Loud breathing. It was all that she could hear, and she thought at first that it was her own. Only when it came again did she realise that it could not be; that the sounds did not correspond to the heaving of her own chest; that the volume was too great for her lungs, even in her exhaustion. Deep, ragged, hoarse sounds tormented her now; proof that she had not lost her pursuer after all. He was still there, somewhere. She almost turned to look; almost turned to see if she could discern that huge shape, etched against the darkness behind her. Instead she ran on. On down the alley, suddenly much longer than it had ever seemed before. How often had she been warned never to use this shortcut after dark? How often had she heard the tales of people who strayed into such places at night? The advice always sounded reasonable when it came, but when you were late, and in a hurry, and hungry, a shortcut seemed infinitely more sensible; far more sensible than listening to all the warnings, and taking the longer, better lit way home. Next time, she thought to herself, though privately she didn't believe that there would be any such next time. Next time I'm taking the bus. Calling a taxi. Walking home with a crowd of friends down the middle of the main street. Anything but use the dark and desolate alleyway again. But there would be no next time. She knew that even before the sound of the heavy breathing became a coarse warmth on the back of her neck. Even before a heavy, hard hand clamped itself around her arm. Even before the massive fangs of a beast she never saw bit down on the back of her neck. She had a moment's clarity then, as her consciousness began to bleed away. A moment when her life crystallised into one final thought. She had dreamed as a child of the day when she would become a woman; the day when she would know that she had grown; that she had become complete, and mature, and independent. Now that day would never come. It wasn't regret that made up that final thought, though. Not sadness or resignation - or even, at the very end, fear. She merely thought about the plans she had made for her eighteenth birthday, and everything that she had hoped it would be. And the very last moment; that last crystal image before the end; wasn't blood or pain or heavy, hoarse breathing. It was pink ice cream. Three large scoops in a green striped bowl.
Life definitely changed after death. This was hardly a new discovery for Angel, who had some considerable experience with being dead, but it was interesting to see how his life was altered by dying a second time. When he had first expired, long ago, and been flung back to Earth as a soulless vampire, everything had been different; different and strange and new. Now that he had died all over again, in the free-for-all to end all free-for-alls, everything had once more conspired to change. Back on Earth, the sometime guardian angel of his sometime girlfriend Buffy Summers, it was fair to say that his most recent undeath was a whole new experience. He hadn't as yet decided whether that was a good or a bad thing, but for now it was all that he had - and since he was unlikely to be swapping his own undeath for anybody else's, he knew that he should try to make it work. It could certainly have been worse. He still had super-strength, after all; and indestructibility. He still had his heightened senses, his speed, and his beloved leather coat. In truth, the only thing he was really lacking was his former conviction that nothing but blood was a sensible dietary choice, which was hardly any great loss. Not that he didn't still drink it from time to time. Changes were all very well, but some habits were too hard to break.
He was starting to get used to it all now; to the invisibility, and the close proximity to Buffy that she knew nothing about. To the ability to travel instantaneously, which somehow could never quite replace the thrill of driving in a car with the roof down. To the strange new mission, or series of missions, that he and his friends had found themselves embarking upon, as they had each come to terms with their deaths, and with the fact that death held no final end for any of them. What he didn't think he would ever get used to was Cordelia, and the fact that she now seemed to have become their commander in chief.
She had come to visit him today. It didn't happen often; usually he had to go in search of her. Apparently it was a busy existence, being a higher being, or an angel, or whatever exactly it was that she had become, and he knew that she found it awkward visiting him anyway. They had almost been lovers, and now here he was returned to Earth to watch over his former girlfriend. It could have been very awkward, he supposed, although he didn't see it that way himself. Buffy was still alive, and didn't even know that he was near her. Cordelia, dead, companionable, and very definitely aware of his presence, didn't really have any competition at all. They sprawled together now, in a vineyard in Southern Italy, enjoying a warm evening breeze, and watching the sun set across the mountains. Cordelia was eating grapes, dropping juice every so often, just to watch the stains vanish instantly from her pristine white dress. It amused her, and consequently it amused him. Cordelia loved clothes, and anything to do with clothing, and each little smile that her dress brought to her lips found its echo upon his own face. She leaned against him, and rested her head on his arm.
"It's nice here. I used to come to places like this when I was a kid, and my parents were still rich, but I never appreciated it then. It was just another place to tick off the list, and boast about at the end of the summer."
