Unchained Melody

by MegK1978

Thanksgiving, 2000: Cassandra Cattalano discovers a most UNUSUAL man in her neighborhood in Brooklyn, NY. She finds that he is LITERALLY two-faced. Put in this category b/c characters from the show are involved. PLEASE read and review.

"Unchained Melody" by MK

Notes: Everyone that is not original belongs to Whedon and Greenwalt (damn!); and the originals, of course, belong to me. Title and lyrics belong to the Righteous Brothers. "That's The Way It Is" belongs to Celine Dion. Dedicated to my brother John, my co-writer, my family, and my scathing beta tester.

Distribution: To Ellen, who may place it where she may; to Legion Denial, if they want it; anyone else, ask first!

Spoilers: All of season 2 (AtS) and season 5 (BtVS).

I was pretty Raggedy-Anne-looking by any standards, really. On the other hand, my already-ample body still harbored calories from Thanksgiving dinner two days before. I walked from my family's small apartment to the free clinic where my father was a doctor on call for half-shifts and I was part of the clerical/kitchen/support staff. Basically, I'm a Jacqueline of all trades, although I'm known as Cassie.

I was just around the corner from the clinic when I heard something in an alley to my left. I'd been around sick patients long enough to know the sound of vomiting. I exchanged my sunglasses for my clear gold-rimmed lenses, blinking against the late November glare. A figure with dark hair was on his knees, doubled over, gagging and retching violently. Burned and singed rags that barely counted as clothing clung to his lean form. The patches of exposed skin that I could see were red and blistered, as though someone had decided to set him on fire and was unsuccessful.

I stepped into the shadow of the alley, cautiously approaching him. "Hey, are you all right?" I asked gently. A stupid question, I know, but automatic.

The dark head shook negatively, then came up to look at me. His blue eyes were clouded with confusion and tears, his handsome face contorted in pain. This man was not one of the homeless the clinic treated, I decided. But he needed treatment, and badly.

I came closer to him, my hands splayed open in a non-attack posture. "Please, let me help. There's a clinic just around the corner."

He tried to skitter away, every movement causing him obvious pain. "No—no hospital," he croaked in a thick and ragged brogue.

"It's not a hospital," I reassured him. "It's a free clinic. I work there. Please?" I knelt beside him, offering my hand.

He looked in my own blue eyes, at my hand, and back again. He raised one hand, which he had hidden against his middle, and I saw that it was also badly blistered. I had to stop myself from gasping. It wasn't a claw of scar tissue, but it was getting there. I rerouted his arm to fall across my shoulders. He let me pull him to his feet and support part of his weight. We stumbled and staggered to the entrance of the clinic, making a pretty funny-looking pair, I'm sure.

I had to kick the door open, walking sideways to get us inside. "Jasmine! Carrie!"

The nurse and the Physician Assistant, respectively, came running in response to my urgent shouts, taking my burden to lay him on a nearby gurney. Adopting what my classmates had often called my "Holmes" tone, I reported, "Second- and third-degree burns, especially on his hands. Possible dehydration and fever to go with the shakes."

Jasmine Jackson, an amiable black woman who carried her plumpness better than I ever could, asked, "Why all that?"

"He hurled at least once before I could get him here." I pulled my long dark-blond hair into its more serviceable ponytail. "He was hot to the touch. No smell of alcohol on him, but it could be a post-Thanksgiving purge."

"Two days later?" Carrie Nakamura, the Japanese-American PA who was tougher than her porcelain form implied, glanced at me before holding a thermometer-machine to his ear. "Sorry, Cassie, but that's reaching a bit far, even for your imagination."

The machine beeped; Carrie read the temperature as Jasmine took the man's blood pressure. "Temp's hundred-point-seven."

"BP's kinda high, but it's nothing unusual." Jasmine took a closer look at him, smiled. "You sure picked up a cutie, Cassie."

"Hey, back off, Jazz. Finders keepers."

We got our mystery man into a room. I was in charge of re-hydrating him while Jasmine and Carrie irrigated, salved, and bandaged the wounds on his hands and body.

When my father, Dr. Roberto Cattalano, came in for his rounds, he checked on the mystery patient first when the ladies had told him about my involvement in his case. "Has he said anything since he came in?"

I shook my head, regarding the still figure thoughtfully. "He seemed to shut down almost as soon as he was horizontal. Couldn't find any kind of ID on him. He's from Ireland, though; who knows how long he's been in the States."

Dad made some notations on the chart then hung it back on the end of the bed. "I'm gonna order some blood work, see if we can find anything else that might come out of hiding. Meanwhile, keep pumping him with antibiotics and keep an eye on him between your other jobs."

I nodded. "Check."

My "other jobs" included cooking, cleaning out the transient exam rooms, general office management for the front desk, and calling family and social workers for patients. Right then, none of us was sure what category the mystery man belonged to.

The dark-haired stranger occupied my thoughts for most of the day. Even after I'd cleaned up at the end of shift and headed home, he hadn't decided to wake up. Maybe his body had shut down in response to the pain or had just gone into a healing sleep. I wasn't sure.

This is why I am unsuited to the medical profession. I like to think I'm compassionate, but to see anyone in pain makes my heart break. Also, I seem more suited toward literature or acting out the Bard's plays. But, I feel I should make my mark somehow, touch someone's life in a significant way. That's why I'm actually employed by the clinic, as opposed to merely being a volunteer. Working here on a regular basis, helping someone everyday, gave me great joy.

That night, Dad and I related the mystery patient's case to my mom, Deirdre, and my brother, Marco. Marco wanted to follow in Dad's footsteps, and had already put in several anatomy and biology classes more than the core curriculum at NYU required.

The next day, after three hours of being bored absolutely silly, I heard a distinctive moan coming from my mystery patient. I quickly made a bowl of soup and dashed down the hall—somehow I didn't spill anything.

"Hello?" he called tentatively. "Anyone there?"

My foot nudged the door open. His eyes were clearer, although confusion still lingered, and his dark hair was somewhat disheveled from a combination of his condition and bed head. The burned clothes had been replaced with a hospital gown and a blanket covering his legs.

Putting the soup to the side, I came forward and repositioned the bed and pillows so he could sit up. "Hi," I greeted with a smile. "Welcome back to the land of the living."

"Y' sure I'm alive?" he asked, cracking a half-smile, then wincing when he tried to move further forward. "Now I just wish I was dead." He fell back to the pillows.

"That's just the pain talking," I commented. "It should be gone in another day or two. Now hold still."

He gave me a look of clear suspicion. "What're y' gonna do?"

I couldn't help but laugh. "I'm going to call in one of the nurses to double-check me while I update your chart. Carrie!" I called out the door. (Most people don't know the distinction between PAs and nurses, anyway; I doubted he would.)

Carrie came in, already knowing what I had in mind. She poised her ballpoint over the chart. His temperature and blood pressure were normal, thankfully. She nodded in approval as she looked over my shoulder, noting his markedly improved condition.

"Any word on the blood work yet?" I asked.

"Lab techs are backlogged. They should have the results by tonight."

"Blood work?" the Irishman asked, a note of alarm in his voice, his eyes widening. "Y' took m' blood?"

"Just a sample, to make sure there're no viruses playing hide and seek," I reassured him. "It's not fatal." I couldn't help a mirthful smile. "What do you think we are, vampires?"

His gaze flickered uneasily between us before his mouth softened into a roguish smile. "I guess not."

I'd meant it as a joke, but he'd seemed, for a split-second, to actually consider the possibility!

The last notation made, Carrie left to make one more round before going home. I took the tray closer to him. "The only thing we're not entirely sure about is your stomach. Until we know it's not anything disease-related, you're supposed to take it light."

He shot a gaze at the large, steaming bowl. "And it's—?"

"Chicken broth with rice. And since you're in no condition to handle utensils, you have the dubious pleasure of having me feed you." I dipped the spoon and brought some of its contents to his mouth.

He sipped carefully, chewing the rice, and gave a look of approval. "Nice. Thank y'."

For another second, I felt myself pinned by that gaze. It was so intense, almost electric, with a touch of . . . well, an almost supernatural quality. I felt my face flush at his eyes on me, clearing my throat loudly to shake myself out of it.

"You know," I began as he ate, "next chance, you should probably tell us your name. Your real name; we have too many 'John Doe's as it is."

"Y' actually keep files in a place like this?"

I cocked an eyebrow. "Of course. This isn't a no-tell motel." I smiled. "The files are mostly for the repeat or the overnight patients. And calling you 'John', I think, wouldn't go over too well with you."

"Y're right." He held up a bandaged hand to halt the spoon's movement. His eyes again held mine in place. "Doyle, Allen Francis."

Doyle (the name he insisted I call him) and I talked for the next few hours. He was surprised when I told him the clinic was in Brooklyn. "New York. Y' sure?"

I had to stifle a giggle at the obvious absurdity of the question, but he was being completely serious. He really had no clue where he had wound up. "I should hope I know where I live."

His dark head bowed to his chest with a moan. I panicked a moment before I realized it wasn't a moan of pain. He began to mutter, apparently in Gaelic.

"Doyle?" I asked. "What is it?"

He looked up again. "The last I remember, I was in Los Angeles, an' 'twas the week after Thanksgivin'."

"It's the Sunday after Thanksgiving, actually," I told him. How did he get here from the West coast?

"What year?"

I furrowed my brows, and told him, "Two thousand." And Florida was still making a stink over lost or miscounted ballots in the presidential election. "Why?"

The blood drained from his face, turning him a whiter shade of pale. I half-expected him to throw up again. His eyes widened, he bit his lip, and he looked around as if something would jump up and bite him.

"The last I remember," he finally said, "the year was 1999."

I could only stare at him in astonishment, my jaw somewhere around the basement level. He had readily admitted earlier he had a tendency to be a falling-down drunk. When I had found him the previous day, he must have been coming off the longest bender in history!

"You're sure? I mean, you really don't remember the last year?"

"Not a bit."

But I saw something behind his statement, in his eyes. I've been known to read eyes pretty well, and he had the look of someone who had been through something traumatic, reluctant to share.

I held the water glass to his lips, letting him take a few sips. "Look, I'm not one to cast the first stone. But if you ever need to talk, I'm a very good listener."

He smiled softly at me. (Oh God, any girl who sees that smile is sure to melt like chocolate ice cream!) "I'll remember that, Cassie. Thanks."

