City Of

  The vampire leaned on the table, staring at the weaponry, remembering the expressions on the faces of the girls whose lives he had saved.

  Remembering Buffy, who had once told him she no longer even noticed when he looked like a demon and when he wore his human features. Who had kissed him powerfully and passionately no matter what he looked like.

  Buffy . . .

  Those wounds . . . when did time heal them? Because maybe he would just go to sleep for a hundred years.

  Yeah, and dream of nothing but her for a century.

  The dreams of Slayers often came true. What about those of vampires?

  He had another flash of memory, this one about Buffy’s dream that Dru would one day kill him.

  He’d held her then, assured that even Slayers have honest-to-goodness nonsense nightmares. But she would have none of it.

  “It was so real,” she told him, and described it so completely that he felt as if he had dreamed it himself:

  In her sleep Buffy stirred. She opened her eyes, registering the stillness, and turned on the light with the upside-down lampshade on her nightstand. She took a drink of water and slowly got out of bed.

  Padding down the hall to the bathroom in her blue satin pajama bottoms and black tank top . . .

  . . . Ah, there she is, Drusilla thought as she stepped behind the Slayer and followed her down the hall. Blood pooled in the corners of her mouth, a nice contrast to her black gown. . . .

  . . . Buffy opened the door to the bathroom and inexplicably stepped into the Bronze.

  Music echoed hauntingly off the walls as smiling couples glided together. There was no band. The shadowed room was dotted with spots of golden light, and everyone moved more slowly than normal. Disoriented, Buffy felt as though she were underwater. And yet, she felt herself part of the otherworldly scene, as if she didn’t quite make sense, either.

  Then she saw Willow, seated at a high table with a large cup of coffee on a saucer. A organ grinder’s monkey in a little red cap and jacket perched beside her. Very matter-of-factly, Willow said, in French, “The hippo stole his pants.”

  She smiled perkily and waved at Buffy, who waved uncertainly back.

  Bewildered, she moved on.

  Standing by a post, her mother was drinking coffee from a cup very much like Willow’s. As she lifted it to her lips, she asked her daughter, “Do you really think you’re ready, Buffy?”

  Buffy frowned. “What?”

  The saucer slipped from Joyce’s grasp. It fell to the floor and shattered. As if she didn’t even notice, she blankly turned and walked away.

  Again, Buffy moved on.

  She was on the dance floor. Couples danced, the strange music twining around them, as Buffy wandered, alone.

  Then the crowd parted.

  And he was there.

  Angel, she thought radiantly as the dark, mysterious vampire smiled back at her. Dressed all in black, he was the center of the room; there was light in his face, for her; he did make sense, surrounded by all these things which didn’t. He was a connection; he was the connection. She felt as if he were already touching her as they walked toward each other, hands outstretched.

  Then Drusilla appeared behind him. As Buffy watched in horror, the vampire stabbed him in the back.

  Buffy screamed, “Angel!”

  His shaking hand strained toward hers, crumbling to ashes before her eyes.

  He had time to look at her, agony in his eyes — love lost, yearning, so lost — and then he exploded into dust.

  Drusilla stood fully revealed, her golden eyes shining with glee.

  “Happy Birthday, Buffy,” she said, relishing Buffy’s despair.

  So far as Angel knew, Dru was still alive. Just because the dream hadn’t come true yet didn’t mean that it never would.

  Maybe Dru would follow him to Los Angeles and kill him. Maybe that’s why he was here.

  Maybe the past caught up with one, sooner or later. Maybe that was why he couldn’t seem to connect with the present anymore. He was simply drifting along, losing himself deeper and deeper in reminiscing, like an old man.

  Suddenly he sensed that he was no longer alone. He turned slowly, well aware that he had an arsenal at his disposal.

  In the doorway stood a young dark-haired man with angular features and dark eyes. He had the composure of someone who assumed he’d been expected.

  He said, “Well, I like the place. Not much with the view, but it’s got a nice Batcave sort of air to it.”

