PART 4
Under a leaden sky, Albert Embankment with its cluster of 1950’s office buildings stood gloomily facing the sluggish waters of the Thames. Functional rather than impressive, they’d been built in a rush after the last World War in an effort to cover the scars left by enemy bombers. Now fifty years later the only colour was a red double-decker bus trundling past in a spray of dirty water, its wipers battling with the endless rain. London in November at its dreary best.
Inside No 39 the hustle and bustle of the workers had more to do with keeping moving for warmth rather than a real need to do whatever tasks were assigned. Like the tired old building, the central heating barely chugged along. So, unless you were sat on top of one of the chipped old radiators the cold had a way of numbing ones fingers.
Theodore Georges, bundled up to his ears in a thick Arran roll-neck sweater sloped past the receptionist and over to the stairs. Despite being only two years off retirement, he was still quite nimble on his feet, and his attitude of never taking life too seriously meant his high-boned face was minus the wrinkles old-age and fretting had given his contemporaries. That attitude along with his dislike for formal suits and barbers meant he was considered a character by the newer members of staff, and an irritation to the Watchers Council elite.
Two stories up, fast footsteps thundered down from above and he moved to the side as a young whirl-wind in a boiler suit thumped past. Hand on the rail for extra drag as his legs finally began to tire, the whirlwind’s voice floated back up. “Been betting on the Gee-gee’s again, Teddy? The Fogey’s aren’t going to like that.”
Harrumphing, Teddy finally reached the first floor and growled to himself, “Bloody idiot name for a horse, Gee-Gee’s.” The Fogey’s was a not so affectionate name the younger generation had for the council elders. It was a tradition that went back generations and as a youngster himself, along with the very same men who now held that title, he’d whispered about their own elders in exactly the same way.
Time marches on and his mass of grey hair attested to that unpleasant fact. Worse, being told he had an uncanny resemblance to Peter O’Toole was hardly flattering when the actor in question was dead.
The phone on his desk was ringing insistently when he entered the cubicle someone dared to label an office. Flopping into his tired, grey cushioned old swivel chair he picked it up to silence the commotion. “Its 12.45 and I’m at lunch. Does nobody watch the clock anymore?” To anyone that knew him, such an irreverent greeting was the norm.
His caller wasn’t fazed, “Boo hoo. Its 4 am in the morning over here and I ran out of tea over an hour ago. Hello, Teddy.”
Teddy’s jaw dropped with shock. “Good Lord! Rupert, is that you?”
Voice still clipped and undeniably English, Rupert replied, “Last time I checked, yes. I need your help and it’s rather urgent.”
“With you it always is. How are you, you old sod?”
“Tired, irritable and still ten years younger than you, so less of the old.”
Teddy chuckled at the rancour audible in his friend’s voice, “Still in sunny California are you? I heard a whisper about the place that you were coming back. If I were you I’d hurry before you go native.” He was careful not to mention the young slayers death. Many here were aware of his affection for the unfortunate teenager who’d been his charge. Teddy sympathised in a remote sort of way.
Exasperation replaced the rancour although this time it was tempered with caring. “I already have gone native didn’t they tell you? In fact, I’m surprised the call got put through.” A sigh puffed down the line, “I was going to come home until things got tricky. There’s another young lady here in need of a keeper and until somebody comes along to volunteer I don’t have much choice except to stay.”
“Young lady?” The suggestion was all in the tone.
“Do stop being more of a prat than needs be and get your mind out of the gutter. Willow’s a witch.”
Enjoying the unexpected treat, Teddy lifted moccasined feet to rest on the desk’s corner and couldn’t resist pushing a little more, “Really, Willow the Witch. Why am I getting a picture of a blue apparition, bad fairies and a talking caterpiller?”
It took an embarrassingly long time for that to click. Across the Atlantic in his homey little apartment in Southern California, Rupert Giles scrubbed his whiskered face and wished Theodore Georges to perdition. “You never change do you? Willow is a very powerful young woman; powerful enough that it was she who resouled Angelus, nullifying the happiness clause and making it permanent. All just at seventeen I might add.”
Angelus. His breath caught. That name still had the power to send shivers up even an old dog like him. To some inside these not so hallowed halls it was second only to the Prince of Darkness himself. Chilled, Teddy felt his stomach sink to the floor. “Why do I think that having mentioned that name. You’re about to obliterate my weekend.” Pushing back in his chair to check there was nobody lurking behind the door he’d left open, he complained, “Rupert, I had plans!”
There was, it seemed, to be no mercy. “Well unmake them. At your age I would thought a quiet few days reading would be more appropriate anyway. I need to know why somebody would be willing to kill a dozen people to obtain a Slayers heart. You have resources there I can’t reach and like I said it’s urgent.”
“Resources?! Are you trying to get me sacked?” Voice rising with tension, he lowered it to a hiss before continuing, “You know that details pertaining to the slayers are highly confidential. I’d be found out and kicked out without so much as a hearing.” That was at the very least. Words trembled on the tip of his tongue. He stilled them.