Okay, I'll admit it, at that moment I was infatuated with him, but I've had rotten luck with men. Every guy I've had a crush on was either cruelly indifferent, had a girlfriend, or just didn't feel "that way" about me. I genuinely liked Doyle, and I put whatever feelings I thought I had for him on the back burner.

Around three in the afternoon, I noticed some guys hanging around the clinic's entrance. They weren't potential patients or family of patients. I pointed them out to Jasmine, who looked up from her paperwork to see what I was talking about. "Ever see them before?"

"No," I replied. "Maybe we can get one of the locals to check them out?"

"The locals" are the two street gangs that inhabited the clinic's neighborhood; more like neighborhood watch than gangbangers, even though they liked trying to act the part—usually unable to keep a straight face at the same time. Each considered the clinic special, and both gangs were determined for it to stay safe and neutral (where else would they go if they got shot playing vigilante?).

"Maybe," Jasmine replied with a note of doubt. "If they're a new gang trying to move in, the Dragons and Tigres aren't going to like it."

"Yeah, and we'll be caught in the middle," I murmured worriedly.

"I can't believe you're letting him sign out!"

Dad sighed and raked a hand through the thick dark hair I'd always admired. He was still waiting for the Monday-morning coffee to kick in. "Cassie, you know this is his choice."

"He still needs treatment," I continued to argue.

"You know, I know, and I made sure he knows—very loudly and angrily."

"And he's still signing himself out?! That makes no sense."

Dad shrugged almost helplessly. "I can't treat him if he doesn't want it. It'd be like refusing treatment if he did want it."

"We'll see." I raced from the exam room, to the front desk, my eyes blazing blue fire. "No!" I snatched the pen from his hand before he could affix his signature to the paperwork—I'm lucky I didn't break his fingers, I grabbed it so fast.

Doyle gave me a wide-eyed look of surprise. "Cassie, what—?"

"Doyle, don't go," I pleaded, breathless from my sprint down the hall.

He gave me a cocky half-grin. "Didn't know y' liked me that much, darlin'."

"Be serious!" I took a breath, trying to rein in my mostly-Italian temper before I exploded. "You've only been here two nights. You're still wrapped in bandages like Boris Karloff, you can barely hold a pen"—I glanced at what he was wearing—"and you're wearing clothes hijacked from the charity bin."

He quickly smothered a laugh. "God, the two o' y'—what's wi' women an' m' fashion sense?"

I didn't know what he meant and I didn't care. "Screw the fashion sense! You're leaving here AMA. I know you're Irish, but this goes beyond crazy."

The half-grin softened into a little smile. One bandaged hand came up to rest lightly on my shoulder. "Look, Cassie, I 'preciate ev'rythin' you an' yer dad've done fer me, really. But I'm no' gonna get home just lyin' about. 'Sides, m' family's been known t' heal quick."

I could tell that he'd still sign himself out no matter what I said. I stifled a sigh. "Will you come back soon for a follow-up, or a visit at least? Just to let us know you're alive and not doing something stupid?"

Doyle nodded. "Okay. I promise, nothin' stupid. Crazy, yeah, but not stupid; y've got m' word on it."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "Nothing crazy, either. I'm holding you to it. Do you at least have a place to stay?"

"I'll find a place, don't worry."

"I do worry; that's why I'm not even a nurse." I didn't care to elaborate for him. I gently squeezed the hand on my shoulder. "Please, Doyle? Take care? Come back?"

The half-grin came back. "Sure. I'll see y' soon, promise."

I gave him back the pen, and he signed out. I watched him walk out the door, then turn to the group nearby, the guys that had been hanging there the last few days and nights. From what I could tell of reading his lips, he said to them, "Don't cause any trouble, or you'll answer to me."

In that moment, I decided that there was more to my new friend than met the eye.

It was the middle of the night, surprisingly mild for December. I cannibalized my old karate lessons and other martial-arts moves, adding to them the long handle of an old brush-broom and using it as a quarterstaff. This comprised my sporadic exercise routine on the roof of my family's apartment building.

Thrust, parry, parry, strike, kick.

"As any professional can tell you, if the thrusts ain't getting through, then your kicks sure as hell won't," a voice behind me said.

I whirled around fast, nearly losing my balance, to see Marco standing in the doorway of the stairwell. "What're you doing awake?"

"Could ask you the same. What's up?" He came closer, trying to keep his slippers on. Like me, Marco was blonde and blue-eyed, but had a few inches and pounds on me. (He sometimes claimed I weighed more than he did, even with his own exercise regimen and growth spurts). His face carried an almost permanent smile that reminded me of Sabatini's line: "He was born with the gift of laughter, and the sense that the world was mad."

"You still worried about that cracked Mick?"

"Yes, but I'm not sure he's so cracked. And that's not the only thing." I told him about the group of strangers outside the clinic.

Marco smirked. "Did you have your Bleeker Street Irregulars check them out?"

I shook my head, trying not to smile at his nickname for the locals. "Not yet. I'm going to ask Miguel and Zeng tomorrow, see what they can dig up."

"Or who." Marco came up next to me, ignoring the roll of my eyes, slung an arm about my neck, and gave me a hug. "C'mon. Let's get you to bed."

"Isn't that supposed to be my line?" I teased.

"You're point?" Marco had always been precocious, seemed so much more mature than his hormone-driven contemporaries.

Right then, I was too tired to be the big sister I was, anyway.

"Can I help you?" I heard Jasmine ask Tuesday morning.

"Si, Senora," a male voice replied. "We came to see Cassandra."

I stepped out of the kitchen to see two familiar figures at the front desk. "It's okay, Jasmine, let them in."

Jasmine shot me a curious look, then nodded them past.

Miguel Vega was a proud, handsome Hispanic of seventeen, taking over Los Tigres when his older brother abdicated leadership and went out for his law degree ("From being a big cat to a bigger reptile" Miguel had described it). Like many in the gang, he wore the tiger-decorated denim jacket that identified his affiliations.

Zeng Nguyen, Miguel's counterpart in the Dragons, was also seventeen, and had earned his leadership the hard way, through the ranks. Unlike the green serpentine dragon of a run-of-the-mill gang member, Zeng wore the gold dragon of his rank proudly on his own jacket.

And neither one will tell me who makes these designer jackets for them.

Between the two gangs and their pact with the local precinct, a lot of robberies and other crimes didn't go unpunished for very long—if they occurred at all.

"Thanks for coming, guys," I smiled as they came into the kitchen.

"Of course, Cassie," Zeng replied in his softly accented voice, his almond-shaped eyes narrowing with concern.

"What can we do to help?" Miguel added.

"You two saw those guys around the entrance, seeming to keep out of the sun?"

They nodded. "They look like they could be mucho trouble," commented Miguel. "Even if they do look like pale, bloodless sissies."

"That's what I hoped you could find out. Look, the three of us know if another gang tries to move in, it'll be a bloodbath, and that's the last thing anyone wants."

Again, they nodded. They had both heard stories of the gang wars between the early Irish, and later the Sicilian gangs. No one wanted to go back to that way of life. (Not that I thought either of these two were Al Capone fans to begin with.)

"I need you both to check them out—quietly," I continued. "See who or what they are, what they want, and if they've caused trouble anywhere else. We need to know everything before we hit panic buttons. Can you do it, please?"

It only took them a moment to come to their decision. "Los Tigres are at your service, Cassandra," Miguel said in his most gallant tone.

"As are the Dragons," Zeng added.

I always love when they act for me, I thought.

I smiled at them both as we walked back to the entrance. "Thanks, you two. I really appreciate this."

A day passed, and neither of the gangs' hackers—a necessity for the modern gang—had discovered anything. Zeng and Miguel insisted that neither of them was giving up just yet, and I was grateful for that.

The Wednesday day shift passed without major incident or emergency. Frankly, I'd sometimes prayed for slow days like this, but I'd always regretted it later. Right now, between the paperwork that seemed endless and the inaction of the clinic, I was about ready to burst into tears from sheer boredom.

"Hi, Cassie."

I jumped, letting out a cry of surprise. I turned to see the owner of the voice. He stepped back in surprise himself, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief. "Didn't mean t' scare y'."

"Doyle!" I said in delighted surprise. "It's what happens when I let boredom get to me. What took you so long? What're you doing here?" My brows furrowed. "If you're here for the follow-up, my dad already left for the day."

"Don't need it." He brought up his hands for me to see.

My eyes widened in shock. His hands were no longer covered with scabs and scar tissue, but new healthy pink skin. I took one hand in both of mine, investigating it closely. No sign of a skin graft or any other means of artificial regeneration. I don't know how, but his skin had healed and reformed itself in two days!

When I looked up again, still in shock, the roguish half-smile was back. "Told y' m' family heals fast."

"Actually, this would explain your blood work," I said thoughtfully. The lab techs had been even further behind than they had led Carrie to believe, and the results had in fact arrived an hour after Doyle had signed himself out.

Doyle now shot me a look, his face very carefully neutral. "Oh?"

I nodded. "Yeah. Here, let me show you." I let go of his hand and turned to the filing cabinet. Leafing among the folders a moment, I brought out his file and took the photos taken of his blood sample; those enlarged photos taken through a super microscope. "Check it out." I pointed at the "irregularities" the techs had noticed. "These things here, see? My father has never seen anything like this before, and he's one of the best in the borough."

"What are they?"

"From what anyone can tell, they're some kind of natural mutation that shares characteristics with the antibodies they could identify. They seem to be more a help than a harm." I smiled. "Dad briefly considered sending your sample to the American Medical Association and writing a research paper on it."

His eyes came up to fix on me, his look I can only describe as one of pure horror. Frankly, I don't blame him; I'd probably act the same way if I were suddenly the subject of a study and become a medical curiosity…and probably have something new named after me.

"He won't do it, though. Not even with your permission."

He let out the breath he'd been holding, his face relaxing in relief. "Well, good," he replied with a smile.

I gathered the file together and put it away. "So, why are you here if not for a follow-up?"

Doyle looked down, as if he'd suddenly turned shy, then up again. "It has been two days," he pointed out. "And I suddenly thought t' m'self, 'Doyle, y'd be a sorry excuse fer a gentleman if y' didn't offer t' escort Cassie home.'"

I stared him for a moment. "Let me get this straight. After not coming around for two days, you show up to ask if you can walk me home?"

A pink tinge came to his cheeks as he nodded.

I felt my face split into a slow grin. "That has got to be the sweetest offer I've ever gotten!"

Doyle gave me an incredulous look. "Don't believe that. Lass as pretty as yerself must get lots o' offers."

