Disclaimer: see chapter 1
"Lindsey McDonald!" Cordelia said in triumph. "1295 Green Mile, Oklahoma City. Teaches guitar, it says here." She looked up.
Angel crossed to her, took the piece of paper she was brandishing, and gave her a hug. "Thank you, Cordy."
"Aren't you going to call him, or something?" Cordelia said, as Angel went to the weapons cabinet and stood in front of it, contemplating the rows of swords and axes. "Angel ."
"Connor and I are taking a trip to Oklahoma," Angel said, selecting a variety of weapons and beginning to put them in his bag.
Cordelia jumped to her feet. "But . Angel, you can't! It'll take you ages just to get there. And what if he isn't actually there when you arrive?"
"Okay, then call him, once a day. Check he's still in town," Angel replied.
"What about my classes?" Connor asked, from the sofa in the corner.
"Can't you catch them up later?" his father asked, turning around.
Connor shrugged. "I guess not. Can't we get him here? So you're on home ground?"
"He knows LA," Angel said, "and if he were here, he'd have Wolfram and Hart too. We have to go there. Call your teachers, please, Connor." He turned back to the bag of weapons, and Connor exchanged glances with Cordelia, before going to the phone.
Cordelia put her hand on it. "You can't do this, Connor," she hissed. "Your classes are more important."
"Well, on balance," Connor said, "my life is most important. I know what you mean, but ." He met her eyes. "Cordy - please?"
She frowned, and nodded, lifting her hand from the receiver so Connor could dial.
They left half an hour later, some bags in the boot carrying clothes and the weapons, and a cooler containing blood for Angel. In the back of the car there were two thick blankets.
"Keep in touch," Cordelia told them both sternly. "I want calls, every day."
"Promise," Connor said, hugging her. "Look after yourself too."
Cordelia nodded, and turned to Angel. "Be careful," she said, hugging him too. Angel kissed the top of her head.
"We'll be fine. See you soon."
Connor, craning backwards, saw that Cordelia stood outside the hotel and watched them go. He turned forwards again and settled more comfortably in his seat.
"I'll drive the nights, you can do most of the days," his father said, both hands resting loosely on the wheel.
"This car?" Connor said. "Sure." He thought of his mother's small blue car and the way the engine refused to start two mornings out of ten, and grinned at the idea of driving Angel's convertible.
His father reached out a hand and turned the radio on to a classical station, and as the city flashed by they sat in silence, each occupied with his own thoughts. Connor watched Angel's concentrated face, and finally spoke.
"Why are we doing this?" he asked, turning the radio down.
"Why?" Angel glanced at him. "I'd have thought that was obvious."
"No, it's not," Connor said. "You've told me you're sure I'm your son. I'm sure I'm your son. So why drive to Oklahoma to prove it?"
"Because he'll keep sending the demons until he has you," his father returned. "Nobody, especially Lindsey McDonald, gets to do that."
Connor leaned his arm on the edge of the door. "What is it about this guy that gets you so worked up, Dad? I've never seen you this mad about anything."
"I'm not mad," Angel objected.
"Yes, you are," returned Connor. "You've got that concentrated look, only worse than I've ever seen it. Worse even than when you came to San Diego the first time. Why?"
"You don't really want to know," Angel said softly.
"No, you don't want to tell me," his son said. "I do want to know, that's the problem. there's lots about you I want to know and don't. You always ask about me, but never tell me anything about you."
"I write," Angel said.
"Yeah, those letters," Connor said. "I like getting them. But they never really say anything about you, it's always about Fred and Gunn and Cordelia. And they tell me all that themselves, by email."
"I don't like email," his father pointed out.
Connor nodded. "I noticed. But even in the letters, you never say how you feel. Whether you're happy, or tired, or anything. I feel like there's times when I don't really know you, although you're so much a part of me."
Angel said nothing for a few minutes, his eyes on the road. "I guess," he said eventually, "I guess I'm scared."
"You kill demons for a living!" Connor said. "What are you scared of?"
"That if I start to tell you more about me," his father replied, "that I'll lose you. It's not pretty. Only the last quarter of a century has nice parts. Most of the good bits you know, you were there. The rest ."
"I had a dream the other night," Connor said, turning slightly towards Angel. "When you came rushing in. I think I dreamed about Darla - about my mother. And you. It was some old building, and you were in old-fashioned clothes, dancing. You had long hair. She smiled at me." He paused. "And again last night, too. She was singing a song, and she seemed so sad - and I realised I didn't know anything about her, apart from what she was and how she died. And I barely know anything about you, apart from what you are and who you are. I'm eighteen, remember. I can cope with some blood and violence."
"It's not just some blood and violence," Angel said. "It's centuries of horror. How do you know you can cope? I can't."
"I don't care," Connor said, a little petulantly. "I want to know. We have hours, days now - you can talk, and tell me. Start with Darla. Who was she before she . died, the first time, I mean?"
