CHAPTER NINE

Getting into Paris at nine p.m., their first line of action was to find a hotel. Not surprisingly, finding a place that had three single rooms at that time of night was difficult. Three hours later, after tramping around what seemed like every street in the centre of Paris - another rainy city, it seemed - they eventually found what they required in a seedy establishment near Montmartre.

"Tomorrow," Angel said, fingering his room key, looking around the lobby with distaste, "we can go and find something better." He glanced at James as though the lowliness of their accommodation was his fault.

"We're not here to live in luxury," James snapped. "We're here to help you, never forget that. I…"

"I'm not worried about myself," Angel said. "But Buffy doesn't deserve to stay in a flophouse like this. It's…"

"All we could get," James pointed out. "And…"

"Hey!" Buffy shouted; her nerves were stretched taut, and she was tired. These two fighting over what they thought was best for her finally made her snap. "You know, I can do without you acting all macho over what's best for me, okay?" She turned on Angel. "James is right, it doesn't matter where we stay." She saw James smirk and flared at him. "And you - stop treating Angel as though he's some kind of leper, okay? You want to help, you help, but quit fighting. I'm sick of it. We'll be up against enough problems without fighting amongst ourselves."

Without waiting for a reply, she walked off without another word, intending to locate her room. When she got there, her heart sank. A single lumpy bed sat in a room with damp wallpaper that had almost peeled away from the wall in places. The carpet was threadbare. Buffy threw her sparsely packed bag onto the bed, which creaked, and had to admit that James was right: the place was a dump. But no way was she going to make a fuss about it. She was the Slayer, right? She could put up with a little discomfort. She…

There was a bang on the door. Angel or James, she thought.

"Yeah. It's open."

Angel walked into the room, and Buffy smirked to herself, thought again that Angel might be well over two hundred years old but he was still predictable, just like any other man. She stared at him, part of her feeling sorry for the way she'd snapped before, part of her irritated that he thought he could just come into her life and disrupt it. But she'd allowed it, after all.

"Hey, I'm sorry, okay?" He made no move to go to her. "I guess we just spark each other the wrong way, James and me." A pause, then: "He's jealous, Buffy."

"Don't be ridiculous." Buffy laughed; the sound was nervous and false. "No way. James doesn't even like me very much…"

"Yeah. He does. He more than likes you, Buffy…"

"Angel, that's insane." Buffy decided to change the way this conversation was going. "And even if it was true, well, he has nothing to be jealous of, does he?"

Angel stared at her; as always, when he looked at her like that, she felt the pull and magnetism that had always made her weak. Forcing herself to look away, she shook her head.

"No," she mumbled, answering her own question, concentrating fiercely on unpacking her few belongings. "No, he doesn't."

"Buffy…" Angel began, then, as if knowing they'd been talking about him, James rapped on the door.

"Sorry to interrupt," he said, looking from one to the other. "But we have a lot to cover before morning."

Buffy felt relief sweep through her; she didn't want to get involved with Angel again. No way. Putting Angel's words about James's jealousy out of her head, she turned to him and smiled brightly.

"Let's get on with it then," she said, and ignored Angel's obvious irritation.

James shut the door, sat on the lumpy bed.

"All right, we know that Set is kept by Chastaine somewhere in this city. Unfortunately, we don't know exactly where. There's something else, something I forgot to mention in my haste to get you here. Set can only be killed by one weapon. It was said to have been forged out of purest gold by Isis, who was the dead Osiris's widow, but legend has it that it was stolen by Set's followers, who knew its powers. This sword is called the Sun Sword, and I have no idea of its location."

"Oh well, that's just great," Angel said; despite Buffy's earlier protests that he stopped antagonising James, his tone dripped with sarcasm. James, however, seemed not to notice, or if he did, he said nothing.

"If we don't have this Sun Sword," Buffy said, "then exactly how are we to carry on?"

