Insane Troll Logic: Yay! My first ever review! Love the name. I'll keep writing so long as you keep reading and reviewing. Thankies!
Carol J.: Danke! I'm writing as fast as I can!
Lady Hawke: I love Doyle stories too! That's probably why I'm writing one I guess… Thanks for the review! You are wonderful!
jewel21: I love Oz too! I missed that episode and I was so pissed off! It's not fair. I read the transcript but it's just not the same. As for why they took him… well that would be telling. Put it this way, if you love Doyle and you don't want to become a nervous wreck then DEFINITELY don't read this chapter. If you like stuff like that, well then, enjoy!
R&R! If you don't, I will send my Evil Alter Ego to kill you. Once I find her that is… wanders off
Chapter 2Doyle rummaged around in his brain and kicked a few sluggish senses back into shape. He wondered if it was a good idea to open his eyes. The sensible part of his brain told him that it was the stupidest idea he could have thought up. The rest of his brain reasoned that he usually did the stupid thing and that he might as well find out exactly how screwed he was.
His eyelids seemed reluctant to comply but he stubbornly pried them open, blinking a few times. He engaged himself in the familiar task of chivvying the little black dots out of his line of vision as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom. If his eyeballs hadn't felt like fuzzy balls of cotton wool crammed far too tightly into his skull, he probably would have rolled his eyes.
He was seated against a mouldering stone wall on one side of a very plain, very square, room. The meagre light source was one single, low power electric bulb that hung from the ceiling by a frayed black wire.
The cell was completely bare except for a pair of heavy, rusted manacles that were, he noted with some annoyance, fastened securely around his wrists. He sighed and sat up a little straighter, wincing as his neck clicked.
"Oh bugger."
He tried to turn his head the other way but yelped in pain. He was now stuck staring at his left hand and would continue to do so until the cows came home if he couldn't do anything about it. Wonderful. Pretty much summed up his entire life really.
He resisted the urge to laugh and tried to pull himself together. Hopefully Angel would be dropping by sometime soon to get him out of this dump and then he could figure out why the Powers seemed to be conspiring against him.
He was jolted out of his maudlin musing by the unmistakable sound of a key being turned in a lock. A loud, metallic 'clunk' sounded. Doyle winced at the harsh screeching that sounded in his ears as the rusted hinges were strained. The enormous slab of steel swung inwards and a thin beam of light sliced through the darkness within the dank cell.
Doyle fervently wished, more then ever, that he could see what he was dealing with. He felt the blood pounding in his ears as his breathing quickened. The sound of soft, whispering footsteps reached his hearing and he steeled himself, preparing for the pain that would accompany looking up. He began to turn his head when something cool touched his neck.
"Hold still." The voice was soft, feminine but strangely childlike.
He froze as a strange sensation tingled through his body and his eyes momentarily unfocused. He shook his head trying to clear his vision before realising the implications of the action. He looked up sharply.
Doyle was taken aback. He had been expecting some tall, creepy man in a black cape chuckling evilly and prophesying his doom. He had not been expecting a large pair of green eyes peering at him in concern. The eyes belonged to a young woman, about nineteen years old, with very white skin stretched too tightly over delicate features.
How she had managed to push the door open, Doyle hadn't a clue. Her arms were like sticks, one of her frail spidery hands resting on his shoulder. Soft, russet coloured hair smelling faintly of vanilla and honeysuckle lay in gleaming folds on the shoulders of her pale green robe, a white rope girdle tied around her waist. The material made a light whispery sound as she stood up and moved back over the door to where she had put a lantern and, as Doyle could now see, a plate of food and a cup.
"Who – "
Doyle stopped and cleared his throat, which was feeling oddly like very coarse sandpaper. The woman smiled and picked up the cup and the food. She carried them over as he tried to speak again.
"Who… are you?"
Doyle wanted to ask more but the woman shook her head and lifted the cup to his lips. He sniffed the mixture suspiciously. The young woman laughed quietly and showed him the contents.
"It's just water and mint. It helps to clear your head."
He took a sip and gagged as the cold liquid hit his parched throat, swallowing with difficulty. It tasted innocuous and so the half demon hungrily gulped another mouthful. The redhead pulled the cup away gently.
"Not too much, you'll give yourself an even worse headache."