Yeah, from drunks and dirty old men, I thought to myself.

He cocked an eyebrow at me. "I don't need t' worry 'bout makin' a boyfriend jealous, do I?"

I couldn't help but laugh. "No. The only men in my life you should worry about are Dad and my kid brother."

"Oh, good," he said, unafraid…he hadn't met Marco yet. He offered me his arm. "Shall we?"

I locked the desk and cabinet drawers. "We shall." Once we were outside and I greeted several members of the night shift, I put my hand in the crook of his arm. It sounds weird, but in the early dark of December, I felt safe with Doyle there.

After fifteen minutes of comfortable silence, we arrived at my apartment building. "Doyle, would you like to come in?" I asked. "We can always set out another plate for dinner."

"I don't want t' put anyone out," he protested.

"You won't be. My mom is part Italian, so she always cooks enough of any given main course to last the week." I grinned again. "Come on, please?"

He sighed in resignation. "Can't resist when y' put it like that, darlin'."

It was a short walk to the second floor and my family's apartment. I led Doyle inside after unlocking the door. "Hey, Mom," I sang out. "Look what followed me home. Can I keep him?"

"Hey!" Doyle protested. "Do I look like an Irish setter t' ya?"

"Well, in a certain light…" I teased with a smile.

Mom came in from the dining room, where she and Marco had no doubt set the table, brushing a lock of blond hair from her eyes. "Well, about time you brought a man home to meet the family, Cassie."

I blushed, embarrassed at her teasing. "Mom! This is Allen Francis Doyle. Doyle, this is my mother, Deirdre Cattalano."

Doyle stepped forward and shook her hand, smiling and turning on the charm. "'Tis a pleasure, Mrs. Cattalano. With a name like Deirdre, y' wouldn't be Irish, now would y'?"

Mom smiled. "Mostly," she replied. "The rest of my family tree's spread out over half of Europe."

"Doyle was nice enough to walk me home," I explained. "Any chance we can feed him?"

He gave me another look that screamed I'm not a stray!

"We have more than enough food," Mom said. "You're welcome to stay and eat, Doyle."

"Well, who am I t' turn down an invite like that, eh?" Doyle grinned.

"Good, it's settled. Marco!" she called. "Set another plate, please. We have company."

"Jawohl," Marco called back in German.

"Sure it's okay?" Doyle asked as Mom went to the kitchen. "It's not an imposition?"

I tapped his arm. "Stop it. You're getting free food whether you like it or not."

"Doyle!" Dad came out of his small den, a big grin on. "You're back!" He looked down at the hands in astonishment. "And you're healed?!" As I had done not long ago, he seized a hand to investigate it.

"Like I told Cassie, I come from a family that heals fast."

Dad grinned again, pumping the hand he held. "Staying for dinner?"

"Yeah. The women in yer family were very insistent."

"Welcome to my world, friend."

"Hey, hello!" I said, calling their attention back. "Dinner, remember? And, Dad, we Cattalano women are bred to be pushy."

We were in the dining room when we introduced Marco. "The mystery patient," he said as they shook hands. "Never thought my sister would bring you home."

I saw a flicker of pain in Doyle's eyes, and saw that Marco's thumb pressed down between his thumb and forefinger! I wanted to yelp in protest, that my brother was being impulsive and paranoid. But as quickly as the pain appeared, it was gone, Doyle's face and eyes hardening slightly.

"Good grip y' have, Marc," he said, showing no sign of what my brother had tried to do. "Y' might not want t' overwhelm someone with too strong a grip, though."

Marco let go, and probed our guest with an inspecting glance and let a new interest in his eyes for the "cracked Mick" peek through a little. It took a lot to impress him.

Over baked chicken and steamed vegetables, we became fascinated by his stories of himself and his employer in LA, both of them making amends for mistakes they'd made in their pasts. From the sound of his boss, it sounded as if he needed Doyle to bring him out of his shell every once in a while to get the job done; a humanizing influence in his hermitage. Doyle referred to his friend as a hero.

"There any way you can get back?" Marco asked over after-dinner pastries and coffee, wrapped up in the stories. "Aside from walking or flying home."

Doyle shrugged. "Don't know fer sure," he replied. "Been tryin' just t' keep m'self fed 'n' warm on what I have in m' wallet."

"Wait," Mom said. "Where've you been staying for the last couple of days?"

"Little place on Second Street."

Dad recoiled in disgust. "That flea trap?! It's a miracle you haven't caught a secondary infection by now!"

The Irishman gave a self-deprecating grin. "'S okay. Kinda reminds me o' the 'flea trap' flat I had in LA."

"Not anymore!" Mom insisted. "You move out of there and stay with us until you can get home again."

Doyle could only stare in wide-eyed, open-mouthed disbelief. "I—I can't do that!" he protested. "I mean"—he shot a look at Dad—"isn'it 'gainst some ethical rule t' take in someone y' treated?"

"Actually," Dad said with restrained humor, "it's against the rules for a doctor to date a patient. No offense, Doyle, but you're not my type."

I bit my lip to keep my giggles in check. Doyle was the first to break down, bursting into surprised laughter. That caused the rest of us to laugh—except for Marco, who had his permanent, annoyingly amused expression plastered on his face.

Mom wiped the tears from her hazel eyes as we calmed down. "So, Doyle," she tried again, "you move out of that death trap and move in on the sofa."

"I'll take the sofa," Marco said, as though stating a fact.

"Hang on, Marc," Doyle protested again. "Y' don't have t' do that."

"Your point?" he said with that annoying smile again.

I shot him a look of my own, deadpanning, "Okay, who are you and what've you done with my brother?"

That sent us all into a giggle fit that lasted another minute. Marco merely cocked his eyebrow and smiled.

"All right!" Doyle choked out. "All right, now that y've laughed me int' submission"—we all smiled at that—"I'll stay."

Good. He needs a family right now. At least until he can go home again, my mind whispered. "We should think of ways that he can get the money to pay for the trip home," I commented.

Marco quickly stifled a yawn. "Can we think about that tomorrow? I have class at eight."

Dad nodded as he glanced at the clock on the wall. "Yeah, I've got to be in the clinic early. Good night, Doyle."

"'Night, Doc."

With Doyle in Marco's bed, Marco on the sofa, we all settled in for the night.

I was awoken at one in the morning by a scream. Now, the wall between Marco's room and mine is very thin, and my bed is pushed right up against that wall. I don't think I'd ever heard a man scream before, and not in absolute, mind-numbing horror.

I leapt out of bed, not bothering with my glasses, and ran into Marco's room to see Doyle thrashing in his sleep, apparently in the throes of a dream state.

"Doyle!" I called, shaking him by the arms. "Doyle, wake up!"

His eyes snapped open and he sat bolt upright. "Cordelia, no!"

"Doyle!" I almost screamed, trying to bring him out of it.

It took another minute or so for him to realize I was sitting on the bed in front of him, still holding his arms. His eyes were terrified, blinking several times. "Cassie?"

I nodded, encouraging him. "Yeah, Cassie. Brooklyn, New York. Remember?"

Comprehension dawned, and his eyes began to fill with tears. Acting on impulse, I scooted closer and drew him into a gentle hug. He held on to me tightly like a man suspended from a great height, hanging on desperately to keep from falling. His breathing was shaky, his heartbeat fast.

"Cassie?"

I looked up to see the blurry figure of my mom standing in the doorway. Both Dad and Marco slept like rocks; nothing short of a four-alarm fire could wake them up. "It's okay, Mom. Doyle had a nightmare. Go back to sleep."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure, I've got it."

Mom looked at us, raising her eyebrows questioningly. I nodded in reassurance. She nodded in return with a small smile and went back to her room.

Doyle shook slightly, and I could almost swear he was crying quietly into my shoulder. After a few minutes, he relaxed his hold on me and drew back. Tears had spilled down his cheeks, his hand slapping at his eyes, which still seemed so haunted. He gave me a smile of what seemed to be embarrassment. "Sorry," he murmured quietly.

"Nothing to apologize for. It sounded like a hell of a nightmare."

His smile suddenly had a small twist of irony to it. "Perfect choice o' words, darlin'."

I didn't know what he meant by that. On the other hand, he'd said and done a lot of things I hadn't understood in the last few days.

"Who's Cordelia?" I asked gently.

Doyle started at the name as if he'd been hit. He looked at me with such pain. If the eyes were the windows to the soul, his soul had been torn and battered to within an inch of its breaking point. "Um, Cordelia is—the first girl I fell in love with after m' divorce."

"Oh," I said, a small smile tugging at my lips. I should have known he had a girl waiting for him somewhere. My infatuation for this handsome Irishman had cooled in the last two days, and I now considered his friendship much more valuable than any romantic feelings he might have had for me. "Is she pretty?"

"First time I saw her, thought she was a real stiffener." He smiled wistfully at the memory. "But I knew there was somethin' under her beauty, a brain an' the guts t' back it."

I gently squeezed his hand. "You miss her." As soon as the words left my mouth, I wanted to kick myself. Great work, Miss States-the-Obvious!

But Doyle smiled and nodded. "Yeah, I miss her, an' m' friend." He heaved a sigh that was tinged with sadness. "I want t' go home."

"I know." Another light squeeze. "We'll figure out a way, Doyle. I promise."

Thursday morning, Doyle came with Dad and me to the clinic. On the way, we tried to cover what of Doyle's talents he could market to get the money necessary for him to go back to LA. I was a little surprised to find out he'd once taught third grade and worked in a soup kitchen. The latter was where he'd met his now-ex-wife, Harriet.

"Okay, let's think a minute," Dad said as we came in. "He's good with kids, he can work with food—"

"He's got a nice voice," I pointed out. I could see what Dad was leading up to.

"Doyle, you could work here at the clinic," he concluded. "Cassie could always use some extra help around here."

"Free medical, thanks to Dad," I put in. "With time, there could be more than enough money for you to go home."

Doyle hung all our coats on the wall hooks, silently contemplating our offer. I could almost see the wheels turning in his head. He turned to face us. "Would y' mind if I spent the day here, see what y' do?" he asked, looking at me. "If it doesn't scare me away, I'll think it over. Okay?"

Dad and I exchanged glances and little knowing smiles. "It's okay with me," I said. "Dad?"

He shrugged. "Don't see the harm. Okay, Doyle. You tail Cassie today, see what she does, and decide if you can do just as well. Or better."

"Dad!" I exclaimed, feigning insult.

We broke into laughter again. I led Doyle to my workstation and flipped on the new Gateway computer, while Dad went off to get updates from his night-shift counterpart.

