Scarstar – My muse says thanks for the encouragement! Thank you for your compliments, you're making me blush! And there will be more fluff, I promise. Just because I can't live without it.

Lady Hawke – Thanks! I LOVE writing Angela and John, they're so bizarre. You never quite know what they think of each other. I really glad you liked the last chapter, thanks for reviewing!

Budgiebird – I like Kingdom of Heaven, but I think I'm in a minority. It is Orlando Bloom, who I like because my brother hates. I keep an OB calendar on my wall just to keep my brother out of my room! Oh, and if you're a dork, I'm a dork too! (gives cookies). Thanks for reviewing!

Silverbloodrain – Thank you! Your comment really made me smile (gives e-chocolate). Thanks for reviewing!

Issay – Yay! Thanks! I love writing fluff…yes, I'm an addict! Thanks for reviewing!

I feel like death warmed up, so I'm not going to make this a long author's note. I just want to say that I have never felt less in character whilst writing this, as I saw Memoirs of a Geisha on Friday, Jarhead on Saturday, bought The Village on DVD and am having a big obsessed about it being on 12 days until Walk the Line comes out. So I was thinking about the army, kimonos, post modernism mind-fucks and Southern accents when I wrote this. So if this is bad, blame all of those things.

Chapter VII: Anger

Okay, sort out complicated relations later, focus on work now…

Angela tried to look competent and professional as she parked her black car in her customary space at the station. Most days she liked coming into her job, because she knew that at the end of it she could leave with a sense of quiet satisfaction in knowing that she'd done her job well and helped a few people. Now though, her head was flickering from one thought to the next so fast that she already had a headache, and it was only eight forty-five.

"Angie?"

Angela wheeled round at the sound of her nickname, thinking of Isabel. Isabel had given her that nickname, and in retribution, Angela had called her Izzy. As they'd grown up Angela had sort of abandoned her sister's nickname, but Isabel had never stopped calling her Angie. It kind of bugged her, but no-one else was allowed to call her that, and it seemed to bring Isabel back from her paranoia somewhat. However, now that she was dead, Angela didn't like to hear anyone call her by that name. She had tolerated people calling her Angie for years, but the memory of Isabel opened up her recent grief-inflicted wound, and she snapped at the speaker, more harshly than she'd meant to.

"What?" she barked. Weiss, her partner, gave her a look that was more than a little taken aback. Angela wasn't really a tempestuous person. In fact, she had always seemed kind of emotionally distant. The only time he had seen her really upset was when she saw her sister's body. Understandable. But now, she seemed more sensitive, as though something that really upset her.

"Jeez" he muttered darkly. "What's up with you?"

Normally Angela would have apologised, made an excuse, tried to smooth it over. But for some reason she felt unable to let go of it, and in her mind she almost felt like Weiss was doing it maliciously. She knew that was irrational, that he couldn't have known, but she still felt the insult in her heart, as though grief had closed around the slight and was refusing to let it go.

"Nothing" she said snappily, brushing her hair over one shoulder with an annoyed air. "What did you want?"

Weiss looked her over. She was definitely acting weirdly, but she was his senior, and he couldn't do much but obey her. He didn't really dare do much else.

"Just wanted to say good morning" he said, almost sheepishly, and then he added under his breath "Next time I won't bother"

A new wave of anger flared up inside Angela, something that she knew consciously was smothering her anger, but she concealed both emotions, just sighing under her breath, thinking up a few curses and walking towards the station briskly. With a cooling wind in her face, she felt a little calmer and more rational. She could sense Weiss' confusion and slight annoyance with her, but she didn't turn back, and just kept walking up towards the station building.

The second she stepped into the lobby, she was struck by a blast of freezing cold air that made her shiver. The autumn day outside was not warm, but it certainly wasn't as cold as this.

"Jesus" she breathed, half-expecting to see her breath frozen on the wind. "Hey, why's the AC on? It's November!"

The receptionist shrugged. "System's broken. Won't be fixed for a week or so"

"Jesus" Angela repeated, rolling her eyes. She turned on her heel sharply and headed towards her locker, where she could dump her stuff. Weiss followed her in, under the pretext of going to his own locker, but as soon as the door swung shut he turned to speak to her.

"You know Angie, maybe you shouldn't be here" he said quietly. "It hasn't been long since your sister jumped off the roof; I'm sure Foreman will let you have some more time off…"

"It wasn't a suicide, it was a murder" Angela said, knowing that she sounded like a broken record, but too incensed to care. "And stop worrying about me" she said sharply, making Weiss physically recoil at the vehemence in her tone. Her eyes practically emitted sparks with the force of her suppressed anger, and finally Weiss took the hint. As soon as he left the small room, Angela sat down, letting her breathing slow down until she was sure she could control it. She needed to think.

Okay, sometimes she found Weiss a little annoying, but she had never snapped at him like that before. She usually managed to maintain a sort of professional distance from him, and that usually worked. But just then, she had suddenly felt so angry that she thought she would snap her jaw if she didn't let it out.

What was happening to her?

Okay, calm down she told herself in her cop's voice. Sympathetic, but firm. Firm, but encouraging. Encouraging, but insistent. It had taken her years to perfect, like being able to talk in an accent, and it even convinced her to be honest with herself. Think about it. You spent the previous night pouring out your soul at your sister's graveside, fighting half-breeds for something you don't even have anymore, then sleeping next to someone you don't really know all that well and even kissing them. It's no wonder everything is a bit screwed up. A bit being a massive understatement.

