Genesis
Shafts of rainbow coloured light fell on the old priests white hair as he led
the devout through the cathedral. Each man was dressed in a dark robe and
walked, step by rhythmic step, toward the high altar. Moving slowly from
the Lady Chapel through the great hall into the north transept, the six men
approached a seventh. He was younger than the others and dressed in the
white robes of a neophyte. The seven men stood together by the great altar
onto which the old priest placed seven boxes. The exquisite black velvet
caskets were twelve inches in length but only a few in diameter.
"In nomini Patri et Filius et Spiritus Sancti," the elder led.
"Amen," chanted the others.
Slowly, ritualistically, each man opened a box, removed the weapon, and
took his place around the altar. His robes bathed in the light from the stained
glass windows, the neophyte walked away from the others to an open area
approximately twelve feet across. He knelt and began to pray as the others
retreated away from him. For fifteen minutes the new devotee knelt and
spoke with his God. All the while, the light from outside faded, dusk stealing
the light and colour from the Cathedral.
As the last light faded, the ground near the priest erupted and four vampires
burst from the ground, spraying dirt all around and shattering the tiled floor.
With infinite calm, the young priest removed his outer robe to reveal the
traditional dog collar and black shirt. Watched by four pairs of yellow,
hateful eyes, he stood, surrounded.
The first vampire barely moved before the stake was in his heart. Brown
dust filled the air as a second came from behind the priest. He allowed the
vampire to grab him before twisting around and, through sheer technique,
breaking the offending limbs in a double cracking sound. Aware that this
vampire was no more threat, the neophyte pushed him into a third, surprised,
vampire and staked the slower forth one with a swift, accurate thrust.
Knelt in the broken tiles and rough ground, the terrified vampire begged for
his life. He received no mercy though, as he too became dust. Now, only the
injured undead remained. The priest walked around the pathetic creature, his
boots echoing round the Cathedral as they clattered off the floor. The priest
bent and withdrew a green cross from his left boot and thrust it into the
vampire's face, burning him horribly.
"For God gave his only begotten son, Jesus Christ, that whosoever believeth
in him should not perish but have eternal life: John 3:16," the priest
announced. His victim, with renewed strength, leapt for the priest, fangs out,
and ready to kill. The young man responded with a perfectly executed mai-
geri kick to the midriff, stopping the vampire suddenly and painfully in mid
air. Before the undead assailant even hit the floor, a reverse thrust saw the
stake in his dusty heart.
"Amen," finished the priest.
From their nods, Father Leviticus Duvall knew that the Order of the Emerald
Cross had accepted him as their seventh member. After almost twelve years
of training, tears of relief rolled down his youthful face.
Chronicles
Dust drifted through the faint light from the table lamp as Giles, his face
desperate with concern, slammed the old book shut. From the cover of the
book, winged zebra, hovering over a cave stared up at him, mocking his
wasted efforts. Seven months of continual work and he seemed no closer to
an answer. The vibrant golden amber light refracting through his whisky
drew his gaze and he took a drink. As the sharp fluid warmed him, he mused
on his life over the past months.
His success with Buffy, seeing her graduate to full Slayer, had led to his
promotion within the Watcher Council. This, in turn, meant the Council
entrusted him with the Codex qwa Punda Milia. His task was to translate the
ancient Swahili Book of the Zebra and, finally, to report on the prediction it
made of the end of days. Most of the book had been useless but one
prophecy was worrying. Very worrying.
The task had taken much longer than anyone had thought. There were no
speakers of ancient Swahili anymore. The Council had even sent an African
watcher, a native Ki-Swahili speaker, Lydia to help him. He had given up
his job, become largely recluse and worst of all, lied to Buffy. He hated
himself for lying to her. She thought he was just a drop out now but the
Council had sworn him to secrecy.
"In those final days," he read from his notes, "The four will rise and find one
another in the Vale of the Sun." That had already happened. In the blue light
from the television, Xander and Spike sat side by side, watching something,
anything. They were very quiet. Gentle tears rolled down Xander's battered
face. Probably over Willow, or maybe Anja, thought Giles. Thank the
Powers that Be they were both alive – just. Spike sat feeling his ribs with his
one good hand. Giles could not help thinking he looked like a wounded
animal licking his wounds.
Buffy and Reilly were out patrolling but it was a case of the blind leading
the infirm. Buffy had put herself between the demons and Willow,
desperately outnumbered, and four bones had been shattered. She would
recover, but not for a while. In the same attack, one of the demons had shot
barbs from its back and Reilly had lost an eye.
More amber nectar and Giles' head began to spin slightly.
"The child of light(?) will travel across the world to the village of the good
spirit on the edge of darkness, where the four will be" Giles read aloud, and
then paused. It was confusing. Surely, the "Vale of the Sun" was Sunnydale.
However, he thought the last sentence referred to the Slayer and the
Hellmouth. This begged the question why describe it two different ways?
"The dark one will return and humanity will end for nothing living will face
them at the end. The child of dark(?) will fight with the child of light(?) for
the fate of the world And all this will happen by the will of the Hyena God
when the eyes of the serpent meet the jewel's of the Nile." This had taken
longest to translate and had involved astronomy, mythology and computer
projection of the movement of stars. Bless Willow, she had to pull through.
May 22nd, 2000. Armageddon. Well that was a relief, they still had a whole
two days Giles thought sarcastically. No pressure then. Oh, as usual, bugger.
"If you ask me its about bloody time we enlisted that poof Angel," Spike
grimaced. "I don't want mankind to end. I sort of think of them as ready
cooked meals from the gourmet section of the Hypermarket. 'Sides no more
Man United." He finished.
"Yes, indeed, that, may be a necessary recourse, " started Giles and then fell
silent. Picking up the Codex from his polished work desk, he flicked it open
at the prophecy. Of course, it was so obvious.
"Spike, you're going to L.A.," Giles said.
"Piss off."
"Piss off," growled the muscular man. In the red glow from a window,
Angel could make out the man's features. He was a vampire all right,
Doyle's visions were never wrong. Tattoos rippled in the faint light as he
tightened his grip on the pretty young girl that was to be his breakfast.
Kicking and struggling, so that her tight red dress was riding up her thighs,
she finally got enough purchase to face her captor.
It was a scream Angel remembered well.
"Let her go and I might let you leave this alley alive," Angel lied.
"Re-arrange this well known phrase or saying, yourself go screw," laughed
the bigger man. The piercing yellow of his eyes glowed a little brighter.
Steam from the underground billowed as Angel threw open his coat and
produced a shining sword. It spun around in his right hand as if it were a part
of him. Then, in his left.
"How are you gonna kill me you freakin' idiot when I have my shield," the
vampire taunted, pulling the little blonde closer.
"I'm not," Angel smiled, his wide mouth unexpectedly beaming at the
monster.
The beast barely had time to frown before his face, and the rest of him,
turned to dust, revealing Doyle holding a stake behind him.
"Why do they always fall for that one?" he asked, smiling.
Backing up against the cold, damp, brick wall of the fetid, West Hollywood
alley, the young woman pointed a trembling, delicate hand beyond Angel.
"There's another one. What the hell is it?" she wailed.
From the cover of the steam, a bleach blond vampire strolled, his face
hidden by the diffuse backlight from a passing car. He walked toward Angel,
drawing on a cigarette, the glow betraying his vampiric brow and eyes.
Angel noticed the fresh scars.
"Well, with a face like this I'm either a vampire or a bleedin' Chelsea
supporter. Let me see, Chelsea or dead? Nah, I'd rather be bloody dead."
Spike laughed heartily as the young woman ran off, her heels clacking along
the alley in terror. "You think she supports Chelsea?" he asked earnestly.
"What do you want Spike?"
"What the hell does he want? Kill him Angel. Do your grrrr thing on him."
Cordelia welcomed Spike.
"Bleedin' charmed I'm sure," he retorted as he plunged into a convenient
chair and thrust his feet onto Angel's desk. He accidentally knocked the
computer and Cordelia glimpsed her reflection in the blank monitor.
"You know, working nights is really playing hell with my tan. Kill him," she
ordered, even more annoyed now. Wesley watched her as she grabbed an
axe and made for Spike, no fear at all on her pretty, pointed face.
"Now settle, oi, watch it! I might ask you the same bleedin' question. What
are you doin' here?"
"I'm Angel's Personal Assistant."
"Really, so let's think. I'm a P.I. and I want some backup at the office. I look
for someone intelligent, resourceful, maybe even deep so she can share in
my overly dramatic misery. No offence."
"None taken," Angel shrugged.
"Then, one day," continued Spike, standing up to face Cordelia, "a waste of
space turns up who happened to know Buffy. She's shallow, incompetent,
downright rude, I might add, and entirely bloody useless. I'm all girlie, poof
soft so I take sympathy on her and give her a job despite the fact that she is
the last person in L.A., maybe in the whole of bleedin' California who can
do this job well. Sound familiar? Why? 'Cause she used to know Buffy."
"Not at all," denied Cordelia glancing at Angel, indicating he should back
her up.
"Cordelia's very…"
"Tasty?" finished Spike. There was a silence as a smug smile developed on
Spike.
"She's our soul," Wesley interjected angrily. "You remember those don't
you William?" Spike raised an eyebrow.
The bleached vampire gave up and walked awkwardly across to Angel,
handing him a sealed envelope. Angel noticed two of Spike's fingers were
broken and strapped together. He looked tired and Angel thought he smelt
fear about him. In the envelope was a hand-written note from Giles. A new
transcript of the prophecy was included.
