December 23
Angel sat
at home, with a very unhappy look on his face.
He reached out for the phone receiver, hand hovering in midair above
it. He shook his head and quickly
snatched his hand back. After a few
more agonizing moments he finally said, "To hell with it," picking up the phone
and dialing the number by heart.
"Come on,
come on.." One the other end, someone finally picked up the phone. "Buffy?
Please, don't say anything. I
just want to say… I love you. But I can
never be with you!" The was a loud
click as Angel slammed the receiver home.
"Why do I
do that?" Angel asked out loud, before shrugging and walking off.
Riley
sighed as he hung up the phone. Rolling
his eyes, he went off to find Buffy. It
took a while, but he managed to run into her in a nearby cemetery.
"Buffy? We need to talk."
"Can this
wait? I'm just a little busy," she
grunted as she beat up vampire that used to be Parker Abrams.
"No," he
insisted, "it can't."
"Fine!"
Buffy yelled as she slammed the stake home.
POOSH! The evil Parker was no more.
Buffy
looked at the spot the vampire used to be with distain. "Wasn't that great in the sack anyway," she
muttered before turning on Riley. "OK,
what is so damn important?"
"Angel
called."
"Oh,
crap, not again."
"Could
you please call him back and tell him not to do that?! I'm sick an tired of getting calls from him
telling me that he loves me!"
Lieutenant
Jed McGlade was in a dirty, stinky, smelly, old alley, wearing a very unhappy
face. He was doing this for several
very good reasons. One: he was in a
dirty, stinky, smelly, old alley. Two:
he was friggin' cold. Three: the
informant was late. Well don't
expect a big tip from me, he thought unhappily.
Stupid
Kate. McGlade had no clue why the
detective was too good to meet her own friggin' informants. He often found himself torn between thinking
that she was creepy—after all, she did have this whole, Scully/Kolack thing
going on—and thinking that she was just a complete moron. Of course, he did have his moments when he
thought she was… desirable and he wanted to get in a hot tub with her and have
rabid-weasel sex, but being a guy, that had nothing to do with her personality.
OK, he
was back to hating her again. Just how
long did she expect him to wait?
McGlade figured that if he waited for just ten more minutes, he could
lie, say he was there longer, and just leave.
What could she do?
Just then
he heard a noise. Turning around, he
grumbled in exasperation, "Now what the hell took you so…" He was cut short, finding himself staring
into the face of a lithe brunette. "Oh,
I'm sorry. I thought you were someone
else." He did a little laugh, hoping
that she found his British accent charming.
He was by no means from England, but he found that faking cool accents
got him into women's bedrooms easier and faster. He just hoped this stranger was no different. He took the opportunity to size her up. She looked almost frail in a black, vintage
lace dress, her long, black hair falling behind her back. So she was a Goth. He could dig it.
"Looking
for someone?" She smiled seductively.
McGlade's
brain—the one in his head, not his pants—finally engaged. "Hey, what are you doing out in a place like
this at this ungodly hour?"
"Looking
for someone." Her smile broadened. "Miss Edith told me he was here, then I
found your friend. Is this him?" She held up her hand, and cradled in it was
a decapitated head. Blood mostly marred the person's features but the look of
terror was easily evident, the mouth still gapping open in surprised horror.
McGlade
recoiled in terror, his mind spurting out a million different thoughts as the
bizarre female, who had only seconds ago been the object of his lustful
affections, turned the face of the head
towards herself and smiled at him, saying sweetly, "He's soooooo cute, isn't
he? I thought Miss Edith would like
him, so I decided to put him in a little doggy bag and bring him back for her. But perhaps Miss Edith would like you
better." She tossed aside the bloody
head and smiled again, but this time it was anything but seductive.
He moved
his mouth soundlessly, petrified, as the once lovely woman before him
transformed, her face mutating into a monstrous mask. She lunged at him, and before
he could even blink at the action, her fingers were digging into the flesh of
his arm. She held him in a muscular
grip that seemed impossible for a woman who had earlier looked so fragile and
delicate.
Lieutenant
McGlade managed to let out a taut gasp as he watched her mouth open to see
sharp, dagger-like fangs, which in a flash sunk deep into the thick skin of his
neck, cutting off any other sound he might have made.
Angel
wandered around his room, bored. He had
just called up Buffy, so he couldn't do that again. Then he remembered that he
had told Cordelia he would come over later.
"You look
horrible!" she greeted him as he walked the door.
