Chapter 2

'Subject is a large, male vampire,' Maggie Walsh spoke into her Dictaphone, as she examined the hostile subterrestrial on the operating table. 'Approximately 6 feet tall and 180 lbs, Caucasian.' She looked up at Dr. Angleman, 'have you got the results of his blood tests yet? What do we know?'

'He's O+'

'So are most people.'

'His DNA, that which I've had chance to run so far, seems to suggest he's of western European descent, very little mixing, if I had to guess I'd say…' he screwed his face up and weighed up the options, 'Irish, most probably.'

Maggie looked at the unconscious vampire, speculatively, 'not mixed with other European DNA?' She asked, 'no traces of Scandinavian or Germanic?'

'No - if I was a gambling man, I'd say this vampire wasn't born or made in the U.S. There's no melting pot in him. Judging from these lab results, I think he's come here from the old world.'

'Didn't you think the same for Hostile 17?' she asked, sharply. Dr. Angleman nodded. 'Yes, the almost 50/50 nature of Celtic and Saxon DNA in number 17 meant I'd place him as a Brit. Undoubtedly.'

'So, we've had one hostile - who managed to escape, no less - who came here from England, and now we've captured an Irish one.' Her expression became searching, 'If these vampires are coming from the old world - is that because they are in fact, old?'

But Angleman just shrugged - you couldn't carbon date a vampire. And, even though they were light years ahead of regular scientists in being able to accurately age human beings from their cells and brain structure, those type of tests simply would not work on the undead. Their immortality meant that cell division was arrested at the point where they were sired. Angleman could tell Walsh how old this vampire had been when he had been turned… but he couldn't tell her how long ago that had happened.

But, even without the data to back her up, Maggie was beginning to form a hypothesis. They had been unable to verify the truth of it scientifically so far, but all the old fairy tales and mythologies - the nonsense stories of slayers and monsters that primitive people told each other - spoke of how vampires became stronger the older they got.

During their time at Sunnydale, the Initiative had -so far - captured and contained about 19 vampires, including number 17. 18 of those had, from her observations of them, appeared to be local - judging on accent - and at most about 3 decades old - judging on fashion. But then there had been 17. Foreign. And not dressed in a way that screamed any particular decade. Just like this one, on the operating table.

Of all the vampires they had caught, only Hostile 17 had got out. He had been the only one strong and clever enough to trick his way out of his cell and then make his escape. And now, even neutered, he stood as a threat to the safety of everything she had worked so hard for. Perhaps this was because he was older - and therefore stronger - than the other blood rats they had trapped in the facility. And now, here was another one - similarly dressed, and similarly foreign. An old vampire, from the old world. And twice the threat because of it. She'd bet her Doctorate on it.

She smiled down at the unconscious vampire, 'well, my boy, whoever you are - we're going to have be doubly careful when it comes to containing you. If you're as old and as strong as I think, who knows what you're like when you're free?'

'Pretty darn scary,' Buffy said to Giles, as she unpacked her shopping in his cramped little kitchen. 'I thought I was going to have to use slayer moves on this one woman who was completely hoarding the pumpkin pie filling.'

'And at some point, you are going to tell me about the murder?' Giles said to her, drily. The vampire slayer managed to look abashed, 'oh, right,' she said, 'the knife was some sort of Indian artefact.' She scrunched up her face, as she tried to remember the tribe name. 'Chumash,' she recalled, 'that's all we got.' Her watcher nodded his head, slowly, and folded his arms across his chest, as he thought. Chumash Indians were indigenous to the area, he told her - but perhaps the weapon was just a convenient choice?

But Buffy didn't think so - the big ol' scissors had been sitting right there on the desk, handy as anything. This knife had been chosen deliberately. And, more importantly - did Giles even own a turkey pan? She straightened up from the cupboard she had been rooting in and fixed him with a stern glare. He fixed her one straight back. 'Remind me again why we're doing this here - and not at your place?' he asked her.