“It’s life or death, Ted. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t necessary. You know that. I-“ stopping with a sigh, Rupert reluctantly laid his trump card, “I’m calling in that favour, sorry, old friend.”
There was a deep pause.
Giles senior, Rupert’s father, had been an influential figure in his time. When a foolish mistake went foul, Rupert had taken the fall to protect his friend knowing he was unlikely to be sent off in disgrace. Despite the evidence to the contrary the cover-up had been believed because Rupert had already had a checkered past. Teddy owed him and they both knew it.
Closing his eyes and looking weary all of a sudden; as if the trip down memory lane had drained him, Teddy nodded very slowly. “I’ll see what I can find out. I’ll start with the authorised archives and work my way up. The keeper of the keys is a doddering old fool, I should be able to whisk them off him for long enough to access the rest if needs be.”
Saying, thank you, was superfluous given the coercion. Giles said simply, “If you find anything let me know immediately. If you can’t reach me, call Wesley Wyndham Pryce at Angel Investigations. I’m sure you have the number.”
“Wesley-!” Teddy lost what little colour he’d managed to retain at the idea of ringing there, “He’s even more-“
“Persona-non-grata than I am, I’m aware of that,” as was Wesley and the reason why Giles was making the call. “Don’t fret and just think of how the excitement will make up for missing the races.”
Earlier that night
Angel had to admit it was a classy place for a night-club. After cajoling a grumbling Cordelia out of her apartment to come here, he’d been dreading flashing strobes and a techno beat that would pound his vampire sensitive ears into numbness. Now, following the ebb and flow of the crowd, he was deeply grateful that the Blue Lava Lounge was civilised with its mixture of Mo-town and Jazz rhythm’s, discreet sunken dance floor and multiple levels with plenty of leather armchairs grouped for intimate conversation.
Leading the way through the throng, Angel kept his pace to Cordelia’s, so that she wouldn’t get left behind and used his larger frame as a shield to gently push aside obstacles in the form of bumping, chattering bodies and men leaving the bar with their hands full of precariously balanced beer and spirits. Instinctively looking for a quieter haven, he scanned the upper levels for a less congested area.
Fully attuned to her despite his search, he caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye of her wide grin and looked down. It was a mistake because he was instantly caught just like when she stepped into her living room earlier. Angel’s eyes dilated and mouth turned dry. She was an incredibly beautiful woman. The clubs dim lighting couldn’t hide the sparkle of excitement lighting hazel eyes, nor the sheen coming off a waterfall of silken brown hair. Relaxing, too, he felt his own lips curve in response; grateful her initial reluctance seemed to have subsided now they were inside.
Angel didn’t blame her for getting irritated. He’d been pushier than he could remember being in over a century. To him it was simple; if she wanted to go out he had to take her. Having tied his own hands by keeping the truth from her, he couldn’t even explain his unusual insistence was purely for her safety.
For every argument against the idea she could come up with he’d countered it, determined that she not put herself out of his reach. If he’d been there to witness it, Wesley’s eyebrows would have been merging with his hairline at the mental gymnastics he’d employed. Not that Angel cared. He would do whatever he had to do to keep her safe; including braving the horrors of LA’s social scene.
Earlier in her apartment, her expression had spoken volumes. She was obviously settling on temporary insanity as the reason for his behaviour when something occurred to her that had caramel eyes going wide and her jaw dropping with amazement. A few stuttered sentences later he understood her shock, realising she’d jumped to the conclusion he was interested in her romantically. Deeply uncomfortable, but still willing to use whatever advantage came his way, he hadn’t said or done anything to disabuse her of that notion.
Oblivious to his machinations, Cordelia’s expressive face revealed rising excitement as the music and buzzing atmosphere of the club worked its magic on her ruffled mood. Catching his smile, hers blossomed further and leaning in she waited for him to drop his head those necessary few inches before issuing a light-hearted warning, “Don’t even think about dragging me up to some dark deserted corner, Angel. I didn’t wear this outfit for the benefit of the upholstery.”
A flicker of guilt was chased off by resignation across a hard face. She’d guessed right. Stunned at his gall, she poked his chest, “Oh, no you don’t. I was in the middle of making plans with friend’s who have an actual pulse until you decided you needed a break from brooding in the bat-cave or tearing heads off.” Turning, she flashed him a ‘take or leave it’ glance over one shoulder, saying, “We’re doing this my way, broody-boy.”
With that she took a detour, squeezing between a trio of men to head for an empty table right in the middle of the action. With no other choice it was a sheepish Angel that followed her. Trailing in her wake now, he had an unobstructed view of long slim legs showcased by a short, tan suede skirt. She had great legs, long and supple enough to wrap around a man and not let go until she was finished with him. Riveted, he didn’t recognise the wrongness of the errant fantasy, and it was the growing heat and heaviness in his groin that brought reality crashing back.
