Ma'at

I have brought Dukker to Angelus, as arranged. The demon could well pass for human, at least at a distance, or in a poor light. He’s shaved his head, and with the loss of those quills? Well, from a distance, he just looks like an ugly human. He has come with half an army, which he’s sure will do the trick. He clearly believes in negotiating at the end of something sharp and pointy. He’s bragging about how he’ll either sweep Angelus out of his own house at the end of a broom, or keep him as a pet. I think we all know what that means.

He’s certain that I told his people the truth about the size of Angelus’ forces. I think he’s probably done his homework well. Angelus has a couple of dozen minions plus the Norags. Dukker has come with six bodyguards plus fifty well-armed soldiers. He calculates that in excess of 2 to 1 are fair enough odds. These are all brawny demons, too. I’m due for another big payoff when this has gone down, if I’m loyal to Dukker. I’m not yet worried that he means to kill me – I think he may want me to lead the Slayer into another of his traps. Leave the Hellmouth clear for him.

He leaves the soldiers out of sight of the mansion. I suggest a secure place to him, close enough at hand to rush in whenever he gives the word, out of sight of anybody, plenty of cover. He approves the site, but still decides on another spot. He doesn’t quite trust me yet. I suppose that’s to be expected. I was frisked when I arrived at the rendezvous, after all. And not gently.

So now, he and I and his six bodyguards are entering the mansion. Angelus is there to greet us, with Ixolon, one of the Norags. None of the minions is in view. The atmosphere between them is cordial enough, although everyone remains standing. All I get from Angelus is a frosty glare. Dukker probably thinks that Angelus has gone soft. He’s sure that the vampire can smell my treachery and yet he hasn’t killed me.

Dukker declines the drink that Angelus offers him – afraid of being drugged or poisoned, I suppose. Even Angelus wouldn’t stoop to that. At least, I don’t think so. They start with the usual small talk – you use conversation starters like the weather, the journey, any mutual acquaintances, that sort of thing. Demons like us use different things. It’s still small talk.

Then they move on to the rather larger talk about Angelus’ actions with respect to Dukker’s business interests, although I’m not really concentrating on what they are saying. In accordance with my instructions, I’m on the alert for the least sign of aggression, of forces sneaking up on us, of traps being sprung. So far, there’s nothing. And I know that this conversation is merely a preliminary to the carnage that is to come. Dukker has no intention of a peaceful settlement, and wants Angelus taken by surprise. I don’t know what Angelus has planned. It’s maybe an hour or so before the crunch time comes.

Dukker thanks Angelus for a full and frank discussion, and then, straight into alpha mode, warns him to give back what he has taken. Further, Dukker himself will be taking over the Hellmouth. Unless Angelus wants to be tossed out with the trash, he should leave town immediately. All his property should be made over to Dukker as compensation for Dukker’s losses. As he says this, I see Dukker’s hand go into his pants pocket, to press the pager button in the pre-arranged signal to his army of heavies. He waits, then, for Angelus’ reaction, and for back-up.

And waits.

Angelus stalks over to the weapons cabinet and brings oucoupcouple of broadswords. He tosses one to Dukker, who catches it deftly.

“No,” he says. “You’ve lost your properties here, and if you want mine, well…” He shrugs slightly. I can see that he winces as he does so, and I wonder what has happened. Is it something that will affect the outcome tonight? Weaken him? Give Dukker the edge?

“If yont mnt mine, I’m afraid you’re going to have to fight for them.” He stands a little way away from the mobster demon, looking as relaxed as if he were simply settling down for an evening with his family. I can see Dukker’s hand in his pants pocket, and I imagine he is frantically pressing the call button to bring his troops. The room is charged with tension.

A dozen minions have come to join us, standing alertly at each exit; except they aren’t minions, they are Hylekian soldiers. The six heavies move forward to stand close to Dukker. Well, at least they look as if they mean to earn their pay. And then there is the sound of a large body of men – or demons – tramping up the drive. Dukker looks immensely relieved, and drops his guard with the sword. The door opens, and Clethra, one of the Norags, comes in, followed by a Hylekian carrying a sack. The Hylekian spills the contents of the sack over the stone-flagged floor. That’s going to take some scrubbing out. It’s a pile of hacked-off penises. Pardon me? Many of your cultures have carvings, paintings or other ancient records of the victors in war counting the dead by body parts – hands, feet, heads, penises, they’ve all been used. It’s best to use something that only comes in the singular, then you don’t double count, particularly if warriors are to be paid per capita. Or decapita. Demons are the most ancient of races. We still observe some of those ancient ways.