  He spoke as if they knew each other. He had an Irish accent. Angel was Irish, too. But he couldn’t place this stranger to save his . . . soul.

  “Who are you?”

  “Doyle,” the man informed him. “And, no, we haven’t met before, so don’t be embarrassed.”

  Angel frowned slightly. “I’m not.” He added, “You don’t smell human.”

  The guy — Doyle — was mildly affronted. “Well, that’s a bit rude. As it happens I’m very much human —”

  He sneezed, and instantly morphed into a blue, scaly thing. Casually he shook it off, turned human again.

  “— on my mother’s side. Anyway, I come in uninvited so you know I’m not a vampire like yourself.”

  He walked into the room, past Angel, drawn to the weapons.

  Angel asked, “What do you want?”

  “I’ve been sent,” Doyle replied. “By the Powers that Be.”

  “By the Powers that Be What?”

  “This is an exciting bunch of crimefighting devices.” Doyle picked up a throwing star. “I can’t believe you really know how to use these.”

  Angel glowered at his uninvited guest. “I’m anxious to show you.”

  Doyle shrugged. “Tell you something, friend: I’m about as happy to be here as you are to see me. But there’s work to be done, and we got the call.” A beat. “Let me tell you a little bedtime story.”

  “But I’m not sleepy.”

  Doyle ignored him. “Once upon a time there was a vampire, and he was the meanest vampire in all the land. Other vampires were afraid of him, he was such a bastard.”

  His Irish lilt made it sound like a fairy tale. But Angel knew where this was going. He knew who it was about.

  Himself, as they used to say in the Old Country. Probably still did.

  “A hundred years this guy’s killing and maiming and such like. Then one day he’s cursed. By Gypsies. They restore his human soul, and all of a sudden he’s mad with guilt, ‘what have I done,’ very freaked. So he sulks about for another hundred years —”

  Angel cut him off. “Okay. I’m sleepy.”

  “It’s a fairly dull tale,” Doyle agreed thoughtfully, and Angel stirred, coming back from his reverie.

  “It needs a little sex, is my feeling, and sure enough, enter the girl. Pretty little blond thing, Vampire Slayer by trade, and our vampire falls madly in love with her.”

  Angel wanted him to shut up. But he said nothing. There was no sense letting Doyle know he’d gotten to him. These days no one got to Angel.

  Just as in Manhattan no one had gotten through to him.

  Except another demon, sent for much the same reason, or so it appeared.

  Manhattan, 1996

  A rat a month, that’s all Angel ate. He was crazed with hunger and isolation, and didn’t even know it.

  Then Whistler had shown, in his cheesy suit that somehow reminded Angel of bowling shirts, and dorky hat and his Queens accent, and started the conversation with a real opener:

  “God, are you disgusting.”

  Angel jerked, completely unused to being talked to. He started to crawl back into the shadows of the alley.

  “This is really an unforgettable smell,” Whistler continued. “This is the stench of death you’re giving off here. And the look says Crazy Homeless Guy.” He shook his head. “It’s not good.”

  “Get away from me.”

  Whistler feigned terror. “What are you gonna do, bite me? Oh, horrors! A vampire!”
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  Angel stared at him. He had no idea who this person was, or how he knew what Angel was. But he did know.

  “Oh, but you’re not gonna bite me because of your poor tortured soul,” Whistler continued, mocking him. “It’s so sad, a vampire with a soul. How poignant. I may physically vomit right here.”

  “Who are you?” Angel demanded.

  “A demon, technically. But I’m not a bad guy. Not all demons are dedicated to the destruction of all life. Someone has to maintain balance, you know. Good and evil can’t exist without each other, blah blah blah. I’m not like a good fairy or anything. I’m just trying to make it all balance. Do I come off defensive?”

  Angel had no answer for that. But Whistler had plenty more to say.

  “You could become an even more useless rodent than you are right now, or you could become . . . someone. A person. Someone to be counted.”

