AURORA by Evan Como (part two)
-0-
"You should be downstairs, too," Harry commented, setting the take-out coffee container on the edge of Cordy's desk.
"He doesn't need me," Cordy lamented as she lifted the cup to her lips. Out of habit, she blew through the sip hole of the lid even though experience had taught her it wouldn't make a difference. Nothing made a difference anymore. "He's got Wesley and there's nothing I can do for him Wesley's not already doing."
"Except be you."
Harry smiled wanly at those unhappy hazel eyes looking up and they exchanged a half-frown for camaraderie. Fingering a brunette ringlet behind Cordy's ear after taking her seat, Harry studied her companion carefully.
"How's it feel to be all alone, Cordy?" When she ignored the question, Harry continued, "somehow you've managed to alienate yourself from everyone. You've just been incredibly mean to Wesley and now you're leaving poor Angel hanging as if you hate him, too."
"I don't hate anyone. Most of all, not Angel," Cordelia protested. "But he was the one who sent me away. And while I was gone, Wesley made the moves, so..." She slumped to finish the sentence before raising the cup to blow again.
"You didn't have to go. You know that." The bashful way Cordelia sulked proved Harry wasn't incorrect with her assumption. "But I think you wanted to test what it was going to be like on your own again. And you did OK. There's no crime in that, Cordy. I think you owe it to Angel, though, to let him know you're going to be fine without him as your safety net."
"But then he's going to want to die," she explained. "He's going to make me break my promise."
Sympathetically, Harry reached forward and placed her hands on Cordy's knees and, without thinking, began tracing the jacquard pattern embellishing the hem of the younger woman's skirt. "It was a promise you were never going to be able to keep in the first place, Cordy. Hiding from Angel isn't going to make that fact go away. Now, you're just being cruel. He can't die without your permission; you took on a new Warrior right in front of his face without even consulting him first; and now you're just blowing him off."
"So, you think I shouldn't have taken on a new Warrior either?"
Harry exhaled slowly. "This isn't about you continuing as Messenger. Frankly I think your decision is brave and admirable but the timing is ALL wrong."
Cordelia straightened in her chair, setting the cup on her desk so she could elaborate with her hands. "No one seems to understand there is no time, Harry. I don't know why exactly, but I FEEL it. It's like all this pressure. Like life is one big sinus cavity that's pulsing and throbbing and clogged-but-not-clogged and ready to go kablooey and no matter how much Sudafed you use, there's no relief."
Harry, not really sure what to make of the analogy, nodded her approval anyway. "So you understand the urgency of time in the case of demon versus demon. Great."
As Whistler called from the stairwell, the two women helped one another rise. "But everyone's got constraints on time, Cordelia. And I think you need to start considering Angel's."
-0-
"She's the pretty prize, isn't she? She sees me. She KNOWS. The soul? The device of my delusion. Look at me! What benevolence is there when I have placed humanity where they want you--at the threshold of destruction."
Breaking Wesley's hold, Angel twirled to the center of the living area, and spread his arms wide. "BEHOLD ANGELUS! All that I have ever been! Return me to my creator's arms. ACATHALA! I ACCEPT MY DESTINY!"
Wesley eased with him to the floor as Angel's equilibrium gave way. Brushing perspiration into Angel's hairline, he could detect the fever's raging intensity as he held onto the reeling vampire to set him back onto his heels. "Surely, Angel, you can't believe what you're saying. You are not without some good. Look at Cordelia's devotion. My respect. And Buffy, Angel. Her love for you came with all her heart."
The brown eyes softened as Angel's brow creased with grave concern. Falling forward, he rested his forehead against Wesley's. When the ex-Watcher's glasses fogged slightly, he used his index finger to smear the film away. "Have I even blinded you sooooooo much?" he whispered.
"I... I don't understand, Angel. Where any of this is coming from. Blinded me to what?"
"Buffy was a CHILD." He simpered, "I corrupted a child." Staring at the make-shift bandage, silent words poured from Angel's lips. Then, flinching, he whispered, "Cordelia?"
"Yes, Angel. We're getting Cordelia." Wesley smoothed Angel's cheeks for reassurance, unsure of how to react while Angel wept before returning, indifferently, to his original line of thought.
"You see, little man, I thought I was trying to become someone all this time. Trying to find redemption, humanity. But they told me I never had it to begin with and I just didn't understand what they meant. I'm so wick-ed. NEVER been human. But I'm such a good poser. They made me pleasant to look at and the soul-- They gave me everything I needed to betray you all."
Angel pawed Wesley's face and pulled it closer to his, searching the ex-Watcher's eyes, wanting to possess that unattainable concept he saw within their brilliance. "Fooled you all." His confession was tinged with disappointment. "And you let me get away with it, too. All of you. All of it."
Wesley was unable to sever Angel's hold or unrelenting study. "Angel, why are you saying these things?"
"Because. It doesn't matter. I'm finally accepting it. What I've been all along. I'm letting go of the dream now." Rubbing his nose on Wesley's before returning his forehead to rest against younger male's, Angel explained, "the irony is that I almost didn't notice you all have to die to feed me--to fuel my next immortality. For when I return. Boy, am I gonna be hungry..."
His hands bore heavily on Wesley's shoulders. "So, whaddya YOU think? Do you think they'll be pleased with silly, ignorant me? All this time and I've been looking in all the wrong places for approval."
"Angel," Wesley whispered, overcome by grief, "THIS is the dream. Not that you've been on a proper journey helping mankind. The Powers That Be aren't the bad guys, Angel. We may not know who they are, but they're not the bad guys."
"They're not?" Angel strained to believe the words, finding it nearly impossible. This human felt so nice against him, so open. And he remembered how much he loathed being so all by himself.
"Angel." Amazed he had any strength left to resist Angel's luring desolation, Wesley slowly lifted away, studying the residue on his fingertips. "You're not a bad guy either. You're not entirely evil and certainly not the corrupter you believe you are. God knows that, too."
As the elevator clicked into motion, Wesley breathed in relief. He watched Angel's countenance relax, the tortured features smooth as marvel filled those haunted eyes, and an innocent smile creep into place. Then, without warning, Wesley accepted complete failure.
"God," Angel stated flatly. "What God."
The hug Cordelia returned whole-heartedly was so strong Harry almost fainted. It was as if, by squeezing hard enough, Cordelia could protect herself from the inevitable. But reality set in as her enthusiasm waned and Harry empathized from experience with the burden of finally attending to an overly-postponed decision.
Pushing Cordelia's hair away from her pretty face, Harry rocked her gently, willing to allow a stay of decision for a little while longer while Cordelia gathered all the strength she could find; most certainly not all she would need.
When the elevator finally arrived, the embrace dissolved and Harry smiled at the person who had entered her arms so childlike now moving on to fulfill her adult obligation.
It was surreal--the excursion down with Cordelia peering out through the iron cage to survey her adopted home. Even the drone of the lift's mechanism seemed quieter than usual. She waggled her fingertips at Wesley when he turned, appreciably looking up from where he was situated on the floor with Angel. When Whistler reached for her hand before he released the gate, she returned the hand-held hug to reassure him.
Relinquishing his position, Wesley assisted Cordelia into place. Angel had never taken his eyes from her, not from the first moment she stepped into view. Ever the intruder, Wesley averted his attention from the silent apologies--Cordelia for taking so long to appear; Angel for being unable to help her keep her word. And, as always, Wesley fought to ignore that ever-present affection.
Angel reached for her. Nothing else mattered as long as Cordelia was alive, safe, healthy and happy--preferably always in that order. "Please. Let me go," he pleaded into her hair, nuzzling its silken texture and tasting the perfume in her styling product. "Please... Let. Me die."
With her cheek against his humid chest, Cordelia listened to Angel sob, feeling as though she'd aged a lifetime in the past few hours. Her head still throbbed from the most recent Vision and her heart ached over the decision he needed her to make. She wanted to whine, to stomp her feet and complain about the unfairness of dumping such a burden on her 19 year-old frame. But, that wasn't an option available to her anymore and the being in her arms had a great deal to do with the reason why that was.
She rose steadily and offered her hands to him. "Angel." She spoke affirmatively, "I'm not going to let you die..."
He gazed up into her face, captivated by her inner glow and unrelenting persistence about keeping one little promise. He thought, for a moment, to argue with her even though he knew there was no fight to win unless she allowed him victory. Helpless, he bowed his head against her regard and let someone's voice express an opinion. It wasn't until she had repeated herself for the seventh or eighth time he finally understood what Cordelia was saying.
"I'm not going to let you die... Alone."
-0-
They lay on his bed, he enveloped by her slender arms with his head just below hers, listening to her heart whisper in his ear. As she fell into the rhythm of her pattern of speech, Angel monitored her life. And then, if for no other reason than to truly share the one she was revealing, he began to breathe along.
He tried to pay attention--real attention--and capture her every word. Of classes at the barre, her first recital in toe shoes and how Daddy missed it because he was in 'Mini Soda' on business. Of her first pony that constantly threw her away until it was replaced. Of parties where perfect smiles were graced to those who brought anonymous gifts; presents always nice enough despite being so impersonal.
And of how those gifts had been used to support her those first uneasy months after graduating High School, for living in L.A. before they found one another.
"You should pay attention to this one. I LOVE this story," he whispered, his accent almost too heavy to be understood as his mouth widened with an enthusiastic grin.
Angel could feel himself mirroring the sentiment. "What's this one about?"
Doyle chuckled, shaking his head as he pulled at the corner of his eye with his index finger. "The first boy she ever kissed. Poor bastard." He winced and looked around before leaning in to finish, "I'd wager he still hasn't recovered."
"Angel focused beyond Doyle as he concentrated. "Yeah. I think I've almost heard it once or twice. Returning to his dearly departed friend, Angel let the smile wane. "You're here to... You know... Take me..." He sighed. "There?"
"UH! That freakin' charm bracelet story. At some point she's got to send that one packing." The disgust with the topic didn't keep Doyle from examining Cordy a little harder. "Nah, man. I've already taken all the journeys I can with you."
Noticing Angel's disappointment, Doyle seemed to remember the meaning behind that look and went back to basics. "You'll be OK, Angel. Courage under pressure and all."
Basics obviously didn't work like they used to. "Really. You'll be fine, Angel. It's not like you've never been through this before."
"Yeah, my annual big event," Angel pouted. "Other beings get birthdays-- It's so different this time, though. So much has changed in a year."
"Oh," Doyle began, pleased by the sarcasm, "like moving and getting yourself established and helping the hopeless and such?" When Angel shrugged, he ventured, "or finding yourself at the end with friends and family and home?"
"That. It's... bizarre?"
"My sentiments exactly. Thanks, you know. For giving that all back to me."
A silence hugged them while Doyle followed along with another familiar anecdote.
"Don't leave," Angel pleaded, unconcerned by how needy he must have sounded.
"Oh, I'm not gone," Doyle answered as he left Cordelia's story behind. "It's like Brainerd told you, 'your personal belongings that can't be taken until you willingly relinquish them', you know. Or something to that effect. He uses too many words. You ever notice that? Just can't seem to keep it simple." He sheepishly peered at Angel out of the corner of his eye, "anyway, there's certain things you're not going to lose as long as you hold onto them--me, Cordy, him--"
"Wesley. He has a name," Angel chided, trying to cover the humor in his voice.
"Wezzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzley, as you refer to him. I bet that rankled him in the beginning. Brits are such wankers about their names."
"Ok, Doyle, enough. Are you here to help me through this or just here to bash Wesley?"
"But, he's ENGLISH, Angel!"
Angel shrugged, unapologetic. "What can I say? I'm obsessed with the English."
"I still can't believe you like him. Just got over me like that!" Doyle, bummed, snapped his fingers. "And Cordy... She doesn't LIKE him, does she? I mean, that would just be too cruel. Cut me to the bone."
"You're a ghost, Doyle. Of the boneless variety. And, besides, she and Wesley aren't like that. Just because she's kissed him once or twice..." That comment got the desired effect, taking only a few seconds for Doyle to realize he'd been mocked.
He laughed. "Who died and gave you a sense of humour?" Doyle squinted his blue eyes for a deeper inspection before remembering, "oh, yeah. That would be me!"
Amused, the familiar teasing felt good and Angel closed his eyes for a moment to reflect on it. The sound of rainfall trickled in the background as a little girl happily skipped around a well, the apron over her skirt swinging in opposite motion. Her wet long brown hair, lavishly laced with strands of red ribbons, bounced deliriously as she hugged a cherished doll to her chest. Singing his name repeatedly, she reached out a hand to him...
"C'mon, Liam, you wee mouse. The view is grand from this one. Look!" he shouted, retracting his offered hand to point the opposite direction into the distance at the approaching dark spec. "Da's surrey."
Liam continued to shake his head vigorously as he looked into the older boy's dark brown eyes sparkling with daring. Adamantly holding onto the tree's trunk Liam complained, "too high and too far out. Come back. You might fall if you stay." Then, timidly, he unwrapped one arm from his support and held out his tiny hand, even though he knew they weren't close enough. But, still...
"Liam!" he scolded congenially, as laughter bubbled from somewhere deep within his free-spirited core. He was always laughing, this one, as if life could be so enjoyable.
But the joy ceased and, as he glanced back to Liam, he swallowed in fear. The simple crack became a long pitching moan as the limb continued to shear. Then the terror in his face gave way to acceptance.
The smiling boy, his arms open wide and his upturned gaze hollow, was adrift on an emerald sea. "Children do not fly," Liam told the man who came for him, and he continued to offer his 6 year-old palm, amazed how it was suddenly large enough to cover the entire odd lay of a body...