" In the final days, the four Horsemen of the Apocalypse (to give them a
modern term) shall meet in Sunnydale. The child of light (unsure here) will
travel across the world to the city of Angel where the four will be.
The dark one will return and humanity will end for nothing living will face
them at the end. The child of dark (?) will fight the child of light (this is
wrong but I have nothing better) for the fate of the world And all this will
happen on May 22nd 2000."
He handed the letter to Spike who studied it.
"Well that's just great. The world is about to bloody end and I'm stuck
in sodding LA with the Lion, the bitch and the boring bloke. You just
know that when the crap comes down, I'm going to have to save the bleedin'
world on me bleedin' own. At least that lot in BuffyDale went out during the
day."
Proverbs
"What does it mean?" Angel asked. Silvery mist curled around his lowered
body as if inspecting his worthiness. Under a marble arch, two blue-silver
beings regarded him with impassive faces and crystal eyes. They looked
young and human with short hair, putting Angel in mind of marble busts
from ancient Rome he had seen in London. The resonant tones of their
voices gave their words an authority.
"It means you will make a choice Angel. So far you have sacrificed some
precious things and we are pleased but soon you will make the ultimate
sacrifice if you wish to save those you love."
"I don't understand," Angel said.
"You will," said the woman.
"And you will weep," said the man.
"Goodbye Angelus, you have done well." As the mist parted, the semi-naked
perfect couple left Angel alone in the entrance. In this bright, shining place,
he felt very dark indeed.
Numbers
The intense California sun beat down on Father Duvall as he stepped from
the Metro Rail in Downtown L.A.. Wiping the sweat from his brow with a
white silk handkerchief, he noted how quiet Downtown was on a Sunday.
The huge calendar outside the Museum of Contemporary Art read 05-21-00,
whilst its clock face indicated that it was just after midday. Strolling down
the quiet, hot streets the priest thought how much he loved God's blessed
sun. Such a gift to humanity, without it there would be no day, only night.
There would be only cold, evil nights of the Vampire.
Through the heat haze, by squinting, Leviticus saw what he had come here
for. On a pillar, the remains of a poster were baking. He made his way
across the vast empty road and read, with difficulty, what was still on the
poster.
"Angel…, we help….
For…ring 555 9451"
A dark voice drifted up from behind him in the shadows of an office
building doorway.
"Spare a poor soul a dime?"
The father ripped the number from the poster and turned to look at the mess
of humanity huddled in the doorway. Grasping a bottle of Thunderbird in
one hand, it reached out an emaciated hand for coins. He stared intently at its
pathetic look of hopelessness and reached into a pocket. Walking into the
shadow where the poor man was hiding from the heat, the priest reached out
his hand and dropped a crucifix into the open hand, closing it quickly.
"Man cannot live by blood alone, but by every word from the mouth of
God," he said as smoke began to rise from the man's burning hand. Stepping
forward, Leviticus slammed a hand into the beast's forehead, this alone
causing flames to rise from its head. The helpless vampire flared into orange
fire as if suddenly exposed to sunlight. It pushed Leviticus away and in
horrific pain, staggered into the middle of the street, burning.
Soon the screams died away and Downtown LA returned to its quiet sleepy
Sunday rest. Father Leviticus Duvall wiped his brow and picked up his
crucifix where it lay in the ashes. Absently he brushed it clean whilst
looking in all directions. He needed a telephone.
Letters
Cordelia answered the telephone as Angel was studying the letter from
Giles. Just as she brought the receiver to her ear she sneezed loudly, sniffled
and rubbed her hand across her nose.
"Angel Investigations. We help the Hopeless and the Rich," she added.
Angel, Wesley and Doyle all looked disapproving. She covered the
mouthpiece and whispered, "O.K. you help the hopeless and I'll help the
rich then. How can…I mean how can we help?" she finished into the phone.
After a pause she said, "its Giles for you Angel. And Spike?" Spike looked
up. "Willow and Anja are going to pull through," Cordelia informed him
through a sniffle.
"Hoo-bleedin'-rah," Spike said flatly.
Angel took the phone gently from Cordelia and listened intently. His face
grew darker and darker. Finally, he put the phone down without saying a
word. His darkly intense face frowned deeply, and he made for the weapons
cupboard. Opening the doors, he began to get ready, strapping knives and
spikes to his body.
"You're not thinking of takin' that lot on are you? You bloody idiot Angel,
you've no chance."
"Are you going to help or are you going to shut up?" said Angel.
Cordelia coughed.
"What? I wasn't going to say anything," she said hoarsely. Spike ignored
her.
"You're not some comic book hero mate. You go in unprepared and we're
all dead, this isn't some pussy slayer here, this is the real thing. The end of
days, the Apocalypse, Death, Famine, War and Pestilence come to claim
these sickeningly defenseless humans. I'm not Robin, you're not Batman,
this ain't a film. There are no second chances, no heros, no magic resistance,
no saving throw, no sod all."
The others looked at him.
"What? Never role-played?" Blank stares forced him to give up.
Despite his words Spike moved to the weapons and began tossing a butterfly
knife from hand to hand.
"Feels good," he said.
As the unlikely, vampire colleagues armed themselves Wesley leant against
a wall and watched. He knew the Powers that Be had told Angel very little
except something about a sacrifice. Whatever Giles had said had affected
Angel more. Perhaps Giles knew something. Wesley decided to ask.
"Giles is wrong," Angel said darkly. Cordelia and Wesley exchanged
worried glances but kept silent.
"He has to be," the worried vampire finished quietly to himself as he
inspected a boot knife.
Cordelia sneezed again.
Angel looked at her.
"Pestilence," Spike informed them. "It's started."
"And we," Angel spun his axe around, "are about to end it."
Spike rolled his eyes. "Bollocks mate! Right, we'll just rush out and ask
around for anyone who has seen four demons. Where the bloody hell are we
going?"
Doyle slammed into Angel's desk, one hand covering her left eye. "Olvera
Street," he grimaced.
Spike nodded his approval. "That's a bloody useful talent," he told Angel.
Lamentations
Wesley and Doyle sat in the back of Angel's car. Doyle was still cradling his
head from the vision. Wesley, however, was fighting the rushing wind to
determine which page of his demonology book would fall open next.
"It says here that the four horsemen are amongst the strongest denizens of
the demon dimensions," he shouted over the complaining engine. Angel
pushed the car harder. "It adds that when they return to the Earth…oh
my…Angel, go faster."
Olvera Street appeared as the car whipped the four men round a final corner.
Angel slammed the braked on, squealing to a halt. A throng of Mexicans,
mixed with tourists, were stumbling from the old street into the square.
Wave after wave of panicked people tumbled and fell over each other.
Through the confusion, Angel could see very ill people, falling weak and
nauseous, helpless in the crush. Coughing and vomiting sounds mixed with
the screams and enraged cries. Fights were breaking out all over the square
as blindly angry locals and tourists clashed.
Spike and Angel leapt from the car without opening the doors. Their long
coats flapped behind them as they landed and made as one for the entrance
to the tiny, old street.
"Look a bit like Batman and Robin," Doyle said. Wesley and Doyle
clambered from the car, Wesley tripping as he went. Through the crowded
confusion, pushing through the dark, the two friends broke into Olvera
Street. The narrow street, normally full of partygoers and stalls selling all
manner of Mexican merchandise, was a scene of devastation. Ahead of
them, in the remains of stalls crushed beyond recognition, Angel and Spike
faced four grotesque creatures on huge black horses. Lit by the licking
flames emanating from the horses' nostrils, the vampires advanced, weapons
at the ready. Wesley noted that Spike seemed to limp a little as he closed
over the shattered wood toward a demon dressed as a Samurai warrior.
Angel, in turn, made for a demon so thin he was simply rotten flesh on
bones. War and Famine, thought Wesley.
Before Wesley could stop him, Doyle rushed forward at a third demon,
mounted and relaxed with a huge scythe in its hands. The black apparition
turned its ebony horse and waited.
"Doyle, no, that's Death – avoid any touch" he called. He made to stop
Doyle but a cloud of foul smelling flies engulfed him as a fourth demon,
laughing, rode toward him.
Cordelia, her tanned face full of concern for her missing companions,
answered the phone. "Angel Investigations, we help just about anyone it
turns out. Can we help you?"
"What is your address please. I would like to visit in person," came the
voice.
She told him and he hung up. "We should just help nice people," she mused.
"This is all wrong," Angel called to Spike as he chopped at the rearing horse
and rider. "The prophecy said the battle for the end of days would be
tomorrow."
"Bugger that," yelled Spike as War struck him to the ground. The demon
victoriously waved a katana in the air, taunting Spike. "And bollocks to you,
you overblown anthropomorphic … git," he finished weakly. Spike launched
himself back into the fray. War slapped him down again. This time, War
closed, the fixed Samurai mask grin mocking Spike. Spike tried to rise but a
huge hoof smashed into his forehead, sending him reeling back into the
remains of the stands.
"Angel mate," he said reaching for help. A large shadow fell across Spike as
War closed for the kill. The demon dropped from his black steed and pinned
Spike to the floor with a powerful foot.
"End of Days," it bellowed.
Doyle hit War from behind.
"'Bout bloody time," Spike thanked him.
As War rocked forward, he spun slashing his deadly blade across Doyle. The
lethal steel sliced through Doyle's midriff. As the demon staggered away,
Doyle was left holding his innards as he rocked, then dropped to his knees.
Blood gushed from him, all over Spike. Steam rose from Doyle as he spilled
forward.
"Wesley!" Angel called as he rushed to Doyle's side.
"I'm there."
Spike, licking his lips, Angel and Wesley stood over Doyle. The three
mounted demons and War close on them. As the demonic circle shrank to
strangle its victims, Doyle lay twitching.