There are fifty, at a guess, all covered in bright blue gore. Proof that the army is dead. And proof, looking at the mess on the floor, that we should all be pleased about that. You *really* wouldn’t want to be on the wrong end of one of those, I can assure you of that. They are definitely not human. Or anything like it.

A nod to the minions-cum-soldiers, and swords are produced as if by magic. There’s quite a lot of frantic activity in which Angelus, his soldiers and the sack-carrying Hylekian are involved, but not me, since I’ve never yet learned to use a sword. I soon learn about evasive action, though. In only a few minutes, Dukker’s bodyguards are… let’s just say ex-bodyguards. Real bodyguards are more…together. Dukker looks wildly round for a way out, but there are none. Angelus strolls over to him and pushes the tip of his sword up to that leathery throat.

“Take your coat off.”

I can see Dukker struggling with himself. He want run run, but he daren’t. He wants to fight, but he daren’t. He wants to fall on his knees and beg for mercy, but he knows he’ll get none. Only strength might get him out of here in one piece, and he hasn’t enough of it. I’ll give him his due, though. He tries to fake the strength. After a few moments he drops his coat.

“Strip, and bend over the back of that couch.”

The instruction is given casually, intimately, as if there weren’t a dozen of us in the room. There is no indication that anyone here should leave. I didn’t think that Angelus was one for spectator sports. I wonder if he is going to bind this demon as he bound my sire and I, or whether he just wishes to humiliate him. Whether such binding will work on another demon. Listen, I’m five. How much do you think I’ve had time to learn?

Up until now, I have been staring fixedly at the floor, but I risk a glance at Angelus’ face. His eyes are glittering with a madness that I really don’t want to see any closer. I wonder whether he’ll be satisfied with whatever fate he had originally determined for Dukker, before he knew that the demon was planning an invasion of his home. He’s not been the same at all since he came back, you know. Before, he was hard and wild and passionate, but now he has an edge to him, an edge of pure darkness. I’ve heard what he was like when he ran with Darla and Drusilla and Spike, heard about his viciousness then. And I’ve heard what he was like when he first came back in the mid-nineties, insane, unpredictable, bent on destroying the world. Looking at him, I think he’s going to be worse now. I don’t know how much worse, because the darkness in him seems to grow day by day. Sometimes, for a little while, it lifts. Then it comes back, worse than it was before. Sometimes, I’m afraid.

Dukker must have decided that his best chance is to comply. I think he figures that, if Angelus were about to kill him, he would have just done so, and maybe got his jollies by screwing his dead body. I know what other demons think about vampires. I suspect they simply don’t think enough. Dukker strips, and I can see just how different his form actually is from a human, although the basic physiological functions are the same. I can’t imagine Angelus getting much pleasure from that. I risk another glance at Angelus’ face. His lips are pursed in a little moue of distaste.

Feet dragging a little, Dukker bends himself stiffly over the back of the couch. My master positions himself behind, still holding the sword. He rests his hand lightly on the nape of Dukker’s neck, then runs his fingers soothingly down the base of the ridge spines. The palm of one hand caresses the external gill covers above the hips, making Dukker shiver. Angelus appears to be wrapped in thought, uncertain . T. Then, shockingly, he lowers the tip of the blade to Dukker’s anus. He gives a little shove, and the demon cries out in surprise and pain. Blue blood trickles onto the floor. Angelus pauses for a moment, enjoying watching, I think, the demon struggling with himself, trying to decide whether to accept whatever punishment is coming, or whether to simply try to run. Angelus settles the matter. He thrusts the sword hard, burying it to the hilt, giving the blade a few vicious twists. The demon does not die easily, but he does die. Eventually.