He nodded and sighed, feeling his thoughts beginning to collect themselves together, his senses sharpening. He watched the woman's movements warily as she unlocked the heavy manacle around his right wrist, lifting it away. Doyle's hand felt abnormally light without the weighty restraint as he lifted it and flexed his fingers. The woman pushed the plate towards him, smiling again.
"Here you go, eat something, you must be starving."
Doyle looked down at the plate. Arranged very neatly were small, triangular sandwiches. The woman smiled proudly.
"I made them myself. All on my own."
He frowned and looked up, meeting her bright green eyes in a quizzical gaze, wondering if she was patronising him. All he saw was a bare innocence and faint lines of anxiety that creased her delicate face.
"D-did I do it wrong? I'm sorry, I did try hard. M-my hands shake."
The half demon was amazed to see tears fill the large green eyes. She hunched over and wrapped her thin arms around her legs, drawing them up to her chest.
"I tried, I did. Everything I touch goes bad ways. I don't mean it…"
She rested her chin on her knees as huge, crystalline tears crept down her hollow cheeks. Doyle felt a wave of compassion wash over him for this strange creature. Reaching out he touched her hand gently; afraid that if he was too rough she would break like a delicate china doll.
"What's your name?"
She lifted her head and sniffed once or twice, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.
"Mishakara. But Kaeden, my brother, calls me Mishka. What's yours?"
He smiled warmly.
"Allen Francis Doyle, you can call me Doyle."
She wrinkled her nose.
"Doyle… that's a strange name. I don't know anyone called Doyle."
He tilted his head to one side.
"Yes you do. I'm called Doyle."
Mishka giggled and he felt a faint thrill of victory at the happy look on her face. He grinned back, taking one of the sandwiches from the plate and biting into it. She watched apprehensively as he chewed and swallowed.
"Even better then my Ma's. Fantastic!"
She seemed delighted at the simple praise and clapped her hands, settling herself more comfortably beside him.
"Can you sing?"
The question caught the Irishman completely by surprise and he blinked owlishly at her, a rather foolish expression that made her giggle again.
"Never really tried, lass. How about you?"
She nodded eagerly, wisps of her russet hair falling into her shining emerald eyes. Doyle chuckled.
"Will you sing to me?"
She chewed her thumb shyly as she stood up, clasping her hands in front of her. As he watched, he saw something strange come over Mishka. Her childlike expression faded and the sadness of thousands seemed to cross her face as the haunting notes echoed through off the stones.
When the evening falls,
And the daylight is fading,
From within me calls,
Could it be I am sleeping?
For a moment I stray,
Then it holds me completely,
Close to home,
I cannot say,
Close to home,
Feeling so far away.
Doyle felt tears collect in his eyes. Mishka's voice was divine, soft, clear notes echoing faintly as she sang. Her voice had grown deeper, more mature, as she wove the beautiful melody into the air.
As I walk the room,
There, before me a shadow,
Of another world
Where no other can follow,
Carry me to my own,
To where I can cross over,
Close to home,
I cannot say,
Close to home,
Feeling so far away.
Forever searching, never right,
I am lost in oceans of night,
Forever hoping I can find,
Memories,
Those memories I left behind.
Suddenly, her face fell and she looked down, a sad expression on her face. The soft, enthralling sound died away.
"I… I can't remember the rest…"
Doyle sniffed hard, brushing the back of his hand roughly across his eyes.
"That's a beautiful song. Where did you learn that?"
Mishka smiled faintly and uttered one word like a prayer.
"Mummy."
She stooped down and picked up the lantern, a wan smile curling her thin, pale lips.
"I have to go now. The master will be angry if I am late."
The Brachen demon was suddenly put in mind of a creature he had only ever seen in photographs and wildlife magazines: a fawn. This quiet girl with her long, thin limbs, glimmering red hair and large, trusting eyes, even the way she moved; unsure and timid; made her look like exactly like one.
Doyle nodded and returned the smile.
"I hope to see you again Mishka. Your singing was amazing. Your mother taught you really well."
Mishka paused at the door, her head bowed.
"She's dead."
She looked around at the half demon, something strange glimmering in her eyes.
"Thank you."
Without another word, Mishka turned and left, dragging the enormous steel door closed behind her, arms shaking like a leaf in the wind, leaving a thoroughly confused seer behind her.
"Hello, Rupert Giles speaking."
"Giles!"