"Angel, close your eyes," she spoke. There was something immensely sad in the quality of the voice belonging to this strong young woman he loved. An approaching roar was dousing the sound of a sparkling fountain. When he felt it--that piercing, he disobeyed her request long enough to see the acceptance in her face as a choir of dying children screeched his name before tearing him away. He reached for her but she kept backing away...
"You know, other than my parents, I think Xander may have been the only one who ever came to the hospital to see me," Cordelia concluded.
"Don't say anything, Angel. Just nod or... yeah, that's alright. Hold her fingertips. That's good."
Doyle regarded the pair tenderly as Cordy bestowed an insecure grin upon Angel to break the intensity of his attention. "You just got yourself a bonafide Cordy moment. Those don't happen very often and it's best not to trash 'em with sentimentality or such."
As Cordelia broke into a different story, Angel tried to shake the immense sense of isolation he felt, an emotion he was sure had also been coming from Cordelia. Then he remembered they weren't connected like that anymore. In an attempt to push his growing anxiety aside, he tried to refocus on Doyle, but the apparition wasn't solid anymore.
"Noooooooooo."
"...strength of many, undo the done; for each of us a Promised One..."
"A poem?" Angel asked, disconcerted. "At a time like this?"
Doyle shook his head deliberately. His face was relaxed, serene. Reaching forward, his fingertips touched the center of Angel's chest as he replied, "no, Angel. Truth." But the vampire's distress increased, even after he added, "Faith, man," before shimmering away.
Angel held onto Cordelia a little tighter and she returned the embrace without a pause to the stories she told. He silently apologized for ignoring her, knowing she would never expect him to remember half of what she said anyway because he never did (not that he didn't want to) and because she just accepted that was the way he was.
Matching her warmth, breathing in time, sharing her heartbeat, Angel tried to understand how Cordelia, of all people, could so unconditionally accept what he was. It made him consider if he actually had managed to start becoming a 'who'--not because a person actually existed but because Cordelia had fashioned one. Or was it her acceptance that had allowed someone to surface without fear of reprisal, that being himself might have been good enough all along?
Regret reared its ugly head. Then cowardice. That even still he was unable to open up to her. There were too many misdeeds to relate, no way to just explain one without attempting to explain them all; and, ultimately, the fear of maybe losing everything by sharing. Even though she had promised to preserve all his secrets, sometimes some promises were just too impossible to keep.
Gravity shifted, the earth discreetly turned. Words became seconds; sentences minutes. Even Cordelia's affection could not harness time. Angel wanted to believe he could retain some aspect of this when he traversed the dimension, even if, instead of providing comfort, it increased the anguish of his impending next eternity. His eyes were closed to thought when he finally detected it--
Dawn's arrival.
Somehow Cordelia sensed it too because she swept back his hair and pressed her lips across his brow before hugging him like she would never see him again. And then it seemed as though she expressed something with words, but not words, even though that couldn't have possibly been the case.
He waited. One moment. Then another. Listening to her ragged breath as he waited for a signal. Then with fateful acceptance, he knew there was no other choice and he stoically rose to meet his climax.
He saw them without seeing. Whistler--lost to emotion he still fought to control, Harry--her inner serenity enviable and almost mocking. And Wesley--the original open book, plagued by allergies and probably silently praying. They accompanied him to the door and waited for their final farewells.
With Cordelia never releasing his hand.
It was the oddest of sensations, to be so connected to these others. To be bundled with their affection for his last task as if, by adding an extra embrace, he would be insulated against his morbid outcome; that it would be less painful, or less sad. The raw, emotional contact left him searching them for understanding of why--for the first time in, like, seriously forever--he wasn't hiding, or fighting. Or biting.
Barely detectable at first, it came. Just like that. In less than the blink of an eye. Hope. That he was going to be able to do this on his own. Taking deep breaths for resolve, he acknowledged his final mandate.
And accepted it.
He studied her perfect face and the brightness of those hazel eyes. Somehow, by her conviction, she had willed him Company. That he should not take this final journey alone, defeated. His mind--silent, his soul--calm, the demon--restrained. And within the stillness he found it also there, just waiting for his simple recognition.
That she had willed him Peace.
He imagined a knock on his door. Like so many train excursions and a friendly Porter to pass the morning paper or ready his bunk, Angel awaited his guide. He was already at the destination and only needed to exit. And, so it began with that not-so-tentative first step forward...
Wesley, unsure of what he had heard, glanced at Cordelia briefly before he slid open the side door.
The Courier, off-guard, stared at the group facing him as he delivered the parcel from the LAPD homicide unit's Detective Kate Lockley. He hadn't expected so many people to greet him at such an early hour. While waiting for the signature of a young woman who didn't look much older than his own daughter, he studied the fellow named Angel. He had never seen a more tranquil--or confused--look on anyone's face in his life.
Making him wonder if it was a mirror of his own expression when the euphoric group hug nearly smothered him.
-0-
After hunkering into the chair, Angel drew his fingers through his hair as if the motion would somehow put the pieces to his visual puzzle together. His concentration was shot. He picked up a folder, flipping through it for the umpteenth time in less than four hours but nothing--absolutely nothing--about the case made any sense as raging hunger vied for his attention.
Humiliation also nagged at him; but hunger was much more intrusive.
Somehow, his intuition managed to interrupt. He knew he was connected to the 19 men whose lifeless, peaceful faces lay spread before him in black and white clarity. He also knew he shouldn't have needed Kate Lockley's suspicious and ever-becoming fanatical opinion to alert him to that fact. The Los Angeles Times banner since December had been speaking to him personally.
He had just been a little too preoccupied to listen.
"I can't come up with a connection either, Angel," Wesley remarked as he returned from downstairs. "I think THIS one might actually be better than the one I made this morning. I still can't believe my oversight regarding your mutation and I hope you can forgive me for letting you suffer for so long. How difficult would it have been these past few months to monitor your blood?"
Wesley hesitantly reached out but, when the vampire curled more tightly into his almost-embryonic position, he merely set the container on the edge of the desk and withdrew to the opposite side. The tips of Angel's disheveled hair shivered as his arms wound more tightly around his neck until barely one eye peered through the vee of his elbow.
After Kate's reprieve, Wesley tested Angel and planned a few simple twists for his diet--the easiest one being to 'nuke the hell out of his feed' as Cordelia put it. An earlier examination would have greatly eased Angel's discomfort but Wesley, fearing Angel's mistrust after threatening to stake him, hadn't wanted to suggest it. As it was, even with one digestible meal, the lip sealed and the thumb was drying.
It was difficult for Wesley to sit in the silent room, pretending as if nothing had happened. Angel had, though his outburst, completely dismantled the superficial wall between them and now expected Wesley to just disregard the things that had been said or witnessed. Feeling the overwhelming need for discussion, Wesley left his words unspoken as Angel, dark pools of exhaustion beneath his eyes making his brow seem that much more pronounced, shifted slightly.
"It's ritual," Angel said finally, "but I can't figure out what kind. It doesn't look evil. Human or demon. Maybe. Does it look evil to you?"
Wesley bobbed in agreement as he leafed through another folder. Holding death in his hand, sitting in its company, he cringed. In its simplest form, death marked the passage of time and Wesley found he wanted to hold all of them still. He had been so willing to surrender Angel and now, with the temporary reprieve, he wasn't sure he was going to be able to do that at all.
"Angel, sit up straight!" Cordy commanded as she breezed into the office and tweaked the blind open a scintilla more. "Hey, Wesley, did you put Tabasco in this like I told you to?"
"No. Your comment about it being good enough for aliens wasn't good enough for me. Angel didn't have a problem with the way it tasted earlier," he added, peering over the top of his file in time to watch Angel's posture loosen a smidgen.
"It's OK--" Sighing, Angel pushed another photograph aside as Cordelia whisked the cup downstairs.
"I will mention one thing, though, I think the description of a 'medium-tall, medium-build, dark-haired figure may very well apply to a female." Wesley felt a twinge of optimism when Angel leaned forward.
His index finger rubbed his chin as Angel stacked papers, one on top of each other, attempting to read them. "Kate's an expert profiler and the FBI experts all say 'male'. Why would you think the opposite?"
Wesley exercised a dimple. "It's just that there's no real 'crime' here. I'm no profiler, but even I can see that any of these men could have very well died of natural causes. There's nothing that would indicate the killer was trying to show superiority--either physical or mental. ...all supposedly heterosexual... ...nothing about sexuality playing a role in any of the deaths anyway... And, from the looks on their faces, the deceased weren't necessarily frightened."
Angel sifted through another autopsy report uneasily. "Nothing. No sexual activity of any kind. No abuse..."
"Although," Wesley pointed to a slight dark spot on one of the victim's upper torsos, "he looks as if he's been necking."
"Who's been necking?" Cordelia examined the layout briefly after returning Angel's lunch. Looking into the front office as Mahoe growled at Whistler who had, obviously, just won another round of dominoes she distractedly added, "love bites are so old school. Who does that anymore?"
She tch'd her disapproval before walking away.
"You know, Angel," Wesley lowered his voice after Cordelia exited, "these murders started in December at the approximate time of Doyle's unfortunate demise... And, not one murder occurred over the past eight weeks..."
"Shut up, Wesley." Angel reshuffled the photographs on his desk, relaying them according to locations of the dark spots each of them seem to have.
"Angel... From your reaction, it's obviously crossed your mind. Look at it. You don't really know how the Gift has affected her all these months. Not to mention everything she's gone through in the past year. Losing her affluence, that graduation... And she's killed more than a few demons. I personally watched her carefreely hack one to pieces, Angel. What if she's crossed that line?"
"She's not like that." Angel glared at Wesley unmercifully but when the ex-Watcher didn't retreat as usual, Angel did instead. He bore his cheek into the back of his hand as he rested one arm onto the other. "I told you I destroy."
"Some demons are such whiners!" Cordy complained as she tended to the blinds again. "Whistler's, like, getting all hissy 'cause Mahoe won't make the tiles kiss."
She picked up, then dropped a photo. "Oooooh! He was a hottie! So, Angel, you gonna crawl under the desk? Cause if you are, I should sweep first. Guy, I wish Dennis was mobile. He would keep this place like so, totally, spotlitized. You should try to find some spell for him, you know. He must really get bored hanging-- or whatever ghosts do. Do they hang? Hmmmmmm. More floaty, huh? And, leave these blinds alone! It's not like you wanna make Wesley's more blind. OK?"
Wesley looked across the desk at Angel after Cordelia left to answer the phone. "Poor deluded girl. She has no recollection at all of her crimes, Angel. I'm sure Kate would be completely understanding and help her get leniency on an insanity plea--"
"You won't believe me. I'm not going to believe you," Angel commented under his breath.
"Angel!" Wesley whispered harshly. "You can't pretend she's alright. And now with your illness..."
"CORDELIA!"
The brunette dropped her magazine and sauntered back into Angel's office. "Whatcha need? Hey, so Angel, how old are all these guys..."
"Did you kill them?"
Speechless, but just for a moment, Cordelia turned and popped Wesley across his shoulder. "Now you're accusing me of murder?"
"HEY!" Wesley massaged his arm, confused. "Angel is the one who asked you. Not me."
"Yeah, well Angel doesn't think things like that. Or, maybe he does but he doesn't say them. Why would you accuse ME? He looks tall, and him, too. So, how tall are all these guys?"
Wesley ignored Angel's 'so there' face, still unconvinced of Cordelia's innocence when he turned to follow the sound of ivory blocks scattering into the office.
"I HATE this friggin' schma-hoe," Whistler mumbled as he retrieved the game pieces. "So, what's this case all about?" he asked, nonchalantly edging towards the evidence.
"What, you guys?" Angel asked, wary of Whistler's scrutiny.
"He don't see it. How about either of you?"
Cordelia nodded as she flipped through a clamped packet. "Yeah, but it's hard to tell because their eyes are all closed. Of course, Mr. Self-Concealed, here, wouldn't catch it. Poisoned. Check it out! They're all even caffienators."
"And they could all be your brothers, Angel," Wesley replied as he lifted a bottom folder. "Despite their ethnic backgrounds, they share enough of a resemblance with you..." He flipped more quickly. "...small sooty heart on his chest... ...found in an open field facing east... The hickeys must signify, what? And now that we know the connection that Kate probably wanted you to confirm, where do we look for the killer?"
Walking around the desk, Angel studied the deceased from the trio's perspective. Those countenances did seem so familiar...
As Cordelia dropped into a Vision, he blocked out the office activity to turn the nineteen face-down. Someone obviously wanted his attention; and that someone obviously wanted him dead. It just didn't seem proper the innocent always got that way ahead of him.
-0-
Cordelia glanced behind her back, looking out into the parking lot through the front window as Wesley leaned around towards the back until he pitched forward across the table abruptly. Still distracted, he smiled 'thanks' at the hand that helped rescue his cafe mocha.
"The Coffee Spot, right? When did he say to meet him? He should have come with us, Wesley. And he would have never let you wear those ridiculous contacts." She continued shaking her head when an impeccably dressed young man smiled at her as he returned to his chair after reciting his poem.
Wesley glanced at his watch, trying not to look as worried as he felt. "He wanted to confer with Kate, that's all. Look, here he comes!"
Angel approached the table unsteadily, less affected by his health than the numbing déjà vu. As Wesley left to take the open microphone, he cast a quick once-over. "What does he think he's doing?" Angel asked Cordelia. "That's my coat, isn't it?"