Unfortunately it didn’t crash back hard enough. Jerking his gaze up and away from shapely limbs, he was caught by the swaying emerald ties of her wraparound top as they draped from a knot in the middle of a smooth back. As Angel watched the fringe of the ties brushed against the blazing sun tattoo peeking above the skirt’s waistband. Inexplicably he had to swallow.
Aware he wasn’t the only male to notice and linger on her, Angel closed the distance thinking these helpless responses were seriously getting on his nerves. They shouldn’t even exist never mind be escalating. After the bloody finale of the Mayor’s ascension, he’d been convinced such needs were dead and buried with Buffy. Only to find he’d been wrong because now it seemed Cordelia could tap into them, too. Unfortunately, admitting that fact didn’t make this case any easier. Particularly given his dead lovers connection to it.
Grief clouding thinking and clinging to the past had enabled Angel to ignore the truth. He might be dead, but he wasn’t dust, meaning all the basic desires he’d thought incinerated had only been waiting to flare to new life. Attraction wasn’t just a human conundrum; vampires feel desire just as, if not more keenly. In the past those dark impulses had come like a thief in the night to steal, maim and corrupt innocence. Buffy had been safe because of his soul and her being a slayer. Cordelia…
He shut that line of thought down as fast as it formed. It doesn’t matter what Cordelia is, or isn’t. This is work not romance. Don’t confuse fantasy with reality, or you’ll end getting everybody killed. Needing the reminder wasn’t exactly reassuring.
Immersed in his self-directed and silent harangue, Angel didn’t notice in time that Cordelia had halted and he bumped right into her. Their collision finished with him snatching her up, powerful hands grasping her upper arms to keep her from falling back. The instant their bodies connected, Cordelia went rigid and her head jerked up so their gazes clashed.
Dropping his hands from warm flesh as if it burned, Angel stepped back. “Sorry, I wasn’t looking.”
It was over in blink of an eye and yet a myriad of impressions remained and the imprint of Angel’s cool hands on her bare arms were the least of them. Smiling a little too widely, Cordelia managed to steady her voice, “That’s okay. If I bruise I’ll just use emotional blackmail for the next however many weeks until they fade.”
The table she picked had a bench seat that ran the length of the wall and on this side was a single armchair. Sliding around to sit on the bench, Cordelia snatched up the cocktail menu with determined enthusiasm and scrutinised it while a finger tapped thoughtfully against glossed lips. “Okay, let’s see…what’s a good pick-me-up…” a brow arched sardonically after scanning it, “…that doesn’t have ‘orgasm’ in the name? Even I’m not evil enough to send you to the bar with that order.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it,” what else could he say? If he was evil he might have said something tacky like ‘your wish is my command’. Grateful for the inability to blush, he stood by and tried not to shift impatiently while she picked. Even a skulking loner like him knew the prices of these places and Angel hid a wince when that slim finger eventually pointed to her choice. Typical, she just had to pick the most expensive drink on there.
As a distraction from other worries, money was infinitely more comfortable. Manfully, he managed to ignore the instinct to cover his wallet with a protective hand. About to suggest wine and soda as an alternative, he gave it up on spotting the sly knowing gleam in her eyes. She didn’t have to say ‘suck it up, buddy, this was your idea, remember’, it was written all over her face. Cordelia was going to milk this for all it was worth. He was done for.
There wasn’t an ounce of mercy anywhere on that beautiful face. “Fine”. Adopting a pleasant expression Angel squared his shoulders and headed back towards the bar. Out of hearing he muttered feelingly, “There has got to be a cheaper way to keep a girl out of trouble than this.”
Watching that broad back disappear and get swallowed in the crowd around the bar, Cordelia kept the half smile in place by dint of effort. Outside she worked hard to maintain the serene and confident front, while inside was a jumble of contradictory emotions. Looking back to check he was following her, she’d caught his glittering fascination with the bare skin of her lower back. The jolt of sensation from recognising lust in those dark eyes still simmered in her belly.
Her palms were clammy so she clasped them together. Sucking in slow breaths to try and get the butterflies fluttering helter-skelter through her lower body to settle down; a single thought kept circling dizzily. Angel was attracted to her! When he’d bumped into her it had been unmissable. Mister Impassive, the moping Maestro of Brood had a boner; a genuine, one hundred percent stiffie. Angel!.
She wasn’t giddy, just stunned and veering between being creeped out and…okay, maybe a little giddy. Mentally wincing at the admission, Cordy’s thoughts turned defensive. Was it her fault? He was a hottie, had a rough kind of charm and a mile-wide noble streak that failed miserably to wipe out the dangerous air he couldn’t hide. Just because her fantasy guys usually looked more like Matthew McConaughey than lurk-in-the-dark vampires with a soul didn’t mean she couldn’t appreciate the appeal.