His father overtook a truck, and settled again to a cruising speed. "She never said anything much. But I did some reading, when she came back the last time. I don't know what her real name was. I do know she was from New England, one of the early settlers. She may even have been born there." He looked at Connor. "And I know she was . she was a prostitute."
"Oh." Connor digested the information. "Really?"
"It's what nearly killed her, as a human," Angel said. "A syphilitic heart condition, fatal in those days. The books say she was on her deathbed when he came for her."
"When who came?"
"The Master." Angel paused. "Imagine . imagine a bat's face, combined with a vampire's. Big ears. Flat nose. Fangs. That was what the Master looked like. He was ancient, older than any other vampire I've ever met, and he'd got to the stage where he couldn't pass as human. He chose Darla, and turned her. There's strong blood in my line - it's the Order of Aurelius."
"What does that mean?" asked Connor.
"It's like a class system, almost," Angel explained. "Some vampires belong to an order, or a clan, led by the oldest vampire within that group. Some orders stretch back two millennia - the Order of Aurelius is one. Nobody was ever able to tell me who Aurelius actually was, but I think he may have been Roman. When Darla was turned, the Master was a vampire called Heinrich Nest. German, once. He's been dust since Buffy slew him."
"Buffy killed him?" Connor said, his mind flicking to the diminutive blonde woman and her friends in Sunnydale. "Cool. Who's the Master of your Order now?"
"Well," Angel said, "I think it might be me. As far as I know Darla was the Master's last surviving childe, and I was hers. It's a moot point. I don't intend recalling the order to find out."
Connor thought about this. "You could set a trap and get rid of a whole load of vamps if you did."
His father smiled briefly. "Maybe. Anyway, Darla voyaged the world, crossing the Atlantic at some point, and in 1757 she wound up in Galway."
"Where there was you," Connor said.
"Yes." Angel signalled and turned into the slip road for a junction. "Eldest son of a merchant. Layabout and good-for-nothing. I should have been doing something useful with my life, but I pretended to work for my father and - and spent the evenings getting drunk and sleeping with half the town."
Trying to imagine his father drunk and hitting on girls made Connor laugh, but he stifled it and said, "Go on."
"I was drunk the night Darla arrived. Had a fight, I think - it's not very clear. I think we got thrown out of the tavern. Then I met Darla; saw a pretty woman, rich, a stranger, and thought I'd try my luck. She killed me."
"She killed you. Then what?" Connor said.
"Then, they buried me." His father turned dark eyes on him. "They buried me."
"Lindsey McDonald!" Cordelia said in triumph. "1295 Green Mile, Oklahoma City. Teaches guitar, it says here." She looked up.
Angel crossed to her, took the piece of paper she was brandishing, and gave her a hug. "Thank you, Cordy."
"Aren't you going to call him, or something?" Cordelia said, as Angel went to the weapons cabinet and stood in front of it, contemplating the rows of swords and axes. "Angel ."
"Connor and I are taking a trip to Oklahoma," Angel said, selecting a variety of weapons and beginning to put them in his bag.
Cordelia jumped to her feet. "But . Angel, you can't! It'll take you ages just to get there. And what if he isn't actually there when you arrive?"
"Okay, then call him, once a day. Check he's still in town," Angel replied.
"What about my classes?" Connor asked, from the sofa in the corner.
"Can't you catch them up later?" his father asked, turning around.
Connor shrugged. "I guess not. Can't we get him here? So you're on home ground?"
"He knows LA," Angel said, "and if he were here, he'd have Wolfram and Hart too. We have to go there. Call your teachers, please, Connor." He turned back to the bag of weapons, and Connor exchanged glances with Cordelia, before going to the phone.
Cordelia put her hand on it. "You can't do this, Connor," she hissed. "Your classes are more important."
"Well, on balance," Connor said, "my life is most important. I know what you mean, but ." He met her eyes. "Cordy - please?"
She frowned, and nodded, lifting her hand from the receiver so Connor could dial.
They left half an hour later, some bags in the boot carrying clothes and the weapons, and a cooler containing blood for Angel. In the back of the car there were two thick blankets.
"Keep in touch," Cordelia told them both sternly. "I want calls, every day."
"Promise," Connor said, hugging her. "Look after yourself too."
Cordelia nodded, and turned to Angel. "Be careful," she said, hugging him too. Angel kissed the top of her head.
"We'll be fine. See you soon."
Connor, craning backwards, saw that Cordelia stood outside the hotel and watched them go. He turned forwards again and settled more comfortably in his seat.
"I'll drive the nights, you can do most of the days," his father said, both hands resting loosely on the wheel.
"This car?" Connor said. "Sure." He thought of his mother's small blue car and the way the engine refused to start two mornings out of ten, and grinned at the idea of driving Angel's convertible.
His father reached out a hand and turned the radio on to a classical station, and as the city flashed by they sat in silence, each occupied with his own thoughts. Connor watched Angel's concentrated face, and finally spoke.