"It's a little big through the shoulders, but he looks good in black leather. Ew. What's with his accent? Oh, man. That SUCKS! Who told him he could do accents?"
"Irish," Angel explained softly, listening to Wesley's recitation of a Wordsworth poem. Flattered, he smiled. "Way wrong poet, though. But the accent's not half-bad. Irish is hard to do well."
Cordelia wasn't convinced and she rolled her eyes at Wesley when he returned to the table. "You are so WEIRD!"
Before he had a chance to make a comment of his own, however, Angel gripped the side of the high table and lowered his head slowly onto his arm. With Cordelia gripping his hand, he struggled through an explosion of internal pain. He neither had the ability nor heart to explain what a terrible idea the Tabasco had been.
"Angel," he heard her say softly some moments later after the episode passed. "Let's go. I think Wesley went to get the car."
But, after he lifted his head and looked out the window to notice his auto still in its space, Angel instantly knew that wasn't the case. It only took Cordelia a moment later to confirm his suspicion when she regripped his hand before leaning across the table to make it through a spasm of her own.
-0-
Wesley moaned before he became fully cognizant. His throat was parched and, when he swallowed, he acknowledged a taste in his mouth he didn't relish at all. That, and an extra tongue.
"Uh!"
She lifted her face only inches from his and studied him adoringly. "Somehow I'd imagined that you were going to be, I dunno-- I guess just different."
By the predawn light, Wesley strained to make out the features of the young woman straddling him. When she moved in to kiss him again, he jerked his head aside, verbalizing his disgust. He wanted to push her off but found the way she had tied him onto her car's hood left him little freedom to do much at all.
"I'm not who you think I am," he explained, attempting to project his voice louder than his fear.
She hopped off to the pavement of the parking area where she began pacing. Her movements were sinewy, graceful. Inhuman. "We'll see about that in a few minutes," she seemed to snarl at the beckoning sunrise before twisting back to face him.
"Well, Angelus. So close to the end, and how does it feel? I was pretty sure you'd get dead before I had a chance to do you." After squiggling her finger across his clavicle, she unfastened his shirt's top button with intense attention to detail. "If you had come to a little sooner, I REALLY wanted to do you, too."
"Who ARE you?" Wesley asked, his investigative nature taking control of the moment until the sun suddenly broke, blinding him to all.
He heard her scream with such ferocity it almost drowned out the sound of the approaching helicopter. He wanted to open his eyes to see what was going on, but the blow she rendered detached his consciousness. In that split-second before his awareness gave way, he was grateful for either being rescued or dead.
Either was preferable to torture.
-0-
"YOU HAD NO RIGHT!" Whistler shouted at the top of his lungs to an unaffected Angel. "The Message wasn't for you in the first place and you had NO right to pass it to the humans!"
"I had every right, Whistler."
Outraged, he shoved at Angel in frustration, not sorry in the least when the vampire actually floundered back into his chair. "If you were going to be alive long enough, you'd learn," he seethed. "This is PTB business, Angel. Not for human consumption. This is one piece that may have helped our side and you took it away from us. How could you?"
"It was my fault."
Cordelia adjusted her position on the corner of Angel's desk and looked Whistler directly in the eye before accepting responsibility again. "Besides, Whistler, what did you expect us to do? Wesley's one of us. I didn't want to risk Mahoe not being able to rescue him."
Mahoe glared at the young woman as he swept past her. Then he looked at the vampire. Contempt colored his words, "I'M the Warrior, not you. This was MY big break. But you robbed me. You'll pay."
Whistler pimp-slapped the Warrior before shoving at him, too. "Watch the threats, Mahoe!"
Wesley allowed Cordelia an examination of his eye, its original color more vibrant with the bruising, before resetting the ice bag. "What the hell is she?" he asked, still trying to get the acrid taste out of his mouth. "She's NOT human, Angel. At least not ALL human. That much I can say."
Whistler stepped back when the front door opened. "We don't know what she is, Wesley. And, unfortunately thanks to Marshall Angel and Miss Cordy, we'll never be able to find out."
The body sailed into the office and landed with a thump.
"Special delivery!" The delivery guy stood at the entrance to Angel's office and surveyed it with haughty amusement. "Oh, so there you are," he said to Wesley. "The Immigration and Naturalization Service wanted me to drop off this package. Ta da!" he smugly sang while smacking his hands together. "It's not as fresh as it used to be, but I think the message is still meaningful."
Angel, confused, briefly glanced at Mahoe before rising and rushing the intruder. The deliverer disabled Angel's advance after he swooned from the aroma of the decaying body; lifting him high before being slamming him onto the surface of his desk. On his back, Angel lay still--in shock--while the being that clutched his throat morphed into a vampire.
A being who's pulse he could feel throbbing against his own inert veins.
"Surprise, surprise," it whispered before releasing him and fleeing with supernatural speed through the front door.
Angel couldn't get up, immobilized by too many thoughts. Wesley had been threatened. The delectable body of his former snitch, Lão, was on his office floor, a familiar pendant used to garrote him. And, what looked like a vampire had just run into a sunny midday street, according to Cordelia, to get into a shiny black limousine.
Oh, yeah. And Mahoe just stood there, watching.
-0-
She used her thumbnail to flick at the other nails on her hand while trying to control her rage. It wasn't helping though, so she threw her coffee cup across the room instead. When he managed to avoid being hit, that made her even angrier.
"Look, Kate--"
"I DON'T WANT TO HEAR YOUR FUCKING EXCUSES, ANGEL!" She growled, trying to control her blood pressure. "I sent you the case only for demonic confirmation in the first place. I wasn't asking you to solve it. THAT was MY job. I should have never gotten you involved."
It didn't matter how many ways he tried to explain Wesley's predicament to her, only one fact stood out: Wesley wasn't going to testify because Angel wasn't going to let him.
"I don't care if he's illegal, Angel. Rosa Lopez was probably illegal and SHE still testified. Hundreds of illegales testify, no matter what their countries of origins. Hell, he's even from England. I'm pretty sure America is still on good enough terms with the Queen he won't be unfairly deported."
"That depends on your definition of 'deportation'."
"I'm screwed and you don't care. That's what this comes down to. You want to keep your little evil empire out of the sun while the rest of the world has to suffer. This bitch killed NINETEEN innocent men, Angel. Their only crimes were how much they resembled you in some way. And now there's not going to be any justice for any of them because if your boy won't testify AS THE ONLY WITNESS, I've got no grounds to keep Ms.Cynthia Minn. I've got NO incriminating evidence on her. Nothing. And less than 20 hours after 4 1/2 clueless months to find something to keep her ass in jail."
He hated when her exotic blue eyes were so avenging, but there was nothing he could do. And as he left her office, with her curses at his back, he finally began to understand the meaning behind Whistler's words. Everyone seemed to be wiser, especially Wesley who had already called The Council of Watchers against his wishes, buying them two extra hours.
-0-
Eruwalt Augustine was watchful. He was careful.
The younger man in the elevator was a source of great disparagement. He had complained to Council that Wesley Wyndham-Price was far too young, his apprenticeship far too brief, to be allowed to venture such a great distance from the cloistered corps of those who where so much older and wiser. But, She had deemed him ready. And She, ultimately, was the one to renounce him.
She had been wrong only once in all the years Augustine served with her and he was standing next to that error in judgement, descending into an unknown realm in industrial Los Angeles. He harbored unforgiving contempt for a man who could lose control of not one, but two Slayers--the True One to the being that Augustine was finally going to meet.
"Alright, then. We are here."
Wesley tried to sound more chipper than he felt. He was nervous as hell; perspiration had already drenched his collar. He knew the old man despised him, had never been his champion. No matter what else he did in the Elder's presence, he had to be strong--to prove how The Council's dismissal had not broken him.
Augustine stepped out of the carriage and took in his surroundings. While he approved of the decor, his personal principles would not approve of living in such a squalid section of town. The apartment was spacious, with few obstacles, few blind spots. Two staircases--one left, one right, and over there much to his relief, a side door to keep near his back should he need to make a hasty exit.
Wesley led him forward, towards a kitchen area and that's where they stood, waiting.
Augustine was a patient person and considered it his greatest virtue. He continued to examine the room, accounting for every weapon--or possible weapon. Listening intently, he blocked out Wyndham-Price's rapid, shallow breathing. Then, as if the air itself announced him, he felt the presence of the vampire, Angelus.
This not-even ancient being, Augustine thought to himself, should not be so contemporary. The clothes he wore, the style of his hair, his bearing, were far too human. Augustine heard himself inhale in surprise, his gasp from shock that this young man who approached him seemed nothing more than that--a young man.
Angel approached Wesley and The Council member warily. He was still concerned it was a mistake to involve The Council of Watchers since their viewpoint could never be speculated upon with any degree of certainty. Angel stopped within a few paces of the old man, not out of fear that the visitor would try to harm him, but out of courtesy for personal space.
"I'm Angel."
Augustine's curiosity increased. "Augustine. We still refer to you as Angelus, so do not find me insulting if I fail to use the diminutive."
Angel bowed his head in agreement. Formalities concluded, he finally turned his sight to Wesley. "Wesley. Wesley. WES!"
Augustine looked up in amusement at the youngest fellow. "Wyndham-Price!" He finally elbowed his ribs to catch his attention, causing the beleaguered man to take a much-needed breath.
After leering, Augustine stepped away from Wesley towards Angel. He could detect the underlying intelligence within the being; his polite manner was far too natural to be anything except second nature. But, not for a moment, did he doubt Angel was anything other than demon. Despite the prominent characteristics of the necromongracy, there were still many signs to define him a vampire to someone as experienced as Augustine.
"Getting right to it," Augustine began with his fine Continental accent, almost too youthful for his apparent age, "I doubt The Council will be of much help in the matter of the ritual murders here in this city. Our operative base throughout the United States has diminished greatly. As you might have guessed."
Augustine listened as the vampire, leaning back on the sofa's edge with his arms casually folded, explained the circumstances regarding their dilemma. He found himself not so much listening to the words but to how they were being spoken. There was a great amount of passion in the tone and, what he found difficult to believe, concern. The vampire CARED.
"Angel! Angel! I just heard it on the radio!" Cordelia was already out of breath as she bounded down the stairs. She shoved the nearly-mangled take-out food containers into Wesley's hands, ignoring both him and the visitor.
"Cordelia Chase, we have a guest," Angel, amused, motioned with his head towards Augustine.
The excited young woman arched back to smile at the old man. "Wesley! You're spilling!" She rolled her eyes before returning to Angel. "Unless the 'unidentified surviving victim'" she flicked her wrist back at Wesley, "testifies, the D.A. is going to have to toss the case and our unidentified otherworldly is going to be free and clear!"
As Cordelia droned on, Augustine studied the three, increasingly intrigued by what he saw. The vampire bestowed that same concern, albeit stronger, upon the vivacious young lady and Wesley, who had managed to gain his composure enough to take his place within the conversation. And, as Wyndham-Price joined his new colleagues, Augustine finally SAW.
He was awestruck by their exquisite dark beauty. The trio, like precious gemstone, glittered in the soft, muted light of the cavernous lair. Their overwhelming affection for one another was unmistakable as the two humans regarded their much-older companion not as a demon, but friend.
With the potential for Prophecy before him, Augustine was paralyzed by the thought that, perhaps, the endless cycle was drawing to a close. There was a melancholy accompanying the assumption the universe had grown bored and was finally willing to put demon- and humankind out of their misery. It caused Augustine to ponder whether or not to finalize his personal tasks--to bring Wyndham-Price back to England and do away with the vampire for once and for all, perhaps making it possible to bring The Slayer back, as well, before the Next War.
Angel reached forward and impeded Cordelia's fall, gratefully accepting Wesley's help as they eased her onto the sofa. Concerned, he watched her convulsion, impatient for Wesley to return with a glass of water and aspirin. It wasn't until after Cordelia finished her medicine he--or any of them--remembered someone else was in the room.
His approach ceased when Angel stepped in his way. Their visual confrontation was unlike any he had ever experienced but it was still so easy to swiftly reach into his jacket and extract the stake. When the vampire slightly recoiled, however, Augustine halted the forward motion of his hand.
"You're afraid to die," he spoke, absolutely astounded. "On the precipice of death and you can't let go. Amazing. And I'm sure, in the shape you're in, you've been wishing someone would have done this to you weeks ago."
There was a slight, ever-so-slight, look of shame that shadowed Angel's features before he inclined his face. When he straightened it again, his gaze was strong as he calmly unfastened the buttons of his shirt and repositioned the stake exactly above where it belonged. "I had wanted to see this case through, but maybe this way is best... Wes, you should take Cordelia upstairs."
Angel was hardly resigned with the situation, but Augustine could see the exhaustion. The creature was cruelly positioned--miserable to be needed while needing to be put out of his misery. Cordelia crying in the background was barely audible over the beating of his own heart as he continued to hold the vampire's gaze. Somewhere, in the depths of those anxious brown eyes, he thought he located something...
Until Wyndam-Price stood in his way.
"This is not a dream, young man."
Angel reached around and took the stake from Augustine's hand, apathetically tossing it towards the kitchen before rebuttoning his shirt. "He's right," he sighed as he clapped Wesley on the shoulder before returning to Cordelia's side to ease her fear.
It was the first time Augustine had ever seen Wyndham-Price as a man instead of the timid boy who could do nothing right in the eyes of his father. At the edges of those clear grey eyes he could still see that insecurity, but also more--so much more--of what he'd caught a glimpse of in the vampire. And he relaxed with enjoyment, thrilled beyond his wildest imagination that the undefeatable spark in a child had not submitted to complete annihilation, but had managed to survive, broken yet salvageable.
