Disclaimer: see chapter 1
----
Whistler stood in the doorway of his bedroom and watched the sleeping vampire with a soft, almost sad expression on his sharp features. In the corner the television flickered silently; some talk show. Angel moved in his sleep, abruptly, turning over, his lips forming words that nobody could hear.
The demon crossed the living room and switched his kettle on, his mind on his task.
- He has to be made useful, they had told him. He's far too valuable to be wasting away on the streets of that city. Find him. Turn him into a warrior.
Whistler spooned coffee into a mug and remembered his response.
- He'll be a wreck. You really think this can be done, you're dumber than I thought. They had laughed, and smiled, and sent him away.
He stirred the coffee, and perched on the edge of the counter, watching Angel toss on the couch, and in his mind made a list of things that still needed to be done; that they needed to do together. Sighing, he turned off the kitchen light and went to work in his bedroom.
Angel woke with a start from another bloody dream, indistinguishable from so many others. He sat up and stared around him, aware first of the unfamiliar surroundings, the blueish light from the soap opera on the television; and then his hunger kicked in. It gnawed his stomach, as it had done for decades, only now he knew blood was within reach. He stood up, letting the blanket fall to the floor, and crossed to the fridge. A hand out, the door opened, and he took a bag out and closed the door quickly. He studied the blood for a moment, and then slowly put the bag down on the counter where it lay wobbling gently like a large, glutinous jelly, and found a mug in a cupboard.
Eyeing the microwave, Angel dismissed it as too complicated and tore open the bag. Immediately the metallic smell hit his nostrils, but he resisted and poured the blood into the mug, throwing away the empty bag before lifting it to his lips. And then he drank, the precious liquid slipping down his throat. When he had finished, he put the mug in the sink and washed away the sticky residue, turning it upside down once it was clean, and walked away from the kitchen.
Sitting down again on the couch, Angel put his head in his hands and shook, gritting his teeth not to get up and go back. Inside his demon was fighting for dominance, whispering to his soul to get up and drink again - or to open a door and walk through to Whistler, and capture the small demon, to bend back his neck and break the skin …
Angel clenched his fists and dug his nails into his palms, trying to conjure up a vision in his mind of soft golden hair and big, innocent eyes. The longing subsided. He thought of full lips frowning in worry and confusion and fear, and remembered his desire to help.
The hunger faded.
"You're awake." Whistler's voice startled him out of his reverie and he looked up.
"Yes."
"Sleep well?"
"No."
"You will, one day soon. Look, Angel, I've been working on some stuff. All those classes aren't free, and I ain't rich. You got any funds?"
"Funds?"
"Money. Property. Whatever."
Angel frowned. "I did. I left my things in a warehouse before coming to America. I had a lawyer to look after my account. I don't know what happened to it."
"Call them."
"What?"
"Telephone?" Whistler said, enunciating clearly. "You dial a number and you talk to people in other places?"
"I don't know how to use one. Or which number," Angel objected. "Or if they still have my money. It's been nearly a century, Whistler."
Whistler brought the phone over. "This is easy, Angel. You pick up this receiver and hold it to your ear. Then you dial a number by pressing these buttons." He dialled. "Hi. Yeah, I need a number in London, England. It's … hold a sec, will ya?" He hissed at Angel. "Lawyer?"
Angel looked blank. "Erm … Seward and Sons."
"Seward and Sons," Whistler repeated. "It's a law firm. Okay …" he scribbled numbers. "Thanks." He put the phone down. "They still exist. Call them."
"What?" Angel's face was flabbergasted.
"Call them. Get back your funds. You ain't gonna survive on nothing, Angel. You're gonna need a place to live, food, clothes. Call them." He handed Angel the phone.
Angel took it with suddenly clammy hands and Whistler passed him the number. Tentatively, Angel dialled it, pressing the buttons slowly, and started when the dial tone sounded in his ear. He waited, and just as he was hoping that there would be no answer, a crisp, cool female voice sounded in his ear, a clear English accent flying through the air.
"Seward and Sons lawyers. How can I help you?"
"I'd like to speak to someone about regaining control of some funds," Angel said, trying to muster some confidence.
"Certainly, sir. Who is your lawyer?"
Angel hesitated. "I'm afraid I'm not sure. The funds belonged to an ancestor of mine. I believe his lawyer was named Henry Seward. It was back at the turn of the century."
There was the sound of a computer tapping. "Your ancestor's name, sir?"
"Riley. Liam Riley."
"Thank you, sir. I'll just see if one of the partners is free to talk to you. Hold the line, please."
Tinny violin music sounded down the receiver and Angel listened, perplexed. Then it broke off again and was replaced by a firm male voice. "Philip Seward speaking. I understand you'd like to investigate the funds of a former client?"
"I'd like them b … I believe I have a right to them," Angel said. "His name was Liam Riley, he was an ancestor of mine."
"We would need strong documentary proof of the relationship," Philip Seward said. "Unless … that is …" papers rustled, "unless you can answer a few questions."
