Clarisse pecked at the olive Lorne held between his fingers. They had a little game going on. Clarisse, it appeared, had a natural aptitude for plucking the pimento from olives. It was a talent Nighna must have shared with the bird, and maybe it was the martini talking, but it was infinitely entertaining.
Until Clarisse dropped the olive on the cage floor. That angered the bird considerably. She called him every name in her extensive human and demon vocabulary, then tried to pluck out his fingernails.
Lorne sat back on his heels. He sighed a drunken cloud of amicability. “Score marked for opposable thumbs,” he slurred to Clarisse. “Score one for Pylean evolution.”
Clarisse cocked her head birdwise and shot him a remarkably scornful look. As he watched her sullenly preen her black feathers, a sense of deja vu swam over him.
Lorne’s all-effacing buzz evaporated in rapid fashion. Along with it went the last scrap of illusion that he could stand quietly by, bird-sitting, while the world beyond his purple door went to hell. Deja vu meant more for him than it did mere mortals. It meant that something he had foreseen had come to pass. And he knew with reasonable certainty what that thing must be.
He got to his heavy feet. He dragged his reluctant body to the bar where he found his cell phone in the bottom of an emptied wine flute.
Lorne flipped the phone open. The wallpaper on his phone display remained unchanged from his days at Wolfram & Hart. Oft times her picture was a tetchy reminder to keep up the drinking. But today, Winifred Burkle’s smiling face told him she needed a hero.
“Hey, Sweetcakes,” he said to Fred’s lab-coated and bespectacled image. “I’m on my way.”
He spoke Connor’s name into the speed dial. It rang twice before the boy picked up.
“Hello?” Connor asked.
“Hey, Kiddo. How’s about a hand from your Uncle Lorne?”
~*~
Xander drove up High Street toward Kensington Park. The heater on the Saab was a bit blinky. That was how Giles described it, anyway. Xander thought it would have been more accurate to say it was chock-full of not warming. The penny-bitter autumn air had chafed Maya’s nose and cheeks to an apple red, a fact for which she could not be more apologetic.
“When we get to hospital, do you think they’ll just release Giles and we can all go home?” Maya asked. Chattering incessantly seemed to keep her teeth from chattering.
Xander turned a wide left onto King’s Way. He glanced at Maya.
“Home?” he asked. “You do realize we aren’t in Kansas anymore.”
Maya bowed her head. “I do, Xander. I feel like...” she bunched her shoulders up. “I don’t think I should go yet. I mean, if that’s okay.”
“You kidding? It is okay. If it’s not too Fragglish of me to say so,” Xander said.
“You guys just rescued me from Mr. Psycho Bug-Eyes, and you didn’t even know me,” Maya said. “You know how in some cultures if you save someone’s life you owe them a debt?”
“Like Chewbacca and Han Solo,” Xander offered.
“Exactly like that,” Maya said. “So, I feel like I should, I dunno, stick around, help out. Besides, if I don’t – whole world could end. And then where would we be?”
“Mind if I reserve my answer to that question?” Xander asked. He turned another left onto Tower Road. A scrim of chilly fog clung to the riverbanks. Cirrus clouds fractured the fiercely blue sky.
Maya ran her fingers down the seam of the jacket she’d borrowed from Dawn. Xander noticed that her hands were trembling.
“Maya,” Xander said. “We don’t want you to feel like you’re obligated to stay...”
“It’s not that,” Maya said. She folded her hands primly in her lap. “It’s not. It’s more just a feeling of impending doom that has me spinning. Like, do you notice how quiet the street seems?”
Xander listened. He heard the pathetic shushing of the car’s heater. He heard the cacophony of street sounds. Something did seem amiss.
“Nobody’s talking,” Maya said.
Xander raised his shoulders. “Do they ever? I don’t recall striking up many conversations on my way to work in Sunnydale. Of course, we were in America then and traveled everywhere by car, just like we’re doing now, and did I ever tell you about the time in my life when I drove an ice cream truck?”
Maya’s brows drew together in concentration. She was the type who sought patterns in everything, in the stripes painted on the road, in the cracks of the pavement, between gaps and lulls in conversations. There was a whole subtext most people missed, but Maya picked up on them. Always had. This morning, the pattern felt like a spiritual flatline. It was as though...
“The scales have balanced,” she blurted.