The boy had finally found some place to belong and it had taken a vampire's acceptance to restore the survival instincts of a human spirit.
"Get off of me, you geezer!" Cordelia protested when Augustine began to massage her head. Within a moment, though, the complaints were forgotten. Cordelia seemed to melt from the perfectly applied accupressure. "Ooooooh, Angel," she purred, "can we trade in Wesley for him?"
"I don't get you," Angel stated plainly. "One second you were probably ready to haul Wesley out here, then you were ready to stake me, and now you're making Cordelia feel a little too good. Hey!" He frowned, unsure why Cordelia feeling better was supposed to be a bad thing.
"That was the weirdest Vision ever! No warning, no nothing. And, it's not for Mahoe. I think it's for you?"
After giving Wesley a moment to briefly explain her Visions to the masseuse, Cordelia explained, "an envelope. A beigey envelope about yea big," she illustrated with her hands in the air, "with either a black or dark green border and one of those red buttons with a ropey tie around it on the back."
Angel blinked a couple times, completely confused. "Do we use that kind?"
"Pffffff! Are you smoking crack, Angel? Those kinds of envelopes cost! And we don't have that kind of clientele. You guys get THOSE kinds of paying customers in here and I'll buy any kind of fancy stationery you want."
"Cordelia, we're not in business any more," Wesley reminded her softly.
"What happened here, Miss Chase?" Augustine asked as he massaged behind her ear. "That's quite a scar!"
"SEE! I KNEW it! Those stupid doctors kept trying to tell me there was nothing there." She reached up and gave the area a quick rub. "It's from when I fell when I almost died."
"You almost died?" Wesley asked, abhorred.
She ignored Angel's glare. "Well, I COULD have died. Long story short I got stabbed in the back by love. At least Angel saw his coming. Mine came from outta nowhere. And I didn't even deserve it!"
"Anyway, anything else about this envelope?" Angel asked, trying to divert the subject while absently pinching one of his shirt's buttons.
"Your hand, please, Angel." Augustine held out his own for receipt of his request and Angel, surprisingly, granted it. He studied the lines there on the palm voraciously, as if he'd never seen anything more interesting and then he looked into Wyndham-Price's face.
Angel couldn't get his hand back. The man who held it was incredibly strong and panic began to set in when he realized he had not only allowed himself to be set up, he may have placed Cordelia in jeopardy. He furiously tugged, but Augustine wouldn't release him.
The old man just kept staring at Wesley.
"MY call, eh, Wyndham-Price? Interesting that the tables have turned. What do you think I should do?" He heard the girl begin to whimper softly, perhaps some sort of empathic connection to the vampire's sudden panic. But, Augustine held on fast as Wyndham-Price continued to meet his gaze honestly and without reserve. After banishing every thought and emotion within his body, Augustine allowed Prophecy to make the decision...
It took a second after Augustine tightened the grip on his hand for Angel to recognize the pain. Their eyes were locked in silent communication for just long enough to have Angel's free-will ripped from his being along with every thought and emotion.
"RA THRASHA HO'ASH THRASHA MA CHA'MAE!"
Meaningless words tumbled through Angel's mind as a torment seared inwards, cutting a path through the layers of skin, through muscle, to bore into his skeleton. It was as if all the marrow within every bone ignited at once, engulfing Angel in a brilliant white heat, an agony he had never endured before in his life. Whatever this was, he vaguely knew its outcome would not include a heartbeat for a mere mortal man would have died seconds into the experience.
He frantically sucked at the atmosphere, trying to endure the experience without losing consciousness. Instinct, and only instinct, remained to warn him of danger for Cordelia. Through the misty vision of his disintegrating reawakening he saw her being torn through the side door--stolen from his life. He could barely hear her scream his name, or see her outstretched hand. Within his mind, he called out for her but the voice remained within. Using his very last strength, he reached to her but she was gone.
Exhausted. Defeated. Numb.
Collapsed on the floor, oblivion beckoned and Angel accepted it gladly, at last willing to relinquish his dream. Bathed in silence, his lids alternated vision between darkness and light, darkness for longer increments as the more intimately known of the two. And, Angel's last recognition before fading away was the mark on the heel of his palm as if the flesh had been scored with the finest of blades.
He would have never suspected the very end to have been a joke so cruel.
-0-
"ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRGH!!!"
Every item on the table scattered in a different direction as it was swept from her view. Afterwards, she set the table on end.
"I don't know, Mr. Mercer. What do you make of that?" The emotion emanating from the exquisite Latin intonation was difficult to gauge.
Lee Mercer, attorney at law from the offices of Wolfram & Hart narrowed his disdainful gaze. The client wasn't the only one displeased with The Consultant's outburst. She had yet to prove her monetary worth. Still, he mused as he let his eyes wander up and down her willowy frame, all her talents had yet to be fully been explored.
She turned to her audience and pursed her lips, regaining some composure by smoothing her dark tresses. "Twenty readings and all the same message. He's dead. FINALLY!" she pronounced in her shrill Cockney accent.
Andres Cort-Pinzón was still unconvinced. "If the cards repeat the message another twenty times, I MAY be willing to accept your statement as fact, Dru. For right now, though, I'm more inclined to believe that a certain someone is taking her frustration out at billable hours. Perhaps that certain someone would like to return to work?"
Araceli Duarte stifled a snicker as she eyed Mercer's discomfort. "And while she returns to her study, Sir--" Her own accent was less prominent, tainted by a North American college education. She tapped the face of her watch, and as her superior nodded in gratitude, Duarte extended an ushering wave of her hand as a courtesy.
Dru tore across the room, her red-painted nails poised for attack, as the smug Spaniards turned their backs but Mercer caught her waist to spin her around, surprised by her hot-blooded temperament. Holding onto her just slightly longer than was necessary, it crossed his mind the vampiress could have easily broken--or avoided--his hold. If she wanted to.
He smiled wickedly. "Dru, dear. It's not nice to attack the client. Remember the contract you signed?" He snapped his fingers and two aides began to straighten the mess she created. "Just go ahead and have a meal and then let's get back to work, shall we?"
Taking the moment, Mercer considered Dru's enthusiasm regarding certain assignments. She hoisted one of the aides against the wall before burying her face in the startled woman's neck. While the activity didn't totally disgust him, he was pleased he hadn't been standing closer.
Hurrying after the client and assistant, Mercer apologized. "I'm so sorry, Señor Cort-Pinzón. I had no idea how difficult she was going to be to work with when I... mean... WE hired her for your benefit. Her efforts haven't been completely unproductive, though, and I hope once she verifies her findings..."
Cort-Pinzón heaved his annoyance as he picked up the pace of their walk. "This facility, Mr. Mercer, is the culmination of decades of research. Its sister facility was destroyed in the course of less than a month's confinement by that one's supposed sire. All that research, Mr. Mercer. All those resources. Is Wolfram & Hart going to be reimbursing Fuerza at all? Or should I ask, more to the point-- Are you?"
Mercer feigned ignorance.
Accustomed to Lee Mercer's ploys, Cort-Pinzón smiled wily. "Yes, of course. The infamous 'conflict of interests'. They served you well, did they not, when you needed your necromonger? That little exercise backfired with a better outcome for Fuerza and 'the other client'. Well, you may inform your other client our business is completed. Holland will be receiving our letter of termination after Ms. Minn's dismissal of charges. And we will be finished with Wolfram & Hart, forever."
"But, Señor," Mercer stalled; stunned, his jaw went slack. "Out of respect for three decades of a very mutually beneficial relationship, I'd be more than happy to resign as counsel for Fuerza if I'm the problem..."
That annoying shriek echoed through the facility halls again before the table's thud, but Cort-Pinzón's smile did not dim. "Actually, Mr. Mercer, I was going to suggest you speak to Klein and Gabler, our new firm, regarding a position there. It would be my honor to personally arrange for an introduction between you and the Senior Partners."
"Well, of course, Señor." Mercer's mood brightened considerably. "I'm flattered you would even consider arranging it."
The older gentleman raised his hand and drew the attention of the two guards that had been following outside of conversational range, requesting they escort Mercer to his limousine. Extending his hand, he allowed a perfunctory shake. "It will be good to have Cynthia free, Mr. Mercer. All the arrangements have been made and I expect you to personally escort her to the jet in the morning. One last gesture despite the dissolution of our working partnership... For the time being?"
While the guards led the lawyer away, Cort-Pinzón glared at Mercer's back with undisguised contempt.
"I don't understand if you despise him so much, Sir," Duarte held her breath, waiting for Dru's filtered ranting to fade, "you would even lead him to believe he had a chance to continue as Counsel for Fuerza."
Cort-Pinzón fingered the salt and pepper fringe at his temples before continuing their walk. "Araceli, I lost three of my finest hybrids at Dru's expense earlier this evening. That does not please me. Frankly, that much of the business Mercer personally conducted was unknown to his firm, never did please me. But, this clairvoyant--our 'Consultant'--is not without talent."
Shaking her head, still confused, Duarte's espresso-colored layers fell in and out of place. "Astral-projection is hardly a talent, sir. It's a fad and every witch-in-apprenticeship seems to be able to do it to some extent--"
It was the look more than the toss of his wrist that cut the woman's comment. "She has the ability to twist the mind, Araceli. To unlock those treasures deep within the subconscious. That she can see through the eyes of an animal means nothing to me. That is mischief. That the animal can understand and be understood? Now THAT is a talent."
"But, sir. We aren't going to be rescuing an animal. I still don't understand how her talents apply."
"You'll see, soon enough, Araceli. And after her work is done, like Mr. Mercer, she will be duly rewarded for all her efforts."
Lounging in the limousine's cabin on the way back to his office, Lee Mercer reflected on his good fortune. The Senior Partners would be far from pleased about losing Fuerza as a long-time client, but the severance would be an amicable one thanks to his expert witness tampering. And, with Cort-Pinzón's personal recommendation, he would gain immediate access to the up-and-coming competition.
"The future's looking mighty interesting," he chuckled egotistically, plucking a tonic water from the fridge. It was unfortunate, he lamented as he touched the chill bottle to his temple, one very fair, intriguing female would be unavailable to help with the celebration.
-0-
They were silent for the longest interval after the original broadcast reappeared from its brief interruption. A situation comedy worked its variation on a common theme, but neither person was laughing. Finally, annoyed with the racket, Harry clicked the remote control.
"Maybe she'll never kill again," Harry offered as the up side to the news. "You know, once she's released, she'll be more conspicuous." She studied Whistler, empathizing with his despondency, not because a creature of diabolical origins had escaped justice but for what that creature's very existence meant in the first place. Squeezing the bridge of her nose, she attempted to disregard the foreboding doom Cordelia had tried to describe.
Whistler returned to the items on the table, lifting another to examine it in detail before moving onto the next. "Everything is so ordinary," he complained.
"Francis was an ordinary man."
Harriet Doyle rubbed at a familiar piece of ceramic before setting it into the simple corrugated storage box besides the other rejected articles of her ex-husband's life. The box wasn't very large. Preoccupied by the reasons why, she sighed heavily.
"But, there had to be some way he did it," Whistler insisted. "Some magic spell, some charm--"
"Did it ever occur to you the secret may have died along with him?" Obviously, by the way he put the last item into place, it had. "Face it, Whistler, if Francis gave Cordy the Gift, he must have done it for a reason. And if HE didn't give it to her..."
"Look. I don't care why. I don't care how. All I know is I've got to separate it from her."
After lifting a small book from the box, Harry began to thumb the pages. Written in Gaelic, she tried to remember the language but only the memory of learning it surfaced. That, and how patient Francis had been as her teacher. "Don't even try to take it from her, Whistler. You can't make a person's decisions for them, no matter how wrong you think they are," she listened to herself say, also remembering how many times she had repeated those same words to herself.
"But..." He regarded Harry with a pained expression, as if he was wearing his heart on his face. "She'll no longer be protected. Not the way she needs to be. Angel... The Powers That Be lost connection very late last night. He's gone."
She despised the feeling. Instantaneous loss. That numbing sensation before tears validated its meaning. And it always seemed to arrive in-between breaths, as if a simple pause served no other purpose than to unjustly remind the survivors that life was so much more than just involuntary motion.
Whistler buried his face in his hands. "It's not a matter of what Cordelia WANTS anymore. It's what's necessary. There are so many forces, Harry. And the Powers That Be are blind. They see some, but not all. And the evil... Oh, man. The evil is erupting from everywhere."
"But, there's always been evil," she gasped, her lower lip trembling. "Look at why Francis died. Cordy just wants to help, no matter how misguided her reasons may be."
"She's one girl with one Gift. In the end, she won't make a difference."
"But if she's willing to try, then let her. I've been out there, Whistler. I've seen the signs. I've seen the fanatics. And, they're not just demonic. There are some very demented humans in the mix. If you feel it's not Cordy's place to fight along side demons, that's fine. But, demons have NOTHING on man. I've been alot more frightened by vile men than most of the otherworldlies I've encountered."
"But you don't understand. It's HOPELESS!" He bowed his head, stifling his deepest emotions, and spoke from his chest, "The Promised One was supposed to announce the arrival of The Warrior, Harry. And, not just The Warrior, but The War, as well."
Harry offered, "so what if Francis and Angel weren't 'THE ones'? Don't lose faith, Whistler. You're just overreacting and Cordelia isn't in the danger you think she is." Despite the crushing sentimentality of the occasion, she began to rediscover her tranquility. But that was only until Whistler happened to add that "The War had already begun."