"How
sweet of you to notice," Angel muttered.
"No, I
just mean, why are you always so gloom and doom? No, that wasn't any better.
Let's start over. Hi,
Angel. Merry Christmas. Could you please not mope quite so much,
it's detrimental to my Christmas spirit.
No, wait…"
"Cordelia,
don't bother. I'm just in a bad
mood. Christmas just isn't my holiday." He furrowed his brow in thought. "None of them are come to think of it."
"So you
had a bad Christmas a few years back!
Not all holidays are bad!
There's Halloween… unless, of course, you turn into the thing you
dressed up as. And, um, there's Valentines
Day… unless, of course, you idiot boyfriend manages to screw up a love spell
and almost get you killed. And there's
birthdays, unless, of course, someone drugs you into being helpless and locks
you in a scary house-place with a scary vampire…"
"Cordelia."
"…or a
friend of yours turns evil and tries to kill everybody…"
"Cordy!"
"Yeah? Oh, yeah.
I guess I should stop trying to cheer you up now." Cordelia sighed. "Look, I'm sorry, Angel.
I'm just not myself tonight.
Actually I'm acting disturbingly like old me. I guess what I'm trying to say is that…" Cordelia was cut off,
screaming as a migraine with pictures raced through her head.
Cordelia
regained conscious to find herself on her couch, a warm towel on her
forehead. She winced in pain as she
tried to get up, only to feel the pressure of a hand on her chest, encouraging
her to stay down.
"Are you
all right?" It was Angel's voice.
Cordelia
groaned. "How long was I out?"
"Only a
few minutes."
"The
important thing is that she's OK." This
time it was Wesley who spoke.
She put a
hand to her head. "It knocked me
out. That's new. And I drooled again. Ugh!"
Cordelia wiped a little bit of drool from her chin with the back of her
hand. "Sometimes I hate these
stupid visions."
"Do remember
what you saw?"
She
winced again, trying to remember. Lots
of red stuff… Angel… screaming… a face…
"Ohmigod!" she yelled as she sat upright with a jolt.
"What did
you see, Cordelia?"
"There
was blood everywhere. Someone hurt
Angel, and I was screaming…"
Angel put
a comforting hand on hers. "Did you see
who it was?"
"Yes,"
Cordelia said, her throat suddenly dry.
"Drusilla."
Invisible
to the others, something lurked in the shadows of Cordelia's apartment. Its skulking was not so much about not being
seen—only Denis, the ghost haunting the place, could sense it, and even then it
couldn't truly be seen. It was in the
dark because darkness better fit its mood.
While the
vampire seemed fairly calm about what Cordelia had just told him, she was, for
a better word, freaking out, and telling Wesley about her past experiences
which had "traumatized her for life".
Without realizing it, the presence smiled to itself.
"Hold on
a minute! You weren't here last time
Drusilla showed up! You try dealing
with the threat of her hanging over your head for a little while, then you can
tell me to calm down. She killed a
Slayer! A Slayer. As in, someone very much like Buffy."
Wesley
grimaced. "I was a Watcher. I know."
They were
cut off by a pen and a pad of paper floating towards them. Phantom Denis gently placed the pad on
Cordelia's lap. Something's here,
the pen wrote.
"She's
here already!" Cordelia shrieked. "How
did she know where I live?"
Not
vampire.
Angel
asked the pen, "What's here, Denis?"
Something
dead.
"Maybe
Denis' mom came back," Cordelia suggested.
"Is it
another ghost?"
Maybe…
No.
"Where is
it?"
There was
a very long pause as the pen hovered perfectly still in midair.
"Denis?"
It's
gone now.
"Do you
have any idea what it could have been?"
No. The pen paused before adding, It felt
almost familiar.
"Familiar
how?"
I
don't know. Pause. Then again, I could be wrong.
Drusilla
daintily wiped her mouth with a black, lace handkerchief. Drusilla had learned long ago—OK, Spike
patiently taught her—that white handkerchiefs just didn't work out. Blood stains were the curse that haunts all
vampires interested in looking color coordinated and not-icky, ruining an
outfit in no time. So, she had a black
hanky.
She sighed. Now that her appetite was somewhat
subdued—she had, after all, already eaten two people tonight—she could
concentrate on the more important things in her unlife: being schizo. The psychic waves rolled over as she communed with whatever made
up the psyche of the world. Lost souls,
wandering demons, and other things that defied naming made up an almost static
in her mind. Every now and then she
could hold on to a thread just long enough to get something useful, but mostly
it was the useless psychic ramblings that drove her further into insanity.