You’re shocked? You’ve done that to kings, you know. You still do it to animals caught for their pelt. Why would you expect Angelus – a demon – to be better than you? Besides, other demons need a demonstration of what happens to those who lack honour in their dealings with this particular master vampire.

And now there’s just me left. Angelus comes over and claps me on the shoulder.

“Well done, my boy. Very well done.” He’s really pleased with me, I can tell. Perhaps that will mean an increase in status for my sire and me, if Estevan manages his errand with credit, as I’m sure he will.

I beg your pardon? You thought I would betray Angelus for money? Apart from the fact that I like my testicles exactly where they are, thank you very much, I had a career before Estevan turned me. I was an accountant. Who do you think has been keeping the books? If I had wanted money, I could have taken millions while Angelus was… away. I might well have betrayed him for revenge, if my sire had wanted that, but he has given no sign of wishing to be free of our bondage. I did wonder if we had backed a loser when Angel was…restored, but we have stayed, and I am glad, on the whole, that we have done so. Angelus keeps a firm rein on the bridle, and his plans for the future have always appealed to me. Since the loss of the Slayer we have this problem of his increasing…instability is perhaps the word, but perhaps Ixolon and Ezrafel will know how to handle that. Perhaps my sire will. Perhaps the Slayer will come back, and oddly enough I want that, because he’s different when she’s around. I can only hope.

The Hylekians? Angelus has an estate in Hylek, remember? You don’t think he’s without warriors there, do you? We sent word to Ezrafel, who’s currently managing the Hylekian estate, and he sent these. My information for Dukker? He only asked about the Sunnydale forces. If Angelus has taught me anything yet, it is that the truth is always your best weapon.

Nayati, captain of the squadron, intrigued and a little shaken by the brutality of this unexpected execution, makes his obeisance to Angelus.

“With your permission, lord, my men will remove the bodies. Our king still has the garden of carnivores and carrion eaters inherited from his predecessors. This meat will feed them for a while.”

Angelus wrinkles his nose a little as he fastidiously picks up a stray penis by his thumb and forefinger, careful to avoid the spines. The huge testicular sac is still attached. He tosses it to me.

“Get someone who knows how to preserve that properly, together with that thing’s skin and head.” He nudges the fallen body of Dukker with his boot. “They can go on the trophy wall.”

His next instruction is to Ixolon. “Send the rest of the corpse back to his henchmen with a message. Tell them I very much regret that their boss expired of… haemorrhoids. Yes, haemorrhoids, during his very cordial visit here. I extend my sympathy to his dependants. I am sure that they will not hesitate to contact me with any needs they may have. I shall pay them a visit in the near future if they decide to remain in his business.”

He’s silent for a moment, and no one moves a muscle. Some of us in this room need to breathe, but they are trying very, very hard to do it quietly. Then he turns to the captain. His expression is much more normal. “Yes, Captain Nayati, with that proviso, please do; and take these – parts – with you as well. My compliments to His Majesty, of course. Thank the men for me – they did well. Did we lose anyone?”

“One man dead, four wounded. All four will recover.”

“The dead man had dependants?”

“A wife and two young children.”

“I will review arrangements when I am next in Hylek, but tell Ezrafel to take care of the family. They must want for nothing. Your men are to be paid a bonus,” and he names a sum, “as soon as possible. You are to receive double that. The men may keep anything of value that is found on the corpses, although if there is anything you feel I should know about, you will show it to me first. You will be responsible for equitable division. You may give a larger share to any who particularly distinguished themselves if you feel it appropriate. I shall have whatever you find amongst Dukker’s effects. Is there anything else that I should give consideration to?”

“No, lord. You are very generous.”

He makes a deep obeisance again. I am still a youngster, and I am trying to learn from my sire, and from Angelus. It seems to me that men – even if they are demons – will fight better if they know that their loved ones will be taken care of in the event of their death or disablement. And he has been generous with them and possibly defused trouble. His own soldiers have been with a bunch of corpses for a while now. They’ve probably looted the bodies already. He has legitimised it, rather than punished them, and given the captain the authority to distribute the loot fairly. I think he’s a natural leader. I intend to learn as much as I can from him.

