Chapter 1
A wise man once compared the past to a foreign country – "they do things differently there". That was just a line in a book though. The strange thing is that the man when he created the sentence, charmed by the prospect of using flowery prose to add aesthetic weight to his work, never knew how accurate those words could prove to be…
Thick sooty smoke stroked him into wakefulness, the acrid stench sticking at the back of his throat and nose and forcing tears to his dazed eyes. He coughed, spluttering in the gutter, choking on foreign smells. The taste of the pea-souper exploded on his taste buds and forced him on to his knees as he retched, his stomach contents desperately fighting their way into his throat and splashing out onto the dirty cobbles. His head span, nausea so strong it made his eyes pulse. The last thing he saw through his tearing eyes was the wet cobbled pavement as he lurched towards it.
Small staccato splatters; cold, even to his skin. He felt them as they smattered his face, small crystal rivulets running across his skin, cool fingers stroking him back to wakefulness. He turned, rolling onto his back and stared up into the night sky. He expected to see small twinkling lights staring back at him from their midnight blue blanket, but instead all he could see was a thick yellowy grey haze obscuring nature's masterpiece. He sat up, straining his eyes to ensure that what he was seeing was true, but a vicious wave of vertigo crashed into him, forcing the useless air from his lungs and making him sag down back to the wet cobbles. His chest hurt. He felt as though he had a vice wrapped round him, crushing the very existence out of his shell; whilst his insides were being supercharged and trying to break free from their flesh and calcium prison. He gasped, unable to do anything more than inhale and exhale as pain and nausea rolled over him, one after the other, overlapping and meeting as they passed. His body shook with the pain, a fine sweat breaking out on his forehead, the salty sweet sweat mixing with the greasy rain that already covered him making him feel slimy and dirty and hopeless. He felt as though the very flesh of his body was being rendered from his skin. That his bones were being filled with molten metal, rather than the fleshy marrow one expected to find. His lungs were being continually filled with helium and were desperate to float above the air that they were so much lighter than. His blood boiled in his veins and his long still heart was like a furnace, radiating unnatural and unwelcome heat. His head felt too big and too heavy for his body. It was as if someone had taken the head of a granite giant and weighted it on his shoulders. He felt his eyes dilate as the pain increased, a pain unlike any he had ever experienced before.
But that wasn't strictly true.
As he lay there on the floor of the alley, the rain soaking into his rough cotton clothing he remembered another time that he had experienced his body rip itself apart. But how could this be like that time? He hadn't done anything to experience any type of pleasure. If he was honest all he had felt over the past few months was unending heartache and torment. Months of slowly going insane inside a steel prison his own flesh and blood had created for him. Waking from that hateful spell to find that one of the people that he cared about the most was lost to them and they had no idea of where to begin to look. Finding that the man he had once considered his closest friend was still the enemy that he had never seen coming. His small family, forged out of adversity and held together with bonds stronger than love in its purest form, had been blown apart in the most devastating way and their was nothing that he could do to put them back together. That one moment of pure happiness was so far from his reach. Pure misery was there, thick as molasses and just as sweet for all of those who opposed him.
Could pure desperation have the same effect on him as pure happiness?
He doubted that very much. He could still feel the hollow pit that was his soul thrumming away beneath his chilled flesh, so the body wrenching agony he was experiencing had to come from another place.
Bracing against the pain, he levered himself off of the wet pavement. Still focused on dragging in thick mouthfuls of putrid air as a rudimentary form of pain relief, he finally glanced around at his surroundings. Ice swept his body, freezing the pain in its tracks and the mouthfuls became faster. Left and right the view was the same, the conclusion as inevitable as it was impossible. Raising shaky hands to his face, scrubbing his eyes frantically he tried to rub out what it was that he was seeing, but the hands that came to him weren't those that he expected. For a start they weren't cuffed with black wool. Bright and white the unexpected cotton stung his eyes and he convinced himself that the tears that were building were due to the shock of the white and not the panic that had gripped him and wrapped him up in its icy grip. Involuntarily his body began to curl in on itself, shielding him from the unnatural surroundings that he was being subjected to. He couldn't help the low keening that fell from his lips as he sat on the ground. As if invited by his panic, his nausea returned full force and he laid his head on his knees, willing the scratchy material under his cheek and the soft brown hair that tickled his eyes to be the product of a concussion. Trying to calm himself he breathed deeply but gagged as the tastes and the smells hit the back of his throat. If he could get past the desperate breaths his body was forcing itself to take he would have been laughing hysterically, denial bubbling its way out of him in uncontrollable giggles. But he couldn't and he didn't think that had he been able to his smarting body would have handled it. He shut his eyes and welcomed the blackness that washed over him once more.