She loved
it.
As Dru
began to drool in happiness, a very strange thing happened. The psychic din in her brain vanished for
the first time since her sanity broke.
A blissful silence settled in her mind.
The
silence was suddenly shattered by a voice.
"I've been waiting for you."
It took her a moment to realize that the voice was in her mind. It just seemed too real, a quiet, soothing,
and yet commanding sound, and with an Irish accent to boot.
"Your pain,
your power, and your madness has called to me.
They are qualities of chaos and I am the Harbinger of Chaos."
Dursilla
was many things, but she was not the sharpest stake in the duffel bag. She had no idea what this guy was talking
about.
"Your words
are like a carousel. They make me
dizzy." (Translation: Huh?)
The voice
sighed. "Let me rephrase: I want to end the world. I want you to help me. If you help me, Good Things will happen to you and Bad Things will happen to
everyone else. Understand now?"
Drusilla
smiled. She had been doing that a lot
tonight. It was turning out to be a
very good night. "You're a very bad
man. Miss Edith would like you."
"What? Oh, yeah.
The doll thingy. Well listen, to
end the world I kinda need to be in it, and since I'm not, I'm going to need a
body. So I need you to get me a
body. And then we can end the world,
which will be good. I mean, bad. But in a good-for-us kinda way.
"And I
will, of course, make it worth your while."
" 'Beware
strangers baring gifts.' It was what my
mummy and daddy used to tell me. Then
they got their throats ripped out and don't talk to me very often anymore. What is your gift?"
The was a
pause, as if it was considering what to offer.
"I will give you what you want most, but could other wise never
have."
"You'll
give me him?" It was half statement,
and half question, as if she knew the answer already.
"He
will be yours. Forever. To do with as you like. That and more."
Drusilla
resumed drooling happily, but was doing it in a more maniacal fashion.
"I
guess I'll have to take that as a 'Yes'."
It was
proving to be a very, very good night.
Angel had
just come back from Cordelia's place, but only after she had insisted numerous
times that she A) was completely and totally OK, and B) would kick him out if
he asked her if she was OK one more time.
So he had just left.
They had
quizzed the ghost for a long while about the entity in Cordy's apartment, but
didn't learn anything more substantial.
Denis promised to keep a look out, in case it came back, and warn
Cordelia if it did. What Angel didn't
tell Cordy, was that if it weren't for the ghost's quiet vigil, he would have
never left her alone.
As he let
himself in, carolers sang Christmas songs across the street. He frowned.
He often found himself hating this time of year. It was all about love and being with family,
neither of which he could ever truly have.
It was nothing short of depressing.
At least this year he wasn't alone.
He did have Cordelia and Wesley, so life wasn't that bad. Angel still felt depressed.
He began
to take his shirt off—he really needed to take a shower and relax—and on his
way to the bathroom he pressed the play button on his answering machine.
"You
have three new messages and no old messages," the machine said in a
computerized, yet female voice. Angel
wondered absently why answering machine voices were always female. "BEEP.
Uh, hello? This is that PI guy
who investigates weird stuff, right?
Well, um, I think something is, like, following me or something, and I
think it wants to eat me…"
Angel pushed the delete button, cutting the message off. Cordy had had a vision of the guy shortly
before he had even called and Angel had saved him all ready. He shuddered at the memory. That man had to be one of the most annoying
people he had ever met. But more
importantly, how the hell did that guy get his home phone number?
"BEEP. Hi.
This is Kate. I just want you to
know that I have just personally killed another blood-sucking, cradle-robbing,
creature-of-the-night fiend. She
reminded me of you! Just thought you
should know. BEEP. It's Buffy." Angel perked up. "I
was just calling you to ask you…STOP CALLING ME! I know that Riley is just a cheap replacement for you, and, of
course I'll always love you, but I can never be with you. So quit calling and reminding me! CLICK!"
Buffy had apparently slammed the receiver down so loudly that the
answering machine picked it up. Angel
hadn't even known that was possible.
"BEEP. You have no more
messages."
Angel
smiled as he went into the bathroom. He
had the distinct impression that Buffy had just broken her phone. Serves her right for slamming down so
hard.