"I can try."
"Understand this is not entirely a usual case," the lawyer said, "and I have papers about it written by my own ancestor. Firstly, I need the other name of Liam Riley."
"Angelus," Angel said, without hesitation.
"Place of birth."
"Galway, Ireland."
"Where the material effects are stored."
"They were … in a warehouse in Shoreditch," Angel said, eventually, dragging memories up. "A mile from the river. In wooden cases and three large metal-bound trunks marked A. They were put there in March 1902 and entrusted to your firm's care until such time as they be collected." He paused. "You were to look after them until March 2002, or in the event of the collapse of your firm, to hand them to another reliable party until the same date. At that time you could auction them off."
"Any items of particular note?"
Angel closed his eyes and thought. "A painting by Monet, of a street in Paris. Signed first edition of Baudelaire's Les Fleurs du Mal. Clothes. A case of weaponry dating from the eighteenth century. Chippendale furniture. Ming china, especially a large vase."
More papers rustled, and the lawyer in England coughed. "One last question." His voice seemed strangely strained. "I have a date of birth here. A year."
"1753," said Angel. "Mr Seward kept good records."
"Evidently." Philip Seward seemed to be a little choked. "I … all the records match up. My ancestor left one note. He asked that for recognition, a sketch of the tattoo be forwarded to the office. Or a photograph, nowadays."
"That can be done," Angel said. "When do you want it by? Could I have your address?"
"Write to me as soon as possible," Philip Seward said. "Enclose the picture, a signature, and details of the bank to which you wish the funds to be transferred, and an address for delivery of the effects. Please don't mention this to anyone, sir. I will deal with everything personally." He dictated an address, which Angel copied down carefully. "It's a pleasure doing business." He put the phone down.
Angel was left holding his receiver helplessly. "I can't hear anything."
"He's hung up. Any luck?" Whistler glanced at the address. "Gave you a pop quiz, didn't he?"
"I think they left records," Angel said, dazed. "I first used that firm before … before I was cursed. I … I threatened the man I spoke to then. They kept the records."
His companion shrugged. "Plenty more people know about the underworld than we peaceful demons would like to believe, Angel. My bet is your firm has some dealing with the Watchers too. Anyways you've got your dough."
"I have money."
"Yeah, and you'll need it."
* * *
Three weeks later
Angel let the bar drop, the weights on the end resting on the floor, and his instructor ticked off something on his list.
"How did that feel?"
"Fine." Angel reached for his bottle and drank some of the water in it.
"I don't know if we have anything heavier. I could tie cans or something to the bar. You think you can lift more?"
"Probably."
"Jeez, Angel, man. Nobody's ever lifted that much. It'd take three of us."
"I'm not one of you."
"I noticed. Come on, leg press. How's the rest of your training coming along?"
The vampire slotted the peg into the bottom hole of the press and eased the weights up with no apparent effort. "Good."
Ralph lunged, ducked, parried, lunged again … always too slow for his lithe, tall opponent who was almost too quick to see moving. He paused, and drew back.
- It's useless. He pulled off his mask. I'm too slow. I'm not good enough to teach you anything more.
- Of course you are, Angel protested, resting the tip of his sword on the ground.
- I'm not. You'll beat anything out there, my friend. Ralph held out his hand. Good luck, Angelus.
Angel pushed the press down again.
He crossed the floor to the diminutive Chinese woman and waited for her to straighten and look at him.
- I've come to say thank you.
- You're leaving my class?
- I feel I've found what I was looking for, Angel clarified. I'm in control. Thank you.
- You deserve your peace, the teacher said, returning his bow. Good luck.
He wiped the seat down and moved to the next piece of equipment, moving the next peg down to the bottom weight, and settling into the rhythm again.
- If you would only take the exams, you could be a black belt, his karate teacher admonished. Why leave now?
- Because I don't want a belt, Angel said, with a slight smile. I needed confidence. I have it.
- It's a terrible waste of talent, his teacher said, resigned. But it's your choice. Good luck.
He picked up his towel and the bottle of water and turned to his instructor.
"Thank you, Mike. You helped a lot."
"You're going?"
"I have to. I have to do things alone. I'll keep in touch and come back if I need you again."
His trainer sighed, and nodded. "Okay. Seein' as how we've run out of weights for ya, I guess it's for the best. Look after yourself, old guy. I'll miss ya. Not often I get a chance to do somethin' for good."
Angel smiled briefly. "It's my first chance, and I'm not going to make a mess of it, I swear. Thank you."
"Hey, no problem. Good luck, Ang."
Angel nodded, and went to change.
Outside, the cool night air blowing on the nape of his neck, he reflected on the kind words and kind hearts of those who had helped him get this far. Angel looked up at the night-time lights of the city and for the first time in eighty years felt almost happy.