There were mountains of it. The marble-effect counters of the Hyperion lobby were strewn with a small rainforest of paperwork that had amounted in his brief sojourn to the sea-bed. Gunn and Fred had done their best, but they had been three soldiers down and desperately hunting the fourth member of their team that had vanished into the LA night. He didn't know why they had focused their hunt on him and not on Cordy – who had at least left some physical evidence as to her vanishing – and he wasn't sure that he was happy that they had. Maybe they would have found something to explain what had happened to her if they had begun looking for her straight away. But that was done and all he could do was carry on his own futile searching and pray that, for once, the Powers would decide to look favourably upon them. In he meantime, he had to carry on with the mission that they had embarked upon together. Just because his life was falling apart didn't mean that there weren't other people out there who had problems that he could solve – and more importantly, should solve. And that was what he was attempting to do. The only problem was, was that with every turn of the page he mourned that it was Fred's scratchy script and not Cordelia's rounded characters looking back at him.
No that wasn't the only problem with the new world order that he had surfaced to find. There were so many problems that he didn't know where to begin. The more he tried to focus on the cases he had to work on, the more his mind wanted to dance round the fact that there were three people somewhere in the world that should really be in the lobby with him. Firstly his mind wouldn't leave Connor. He couldn't believe that he had thrown his son, his miracle child and living, breathing redemption, out onto the cruel and dangerous streets of LA. He didn't worry about Connor taking care of himself from a self-defence point, the Quor'toth had obviously taught the boy the necessaries for survival, but he did worry about Connor's state of mind. Angel had spent his entire existence in this world (except for the couple of centuries in Hell) and he found it more than foreign at times. Connor had grown up in a world where the laws of survival and existence were very simple – kill or be killed. Somehow, Angel knew that LA was all the more dangerous than that. Here, people sold their souls for a packet of white powder and the only monsters they ever thought of were the ones that lurked in the back of their minds. It was soul destroying, and he wasn't sure that Connor was mature enough to withstand it. He was old enough to hunt but he had never been subjected to a world where words were as deadly as fangs. And Angel had thrown him out into that world. Some parent he was. He had looked at Connor's face, and his blue eyes had only reminded him of the cold of the ocean floor. He still felt that cold in his bones. The father in him had been undermined by the pettiness of the man and he had been unable to think of anything other than how Connor had hurt him, and so slung him out onto the streets. There were times when he really was his father's son.
Then there was Wesley. The Watcher had been his best friend for years. He had forgiven Angel for his behaviour when Angel had been unable to forgive himself. He had listened when Angel had felt the need to talk about his dark past, with a sympathetic ear and an open mind. He had stood shoulder to shoulder with him in battle. This time, the man in him was being undermined by the father. All Angel could feel was a deep sense of betrayal and hatred for what had happened. He knew which part hurt the most though… it was the lies. There had been so many points where if he had just said something… anything... all of this hurt could have been avoided. To save his son's life Angel would have gladly handed him over to Wesley and told him to get the boy out of the country. There was no one other than Cordelia he'd have trusted more. Hell, he'd have even given Connor to Spike if it would save the boy's life. There was nothing he wouldn't have done had Wesley given him the chance – and now he would never be able to get it back… that love was destroyed as surely as his little boy had been. In his heart, all Angel wanted was his family back… he just couldn't find it in himself to forgive.
His mind swirled to the one person left. The one who was missing. No matter what, at least he knew where Connor and Wesley were. His nightly patrols had become ways of checking on them. He'd watch Connor fight or Wesley read, drink or lead other humans into battle and his heart ached. He wanted to go and join them, but his heart and his hurt kept him on the roof ledge or behind the pane of glass. So he watched; leaving them when the dawn came and he knew the night could no longer hurt them.
But Cordy was out there somewhere and he didn't know if she was hurt, or dead or lost and frightened and wanting desperately to come home… and that ripped him to shreds.
Tingling. Tiny pins prickled up and down his spine. The fine hairs that littered his neck rose in an early warning and he was facing the door before the vampires even crossed the threshold to his home. He had no stake on his person, but he wasn't far from his weapons' cabinet and as he inhaled, the sweet tang of fear that wafted from the septet in the doorway. He didn't move other than to cross his arms across his chest, a sign of boredom and intolerance rather than to shield his torso. Leaning back against the counter, letting its solid form take his weight, he eyed his guests, his face a blank canvass that gave them no idea as to the thoughts that were firing across his synapses. Whilst they were all looking at him as if to say they would kill him if he attacked, he could tell they were in awe of him. They smelt young… maybe a decade old… so he must have smelt and felt ancient to them. It was like a vibration on the air that each demon gave out. A subsonic warning to others of its kind, kith or kin, a non-vocalisation that dictated power and experience before lines could be drawn in the sand. It was a survival technique; there were times when fights weren't necessary because you already knew the outcome. And this was one of those times. They barely registered on his sonar, but he knew that his demon had crashed their senses. There was no way they had walked into his home, his lair, with the purpose to attack him – that was suicide. They may have the swagger of high school bullies but each had a gleam in their eyes that told Angel they all knew who the real predator here was.
And they knew that they were on limited time.