That sounded great until honesty forced her to admit the truth; which was that against the odds Angel had managed to gate-crash a fantasy or two, or three. The facts were staring her in the face. Undead or not she still wanted him. Hazel eyes slid shut on a moan before snapping open again. “So what if against my better judgement I still find him hot. That doesn’t mean I have to do anything about it. I used to love skiing, but not being able to do that anymore hasn’t killed me.” Satisfied with that logic, she nodded to herself. “Besides, there are lots of cute guys in LA and at least when their blood flows down there it’s their own.”
Harsh but true…
Except….ogodogodogod…Angel wants me. Crap! Definitely giddy. That confession let loose a torrent of insecurities. Sighing, she tucked her hair behind her ears and focused on what was bothering her the most. “Okay, so Angel is horny…it doesn’t mean he cares about me anymore than another woman he happens to know. He’s gallant that way… and what about Buffy? Her being dead doesn’t mean he’s moved on.” That was uncomfortably true and her brow furrowed.
As much as she hated to admit it, back in Sunnydale when Buffy was around Angel had looked straight through her no matter what she’d done to try and snatch his attention, and boy did those memories still sting. The furrows dug deeper and formed a scowl. “Yeah and what does that tell you, other than he has a taste for skinny blondes? Geeze, between his, ‘I’m so tortured’ routine and her, ‘Woe is me’ complex, I’m surprised that they managed to cram anything else in.”
The bite in her voice was an echo of old bitterness. Angel had been the first man where she’d actively been the hunter rather than the hunted, for no other reason than he pushed her buttons on a chemical level. She hated failure so much, looking back now she understood why finding out he was a vampire had been a relief. Knowing that, Cordelia had been able to leave him and Buffy to their eternal forbidden love without a qualm.
Until now. Cordelia rejected that, “Nothings changed. He’s still a vampire and who needs phantom Buffy hanging over their heads? Certainly not this girl. Been there, done that, got the tee-shirt. Let him down gently tonight and forget about it. Keep it friendly and nothing more.” A horrible thought had her adding, “And don’t bring up Buffy, he’ll think your jealous. Just use the old ‘I want normal’ schtick. That should do it.”
“Hey, what’s a gorgeous gal like you doing all lonesome and talking to yourself?” The voice was irritating even before the words sank in; made more so when a hand was thrust before her face, “Your rescuers name is Scott by the way. That’s me in case you were wondering.”
Rudely pulled from a crucial conversation with herself that needed finishing before Angel came back, Cordelia flicked the hand a glance but didn’t sully her own by touching it. Shifting her gaze up, she was met by a flushed face and glazed blue eyes staring avidly down at her cleavage. Geeze, the creep didn’t even have the sense to look at her face instead of her breasts. Gross! Staring disdainfully from under lowered brows she said, “Scott, if you think by giving me your name you’re going to get mine, think again. Basically, I wouldn’t be seen dead with a scumbag like you.”
Those eyes finally lifted to her face and he weaved unsteadily on his feet. “Hey!”
Tick-tock, tick-tock. Will you just leave, already?
“Look, you can stand there and act all offended or you can leave and avoid getting your head twisted off by my date. He’s big by the way- takes mean to a whole other level, too, when he gets cranky. Like say when other men hit on me.” Her smile was entirely fake and contained enough mean of it’s own to give Scott the willies without any help.
“Too late,” a deep voice stated silkily from behind him.
Turning to meet that voice’s owner, Scott was struck by the menace coming off the newcomer in waves. Dark hair, black coat, dark shirt and dark pants painted a picture of shadows. Needing to look up quite a way didn’t help and his Adam’s apple bobbled when he swallowed. The stark contrast between a pleasant expression and dead, nearly black eyes holding only the promise of pain was chilling enough to pierce the thickest of drunken fogs. Babbling an apology he backed away until it felt safe enough to actually run.
“Mean?” Angel queried as he sat down and set the tall, umbrella decorated glass before a smirking Cordelia.
Unrepentant, she shrugged, “So. I know you’re kinda cuddly. The point is he didn’t and you do have a dark alley creepy vibe about you- must be that blood and guts past of yours leaking out.” Just because romantically speaking he was a walking tragedy didn’t mean Angel doesn’t have his uses and intimidation was one of them. Not that he was brutish looking, just the opposite in fact with that sweeping jaw and sculpted bone structure. It was vampire mystique she supposed, with even the dumbest low-life recognising when a predator was sizing them up.
Angel had dismissed Scott the second he’d scampered off and as for being called cuddly, from anyone else he might have a raised a brow. Frustrated from the long wait to be served, he let the comments slide and gestured to the drinks, saying, “In my day you could have fed a family for a month on what those cost.”
Cordelia arched a brow at the disgruntled tone. “In your day nobody cared what they were drinking. It’s a brave new world with a thing called consumer demand. Embrace it.” Then leaning over far enough he unwittingly got an eyeful of the same cleavage that had so enraptured the hapless Scott, she lifted his glass and sniffed at the amber liquid. Wrinkling her nose at the familiar sour smell, she said, “Whiskey man, huh? I’d heard you were Irish.”