"You're not the person you used to be," he observed. She gave a little laugh.
"Just as well. I used to think I was so incredibly cool. Now I look back at that and..." She shuddered, only half in jest. "I was revolting."
"No you weren't."
"You wouldn't look twice at me back then," she pointed out. He shrugged.
"I didn't look at anybody back then. Not really. I'd only just stopped living in alleys, eating rats and wishing I was dead. Really dead."
"You looked at Buffy." She smiled then, and handed him a little bunch of grapes. "It's alright, I'm not going to get jealous. We're dead, so I don't suppose we're ever likely to start dating. You could say we've left it a little bit late."
"Maybe." He looked down at the grapes in his hand, but didn't bother eating them. Strictly speaking, as an angel of sorts, he did have a physical presence. He could eat if he wanted. He just didn't want. He had spent too long with no interest in food, and had no particular desire to eat grapes, or any of the other things with which Cordelia tried to tempt him from time to time. It was almost embarrassing; if she had offered him a mug of blood he would probably have accepted. Stretching luxuriously in the late heat, he leaned back against a tree and closed his eyes. Sunsets were good to watch. He had spent so many years never seeing one save through shielded windows, and now he never tired of watching them in the open air. Like sunrises, they were something he had missed during his years as a vampire.
"I came here for a reason, originally." Cordelia yawned, and settled herself again, now that he had moved. She still used his shoulder as a pillow, he noticed, which pleased him. It was one of those odd little things that made him happy, without him quite knowing why.
"A mission?" he asked, eyes closed, stupid smile plastered across his face. It was nice to be given missions. Even now, helping people and fighting evil were the things that seemed to matter most. The guilt was still there; the desire to atone for his years as a soulless vampire. More than that; it had become so much a part of his character over recent years that he didn't think he could not fight evil. He knew what was out there; he knew what needed to be fought. You couldn't turn your back on that, when once you had seen it; not without awakening more guilt than he had any desire to be burdened with. He had no choice, anyway. He hadn't been sent back to Earth just for fun.
"Yes, a mission." She yawned. Even as a higher being, Cordelia Chase could never cease to be herself. Responsibility would never be her favourite word. It made him glad. So many things changed. Cordelia, bless every little inch of her that would forever be mildly vain and self-centred, was still the girl he loved. He nudged her, playing to her display of nonchalance.
"Well?"
"I'm getting there. There's a thing."
"A thing?"
"Yeah. You know. A... thing. A bad thing, obviously."
"Obviously." He couldn't shake the smile. "Does it have a name?"
"Probably." She sighed, and sat up, managing to put on a display of something approximating efficiency. "Four girls have been killed recently, by a beast. Something big and ugly. It's being controlled by a man; a mortal, but a creepy one. Apparently Buffy is about to make this beast her business, and she doesn't stand much chance on her own. Not against the beast itself, necessarily. We all know how good Buffy is at fighting big scary things with teeth. But the man is a different story. You're supposed to help her."
"That's why I'm here," he said, enjoying the feeling of purpose that mingled with the contented laziness in his sun warmed body. Sun warmed. That never ceased to be novel. "I watch her, and I help her when she needs it. Hardly a mission."
"This is different. Bigger than usual. And you'll be needing help." She fell silent as three workers from the vineyards walked past them, heading home at the end of the day, although none of the three could see or hear either of them. "The man behind it all is some sort of sorcerer, with a history of being nasty. He deals in dark arts, and general creepiness. Not a nice person. It's not just about keeping an eye on Buffy, and nudging the odds in her favour every now and again. Not this time."
"Okay." A real fight. That might even be enjoyable. "But I don't need any help, Cordy."
"Oh, lose the desperate look, you big lug. I'm not sending you Spike." She laughed at the thought; Spike and Angel were an entertaining pair, at least to an onlooker. Neither or them seemed to enjoy their collaborations very much, but everybody else nearby did. "This guy you're up against is into all the magical mojo. You're going to need somebody who knows a little something about all of that himself."
"Wesley?" That wouldn't be too bad. Probably. Wesley had been one of the best friends that Angel had ever made during his time as a re-souled vampire. They had shared more than either of them had ever shared with anyone else before. Things had changed; events had come between them; but death put all manner of things in perspective. To a certain degree, at least.
"Wesley," confirmed Cordelia. "I did tell him that I'd see him back at the hotel earlier, but I wanted to be alone with you for a while. I should probably be getting back over there."