He put his hands in the pockets of the new coat he and Whistler had gone out and bought, and adjusted the strap of the bag over his shoulder. It was a half-hour walk back to the demon's apartment, but Angel now felt safe again and enjoyed the night air in his empty lungs, and the buzz of the people around him. As long as he kept moving and did not get too close, he found, he could control the demon inside him.
He paused, his thoughts freezing. Was that a scream? Was it in his head or ringing still in his ears? A car rushed by, horn blaring … no, there it was again. High, terrified screaming.
Angel stood still and tried to block the noise out. Would they never leave him? Then, as he listened, new resolve crept into his body, into his heart, and he turned a corner and began to run towards the sound.
The voice screamed again. Angel felt in a pocket as he ran, certain he had a stake hidden on his body somewhere. He rounded a corner and skidded to a halt, staring horrified at the scene presenting itself to him.
The girl was struggling wildly and bravely, her blonde hair loose from its chignon, but her feeble kicks were nothing against the vampire who held her tightly, head bent over an exposed vein in her neck. Angel dropped his bag and, clutching his stake, moved towards them.
"Hey!" he called.
The vampire straightened and glared at him with yellow eyes. "Piss off."
"Leave the girl alone."
"Going to make me?"
Angel stared at the other vampire, and then carefully allowed his own features to shift. He bared his fangs.
"Going to stop me making you?"
The vampire had forgotten his prey now, and advanced on Angel.
"This is my territory, newbie."
Angel examined the vampire and aged him at less than a century.
"Who are you calling new, fledgling? Don't know who I am?"
The other vampire roared and launched himself at Angel, who sidetracked the onslaught and swept his leg round. The hours of training kicked in; the fitness was paying off; he was in control. In less than a minute he had the other vampire on the floor, stake poised above his chest, and he bent, grinning at his defeated opponent.
"The name's Angelus. Don't forget it." He plunged the stake in and stood up, dusting ashes off his clothes.
The girl on the floor whimpered softly, and Angel forced control over the demon, breathing in un-needed air and concentrating hard before crossing to her and helping her off the ground. She looked weak and pale. He pressed his handkerchief to her wound, staunching the blood and removing temptation, and lifted her up.
He waited in the small shop with her until the ambulance came and carried her off, and then walked slowly the rest of the way back to Whistler's apartment.
Whistler put the phone down and turned to him.
"Where've you been? Mike said you left an hour ago. I've been worried sick."
Angel dropped his bag. "I saved a life."
"You did what?" Whistler said.
"I dusted a fledgling. There was a girl … she's gone to hospital. She's alive."
Whistler stared for a moment, and then a grin spread across his face and he punched the big vampire on the arm playfully. "Hey. Well done. How did it feel?"
"Easy." Angel brushed some forgotten dust off his shoulder. "So easy. Good."
"Which bit?" asked Whistler.
"All of it," Angel replied, after a pause. "I mean, the fight, the kill, that was … it's been a while. But when that girl said thank you …" he shook his head in amazement. "Someone trusted me."
"Not bad, big guy," Whistler said approvingly. Angel returned his smile hesitantly. "Not bad," Whistler repeated.
* * *
The vampire went flying across the cemetery into a headstone.
"I really don't want to be here," the Slayer said, running after him, "but seeing as I'm here and you're here how do you feel about dying?"
The vampire struggled to its feet and tried to attack again. Buffy Summers plunged a stake into its chest and stood looking down at the dust, brushing some off her puffy orange jacket with a sad little smile.
"That's good work," her Watcher said, standing up from the bench he had been watching from. "Well done. It's improving, Miss Summers."
"I told you to call me Buffy," the Slayer said, putting her stake away. "So what if it's improving? I don't care. I told you that. I don't want to be the Slayer."
She turned, sticking her hands in her pocket.
From his hidden vantage point, Angel's heart bled silent tears for her. She had improved. She had improved a hundred times over in a month. Yet her sadness was still there, her beautiful eyes were ringed with grey. She was so young, so perfect … he frowned at his thoughts. He felt for her. He felt like he knew her already, after only a few nights of watching from the shadows.
The Slayer walked away, and after a pause and a heavy sigh, her Watcher trotted to catch up. Angel listened to their voices fading and stood up to walk away in the other direction.
The vampire jumped him from behind, tackling him to the ground and growling something unintelligible in his ear. Angel rolled, taking the other vampire with him, and stood up with a stake in his hand.
They faced each other. Angel felt the demon inside him fighting to come out, and decided to let it. His face transformed and he bared his teeth at the other vampire.
"Go or you'll die," Angel said, meaning it.
"Oh yeah? And who are you, mate, trespassing on my patch?"
"My name's Angelus," Angel returned.
"Pull the other one," the vampire said mockingly. "You can't be Angelus, he's dead. Been dead for years."
"And that's where you're wrong," said Angel, and attacked.
* * *
"So how's the Slayer?" Whistler asked.
Angel hung his coat up carefully. "She's … wonderful."
Whistler raised his eyebrows. "You got it bad, Angel."