I can’t recall seeing a taxidermist on the books, but there is an undertaker. Perhaps it’s time that the undertaker learned a little more about the owner of his business. I guess that Angelus might well like Dukker’s head on the wall, as his adversary, but I imagine he wants a complete demon, with quills in situ. I think the captain and I can arrange a little scalping party. Or similar.

Angelus trusted me when I came to him with my account of the meeting in Willy’s. He even let me keep the money. He trusted me to play my part properly. Most master vampires, being long on suspicion and short on intelligence, would probably have killed me, just to be on thfe sfe side. Or worse. He’s different, though. He’s bound me to him a little bit tighter, hasn’t he?

He’s sent everyone off about their various errands now, and I’m about to leave for mine when he appears in front of me. I must have been lost in thought, although he does move very, very quietly. He puts one hand up to my face and strokes his fingers down the line of my jaw. It’s as if he’s trailing cool fire down there.

“You have done very well indeed,” he says softly. “Your errands can wait until tomorrow. When you go, you will broker a deal with the rest of Dukker’s empire, and we’ll talk later with Ixolon about what I want from it. For now, though, come with me. I need something to take away the taste of another betrayal.”

I don’t know what he means by ‘another betrayal’, but I do know that for the next eight hours, he doesn’t have cause to give it another thought.

************

We’ve met before - I remember you, of course. Well, here’s a pretty pickle. My people have just picked up a vampire called Estevan. One of Angelus’ pride. Apparently he was sitting quietly at the docks in Port Said, waiting for them. And he’s brought me a message.

It is very formal, a sheet of old-fashioned parchment, bearing Angelus’ bold script, rolled up inside an ornately carved bone holder. After his last visit to Egypt, I thought that the boy was done with grand suicidal gestures, but apparently not. He has followed all the proper forms within this clan, and has issued me with a challenge. He’s challenged me for leadership. That’s a fight to the death, and he can’t possibly win. Not unless I let him.

Now, here’s the rub. I’ve had my eye off the ball for the last few weeks – I only arrived back home last night. My people haven’t been able to find me, to update me on everything that’s been going down in this dimension. And becau was was… elsewhere… I haven’t felt anything, as I would normally expect, with matters as screwed up as this. When I left, Angel was still ensconced in Los Angeles and the Slayer was having some difficulties with a godling. Now, Angelus is back, he’s dusted Spike, he and the Slayer at at each other’s throats, and the world is going to hell in a hand basket. I’m not sure even I can sort this.

You don’t understand? No, I’m not surprised. Let me explain.

I’ve been visiting the Adrasti, the most accomplished magic users in the known dimensions. They also have Seers who are almost as good as the Hylekians, and I didn’t want to go to Hylek for obvious reasons. Word of that would have got back here. To him. And I didn’t want that.

All my life I have collected prophecies, trying to sift truth from the ravings of madmen. Unfortunately, they are often both the same. And I have some small gift that way myself. Oh, not much. Just enough to make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up sometimes. They’ve been doing that a lot of late. I needed to know. The price was steep, but at least I have some idea now.

Prophecy is a funny thing. Sometimes, you take a certain path because a prophecy says you will. Had you not known about the prophecy, you would have done something different, and so it becomes self-fulfilling. Only by knowing about the prophecy can you fulfil it. Some of them, as you know, are just plain lies, traps set for us by opposing powers, meant to make us do certain things, to mortgage our futures by our actions. Yet who is to say what is false? Truth can come through unwitting liars and schemers, just as well as through seers and pitiful lunatics.

All of them are double-edged blades. You cannot tell how they will cut. They can be fulfilled in the strangest ways. Prophecies are things to be avoided, then, you might think. And yet, just occasionally, thes ons one that is an essential guide to the future. An essential guide if there is to *be* a future. Now is a case in point.

The Adrasti were clear. There are many prophecies about an important nexus point in the future. All of them contradict each other. Just now, it is impossible to be certain which are true, which are false, and which have meanings so twisted that no one can predict how they might be fulfilled, or their warnings heeded. The only things they have in common are Angelus and the Slayer. Oh, and unless things go exactly right, then on this world nothing more complex than an amoeba will survive. The same thing applies to all the other known worlds in all the known dimensions. Including the Adrasti’s home. That is why they have offered to continue working on the problem. For free. That is so unprecedented that it’s a worry in itself.

