TITLE:  Things Past

AUTHOR:  Eloise

RATING: PG13

DISCLAIMER: Joss and ME own Wes, and all things Angel. I'm only playing with them. I promise not to hurt them. Much.

NOTES: Chap 4 of 9 (I'm pretty sure it's 9!) Thank you for reviewing and sticking with the story. Sorry for the delay in updating – real life was ultra-hectic, and the Angel POV here was hard work, but necessary for the plot. (I swear there is a plot!) Huge thanks as always to Lonely Brit, my beta babe.

Chapter title and quote from Shakespeare's The Life and Death of King John, Act III sc.iv. Lines of dialogue from 'Loyalty' and 'Sleep Tight'

Chapter 4: The Absent Child

'Grief fills the room up of my absent child,

Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me,

Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,

Remembers me of all his gracious parts,

Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form:

Then have I reason to be fond of grief.'

He stood at the door of the wrecked room, gazing at the scorched walls, the bubbled blisters on the painted wood crib. The air was scented with soot and ash, an odd reminder of his own childhood. Of dozing in his mother's lap by the fire, the glowing embers reminiscent of moving fingers. His father's hands, he had imagined foolishly, working late into the evening, counting coins, balancing ledgers, transacting business.

Not an unpleasant memory, he realized, of a time when he had yet to fully disappoint his father's expectations. When he was still in awe of the man, respected him, desired his praise and affection more than he feared his blame and punishments. He had been very young.

Now the smoky scent was underlaid with delicate notes. The gentle spice of lavender and camomile mixing with his child's milky sweetness; if he closed his eyes he could see him there in his crib, tiny legs kicking in frustration at his lack of food.

If he closed his eyes, he could see him sitting on the bed, his fingers closing around a soft blue blanket, bursting into inexplicable laughter, verging on tears. With a sudden horror, Angel realized now the destination of Wesley's walk last evening. He had been to Holtz.

The surge of rage that accompanied this realization overwhelmed him. He had trusted Wesley, more than he trusted himself. And in return he had betrayed him, stolen his child. His vicious attack on Lorne simply confirmed that he was in league with Holtz.

His chest ached in place of his dead heart, his empty arms craving the warm weight of his absent child. His soul stretched tight, the demon in him twisting, shrieking for escape. Demanding justice. Revenge.

'All that pain, all that rage… the only way she could deal was to join Holtz, take her revenge. You know how I knew that?'

'Because you would have done the same.'

'It scares me, you know, if anything like that ever happened to Connor, I don't know what I'd… I love my son.'

'Love can be a terrible thing.'

Wesley was not wrong about that. He would suffer for his treachery; learn how truly terrible love could be. The pain in his chest tightened, his heart closing, hardening. There was no place there now for friendship, loyalty, forgiveness. There was room only for vengeance. Wesley would pay.

He turned abruptly in the doorway, slammed the door brutally, feeling the wall reverberate. Bit down the urge to smash his fist into it, and made his way downstairs. The lobby was deserted; Fred and Gunn had disappeared after Lorne had revealed Wesley's deception. Gone to find him, to warn him, he supposed. Let them. Let him run, let him try to hide. He would find Wesley.

'Angel.'

No cakes, no pastries, no sweetie, no stupid tag on his name today. Lorne understood.

He swung round to face the demon, schooling his features to present a calm exterior.

'What?' Voice soft, flat. Failing at emotionless, he guessed, judging from the look of horrified sympathy on the demon's face.

'Fred and Gunn, they called. They're at Wesley's place.'

'They found him?' He could not prevent the growl that rolled beneath his words.

Lorne shook his head. 'Wesley's gone. Shot gun and shaving kit gone.'

And there was proof now. Proof that Wes had planned this, had coldly, calmly decided to take Connor.

Lorne was watching him, biting the edge of his lip unconsciously. It was obvious that he was reading him, as if he'd been screaming Manilow at the top of his voice.

'I'm not sure why Wesley went to Holtz…' he began tentatively.

'No!' His voice was sharp, edging towards fury. 'I don't want to hear this.'

'Angel, he must have had some reason for taking Connor.'

He moved swiftly to the desk, Lorne's shirt suddenly in his fist, his other hand an inch from the gash on the green cheek.

'Don't get why you're so keen to understand him.' His voice was a harsh whisper, scratching his throat raw. 'He took my son. And I don't really care why.'

Lorne was afraid, the shallow hitches in his breathing betrayed that much, but he was no coward. He pulled away from his grasp, straightening his shoulders, glaring at him with angry compassion.

'I know. But you're not going to find Wesley, and Connor, unless you figure out why he went to Holtz.' His tone softened slightly. 'I'm there with you, sweetie.' Lorne reached out and touched his sleeve diffidently. 'But Fred and Gunn have found someone who can give us information. And you need to talk to her.'

*~*~*~*

Blood on the pavement, recently spilled, scented the air outside Wesley's apartment building. With a measure of relief he recognized it as a stranger's, not Connor's, not Wesley's. Hated himself for the relief that it was not Wesley's. They had been there, though, and recently. He strode past the dark stain and entered the building.