Eyes exchanged worried glances as the vampires tried to communicate amongst themselves without losing the advantage that they expected their numbers to give them. Bodies screamed more words than were necessary and revealed more to him than them speaking out loud would have done. Tired of waiting for them to either speak or attack and desperate to get on with his actual job, he fixed one of the vampires with an unforgiving stare and waited until the intensity of the chocolate gaze forced it to speak. He took a rather perverse thrill from the very obvious signs of increasing fear the targeted vampire underwent. His youth was against him. He wasn't even a decade old and despite the evil of the demon that ran in his veins, he was still far too human to try to deal with a vampire of Angel's age and experience. It had been one of the first things that Darla had beaten into him, or out of him. She had whipped him raw in an effort to remove every trace of humanity from him before presenting him to the Master. Really, she hadn't needed to bother; he had excelled at being a demon. He had revelled in his darkness and the freedom that came with the power and passion of the demon. The humanity that remained in him only fuelled the demon, driving and focusing its darkness. It had never betrayed him as it was doing for these infants before him.
The ticking of the clock on Cordelia's desk became louder as beads of perspiration broke out on the forehead of the pinned vampire. Finally, as a bead of moisture broke on the youth's forehead, so too did the vampire.
"Excuse me… Mr… Angel?"
He didn't speak; answering to mere minions had never been part of what made Angelus up, and this was one of the few times that he decided that he wanted to acknowledge that hidden part of him. Instead he fixed his dark gaze on them all, as a group, telling them in no uncertain terms that they were on very limited time here. One of the smaller ones, a boy, no more than nineteen when he was made was nudged forwards. He gulped down a deep unneeded breath. Angel could see that his body was shaking, small shivers that would have been imperceptible to a human's eyes, but were readily noticeable to his. The sweet smell of fear that was in the air thickened until it was almost nauseating, but Angel simply cocked his head as he waited for the youngster to find the words he needed.
"We… uh… um, we need your help?"
The boy's voice was so cloaked with fear that the statement came out as a question but Angel had already been floored by the content of his words. They needed his help. Angelus, once the Scourge of European humanity and now the scourge of the underworld of LA was being approached by a small nest of vampires in order for them to procure his… aid. He couldn't help the laughter that burst over his lips for the first time in months. It was the most absurd thing that he had ever heard and he couldn't help but laugh at the clowns that were before him. If anything his laughter made the vampires even more nervous and they drew closer together, shielding one another from the present danger.
The fact that the vampires showed no signs of leaving sobered Angel enough for him to enquire as to what it was they actually wanted from him, and the story they told erased all notions of the absurdity of vampire's asking for his aid.
The LA docks had become the prime nesting site for most of LA's demonic community over the past few years. The alliance of Angel and Gunn's old crew had driven them from most of the sub-standard LA slum lands, leaving only the desert or the docks as easy nesting grounds. The smarter demons, usually those with an account at Wolfram and Hart, tended to use the more expensive parts of the city. It was sometimes easier to hide in the open. But for most the docks were the only thing that they had – they didn't come with a four or more figure price tag. But that wasn't the real reason that demons specifically chose the docks. All creatures have certain necessities when it comes to finding a place to inhabit - water, food, shelter – and it was the same for demons. Ironically, when push came to shove, the bottom line was that they were living creatures and, as such, had certain needs when it came to survival. Luckily the docks and surrounding warehouse area provided for all of those needs. The constant influx of freight meant that food shortages were never a problem. Cargo boats brought with them crews and sometimes illegal immigrants desperate for the freedom that the USA had to offer them. Unfortunately, more often than not the only freedom that they were to find was the release that came with the final expulsion of breath from their lifeless lungs. The other plus of the cargo system was that it could take days or even weeks for someone to be missed – if they were missed at all – so chances of them being hunted down for vengeance was slim to none. Then there was the advantage for the demons of being able to vanish quickly and easily if they were being pursued. Never a day went by without a ship leaving port and as most demon species preferred the night sky to the daytime sun a ship was often the more sensible and safer way to escape American shores. Within a few hours they would be out of reach of whatever had decided to hunt them down and they were safe. Temporarily. But for demons, the main beauty of the docks was the multitude of abandoned warehouses, boat houses and storage depots that littered the quay side. Hundreds and thousands of small nooks and crannies for demons to go to ground in.
It was for all those reasons that the AI team checked the docks as a matter of priority when they got a report of a missing person or a new demonic threat. Nine times out of ten, unless they had had the providence of a vision to lead them, they found little more than a desiccated and decimated corpse. But they tried. Normally they had three or four cases a month that involved the docks – it was almost their bread and butter and how they wished it wasn't. But for all those times it was usually a human victim that approached them.
Never a demon. And certainly never a vampire.
Angel would have quite happily dusted them all on sight had there story not caused his sixth sense to go onto alert. It had been the word portal that had set him on red alert and had him throwing the vampires out of his home with very little ceremony. Portals. It took him a while to calm himself after hearing that dreaded word and he had to fight hard to push the Quor'toth and the memory of that portal to the very back of his mind. Those pretty, swirly little light shows never went well for anyone in his family, and if what the vampires had said was true, then this didn't bode well at all.