Slowly Angel finished removing his shirt from his heavenly sculpted body, his smooth chest glistening under the dimmed lights in his bathroom. He tossed the shirt aside and little by little eased off his pants and underwear as well, leaving him gloriously naked. He turned on the water in the shower to full blast, the heat of the water creating heady vapors that wrapped around his chiseled form.
Once he was sure the water was at the right temperature he entered the shower and pulled the curtain shut, allowing the water to roll deliciously all over his body freely, caressing every part of his luscious flesh. The shower rained down on him like tiny little fingers itching to leisurely explore and roam all over his hard, perfect body. The heat and feel of the pounding rains of water helped to ease the tension from his taut muscles and let him relax.
Angel found the thick bar of divinely scented soap and slowly worked up a thick, rich lather between his large, capable hands. He began to rub the cleansing foam he'd made along his body, making sure to run over every inch of his flawless skin. He let out a deep, shaky sigh as the heavy anxiety that tended to hound him all day crept out of him and he began to sink into sweet, sweet serenity.
His soapy hands ran over his slick, silky, smooth chest and brushed along his nipples quickly and enticingly as he washed himself thoroughly. His soft and yet impeccably rough fingertips feeling out every godly toned muscle in his athletic body. By now he was completely hot, wet, and naked in the shower. The water washed the foam from Angel's top half and gradually, ever so dear-God gradually, he worked his hands and the lather down his taut stomach and lower to his warm, soft… (CENSORED!)
A Note from the Authors: Considering Living Dead Girl has passed out on the floor while writing the shower piece and may possibly choke to death on the drool that is still escaping from her mouth as she continuously mutters 'Hot, wet, naked Angel' over and over again, we are afraid and sadly dismayed to inform you that the shower scene will not be completed and you will have to unfortunately go on with your little lives and continue reading the story from here on out. We apologize for this inconvenience and to those of you who had trouble reading the scene as it was overflowing with too many adjectives. We now return you to our regularly scheduled fan fiction.
It was
with a mix of relief, purpose, and a little disappointment that Drusilla walked
down the dark, crowed streets of late night LA. The physic din that her mind lived in returned once her patron
left, which was both a comfort of familiarity, and a dissatisfaction. It was almost nice having her mind to
herself for once. But feelings were
pushed away as she set about her goal.
There were things that her master needed for the ritual, and had to get
them. Drusilla didn't even notice how
uncharacteristic her single-minded determination was.
Dru took
in a deep lungful of air, relishing the night.
She found that the nocturnal events of the city were far more
interesting than anything that could possibly go on during the day. Gangs, drug dealers, and prostitutes crowded
the street corners, spotted with the occasional undercover cop, vainly trying
to clean up the streets. The police
always tried to blend in—after all, their lives depended on not getting their
cover blown—but she could always tell.
They stank of righteous deception.
She passed the bottom feeders with and air of royalty, and the crowds
parted before her. It was as if they
sensed that she was the only true predator among them.
She
passed a group of carolers that seemed out of place amongst the dark underside
of the city, then noticed a black limo passing by. Sometimes they had to drive through the bad parts of the city to
get to the good parts, or perhaps it was some lonely businessman looking for a
little Saturday night entertainment.
Her suspicions seemed to be confirmed as the limo pulled over to the
curb, but was she was almost surprised as the back window rolled down and the
person inside spoke to her.
"You look
far too nice for this part of town."
Consciously
she thought he was a letch, but the moon—who was currently advising her on the
situation—hinted otherwise. Either way,
she thought that the best course of action was to toy with the stranger. "Mummy often told me that looks can be
deceiving," she drawled.
"I heard
that myself. A person who appears to be
a lovely woman could actually be a dangerous… vampire. Figuratively or, perhaps, literarily." The man in the car chuckled.
The
voices of the netherworld buzzed excitedly in Dru's head. They knew him. A smiled played across her face.
"And a supposedly normal lawyer could be working for those such
creatures."
Limo guy
had meant to surprise her with his knowledge of what she was, and the arrogance
not to be impressed by it. However, it
was he who was now taken aback, and he quickly admonished himself for it. Research had briefed him, so he should have
known better. He leaned forward and
opened the door. "Join me?"
"I'm not
supposed to ride with strangers… Lindsey."
She
didn't surprise him a second time.
"Trust me. I'll make it worth
your while."
She
joined him.
"Can I
offer you anything?" he asked, as he poured himself a brandy, using his left
hand to do so. The motion was a little
awkward; he clearly wasn't born left-handed.