Angel breathed a faint sigh of relief. Cordelia was knelt on the carpet beside the still unconscious werewolf, eyes wide as she watched Angel's face anxiously. They had gone over the details of the attacks again and again as they tried to figure out what to do. It had been Cordelia's idea to phone Giles and now it was a matter of praying that the librarian had the answers they needed and that he would not hang up as soon as he heard Angel's voice.
"Angel."
The vampire could hear the ice in the librarian's tone. He closed his eyes and started to talk, desperate to have the Brit actually hear him out.
"We need your help. We were attacked."
"Attacked? By what?"
"We don't know. Cordy said it was a man. By the description I'd say warlock of some kind."
He could practically see the slight crease in Giles's forehead as the librarian went into thinking mode.
"This man, was he wearing any sort of symbol? A-a tattoo or an insignia at all?"
Angel shook his head, even though the Watcher could not see him.
"No, nothing that Cordy saw."
He heard scrabbling sounds at the other end of the line as Giles searched through his private book collection, phone trapped to his ear between his head and his shoulder as he flipped through a the dusty sheaves of paper.
"Did he take anything in particular or did he just try to kill you?"
Angel clenched his teeth. He kept telling himself to be patient but the thought of Doyle out there somewhere, alone with people hurting him…
"No he didn't 'just' try to kill us. He attacked when I was out. He kidnapped our friend, Doyle."
There was a pause at the other end of the phone. Angel paced up and down, watched by an unusually silent Cordelia.
"Could it… perhaps, be revenge for something do you think? Something that you did before you got your soul?" the librarian asked, delicately.
Angel shook his head impatiently, his quick, angry strides getting more agitated by the minute. The thought of one of his few friends missing and the sight of another injured and unconscious at his feet was starting to eat away at the soulful vampire's all ready battered composure.
"I've all ready thought of that but it doesn't seem to be a vengeance thing. They would have left us a note or something challenging me, something to hurt me. There's been nothing."
A soft groan diverted the vampire's attention. Oz turned his head to one side, eyelids fluttering open. Angel crossed the room to kneel swiftly beside Cordelia who was supporting the rather disoriented lycanthrope, helping him to sit up. Oz squinted painfully in the bright light and raised a hand to cover his eyes.
"What hit me this time?"
Well, thought Angel, at least he sounds like the same Oz. Cordy beamed at him although there was a little less spirit in the gesture than usual.
"A big, black, blobby, magicky thing."
The young werewolf raised an eyebrow, his gaze shifting from her to Angel who fixed him with an urgent stare.
"Oz, do you remember anything about the guy who attacked you? What was that Giles?"
The vampire's attention turned back to the receiver.
"Yes Oz is here. Yes he was attacked as well. Yes I know Willow will be worried sick. Giles I didn't – "
"He said something."
Angel looked quizzically at Oz who appeared more alert than before, even though he was still very pale. The werewolf pressed a hand to his head as he tried to remember without giving himself a worse headache in the process.
"I woke up… and I went for the crossbow. He had a shield or something. I pretty much blacked out after that but… I swear he said something."
Angel waited, trying to contain his impatience and anxiety as Oz gingerly touched the large cut on the back of his head, looking mildly surprised at the blood on his fingers.
"Ow. Okay, that could be why I can't remember anything. He said… he knew I was a werewolf," he said slowly, eyes closed, "and that something was lucky…"
Cordelia snorted, folding her arms, "Well, whatever was lucky, it sure wasn't us."
Oz and Angel ignored her.
"Sacarven," muttered Oz.
"What?"
"I didn't say anything."
"Not you, shut up."
"You know, for being more than two hundred and forty years old you still have the manners of a juvenile teenager."
"Shut up. Who's Sacarven?"
Oz shrugged.
"No idea. The guy just said I was lucky not to have met him."
Cordelia rolled her eyes.
"Oh, that's helpful. We have to go looking for someone that the evil guy told us not to. Yay, fun."
Angel jotted the name down on the back of one of the calling cards Cordy had given him.
"Cordy, this is the only way we're going to find Doyle."
She looked down at the ground, her arms wrapped around her body.
"I know… I just…"
She shook her head, biting her lip as she fell silent. Angel shot a worried glance at her before turning his attention back to the phone, speaking quietly.
"Giles, we need to find someone called Sacarven, he might be a warlock too. Ring any bells? Giles?"
"Oh, now you want to talk to me?"
"Okay, now you're the one acting like a teenager."
"Apologise."