"It has been an honour knowing you Angel," Wesley said.
"Please!" Spike added.
Then, War remounted and the four turned and rode away.
Angel dropped to his knees: "Doyle! Doyle! Doyle! Call Cordelia, we're
taking him to hospital." All Angel could think about was the words of the
Powers that Be. "And you will weep."
Angel did.
Cordelia rounded the final corner. Outside a door, she saw Angel, his face,
angry with frustration. A little further away, Wesley was talking on a mobile
phone: he looked worried. She continued to run, her Hillfigger skirt
stretching with each step. Barely able to hold back her tears she ran into
Angel's arms. He grasped her by the shoulders and stared into her watery
brown eyes. He spoke gently.
"Alive…but critical."
Cordelia's pale face twisted with concern, her thin eyebrows formed a v
shape, her brow wrinkling. She coughed a deep, hacking cough, swooning
into Angel's strong arms. For a moment she buried her face into his coat but
then forced herself upright.
"Pestilence?" asked Angel.
Cordelia nodded weakly.
"Oh god. I…" she brushed passed Angel, pushing her way to Doyle's side.
A machine next to him registered a weak pulse. It beeped slowly.
Deafeningly ominous, it declared Doyle to be alive- moment by endless
moment. Tucked into white linen, he lay staring at the ceiling, his chest
rising and falling so very slowly.
"Cordelia?"
"Uhu, it's me Doyle. How are you? I mean…" He looked like a corpse in his
death shroud. He smiled. As she watched the life fading from his eyes, her
tears fell openly onto his white face.
"Cordy?" he managed.
She leant closer to him; so close she could feel each tortuous breath
caressing her face. Doyle reached a trembling hand up and touched her
cheek gently. She leant into his hand, touching it back.
"I love you Cordelia Chase."
She clasped a hand around his and leant into his lips, kissing them as if they
might break. Snaking blue electricity passed unnoticed between them. She
pulled back to tell him she loved him but his eyes, like the machine, had
gone very quiet.
"Doyle? Doyle? Oh no!" Cordelia fell the floor next to Doyle's bed, shaking
with grief. Her legs buckled under her and her head sank as she collapsed,
sobbing.
In the doorway, Angel moved away, his back now pressed against a wall, his
soul raging inside him. Spike approached, his eyes searching Angel's face.
"Not that I really care soul-boy, but how does this make you feel?" His voice
was honest, searching for something he could not feel.
"Like I'm dead. Like…I wish I was like you again. Like it's not worth
caring. How does it feel? It burns like the brightest sunlight but it doesn't
stop. You don't turn to ash, the pain doesn't end, it just keeps burning."
Angel turned, slamming a fist into a wall. The concrete shattered, dust
bursting from the hole. Menacingly, he turned and rushed passed Spike.
"Where do you think you are going on your own?" Spike said.
"Leave it Spike, this is personal now."
"Oh, so your just gonna risk the whole world, my world, because someone
got dead? I don't bleeding think so. You're going nowhere without me
sonny Jim."
Angel turned. His vampire face raged with vengeance. His yellow eyes
burned with hatred for a moment, then he closed on Spike slamming his fist
into the other man's face. Spike dropped, twisting so that he ended up face
down, surprised and hurt. Angel landed on him from behind and slammed
Spike's head into the floor once, then again and yet again. Spike's face
smashed under the ferocity of the blows. Crimson blood splattered across the
polished white hospital floor as the helpless vampire sunk into
unconsciousness.
Still, Angel did not stop. Again, then again, with blind rage surging through
his blood, he powered Spike's nose and cheeks into the unyielding concrete.
In Angel's office, Leviticus studied Angel's files. He shook his head in
disbelief with each new file. In anger, he threw one file across Cordelia's
desk and the papers in it cascaded to the floor, drawing his eyes to the letter
Giles had sent Angel. Petulantly, he picked it up and read it.
Smiling he walked across to the office window and stared out.
"So, Angelus, today is your judgement day. Today you die." The rising sun
announced Judgement Day. Father Leviticus smiled. Only the righteous
would survive today.
Angel snarled at Wesley.
"Stake Wesley, get me a stake!"
Wesley reached into his jacket and removed a stake, making toward Angel
and hanging up his mobile. He handed the stake to Angel and stood back as
Angel arched, raising the stake high into the air.
"That was Rupert on the phone Angel," Wesley began. Angel hesitated,
snarling at the interruption. Wesley continued: "He translated the prophecy
incorrectly. It isn't the child of light and the child of darkness who fight for
the fate of humanity. A less literal translation would mean a dark haired man
and a blonde man. A blonde man who had traveled to LA to help you."
Angel stared down at Spike. A pool of blood framed his blonde head.
"Your rage has just sealed all our fates Angel. Spike cannot help us now. Go
ahead, kill him. It makes no difference, we're all dead now anyway. Stake
him Angelus, if that's what you wish."
Angel looked at Wesley. He was crying.
"War," Angel said as he threw the stake down. His rage was subsiding as he
stood; his coat drawing across Spike's limp body. Light from the day's sun
was beginning to pour in a window at the end of the corridor, bathing the
hospital in an orange glow. Angel knew it was too late for him to fight the
horsemen. If he stepped outside he would burn in seconds. It was over.
Doyle was dead and he was the lucky one. As Angel stared into the
oncoming light, he heard Cordelia still crying beside Doyle. He moved
silently into the room beside her, knelt down and hugged her tightly. She
was half trembling with sickness and half with grief as he rocked her gently
back and forth.
Minutes passed, but eventually, she looked up at him.
"Angel?"
"Yes?" He looked into her bloodshot eyes, staring into their deep brown
centres.
"Don't let it end here," she begged but his face was full of hopelessness.
At the window, Wesley watched in horror as four huge horsemen, dark
apparitions filling the sky, glided across LA. He could see people quickly
emaciating as famine swept them in an instant. He watched as a child tore
his own mother in two, as War's shadow fell on them. An old man, his face
cast upward toward Pestilence, fell to his knees as the flesh on his bones
peeled and fell around him: eaten by some accelerated wasting disease.
Wesley swore quietly as a young nurse, running in terror, simply died in mid
stride as Death himself rode by. Outside, it grew darker, as if demons
gathered to block out the sun.
Angel walked up behind Wesley. They watched the horrors in silence as
darkness descended on LA. Yet, as darkness enveloped people, a light began
to shine through the crowds. It was a lone priest. He stood, unaffected by the
demons, reading from a Bible. Alone, he had drawn the attention of War
who arced around to run him down with his huge war-horse. Around the
priest, everyone died as the demon approached. Still, he stood his ground.
Angel buckled, there was an agony in his belly: a wrenching pain he
remembered all too well. Focusing through the pain, he said: "Wesley? Do
you remember the prophecy?" Wesley nodded. "Say it, line by line."
"In those final days…" began Wesley.
"Which is now," Angel said. His voice was strained as if he had to focus just
to speak. Wesley continued.
"The four will rise and find one another in the Vale of the Sun."
"The horsemen of the Apocalypse met in Sunnydale…"
"The child of light, er…we think that means a blonde man, will travel
across the world to the village of the good spirit on the edge of darkness."
"Spike will come to me, I'm the spirit on the edge of darkness and he is the
blonde man."
"Where the four will be…" That was obvious so Wesley continued. "The
dark one will return and humanity will end for nothing living will face them
at the end. The child of dark(?) will fight with the child of light(?) for the
fate of the world And all this will happen…well, today." Wesley looked at
Angel for an explanation. Angel was staring at the priest but his face looked
like he was in agony.
"I know what it means," he managed. "Giles was right in his phone call to
me yesterday–- I'm going to die today. He was wrong about the second
reference to the child of light though. That's not Spike." Then, without
warning, he leapt through the window, sending glass shattering in all
directions and ran straight for the priest, roaring a challenge at War.
Judges
Angel was too late. War rode his horse over the priest, and with one slash
from his curved sword, sent father Levticus to the ground, mortally
wounded. As War's shadow swept across the men, Angel bent down and
cradled the priest's head in his hands. Father Leviticus searched Angel's
face with confused eyes.
"Came…to…kill…you. Was…wrong," the priest said as scarlet blood
seeped down his paling face. It was Angel's turn to look confused. The
priest tensed, a spasm shooting through his failing body, then, a final breath
rushed from him as his body fell limp. Angel, still cradling the priest, looked
around at the twisted bodies scattered around the hospital grounds. Nearby,
on a small hillock of grass, a mother and child clung together: touched by
the peaceful hand of Death, they were the lucky ones. Other bodies attested
the violence of War or the painful emaciation of starvation whilst others,
unrecognisable, showed Pestilence in his entire creativeness. Young nurses
and doctors, dressed in white and decorated with scarlet, lay, scattered,
between dozens of patients. Some had almost reached the hospital gates
before dying, but most lay in a pile by the main glass doors. Above the
doors, Angel read a sign, carved in stone.
"Hospital of our Merciful Lady (1952). In Her we trust."
"Sleep well Father," he said.
Angel stood and waited. War swooped. Angel could feel him approach as
Angelus raged for release. The closer War came, the stronger Angelus
fought. Angel waited, concentrating. Angelus rippled across his face, the
linear features of the vampire showing through. Power surged through Angel
like a torrent of water bursting from a dam. He felt dizzy for a moment and
then felt War's sword cut into him, the metal searing through his body.
From the hospital, Wesley and Cordelia watched in horror as the sword
entered Angel. Wesley slammed forward, braced against the edge of the
window shouting to Angel. Should he help, or would he die as quickly as the
others? He started to climb out of the window but Cordelia held him back.
