Cor," he
panted. "Don't tease."
She moaned, and he
felt the vibration from skull to collarbone.
"As if."
And then her hands moved, lightning fast, and fisted in his hair.
And then those gleaming lips met his.
He gasped and
inhaled her. She went in long and deep, filling him, feet
to lungs to crown. He clutched her to him, feeling her strong, lean
back and tiny waist under his hands. Not for the first time, but yes,
this way, for the first time.
She climbed him like
bougainvillea on a balcony rail. He barked, a growling
puff against her lips and, mouths fumbling, full, tumbling, he
took her back. In two giant, suddenly very focused steps he had her
on the hood of the car. It gave a great, groaning creak, and there
was the sound of metal popping, giving under their combined weight.
She already had her
hands in his shirt. Fast little hands, up and under
and through, past the dual layers of cotton, one hard, one many- washings-soft,
and she found his flesh.
She stopped as she
cupped him, one hand around each side of his body. Pressing.
Kneading.
He looped his hands
under the back of her knees and pushed, spreading her
wide and falling right in.
"Oh, God,"
she gasped.
He lowered his head
into the crook of her neck and settled against her,
water on sand.
Her hands slip-slid
up his ribs, tickling and sparking. They landed under
his arms, where she slowed, waited a long couple of pulses, as if
she were finding his essence through his sweat. It was an animal thing
to do and he licked her throat and growled to show his appreciation.
She rocked under
him, slipped out her hands and clawed his nipples with
her nails. He growled again so she'd know how good that was.
But of course, she
knew. She knew everything about him already.
He knocked his
pelvis against hers. Let me in, let me in, let me in.
She opened wider,
pulled her hands free and wrapped her arms around his
neck.
He kissed her. It
was like going down a well, a long, straight, terrifying
drop into wet darkness.
Then he stopped.
"Angel, what is
it?"
***
"I got your
message," Wes said, opening his office door and brushing past
Lilah, who stood in the hall.
"Why didn't you
return it?" she asked around a sip of her non-fat double
latte.
"Didn't your
mother ever tell you not to call after nine? It's rude." He
unpacked his briefcase efficiently.
"You were
right," she said.
"I'm
sorry?"
"Oh, please,
Wes. I said you were right. We can't find Connor."
"Oh," Wes
said. He pulled out his Herman Miller chair and sat. Before him
rested a pot of tea and a small pitcher of warm milk, left, as requested,
by the kitchen staff at 8:45 each morning. He poured a cup while
Lilah watched him with cat's eyes. "Yes, well, I'm not surprised,"
he said, taking a sip of the strong brew. "My compliments to
the kitchen, by the by."
"You're going
to make me ask, aren't you?"
He shrugged.
"You're a big girl, Lilah. I can't make you do anything."
She smiled, just a
quirk of her painted lips. "You're so right. But I'll
do it, anyway, because I want this boy on my payroll. Now," she said,
propping her lean hip on his desk. "Where can I find Connor?"
"Where have you
looked?"
"All over the
city. They either get there right before or right after him."
Her eyes went flat. "I'm not in the mood to waste any more time.
So, give."
Wes pushed his
glasses up his nose. "Knowing his father the way I do, I'd
say he'd be drawn to the same sorts of places."
A line appeared
between her brows. "I'm sorry, I don't follow."
"The hunter, at
some point, becomes the hunted, Lilah."
"Yeah,
Hemingway, big deal. Tell me something I don't know."
"Think like a
vampire. Or a demon." He raked his gaze from knees to breasts.
"Shouldn't be too difficult."
"Be careful,
Wes," she said seductively.
He sipped his tea,
careful to keep his face bland. "I'm guessing your men
have already completed a tour of the known demon haunts?"
Lilah nodded.
"Started with those and fanned out from there."
"Any idea where
he might be living?" Wes asked, jumping into the game.
She shook her head.
"We've got people checking hotels, but no one registered
by any of his known names has turned up. I suspect he's on the
street, which allows him to disappear pretty effectively."
"I'd say,"
he replied noncommittally. Thinking fast, he continued,
"Let me do some research. I know of a couple of avenues you
may not have checked. Can I get back to you this afternoon?"
Lilah got to her
feet. "Thanks," she said. "This afternoon is fine. I'm
not going after him until tonight, anyway."
***
"Cordy,"
he said. "Wait. We have to stop."
"Can't,"
she said, and attacked his mouth again.
He pushed at her,
not so gently now, and they parted with a smack of departing
suction.
"What?"
she groaned.
"Curse,"
he growled.
"Not a
problem." She twisted under him, face going taut, legs wrapping
tight.
"Of course it
is. I adore you. Look at me. I'm stupid over you."
"You are?"
Her smile was a shooting star.
"Isn't it
obvious?" He pinned her gently, capturing wrists and hips, falling
in love again with the frailty of human bone.
She shimmied away,
breathless. "Angel, do you trust me?"
He looked at her.
"Of course I do."
"Then trust me
when I say that, just this once, the curse isn't in effect."
"How do
you—"
She hesitated.
"Seer's prerogative."
"Cordy?"
He let go of her wrist and turned her face to him. "What is it?
Look at me."
She opened her eyes.
"It's all right, Angel. Everything's gonna be all
right."
Something was wrong,
but he could see she didn't want to talk about it.
And when she pressed up, nibbling delicately at his mouth, his inhibitions
scattered. "What are we waiting for, then?"
"I have no
idea," she said.
He dove into her.
Found the soft spot between neck and shoulder; rushed
his hands over her clothes in search of what was hidden beneath.
"Too many
clothes," she muttered, reading his mind.
"What do we do
about them?"
"Tear 'em
off," she growled. She dived for his belt buckle, hands working
furiously.
"What?"
"I have more in
the car."
He laughed wildly,
not quite believing what she said. But the look of concentration
on her face was so fierce that he knew she'd told him the
truth.
He took the soft,
white fabric in both hands and with one violent jerk
he ripped her pants from waistband to crotch, exposing her just as
she had exposed him. Her scent was savage, and it tore something loose
in him.
Her panties, such as
they were, ripped free with one easy yank, just as
she got his pants down and around his hips.
Their eyes met. His
hands dipped and cupped and drew her near.
In one swift push he
was buried deep.
He swore he felt her
heart beating around him.
She threw her head
back, jaw clenched, eyes screwed shut.
He drove her against
the hood of the car, sending the chassis rocking beneath
them. Shocks creaked, metal buckled, but Cordy—she took it.
He groaned, finding
her hair sweet with sweat. Her hands clenched his back,
fell off, clenched again. She was restless beneath him, hot and tight
and wriggly and fuck, electric.
She shocked him in
so many ways on so many days. But tonight, she struck
him like lightning.
In and out, ebb and
flow, she rippled around him, muscles telling him the
story of their pleasure. It collected at the base of his spine, a ball
of heat.
He slipped his hand
between them and stroked her with just the tips of
his fingers.
She exploded, a
fire-breathing dragon, and her body flew up against him
as she cried his name.
He bucked into her,
diving deep, not even looking for finesse. Finesse
was for the second time, or the third, or the fourth. But now,
here, this was about immediacy, about taking what he wanted, how he
wanted. About not waiting another damn second.
He came, a storm
hitting land.
She cried out again
and he felt her pulling him deeper, opening up to him
from the inside out. It was irresistible, the feeling of her body.
Come in, she seemed to say. Come in and stay with me.
He was drawn out by
her, drawn into her. Hungry, he'd been so hungry and
he hadn't even realized. And then she was there, pulsing, throbbing,
burning beneath him.
He buried his face
in her neck and breathed her in. "God, I love you."
When he pulled away she was crying, laughing, glowing.
Sparking.
"I love
you," he repeated, resting his forehead against hers and falling
deep into her eyes. The laughter vanished and she sobbed against
him. "Cordy?" He wiped frantically at the silver tracks of her
tears.
"I love you,
Angel. Never forget that."
"I—"
She brushed her hand
down his face. "Promise me you'll never forget."
"I—"
"Say it!"
She trembled beneath him. "Say it while you're still inside me."
"I love you,
Cordy. I'll never forget."
She closed her eyes.
And then she
vanished, and he was left alone on the edge of the cliff holding
nothing in his hands but moonlight.
***
Justine watched as
Steven took the head of yet another demon. He was bathed
in blood, his hands slick, but never too slick to lose his grip
on his sword. He was that way, focused and determined, often to the
point of being as cold and ruthless as she imagined Angelus had ever
dreamed of being.
He held the head
aloft, laughing happily. He had the look of a child when
he laughed, carefree and beautiful. He flung the head down next to
the body and wiped his sword on his jeans.
"There you
are," she called to him, stepping from the shadows.
Steven turned,
slipping the sword in its scabbard. "Justine," he said,
turning that flashing smile her way. "Where have you been?"
She felt her own
lips curve. "Around," she said, warmed by his response.
"Took me awhile to find you tonight."
He pointed at the
demon. "Been busy. What about you?" He bounced on the
balls of his feet and feinted playfully toward her shoulder.
Justine dodged.
"Oh, you know," she said, raising her fists into fighting
stance. "The usual." She swung toward his jaw, and her grin widened
when he ducked. "You're good," she complimented.
Connor danced around
her and she twirled, following him with her eyes.
"In the blood," he grinned back.
She laughed.
"Your father taught you well."
His smile widened.
"That he did."
***
Fred watched Angel
from the door of his bedroom. He shifted restlessly
on top of the comforter, eyelids fluttering behind closed lids.
She looked down at
the empty blood bag in her hand. "Only six today," she
said to Gunn.
He pulled the door
closed behind him. "That's a lot closer to normal. Maybe
he's catching up."
"I hope so. I
was beginning to worry that he'd drink the whole city." Fred
stopped, halfway down the staircase, and looked up at him. "I just
wish he'd wake up."
Gunn took the used
bag from her. "I know. But all the books say it'll take
awhile."
"Maybe if Cordy
was here." She glanced at the closed door. "Kye- rumption,
and all."
"Yeah."
Fred sighed.
"What?"
"Coming home
alone…." She looked down at the straps of her cork-soled sandals.
"I know how he feels."
Gunn gathered her
close. "You're good for him, too, ya know. No one else
can understand this the way you do."
She slipped her arms
around his waist and buried her face in his shirt.
"Guess five years in a hell dimension should be good for something."
Gunn stroked his
free hand down her back. "Guess so. And now that we've
got Angel taken care of for the night, I could sure use a breather."
She pulled away and
started down the stairs again. "Shouldn't we look for
Cordy?"
"We will
later."
"I am
tired," she admitted. "A break would be nice."
Good." Gunn
pitched the empty bag into the garbage can and pulled her over
to one of the sofas. "How about a short nap?"
She let him pull her
down onto the cushions. "Sounds heavenly."