But he was now, the stump where his right wrist should have been was a
silent testament as to why. "Perhaps
something to drink?"
She made
a point of checking out his neck. Once
she was satisfied that he a little nervous, she responded, "No thank you. I just ate."
He
nodded. "I'm not quite sure how much
your 'gift' has told you about myself and who I work for, but I represent
Wolfram and Hart. We're a law firm that
caters to the needs of special people such as yourself: vampires, demons, drug
dealers, and the like. We have heard a
great deal about you, and given that you have apparently just relocated to the
area, we wanted to welcome you and offer our services."
"Well, I
am all alone and I need a place to stay…" she trailed off, looking around the
hotel room. It was in one of the most
ritzy hotels in town, and it was obviously one of the most expensive rooms the
place had to offer. The furnishings
made sure that everyone who went in there knew it. A theme of soft creams and light golds was carried throughout the
suite, from the off white carpet to the gold framed, full length mirror. A
Tiffany vase overflowed with at least three or four dozen yellow, long-stemmed
roses.
Dru
figured that the only reason anyone would go through so much trouble to impress
her was it these people wanted to align themselves with her, really
badly, and she wasn't entirely sure that they'd take no for an answer. The question was, what to do about it? An image of Lindsey's perfect neck suddenly
snapped into a very unnatural angle came to mind. Dursilla fought against the urge to carry out the fantasy,
deciding to learn more.
Unaware
of his guest's thoughts, Lindsey grinned internally, but made sure it did not
reflect on his face. No sense giving
away anything that might give her an advantage. Score one for the home team. "As you can see, that has already been taken care of."
Dursilla
face went slack, and she looked as if her mind was very, very, far away. Is she drooling? Lindsey thought in
disgust, and wondered what to do. He
decided to wait patiently for the vampire to snap out of it, which she
eventually did. "You want me to hurt
him. You want me to make him scream."
Lindsey
held up the stump. "I want you to make
him pay for this."
"You're
going to help me." It wasn't a
question.
"That's
what I'm here for."
December 24
It was
Christmas Eve, and Buffy was spending it in the presence of friends and
family. This should have made her had
that warm fuzzy feeling that makes you feel the full weight of your age, yet
only five years old simultaneously.
Buffy just felt guilty.
Riley was
helping her mother and Giles cook dinner in the kitchen, while the others
snacked on spiced nuts in the living room with her. Buffy had helped earlier, but Joyce had kicked her out. "To many cooks in the kitchen." Buffy would have thought it was just to be
alone with Giles, if it wasn't for Riley staying to help.
Now she
hung around with the rest of the gang, pretending to finish decorating the
tree. Willow held hands with Oz, while
she talked excitedly with Tara. Things
were so much better after Oz had found a cure, and, while it took the three of
them a while to get over… well, everything, it was really sweet. It was nice that they could all still be
good friends. Of course, Xander and
Anya were bickering like there was no tomorrow. Anya had just made a comment that was… inappropriate for public
consumption. Xander gently reminded her
the difference between public and private conversations, angering Anya, who
said that Xander lectured too much. The
whole thing would have been funny, if it wasn't so irritating.
No, what
made it funny was Spike's sarcastic running commentary, with Dawn laughing
hysterically in the background.
Buffy still
couldn't believe that Spike would even want to be here, much less that her mom
would even let him come. Spike claimed
that it was for the food, but Buffy considered that highly unlikely, given that
vampires couldn't actually taste food in the same way they could. The Slayer often suspected that Spike was
secretly fond of her mother… but not in a gross way. More like, Spike thought she was OK, for a human. Not that he would ever admit it. But why else would he endure a night of The
Scooby Gang Christmas Special?
Speaking
of her mother, Buffy was still not quite comfortable with the fact that her
Watcher was dating her mom. He was like
a father to her—in reality, more like a father than her biological one. Despite what she may think, she kept her
feelings in check and her jabs down to a minimum. Everybody needed someone.
Who was she to criticize their choice in relationship partners? This attitude was, of course, contingent on
the two of them keeping their squishies down to a minimum in front of her.
Speaking
of the devil, Joyce came in, still wearing oven mitts. "I'm out of ginger for the gingerbread
cookies. Could one of you possibly go
out and get some for me?"
Riley
came up behind her. "I'll do it."
"Oh," she
said, surprised. "I thought you were
busy with that casserole."