The past was never a pleasant place to revisit. “Yeah, well that was a long time ago.” Lifting the glass for sip, he could smell the perfume impressed on the glass from the fingers she’d used to dab it on her pulse points. The whiskey hit the back of his throat and burned its way down. Maybe if he drank a few more of these he could stop wondering which pulse points she may have missed.
An hour and several drinks later Cordelia was looking deliciously merry and radiant, cloaked in a fuzzy glow. She also had that relaxed and ever so slightly sassy look of someone who had just about consumed enough alcohol to lower a few defences. As unlikely as it was, Angel was enjoying himself. They were surrounded by a sea of people and yet she held his attention so effortlessly he was able to forget his abhorrence for both crowds and socialising.
If nothing else Cordelia held a unique perspective on the world, not to mention seriously indiscreet with some of the things she came out with. So far he’d heard about the last place she’d lived in and the landlady who’d spent twenty years as a hooker before taking over a boarding house; a neighbour who believed he was Elvis and was constantly frying burgers while belting out tracks and nearly setting the building alight. Then there was the other neighbour, a forty-something blonde having a torrid affair with the same PI the suspicious husband had hired to stalk his wife, who then left him.
“Never a dull moment,” he teased when she took a breath.
“Tell me about it,” she said feelingly. “I’m just glad you guys don’t do divorce cases- sordid or what? Although, I hear the money’s good.”
Not trusting the arrested expression that ghosted over her face, Angel said firmly, “No divorce cases, Cordy.” Picking up and draining his glass, he missed the pleased glance she gave him for shortening her name, “At least not unless the dog they’re fighting over starts spouting two heads and talking in three languages.”
Unexpectedly a gurgle of laughter worked its way up from her belly. Wow, Angel telling funnies. Who knew he had a sense of humour?
They reached a conversational pause. It was okay decided Cordy, it was a comfortable one. Too comfortable she realised and had to drag herself woozily back from the dangers of that comfort zone. She was supposed to be explaining to Angel why he needed to nip any ideas of romance with her in the bud, wasn’t she?
With her chin propped on one palm and gazing into his eyes, Angel was busy trying not to think about how adorable the expression on her face was. Of course her expression had nothing to do with what came out of her mouth. That would be too easy. Without warning she blurted, “When I said I wanted to go out, I was trying to get away from you. Wanna explain how I ended up letting you take me out instead?” Across the table she was regarding him with genuine perplexity.
They’d gone from some gentle reminiscing to this how exactly? Angel frowned nonplussed, “You were trying to get away from me?” Alarmed, he tried to pin down what she may have found out so he could circumvent it. Perhaps she’d seen something Wesley had left behind? His temper rose only to run out off steam in the next second.
Cordelia didn’t seem to have heard him and if she noticed the powerful body opposite going taut, she paid it no heed. “After Xander, I swore off losers for life.” She held up hand before he could voice a protest, “not saying you’re a loser…just that the whole undead-freak-of-nature stuff weird’s me out. No offence.”
Relief that she hadn’t stumbled upon the truth didn’t last long. So much for banter and this time it rankled. “None taken,” gritted Angel sarcastically. There were times talking to Cordelia when the desire for a map and a compass reared, either that or to reach out and throttle her.
Angel looked royally pissed. This was not playing out the way she’d imagined. Damn, why did I drink so much? Ploughing on anyway, she aimed for placatory, saying, “Don’t get me wrong. I get you’re one of the good guys now, and that’s good, *great* even.”
“Gee thanks, next time I need a reference I’ll call you.” Was he supposed to be flattered? Aggravated, Angel blinked and sat back, folding his arms over his chest.
“Do that…no, wait…what I mean is you’re a champion for the big guys up top. Uh, what do you call them again, the whoosa whaties?”
Cordelia it seemed was just warming to her theme and nothing short of a gag was stopping her. Angel was tempted. Instead he answered her flatly, “The Powers That Be.”
Two fingers clicked eureka, “Right! The PTB’s that’s the name I was looking for. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is, I’m just not sure if I’m ready for a relationship with a guy who y’know…kills things for a living.” Cocking her head, Cordelia looked thoughtful, mulling over what to say, “I guess I’m after normal. Handsome, rich and well endowed are the preferred attributes, but I’ll settle for-“
“well endowed?! He couldn’t contain his stunned disbelief.
That sharply disbelieving exclamation derailed her for a moment and too late full lucidity returned. Hazel eyes went wide. “Oh God! Did I actually say that?” Aghast, Cordelia clapped a hand over her mouth before dropping it to try and recover, “No, no, I meant…um? Humoured- humours good?”
The dark and frankly disbelieving face opposite warned her he wasn’t buying it. Crap, crappity crap, crap. This was the reason she rarely drank spirits because afterward Cordelia had even less control over her runaway mouth. She’d been so flustered though that loosening up had seemed a good idea. It was his fault for having a hard-on, anyway. Wisely she kept that to herself.