"I've never seen anything like her," Angel admitted. "I remember … Spike killed a Slayer once. I saw her before that, a Chinese girl. Pretty. Fast. But she was nothing, nothing compared to …"
"To Buffy?" Whistler smiled. "She's cute. Who's Spike?"
Angel crossed to the fridge and took out a bag of blood. "Spike … Spike was - is, I suppose - Spike is my grandchilde. Will." He tore the bag open and watched as the contents trickled into a mug. "Drusilla found him. He should never have been turned. Drusilla should never have been turned." Angel pressed buttons on the microwave, the mug turning slowly. "He was cocky, clever, insufferable. I loved him and hated him. I was jealous of him the night he killed the Slayer, and afraid he'd find out what had happened to me. Before I'd have been … angry, and pleased, and proud he'd listened to my teaching." The microwave bleeped. Angel took the mug out. "I've no idea if they're still alive. I don't care." He grinned suddenly at Whistler. "It's true. I don't care. All that matters is the Slayer, now."
* * *
They stood in the warehouse and watched as boxes were unloaded off a lorry into the cool darkness. Covered in labels and splashes of paint, the crates were battered but intact. Angel walked over to the biggest and ran his hand over a faded label on the side, and then turned and watched the last boxes being brought in from the sunlight.
"If you'll just sign there, Mr Riley." Angel signed. "Thank you. Lord knows what you'll do with it all. Heavy stuff. Antiques?"
"Antiques," Angel agreed, and the men disappeared. Angel turned to Whistler. "Crowbar?"
Whistler threw it to him, and Angel levered it into a crack and pulled. The side of the crate fell off, and a cloud of dust one hundred years old flew out and engulfed them both. Whistler coughed and bent over trying to breathe. Angel merely reached in through the dust and pulled out a large, flat parcel wrapped in layers of sacking. Laying down on the ground, he began to slit the cords with a knife until the contents lay face up on the ground. Whistler stopped coughing and stared in amazement.
"Jeee-sus, Angel. Is that …"
"It's Monet," Angel said, frowning at the painting. "I'd forgotten I had it."
"Monet? You mean, lily-man?"
"The same." Angel picked the painting up and propped it to one side. "That's a pile for sale. I'll make a pile of things to keep here."
Whistler sighed, and set to work.
It took them all day. The crates contained forty paintings, furniture, sculptures and pottery, and a vast quantity of weapons ranging from swords to quarterstaffs. Most of the time Angel sorted methodically and emotionlessly, indicating a pile for the treasures Whistler uncrated. His control slipped only twice.
It was midday, and the demon was complaining about food as he sorted weapons from a trunk. "Even a sandwich. Or a burger. Or anything." He pulled out a sword. "Sword, Angel."
Angel turned, and then slowly crossed the floor and took the sword from Whistler, testing the weight and running a finger along the edge of the blade. Whistler watched him.
"Keep or sell?" he asked.
Angel did not seem to hear him, and Whistler repeated the question.
"Get rid of this? Never." Angel swung the blade, glittering, up in the air. "This was a present from Darla."
Whistler made a face. "Uh, Ang, man. Darla … sire …"
The point of the sword was at his throat before he had even registered that Angel had moved, steady and just pricking his skin. Whistler had an urge to scream but restrained himself, and settled for staying very still instead.
"I'm keeping this," Angel said. "If I ever meet Darla again I may use it to kill her. Until then … until then, it will remind me." He stepped back and put the sword down carefully on the keep pile. His companion rubbed his throat and nodded.
"You do that, Angel. How about this axe?"
They settled back into a silent rhythm, and it was evening before they got to the last trunk, which Angel forced open with a crowbar. The lid creaked open with a snarl of rusted hinges, and Whistler came to join Angel as he lifted off a layer of yellowed, disintegrating tissue paper.
The trunk was full of clothes, packed closely between layers of paper and smelling strongly of mothballs. Without a word, Angel dropped to his knees in front of the box and began to slowly take out the clothes; elaborate and expensive suits in silk and velvet and fine linen, only a little discoloured and free of holes. Many of the outfits were red, or maroon, or black. Between the suits they found crisp linen and silk shirts. Angel unpacked the box without a word, making a pile of the clothes by his side on the floor. When it was empty he stood up, carried the trunk to the stack of empty crates on the other side of the warehouse, and returned to the clothes.
The pile was alight before Whistler could react; one flick of a lighter and the stack of dry material was flaming. Angel stood and watched the clothes burn.
"What are you doin'?" the half-demon managed, eventually.
Angel turned blank eyes on him. "You want to know why I packed these? Because in a corner of my mind back then, I hoped beyond all hope that someone would take this soul away from me. That I might be able to put those clothes on again and go out again with Darla and Spike and Dru. Those clothes, Whistler, belonged to Angelus, and he's not someone I want to become ever again."
Whistler nodded, and left the warehouse silently, leaving Angel standing silent vigil over the remnants of a former existence.
