Angel walked up the stairs leading to Darcy Regan's apartment. He went to knock on the door and paused. He pushed the door experimentally and it swung open a few inches. Intrigued by the thought of a girl, especially one who was in danger, who would leave her door open and unlocked, his hand went to the doorbell. It just wasn't safe to leave the door to your home unlocked, even if you did live in Britain. His hand was halfway to the doorbell, when he noticed the splintered wood around the lock. Angel began to frown as he began to realise that this was no ordinary case of breaking and entering, the smell was all wrong. He smelt, death. And it had been there recently, possibly within the last few minutes. Could still be in there in fact.
From inside the apartment, a woman screamed. Without giving it a single thought, Angel exploded through the door, his horror mounting as he realised that he was too late, Darcy Regan was already dead. He wouldn't have been allowed in her home otherwise. His rage mounting against the innocent girl's attacker, he ran in the direction of the scream. Building up speed until he crashed through a door at the end of a corridor. Into a bathroom.
"Damn!" He cursed, turning back on himself and striding through the bathroom door again. He caught sight a shadowy figure and rugby-tackled it. Pinning the vampire beneath him, he threatened him with a stake over the heart.
"One move and it's in your chest." He warned. The vampire lay still and kept quiet. Angel quickly dropped the stake and punched the vampire unconscious. He hauled the dead weight into the living room and tied it up with the wire from a lamp he found on a low table, reasoning that it would be easier to question him later if he couldn't go anywhere now.
Angel explored the apartment, looking for the girl's body. He felt a deep sense of regret and guilt that he hadn't gotten to her sooner and prevented this from happening.
He found her body in the bedroom. She had obviously decided to have an early night because she was dressed in an old-fashioned nightgown and the covers were half drawn over her still body.
Angel couldn't sense a pulse but he checked anyway, knowing it was futile. Then he checked to see if she was breathing. Predictably, she wasn't. A small grey and white cat jumped up onto the bed and lay down on the sixteen-year-old's stomach. It glared malevolently at him and hissed. He took in the girl's sprawled form, the rumpled bedcovers, and the bite-marks in her neck before he turned to the telephone on the bedside table to call Doyle and let him know.