"Y' got Internet access on this?" Doyle asked, looking over my shoulder.

"Yeah, but this is for work, not play," I mock-scolded. "You only get to play on downtime." I looked up at him. "Keep in mind, 'downtime' is usually next to nothing on this shift."

Then I remembered something, getting to my feet to see out the clinic's front windows.

Those guys were still there, pale and shaded from the early December sun.

Miguel and Zeng still hadn't found anything, and I was beginning to get the sick feeling they wouldn't find anything. These guys seemed to be the kind that didn't leave tracks.

Otherwise, I went on with business as usual, Doyle nearby and helping where he could. He was a whiz in the kitchen, impressing me considerably. The only time I was frightened at all was when a raging drunk burst in, spouting major abuse at everyone. He was about to lunge at me and one of the clinic's younger patients when Doyle stepped in front of him and laid him out flat with a hard right cross!

After a stunned silence, the patient, an adorable six-year-old named Melissa, came up to Doyle and tugged on his pants leg. He knelt until he was eye-level with her, and she gave him and hug and a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you."

Doyle blushed but smiled, hauling Melissa into his arms. "Y're welcome, darlin'." Everyone in the waiting room burst into applause, including me.

And this was all before noon!

At the end of the day, Doyle decided to stay on. He was more impressed with me than anything else, he said, taking on so much virtually by myself. From then on, we'd divide my usual workload between us, and he'd walk me home at day's end.

Doyle would later insist to my mother that he pay his own way, if not in money, then at least in errands. Marco would come to enjoy having another male in the apartment.

I was working late Friday night, over a week since Thanksgiving and nearly as long since I'd first met Doyle. He'd gone out to fulfill a last-minute errand for Mom ten minutes earlier. Zeng and Miguel had given me some disturbing reports from the street earlier that day. Members of both Los Tigres and the Dragons had turned up dead in the last two days, mostly from blood loss and slit throats. Neither gang would break the treaty between them, so an outside force was culling them both.

"Excuse me," a soft voice interrupted my musings.

I looked up from my paperwork to see a pair of brandy-brown eyes looking down at me. Those eyes were set in a handsome face topped with brown waves of hair and attached to a tall, well-toned body.

I had to take a moment before I could trust myself to speak. "Hello, can I help you?"

"Could I possibly speak to Dr. Cattalano?" His voice held no discernable accent.

"Sorry, but Dr. Cattalano left some time ago. I could set up an appointment for you—"

"That won't be necessary." Suddenly, his hand was under my chin, his eyes examining my face. "You're his daughter, aren't you?"

I felt myself blush at his scrutiny. "Yes, but I don't see—"

His hand tightened its grip, making me gasp at the twinge of pain. "Perhaps you will make a better message than your father."

What was this guy talking about? "So you decided to take me all by yourself? How gallant," I bit off. (Okay, when I panic, I get glib just to control the fear. Not exactly bright, was it? But, hey, it works for Spider-Man, right?)

"No." His features suddenly shifted, his forehead becoming ridged, his teeth elongating into fangs, his eyes changing into an unearthly yellow. "My friends have been generous enough to let me have you all to myself."

And I did the most reasonable thing a panicking woman would do: I screamed and bit into the hand that held me. My teeth weren't as sharp as his, so I hadn't drawn blood; but they had made some nice indentations in his skin.

In retrospect, not drawing blood might have been a good thing.

He let out a yelp of pain, yanking his hand back. I leapt to my feet and backed away, holding my straight-backed chair in front of me like a lion tamer. "Stay away from me, you freak!"

He grinned evilly at me. "This place is in the middle of the richest food supply. We will take advantage of it. No one will stand in our way."

"Cassie, catch!"

I turned my head in the direction of Doyle's voice to see something heading toward me in midair. I caught it with one hand, only to discover that it was a wooden stick sharpened to a point at one end. "What the hell—"

The creature knocked the chair from my hand. I screamed again, my mind going blank with fear.

The creature lunged at me one more time, then stopped, looking down in surprise. Curious, I followed his gaze.

The sharpened wood had penetrated his heart.

Before either of us could utter another word, he exploded into dust particles, clothes and all.

The stick dropped from my suddenly numb fingers. I stumbled against a nearby wall, sliding to the floor. With detached observation, I noticed my hands and body were trembling from shock.

"Cassie?" Doyle knelt in front of me, covering my hands with his until they stilled. "Are y' all right?"

"No, I'm not all right!" I exploded. My voice got higher as I rambled. "My dad is under some kind of mob threat, Los Tigres and Dragons are being murdered, and a guy just turned to dust in front of me! What was that thing? How'd you know what it was?" My voice got quiet as I calmed a little, scrutinizing him. "Who are you?"

He smiled cryptically. "Far more interestin' question than y' might think." He gently pulled me to my feet, holding me until my legs were reasonably steady beneath me, rubbery though they were. "C'mon, I'll walk y' home, an' we'll talk."

All I could do was nod.

It was almost nine by the time we got to the apartment, and I was still in a shocked daze. Doyle seemed to understand my reaction, for he hadn't tried to speak to me as we walked from the clinic.

Mom was sitting in one of the living room's recliners, reading her latest murder mystery. She looked up as we came in. "Hi, Doyle, Cassie. What took you?"

Doyle jumped in before I could open my mouth. "Deirdre, y'd better talk t' yer daughter 'bout workin' too hard. She wouldn't come away until all the paperwork was done."

Mom looked at me and I offered her a weak smile, suddenly feeling emotionally exhausted. She rolled her eyes. "Cassie, sometimes I wish you weren't so much like your father." She hauled herself out of her chair. "Well, I'm off to bed. I left a couple of plates of food for you." She smiled. "There are advantages to being married to a doctor. Good night, honey, Doyle."

"'Night, Mom," I murmured at last.

Doyle said good night, then turned to me. "Should we talk first or eat?"

Now I was tired, ravenous, scared, and curious. "Any chance we could do both?"

"Well, the story I have t' tell isn't exactly dinner conversation. An' we'd need a bit more privacy for me t' tell it."

"Dinner first, then," I said, heading for the kitchen. "Suddenly I'm starving for more than just information."

After dinner, I led Doyle up to the roof. "Y' come up here a lot?"

I nodded. "Mostly when I want to be alone, or write, or read. You'd be surprised how much quiet I can get in the middle of Brooklyn." I sat on the stonewall bordering the roof, looking at him expectantly. "Okay, Doyle, straight up. What was that creature at the clinic, and how did you know how to kill it?"

"He was a vampire." He said the words seriously, with no mirth or levity.

"Wait, wait," I said, waving my hand in front of me. "You mean an actual, stake-to-the-heart, Dracula-type vampire?"

Doyle nodded. "No soul, no conscience, nothin' t' keep them from killing everyone they can to feed."

"How did you know what he was?"

He looked uncomfortable a moment. "Y' remember when y' showed me a picture o' m' blood work?"

"Yeah."

"Well, yer dad and the techs were right about those weird-lookin' antibodies. But they're not natural mutations; they're just natural. M' father's side o' the family were fast healers fer a reason." He backed away from me a bit.

Then he changed before my eyes. His skin turned green, blue spines sprouted all over his face, and his blue eyes turned a fiery red!

I gasped, my hand flying to my mouth, my eyes widening to dessert plates (dinner plates seem to be impossible for me).

Just as quickly as the monstrous face had appeared, his human face was back. He smiled reassuringly at me. "I'm still me, Cassie. I'm still the same guy y' found in that alley last week." He sat beside me cautiously. "Only thing is, now y' know I'm half-demon."

It took another minute before my voice returned. "Demon?" I whispered.

Doyle nodded again. "See, I didn't know 'bout that 'til I turned 21… when m' demon side manifested." He looked down a moment. "It's the main reason m' marriage t' Harry broke down. All I could think was that she married a monster, an' I couldn't get out o' it."

I felt my heart go out to him, my shock beginning to fade. My hand reached for his. He shook his head, cleared his throat, and looked up again. "Sorry," he said sheepishly.

"Hey," I said, squeezing his fingers. "How many times do I have to tell you? Don't be sorry."

"Well, anyway," he continued, weaving a story of "a lot o' stuff I'm not proud of," redemption via "blindin' migraines with pictures," in an effort that "wasn't about savin' lives but savin' souls" with a vampire who had committed far worse crimes.

"Then, well," he shrugged "he made the mistake of killin' the wrong girl. Her Gypsy clan cursed him with a soul."

My brows furrowed at the word "cursed". "From what you just said about vampires, isn't that a good thing?"

"Not when our man felt the guilt of every life he took as a demon; a century of death an' destruction. His soul very nearly broke under all that remorse, which was sorta the point."

"Okay, that leads us back to you. How, in God's name, did you wind up here, almost a year and 3,000 miles from where you started?"

The haunted look in his eyes was stronger than before, tears welling.

I was quick to say, "If it's too painful—"

"No." His brogue was thick with pain again, close to cracking. "No, it's okay. It's just… I've had nightmares 'bout this since I came here, an' I still don't understand it."

I gently squeezed his fingers again, silently begging him to tell me. I knew he needed this, needed to let go of what was haunting him. He looked at me and took in a steadying breath before he told be about an army of full-blooded demons called the Scourge, dedicated to an ideal of demon purity that made the Nazis look tame. Using a bomb that vaporized anything mildly human, they were about to vaporize a cargo ship filled with "half breed" demons. Angel was about to disarm it, which would have vaporized him if he got that close.

"I clocked him as hard I could. Sent him t' the floor o' the cargo hold." A ghost of a smile flitted across his lips. "Never thought I could take any vamp down like that, especially Angel. I went to Cordelia an'—I kissed her, knowin' it was m' only chance. First time she was ever speechless." His eyes suddenly seemed far away, his smile tinged with sadness, as he continued in a whisper. "Too bad we'll never know"—his demon face came out again—"if this is a face y' could learn t' love." His face smoothed back into human, tears still pouring down his cheeks. "I jumped on the thing an' started yankin' the cables. Could hear Angel yellin' m' name, Cordelia startin' t' cry. There was so much pain, so hot I thought I was in Hell. I couldn't help cryin' out, I think." His eyes refocused on me. "Next thing I really knew, you found me in that alley."

As his story unfolded, I had let go of the tears and cried with him, fogging my glasses, feeling my control coming undone. I yanked some tissues from my pocket and handed him one. We both dried our eyes, though his still seemed wet while mine felt red and gritty, even after I cleaned off the lenses. He swallowed and cleared his throat before speaking again. "Thank you, Cassie. I think I needed t' tell someone."