He turned to look at her, tears streaming down her face, she said: "Not you
too Wes."
War's blade found Angelus. The dark spirit wrapped around the blade,
lusting on its keen edge. He felt the purity of its intent and wanted to be one
with it. As it entered the darkest recesses of Angelus, he tensed, bursting
with pleasure, heaving with renewed strength. Light blinded him, pouring
over him like warm honey, engulfing the spirit, forming around him. It
flowed over him, running into gaps and around etheric limbs. The light
seemed to harden, forming flesh and bones, turning spirit to solid.
"Look," said Cordelia, pointing beyond Wesley. He turned and stared.
Slowly he removed his glasses and narrowed thoughtful eyes.
"Oh my," he managed. On the tarmac beside the dead priest, Angel, weak
but alive, pushed himself upright. As Angel stood, Wesley and Cordelia
could see another body, naked and familiar, stirring on the ground. A
moment passed and then its head flicked up. Angelus, his face grinning
looked up at Angel. Four giant shadows circled overhead as the two
vampires faced each other for the first time. Angel looked awful, weak, pale,
shabby.
"You know," Angelus said, "when all this is over, I'm getting some better
clothes. First though, I'm going to have to kill you I'm afraid. No…wait. I'm
not. I'm not afraid at all." He laughed.
Angel's strength was returning and he kept a little distance from Angelus
who was stalking him.
"This is going to be so much fun Angel."
"Angelus, listen. You can kill me right now, I'm at your mercy." Angelus
raised a mocking eyebrow. "All right, but look around. No more food. You
know the prophecy too. The child of darkness will fight with the child of
light for the fate of the world."
Angelus glanced up. The four horsemen were coming toward them. "So, we
fight, let's get it on," he barked.
"No. The child of darkness, you," Angel said. Angelus bowed mockingly.
"The child of light, me…we fight…together. With meant together." Angel
reached into his coat and pulled out a short axe. He threw it toward Angelus.
It arced through the air over the dead priest. The axe spun several times but
Angelus caught the handle as it whipped around. Angelus examined the axe
whilst he thought. He desperately wanted to kill Angel. Now, while the
goodie-two-shoes was weak, was the best time. Angelus knew Angel was
right though. If the horsemen should get away; if they should be allowed to
kill, there would be no more humans or animals. No more humans meant no
more food and that meant starvation. Even so, it was almost worth killing
Angel. Angelus raised the axe and aimed at Angel. His naked body tensed
and with tremendous force, he threw the axe. Angel ducked and the axe
landed in War's chest, embedding itself deeply, beyond his samurai armour
into his bones. The demon roared and staggered back in agony but alive.
From the hospital, Wesley wand Cordelia watched as Death, Pestilence and
Famine dismounted and made for the vampires.
Angel, spinning away from War, found himself face to face with Famine.
Flies swarmed from the demons open mouth and dove into Angel. Coughing
and spluttering, waving his hands wildly, he staggered back, slamming into
the side of an ambulance. Pestilence strode forward, his stench engulfing
Angel, and grabbed the vampire by his throat. It did not understand why he
was still alive. Still, no matter, it thought. Gathering phlegm in its throat, the
demon leant forward and drove a rotten tongue into Angel's mouth, forcing
vile, pestilent juices into the vampire's throat. A thousand lethal viruses
searched for living cells to infect but found none. Angel grabbed Pestilence
around the head, refusing to let him release the kiss, and pressed a vice-like
grip harder and harder into the skull. Nausea and dizziness nearly overcame
him as the fetid mouth popped open and all manner of foul sickness poured
out. A moment later and there was a crack as Pestilence fell limp, his skull
crushed. Angelus dropped the demon and spat, falling to the floor with
sickness. Too weak to move, he lay shivering and retching.
Angelus slammed into the grassy lawn, a huge scythe mark down his back.
Towering above him, Death stared from his scythe to his hand. Although no
emotions showed on his skull, he was clearly confused. Why had his touch
not killed this creature and why had his scythe merely caused it to bleed.
Angelus spun around, kicked up and sent Death hurtling backward into a
wall. His scythe clattered and sprang from his hand, falling on the ground
nearby. Angelus, his leg muscles rippling, leapt with full force, landing near
the scythe and scooping it up. He skidded across the tarmac, tearing skin
from his arms and buttocks but came to a stop and stood up next to Death.
"And at the end, nothing living will face them…you should try reading a
little." Angelus sliced into Death with his own scythe, the blade severing the
demon's skull from his body. Death fell to the floor, a heap of bones in a
sack of black cloth.
"End of Days," mocked Angelus.
"End of Days," Famine hissed behind him and placed heavy hands on
Angelus' shoulders. The emaciating vampire dropped to his weakened knees
as his flesh started to hang loose around his body. The touch of the demon
made the life force sublimate from Angelus and his body shrank to an
unrecognisable bag of skin.
"Why does he not die?" Famine asked War as he approached. The demon
had torn the axe from his chest and raised it above Angelus. Angelus turned
hollow eyes at the axe as it arced toward his neck. He raised a bone-thin arm
into the path of the weapon in a desperate attempt to deflect it. His arm
shattered as the axe, forced to one side, buried into his left shoulder. Angelus
fell forward, his right arm outstretched to Angel.
"Help me," he rasped as he lay in supplication at the feet of Famine and
War. Angel, sickness possessing him, managed to stand but nausea
prevented him from moving to aid Angelus. He watched as War-- his face
turned toward Angel, expressionless behind the samurai mask-- decapitated
Angelus. In the half-light of Judgement Day, Angelus turned to dust and
blew across the hospital grounds. No one noticed the faint trace of shadow
left where his body had lain as it swirled, tendrils searching for something,
in the direction of Angel.
War, his red and white mask fixed on Angel, bellowed triumphantly and
strode toward the helpless vampire who was still pressed against the
ambulance, nausea overpowering him. The huge demon raised his axe, ready
to slaughter Angel and then complete the day's duties.
"Let me see the face of my executioner," Angel said.
War paused, then with his free hand, pulled the mask back over his head. A
black face with red eyes grinned victoriously at Angel.
"End of days," it roared.
Angel thrust two fingers into the Demon's exposed throat causing it to gag.
He forced himself forward, sickness rising in his stomach, and kissed the
demon. As he did so, he finally released the putrid vomit he had been
holding through will. It welled into his enemy and burst down War's throat:
a torrent of death. Once more, a thousand deadly viruses sought living cells.
This time they found them. As War reeled in confusion, his body began to
melt, eaten from inside by accelerated wasting diseases. He screamed in
agony but his liquefying flesh drowned the sound. Moments later, he was
dead.
Angel, still weak, staggered as Famine approached him. Angel tried to flare,
to vamp, but he could not. Famine picked up the axe that had fallen beside
War and reached a hand toward Angel. Backing away into the ambulance,
unable to go any further, he awaited the inevitable. Famine smiled: rotten
teeth in a ball of hanging flesh.
Then the shadow found Angel.
It pushed into him. It renewed him.
"Welcome back Angelus," he said to Famine. Famine paused long enough
for Angel to change to his vampire self. Hatred burning in his yellow eyes,
Angel twisted Famines arm, still gripping the axe, and brought the weapon
up into the demon's torso, tearing it apart. As hunger swept through him, he
released Famine, now unable to move and crossed to where Death's scythe
lay. Slowly, vengefully, Angel moved into Famine's line of sight.
"The dark one will return and humanity will end for nothing living will face
them at the end. The child of dark will fight, together with the child of light,
for the fate of the world. Guess what? We won."
Death's black scythe sliced Famine in two.
As the demonic darkness cleared and the suns rays burned into Angel's
flesh, he fell to the floor, helpless. Wesley hit him hard, covering him with a
hospital blanket. As the two men fought to put out the flames, Cordelia
watching, her face anxious and tired, four black horses cantered into the sky.
End of Days
After almost a month, Cordelia finally turned up to work in something other
than black. She sat at her desk in a simple flower patterned top, a blank
expression on her face. Wesley gently laid a hand on her shoulder.
"You have to let go…you're doing a good thing with the clothes. Its time to
move on. I'm sure Francis would agree if he were here. I mean…"
Cordelia placed her hand on Wesley's.
"I know. Somehow, I know. Where do good demons, I mean really good
ones, go when they die Wesley?"
Wesley wanted to offer her some comfort but the truth was he did not know.
Nobody did. Perhaps they went nowhere. Worse still, maybe they went
where all demons go and right now Francis was fighting with the Horsemen.
None of Wesley's training nor any of his books could answer this question.
"They go to Shonista, a sort of demon heaven," he lied.
Cordelia smiled: "Thanks Wes. Shame I could see your expression in the
monitor. You're a terrible liar."
They fell into silence for a few moments, wondering about Doyle's fate but
then the phone rang and, as if on cue, Angel entered the office from his flat.
"Hello," started Cordelia, "Angel Invest…oh its you…Hello! Yes of course
he's here. Well duh! That's what I do! What's the message?" Cordelia
nodded her head and listened intently to the mystery caller as Angel and
Wesley exchanged curious glances. "Uhu, I'll tell him. Bye!" she finished
before replacing the receiver.
"Cordelia?" Angel said.
"Oh the message…sorry. That was Spike. Apparently the bandages are off
now."
"Three weeks! My, that is a long time for a vampire to heal. Still, all's well
that ends well. Anything else?" asked Wesley.
In her best fake London accent Cordelia said: "Tell that bastard Angel I'm
gonna tear his bloody lungs out through his backside next time I see him."
"So, no hard feelings then?" Angel said.