He had spent the night searching for what was going on. He had tracked down his limited sources and in some cases beaten the information out of them. Then he had sat until dawn working his way through books older than he was as he tried to narrow down what he was to expect. That had been how Fred and Gunn had found him the next morning, asleep on a pile of books and notes, his head rested on his arm, his hand still holding his pen. They hadn't been exactly pleased that he was planning on helping some vampires and Gunn in particular seemed to purposefully ignore the part of Angel's plan that read they would kill the vampires after they sorted the portal out. But they had settled down to help him read, all the while grumbling under their breaths.
Their attitudes had done an about turn when Fred came across what they were looking for. F'Narlt demons. Seven foot. 400lb demonic killing machines if ever one had been designed. Thick scaly hides, teamed with retractable razor sharp claws that were capable of slicing through bone as though it was butter and a detachable lower jaw that would allow a man's head to fit between crushing mandibles made them real problems. Further reading discovered that the portal was their ticket home. No one was disputing the fact that these creatures really needed to get out of LA but they had a problem with how they were planning on doing it. The opening of a portal that separates dimensions requires a lot of power, the type of power that came from sacrifice. Angel felt physically ill as he read of what the demons had planned – the violation followed by the blood letting of the pure on the night of a Dark Moon. Thick fingers of hate clutched at Angel's gut as he worked out that 'pure,' meant children. The children where to be viciously raped, beaten and then slowly drained of every drop of blood that there tiny, fragile bodies held so that the demons could make an inter-dimensional tear. There was nothing worse than a creature that preyed off of children, and seeing through the eyes of a father, Angel became even more determined to stop the ritual.
But his blood ran cold as Gunn found the final piece that nailed the lid in the coffin and sealed the idea of them taking these demons out. Spells are always tricky. The caster asks the universe for a favour and naturally, to accommodate the favour, the universe finds a way to balance out the transfer of energy. Unfortunately for them this wasn't going to be as straight forward as homogenises. This time the inter-dimensional doorway that was being created would leave a permanent weakness… a permanent pan-dimensional tear… one which would never heal and would sing a siren's song of evil into the night. They were only a couple of hours from a Hellmouth and they had their very own Hell Inc. in the form of Wolfram and Hart… the very last thing California and the world needed was another ticking time-bomb.
So they were headed into battle. Three days of arguing and planning left them with only one possible battle plan – a last minute ambush. It really was their only option. Their opponents were much stronger and definitely more deadly than they were and the chances of them actually defeating them in an open battle were slim. However, a last minute ambush gave them at least two advantages. The first was surprise. The second was the distant hope that if they couldn't defeat the demons, they could at least delay them for long enough to either free the children or until their window of opportunity had passed. If Fred's calculations were anything to go by, and Angel had to concede that she was definitely more reliable at working out such mathematical conundrums as dates from obscure calendars than he or Gunn were, then the Dark Moon only occurred once ever 73 years. Time was also on their side due to the specifics magic required. There is only ever one moment when all of nature's energies are balanced enough for certain spells to be undertaken or completed and the demons had a five minute window just after one am to execute their ceremony or else they had to wait for another seventy-three years. That length of time would give Angel or whoever survived the encounter enough time to track them down and destroy them before they could cause any more damage.
But, despite the simplicity of their plan, Angel couldn't shake the cloud of portentous cloud that had settled over him ever since they had agreed upon a plan of action. Nothing happened. There were no calls for help, no cases that had to be solved right away, and no strange happenings of any kind. It was as if the underworld had gone silent so as to ensure that Angel did not miss his forthcoming meeting. Had he been a truly superstitious person he would have begun to worry about the little things that seemed to happen in the preceding days. Birds flew into the lobby doors, breaking their fragile necks as they collided with the unforgiving glass. The little sleep he managed to achieve was constantly interrupted by dreams of Connor's birth and at time his own – with Drusilla and Darla as the blood spattered midwives that ripped him from his mother's womb. The old clock in the lobby, that Cordelia had insisted they keep – despite the fact that it no longer worked and the glass was cracked, had begun to chime inexplicably in the early hours of the morning, only to stop as soon as the sun broke the horizon. Fred's mirror was found in pieces on the floor, having apparently fallen off the wall whilst they were out. Dogs were howling and crows were gathering. Yet Angel had enough to worry about without finding discomfort from the insanity that seemed to be dogging his life.
As he crouched behind the remnants of an old motor boat engine, the fetor of grease and petrol clogging his olfactory senses, he couldn't help but wish that he had paid some attention to the universe. His mother, despite being a devout Catholic, had always put store in old wives' tales, holding with the belief that if so many people had faith in the strange sayings and tales then there must have been some truth to them. His father had mocked her mercilessly, calling her senseless woman, but she had never wavered in her belief. He wished he had paid more attention.