"Well, I have a theory, and I believe it's sound," James replied. "If Set's followers stole the sword in the first place, then I would imagine they still have it. After all, better to have such a weapon oneself; then it would be less likely to fall into the hands of enemies. So I'm assuming that Chastaine herself guards it."

"Okay. Sounds logical," Buffy agreed; she looked to Angel who shrugged, then nodded reluctantly. "Of course if she doesn't, and we find her, and we have no way of defending ourselves…"

"Well, yes, there is that possibility," James agreed. "But this is where your… individuality and lack of respect for tradition will come in handy, Buffy. This is one time where your seeing things differently might well be useful." James grinned, but it was a strange grin, lacking in humour, and Buffy shivered. Sometimes, she thought, not for the first time in recent days, James frightened her. "Anyway," James continued, the smile wiped from his face in a second, "we won't discover anything by sitting in here. We need to locate Chastaine, and the only way to do that is to go on the streets and find the local vampires."

"Sounds great," Buffy said, with no enthusiasm whatever.

"Buffy, these vampires aren't like the ones in London, remember," James cautioned. "They don't know you, and they won't like your intrusion into their previously Slayer-free environment. You may actually have to be the Slayer, and slay."

Buffy fingered the silver knife she always carried; so much better than a stake, she'd found; stakes were outdated, like most things the Council advocated. A stiletto blade did the job much more efficiently.

"Yeah," she said, looking at Angel, wondering why she was prepared to kill for his sake. "Yeah, I'll slay. They sound like a bad bunch anyway, Set's followers." She stood. "So let's go."

"I'll come with you, Buffy," James said. "Angel can go alone. He's stronger than both of us put together."

"You have a weapon, James?" Buffy asked. James pulled a sheathed knife from inside his jacket. When he unsheathed it, a stiletto similar to Buffy's was revealed.

"Yes," James said, fingering the blade. "Yes, I have a weapon. Don't worry about me, I can take care of myself."

Buffy bit back a remark about James's being soo manly; in light of what Angel had said before about James's jealousy, she decided she didn't want to encourage him. Not that she believed Angel of course, but still…

"Will you be okay, Angel?" Buffy said, seeing Angel's glowering face. "James is right. We should go separately, we'll find out more that way."

"I don't like it, but okay."

"We'll meet back here at daybreak," James said. "Come, Buffy. Angel. Let's get on with it."

Outside, the drizzle hadn't improved. Angel watched as Buffy and James disappeared into the darkness of an alleyway, and felt the jealousy and resentment in his heart grow. Soul or no soul, he'd like to kill James; he hated him with almost as much passion as he loved Buffy. He found himself suddenly missing Giles: he had been a proper Watcher: fatherly toward Buffy, understanding toward Angel himself. Best of all, Giles had harboured no hidden desires toward his charge. And as for Buffy, what was she thinking? Once, Angel could read her, almost know her exact thoughts. Not anymore; she was keeping herself closed to him; closed entirely, in fact. Not allowing anyone see inside her. Had the final closing of the Hellmouth been so terrible, so traumatic, that she no longer allowed herself close connections? He guessed from what she'd told him that was the case. If this succeeded, he told himself, then he would do everything he could to get her to open to him. If this succeeded, maybe they'd have the chance of being together that they'd lost before.

Angel found himself walking toward the centre of Paris. He knew Paris well enough, having spent some time here during his previous, unsouled existence. Over a hundred years ago now. He had sampled its delights, its decadence, and revelled in its slums, taking its women, in more ways than one; laid in wait for its men, taking delight in challenging all and sundry to outmoded duels that they nonetheless were powerless to resist. And when the first blood flowed… Ah… Bliss… Sharing it first with his other love, his dead sire, Darla. Then with mad Drusilla, and occasionally, her child, the violent yet amusing Spike.

Angel shook his head to dispel the images. Not so loveable or amusing now, were they, his wayward child and grandchild? If he were to find them now, he would kill them, as he should have before, as he had Darla. Rid the world of two killers that would be better off properly dead.

