Evolution –
The glitter of the limousine's chrome trim traced out paths of diamonds in the afternoon sunshine, burning against the darkness surrounding the tracks and lending the vehicle an otherworldly presence. Cara blinked but the world didn't disappear, didn't change, and wasn't any less disgusting than it had been before. She hated this world. Hated the smell of earth and humanity and the warmth of the sun that never seemed to reach further than skin deep, leaving heart and soul trapped in icy indifference. Paper crinkled in her left hand, the dead weight of a human head hanging from her right and swinging lightly back and forth as she walked. As the distance between her and the limousine shrunk, the side door opened slowly and the distinguished figure of Holland Manners stepped from the dark interior.
"Miss Sewell, welcome to Wolfram and Hart." His eyes strayed to Lilah's head and she tightened her grip on the hair winding around her fingers. Holland raised an eyebrow, his smile cooling noticeably. "I would like to know why you're carrying Miss Morgan's head."
Cara bit back a laugh as she tossed the eyeless head to Holland, enjoying the grimace on his face as he caught the gruesome sight and couldn't decide what to do with it. "Always read the fine print, Holland."
"I would appreciate it if you would address me as sir, Miss Sewell." He gingerly placed the head on roof of the car.
"I'm not Lilah and I'm not your bitch." She tapped the edge of the folded contract against her thigh and scrutinized his every movement, the delicate wiping and dabbing as he removed the blood from his fingers with a silk handkerchief. "Tell me when it starts."
"Is that your only condition?" Holland smiled mirthlessly and motioned to the contract. "You are entitled to a reasonable set of initial demands."
"You have nothing I want." She tossed the contract onto the ground carelessly, vertebrae cracking as she stretched her neck. "Except the ETA of your pathetic army of undead losers."
He chuckled quietly and shook his head, "You spent far too much time with the Marines. We'll have to do something about that. You'll be far more valuable to us if you can learn to act like a lady."
"Go fuck yourself." Cara scoffed. As she turned away from the lawyer the contract fell from her hand and crunched underneath her heel, a fluttering paper flower left behind as a witness.
"You won't last the night without us." He called after her, glancing at the progress of the sun. "And dusk is only a few hours away."
Cara pivoted on her heel, sharp as a new recruit fresh out of training, and sent the twice-bloodied knife spiraling through the air with a smooth flick of her wrist. Not even breaking her stride, she spun again and kept walking even as the sound of metal cutting into dead flesh reached her ears. She left Holland Manners slumped against the limousine with the handle of the knife protruding grotesquely from his right eye socket.
Black boots carried her toward the heart of Sunnydale and the destiny she finally knew was hers.
The peaceful expression on Dawn's face was a stark contrast to the chaos unfolding around her. Spike could do little more than stand at the edges of the living room and stay out of the way, checked and ready to do whatever needed to be done. A phone call from Xander had sent the household scrambling to find their footing again, unsure if their every move and spoken word was being broadcast to the Senior Partners of Wolfram and Hart. Then came the bombshell that Wesley was down. Cordelia had ventured down into the depths of the house to tell Angel and was now alternating between acid-tongued fury toward Cara and just a breath short of tears. A third crisis was brewing on the worn sofa upstairs. Buffy's face was white, lips drawn into a thin line and arms locked defensively across her chest as she listened to Willow's explanation of what was happening.
"She's fine, really. Pulse is strong, breathing all normal and a-ok. She's just, just not here." Willow was frowning worriedly at the limp wrist in her hands.
"What happened?" Still disheveled from sleep, Faith rubbed her eyes tiredly.
"Simple hypnosis. She wanted to see if there were any memories from New Orleans. Where she was, what happened." Willow checked her watch again, continuing to count the beats of Dawn's heart. "She thought it might give us some answers about what Spike is."
Buffy took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment before speaking. "All right. If she's not here, where do you think she is?"
"Another plane maybe. Something like astral projection." Willow seemed to relax as she focused on the possibilities. "It usually takes years to learn how and even then, only a handful are able to really make it work. But Dawn could be different. Maybe the Key part of her makes it really easy to move between planes, like some sort of dimensional passport."
"But she's not in danger?"
"I don't think so." Willow assured them quickly. "She could even be standing right here, just disconnected from our plane of reality. She could be anywhere."
Spike let some of the tension ease from his hands and shoulders. "Then we assume she'll come back in her own due time, is that it?"