He
shrugged. "It has to bake for a while
anyway. Besides, I wouldn't want to
interrupt anyone." He said the last
part with a purposeful glance in Xander and Anya's direction. They had momentarily paused their argument,
though the word "argument" scarcely did the conversation justice. Despite all the time Xander had spent
training her, Anya had never learned appropriateness. Buffy remembered a time when they used to criticize Cordelia for
having no tact. The difference between
the two was that Cordelia used to say stupid things because she didn't believe
in tact, while Anya said stupid things because she still didn't understand what
tact was.
Buffy was
thankful for the respite. Things had
reached the point where Anya had blabbed so much, that the only way that Buffy
could have known what Xander was like in the sack in greater detail, was to
sleep with him personally. Anya gave
away far more than Buffy ever wanted to know.
She was
so desperate to get away that she was about to volunteer to do the errand
herself, but before she could, Riley had kissed her on the cheek, said good
bye, and shot out the door.
Xander
and Anya resumed bickering.
"Oh, come
off it!" Spike snapped, interrupting them.
"Look, you're not fooling anyone.
You both—sick as it is—love each other, and you're going to kiss, make
up, then excuse yourselves to go shag like rabid weasels. So just sod off, and stop blurting out the
details of your nightly sexcapades. I'm sure I speak for everyone here when I
say, we're sick of it." Spike looked at
the others for confirmation. "Right?"
Reluctantly,
Dawn, Willow, Oz, and Tara raised their hands.
Joyce and Giles, from the kitchen said "Yea" in unison, then chuckled
softly to themselves. Spike looked at
Buffy expectantly.
"I've got
to go," Buffy stammered and shot upstairs.
Everyone frowned and looked at each
other, but it was Oz who voiced their thoughts.
"Is she
OK?"
Buffy was
decidedly not OK. For the past
several weeks, with increasing frequency, she had been having dreams. More specifically, dreams about and with
Angel. Dreams that were so real, that
if she hadn't known better, she'd have said they were prophesy dreams, or
actual memories. Dreams that were
rapidly beginning to venture from PG-13 in to R territory and into what lay
beyond. They were disturbing her, but
what made her feel worse was that she was, on some dark level, enjoying
them.
Now,
every time Riley touched her, she felt a pang of guilt. It wasn't right for her to be lying asleep
in the arms of her boyfriend, while dreaming about living happily ever after
with her ex. Now, with the message she
had left on Angel's answering machine, she really felt like shit. What had she been thinking? Did she really mean all those things that
she had said?
Yes. She did.
And that was what felt worst.
She had
finally come to a conclusion about what the dreams meant. No matter how much she tried, how many guys
she dated, and how long she dated them, she'd never get Angel out of her
system. It was like Spike had once
said. They could fight, hate, and
ignore each other to the day they die, but it would never stop. She'd never get over losing him.
Buffy
just hoped she wouldn't have to lose Riley too.
Spike
stood just outside the door to the bathroom.
He could smell her wonderful perfume through the door, and it was
driving him insane.
He was
beginning to regret coming. Just being
in her presence made him feel like… It
made him feel things he had never felt before, with anyone. But watching her with him—the stupid,
over-grown, GI Joe poof—was more than he could bare. It was hard to tell who was more irritating, Angel or Riley. No, wait, it wasn't.
He cold
hear her begin to cry softly. In that
moment, there was nothing Spike wanted more than to see Riley dead. Make that mutilated.
He had to
do something, so he slammed on the door with his fist. "You know," he shouted, "you're not the only
person… entity in this bloody house.
Quit hogging the loo!"
"Go away,
Spike."
"Let me
think." He paused for a beat. "No."
Buffy
ripped open the door, traces of tears on her cheeks. "This is my house. I will
spend as much time as I like, in any room I like. If you don't like it, you can go back to your crypt and spend the
holiday alone with your soaps."
Spike was
silent for a moment while he looked into her red eyes. "Which one is it this time?"
She
opened her mouth for a moment, shut it, then settled for, "What the hell do you
need anyway? Do vampires even use the
bathroom?"
"That's a
very good question."
They both
stared at each other for a long time, neither satisfied with the answers they
had gotten to their questions. Buffy
eventually brushed past Spike, leaving him alone.
The air
was warm and comforting, like a mother's loving embrace. A soft breezed played with Dru's hair,
reminding her partly why she liked Sunnydale so much. However, she wasn't here for the pleasant climate. She was looking for a body. Her master demanded it, so it would be done.