Like hell she’d meant humour. Words failed him for a moment until finally, “Cordelia,” Angel growled, sitting forward to brace his elbows on the table and glare, “What does this have to do with you wanting to get away from me?” Once they’d got that cleared up, she was changing to coffee he decided.
It had finally clicked she was letting him down gently, Cordelia style. He’d forgotten she thought he was falling for her. Although, how she’d leap-frogged to that conclusion still escaped him. Pride insisted he burst her bubble, but caution kept the rebuttal sealed behind gritted teeth. Jesus, given the way he felt right now, even that irritating attraction seemed far-fetched. After two hundred and fifty years roaming the earth’s worst hell-holes he’d been sure little could surprise him, until Cordelia.
Until Cordelia; those two words were turning into a mantra.
***
Kate followed the tan van as close as she dared. The Cherokee she’d commandeered off an irate couple was a conspicuously noisy brute though, and she was constantly on the alert for something deadly erupting from the van’s rear doors. After only reaching Angel’s voicemail, she’d made the impulsive decision to follow in the hope of finding out where the demons were taking Richards. Maybe she couldn’t save the man, but she had to at least try.
Angel had her number, and she was hoping against hope he called back before the van pulled in leaving her with a decision to make. Ahead, the van veered sharply around a corner and cursing fluidly, Kate slowed down to give it time to accelerate again before following suit.
Across town, Wesley let himself back into the dark, deserted offices of Angel Investigations. Hampered by yet another pile of books and juggling a Starbucks paper cup at the same time, he wrestled with the lock to regain his key and almost lost the lot before the voracious door gave up. Slamming it shut with a foot hard enough the glass and pull-down blind rattled a protest, he weaved towards the desk that had once been his.
Dropping the mini-tower haphazardly over the clutter-free surface and grateful to be free of the burden, the flashing orange light on the answering machine didn’t register with him straight away. Sitting and sipping from fragrant cup, he flipped through, Alchazars Compendium of Arcane Magicks, trying to find an elusive reference to the slayer he vaguely recalled from his Watchers Academy days.
When the urgently blinking light did catch Wesley’s eye, he absently reached over to push play, assuming it was Angel with some clipped message explaining where he’d gone. He had not expected Kate Lockleys frantic voice to explode from the tiny speakers.
Angel, if you’re there pick up, dammit! She took a breath that was part sobbing frustration before continuing, You were right…they took him. Killed a lot of cops doing it, too. If you hear this call me straight back. I’m going to follow the van to see where it goes.
Immobile with shock for a second, Wesley finally picked up the receiver and dialled Angel’s cell as speedily as he could. It went straight to voicemail and with no other choice, he left a terse message telling him that Kate was in danger and he, Wesley, was going to after her. Then staring blankly at the machine as if it would proffer up the number to return Kate’s call, it finally occurred to him to check the index on Angel’s desk. Almost skidding through the doorway in his urgency, Wesley flipped until he found the card and scribbled down the number.
***
With some verbal manoeuvring that would have done a politician proud, Cordelia managed to tie Angel in a big enough knot of confusion he finally let it go. Declining coffee in favour of filling her stomach to soak up the evils of alcohol, she suggested leaving to find something to eat.
Outside in the still warm night air and thankful for not having to admit she’d been spooked by that flash-fire jolt of awareness over the doughnuts, she asked brightly, “So, why LA and not somewhere with less killer-UV? Was it the bright lights, glitzy glamour, or the name that drew you?”
Muddled still on how she’d outtalked him, Angel managed to rise to the occasion with a sardonic drawl, “Definitely the glitzy glamour,” Then accepting the olive branch, added, “I’ve been here before and it was within driving distance. I’m not big on planes and time zones.”
“I bet. Who wants to be sitting there eating their hash browns and turning crispy kritter when the sun comes up an hour early?”
“Exactly,” full lips tilted wryly at the way she put it. “I probably wouldn’t have stayed long if I hadn’t met Doyle.”
Walking along, tiny purse swinging by its beaded strap in her hand, she shot him a quizzical look, “Doyle? Then her face cleared, “Oh, wait that would be the guy Wesley talks about. Half-demon Vision Guy?”
“The one and only.” For once the memory was nostalgic. “He turned up at the apartment one day and before I know it I’m working for the powers. He was a good guy. A bit tattered around the edges but-” Angel tailed off as the familiar guilt awoke.
“You liked him?”
“I did.” That answer came readily, as did the disclaimer, “So did most people who met him, except the ones he owed money to.”
“Aahh, got it. A gambler, huh?”
And an alcoholic Angel thought as an aside. He didn’t mention it because in the end those two vices made up only a fraction of the whole man. Deciding to give her a better picture rather than leave such a distorted view, he added, “Doyle died a hero and if you’d have told him that a week before he died, he would have fallen over laughing at the idea of it. He didn’t give himself enough credit.”
