Dust Thou Art
by Jeanne Rose
Part 9
The office was eerily dark. Wesley looked up from The Collected Writings of the Warlock of Morgraig and stared tiredly at the odd, flickering shadows the candles made on the walls, the filing cabinet, the refrigerator, the coffee maker. One would think that in this line of work he would have long since grown accustomed to the strange magic of the predawn hours, but he still felt it. It sometimes made Angel, who was at home in them, seem quite alien as well.
Then again, perhaps his tired brain was simply playing tricks on him. After all, everything about the present situation felt odd. A deep sea dragon in the harbor, Angel subjecting himself to a merciless magic of dubious origins, even Cordelia's successful audition. What was the world coming to anyway?
Wesley yawned and couldn't help thinking how lovely it would be to lay back and nap for a bit on the couch. Instead he got up and stretched, then checked the time. With any luck the cold suppressant had taken would last through the rest of the night, though he was beginning to wonder if his resolve would. Perhaps he should go and look in on Angel again.
He tiptoed down the stairs, hesitant to intrude where he was not wanted but spurred on by his profound distrust of the amulet. Angel lay curled on the day bed with his back to the stairs, his shape outlined by an unmistakable green glow. This was the first time tonight that Wesley had actually seen him asleep, but it didn't look as if it would last long. Tiny aborted movements shadowed whatever fierce struggle was going on as he dreamed. Finally he awoke with a cry and overbalanced, falling to the floor.
He lay stunned for a moment before slowly sitting up, hugging himself with remembered pain. A small, private sigh of misery escaped him, loud in the silence of the room. At length he looked up and saw Wesley watching quietly from the stairs.
Their eyes met in silence. Finally Angel turned and picked up the amulet. He climbed back onto the bed and lay down on his back. He took a long, deep breath and deliberately closed his eyes.
Wesley bowed his head and walked quietly back up the stairs.
* * *
The sun was coming up over the horizon like a deadly fireball.
Angel could smell the light getting stronger, see the shadows beginning to appear. He cringed at the brightness, trying to shield his eyes with his hand, stumbling desperately in search of shelter. But no matter where he went, Drusilla was always there in her habit with a green amulet and a wooden cross, forcing him back into the open. "No, no, no, you can't come in," she scolded in her sing song voice. "You must do your penance, or God will never, never forgive you."
Finally he found another door and threw himself against it. It was locked. The first rays spilled over the horizon as he forced it open and fell through. Sunlight burned his face, made his clothes tinder-hot. He crawled forward, trying to escape the light. His back was on fire.
Then a shadow fell over him. Something beat at the flames and tried to drag him back through the doorway. He struggled incoherently.
"Angel! Hold still! You've got to let me help you!" The desperate words made no sense. But astonishing pain assaulted him, and he was too weak to resist. Through agony he felt himself dragged into welcome darkness. Then pain was eclipsed by nothingness.
* * *
Somehow Wesley maneuvered Angel's limp body through the doorway and heaved the door closed with his shoulder, shutting out the lethal morning sunlight. Angel slipped from his grasp and hit the floor with a thump – a vastly gratifying sound after seeing him so nearly reduced to dust. Wesley slid down to the floor beside him and sat for a moment, waiting for his heart to quit pounding so madly.
He reached instinctively to feel for a pulse at Angel's throat, then checked himself. Angel wasn't breathing either, but since he didn't really have to, that shouldn't be a concern. As long as he was physically intact, he should recover.
But Wesley couldn't help realizing that as a vampire, Angel was technically dead, and while he didn't usually give it a second thought, sitting in a dark hallway with a burned, still body suddenly gave him the willies.
It took him rather longer than he had expected to drag Angel through his apartment and heave him onto the bed. Unfortunately, the odor of scorched vampire wasn't a whole lot more pleasant than that of scorched human. He was sweating, breathless, and slightly nauseous by the time he finished his task. He pulled up a chair and collapsed into it, wishing for a sip of cool water.
The amulet lay on the floor just beyond the bedroom. It glowed eerily in the darkness, the interweaving lines more suggestive of entrapment than beauty. Wesley stared at it, then back at Angel. If this thing was the cause of Angel's nearly fatal encounter with the dawn, there was more to it than any of them had realized. And if it had happened once, it could happen again. He dragged himself out of the chair and began hunting for chains.