But Drusilla and Spike weren't his problem now; finding a vampire - any vampire - was. But his senses could detect nothing; no vampire activity anywhere as far as he could tell. He wondered if Buffy and James were having better luck.

He'd reached the banks of the Seine now; despite the drizzle, it was beautiful in the faint gleam of the night lights. Always romantic, the Seine, Angel reflected, with almost nostalgic pain for his previous existence. No pain then, he decided. No conflict. Just being evil for the sake of it, with no soul speaking up, constantly telling him it was wrong. Oh, it had been wrong, he knew, and he would never want to behave in that way again, with no regard for the sanctity of life, but it had been simple. Easy. Almost pure.

Looking around, he saw there were very few people around. The occasional pair of lovers come to sample the romance of late night Paris; a couple of drunks; a tramp sprawled drunk against a lamp-post. There were more cars than humans, and he found the noise intrusive. He decided to go down the steps, right to the river's edge.

Down here, it was quieter. Angel looked in both directions, saw little sign of life. Above him, the constant hum of traffic, muted now, continued. He wondered if the local vampires were simply in hiding, avoiding him if they happened to see him. Angel knew that that was like; concealing yourself from someone until you wanted them to see you, usually when it was too late for them to flee. If he hadn't wanted to be detected, then he wouldn't be.

He decided to walk on, toward Notre Dame, smiling as the great monument to God came closer. Then stopped under one of the bridges, suddenly feeling his skin crawl. Watched as a figure drifted toward him from out of the shadows. A slight figure dressed in a cowled cloak, so that not even its head was visible. A vampire figure, Angel knew at once, who had perhaps been waiting for him… Waiting? he wondered. Waiting?

"Angel," the figure said, a woman's voice, sweet and mellow, with a French accent. She pronounced his name Ahn-jel, and Angel felt his head swim. The woman let the cowl fall from her head; she was about twenty years old to look at, with porcelain white skin, and hair the colour of russet autumn leaves. In her delicate face, green eyes burned, held his. "I knew you were coming, Angel. I had visions of you."

"Dreamed…?" Angel tried to clear his head, but this creature had him bound. Spellbound, he thought, dreamily.

"Mais oui," But yes, as though it was the most natural thing in the world that a stranger should dream of another's arrival. "You don't know me, Angel?" Again that bewitching pronunciation of his name. "You should, we share blood, you and I."

"Blood?" The word conjured up pictures in his mind. Pictures of willing victims come into his embrace; the sweet scent and taste of warm scarlet fluid; the sensation of power… Desperate, he tried to force the images away, but the beauty before him smiled, held his gaze, and he could not escape.

"You think she really wants to help you, Angel, this Slayer? You think she cares, when her heart is really with the human man, the one who calls himself her Watcher, but who is, in his soul, her lover?"

"Nooo," moaned Angel; inside he knew it was untrue, that this… witch… was using his own fears against him. But knowing and imagining… They were different.

"Come with me, Angel, be my child, as you have always been. You are Darla's child, yes? The one you murdered?"

"Yes… But you're not Darla… I saw her die; I saw her spirit… She's dead…"

"Oui, dead. We loved for a while, Darla and I, until we went our separate ways. She made you, Angel, and I made her. I am Chastaine de la Villeneuve, and I offer you back the Dark that you have lost."

"Chastaine?" Ah, but hadn't he known, somewhere inside? He had to get away from her before she killed him…

"Kill you, Angel?" Chastaine laughed, the sound of sweet music. "Non, not kill you." She ran her finger across her neck; dark blood flowed at once. "Come to me, Angel. I can lift your affliction. I can take your cursed soul and you need never worry about being human again." She smiled as Angel moaned; the scent of her blood, rich and powerful, was driving him mad. "Drink, Angel," she said, and put a hand to the back of his head, pulled her toward him.

And Angel tasted the blood of pure evil, and was instantly lost.

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