-0-
-0-
"You should be downstairs, too," Harry commented, setting the take-out coffee container on the edge of Cordy's desk.
"He doesn't need me," Cordy lamented as she lifted the cup to her lips. Out of habit, she blew through the sip hole of the lid even though experience had taught her it wouldn't make a difference. Nothing made a difference anymore. "He's got Wesley and there's nothing I can do for him Wesley's not already doing."
"Except be you."
Harry smiled wanly at those unhappy hazel eyes looking up and they exchanged a half-frown for camaraderie. Fingering a brunette ringlet behind Cordy's ear after taking her seat, Harry studied her companion carefully.
"How's it feel to be all alone, Cordy?" When she ignored the question, Harry continued, "somehow you've managed to alienate yourself from everyone. You've just been incredibly mean to Wesley and now you're leaving poor Angel hanging as if you hate him, too."
"I don't hate anyone. Most of all, not Angel," Cordelia protested. "But he was the one who sent me away. And while I was gone, Wesley made the moves, so..." She slumped to finish the sentence before raising the cup to blow again.
"You didn't have to go. You know that." The bashful way Cordelia sulked proved Harry wasn't incorrect with her assumption. "But I think you wanted to test what it was going to be like on your own again. And you did OK. There's no crime in that, Cordy. I think you owe it to Angel, though, to let him know you're going to be fine without him as your safety net."
"But then he's going to want to die," she explained. "He's going to make me break my promise."
Sympathetically, Harry reached forward and placed her hands on Cordy's knees and, without thinking, began tracing the jacquard pattern embellishing the hem of the younger woman's skirt. "It was a promise you were never going to be able to keep in the first place, Cordy. Hiding from Angel isn't going to make that fact go away. Now, you're just being cruel. He can't die without your permission; you took on a new Warrior right in front of his face without even consulting him first; and now you're just blowing him off."
"So, you think I shouldn't have taken on a new Warrior either?"
Harry exhaled slowly. "This isn't about you continuing as Messenger. Frankly I think your decision is brave and admirable but the timing is ALL wrong."
Cordelia straightened in her chair, setting the cup on her desk so she could elaborate with her hands. "No one seems to understand there is no time, Harry. I don't know why exactly, but I FEEL it. It's like all this pressure. Like life is one big sinus cavity that's pulsing and throbbing and clogged-but-not-clogged and ready to go kablooey and no matter how much Sudafed you use, there's no relief."
Harry, not really sure what to make of the analogy, nodded her approval anyway. "So you understand the urgency of time in the case of demon versus demon. Great."
As Whistler called from the stairwell, the two women helped one another rise. "But everyone's got constraints on time, Cordelia. And I think you need to start considering Angel's."
-0-
"She's the pretty prize, isn't she? She sees me. She KNOWS. The soul? The device of my delusion. Look at me! What benevolence is there when I have placed humanity where they want you--at the threshold of destruction."
Breaking Wesley's hold, Angel twirled to the center of the living area, and spread his arms wide. "BEHOLD ANGELUS! All that I have ever been! Return me to my creator's arms. ACATHALA! I ACCEPT MY DESTINY!"
Wesley eased with him to the floor as Angel's equilibrium gave way. Brushing perspiration into Angel's hairline, he could detect the fever's raging intensity as he held onto the reeling vampire to set him back onto his heels. "Surely, Angel, you can't believe what you're saying. You are not without some good. Look at Cordelia's devotion. My respect. And Buffy, Angel. Her love for you came with all her heart."
The brown eyes softened as Angel's brow creased with grave concern. Falling forward, he rested his forehead against Wesley's. When the ex-Watcher's glasses fogged slightly, he used his index finger to smear the film away. "Have I even blinded you sooooooo much?" he whispered.
"I... I don't understand, Angel. Where any of this is coming from. Blinded me to what?"
"Buffy was a CHILD." He simpered, "I corrupted a child." Staring at the make-shift bandage, silent words poured from Angel's lips. Then, flinching, he whispered, "Cordelia?"
"Yes, Angel. We're getting Cordelia." Wesley smoothed Angel's cheeks for reassurance, unsure of how to react while Angel wept before returning, indifferently, to his original line of thought.
"You see, little man, I thought I was trying to become someone all this time. Trying to find redemption, humanity. But they told me I never had it to begin with and I just didn't understand what they meant. I'm so wick-ed. NEVER been human. But I'm such a good poser. They made me pleasant to look at and the soul-- They gave me everything I needed to betray you all."
Angel pawed Wesley's face and pulled it closer to his, searching the ex-Watcher's eyes, wanting to possess that unattainable concept he saw within their brilliance. "Fooled you all." His confession was tinged with disappointment. "And you let me get away with it, too. All of you. All of it."
Wesley was unable to sever Angel's hold or unrelenting study. "Angel, why are you saying these things?"
"Because. It doesn't matter. I'm finally accepting it. What I've been all along. I'm letting go of the dream now." Rubbing his nose on Wesley's before returning his forehead to rest against younger male's, Angel explained, "the irony is that I almost didn't notice you all have to die to feed me--to fuel my next immortality. For when I return. Boy, am I gonna be hungry..."
His hands bore heavily on Wesley's shoulders. "So, whaddya YOU think? Do you think they'll be pleased with silly, ignorant me? All this time and I've been looking in all the wrong places for approval."
"Angel," Wesley whispered, overcome by grief, "THIS is the dream. Not that you've been on a proper journey helping mankind. The Powers That Be aren't the bad guys, Angel. We may not know who they are, but they're not the bad guys."
"They're not?" Angel strained to believe the words, finding it nearly impossible. This human felt so nice against him, so open. And he remembered how much he loathed being so all by himself.
"Angel." Amazed he had any strength left to resist Angel's luring desolation, Wesley slowly lifted away, studying the residue on his fingertips. "You're not a bad guy either. You're not entirely evil and certainly not the corrupter you believe you are. God knows that, too."
As the elevator clicked into motion, Wesley breathed in relief. He watched Angel's countenance relax, the tortured features smooth as marvel filled those haunted eyes, and an innocent smile creep into place. Then, without warning, Wesley accepted complete failure.
"God," Angel stated flatly. "What God."
The hug Cordelia returned whole-heartedly was so strong Harry almost fainted. It was as if, by squeezing hard enough, Cordelia could protect herself from the inevitable. But reality set in as her enthusiasm waned and Harry empathized from experience with the burden of finally attending to an overly-postponed decision.
Pushing Cordelia's hair away from her pretty face, Harry rocked her gently, willing to allow a stay of decision for a little while longer while Cordelia gathered all the strength she could find; most certainly not all she would need.
When the elevator finally arrived, the embrace dissolved and Harry smiled at the person who had entered her arms so childlike now moving on to fulfill her adult obligation.
It was surreal--the excursion down with Cordelia peering out through the iron cage to survey her adopted home. Even the drone of the lift's mechanism seemed quieter than usual. She waggled her fingertips at Wesley when he turned, appreciably looking up from where he was situated on the floor with Angel. When Whistler reached for her hand before he released the gate, she returned the hand-held hug to reassure him.
Relinquishing his position, Wesley assisted Cordelia into place. Angel had never taken his eyes from her, not from the first moment she stepped into view. Ever the intruder, Wesley averted his attention from the silent apologies--Cordelia for taking so long to appear; Angel for being unable to help her keep her word. And, as always, Wesley fought to ignore that ever-present affection.
Angel reached for her. Nothing else mattered as long as Cordelia was alive, safe, healthy and happy--preferably always in that order. "Please. Let me go," he pleaded into her hair, nuzzling its silken texture and tasting the perfume in her styling product. "Please... Let. Me die."
With her cheek against his humid chest, Cordelia listened to Angel sob, feeling as though she'd aged a lifetime in the past few hours. Her head still throbbed from the most recent Vision and her heart ached over the decision he needed her to make. She wanted to whine, to stomp her feet and complain about the unfairness of dumping such a burden on her 19 year-old frame. But, that wasn't an option available to her anymore and the being in her arms had a great deal to do with the reason why that was.
She rose steadily and offered her hands to him. "Angel." She spoke affirmatively, "I'm not going to let you die..."
He gazed up into her face, captivated by her inner glow and unrelenting persistence about keeping one little promise. He thought, for a moment, to argue with her even though he knew there was no fight to win unless she allowed him victory. Helpless, he bowed his head against her regard and let someone's voice express an opinion. It wasn't until she had repeated herself for the seventh or eighth time he finally understood what Cordelia was saying.
"I'm not going to let you die... Alone."
-0-
They lay on his bed, he enveloped by her slender arms with his head just below hers, listening to her heart whisper in his ear. As she fell into the rhythm of her pattern of speech, Angel monitored her life. And then, if for no other reason than to truly share the one she was revealing, he began to breathe along.
He tried to pay attention--real attention--and capture her every word. Of classes at the barre, her first recital in toe shoes and how Daddy missed it because he was in 'Mini Soda' on business. Of her first pony that constantly threw her away until it was replaced. Of parties where perfect smiles were graced to those who brought anonymous gifts; presents always nice enough despite being so impersonal.
And of how those gifts had been used to support her those first uneasy months after graduating High School, for living in L.A. before they found one another.
"You should pay attention to this one. I LOVE this story," he whispered, his accent almost too heavy to be understood as his mouth widened with an enthusiastic grin.
Angel could feel himself mirroring the sentiment. "What's this one about?"
Doyle chuckled, shaking his head as he pulled at the corner of his eye with his index finger. "The first boy she ever kissed. Poor bastard." He winced and looked around before leaning in to finish, "I'd wager he still hasn't recovered."
"Angel focused beyond Doyle as he concentrated. "Yeah. I think I've almost heard it once or twice. Returning to his dearly departed friend, Angel let the smile wane. "You're here to... You know... Take me..." He sighed. "There?"
"UH! That freakin' charm bracelet story. At some point she's got to send that one packing." The disgust with the topic didn't keep Doyle from examining Cordy a little harder. "Nah, man. I've already taken all the journeys I can with you."
Noticing Angel's disappointment, Doyle seemed to remember the meaning behind that look and went back to basics. "You'll be OK, Angel. Courage under pressure and all."
Basics obviously didn't work like they used to. "Really. You'll be fine, Angel. It's not like you've never been through this before."
"Yeah, my annual big event," Angel pouted. "Other beings get birthdays-- It's so different this time, though. So much has changed in a year."
"Oh," Doyle began, pleased by the sarcasm, "like moving and getting yourself established and helping the hopeless and such?" When Angel shrugged, he ventured, "or finding yourself at the end with friends and family and home?"
"That. It's... bizarre?"
"My sentiments exactly. Thanks, you know. For giving that all back to me."
A silence hugged them while Doyle followed along with another familiar anecdote.
"Don't leave," Angel pleaded, unconcerned by how needy he must have sounded.
"Oh, I'm not gone," Doyle answered as he left Cordelia's story behind. "It's like Brainerd told you, 'your personal belongings that can't be taken until you willingly relinquish them', you know. Or something to that effect. He uses too many words. You ever notice that? Just can't seem to keep it simple." He sheepishly peered at Angel out of the corner of his eye, "anyway, there's certain things you're not going to lose as long as you hold onto them--me, Cordy, him--"
"Wesley. He has a name," Angel chided, trying to cover the humor in his voice.
"Wezzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzley, as you refer to him. I bet that rankled him in the beginning. Brits are such wankers about their names."
"Ok, Doyle, enough. Are you here to help me through this or just here to bash Wesley?"
"But, he's ENGLISH, Angel!"
Angel shrugged, unapologetic. "What can I say? I'm obsessed with the English."
"I still can't believe you like him. Just got over me like that!" Doyle, bummed, snapped his fingers. "And Cordy... She doesn't LIKE him, does she? I mean, that would just be too cruel. Cut me to the bone."
"You're a ghost, Doyle. Of the boneless variety. And, besides, she and Wesley aren't like that. Just because she's kissed him once or twice..." That comment got the desired effect, taking only a few seconds for Doyle to realize he'd been mocked.
He laughed. "Who died and gave you a sense of humour?" Doyle squinted his blue eyes for a deeper inspection before remembering, "oh, yeah. That would be me!"
Amused, the familiar teasing felt good and Angel closed his eyes for a moment to reflect on it. The sound of rainfall trickled in the background as a little girl happily skipped around a well, the apron over her skirt swinging in opposite motion. Her wet long brown hair, lavishly laced with strands of red ribbons, bounced deliriously as she hugged a cherished doll to her chest. Singing his name repeatedly, she reached out a hand to him...
"C'mon, Liam, you wee mouse. The view is grand from this one. Look!" he shouted, retracting his offered hand to point the opposite direction into the distance at the approaching dark spec. "Da's surrey."
Liam continued to shake his head vigorously as he looked into the older boy's dark brown eyes sparkling with daring. Adamantly holding onto the tree's trunk Liam complained, "too high and too far out. Come back. You might fall if you stay." Then, timidly, he unwrapped one arm from his support and held out his tiny hand, even though he knew they weren't close enough. But, still...
"Liam!" he scolded congenially, as laughter bubbled from somewhere deep within his free-spirited core. He was always laughing, this one, as if life could be so enjoyable.
But the joy ceased and, as he glanced back to Liam, he swallowed in fear. The simple crack became a long pitching moan as the limb continued to shear. Then the terror in his face gave way to acceptance.
The smiling boy, his arms open wide and his upturned gaze hollow, was adrift on an emerald sea. "Children do not fly," Liam told the man who came for him, and he continued to offer his 6 year-old palm, amazed how it was suddenly large enough to cover the entire odd lay of a body...