As I sit here, alone except for Sekhmet, I weigh up my options. There aren’t many viable ones. The formal contest for mastership is a fight to the death, and Angelus knew this when he issued his challenge. I am *much* stronger than he is because I am so much older. The contest might be closer if he has been drinking Slayer’s blood for a prolonged period, but even then I have no doubt of the outcome. Age is strength for a vampire. He’s reached a quarter of a millennium. Sounds old, doesn’t it? I’m five thousand years old and change. My ‘change’ is older than him. It’s no contest, really.

And yet Angelus must survive if the earth – and all the rest – is to survive. The hell dimensions are affected too, by the way, so any of us who die won’t escape whatever is coming. And the Adrasti don’t know what that is.

So, for the sake of my immortal soul and demon both, and for the sake of my lost love, who is somewhere in the dimensions of the dead, Angelus must win, so that at the proper time he can somehow save us all. But I have waitwo two thousand years for Palestrina to be returned to me. It is my belief that she will return in another thousand. I must be here, waiting for her. She must be able to find me. And the Adrasti say that we both have our roles to play in what is to come. It’s impossible to square the circle, but somehow, I must try. And I mustn’t tell Angelus what I have found. Any self-fulfilling prophecies are almost – almost – certainly the wrong ones. There is only one path through this mire, I’m told. All posspossibilities of the future run into a single nexus, and only one comes out. I wish anyone could see which one it is.

*************

Faith has disappeared. I can’t find her. After the horror in the cemetery, she just ran. We’ve hunted everywhere, but she’s a slayer too, and she knows how not to be seen. I won’t give up, though. It was a mistake, surely? It was a mistake and it can be made right.

I have to give up on Angelus, though. He started off by raping me, then he made me love him. What sort of sick relationship is that? Just to prove his true colours, he tortured me and was, I think, about to mutilate me. What he was doing on that building site, why he caught me when I leapt off that tower to close the portal Glory had opened, I’ve no idea. Why he killed the dragon-demon and brought Faith back here – I’ve no idea.

But you can’t keep a demon down, can you? He’s slaughtering his way through parts of Sunnydale. Some of his victims are – were – demons, but a lot have been humans. It can’t go on. I *have* to kill him. The stake will go through my heart, too, but it’s the only thing to do.

And he *drank* from her. He *caressed* her body and he drank from her. I’ll kill him. I’ll keep that picture in mind as the stake slides home. He drank from her. My mate…

*************

I’ve spent the last few days doing some more cleaning up of my town. It’s a hell of a lot safer tha’s e’s ever been before. Soon, the only thing to be afraid of here will be me and mine. Buffy will be pleas… I am, of course, not doing this for the Slayer. This is for my comfort and convenience, and because I own this place. Tonight was something different for me, though. I went to visit the Mayor. I have photographs of some of his predilections. A lot of people might well disapprove.

He was surprised to see me. Well, when someone comes in to his private suite on the sixth floor, through the exterior window, just as he’s in the middle of one of his predilections, it’s apt to surprise anyone. We have come to an understanding. He will work for me when I want him to. Oh, I’m not particularly concerned with the petty political affairs that you humans worry about, and I’ve made that clear. I won’t be an overly demanding master, but he had better deliver exactly what I ask for when I ask for it. And I will deliver some things to him. iamoiamond every now and again, perhaps, and something to help his predilections occasionally. He was very agreeable when he got over his surprise. And so easily bought. He was very… accommodating, too, even though he’s always been the one doing the plundering. I do so love being first. First and worst, in my own little way...

But now I’m making time for something important. It’s been too long since I saw my girl. I need to make sure she understands who she belongs to. Not to that whiney soul, and not to that fornicating childe of mine. She belongs to me. There’s some small part of me gibbering and shrieking, telling me to go on my knees and beg her forgiveness. Some infection left over from the soul. I think it’s better if I show her how demons do it.

So, it’s time to pay a visit to my faithless beloved.