"It takes a lot of energy to astral project. At some point, she'll get tired and her body will pull her back. We just have to wait." The cheerfulness in Willow's voice was betrayed by the nervousness in her hands.
"What do we do now?" Faith glanced around the room, biting at her thumbnail anxiously. "Sit tight?"
"In the Sunnydale Reality Show?" Buffy dismissed that idea with a quick shake of her head. "Riley's ready for us. We pack enough for a few days and wait it out. He can send a team to sweep the house, do a little pest control."
"Might be safer anyway." Spike avoided the question in Faith's eyes. "With all of Hell headed this way? No harm in tucking everyone under Finn's wing, which is the last bloody thing I ever thought would come out of my mouth." The mood lightened slightly and a rigid smile appeared on Buffy's face.
"Let's get moving then." She switched into command mode with a toss of her ponytail. "Will, can you touch base with Xander and Jane? Grab some clothes for yourself and Leia, unless she wants to leave town. Since she already knows about us, tell her what's coming and if she wants to get out, now's better than after the vamps arrive."
Avoiding looking at Buffy directly, Willow carefully laid Dawn's hand in the girl's lap. "I don't know how she found out, Buffy. She's never said anything."
"We'll get answers later. Right now, we worry about keeping everyone safe."
"What about Cara?" Cordelia interrupted coldly, her arms folded determinedly across her chest. "Who's going after her?"
"We've got other problems, Cordy. Riley sent a team out to find her." Buffy answered, trying to be delicate.
Faith spoke up hesitantly. "She's right, B. Cara's one of us and she's our problem. You really think she's just going to let them take her in without a fight?"
Spike was torn between his desire to get Faith out of harm's way and the guilty responsibility he felt about the wayward Slayer he had allowed to live. The silence was about to become uncomfortable when he offered his own solution. "Buffy and I will go after Cara. If we can get her contained, then we argue about what to do with her. Push comes to shove and it's her or one of us, then we bring her back in a body bag. Simple as that." He waited for protests but none came.
"Spike." Faith raised an eyebrow in warning.
"It's a good idea." Buffy gently cut her off. "I need someone here who can protect Dawn while the rest of us are circling the wagons. Giles is on his way and he can help get everything arranged. First priority is to get everyone together and safe. All right?" Murmured agreements and brisk nods answered her.
Spike shook his head when Faith turned to him, choosing instead to wrap her tightly in his arms and hold onto her as though she was his last remaining anchor to life itself. She let him know that she understood by hugging him tightly to her, eyes closed and forehead pressed firmly against his neck. Her energy warmed his stiff joints and aching muscles, both relaxing and invigorating. Silently, he promised her that he would return to her. Hell, high water, apocalypses without number. He would be lost without her now.
"Be careful." She was the first to pull away, determination and strength shining in her eyes. "She knows more about you than we do. If you have a weakness, she'll find it."
He nodded and kissed her, savoring the taste of her lips before he relinquished his hold on her and turned away. Each footstep was reluctant as he followed Buffy through the front door, his back burning with the knowledge that Faith would be watching him until he could no longer be seen. The air itself seemed to be charged with a new tension, keeping words sparse and brisk as they climbed into Buffy's car and backed out of the driveway. She was on her phone quickly, trying to get through to Riley and coordinate with his men. Preferring to watch the ever-changing town pass by him, Spike kept his thoughts to himself until she clicked the phone shut and maneuvered the car into the turning lane.
"They're headed over to Xander's. That's where she was last seen and she might have a hostage. A demon named Lorne, he's a friend of Angel's."
"Betting it's not exactly his day." Spike squinted against the brightness of the sun.
"The guys should have a perimeter set up by the time we get there." Buffy checked her mirrors quickly before making another turn. "I want to go in armed. She's had a lot of field time since you saw her last and she's unpredictable. We're not in the business of taking chances."
"Guess you never know." He caught sight of the dark van used by the Special Ops team as they turned down another street. "Letting her go seemed to be the right thing to do."
"She wasn't crazy then." Buffy threw him a small smile as she pulled up alongside the curb. "Life is all about second chances."
"And third chances?" Spike raised an eyebrow as he got out of the car.
"Not so much. More of a two strikes system."