----
Whistler stood in the doorway of his bedroom and watched the sleeping vampire with a soft, almost sad expression on his sharp features. In the corner the television flickered silently; some talk show. Angel moved in his sleep, abruptly, turning over, his lips forming words that nobody could hear.
The demon crossed the living room and switched his kettle on, his mind on his task.
- He has to be made useful, they had told him. He's far too valuable to be wasting away on the streets of that city. Find him. Turn him into a warrior.
Whistler spooned coffee into a mug and remembered his response.
- He'll be a wreck. You really think this can be done, you're dumber than I thought. They had laughed, and smiled, and sent him away.
He stirred the coffee, and perched on the edge of the counter, watching Angel toss on the couch, and in his mind made a list of things that still needed to be done; that they needed to do together. Sighing, he turned off the kitchen light and went to work in his bedroom.
Angel woke with a start from another bloody dream, indistinguishable from so many others. He sat up and stared around him, aware first of the unfamiliar surroundings, the blueish light from the soap opera on the television; and then his hunger kicked in. It gnawed his stomach, as it had done for decades, only now he knew blood was within reach. He stood up, letting the blanket fall to the floor, and crossed to the fridge. A hand out, the door opened, and he took a bag out and closed the door quickly. He studied the blood for a moment, and then slowly put the bag down on the counter where it lay wobbling gently like a large, glutinous jelly, and found a mug in a cupboard.
Eyeing the microwave, Angel dismissed it as too complicated and tore open the bag. Immediately the metallic smell hit his nostrils, but he resisted and poured the blood into the mug, throwing away the empty bag before lifting it to his lips. And then he drank, the precious liquid slipping down his throat. When he had finished, he put the mug in the sink and washed away the sticky residue, turning it upside down once it was clean, and walked away from the kitchen.
Sitting down again on the couch, Angel put his head in his hands and shook, gritting his teeth not to get up and go back. Inside his demon was fighting for dominance, whispering to his soul to get up and drink again - or to open a door and walk through to Whistler, and capture the small demon, to bend back his neck and break the skin …
Angel clenched his fists and dug his nails into his palms, trying to conjure up a vision in his mind of soft golden hair and big, innocent eyes. The longing subsided. He thought of full lips frowning in worry and confusion and fear, and remembered his desire to help.
The hunger faded.
"You're awake." Whistler's voice startled him out of his reverie and he looked up.
"Yes."
"Sleep well?"
"No."
"You will, one day soon. Look, Angel, I've been working on some stuff. All those classes aren't free, and I ain't rich. You got any funds?"
"Funds?"
"Money. Property. Whatever."
Angel frowned. "I did. I left my things in a warehouse before coming to America. I had a lawyer to look after my account. I don't know what happened to it."
"Call them."
"What?"
"Telephone?" Whistler said, enunciating clearly. "You dial a number and you talk to people in other places?"
"I don't know how to use one. Or which number," Angel objected. "Or if they still have my money. It's been nearly a century, Whistler."
Whistler brought the phone over. "This is easy, Angel. You pick up this receiver and hold it to your ear. Then you dial a number by pressing these buttons." He dialled. "Hi. Yeah, I need a number in London, England. It's … hold a sec, will ya?" He hissed at Angel. "Lawyer?"
Angel looked blank. "Erm … Seward and Sons."
"Seward and Sons," Whistler repeated. "It's a law firm. Okay …" he scribbled numbers. "Thanks." He put the phone down. "They still exist. Call them."
"What?" Angel's face was flabbergasted.
"Call them. Get back your funds. You ain't gonna survive on nothing, Angel. You're gonna need a place to live, food, clothes. Call them." He handed Angel the phone.
Angel took it with suddenly clammy hands and Whistler passed him the number. Tentatively, Angel dialled it, pressing the buttons slowly, and started when the dial tone sounded in his ear. He waited, and just as he was hoping that there would be no answer, a crisp, cool female voice sounded in his ear, a clear English accent flying through the air.
"Seward and Sons lawyers. How can I help you?"
"I'd like to speak to someone about regaining control of some funds," Angel said, trying to muster some confidence.
"Certainly, sir. Who is your lawyer?"
Angel hesitated. "I'm afraid I'm not sure. The funds belonged to an ancestor of mine. I believe his lawyer was named Henry Seward. It was back at the turn of the century."
There was the sound of a computer tapping. "Your ancestor's name, sir?"
"Riley. Liam Riley."
"Thank you, sir. I'll just see if one of the partners is free to talk to you. Hold the line, please."
Tinny violin music sounded down the receiver and Angel listened, perplexed. Then it broke off again and was replaced by a firm male voice. "Philip Seward speaking. I understand you'd like to investigate the funds of a former client?"
"I'd like them b … I believe I have a right to them," Angel said. "His name was Liam Riley, he was an ancestor of mine."
"We would need strong documentary proof of the relationship," Philip Seward said. "Unless … that is …" papers rustled, "unless you can answer a few questions."