"Angel, close your eyes," she spoke. There was something immensely sad in the quality of the voice belonging to this strong young woman he loved. An approaching roar was dousing the sound of a sparkling fountain. When he felt it--that piercing, he disobeyed her request long enough to see the acceptance in her face as a choir of dying children screeched his name before tearing him away. He reached for her but she kept backing away...
"You know, other than my parents, I think Xander may have been the only one who ever came to the hospital to see me," Cordelia concluded.
"Don't say anything, Angel. Just nod or... yeah, that's alright. Hold her fingertips. That's good."
Doyle regarded the pair tenderly as Cordy bestowed an insecure grin upon Angel to break the intensity of his attention. "You just got yourself a bonafide Cordy moment. Those don't happen very often and it's best not to trash 'em with sentimentality or such."
As Cordelia broke into a different story, Angel tried to shake the immense sense of isolation he felt, an emotion he was sure had also been coming from Cordelia. Then he remembered they weren't connected like that anymore. In an attempt to push his growing anxiety aside, he tried to refocus on Doyle, but the apparition wasn't solid anymore.
"Noooooooooo."
"...strength of many, undo the done; for each of us a Promised One..."
"A poem?" Angel asked, disconcerted. "At a time like this?"
Doyle shook his head deliberately. His face was relaxed, serene. Reaching forward, his fingertips touched the center of Angel's chest as he replied, "no, Angel. Truth." But the vampire's distress increased, even after he added, "Faith, man," before shimmering away.
Angel held onto Cordelia a little tighter and she returned the embrace without a pause to the stories she told. He silently apologized for ignoring her, knowing she would never expect him to remember half of what she said anyway because he never did (not that he didn't want to) and because she just accepted that was the way he was.
Matching her warmth, breathing in time, sharing her heartbeat, Angel tried to understand how Cordelia, of all people, could so unconditionally accept what he was. It made him consider if he actually had managed to start becoming a 'who'--not because a person actually existed but because Cordelia had fashioned one. Or was it her acceptance that had allowed someone to surface without fear of reprisal, that being himself might have been good enough all along?
Regret reared its ugly head. Then cowardice. That even still he was unable to open up to her. There were too many misdeeds to relate, no way to just explain one without attempting to explain them all; and, ultimately, the fear of maybe losing everything by sharing. Even though she had promised to preserve all his secrets, sometimes some promises were just too impossible to keep.
Gravity shifted, the earth discreetly turned. Words became seconds; sentences minutes. Even Cordelia's affection could not harness time. Angel wanted to believe he could retain some aspect of this when he traversed the dimension, even if, instead of providing comfort, it increased the anguish of his impending next eternity. His eyes were closed to thought when he finally detected it--
Dawn's arrival.
Somehow Cordelia sensed it too because she swept back his hair and pressed her lips across his brow before hugging him like she would never see him again. And then it seemed as though she expressed something with words, but not words, even though that couldn't have possibly been the case.
He waited. One moment. Then another. Listening to her ragged breath as he waited for a signal. Then with fateful acceptance, he knew there was no other choice and he stoically rose to meet his climax.
He saw them without seeing. Whistler--lost to emotion he still fought to control, Harry--her inner serenity enviable and almost mocking. And Wesley--the original open book, plagued by allergies and probably silently praying. They accompanied him to the door and waited for their final farewells.
With Cordelia never releasing his hand.
It was the oddest of sensations, to be so connected to these others. To be bundled with their affection for his last task as if, by adding an extra embrace, he would be insulated against his morbid outcome; that it would be less painful, or less sad. The raw, emotional contact left him searching them for understanding of why--for the first time in, like, seriously forever--he wasn't hiding, or fighting. Or biting.
Barely detectable at first, it came. Just like that. In less than the blink of an eye. Hope. That he was going to be able to do this on his own. Taking deep breaths for resolve, he acknowledged his final mandate.
And accepted it.
He studied her perfect face and the brightness of those hazel eyes. Somehow, by her conviction, she had willed him Company. That he should not take this final journey alone, defeated. His mind--silent, his soul--calm, the demon--restrained. And within the stillness he found it also there, just waiting for his simple recognition.
That she had willed him Peace.
He imagined a knock on his door. Like so many train excursions and a friendly Porter to pass the morning paper or ready his bunk, Angel awaited his guide. He was already at the destination and only needed to exit. And, so it began with that not-so-tentative first step forward...
Wesley, unsure of what he had heard, glanced at Cordelia briefly before he slid open the side door.
The Courier, off-guard, stared at the group facing him as he delivered the parcel from the LAPD homicide unit's Detective Kate Lockley. He hadn't expected so many people to greet him at such an early hour. While waiting for the signature of a young woman who didn't look much older than his own daughter, he studied the fellow named Angel. He had never seen a more tranquil--or confused--look on anyone's face in his life.
Making him wonder if it was a mirror of his own expression when the euphoric group hug nearly smothered him.
-0-
After hunkering into the chair, Angel drew his fingers through his hair as if the motion would somehow put the pieces to his visual puzzle together. His concentration was shot. He picked up a folder, flipping through it for the umpteenth time in less than four hours but nothing--absolutely nothing--about the case made any sense as raging hunger vied for his attention.
Humiliation also nagged at him; but hunger was much more intrusive.
Somehow, his intuition managed to interrupt. He knew he was connected to the 19 men whose lifeless, peaceful faces lay spread before him in black and white clarity. He also knew he shouldn't have needed Kate Lockley's suspicious and ever-becoming fanatical opinion to alert him to that fact. The Los Angeles Times banner since December had been speaking to him personally.
He had just been a little too preoccupied to listen.
"I can't come up with a connection either, Angel," Wesley remarked as he returned from downstairs. "I think THIS one might actually be better than the one I made this morning. I still can't believe my oversight regarding your mutation and I hope you can forgive me for letting you suffer for so long. How difficult would it have been these past few months to monitor your blood?"
Wesley hesitantly reached out but, when the vampire curled more tightly into his almost-embryonic position, he merely set the container on the edge of the desk and withdrew to the opposite side. The tips of Angel's disheveled hair shivered as his arms wound more tightly around his neck until barely one eye peered through the vee of his elbow.
After Kate's reprieve, Wesley tested Angel and planned a few simple twists for his diet--the easiest one being to 'nuke the hell out of his feed' as Cordelia put it. An earlier examination would have greatly eased Angel's discomfort but Wesley, fearing Angel's mistrust after threatening to stake him, hadn't wanted to suggest it. As it was, even with one digestible meal, the lip sealed and the thumb was drying.
It was difficult for Wesley to sit in the silent room, pretending as if nothing had happened. Angel had, though his outburst, completely dismantled the superficial wall between them and now expected Wesley to just disregard the things that had been said or witnessed. Feeling the overwhelming need for discussion, Wesley left his words unspoken as Angel, dark pools of exhaustion beneath his eyes making his brow seem that much more pronounced, shifted slightly.
"It's ritual," Angel said finally, "but I can't figure out what kind. It doesn't look evil. Human or demon. Maybe. Does it look evil to you?"
Wesley bobbed in agreement as he leafed through another folder. Holding death in his hand, sitting in its company, he cringed. In its simplest form, death marked the passage of time and Wesley found he wanted to hold all of them still. He had been so willing to surrender Angel and now, with the temporary reprieve, he wasn't sure he was going to be able to do that at all.
"Angel, sit up straight!" Cordy commanded as she breezed into the office and tweaked the blind open a scintilla more. "Hey, Wesley, did you put Tabasco in this like I told you to?"
"No. Your comment about it being good enough for aliens wasn't good enough for me. Angel didn't have a problem with the way it tasted earlier," he added, peering over the top of his file in time to watch Angel's posture loosen a smidgen.
"It's OK--" Sighing, Angel pushed another photograph aside as Cordelia whisked the cup downstairs.
"I will mention one thing, though, I think the description of a 'medium-tall, medium-build, dark-haired figure may very well apply to a female." Wesley felt a twinge of optimism when Angel leaned forward.
His index finger rubbed his chin as Angel stacked papers, one on top of each other, attempting to read them. "Kate's an expert profiler and the FBI experts all say 'male'. Why would you think the opposite?"
Wesley exercised a dimple. "It's just that there's no real 'crime' here. I'm no profiler, but even I can see that any of these men could have very well died of natural causes. There's nothing that would indicate the killer was trying to show superiority--either physical or mental. ...all supposedly heterosexual... ...nothing about sexuality playing a role in any of the deaths anyway... And, from the looks on their faces, the deceased weren't necessarily frightened."
Angel sifted through another autopsy report uneasily. "Nothing. No sexual activity of any kind. No abuse..."
"Although," Wesley pointed to a slight dark spot on one of the victim's upper torsos, "he looks as if he's been necking."
"Who's been necking?" Cordelia examined the layout briefly after returning Angel's lunch. Looking into the front office as Mahoe growled at Whistler who had, obviously, just won another round of dominoes she distractedly added, "love bites are so old school. Who does that anymore?"
She tch'd her disapproval before walking away.
"You know, Angel," Wesley lowered his voice after Cordelia exited, "these murders started in December at the approximate time of Doyle's unfortunate demise... And, not one murder occurred over the past eight weeks..."
"Shut up, Wesley." Angel reshuffled the photographs on his desk, relaying them according to locations of the dark spots each of them seem to have.
"Angel... From your reaction, it's obviously crossed your mind. Look at it. You don't really know how the Gift has affected her all these months. Not to mention everything she's gone through in the past year. Losing her affluence, that graduation... And she's killed more than a few demons. I personally watched her carefreely hack one to pieces, Angel. What if she's crossed that line?"
"She's not like that." Angel glared at Wesley unmercifully but when the ex-Watcher didn't retreat as usual, Angel did instead. He bore his cheek into the back of his hand as he rested one arm onto the other. "I told you I destroy."
"Some demons are such whiners!" Cordy complained as she tended to the blinds again. "Whistler's, like, getting all hissy 'cause Mahoe won't make the tiles kiss."
She picked up, then dropped a photo. "Oooooh! He was a hottie! So, Angel, you gonna crawl under the desk? Cause if you are, I should sweep first. Guy, I wish Dennis was mobile. He would keep this place like so, totally, spotlitized. You should try to find some spell for him, you know. He must really get bored hanging-- or whatever ghosts do. Do they hang? Hmmmmmm. More floaty, huh? And, leave these blinds alone! It's not like you wanna make Wesley's more blind. OK?"
Wesley looked across the desk at Angel after Cordelia left to answer the phone. "Poor deluded girl. She has no recollection at all of her crimes, Angel. I'm sure Kate would be completely understanding and help her get leniency on an insanity plea--"
"You won't believe me. I'm not going to believe you," Angel commented under his breath.
"Angel!" Wesley whispered harshly. "You can't pretend she's alright. And now with your illness..."
"CORDELIA!"
The brunette dropped her magazine and sauntered back into Angel's office. "Whatcha need? Hey, so Angel, how old are all these guys..."
"Did you kill them?"
Speechless, but just for a moment, Cordelia turned and popped Wesley across his shoulder. "Now you're accusing me of murder?"
"HEY!" Wesley massaged his arm, confused. "Angel is the one who asked you. Not me."
"Yeah, well Angel doesn't think things like that. Or, maybe he does but he doesn't say them. Why would you accuse ME? He looks tall, and him, too. So, how tall are all these guys?"
Wesley ignored Angel's 'so there' face, still unconvinced of Cordelia's innocence when he turned to follow the sound of ivory blocks scattering into the office.
"I HATE this friggin' schma-hoe," Whistler mumbled as he retrieved the game pieces. "So, what's this case all about?" he asked, nonchalantly edging towards the evidence.
"What, you guys?" Angel asked, wary of Whistler's scrutiny.
"He don't see it. How about either of you?"
Cordelia nodded as she flipped through a clamped packet. "Yeah, but it's hard to tell because their eyes are all closed. Of course, Mr. Self-Concealed, here, wouldn't catch it. Poisoned. Check it out! They're all even caffienators."
"And they could all be your brothers, Angel," Wesley replied as he lifted a bottom folder. "Despite their ethnic backgrounds, they share enough of a resemblance with you..." He flipped more quickly. "...small sooty heart on his chest... ...found in an open field facing east... The hickeys must signify, what? And now that we know the connection that Kate probably wanted you to confirm, where do we look for the killer?"
Walking around the desk, Angel studied the deceased from the trio's perspective. Those countenances did seem so familiar...
As Cordelia dropped into a Vision, he blocked out the office activity to turn the nineteen face-down. Someone obviously wanted his attention; and that someone obviously wanted him dead. It just didn't seem proper the innocent always got that way ahead of him.
-0-
Cordelia glanced behind her back, looking out into the parking lot through the front window as Wesley leaned around towards the back until he pitched forward across the table abruptly. Still distracted, he smiled 'thanks' at the hand that helped rescue his cafe mocha.
"The Coffee Spot, right? When did he say to meet him? He should have come with us, Wesley. And he would have never let you wear those ridiculous contacts." She continued shaking her head when an impeccably dressed young man smiled at her as he returned to his chair after reciting his poem.
Wesley glanced at his watch, trying not to look as worried as he felt. "He wanted to confer with Kate, that's all. Look, here he comes!"
Angel approached the table unsteadily, less affected by his health than the numbing déjà vu. As Wesley left to take the open microphone, he cast a quick once-over. "What does he think he's doing?" Angel asked Cordelia. "That's my coat, isn't it?"