Though her cop's voice was rational, one part of the statement stuck in Angela's head. Someone she didn't even know that well. If you could measure friendship in days, then it was true, they were no more than acquaintances. But so much had happened in that short time. Constantine was the only person she could trust to navigate her through the new worlds her eyes had been reopened to. She trusted him. Even if it felt like sometimes she didn't know anything about him – after all, the most he'd ever said about himself had been at Molly's Diner, and then he'd been expecting to get rid of her soon, she though. When she met him, she thought he'd be able to help her clear Isabel's name and prove that she was innocent of the suicide. That hadn't really worked out. Even if you sacrifice yourself for the good of all mankind, it's still suicide she thought with a cynical twist. Who makes these rules?

She didn't let her mind dwell on what had transpired in the bed last night, although when she heard it, even in her own head, it sounded so much worse than the truth. It wasn't worth it. After all, it wasn't planned or anything she thought defensively. And a kiss between friends isn't so bad. Is it?

Piss.

Her mind didn't feel up to dealing with this. She was sitting alone in a room that was as cold as Hell was hot whilst her colleagues out there were probably gossiping about how she'd lost her mind. She didn't blame them. Even she thought that she was going crazy.

Maybe you are…

A little voice in the back of her head began to whisper to her. Maybe you're just like Isabel…

Angela abruptly stood up, her body reacting before her brain could process the thought, and peered into the mirror. She looked alright, she supposed. Not obviously like someone who was worrying that their mind was cracking up. But her face looked a little paler than usual, and her eyes looked strangely shadowed, gaunt.

As she looked into her own pale eyes, she noticed that behind her reflection, it was getting darker, as though a shadow was seeping into the mirror. She turned around briefly, all of her senses on alert, but there was nothing there. She even cast out her psychic senses, throwing them out like a net as she had been taught. The only thing there was a neutral feeling from the mirror. Not good, not bad, just powerful.

The black shadow spread like liquid fire, rolling across the mirror in an oily fashion. It glossed over the glass so smoothly that it did not appear to be moving at all. Angela heard the intake of air stick in her throat, and for a moment, it felt as though she couldn't breathe. Her lungs protested violently, but even though she knew that there was no smoke behind her, she couldn't tear her eyes from the mirror, and watching her own reflection, tainted by the greasy smoke and struggling for breath, it felt more real than her own reality.

Echoes began to sound in the distance, reverberating through the mirror like ripples of water. They got closer and closer as the smoke got closer and closer to Angela's body. It was now so close to her that she could see it reflected in her own eyes, and she was expecting to feel the oily-like touch of it on her skin any second now.

…Angela!

The harsh, guttural pronunciation of her name rang in her ears like a wounding obscenity. The shock and power of the word pulled her free of the smoke, and without warning, she suddenly found herself released of the smoke's spell. As she gasped, desperately getting her breath back, she glanced upwards at the mirror. It looked the same as it always had, serenely reflecting the opposite wall and the monotonous identical grey lockers, the single electric bulb casting distorted shadows on the rest of the room.

There was a knock on the door, which made Angela jump. She had been so deeply absorbed in examining the mirror that she hadn't heard any footsteps approaching, or even noted the passing of time.

The door opened, and Weiss entered – slightly timidly, Angela noted, as though he was unsure what state she would be in.

"Angie, Foreman just assigned this to us" He held out a file, the standard brown manila affair, but to Angela's psychic eye she could see that it was glowing faintly.

"Thank you" she said, her voice sounding slightly hoarse, as though she had just inhaled actual smoke. She reached out her hand for the file, taking it and rifling through its contents

A photograph fell out, face down on the floor. Angela bent down to pick it up, but as she did so, a bolt of electricity shot through her arm. The pain was intense, but brief, and before she could react it was gone. Her only tell-tale reaction was her body's reflex release of the photograph, and it fluttered gently to the ground, a few feet away from where she was now.

"Angie?" Weiss asked. "Are you alright?"

His statement didn't irritate Angela as much as it had done earlier. Frankly now, she had other things on her mind.

"Fine" she lied, cautiously inching her hand over to pick up the photograph. Bracing herself, she let her fingertips graze it casually. Nothing. She picked it up, ready to release it if it shocked her again. Still nothing. She was almost willing to forget the shock, if it weren't for the aching pain in her left arm.

She flipped the photo over.

"Mary mother of God" she breathed, unprepared for what she saw.

"I know" Weiss said in a way that was a cross between sympathetic and professional. "Serial killer. Or at least, he or she is now. This is the third case, so it's officially our business"

Angela nodded, even though she hadn't heard a word that Weiss had said. The photograph was nothing unusual. It was just a normal crime photograph of the victim, a girl, barely old enough to drive. Her throat had been cut, and there was blood obscuring the name of the band on the t-shirt she was wearing.

But that was not what drew Angela's attention.

Her attention was drawn to the glaring red light that beamed out of the girl's palms and the soles of her feet. Psychic stigmata. And as it shone into Angela's face, she could feel the oily touch of the light, like the oily smoke in the mirror.

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