"That's comforting." He followed Buffy down the sidewalk, taking in the details of the surroundings as she spoke quietly with the team leader. One soldier was standing further down the sidewalk and briskly explaining to an old lady walking her dog that the SWAT team was running a drill in the building. Mildly amused at the little white lie, he obediently strapped on a Kevlar vest and took the offered firearm, checking it over quickly.
"You have experience?" The team leader asked curiously.
"Boston PD." Spike answered, surprised that it didn't feel uncomfortable to refer to his human life.
"Good. We don't know if she's still in there or what condition the hostage is in. Stay on your toes."
Spike caught an affectionately indulgent eye roll from Buffy and followed the burly soldier dressed in military gear and body armor into the building. He could tell that she was proud of the men she had trained and worked with by the subtle communication between them, moving through the hallways without a false step or misunderstanding. He was on her turf now, just tagging along for the ride. Halfway down the hallway, he paused as the thought tugging at the back of his mind finally surfaced and silently motioned to Buffy. She nodded toward the shattered doorway just a few feet away to indicate that it was their final destination.
"She's not here." He whispered as softly as he could.
"How can you tell?"
"I can't feel her." He glanced around a bit nervously; unsure how the commandos around him would react to something even he didn't understand.
"Are you sure?"
Focusing on the sensation tickling at his skin, he nodded. He could feel Buffy. Her warmth and her strength radiating in a way that was similar and yet utterly different from Faith.
Buffy held up a hand and gestured something that Spike didn't understand. The commandos seemed to relax, lowering their weapons and standing a little straighter as they waited for the command. Still cautious, the team leader and Buffy made their way along the wall to the edge of the doorway and hesitated for a count of three before swinging into the room. A pace behind, Spike stepped carefully over the pieces of the broken door and glanced around the wreckage of the apartment. One battered lamp and a bar stool had been casualties of war along with a potted plant, several dishes, and a framed poster advertising a science fiction movie. Sitting calmly on the sofa across the room was a green skinned demon dressed in a baby blue Oxford and classic navy slacks. He raised one hand in greeting, ice tinkling inside the glass in his fingers.
Spike caught the scent of scotch and glanced at Buffy quickly, "He's a hostage?"
"Are you hurt?" Buffy approached him warily, still checking corners for any sign of the Cara.
"Can't say much for the old noggin but it's nothing a few more gallons of alcohol can't cure." Lorne answered bleakly.
"What happened, mate?" Spike checked his weapon, making sure the safety was on before lowering it to his side. The demon muttered something into his drink before draining the glass and staring forlornly at the remaining ice cubes.
"Where's Cara?" Buffy relaxed her stance, assured that there was no danger lurking in the apartment.
"She went that-a-way." Lorne waved vaguely toward the door. "I don't want to know and neither do you."
The team leader frowned sternly. "Can you give us anything useful? We have orders to bring her in dead or alive."
"Do I get a say in that? Cause I'm voting for dead."
"Did she tell you where she was going?" Almost gently, Buffy took a seat across from Lorne and focused solely on him. "Angel says you can read people. Like a book?"
"A very dark and violent book." Lorne shuddered. "Think Stephen King with a disturbing penchant for sharp objects."
"Then you know what's coming. Can you tell me anything about that?" Buffy leaned forward, concentrating on his words.
Lorne shifted in the chair and shook his head desolately, "Something's coming all right but not for a good long time. That's what doesn't make a teaspoon of sense. It's big, it's bad, and it's going to raze this world like a cosmic weed whacker."
"A demon?" Buffy frowned in concentration.
"A nightmare. I've heard the legends, the whispers at night around the campfires with a nice cup of Mock-Na. Stories told to frighten little demons and get them to eat their veggies." Lorne turned serious, his voice quiet as he continued. "With everything jumbled up in her head, it's amazing I could read anything off of her at all. I can tell you that she's after someone and she'll kill anyone or anything that gets in her way. There were bits and pieces that didn't fit, like a poem ripped apart and scattered."
"What did you mean, it's not coming for a long time?" Spike asked cautiously.
"Exactly that. This? This gargantuan rendezvous that's schedule to crash Sunnydale sometime in the near future? It's not even on Cara's radar. We're going to be long gone and feeding worms when what's on her dance card asks for a spin."
Buffy shifted nervously, "Could you be wrong?"