Resisting the urge to throw the phone at the wall with all the strength of a pissed off vampire, Angel took a deep, calming breath.
"I'm sorry okay?"
"Good. Do you have a… a computer?"
The librarian said the last word as though it was some sort of vulgar swear word. Angel smirked.
"Yeah, we do. It's even got Internet connection and everything."
"Very droll. Look up the name. Tell me what you find."
Angel walked over to the computer and switched it on.
"Er… did I say I have no idea how to use this thing?"
If he didn't know better he could have sworn he heard Giles snigger. He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked around to see Oz standing, albeit a little unsteadily, beside him.
"Move."
Angel obliged, handing the phone to the werewolf who lifted it to his ear as he sat down, typing with one hand.
"Hey Giles. Fine. I'm only seeing two of stuff. It'll pass. What do you need?"
Angel sat down next to Cordelia on the sofa, putting an arm around her shoulders as he searched for something to say.
"Don't worry Cordy, we'll find him."
She looked at him with big, sorrowful eyes.
"I shouted at him Angel. I said he was worthless and brainless and stupid. What if he's dead and the last thing I ever said to him was that he was worthless? I mean, I didn't mean it, I was just so worried, even though he is a bit stupid sometimes but in a nice, funny, Doyle-like way. Oh God, what if – "
Angel took her firmly by the shoulders, interrupting her babbling. He turned her gently around to face him.
"Cordy, listen to me. We'll find him, don't worry. I'll kill the people that took him and you can tell him whatever you like. He is not dead, I know he isn't."
"Hey, Angel, Cordy, look at this."
They looked up at Oz who beckoned them over. Angel leaned down beside him, eyes searching the glass screen.
"Check this out, the guy has a website about himself."
Angel took the mouse and scrolled down, looking at the contents.
"Well… I can see what your friend meant about lucky."
The page was a list of names, some with an address or an age attached, some with photographs, men and women, old and young. Cordelia stared at the screen.
"Who are they?"
Oz narrowed his eyes, scrolling back up to the top of the page. Printed in big, bold letters at the top were the words: 'WEREWOLVES ARE SCUM. KILL THEM ALL.'
Angel raised his eyebrows.
"Sounds like someone's a little bitter."
"Love the subtlety there," Oz remarked, completely deadpanned.
There was a search option at the top. Oz swiftly typed in 'Sunnydale'. Three names flashed up onto the screen, swimming against the black background.
'Michael Rusik' – eliminated by Tracker
'Keira Soma' – eliminated by Tracker
'Daniel Osbourne' – alive
Beside his name was a picture of what was unmistakably him, standing on stage playing his guitar.
Oz quirked an eyebrow.
"Look at that. I'm famous."
Cordelia frowned at the list.
"Who's 'Tracker'?"
Oz shrugged a little.
"It could be that guy we ran into before; Cain. That might explain how he managed to get two Sunnydale wolves but not me."
He clicked on a link that took him chart. Names like 'Wolfsbane', 'Silverbolt', 'The Executioner' and so on, were all listed in a chart. Oz looked through the names.
"I'm guessing the guy we want is 'Angel of Death'. He's got the most kills."
Cordelia's hand shook a little as she pointed to one of the pictures.
"Look."
They looked. The picture was of a girl with curly brown hair and a big smile on her face. She was holding a cuddly rabbit and waving at the camera. Pinned to her chest was what looked like a birthday badge with a big number ten on it. Next to the picture were the words, 'Lucy Stokes – eliminated by Angel of Death'. Angel's jaw clenched.
"Giles?" Oz's voice seemed a little strained, We're looking for a werewolf hunter, the 'Angel of Death'."
Cordelia walked back over to the sofa and sat down, eyes watering slightly.
"This hunter, he killed a little girl because she was a werewolf?"
Angel's hands were balled into fists.
"He's not a hunter Cordy. He's a murderer."
On the other side of the room, Oz nodded and put the phone down. He ran a hand through his hair and blinked hard a few times.
"This guy's killed over two hundred werewolves. Half of them had to be identified by their dental records."
He looked tiredly at the other two.
"Good news is, his hideout is in LA, about two miles away. Or that could be bad news I guess."
Angel nodded decisively.
"We go there, we find out what the hell this is all about, find Doyle, bring him back."
He gave Oz a critical look.
"Are you okay?"
The young werewolf nodded, getting to his feet. Aside from blinking more than usual and having a rather large cut across his head, the lycanthrope seemed more or less recovered.