“Scales?” Xander asked.
“They will come for us now,” Maya said slowly. Her voice no longer sounded like the chronically chipper Maya voice. “Come for us who remain behind.”
“Maya?” Xander said. He watched her for a long time. When he looked back at the road, he found the car was aimed at a concrete pylon. He swerved hard. Cars behind him veered around, horns blaring. A spotty old guy in a Macintosh squealed by, pumping his meaty fist out of the window and spouting curses in Gaelic.
Maya’s eyes were wide and fixed on a spot just beyond the hood.
Xander pulled the car into the breakdown lane. He unbuckled his seat belt and slid across to her.
“Bad me,” he whispered. “Bad, bad me. Maya, are you hurt?”
She faced him. “They’re gonna kill us all,” she said.
~*~
Dawn scribbled in her notebook. Andrew scooted the chair back and wedged himself in beside her. He had his own notes to make. In the kitchen, MK and Anjelica were banging around, searching for breakfast cereals.
“Slide over,” Dawn said. She nudged his ribs with her elbow.
“You slide over,” he said.
Dawn made no move to move.
She scratched furiously on her page. He tapped the end of his pen to his nose. Supposedly, he was deep in thought.
“You’re in my personal bubble,” Dawn told him. She shouldered him hard enough to knock him two feet to the right.
“Hey!” he whined. “Quit it. I’m translating here.”
“Really? What do you have so far?”
Andrew checked his page. “Demon articles. A. The. An. And I have one conjugated ‘to be’ verb that may or may not also mean ‘was once a long, long time ago.’”
“Hmm,” Dawn simpered. “Very helpful.”
Andrew folded his arms. “It’s gonna take some time, Miss I Can’t Speak Kimaris,” he said. “So, like, step off.”
Dawn flicked her hands. “Fine. Stepping off.”
They worked in silence for all of twenty seconds. Andrew said, “What’s wrong with you, anyway?”
“Let’s see,” Dawn said. She dropped her notebook and adopted a hands-on-hips-so-I-can-tell-you off-stance. “Giles is hospitalized and unconscious from near-fatal neck wounds. Big Bad Wolf just blew our house in. Kennedy may be dead. Spike’s in danger. And you just spent an all-night conjure-a-thon with Nighna.”
Andrew glared. “Jealous?” he said.
Dawn stormed out of the dining room. Andrew chased after.
“Oh yeah,” Andrew said. “Like you weren’t all hand-holding with Skippy the Wonder Boy once the debris settled.”
Dawn whirled on him. “What?”
“Connor,” he said. “I saw it. He made with the googly-eyes, crawling on his hands and knees.”
She blinked. “He was?”
“Yeah, and you were like, ‘I’m a walking Popsicle.’ As in school, comma, too cool for,” Andrew said.
Dawn sighed. “I was not. And he was not. Besides, you’re changing the subject. You’re forgetting the not calling us amid the probable demon boinking...”
Dawn glanced at the bar. MK leaned against it, chin on her fist. She had a banana in her hand, which she had apparently forgotten in her rapt attention to Dawn’s and Andrew’s conversation.
“Don’t mind me,” MK said breezily.
Anjelica brandished a cake cutter with an elaborate floral handle. “Is this real silver?” she asked.
“Um, sure,” Dawn said.
“There was no boinking,” Andrew said. “She was helpful and knew stuff.”
“Demons aren’t helpful unless they get something in return, Andrew,” Dawn said.
Andrew opened his mouth to speak, but Dawn went on. “I’m not talking about sex,” she said.
“Then what are you saying?”
Dawn folded her arms. “Maybe I’m concerned that you’ve sold us out to your little demon nymph. I mean, it wouldn’t be the first time you betrayed your best friend in the face of evil.”
Andrew sucked in his bottom lip and slumped. “That’s... really not fair. I’m not a Grey Knight anymore. My alignment is neutral good. I’ve seen the error in my ways and have chosen the narrow bramble path to fight for the higher good.”
Anjelica placed a tarnished tea service and a cheese knife on the table. “How about these?”
Dawn and Andrew gave the objects a cursory glance.
Andrew shrugged.
“Yep,” Dawn said.
Anjelica looked pleased. She took her cache from the bar and left the kitchen.
MK pointed her banana at Andrew. “What did she say?”
