1762
Durham, England
"You will never guess who is stopping in town tomorrow evening."
"Mmm. The New Year's Ball. High society, darling?"
Angelus ran a fingertip lightly along Darla's bare thigh, tracing an idle pattern. "Specifically, an attractive relative of the Bridgewater family."
"Really…" She sat up, grinning with the demon's face. "I was dying to make a new acquaintance."
Angel stared at the completed sketch. An attractive relative of the Bridgewater family. Emily Bridgewater-Adams. My God, he thought. The memory came flickering back through the centuries and he could almost smell Darla's perfume again.
"I only just ate the maid upstairs; hid her in the wardrobe," she purred excitedly into his ear. "Her blood was as sweet as the wine."
He smiled and covertly fondled the small of her corseted back. Stealing a glance down her bunched bosom, Angelus whispered back. "The master bedroom has silken sheets. And our guest of honor has nearly arrived."
"I trust you won't keep me waiting." She was gone in a moment, the perfume lingering as a tease.
He leisurely panned the ladies at the ball, catching the demure eyes of a few. The gentlemen avoided him for no reason they could name. A woman laughed over the concerto and a servant passed by with a fresh plate of cakes. He strolled into an adjacent room, careful to skirt the mirrors. Cherubs painted on the wall looked down on him with oblivious mirth. The air of assured power let Angelus pass though the crowd without interruption. A small group of men ceased conversation upon his coming presence and the woman among them shifted her gaze upwards.
"Madam, I would respectfully request this dance," he murmured, gently lifting her pale hand to his lips.
One of the men looked about to step forward. "My lady--"
"I am quite able to dance, Rawlins." She moved with a rustle of flowing lace and hoops, ribbons and a rose adorning her shapely hips and arms. A strand of pearls was woven around one wrist. "You are rather bold, sir, if you know who I am," she said, following him to the dance floor.
He was aware of a strange aura around her; something wasn't normal. The way she held herself was almost supernatural. Curious, he easily settled into the waltz. "I could hardly resist the beautiful Miss Emily Bridgewater-Adams."
She smiled faintly. "Ah, and now I find myself wondering who you might be." They passed by a row of candles. "But I may already know."
In the candlelight her eyes glinted gold. Vampire. He chewed on this new bit of information, wondering how it may affect his later plans. Darla was not going to be happy. He, on the other hand… Well, the more the merrier.
"Angelus. You do live up to your name." She coyly let her hand linger on his waistcoat.
He wasn't a fan of surprises, but this one had interesting potential. "I'm usually told I exceed expectations, Miss Adams."
Again came the faint smile; it was utterly captivating. "Then you are in an ideal position to help me increase my talent. In particular, I hear that you have quickly mastered the art of bodily torment," she barely whispered.
"And in return?" He didn't miss a beat, despite the flattery.
"Name the price."
The waltz finished and he bowed. "A night with the lovely lady, if I may."
She opened a dainty fan and modestly lowered her eyes. "We could be kindred spirits, Angelus. I have been looking for a man such as you; a lion among the mewling masses. I cannot stay the night for reasons beyond my control, but I invite you to join me. I guarantee you will be treatedvery well."
He raised an eyebrow. There goes the night, he thought sourly. "You flatter me. But I don't play teacher to little girls. You want the secrets of 'bodily torment'? Maybe you should practice more. Excuse me, Miss Adams." He bowed again before taking his leave and could keenly feel her glare. Add one more enemy to the growing tally.
The encounter was shortly forgotten as he brushed by a particularly tipsy aristocratic guest. Thinking of Darla upstairs, he smoothly suggested some air on the second floor balcony.
Angel at once saw the face of Emily Bridgewater-Adams, this time in light penciled shading. Ironically, she had inflicted the cruelest suffering. But the victory would be short-lived. He creased the drawing into a neat, deliberate three-fold and put it away in his pocket, then looked over to the bed, where Buffy was either sleeping or merely pretending. A faint slit of dawn light had crept onto the floor from the taped window. Only a few more hours, he thought. Her beauty was mesmerizing in sleep.
There was a sudden pounding at the cabin door and he started to his feet. "You've got to be kidding me," he muttered.
He swung the door open and only narrowly avoided the bright morning sun that he had already forgotten. "I told you to wait until noon," he hissed as Mike and Big Devil crowded past him with the scent of pine.
"Blah, blah, blah," Mike waved him off. "It's past ten and it's my house." He whistled to the mutt, who was whining pitifully in the corner. "C'mon boy. Downstairs. How's she doing?"
Angel sighed, frowning.