"You probably should," agreed Angel. Cordelia smiled.
"In a minute or two."
"Yeah."
"He was talking with Spike when I left. I'd hate to interrupt them."
"Very considerate."
"I thought so." She laughed then, and leaned back against him again, staring up at the darkening sky. "We should probably both go back there. It's easier to talk at the office. Less distractions."
"Distractions are good." He let one of his hands enfold one of hers. "I especially like this one."
"Me too." She lifted the hand wrapped around hers, and kissed it briefly on the knuckles. "Which is probably why we ought to be cutting it short." She winced then. "Was it really me who just said that?"
"You can't be an angel without turning angelic," he told her. She scowled.
"Honey, I will never be angelic. A halo? With my hair? Please. Now come on." She stood, ineffectually pulling his arm to make him rise to his feet as well. "Wesley's waiting."
"Wesley is infinitely patient," he reminded her, although in all honesty the claim was only half true these days. Cordelia's only answer was to vanish. He sighed. Playtime, clearly, was over. Not that he really minded, for the fight would always be what mattered most; but sometimes it was nice to make the moments between battles last that little bit longer. Taking a last look around the cooling vineyard, he followed on in Cordelia's wake. Whatever the preceding fun, his mind was already back on the alert.
The Hyperion Hotel was where they all spent their off duty hours, so to speak. Angel went there when Buffy was sleeping, or when things were quiet in her life; Gunn went there when he was not watching the homeless and the helpless on LA's tough streets. Even Spike, who had no history with the place, went there when he had nothing better to do. It was as good a place as any to sprawl in a chair and look moody. Spike was still sulking about being a ghost again, and therefore being unable to smoke. He was rather of the opinion that if Angel wasn't planning to eat, smoke, or do any of the other things that made it worthwhile having a solid form, then he should give up his post as guardian angel to someone who would exploit its fringe benefits rather more fully. And why the bloody hell, he had argued with typical bluntness, did Angel get to be an angel anyway? Hadn't they all died heroically? Hadn't they all made sacrifices, fought hard, died bravely? In which case, why was it only the poncy git with the daft hair who got to be an angel? Angel had told him that it was all down to seniority, and that he should stop moaning and be glad that he wasn't dead; or properly dead, anyway. Spike had just glowered, and called him a stupid bloody cherub; and thus their relationship, in death, had continued just as it had always been before.
"Angel." When he materialised in the lobby of the hotel, the first person that Angel saw was Wesley, standing at the reception area. There was a book open in front of him, and Angel could see that one of the pages held a drawing of a large, bipedal beast that he strongly suspected was the one Cordelia had just mentioned. Angel nodded and returned the greeting.
"Wes. Research?"
"Yes." The ghost smiled a little bashfully. "I'm actually getting the hang of it again, too. Watch." He reached out with one hand, and with the barest trace of a frown on his forehead, turned a page of the book. Angel grinned. Since returning to Earth as a ghost, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce had been finding things extremely difficult, for he couldn't touch anything or anyone save his fellow dead. Reading had become impossible, since he had been unable to open any books or turn any pages - or even take the books off the shelves to begin with - and it had been equally impossible to take notes. Now, however, there was a pen writing all by itself on a pad beside him, and as Angel looked on a second book floated over to join the first on the desk.
"Nice going, Wes." Angel rewarded him with a grin that made the Englishman blush faintly, despite the fact that ghosts weren't supposed to be able to blush. "So can you throw ornaments about like a proper ghost yet?"
"No, not really." Wesley smiled at the joke. "My ghostly powers aren't all that great as yet, I'm afraid. Spike still has the edge there. No, this is all magic. Simple mind control spells, like the ones for levitating small items. Anybody who dabbles in magic learns them fairly early on."
"All the same, it's a start." Angel was pleased; he had felt guilty for being the only one of them, save Cordelia, who was able to touch things and influence the world directly. Wesley didn't seem to mind; he considered it only fair and just, since Angel had been fighting the good fight much harder, and for much longer, than had he. Gunn didn't seem to care much either; the idea of possibly becoming an angel seemed to horrify him. Ghosts, apparently, had greater street cred - or perhaps were a rather more masculine concept to his way of thinking. It was only Spike who objected, but then that was Spike. And speak of the devil, thought Angel. Not that he actually had been speaking about him. Generally he tried to speak of Spike as little as possible.
