Orexis

Part 8

Who is Sylvia, what is she?

That all our swains commend her?

Beauteous wise and fair is she, heaven such grace did lend her.

Is she wise, as she is fair? For beauty dwells with kindness.

Love doth to her eyes repair, to help him of his blindness

i.

Professor Orexis hummed happily in the shower. She felt almost giddy. Last night had been absolutely perfect. Better than she could have hoped. Not a false note, not a single mistake; the girl was so wonderfully naïve. It should only take a few tiny steps to complete her seduction. She can almost *taste* it.

Over dinner they'd chatted, just girls together, comfortable. Sylvia had complimented her, on her hair, her clothes, and her figure; praised the work she'd done on her special project. Told her she was something special. The dear girl was easily persuaded to drink three glasses of wine and after dinner she'd poured out her heart to Sylvia.

Buffy feels isolated, resents her mother and the Watcher getting together and at the same time feels guilty for her selfishness in the midst of Mr. Giles' problems. She's covertly jealous of the boy Xander and his new love. She wonders why she can't seem to hold a boyfriend. Doesn't mention being the Slayer of course. Much less her ex-lover the vampire. Orexis savors the thick atmosphere of lies. But these are after all mere details, the skin so easily peeled away to reveal the succulent meat of the matter. In the end, Buffy's real concern is that she is unlovable. After all, her own father didn't love her, he proved it by leaving her.

Sylvia, with exquisite sympathy on her face, told Buffy that she just needs to be patient. That she's young, and has plenty of time. That she'll find the right one when it's the right time. That she's beautiful, and any man would be lucky to have her, etc. etc. That she's so much more, deserves so much more than anyone knows.

Buffy had blushed, embarrassed and Sylvia took her cue to draw back a little. Half the game is timing. Patience, always patience. Never go too far on a first date. She smiled, pretended to be surprised by the time, and was ritually concerned when Buffy said she was walking, but gave in to the girl's judgment gracefully. Said goodnight to her and made sure she remained in her doorway until she was out of sight. Feeling the thread of the connection she'd forged between them reeling out gossamer thin and steel strong as Buffy headed home.

Oh yes, it had been perfect.

The only blotch on the evening had come afterwards, when she'd gone downstairs to visit her new toy only to find Spike lying in a pathetic huddle next to Oz's cage. He was unconscious, dead drunk, which was coming to be entirely too common an occurrence. She'd stood looking down at the pathetic creature, and sadly concluded that while he'd been a useful servant, his utility was rapidly coming to an end. She could have ended him right then, there were several stakes in a drawer left over from their summer dalliance. It wouldn't be much of a loss to her, and would probably be a mercy to him. All his problems dissolved in a puff of dust. Then she reconsidered, he might still have his uses, and he has such beautiful skin, it seems a pity to waste it.

So she moved Spike out of the way and then spent a pleasant hour amusing herself with Oz. She is so looking forward to tomorrow night. It promises to be fascinating. She's never had a werewolf before.

ii.

Angel can feel the sun trying to find a way through his heavy raincoat, prickling at the gap between sleeve and glove as he rings the doorbell. It's 7:00 a.m., probably too early, but he couldn't wait any longer. It had taken him longer than he expected to get his materials together. He rings the bell again, hoping that Giles is an early riser.

"Angel," Joyce said, staring at him in amazement. "I thought you were back in L.A."

"Joyce?" From the look of surprise on his face, he hadn't expected to find her here either. "Uh, I need to see Giles. Can I come in, please?" She realizes that the something she can smell burning is him.

"Oh, yes of course." She steps aside and lets him in.

"Thanks." He leans against the wall for a moment, resting in the soothing shadow of the hallway. Too quickly relief gives way to awareness of human blood, warm and close. Of Joyce, still in her bathrobe, looking pleasantly disheveled. He straightens up and moves away from her.

"Is Giles here?"

"Sorry, he had to go to Santa Barbara to…see someone." A defense lawyer, friend of a friend who specializes in difficult cases, but she can't think of a reason that Angel needs to know that. "He'll be back by lunch time."

"Oh." Angel stands there. Joyce notices just how weary and worn out the big vampire looks.

"Did you drive all the way from L.A.? You look exhausted. You can't go back outside now, the sun's up. Why don't you sit down, would you like anything?"

<Blood, You> His demon whispers. Angel shakes his head.