The appetising aroma grew stronger as he approached the door of the apartment. He pushed it lightly, and it gave way easily. Fred was leaning over the couch, her face briefly hidden by a curtain of dark curls. Gunn was pacing back and forth, a small crossbow in his hand, clearly unhappy in the situation in which he found himself.

'Angel, man.' He stopped moving, placed himself square in front of the couch, not defiant, exactly. Apologetically protective, perhaps.

'She knows where he is?'

The other man shook his head, glanced briefly at the prone form. 'She hasn't said much. We found her in the park across the road.'

'We talked about me taking Connor to the park and the one across from my place is… it's always full of kids.'

Another surge of rage twisted against the soul, and he unclenched his fists carefully.

'She knows Holtz. She was muttering his name when we found her. She's been kind of in and out since that.'

He stepped back, allowing him access to the woman. She was huddled on the couch, her auburn hair fanned around her face, dark violet bruises contrasting starkly with the pallor of her skin. The bruising around her chin was reasonably recent, perhaps a day old, judging by the amount of redness in the contusions. There were other, older injuries, a well healed puncture incision in the palm of her hand that held disturbing similarities to a crucifixion wound.

And then the most recent damage, that laced the air with a warm heavy scent, made him salivate. Her right arm was cradled against her body, angled oddly, the bone jutting unexpectedly under her forearm. Her hand and fingers were a bloody mess. From simple observation he guessed that at least two fingers were broken, seemingly the result of a crush injury. In the dried blood on the back of the mangled limb he could make out the faint outline of a footprint; someone had quite clearly stamped very hard on her hand.

'Wake up.'

She stirred, moaned a little, her eyelids flickering briefly. He went over, knelt carefully by her, taking the glass of water that Fred offered. Dipped his finger in; allowed a drop of water to fall onto her cracked bleeding lips. She opened her eyes, tongue darting out desperately.

'You want this?' Voice soft, infinitely soft and tender.

The venom in her gaze was refreshing. She understood about hate; revenge. Good. There would be no need for pleasantries then. He threw the water in her face. She gasped, wide-eyed with shock and shivering.

'Angel!' Fred sounded horrified.

He turned to her, placed his finger silently against his own lips. She took a small step back, hovered uncertainly next to Gunn, who looked equally stunned.

'Well, my dear, I think we understand each other. You have information I desire. You see that I am willing to use certain methods to obtain this information. After all, I am an evil undead creature.'

She threw him a look of pure disgust, her lip curling slightly.

'Good. It's so much more fun this way.' He slid his hand under her damaged hand, lacing his fingers through hers. Then carefully squeezed. He felt the bones creak under the pressure, her hiss of pain pleasuring the demon within.

Gunn was beside him now, pulling his hand back.

'What the hell do you think you're doing?' he yelled, not quite controlling his terror. 'She's not a demon! She's a human, and she's hurt…'

'She knows where Connor is. She was in on the plan.' He turned again to face the woman on the couch. 'I want to know the plan. And she's going to tell me. Aren't you, my dear?'

She began to laugh, rather manically, tears of agony running unchecked down her smudged cheeks.

'Holtz was right. You're so gullible. Just like him.'

She broke off, began to cough violently, finally retching up milky strings of saliva, which she spat onto her good hand.

'Then again, maybe he wasn't so gullible.' She indicated her injured hand. 'Didn't think he'd go this far.'

Wesley had done this. Had left the imprint of his boot in her blood. This did not fit with the idea that Holtz and Wesley were in this together.

And now her eyes were rolling back in her head, and Gunn was pulling him away from the woman, as Fred moved towards her.

'Man, the girl needs medical attention. I know she's the enemy, but she's not going anywhere. Think you need to be talking to her boss, and not torturing her.' He glanced over at Fred, who was absorbed in tending to the woman's wounds. 'She's a bargaining chip.' He whispered, voice low, dark eyes suddenly shadowing.

Angel nodded, and went to the door.

'Let's hope that Holtz cares enough about you to make it worth my while keeping you alive.'

*~*~*~*

It hadn't been difficult to persuade some of the less fatally injured members of Holtz's little band to give up his location. Not all as strong willed as the girl, obviously. He stood now outside the old mansion, his hand beside the bell.

'I was wondering how long it would take.'

The voice was pleasant, almost conversational in tone, and Angel peered into the gloom of the entrance porch. Holtz stood in shadow, leaning against the masonry.

'How'd I do?' He noted the crossbow, casually trained on his heart.

'Slower than you should have been. As slow as I expected. Wasting your time on petty retribution when you should have been searching for your boy.'

He hated that the man knew him, hated that Holtz was right. That he had the upper hand.

'Found your girl.'

A reaction; a tiny, almost imperceptible change in the man's breathing, something he had not seen he would see in Holtz again. He cared for the woman.

'Justine.'

'Ah. See, her name didn't come up while we were chatting. Yours did, though. And Wesley's.'

Holtz gave a small smile, waved his crossbow.

'We have things to discuss, Angelus. I have something you want, and you have something of mine. Perhaps we can trade.'