'Giles!' She exhaled deeply and threw up her hands in exasperation, 'If you want to get by in American society you're gonna have to follow some of our traditions. You're the patriarch. You have to host the festivities, otherwise it's all meaningless!'

'And this is in no way an elaborate scheme to stick me with the clean up?'

'How about that Ceremonial knife, huh?' she immediately changed the subject. 'Pretty juicy bit of clueage don't you think?'

It was Giles' turn to sigh. 'Alright, I'll start looking into the Chumash connection and see if there is any ritual significance to the ear removal.'

'Thank you.' She suddenly stopped and frowned. 'Do you ever get the feeling that something is really wrong?' she asked her watcher, 'like something's happened - something bad - but you have no idea what it is?'

'Um...no?'

She shook her head, as if to dispel the feeling, and shrugged, 'maybe it's a slayer thing - like the prophecy dreams… oh well, there's some stuff I need to pick up. I'll check in later. Keep your hands off the food.'

'Oh, I'll try and restrain myself from eating uncooked potatoes and cranberries.'

Buffy left and, smiling to himself, Giles went over to his bookshelf to see if he had anything that might help him research the Chumash Indians.

Cordelia sat in her pajamas, in front of the television, with a soda and some popcorn. She was trying to watch 'Sleepless in Seattle' but Phantom Dennis kept switching over to the sports channel. 'Phantom Dennis, stop that!' she said to him, 'I told you already, you can watch the game tomorrow - so can I please just watch my movie tonight? I have enough to be worrying about as it is - I just want 90 minutes of Meg and Tom and a happy ending, is that too much to ask for?'

The channel switched back all by itself. 'Thanks.'

Then the phone began to ring. She snatched it up, 'Angel?'

'Sorry, darlin' it's just me.'

'Hey, Doyle.'

'Hey… so I'm guessin' you've not heard from him yet, either?'

'No - it's been 48 hours. It shouldn't take this long. This is bad.'

There was a pause down the line, as Doyle thought about what she had said. 'Maybe you're right,' he told her. 'Tell y' what - we'll give him another day, and if we've not heard from him by tomorrow evenin' then we'll ...do… somethin'...'

'What if that's too late?' Cordelia asked. Again - Doyle paused for a moment. 'We gotta trust that he knows what he's doin',' he said to her, after he had thought about her words for a while. 'He's the big strappin' hero of the piece - we gotta let him get on with doin' that. It doesn't look too good if he's off rescuin' the damsel and then his two sidekicks turn up to interfere because he forgot to phone 'em. He's probably just got a head full o' Buffy right now, and isn't thinkin' about us worryin'. But three days is long enough. If we've not heard from him by tomorrow then we can panic. Besides,' he sounded like he was shrugging, even down the phone, 'if he's already dead, he isn't gonna get any deader if we leave it another 24 hours.'

'I guess…' she still sounded doubtful.

'It's late, Cordy,' Doyle told her, 'and tomorrow is Thanksgiving. Once the holiday is over - then we can get back to business, but there's nothin' we can do before then.'

'I know it.'

'So - I'm guessin' you won't be in the office tomorrow? Thanksgiving and all?' he asked her. He tried to keep the tremor out of his voice - keep it casual. Now wasn't the time to attempt to ask her out on a date… but he still wanted to know where she would be tomorrow -and if there was a chance he might see her.

'Umm - I guess not. What about you?'

'Not really my holiday,' he told her, still playing it cool. 'Now St. Patrick's day - don't expect to see me in the office for a week. But celebrating a bunch of Puritans from England landing in America and slaughterin' the natives? Nah - not my thing.'

'Oh right - you're not from around here.'

'That I'm not.'

'So… if I came into the office tomorrow - you'd be there?'

At the other end of the phone, Doyle frowned to himself. She was trying too hard to keep her own voice casual. And she had no reason to care what he was up to. But he could hear something else in her tone to - the note of hope - and underneath that there was… loneliness. 'Cordelia? Are you gonna be by yourself tomorrow?' He asked her, he kept his voice soft and kind.

