AN: The style may be a little weird. I'm still looking for the one which suits me best. So there's a special review plea beyond the customary one, for advice on specific styles.
She had hated Utah. They had been incredibly lucky to stay there for so long before they had to run, but still, she had hated Utah. She had never thought of herself as a real city girl, but out there, surrounded on all sides by what her vocabulary could only describe as hicks, she had hated it. Six years. Enough time for Stephen to grow to be mocked for his delicacy, and to break a classmate's arm with a twist that came as naturally as breathing. Enough time for her to wish she'd never heard of the Mormon religion. Enough time for her to convince herself that Wesley Wyndham-Pryce had survived.
They came at night, and pure chance let them get away. A neighbouring ranch had called and told them four strange people had stopped and asked for directions. She had decided, hoped, that one had been left in the car. They arrived as they finished putting into the jeep the bags Daniel had always kept in readiness. The demon, Cordelia, had glowed like a fluorescent light, changing night to day and hovering at head height. Stephen never even looked at her. His gaze fixed on Angel immediately, and his on him. His voice, a breathless whisper from his usual unbroken clarity sounded so softly she could barely hear.
"Who is that?" She had the sense they would not look away, could not look away, would be found like that in a hundred years time still staring-
Daniel lifted him bodily into the jeep and clambered into the back as Angelus cried out wordlessly and ran forwards. She. yes. Stepped on it. No other word, a hundred movies aside, and sped off.
Utah ranch vampires. Rare. Old and powerful and rich, and fat and lazy. Red sky at night, child-stealer's delight. Money to take them wherever in the world they fancied. Why he chose China, she wasn't entirely sure. It might have been something to do with a land no man could search, given decades to try. The city this time.
But first him, not undead but dead walking, scar on his throat and a shotgun in his hand, in the alley. She would have let him shoot her; he would have shot her in an instant. But Stephen was standing in front, and sawn-off shotguns are not famed for their precision, and they walked away. The thought had never formed, when she racked her brain for a reason for survival, it had never occurred. Alive, outcast. No murderess. Kidnapper, thief traitor Judas thirty pieces of silver for the child beaten into pale child form and set to walk and shout and play.
Outside, in another language, but children are the same everywhere. She wondered whether there was a country in the world where they didn't play tag. It would be time for lunch soon. He wouldn't want to come in. He would be winning. Always does. She knows it isn't good to always win, or when it counts you lose. Daniel will deal with it soon. A few more weeks, months, a year. He doesn't have to tarnish yet.
She waits, a crossbow and a stake and a gun, and wonders whether if (when) the time comes there will be enough left of her to fight.