"I can try."
"Understand this is not entirely a usual case," the lawyer said, "and I have papers about it written by my own ancestor. Firstly, I need the other name of Liam Riley."
"Angelus," Angel said, without hesitation.
"Place of birth."
"Galway, Ireland."
"Where the material effects are stored."
"They were … in a warehouse in Shoreditch," Angel said, eventually, dragging memories up. "A mile from the river. In wooden cases and three large metal-bound trunks marked A. They were put there in March 1902 and entrusted to your firm's care until such time as they be collected." He paused. "You were to look after them until March 2002, or in the event of the collapse of your firm, to hand them to another reliable party until the same date. At that time you could auction them off."
"Any items of particular note?"
Angel closed his eyes and thought. "A painting by Monet, of a street in Paris. Signed first edition of Baudelaire's Les Fleurs du Mal. Clothes. A case of weaponry dating from the eighteenth century. Chippendale furniture. Ming china, especially a large vase."
More papers rustled, and the lawyer in England coughed. "One last question." His voice seemed strangely strained. "I have a date of birth here. A year."
"1753," said Angel. "Mr Seward kept good records."
"Evidently." Philip Seward seemed to be a little choked. "I … all the records match up. My ancestor left one note. He asked that for recognition, a sketch of the tattoo be forwarded to the office. Or a photograph, nowadays."
"That can be done," Angel said. "When do you want it by? Could I have your address?"
"Write to me as soon as possible," Philip Seward said. "Enclose the picture, a signature, and details of the bank to which you wish the funds to be transferred, and an address for delivery of the effects. Please don't mention this to anyone, sir. I will deal with everything personally." He dictated an address, which Angel copied down carefully. "It's a pleasure doing business." He put the phone down.
Angel was left holding his receiver helplessly. "I can't hear anything."
"He's hung up. Any luck?" Whistler glanced at the address. "Gave you a pop quiz, didn't he?"
"I think they left records," Angel said, dazed. "I first used that firm before … before I was cursed. I … I threatened the man I spoke to then. They kept the records."
His companion shrugged. "Plenty more people know about the underworld than we peaceful demons would like to believe, Angel. My bet is your firm has some dealing with the Watchers too. Anyways you've got your dough."
"I have money."
"Yeah, and you'll need it."
* * *
Three weeks later
Angel let the bar drop, the weights on the end resting on the floor, and his instructor ticked off something on his list.
"How did that feel?"
"Fine." Angel reached for his bottle and drank some of the water in it.
"I don't know if we have anything heavier. I could tie cans or something to the bar. You think you can lift more?"
"Probably."
"Jeez, Angel, man. Nobody's ever lifted that much. It'd take three of us."
"I'm not one of you."
"I noticed. Come on, leg press. How's the rest of your training coming along?"
The vampire slotted the peg into the bottom hole of the press and eased the weights up with no apparent effort. "Good."
Ralph lunged, ducked, parried, lunged again … always too slow for his lithe, tall opponent who was almost too quick to see moving. He paused, and drew back.
- It's useless. He pulled off his mask. I'm too slow. I'm not good enough to teach you anything more.
- Of course you are, Angel protested, resting the tip of his sword on the ground.
- I'm not. You'll beat anything out there, my friend. Ralph held out his hand. Good luck, Angelus.
Angel pushed the press down again.
He crossed the floor to the diminutive Chinese woman and waited for her to straighten and look at him.
- I've come to say thank you.
- You're leaving my class?
- I feel I've found what I was looking for, Angel clarified. I'm in control. Thank you.
- You deserve your peace, the teacher said, returning his bow. Good luck.
He wiped the seat down and moved to the next piece of equipment, moving the next peg down to the bottom weight, and settling into the rhythm again.
- If you would only take the exams, you could be a black belt, his karate teacher admonished. Why leave now?
- Because I don't want a belt, Angel said, with a slight smile. I needed confidence. I have it.
- It's a terrible waste of talent, his teacher said, resigned. But it's your choice. Good luck.
He picked up his towel and the bottle of water and turned to his instructor.
"Thank you, Mike. You helped a lot."
"You're going?"
"I have to. I have to do things alone. I'll keep in touch and come back if I need you again."
His trainer sighed, and nodded. "Okay. Seein' as how we've run out of weights for ya, I guess it's for the best. Look after yourself, old guy. I'll miss ya. Not often I get a chance to do somethin' for good."
Angel smiled briefly. "It's my first chance, and I'm not going to make a mess of it, I swear. Thank you."
"Hey, no problem. Good luck, Ang."
Angel nodded, and went to change.
Outside, the cool night air blowing on the nape of his neck, he reflected on the kind words and kind hearts of those who had helped him get this far. Angel looked up at the night-time lights of the city and for the first time in eighty years felt almost happy.