“Who?”
“Demon girl. Your ex,” MK said. “You said she helped you. Give us the how?”
Andrew stuck out his chin. “Well. She did say Wolfram & Hart had a spy in the house.”
Dawn looked incredulous. “A spy? How would Wolfram & Hart get a spy in here, with all of Willow’s protection to keep the evilness out?”
“Maybe it was Kennedy,” MK chipped in. She grimaced at saying it, but followed through with her thinking. “She drew a line with us. Told us it was her way or Buffy’s.”
Dawn thought for a bit. “They did disagree a lot,” she allowed, “and Kennedy was big on being vocal about disliking Buffy’s way of running things.”
“But would Kennedy work for Wolfram & Hart?” Andrew said. “She was always pretty clear on being anti-Powers-of-Darkness.”
“Still,” Dawn said. “Angel worked for Wolfram & Hart. So did Spike. Maybe she was playing a double agent.”
“Like George Lazenby in On Her Majesty’s Secret Service,” Andrew whispered, reverently. “Cool.”
Dawn lowered her head. She was really feeling the need for serious sleepage soon. It seemed the majority of her synapses had already put up ‘on-break’ signs in their office windows. Her anger at Andrew had waned a little now that she had exorcised it by rite of yelling at him. Unfortunately, it also left her exhausted.
“Look,” she said. “You’re here. You’re home. And you’re the only one who can translate the demon text of the Circle. I’m going to rest for two hours. 120 minutes. Then wake me.”
“I’ll sweep up the rest of the glass in the foyer,” MK volunteered. “I’m too juiced to sleep.”
Dawn went upstairs. She had forgotten that her bed was covered with the pages of the Damas journal, rendering it unsleepable. She went to Buffy’s room only to discover that bed strewn with glass.
She was too tired to clear away the glass, and too frustrated to go back downstairs. Dawn peeled the sheets and blankets back, took an afghan from the linen closet and curled up on the bare mattress.
~*~
Thellian pushed Buffy into the corridor in front of him. At the end of the hall, Angel awaited. A slender young woman with hair like the cover of Vanity Fair slipped around him.
“Thellian,” she said, an edge of urgency in her voice. She saw Buffy and came to an uncertain halt.
Buffy felt Thellian’s hold on her weaken just a little.
“Lalaine. What is it?”
Lalaine was not forthcoming. Buffy sensed that she was the cause of the secret-y apprehension. Good, she thought. Maybe there was something she could use.
Lalaine gave him a curt nod that said, Not now, not here.
Buffy realized then that she recognized the girl. She knew her right away.
“You’re Boadicea’s daughter,” Buffy said.
Lalaine averted her eyes. She sent a pleading look in Thellian’s direction.
“Your mother was a Slayer,” Buffy said. Disgust welled inside of her, turning her stomach sour. “She died because of you. Both you and your sister. How can you...?”
Thellian hesitated a moment longer before shoving Buffy toward Angel.
“Take her. I will meet you at the site,” Thellian said. Thellian brought his eyes to meet Buffy’s. “I need not be present, should you wish to begin without me.”
Buffy glared at Thellian. Her anger was misdirected and she knew it. When Angel seized her wrists, that was when the real rage began.
Angel twisted her around to face the elevator. The doors rolled back; Buffy strode in, leading Angel. No way she was letting him drag her along.
When the doors closed, she said, “That was pretty pointless.” She hoped the bravado held up long enough to get her out of the building.
Angel said nothing. He pressed the button labeled B for basement. The elevator began its hushed descent to the underground.
“You sold me out,” Buffy said. “Why?”
His cold hands clamped tighter around her wrists. “Stop talking Buffy,” he said.
“Because a man with a soul can be truly twisted. Is that it?” she asked. “Tell me if that’s it so I can die knowing I was killed by a foolish, arrogant coward who fell in step with a pseudo-religious psychopath.”
Angel slung her away from him. The force of it surprised her. She cantered back into the mirrored wall, crushing her wrist beneath her body.
“That’s it. Fight me,” she bit out. “I want you to fight.”
Angel took a step back. “You don’t remember,” he said.
“I don’t remember what?”
Angel shook his head. He said, “You forgot... everything.”
“Forgot what, Angel? What did I forget?” Buffy said. She glanced over his shoulder at the red digital readout that displayed the floors as they passed them. Six. Five. Four.