***
Lilah was beginning
to think that Wesley led her on a wild goose chase.
Then she came across the boy at the last possible location on the
list.
He glanced up when
the headlights brushed him. For a moment he stood, perfectly
poised, a young buck caught in the sights of a hunter's rifle.
Then he moved, muscles rippling like water, and disappeared.
"Go," she
said, slapping the glass panel between her and the driver. He
followed, but it was obvious, after several frustrating blocks of tracking
him, that the only reason she found him was that he let her.
"You're
following me," he said, crossing his arms over his chest in a move
so reminiscent of Angel that her breath caught.
"I am,"
she said, stepping from the car. Her hair fluttered against her
throat, carried into movement by the early morning breeze.
He leaned against
the chain-link fence, eyes dancing to the street beyond.
He was never still—she noticed that right away.
She approached him
as if he were a skittish horse. "I'm Lilah. What's your
name?"
He smiled, a bright,
sharp flash that threw back the street lamp's glare.
"Depends on who you ask."
A shiver crawled
over her shoulders, part thrill, part terror. "I like
you," she said. "And I think, if you gave it a shot, you could like
me, too."
He laughed and
pulled a gleaming knife from a scabbard on his hip.
"The only thing I like is killing." He advanced.
Her legs carried her
back until she hit the trunk of the limo. "And that's
why I'm here," she squeaked.
He stopped two paces
from her. The breeze carried his scent to her nostrils:
young, green sweat and old, dried blood. Her mouth watered.
"Really?"
he asked, and his voice was suddenly simple and childlike, stripped
of all affectation.
She wondered which
father he got that from, or if it was uniquely his.
"I represent a local law firm, Wolfram & Hart." She pulled a card
from her pocket and held it out to him.
He reached with his
free hand and his fingers brushed hers. His cuticles
were stained the color of rust.
He glanced at the
card then dropped it to the ground where it fluttered
to a halt against the sticky concrete. "I don't read very well,"
he said. "Maybe you could explain exactly what you have in mind.
Lilah."
He drew her name
out, making it sound like an exotic flower. Or a death
knell. Her better instincts hummed, telling her to run. The others,
the ones she lived by, made her reach for his hand. "Come with
me," she said, feeling her voice drop into the range she used primarily
for seduction.
The corner of his
mouth quirked and but for the eyes, she could have been
staring into Angel's face.
"You're heart's
racing," he said, gliding his fingers over her pulse.
"Why, so it
is," she said, sliding into the limo.
She waited only
seconds before he followed.
***
"Cor," he
moaned. The edges of reality pressed in on him; he could almost
see it shifting between the Point and the familiar shape of his
bedroom.
He waited for her to
come back, to make him real again. He must have reached
out because his hand jerked against something. There was an odd,
metallic rattle.
He blinked. "Cordy?"
Still no answer. He reached again and this time, he
recognized the sound. Chains.
"Hello?"
His voice echoed through a chamber much bigger than the one he
was used to. He took a deep breath, letting the familiar scent of his
own things wash over him. "Oh, God," he whispered. "Am I
home?"
The last time he
felt this way Holtz forced him to drink melted silver.
It left him raw, exposed. He could hear the cars on the streets
below, could smell the wool of the carpet and the soap in the shower's
soap dish. His skin crawled and the scratch of fabric on flesh
shocked him to stillness.
He lost himself in
the ancient habit of breathing. Gradually the sensory
overload lessened.
"Cordy?"
He listened for her footfalls to come clear from the white noise.
Nothing. The hotel was quiet. He shook his head and the room spun
woozily. "Cordy!"
Still nothing. He
jerked frantically against the chains. They were wedged
around the bed frame and no matter how he moved, they held tight.
He had to get out of
them. Now. Had to find her. His stomach swooped, and
he tasted the metallic rush of water on the back of his tongue. He
was going to be sick, going to….
He stopped, went
back to breathing. The nausea receded, leaving him clammy
and shaky, but he could deal with that. He could do this. He just
had to break it down into steps.
See? No steel cages
holding him in, keeping him buried alive. Just light
and air and normal things. His things. His cuffs.
His key.
He honed in on the
bedside table. The drawer. That's where he always kept
it. But when he tried to reach it, the chain brought him up short.
"Dammit," he muttered.
He lay back down on
the bed and began rocking his body against the mattress.
The bed moved by inches, scooting closer to the table with each
motion. Soon, he had butted right up against it, though all he could
do then was lie still and wait for his system to level.
He had no idea how
long he'd been down there—or how long he'd been back
for that matter. The most vivid memories he had were the dreams. And
of all the dreams, the one of Cordy stood out the brightest.
In her eyes he saw
apology and love. And good-bye.
That did it. He
reached for the drawer, brushed the handle with his finger
tips. Couldn't quite get a grip on it. Reached again. This time,
the cuffs gave just enough that he was able to nudge it.
The gap was only
about half an inch, but it was enough for him to stick
his fingers in and wedge the drawer open. Then he twisted, turned
and shimmied, until he was finally able to crane his neck and see
in the drawer. Sure enough, there, on top of the latest issue of Swordsman,
was the key.
He glanced quickly
around the room, looking for something to grab it with.
No luck with his hands—he couldn't reach that far into the drawer.
But maybe, if he scooted the bed just right, and lay down on his
stomach, he could pick it up with his teeth.
The mattress was
firm beneath his back, and to his exhausted body it felt
warm and inviting. He had to fight slipping back into the darkness;
it would have been so easy to slide back under the surface and
wait for someone to come and get him out.
But no one was
coming. And he had to find Cordelia.
He began rocking
again, more with his hips than his shoulders, and the
foot of the bed started to angle around. He drew his feet up and under
him, and rolled over his knees, landing on his stomach. His shoulders
twisted painfully, grinding in the sockets.
His arms quivered as
he balanced his chest against the side of the bed
and the hard corner of the drawer. He dipped his head in, grabbed the
key with his teeth and spat it on the mattress. Then he slid over,
picked it up with one, trembling hand, slid it into the lock and
turned. One cuff fell free, then the other. He threw the key into the
drawer and stood.
The world spun like
the arm of a major league pitcher. He collapsed, sucking
in air, and waited impatiently for everything to calm down again.
Then he braced his hands on the mattress and pushed to his feet.
This time, things stayed upright, and he fought his way across the
room to his closet.
There he grabbed a
shirt and pulled it on then stuck his feet in his boots,
though bending over to lace them brought the fireflies swarming.
"Come on," he barked impatiently. "Get your ass in gear."
His wallet and keys
were where he always kept them, on the table next to
the reading chair. He slipped them into his pocket and stole quietly
from the room. He had to be quiet or he'd wake the baby. Cordy
would kill him if he woke him up after she finally got him down.
Angel shook his head
as time lurched back to the present. God, where was
he? Beneath his hand the wall was vertical, which helped him remember
to be vertical, too. Yes, that was right. He was going to find
Cordy.
He shoved off, a
boat leaving dock, and made his way slowly down the stairs.
Gunn and Fred slept on the couch, curled up around each other in
such a sweet embrace that he could only stop for a moment and look.
"Thank
you," he said, because he knew that they'd brought him back somehow.
That was a story for later. After he'd found her.
And he knew just
where to start looking.
***
Angel found him in
the parking lot of a 24-hour Walgreen's.
"Connor."
The boy whipped
around, sword in hand, foot on the throat of the man he'd
been paid to kill. "Angelus?" He tilted his head, squinted in surprise.
"Let him
go," Angel said, pointing to the struggling man.
Connor looked down
at his victim. "Why should I?" The guy squirmed under
Connor's boot. In the harsh glare of the streetlights, his face was
turning gray.
Angel gathered his
strength and in one, violent burst, shoved Connor aside.
The man, freed, gasped twice and rolled, coming up against the tires
of a car parked near the dumpster.
Connor whirled,
sword flying, and Angel arched back and away. The point
grazed his jacket, leaving a long slice in the leather.
Connor smiled
coolly. "Welcome back. Dad."
Angel vamped. He had
Connor by the throat and against the dumpster before
the kid could blink. "Tell me what you did to her." His hand tightened
and under it he could feel the muscle and bone grate.
Connor's eyes
widened. The sword clattered to the ground.
Angel heard Connor's
mark scrabble to his feet and the fading scent of
his sweat told him that the guy had made a run for it. Under his forearm,
Connor's heart raced, but he had to give the kid credit. Even
in a life and death situation, he had a poker face.
Pride flared through
him though he pressed his face close, deliberately
menacing the boy. "Tell me."
Connor jerked
reflexively and the move sent his scent spiraling in the
night wind. It was nearly too much, the green-wood smell of his son's
body. Like a fingerprint, it had been his since birth.
This child had been
his touchstone. He was what kept him from flying off
the deep end when Cordy left him for Groo. Angel owed him his sanity.
And as his parent, he owed him his protection. And here he was,
hand wrapped around the throat of the only child he would ever have.
A child who, by all rights, shouldn't even exist.
"Tell you
what?" Connor gasped. His eyes were flat, his mouth pulled back
into a grimace. He was having trouble breathing, but he didn't give
an inch.
Angel rattled him,
thrusting the kid's whip-like body against the harsh
metal of the dumpster. "What you did to Cordelia," Angel growled.
"Did you take her before or after you drowned me?"
Connor's eyes
narrowed. "Let me go and I'll tell you," he negotiated through
clenched teeth.
Angel shook his
head. "Tell me where she is or I'll kill you." It was a
lie. But from the way Connor's eyes widened, he knew the kid bought it.
He tightened his
hand. Tell me, he thought. Tell me now, so I can let you
go.
He ignored the
dizziness that crouched at the back of his skull. He'd known
coming into it that he was too weak to do this. But he had to save
her. He couldn't rest again until he did.
"I don't know,
and if I did, do you think I'd tell you?" As if he sensed
Angel's weakness, he jerked his arms up, breaking Angel's hold and
sending him sprawling on the pavement.
Angel's head knocked
the bumper of the car and he saw stars. The next thing
he knew, the point of Connor's sword was rammed against his throat.
"I don't know
how you got out, and I don't really care," Connor said. His
eyes flashed hot in the purgatorial light. "I will tell you this. I
didn't hurt Cordelia. I only wanted you." He drove the point of the sword
into the flesh, carving out a gouge.
Angel yelped, jerked
his head. The crouching dizziness sprang, sending
him back, back into darkness.
When he finally came
to, Connor was gone, and someone was standing over
him, a shadow in the street lamp's glare.
"I see you're
back," Wes said. He shifted, and the light caught him, throwing
shadows on his face, a noir film come to life.
Through the haze
Angel could see his tidy, American-cut suit and open- collared
shirt. His glasses were gone and his hair was wind-whipped, as
if he'd been outside for much of the night and hadn't bothered to bring
a comb.