He put his hands in the pockets of the new coat he and Whistler had gone out and bought, and adjusted the strap of the bag over his shoulder. It was a half-hour walk back to the demon's apartment, but Angel now felt safe again and enjoyed the night air in his empty lungs, and the buzz of the people around him. As long as he kept moving and did not get too close, he found, he could control the demon inside him.
He paused, his thoughts freezing. Was that a scream? Was it in his head or ringing still in his ears? A car rushed by, horn blaring … no, there it was again. High, terrified screaming.
Angel stood still and tried to block the noise out. Would they never leave him? Then, as he listened, new resolve crept into his body, into his heart, and he turned a corner and began to run towards the sound.
The voice screamed again. Angel felt in a pocket as he ran, certain he had a stake hidden on his body somewhere. He rounded a corner and skidded to a halt, staring horrified at the scene presenting itself to him.
The girl was struggling wildly and bravely, her blonde hair loose from its chignon, but her feeble kicks were nothing against the vampire who held her tightly, head bent over an exposed vein in her neck. Angel dropped his bag and, clutching his stake, moved towards them.
"Hey!" he called.
The vampire straightened and glared at him with yellow eyes. "Piss off."
"Leave the girl alone."
"Going to make me?"
Angel stared at the other vampire, and then carefully allowed his own features to shift. He bared his fangs.
"Going to stop me making you?"
The vampire had forgotten his prey now, and advanced on Angel.
"This is my territory, newbie."
Angel examined the vampire and aged him at less than a century.
"Who are you calling new, fledgling? Don't know who I am?"
The other vampire roared and launched himself at Angel, who sidetracked the onslaught and swept his leg round. The hours of training kicked in; the fitness was paying off; he was in control. In less than a minute he had the other vampire on the floor, stake poised above his chest, and he bent, grinning at his defeated opponent.
"The name's Angelus. Don't forget it." He plunged the stake in and stood up, dusting ashes off his clothes.
The girl on the floor whimpered softly, and Angel forced control over the demon, breathing in un-needed air and concentrating hard before crossing to her and helping her off the ground. She looked weak and pale. He pressed his handkerchief to her wound, staunching the blood and removing temptation, and lifted her up.
He waited in the small shop with her until the ambulance came and carried her off, and then walked slowly the rest of the way back to Whistler's apartment.
Whistler put the phone down and turned to him.
"Where've you been? Mike said you left an hour ago. I've been worried sick."
Angel dropped his bag. "I saved a life."
"You did what?" Whistler said.
"I dusted a fledgling. There was a girl … she's gone to hospital. She's alive."
Whistler stared for a moment, and then a grin spread across his face and he punched the big vampire on the arm playfully. "Hey. Well done. How did it feel?"
"Easy." Angel brushed some forgotten dust off his shoulder. "So easy. Good."
"Which bit?" asked Whistler.
"All of it," Angel replied, after a pause. "I mean, the fight, the kill, that was … it's been a while. But when that girl said thank you …" he shook his head in amazement. "Someone trusted me."
"Not bad, big guy," Whistler said approvingly. Angel returned his smile hesitantly. "Not bad," Whistler repeated.
* * *
The vampire went flying across the cemetery into a headstone.
"I really don't want to be here," the Slayer said, running after him, "but seeing as I'm here and you're here how do you feel about dying?"
The vampire struggled to its feet and tried to attack again. Buffy Summers plunged a stake into its chest and stood looking down at the dust, brushing some off her puffy orange jacket with a sad little smile.
"That's good work," her Watcher said, standing up from the bench he had been watching from. "Well done. It's improving, Miss Summers."
"I told you to call me Buffy," the Slayer said, putting her stake away. "So what if it's improving? I don't care. I told you that. I don't want to be the Slayer."
She turned, sticking her hands in her pocket.
From his hidden vantage point, Angel's heart bled silent tears for her. She had improved. She had improved a hundred times over in a month. Yet her sadness was still there, her beautiful eyes were ringed with grey. She was so young, so perfect … he frowned at his thoughts. He felt for her. He felt like he knew her already, after only a few nights of watching from the shadows.
The Slayer walked away, and after a pause and a heavy sigh, her Watcher trotted to catch up. Angel listened to their voices fading and stood up to walk away in the other direction.
The vampire jumped him from behind, tackling him to the ground and growling something unintelligible in his ear. Angel rolled, taking the other vampire with him, and stood up with a stake in his hand.
They faced each other. Angel felt the demon inside him fighting to come out, and decided to let it. His face transformed and he bared his teeth at the other vampire.
"Go or you'll die," Angel said, meaning it.
"Oh yeah? And who are you, mate, trespassing on my patch?"
"My name's Angelus," Angel returned.
"Pull the other one," the vampire said mockingly. "You can't be Angelus, he's dead. Been dead for years."
"And that's where you're wrong," said Angel, and attacked.
* * *
"So how's the Slayer?" Whistler asked.
Angel hung his coat up carefully. "She's … wonderful."
Whistler raised his eyebrows. "You got it bad, Angel."