"Anything's possible." The demon shrugged absently, glancing around the room as though seeing the rest of the commandos for the first time. "The images don't exactly label themselves with little Post-Its. She's also nuttier than a fruitcake." His eyes stopped on Spike, brow furrowing in thought. "You. There was something about you."
"Hey." Spike took a step back. "I don't know any more about what's in Miss Homicide Queen's head than anyone else."
Lorne continued to stare at Spike thoughtfully until a squawk from one of the radios shattered the quiet. The team leader unclipped the receiver from his belt, speaking softly into the plastic grating and listening intently to the faint voice coming through the static. A few moments of uncomfortable silence passed with Lorne staring bleakly into his glass and the rest of the room waiting on pins and needles to hear the message relayed. When the handheld radio finally snapped back into its case, the team leader glanced toward Buffy with both determination and trepidation.
"We have a problem."
Buffy's expression turned grim as she stood up, "Has she killed anyone?"
The team leader holstered his gun reluctantly, looking a little green around the edges. "The B team found the remains of a limousine just outside of town. The vehicle is still on fire and they're reporting at least three bodies. One of the bodies was mutilated. It's pretty bad. Couple of the guys lost their breakfast."
Shaking her head with a deliberate touch of light-hearted amusement, Buffy holstered her weapon. "Giles had better appreciate what a well-behaved Slayer I've been." She caught Spike's cocked eyebrow and grinned. "Relatively speaking."
"Right." He tilted his head toward Lorne. "What about him?"
"I have a name, Blondie. It's Lorne." The demon set the glass down and reached for his suit coat. "And I'm ready to head down the rabbit hole if someone will just show me where it is."
"Once we have Cara, we're headed to Genesis. You can come with us now or wait for the rest of the gang. Riley's sending some cars to pick them up at my house and make sure Angel gets there in one piece." Buffy was already heading for the doorway.
"I'd rather stay close to the automatic weapons." Lorne hesitated, the suit coat stopping halfway over his shoulders. "Have you heard anything about Wesley?"
"He's in surgery. Cordy was headed over to Sunnydale Memorial when we left." Once again, the genuine kindness in Buffy's voice was a welcome surprise. "Wes is pretty tough for a Watcher. Don't give up on him."
Cordelia's footsteps were the only sound echoing through the corridor, heels snapping disrespectfully against the linoleum and making her wince with every crack in the silence. The hundred yards stretched for miles, the elevator doors closed in slow motion and hydraulics moved at snail's pace to lower her and the nurse with the weary eyes to the right floor. She braced herself again and again, still feeling her stomach fall every time something new leapt into her sight and reminded her of where she was. Of what she was doing.
"This way, ma'am." The nurse was a whisper of white cotton and Hush Puppies as she exited the safety of the elevator.
One more deep breath and her heels sounded their gunshots through the silence of yet another hallway. This one was flanked by two metal doors that swung open with a faint protest as the nurse pushed against the handles with pale, gloved hands. A plaque beside the door made an attempt at discretion and brisk formality. As though the plain gothic lettering could somehow make the line between white and black easier to see and the line between life and death easier to understand. Sunnydale Memorial Morgue. It was then, reading the words without seeing any letters, that the fragile buffer provided by shock and denial began to shatter into pieces and Cordelia nearly lost sight of the swinging doors in the haze of her tears.
"We need you to sign for release of the body." There was a clipboard and pen swimming in the distorted room.
Numb fingers trembled as they scrawled a nearly unrecognizable signature onto the slanting piece of paper. She clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking, back straight and locked stiff with fear of collapse if she took more than shallow, painful breaths. They had covered his body with a fresh sheet, unstained by the blood that had been lost in their attempt to save him. It had all been explained to her amidst the too colorful walls of the artificially cheerful waiting room. Help had arrived too late and there was nothing they could have done to force back the darkness that had swallowed yet another hero. No one else had wanted to take on the paperwork, still lost in their own grief.
Jumpy as a cat on a hot tin roof, Gunn had been the easiest member of the fragmented group to pick out of the deliberately casual crowd. He had paced a track into the carpet at the far end of the room with muscles coiled like a wild jungle cat caught in a trap. Gwen had been seated beside Fred, holding the physicist's hand comfortingly. It was a strange gesture for the usually guarded woman, who had never really reached out to any of them despite being part of the group for years. Then again, the ravaged look on Fred's face was enough to elicit compassion from a heart made of granite. Through eyes glittering with her tears and lower lip quivering with the struggle of swallowing down her pain, Fred had refused to wash away the blood on her hands even as she was reeling from the anvil the doctor had dropped into their world.