Ripper
Shafts of rainbow coloured light fell on the old priests white hair as he led
the devout through the cathedral. Each man was dressed in a dark robe and
walked, step by rhythmic step, toward the high altar. Moving slowly from
the Lady Chapel through the great hall into the north transept, the six men
approached a seventh. He was younger than the others and dressed in the
white robes of a neophyte. The seven men stood together by the great altar
onto which the old priest placed seven boxes. The exquisite black velvet
caskets were twelve inches in length but only a few in diameter.
"In nomini Patri et Filius et Spiritus Sancti," the elder led.
"Amen," chanted the others.
Slowly, ritualistically, each man opened a box, removed the weapon, and
took his place around the altar. His robes bathed in the light from the stained
glass windows, the neophyte walked away from the others to an open area
approximately twelve feet across. He knelt and began to pray as the others
retreated away from him. For fifteen minutes the new devotee knelt and
spoke with his God. All the while, the light from outside faded, dusk stealing
the light and colour from the Cathedral.
As the last light faded, the ground near the priest erupted and four vampires
burst from the ground, spraying dirt all around and shattering the tiled floor.
With infinite calm, the young priest removed his outer robe to reveal the
traditional dog collar and black shirt. Watched by four pairs of yellow,
hateful eyes, he stood, surrounded.
The first vampire barely moved before the stake was in his heart. Brown
dust filled the air as a second came from behind the priest. He allowed the
vampire to grab him before twisting around and, through sheer technique,
breaking the offending limbs in a double cracking sound. Aware that this
vampire was no more threat, the neophyte pushed him into a third, surprised,
vampire and staked the slower forth one with a swift, accurate thrust.
Knelt in the broken tiles and rough ground, the terrified vampire begged for
his life. He received no mercy though, as he too became dust. Now, only the
injured undead remained. The priest walked around the pathetic creature, his
boots echoing round the Cathedral as they clattered off the floor. The priest
bent and withdrew a green cross from his left boot and thrust it into the
vampire's face, burning him horribly.
"For God gave his only begotten son, Jesus Christ, that whosoever believeth
in him should not perish but have eternal life: John 3:16," the priest
announced. His victim, with renewed strength, leapt for the priest, fangs out,
and ready to kill. The young man responded with a perfectly executed mai-
geri kick to the midriff, stopping the vampire suddenly and painfully in mid
air. Before the undead assailant even hit the floor, a reverse thrust saw the
stake in his dusty heart.
"Amen," finished the priest.
From their nods, Father Leviticus Duvall knew that the Order of the Emerald
Cross had accepted him as their seventh member. After almost twelve years
of training, tears of relief rolled down his youthful face.
Chronicles
Dust drifted through the faint light from the table lamp as Giles, his face
desperate with concern, slammed the old book shut. From the cover of the
book, winged zebra, hovering over a cave stared up at him, mocking his
wasted efforts. Seven months of continual work and he seemed no closer to
an answer. The vibrant golden amber light refracting through his whisky
drew his gaze and he took a drink. As the sharp fluid warmed him, he mused
on his life over the past months.
His success with Buffy, seeing her graduate to full Slayer, had led to his
promotion within the Watcher Council. This, in turn, meant the Council
entrusted him with the Codex qwa Punda Milia. His task was to translate the
ancient Swahili Book of the Zebra and, finally, to report on the prediction it
made of the end of days. Most of the book had been useless but one
prophecy was worrying. Very worrying.
The task had taken much longer than anyone had thought. There were no
speakers of ancient Swahili anymore. The Council had even sent an African
watcher, a native Ki-Swahili speaker, Lydia to help him. He had given up
his job, become largely recluse and worst of all, lied to Buffy. He hated
himself for lying to her. She thought he was just a drop out now but the
Council had sworn him to secrecy.
"In those final days," he read from his notes, "The four will rise and find one
another in the Vale of the Sun." That had already happened. In the blue light
from the television, Xander and Spike sat side by side, watching something,
anything. They were very quiet. Gentle tears rolled down Xander's battered
face. Probably over Willow, or maybe Anja, thought Giles. Thank the
Powers that Be they were both alive – just. Spike sat feeling his ribs with his
one good hand. Giles could not help thinking he looked like a wounded
animal licking his wounds.
Buffy and Reilly were out patrolling but it was a case of the blind leading
the infirm. Buffy had put herself between the demons and Willow,
desperately outnumbered, and four bones had been shattered. She would
recover, but not for a while. In the same attack, one of the demons had shot
barbs from its back and Reilly had lost an eye.
More amber nectar and Giles' head began to spin slightly.
"The child of light(?) will travel across the world to the village of the good
spirit on the edge of darkness, where the four will be" Giles read aloud, and
then paused. It was confusing. Surely, the "Vale of the Sun" was Sunnydale.
However, he thought the last sentence referred to the Slayer and the
Hellmouth. This begged the question why describe it two different ways?
"The dark one will return and humanity will end for nothing living will face
them at the end. The child of dark(?) will fight with the child of light(?) for
the fate of the world And all this will happen by the will of the Hyena God
when the eyes of the serpent meet the jewel's of the Nile." This had taken
longest to translate and had involved astronomy, mythology and computer
projection of the movement of stars. Bless Willow, she had to pull through.
May 22nd, 2000. Armageddon. Well that was a relief, they still had a whole
two days Giles thought sarcastically. No pressure then. Oh, as usual, bugger.
"If you ask me its about bloody time we enlisted that poof Angel," Spike
grimaced. "I don't want mankind to end. I sort of think of them as ready
cooked meals from the gourmet section of the Hypermarket. 'Sides no more
Man United." He finished.
"Yes, indeed, that, may be a necessary recourse, " started Giles and then fell
silent. Picking up the Codex from his polished work desk, he flicked it open
at the prophecy. Of course, it was so obvious.
"Spike, you're going to L.A.," Giles said.
"Piss off."
"Piss off," growled the muscular man. In the red glow from a window,
Angel could make out the man's features. He was a vampire all right,
Doyle's visions were never wrong. Tattoos rippled in the faint light as he
tightened his grip on the pretty young girl that was to be his breakfast.
Kicking and struggling, so that her tight red dress was riding up her thighs,
she finally got enough purchase to face her captor.
It was a scream Angel remembered well.
"Let her go and I might let you leave this alley alive," Angel lied.
"Re-arrange this well known phrase or saying, yourself go screw," laughed
the bigger man. The piercing yellow of his eyes glowed a little brighter.
Steam from the underground billowed as Angel threw open his coat and
produced a shining sword. It spun around in his right hand as if it were a part
of him. Then, in his left.
"How are you gonna kill me you freakin' idiot when I have my shield," the
vampire taunted, pulling the little blonde closer.
"I'm not," Angel smiled, his wide mouth unexpectedly beaming at the
monster.
The beast barely had time to frown before his face, and the rest of him,
turned to dust, revealing Doyle holding a stake behind him.
"Why do they always fall for that one?" he asked, smiling.
Backing up against the cold, damp, brick wall of the fetid, West Hollywood
alley, the young woman pointed a trembling, delicate hand beyond Angel.
"There's another one. What the hell is it?" she wailed.
From the cover of the steam, a bleach blond vampire strolled, his face
hidden by the diffuse backlight from a passing car. He walked toward Angel,
drawing on a cigarette, the glow betraying his vampiric brow and eyes.
Angel noticed the fresh scars.
"Well, with a face like this I'm either a vampire or a bleedin' Chelsea
supporter. Let me see, Chelsea or dead? Nah, I'd rather be bloody dead."
Spike laughed heartily as the young woman ran off, her heels clacking along
the alley in terror. "You think she supports Chelsea?" he asked earnestly.
"What do you want Spike?"
"What the hell does he want? Kill him Angel. Do your grrrr thing on him."
Cordelia welcomed Spike.
"Bleedin' charmed I'm sure," he retorted as he plunged into a convenient
chair and thrust his feet onto Angel's desk. He accidentally knocked the
computer and Cordelia glimpsed her reflection in the blank monitor.
"You know, working nights is really playing hell with my tan. Kill him," she
ordered, even more annoyed now. Wesley watched her as she grabbed an
axe and made for Spike, no fear at all on her pretty, pointed face.
"Now settle, oi, watch it! I might ask you the same bleedin' question. What
are you doin' here?"
"I'm Angel's Personal Assistant."
"Really, so let's think. I'm a P.I. and I want some backup at the office. I look
for someone intelligent, resourceful, maybe even deep so she can share in
my overly dramatic misery. No offence."
"None taken," Angel shrugged.
"Then, one day," continued Spike, standing up to face Cordelia, "a waste of
space turns up who happened to know Buffy. She's shallow, incompetent,
downright rude, I might add, and entirely bloody useless. I'm all girlie, poof
soft so I take sympathy on her and give her a job despite the fact that she is
the last person in L.A., maybe in the whole of bleedin' California who can
do this job well. Sound familiar? Why? 'Cause she used to know Buffy."
"Not at all," denied Cordelia glancing at Angel, indicating he should back
her up.
"Cordelia's very…"
"Tasty?" finished Spike. There was a silence as a smug smile developed on
Spike.
"She's our soul," Wesley interjected angrily. "You remember those don't
you William?" Spike raised an eyebrow.
The bleached vampire gave up and walked awkwardly across to Angel,
handing him a sealed envelope. Angel noticed two of Spike's fingers were
broken and strapped together. He looked tired and Angel thought he smelt
fear about him. In the envelope was a hand-written note from Giles. A new
transcript of the prophecy was included.
" In the final days, the four Horsemen of the Apocalypse (to give them a
modern term) shall meet in Sunnydale. The child of light (unsure here) will
travel across the world to the city of Angel where the four will be.