"Angel." Walking through the reception desk, the blond vampire put as much of a swagger into his stride as he could. He might be dead - deader than usual - he might be insubstantial, and he might be thoroughly pissed off about both, but he could still pull off the effortlessly cool stride of the terminally punk. "Been having a good time?"
"I've been working," insisted his grand-sire, incapable of not trying to assert his authority where Spike was concerned. The younger vampire sneered.
"Oh yeah?" He nodded at the bunch of grapes that Angel was still holding. "That's work now, is it?"
"You know Buffy is in Southern Italy at the moment, Spike." Wesley left his books to come and join them, and the pen dropped neatly down to lie beside the pad. "I'm sure Angel has been working as hard as the rest of us."
"Yeah, sure." Spike glared sourly. "Maybe they're evil grapes."
"They're perfectly ordinary grapes." Angel threw them at him just for the sheer entertainment value to be had in highlighting his old rival's non-corporeality. "Cordelia just happened to meet me in a vineyard, and we were talking there for a bit."
"She told you about our latest adversary?" Wesley, as usual, sounded enthusiastic. There were still shades of the quiet and withdrawn brood machine that he had become over the last two years of his life, but the worst of it seemed to have disappeared in death. Angel was glad. Wesley's darkness had been his own, and it had been yet another thing to feel guilty about; yet another thing for which he felt he had to atone. Now it had eased somewhat, and accordingly so had the tension between the two of them. They were friends again. It felt good.
"I think I should be helping out with this instead of Book Boy." Spike sat down in the nearest chair, looking as sulky as ever. He remained resolutely jealous that it was Angel who had been sent to watch over Buffy, since they had been rivals for her affection for some time. Wesley shot him a haughty look.
"Book Boy?"
"No offence." Spike had taken to insulting Wesley within a few minutes of their first meeting, and didn't seem remotely inclined to stop. It had become a hobby, along with annoying Angel, and Wesley was more or less resigned to it now. He glared, but didn't object further. Angel tried not to smile. In his experience it was best not to laugh at Spike when he was in a mood, or he would only become more annoying.
"If you think you've got the magical skills, Spike, you're welcome to come along instead. Until you learn the things that Wesley knows, hard luck. Anyway, we're not going to hang out with Buffy. She can't even see me, remember?"
"Yeah. Thank heaven for small mercies, hey." The blond vampire folded his arms, and scowled. "Still think I'd be more use. At least I can pick things up."
"And we all know what you'd be wanting to pick up." Angel shot him a deeply disparaging glare. "Forget it, Spike. I'm taking Wesley. And besides, it was Cordelia's idea, not mine."
"Cordelia." Spike scowled at the mention of the name, although he didn't bother questioning her authority. He had done that before, and had learned that the consequences could be unfortunate. Cordelia, apparently, could send any of them off on missions wherever she chose, and Spike had no desire to be sent to observe paranormal activity on the top of Everest. He might not feel the cold, but he would certainly feel the boredom - and being a ghost was boring enough on its own, without snowy, empty exile to add to the situation. Consequently, where Cordelia was concerned, he was very nearly polite. Most of the time.
"Did somebody say my name?" She came down the stairs with a spring in her step, a bright smile on her face. Angel always loved to see that smile. It reminded him of one of the few little glimmers of happiness that he had had during the time of his re-souled undeath; one of the few lights in his dark world. Losing Cordelia, first to coma and then to death, had been the beginning of the end for him, even if he hadn't fully realised it at the time. Fred had called her the heart of Angel Investigations, and she had certainly proved to be just that. That and much more.
"Spike was just saying that he'd like something to do," offered the older vampire, suddenly unable to resist a bit of mischief. Spike glared icy blue daggers at him, then stood up, heading for the fridge.
"I just think I'd be more use than Percy, is all. I can touch things. I can make things happen." He proved this by opening the fridge. "All he can do is make balls of light, and get pens to float."
"If I was you I wouldn't insult a magician." Cordelia flashed him a cheery smile anyway, when he reappeared from the fridge with a can of diet soda and a chilled glass. "Wes could turn you into a frog, right Wes?"
"It might be worth a try." Wesley was watching the progress of the glass and the soda with a touch of envy, though the jealousy lasted only as long as Spike managed to keep hold of both items. He dropped the soda before he was halfway to Cordelia, and Wesley had to levitate the glass to keep it from breaking. Angel retrieved them both.