Rage, hot and thick
as hellfire, surged through Angel's chest. He rolled,
tried to find his feet, and landed on his knees, instead.
"You son of a bitch."
Wes came forward and
stood just within striking distance. "That's no worse
than what I've called myself in the last few weeks. Believe me."
He didn't make a move, either toward Angel or away. Instead, he just
stood. Watching.
"What are you
doing here?" Angel gasped. He struggled to his feet. The
earth pitched beneath him and he put a hand on the trunk of the car.
The wound in his throat stung and the grassy scent of Connor's sweat
hung lightly in the air.
"My job."
Angel glared at him.
"Back with the Council?"
Wes laughed and the
sound was raw and bitter as sea salt. "Hardly."
They stared at each
other, and years of friendship stretched between them
and snapped like an overused rubber band.
Wes turned and
walked toward the limo parked at the curb.
It took Angel a
moment to realize what that meant. Then it hit, and the
betrayal cut deeper than any knife. "You traitor."
He launched himself
and the two men tumbled to the ground. Wes fell loosely
and Angel pinned him, then got his hands around Wes's throat. The
skin under his fingers was hot and damaged and he could almost hear
the bones cracking.
"How could
you," he raged, spittle flying. "You fucking Judas. Hell's too
good for you." He shook Wes furiously, cracking his head on the pavement.
The smell of raw, scraped flesh filled the air, igniting blood
lust and fueling his fury.
Wes's face turned a
mottled red. His lips worked, as if he were trying
to form words.
Angel leaned on his
right knee and bent his elbows, ready to make the move
that would sever Wes's head from his body.
Then he saw his
eyes. Bright with righteous anger.
It stopped him cold.
He jerked his hands
away and rolled off, cursing his redemption and everything
it meant. He couldn't kill Wes. It would be walking through
Hell's gate and locking it behind him.
Wes gulped air
greedily, then reached up and massaged his abused throat.
"That's the second time you've stopped before the deed was done,"
he croaked. "What are you waiting for?"
"You already
took my son. I refuse to give you my soul."
He laughed, a harsh,
rasping sound. "If it hadn't been for me you would
already have lost your soul."
"What are you
talking about?" Angel growled. He leaned back against the
fender of the car, looking for any support he could find.
Wes sat up slowly.
"You were one drink away from unleashing Angelus."
Angel's lip drew
back over his teeth. "Nothing gave you the right to take
him. Not even that."
"Someone had to
do the right thing." He shuffled slowly to his feet.
"God knows, you never will."
"I hate
you."
Wes turned toward
the limo.
Angel gritted his
teeth. "Wesley."
He looked over his
shoulder. Rapidly forming bruises left twilight marks
on his pale skin. "What?"
"Cordelia."
Wes's fist clenched.
"You're the detective."
"Goddammit,
Wes. It's Cordelia."
After a moment of
taut silence his hand relaxed. "I've heard rumors. Black
magic. Senior partners. Even Lilah's kept her mouth shut, which is
an impressive feat for her."
"I don't like
the sound of that."
"Yes, well,
it's not the brightest picture."
"No, I meant
you and Lilah."
Wes's lips thinned.
"When that becomes your business I'll let you know."
Angel stood in the
shadows and watched as the man he once considered a
brother drove off in the enemy's car.
***
Angel sat in his
reading chair listening to the Nocturnes. Only the bedside
lamp was on, casting a warm yellow shadow on the bed and leaving
the rest of the room in sepia.
It was still his
favorite way to pass the time. Cordy would call it brooding,
and he supposed she'd be right. But to his way of thinking he
had a lot to brood about.
Fred had nearly
killed him when he'd dragged his butt home. Claimed he
looked like death on toast, which would have made him laugh if he hadn't
been so busy collapsing into a heap on the lobby floor.
They hustled him
upstairs, got some blood into him and poured him in bed.
Now he was under house arrest until she decided he was well enough
to go back out. The only thing that kept him here was the fact that
he was too weak to move and that Gunn and Fred had promised to follow
every lead on Cordy.
He didn't tell them
about seeing Wes, though he did mention Connor. Wes
was his ace in the hole—an irony that wasn't lost on him. Too weakened
by the confrontations, he couldn't afford to burn energy on hatred,
so he'd become pragmatic.
He'd use Wes's
influence with Lilah and the law firm to beat a path to
Cordy's door, wherever she was. Maybe he'd get lucky and Wes would be
killed in the process. He'd get Cordy back; he'd never have to look
at Wes again. It'd all be good.
His head fell
against the back of the chair. In his hand, the glass of
blood felt smooth and a little cool. His body temperature, which had
been low since his rescue, was returning to normal. That was a good
sign.
He took a sip,
grateful that Fred had somehow gotten the blood bank to
give up the O pos. Pig's blood was nearly as good, but if he wanted
to regain his strength quickly, human was the only way to go.
He yawned groggily.
"Time for bed," he muttered, realizing he was about
to fall asleep in the chair. He set the glass on the table and pushed
to his feet.
When he looked up,
Skip stood right in front of him. "God!" Angel gasped.
He stutter-stepped back and ran into the ottoman.
Skip reached out and
steadied him. "Whoa, there."
Angel glared at him.
"Don't *do* that! Jeez!"
"Sorry. I kinda
thought you saw me." He waved his hand. "This whole dimension-hopping
thing…can't ever seem to get it quite right, ya know?"
Angel crossed his
arms over his chest. "Right. And now that the small talk
is over, what are you doing here?"
"You're a man
of few words," Skip said. "I always liked that about you."
"Oh, boy.
Knowing you like me? I can rest easy." He raised his eyebrow.
"I have to say, if you're here for revenge, your timing couldn't
be better."
Skip looked him
over. "So I see. Looking a little peaked there." He sniffed
the air experimentally. "Smells like you got the good blood workin'
for ya, though. That'll get you back to rights in no time. As for
the revenge…." He smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes.
"Already got it."
Despite feeling
almost transparent with exhaustion, Angel lunged toward
him. "What does that mean?"
Skip took him by the
arm. "You're about to drop. Why don't you sit down?
That way I can talk to you without worrying that you're gonna pass
out on me."
Angel jerked his arm
loose and sank down on the ottoman. "Skip, so help
me God…."
"Now, now. No
need to invoke any deities," he replied. "I'm just here to
deliver a message."
Angel's eyebrow
arched. "I thought you weren't a messenger."
His look turned
sour. "Yeah, well, things change."
"Sorry to hear
that," Angel said.
"You should be.
You're the reason it happened."
Angel made a come-on
motion with his hand. "The message?"
"Don't go
looking for her."
"What?"
"She's in a
higher place, Angel."
His worst fears,
realized. "She's dead?"
"I didn't say
that," Skip said.
"Then what did
you say?"
"Just that.
Don't come looking for her."
Angel's eyes went
flat. "You know I can't make that promise."
"Oh, right. I
keep forgetting you only work for the Powers when it's convenient."
"I work for the
Powers unless Cordy's life is at stake. Then I work for
her."
"Yeah, well,
you might wanna rethink that."
"Why?"
"If I tell you
will you promise not to go after her?"
"Skip."
He laughed.
"Hey, man, I'm just messin' with you," he said, faking a punch
at Angel's nose. "Your Seer's got a major role to play in the higher
realms."
Angel suddenly
remembered his conversation with Wes. "How do I know you're
working for the Powers?"
Skip's joviality
fled. "You trying to piss me off?"
"I've heard
rumors. Wolfram & Hart? Hoodoo voodoo? Ringing any bells?"
"Keep going
pal. I can kick your butt from one end of this dimension to
the other."
"Yeah, well,
until I hear different, I'm not promising you a thing. Tell
the Powers--or whoever's paying your fee--that I'm going after her.
Even if that means storming the gates of heaven."
"What about the
rest of the world?"
"What about 'em?"
"Nice sentiment
for a Champion."
"I'm only a
Champion if she's with me. I'm getting her back, Skip."
"Yeah, well,
good luck with that." He stepped back, started fading.
"Oh, hey," he called, almost as an afterthought. "Want me to tell
her you said hi?" Then, with a laugh, he melted into shadow and vanished.
***
The blood told him
when to move, and it was telling him to move now.
Connor raised his
mace high over head, making just enough noise to wake
her.
"Steven?"
she asked. "What are you doing?"
"You killed my
father," he said.
"I...what?"
Justine sat up, glancing uneasily at the weapon he held above
her. "What? Of course I didn't." She adjusted the neck of her sleep
shirt, surprised to see the sun slanting late afternoon rays through
the crack in the curtains.
He smiled, eyes
arctic blue above his beautiful mouth. "I've seen enough
vamp bites, Justine. Do you think I wouldn't put it together? The
oddly even holes, the fact that you weren't applying pressure to the
wound."
Her eyes widened.
"I see you
understand what I'm referring to," he said, eyes glinting.
She scuttled back on
the mattress, coming to rest against the wall.
"Steven, listen to me," she begged. "He asked me to do it. He said
it was the only way.... No!" Her arms flew up to protect her face,
but they offered little cover against Steven's rage.
The first impact
stunned her and sent her flying out of the bed, where
she landed, nose broken, cheekbone crushed, in a heap on the greasy
hotel carpet.
***
Angel learned early
that a warrior fights best when prepared for anything.
Each fight was a song, melody and harmony, point and counter-point,
and if you listened hard enough, you could pick it up and
it would lead you through.
Once before in
recent memory he re-trained his body. Then it had been too
many years of soft beds, of living like the human he wasn't. So he
returned to those early, hungry days, when fighting was the only way
to stay alive.
He recalled the
third night after he rose from the grave.
They discovered him
and Darla in the barn behind his father's house and
chased them with pitchforks into the woods. The biggest men, the sailors
and farmers, came after him with ham-sized fists and workingman's
boots.
He'd already gotten
used to being the strongest and was beginning to hone
his skill as a predator. That didn't stop him from hitting the loam
ass-first courtesy of a man he'd known since childhood. Who now looked
at him with hot-eyed hatred.
Old Shamus taught
the young Liam to ride; slipped him bits of carrot to
give his horse. The memories made Angelus slow, sluggish and unsure.
He scrabbled for
footing on the dewy grass and fell. The smell of night
rose up around him—damp, sleeping earth and what he'd yet to identify
as the pure scent of moonlight.
It was only when
Shamus pulled out a stake that Angelus realized he must
get past his human ties and see him for what he was: the enemy, fighting
for his life, and willing to fight to the death.
Shamus's arm flew up
and back; the point of the stake gained size and heft
as it barreled toward him. Angel threw up his arm and the wood went
straight through his palm.
The pain ignited a
powder keg in him. He roared, ripped the stake loose
and grabbed the man by the head. Then he twisted.
There was a horrible
crack and the big body crumpled on top of him. He
shoved it aside and jumped to his feet. He stood, a walking corpse,
over the remains of a person he'd once known and loved.