'Well… I mean .. there's Phantom Dennis,' she blustered.

'This is your first Thanksgiving away from home, isn't it?' he said.

She nodded - even though he couldn't see her. 'And I don't have a home to go to back to,' she said, quietly. There was a long pause, then. Cordelia thought about just hanging the phone up - wishing she hadn't said anything. God! Could she sound more pathetic?

Back in his apartment, Doyle was wondering what to say. There was nothing he would like more than to spend the holiday with Cordelia. But, whilst he knew she was definitely warming up to him, she wasn't quite there yet. He didn't want to push, or to take advantage of her whilst she was feeling the weight of being alone. Plus, he hadn't worked up the courage to tell her about his demon half, yet. And absolutely nothing could happen until he had done that.

But on the other hand, he didn't want to leave her all alone, on her first Thanksgiving since she had lost everything - out of some desire to do the noble thing. It wasn't that noble, if he was leaving her isolated and depressed.

'Tell y' what, Cordy,' he said, trying to keep his voice upbeat - but maintaining that casual air that they had both employed throughout the exchange , 'why don't we meet at the office tomorrow - and we can find somethin' to do?'

'I don't imagine we'll get many clients on Thanksgiving,' she said, 'we never have any clients anyway.'

'Well - If it's totally dead, we can hit some bars - it'll be fun.'

'OK - I guess I'll see you tomorrow.'

'OK, see y' tomorrow - night Princess,' and he hung the phone up.

'Buffy! Hey Buffy!' Riley darted across the road, and ended up in front of the slayer, panting for breath. She looked surprised and glanced around her, 'Riley - hey - where'd you come from? I didn't see you at all.'

'Oh just across the street,' he told her - and then - 'and a few blocks down.' He looked sheepish, and Buffy dropped her gaze, smiling down at her feet at his admission. 'Hey Willow,' he said to the other woman, trying to cover the moment of their embarrassed crush.

'Hey,' Willow smiled back, and then immediately took herself off into the coffee shop - leaving Buffy and Riley alone. He looked awkward for a moment, as he tried to think of something to say. 'So… you're not flying home for the holiday tomorrow?' he asked her.

'I'm a Sunnydale girl,' she told him, 'I'm already home - Willow too, not that her mom celebrates..' she was beginning to babble, and cut herself off.

'Great,' he replied, 'so - uh - what are you doing out here, tonight?'

'Just picking up last minute stuff for tomorrow. My mom's gone to my Aunt Arlene's this year - she lives in Illinois - so I'm doing the whole thing myself. I'm doing the cooking for all my friends; turkey, cranberries, the works. It'll be just like it was when I was kid. Only without me building a fort out of my mashed potatoes.'

'Sounds like fun.'

'It will be.' She smiled, then she looked shy, 'um. You know - if you don't have plans... you should come. I'm a great cook … in theory - I've eaten a lot.'

He almost regretted his plane ticket to Dubuque. 'That sounds so great,' he said to her, 'but I'm outta here tonight. I caught a last minute flight back to Iowa.'

'Iowa. That's one of the ones in the middle, right?'

He nodded his head and laughed, telling her about doing Thanksgiving at his Grandparents farm, just outside Huxley. After dinner they would take the dogs down to the river for a walk - his face took on a distant expression as he lost himself in nostalgia, and then he shook his head and brought himself back to Buffy. 'I know what you're thinking, it sounds like I grew up in a Grant Wood painting.'

'Exactly. If I knew who that was.'

'Just a guy who painted stuff that looked like where I grew up.'

There was another momentary awkward pause. 'Well, have fun at the homestead,' Buffy said, realising it was time to wrap this up.

'Always do,' he smiled, 'what's the line? Home's the place that, when you have to go there…'

'They have to take you in,' the slayer finished up.