In his head the demon shrieked for escape, but he remained calm. 'The girl for Connor.'

'You believe I have your son? You are more of a fool than I took you for.'

'I know he came to you.'

'And you think he betrayed you.' Holtz shook his head in mocking wonder. 'It amazes me that you inspire such feelings of loyalty and devotion in others, when you clearly place so little faith in them. Your friend came to me, seeking to avoid the blood bath which was inevitable. Trying to disprove the prophecy.'

'Prophecy?' He couldn't prevent himself from echoing the word. Wesley had been working on a prophecy concerning Connor. And suddenly it all made horribly perfect sense. The nights spent in his office, falling asleep over piles of books, the meetings with undisclosed sources, his darkening moods, all of this evidenced, he now realized, a quiet despair. Which he had somehow overlooked.

Holtz was smiling again.

'He didn't tell you? No, I imagine it would be difficult to share that kind of information with the father of the child.'

He fought to control the demon, knew it was pointless to rush the door, but the impulse to strangle the other man was overwhelming. And still Holtz smiled, a knowing, almost pitying smile.

'Oh, this is so much better than anything I could have planned,' he whispered gleefully. 'The Father will kill the Son. Can you just imagine how that poor man must have felt? Every time he left you alone with the child, wondering if he'd come back to find the baby devoured. He must have been absolutely desolate.'

No, it was not possible. That he would have killed his son? He would not, could not have done such a thing. How could Wesley have believed it?

'Of course, the fact that it was false just makes it even more fun.' Holtz was relaxed, supremely aware of his advantage.  'I assume you've met Sahjhan by now. Not the most discreet of demons. He was able to travel back in time and change the prophecy. Chose a peril that would hold a special significance for Mr. Wyndham-Pryce.'

The father will kill the son.

And Angel thought suddenly of a small child cowering in a closet, of a bruised arm, of scarred knuckles. Of blood on a wall, of a tempting hunger that threatened to wrench his soul from his body. Of a tiny baby cradled in his hands, as blood had dripped onto the blue clouded fleece.

'At least I would have had something to snack on…'

And now understood the full implications of the expression of utter horror that had crossed his friend's face. They had played Wesley expertly, picked the one terror most likely to overcome his logical reasoning. And it had all been for nothing. The man had stolen his child for nothing.

He would never have harmed Connor.

Never.

It was important that Wesley be made to understand that. Needed to believe it himself.

Holtz was already a step ahead of him.

'You'll go searching for him, tell him it's all lies, but you know he won't believe it. He's well acquainted with the nature of prophecies, did everything he could to disprove this one.' Holtz paused, his smile fading a little. 'And there are other dangers now. The boy is not yet safe.'

Angel hated this helplessness, aware that the other man knew much more than he was telling, but having no way to extract the information.

Well, one way.

'You tell me, and I'll return the girl to you, relatively unharmed.'

Holtz raised an eyebrow archly. 'Relatively unharmed? Hostage negotiations not really your strong suit, I see.'

He had touched a nerve, though, as much as Holtz tried to mask his concern for the woman under a show of indifference, it was clear that he cared.

'Angelus, I have never wished your child ill. I desired only to punish you for the atrocities you committed. If I could protect the boy from those who seek to harm him, I would. But in truth, I do not know where he is.'

He was not lying. But Angel did not care. Someone else needed to hurt as he was hurting.

'Maybe Justine knows. I'm sure I can persuade her to tell me.'

A muscle in the other man's jaw twitched involuntarily, then his face became still.

'She won't tell you, even if she does know.' He sounded wistfully proud of his protégé's stubbornness, and it occurred to Angel that his feelings for the woman might be more than paternal affection. He moved away from the doorway.

'Angelus.' Holtz's voice was soft, even.

He turned to face the man.

'Take comfort in the fact that your son was taken by a good man, who truly believed he was doing the right thing. Who would do anything to protect the child.' Holtz paused; the only evidence of fury was the dark flash in his eyes. 'My son was stolen by a monster. I will never forgive you for that. I pray to God to keep your child safe, but I pray you do not find him. Ever. And I will do everything in my power to keep you from him.'

And once again, Angel knew he was not lying.

*~*~*~*

The hotel was in darkness when he returned, Lorne had left a message that he had gone over to Wesley's apartment to do a reading on Justine. He stepped into the inner office, over to the desk, running his hand over the piles of books. Somewhere in there was the answer. Wesley would not have done this spontaneously. 'Man with a Plan', Gunn called him, and he was right. Wesley probably had the plans for his own funeral written out somewhere.

He bit down a growl, and sat stiffly in the chair behind the desk, trying not to look at the tiny crib outside the door. Its presence there too raw a reminder of his friend's deceit. No matter how good his intentions, Wesley had stolen his son. And there would be a price for his betrayal.

He opened the first notebook, sighing as he flicked through page after page of intricate grammatical diagrams and references. Wesley had better hope he didn't find the funeral plans first. It was going to be a long night.

Or maybe not, as he heard a dull thud outside the office door. He rose quickly and hurried across the room, then stopped dead as he heard a strangely familiar voice.

'Bugger.'