"Why are we doing this?" he asked, turning the radio down.
"Why?" Angel glanced at him. "I'd have thought that was obvious."
"No, it's not," Connor said. "You've told me you're sure I'm your son. I'm sure I'm your son. So why drive to Oklahoma to prove it?"
"Because he'll keep sending the demons until he has you," his father returned. "Nobody, especially Lindsey McDonald, gets to do that."
Connor leaned his arm on the edge of the door. "What is it about this guy that gets you so worked up, Dad? I've never seen you this mad about anything."
"I'm not mad," Angel objected.
"Yes, you are," returned Connor. "You've got that concentrated look, only worse than I've ever seen it. Worse even than when you came to San Diego the first time. Why?"
"You don't really want to know," Angel said softly.
"No, you don't want to tell me," his son said. "I do want to know, that's the problem. there's lots about you I want to know and don't. You always ask about me, but never tell me anything about you."
"I write," Angel said.
"Yeah, those letters," Connor said. "I like getting them. But they never really say anything about you, it's always about Fred and Gunn and Cordelia. And they tell me all that themselves, by email."
"I don't like email," his father pointed out.
Connor nodded. "I noticed. But even in the letters, you never say how you feel. Whether you're happy, or tired, or anything. I feel like there's times when I don't really know you, although you're so much a part of me."
Angel said nothing for a few minutes, his eyes on the road. "I guess," he said eventually, "I guess I'm scared."
"You kill demons for a living!" Connor said. "What are you scared of?"
"That if I start to tell you more about me," his father replied, "that I'll lose you. It's not pretty. Only the last quarter of a century has nice parts. Most of the good bits you know, you were there. The rest ."
"I had a dream the other night," Connor said, turning slightly towards Angel. "When you came rushing in. I think I dreamed about Darla - about my mother. And you. It was some old building, and you were in old-fashioned clothes, dancing. You had long hair. She smiled at me." He paused. "And again last night, too. She was singing a song, and she seemed so sad - and I realised I didn't know anything about her, apart from what she was and how she died. And I barely know anything about you, apart from what you are and who you are. I'm eighteen, remember. I can cope with some blood and violence."
"It's not just some blood and violence," Angel said. "It's centuries of horror. How do you know you can cope? I can't."
"I don't care," Connor said, a little petulantly. "I want to know. We have hours, days now - you can talk, and tell me. Start with Darla. Who was she before she . died, the first time, I mean?"
His father overtook a truck, and settled again to a cruising speed. "She never said anything much. But I did some reading, when she came back the last time. I don't know what her real name was. I do know she was from New England, one of the early settlers. She may even have been born there." He looked at Connor. "And I know she was . she was a prostitute."
"Oh." Connor digested the information. "Really?"
"It's what nearly killed her, as a human," Angel said. "A syphilitic heart condition, fatal in those days. The books say she was on her deathbed when he came for her."
"When who came?"
"The Master." Angel paused. "Imagine . imagine a bat's face, combined with a vampire's. Big ears. Flat nose. Fangs. That was what the Master looked like. He was ancient, older than any other vampire I've ever met, and he'd got to the stage where he couldn't pass as human. He chose Darla, and turned her. There's strong blood in my line - it's the Order of Aurelius."
"What does that mean?" asked Connor.
"It's like a class system, almost," Angel explained. "Some vampires belong to an order, or a clan, led by the oldest vampire within that group. Some orders stretch back two millennia - the Order of Aurelius is one. Nobody was ever able to tell me who Aurelius actually was, but I think he may have been Roman. When Darla was turned, the Master was a vampire called Heinrich Nest. German, once. He's been dust since Buffy slew him."
"Buffy killed him?" Connor said, his mind flicking to the diminutive blonde woman and her friends in Sunnydale. "Cool. Who's the Master of your Order now?"
"Well," Angel said, "I think it might be me. As far as I know Darla was the Master's last surviving childe, and I was hers. It's a moot point. I don't intend recalling the order to find out."
Connor thought about this. "You could set a trap and get rid of a whole load of vamps if you did."
His father smiled briefly. "Maybe. Anyway, Darla voyaged the world, crossing the Atlantic at some point, and in 1757 she wound up in Galway."
"Where there was you," Connor said.
"Yes." Angel signalled and turned into the slip road for a junction. "Eldest son of a merchant. Layabout and good-for-nothing. I should have been doing something useful with my life, but I pretended to work for my father and - and spent the evenings getting drunk and sleeping with half the town."
Trying to imagine his father drunk and hitting on girls made Connor laugh, but he stifled it and said, "Go on."
"I was drunk the night Darla arrived. Had a fight, I think - it's not very clear. I think we got thrown out of the tavern. Then I met Darla; saw a pretty woman, rich, a stranger, and thought I'd try my luck. She killed me."
"She killed you. Then what?" Connor said.
"Then, they buried me." His father turned dark eyes on him. "They buried me."