After his unexpected encounter with Buffy, Agent Finn barely made it to the debriefing in time. Maggie Walsh gave him a stern look, as he crept into the room, and went to stand beside her. There weren't a whole lot of men there - most of them had already been given leave to return home. But the ones who had pulled the short straw of being on duty over the holiday were all stood to attention - waiting to hear the latest updates and their latest set of orders.

'Let's make this quick,' the professor said to the assembled men, by way of greeting. 'Hostile 17 remains at large, and as such, is a threat to everything we stand for. Since his escape, the capture or killing of the hostile has been our main priority - and it remains so, even over the holiday period. For those of you unfamiliar with the hostile - It is a male vampire of medium height and build, wears a long black leather coat and most noticeably - has bleached blonde hair. All night time patrols - even those out in civilian areas- should be looking for anyone who matches that description.

It has been chipped. The neurological implant means that it cannot cause any physical harm to any living being. However, it is still highly dangerous. Not least, because of the information on our operation that it now carries. But it is also wily, cunning - and still has the strength and speed that most vampires display. Indeed, it seems rather stronger than the average vampire. If any patrol encounters the creature, take it down with all necessary force. Kill it if you must, but we would rather take it alive - we would like to see how our implant is doing.

Last night, Agents Finn, Gates and Miller took down another HST of the vampire variety. Like Hostile 17, this one is European and may well be older and stronger than we are used to. He is safely contained, in our most secure unit, for now. It may be that we are experiencing a wave of foreign vampire incursion into the area. Older vampires are known to join cults and sects and often travel in packs. The energy from the hellmouth could well be a draw to one of these ancient sects… this means we need to display more caution when taking down vampires. If there is a pattern - a link - between Hostile 17, and our new one - Hostile 20, then I want to find it and understand it.

As always, those of you taking on night patrols - if you come across species of demon -especially one you haven't seen before - try to bring it in alive. However, any dead HSTs are still wanted for dissection and study. Any questions?'

She was met by absolute silence. 'Very good - dismissed.'

Angel groaned, as he came to again. His head hurt. He groaned even louder, when the last mist of unconsciousness slipped away, and he realised he had been knocked out - again. And now - he had no idea of how long he had been out, or even what day it was. It must have been the blood, he thought - they must have drugged it. He should have known…

He looked around, and realised he was in a different place to where he had been before. He was still in a sterile white cube, with a glass front - but he could no longer see the corridor, and the other cages. He was in isolation.

Beyond the glass wall was all dark. But Angel was a predator - a creature of the night - and he was able to peer through the gloom and get a clear enough understanding of his surroundings. There was what looked like a viewing area, just outside his cell, probably for the scientists to stand in and take notes. They probably kept the area dark - whilst his own cage was harshly, glaringly lit - so they could try and observe him without him knowing they were there. That thought made him smile, grimly. This might be a decades old secret military operation designed to study the supernatural - but they clearly didn't understand the first thing about vampires.

As if a human could stand on just the other side of that glass and be undetectable to the undead. He would be able to sense them - to smell them, to feel their warmth - even through the glass. He would be able to hear the murmur of their voices, no matter how low they kept them, and the scratching of their pens. Vampires had excellent hearing. And of course - he would be able to see them. Not understanding that vampires could see in the dark seemed a ludicrously childish mistake for the Government Agency to have made. It told Angel that, for all their hi-tech weaponry and state of the art facilities, they were in way over their heads. Children playing a game they did not understand.

Beyond the darkened viewing area was one, very solid looking, door. The kind of door that looked like it was electronically locked. There was a tiny little window in the top half of the door - and through that tiny gap, Angel could see out into the vast inspection pit. Although he didn't understand fully what he was seeing, he could make out the scientists moving around in front of the door, carrying out their grisly work - chopping up demon parts.

He slammed his fists against the glass wall. This one, too, was electrified - and he fell back. It was not only Buffy in danger, he realised now - he had found himself in a very dangerous place… and there was no one to realise he was missing...