He looked up at the
moon and wondered what was next.
More than 250 years
later, he knew what was next. The waiting now wasn't
any easier than it had been then. At least when he'd gone after
Darla and Dru he'd been able to train. On the other hand, he might
now be feeding and napping like a baby, but it gave him the luxury
of planning.
He thought again
about using Wes to get to Cordy. He could convince him
to do it, one way or another—and the "another" was almost tempting
enough to go that route.
In the end, he
decided to use that as a back-up plan. What he needed was
someone who would do as he'd done two-and-a-half centuries ago: give
up everything but the fight and a willingness to win.
At all costs.
***
He knew by the way
the air shifted that someone had entered the room. And
yet he stood, back to the door, watching the last rays of the sun fall
below the horizon.
By the scent it was
his son. Still, he didn't move, not until the last
second. Then, in one fluid motion, he turned, caught Connor's raised
hand and twisted the stake to the floor.
"You weren't
committed," Angel said, kicking the sharpened wood away with
the toe of his boot.
"I let you take
me."
Angel dropped the
boy's hand and crossed his arms over his chest.
"Never make excuses."
Connor lifted his
chin. "You're right. A man doesn't make excuses."
Angel nodded. He
sensed that Connor was here for a reason beyond the requisite
attempt on his life, and so he waited silently while he worked
up the courage to say whatever he'd come to say.
Finally he raised
his head. The look on his face was nearly enough to bring
Angel to his knees.
"I know you
didn't kill my father," he said, and despite the ache in his
eyes, his voice was full and firm. "I will not apologize for putting
you in the ocean. You deserved that for what you did to his first
family."
"I deserved
that and more," Angel admitted. "What I did to Holtz's family
was unforgivable, and I've paid in my heart for it thousands of
times." He shrugged. "The thing is, once something's done, it can't
be undone."
Connor nodded.
"But sometimes other things can be done, as well," he said
cryptically.
It took Angel a
minute to get it. When he did, his eyes widened. "You killed
her, didn't you?"
He answered without
hesitation. "She was a liar and a murderer."
"And what are
you?"
Connor's mouth
dropped open. "What do you mean?"
Angel stepped around
him and walked to the refrigerator, where he took
out a packet of blood. "What do you think I mean?" He emptied it into
a cup, set it in the microwave, and hit 30 seconds on the timer. Then
he turned and faced his son. "You grew up in a hell dimension with
a man who hated me and in many ways rightfully so." The timer dinged
and he pulled out the mug and sipped.
Connor's eyes
followed every move. He was testing him deliberately. How
far could he go, throwing his vampire nature in Connor's face?
"He made you a
fine man and a good warrior. But he also taught you that
any action was worth taking as long as it got you what you wanted."
He drank several swallows of his meal then set the nearly- empty
mug down beside him.
"You have no
right to talk about my father." Connor moved, short agitated
motions of his hands and feet. Not really pacing, but dancing,
a fighter warming up for the next round.
Angel watched his
face tighten and he knew he'd pushed too far, too fast.
Which meant it was time to push farther. "I need your help."
"What?"
Connor looked caught between outrage and intrigue.
Angel picked the mug
up, finished the blood, and rinsed the cup in the
sink. "Remember Cordy?"
He nodded. "Of
course."
"She's
missing."
Connor rolled his
eyes. "Duh."
Despite the tension
in the room, Angel laughed. "Where did you hear that?"
Connor giggled. It
was a musical, childlike sound, and he looked nearly
as surprised by it as he did by Angel's request. But all he said
was, "I get around."
Angel wondered how
often he'd laughed in the harsh world he'd grown up
in, and damn it, he couldn't afford to get side-tracked on how awful
Connor's life had been. He could wallow in his guilt later. After
he had Cordy back.
"I need you to
help me rescue her."
Connor's entire
demeanor changed. It was like watching a plant draw water
up through its roots. The shifting, flying boy who had stood before
him a moment before, squared his shoulders, leveled his eyes and
stilled his hands. "Why me?"
He looked at him
without judgment. "I need someone who's willing to win
at all costs."
"You have a
team. Use them."
"This is too
dangerous for them. It's strictly undercover, two men in,
two men out. I need someone who can move, who will risk his life, and
who I can trust." He cocked his eyebrow. "I know I can't trust you
with my life, but I'm pretty sure I can trust you with hers."
Connor crossed his
arms over his chest. "She did something to me. She's
not human."
Angel shook his
head. "No. She's not. This will require you to stretch.
To grow. It may require you to let go of some of your prejudices."
He held out his hands. "If you're not up to it, I understand.."
Connor's jaw set and
his eyes flared.
What a little
hothead, Angel thought. He nearly smiled, but knew that he
was too close to let pride screw this up.
It was the perfect
set-up. If he pulled it off, he'd not only have a seasoned
warrior working for him, but he'd also be getting very sweet revenge
against Wolfram & Hart. On the other hand, it was a huge damn risk,
and one or both of them could die because of it. He wasn't so concerned
about himself. But Connor.... "You know," he said suddenly.
"I'm not sure if this is such a good idea, after all."
Connor huffed.
"What, you don't think I can do it?"
"It's not
that." He shook his head. "Connor, I don't want to lie to you
about this. Wolfram & Hart may be the ones holding her hostage."
"W-what?"
Angel nodded.
"I know you've done some work for them. And on top of everything
else--" He waved his hand. "You may be right. Gunn could— and
probably should—be the one to help me."
Connor grunted in
frustration. "You can't do that! You can't make up my
mind for me!" He slapped his chest. "I'm a man. I say what I do and
what I don't, and I say I'm doing this. Wolfram & Hart don't own me!"
Angel looked unsure.
"Connor, look. I don't want you to get hurt. And Wolfram
& Hart could really hurt you." He was playing the boy and he knew
it, but in this matter he was perfectly serious. Connor would be risking
his life, not just now, but well into the future if he allied himself
with Angel. And there was no way he could fully understand what
he was getting into.
"They can't
hurt me," he growled.
"You're good at
what you do. I wouldn't be asking you otherwise," Angel
agreed. He waited a beat, as if considering. "Why don't you take
some time, think it over?"
Connor was shaking
his head even before Angel even finished speaking.
"I don't need any time. This woman may be your friend, but she
needs rescuing. I cannot let a woman go undefended."
Angel hadn't hunted
Holtz for years without learning his soft spots. Obviously
he'd passed at least some of them on to the boy. "If you're sure…."
"I am.
Perfectly." He put his hands in the pockets of his jeans, and Angel
could practically see the warrior's wheels start to turn. "Now. What
plan have you made so far?"
***
"So we're just
gonna kick back and drink a beer while you and Connor do
all the work?" Gunn glanced at Lorne and Fred. "That sit right with
y'all?"
Fred, already
shaking her head, said, "No way. We found you. We can help
you find her."
Angel sighed.
"Look, you did a great job rescuing me. But this is different.
It requires the strongest warriors available."
"Dog. You sayin'
I'm not strong?"
Angel shook his
head. "No, what I'm saying is that Connor was bred to fight.
He's willing to do whatever it takes to make the mission work."
Gunn opened his
mouth.
"I'm obviously
not explaining this well." Angel folded his hands on the
table. "I need you guys to hold down the fort." Angel turned to Fred.
"You and Lorne research. Use his contacts to dig up whatever you
can on where she might be. Narrow the field."
"When's this
heist going down, Mr. Ocean?" Lorne asked.
"The sooner the
better."
"Guess that
means you've still got some recuperating to do." Lorne raised
his eyebrow. "Not that you're looking at all bad, Angelcakes."
Angel shook his
head. "Right. Fred, Skip said something about higher planes.
Find out what that means. Lorne, Wes said he heard something about
the Senior Partners and black magic. Gunn, you'll be trolling the
bars with me. We'll tap the underground, find out the scuttlebutt.
You don't lose a Seer without people hearing something."
Gunn's eyes glinted.
"I get to crack some skulls?"
"If you think
it'll help."
"I might need
some more ego-stroking before it's done, but that was a pretty
good start."
"Thanks."
"Too bad
Merle's dead," Gunn said.
"Little
weasel."
"Angel!"
Fred gasped. "That's not nice."
"Hey, just
because I wasn't friends with him doesn't mean I didn't appreciate
his help. Besides, he was fun to pick on."
Gunn laughed. Fred
glared. "What?" he said. "He's right." He shoved away
from the table. "If this meeting is adjourned, I think I'll start
my recon now."
Angel stood.
"No time like the present. Thanks, guys."
"You weren't
really clear on your timeline back there," Fred said.
"It'd help me to know what to shoot for."
"Two
days."
Fred squeaked.
"That's all? That's not enough--"
"That's all you
get."
"Good,"
Lorne said. He went to the phone. "The sooner we find her the better.
***
Fred propped her
head in her hand and sighed. "We're never gonna find her."
She sat in the floor surrounded by open books and trade journals.
"Sure we will,
chickadee." Lorne snagged a donut from the box on the counter
and took a bite. "'S juss gonna take more time than we espected,"
he said around a mouthful of pastry.
Gunn strolled into
the lobby. "Any luck?" He leaned his hubcap axe carefully
against the round couch.
Fred shook her head.
"Nuh uh. You?"
He crossed to the
reception desk and helped her to her feet. "Nope. Nada.
Nothing. Goose Egg."
"Thanks for
drawing us such a clear picture," Lorne said. He popped the
last bite of the donut into his mouth and delicately brushed the crumbs
off his melon-colored shirt.
"Hey, where's
Angel?" Fred asked.
Gunn's brow
wrinkled. "He's not back yet?"
"Nope,"
Fred replied. "I thought he was with you."
"We split up to
cover more ground about midnight." He pulled out his cell
phone. "I'm gonna call him, make sure he's okay."
"Yeah, we need
him here." She glanced at Lorne, who was propped against
Cordy's desk shooting her a look. "You did happen to notice the
sun's already up, right?" She pointed to the front door.
It opened almost on
cue to reveal a dark figure haloed by sunlight.
"Still helping
the helpless, I see."
The pen in Fred's
hand fell to the floor with a clatter. "Cordelia?" she
squeaked.
She stepped out of
the light and into the hotel. "In the flesh."
Fred ran across the
lobby, Gunn and Lorne on her heels. "Oh, my God! We've
been looking ev…." She skidded to a halt. Like Larry and Curly, the
other two ran right into her back.
"What?"
Cor asked, glancing down at her sleeveless white tunic and leggings.
Fred's mouth opened
and closed. Over her shoulder, the guys stared wide-eyed.
"Damn,
girl," Gunn sputtered. "What happened to your hair?"
Cor ran her left
hand through strands that had gone pure white. It was
shaved nearly to her skull, except on top, where it stuck up in 2- inch
spikes. "Oh, it's easier to take care of this way." She shrugged and
her hand dropped to her side where a long, curved sword hung, blade
up, in a black lacquered scabbard.
