Chapter One

The City That Slept



It had begun a week ago: the changes. Changes small enough to at first escape notice before slowly compiling in severity and disclosure. Little things with catastrophic results.

Of course, that assumption wasn’t entirely fair. The changes had likely been occurring for months and had remained small enough to escape notice. They weren’t small anymore. Oh no. With a character makeover of such magnitude on the drawing lines of reasonability, the smallest indiscretions could not escape unreported. He claimed that he was fine, that they were driving him up the wall, and that he in no way required outside support.

He was wrong. He knew it. They knew it. But there was nothing that could be done. No truth that he was willing to adhere. The baby steps were over, the warning phase had passed. Their time for intervention called to a deadly halt because of insecurities. He knew it was coming but didn’t care. Couldn’t make himself care. In a random bout of digression, he pictured them seated uncomfortably in the Hyperion lobby, flipping through books that did more to pass the time than an actual time machine would allow. Waiting for him. Waiting for an update. Waiting until he broke so that they might stop him from traveling further down the pathway he was teetering on the edge of exploring.

It was slow. It was tedious. And it was accomplishing nothing but mount tension to already uncomfortable levels.

What was worse: the city of Los Angeles slept.

The city slept when he could not. The city turned its back on its priorities when he could not. The city allowed evil to fester and brew when he could not. The city looked the other way and he could not.

If he allowed himself to act like the city, the city would suffer. And despite all its shortcomings, no measure of apathy could merit such punishment.

And he could not let that happen. Which, in effect, was likely what sent him smashing through the top story window of the Law Offices of Wolfram and Hart, directly linked to his one sure-tie with the ultimate package: Lindsey McDonald.

Surprise was not a reaction that was running in leaps and bounds. Overall, besides a brief lapse of generalized wonder, his overly dramatic entrance was all for not. But that was beside the point. Angel saw his query and moved, not interested in the squabbling of those around him. In two seconds flat, he had Lindsey by the scruff of the collar and was an instant away from flashing his incisors. “Dru and Darla,” he hissed. “Where are they?”

There were many men who would have pissed themselves in a similar situation, but Lindsey was not one of them. Despite everything that had given him motivation in the past, he didn’t even bat an eyelash.

And for the moment there was nothing that Angel found more irritating.

Intervention. A calm voice reverberated from behind, and the vampire quickly corrected himself. No, in such situations, civilized conversation was nothing he could endorse. And yet, he didn’t turn. He held Lindsey still. Tight, firm, and uncompromising. Such was a man pushed to the edge. It was time these lawyers learned firsthand with whom they were dealing.

“Angel,” the man behind greeted, shifting. The vampire knew without looking that he had extended a hand in a mock semblance of camaraderie. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure. Holland Manners.”

Angel’s mouth quirked a bit. “I’d be careful who you offer that hand to, Mr. Manners. You might lose it.” He broke out into a purely sadistic smile—and though it lasted only a fracture of second, it achieved purpose. The being in his grasp final shivered a beat of palpable fear. Granted it was only a beat, but it was enough. “Isn’t that right, Lindsey?”

Blazing. To his credit, the lawyer snatched the line and pulled his captor in with him. “There are worst things to lose, aren’t there?”

That was it. Angel shoved him to the wall and pivoted sharply to address the other. Despite his near-painful distaste for Lindsey McDonald, his senses would not allow him to squander an opportunity for answers based on foolishness. There was nothing to be gotten by a man smitten. And Lindsey was most definitely smitten. His desire for Darla was all but written across his forehead in big block letters. He wouldn’t be giving anything up, especially for the sake of an ill-gotten grudge.

Chances were, his superior wouldn’t betray anything, either. But he had to try. By God, he had to try. “So,” the vampire drawled appraisingly. “You’re the one pulling the strings around here?”

Holland Manners, upon first glance, was hardly a man that struck fear into anyone’s heart. He stood promptly, business-like, with a small smile that looked to be nearly implanted on his mouth. The pleasantness that reeked from his tone spread similarly through every thread he wore, and he appeared very much the proud father of his recuperating protégé. The look on his face was agreeably disarming, and Angel did not share his sentiment. “A few of them,” the man conceded. “I am Division Head of Special Projects.”

There was not one part of that sentence that he liked. “Special projects like Darla?”

The smile on Manners’s face remained candor; the sort of taste that betrayed itself as chocolate laced with poison. Had he been anything but human, he would have found his head ripped off his shoulders. He was already treading dangerously close to the proverbial border as it was. “Oh, Darla’s just a tool,” he explained good-naturedly. “Means to an end. You’re the project.”