They had arrived at the decaying edifice, a proud boat house once upon a time, a little after sunset, unwilling to miss the and had positioned themselves in separate parts of the building. Fred and Gunn had crouched behind a corroded stack of oil drums, each with one of Gunn's old gang bandanas tied round their mouths to stop from choking on the stench of brine and oil, at the far end of the building. Whilst Angel had positioned himself near to the broken corrugated metal shutters so as to cut off any escape from that exit. He could clearly hear Fred's heart as it beat like a fluttery bird as she tried to stay calm and Gunn's deep nasal breaths as he tried to stay strong. He feared for his friends. They were brave and true and they were usually the first to die. A coward may run from battle but a hero inevitably dies there and he feared that would be the fate for what remained of his decimated family. His sharp eyes scanned the warehouse for anything that they could have missed but there was nothing. There was no sign that the demons had been here before or that the vampire's had lived there until the demons unceremoniously evicted them. The place was as devoid of life as a grave yard.
He shivered. His mother had always said that that meant someone was walking over his grave. Considering it was in Ireland and almost two and a half centuries had passed since he had been interred he supposed that it was entirely possible. But something wasn't right.
Popping. A fizzing at the back of his throat and nose as the scent of ozone exploded on his tongue was the first warnings that he got that the fates were conspiring against them. He knew that taste. From his vantage point he couldn't see the demons until they were in the boat house proper, but he knew what he was going to see once they were. Through the darkness he made out the widening of Fred's doe-eyes and the narrowing of Gunn's as he suspected they had been betrayed. All Angel could do was pray that Gunn didn't move too soon and get them all killed. Over the scent of ozone and fire came a sweet fragrance, one he was unfortunately familiar with.
He watched with an increasing sense of dread as Lilah and Gavin shook hands with the demons and nodded to the five cloaked figures that were stood, living shadows amongst the dark of the warehouse. He could see the betrayal that flared in Gunn's chocolate eyes and smell the fury that poured off of him in waves. Either one of two things had happened, one - they had been set up or two – fate had a really twisted sense of humour. It really didn't matter which one was the case, either way they were as good as dead, for in front of them stood, not the six demons they had expected, but rather fifteen of the gargantuan death dealers. If the vampires had lied to them about numbers it no longer mattered. They were outweighed, out-weaponed and out-classed as far as fighting and killing went. These creatures were created with murder in mind. Bloody and cruel. Vicious and brutal. Unfortunately, they weren't the real problem. The hooded shadows were filling Angel with dead.
Mages.
Five powerful mages had been brought to assist the demons – probably at the expense of Wolfram and Hart. He had only fought Mages once before and he had been surrounded by almost thirty members of the Order of Aurelius – including the Master himself. Even then he had been scared. There was little that truly scared him, but the power he could feel pouring off of them chilled him to the marrow. Fred and Gunn could hold their own in battle, he knew that, but there were times when he missed having a vampire as his back up. They could see that millisecond before someone acted and so could compensate, but his friends were humans and so suffered the frailty and the limitations of that species. Yet he would never fault their dedication to a cause that really wasn't theirs. Sure Gunn had spent years fighting for his survival on the streets and Fred had survived Pylea, but all of that was the product of circumstance and not choice and he knew that they had never faced a group of Mages before. Neither Fred nor Gunn were qualified practioners and even Angel's magical ability was limited and as useful as a gnat trying to stop and avalanche when it came to taking on true Mages. These beings didn't just study and practice Magic, they were Magic. It coursed through their veins alongside the blood, wound round their DNA like ivy on a branch and infused every cell of their being. They spoke Magic, breathed Magic, saw Magic. That is all they were and unless Fred had been hiding things, the three of them were in a lot of trouble.
Ignoring the traitorous Angelus-esque voice that was sibilantly hissing that they were doomed, Angel opted to look at the small glimmer of hope they still had. If Providence chose to smile on them, there was still the chance that they could defeat the demons. Their size meant that they would be slower than their smaller hominid assailants and he had already spotted that their necks were more fleshy than scaled. If he could cut through them, taking most of them out before they realised what was happening, then he, Gunn and Fred could finish off the rest. If all the demons were dead then theoretically, there should be no need for the Mages to open any portal.
He caught Gunn's eye and began to signal his intent to his colleague. He saw Gunn whisper to Fred and both adjusted their positions, preparing to give him as much cover as possible with the metal-bolt loaded crossbows Fred had designed. Capable of firing a steel bolt through flesh at well over 100mph they had the added advantage of not being wooden and therefore were considered Angel-friendly weapons. He gestured to his neck and was relieved that they both seemed to understand what it was that he was telling them. Silently he began to edge round the rusting motor, hugging the shadows to keep his attack as last minute as was physically possible. Strike and hide - that was the only plan he had.
The clanging thunder of metal being violently pushed aside stopped him in his tracks.