Fred reached out
with trembling fingers and brushed Cor's bicep.
"What's that?" she breathed.
She glanced down at
her upper arm, encircled by an intricately braided
twist of silver. "Oh, that's my medal from when I helped close
a Hellmouth outside of Chicago a couple of years ago." She rolled
her eyes. "I'd take it off, but the Powers sort of made it permanent.
At least it's pretty. You shoulda seen the ones they gave the
guys."
She grinned up at
them, and when the familiar Cordy-smile flashed, the
energy in the room changed. Suddenly she was their girl again, returned
home after a long, unexpected voyage. They dove at her in a messy
pile-on and a babble of voices rang through the lobby.
The basement door
slammed. "What's going on?"
They turned toward
his voice. "Angel! It's Cordy! She's back!" Fred bounced
on the toes of her feet. "And she's…different!"
Angel stopped so
fast the hem of his black duster flared around his calves.
"Cordy?" His face took on a fragile, hopeful look.
She stepped out of
Lorne's embrace and for the first time Fred noticed
the tiny lines that fanned out from her eyes and the long, pale
scar slashing her cheekbone.
She moved with the
coiled power of a warrior or an empress, and her body,
always beautiful, was lithe and sculpted. "Just Cor, now," she said.
"How are you, Angel?" Her smile, so easy before, seemed overly bright.
He stood staring.
"We've been looking everywhere for you."
The smile died.
"I know. I'm sorry. I…it's been…." She looked away.
Angel walked slowly
across the lobby and the other three backed away, leaving
a clear path between the two of them.
"Cordy?"
She looked up,
blinking rapidly, and one silver tear tracked down her tanned
skin. "Just Cor," she repeated.
He lifted a
trembling hand and ran his finger down the scar, drying the
tear.
She shuddered but
she held his gaze. "How long have I been gone in your
world?" she asked huskily.
"Almost a
month."
Her laughter rang
through the grand room, the least happy sound Fred could
remember hearing since Angel came out of that box. "A month?" She
fingered the handle of her sword and glanced around the lobby.
"Well, that'd be about right, I suppose. I needed to get here early
to stop it."
Angel was looking at
Cordy with such stark need that Fred felt her chest
tighten. She caught Gunn's eye and nodded toward the office.
"Let's go," she mouthed. He reached over and tugged Lorne's sleeve.
"Shh,"
Lorne said, eyes locked on the couple in front of him. Gunn tugged
again and Lorne glanced over in exasperation. "Stop it. I'm getting
the wildest vibe here."
Gunn motioned toward
Angel and Cor, who were standing perfectly still,
staring at each other. "Let's give them a little privacy," he whispered.
"But…."
Gunn jerked his arm
again.
"All right, all
right. But watch the shirt. It's silk."
They faded out of
the lobby.
"Stop
what?" Angel asked once the room was quiet.
She fidgeted.
"Stop staring, for one thing. You're freaking me out."
His mouth fell open.
"Stop staring?" He shook his head. "We've been looking
for you for a month, Cor, and suddenly you appear looking like…like--"
He waved his hand. "-- and you want me not to stare?"
She closed her eyes.
"Right, sorry. It's just…." She caught herself yearning
and cut it off. She couldn't afford to let him make her feel this
way. "I've been gone more than ten years, Angel."
He blinked.
"What?"
"Long
story."
He pressed closer.
"Shorten it for me."
He was bigger than
she remembered and he radiated an eternal power that
called to mind the holy mountain she'd lived on in Japan. Her body
tightened. "Remember Skip?"
"Sure."
She stepped around
him and wandered restlessly through the
room. "After
you released Billy for me, Skip got fired from his job." Under
her fingers, the blue velvet of the round couch was a memory come
to life. "Wolfram & Hart pulled some strings, got him reinstated."
Angel's eyes
narrowed. "He still working for them?"
The agitation melted
away to a warm glow and she nearly laughed. He'd always
been her champion. "Wolfram & Hart? God, no," she said with a wave
of her hand. "No, the Powers bought out his contract with good old
W&H ages ago. But before they did I was one of his projects. You know,
the ever-popular kidnap-the-Seer game?"
He jolted.
"What?"
"Yeah, the
night you got dunked by Connor."
"You knew about
that?"
She did laugh now, a
sound like rusted metal. "Oh, please. I'm a Seer.
I know everything." She glided over to the reception desk, fingered
one of the business cards. "The Powers got me out pretty fast,
but once they had me, they didn't want to let me go either." She
picked the card up, drew the tip of her finger across her name then
set the card carefully in the holder again. "I spent the first few
years training," she said, turning to him.
He blinked,
obviously surprised, by her words or her sudden move, she couldn't
tell.
"You laid a
good foundation." She smiled. "They just built on what you
started."
"I'm, um, not
sure what to say. I…how old are you?" He squinted at her
in that befuddled way she'd always found so endearing.
"Even where I'm
from now, which is basically nowhere, it's rude to ask
a woman her age."
He shuffled his
feet. "Sorry. I just—"
"Thirty-three."
She snorted, amused by him. "I'm thirty-three, Angel."
"White hair
aside, you don't look it," he said, shaking his head.
She laughed.
"Hey, thanks. Considering all I've been through, I'll take
that as a compliment." She leaned over the reception desk and glanced
into the open rooms beyond. "Where'd the rest of your crew go?"
He shrugged. "Dunno."
He glanced at the door to his office. "Probably in
the office eavesdropping, why?"
She turned around
and leveled her gaze on him. "I don't want them to hear
this."
He stuck his hands
in his pockets. "Hear what?"
Her dark eyes went
blank. "I'm sorry, Angel," she said quietly. "I'm here
to kill Connor."
A line appeared
between his eyes. "What?" Under her silent gaze, he stumbled
back. "No." His hands came up in front of him in what she knew
was an instinctive move to protect his heart.
She, who had learned
to face the toughest foe and win, was knocked off
center.
"Why come here,
then?" He looked wildly around the room. "Why not just
go do it?" His gaze honed in on the weapons cabinet.
"Don't
bother." Her palm landed on the worn handle of her sword. "I could
dust you before you took a step." She stepped toward him, took her
hand off the sword and held it out in supplication. "Look, Angel, I'm
not even supposed to be here. I just thought you should know."
"What do you
want me to say? Thanks? Dammit, Cor, I'm just getting through
to him. You can't--" He slapped her hand out of the way and stalked
toward the door.
"You're not
getting anywhere with him, Angel," she interrupted. "I know
you want to believe that, but Connor's path was chosen before he was
born."
He was shaking his
head. "No. No one's path is chosen fully." He spun toward
her. "He still has choices to make, paths to take. You don't know—"
"Forget who
you're talking to?" she asked pointing toward her eyes.
"Look, if you think this is fun for me—"
"I don't know
what to think!" He headed straight for her. "You come to
my home, wearing a warrior's medal and a katana—" He flipped the sword.
"You tell me you've been gone ten years. And that you're here to
kill my son, the child you—" He ran his hands through his hair, spiking
his already spiky `do. "Jesus, Cor, the child you *mothered.*"
He towered over her,
a black-clad avenger with eyes like open wounds.
A howl rose up in
her chest and God, she wanted to let it out. Instead
she clenched her teeth and forced the energy to stay in until it
boiled in her, water in a lidded pot. "I'm a warrior for the Powers,
Angel, just like you," she bit out. "We're fighting for the same
thing here." She ran her hands across her head in frustration, mirroring
his earlier move, and standing her own hair at attention.
"I thought I was doing you a favor!"
"By telling me
you're gonna kill my kid? Hey, thanks!" He advanced on her.
"Well here's a favor in return." His eyes were cold and level as an
iced-over lake. "If you touch him, I'll kill you."
It took everything
she had not to let the fire raging in her chest burn
him to a crisp. "You really don't want to test that theory."
"Get out."
"Gladly."
She whirled, and the katana made a graceful arc around her.
"You won't stop me," she said over her shoulder. "I never
lose."
"You've never
fought me before."
She stopped
mid-stride and turned, slow and measured, until she was facing
him. Then she raised her hands and pressed them together in front
of her heart. She bowed solemnly. "I look forward to it."
The smile was only a
quirk of lips, but the scar pulled her face into a
death-mask's grin.
Then she was out the
door and into the harsh sunlight where Angel couldn't
follow.
***
The phone on
Wesley's desk buzzed. "Mr. Pryce?"
He punched the
intercom button. "Yes?"
"You have a
phone call on line two. The caller wouldn't tell me his name,
but he says it's regarding Steven Holtz."
Wes put down his pen
and stared at the blinking light.
"Mr. Pryce?"
"Yes. Yes, I'll
take it." His brow furrowed as he picked up the receiver.
"This is Wesley Wyndam-Pryce."
"Don't hang
up."
His hand hovered
over the disconnect button. "Why not?"
"Because I need
you to take Connor to a safe place. Now."
Wes laughed.
"That's rich, coming from you."
"Believe me,
I'm aware of the irony. I don't have time to explain. Just
get him out of here."
"For how
long?"
"I don't know a
day, maybe two. Just long enough for me to track her down
and kill her."
Wes leaned over his
desk. "Kill who?"
"Cordelia."
"What?"
"I told you,
it's a long story. Just get him out of here. Then call my
phone and let me know where."
Wes shook his head.
"Ang--"
The dead line buzzed
in his ear. He dialed Angel's number from memory.
"What."
It sounded as if
Angel were under water. Or underground. "No," Wes said
calmly. "You can't just call and order me around. I no longer work
for you. And you saw to it that we're no longer friends. Find someone
else to help you." The phone clattered in the cradle.
He hit the intercom
button. "Patricia, I'm leaving for lunch. I'll have
my cell phone if you need me." He grabbed his jacket and walked out
the back door.
Angel met him in the
stairwell. "I knew you wouldn't do it without some
convincing." He smiled with anticipation.
"Vampire
detectors," Wes said, standing his ground. "Guards'll be here
in less than a minute."
Angel shrugged.
"Not since I made Linwood Connor's godfather." He buffed
his nails on his untucked black shirt. "So, what do you say we go
a few rounds? You can whine about how you don't work for me and then
I can rip your head off."
Wes made it halfway
to his office before Angel caught him. "Oh, good,"
he said. "I need to work up an appetite."
"Stop it,"
Wes said. He gasped, knowing his heart sped more from terror
than exertion. "You don't scare me."
Angel vamped.
"Oh, please. You're shitting your pants."
Wes ran a finger
under his collar. "Fine. You're the big scary vamp. Kill
me if you're going to. I'm tired of the threats."
"If I didn't
need you, I'd take you up on that. I still may." He grabbed
Wes's arm and hauled him the rest of the way into his office. Wes
stumbled and fell into his chair.