  Angel’s voice was filled with self-loathing “I just want to be left alone.” He meant it, truly. Yet he couldn’t help wondering how this demon had found him, and why. Maybe it was self-preservation, and maybe it was egotistical curiosity. He wasn’t sure.

  “You’ve been alone for what, ninety years? And what an impressive package you are. The stink guy.” Whistler wrinkled his nose.

  Angel was the one who came off defensive. “You don’t know what I have to deal with. What I’ve done.”

  Whistler rolled his eyes and sighed. “You’re annoying me! The self-pity thing is not gonna bring in the chicks. It’s a bore.”

  Knowing he was playing right into the hands of the obnoxious stranger, Angel asked, “What do you want from me?”

  Whistler was clearly pleased. “I want you to see something. It’s happening very soon. We’d need to leave now. You see, and then you tell me what you want to do.”

  What Angel saw was Buffy, a bit younger than when they finally met. Different in some way, very much the same in others. She was popular, surrounded by cute, superficial girls who could have been clones of hers. They were chatting and laughing about boys and clothes.

  Until Merrick arrived.

  Merrick had been her first Watcher. The man had told her of her destiny: one girl in every generation is the Chosen One; she and she alone will fight the demons, the vampires, and the forces of darkness. She is the Slayer.

  She had not believed Merrick. But then he had taken her to a graveyard and shown her a few basic fight maneuvers. That very night she dusted her first vamp.

  She’d come home late without calling, and had to lie about it; and as she listened in the bathroom with tears streaming down her face, her parents argued about what a terrible job each was doing raising her.

  Whistler stated the obvious, but it was exactly what Angel was thinking.

  “She’s gonna have it tough, that Slayer. She’s just a kid. And the world is full of big bad things.”

  Angel was filled with concern. “I want to help her,” he said sincerely. “I want to . . . I want to become someone. I want to help.”

  Even then, Whistler had gotten off one last jab.

  “Jeez, look at you. She must be prettier than the last Slayer.”

  Angel looked down. He had killed Slayers in his day. Whistler must know that.

  “It’s not gonna be easy. The more you live in the world, the more you see how apart from it you are,” Whistler warned him. “And this is dangerous work. Right now you couldn’t go three rounds with a fruit fly.”

  Angel accepted his cutting remarks. He wanted to help that young girl. “I want to learn from you.”

  “Okay.”

  They walked together. Then Angel said, “But I don’t want to dress like you.”

  Whistler had acted mildly insulted. “See? Again you’re annoying me.”

  “And it’s good,” Doyle proclaimed, bringing Angel out of his reverie and back to the present. “He makes something of himself, fights some evil, but then, eventually, the two of them, they get fleshy with one another, and the moment he . . . well, the technical term is perfect happiness.”

  He looked at Angel. “And as soon as our boy gets there, he goes bad again. Kills again. It’s ugly. So when he gets his soul back a second time, he figures he can’t be anywhere near young Miss Puppy Thighs without endangering them both.”

  Angel kept his face a mask. It was all there, the whole, sad story. His story.

  His and Buffy’s story.

  “So he takes off. Goes to L.A., to fight evil and atone for his crimes. He’s a shadow, a faceless champion of the hapless human race. Have you got a beer of any kind in here?”

  Angel said flatly, “No.”

  Doyle was clearly skeptical. “You must have something besides pig’s blood.”

  He went to Angel’s fridge and peered inside.

  “Okay, you’ve told me the story of my life which, since I was there, I already knew. Why aren’t I kicking you out?” Angel demanded.

  Empty-handed, the demon closed the fridge.

  “’Cause now I’m gonna tell you what happens next. See this vampire, he thinks he’s helpin’. Fighting the demons, keeping away from the humans so as not to be tempted.” He gestured at the apartment. “Doing penance in his little cell.”

  He walked toward Angel, never taking his eyes off him.

  “But he’s cut off. From everything. From the people he’s helping; they’re not people to him at all, they’re just the victims, statistics. Just numbers.”

  “I still save them. Who cares if I don’t stop to chat?” His voice was harsh; he hated his own defensiveness. But he was irritated. And tired and a bit . . .