In the fully opened doorway stood the seven vampires that had sought Angel's help in the first place. They were armed with make-shift weapons including a tire-iron and fire axe but that only made Angel curse. They were here to take back their territory. They had obviously felt that Angel and his team weren't moving quickly enough and were taking matters into their own ill equipped hands. He cursed as he watched them launch themselves at the demons and they were quickly joined by the whistling of Fred and Gunn's crossbow. For a second he watched as the lumbering demons were assailed by the vampires, it was like watching a bear being attacked by a squirrel. The bear had the strength but the squirrel the speed. He was relieved to note that they too had noticed the fatal weakness and were exploiting it as much as they could. Heaving his broadsword Angel joined the fray, only to feel Gunn and his axe follow within seconds.
For a time their speed worked in their favour. Six of the demons had fallen to the brutal assault, whilst only two of the vampires had been dusted. His hopes began to lift and he moved faster than before, his blade singing as it whirred in silver arcs through the air, cut and biting flesh leaving a red mist in its path.
As the tenth demon fell, Angel noticed Fred, a small axe held in a quivering white knuckled grip, emerging from her oil drum sanctuary and trying to creep towards the children, who Angel had only just noticed. His preoccupation with the Mages had meant that he had missed the very people they were there to save. Two young girls, no older than eight and obviously sisters, and a little boy were chained to one of the loose pipes. Their faces were tear streaked and reddened, the girls' hair had matted through their tears wetting it and refuse from the warehouse floor getting into it. The little boy had a deep cut on his forehead and little drops of blood had dripped onto the grimy ragged he had been gagged with. There clothes were torn – they had obviously struggled. Angel's stomach plummeted. He knew he wouldn't be able to lose himself in the battle with Fred so vulnerable. His eyes were constantly switching from Gunn to Fred in the vain effort to ensure that his humans and the children remained safe.
The eleventh demon fell but the tides were turning against them. There were still eight demons to destroy and the portal was flaring to life. The chanting of the Mages had been a continuous undercurrent to the battle. Almost like the sound of war drums. The small tear, no larger than a baseball was already crackling as the orb began to take on a life of its own. It pulsed, an eerie purple glow so bright that it was almost white, began to illuminate the warehouse. The light was so bright that it hurt the sensitive eyes of the vampires. No sooner had the body of the eleventh demon hit the floor, than the fourth vampire burst into small dust particles that littered the floor covering the corpse of the demon that it had just slain. Then a yell reverberated through the building, bouncing off the corrugated metal and causing it to vibrate with the fury felt by the one who yelled. Angel turned slowly, praying that he wasn't going to see what he thought he would.
There was a fizzing sort of noise.
Angel turned just in time to see one of the vampire's immolate in bout of green flame and he felt sick. The vampires had started to attack the Mages, who were responding with their own brand of weaponry. Too young to know better, the vampire's were driven more by testosterone and blood lust than sense and it was going to cost them dear. Three of the five Mages had switched their attention from the small pulsing sphere, which was rotating slowly as if it was a small planet, and like a planet, it seemed to have its own gravitational pull as small nails and flecks of wood began to drift towards it. The eerie purple had become a hissing, spitting angry ball of black and blue energy. It was angry like a trapped cat, and seemed to be trying to lash out at anyone who had the misfortune of crossing its path. There were only two weaving the spell to open the portal as the others tossed paffs of fire, white hot and alive, in retaliation to the knives and other missiles the vampires were throwing at them. They didn't care who got in the way of their magic, their only loyalty was to themselves and the bubble of power in the middle of the space.
All Angel could do was watch, mouth dry with horror, as the chaos unfolded around him.
Then it all went to hell…
One of the demons had noticed Fred struggling with the thick iron chains that held the children hostage. Despite her desperate attempts to keep the children quiet, they had begun to whimper and rattle their chains in their bid for freedom. All the noise had caught the attention of the nearest demon, which let out an ear-piercing howl as he saw their ticket home being stolen from them. Ever eye in the place flicked towards the waifish Texan as she slowly rose, her little axe clutched tight to her, her thin body shielding the three children unaware that she was the prey of the moment. Fred's warm brown eyes turned from the melting-chocolate soft ones Angel knew and loved, to coffee, bitter and scalding, as she stood – ready to defend the children with her dying breath. The entire focus of the battle shifted on its axis and Angel felt his world tilt out from underneath him as he imagined them all tearing into the sweet gentle girl. There was nothing more he could do. Launching himself into the air, he threw his body towards her… just as the demon swung its stolen tyre iron and the mages let loose streams of power…
The portal pulsed. Like a beating heart it seemed to expand and contract as it felt the pull of magic in the air. Once, twice… on the third time it exploded. Black-purple tendrils of power burst from the dark heart…
Forest… Midnight… Steel… Blood… Ink…
The streams of power coalesced as they hit Angel, exploding in a nebula of electric blue as the purple-black tendrils wrapped around him…
Thousands of volts of power and flame shuddered their way through his system, frying his nerves and shaking the flesh from his bones, as they passed over his vulnerable body.
"ANGEL!"
His head jerked up as the scream reverberated through his skull, rattling his already fragile head. He remembered it, he could still feel his eardrums ringing from Fred's high pitched scream.