For a minute thereafter, it seemed that he intended to put that promise to good use. The office doors opened and the trained personnel that dealt with unwanted vampiric visitors piled inward—complete with rifles that housed stakes as makeshift bayonets. Angel didn’t move, didn’t flinch—betrayed nothing that would suggest concern. His gaze remained resolutely trained on the self-proclaimed Division Head of Special Projects, daring the other man to blink. “I can crush the life out of you before they even lift a finger,” the vampire informed him gently.

Holland simply continued to smile. “Oh, I’m sure you can. But you won’t.”

“Won’t I?”

“You don’t kill humans.”

Angel’s eyes blazed. “You don’t qualify. You set things in motion, play your little games up here in your glass and chrome tower, and people die. Innocent people die.”

Manners’s gaze twinkled in turn, and he leaned forward a fracture of an inch. “And yet, I just can’t seem to care.” Another blinding smile. The vampire remained expressionless. “But you do. And while you’re making threats, wasting time, smashing windows, your girls are out painting the town red, red, red.”

“Where?” Not that he truly expected an answer, but it never hurt to ask.

“Well, that would be telling. In any case, you might want to hurry.” Holland’s voice changed just a note, at last allowing the first notes of threat to whisper through. It was near imperceptible, but there nonetheless. “So many lives in the balance, waiting for their champion to save them.”

Angel glanced inquisitively to one of the bayonets. “Mhmm. As if you’re just gonna let me walk out of here, huh?”

“As a matter of fact, I am,” Holland informed him conversationally. “You misunderstand us, Angel. We don’t want you dead. Yet. If we did, you wouldn’t be standing here.” He pivoted jovially to the security team. “Would you please escort our guest out of the building?” There was unnecessary emphasis on guest. Manners turned back to the vampire. “I would walk you out myself, but I’m running a little late for a wine tasting at my home.

“And,” he added after he had turned to leave, acting out a poorly executed afterthought. “Just so we’re clear on the matter, you’re not invited.”

With as little as Holland seemed to care about the intruder’s maintenance, Lindsey McDonald was all the more anxious. He followed the team down the halls, made inane commentary to sustain the elevator ride, and was all but skipping when the familiar flicker of red and blue greeted them on the street. Angel wanted to rip his spleen out, and was either very fortunate or cheated to be detained.

“I’ll send you a bill for the window and the shirt,” the lawyer offered cheekily, briefly gesturing to the torn fabric that draped half-shredded across his chest.

Angel didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, you do that,” he agreed, not reacting as he was manhandled and cuffed. “And after I stop Darla and Dru, I might come back and pay you in person.”

“Yeah,” Lindsey returned, “go do your little champion thing and then come back and see me…if you make bail.” He turned to the men in uniform, spirits rising with every beat. “Give him a nice holding cell, officers. With a window. Southern exposure preferred.” He didn’t even look to see if his whimsical request was heard, much less registered. “The firm might not want you dead…but I’m cool with it.”

And that was it. A matter of time now. Time and cunning. More time wasted while lives tangled in a tantalizing view of what could be as opposed to what was. Darla and Drusilla, ripping everyone that crossed their path apart. There was no telling what would be done by the time all was said and done. Drusilla’s black imagination. Darla’s requited bloodlust. Too much balancing the scales. Wolfram and Hart had all the pieces. And now his true family was out there—dancing through the town. Doing something he could not, despite the calling of his inner demon. They were networking him slowly. Patching into something darker than either could even begin to imagine.

If they kept asking for Angelus, he feared they might get him.

Time and cunning. Right now playing by man’s laws. Man’s laws in their perfect society where the big uglies did not exist.

There was a familiar presence nearby. Kate Lockley was beside him.

In a patrol car.

“Perfect,” he murmured.

Time wasting. Darla and Drusilla engaging Los Angeles as their personal playground. Wolfram and Hart. Always back to Wolfram and Hart.

Fucking perfect.

*~*~*


The atmosphere in Lindsey’s office had changed very little in the course of ten minutes. Despite his notable schedule, Holland had yet to vacate the building and tend to the aforementioned personal matters. He waited the same candied patience that he had begun to expect from all the advisees under his wing until sending them off into the big bad world. Not irritated at tardiness, but not encouraging. The man could make anything seem like a burden. It was his prestige and reputation—incomparable to anything else.

It was sort of impossible to get bigger and badder than Wolfram and Hart.

Holland glanced up expectantly as Lindsey stopped in the doorway, knowing better than to enter uninvited, even if it was his office.

