She lost time, and he was practically on top of her by the time she got the door open. He growled like an animal, anticipating the kill. She slammed the door in his face and ran on.
The bright overhead fluorescents cast a cold blue glow over the two of them as she lost more ground. Then she pushed the janitor’s cleaning cart at him. It crashed into him and he stumbled over it, landing hard on the floor.
While he was down, she took the nearby flight of stairs. Gasping for breath, she looked over her shoulder as she darted past a semicircular window — street lamps and passing cars, the unsuspecting and uncaring normal world of urban night — and ran right into him.
She could move fast.
But he could move faster.
Her eyes widened as he put his chilled fingers to her lips, urging her to silence. His laughter was inhuman. She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t blink. Couldn’t breathe.
“Sorry, Jenny. This is where you get off,” he said in a low, gentle voice. And then he grabbed her head and twisted.
Her neck made an interesting crack.
Her lovely body tumbled to the floor.
A little winded, Angelus took a couple of deep breaths, and then he cocked his head.
“I never get tired of doing that.”
Without another glance at the dead woman, he moved on.
“Smile for the camera,” the woman at the party commanded. She added appreciatively, “Who’s this hunk of tall, dark, and handsome?”
“He’s a friend,” Tina said. “Margo, I really need to talk to you.”
Margo said offhandedly, “Get yourself a drink. I’ll be there.”
She turned the camera on other arriving guests. Tina and Angel drifted toward the hors d’oeuvres table. The apartment was elegant, with a great city view. It was packed with the young and the hip, everybody very on, making their moves while trying not to appear too eager.
Tina indicated the mountain of party sandwiches cut into star shapes.
“Cute,” she said. “Everyone’s a star.”
Angel cut to the chase. “Who’s Russell?”
She looked scared. “You don’t want to know.”
“Actually, I do.”
She replied, “He’s someone I made the mistake of trusting.”
Margo sailed up to them and announced, “Here I am.”
Tina said to Angel, “This won’t take long.”
Margo smiled fetchingly at the vampire. “I wouldn’t leave that one unattended,” she drawled.
The two women moved off. Angel looked around at the trendy crowd chatting and drinking. His awkwardness returned full force. He felt out of place, and that made him feel a little tired. Doyle probably didn’t know what he had asked of Angel.
How much he had asked of Angel.
Then he found himself confronted by a tidy businessman-type guy. The man was about forty-five, and he stared at Angel intently.
He said, “You are a beautiful, beautiful man.”
Angel was nonplussed. “Uh, thanks.”
“You’re an actor,” the man continued.
“No.”
The man held out a business card. “It wasn’t a question. I’m Oliver; ask anyone about Oliver. They’ll tell you that I am a fierce animal. I’m your manager as soon as you call.”
Angel insisted, “I’m not an actor.”
Oliver smiled. “Funny. I like the humor — I like the whole thing. Spelling has a pilot going up. I don’t know what it’s about, but you’re perfect. Call me. This is not a come-on; I’m in a very serious relationship with a landscape architect.”
Oliver, fierce animal that he was, swept away. Angel had no idea what to say. He left the card on the table and turned to look around some more.
Then he heard a familiar laugh.
A very familiar laugh.
Curious, he rounded a corner. And there she was, talking to a couple of men in suits: Cordelia Chase. Queen C.
How to describe Cordelia? The most self-absorbed, bravest, deeply narcissistic girl in Sunny-dale? Cordelia had grown up pampered and wealthy, and as such, perhaps, had learned there were generally minor consequences for saying exactly what was on her mind. “Tact is just not saying stuff that’s true,” she had been fond of saying. “I’ll pass.”
A stunning girl-woman with dark hair and large deepset eyes, a slightly angular face, and full lips — Cordelia had been the bane of Buffy’s life in Sunny-dale, beginning with the very first day of school. She’d befriended Buffy, then never quite forgiven the Slayer for throwing in her lot with Xander Harris and Willow Rosenberg. The two had been social outcasts, but more loyal friends could not be found by anyone. Both had blossomed from knowing Buffy and fighting alongside her; Willow had even discovered a talent for spellcasting.
But Cordelia? Had she actually changed, as the others had? Angel was never certain. It seemed she had, for a time, due to the extreme sacrifice (for her) of status when she publicly dated Xander. But then she’d caught him kissing Willow, and she had reverted to type.
When she’d first met Angel, she had been attracted to him, and didn’t hide that fact. Even when she knew his true nature. But they weren’t in Sunnydale anymore. It was strange to see her out of habitat.
Would they be different with each other?
“Oh, Calloway is a pig!” she was saying to the group around her. “I won’t even read for him any-more. How do you think Carrie got the part? Oh, please.” She did that thing with her eyes. “There’s a short walk between acting and faking. Anyway, she’s way too old. It should be someone fresh, you know, like a young Natalie Portman.”
Angel said, “Cordelia.”
She looked over at him, did a double take.
“Oh, my God! Angel!”
Her audience began to drift away as she went to Angel. She glanced anxiously at their retreat, torn, but somehow Angel won the coin toss.