  “When was the last time you drank blood?” Doyle asked abruptly.

  . . . unnerved.

  Angel said nothing. There was nothing he had any interest in saying.

  But Doyle already knew the answer.

  “It was her. Your Slayer friend. Muffy, is it?”

  Despite himself, Angel answered. “I was sick. Dying. She fed me to cure me.”

  And I nearly killed her, he thought. I put her in the hospital from the blood loss. I almost drank her dry.

  Doyle moved on. “Left you with a bit of a craving, didn’t it? Well, that craving is gonna grow. And someday soon one of those helpless victims you don’t really care about will look too appetizing to turn down. And you’ll figure, ‘What’s one against all I’ve saved? I might as well eat ’em; I’m still ahead by the numbers.’”

  Doyle stared Angel down, and Angel’s mind filled with the image of the blood edging down the neck of the girl he had saved tonight. True, the hunger had swept over him, so strong he had felt dizzy. But he had resisted.

  But he had also known, deep down, that there would come a time when he wouldn’t resist. He’d known it then, and he’d known it before.

  Sometimes he woke up dreaming about feeding off Buffy.

  And what would that be like, dreaming such a thing for a hundred years? Mingled passion and nightmare, from which he couldn’t wake up?

  Doyle changed the mood. “Come on. I’m parched from all this yakkin’. Let’s go treat me to a Billy D.”

  A short time later Angel and his new demon friend left the twenty-four hour liquor store. Doyle was drinking a forty-ounce malt liquor in a paper bag.

  “Ah, that’s a good drink,” he said, with deep satisfaction. “I will pay you back. I’m just a little pressed for cash this week.”

  Yeah, probably every week, Angel figured. Doyle looked so comfortable on the streets that Angel found himself wondering why none of the demons who came to him like the Ghosts of Christmas Past ever had any class.

  “So what do I do?” he said now to Doyle. “I assume you came here with some alternative. How do I change things?”

  “You got to mix it up,” Doyle informed him. “Get in there with the humans. It’s not all fighting and gadgets and such.”

  A panhandling woman approached them as Doyle waxed on, warming to his subject.

  “It’s about reaching out to people, cari
ng about them, about showing them there’s hope in this world —” He glared at the woman and said, “Get a job, you lazy sow.” Then he turned back to Angel and added, “About letting them in your heart.”

  He looked almost mischievous. “You frightened yet?”

  Angel said, “I want to know who sent you.”

  Doyle shrugged. “I’m honestly not sure. They don’t speak to me direct. I get visions, which is to say great splitting migraines that come with pictures. A name, a face. I don’t know who sends ’em. I just know whoever it is is more powerful than you or me, and they’re trying to make things right.”

  It sounded familiar. It sounded like what Whistler had told him. Still, Angel wasn’t sure he was going to buy anything in this particular delicatessen.

  “Why me?”

  Doyle said simply, “’Cause you got potential. And the balance sheet ain’t exactly in your favor just yet.”

  True.

  “Why you?”

  The demon suddenly became serious. “We all got something to atone for.”

  There was a silence. Angel waited. More silence. He let it drop.

  Then Doyle became all business again, fishing a piece of paper out of his pocket.

  “Had a vision this morning. When the blinding pain stopped, I wrote this down.”

  Angel took the paper. He read, “‘Tina. The Coffee Spot.’”

  “Nice-looking girl,” Doyle supplied. “Needs help.”

  Despite himself, Angel was intrigued. “Help with what?”

  Doyle shrugged. “That’s your business. I just get the names.”

  Angel frowned slightly. “I don’t get it. How am I supposed to know what she —”

  “You get involved, remember?” Doyle gestured. “Get into her life.”

  “Why would a woman I’ve never met even talk to me?”

  Doyle looked at him askance. “Have you looked in a mirror lately?” He must have caught himself; Angel, being a vampire, cast no reflection. “No,” he said, “I guess you really haven’t.”

  Angel paused. Okay, he knew what he had to do. But still . . .