“And how is our friend?”

“The police won’t keep him long.”

Manners smiled. “Long enough, let’s hope. Ms. Yuell was kind enough to inform me that the mage arrived ten minutes ago.”

Lindsey’s brows perked. He took that as enough motivation to enter completely. “Did he?”

“Mages are impeccably punctual.” He spoke as though he considered it universal knowledge. One never knew with Holland.

“Will he require our presence during the ritual?”

“No, no. Our guest has means that have no concern of our digression.” The elder pivoted sharply, hands displayed in a prim criss-cross behind him. “Are you excited, Lindsey? Surely you can appreciate the leap we are about to take.”

McDonald’s lips quirked. He was halfway tempted to ask his superior not to call him Shirley, but somehow assumed that his humor would be wasted. “Yes sir,” he retorted instead. “The Order of Aurelius will serve as a very powerful asset.”

“Only Angelus does not make the Order complete.” That came from the doorway, where Lilah Morgan’s shadow haunted the light in a measure of admittedly intimidating authority. For a woman so on the outs with her status, she portrayed more confidence than even she knew at times. “According to our files, the youngest member of the Order is still alive…well, not alive, I suppose, if you’re a purist for terminology.”

Holland smiled agreeably. “Lilah. So kind of you to join us.”

She did not even bother to nod in acknowledgement—an oddity for someone always on the prowl for advancement. It was nearly criminal to allow a superior such as Holland to go unnoted, and she was likely one of the few who could get away with it. “William the Bloody, circa 1880, sired by Drusilla and ‘raised’, so to speak, by our man himself.”

“Ah, yes. William the Bloody.” The elder was still smiling promptly. “Goes by another name now, does he not?”

“Adapted a nickname a brief time following his siring,” Lilah verified. “Took a while to catch, but I managed to dig it out of our more ambiguous files. He’s called himself Spike for over a century now. According to his most recent activities—with the added assistance of a few government files that fell into our possession—have centered around his hunting and killing his kind in our neighboring Hellmouth.”

“Sunnydale,” Lindsey supplied, even as it remained wholly unnecessary.

“Last year, a chip was planted in the subject’s head by a since-allegedly disbanded group of special-ops called the Initiative,” Lilah continued, not reacting to the interruption with even a blink. It was widespread knowledge that Sunnydale was the reputed home of the Big Bads. “There have been rumors to support a restoration of said committee in South America, but nothing concrete has reached our intelligence. The subject, known to the Initiative as Hostile Seventeen, works as a sort of demonic neutralizer.”

“Meaning?”

Lindsey received a dirty look for his ignorance.

“He can’t attack humans, or harm them in any way without receiving an intense neurological shock.” She paused for effect. “His handicap has rendered him a more or less participant in the Hellmouth’s struggle against their various local scares.”

“What is the less, might I ask?” Holland Manners never asked a question. His modus operandi centered on the polite demand.

“As you can imagine, the demon community hasn’t responded well to the subject’s change of alliance, though his actions can be mostly attributed to monetary compensation.” She stopped again, signifying the end in her own voiceless accord. “William the Bloody would be a powerful benefit to the firm, given what I found in my reading. Aside completing the remaining and, more importantly, most acknowledged members of the Order, he has also killed two Slayers in his time, exhibiting cunning and strength. Recruiting him would give us an unspeakable advantage.”

At that, Lindsey stepped forward. Even though the question sounded insidious on his tongue, he felt the need to ask. “Recruit him to do what? Throw rocks at our adversaries?”

“Wolfram and Hart has the means required to cure the subject of unwanted side-effects.” Lilah smirked, and unlike Holland, it wasn’t pleasant. Nor did she pretend it was. “I believe you knew that. Besides, our two boys aren’t exactly known for getting along. Should Angelus’s contract with the firm stand on shaky ground, it would be handy to have someone of such persuasion at our disposal.”

Holland smiled once more, though he now seemed genuinely pleased. That wasn’t something many could say. “Very good, Lilah,” he commended. “Perhaps after Angelus and Darla have become reacquainted, we can send a team to Sunnydale and collect our commodity.”

Ah, a loophole. Lindsey loved loopholes, especially when the readily available solution waved in his favor. “If I may,” he intervened sharply. “I believe that it might be more beneficial in the department of influence if someone he is familiar—even comfortable—with is the one to extend the invitation. According to my reading, he was involved with Drusilla for well over a century. Perhaps she would serve as the greatest means of persuasion.”

“Excellent observation,” Manners commented. “Yes. I believe we should do that immediately.”