I smiled, perching my glasses on my nose again. "Thank you for trusting me with it. Two hours ago I didn't know these things—people like you—even existed." The smile widened into a grin. "You're lucky I have an open mind and a very active imagination, or you'd have a mindless babbling idiot on your hands."

He chuckled and squeezed my fingers gently.

Later, I called Miguel and Zeng and advised them and theirs to carry as though they were going to take on a small contingent of hell-spawn, which wasn't exactly untrue. I prayed that they believed me.

When I hung up, I turned around and saw Marco behind me, biting into an apple. With that smile, he might as well have had Bugs Bunny's carrot. "You know the acoustics on the roof are great?" He chuckled. "What is it with you? The first guy you meet and like and he turns into something from a Marvel comic book."

I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. I laughed hollowly. "Marco, you don't really buy what—?"

"You know," he continued, seeming to ignore me, "you'd figure that vampires would pick someplace that looked sort of like Hell. The Sudan, perhaps. Not like anyone'd miss a few more bodies, especially those of the Christians; granted, if they ate a few slavers, no one would cry too much. Then, of course, there's LA. Stuff all the vamps in there and let the whole city burn to the ground. But New York?" He sighed. "You'd figure that they'd have enough sense to be afraid of Mayor Giuliani, at least. If they thought he came down on squeegee men hard…"

"Marco—"

He cut me off with a look. "I'm neither deaf, nor blind, and I was on the roof… You obviously forgot the origin of your name."

I winced. In Greek mythology, Cassandra had been blessed with the gift of prophecy, but cursed so she would only see disasters and no one would believe her.

"If no one believed that Cassandra, what makes you think anyone will believe this chapter from the mind of Tim Burton?" He nodded slightly. "Good night."

"'Night, Marco."

As he turned to leave, he stopped and looked back. "And thank you for not trying to lie. You're piss-poor at it."

A day later, Marco surprised me with a half-dozen leather-bound books in his arms, plunking them down before me.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, Marc," Doyle began as he observed this, "but those aren't yer run-o'-the-mill medical books, are they?"

I looked at the titles for myself. "Not unless someone decided to translate Gray's Anatomy into Greek and Latin."

"They're for the clinic," Marco replied, before turning to Doyle. "What do you know about casting spells?"

I sighed at the look the Irishman shot me. "Last night, on the roof, Marco heard us."

"And saw you. It's okay," Marco was quick to say, seeing Doyle's stricken expression. "I won't tell anyone."

Doyle shook off his shock after a moment, smiling. "We okay?"

Marco kept his annoying smile and said, "Why not?"

I began leafing through the tomes in front of me. "Where in the world did you find these, Marco?"

He shrugged. "I trolled through approximately a dozen occult shops downtown and the Village just to find that much."

Wait, he'd gone into Manhattan that day; a time-out day from his studies before finals, he'd said.

I blinked. "I thought you didn't believe in that stuff."

He cocked an eyebrow like a demented Vulcan and smirked. "Yeah, and demons and vampires don't exist either. Do I look like the Cowardly Lion to you? 'I don't believe in ghosts, I don't believe in ghosts'?" He gave a derisive snort, then shook his head and sighed. "From what I can tell, with the right spell, we can keep those bloodsuckers out of the clinic and other enclosed places."

I couldn't resist. "Mosquitoes, too?"

He ignored me and turned to Doyle again. "Only problem is I know nothing about spells, aside from the fact that they sound creepier if you say them in Latin."

Doyle smiled again. "This I think I can handle."

Marco nodded. "Thought you could." He then held up two glass Arizona Iced Tea bottles and dropped one into each of our laps. "Fresh from the baptismal font at St. Patrick's. Guaranteed to melt vampires and keep away those nasty sunspots."

Doyle simply looked at me and said, "Thorough, isn't he?"

"Obsessive-compulsive is more like it."

Marco shrugged. "I prefer neurotic myself. You two kiddies have fun. Ciao."

Over the next few days, Miguel and Zeng excitedly related to Doyle and me fights in which guys had "mutated" before their eyes and "dissipated" as they were staked and burned—who knew that Molotov cocktails worked so well in close-quarters combat? A Dragon and a Tigre even tried fire breathing for the first time, with spectacular results.

"It's not over," Doyle said to me after one such report as we nursed mochaccinos outside the clinic. I knew he had spent far too much time in California when he chose Starbucks over better and cheaper coffee. "Vamps who pack together like this're usually under a master."

"Okay, explain to me what being a master vampire means?" I asked.

"A master vamp either has the age or the charisma t' take over a pack's leadership, or sire their own."

"How do you know if this pack even has a leader? They're demons, not wolves or coyotes."

Doyle shrugged at that. "Believe me, I don't know, but I don't doubt."

"Great," I growled, sipping my drink. "So what now? I mean do we carry stakes and holy water after dark from now on?"

"They shouldn't even be doin' this much," he remarked. "They usually go after people that wouldn't be missed: homeless people, prostitutes—"

"Gang members," I finished with realization. These vampires obviously didn't keep up much with current events, or they would have known that going after the Dragons and Los Tigres was a mistake. I shook my head. "Never figured hell-spawn to perform CSHs."

He gave me a curious look. "CSHs?"

I smiled shyly. "Too many crime novels… CSH stands for 'Community-Service Homicide'."

"How can murder be considered 'community service'?"

I put down my coffee and, with my thumbs and forefingers, made two guns and pointed them inward at each other. "One drug dealer kills another, that's community service."

"Ah," he said in comprehension. "Well, there's still these buggers t' take care of."

"How do we know there aren't more of them?" I asked. "That they haven't turned anyone else into vampires?"

He shook his head. "Ev'ryone who was killed had their bodies accounted for. No, these vamps aren't sirin' anyone. Once this pack's done with—"

"But there are others out there. Other vampires who'd love to snack on the neighborhood like these guys do." I swallowed around the lump in my throat. "More of my friends may wind up dead."

Doyle was the one to reach out the comforting hand this time, closing it around mine. "Then whatever happens, I'll help y'. Any way I can."

I smiled. "Thanks, Doyle."

That night, on our way home, we had to bypass someone standing in the corridor of our building between the front door and the lobby. The bulb in the light had gone out, and he stood between the stairs and us. He seemed harmless enough, until his face turned into a rendition of Stephen King's mind on hallucinogens.

Doyle rushed him, but even I knew this guy—at six-one and easily 210 pounds—was beyond his species. He grabbed Doyle by the throat, pulled him back, then threw him at me, pinning both of us to the ground. I felt the air rush from my lungs, my glasses rattling on my face. The vampire smiled. I couldn't get to my bottle of holy water, and Doyle was struggling to his feet when the vamp sent him flying with a kick to the solar plexus. He grabbed for my legs, but I kicked him in the nose. The move shoved the cartilage into his brain. If he hadn't been undead, the move would have killed him.

I scrambled to my feet and reached for the bottle in my purse. It had snagged on the inner lining, so I pulled out the stake instead. I hurled the purse at it and held myself ready, left arm forward as a shield and the stake held like a knife at 11 o'clock on a Friday night in Brooklyn. The vampire replied by getting into a similar stance, only far more professional, a stance for a hired killer.

"I am over three hundred years old," it snarled in a deep voice. "I have sired entire colonies of children. Do you think that in all that time, I could not learn a few simple martial art forms? I am a Dragon Black belt, and that is the least of my accomplishments."

He yelped in pain, whirled and scooped someone up in his hands. He held Marco by the throat, three feet up in the air, and the vampire's back was smoking as if on fire. Marco casually rammed a stake into a spot below the vampire's wrist and flicked a lighter he had in the same hand. The stake went ablaze in seconds, and the vampire threw Marco to the floor as he jumped outside and rolled to put out the flames.

"No, no, no!" Marco chided loudly as he ran outside, with a broom handle in hand. "Your line is, 'Help me, I'm melllllting, oh what a world, what a world!' Not turn around and grab the supporting actor. Don't any of you watch movies?"

Marco glanced at me for a moment and smiled. Here we were, fighting for our lives, and he was having fun! He pulled a gun from his pocket and pointed it at me. He fired. A stream of liquid shot from his squirt gun and hit a vampire a few feet away from me. The vamp took the shots in the eyes, and I staked him shortly after.

The bigger vampire rolled to his feet, the fire out. Marco looked him over and fired two squirts. The holy water blinded him for a moment, and Marco took the time to throw me the broom handle. I caught it and saw what he had done with it: sharpened it at one end. He pulled out another stake, and quickly snatched up my purse, swinging it around like it was a mace on a chain.

"Come here, you reject from Salem's Lot," Marco chanted. "Come and get the pathetic human being. Come on. It's snack time!" He sounded like Jim Carrey in a manic phase.

At this point, I would like to note that my brother is out of his mind. So please, do not try any of this at home.

Another hiss came from behind me, and I automatically stabbed behind me with the handle, ramming him through the heart. I whirled.

Well over a dozen new vampires were there, waiting. Oh, great!

With a Celtic scream loud enough to be heard in LA, I braced myself for impact. When I paused to take a breath, the scream continued as Doyle ran one through and leapt on another. I paused long enough to note his demon face was on. Doyle stopped to take a breath, and the scream continued still as Los Tigres and the Dragons attacked en masse, closing in on the bloodsuckers in a pincer maneuver.

I paused, wondered where they had all come from, and turned back toward Marco and the big one. The giant vampire had leapt back, giving himself time to heal. Once ready, he came back at Marco. My brother simply smiled and launched a projectile. The vampire tried to sweep it aside, thinking it was my purse. Instead, he swept at the dislodged bottle of holy water, and smashed it, spilling the contents all over himself. He kept coming and knocked Marco aside. He slammed himself against the wall, putting out the tendrils of smoke that had erupted once again.

I tapped my foot against the sidewalk, and the one I knew was the master vampire turned. "This is tag team night, want to play?"

The vamp grinned, looking forward to besting the mere human, and I flew at him, thrusting the blunt edge at him, knowing it couldn't possibly get through. I parried, jabbed, parried, thrust after thrust was blocked.

"As any professional can tell you, if your thrusts ain't getting through, then your kicks sure as hell won't."

It was time I took Marco's advice to heart. This vampire was very professional. I went for an overhead blow. He caught it between his crossed wrists and snapped off the blunt edge.

I kicked him between the legs.