The dark one will return and humanity will end for nothing living will face
them at the end. The child of dark (?) will fight the child of light (this is
wrong but I have nothing better) for the fate of the world And all this will
happen on May 22nd 2000."
He handed the letter to Spike who studied it.
"Well that's just great. The world is about to bloody end and I'm stuck
in sodding LA with the Lion, the bitch and the boring bloke. You just
know that when the crap comes down, I'm going to have to save the bleedin'
world on me bleedin' own. At least that lot in BuffyDale went out during the
day."
Proverbs
"What does it mean?" Angel asked. Silvery mist curled around his lowered
body as if inspecting his worthiness. Under a marble arch, two blue-silver
beings regarded him with impassive faces and crystal eyes. They looked
young and human with short hair, putting Angel in mind of marble busts
from ancient Rome he had seen in London. The resonant tones of their
voices gave their words an authority.
"It means you will make a choice Angel. So far you have sacrificed some
precious things and we are pleased but soon you will make the ultimate
sacrifice if you wish to save those you love."
"I don't understand," Angel said.
"You will," said the woman.
"And you will weep," said the man.
"Goodbye Angelus, you have done well." As the mist parted, the semi-naked
perfect couple left Angel alone in the entrance. In this bright, shining place,
he felt very dark indeed.
Numbers
The intense California sun beat down on Father Duvall as he stepped from
the Metro Rail in Downtown L.A.. Wiping the sweat from his brow with a
white silk handkerchief, he noted how quiet Downtown was on a Sunday.
The huge calendar outside the Museum of Contemporary Art read 05-21-00,
whilst its clock face indicated that it was just after midday. Strolling down
the quiet, hot streets the priest thought how much he loved God's blessed
sun. Such a gift to humanity, without it there would be no day, only night.
There would be only cold, evil nights of the Vampire.
Through the heat haze, by squinting, Leviticus saw what he had come here
for. On a pillar, the remains of a poster were baking. He made his way
across the vast empty road and read, with difficulty, what was still on the
poster.
"Angel…, we help….
For…ring 555 9451"
A dark voice drifted up from behind him in the shadows of an office
building doorway.
"Spare a poor soul a dime?"
The father ripped the number from the poster and turned to look at the mess
of humanity huddled in the doorway. Grasping a bottle of Thunderbird in
one hand, it reached out an emaciated hand for coins. He stared intently at its
pathetic look of hopelessness and reached into a pocket. Walking into the
shadow where the poor man was hiding from the heat, the priest reached out
his hand and dropped a crucifix into the open hand, closing it quickly.
"Man cannot live by blood alone, but by every word from the mouth of
God," he said as smoke began to rise from the man's burning hand. Stepping
forward, Leviticus slammed a hand into the beast's forehead, this alone
causing flames to rise from its head. The helpless vampire flared into orange
fire as if suddenly exposed to sunlight. It pushed Leviticus away and in
horrific pain, staggered into the middle of the street, burning.
Soon the screams died away and Downtown LA returned to its quiet sleepy
Sunday rest. Father Leviticus Duvall wiped his brow and picked up his
crucifix where it lay in the ashes. Absently he brushed it clean whilst
looking in all directions. He needed a telephone.
Letters
Cordelia answered the telephone as Angel was studying the letter from
Giles. Just as she brought the receiver to her ear she sneezed loudly, sniffled
and rubbed her hand across her nose.
"Angel Investigations. We help the Hopeless and the Rich," she added.
Angel, Wesley and Doyle all looked disapproving. She covered the
mouthpiece and whispered, "O.K. you help the hopeless and I'll help the
rich then. How can…I mean how can we help?" she finished into the phone.
After a pause she said, "its Giles for you Angel. And Spike?" Spike looked
up. "Willow and Anja are going to pull through," Cordelia informed him
through a sniffle.
"Hoo-bleedin'-rah," Spike said flatly.
Angel took the phone gently from Cordelia and listened intently. His face
grew darker and darker. Finally, he put the phone down without saying a
word. His darkly intense face frowned deeply, and he made for the weapons
cupboard. Opening the doors, he began to get ready, strapping knives and
spikes to his body.
"You're not thinking of takin' that lot on are you? You bloody idiot Angel,
you've no chance."
"Are you going to help or are you going to shut up?" said Angel.
Cordelia coughed.
"What? I wasn't going to say anything," she said hoarsely. Spike ignored
her.
"You're not some comic book hero mate. You go in unprepared and we're
all dead, this isn't some pussy slayer here, this is the real thing. The end of
days, the Apocalypse, Death, Famine, War and Pestilence come to claim
these sickeningly defenseless humans. I'm not Robin, you're not Batman,
this ain't a film. There are no second chances, no heros, no magic resistance,
no saving throw, no sod all."
The others looked at him.
"What? Never role-played?" Blank stares forced him to give up.
Despite his words Spike moved to the weapons and began tossing a butterfly
knife from hand to hand.
"Feels good," he said.
As the unlikely, vampire colleagues armed themselves Wesley leant against
a wall and watched. He knew the Powers that Be had told Angel very little
except something about a sacrifice. Whatever Giles had said had affected
Angel more. Perhaps Giles knew something. Wesley decided to ask.
"Giles is wrong," Angel said darkly. Cordelia and Wesley exchanged
worried glances but kept silent.
"He has to be," the worried vampire finished quietly to himself as he
inspected a boot knife.
Cordelia sneezed again.
Angel looked at her.
"Pestilence," Spike informed them. "It's started."
"And we," Angel spun his axe around, "are about to end it."
Spike rolled his eyes. "Bollocks mate! Right, we'll just rush out and ask
around for anyone who has seen four demons. Where the bloody hell are we
going?"
Doyle slammed into Angel's desk, one hand covering her left eye. "Olvera
Street," he grimaced.
Spike nodded his approval. "That's a bloody useful talent," he told Angel.
Lamentations
Wesley and Doyle sat in the back of Angel's car. Doyle was still cradling his
head from the vision. Wesley, however, was fighting the rushing wind to
determine which page of his demonology book would fall open next.
"It says here that the four horsemen are amongst the strongest denizens of
the demon dimensions," he shouted over the complaining engine. Angel
pushed the car harder. "It adds that when they return to the Earth…oh
my…Angel, go faster."
Olvera Street appeared as the car whipped the four men round a final corner.
Angel slammed the braked on, squealing to a halt. A throng of Mexicans,
mixed with tourists, were stumbling from the old street into the square.
Wave after wave of panicked people tumbled and fell over each other.
Through the confusion, Angel could see very ill people, falling weak and
nauseous, helpless in the crush. Coughing and vomiting sounds mixed with
the screams and enraged cries. Fights were breaking out all over the square
as blindly angry locals and tourists clashed.
Spike and Angel leapt from the car without opening the doors. Their long
coats flapped behind them as they landed and made as one for the entrance
to the tiny, old street.
"Look a bit like Batman and Robin," Doyle said. Wesley and Doyle
clambered from the car, Wesley tripping as he went. Through the crowded
confusion, pushing through the dark, the two friends broke into Olvera
Street. The narrow street, normally full of partygoers and stalls selling all
manner of Mexican merchandise, was a scene of devastation. Ahead of
them, in the remains of stalls crushed beyond recognition, Angel and Spike
faced four grotesque creatures on huge black horses. Lit by the licking
flames emanating from the horses' nostrils, the vampires advanced, weapons
at the ready. Wesley noted that Spike seemed to limp a little as he closed
over the shattered wood toward a demon dressed as a Samurai warrior.
Angel, in turn, made for a demon so thin he was simply rotten flesh on
bones. War and Famine, thought Wesley.
Before Wesley could stop him, Doyle rushed forward at a third demon,
mounted and relaxed with a huge scythe in its hands. The black apparition
turned its ebony horse and waited.
"Doyle, no, that's Death – avoid any touch" he called. He made to stop
Doyle but a cloud of foul smelling flies engulfed him as a fourth demon,
laughing, rode toward him.
Cordelia, her tanned face full of concern for her missing companions,
answered the phone. "Angel Investigations, we help just about anyone it
turns out. Can we help you?"
"What is your address please. I would like to visit in person," came the
voice.
She told him and he hung up. "We should just help nice people," she mused.
"This is all wrong," Angel called to Spike as he chopped at the rearing horse
and rider. "The prophecy said the battle for the end of days would be
tomorrow."
"Bugger that," yelled Spike as War struck him to the ground. The demon
victoriously waved a katana in the air, taunting Spike. "And bollocks to you,
you overblown anthropomorphic … git," he finished weakly. Spike launched
himself back into the fray. War slapped him down again. This time, War
closed, the fixed Samurai mask grin mocking Spike. Spike tried to rise but a
huge hoof smashed into his forehead, sending him reeling back into the
remains of the stands.
"Angel mate," he said reaching for help. A large shadow fell across Spike as
War closed for the kill. The demon dropped from his black steed and pinned
Spike to the floor with a powerful foot.
"End of Days," it bellowed.
Doyle hit War from behind.
"'Bout bloody time," Spike thanked him.
As War rocked forward, he spun slashing his deadly blade across Doyle. The
lethal steel sliced through Doyle's midriff. As the demon staggered away,
Doyle was left holding his innards as he rocked, then dropped to his knees.
Blood gushed from him, all over Spike. Steam rose from Doyle as he spilled
forward.
"Wesley!" Angel called as he rushed to Doyle's side.
"I'm there."
Spike, licking his lips, Angel and Wesley stood over Doyle. The three
mounted demons and War close on them. As the demonic circle shrank to
strangle its victims, Doyle lay twitching.
