Rating: M for strong language/vulgarity, and violence
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the main characters except for Fox and King, as I came up with them. They belong to Joss Whedon & David Greenwalt. Nor do I own or have anything to do with Angel: The Series or Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Used without permission.
Summary: After barely escaping the hordes of the Senior Partners with only their lives, Angel, Spike and Illyria flee to New York City, where they meet a pair of demon hunters with whom they have a lot in common.
A/N: This is yet another post-Angel Season 5 finale, my take on what could happen. As much as I adore Wesley and Fred, they didn't survive, they died like they did on the show. I want to keep this as cannon as possible. I may be weak and try and bring them back into the story in future chapters. I intend for this to be the first in a series. No pairings of yet, but there may be some Buffy/Angel allusions.
Chapter One: Not Dead Yet
Los Angeles
Angel fought. He had never fought so hard in his entire life. The clang
of his sword against his adversaries' weapons was almost inaudible,
nearly drowned out by the sound of the rain pounding a tattoo on the
pavement. The rain came in sheets, washing clean his ever-growing
number of wounds, and running into his eyes, making it hard to see.
Angel didn't know how he was faring. He was tiring, that was certain,
and it seemed that for every snarling beast he cut down, two more rose
to take its place. He had not seen any of his companions for awhile,
either. He thought he had seen Gunn go down not long after the fight
began, like Illyria said he would, but he could not be sure because of
all this damnable rain. Also, he was surrounded by demons.
A burst of white-hot fire erupted right above
Angel's head, and the heat nearly knocked him over. The dragon. He had
forgotten about it. Aft the first sweep overhead, the airborne
creature flew back toward him, and landed on the pavement in front of
Angel, squashing a few demons beneath its scaly bulk. It let out a
blood-curling roar, and threw another burst of fire at the vampire.
Angel leapt out of the way, the fire missing him by centimeters.
Instead of Angel, it fricasseed a brown, reptilian demon. The demon's
screams of agony briefly distracted the dragon, giving Angel the
opening he needed. He rolled beneath the dragons head, and rammed his
sword into its throat. Steaming dragon blood gushed out, singeing Angel
where it landed on his face and torso. He scrambled away from the
writhing soon-to-be-former dragon, swearing, and quickly climbed to his
feet. He promptly decapitated a small impish demon just as another
rushed him. Angel suddenly cried out in pain; something had sunk its
teeth into his shoulder, and another demon slashed at his exposed
chest. Angel fought on.
+
"ANGEL!"
Spike yelled as loud as he could, hoping his fellow vampire would hear him. As much as he disliked Angel, he didn't much fancy getting killed, and sticking together was their best hope for survival. He and Blue were back to back, breaking necks and skulls as they went. Spike had seen Charlie go done some time ago, his many wounds catching up with them. A warrior's death. Here's hoping we don't join him just yet.
+
Same time, different place
Fiona King took a long, slow drag on the cigarette she was smoking, and
handed it back to her partner. They were on the trail of a serial
killer. Which was probably a werewolf or a sa'asgrath demon. The
victims had all been torn apart, mauled, as if by wild animals. Only
there were no such animals in Brooklyn, New York. King exhaled, letting
the smoke trickle out between her lips. She was losing the scent. They
had followed the smell of the latest victim's blood from the
crime-scene; the attacker must have gotten some of it in its fur. Or
scales, whichever the case might be. But the scent was fading, it was
only very faint now. Compared to what it was, that is. King's nose was
practically designed for picking up blood. The smell was still stronger
than most else.
"Pickin' anything up?"
Nicholas Walker, her partner, eyed her inquiringly.
"Keep ya shirt on, Scotty-Boy. Gimme a second."
"Ye know I hate it when ye call me thaht."
"That's why I do it."
"Oh, aren't you a fuckin' riot."
"Always."
King gave the air a hearty whiff to be certain. She was. She gestured
towards the warehouses on their left. Walker nodded slowly.
"Warehouses, eh? I'm goin' wit'sa'asgrath. Wolves prefer the woods, or a park or sommat like that."
"I'd agree wholeheartedly, if not for those police reports Sandy ran by me a few days ago."
"Fair enough. And I suppose it can't hurt ta be cautious. You did
bring your silver bullets, right? Even if it's not the wolf, ye can't
be too careful,"
"One step ahead a ya," replied King, patting the .45 she had tucked
into her jacket. She had no reservations about offing this particular
beasty, wolf or no. This was the third murder in as many nights, and it
was the night after the full moon. On top of that, the police reports
had detailed similar unsolved homicide cases in recent months, all
occurring on, or around the full moon. The odds that this werewolf,
were that the case, not knowing about his condition, were slim to none.
And he clearly had not done anything about it.
Walker and King made their way quickly and quietly,
both armed with an assortment of weapons. King was an ex-cop, so she
gravitated towards firearms. Unfortunately, many, if not most of the
demons she came across were tougher than most bullets. Which entailed
larger bullets, which were harder for her to get her hands on. Still,
it was just as well. She was really starting to enjoy the hand-to-hand
hacking and slashing of swords and other pointy weapons. King was armed
with a short, Roman-style one handed sword, along with a throwing
hatchet.