The master crumbled, and I rammed the sharpened, splintered end through his heart so hard, it drove right into the pavement.

I looked up as Doyle staked the last vampire. I nodded, turned to Marco, and helped him off the ground. "You're insane, you know that?"

He cocked a brow. "You're point?"

I raised the broom handle with a return cocked brow. "Right here."

He nodded. "Point taken, at least by fang face over there."

I sighed. "Yeah… Now my only question is how did these guys know to save us?"

Marco glanced at me as though I had joked. "I called Zeng and Miguel last week and told them to put a detail of their hoods on this place… our phone number is listed, after all."

Without their master, that pack of vampires was eventually finished. Los Tigres and the Dragons became full-fledged vampire hunters, guarding the neighborhood against more than human criminals. Both gangs were a little leery of Doyle, having seen his demon face during the fight, but they got over it (especially after I said they would answer to me if anything happened to him. I think I did a fair approximation of Marco, who, I was told, also spoke to the gang leaders on the same topic).

Speaking of Doyle, he spent Christmas and New Year's with us, still swearing off the heavy drinks (keeping his promise, thank you very much!). We all chipped in to buy him new clothes as gifts. He wanted to give us gifts, too, but we understood about his need to collect as much as possible before he even considered booking a flight at all.

Yeah, Doyle's body may have been in New York all this time, but his eyes and heart were always west. He kept up with what could of online newspapers, but the Los Angeles Times didn't exactly cover events of demonic nature. Bodies turned up, drained of blood or mutilated, then stopped and started again. Every time, Doyle was sure Angel and Cordelia had had something to do with it.

Months passed. In that time, Doyle saved money, helped me and my mother, and Marco on occasion. He became an instantaneous favorite with the kids in the clinic. He also introduced me to some of the otherworldly acquaintances he'd made during some of his nights out. (One of them actually helped cast the protection spell on the clinic, for which I thanked her profusely.)

In March (on St. Patrick's Day, no less), Doyle stared at the Gateway screen rapturously. "Doyle? What are you looking at?"

He looked up at me with happiness in his eyes that hadn't been there that morning. "I'm talkin' t' Cordelia."

I widened my eyes. "What?!" I moved behind the chair to look over his shoulder at the instant message window. I didn't have to guess who "IrishDamien" was.

The other screen name was QueenCC81.

"You're sure it's her?"

"I found her profile online a few days ago. Got up the nerve t' message her yesterday. Answer t' every question I typed was pure Chase charm."

"Does she know who you are?"

"No. I don't want her t' know yet. I've told her I'm half-demon, so she c'n be open with me." He smiled. "I'll know what's gone on in her life, and she'll know 'bout mine."

"Everything except who you really are, and that you mysteriously reappeared in an alley a country away," I said pointedly.

He looked up at me pleadingly. "Let me do this, Cassie. I wanna fall in love with her again."

Over the next month, Cordelia gave Doyle her life story, which he later related to me during our late-night talks. He blamed himself extensively when he'd found out he'd passed his visions to her in their only kiss. (It explained why he hadn't had a single vision since he'd returned.) He was horrified at the downward spiral Angel had taken into darkness, and then relieved at his apparent return. Doyle and I both hoped Cordelia and Angel would become friends as they had been before Doyle's "death."

It was the beginning of May when the clinic received a surprise, and welcome, visitor.

At a wolf-whistle, I looked up, ready to tell the whistler off. I saw dark hair and eyes, olive skin, and a mischievous grin I've been familiar with since we were children.

A grin split my face. "Dominic!"

Dominic DiBiasi is my second cousin from my father's large Italian family. He had written his first computer program at age seven, built his first computer in seventh grade, and at the age of 20 was worth $100,000 per annum from his website start-up company. On top of all of this, Dominic was born mute; he speaks with his hands in sign language and with a hand-held talking computer for those who don't know ASL.

I leapt forward and gave him a fierce hug, for I hadn't seen him since his birthday party the month before. "How are you, cuz?"

He pulled back to frown at me. You know I hate when you call me "cuz," his hands commented.

"I know," I teased. "I like tormenting you."

Dominic snorted, shaking a fist at me, but his smile undercut the implied threat.

"What brings you all the way here from Queens?" I asked.

I have an early birthday surprise for you. He raised his eyebrows at me. Do I get to meet the Irishman? Marco's been making funny noises about him for a while now.

"Marco's always making funny noises… He's in the kitchen. Come on." It was a slow day again, but I knew it was short-lived; soon we'd get an emergency or three and the place would get crazy.

Doyle was at the stove with his back to us. I could smell the oil and salt that went with boiling water for pasta. "Doyle, come here a minute?" I called from the doorway.

He turned around to show that he was wearing my father's "Kiss the Cook" apron! Dominic was lucky not to have voice, but I had to fight to keep from laughing out loud. A few snickers escaped despite my efforts.

Dominic gave me a funny look. You actually had a crush on this guy once? Thought you had better taste.

I whacked him once in the arm. "Watch it, funny man, or I'll tell Mom to keep her Rocky Road cookies out of your active little paws."

He placed a hand over his heart, a wounded expression on his face. Okay, you win.

Doyle poured a pound of rigatoni into the boiling water and came over. "This one must be a relative," he commented to me. "Too ugly t' be a boyfriend." He turned back to Dominic and said, "I can read sign, too."

"Behave," I scolded, and quickly made with the introductions before an Irish-Italian war-of-wills broke out. I turned to Dominic. "What's the surprise?" My birthday wasn't until the 21st, several weeks away.

Dominic grinned at me. Wanted to see your face when you saw it. You put in for vacation time yet?

I nodded, wondering where the conversation was going. "I put in for the beginning of June." I had only submitted the paperwork the day before, and it usually took a while to go through the right channels.

Dominic's grin got wider. Perfect timing. He drew out a long envelope and handed it to me. Happy birthday, Cassie.

I turned it over in my hands, investigating it. Too thick to be just a card, but stuffing a business-size envelope with cash was never Dominic's style (even if he could be too generous by half).

"Open it!" Doyle demanded. "The suspense is killin' me!"

Tearing open the envelope, I found two first-class tickets to Los Angeles! I could only look incredulous, my jaw dropping. "Dominic, I—I don't know what to say."

Well, "thank you" might be nice, he joked.

I gave him another fierce hug. "Thank you, for both of us." I released him and turned to my friend, a grin spread on my face. "Doyle, congratulations. You're going home!"

Doyle looked at the tickets, then gave a whoop of joy, swinging me up in a bear hug. "I'm goin' home!" he cheered.

As I write these words, I have only now figured out how Dominic knew what to buy, when to schedule them, and how many to buy. I suspect that Marco will confirm my suspicions with each denial he'll make.

Doyle and I spent all of May wondering what the hell we were going to do once we got to the West Coast. Doyle was excitedly chatting with Cordelia online, telling her he would be in LA soon, to stay. (As he'd hoped, he'd fallen in love with her all over again.)

He asked, practically begged, me to help him surprise her. I was reluctant to do that, especially to someone who'd been through as much as Cordelia had been in the last eighteen months.

"Cassie, please, I wanna see her face when I walk in the door."

"Doyle, from what you've told me, this woman's been through hell and back. Giving someone who's been through so much such a shock might not be the best idea in the world."

"What shock?"

I rolled my eyes. My knuckles gently rapped the top of his head. "She thinks you're dead! Remember?"

"She's seen Angel return from Hell once before," he argued.

"You're saying that, because Angel's a vampire, she should take it at face value that you're back?" (Can't you just feel the skepticism?)

"I'm sayin' that it won't be the first time she's seen someone again after he'd supposedly died." He was giving me this whipped-puppy look, too pathetic by half. How can I stand up to that look, I ask you?

I sighed. "I may wind up regretting this, but okay. I'll help."

That conversation lasted all month, right up to our flight to LA.

The only detour we took from the issue of surprising Cordelia was about two weeks before we were to take off from JFK.

I looked at Doyle's expression as he stared at the Gateway screen, lost in his own little world, perhaps a little anguished.

"Doyle?" I asked. When he didn't answer me, I called louder, "Doyle!"

He started, looking up at me with an apologetic smile. "Yeah, Cassie?"

The anguish was still in his eyes. "Well, I'm just a little worried about you. What's wrong?"

He shook his head. "Nothin'. I mean nothin's wrong."

I sighed; this was going to be like pulling teeth. "Doyle, you've been living with my family for six months. That's not a 'nothing' face." I put a hand on his shoulder. "Come on, we're supposed to be friends. Talk to me."

Doyle sighed, raking a hand through his unruly hair. "It's Cordelia."

Uh-oh. Whenever something touched her, it touched him across a country. "Did something happen?"

"I don't know!" he said helplessly. "She was so excited she got a national commercial last week. But it's been a few days since then, and she hasn't returned any of m' messages."

"She and Angel might've gotten caught up in a case," I said, trying to reassure him. There were times when they were so busy, it took Doyle's "princess" a while to get online to talk or write.

"But they should've already taken care of the big ugly by now." He stared at the screen again, as if it would do something if he gave it a fierce enough glare. "C'mon, y' piece o' junk! Talk ta me!"

Trying to calm an anxiety-prone half-human half-demon was bad enough without him talking to the computer. "Doyle, enough!" I turned him away from the machine before he did something my father would make him regret. "Didn't you tell me you were confident that Angel could take care of her?"

He nodded.

"Then don't worry. He's kept her alive this long. He won't let anything happen to her." I smiled ruefully. "Besides, from what you told me, she's too stubborn to die before her time, anyway."

Doyle gave me his own little smile. "She may be too stubborn t' die, period."

Okay, joking is a good sign. But there was still that trace of worry in his eyes, and I knew it wouldn't go away unless he heard from herself, and soon.

I glanced at the clock and tapped him. "Let's get out of here and go have dinner. You know how Mom gets when her lasagna gets cold."

He smiled. "Yeah. Her aversion t' cold food is definitely the Irish in her."

It was another week before Cordelia finally e-mailed Doyle again, which Doyle related to Marco and me. (Marco had finally gotten tired of overhearing our conversations second-hand, deciding to join us a few days before.)

Turns out Cordelia had accidentally gotten pulled into a demon dimension called Pylea where she'd become a slave (like all humans there), then an actual princess because of her inherited visions, and fallen for a part-human part-demon warrior called a Groosalugg.

"What is with me and blue-eyed half-demons?" she'd asked jokingly. "It was part of the reason I fell for him. He was a champion, a hero. He reminded me, in a lot of ways, of someone else I knew… someone I wish I'd learned to love."