"Much though I'd love to see a little frog with a leather jacket and a scowl, we've got better things to do," he reminded them all. Cordelia shrugged, accepting the can and the glass, and decanting the one into the other.
"You could probably leave any time you think you're ready. Between you I think you know everything you need to, more or less."
"And if you think you need any help..." added Spike. Wesley grinned.
"If we need any glasses dropped?" he asked. Spike glowered.
"If you weren't already dead, Percy..." he threatened, without much in the way of true anger. Most of Spike's threats failed to be truly threatening these days. He had long since cashed in his membership of the evil club, although at times he seemed almost to regret it. Old habits died hard, even if he was one of the good guys now. Angel rolled his eyes.
"Shut up, Spike." It was one of his favourite phrases. Admittedly it made him sound as childish as his fellow vampire, but it gave him a moment of satisfaction anyway. "We'll call if we need a hand. Until then it's best if we don't go in there mob-handed. I don't want to tip our hand too soon."
"Best not let this magician creep know how many reinforcements you've got to call on." Spike nodded. He could see the sense in that. He might be hard-headed and confrontational, and he might give a good impression of a man with no brain in his head at all, but he had intelligence when he wanted to. Angel had even had cause to be glad of it once or twice. "Well what are you waiting for? Getting going, you big ninny. Buffy could be being eaten by some enchanted beast thing, and you're just stood there looking like a spare part in a machine shop."
"Yes." Angel didn't bother glaring. It would have required too much energy. "We'll be going then. Going to spend all that time near to Buffy. Close to her. Within easy reach, helping her out. Making her feel all... grateful."
"Oh for goodness sakes, the pair of you." Cordelia had been planning to relax with her feet up for a bit, and enjoy the chilled soda after the heat of the Italian hillside. Instead she found herself playing referee, again, to the verbal sparring of the endlessly squabbling vampires. "If I thought there was any point to it I'd try knocking your heads together."
"We're leaving." Angel would very much have liked the chance to say a proper goodbye; either in the form of a definitive put down aimed at Spike, or a more tender and fulfilling farewell for Cordelia, but this wasn't the time or the place. Besides - Spike did have a point, no matter how galling it might have been to have admitted it aloud. Whilst they were standing here, in their eccentric Los Angeles home, Buffy might be facing any number of dangers. Night had been falling when he had left; and night was when most Slayers died. Understandably so.
"Say hi to Buffy," asked Spike, rather out of the blue. The attitude had gone; the sulking and the insults had gone. There was real emotion there now, instead, and Angel felt it powerfully. Spike loved Buffy, and even though it was a love that had never, and would never, be properly returned, nothing ever seemed able to dampen it down. Angel let his irritation move aside for a moment; long enough to share a moment of understanding, and a kind of shared pain.
"She can't hear me, Spike. She doesn't even know that I'm there."
Spike shrugged, all hunched shoulders now, and beetling brows furrowed in frowns to hide his moment of weakness. "So? You'll still be closer to her than I am."
"True." Angel shot a look over at Wesley. "Ready?"
"Always." The ghost exchanged a brief nod with Cordelia, then vanished without further preamble. Foiled in his desire to say a private goodbye to her, Angel gave her a nod of his own, then with a similar gesture sent Spike's way, he followed Wesley. Left behind, Cordelia lowered her glass onto the reception desk, and wandered over to sit down on the circular sofa that dominated the lobby. She did a good job of hiding her regret at Angel's departure, but to Spike her sadness was as clear as though she had not tried to hide it at all. Reading people, and understanding their feelings, was Spike's particular forté. He sat down beside her and put a hand over hers. Despite her greater solidity she was as dead as he was, and consequently his hand made contact, closing around her fingers for the briefest of moments.
"Don't worry love." He thought for a moment about putting an arm around her shoulders, to offer that little bit more comfort, although he suspected that if he did she would very likely hit him. "He'll be alright. They both will. Can't kill a dead bloke, can you."
"A powerful magician might be able to do almost anything." She gave him a half smile. "I always hated it when they used to go off on missions. The two of them, and then later Gunn as well. And I'd stay back here, or at the old offices, and never know what was happening until they got back. I hated it then, and I hate it now."
"And back then you didn't have Buffy to worry about." Spike matched her half smile with one of his own. It transformed his face, losing the last of the sulky rebel that he had seemed to be before. "Angel loves you, pet. I can see it in those bloody goofy smiles of his. Buffy couldn't steal him away even if she could see him."
"Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?" She smiled faintly. "We're dead. We shouldn't even be thinking about love lives."
"We're all dead, pet. Some of us have been that way for donkey's years. If being dead had cramped our style any, Angel and I would never have given Buffy a second thought. World's more complicated than life and death."
"Maybe." She reached out to touch his hand, and return the squeeze he had given hers before. "Thankyou Spike. I appreciate it. One little thing, though?"
"What?"
"Call me 'pet' again, and I'll get you exorcised."
He had to laugh at that. "Fair enough. Listen, jokes aside, Cordy. Angel'll be alright. My luck's not that good. He'll be back, like a bad penny. A bad penny with stupid hair."
"I hope so." She rose to her feet, thinking of other things that she could do, or perhaps should be doing. "I'll see you later, Spike."
"Yeah." He watched her disappear, then stood up and headed for the books that Wesley had abandoned on the reception desk. Spike didn't do research - everybody knew that. Spike glowered and sulked and made smart ass comments. When he was alone, though, he liked to look through Wesley's collection. Through the beautiful library with its hand-finished books, some dating back centuries; through the papers and pads with their neat notes in Wesley's precise, no-nonsense handwriting. The love of knowledge, like the love of poetry, was one of Spike's little secrets. He had taken it to the grave with him, and he saw no reason not to take it further. Settling himself down, he began to read, struggling with the Latin but making short work of the archaic English. Angel might not want him along on this mission; he might lack the skills of the Watcher; but there might be something he could contribute, at some point. So he carried on turning the pages, and wishing that he could feel the heavy paper under his fingers, and smell the dust and the old leather. Wished that he could feel the roughness of it all in his hands. If wishes came true, though, he thought to himself; if wishes were real; he would be in Southern Italy right now, helping Buffy and being the one of her former lovers that she could see; could hear. Instead he was here, alone, and probably already forgotten. His throat cried out for beer, for blood, for hot smoke with the taste of nicotine, but he could offer it none of that. Not anymore. He could concentrate only on the books, and wait to see if Angel needed him after all. It wasn't how he had expected it all to turn out, when he had agreed to join his fellow vampire in a fight that they couldn't possibly win; but then death had a habit of surprising him. Just like fate had a habit of pissing him off. So he kept on turning the pages of the books, cursing the moments when his fingers passed straight through, and trying to keep from thoughts of Angel and Buffy. It was rather pointless being jealous after death. Rather pointless wishing for things he couldn't have, and circumstances he couldn't change, but he kept on wishing anyway. And why the hell not? It was better than doing nothing at all.
She walked because she saw no reason to run. It was a bright night, with a moon that chased the worst of the shadows away, and left only the ones that seemed most picturesque. Although the sun had gone, the world remained warm, the breeze gentle, and without a hint of the ice that could so often come with the darkness. Her feet clicked on the hard surface of the street, and she listened to the sound with a faint sense of approval. It was a nice noise. Relaxing. Comforting, in an odd way. It went with the silence and the stillness of everything. It also meant that with each step she came a little closer to home, and even as she was enjoying the walk, that made her enjoy it all the more. There would be a glass of wine at home; a simple meal to close the day, and help her to ease into sleep. She quickened her step slightly, though not by much, and in response the clicking of her shoes on the ground sped up as well; clicked just a little bit louder. Not loud enough, though, to mask another clicking sound; a second set of feet on the road.
She didn't often meet people when she was walking home. Somebody out for a last walk, perhaps, to clear away the after-effects of too much wine with their evening meal. A familiar face that she nodded at, and that was all. She almost turned, to see if it was one of her neighbours this time, but something kept her head facing forwards. Something made an alarm bell ring in her head. Perhaps it was the volume of the footsteps; perhaps it was their speed. Perhaps it was the realisation, suddenly, that they were not neat little clicking steps like her own. Not the hard soles of shoes making the noises. Instead they were scratching sounds, rasping sounds, sliding, crunching, scrabbling sounds, like claws and fur and hard, hard pads scraping and pounding as some beast ran along the road. It was too late, then, to run as well. Too late to speed up, to break into a run, to dash for whatever safety she might be able to find. She had time just for one more step before the teeth were closing around the back of her neck, and her feet were being dragged from the ground. After that there were no more clicks, no more rasps or scratches or scrapes. No more running. Just standing and snuffling and biting, and a broken, chewed up death.