It had provided
her with a ritual, which she had been gathering the ingredients for. As she was ingredient-scavenging, she
noticed that the spell was incorrect.
The spell was supposed to be for permanent possession, but the ritual
her master gave her wouldn't hold for more than a few minutes. So she did a little tweaking. No need to tell her master that now, of
course. Wouldn't do to be lecturing It
on how to do magic. She'd just surprise
It later, after the spell was complete.
It would be so proud of her.
She was
nearly ready, and only one ingredient remained: the host. She had thought about breaking into the home
of a movie star, the type that was both attractive and well built, like
Harrison Ford, Seth Green, or Glenn Quinn.
She shot down the idea. The
security was just too much to bother with, besides, people were sure to put a
great deal of effort forth to get whoever she took back. It was just too much to mess with. So, the million dollar question
remained: Where to find a worthy host?
Then she remembered
Sunnydale, and its seemingly endless supply of very hot guys. She thought back, remembering all the
attractive males she had seen, and typically, killed there. Then there were the others, like that Xander
friend of Buffy's and her Watcher. Then
there was Spike and Angel. Spike and
Angel. Now, that's a thought. Drusilla had begun to daydream before she
realized it. She snapped out of it,
chiding herself. No naughty
fantasies until after you end the world.
OK, back to the host hunt.
Just then,
the answer appeared right in front of her.
He was young—not as attractive as she would have liked—but he was well
muscled.
Riley
never had the chance to scream.
Nothing. That was the exact amount if information
that several hours of research and reconnaissance turned up about Drusilla and
the mysterious visitor in Cordelia's apartment. While the others tried looking through police reports to find any
crimes with "Drusilla" written all over it, Angel went to just about every
demon hangout in town, seeing if anyone or anything had heard something. The end result: zilch, nothin', nadda. It was discouraging, to say the least. It was at times like this that he wished he
could go to the Oracles.
Finally,
after Cordelia reminded him for the thousandth time that this was Christmas Eve
and they were supposed to be off and not fighting evil, he decided it was time
to take a break. So he treated them to
Chinese.
Year
of the Dragon was perhaps the most unique Chinese restaurant in the Los
Angeles area. What set it apart was not
its authentic eastern cuisine, nor that it catered to… the supernaturally
gifted. Its trademark was, strangely
enough, its fortune cookies. All the
waiters were not only Chinese, but physic, or, more specifically, had precognition. While the authentic Chinese Toscaniza
Demons—what they lacked in the evil department, they made up for in their
cooking abilities—continuously made up fresh cookies, the waiter or waitress,
having seen their costumers' future, would write a corresponding fortune, and
insert it into the cookie. Thus, the
restaurant was wildly successful among the kinder, gentler, supernatural
population of the city. Good food,
fresh cookie, accurate fortune: what more could you want out of a meal?
The
restaurant was decorated in creams and golds, museum-quality statues and
paintings making it seem even classier.
This was about one of the only demon hangouts that could be called
"classy." Along the far wall there was
a mural of Chinese dragons both protecting and wrecking havoc upon
humanity. Angel thought it was an
appropriate metaphor, all things considered.
The focus of the painting was a gold dragon that stood atop a mountain, raining
golden light down on the others.
The only
place in the painting that wasn't illuminated by the dragon's gold light was a
cave in the mountain, beneath its feet, which was the entrance to the
kitchen. Their waitress, a petite woman
named Ling, came out of the passage, fortune cookies sitting on a tray in her
hand. She placed the tray on their
table, and did the Vulcan Mind-Meld with Angel—or, in other words, talked in
Chinese at warp nine for several minutes.
Finally after Angel paid and Wesley thanked her (still in Chinese), she
left. Cordelia would have felt left
out, after all, she wasn't a member of the I Speak A Billion Languages Club,
but she was excited about her fortune.
The tray
was a rich mahogany, and all three cookies had a little label with their name
on it. Fortunately for Cordelia, it was
in English.
Cracking
open her still-warm cookie, she unrolled her fortune, reading it aloud: " 'You
will find happiness with an old love.'
I'm getting back together with Xander?
That sucks!"
"Remember
the rest of the fortune," Angel teased.
"Whoever you get with, you're going to like it." Cordelia shuddered.
Wesley
read his fortune. " 'You are British
and you have a cool accent. But you are
not as cool as Giles.' That… that
wasn't a fortune!"