"It has been an honour knowing you Angel," Wesley said.
"Please!" Spike added.
Then, War remounted and the four turned and rode away.
Angel dropped to his knees: "Doyle! Doyle! Doyle! Call Cordelia, we're
taking him to hospital." All Angel could think about was the words of the
Powers that Be. "And you will weep."
Angel did.
Cordelia rounded the final corner. Outside a door, she saw Angel, his face,
angry with frustration. A little further away, Wesley was talking on a mobile
phone: he looked worried. She continued to run, her Hillfigger skirt
stretching with each step. Barely able to hold back her tears she ran into
Angel's arms. He grasped her by the shoulders and stared into her watery
brown eyes. He spoke gently.
"Alive…but critical."
Cordelia's pale face twisted with concern, her thin eyebrows formed a v
shape, her brow wrinkling. She coughed a deep, hacking cough, swooning
into Angel's strong arms. For a moment she buried her face into his coat but
then forced herself upright.
"Pestilence?" asked Angel.
Cordelia nodded weakly.
"Oh god. I…" she brushed passed Angel, pushing her way to Doyle's side.
A machine next to him registered a weak pulse. It beeped slowly.
Deafeningly ominous, it declared Doyle to be alive- moment by endless
moment. Tucked into white linen, he lay staring at the ceiling, his chest
rising and falling so very slowly.
"Cordelia?"
"Uhu, it's me Doyle. How are you? I mean…" He looked like a corpse in his
death shroud. He smiled. As she watched the life fading from his eyes, her
tears fell openly onto his white face.
"Cordy?" he managed.
She leant closer to him; so close she could feel each tortuous breath
caressing her face. Doyle reached a trembling hand up and touched her
cheek gently. She leant into his hand, touching it back.
"I love you Cordelia Chase."
She clasped a hand around his and leant into his lips, kissing them as if they
might break. Snaking blue electricity passed unnoticed between them. She
pulled back to tell him she loved him but his eyes, like the machine, had
gone very quiet.
"Doyle? Doyle? Oh no!" Cordelia fell the floor next to Doyle's bed, shaking
with grief. Her legs buckled under her and her head sank as she collapsed,
sobbing.
In the doorway, Angel moved away, his back now pressed against a wall, his
soul raging inside him. Spike approached, his eyes searching Angel's face.
"Not that I really care soul-boy, but how does this make you feel?" His voice
was honest, searching for something he could not feel.
"Like I'm dead. Like…I wish I was like you again. Like it's not worth
caring. How does it feel? It burns like the brightest sunlight but it doesn't
stop. You don't turn to ash, the pain doesn't end, it just keeps burning."
Angel turned, slamming a fist into a wall. The concrete shattered, dust
bursting from the hole. Menacingly, he turned and rushed passed Spike.
"Where do you think you are going on your own?" Spike said.
"Leave it Spike, this is personal now."
"Oh, so your just gonna risk the whole world, my world, because someone
got dead? I don't bleeding think so. You're going nowhere without me
sonny Jim."
Angel turned. His vampire face raged with vengeance. His yellow eyes
burned with hatred for a moment, then he closed on Spike slamming his fist
into the other man's face. Spike dropped, twisting so that he ended up face
down, surprised and hurt. Angel landed on him from behind and slammed
Spike's head into the floor once, then again and yet again. Spike's face
smashed under the ferocity of the blows. Crimson blood splattered across the
polished white hospital floor as the helpless vampire sunk into
unconsciousness.
Still, Angel did not stop. Again, then again, with blind rage surging through
his blood, he powered Spike's nose and cheeks into the unyielding concrete.
In Angel's office, Leviticus studied Angel's files. He shook his head in
disbelief with each new file. In anger, he threw one file across Cordelia's
desk and the papers in it cascaded to the floor, drawing his eyes to the letter
Giles had sent Angel. Petulantly, he picked it up and read it.
Smiling he walked across to the office window and stared out.
"So, Angelus, today is your judgement day. Today you die." The rising sun
announced Judgement Day. Father Leviticus smiled. Only the righteous
would survive today.
Angel snarled at Wesley.
"Stake Wesley, get me a stake!"
Wesley reached into his jacket and removed a stake, making toward Angel
and hanging up his mobile. He handed the stake to Angel and stood back as
Angel arched, raising the stake high into the air.
"That was Rupert on the phone Angel," Wesley began. Angel hesitated,
snarling at the interruption. Wesley continued: "He translated the prophecy
incorrectly. It isn't the child of light and the child of darkness who fight for
the fate of humanity. A less literal translation would mean a dark haired man
and a blonde man. A blonde man who had traveled to LA to help you."
Angel stared down at Spike. A pool of blood framed his blonde head.
"Your rage has just sealed all our fates Angel. Spike cannot help us now. Go
ahead, kill him. It makes no difference, we're all dead now anyway. Stake
him Angelus, if that's what you wish."
Angel looked at Wesley. He was crying.
"War," Angel said as he threw the stake down. His rage was subsiding as he
stood; his coat drawing across Spike's limp body. Light from the day's sun
was beginning to pour in a window at the end of the corridor, bathing the
hospital in an orange glow. Angel knew it was too late for him to fight the
horsemen. If he stepped outside he would burn in seconds. It was over.
Doyle was dead and he was the lucky one. As Angel stared into the
oncoming light, he heard Cordelia still crying beside Doyle. He moved
silently into the room beside her, knelt down and hugged her tightly. She
was half trembling with sickness and half with grief as he rocked her gently
back and forth.
Minutes passed, but eventually, she looked up at him.
"Angel?"
"Yes?" He looked into her bloodshot eyes, staring into their deep brown
centres.
"Don't let it end here," she begged but his face was full of hopelessness.
At the window, Wesley watched in horror as four huge horsemen, dark
apparitions filling the sky, glided across LA. He could see people quickly
emaciating as famine swept them in an instant. He watched as a child tore
his own mother in two, as War's shadow fell on them. An old man, his face
cast upward toward Pestilence, fell to his knees as the flesh on his bones
peeled and fell around him: eaten by some accelerated wasting disease.
Wesley swore quietly as a young nurse, running in terror, simply died in mid
stride as Death himself rode by. Outside, it grew darker, as if demons
gathered to block out the sun.
Angel walked up behind Wesley. They watched the horrors in silence as
darkness descended on LA. Yet, as darkness enveloped people, a light began
to shine through the crowds. It was a lone priest. He stood, unaffected by the
demons, reading from a Bible. Alone, he had drawn the attention of War
who arced around to run him down with his huge war-horse. Around the
priest, everyone died as the demon approached. Still, he stood his ground.
Angel buckled, there was an agony in his belly: a wrenching pain he
remembered all too well. Focusing through the pain, he said: "Wesley? Do
you remember the prophecy?" Wesley nodded. "Say it, line by line."
"In those final days…" began Wesley.
"Which is now," Angel said. His voice was strained as if he had to focus just
to speak. Wesley continued.
"The four will rise and find one another in the Vale of the Sun."
"The horsemen of the Apocalypse met in Sunnydale…"
"The child of light, er…we think that means a blonde man, will travel
across the world to the village of the good spirit on the edge of darkness."
"Spike will come to me, I'm the spirit on the edge of darkness and he is the
blonde man."
"Where the four will be…" That was obvious so Wesley continued. "The
dark one will return and humanity will end for nothing living will face them
at the end. The child of dark(?) will fight with the child of light(?) for the
fate of the world And all this will happen…well, today." Wesley looked at
Angel for an explanation. Angel was staring at the priest but his face looked
like he was in agony.
"I know what it means," he managed. "Giles was right in his phone call to
me yesterday–- I'm going to die today. He was wrong about the second
reference to the child of light though. That's not Spike." Then, without
warning, he leapt through the window, sending glass shattering in all
directions and ran straight for the priest, roaring a challenge at War.
Judges
Angel was too late. War rode his horse over the priest, and with one slash
from his curved sword, sent father Levticus to the ground, mortally
wounded. As War's shadow swept across the men, Angel bent down and
cradled the priest's head in his hands. Father Leviticus searched Angel's
face with confused eyes.
"Came…to…kill…you. Was…wrong," the priest said as scarlet blood
seeped down his paling face. It was Angel's turn to look confused. The
priest tensed, a spasm shooting through his failing body, then, a final breath
rushed from him as his body fell limp. Angel, still cradling the priest, looked
around at the twisted bodies scattered around the hospital grounds. Nearby,
on a small hillock of grass, a mother and child clung together: touched by
the peaceful hand of Death, they were the lucky ones. Other bodies attested
the violence of War or the painful emaciation of starvation whilst others,
unrecognisable, showed Pestilence in his entire creativeness. Young nurses
and doctors, dressed in white and decorated with scarlet, lay, scattered,
between dozens of patients. Some had almost reached the hospital gates
before dying, but most lay in a pile by the main glass doors. Above the
doors, Angel read a sign, carved in stone.
"Hospital of our Merciful Lady (1952). In Her we trust."
"Sleep well Father," he said.
Angel stood and waited. War swooped. Angel could feel him approach as
Angelus raged for release. The closer War came, the stronger Angelus
fought. Angel waited, concentrating. Angelus rippled across his face, the
linear features of the vampire showing through. Power surged through Angel
like a torrent of water bursting from a dam. He felt dizzy for a moment and
then felt War's sword cut into him, the metal searing through his body.
From the hospital, Wesley and Cordelia watched in horror as the sword
entered Angel. Wesley slammed forward, braced against the edge of the
window shouting to Angel. Should he help, or would he die as quickly as the
others? He started to climb out of the window but Cordelia held him back.
