Screams filled the night. The scent of fear was assailed his senses. It pained him to know that, at one time, he would have been out there, delighting in the 'game' of hide-and-seek that was obviously taking place outside his hut.

By what he had heard so far, he deduced that the Calderash were being attacked by swarms of vampires, and perhaps the occasional demon. The people were scattered about, running aimlessly...pointlessly. The powerful, tempting smell of blood increased with every second, informing him that whatever magic the Elders possessed was failing. The gypsies were losing; by the end of the night, every last one would be dead. Lifeless bodies with frozen eyes would decorate the village, remnants of the 'great feast.' Angel didn't have to see it to picture it.

He wanted to see it though. Perhaps he might have been able to, too, if his muscles weren't so weak---after all, his hut *did* have a small window, even if it was just a poor imitation.

By now, Angel had inferred that this window faced west. Contrary to what one might think, he hated it with a passion. He was supposed to; it was one of his many tortures. The gypsies had devised it in such a way that it wouldn't kill him: a mirror hung, slanted, from the top of the window. Supposedly, this deflected the sun's rays, thus preventing the sun from entering the hut.

Still, that didn't stop his from feeling very uncomfortable and weak every night as the sun set. Nor did it allow him to 'forget' how many days actually had passed since he had been trapped. His current count was about 9650 days. In normal terms, that was a little more than 26 years. In that time, not once had he left the small confines of his hut.

Every week or so, the Chosen Gypsy would come by to torture him, and then she would undo his bounds, allow him to eat, and then re-chain him. It was a system, perfectly devised such that it never changed. He had reached the point where he waited for his tortures, expected the blood, and accepted the chains. As the gypsies had intended, the vampire was practically dependant on his captors.

So, that explains why Angel just sat there, listening to the din around him rather than trying to escape. One of the lessons that the Chosen had taught him was never to speak or to move. Ever. When he did, blood would be denied of him, and, already, he was on the brink of starvation.

Rationally, he knew that he would not get in trouble if he attempted to save the village now. But just as rationally, he knew he had no chance in his current state. And, to be frank, he wasn't sure he *would* save the gypsies, even if he was given the opportunity.

After all, he hated the Calderash people for what they had done to him. Sure, he felt he deserved the abuse at times, but other times (usually during the torture) he realized what an inhumane group of people they were.

As the splinters of wood pressed sharply against his bare back he was reminded of the fact that this was one of the lesser pains that he was forced to endure: others included the thick, rusting chains that dug into his skin; the rainfalls of sharp, jagged stones that were thrown through his window by mischievous children; the spell-induced nightmares given to him by the Chosen Gypsy; the cruel tauntings of Angelus within his mind; etc.

Trapped in the swirling abyss that was his mind, Angel did not sense the familiar feeling...the one that told him---

"Hello, lover. Miss me?" Angel mentally groaned. He lifted his eyes a bit, allowing him to see the ankles of the speaker. He didn't need to see the girl to know who it was...the voice and the smell told him enough. "Darla?" he croaked.