He blinked as the light from the muted street lamps stung his eyes. It couldn't have happened, yet all of his senses, his infallible senses that had saved his life time and time again, told him that it had. He had been sent back through time… that was all that could explain him being in Victorian London. He had felt as though he was dying. He had felt his body ripping apart and his blood screaming as it ran white hot in his veins… and then nothing… only the cool black of the London night as he had vomited over the wet cobbles.
With a mixture of awe and fear Angel looked around him. Rather than the ramshackle mess of corrugated iron and wood that had been the boat shed he saw Roman straight rows of soot encrusted terrace houses. Rather than the stench of motor oil and brine, the putrid odour of rotten living, six to a room, and clogging factory smoke filled his nostrils. The rough cotton of his clothes, so different to the refined LA garments he was used to wearing itched at his skin and felt uncomfortably tight compared to the trousers and shirts he had grown accustomed to. The rough brickwork of the building he was leaning against cut into his back, and the cobbles of the street were unpleasant to sit upon. Yet he couldn't move. He didn't want to move. If he moved then he would be buying into the illusion that had sprung up around him.
A fluttering of white in his peripheral vision attracted his attention and, like a magpie chasing a shiny trinket, he scrabbled across the slick road, hands and knees fumbling as he tried to catch the paper that was desperate to escape his grasp. Hands, caked in London grime caught the willow-the-wisp and held it tight, fearing it would escape him again. His desperate eyes scanned the scrap, a discarded daily paper, the date printed in thick black ink. Irrefutable now it was in print… March 25th 1882… two years after Spike's turning…
He gripped the paper to his chest as he scrunched his eyes and tried desperately to remember where they had been in March 1882.
Spike had joined the family and immediately caused uproar. He had been the perfect student; eager, inventive, and thirsty. It was always the same with those who had led pure and sheltered lives. Becoming a demon did more than simply just boost them up the food chain. It freed them in ways that humans would never understand until they underwent the metamorphosis. It made them stronger, faster, smarter and freer. But the pure, the ones who had led innocent lives, cared for their families, gone to church every Sunday, when they became demons everything that they had repressed throughout their lives, the fun that they had missed, the rebellious streak they had hidden, the barbed comments they had withheld, all came out in a surge of passion. Because that is what they had truly lacked in their lives. They had lacked the passion that had made getting up in the morning worthwhile. Spike had been a fantastic pupil because he was so passionate. Poetry had been his attempt at finding an outlet for the pent up passion that was in his soul. Ironic that the removal of a person's soul is what allowed him to truly express himself. So the first few months had been a joy. Spike or William as he had been then, had soaked up everything that Angelus had to offer and Angelus had enjoyed having a male companion. Especially since Spike wasn't the insipid mimic Penn had turned out to be. He was smart and they had talked for hours. He had flare and they had competed over the best kill. He had been a challenge and they had fought constantly. But underneath all of that had been family blood and at the end of the night the three of them had curled into Angelus' bed to sleep the day away. But after three enjoyable months Darla had returned from her sojourn to the Master's court. She had immediately taken offence to William and he had disliked her as intensely. Both were unwilling to share their playmates. Spike bitched and spat whenever Darla insisted that Drusilla joined her at a society function and retaliated by dragging Angelus out on a hunt or drinking binge that had lasted, on occasion, for several days. Darla had then pulled Sire's rights on Angelus and took both he and Drusilla away from William, and that brought about the creation of Spike.
Spike had caused destruction in London on such a scale and in such an obvious way that the four of them were on the verge of being discovered. He brought the corpses of his victims back to the house with him, hiding them in the coal cellar and eventually the stench of the decomposing cadavers attracted the attention of neighbours and eventually the police force. They had been driven out of London, Darla cursing up a storm and Angelus wasn't best pleased either. The dance between the two had continued for months, both wanting to win and neither willing to back down. It had amused him at first, William could have challenged his place as the only cock in the hen-house, but in actual fact William had been happy to defer to Angelus, only fighting with him as a way to pass time or cause trouble, and was more interested in opposing Darla than Angelus. It amused him right up until the mob had chased them to an abandoned mine in the middle of inhospitable rural Yorkshire. He remembered Spike's unabashed grin as he had tried to frighten him with tales of what a mob could do to them if one actually caught them or even worse, a slayer. All he had managed to do was to further inspire Spike's lust for chaos and Darla's fury at the young vampire. They had spent the next three months moving round the country trying to avoid the hornet's nest that Spike managed to create for them everywhere they went. By the October of 1880 Darla had had enough and in a swirl of petticoats and silk had left for the Master's court vowing only to return once Spike had been disposed of. Angelus wasn't unduly worried about Darla, she often did this and inevitably grew bored of the tediousness of court life. Spike was a different matter. Although he continued to create mayhem it wasn't as threatening as it had been when Darla was around. In fact it was the type of whirlwind that Angelus revelled in. Spike created enough bedlam to drive some of the people into a terrified frenzy but not enough to cause any attention to be brought to the authorities. So they had fun. A lot of bloody fun and it was just like the days before Darla had arrived.