He turned to look at her, tears streaming down her face, she said: "Not you
too Wes."
War's blade found Angelus. The dark spirit wrapped around the blade,
lusting on its keen edge. He felt the purity of its intent and wanted to be one
with it. As it entered the darkest recesses of Angelus, he tensed, bursting
with pleasure, heaving with renewed strength. Light blinded him, pouring
over him like warm honey, engulfing the spirit, forming around him. It
flowed over him, running into gaps and around etheric limbs. The light
seemed to harden, forming flesh and bones, turning spirit to solid.
"Look," said Cordelia, pointing beyond Wesley. He turned and stared.
Slowly he removed his glasses and narrowed thoughtful eyes.
"Oh my," he managed. On the tarmac beside the dead priest, Angel, weak
but alive, pushed himself upright. As Angel stood, Wesley and Cordelia
could see another body, naked and familiar, stirring on the ground. A
moment passed and then its head flicked up. Angelus, his face grinning
looked up at Angel. Four giant shadows circled overhead as the two
vampires faced each other for the first time. Angel looked awful, weak, pale,
shabby.
"You know," Angelus said, "when all this is over, I'm getting some better
clothes. First though, I'm going to have to kill you I'm afraid. No…wait. I'm
not. I'm not afraid at all." He laughed.
Angel's strength was returning and he kept a little distance from Angelus
who was stalking him.
"This is going to be so much fun Angel."
"Angelus, listen. You can kill me right now, I'm at your mercy." Angelus
raised a mocking eyebrow. "All right, but look around. No more food. You
know the prophecy too. The child of darkness will fight with the child of
light for the fate of the world."
Angelus glanced up. The four horsemen were coming toward them. "So, we
fight, let's get it on," he barked.
"No. The child of darkness, you," Angel said. Angelus bowed mockingly.
"The child of light, me…we fight…together. With meant together." Angel
reached into his coat and pulled out a short axe. He threw it toward Angelus.
It arced through the air over the dead priest. The axe spun several times but
Angelus caught the handle as it whipped around. Angelus examined the axe
whilst he thought. He desperately wanted to kill Angel. Now, while the
goodie-two-shoes was weak, was the best time. Angelus knew Angel was
right though. If the horsemen should get away; if they should be allowed to
kill, there would be no more humans or animals. No more humans meant no
more food and that meant starvation. Even so, it was almost worth killing
Angel. Angelus raised the axe and aimed at Angel. His naked body tensed
and with tremendous force, he threw the axe. Angel ducked and the axe
landed in War's chest, embedding itself deeply, beyond his samurai armour
into his bones. The demon roared and staggered back in agony but alive.
From the hospital, Wesley wand Cordelia watched as Death, Pestilence and
Famine dismounted and made for the vampires.
Angel, spinning away from War, found himself face to face with Famine.
Flies swarmed from the demons open mouth and dove into Angel. Coughing
and spluttering, waving his hands wildly, he staggered back, slamming into
the side of an ambulance. Pestilence strode forward, his stench engulfing
Angel, and grabbed the vampire by his throat. It did not understand why he
was still alive. Still, no matter, it thought. Gathering phlegm in its throat, the
demon leant forward and drove a rotten tongue into Angel's mouth, forcing
vile, pestilent juices into the vampire's throat. A thousand lethal viruses
searched for living cells to infect but found none. Angel grabbed Pestilence
around the head, refusing to let him release the kiss, and pressed a vice-like
grip harder and harder into the skull. Nausea and dizziness nearly overcame
him as the fetid mouth popped open and all manner of foul sickness poured
out. A moment later and there was a crack as Pestilence fell limp, his skull
crushed. Angelus dropped the demon and spat, falling to the floor with
sickness. Too weak to move, he lay shivering and retching.
Angelus slammed into the grassy lawn, a huge scythe mark down his back.
Towering above him, Death stared from his scythe to his hand. Although no
emotions showed on his skull, he was clearly confused. Why had his touch
not killed this creature and why had his scythe merely caused it to bleed.
Angelus spun around, kicked up and sent Death hurtling backward into a
wall. His scythe clattered and sprang from his hand, falling on the ground
nearby. Angelus, his leg muscles rippling, leapt with full force, landing near
the scythe and scooping it up. He skidded across the tarmac, tearing skin
from his arms and buttocks but came to a stop and stood up next to Death.
"And at the end, nothing living will face them…you should try reading a
little." Angelus sliced into Death with his own scythe, the blade severing the
demon's skull from his body. Death fell to the floor, a heap of bones in a
sack of black cloth.
"End of Days," mocked Angelus.
"End of Days," Famine hissed behind him and placed heavy hands on
Angelus' shoulders. The emaciating vampire dropped to his weakened knees
as his flesh started to hang loose around his body. The touch of the demon
made the life force sublimate from Angelus and his body shrank to an
unrecognisable bag of skin.
"Why does he not die?" Famine asked War as he approached. The demon
had torn the axe from his chest and raised it above Angelus. Angelus turned
hollow eyes at the axe as it arced toward his neck. He raised a bone-thin arm
into the path of the weapon in a desperate attempt to deflect it. His arm
shattered as the axe, forced to one side, buried into his left shoulder. Angelus
fell forward, his right arm outstretched to Angel.
"Help me," he rasped as he lay in supplication at the feet of Famine and
War. Angel, sickness possessing him, managed to stand but nausea
prevented him from moving to aid Angelus. He watched as War-- his face
turned toward Angel, expressionless behind the samurai mask-- decapitated
Angelus. In the half-light of Judgement Day, Angelus turned to dust and
blew across the hospital grounds. No one noticed the faint trace of shadow
left where his body had lain as it swirled, tendrils searching for something,
in the direction of Angel.
War, his red and white mask fixed on Angel, bellowed triumphantly and
strode toward the helpless vampire who was still pressed against the
ambulance, nausea overpowering him. The huge demon raised his axe, ready
to slaughter Angel and then complete the day's duties.
"Let me see the face of my executioner," Angel said.
War paused, then with his free hand, pulled the mask back over his head. A
black face with red eyes grinned victoriously at Angel.
"End of days," it roared.
Angel thrust two fingers into the Demon's exposed throat causing it to gag.
He forced himself forward, sickness rising in his stomach, and kissed the
demon. As he did so, he finally released the putrid vomit he had been
holding through will. It welled into his enemy and burst down War's throat:
a torrent of death. Once more, a thousand deadly viruses sought living cells.
This time they found them. As War reeled in confusion, his body began to
melt, eaten from inside by accelerated wasting diseases. He screamed in
agony but his liquefying flesh drowned the sound. Moments later, he was
dead.
Angel, still weak, staggered as Famine approached him. Angel tried to flare,
to vamp, but he could not. Famine picked up the axe that had fallen beside
War and reached a hand toward Angel. Backing away into the ambulance,
unable to go any further, he awaited the inevitable. Famine smiled: rotten
teeth in a ball of hanging flesh.
Then the shadow found Angel.
It pushed into him. It renewed him.
"Welcome back Angelus," he said to Famine. Famine paused long enough
for Angel to change to his vampire self. Hatred burning in his yellow eyes,
Angel twisted Famines arm, still gripping the axe, and brought the weapon
up into the demon's torso, tearing it apart. As hunger swept through him, he
released Famine, now unable to move and crossed to where Death's scythe
lay. Slowly, vengefully, Angel moved into Famine's line of sight.
"The dark one will return and humanity will end for nothing living will face
them at the end. The child of dark will fight, together with the child of light,
for the fate of the world. Guess what? We won."
Death's black scythe sliced Famine in two.
As the demonic darkness cleared and the suns rays burned into Angel's
flesh, he fell to the floor, helpless. Wesley hit him hard, covering him with a
hospital blanket. As the two men fought to put out the flames, Cordelia
watching, her face anxious and tired, four black horses cantered into the sky.
End of Days
After almost a month, Cordelia finally turned up to work in something other
than black. She sat at her desk in a simple flower patterned top, a blank
expression on her face. Wesley gently laid a hand on her shoulder.
"You have to let go…you're doing a good thing with the clothes. Its time to
move on. I'm sure Francis would agree if he were here. I mean…"
Cordelia placed her hand on Wesley's.
"I know. Somehow, I know. Where do good demons, I mean really good
ones, go when they die Wesley?"
Wesley wanted to offer her some comfort but the truth was he did not know.
Nobody did. Perhaps they went nowhere. Worse still, maybe they went
where all demons go and right now Francis was fighting with the Horsemen.
None of Wesley's training nor any of his books could answer this question.
"They go to Shonista, a sort of demon heaven," he lied.
Cordelia smiled: "Thanks Wes. Shame I could see your expression in the
monitor. You're a terrible liar."
They fell into silence for a few moments, wondering about Doyle's fate but
then the phone rang and, as if on cue, Angel entered the office from his flat.
"Hello," started Cordelia, "Angel Invest…oh its you…Hello! Yes of course
he's here. Well duh! That's what I do! What's the message?" Cordelia
nodded her head and listened intently to the mystery caller as Angel and
Wesley exchanged curious glances. "Uhu, I'll tell him. Bye!" she finished
before replacing the receiver.
"Cordelia?" Angel said.
"Oh the message…sorry. That was Spike. Apparently the bandages are off
now."
"Three weeks! My, that is a long time for a vampire to heal. Still, all's well
that ends well. Anything else?" asked Wesley.
In her best fake London accent Cordelia said: "Tell that bastard Angel I'm
gonna tear his bloody lungs out through his backside next time I see him."
"So, no hard feelings then?" Angel said.
Ripper