Wesley Wyndam-Pryce was dead.
Even as Cordelia tried to focus on the shape of him, the silhouette of white cotton draped over the cold metal of the gurney, even then it didn't feel real and she was tempted to disbelieve. To paint a fantasy where she would pull back the cloth and see someone else's face. Just another casualty in Sunnydale and someone else's tragedy. How many had fallen to the cause and how many more of her friends would lose blood and life before they had even begun to tip the scales? Why didn't the blood of a hero weigh heavier against the forces of evil?
"You have a few minutes before transportation arrives for the body." Weary eyes tried to be kind but only managed the hollow sympathy of someone who had seen too much death.
Cordelia nodded, still frozen in place and waiting for the nightmare to fade back into sleep. Strangely, the memories that flitted through the darkness were those she hadn't dusted off for too many years. Wesley in a crisply pressed suit and spectacles that gave him the appearance of a stuffed owl. His rather bow-legged walk from the motorcycle of his short-lived rogue demon hunter days. She could hear his laughter in the silence of the morgue and without raising her hand to lift away the sheet, she could see his face and the way his eyes would light up if he could smile at her once more. An instant where the heaviness of their lives would fall away from his shoulders and she was allowed just the barest glimpse into the piece of Wesley that refused to give up hope even in the face of impossible odds.
She didn't want to be here. Didn't want to be the one to stay with him in death until men in uniform arrived to take his body where it would be protected from whatever hell was preparing to descend on Sunnydale. Leave no man behind. Itwas a mantra that Angel had taken to heart and he refused to leave anyone undefended even in death. Somehow, it was comforting to Cordelia that Wesley would not be amongst strangers even now that he had no reason to care one way or another. She didn't know if she could bear the waves of heartache washing over her as she stood beside him, if she could stay strong in the face of the gnawing ache for the piece of her heart that had been ripped out. It would be easy to slip the leash of self-control and fall into a pool of tears, spilling over the cold floor as she wept for love and loss. Tears would not bring him back.
Breath stuck in her throat and she wiped the traitorous drops away from her cheeks, "You've ruined my mascara. I'm going to look like a raccoon and it's all your fault." Her voice wavered pitifully in the stillness. Unable to pull back the edge of the sheet, she settled for caressing the soft drape of fabric as it tumbled around his face. "I'm not going to say I told you so even though I was right. Because I believed. I believed in you, that you would find a way. If anyone could have saved her, it was you."
Only the ticking of a clock on the wall answered her.
"Maybe I should've remembered how well your schemes usually go." The shivering laughter competed against the silence, ringing in her ears and keeping the true weight of reality at bay for a precious few more seconds. Behind her, she heard the telltale rush of air as the doors opened and closed. Pulling her hand back quickly, she wiped at her eyes and prayed that her mascara was truly waterproof or that she wouldn't look too horrific when she turned around.
"Hey guys." The words froze in her throat when she saw neither Riley's men nor any of her friends.
Lindsey McDonald tipped his head toward her in a mock salute and smiled. "Miss Chase, you're looking well." The image created by the expensive suit clashed with the farm boy pose, both hands tucked casually into the pockets of immaculately pressed slacks.
"What are you doing here?" She moved protectively in front of Wesley's body.
"I have a proposition for you."
"I'm not buying whatever you're selling."
Lindsey glanced down at his brushed leather shoes, shifting his footing just slightly. "From where I'm standing, it looks like there's something we could do for you."
Cordelia shook her head disdainfully, "You people never learn. There's always a catch and I know all about catches. Some guy offers you ascension and you end up coming back with a hypno-demon hijacking your body."
"You're right, there's a catch. We can't bring your friend back to life for free." He made a point of looking around the room, his eyes studying the cool metal and scrubbed tile floors. "What if I told you there's something you want as much as we do."
"I doubt that. Now if you'll excuse me, I'd like to be left in peace."
"She's gunning for Angel." Lindsey's gaze landed on her suddenly, blue eyes serious and piercing through her. "Not even Wolfram and Hart can control her but at least we know what she's doing."
"How?" Cordelia's blood chilled.
"You're not dealing with just a Slayer, Miss Chase. You're dealing with Lilah Morgan inside a Slayer's body. And we know what Lilah wants."