Doyle had broken down a little when he read that, and again when he told us. "I'm glad she hasn't forgotten about me."

"How could she?" Marco asked. "You kiss right before you vaporize in midair, and she has your audio-visual migraines as well."

Doyle winced, and I could tell he was mentally flagellating himself again.

I glared at Marco for his bluntness, though he didn't notice—or care. Things were hard enough for our friend without him making it worse. Thank God we were a week away from flight time while Marco, being on summer vacation now, took over for us at the clinic.

To continue, as if almost dying several times hadn't been bad enough, upon arriving home, Cordelia and her friends found out an old classmate of hers, a Vampire Slayer, had died. Angel, the Slayer's ex-boyfriend, was taking the news hardest of all.

Doyle was saddened for his friend. The first time he'd actually seen the vampire had been in a vision, briefly outlining the Angel/Buffy relationship before the move to LA. Doyle had felt all the pain and ecstasy in that one vision, and to know his friend's soul mate was gone again touched him from so far away.

"Was this the price the Powers wanted for bringing me back?" he demanded, then turned to address the stars. "If that's what y' want, then take me back! She was worth more 'n ten of me!" He bowed his head. "She's more worthy to be here than me."

Marco came forward and whirled him around, anger in his eyes. For a moment, I thought Marco was going to slap him, but I forgot Marco is far more original than that. He spoke with a mixed Irish-Italian accent (which he only does when he's seriously pissed). "Listen up, old son. The Powers That Be do not—repeat—do not take out their own fecking people, and you should know this by now, seeing that you're the one who grabbed that bloody electrical circuit from Hell." He grabbed him by the jaw and forced Doyle to meet his eyes. "God does not play favorites. When you go home, you're going to help them get over it by any means necessary." Marco hesitated, and then, with a "to hell with it" shrug, whacked him once upside the head. "Capisce?"

My brows shot up to my hairline. That had to be one of the most impassioned speeches Marco had ever made, then or since. I may be prejudiced, but my brother had just impressed me.

He'd impressed Doyle, too, for the Irishman smiled, rubbing the back of his head where he'd been struck. "Yeah, Marc. I got y'."

He nodded and snapped, "Good. Do this again, and I'll drive a freaking stake through your heart myself!"

Doyle chuckled at his inaccurate statement. "Tha' only works on vampires, yeah?"

Marco lowered a glare at him. "Yes, but the stakes I carry are doused in turpentine." His eyes flared in a momentary display of manic joy. "And I play well with matches."

I smiled. California was shaping up to become very interesting.

If someone had told me a year ago that I'd be flying first-class with a half-demon for part of my summer vacation, I'd have laughed and said they were crazy. Yet that was exactly what I was doing June second, 2001.

I was dressed for summer in the smoggy southwest with cropped blue-jean shorts, a light cotton blouse, and a band of woven cloth holding my hair back from my face. Doyle, on the other hand, had made a valiant attempt at color coordination. Using the money he'd saved, he'd bought himself several suits, new shirts and a few pairs of jeans. He relaxed in his seat, because he had the feeling he wouldn't be able to around Cordelia.

Like many women, Cordelia had carefully guarded her home address from the online Doyle and had instead given the address of the old hotel that served as the office for 'Angel Investigations' and as Angel's residence. (An evil law firm—redundancy, anyone? —had blown up the first office, with which Doyle was more familiar.)

After two days in our motel room, Doyle was still way too nervous to see her or Angel yet; which left (guess who) me.

He splurged shamelessly on a dozen white roses and sent me off to the Hyperion Hotel. I would later learn that Marco had given him the money and made unveiled suggestions about what to do with them. "Unveiled" in this case meant outright orders that bordered on bullying.

The place itself was old, but beautiful, done up in the '20s, abandoned in the '60s, all retro glamour. I briefly wondered how Angel could afford a place like that. Then I remembered that property lost its value when abandoned for forty years… not to mention what two hundred years of saving up could amount to.

I pulled the hem of my T-shirt over the waist of my cargo pants and took a calming breath. Okay, Cassandra, you can do this. With the mental pep talk out of the way, I went through the front door into the lobby. The interior was just as beautiful as the exterior. Art décor was carved and etched into the molding that framed the two staircases, at either end of the lobby, leading to the upper floors. I made a mental note to take some pictures later. I knew one or two architecture students who'd love to see—

"May I help you?"

I jumped at the British accent behind me. The voice belonged to a tall, lanky man in a khaki oxford shirt, dark slacks and a tasteful, loosely knotted tie. His hair was a deep brown, his eyes gray-green behind the wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. His features seemed more Greek than British.

And those features immediately looked apologetic. "I'm terribly sorry. Didn't mean to startle you."

"No, it's all right," I assured him. "Nothing I shouldn't be used to by now." I held up the bouquet. "I have something for QueenCC81."

"That's me!" a young woman's voice called from an office. She ran in. Now I saw why Doyle had said she was beautiful; she was. Her chestnut hair had been cut to just below her jaw and highlighted with blond streaks. Her tan brought out her dark eyes, which lit up at the sight of the roses.

I smiled at her happy reaction. "Then these are for you, Cordelia."

She froze momentarily, and her expression became wary. Who could blame her? "How do you know my name?"

"I'm a friend of IrishDamien," I replied. Her eyes lit up again in recognition. "We arrived in town a few days ago, and he was too nervous to see you himself, so he drafted me to give these to you." I stepped forward cautiously, offering the paper-wrapped stems.

Cordelia stepped forward to take them from me. "That means—you're Cassie?"

I nodded, pleased that Doyle had spoken of me often enough that she remembered.

"Excuse me," the Englishman interrupted. "Cordelia, who is this 'IrishDamien'?"

"A half—" she stopped and started again "—a guy I met online."

I had to beat down the urge to smile with a two-by-four. I knew she was being cautious in case I was one of those unenlightened about demons and vampires. "Cordelia," I put in, "it's okay. I know he's half-demon." Her eyes widened at the admission. "It took a while, but he showed me his demon face. It wasn't so terrible."

"Showed you?" he asked, genuinely curious.

"Wesley, back off!" she hissed, and turned to me. "He wouldn't tell me, so what does his demon face look like?"

I described the skin, spikes, and eyes.

The Englishman, Wesley, turned thoughtful, while Cordelia's face registered a more pained recognition. "It appears your friend is half-Brachen, Miss—"

"Cattalano," I supplied. "Cassandra Cattalano. My friends call me Cassie."

"Wesley Wyndham-Price." He put out his hand, which I took.

Now I had a face to go with the name and the third-hand description from Doyle. Wesley was an expert on all things demonic and otherwise supernatural in super-nature. No one had informed me that he was kind of handsome in an academic, Cambridge-college-professor kind of way.

"Do I get to meet Angel, too?"

Cordelia seemed oblivious to my question, for she'd buried her face in the roses, her shoulders shaking slightly. When I heard the slightly strangled noises, I realized what was happening.

She was crying.

"Cordelia?" This came from another man's voice and its owner came into view, dressed completely in black, matching his dark hair and haunted eyes, yet contrasting with his pale skin. Now I knew how he got the name.

He definitely had the face of an angel.

In the back of my head, I heard Marco sighing, which is exactly what he did when I told him later.

He gently put his hands on her shoulders. "Cordelia, what is it?"

She brought her head up again, tears streaming down her face. She seemed unable to speak a moment, then shook her head. "No, I'm okay, Angel," she choked out. Clearing her throat, she said, "Cassie Cattalano, this is Angel."

"The vampire with a soul, obviously." I came forward and took his hand. "Nice to meet you."

He seemed confused a moment. "Same here, Miss Cattalano."

"Please, just Cassie."

"How do you—?"

"I'm friends with a guy who's been chatting online with Cordelia the last few months," I explained. "We finally got out here a few days ago."

"What's the matter?" Wesley asked Cordelia.

"The way she described IrishDamien—that's Doyle's demon face."

I had to smother another smile. This was more fun than I'd thought it would be. Now I couldn't wait to see their faces when Doyle came back into their lives.

"Another Brachen?" Angel asked.

"Half-Brachen," I corrected. "He's nice." To Cordelia: "And he really likes you."

That night, Cordelia reamed Doyle via e-mail for not showing up in person, then they arranged to meet at a place called Caritas, a demon karaoke bar, the next night. I was curious, and Doyle felt he needed the moral support, so I came along.

On the phone, Cordelia had told me she'd made Angel, Wesley, and their friend Charles Gunn promise they wouldn't hassle or drive away (read: intimidate) her online friend when the moment of truth came. They'd only beat the crud out of him if he turned out not to be half as nice as Doyle. (Ironic, considering it was Doyle.)

We arrived almost two hours before we were supposed to. The interior showed signs of recent remodeling, lights deliberately casting shadows everywhere but the stage. The tables and bar were populated by demons of various sizes, colors, and other differences. (Slightly freaked me, but it was a safe zone; no violence allowed. Although, given the absence of bouncers, I wondered how the no-violence policy would be enforced. I heard mention about holy water in the fire sprinklers, but nothing more than that.)

Doyle and I poured over the selections with deliberate care, trying to choose the right song for him and his vocal range (which was somewhere between cat yowls and nails on a blackboard, according to him).

Four years of high school glee club had found me with a decent voice, so I knew I wanted to sing one song. I made my choice, and I was surprised that they had the music: "That's The Way It Is", one of the only new songs before Celine Dion took her leave of absence from the public eye. Now, I'm nowhere within a diva's range, but I gave it my best shot. Surprisingly, it sounded as good in my ears as it had in my head. At key lyrics, I threw encouraging smiles and winks in Doyle's direction. As I faded the final note of the song, the place erupted in applause.

I returned to Doyle's and my table to find that a demonic lounge lizard had made his way to us. He was easily Angel's height, covered in green skin and what I guessed was a leisure suit (hello '70s! Calling Mr. Travolta). Small red horns graced his forehead on either side, and he had eyes as red as Doyle's when he was demon-faced.

"Bravo, little Celine," he said, his voice telling me he wasn't a stranger to the karaoke stage himself.

I felt myself blush at the compliment. "Thanks, but my performance wasn't that good."

"I beg to differ." Big Green pulled a chair to the table, motioning to the bartender. "You have one of the best voices I've ever heard in here."

I looked around and I wasn't sure if that was a compliment, given some of the characters the place had as patrons.

"Well," he added mildly, "no surprise you could go somewhere with it."