“I didn’t know you were in L.A. Are you living here?”
“Yeah. You?”
She preened a little. “Malibu. Little condo on the beach. It’s not a private beach, but I’m young, so I forbear.”
He was pleased for her. “And you’re acting?”
“Can you believe it?” She did that thing with her hair. “I just started it as a way to make some quick cash and then — boom! It’s my life. Lots of work. I’m just trying to keep grounded, not let it go to my head. So are you still” — she made claws and fangs — “grrrr?”
“Yeah.” He shrugged. “There’s not actually a cure for that.”
“Right,” she said brightly. “But you’re not evil. You’re not here to . . . you know, bite people. . . .”
He didn’t blame her for checking. Their past did contain a significant Jekyll-Hyde quotient.
“Just gave a friend a ride,” he assured her.
“Good.” She was all white teeth and bright eyes. “Isn’t this a great party?”
“Fabulous,” he concurred, meaning, Not really.
She didn’t catch it, didn’t hear it. “So, who do you know?” she pressed. Then, off his look, she tried again. “Who do you know here? Somebody?”
“Just Tina. This isn’t exactly my scene.”
“Well, yeah, you’re the only vampire here.”
Angel couldn’t help it. “I kind of doubt that.”
She didn’t catch that, either. Same old Cordy.
“Well, I better get mingly; I really should be talking to the people who are somebody,” she said brightly. “But it was fun!”
She sailed off.
Tina was on her way back, looking none too happy. Then she was intercepted by a tough-looking guy — harsh features, heavy brows — in a well-cut suit.
One thing about being a vampire for so long, Angel thought. I’ve had some great outfits in my day.
The guy — frankly, he looked like a thug — exchanged a few words with Tina. She was obviously not happy about that either. Then he put his hand on her arm, and she wrenched it away.
S
he moved to Angel and said, flustered, “Of course she doesn’t have the money yet. Can we get out of here?”
Angel looked over at suit guy. “Who’s that?”
“Just a creep. Can we please go?”
Angel complied. They headed for the door.
Stacey watched them go. Then he whipped out his cell phone.
She hadn’t wrinkled his suit.
One point in her favor. But just one.
Tina tried to breathe. She had taken to holding her breath a lot lately, or else she took too many breaths, too shallow to do much good.
She had no idea how she had gotten herself into this mess. A baby step at a time, she told herself. First you do one thing that feels a little off, and then another, and pretty soon you’re knee-deep.
Then you realize you’ve just spent the last six months of your life wading in quicksand.
She glanced up at Angel. His profile was already etched in her mind. His eyes were so dark you could just fall right into them. He was the kind of guy one might see for two seconds, but one would never forget any detail. That dark hair, the way he carried himself. Like a fighter who knew he could take on anybody, yet very wary.
There was something about him, a presence, a different-ness. It was clear he had his own demons. He wasn’t comfortable in his skin. But an aura of power clung to him.
Who was he, anyway? Was he handing her a rope to pull her out, just so he could hang her?
Montana had never seemed so far away. Sometimes it was almost as if it had stopped existing. Or like home was something she made up to make herself feel better about her life.
What I wouldn’t give for a drunk cowboy, she thought, and almost smiled.
She didn’t even want to think about having someone like Angel in her life. Really in her life. The way she felt, that was aiming way too high.
The elevator doors slid open, and she and Angel stepped out into the parking garage.
By the time they both registered the presence of the three mean-looking guys, it was too late.
Two of them grabbed Angel and hustled him back into the elevator. The doors snapped shut.
Tina faced the third guy. She knew him. Knew who had sent him.
There were two elevators. The doors to the second one opened, and of course, Stacey was there.
Why did I think I was going to get out of this? she thought miserably.
Stacey said, “He just wants to see you, that’s all.”
Defeat. “Okay. No problem.”
He indicated a waiting BMW 750. Tina’s heart pounded as she obediently headed for it. Her hands were ice cold.
She bolted as soon as she could.
Her shoes clattered as she raced away. She could hear them behind her, gaining ground. She dodged between some parked cars.
And then they got her.
Hands grabbed her from behind and held her as she struggled. It was the guy who had blocked her way after they got Angel back in the elevator.
“Let go of me!” she cried, flailing. “Let go of me!”
They threw her in the car.
And she knew, right then, right there, that she was going to die.
ACT TWO
In the parking garage the BMW was revving. The guy who had tackled Tina was at the wheel. Tina was in back with the “creep.”
The elevator doors opened and Angel leaped out, assessing the situation as quickly as he could.
His two attackers were on the floor, most definitely taken out of play. Not a big challenge, but they had slowed him down just enough, it appeared.
As Angel watched, the Beemer roared away.
Without hesitation Angel took off running in the opposite direction. He could guess the layout of the garage and he knew they would have to loop around to get out of the structure.
Desperate to cut his time, he jumped up on a parked car and ran across several more. He could hear the Beemer’s engine above the heavy thuds of his boots. Or maybe that was his heart — which never beat.