For his part, Walker loved weapons. He marveled at the art of
weapons-making, the work and skill that went into giving a sword the
right amount of balance and durability. His particular favorite was
called the Kukri knife, a weapon native to the Gurkhas. It had a
short, leaf-shaped blade that curved slightly downward on the cutting
edge. Gurkha tradition stated that should a Gurkha draw it, he must
shed blood with it, be it his own, or someone else's. Walker had told
King sometime ago that despite his Scottish heritage, he had Gurkha
blood in him. She was pretty sure he was just full of shit, but
either way, he carried twin Kukri knives on him now.
King and Fox were bounty hunters by name, demon
killers by trade. They took jobs tracking down criminals, and spent the
remainder of their time killing vampires, and other things that went
bump in the night. They often got lucky, and many of their more
dangerous targets turned out to be evil, or possessed, or something
else not quite human.
As the pair of demon killers neared the closet
building, King stiffened. They were creeping through rows of large
crates; it was like a maze.
"What is it?" asked Walker.
"I'm not sure..." King sniffed the air tentatively. "Smells like...blood...garbage, and...WEREWOLF."
At that moment, something large, brown, and really pissed off leapt at
them from atop a wall of crates. It landed on top of Walker and began
to try to tear him open. Looked like they had their work cut out for
them.
A people native to Nepal
+
Los Angeles, a little later
He wasn't going to last much longer, not at this rate. That much he
knew. Angel kept on swinging his sword to and fro, hacking, chopping,
parrying, blocking, and slashing like a madman. He was certain that he
was the only person still standing, until he caught a flash of
something platinum blonde out of the corner of his eye.
"SPIKE!" He could barely hear himself over the din.
"ANGEL!" Or Spike, for that matter.
"WE AIN'T GONNA LAST MUCH LONGER, MATE!" yelled the other vampire.
"I KNOW!"
WE CAN'T KEEP HOLDING OUT!"
"I KNOW!"
"BLUE'S NOT FAR BEHIND ME–" Spike broke a grey demon's neck, and
impaled a second demon on the first one's horns. Illyria appeared a
moment later, crushing the skull of a small demon.
"WHERE'S GUNN?" Angel asked, but he already knew the answer.
"CHARLES HAS FALLEN." That was the second time that night that the Old
One had informed him of one of his best friend's deaths. The news gave
Angel a renewed a burst of rage-filled adrenaline. He hoped that Lorne
had gotten out ok. He would be damned if he let the rest of them be cut
down.
"I HAVE A PLAN! STAY CLOSE, DO WHAT I DO!"
"ABOUT BLEEDIN' TIME!"
+
San Jose's Catholic Church, 3 blocks away
Father Joe Hernandez of San Jose's Roman Catholic Church was up late
praying. He usually did not pray as much as he should, or at least not
as much as the Monsignor told him he should. Monsignor was a
smart man though, and Fr. Joe was trying his best to take his advice.
Having received his ordination only a few months ago, Fr. Joe was still
a little new to the whole priest-thing. In fact, he had celebrated his
first mass at San Jose's that morning. He was feeling very much
at peace; he felt settled at his new parish, and was really very happy.
So that night, he was praying in thanksgiving. Also, he was afraid of
thunderstorms, and it helped calm his nerves. He could pray in his
room, but he liked the solitude that the large, empty church provided.
"Give us this day, our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us,"
There came suddenly a large pounding sound. Fr. Joe passed it off as the thunder from the storm, it had been raining hard all night.
"And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil,"
At that moment the front doors of the church swung open, and three figures, completely drenched and covered in cuts and gashes, rushed into the Church, slamming the heavy oak doors behind them. Fr. Joe sprung to his feet, his prayers forgotten. He started down the aisle quickly, in a state of complete confusion. The figures, two men in black and a strangely dressed blue-haired woman were pulling up wooden pews and piling them in front of the doors.
"What are you doing? Who are you?" exclaimed the poor priest.
"Sorry padre," shouted the taller, dark-haired man, "but this isn't a good time. In fact, you might want to be leaving out the back," he added "Right now."
"What gives you the right– " Fr. Joe stopped himself short, as the three people continued constructing their make-shift barricade. Something was terribly, terribly wrong. "You're not human," he whispered hoarsely. "None of you are."
"Yeah, but we're not the ones you should worry about, mate. You need to leave, before they catch up with us. This being a church might buy us some time to catch our breath, but it won't keep us safe for long." said the gaunt, blonde man...or thing.
"Who's th– " Fr. Joe was cut off by an inhuman, blood-curling scream of rage. These people clearly knew what they were doing, and there was nothing he could do to help them. Or was there? He sensed that though they were inhuman, they were not evil, and that he should do his best to aid them. As much as he wanted to run for his life, he felt he owed these people his help.
"There's an emergency exit in the cellar, it leads to the sewers. You might be able to escape if you went that way."
The three paused briefly, exchanging a glance. They were all exhausted. If they tried to fight again they would surely lose.
"Show us the way."