Like someone else she could mention thought Cordelia. She took a wild guess, “You blame yourself for his dying don’t you?”
Angel didn’t bother denying it. Normally, talking things through wasn’t his strong point. Tonight for some reason the words formed. “I was there. The visions were supposed to be my mission and yet he died to save the rest of us. It should have been me. He didn’t deserve to die.”
The funny thing with other people’s feelings, Cordelia realised was that no matter how you cocooned yourself, if you could relate, you felt the need to offer comfort. Blunt comfort was her speciality and she used it now. “People don’t die because they deserve it, Angel. C’mon, you should know that, you dished it out enough back in your bad old vamp days.”
Flicking her a dark look that bounced straight off, Angel slowed his pace so she wouldn’t struggle to keep in the high heeled shoes. “Maybe” he finally conceded low.
She was having none of his evasion. “Maybe Schmaybe. Just because you miss someone doesn’t mean you have the right to turn yourself in a walking cloud of dark despair. What would Doyle say if he saw you acting all…” searching for a less offensive word, Cordy hit on one and flicked a hand at him, “…mopey instead of moving past it and getting on with life?”
When he didn’t reply and seemed to sink into a dark well of guilt, she rolled her eyes and pushed a little harder, “Or Buffy for that matter.”
That got a response. Angel stopped walking to level a narrow-eyed stare, “What about Buffy?”
Cordelia stopped, too, and turning wagged a finger at him. “You never mention her name.”
Taken aback, Angel’s reply was more automatic than thought through, “I do.”
Decisively, Cordy shook her head. “Nuh huh. You don’t. I’ve been working for you for nineteen days, and boy am I counting them, and so far you’ve never mentioned her once. I knew her, too, for crying out loud. Talk.”
Since she’d started to walk off again he had no choice except to follow her lead again. Warily he asked, “About what?”
“I dunno, just talk. Tell me more about how she died?”
It felt pulled out of him and yet the steely demand in Cordelia’s voice struck a cord. For some obscure reason blowing her off wasn’t an option. Where to begin he wondered? “I mentioned the Mayor, didn’t I?”
She gave a short affirmative nod.
“Well-“ heaving a sigh, Angel shrugged heavy shoulders to relax them, “Apparently, he’d had been spending the last hundred years planning his ascension to demon-hood. The problem was we didn’t find out in time to kill him before he entered the final phase, becoming impervious to physical harm.”
“Nifty trick,” interjected Cordy with a sideways grin.
“Yeah, only it wasn’t nifty at the time.” Having started it got easier. “Then it got a whole lot worse when Faith turned bad and switched sides. In the end we had no choice except to wait for the big day, which turned out to be graduation day, to kill him.”
It sounded so simple and yet from bitter experience Cordelia could guess how it had been anything but. “Go on,” she prodded, interested despite herself.
“Everybody was armed and the plan was that Buffy would lead the mayor, then a big-ass snake demon, into the school building that had been wired with explosives.”
“Snake demons- yuck! So glad I wasn’t there for that party. Nice plan though, it actually has some pizzazz to it. Who thought that one up?”
“Willow found out from some old records that the mayor had a predecessor who’d been destroyed by an earthquake; the same quake that trapped the Master as it turns out. That gave Buffy the idea on how to finally kill the mayor.”
Good ol’ Buff. Cordy just nodded and motioned for him to continue.
“Everything seemed to be going to plan until the end. Buffy got clear of the building and the charges went off bringing the whole place down on the demon. Problem was the force of the explosion threw her onto some railings.” Blinking to clear a sudden film of acid tears, Angel ducked his head to hide them. When he spoke again his voice was thicker, “She had a lot of internal damage. They cut her loose and took her to hospital. The surgeons worked all night but it was no good. She regained consciousness once and died a few days later.”
Just like the first time he’d told her, words felt inadequate, although this time at least she was prepared. “Angel, I’m so sorry. I can only imagine how rough that was.”
Moved to do something other than reel off a load of dumb platitudes, she reached out and taking his hand gave it a squeeze, vaguely surprised when he didn’t pull away. In fact he did the opposite and turning his hand in hers so they were palm to palm, they carried on walking with them clasped. Angel, caught up in the past, sighed and let the warmth of her palm soak into his cold skin, “It was rough,” he admitted and shook his head wryly at the understatement, “and my being there just made it harder on the others.”
Friends hold hands. There’s nothing wrong with it and don’t you dare read anything into it. Self counselling over, Cordy concentrated on the bombshell he’d just dropped. “How do you figure that out? You finally had something in common with them; grief over Buffy. Plus, you did a lot of good helping them out-” she’d been about to say before Angelus reared his pretty head, but bit it back. As it turned out she needn’t have bothered being so sensitive.