Slowly they had made their way back to London. If his memory held true then they had arrived back in London in the September of 1881 and they had taken a house…
As if it would help him to remember more of the details faster, he screwed his eyes up and buried his nose into the wet paper, inhaling the thick ink smell and the faint odour of the London streets.
They had taken a house in one of the many fashionable districts, it had even had a private park/garden area for the streets residents to use and Drusilla had loved looking at the flowers and decorating the house with them. He had known that the only way Darla would return in an equitable mood was if the lair they made met up to her society standards, and the large townhouse with its shiny black front door and freshly painted sash-windows was deemed acceptable… There had been a night at the opera; Dru had wanted to see the production of Mefistofele that had been running since 1880. She loved the idea of Faust selling his soul to the devil, and had spent the evening calling Angelus her 'Mefistofele' and Spike… had killed a gentleman and his wife who had a home on… the King's Road… They had taken the house and it had been the first kill that Darla had praised Will for. She had even graced him with a smile, a tiger's smile as she dug her claws into the soft flesh of his palm and in a sibilant hiss, threatened him with every torment she could devise if he dared to step out of line whilst they were here. Darla had only returned to them though in the April of 1882, and, at her insistance, they had spent the rest of the year there. That meant they were still living there – they hadn't left for the continent until the following spring so Angel should have no problem finding them and taking his place in the family.
From the clothes he was wearing he had obviously crashed into his own or rather Angelus' body. His hair felt slightly longer and kept falling into his eyes, tickling his eyelashes, but he couldn't be expected to remember everything. It had been over a hundred years and even with a vampire's photographic memory there were bound to be some things that he didn't remember exactly. But that didn't matter, as long as he could remember enough to fool Spike and Drusilla – and Darla if he was there long enough – he would be safe. He would just have to find his way back to the house, stay with his 'family', maintain a pretence of being Angelus and use his time to find a wizard or someone with enough power to help him get home.
He was pulled out of his thoughts as his skin began to prickle. Dawn. It had to be about half an hour to sun rise if the burning, itching sensation was anything to go by… which meant he would have to start running now if he wanted to make it back in time – from the looks of it he was on the east side of the Thames and he needed to be on the west, the more affluent part of the sprawling city. He shook his head, his long hair feeling very foreign as it brushed his cheeks as he moved. Pulling himself off the wet floor he glanced back at the sky expecting to see the hazy pink of dawn filtering through the London fog. He was not expecting the shifting haze that usually covered the city like a blanket to pull back and reveal the inky darkness of night and the stars twinkling merrily against their velvet backdrop. That was… wrong. He shouldn't be able to feel the sun on his skin when it was obviously well over an hour, an hour and a half away from breaking the horizon. Yet he could. His skin felt raw and exposed and hot. His blood was pumping, telling him to get to shelter, his demon – or the very slight echo of it was screaming at him to get out of the sun. His senses were on full alert and going haywire, and yet through the chaos he managed to have the mind numbing thought – why was he so exposed to the sun? in this time Angelus was 130 years old and Angel was a hundred years older still; as a vampire's power only increased with age there was no way that he should be almost burning when the sun hadn't even breached the horizon. He may of understood it had he been nothing more than a minion but he was a Master Vampire, both as Angel and Angelus and the sun shouldn't hurt him this much.
As a vampire got older they became more and more powerful. All vampire's became stronger and faster, their skin became more durable, as if the centuries hardened it. Their senses became sharper – they could hear the sounds that were made in other buildings, see far off into the distance, smell blood and emotions more clearly and from futher away, and generally became more distanced from the human that they had once been. In some cases the older a vampire became the more talents it developed. This of course depended upon family lines and blood traits. Some developed psychic skills that ranged from simple telepathy to telekinisis and even empathy in rare cases. There were tales of vampires that could control humans, subjugate them to their wills and desires with merely mind control. They became more proficient with magic, more powerful and able with the spells they chose. They could take to the air in the mimicary of flight. There were even rumors of fire starters, vampires so old they were immune to holy symbols and even the ultimate – day walkers. But the one definate was that vampires became more powerful with age. In Angel's present – LA of the twenty-first century – he was able to stay out in the open until five minutes before day-break. He could even tolerate sitting under the awning in the garden of the Hyperion at midday and risk going out on an overcast day – feats that would be impossible for a fledgling. There was no possibility that he would be hurting from a non-visible sun. He realised that things were a little different… he was in the past, he had a soul.. but things shouldn't have changed so much that he was incapable of tolerating the sun before it broke the horizon.
The irritation the sun was causing prevented him from continuing with his thoughts and fears and he began to run, desperate to get inside before he started to burn. His skin was already beginning to hurt and if he knew anything, that meant it was only a matter of time before it began to blister and crack. Hugging the shadows and the cool brick walls, he began to run for the relative safety of the nest.