He forced himself not to think about stumbling or falling or doing anything that would lose time. As high as he could, he leaped over the last car and landed precisely in the front seat — go, Speed Racer! — of the convertible . . .
. . . that was not his.
His car was nearby, but it was not this one. Not this one whose driver, as any driver in Los Angeles, had taken his keys with him.
“Damn,” Angel gritted.
No time for anything else: He scrambled out and scrambled for his own vehicle like a pilot into his Harrier during a scramble.
The BMW screeched around a corner, with a clear shot for the exit.
By then Angel had gotten into his car and started it. Now he put the pedal to the metal and headed straight for the Beemer.
The Beemer’s driver kept coming. Angel didn’t slow, didn’t turn, didn’t flinch.
It looked as if it was going to be a brutal game of chicken.
Angel was okay with that.
The engines raced; both of them were going flat out; it was like some kind of Road Warrior joust to the death. Angel didn’t know if he would survive, but it was more likely he would than the other guy. Still, whatever it took . . .
As fast as it took . . .
Their front bumpers were just about to crush; at the last minute the other guy yanked the wheel.
The BMW swerved into the concrete wall and ground to a halt in a shower of sparks and scrunching metal. Angel figured the only thing that kept it from flattening like a pancake was that world-renowned German engineering.
Angel was already there by the time the driver got out and pulled a gun. Angel kicked it out of his hand. It went straight up in the air. The thug looked up to watch it; Angel smashed him in the face, grabbed the gun out of the air, and shoved it in the neck of the other guy — Tina’s unwanted party companion — as he barreled out of the backseat. Tina was getting out, too.
Her seat mate said, “I don’t know who you are, but you don’t want to get involved here, trust me.”
Angel pretty much ignored him. He said, “Tina, get in the car.”
She did.
The other guy looked at him with contempt. “You know what?” he taunted. “I don’t think you’re gonna pull that trigger.”
Without missing a beat, Angel punched him in the face. The guy was on the ground in an instant.
“Good call,” Angel said.
He climbed into his car. The guy on the ground was practically gnashing his teeth as he stared balefully at Angel.
“Nice party, huh?” Tina said.
Angel replied, “Little too fabulous for me.”
He slammed the car into gear and roared away. He was furious, perhaps all the more so because he could still remember a time when he was the one who terrified vulnerable women like this. In fact, he turned them into monsters. And those monsters made more monsters.
And those monsters killed lots of people.
One had only to look at his demonic children, Dru and her paramour, Spike, to see how culpable he was.
Dublin, 1838
It was Christmas, and the snow lay deep and crisp and even. It covered the street; people and carriages milled about, shopping and smiling, in high anticipation of feasting and revelry. Carolers sang and orphans begged. For once, their chilblain fingers touched coin: After all, ’twas the season.
And he came, himself in his high hat and furtive looks. Daniel, his name was, and he was a craven and a cheat. He owed Angelus money, quite a lot of it, and he had continued to play on markers which proved to be of no value. Worse, Angelus had learned, he had pawned his prized family heirlooms and now had no real means to speak of.
Daniel had tried to avoid him for weeks, growing more nervous with the passage of time, and Angelus had allowed him to imagine he was dodging him successfully. It was amusing to watch the lad degenerate, vastly pleasing to observe the progressive fraying of his nerves.
Of course, that might also have something to do with Dan
iel’s upcoming wedding, to the daughter of a family who expected their darling girl to be gracefully provided for. One word of his impoverished condition, and Daniel’s fiancée would be taken away from him in the twinkling of a diamond.
But for Angelus, the game was growing dull. Still, from that Christmas Eve on, Angelus was never quite certain what moved him to kill Daniel that particular night.
Not that it ever bothered him. It was simply . . . intriguing.
Daniel had begged for his life, reminded Angelus about his fiancée, tried to renegotiate the loan. Angelus had allowed the man a wee bit o’ hope, and then he had enjoyed his own Christmas revels.
Lovely in a beautiful white fur cape and an enchanting hood and muff, Darla had stood in the snow, no breath emanating from her blood-red lips. Her eyes glittered like ice. As Angelus spattered blood on the clean, white snow, she watched from the crested shadows, beaming at Angelus.
“Bravo, dear one,” she had said, in her honey-warm voice.
“So you approve?” he queried, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Of course.” She smiled sweetly at him.
She approved of everything Angelus did.
In those days, at least.
London, 1860
But even the closest of lovers require a holiday after a century together. No matter the closeness, the intimacy, the joy: One simply must have a moment to gather oneself back together.
Their parting was amiable, and they promised to return to each other within a decade.
At first Angelus sorely missed Darla. She was his sire and, frankly, the only vampire he knew well enough to trust slightly more than he mistrusted her. He found himself thinking, I’ll have to tell her about this, after every grand adventure.
Thus the need to carefully record every detail of his nights became a habit; and he realized he was able, in this way, to more fully experience what was happening at the moment it actually occurred. This lent spice to his life, which was previously missing.
And so he stayed away for a longer time than he would have planned. Fifteen years, then sixteen.
Then twenty.