"Let's go."
Doyle was definitely not having a good day. He was in fact having such a spectacularly bad day that if he had had a chart of bad days then this one would probably be about third and a bit. It had taken a negative turn the moment the door of his prison was dragged open for the second time.
Firstly, the screeching of rusted hinges was murder on his ears and secondly the two hooded figures that had entered hadn't been the most cordial of folk. Without a word they had walked over, unchained him, shoved a sack or something over his head and proceeded to drag him from the cell.
They had brought him to his place, wherever this place was, and had then had had the nerve to nick his shirt before leaving. When he had attempted to protest, one of them had slugged him hard in the jaw, leaving his head with feeling that he'd been walking in very small circles for a month. The bastards hadn't even let him finish his bloody sandwiches.
As far as he could tell, he was hanging by his wrists, presumably from the ceiling, in chains. He wondered idly if it would be less painful to be tied up with rope. Shivers wracked the Brachen demon's body and he could feel goosebumps prickling all over his bare skin. He had a feeling that his next visit would not be as enjoyable as Mishka's. If he had known how right he was, he probably wouldn't have been worried about his sandwiches.
"So… you are the seer."
A hoarse, wheezing voice invaded his eardrums at about the same time the suffocating covering was wrenched off his head. He squinted, shying away from the seemingly blinding light coming from flaring torches set in brackets on the walls. As his eyes adjusted, his feeling of unease soared. The room he was in was infinitely creepier than the one he had been in previously. He could now see that the torch brackets were in fact human skulls, mouths twisted in eternal agonised screams. Doyle swallowed hard and tried not to imagine his own skull up there with a piece of burning wood stuck through the top. Stress the 'tried'.
Looking down didn't really do much to assuage his fears. Two men were standing about two metres away from him, the younger of the pair standing a respectful distance behind the elder. The young man had straggly shoulder length hair that clung to his thin, pasty face like slimy tentacles. His eyes were muddy brown and the iris seemed much larger than average giving him the general look of some sort of slimy eel as he stared unblinkingly at Doyle.
The older man could not have been more different. He had short, well-trimmed silver hair, brushed back neatly on his scalp. He wore long black robes with strange symbols embroidered in silver around the cuffs and hem. His eyes contained no pupil and were the colour of arctic ice in midwinter. His expression was twice as cold.
"You are the seer."
Doyle sighed in exasperation. These people were like bloody parrots.
"Yeah, I know."
The man's eyes narrowed and nodded very slightly at which the man behind him smirked and muttered something. Doyle felt something close around his throat. He twisted his head to one side in a panic, thrashing weakly in his bonds as his vision started to blur. Just as he was about to black out, the hold on his windpipe eased and he slumped forward, coughing hoarsely.
"Do not answer back seer. I am the great Zariel. You are no more than a piece of dirt beneath my feet."
'At last,' thought Doyle, 'I was wondering what had happened to the bit where the evil man prophesies my doom'.
"Look at me when I speak to you seer."
Doyle looked up and smiled crookedly at him.
"Sorry Mummy."
The chokehold lasted longer that time.
A minion appeared from the shadows, carrying a cushion upon which rested an object wrapped in black gauze. Doyle watched under stinging eyelids as the old man took the object with much ceremony. The minion backed silently away head still bowed.
Zariel turned back to Doyle smiling in the way that a psychopath smiles as he cuts his victims into tiny little pieces. Doyle wondered vaguely why his brain had chosen to put that thought into his head, now of all times.
"Do you know what this is seer?"
Of course I don't, you twat, if I did you wouldn't have asked me. Most likely it's something I won't be too thrilled about judging by that smirk you've got plastered all over your wrinkly prune face.
"No."
The sinister smile widened.
"Would you like to find out?"
"Not really."
"Ah good. I am not dealing with a complete fool."
Lucky you. I am.
"Unfortunately, you have no choice in the matter."
Raising the object above his head, Zariel began to chant, so low and faint that no words could be made out. Slowly, the man drew the gauze away from the object to reveal a long, slim knife. The black blade glittered wickedly as the torchlight played along its fluid length, which led up to a vicious point.
Doyle gulped.
Without warning, Zariel snatched the blade up from the cushion and with a shout, drove it full length into the Brachen demon's chest.
Cliffie! Mwahahaha! R&R and I'll tell you what happens! Love you all!