I sit in the tree outside her window for a few minutes before entering. She’s asleep. She isn’t geg mug much rest, though. I feel a strange sympathy for her as I remember my own increasingly disturbed sleep. Slayers get slayer dreams, threaded through with the mumbo jumbo of prophecy. I wonder if that’s what’s happening now? She’s tossing and turning and muttering something that I can’t quite make out. She’s wearing nothing but her skin, and as she settles from one more violent bout of thrashing around, I can see the moonlight glimmer on her tattoo. It is the same as mine, except that where mine holds the letter ‘A’, an Alpha, hers holds an Omega. Alpha and Omega: the beginning and ending of everything. Completeness. My hands can already feel the silken warmth of her skin, the welcoming fullness of her breasts, the softness of her, overlying muscle with the strength of steel. And I want her.

And then she wakes. She knows I’m here. She’s out of bed in a heartbeat, careless of her nudity, and she throws open the window. Before I can take advantage of the open entrance, she’s holding a loaded crossbow. The quiet thwack and hiss tells me it isn’t loaded any more, although I don’t need those clues, because the bolt is sticking out of my chest. It missed my heart by a hairsbreadth.

“Stay away from me. Stay away from Faith. And stay away from the rest of my friends. I’ll kill you if you harm any of them.”

Then she slams the window down and I see her reload the crossbow.

It’s with the greatest difficulty that I force back the rage that is screaming through me. Screaming for me to bring her to heel, to punish her for what she has just done. To take her and chain her to my wall where she will spend the rest of her life – or the rest of my existence, I’m not sure which – feeling the weight of my anger and the inventiveness of my punishment. This time, the madness comes so much closer to the surface.

Snarling, I try to wrench the quarrel out, but it’s a barbed one and it sticks in my flesh. I only succeed in detaching the shaft – a weakened attachment; my, but she’s learning some new tricks – and I throw it onto the ground. I need something to kill, if it isn’t to be her. And I *want* it to be her, need it *not* to be her.

Next on my list of would-be competitors is a cartel of drug suppliers. When I’ve finished with them, the previous massacres look like some minor domestic injuries. I spend a long time with my sketchpad and pls bls before I go home. Ixolon takes one look at me and summons Silene again. He’s a crafty old demon. This time, when they’ve finished, I take Silene to my bed. She has certain interesting… differences …from humans, and I take full advantage of them. Perhaps I’ll be able to sleep without the nightmare tonight.

No such luck.

But the nightmare is different this time. And I know something I didn’t know before. Faith. The new Slayer is called Faith.

**************

The Slayer is chained. She is lying naked, on her back, chained to a catafalque that has been draped in purple and white velvet. Her golden hair spreads like the finest spun flax across the pillow. I don’t know why she should be on a catafalque, because she is very much alive and giving me a ‘come hither’ look that has its fist wrapped tight around my cock and is not going to take ‘no’ for an answer. Not that I would ever deny her anything…

I bend over her, my hand running tenderly up her flank and onto her gently straining ribcage. I must have chained her here, although I don’t remember it. I bend further over and taste the honeyed sweetness of her lips. The pain takes me by surprise, pain in my back, pain in my heart, and then my ashes are gently sifting down, dark against her golden skin. Yet I can still see. But I can’t touch.

Spike is leaning nst nst the wall. He has a stake in his hand. Drusilla sits a little way away, murmuring words that I can’t quite catch to her doll, Miss Edith. She looks at Spike.

“Take her, my Spike. You’ve spiked our Daddy; now spike the nasty Slayer. Spike her!”

I’ll kill her! He’ll wish for the same grace when I’ve finished with him! And yet I can’t touch. And he should already be dead. I killed him,n’t n’t I?

Spike is in demon face; Buffy turns that ‘come hither’ look on him and I can smell his response. He runs one claw gently down the line of my mate’s jaw, down the side of her neck, along her collarbone, then down the valley between her breasts. He dislodges some flakes of my ash as he does so, and smiles a small, feral smile.

“Sire wasn’t so tough, was he? He could never replace *me*!” His claw starts to dig into her golden skin and a small drop of blood blossoms from her.

