Angel decided that "Whistler" must be some sort of cosmic in-joke, because the sound the smaller demon was currently making was more akin to a cat in heat than anything resembling whistling. He rested his hands on the smooth chill of the marble and wondered how cold he felt to the living. Would his touch make people recoil? He couldn't remember the last time anyone had voluntarily touched him, so he supposed it hardly mattered.
He turned his head to look at the smaller demon. Angel had barely spoken two words to Whistler once they had left the high school. He had kept silent during the trip back to the warehouse and grunted a thanks when he had been handed a bag of blood, had silently gotten in the car when it was time to go. If Whistler was at all upset by Angel's lack of social graces, he didn't show it. Instead he rocked back on his heels a bit and gave Angel a smile that clearly said he knew something Angel didn't.
Angel couldn't imagine what that could possibly be. He was standing in a cemetery, waiting for the slayer to start her career. Was that why he was here? So he could be her first kill? His brief anger from earlier had dissipated. He wasn't even sure he'd put up a fight if she came after him. He had spent most of the past ninety years in an apathetic haze; the few times he had tried to care about anything things had always gone worse for him and anyone in his presence. If this was where he met his end, at least it would be appropriate.
He made a small disgusted noise deep in his throat and looked at the cemetery that stretched in front of him. A sea of dark gray stood unmoving, every blade exactly the same as its neighbors. Lawns had come into vogue 150 years ago or so; he had never seen one in the daylight. His thoughts drifted again and he pondered whether grass was the color of the birch leaves he had grown up with or maybe, the muddier green of the frogs that lived in the creeks and ponds. Not that he could remember the exact hue of those colors either.
He thought he could hear the accusing whispers that emanated from the rows of ghostly sentries. I summon the demon, you. Would being staked be such a terrible thing? He remembered every detail of every crime he had committed while soulless; sights, sounds, even tastes permanently etched on every cell of his unnatural existence. Meanwhile, he had no recollection at all of what his soul had been engaged in during that same period. There was no memories of heaven, hell or even purgatory. Maybe that's all death would be. A blessed blackness; a final end to the barbarous desires he still possessed. He smiled grimly. That would be too simple and surely not what he deserved. Centuries had passed by and he could still hear Father Kinnear's detailed descriptions of Hell. He was too much of a coward to allow the slayer to take him, no matter what the dead desired.
Unconsciously, he scented the air around him. He smelled something so faint as to be almost indiscernible, but it intrigued him, nonetheless. There was an undertone of musk that caused his balls to tighten, memory drowning him like an undertow. Fucking Darla to while away the daylight hours, pounding into her so hard and so long that her blood coated their thighs. Slamming Will against a wall in a darkened alley, forcing his cock so far down the boy's throat that a human would have died from lack of air. Etching pictures on Dru's body and then lapping up the thin lines of blood as she begged her daddy to hurt her some more. He took a step away from Whistler and forced air up through his nose in a futile effort to drown out the memories. He had never smelled anything quite like it. Violence, power, death. When he was ten, he had skipped school one day in order to watch a fox hunt. Two hundred fifty nine years ago and he still remembered the sharp chill of the morning air, the bright scarlet of the men's waistcoats, the trumpet's announcement of the hunt. But what had imprinted on him most was the frenzy of the hounds as they scented their prey, the blood of the fox whipping them to ever greater excitement.
He felt that same frenzy now. His entire body was tense and all he wanted was to find the owner of that delicious perfume and sink his fangs in and drink deep. He stumbled a few steps away from Whistler, forcing air into his lungs in order to let the smell wash through him.
The smell was stronger now, musk mixed with the ripe heat of human blood. It was as if he was newly risen once more, overwhelming instinct driving out all rational thought. He wanted to fuck, he wanted to fight, he wanted to feed; no, not wanted, needed. He realized only moments before she came into view that it was essence of slayer he was inhaling and it was making him crazy. He melted further back into the shadows and forcibly cleared his mind, balling his fists until he was able to tamp down the need to change. Whistler gave him a small nod of approval, not that Angel cared. He was fighting his body simply because he didn't want to be staked. He figured that, out of game face, he had slightly better odds of her not noticing him.
Sufficiently calmed down, he crept to the edge of the crypt so he could watch her. She was dressed in a hideous orange coat that had the effect of making her look like a huge orange snowman. He honestly didn't see how she expected to fight in it. He got his answer a half second later. She didn't expect to. She was obviously humoring the watcher – Merrick, he heard her say – and she was already turning around to leave, when the grave immediately to her left exploded. He saw her eyes widen in shock and he could hear her heart speed up as fear rooted her to the spot. Merrick was shouting to her about her stake as Angel watched in bewilderment.
The fight lasted five minutes tops. The fledgling easily had the upper hand, throwing the new slayer on the ground and leaning in to drink. The newly risen vampire never even got a sip. She managed to gather her wits and throw the vampire off and finally, after an initial miss, dusted it. She sat on the ground for a long time after that, her expression dazed. When she got up to leave, Merrick trailed after her. Angel could hear his fading voice talking about training schedules and various weapons.
Whistler turned, giving Angel a long appraising look.
"I don't understand," Angel said, running his hand through his hair. "Darla said that slayers were killers. That that's all they were."
Whistler shrugged. "It's always more complicated than we think. Come on, Scrooge. You still have to visit the ghost of Christmas future."