“And Darla should go with her.”

A still beat rang through the office.

“Drusilla is a loose cannon,” he explained. “If this project is as important as Lilah is insinuating, its success will depend on its players. Drusilla will search for fun, but Darla will be sure that the job is accomplished.”

He didn’t think it would be appropriate to add that he wanted Darla as far from Angelus as possible, if only briefly.

Had Holland noticed his digression—which he had to, as the personal aspirations of the Wolfram and Hart team were not kept secret—he did not make mention of it. Lindsey’s infatuation with Darla was practically commonplace, and the last thing he needed was the reemergence of her old flame in the full sense of the term.

Personal interest went consequentially ignored.

“All very well,” the elder said cordially. “Yes. As soon as all is settled, we will send Darla and Drusilla to Sunnydale to collect the last member of the Order. I do wish it could be sooner, but Angelus’s addition to the fold will require a period of adjustment. After we have Spike in our possession, we will see him into neurological surgery to remove his…dilemma.”

Lilah shifted uneasily. “What about the Slayer?”

“Ms. Summers?”

“According to our research, the subject has been working alongside the Slayer for the length of his condition.”

“Voluntarily?” Lindsey asked. Knowing Angel’s previous disposition where Buffy Summers was concerned, it would positively kill him if another someone—another undead someone—had managed to wheedle his way into her heart. It was a long shot, but those were known on the occasion to receive the coveted slam-dunk.

“No. I believe I mentioned that he works in turn for money,” Lilah replied. “But you forget this particular Slayer has a likeness for forming bonds with vampires, our residential soulboy acting as a case in point.”

Holland’s lips pursed thoughtfully. “Yes, this does deserve some consideration. Ms. Summers is the longest surviving Slayer in history, am I right?”

“The third,” Lilah corrected.

“Splendid. This might well work to our benefit. If things with the mage do not proceed as well as hoped, we can resort to more…primal means to extracting Angel’s soul.”

Lindsey fought off the temptation to roll his eyes. “What are you going to do?” he muttered irately. “Lock them naked in a room and play Barry White until they can’t help but screw? Angel might not be a model for self-restraint, but I would think that a vampire of his reputation would have the means to ignore some of life’s more frivolous temptations.”

Holland was not amused. “I do not appreciate that sort of humor.”

“Good idea, though,” Lilah added with a smirk.

“Oh, come on. Angel knows his limitations. He wouldn’t dare.”

“I do not anticipate requiring the…shall we say, services of the Slayer in this matter. The mage is highly skilled in such forms of retraction.” Manners’s smile returned easily, all negative melodrama aside. “Darla and Drusilla will collect the Slayer on their trip.”

“Are you expecting her to just…” Lindsey gestured emphatically, “go along because our girls ask nicely?”

Lilah snickered.

“Don’t be silly. I would never presume to ask the girls to play by the rules.” Holland’s leer intensified. “And certainly a Slayer that has survived this long would not be taken of her own will. Oh no. I foresee a great amount of force in obtaining what we want. And as you know, such endeavors have never troubled our firm.”

Lindsey glanced down. There wasn’t much that troubled the firm at all, the murder of innocent children notwithstanding. The familiar growth of distaste that had birthed the year before took a drastic leap forward. “Of course.”

“Now then,” Holland concluded with a chipper note. “We best be off. Wouldn’t want to leave our guests waiting.”

“No,” he agreed. “We wouldn’t want that.”

There were many things he was finding himself not to want.

Not that it mattered, of course. The project was everything. Morality be damned.

The pieces were set, and it was time to move.

Checkmate.

*~*~*


An hour ago, no one would have seen this coming.

They hadn’t made a move thus far—had done nothing but circle the expanse cellar several times, sprouting threats that weren’t so empty. Working the crowd like the sick prerequisite to the grand finale. While the two vampires had done nothing more than compliment the ivory of Lilah Morgan’s skin and address Holland in his infinite malpractice of offering them a massacre, there was no doubt behind their intention. They were looking for a party, and by gum, they had found one.

Darla had stopped in front of Lindsey and was regarding him with an air of curiosity. Of everyone present, he was the most indifferent. He stood solemnly, watching her through hooded eyes. It was most definitely not an exercise of ego. He had resigned himself to his fate the minute they waltzed through the door. No, it was something more. Something unseen and yet comforting at the same time.

Despite appearance, the blonde vampiress knew this. She caught his calm exterior out of the corner of her eye and discarded whatever she had said to Holland—something about being able to sense the fear clouding the atmosphere. And now she was approaching, body language hung with curiosity. Not offended, merely ponderous. Examining him as though he was the second coming.