The claw digs deeper yet, as he draws it down her belly towards her sex. The skin parts, gently, reluctantly. The muscle follows. There is a hiatus, a brief suspension of time, and then her belly splits and releases a monster, a werewolf of sorts, fully-formed, mouth agape, strings of bloody saliva hanging from its teeth. It starts tearing at her flesh as it struggles to be free. Drusilla laughs with glee, and Spike joins her. My beloved screams. Her scream mingles with mine, but only in my head. Nothing I can do affects anything here.

But I feel something rise within me, something so unreasoning, so primitive that even I fear it. I remember sitting in the tree outside Buffy’s bedroom after Oz had bitten me. The sheer elemental rage that I fought then is the same that I feel now. Is the werewolf blood coming to claim me, after all this time? I do know one thing. Once this thing rises, it will never, sto stop. And the world will burn.

Then a warm hand covers mine, and a voice whispers to me.

“None of this is real. Not yet. Some might once have been and some might yet be, but not now.”

My claws are digging into my twice-dead hands, and I can feel blood streaming out of the gouges. I manage to bridle my rage long enough to look at the woman by my side. She is tiny, like Buffy, and yet she has a strength in her, also like Buffy. Not Slayer strength. Something different. She is dressed richly, in deep, vibrant reds. She has a shawl, the colour of old blood, wrapped around her head, and it covers the lower part of her face. I can only see her eyes, as black as sin, but sparkling with something that looks like love. I feel that I should recognise her, that I have known her all my life. But I have never seen her before. Yet I think of the Underworld, and of that scintillating catacomb of tunnels. The *feel* of this tiny creature was wrapped around me then, strengthening me, succouring me. She was there. She was there with me. And she was there againringring that ordeal in Egypt, under Aurelius’ lash. She was there in the tree, with me, as I fought down the werewolf. I don’t understand.

She raises a gentle hand to my face.

“Remember how you were when you were first released from Angel’s grip? You are in danger of falling back into that madness. You must not. If you do, everything will be lost. Everything. You are straying from the path, and you must not. Forces are working against you and you must not allow them to interfere. There is still time to find the balance, but not too much.”

Then she is gone.

I turn and see the werewolf creature ripping into the flesh of my beloved traitor as Spike’s fangs pierce her neck. Her scream echoes with mine as I wake, shaking, from the nightmare. Again. My claws have gouged almost all the way through thlms lms of my hands, adding to the pain of all my half-healed wounds, and I am as ravenous as a new fledgling. Breakfast, then. Something ordinary. A quick, clean kill.

There is something to do first, though. My pad and pencils are to hand. They are the means by which I can exorcise my own demons – a demon haunted by demons; what a richly amusing irony – and I start to draw. I have several drawings when I am finished. They are all of Buffy. Her friends are lying dead. They are still recognisable, even though they are piled into a heap, their bodies dismembered and torn. Buffy is lying naked on top of the heap of ravaged flesh, uncaring, turning that ‘come hither’ look onto the viewer, onto me; pleasuring herself in one; reaching out to the viewer, to me, in another. And in the third, I am taking her violently, as though we were the most elemental, mindless demons, amidst the ruins of her friends. And she is in an ecstasy of pleasure. I’m hard as a rock just looking at these, with lust thickening my blood. If you want to understand the single most powerful reason behind my trail of cruelty – behind any demonic cruelty, really – look no further. This is an instant stiffener that would speak to the spirit of any demon. These drawings are such that I want to frame them and hang them on the wall. They depict scenes that I, Angelus, take pride in - my complete victory over the Slayer and her ragbag of hangers-on; my utter degradation of her; her complete devotion to and subjugation by one of the most vicious creatures ever spawned by Hell.

And they make me want to vomit. This isn’t how I want her. I want her warm, and willing and exactly what she is. The Slayer. I’m very troubled as I go out to find something to eat. Amongst other things, I’m troubled by what I am becoming.

I spend some time looking for Faith. I don’t want her running out on me. I have plans for her. The physical effect that she has on me – on any vampire – is nowhere near as strong as the effect my mate has, but it’s strong enough to let me know I’m close to her. When I find her, she’s hiding. No, not that sort of hiding. It’s the predator-in-her sort. She’s watching somebody.