"Lilah wanted Wesley dead? I don't think so."
"She wanted more than that." He rubbed his chin almost absently, beginning to wander through the tables of equipment. "The Senior Partners have been biding their time, keeping Angel busy and out of the way, but they don't want him dead. Apparently Lilah had other plans. Why do you think she waited until she could have a Slayer's body? The Senior Partners would have given her a new body at any time but she turned them down."
She watched him skeptically, "Why should I believe you?"
"This isn't about you any more. This is about Lilah trying to screw the Senior Partners. You were played. We all were." He shook his head and sighed. "Let me guess, she told you that she knew how to get Angel his Shanshu. That she'd put it in the Slayer's head. Did she tell you that?"
"Yes." Cordelia answered guardedly.
"All part of her plan. She knew you wouldn't kill the Slayer until you knew if she'd told you the truth. That you would ignore the fact that she was dangerous until it was too late. You'd try to get close to her. Wesley did and look what happened."
"No one's going to try again."
"You sure about that?" One eyebrow rose skeptically. "Do you think Angel will kill her? Or do you think he'll hesitate? All it takes is a second and he's dust. We don't want that any more than you do."
"So what's the deal? You bring Wesley back and we look the other way while you take care of Lilah two point oh?"
"We're also interested in what Mr. Wyndam-Pryce may have learned about Lilah's plans. If anything. And since he took that information with him to the grave, it's a bit harder to ask. Looks like a win-win for you."
Cordelia took a deep breath and prayed that Wesley would forgive her. "Where do I sign?"
Each footstep had a signature. Angel passed the time by listening to the nuances and trying to decipher what further chaos had broken loose upstairs by the intricate patterns of those walking above him. It kept the irritation at being kept in the all too literal dark just far enough away to prevent leaving the cot behind and venturing up the stairs. He shifted uncomfortably on the cot and winced despite the softness of the worn cotton fabric against his burned skin. It was almost enough just to be grateful for whatever mobility he had and relieved to feel the claws of death and dust retreating into memory. All gratitude and joie de vive aside, the lack of information from upstairs left him without a helpless to help or a Big Bad to slay. Since Cordelia had left for the hospital, not a single word had been passed down about Wesley's fate or if Angel had lost yet another warrior and friend.
Giles' heel strike was a heavier staccato than the hushed and subtle rhythm of Faith moving back and forth across the upstairs. He could hear Willow's quick steps along with the muffled sound of her voice. Words were lost to him even with supernatural hearing, which meant that they were trying not to be heard by sensitive vampire ears. That meant trouble.
There were several phone calls in rapid succession. The front door opened, closed, opened, and closed again. At some point, he heard a set of steps that he hadn't placed running from one room to the next and his patience nearly snapped. Odds of them throwing a party and forgetting his invitation were slim and even slimmer for the chance that they were merely going about a normal day of picking up the morning paper and going out for lunch. Someone would tell him what was going on, someone had to tell him. Unless, of course, they'd all forgotten that he was still a mess of healing burns sitting down in the darkest corner of the basement and rapidly getting bored with the brooding vampire motif.
Surely they hadn't forgotten.
He kept his peace for a distorted stretch of time that felt much longer than it should have, wordlessly urging the daylight going occupants of the household to find their way down into the basement and tell him what the hell was going on. Footsteps faded into silence and the silence dragged on interminably. In a way, it was worse than listening to the pounding feet of those who had either forgotten or had purposely kept him out of the loop. Now there was nothing to snag his attention and tug his mind away from the bumper crop of worst-case scenarios that had sprung up in the fertile stillness left behind.
Brushing self-consciously at the hem of the horribly colorful shirt he'd gotten as a loan from Xander, he chose to ignore the nagging pain that accompanied the use of his muscles to leave the cot and approach the bottom of the stairs. What had been a mere succession of wooden planks now loomed up as a daunting specter of Everest proportions. First step. He wasn't sure if it was the staircase or his stiff joints that creaked when his weight settled onto the wood.
Above him, the sound of the back door opening made him pause, tensing in the silence to listen for further evidence of someone returning to the house. The footsteps were unfamiliar as they crossed the kitchen floor and stopped just in front of the door to leading to the basement. Apprehension pricked at the back of his neck and he eased his weight back onto the concrete. There was something about those footsteps that made his skin crawl. If he could barely move, there was no way he would be able to defend himself on the staircase itself. The doorknob turned slowly and he pulled further into the shadows as light spilled down the top steps.