"No,
Wesley. You see, while I got a fortune
cookie, you got and observation cookie," Cordelia said, happy that, although
she didn't get something she liked, at least Wesley didn't either. "What did yours say, Angel?" she asked,
popping a piece of cookie into her mouth.
Angel
shrugged. "The usual. 'Unhappiness and misfortune will infest your
pathetic existence for all eternity.'
See? Nothing I didn't know
already."
He let
the slip of paper fall from his hands and drop on the tray. Most people liked to keep their fortune as a
souvenir, but they had eaten there so often, the magic wasn't as impressive as
it had been the first time. In truth,
Angel was disappointed. He had vaguely
hoped that they might have gotten something useful out of the cookie, but they
had unfortunately gotten one of the waitresses that was somewhat lacking in
talent. The good news: It had given
them a break from the Nancy Drewing.
The bad news: Until Cordelia had another vision, he had no clue what to
do next.
Suddenly
he had a thought. "I have just
personally killed another blood-sucking, cradle-robbing, creature-of-the-night
fiend. She reminded me of you!" The vampire—she—had reminded Kate of
himself. She. Maybe they couldn't find anything about Drusilla's activities
because she had already tragically died.
A long shot, but a possibility, none the less.
The
problem was, that to confirm this, he would have to call up Kate. He really, really, did not want to call up
Kate.
Kate was
pissed. McGlade did not report back in,
and was still missing. No one thought
much of it, thinking that he had bedded some hot chic, and forgot, or didn't
bother, to come in. It wasn't as if
similar things like this hadn't happened before with this particular
officer. Nobody bothered to ask her if
she had seen him of knew where he might be, and, alas, she had mysteriously
forgot to mention his little task to anyone else.
As she
sat at her desk, the detective could overhear a conversation between two
uniforms at the water cooler. The
discussion was to the general effect that Internal Affairs was conducting an
investigation into McGlade's extracurricular activities.
A few
years ago she might have agreed with them.
But not now. She had seen to
much to buy it until she saw it. If her
suspicions were correct, that meant that she was partly to blame. She should have known better than to send
someone like Jed McGlade on an errand, but he was the only one she could have
gotten to do such a stupid task.
McGlade was a letch, but if one knew how to go about it, that characteristic
could be used against Jed to get him to do whatever you wanted. Just casually hint at the possibility of
sex, and he would roll over and eat out of the palm of your hand. No need to tell McGlade that the reason she
couldn't meet with her informant herself was that she had a hot date with
Lindsey. The really sad part was that
he had had to cancel.
Business-lawyer-thingy.
She
sighed and stood up. Even if McGlade
had neglected his duties for a piece of tail, he would have shown up by
now. Time to go check the alley and see
if there was a body.
Every
city had one: the nasty part of town were there seemed to be nothing but trash,
the homeless, and gangs. A large part
of Los Angeles consisted of just such places.
Strangely, this particular alley, one the McGlade had gone to act as
proxy for her, was generously supplied with trash, but short on the
people. There was, however, a great
sense of wrongness about the place that made the hairs on the back of her neck
stand at attention.
Instinctively,
Kate drew her gun, clicking off the safety, and holding it out in front of her
in a two handed grip. "LAPD. Come out with your hands up."
There was
no sound in the alley except the faint rush of cars in the nearby streets. She held her position for a few more
moments, maintaining a shooting stance.
After a few minutes, she began to feel foolish, and her arms began to
hurt.
She
slowly lowered the gun until it was pointing towards the ground, clicked on the
safety again, but did not re-holster it.
She drew out her flashlight and held it in line with the barrel of her
gun, so that whatever she pointed the gun at, it got illuminated by the
flashlight.
She
proceeded down the alley, checking out every shadowed area, until a pool of
liquid came into the light. Blood. Tensing, Kate followed the trail with her
light, finding the source: a decapitated body, minus the severed head. To her horror, she found the head twenty
feet further into the alley, along with McGlade's corpse, face down. Two neat bite marks were on the left hand
side of his neck.
A rush of
angry heat came to her face. The thing
that did this was going to pay. She
would see to that.
Just
then, a noise came from behind her.
Twirling around and bringing up her gun, Kate turned to find herself
face to face with a strange woman, who promptly backhanded her. She fell to her ground, white spots
scattered around her vision. She looked
up at her attacker, only to find her talking to an antique porcelain doll.
"Isn't
nice, Miss Edith?" the woman asked the doll.
"This place has room service."
Those
were the last words she heard before it all went black.
