Chapter 2

"San Francisco, open your Golden Gate.

You'll let nobody wait outside your door."

Angel listened to the old Judy Garland classic as he lay in the trunk of his 1967 Plymouth GTX convertible. Cordelia Chase was listening to it, on the radio, as she handled the diurnal portion of the long drive up from Los Angeles. And, that, in turn, prompted him to once more replay the events of the past twelve hours in his mind's eye.

He had slammed the stranger into the alley wall. Pinning him there by his throat, which was tightly clamped in Angel's right hand. To further establish his dominance in the matter, Angel put on his "game face" (as Buffy had liked to phrase it).

"Who are you? Why are you following me?"

"The name's...Doyle," the stranger rasped in reply: "And, I...came...to warn ya!"

"About what?"

"There's been...a bloodhunt...called...against ya."

Angel was so startled, he let his grip slip. Allowing the dark-haired Irishman to fall to the ground. And, while the latter coughed and massaged his throat, Angel's face resumed its human-looking state.

"A bloodhunt? You're crazy. Who'd call a bloodhunt against me?"

"The entire Los Angeles Conclave. For fryin' Russell Winters like ya did."

"I don't believe it. That bastard tried to Embrace Cordie against her will! "

"Doesn't matter. T'was still an unsanctioned Final Death, of a Ventrue primogen, in front of mortal witnesses! The Conclave ruled that an intolerable endangerment of the Masquerade. Every Kindred in L.A. will now be lookin' for ya. Which, as I see it, leaves ya just two choices. Walkin' into the sunrise, tomorrow mornin'..."

Angel's reply was immediate and unequivocal: "I am NOT frying myself over someone like Winters!"

"...or leave town, tonight," Doyle finished (indicating, with a nod, correct anticipation of how Angel would answer).

It was Cordelia, with her well-honed expertise at pointing out other people's flaws, who observed that "...if you do leave, it's a cinch you can't return to Sunnydale!"

"I know," said Angel: "Not even Buffy could stand up to a small army of bloodhunters."

It was at that point that Doyle had recommended fleeing to San Francisco.

"The Kindred Prince of that city is Julian Luna of the Ventrue Clan. And, he has no great love for the Brujah Clan, in general. Nor for Prince Cyrus, in particular! So, he _might_ be willin' to give the three of us political asylum."

"The three of us?" echoed Cordelia.

"Well, my life is certainly forfeit for warnin' ya. And, with all due respect, Miss? The Conclave blames ya _both_ for what happened to Winters."

"But, I can't leave!" she protested: "I just got here. I'm trying to start a film career, for Pete's sake! "

"Cordie," sighed Angel (massaging the bridge of his nose): "If the bloodhunters catch up with you, you'll most likely wind up typecast as a vampire-movie actress. For all eternity! "

"Oooooooooooh!" she replied, her clenched fists quivering with indecision: "Oh, all right! Let's get going. Now! Before I change my mind."

With that, the trio was on their way northward, via the Pacific Coast Highway, in less than an hour.

tbc