Dust Thou Art
by Jeanne Rose
Part 14
Cordelia held the check from the agency in her hand just a little longer before giving it
to the bank teller to deposit. She had dreamed of this moment for so long she
supposed it was likely to have been a disappointment in any case, but somehow even the job
itself had seemed anticlimactic amidst all the preparations for trying to free the sea
dragon. Well, now she had money, at least for a little while. Now she could
pay her taxes. And shouldn't it be some consolation to know that if anything
happened to Angel, she had a brilliant career ahead of her in the acting business?
Unfortunately all she could think about was how bleak her life would be if Angel Investigations suddenly disappeared from it. How exactly had a vampire with a soul, who she was certainly not in love with, taken such hold of her heart?
She shrugged off the question and considered what to do next. Angel was clearly convinced that this thousand death thing was something he had to do. She liked to tease him now and then about being all brooding and tortured, but obviously the whole guilt thing was very real to him.
But if things started getting out of hand, was there any way to stop him from hurting himself? And if he was determined to suffer, couldn't there at least be air conditioning?
If nothing else, at least money did create certain options.
* * *
When she entered the office all the lights were on, and the air was blessedly cool and fresh.
"We got the power back," Wesley said unnecessarily. He looked at her. "And since the electric company is not usually very cooperative unless the bill is paid . . ."
She shrugged. "So I floated Angel a small loan. At a very reasonable rate of interest," she added, having just thought of it.
"I take it you got the money from your acting job."
"Yeah. Good thing too, because we're not likely to get paid this week."
Wesley shook his head. "This has gone far beyond a job. This is a friend in serious trouble. Fortunately, I have a little saved," he added.
She nodded. "Look what else I bought." She pulled her prize from the bag. Wesley inspected it dubiously.
"A tranquilizer gun? Certainly you aren't expecting to take down the sea dragon with this."
"No, no," she said impatiently. "Angel."
He stared at her with a baffled expression. Then the light bulb came on.
"We can't chain him to the bed again," she explained. "He really would go crazy. But if he tries to pull another barbeque stunt –"
"– we have some way to stop him," he finished. "Good thinking." He unloaded the cartridges expertly, and her worries about figuring out how to operate it vanished. He peered at the label. "We'll probably need something stronger than this, though . . ."
"Did you find what you wanted at the bookstores?" she asked.
He pointed to a new stack of a dozen volumes. "Some promising leads on the sea dragon. A few possibilities on the amulet. And I put in a call to Giles to see if he can find anything that would help."
Cordelia nodded. She stared at the stack and felt her head spin. "We'd better not leave him alone, but one of us has got to get some sleep."
"Right." Wesley considered. "I'll take the first watch. I think I can last a few more hours."
Cordelia nodded and grabbed her purse. "I'll be back soon," she said.
* * *
Angel sat hunched on the day bed with his elbows on his knees and his forehead resting on the heels of his hands, letting the soaring notes of desperate hope in Mahler's Resurrection wash over him. He heard Wesley make several trips from the elevator to the kitchen table, but didn't look up.
Then the notes were gone and the needle was scratching at the middle of the record. Finally it stopped. He looked up to see Wesley closing the turntable case. Angel waited to see if he was wearing the amulet.
Wesley must have seen fear in his eyes, because he spread his hands to show that they were empty. "No stakes. I'm not here to kill you. This isn't a dream."
Angel let his shoulders slump. "I can't tell any more," he said. "What's real and what's not." He met Wesley's eyes. "You're pretty handy with a cross bow," he said matter-of-factly.
"I'm sorry," Wesley said. It seemed strange for him to apologize for something he hadn't actually done, but perhaps he didn't know what else to say.
Angel looked past him at the table piled with books and the tranquilizer gun sitting within easy reach beside them. Wesley followed his gaze without comment. There was no need to ask what Wesley's intentions were, or what the gun was for. Angel dropped his head back into his hands.
"Put it on again," he said, and Wesley complied.
* * *
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned." Angel hesitated, trying to recall how long it had been. Days, years . . . centuries? "It's been . . . two hundred years since my last confession," he finished hesitantly.
"Tell me your sins, my son."
He tried to remember. How had he sinned? The answer broke over him like a damn bursting under winter floods. He waded through layer upon layer of memories, helpless to confess so much evil, so much cruelty, so much hatred. Where had it all come from? Where had it all begun? "I wanted to see the world," he said haltingly. "I wanted my father to love me."
No one answered. Suddenly he knew that there was no one listening, no one to hear him, no one to absolve him. The God he had mocked had long since abandoned him. He stumbled blindly from the confessional, pursued by a shadow of his own making. It chased him through the darkened streets, in and out of doorways, barns, and taverns. He staggered, gasping for breath. It cornered him in a dark alley.
The finger knife bit slowly into his cheek, slicing down, then across. Blood welled from the cuts, dripping down his jaw. The hideous face smiled at him. "Too bad your sins will never be forgiven now. You always said, family blood is the sweetest . . . Father." Penn bit deeply into his neck and slowly his life drained away. Discarded like an empty sack, he fell to the earth.
* * *
Angel awoke with a cry and his hand flew to his neck. Such a terrible way to die. Poetically just, certainly . . . but . . . always before he had died as a vampire. What was happening?
He stared down at the amulet, but it gave him no answers. If he cried out to the universe, would anyone hear?
He felt Wesley's eyes on him, but this was not Wesley's burden. He
wrapped both hands around the amulet and held it to his chest. It was meant for him,
it was bound to him, and it felt more real than anything else in the room. No priest
could give him penance, but the fates had given him this. And if it took a thousand
deaths to earn the barest breath of grace, it would be worth it.