I was confused, and I'm sure it showed on my face. "Sorry, not getting it."

"No one told you about this place?"

"Cordelia told me," Doyle put in. "Pretty obvious it's a demon hangout, isn'it?"

"She didn't tell you enough," Big Green pointed out. "I'm Lorne, the Host," he bowed his head, "owner of this fine establishment, and empathic. I can read the soul and see the future of anyone who belts a song on that stage." He cocked a greenish-brown eyebrow at me. "Wanna know more, honey voice?"

It only took me a moment to decide that question. "No, thanks. Appreciate the offer; but if I know the future, where's the surprise in life?"

"Very Irish of y', Cassie," Doyle commented with a grin. "I'm proud of y'."

I grinned again. My eyebrows went up as a waiter put a double-shot of Bailey's Irish Cream liqueur in front of me. My favorite.

"It helps," Lorne explained off my surprised look, "to know the singer's drink of choice. Makes the reading easier to take sometimes. Good luck surprising Cordelia tonight. Everything in her life lately, she needs some good news."

As time passed, Doyle became increasingly more nervous. I could practically see his doubts and fears playing across his face. I took his hand in mine, smiling as I had through my performance. "You'll be okay," I assured him.

"I dunno. Maybe y're right. Maybe surprisin' 'Delia like this wasn't m' best idea."

I heard Marco grumble somewhere in the back of my head, Now he thinks of it. I glanced at my watch. "Unless she's late, you still have ten minutes to call it off."

He fled to the men's room, his face clearly registering panic, leaving me at the table to nurse my ice-water chaser. (I'd seen enough guys hung over to know how to avoid one.)

Sure enough, on time, Cordelia walked in, Angel, Wesley, and a tall bald black man trailing behind her. I waved to catch their attention and they descended on me en masse. "Where is he?" she asked after more introductions had been made.

I sighed. "He panicked and hightailed it to the men's room. I don't think I've ever seen anyone as… green, as he was."

"Maybe he just left," Gunn suggested with a note of hope in his voice.

"Gunn!" Cordelia exclaimed, obviously hurt. "You promised!"

"I promised I wouldn't hassle 'im," he corrected. "How can I if he's not here to hassle?"

"We did promise," Angel quietly reminded.

Cordelia gave the vampire a grateful look, which told me they had mended their friendship. I felt a pang of gratitude for Doyle's sake; it would have killed him if they were still hostile to each other.

"He thought he'd try and sing something for you," I went on. "As soon as he's calm enough, anyway."

Or plastered enough.

She seemed to melt at the romantic notion. I guess every woman dreams of the whole "Romeo and Juliet" premise. In this case, we're talking music, not just verse.

A soft brogue coming from the stage interrupted us. "I dedicate this song t' Queen C. You'll always be Princess t' me."

Recognition and shock washed over Cordelia and Angel's faces. The music struck up and Doyle began to sing "Unchained Melody". His voice wasn't the best, but it was good enough to pull it off. The emotion he put into the words, the looks he was giving her, more than made up for any lack of musical talent.

Cordelia's eyes filled with tears before they spilled onto her cheeks. "Angel, am I dreaming?"

The vampire's hands came down protectively on her shoulders. "I hope not," he whispered in reply.

Doyle finished the song, bowing to the polite applause, and stepped down to return to the table. His smile was soft and shy. "Hi, Cordelia."

The night before, I had chatted with Marco over the Internet, and he'd warned me to brace for anything she did at this moment, from fainting to crying to giving him a good sharp right hook. She chose the second option, looking up at him. "Please don't tell me I'm dreaming," she begged. "If I am, this is beyond cruel."

Doyle took her hands and gently pulled her to her feet. "Y' know I'd never hurt y' on purpose, love." With that, he leaned in and kissed her.

Gunn and Wesley seemed ready to jump him, but Angel and I intercepted them beforehand. "Don't," Angel warned, then with a significant look at Wesley, "That's Doyle."

Both their jaws dropped. Wesley began, "I thought he was—"

"He was," I cut him off. "Reappeared in an alley in my neighborhood over six months ago."

"Someone mind letting me in on this story!" Gunn demanded.

"It's a long one," Doyle said, having broken lip-lock with Cordelia.

"I say we get some coffee and we tell the whole story," I suggested, just as a furry, horned demon with the voice of a foghorn began to sing. "Somewhere quiet."

Cordelia had a big thing for mochaccinos (which explained Doyle's affection for them in New York) and we were back in the lobby of the Hyperion. Doyle and I told of his reappearance in the alley, my rescue from the vampire in the clinic, Doyle's revelation of his demon half, right up to finding Cordelia on the Internet and coming to town.

"Why didn't you tell me who you were?" Cordelia asked.

Doyle shook his head with a rueful smile. "Would y've believed me if I had, Princess?"

She returned the smile. "No, I guess not," she admitted.

"What I'd like to know is how you came to be in New York in the first place," Wesley put in.

The Irishman could only shrug. "I'm not sure m'self. I was surprised an entire year'd gone by."

"You should have seen his face when I told him my dad had taken a blood sample," I laughed, then sobered. "On the other hand, that's when I still thought demons and vampires weren't real."

"It can be a shock," Gunn sympathized.

"She took it okay, though," Doyle added. "I mean"—he shifted to his demon face—"this isn't the face of sweet dreams."

Cordelia smiled again. "But it is a face I could more than learn to love."

His human aspect came back, lit up like Broadway at night. Cordelia came closer and they were again, tenderly, locked at the lips.

I suddenly felt like a voyeur and averted my eyes, only to catch those of Angel, Gunn, and Wesley, who apparently felt as I did (if the tinge of Wesley's and Gunn's faces were any indication). We four quietly crept away as the two lost themselves in each other.

Doyle couldn't take the visions from Cordelia in spite of all that very enthusiastic kissing ("Hey, gotta keep trying, yeah? Let's do that once more, I think I got a spark o' something"), even though he wanted to badly, just so she wouldn't have to endure the soul-splitting migraines. He also railed at Angel freely for spiraling downward so fast. (Angel looked more than properly chastened.) He was so infuriated at one point that he screamed in Gaelic for a while, which—naturally—prompted a similar reaction from Angel. After a certain point, I felt like I had entered an Irish pub on 2nd Ave… or a Guinness commercial.

During my two-week stint in LA, I visited Caritas a few more times, saw the Walk of Fame, and got a few visits in with Doyle, who had been offered residency at the Hyperion. He agreed, naturally, and took the entire floor below Angel. However, I have since been informed that Cordelia now has a second roommate. (I had picked up a story about a ghost—I didn't ask and didn't want to know.) About a week after Doyle and I had arrived, Angel had made off for parts unknown. Wesley said something about Angel working through his grief over Buffy.

While in LA, I learned a simple rule: Have cross, will travel. And I have a small can of aerosol holy water next to a can of mace, specialized for the human scum of the city. Since carrying both at once allowed for no room in my bag at all, I simply carried a can of hair spray and a lighter. For the humans, the spray alone hurt like hell, and for the vampires… well, as Marco would say, I like a good flambé, don't you?

Leaving was, as always, the hard part. I looked into Doyle's blue Irish eyes the night before I left, and I couldn't speak. There was so much to say and so few words in our combined vocabularies. After a very long silence between us in his hotel room, I said, "I'll stop by when the airlines have a discount to LA."

He smiled softly. "I'll be waitin'." His smile broadened a touch and he said, "Hit Marco once for me."

I laughed. "You kidding? He'd hit back."

Doyle shrugged, grinning. "That he would." He stepped forward and we held each other for a moment. "Thank you… for everything."

Tears pricked my eyes, and I cursed them silently and freely, my hands bunching into fists on the back of his shirt. Doyle had been given back everything, and received more than before: a free apartment, Cordelia, and friends in New York who would kill for him. This was no time for tears.

"I love you," I whispered so softly I barely heard myself.

At this point, he laughed. That "cracked Mick" laughed. "God, woman, how daft d' ya think I am?" He gave me a little squeeze and kissed me on the cheek. He took me by the shoulders and looked into my eyes. His were also slightly wet.

I smiled sadly and nodded. Then, without any pretense or delay, I backed out the door and closed it behind me. Before it could close fully, I hesitated and looked back through the stream of light between door and frame. Doyle stood in his room with his eyes closed. "Thank you for bringing me home," he whispered to where I had stood.

The next morning, as my plane to New York began to taxi on the runway, I thought again of Doyle, the months he'd lived with my family, and the looks on Angel and Cordelia's faces that first night at Caritas.

I also thought of Lorne's reading on Doyle, which the Irishman hadn't wanted to hear, but gave me permission to know. It turns out that the Powers That Be saw the Slayer's death coming and decided to bring Doyle back. With the evidence of Angel's "dark side" period, the Powers had decided he had needed Doyle more than ever.

I smiled, and said a quick prayer for his happiness.

Welcome home, you lucky bastard, I thought with a small laugh of joy. Welcome home.

In Memoriam: To Glenn Quinn, the man who played the demon; how different things could have been.

"Unchained Melody" "That's the Way It Is"

Oh, my love - oh, my darling I can read your mind

I've hungered for your touch And I know your story

A long and lonely time I see what you're going through,

And time goes by so slowly yeah

And time can do so much It's an uphill climb

Are you still mine? And I'm feeling sorry

I need your love But I know it will come you

I need your love Don't surrender

I need your love 'Cause you can win

God speed your love to me In this thing called love

Lonely rivers flow to the sea, to the sea When you want the most

To the open arms of the sea There's no easy way out

Lonely rivers sigh: wait for me, wait for me When you're ready to go

I'll be coming home - wait for me And your heart's left in doubt

Oh, my love - oh, my darling Don't give up on your faith

I've hungered for your touch Love comes to those who believe it

A long and lonely time And that's the way it is

And time goes by so slowly When you question me

And time can do so much For a simple answer

Are you still mine? I don't know what to say, no

I need your love But it's plain to see

I need your love If you stick together

I need your love You're gonna find the way

God speed your love to me So don't surrender

God speed your love to me 'Cause you can win

In this thing called love

When you want the most

There's no easy way out

When you're ready to go

And your heart's left in doubt

Don't give up on your faith

Love comes to those you believe it

And that's the way it is

When life it empty

With no tomorrow

And loneliness starts to call

Baby don't worry

Forget your sorrow

'Cause love's gonna conquer it all

When you want the most

There's no easy way out

When you're ready to go

And your heart's left in doubt

Don't give up on your faith

Love comes to those you believe it

And that's the way it is