His suspicions were confirmed by a pair of heavy black boots descending the staircase at a leisurely pace and the faint scent of blood that drifted down into the darkness, rolling off of her skin in waves. And strangely enough, another familiar scent nagged at him from his memories. The perfume Lilah had worn. That answered the question of whether or not there was anything left of Cara inside burned and bloody skin. In the dim light filtering through the frosted windows, he could see that she was unarmed. Empty hands at her sides were her only weapons, covered with the rust stains of blood that wasn't hers.
"Why are you here?" His footstep was barely audible even to his ears. One step closer and still waiting for the other shoe to drop. For the appearance of a stake or gun or some type of weapon that would give him the excuse to kill her.
Cara watched him carefully, her dark eyes shining and alert in the shadows. He stepped right and she took a step to the left, beginning the circling pattern of predator and prey. For the first time, he saw hesitation in her movements and none of the typical aggression that usually poured off of her in a deluge of anger.
"Might want to think about your answer." Angel closed the distance between them by another step, bringing the smell of blood and death that much closer. "I can smell Wesley's blood on your hands."
She remained as silent and enigmatic as ever.
"They're probably turning this town inside out. How long do think it'll take them to find you?" Another step. If he reached out his hand, he was close enough to touch her. The proximity didn't seem to be cause for alarm. "You know, Cara, it was good of you to stop by. I was getting hungry."
This time she laughed. Bitter, angry laughter. "You think I'm afraid of you?"
He had time to raise one hand in an attempt to block her punch before her fist hit him squarely in the chest and knocked him backwards into the wall. Pain danced through his muscles as he staggered back to his feet. "You're afraid of something. I can smell it on you."
"It's not you." She snarled. "You're pathetic."
Biting back a groan, he dodged the next swing and pulled away from the wall back into the open area of the basement where he could be ready for her. Reflexively vamping out, he didn't bother to shake it away or pretend that he was anything else. It was only a matter of time before someone returned to the house. Riley's men were probably tracking her and Buffy would be with them. He'd forgotten how far she could reach and how powerful her punches were, but he wouldn't forget again.
"Don't tell me you're afraid of the dark." Air whooshed past as he ducked a high kick and spun out of the way. "Big bad Slayer. You like playing the Big Evil? Think it suits you?" He was taunting her now, his anger bubbling dangerously beneath the surface.
"You'd know all about that, Angelus."
"You're right, I do. And you know what?" He jumped to avoid being knocked to the ground. Despite his inhuman recovery speed, his body was beginning to feel the strain of moving before the healing process was done. "I'm not impressed with your angsty poor me routine."
"I'll try something else." Strong hands made contact and latched onto his arms, locking them in a struggle that sent them bouncing off furniture and walls. Boxes crashed to the floor and glass shattered as they fought each other for an advantage.
His muscles were screaming with the exertion of holding onto her, trying to slam her against something hard enough to break her grip on his arms. Spinning around, almost biting his tongue to keep from crying out, he managed to shove her against the center support beam and get one hand to her neck. Her hands moved immediately to his forearm, keeping him from squeezing and cutting off her air.
"Give me one reason why I shouldn't kill you right now."
She laughed again, blood tricking from a cut on her lower lip. "He didn't even struggle."
"What?"
"I cut into him and he didn't fight back. Just let me gut him like the spineless coward he was."
"Shut up!" Angel tightened his grip on her throat, jerking her forward and back sharply to crack her head against the support.
"Can't face the truth?" She managed to choke out.
"I will kill you."
"Then do it." Intense brown eyes locked with his. When he didn't answer she pushed ineffectively against his arm. "Come on, Angel. Put those fangs to good use."
"You looking to die, Slayer?" He ground out angrily, trying to figure out what game she was playing.
She sneered at him contemptuously, "Think I'd make a good vamp? I think I could learn to like it. Wesley's blood wasn't that bad, a little sweet. Maybe that's why he was so soft. My favorite part? The way it slips down your throat, thick like syrup."