"No nothing, just need a little rest."

She nodded. "Come on."

She led him upstairs, to what was obviously a spare bedroom, piled with books and cardboard boxes. After she'd cleared off the bed, and drawn the drapes shut, Angel sat down gratefully on the bed. Joyce looked at him uncertainly.

"Is this OK?"

"This will be great," he reassured her.

"Giles should be back around 11:30, 12:00. Are you sure you don't need anything?"

"No I'm fine."

She finally leaves, shutting the door behind her, cutting off her tantalizing scent. Angel sighed in relief, collapsed gratefully onto the bed. He closed his eyes, and let his exhaustion take him.

The sound of the phone shattered his dreams, leaving behind vague memories of beguiling screams, sweetness on his tongue, and an aching need at his groin. He lay there listening to Joyce's voice somewhere downstairs, hunger parching his throat. He needed to feed, now. Sighing, he stood and stretched, while he waited for his erection to subside. There's blood in the cooler in his car. He'll have to ask Joyce to get it for him.

She's still on the phone, sitting at the kitchen table with her back to him as he enters the room. She's still in her bathrobe so he can't have been asleep for too long. She was interrupted in the middle of her breakfast by the call; there's a steaming cup of coffee and a half-eaten croissant stained with something sticky and red on a plate in front of her. An errant strand of her dark blonde hair hangs down over her shoulder. It sounds like a business call, something about a shipment delayed in customs. Angel drifts a little closer, not wanting to interrupt. He wouldn't mind a cup of coffee, it smells delicious.

"Right, I'll be in around 10 and we'll sort this mess out. Bye." She finished the call and took a sip of coffee. Froze as Angel's shadow fell over her, and she felt his hand stroking her hair with one hand. She tried to twist around in the chair but he pressed down on her shoulders, held her in place.

"Angel? What are you doing!"

"Sssh," he murmurs, as he leans over her, his hands kneading her shoulders. Nuzzles into the side of her neck, she smells just a little bit like Buffy, or is it the other way round? Remembers the way her blood smells from three, almost four years ago, and he wonders if her blood will taste just a little bit like Buffy as well. Joyce jumps as he presses his mouth against her neck to feel her pulse shuddering under his tongue. It's been so long, and the blood is so close, the smell of it a red cloud around his mind.

"Angelus," Joyce whimpers. Angel pulls back and shakes his head vehemently.

"No. No. Angelus would want to hurt you. I don't want to hurt you, not going to hurt you, but I need you..." He leans down again, mouth open. Feels the change hardening his face.

"Angel, please, just let me go," she pleads.

"It'll be O.K. Just need a little; just a little," he breathes into her ear as he tightens his hold on her and sinks his teeth into her neck. Joyce arches in agony, her outflung arm sending cup and saucer flying to shatter on the floor.

Angel moans as she pours into him, she tastes so sweet, so much like Buffy…he bites deeper, wanting more. No one here to stop him this time. He drinks, and drinks until her heart stutters and stops, till the last sweet drop rolls down his throat.

With a sigh he releases her and lets her slump forward onto the table. He straightens up, and stands there all alone in the safely diffuse morning light, and the only real thought he has is that it's been a long time since he felt this good.

iii.

" Spike, dance with me," her voice, soft and loving and he's instantly energized, snapped into consciousness by impossible hope.

"Dru," he says, sitting up and instantly regrets it. His head feels like it's full of black mold. He groans when he sees the state of his clothes, and of the gleaming white floor. He's been sick, at least once. Bitch Orexis will not be pleased. Vaguely wonders why, even though he's not drunk any more, there's no punishment for his mutinous thoughts… hell, not like his head could feel any worse than it does.

Fucking dreams. So vivid that he imagines he can still smell her perfume in the air around him. Just as well he doesn't remember the dream -- they never end well. At first he savored every chance to be with his princess, even if it was just inside his head, but he's tired of her telling him goodbye.

Glances over at wolf-boy who's still curled into an indifferent ball -- no change as far as he can see from last night's coma. Never did take a drink. Spike shrugs. Oh well, tonight is the big night, innit, poor bastard's out of the game soon as the moon rises.

He starts to stand, and thinks better of it. His bones ache, his gut in revolt, his head pounding; he's feeling every one of his 127 years. Only bright spot is that in a few hours he'll be young again. Wonders how people do it, old people, what it was like to be really old, and feel like this all the time.