“I was with you, Buffy,” Angel said. His voice had gone gravelly.
“With me? If you’re talking about that one time, all those years ago, I am way over it…”
“I’m not,” he said. “It… it wouldn’t be heaven without you.”
She reeled, the words tumbling over and over in her mind.
“No,” she said. But something rang true to it. He didn’t have to say where they had been; she knew.
“You said it. Not me. I was given a gift. I was with you. When you died. You were...”
“In heaven,” she whispered. “I do remember.”
Angel raised his shoulders. “You forgot. You promised you wouldn’t, but you did,” he said. “Thanks.”
What could she say to him? That she was sorry? That she did everything she could to forget because that was the only way she could survive? The truth of it was, she half-believed she dreamed it all. She never once considered that he had really been there.
“How?” she asked finally. It was all she could do to push that single small word from her throat.
Angel looked away. His chin jutted out at that stubborn Angelus angle she had come to know and love so well. Her Angel, the one she knew and adored and cherished, was gone. Even if his soul remained intact.
If I can get past him, she thought, I can get to daylight. Handy natural deterrent when fighting vampires.
The elevator continued its descent. Angel continued to avert his eyes. Three. Two.
The elevator slowed.
“Angel. You can’t... I was,” she floundered. “It was difficult for me, when I came back. I couldn’t remember anything clearly.”
One.
He turned to her. The animation flooded back into his face, and he grinned. “It’s not just that, Buffy. It hurt, yeah. But it wasn’t enough.”
“Enough for what?” she said.
The elevator continued its slow descent.
“It is either you or me. But you already know that. Hell, we’ve both known that for an age. In the end, it comes down to you and me,” Angel said, leering now as though this brought him a perverse kind of joy. “I have to look out for what is mine. What precious little I have left. You understand that, of course. You would do the same.”
Buffy felt around the edges of what he was saying, trying to make sense of it. And she thought, why the hell isn’t the elevator opening?
“You know it did my heart good, seeing you with Spike,” Angel said. He gave her a tense, extremely forced smile.
“Angel, stop it,” Buffy said.
“I think you don’t get to say that to me,” Angel said. He paused. The elevator lurched gently, coming to rest finally in the basement. Buffy got ready to spring.
“This is about blood,” Angel went on. “My blood. I have to hold on to what is mine.”
Buffy suddenly got it. The final piece clicked into place.
“Connor,” she said.
“My blood,” Angel growled protectively.
The doors slid open with an absurd, artificially pleasant ding. Beyond the doorway lay not the basement, certainly not the parking garage as she suspected, but a dark, slimy pit of stench. It was a sewer – perfect mode of daytime transportation for a vampire.
Buffy had her back against a wall. She would fight instead of run. Her position was ideal for making a stand. She gathered strength into her legs and waited for him to reach for her.
Angel didn’t reach for her. Instead, he drew a rusted, pitted dagger from his pocket.
Buffy looked from the knife to Angel’s distorted face.
“There’s already blood on that blade,” she said. Her throat tightened. She thought she had dreamed it. Hoped she had.
“Alas, poor William,” Angel said, lightly. “I knew him well.”
Buffy’s vision wobbled. “Angel, what did you do?”
“It was disappointing, actually” Angel said, matter-of-fact. “He went out like a punk. Didn’t even fight. You should thank me.”
“No!” Buffy shouted. She lashed at Angel. She pushed him into the button panel. Angel swung the blade. Buffy dodged its wide, flailing arc, but the tip nicked her right eyebrow.
Angel laughed darkly. “Can’t spill all your blood here,” he said. “We need it for the Circle.”
“Angel, why?” Buffy said. Ice flooded her veins. Numbed her. Made her weak. Blood thickened to a rivulet and streamed down her face. She sagged against the wall.
Angel hulked over her.
“I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. It’s not you, Buffy,” Angel said. His eyes slid down her body in the predatory way a jaguar seeks out the softest, most tender spot. “I can hear its heartbeat. You gave him your blood. Didn’t you?”
Something snapped inside her. Something blind, rushing and primal raged at him, teeth and claws bared. Later she would not remember how she got past him. She would only recall the mocking echo of his voice as he pursued her into the catacombs beneath London.
You gave him your blood.
And with that, a certainty: Angel knew.
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