It’s somebody I recognise. I slither up to her and settle myself down comfortably. She gives me a sharp glance, but doesn’t run and, more importantly, doesn’t try to stake me. I told you she wasn’t afraid of me. She’s watching a brawny, brain-free soldier type, and a few of his equally lacking friends. He’s one of the humans that the Soul really hated, and definitely considered killing. Slowly and painfully. Like I said, perhaps not such a bad sort, at times. Not that I want him back, you understand. Not ever.

It’s Riley.

*What* is he doing in my town? And just what is he up to now? He and his friends have encircled a vampire. One of mine. He’s a good, OK bad, from your point of view, loyal minion. Dale. The last remaining member of the high school football team vamps. It was his turn on the rota to fetch the bags of blood from the butcher. It pays to stay on top of little things, you know.

All the quasi-soldiers are armed with bandoliers full of stakes, but they also have four-foot long sharpened staves. Long distastakstaking. I’m thinking about how best to rescue my minion, when I see something that turns me cold. Colder.

Riley presses forward, and slams his staff into Dale’s belly. Dale crumples to the ground, in agony for certain, but not in immediate danger since the staff has penetrated his stomach, not his heart. That will hurt, but it will mend. No one makes a move to finish him off; they just stand around watching. In the space of a few heartbeats, my minion starts to writhe and scream. The torture continues for long minutes, Dale’s agony growing all the time. I give in to my instincts – *mi *mine*, dammit – and start to rise, but Faith pulls me back down. And then it’s too late. He dusts.

All that is left is some ash and the staff, lying on the ground. It looks different, though. The part that was buried in Dale’s body now has two rings of clawed extensions protruding outwards from the length of the staff. The claws curve into each other, like two hands, fingertip to fingertip. And they are long enough to have reached his heart. Riley has come prepared. I suspect he’s come prepared for me.

Well, let’s see whether I can surprise him.

Riley picks up the staff and the little group moves off. I want to follow them, see where they go, but I also don’t want to lose track of Faith.

“Faith, I’ve got room for you at the mansion if you want to move in.”

Well, she might! Although I do wonder for a moment how Buffy might feel about that. Still, one thing at a time. She snorts a laugh.

“Don’t get your hopes up, vampire.”

She’s intrigued, though. I can smell it. She knows where I am, I suppose. And I do *not* want to lose sight of soldier boy. I reach across from where I’m crouched and gently touch my mark on her neck.

“Come whenever you need to.”

She has a strange look on her face. She hates me and yet… Yet she’s mine, and something in her knows it. And I think she wants to find out *everything* that Buffy knows about vampires. Everything.

It isn’t hard to track down soldier boy. They’re staying at an anonymous motel on the edge of town. A quick scout round tells me that there are just the four of them. We should be able to handle those, although I daresay I’ll lose a few minions on the way.

Then I’m off to the mansion, for reinforcements. When I get there, Estevan is back. Apparently he was lucky enough to happen on an unscheduled night cargo flight. Smugglers. I now have me a plane, and a hold full of contraband. It’s all drugs, so that will go into the Pacific. Why would I want to encourage you to shove that muck into your veins? It muddies the taste too much, and certainly I don’t need the money. But the plane is good. The pilot will be rising soon, as well. Estevan didn’t miss a trick.

He also has Aurelius’ reply. It’s pithy, and to the point. It tells me to be there at the next full moon. That’s a bit more than two weeks away. Time to deal with a few things first. I don’t want to take either Estevan or his childe Thomaso on an errand that might get them both killed – they’ve proved themselves to be much too useful – so I tell them to take the rest of the night for themselves. What? I can be sensitive to the needs of others. I gather a dozen minions, and we head for Riley’s motel.

I lose seven in the end, but Riley’s three friends are dead. And Riley himself? He almost wets himself like a frightened terrier when I grab him from behind and he feels my fangs at his throat. I throttle him into unconsciousness, and head back to the mansion. For some reason, Beethoven’s arrangement of the ‘Ode to Joy’ keeps running through my mind, and I find myself humming it as I carry my beefy burden home. Well, I’ve always loved the Ninth, ever since that stunning performance when Darla and I…mmph! I get shivers just thinking about that. It would have been even better if it had been with Bu…

**************
Continued in chapter 4