"It's a little big through the shoulders, but he looks good in black leather. Ew. What's with his accent? Oh, man. That SUCKS! Who told him he could do accents?"
"Irish," Angel explained softly, listening to Wesley's recitation of a Wordsworth poem. Flattered, he smiled. "Way wrong poet, though. But the accent's not half-bad. Irish is hard to do well."
Cordelia wasn't convinced and she rolled her eyes at Wesley when he returned to the table. "You are so WEIRD!"
Before he had a chance to make a comment of his own, however, Angel gripped the side of the high table and lowered his head slowly onto his arm. With Cordelia gripping his hand, he struggled through an explosion of internal pain. He neither had the ability nor heart to explain what a terrible idea the Tabasco had been.
"Angel," he heard her say softly some moments later after the episode passed. "Let's go. I think Wesley went to get the car."
But, after he lifted his head and looked out the window to notice his auto still in its space, Angel instantly knew that wasn't the case. It only took Cordelia a moment later to confirm his suspicion when she regripped his hand before leaning across the table to make it through a spasm of her own.
-0-
Wesley moaned before he became fully cognizant. His throat was parched and, when he swallowed, he acknowledged a taste in his mouth he didn't relish at all. That, and an extra tongue.
"Uh!"
She lifted her face only inches from his and studied him adoringly. "Somehow I'd imagined that you were going to be, I dunno-- I guess just different."
By the predawn light, Wesley strained to make out the features of the young woman straddling him. When she moved in to kiss him again, he jerked his head aside, verbalizing his disgust. He wanted to push her off but found the way she had tied him onto her car's hood left him little freedom to do much at all.
"I'm not who you think I am," he explained, attempting to project his voice louder than his fear.
She hopped off to the pavement of the parking area where she began pacing. Her movements were sinewy, graceful. Inhuman. "We'll see about that in a few minutes," she seemed to snarl at the beckoning sunrise before twisting back to face him.
"Well, Angelus. So close to the end, and how does it feel? I was pretty sure you'd get dead before I had a chance to do you." After squiggling her finger across his clavicle, she unfastened his shirt's top button with intense attention to detail. "If you had come to a little sooner, I REALLY wanted to do you, too."
"Who ARE you?" Wesley asked, his investigative nature taking control of the moment until the sun suddenly broke, blinding him to all.
He heard her scream with such ferocity it almost drowned out the sound of the approaching helicopter. He wanted to open his eyes to see what was going on, but the blow she rendered detached his consciousness. In that split-second before his awareness gave way, he was grateful for either being rescued or dead.
Either was preferable to torture.
-0-
"YOU HAD NO RIGHT!" Whistler shouted at the top of his lungs to an unaffected Angel. "The Message wasn't for you in the first place and you had NO right to pass it to the humans!"
"I had every right, Whistler."
Outraged, he shoved at Angel in frustration, not sorry in the least when the vampire actually floundered back into his chair. "If you were going to be alive long enough, you'd learn," he seethed. "This is PTB business, Angel. Not for human consumption. This is one piece that may have helped our side and you took it away from us. How could you?"
"It was my fault."
Cordelia adjusted her position on the corner of Angel's desk and looked Whistler directly in the eye before accepting responsibility again. "Besides, Whistler, what did you expect us to do? Wesley's one of us. I didn't want to risk Mahoe not being able to rescue him."
Mahoe glared at the young woman as he swept past her. Then he looked at the vampire. Contempt colored his words, "I'M the Warrior, not you. This was MY big break. But you robbed me. You'll pay."
Whistler pimp-slapped the Warrior before shoving at him, too. "Watch the threats, Mahoe!"
Wesley allowed Cordelia an examination of his eye, its original color more vibrant with the bruising, before resetting the ice bag. "What the hell is she?" he asked, still trying to get the acrid taste out of his mouth. "She's NOT human, Angel. At least not ALL human. That much I can say."
Whistler stepped back when the front door opened. "We don't know what she is, Wesley. And, unfortunately thanks to Marshall Angel and Miss Cordy, we'll never be able to find out."
The body sailed into the office and landed with a thump.
"Special delivery!" The delivery guy stood at the entrance to Angel's office and surveyed it with haughty amusement. "Oh, so there you are," he said to Wesley. "The Immigration and Naturalization Service wanted me to drop off this package. Ta da!" he smugly sang while smacking his hands together. "It's not as fresh as it used to be, but I think the message is still meaningful."
Angel, confused, briefly glanced at Mahoe before rising and rushing the intruder. The deliverer disabled Angel's advance after he swooned from the aroma of the decaying body; lifting him high before being slamming him onto the surface of his desk. On his back, Angel lay still--in shock--while the being that clutched his throat morphed into a vampire.
A being who's pulse he could feel throbbing against his own inert veins.
"Surprise, surprise," it whispered before releasing him and fleeing with supernatural speed through the front door.
Angel couldn't get up, immobilized by too many thoughts. Wesley had been threatened. The delectable body of his former snitch, Lão, was on his office floor, a familiar pendant used to garrote him. And, what looked like a vampire had just run into a sunny midday street, according to Cordelia, to get into a shiny black limousine.
Oh, yeah. And Mahoe just stood there, watching.
-0-
She used her thumbnail to flick at the other nails on her hand while trying to control her rage. It wasn't helping though, so she threw her coffee cup across the room instead. When he managed to avoid being hit, that made her even angrier.
"Look, Kate--"
"I DON'T WANT TO HEAR YOUR FUCKING EXCUSES, ANGEL!" She growled, trying to control her blood pressure. "I sent you the case only for demonic confirmation in the first place. I wasn't asking you to solve it. THAT was MY job. I should have never gotten you involved."
It didn't matter how many ways he tried to explain Wesley's predicament to her, only one fact stood out: Wesley wasn't going to testify because Angel wasn't going to let him.
"I don't care if he's illegal, Angel. Rosa Lopez was probably illegal and SHE still testified. Hundreds of illegales testify, no matter what their countries of origins. Hell, he's even from England. I'm pretty sure America is still on good enough terms with the Queen he won't be unfairly deported."
"That depends on your definition of 'deportation'."
"I'm screwed and you don't care. That's what this comes down to. You want to keep your little evil empire out of the sun while the rest of the world has to suffer. This bitch killed NINETEEN innocent men, Angel. Their only crimes were how much they resembled you in some way. And now there's not going to be any justice for any of them because if your boy won't testify AS THE ONLY WITNESS, I've got no grounds to keep Ms.Cynthia Minn. I've got NO incriminating evidence on her. Nothing. And less than 20 hours after 4 1/2 clueless months to find something to keep her ass in jail."
He hated when her exotic blue eyes were so avenging, but there was nothing he could do. And as he left her office, with her curses at his back, he finally began to understand the meaning behind Whistler's words. Everyone seemed to be wiser, especially Wesley who had already called The Council of Watchers against his wishes, buying them two extra hours.
-0-
Eruwalt Augustine was watchful. He was careful.
The younger man in the elevator was a source of great disparagement. He had complained to Council that Wesley Wyndham-Price was far too young, his apprenticeship far too brief, to be allowed to venture such a great distance from the cloistered corps of those who where so much older and wiser. But, She had deemed him ready. And She, ultimately, was the one to renounce him.
She had been wrong only once in all the years Augustine served with her and he was standing next to that error in judgement, descending into an unknown realm in industrial Los Angeles. He harbored unforgiving contempt for a man who could lose control of not one, but two Slayers--the True One to the being that Augustine was finally going to meet.
"Alright, then. We are here."
Wesley tried to sound more chipper than he felt. He was nervous as hell; perspiration had already drenched his collar. He knew the old man despised him, had never been his champion. No matter what else he did in the Elder's presence, he had to be strong--to prove how The Council's dismissal had not broken him.
Augustine stepped out of the carriage and took in his surroundings. While he approved of the decor, his personal principles would not approve of living in such a squalid section of town. The apartment was spacious, with few obstacles, few blind spots. Two staircases--one left, one right, and over there much to his relief, a side door to keep near his back should he need to make a hasty exit.
Wesley led him forward, towards a kitchen area and that's where they stood, waiting.
Augustine was a patient person and considered it his greatest virtue. He continued to examine the room, accounting for every weapon--or possible weapon. Listening intently, he blocked out Wyndham-Price's rapid, shallow breathing. Then, as if the air itself announced him, he felt the presence of the vampire, Angelus.
This not-even ancient being, Augustine thought to himself, should not be so contemporary. The clothes he wore, the style of his hair, his bearing, were far too human. Augustine heard himself inhale in surprise, his gasp from shock that this young man who approached him seemed nothing more than that--a young man.
Angel approached Wesley and The Council member warily. He was still concerned it was a mistake to involve The Council of Watchers since their viewpoint could never be speculated upon with any degree of certainty. Angel stopped within a few paces of the old man, not out of fear that the visitor would try to harm him, but out of courtesy for personal space.
"I'm Angel."
Augustine's curiosity increased. "Augustine. We still refer to you as Angelus, so do not find me insulting if I fail to use the diminutive."
Angel bowed his head in agreement. Formalities concluded, he finally turned his sight to Wesley. "Wesley. Wesley. WES!"
Augustine looked up in amusement at the youngest fellow. "Wyndham-Price!" He finally elbowed his ribs to catch his attention, causing the beleaguered man to take a much-needed breath.
After leering, Augustine stepped away from Wesley towards Angel. He could detect the underlying intelligence within the being; his polite manner was far too natural to be anything except second nature. But, not for a moment, did he doubt Angel was anything other than demon. Despite the prominent characteristics of the necromongracy, there were still many signs to define him a vampire to someone as experienced as Augustine.
"Getting right to it," Augustine began with his fine Continental accent, almost too youthful for his apparent age, "I doubt The Council will be of much help in the matter of the ritual murders here in this city. Our operative base throughout the United States has diminished greatly. As you might have guessed."
Augustine listened as the vampire, leaning back on the sofa's edge with his arms casually folded, explained the circumstances regarding their dilemma. He found himself not so much listening to the words but to how they were being spoken. There was a great amount of passion in the tone and, what he found difficult to believe, concern. The vampire CARED.
"Angel! Angel! I just heard it on the radio!" Cordelia was already out of breath as she bounded down the stairs. She shoved the nearly-mangled take-out food containers into Wesley's hands, ignoring both him and the visitor.
"Cordelia Chase, we have a guest," Angel, amused, motioned with his head towards Augustine.
The excited young woman arched back to smile at the old man. "Wesley! You're spilling!" She rolled her eyes before returning to Angel. "Unless the 'unidentified surviving victim'" she flicked her wrist back at Wesley, "testifies, the D.A. is going to have to toss the case and our unidentified otherworldly is going to be free and clear!"
As Cordelia droned on, Augustine studied the three, increasingly intrigued by what he saw. The vampire bestowed that same concern, albeit stronger, upon the vivacious young lady and Wesley, who had managed to gain his composure enough to take his place within the conversation. And, as Wyndham-Price joined his new colleagues, Augustine finally SAW.
He was awestruck by their exquisite dark beauty. The trio, like precious gemstone, glittered in the soft, muted light of the cavernous lair. Their overwhelming affection for one another was unmistakable as the two humans regarded their much-older companion not as a demon, but friend.
With the potential for Prophecy before him, Augustine was paralyzed by the thought that, perhaps, the endless cycle was drawing to a close. There was a melancholy accompanying the assumption the universe had grown bored and was finally willing to put demon- and humankind out of their misery. It caused Augustine to ponder whether or not to finalize his personal tasks--to bring Wyndham-Price back to England and do away with the vampire for once and for all, perhaps making it possible to bring The Slayer back, as well, before the Next War.
Angel reached forward and impeded Cordelia's fall, gratefully accepting Wesley's help as they eased her onto the sofa. Concerned, he watched her convulsion, impatient for Wesley to return with a glass of water and aspirin. It wasn't until after Cordelia finished her medicine he--or any of them--remembered someone else was in the room.
His approach ceased when Angel stepped in his way. Their visual confrontation was unlike any he had ever experienced but it was still so easy to swiftly reach into his jacket and extract the stake. When the vampire slightly recoiled, however, Augustine halted the forward motion of his hand.
"You're afraid to die," he spoke, absolutely astounded. "On the precipice of death and you can't let go. Amazing. And I'm sure, in the shape you're in, you've been wishing someone would have done this to you weeks ago."
There was a slight, ever-so-slight, look of shame that shadowed Angel's features before he inclined his face. When he straightened it again, his gaze was strong as he calmly unfastened the buttons of his shirt and repositioned the stake exactly above where it belonged. "I had wanted to see this case through, but maybe this way is best... Wes, you should take Cordelia upstairs."
Angel was hardly resigned with the situation, but Augustine could see the exhaustion. The creature was cruelly positioned--miserable to be needed while needing to be put out of his misery. Cordelia crying in the background was barely audible over the beating of his own heart as he continued to hold the vampire's gaze. Somewhere, in the depths of those anxious brown eyes, he thought he located something...
Until Wyndam-Price stood in his way.
"This is not a dream, young man."
Angel reached around and took the stake from Augustine's hand, apathetically tossing it towards the kitchen before rebuttoning his shirt. "He's right," he sighed as he clapped Wesley on the shoulder before returning to Cordelia's side to ease her fear.
It was the first time Augustine had ever seen Wyndham-Price as a man instead of the timid boy who could do nothing right in the eyes of his father. At the edges of those clear grey eyes he could still see that insecurity, but also more--so much more--of what he'd caught a glimpse of in the vampire. And he relaxed with enjoyment, thrilled beyond his wildest imagination that the undefeatable spark in a child had not submitted to complete annihilation, but had managed to survive, broken yet salvageable.