Shaking his head, Angel met her gaze. “I did a lot of bad things, too,” he reminded her gruffly, adding “Without Buffy to act as their centre and force them to accept me it was obvious I had no place in the gang. I headed out within a month of the funeral.” They’d all been relieved; even Willow, his biggest supporter and the only one of the remaining scoobs who had felt remotely comfortable around him. He didn’t blame them, or regret leaving. It had been the right thing to do.
As if only just realising he held her slim fingers, Angel gave one last grateful squeeze and released her. The loss of that warmth was instant.
The tingles still running over her fingers had nothing to do with vampire strength and she knew that because he’d been gentle. Unknowingly, Cordelia echoed him, “Well, it seems like you made the right move. You have your own business now; not to mention the irony of having your very own watcher. I bet that pisses off a few stuffed shirts back in not-so-sunny-England.”
Slanting him a look she caught his barely suppressed smirk and jumped on the telltale reaction. “Hah! I knew that noble act was just a front. You get a kick out of knowing the Watchers Council has got to be steaming with rage that one of their own is working for the Scourge of Europe, don’t you?”
“Ex- Scourge of Europe.” Tucking his hands into the pockets of his pants, Angel shrugged and admitted, “ And maybe- just a little bit,” then finished with mock-stern warning, “But if you tell that to anyone, I’ll deny it.”
“Don’t worry, boss, I’ll keep it secret and only bring it up when I want a raise.” Usually solemn brown eyes crinkled and instantly melting, her heart squeezed. To cover her reaction she asked a little too brightly, “See isn’t this nice? Actually interacting with the living instead of just skulking around the edges? I knew I could bring you out of that shell”
Dark slashing brows rose, “Um… I think your forgetting whose idea this was and I don’t skulk…well, not all the time,” Angel protested without heat.
It was perhaps the only part of him without heat. Everything about her made him think of the sun; from sun-kissed skin, glowing eyes and most of all the big smile she’d gifted him with a few times during their impromptu date. The night had been wonderful and he was reluctant for it to end. Cordelia was truly something else, maybe even something he’d been missing. He wasn’t quick enough to halt that thought before it flashed across his mind.
“Don’t kid yourself,” she teased in response to his protest. Feeling completely in harmony, it felt right to tuck a hand into the crook of his arm. Liking the feel of hard muscle under the cool leather, she continued lightly, “Anyway, back to the wonderfulness of your life now and the added bonus of having me there to help out. All in all, I’d say its better than being just the muscle in someone else’s operation, right?”
“Hey!” His lips twitched at the back-handed compliment.
Turning to him and close enough her chin almost brushed his shoulder, Cordy looked blank. “What?” realising what she’d said, she grinned and swatted him for taking it the wrong way, “Oh shut-up, you know what I mean.”
“Hmm” Deciding it was her turn to open up, Angel gave her a nudge, “What about you. Why did you leave Sunnydale and come here?”
***
The storeroom holding the Council’s darkest secrets looked ridiculously like an old stationery cupboard. Although, once inside it bore a striking resemblance to the Tardis in that it went back and back until after pushing through a false rear, it finally led to a secret chamber beyond. With shaking hands, Teddy lit the candles and cursed the silly superstitions that banned modern conveniences around such potent artefacts.
The pungent odour of fat and sulphur rose from the squat old candles and wheezing a little, he made his way over to the cupboard marked with a scrolling ‘S’. Thank heavens the filing was alphabetical, he thought and tried to hold onto the positive, scrupulously avoiding the feeling of smothering doom just being in here gave him.
If he was found in here his sentence would be swift and unalterable. Rupert hadn’t even known what he was asking Teddy to do, and why would he when it was a secret. Only a very few men knew exactly what happened to those that dared cross this threshold unauthorised. “Let’s not get found then shall we,” he mumbled and opening the cubbyhole’s cover, reached inside to pull out the first sheaf of velum he came across.
Carefully spreading them over the chambers single table, he got to work. Two hours later and knowing simply by the growing snakes of terror writhing in his gut that time was running out, sweat formed rings of dampness under both Teddy’s arms and across his forehead. “Rupert…there is nothing here!” he complained to the absent ex-watcher, thinking this whole terrifying exercise had been a waste of time. Then tucked between two other heavily embossed animal-skinned wallets, a plain manila file caught his attention. Picking it up, he felt his heart kick with excitement and breathed, “Hello. What’s a common little thing like you do among all these lofty relics?”
Opening it with a hand that was steadier if still trembling, although more now from sensing he was getting somewhere, Teddy gave a hiss of shock when a standard 10×8 black and white photograph leaped out at him. Darkly handsome and wearing a knee length leather duster, the powerful figure of the vampire Angel stared unknowingly at something to the bottom left of the camera.
Underneath it was a single sheet of paper covered on both sides with cuneiform script. By no means an expert, the few phrases he was familiar with had him staggering back and turning paper-white.
Slayer heart, banish this soul, and worst of all a note at the bottom, written in English, stating that this was merely an incomplete copy as the original was missing.
“Oh, good GOD!”