Angel said, “I guess if you’re rich and powerful enough, got the right law firm, you can do whatever you want.”
Lindsey’s client looked smug. “Pretty much.”
“Can you fly?” Angel queried.
Mr. Winters’s smile wavered. Then, before anyone could do anything to stop him, Angel lifted his foot, positioned it on the chair between Mr. Winters’s legs, and pushed with all his might.
As Lindsey gaped in shock, Mr. Winters, in his chair, rocketed back fast, crashing into and through the wall of glass at his back.
He went flying out into the sunlight. As he fell, shrieking, he burst into flame and burned to vampire dust.
Angel, just out of the direct sunlight flooding in through the broken window, stood watching. Lindsey and the ranks of stone-faced lawyers were behind him.
Angel drawled, “Guess not.”
Angel turned to leave, pausing to slip Lindsey’s business card back into the lawyer’s breast pocket as he exited.
Perfectly deadpan, Lindsey said, “Well.”
Maintaining his composure, he snapped his briefcase shut. The others followed suit, calm and cool.
There would be other rich and powerful clients. The city was filled with vampires.
All kinds of them.
After all, this was Hollywood.
Russell Winters Enterprises: The chair cascaded, then smashed into the ground and bounced, a few dusty ashes sprinkling down in its wake.
* * *
It was still day, but Angel wasn’t sleepy. Exhausted, yes, but he knew this day he would not rest.
Angel sat by himself, by the phone. After a moment he thought, Hell with it, picked up, dialed, and waited.
Buffy’s voice poured into his heart, “Hello? Hello?”
Angel hung up. He was certain of one thing: He had not been sent to Tina to learn the true meaning of grief after all.
Her name was still Buffy.
And the memories weren’t going to fade any time soon.
Doyle walked into the room. “What happened with Russell?”
Angel replied, “He went into the light.”
“Yet ya don’t seem in a celebratin’ mood.” Doyle looked mildly intrigued.
Angel shrugged. “I killed a vampire. I didn’t help anyone.”
“You sure o’ that?”
From overhead came the sound of a scream.
The two bolted upstairs.
And into Angel’s office, to find the old desks and file cabinets dusted and moved into the inner and outer office spaces. Cordelia, wearing one of Angel’s shirts, sleeves rolled up, had been dusting and shoving furniture around.
“Aaaaghhl! Cockroach!” she informed them wildly. “In the corner. I’d say a bantamweight.”
Doyle went to check.
Cordelia turned to Angel.
“Okay,” she said, “first thing, we have to call an exterminator. And a sign painter. We should have a name on the door.”
“Okay. I’m confused,” Angel drawled. “Again.”
Cordelia smiled. “Oh, Doyle told me about your little mission and all and I was saying, if we’re gonna help people out, maybe a small charge, a fee, you know, something to help pay the rent, and my salary. . . .”
He stared at her, speechless.
She went on, “You need someone to organize things, and you’re not exactly rolling in it, Mr. I-was-alive-for-two-hundred-years-and-never-developed-an-investment-portfolio.”
His mind was parsing her quick sentences. More important, his heart was warmed by what she was offering.
Still, he asked, “You want to charge people?”
“Not everybody,” she assured him. “But sooner or later you’ll have to help some rich people, right?” She looked to Doyle. “Right?”
Doyle said, “Possibly.”
“Hand me that box,” she ordered Angel. “So I figure we’ll charge based on a case by case analysis, but with me working for a flat fee.”
Angel regarded her for a moment, still taking everything in. For a moment her bravado slipped, and she looked at him meekly.
“I mean, that is, if you think you could use me. . . .”
There was a beat. Then Angel handed her the box, smiling gently at her. She took it happily and left for the outer office, calling over her shoulder, “Of course, this is just temporary, till my inevitable stardom takes effect.”
Good old Cor.
The closest thing I have to my old life.
Doyle said, “You made a good choice. She’ll provide a connection to the world. She has a very humanizing influence.”
Angel wasn’t fooled for a moment. “You think she’s a hottie.”
Doyle was embarrassed about being seen through. “Oh, she’s a stiffener, can’t lie about that. But she could use a hand.”
Angel said, “True.”
“There’s a lot of people in this city need helpin’,” Doyle added, as if seizing the moment.
Angel let him have that moment. “So I noticed.”
Doyle was pleased. “You game?”
Angel could feel the small smile creep onto his own face.
* * *
In the dark night, standing like a sentinel, Angel looked down on the city. The whole of Los Angeles was laid out before him. His to guard. His to protect.
There was much he didn’t understand. Much to figure out.
Much to feel.
Way too much to feel.
Los Angeles was the city of dreams. And heartbeats. And tears.
As he looked up at the sky, he wondered if Buffy was doing the same. If those were thoughts she had.
If he would ever see her again.
If it would ever stop hurting.
But for now he would serve his penance. He would find redemption, not by grace, but by good deeds.
The traffic washed down the highways. The glass buildings shimmered.
The moon was full and warm and golden; hanging low in the sky like a nightlight in the room of a little child.
Angel was alone; he had really always been alone. Anything to the contrary was just a wish on a falling star.
Or was it?
Doyle watched, as he often did.
“There’s a lot of people in this city need helpin’,” he had told Angel. “You game?”
Are you in, Angelus, the One with the Angelic Face, or are you out?
Angel stood in the breeze, his coat flapping like wings.
Then he turned and looked directly at Doyle. He’d known the demon had been there all along.
He said to Doyle, “I’m game.”
About the Author
USA Today bestselling author Nancy Holder is the author of 42 novels, including 13 projects for Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel. A four-time winner of the Bram Stoker Award, she has also written 200 short stories, essays, and articles. She lives in San Diego with her daughter, Belle.
Nancy Holder, City Of
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