The boy had finally found some place to belong and it had taken a vampire's acceptance to restore the survival instincts of a human spirit.
"Get off of me, you geezer!" Cordelia protested when Augustine began to massage her head. Within a moment, though, the complaints were forgotten. Cordelia seemed to melt from the perfectly applied accupressure. "Ooooooh, Angel," she purred, "can we trade in Wesley for him?"
"I don't get you," Angel stated plainly. "One second you were probably ready to haul Wesley out here, then you were ready to stake me, and now you're making Cordelia feel a little too good. Hey!" He frowned, unsure why Cordelia feeling better was supposed to be a bad thing.
"That was the weirdest Vision ever! No warning, no nothing. And, it's not for Mahoe. I think it's for you?"
After giving Wesley a moment to briefly explain her Visions to the masseuse, Cordelia explained, "an envelope. A beigey envelope about yea big," she illustrated with her hands in the air, "with either a black or dark green border and one of those red buttons with a ropey tie around it on the back."
Angel blinked a couple times, completely confused. "Do we use that kind?"
"Pffffff! Are you smoking crack, Angel? Those kinds of envelopes cost! And we don't have that kind of clientele. You guys get THOSE kinds of paying customers in here and I'll buy any kind of fancy stationery you want."
"Cordelia, we're not in business any more," Wesley reminded her softly.
"What happened here, Miss Chase?" Augustine asked as he massaged behind her ear. "That's quite a scar!"
"SEE! I KNEW it! Those stupid doctors kept trying to tell me there was nothing there." She reached up and gave the area a quick rub. "It's from when I fell when I almost died."
"You almost died?" Wesley asked, abhorred.
She ignored Angel's glare. "Well, I COULD have died. Long story short I got stabbed in the back by love. At least Angel saw his coming. Mine came from outta nowhere. And I didn't even deserve it!"
"Anyway, anything else about this envelope?" Angel asked, trying to divert the subject while absently pinching one of his shirt's buttons.
"Your hand, please, Angel." Augustine held out his own for receipt of his request and Angel, surprisingly, granted it. He studied the lines there on the palm voraciously, as if he'd never seen anything more interesting and then he looked into Wyndham-Price's face.
Angel couldn't get his hand back. The man who held it was incredibly strong and panic began to set in when he realized he had not only allowed himself to be set up, he may have placed Cordelia in jeopardy. He furiously tugged, but Augustine wouldn't release him.
The old man just kept staring at Wesley.
"MY call, eh, Wyndham-Price? Interesting that the tables have turned. What do you think I should do?" He heard the girl begin to whimper softly, perhaps some sort of empathic connection to the vampire's sudden panic. But, Augustine held on fast as Wyndham-Price continued to meet his gaze honestly and without reserve. After banishing every thought and emotion within his body, Augustine allowed Prophecy to make the decision...
It took a second after Augustine tightened the grip on his hand for Angel to recognize the pain. Their eyes were locked in silent communication for just long enough to have Angel's free-will ripped from his being along with every thought and emotion.
"RA THRASHA HO'ASH THRASHA MA CHA'MAE!"
Meaningless words tumbled through Angel's mind as a torment seared inwards, cutting a path through the layers of skin, through muscle, to bore into his skeleton. It was as if all the marrow within every bone ignited at once, engulfing Angel in a brilliant white heat, an agony he had never endured before in his life. Whatever this was, he vaguely knew its outcome would not include a heartbeat for a mere mortal man would have died seconds into the experience.
He frantically sucked at the atmosphere, trying to endure the experience without losing consciousness. Instinct, and only instinct, remained to warn him of danger for Cordelia. Through the misty vision of his disintegrating reawakening he saw her being torn through the side door--stolen from his life. He could barely hear her scream his name, or see her outstretched hand. Within his mind, he called out for her but the voice remained within. Using his very last strength, he reached to her but she was gone.
Exhausted. Defeated. Numb.
Collapsed on the floor, oblivion beckoned and Angel accepted it gladly, at last willing to relinquish his dream. Bathed in silence, his lids alternated vision between darkness and light, darkness for longer increments as the more intimately known of the two. And, Angel's last recognition before fading away was the mark on the heel of his palm as if the flesh had been scored with the finest of blades.
He would have never suspected the very end to have been a joke so cruel.
-0-
"ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRGH!!!"
Every item on the table scattered in a different direction as it was swept from her view. Afterwards, she set the table on end.
"I don't know, Mr. Mercer. What do you make of that?" The emotion emanating from the exquisite Latin intonation was difficult to gauge.
Lee Mercer, attorney at law from the offices of Wolfram & Hart narrowed his disdainful gaze. The client wasn't the only one displeased with The Consultant's outburst. She had yet to prove her monetary worth. Still, he mused as he let his eyes wander up and down her willowy frame, all her talents had yet to be fully been explored.
She turned to her audience and pursed her lips, regaining some composure by smoothing her dark tresses. "Twenty readings and all the same message. He's dead. FINALLY!" she pronounced in her shrill Cockney accent.
Andres Cort-Pinzón was still unconvinced. "If the cards repeat the message another twenty times, I MAY be willing to accept your statement as fact, Dru. For right now, though, I'm more inclined to believe that a certain someone is taking her frustration out at billable hours. Perhaps that certain someone would like to return to work?"
Araceli Duarte stifled a snicker as she eyed Mercer's discomfort. "And while she returns to her study, Sir--" Her own accent was less prominent, tainted by a North American college education. She tapped the face of her watch, and as her superior nodded in gratitude, Duarte extended an ushering wave of her hand as a courtesy.
Dru tore across the room, her red-painted nails poised for attack, as the smug Spaniards turned their backs but Mercer caught her waist to spin her around, surprised by her hot-blooded temperament. Holding onto her just slightly longer than was necessary, it crossed his mind the vampiress could have easily broken--or avoided--his hold. If she wanted to.
He smiled wickedly. "Dru, dear. It's not nice to attack the client. Remember the contract you signed?" He snapped his fingers and two aides began to straighten the mess she created. "Just go ahead and have a meal and then let's get back to work, shall we?"
Taking the moment, Mercer considered Dru's enthusiasm regarding certain assignments. She hoisted one of the aides against the wall before burying her face in the startled woman's neck. While the activity didn't totally disgust him, he was pleased he hadn't been standing closer.
Hurrying after the client and assistant, Mercer apologized. "I'm so sorry, Señor Cort-Pinzón. I had no idea how difficult she was going to be to work with when I... mean... WE hired her for your benefit. Her efforts haven't been completely unproductive, though, and I hope once she verifies her findings..."
Cort-Pinzón heaved his annoyance as he picked up the pace of their walk. "This facility, Mr. Mercer, is the culmination of decades of research. Its sister facility was destroyed in the course of less than a month's confinement by that one's supposed sire. All that research, Mr. Mercer. All those resources. Is Wolfram & Hart going to be reimbursing Fuerza at all? Or should I ask, more to the point-- Are you?"
Mercer feigned ignorance.
Accustomed to Lee Mercer's ploys, Cort-Pinzón smiled wily. "Yes, of course. The infamous 'conflict of interests'. They served you well, did they not, when you needed your necromonger? That little exercise backfired with a better outcome for Fuerza and 'the other client'. Well, you may inform your other client our business is completed. Holland will be receiving our letter of termination after Ms. Minn's dismissal of charges. And we will be finished with Wolfram & Hart, forever."
"But, Señor," Mercer stalled; stunned, his jaw went slack. "Out of respect for three decades of a very mutually beneficial relationship, I'd be more than happy to resign as counsel for Fuerza if I'm the problem..."
That annoying shriek echoed through the facility halls again before the table's thud, but Cort-Pinzón's smile did not dim. "Actually, Mr. Mercer, I was going to suggest you speak to Klein and Gabler, our new firm, regarding a position there. It would be my honor to personally arrange for an introduction between you and the Senior Partners."
"Well, of course, Señor." Mercer's mood brightened considerably. "I'm flattered you would even consider arranging it."
The older gentleman raised his hand and drew the attention of the two guards that had been following outside of conversational range, requesting they escort Mercer to his limousine. Extending his hand, he allowed a perfunctory shake. "It will be good to have Cynthia free, Mr. Mercer. All the arrangements have been made and I expect you to personally escort her to the jet in the morning. One last gesture despite the dissolution of our working partnership... For the time being?"
While the guards led the lawyer away, Cort-Pinzón glared at Mercer's back with undisguised contempt.
"I don't understand if you despise him so much, Sir," Duarte held her breath, waiting for Dru's filtered ranting to fade, "you would even lead him to believe he had a chance to continue as Counsel for Fuerza."
Cort-Pinzón fingered the salt and pepper fringe at his temples before continuing their walk. "Araceli, I lost three of my finest hybrids at Dru's expense earlier this evening. That does not please me. Frankly, that much of the business Mercer personally conducted was unknown to his firm, never did please me. But, this clairvoyant--our 'Consultant'--is not without talent."
Shaking her head, still confused, Duarte's espresso-colored layers fell in and out of place. "Astral-projection is hardly a talent, sir. It's a fad and every witch-in-apprenticeship seems to be able to do it to some extent--"
It was the look more than the toss of his wrist that cut the woman's comment. "She has the ability to twist the mind, Araceli. To unlock those treasures deep within the subconscious. That she can see through the eyes of an animal means nothing to me. That is mischief. That the animal can understand and be understood? Now THAT is a talent."
"But, sir. We aren't going to be rescuing an animal. I still don't understand how her talents apply."
"You'll see, soon enough, Araceli. And after her work is done, like Mr. Mercer, she will be duly rewarded for all her efforts."
Lounging in the limousine's cabin on the way back to his office, Lee Mercer reflected on his good fortune. The Senior Partners would be far from pleased about losing Fuerza as a long-time client, but the severance would be an amicable one thanks to his expert witness tampering. And, with Cort-Pinzón's personal recommendation, he would gain immediate access to the up-and-coming competition.
"The future's looking mighty interesting," he chuckled egotistically, plucking a tonic water from the fridge. It was unfortunate, he lamented as he touched the chill bottle to his temple, one very fair, intriguing female would be unavailable to help with the celebration.
-0-
They were silent for the longest interval after the original broadcast reappeared from its brief interruption. A situation comedy worked its variation on a common theme, but neither person was laughing. Finally, annoyed with the racket, Harry clicked the remote control.
"Maybe she'll never kill again," Harry offered as the up side to the news. "You know, once she's released, she'll be more conspicuous." She studied Whistler, empathizing with his despondency, not because a creature of diabolical origins had escaped justice but for what that creature's very existence meant in the first place. Squeezing the bridge of her nose, she attempted to disregard the foreboding doom Cordelia had tried to describe.
Whistler returned to the items on the table, lifting another to examine it in detail before moving onto the next. "Everything is so ordinary," he complained.
"Francis was an ordinary man."
Harriet Doyle rubbed at a familiar piece of ceramic before setting it into the simple corrugated storage box besides the other rejected articles of her ex-husband's life. The box wasn't very large. Preoccupied by the reasons why, she sighed heavily.
"But, there had to be some way he did it," Whistler insisted. "Some magic spell, some charm--"
"Did it ever occur to you the secret may have died along with him?" Obviously, by the way he put the last item into place, it had. "Face it, Whistler, if Francis gave Cordy the Gift, he must have done it for a reason. And if HE didn't give it to her..."
"Look. I don't care why. I don't care how. All I know is I've got to separate it from her."
After lifting a small book from the box, Harry began to thumb the pages. Written in Gaelic, she tried to remember the language but only the memory of learning it surfaced. That, and how patient Francis had been as her teacher. "Don't even try to take it from her, Whistler. You can't make a person's decisions for them, no matter how wrong you think they are," she listened to herself say, also remembering how many times she had repeated those same words to herself.
"But..." He regarded Harry with a pained expression, as if he was wearing his heart on his face. "She'll no longer be protected. Not the way she needs to be. Angel... The Powers That Be lost connection very late last night. He's gone."
She despised the feeling. Instantaneous loss. That numbing sensation before tears validated its meaning. And it always seemed to arrive in-between breaths, as if a simple pause served no other purpose than to unjustly remind the survivors that life was so much more than just involuntary motion.
Whistler buried his face in his hands. "It's not a matter of what Cordelia WANTS anymore. It's what's necessary. There are so many forces, Harry. And the Powers That Be are blind. They see some, but not all. And the evil... Oh, man. The evil is erupting from everywhere."
"But, there's always been evil," she gasped, her lower lip trembling. "Look at why Francis died. Cordy just wants to help, no matter how misguided her reasons may be."
"She's one girl with one Gift. In the end, she won't make a difference."
"But if she's willing to try, then let her. I've been out there, Whistler. I've seen the signs. I've seen the fanatics. And, they're not just demonic. There are some very demented humans in the mix. If you feel it's not Cordy's place to fight along side demons, that's fine. But, demons have NOTHING on man. I've been alot more frightened by vile men than most of the otherworldlies I've encountered."
"But you don't understand. It's HOPELESS!" He bowed his head, stifling his deepest emotions, and spoke from his chest, "The Promised One was supposed to announce the arrival of The Warrior, Harry. And, not just The Warrior, but The War, as well."
Harry offered, "so what if Francis and Angel weren't 'THE ones'? Don't lose faith, Whistler. You're just overreacting and Cordelia isn't in the danger you think she is." Despite the crushing sentimentality of the occasion, she began to rediscover her tranquility. But that was only until Whistler happened to add that "The War had already begun."
-0-