Wood splintered when he ripped her away from the support beam and hurled her across the room. The contents of the bookshelf scattering as she slammed into the shelves. He was on top of her in a fraction of a heartbeat, guilt swept aside as he brutally shoved her against the crumbling bookshelf, wrenching her head to the side with enough force to make her wince and biting down hard at the junction between neck and shoulder. All he could hear was the sound of blood pounding in Cara's veins. It poured into his mouth and down his throat. Rich, hot, and tainted with something he hadn't tasted in far too long.
Fear.
He was shaking when he pulled away, almost wishing that he'd choked on her tainted blood rather than gulping it down like a drowning man taking in oxygen. Even as much as he wanted her out of his life, wanted her dead, he didn't want her blood on his hands. She wasn't worth it. He pressed one hand firmly against the wound on her neck. Her pulse was faint against his skin, eyes closed and body limp in his arms. He watched her face, half checking to make sure she was truly unconscious. Knowing Buffy, there would be plenty of rope to tie her up until the army could collect her. He was done with her.
The Council could clean up their own garbage.
It should have hurt. Or tingled. It could have had the dignity to hit her like a ton of bricks instead of worming little green strands through flesh and skin until she lit up the empty darkness with the glow of a hundred million dimensions. To Dawn, there were endless bracelets the color of radioactive waste dripping weightlessly from her arms, slithering down her legs and over every inch of her body. Fingers spun through the inky void of space and the jade tendrils danced behind them in glistening eddy currents of liquid smoke. In and out, they swum and tickled through her hair as though they belonged. Had always been there and held claim to her form long before the barrettes and earrings.
She wanted it to hurt. Wanted proof that they were something alien, that she had been attacked and swallowed up by a cosmic fungus or parasite eating its way through her body. They hummed, buzzing with the energy of unseen barriers and worlds beyond number. Her arms were their playgrounds, her hands were the ladders and her shoulders had been turned to the launch of a slippery slide. Locks of hair served as the ribbons of a Maypole, sweeping out around her as the tendrils wove through and tugged at the ends.
It should have felt strange but it only felt as though she'd finally grown to fill her own skin. No longer hiding inside a shell and waiting for the empty space between to be filled. She lowered her arms to her sides and tried to smile as the green whispers reactively curled around her, brushing softly and warmly against her skin. Trying to comfort her as they sensed her heart breaking.
"I did not expect you to return so soon." The familiar voice of Chronos was quiet in the endless silence.
Rather than search out his familiar form, Dawn stared at the space below her feet. At the glittering forever of stars and galaxies swirling away from her in every direction and leaving her standing alone at the apex of the universe. The magnitude was staggering, her senses stretching out to follow the winding green threads to their endless conclusions. And realizing that she could follow them, bend them and shape them, was far more overwhelming.
"So much power." Chronos commented softly from behind her.
"Am I dead?" Dawn finally looked up and met his gaze unwaveringly.
"You are aware." The answer was expectedly cryptic.
"I can't go back, can I?" Dawn didn't listen for an answer, spinning in slow circles as she tried to understand what had happened. "And I can't help them. That's part of the deal."
"We are bound." Chronos sighed wearily as he settled onto an invisible seat. "You can return to your world but you will not be the same and you will never belong there."
"Do I have a choice?" Dawn felt the warmth of a strand brush against her cheek, wiping away the tears that had begun to fall. "Tell me that I have a choice."
"What would you do if you had one?"
"She's my sister. She…I can't, I can't not do anything." Dawn tried to pull the green threads away from her skin. "I can hide them, move them. I can pull them into a world where they'll be safe. I can save them." Her frantic fingers stilled for a moment as she searched her mind for possibilities she knew were there. "I can even close the Hellmouth forever. I know I can. I can feel it."
"At what cost?" Chronos shook his head sadly. "You weren't ready for this to happen. Not yet."
"What happened? I don't even know what happened." Dawn waved angrily at the emptiness around them. "All I know is that I'm stuck in the literal middle of nowhere, covered in green twitchy stuff, while my sister is waiting for the Slayer hunt of the century. Why can't I save her?"
"Your sister's fate is not within your power. We all have our limitations."
"Send me back. Make me human or non-Keyish. I don't care. I don't want this if I can't save her."
"We cannot undo what has been made."
"It's not fair!" Dawn couldn't find anything to kick or stomp on and settled for pacing back and forth through space. All this power humming through her and around her and still her hands were tied. She would be helplessly watching her sister die. Again. Frustrated, she tried to concentrate on forming a plan. She had to think. There was always a loophole, she just had to find it.