"I've never seen anything like her," Angel admitted. "I remember … Spike killed a Slayer once. I saw her before that, a Chinese girl. Pretty. Fast. But she was nothing, nothing compared to …"
"To Buffy?" Whistler smiled. "She's cute. Who's Spike?"
Angel crossed to the fridge and took out a bag of blood. "Spike … Spike was - is, I suppose - Spike is my grandchilde. Will." He tore the bag open and watched as the contents trickled into a mug. "Drusilla found him. He should never have been turned. Drusilla should never have been turned." Angel pressed buttons on the microwave, the mug turning slowly. "He was cocky, clever, insufferable. I loved him and hated him. I was jealous of him the night he killed the Slayer, and afraid he'd find out what had happened to me. Before I'd have been … angry, and pleased, and proud he'd listened to my teaching." The microwave bleeped. Angel took the mug out. "I've no idea if they're still alive. I don't care." He grinned suddenly at Whistler. "It's true. I don't care. All that matters is the Slayer, now."
* * *
They stood in the warehouse and watched as boxes were unloaded off a lorry into the cool darkness. Covered in labels and splashes of paint, the crates were battered but intact. Angel walked over to the biggest and ran his hand over a faded label on the side, and then turned and watched the last boxes being brought in from the sunlight.
"If you'll just sign there, Mr Riley." Angel signed. "Thank you. Lord knows what you'll do with it all. Heavy stuff. Antiques?"
"Antiques," Angel agreed, and the men disappeared. Angel turned to Whistler. "Crowbar?"
Whistler threw it to him, and Angel levered it into a crack and pulled. The side of the crate fell off, and a cloud of dust one hundred years old flew out and engulfed them both. Whistler coughed and bent over trying to breathe. Angel merely reached in through the dust and pulled out a large, flat parcel wrapped in layers of sacking. Laying down on the ground, he began to slit the cords with a knife until the contents lay face up on the ground. Whistler stopped coughing and stared in amazement.
"Jeee-sus, Angel. Is that …"
"It's Monet," Angel said, frowning at the painting. "I'd forgotten I had it."
"Monet? You mean, lily-man?"
"The same." Angel picked the painting up and propped it to one side. "That's a pile for sale. I'll make a pile of things to keep here."
Whistler sighed, and set to work.
It took them all day. The crates contained forty paintings, furniture, sculptures and pottery, and a vast quantity of weapons ranging from swords to quarterstaffs. Most of the time Angel sorted methodically and emotionlessly, indicating a pile for the treasures Whistler uncrated. His control slipped only twice.
It was midday, and the demon was complaining about food as he sorted weapons from a trunk. "Even a sandwich. Or a burger. Or anything." He pulled out a sword. "Sword, Angel."
Angel turned, and then slowly crossed the floor and took the sword from Whistler, testing the weight and running a finger along the edge of the blade. Whistler watched him.
"Keep or sell?" he asked.
Angel did not seem to hear him, and Whistler repeated the question.
"Get rid of this? Never." Angel swung the blade, glittering, up in the air. "This was a present from Darla."
Whistler made a face. "Uh, Ang, man. Darla … sire …"
The point of the sword was at his throat before he had even registered that Angel had moved, steady and just pricking his skin. Whistler had an urge to scream but restrained himself, and settled for staying very still instead.
"I'm keeping this," Angel said. "If I ever meet Darla again I may use it to kill her. Until then … until then, it will remind me." He stepped back and put the sword down carefully on the keep pile. His companion rubbed his throat and nodded.
"You do that, Angel. How about this axe?"
They settled back into a silent rhythm, and it was evening before they got to the last trunk, which Angel forced open with a crowbar. The lid creaked open with a snarl of rusted hinges, and Whistler came to join Angel as he lifted off a layer of yellowed, disintegrating tissue paper.
The trunk was full of clothes, packed closely between layers of paper and smelling strongly of mothballs. Without a word, Angel dropped to his knees in front of the box and began to slowly take out the clothes; elaborate and expensive suits in silk and velvet and fine linen, only a little discoloured and free of holes. Many of the outfits were red, or maroon, or black. Between the suits they found crisp linen and silk shirts. Angel unpacked the box without a word, making a pile of the clothes by his side on the floor. When it was empty he stood up, carried the trunk to the stack of empty crates on the other side of the warehouse, and returned to the clothes.
The pile was alight before Whistler could react; one flick of a lighter and the stack of dry material was flaming. Angel stood and watched the clothes burn.
"What are you doin'?" the half-demon managed, eventually.
Angel turned blank eyes on him. "You want to know why I packed these? Because in a corner of my mind back then, I hoped beyond all hope that someone would take this soul away from me. That I might be able to put those clothes on again and go out again with Darla and Spike and Dru. Those clothes, Whistler, belonged to Angelus, and he's not someone I want to become ever again."
Whistler nodded, and left the warehouse silently, leaving Angel standing silent vigil over the remnants of a former existence.