Angel rolled him
backward into the desk then slapped his hands down on
the arms of the chair. "Now," he said, and his razor-sharp fangs glimmered,
bone-white. "We can do this the easy way or the hard way."
Wes shifted so he
could look Angel in the eye. "What's the easy way?"
"You do what I
say. I don't kill you. Yet."
"And the hard
way?"
"Same thing,
only I get to torture you first." He smiled. "I'm really hoping
you'll say 'hard way.'"
Wes took a deep
breath. "Instead of playing Angelus, why don't you just
tell me what happened?"
Angel's eyes
narrowed. "I'll give you the Cliff's Notes. Cordy came back.
She's a warrior for the Powers. She's going to kill Connor because
he's the Destroyer."
Wes's eyes widened.
"How does she--"
"Know? Besides
the fact that she's a Seer, she's been living in an alternate
dimension. Our month has been ten years for her." He stepped
back from the chair and prowled from desk to bookcase.
Wes froze. It was
true, then. Connor chose the path of darkness and pulled
the rest of the world down with him.
Unless he could be
stopped. If Angel spoke the truth, then Cordelia was
now Wes's strongest ally. "Let me find her."
"Why, so you
can talk her to death?"
He shook his head.
"Steven's your son. You take him. Let me handle Cordelia."
Angel stared at him.
"Why the sudden change of heart, Wes?" His eyes narrowed.
"Are you two in on something?" He materialized in front of the
chair. "You planned this." He hulked over him, eyes firing vamp- gold.
Wes shook his head.
"No, I didn't know anything about it. I admit, I've
been watching out for Connor. But I didn't know-- I mean, I suspected--"
"That he was
the Destroyer? Oh, isn't this convenient? The little Watcher
joins forces with the Big Bad. Did you hope to use their resources
to stop him when he turned?"
When Wes flinched,
he laughed. "I was hoping to kill you myself, but now
it looks like I don't have to." He glanced around the room. "Oh, hey,
aren't these offices bugged? Guess what, guys, our little Wesey- boy's
got a plan. He's gonna kill your pet project!" He jerked Wes away
from the desk and spun him in his chair. "Tell ya what, Wes, you put
those Wolfram & Hart resources to use to save my boy, and I'll see
if I can get you spared from the White Room or wherever they put traitors
these days."
Wes, pale and
shaken, stared up at Angel. "You let him survive and he'll
destroy the world."
Angel's lips were
cool against his ear. "You seem to have forgotten the
part where I don't care." He stood, hands on his hips. "We got an agreement?
You get Connor out while I find Cordy. After that, we'll talk."
He smiled. "If they don't kill you first, of course."
"I can't make
any promises. I've only been here--"
"Put that
British charm to good use." He walked to the door, his duster
flaring around him. "Make sure you call me when you've got a location."
Wes swallowed.
"What about Cordy?"
Angel held the door
open with his hand. He looked over his
shoulder.
"After what happened with you she should know not to mess with
my kid." The door slammed shut behind him.
Wes stared at the
door.
"Mr. Pryce?"
"Yes,
Patricia." He cleared his throat to stop the trembling.
"You're back
already?"
"Yes, Patricia.
And, ah, could you please get Ms. Morgan on the line?"
"Of course,
sir."
He laughed, a harsh,
rasping sound. "Ironic, isn't it?" he whispered.
"I try my damnedest to do the right thing and I screw it up.
I do the wrong thing, and I succeed."
He turned the chair
until he could see himself in the mirror over the credenza.
His first instinct was to look away, but something kept him there.
The haircut and the
suit were new. The face the same as always. But it
was the eyes that held him.
Oh, God, he thought,
as the trembling intensified.
They were his
father's.
He clenched the arms
of the chair. They felt real and solid in his hand,
but it only made him acutely aware that real and solid, flesh and
bone, those things were a lie. One slice of a knife or one leap through
a portal, and life as you knew it disappeared.
He closed his eyes
but still the images came, of his father, hand raised
to hit him; of his own face in the mirror, lip split and eye blackened;
of his mother, cowering while her son was beaten.
How was Connor any
different than he had been?
You can help him, a
voice said.
His eyes popped
open. How in the hell could he help anyone, trapped in
the quagmire like he was?
And then, as he
gazed into his own reflection, it hit him. Like Saul on
the road to Damascus, he nearly fell to his knees.
He and Angel
traveled parallel paths. One, the good man gone bad for the
right reasons; the other, the bad man gone good for the wrong ones.
They met somewhere in the middle, their common denominator atonement.
Redemption.
What if the Powers
never meant for him to kill Connor? What if they meant
for him to save him?
"Mr. Pryce?"
He turned slowly
toward the phone. "Yes."
"I have Ms.
Morgan for you."
"Thank you,
Patricia. Please put her through."
***
She peered at the
small cabin that perched on the edge of the woods. Wes
had chosen well. Only two hours from LA, it rested in the foothills
of the Sierras. One road in—which meant only one way out— and
four guards already stationed at points on the perimeter.
The silver Ducati
the Powers loaned her stood hidden next to the road about
a mile away. If she needed it, she could get there in six minutes
at a full run, assuming she wasn't injured.
And she didn't plan
on getting injured.
Movement at the
cabin. She raised the field glasses, grateful that the
trees shaded her from the sun. The last thing she needed was a glint
giving up her location.
The first of the
limos parked and Wes stepped out. He wore a trim navy
suit that fit too well to be off-the rack. He'd always had expensive
taste and it looked as if he finally had the income to indulge
it.
Otherwise he looked
exactly as she remembered: thin and elegant and bookish.
She was hammered by
the memories of high school crushes and mellowing friendships
and betrayal. It wasn't the sun's glare on the windshield that
made her eyes water, but it was all she'd admit to.
She blinked the
tears away and turned her focus to the target.
He'd grown in the
last month, was all she could think as he disembarked.
They'd cuffed his hands—probably because he refused to go
otherwise. Then he turned to face her and her heart rolled in her chest.
God, he had the look
of his father, tall and panther-ish. She shook her
head. Don't go there. He's not Connor, he's not Angel. He's the Destroyer.
And you're here to
destroy him.
She glanced at her
watch. Four-thirty. She couldn't take him in broad daylight
but she had to do it before Angel got there. Sunset was at 9:24.
No coincidence, she
supposed, that this was going down on the longest day
of the year.
God knew it felt
like the longest day of her life.
The limos emptied
out and all but one drove off, leaving behind six more
guards. Three followed Wes and Connor into the house. Three stayed
outside.
As they took up
their positions, she counted carefully. Seven guards outside,
three inside, plus Wes. Eleven men between her and the target.
Eleven to one—just
the kind of odds she liked. The death-mask smile creased
her face.
Until she thought of
Angel. Then the smile disappeared
He hadn't changed in
the ten years she'd been gone. The mission came second
to family. His threat hadn't been idle; he'd kill her if he could.
And if he couldn't he'd die trying.
No matter what she
said earlier, she didn't want to fight Angel. And if--when--she
got past him, she still had to face the target. He was young
in this dimension, untested. But he'd already earned the name.
She could get
through eleven men easily. She could get past Angel with
a bit more work. It was the target who worried her.
He was bred to
fight. She had been trained to fight. The difference was
subtle, but it was there. And more, she knew him. She'd never killed
anyone she knew before.
It was a test of the
highest order. One she knew she had to pass or forfeit
her life.
The water in the
canteen was warm and metallic. She swished and spat quietly,
then took a sip.
And waited.
***
"Can't you
drive any faster?" Angel barked from his position under the
tarp.
"I'm doin'
ninety already," Gunn said. "Last thing we need is a ticket."
Angel grunted.
"We'll get
there. In the meantime, make yourself useful and navigate."
He pitched Wes's directions over his shoulder.
***
The guards found
their positions. The sniper on the roof lay on his belly
and peered through his rifle's sight. She held her breath as his
gaze passed over her. She was so highly sensitized that when something
rustled at the base of the tree she glanced down, just a quick
cant of her eyes.
It was a squirrel.
She felt him sense and tense, heard him run. And then
something flashed in the distance, pulling her up and out.
It was the third
guard's field glasses. Idiots.
Or they wanted her
to know they were there.
***
"Next
turn," Angel said. "Go left." He glanced at his watch. "They should
be there by now."
"And so should
she."
His mouth thinned.
"Don't remind me."
"You didn't
really think you could catch her, did you? Kinda hard to hunt
someone in broad daylight."
Angel went silent.
"Look, I know
you're worried—"
He jerked the
blanket off and sat up, ignoring the sun slapping the back
of his neck. "Right," he spat, catching Gunn's eye in the rearview.
"That's exactly the term I'd use, too. Worried."
The air grew ripe
with the smell of cooking flesh. "Someone in my family
is gonna die tonight, Gunn. And you think I'm *worried*?" He jerked
the blanket back over his head and rolled down in the seat.
Gunn shut his mouth
and drove.
***
They hit the main
road to the cabin half an hour before sunset. Angel sat
up and dumped the blanket in the floor. "How close are we?"
"You had the
map last," Gunn said curtly.
It wasn't in the
seat next to him. He patted his pockets, came up empty,
then kicked the blanket aside. The map was a white wad in the mothball-smelling
wool. He reached for it, and when he did something caught
his eye.
"Stop the
car."
Gunn hit the brakes
and went for his weapon. "What is it?"
"Wait
here." He opened the car door slowly, let his senses take over. He
could smell her, faint on the breeze.
The sun's last rays
rendered the air a shocking gold. It burned his retinas
clean through. "Give me your sunglasses."
Gunn whipped them
off and handed them over the seat.
"Wait
here." He slipped the glasses on and got out of the car. In three
quick, nearly smoke-free steps, he was in the woods. In five more
he stood next to her bike.
He ran his hand over
the seat, and against his cool palm the leather was
warm flesh. If he closed his eyes he could almost feel her thighs clenched
around the vibrating machine. His hand fisted. Thoughts like that
would keep him from doing his job.
He reached down and
stripped the ignition wires. If she made it back here
alive, she wouldn't be leaving. Not by this route, anyway. He put
the wires in his pocket and stood, listening to the woods' near silence.
And waited for the
sun to drop.
***
At 9:22 she
slithered out of the tree. Her legs prickled with the haze
of pumping blood and she gave up a precious thirty seconds while the
feeling to returned to her feet.
A tingle crossed her
neck and shoulders. She turned, certain she'd heard
something in the forest behind.
He was here. She
could feel him.
Angel could track
her by scent and his night vision was far better than
hers. It put her at a distinct disadvantage.
The sun slid down
the sky, a liquid jewel.
She kept to the
trees, slipping around the gnarled, ancient live oaks,
a shadow in woods that were succumbing to night.