“But not from you,” she told him. “Do you know what I’m getting from you, Lindsey?” She leaned inward, incisors extended and made as though she would like nothing more than to take a big chunk out of his throat. But she didn’t. “Nothing. Why aren’t you afraid?”

How was he supposed to answer that when he didn’t know, himself? There was nothing to tell her that she couldn’t estimate for her own conclusion. Only that looking at her now, even as she bore her true face, he couldn’t think of anywhere that he would rather be. That likely made him either another sap-heart fool in love or out of his mind, but he wasn’t too concerned with any moniker the others might give him. The others wouldn’t be around too much longer, as it was.

“I don’t know.”

Darla’s brows perked. “You could die here,” she informed him matter-of-factly. “Chances are you will.”

“I know.”

“And you don’t care.”

“I care,” he corrected her. But that wasn’t entirely true. “I guess I just don’t mind.”

There was a laugh from behind. Holland, smiling still to his credit, even it was weaker than anyone in his presence had ever seen, spread his hands diplomatically. “No one is going to die here.” That seemed highly unlikely. “This is just a friendly get-together amongst colleagues. We’re all on the same…” He drifted off when he became aware of the other—Drusilla—dancing behind him, peaking out from either angle of his perspective. “…side.”

The blonde vampire made as though nothing concerning negotiation had been mentioned, wistfully glancing around the chamber with a sigh. “I love this room. Dru, honey, in our new digs…” She pivoted sharply to join her companion, wrapping one arm around her grandchilde-made-sire and another around Holland. “We have to get a people cellar.”

However, it seemed the other vampire wasn’t listening. Her eyes had drifted, adapting the same blaze she spurned every time another vision of what had been or what would be attacked her hindsight. “Something has changed,” she said, tearing herself away. Her arms crossed over her chest and she began to sway rhythmically to a song that no one could hear. “He’s calling. Ohh…Daddy’s home.”

And while no one save her companion knew exactly how to read Drusilla’s transgression, everyone seemingly understood what she said.

Because Angel had crowded the doorway.

Darla did not miss a beat. She pivoted swiftly and flashed her former a smirk, extending the call of candor invitation. If she noticed the void on his face, she did not make mention of it. Angel had never been one for the active expressions—but he was emptier than ever. Hollow. As though the man that claimed to harbor his body was gone, and the demon had departed with him.

“Angelus. Here for the tasting?”

“Look what we have for you,” Drusilla said in offering. She received no reaction, and her spirits fell on cue. “It’s not Daddy. It’s never Daddy.” She flashed her canines maliciously, a cold hiss ringing through the air. “It’s the Angel-beast.”

Then something changed. A smile born from nowhere, spreading across the dark vampire’s face. A smile that would never know life were Angel in vicinity. A smile where there should be no smile.

“Precious,” he drawled, stepping inside. “That is where you’re wrong.”

A still beat. Lindsey didn’t know exactly how to react. He hadn’t foreseen greeting Angelus’s return with a smirk or a pat on the back, but at the moment, he wouldn’t have traded anything for the front-row seat he had in viewing the expression on Holland’s face.

Complete and utter disbelief.

“Angelus!” the other man hurried to greet. “I’m so glad the mage reached you in time. You see, Wolfram and Hart orchestrated your—”

“You’ve only started talking and I’m bored already,” Angelus informed him stoutly. His eyes, however, had not abandoned Darla’s. She was standing motionless, absolutely dumbfound. It had to be shocking, of course. Over a century had passed without seeing him at all. And now, once more, déjà vu in the most extreme. “What was that you said about a tasting, darling?” he asked with a grin. The vampire was not one to savor a reaction that bordered anything but sorrow and outrage, but the look his maker was bearing was beyond priceless. As though reason had been reintroduced—more of herself than she ever bargained letting anyone see. “I gotta tell you, I don’t think I’ve ever been this hungry.”

Darla continued to stare.

Then, slowly, she smiled.

“Of course,” she said, turning to Holland disinterestedly. “Poor dear’s been living on pig’s blood for far too long. I believe the least you can do is offer him a decent meal.”

Drusilla was bounding up and down gleefully. “Daddy!”

But Angelus didn’t reply. His human features melted to the more demonic persuasion, and he grinned at the old man’s horror before lowering his mouth to his ear. “Make a wish,” he whispered.

Then bit down.

And drank.


To be continued in Chapter Two: Inside A Deep Ravine…





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