"Right. Shit, man. I have to call Giles." He shook his head.
"No. Not yet. Wait until she… Just wait."
Mike shrugged. "Delaying the storm, in my opinion."
"I know who the vampire is. The one who turned her. I met her once at a ball, mid 1700s England; Emily Bridgewater-Adams."
Mike's jaw visibly dropped. "Adams? The darling Venus of Britain? The lady killed more people than syphilis!"
"You know her too?"
"She was one of the greatest vampires in England for half a century! Jesus Christ, and she's still alive? Well, undead… This is serious."
"Oh really," Angel bit sarcastically, slightly miffed that Mike was more informed. "As long as a stake still works, the history is nothing."
"You're going back to the cave?"
He turned and walked down the hall, checking on Buffy. Still sleeping, or maybe just listening.
"Look, I get the whole retribution theme, but--"
"There's a reason why she's in Montana, in a cave, and I want to know why. Simple." Case closed, no arguments accepted.
Buffy stirred on the bed and they both instinctively stepped forward. She gave a deep yawn and observed them from half-lidded eyes. "Morning, boys. Mmm… Mr. Norman, lovely to see you again." She smiled lazily. "Can't help but feel sorry for you, though; two slayers, what a shame. Even worse than Wesley."
Mike saw Angel shoot him a questioning look. The last thing he wanted was to spill mushy secrets to that one. "Yeah, this is real pleasant chitchat and all, but sadly we'll have to save the heart-to-heart for later." He quickly escaped down the cellar steps before any emotion could show.
"Oh, he didn't tell you?" Buffy grinned to Angel.
"Tell me what."
"Well, I can't spoil the surprise now," she purred, stretching and basking in her secret. "So what's the plan for today? Do I get an orange jumpsuit, a walk around the grounds?"
"Something like that."
As if taking the cue, there was another loud knock on the door. This time he carefully avoided the sunlight, but stopped short at the strange visitor.
A transparent girl peered in, blinking at him and holding the Orb of Thessala. "You're Angel?"
He could see through her into the forest. "Uh… Yeah. Willow; she sent you?" He reached for the Orb, but she held it away.
"She insists that I perform the curse." The girl skeptically looked him over. "For obvious reasons." She stepped past Angel into the hall and he quickly shut the door on the sun.
"I'm sorry, whoare you?" She had a blue aura in the relative darkness and he noticed she was wearing jeans and a tee-shirt.
"Molly. I'd shake hands, but it's a bit difficult."
"And you've performed the curse before? It'll work on her?"
"Curses are what you would call my specialty."
"You're a demon."
She shrugged. "Otherworldly figure is more like it. Besides, you're one to speak. So about this girl; shall we get right to it, then?"
He was hesitant and she noticed, sighing. "Look here. This isn't your garden-variety cursing. The original incantation was personalized, hard to revise, and not to mention dangerous for any caster. Now, I can do this spell better than anyone else and you'll just have to take my word for it. Are we straight, then?"
He could have smiled, instead settling for a silent thank you to Willow. "She's back here. Do you need any… equipment?"
She pulled a very solid-looking Ziploc bag from her jeans pocket. "Traveler's size herbal summoning mixture. Quite a good investment." Molly peeked into the bedroom, then entered and surveyed the scene as though debating where to start housekeeping.
Buffy craned her head to get a better look at the girl. Someone supernatural; definitely not on the welcome list.
"Didn't know you'd be inviting Casper over," she noted.
"Yeah, surprise."
Molly held up the Orb. "Casper brought a present."
Buffy's eyes widened at the sight. "Bastard," she hissed, but quickly collected her composure. "Very clever, Angel. I can't wait to bask in self-pity. You could have saved time and staked me yourself; she won't stand it."
He turned to Molly. "You're positive this is going to work." It was more of a statement than a question, and she nodded.
"Ask me again and I'm leaving," she muttered, beginning to sprinkle a bit of the herbal mixture.
Buffy tested the chains; there was no way they would give, even with her added slayer strength. God damn it! Angel watched her with that unreadable expression, neither satisfied nor concerned. She laid back and sighed. "You see these fangs?" she asked, showing a pearly pair of extra teeth. "They don't go away. The Buffy you knew would hate herself every second for being a monster. You're not winning here; you're just prolonging the loss. Real heroic, Angel. Fits with the rest of your life."
He tried not to hear her, or hear the grain of truth embedded in the twisted reasoning. He felt as though he had been in the dark bedroom for years.
"I'm ready, then." Molly set the Orb in front of her on the floor and looked up. Poor boy, she thought quietly for a moment.
"Do it."