The first guard had
his back to her. She leapt silently, took him down
too quickly for a struggle. In her hands his head was large and heavy.
She twisted, and in one, violent surge, he was dead.
She stood, looked
down at the body. Let the image of his red-haired wife,
his dimpled, blue-eyed baby boy, wash over her. The Powers gave her
these visions, sometimes before she killed, sometimes after, so she'd
know that her actions had consequences.
Even the actions she
took for them.
For one, reverent
moment she stood, breathing in the still, scented air.
Then she stepped out
of the woods, and left the body behind.
***
Angel went in on
foot. He was fifty yards from the cabin when he found
the first body.
The guard lay in a
heap, head twisted at the wrong angle. She was as efficient
and deadly as she looked, then.
A movement caught
his eye. Something on the roof. He went still, let his
demon track it. A flash, then a grunt. A body slid silently down the
shingles and landed on the ground with a dull thud.
Angel ran.
Death. He could
smell it on the air.
He followed her
scent through the fear. Clean as moonlight, just like he
remembered. It led him to the cabin door.
Through the three
small windows high in the door he could see Wes hunched
over his cell phone. Connor wasn't with him. Angel edged across
the porch and stepped down onto the grass.
A hand grabbed his
shirt and yanked. He went tumbling and came up face
to face with Gunn.
He jerked his fist
back at the last second, barely missing Gunn's nose.
"I told you to stay in the car," he hissed.
Gunn drew his finger
across his throat. "She got `em all." In his tight
whisper was a glimmer of respect.
Angel glared. The
light from the window cut a swath across his shoe and
reminded him how visible they were. "Get out of here."
"No way."
Gunn adjusted his grip on his axe. "I'm not letting you do this
alone."
"Boys, are you
gonna spend the night talking, or are you gonna turn around
so I can kick your butts?"
It was her voice,
but so different. Focused. Electric. She stood just outside
the light. He could barely see her in the black ops clothes and
painted face. But he felt her like a tazer's stun.
Next to him Gunn
tensed. "Barbie," he said quietly.
"Gunn, go back
to the car. Now," Angel said in a deadly voice.
"Like
hell." He raised his axe. Before he got to the top of the arc, she
leapt. The axe fell to the ground with a soft thud. Gunn followed.
"Don't
worry," she said, less than a foot from Angel's ear. "I didn't kill
him." She smiled that wicked smile.
Then, on the night
wind, she vanished.
He heard a sound and
looked up. Saw her foot disappearing over the edge
of the roof.
He followed.
***
The tar shingles
smelled of creosote and clung stickily to her feet. She
used that to her advantage, climbing nimbly and cresting the summit.
She let gravity take
her--falling, rolling--and grabbed the gutter on her
way over the edge. Her fingers looped, slipped, held.
She bounced once and
the tendons in her shoulder stretched with a sharp
pang. Then she hung, one-handed, while she waited for Angel to figure
out where she was.
There. He'd gotten
to the top. He was more than half cat, but he was also
a good fifty pounds heavier and there was no way he could disguise
his presence.
Sure enough she
heard Wes's voice at the window. "Steven, get into the
bedroom! Someone's on the roof!"
Perfect. Now she
knew where he was. She let go, fell a story, and landed
in a somersault. Rolled up, ran two steps to the porch. Kicked in
the door.
Over its ricochet
she heard three things, clear as day: Angel hitting earth,
Wesley's intake of breath, and the target's delighted laugh.
She drew the sword
and its razor-sharp edges sang.
Wes stared,
open-mouthed, phone hanging limply at his side. The target
was not in sight.
The air behind her
shifted. She ducked and came up swinging. The katana
caught Angel on the upper arm and the smell of blood hit the air
with a metallic tang.
His nostrils flared.
"First blood," he growled. Then he drew his favorite
broadsword.
"Back off,
Angel," she warned, holding her stance.
"Wes, get him
out of here," Angel called. He grabbed the hilt with both
hands and swung right at her head.
Cor dodged him
easily and, sword flashing, cut his shirt to ribbons.
Down the hall a door
slammed and locked. Then glass shattered.
They were going out
the window. Dammit, if they got to the car....
She took her eyes
off Angel just long enough to gauge the distance to the
bedroom door. When she looked again he was coming at her like a line
backer.
Instinct had her
ducking, blending into the wall, and his bulk went flying.
He skidded across the planked floor on his belly.
She tore down the
hall and let momentum take her through. The reverberation
of flesh against wood sang through her, rattling her teeth
and sending an aria of pain through her already stressed shoulder.
The door splintered and swung open, leaving her staring at an
empty room.
The window was a
jagged hole on the other side. She hurtled the bed and
propelled herself through. Glass caught her hand and the spike of pain
brought the hot, hazy night into sharp relief.
Her feet hit the
ground just in time to get tangled in the sniper's body.
She went down hard. Heard someone grunt--realized it wasn't her,
but the sniper. Surprised, she glanced at him, at the scatter- shot
rise and fall of his chest. Dammit. He was supposed to be dead.
A sound pulled her
attention up. It was the target, resisting Wesley's
instructions. She heard Wesley's voice, low and angry. Saw the
target jerk away, his white t-shirt flashing in the light from the
full Solstice moon. The intense look he leveled at Wes was Angel at
his most stubborn.
Her thoughts
scattered, marbles on a tile floor.
Tick tock, Cor.
Where's your focus?
The pounding throb
of blood in her sliced palm ripped her back to reality.
She shoved to her
feet and ran.
They were in the car
by the time she got there. Wes fumbled the keys in
the ignition.
"Get out,
Wes," she said calmly. "I don't want to hurt you."
The engine fired and
he grabbed the door handle and tried to yank it closed.
She blocked it with her hip, reached through the open door and
jerked him out. Then she raised the sword and brought the handle down
hard on his temple.
"Doesn't mean I
won't."
He crumpled into a
messy pile next to the car.
The target sat in
the back seat staring at her, his hungry, panther's eyes
glinting. She knew then—with a stunning, mind-expanding flash— that
he'd duped them.
His resistance was
an act. He agreed to come to the safe house because
he hungered to face her alone.
It threw her off
just long enough for Angel's tackle to send her sprawling.
She came up with a mouthful of grass. Spat. "Dammit."
"Don't do this,
Cor," he said, raising his sword. He stood, an avenging
angel, broad-shouldered and dark-eyed.
And in that moment
the past caught up with her.
She rolled out of
the way of the whizzing blade and sprang to her feet.
"When did you
lose the mission, Angel?" She parried, missing his face by
a scant inch.
"When did you
lose your heart, Cordelia?" He lunged, and the tip of the
sword skated past the curve of her waist.
A car door rattled.
"Angelus, uncuff me," the target ordered.
In the driver's side
mirror, she saw his jean-clad hips, his hands braceleted
in silver cuffs.
"Get back in
the car, Connor," Angel said, cutting his eyes to his son.
It was all she
needed. The spin kick sent him flying across the turf ass-first.
Then she was face to
face with the target. He was cuffed--it was hardly
fair. But she raised her sword anyway.
He smiled and the
glint in his eyes was fevered, pulsing. Then his eyes
shifted to something behind her.
A hand twice her
size slapped her arm down, sent the sword flying. She
turned on Angel in bare-fisted fury and rammed her hand into his jaw.
He shook it off and
hit her back.
He hadn't been
kidding when he said he held back in training. It was like
meeting a speeding car.
It spun her so fast
she hit the ground face-first. He fell on top of her
and the air left her lungs with a balloon-like pop.
He thrust his hips
against her ass and she lay, stunned by the pure charge
of sexual energy, until she realized he was digging something out
of his pocket. Over her gasps she heard jingling keys.
"Get out of the
cuffs and run!" Angel yelled.
She rocked and
rolled but couldn't get him off. Her sword lay at her fingertips--if
she could just reach it....
"Stop," he
ordered. "He's gone."
She struggled,
looking for ways to dislodge him. The target—she had to
find the target.
His big hand pinned
the back of her neck and shoved her face into the grass.
"Cor," he
said, riding her bucking body. His voice was harsh and pleading
and it ripped through her, a mortar shell through her heart.
She went limp.
He let go.
She smiled. Up and
up she came, energy surging through her in a tidal wave.
He flew hard and
fast—hit the side of the car with a spine-cracking crash.
He struggled to his feet.
And beside him, the
target stood, holding her sword.
"Nice
blade," he said, swinging it at her head.
***
When Gunn came to
the first thing he noticed was that there were two moons.
Big, round and shiny as new quarters.
Then he blinked and
the two became one. That was when he noticed the dull,
pounding headache.
Someone must have
cracked his skull—again.
"Nice
blade."
He unfurled slowly
and turned toward the voice. Three figures in a stand-off
next to the car, two in black, one in white—so fuzzy it could
have been a dream. Beneath his cheek the grass was cool and fragrant.
His eyes slipped closed, too heavy to hold open.
"Thanks."
Cordy. He jerked
awake gasping. Oh, God. She was here to kill Connor and--
She was the one who conked him. He touched his temple gingerly and
the pain crashed into his skull, a sprinter slamming a hurdle.
Girl was good, he
thought, as he wiped his bloody fingers on the grass.
But he was better.
He struggled and
planted his knees, only to be overtaken by the spins.
"Shit," he moaned.
That's when he heard
Angel. "Don't do this, Cordelia."
In his wavering
sight it looked as if Angel was pleading, one hand outstretched,
a human barrier between Cordy and Connor. Even from here
Gunn could see the determination on his face.
Which only fueled
his own. He had to get over there to help.
But then his stomach
clenched and sent a wave of clammy nausea spiraling
through his gut. He closed his eyes and spat metal-water into
the dirt.
Someone shouted,
"No!" and the sound echoed so loudly that fireworks went
off behind his eyelids.
When he opened them
again the figures had changed position. Now Cordelia,
hard to see except for the flash of white hair under the moon,
stood over Connor, a new blade in hand. Her arm flew up and started
in its downward slash.
He saw it then, a
hunter's knife, ferociously curved and serrated on the
tip. He grimaced, imagining the rip-and-suck of those teeth meeting
flesh. Gonna be nasty--
Before Gunn could
move, Angel's roundhouse swing brought the flat of his
sword across Cordy's shoulders like a paddle.
The momentum carried
her into a body slam with Connor, and they went down
in a tangle of limbs. They came up fighting, katana to hunter's blade,
steel flashing in the short, bright night.
**
Angel stumbled back,
back, avoiding the flashing blades. "Connor! Cordy!
No!"
Connor had reach and
speed and the longer blade but Cordy fought with heart
and guts. In her twirling, dancing style he saw remnants of the girl
he'd known--the cheerleader, the Homecoming Queen. Proud, athletic,
graceful.
He barreled in, sent
them spinning in opposite directions. Then she whipped,
turned and they were face to face.
"Back
off," she spat. Her eyes glowed gold.
"No way."
He ducked his head and lunged, plowed the crown of his skull
into her shoulder. She went down so hard he heard her teeth rattle.
Connor, where was
Connor? He turned, saw his son watching them with narrowed
eyes.
"You gonna kill
her for me, Angelus?" The look on his face wasn't spite,
but it was close.
"If I have
to."
"Better turn
around then. She's getting up."
The serrated blade
ran through the outside of his thigh. He screamed, looked
down to see the tip of the blade, black with his blood. Then it
was gone, and the sucking wound it left behind felt like a bath in holy
water.
She rounded him.
"I will kill him," she said through gritted teeth.
"You have to
kill me first," he spat. The pain ratcheted through him, red
and hot.
"Gladly,"
she said, rising over him, feet inches off the ground. She slashed
the hunting knife at his throat.
His arm flashed up,
met her wrist, and the knife went flying. She grunted.
He drew the sword back, prepared to bury it in her skull.
She spun, leg
flying, and knocked it out of his hand. He watched it go,
watched it bounce, watched it land in the grass next to the car.
She beat him to it.
Next he saw her she was standing on the hood of the
limo, swinging the broadsword in great arcs over her head. Then she
leapt and planted her feet against his chest.
He went down like a
felled tree.
***
She could feel him
in the sword. You didn't make a sword your favorite
without leaving something of yourself in the metal. And this one
felt like him, hard and sturdy; big and graceful.
Beneath her feet he
lay perfectly still. Her toes met his collarbone where
the point of the sword now rested.
To be killed with
your own sword was either the greatest compliment or
the greatest insult. She intended to make it a compliment.
His eyes were
glittering, black. "You gonna do it?" His brows settled low
over his eyes, his mouth went straight and flat.
Her racing heart
stuttered.
She knew that look.
Unstoppable. Proud. It was the battle standard that
drove her through the hard, lonely, transcendent years.
Before the Zen
masters and the weapons experts and the battle tests was
Angel. He taught her more than the basics of self-defense. He encouraged
her, believed in her, laid the foundation for the life she now
lived. In her weakest moments—and her strongest—she drank from his
well.
To kill him now
would dishonor the gift.
But she had to stop
him. So she did the only thing left. She drew on the
light.
It flew through her
feet, went through him, a knife through his soul. He
screamed, loud and long, and his eyes went from black to fiery gold.
"I'm
sorry," she whispered, because she knew that this would be worse for
a demon than any blade.
But she also knew
he'd walk away from it. Eventually.
He fell limp beneath
her, and the telltale signs of a purge marked his
face. Vacant, staring eyes; open mouth. The demon in him convulsed,
knocking her loose, and she stumbled aside.
The she was left,
sword in hand, to face the one thing she'd hoped to avoid.
He leaned against
the car, eyes wide, katana resting loosely at his side.
"Wow," he said. "Is that what you did to me?"
She nodded. "I
don't use it often. It's too powerful for most people to
survive."
His eyes flickered
to Angel, who lay, trembling in the
driveway. "What
about him?"
"Oh, he'll make
it. He'll feel like crap for awhile, though."
"I didn't feel
like crap," he said thoughtfully.
"That's because
you got purged of something you didn't need." She turned
to consider Angel. "His darkness balances him, keeps him focused.
Yours was killing you." She looked at Connor. "That's why I'm
here, you know."
"What do you
mean?"
"What you
become, Connor. It's pure darkness."
Defiance flickered
in his eyes. "I fight the good fight."
"Holtz
corrupted you."
Now it was anger,
pure and powerful. "Do not speak of my father."
"He was only
doing what he came here to do."
"Turn me into a
fiend?"
She nodded.
"And it's my job to stop you."
"Then why are
you still talking?"
"Good
question." She drew herself over the centers of her feet, where she
connected with earth. The sword rose in front of her nearly of its
own accord, lead by the energy pumping through the live-wire of her
body.
She drew in the
light, sucked it deep. The thrumming power burned in her
belly, incense uncoiling light, smoke and heat. "I'll make it quick,"
she swore.
He came at her with
a driving kick and landed his foot in her belly.
Her breath exploded
out and she fell to the grass gasping.
God, he was fast.
She whipped to her feet.
But she was faster.
She came at him, a
propeller, dancing and spinning, her sword flashing
streaks of light.
He ducked, rolled,
sprang like a cat.
***
Angel groaned
groggily. His insides felt hot, electric.
Laughter, giddy and
free, rumbled through him. God he felt amazing. This
was like smoking opium without the side effects. Whatever she'd done
to him, it was good, good, good.
The sound of
clashing steel caught his attention and he hummed along with
it. Mozart or something even purer, though it was hard to imagine
what that might be. Maybe if the moon wrote music.
Zing, sing, ting.
Without looking he
caught the rhythm of the fight, and his fingers tapped
on his chest in time with them. Dancing, and God, he loved to dance.
Well Angelus loved
to dance; he avoided it like the plague. But maybe now
that he felt this way, light and happy and free, he'd start again.
He'd buy Cordy something beautiful, maybe red, he'd always loved
her in red. And he'd take her...take her....
Cordy, God, no.
She'd come to kill his child. His boy, his baby, his miracle.
Now the warm golden feeling turned to water, leaving his eyes
wet.
Not Connor, too. He
couldn't possibly live without them both.
***
Connor bore the
katana as if it were his own. He fought as she'd imagined
and feared, with such integration that he not only owned the fight
he *was* the fight.
The clang of steel
meeting steel rang up her arms and sent her skull vibrating.
He was the most
powerful foe she'd faced.
Not just by his
birthright, but by his birth. Behind his warrior's eyes
lay the boy she knew, the baby she loved. The child she had mourned.
Her jaw clenched as
memories flooded, memories of how he'd felt in her
arms, of how he smelled, sweet and powdery after his bath.
The memories made
her slow. Stupid.
He landed a blow and
she went tumbling, spinning.
She came up, lip
busted, head pounding and went for him again.
***
He rolled, finding
his way to his hands and knees. Head spinning, mouth
watering, he drooled into the grass just like Conal, the village
idiot. He giggled. He'd loved Conal; actually, he'd loved torturing
him. Even after Darla turned him, he and Conal had some fun.
The hot rush of blood from Conal's smooth, young throat coated his
lips. He licked greedily, but still in the grip of Cor's love light,
it turned his stomach.
Blood--could he ever
drink it again?
Blood. It caught his
attention. Someone had spilled it recently. He raised
his head and sniffed like a dog. The world spun and spun, and he
could only spin with it.
In his peripheral
vision he saw them dancing together, so lithe and beautiful.
So young, just getting started, really. They had no idea what
it meant to live forever, and he prayed they never would. He also
prayed he'd go first so he never had to be without them.
Fey and fairylike,
straight out of tales he'd heard as a boy. Swords flashing,
eyes blazing, mouths set in the same grim line.
Pride wrapped
himself around him, a warm blanket. His eyes focused, his
heart twisted. His family, they were, and dear God, how he loved them.
He struggled to his
feet never taking his eyes off the dancing pair. Getting
caught in the dazzle and sparkle of light on blade, of light on
hair and skin. Living, pulsing.
***
The memories flashed
a second time. Of her sleeping with Angel, this child
between them, as night cradled their family in her cool, soft arms.
Her breath caught in
her chest and the light dimmed. "I *will* do this,"
she said between clenched teeth.
With a great,
sucking breath, the light expanded, throbbing in her chest
as she fought—throbbing and pulsing, and guiding her through the
fight.
It was only when her
movements synchronized with the target's that she
realized he was doing the same, drawing on breath and life to lead
him through. His eyes flashed with recognition, and he stopped and
stared at her open-mouthed.
Then his fist rammed
into her face.
She flew back ten
feet and hit the ground with a jarring thump. Her strained
shoulder muscles seized and the screaming flash of pain became
her entire world. Then she scrambled up, shook it off, and went
back for more.
***
He was drawn back to
the dream, of him and Cordy, of her--a coat full of
moonlight. Now she wasn't simply that girl--she *was* moonlight.
And Connor, he was
night. And he held her, the sky holding the moon.
Then she eclipsed
him. Angel blinked, startled when his son went down.
Where's your balance, boy? Lose your balance and you lose it all.
***
The vision flashed
through her, intense as heat lighting.
It radiated from her
core, spinning and pulsing, spilling over her edges.
She cried out, flung her head back. Saw the stars, spinning, pulsing--felt
their ancient, cold light morph into something so hot that
it burned her from the inside out.
But she couldn't
stay with the stars for long, not when Connor's pulse
drew her gaze back down to earth. He stared, wide-eyed and open- mouthed,
and she realized then that the vision wasn't meant for her alone.
Together they
traveled into the future, to Angel, weeping over Connor's
grave. To her, fighting empty and angry and alone in a battle
she no longer believed in.
It flashed again,
taking them back to a night years before. When she'd
rocked this boy to sleep in the chair next to the window. She saw
his eyes, blinking owlishly, his rosebud mouth quirking in his secret
smile, the one he saved just for her.
She felt him heavy
against her breast. Smelled his milky-sweet smell.
Connor's face
softened as he remembered being cradled in love.
The memories
flooded, water breaking a dam. Her heart gave a horrible,
grieving wrench.
And then the vision
flashed again and she saw herself lying still and cold,
dead eyes staring at the blank night sky.
It was clear as the
moon on this cloudless night: his life or hers.
She looked deep into
Connor's eyes and let them guide her into her own
heart. Turned her head and looked at Angel, kneeling in the grass.
Saw in his eyes the same truth she already knew.
Death was a choice.
Just like life.
She lowered the
sword.
***
Angel's heart,
twisted and tense, suddenly relaxed. Because he knew in
that moment that they'd won.
His son was safe.
His family was safe.
The bliss of her
touch washed over him again and he fell to his knees in
the grass weeping in gratitude.
***
Gunn's eyes blinked
open slowly. Someone had scrubbed the inside of his
head with sand.
A flash caught his
eye, Cordy, arm high over her head, Connor pinned beneath
her foot.
"No," he
breathed.
But instead of
following through, Cordy lowered the sword. A wave of helpless
relief flowed through him. They were safe. Thank God. They were
safe.
Then he heard a
rustle, fabric on grass, and turned his head toward the
sound.
One of the guards, a
man he had thought was dead, was rolling onto his
belly. The moonlight flashed on something long and gleaming.
A quiet
"ka-chunk" rattled his ears.
***
The ear-shattering
report of a rifle shot split the air.
The bullet ripped
through her shoulder and blew out the front of her chest,
spattering blood and flesh in a messy arc.
She blinked in
confusion, not quite understanding what had just happened.
Angel screamed
"NO!" in a voice that came from under water.
She got it then.
They hadn't wasted
any time, had they?
All she could do was
laugh.
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