Wonders sometimes though if he wants to go on another century, alone. He's not really good at being alone, hasn't had much practice. There's always been someone else there: Drusilla, Angelus, even Darla in a pinch. He hates waking up alone, in a bed that smells only of him. If Orexis weren't holding him here he probably would have crawled out to LA by now and thrown himself on Angel's mercy. Anything for a bit of family.

As he sits there, he slowly realizes that the dry sweet smell of her, the scent that had been wrapped round him, soaked into his skin, his consciousness for over 100 years, isn't fading. It's still here.

He knows it's impossible. That he must be hallucinating, but still he lifts his head, and gets to his feet. Because he can't do anything else. He has to know.

He climbs the stairs, enters the house.

It's very quiet. Orexis' falsely human spoor is fresh, but thank fuck the bitch herself is gone. Following the ghostly trail he skulks nervously through the bright, overdecorated rooms, crammed with crystal and china and lace and dead flowers, flinching from the sunlight, and the promise of Orexis' return.

This house reminds him of his mum's tiny, dark, house filled with souvenirs and rickety furniture. All of it gleefully smashed, and the rose patterned wallpaper spattered with blood when her darling boy came home at last… it's been decades since he thought of his mother. Shows just how bad off he is. How much he needs Drusilla. His black princess. The other half of himself.

It's not just her scent, it's the way the air shivers after she speaks, it's the sensation of her eyes, watching him. It's the sense of her presence that had led him here, that he'd felt singing in his veins as he'd stood on the threshold all those months ago.

She's here. Somewhere.

He's led upstairs, to a bedroom so thick with Orexis he keeps expecting to feel her grip on the back of his neck. Here, in the place where she dreams the illusion of humanity has worn thin, he can smell vinegar under the expensive perfume. He closes the drapes first, then moves quickly through the room, searching, feeling Dru close by.

Finally he finds a wall that rings hollow when he taps it. He puts his ear to it, listens carefully for any sound, but the air is still, nothing stirring. Worse, the faint aura of his princess is gone and all he can detect now is an arid, faintly chemical trace. He knows that smell.

A kind of fear he'd thought he was immune to starts to scrabble at his insides. He knows he isn't going to like whatever Orexis has hidden behind this door. He wants to leave now, to turn away, leave this house, and go get himself another bottle to drown the last of his hopes and pain in alcohol. But he can't just leave it like this.

He has to know.

He starts kicking at the wall. Can't be bothered looking for the sodding hidden latch. Uses brute force to splinter wood and break through into a hidden staircase. Knowing that if this doesn't make Orexis want to kill him, nothing will. Not really caring.

"I'm coming, baby," he tells the darkness.

iv.

Giles opened the door to the spare bedroom and found Angel lying on the bed, fully dressed, booted feet hanging over the bottom of the bed. There are lines in that eternally handsome face lying in profile on the pillow. He looks…thinner, tired.

Hungry.

"Angel?" he says.

Angel is instantly awake and on his feet, startling Giles with his speed. He glances at the window, calculating his chances. It's still daylight, but if he's quick, covers himself with the blanket… Looks back at the Watcher and sees that there's only surprise on his face, no fear or anger in his scent. He hasn't been in the kitchen yet. He doesn't know.

"Giles," he rasps. His guilt is made worse when he sees the concern on Giles' face. Even after the things the man knows he's done.

Angel can still taste Joyce, can sense her blood cooling in his veins.

"Are you all right? I'm sorry you had to wait, if I'd known you were coming..." Angel just stands there, a little hunched. "Er, Joyce said you needed to see me about something?"

"Joyce?" The only heartbeat in the house belongs to Giles. "You talked to her?"

"She just left to do some shopping, she planned to go out earlier, but she didn't like to leave you alone," Giles said.

It takes Angel a moment to process Giles' words, and then he sags with the sudden relief of tension. The hunger oozes back as the phantom traces of blood evaporate from his brain.

"Angel?" Giles says, taking a step towards him.

Angel's suddenly aware of blood, human blood, Giles' blood. He feels a horrible craving to *touch* the Watcher; he's excited by the anticipation of how the man will feel in his arms, the lean, hard, struggling, heat…

"I…I have to go. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come here," Angel moves abruptly and Giles steps back, sensing the sudden breath of menace. But when he looks up into the vampire's eyes, he sees nothing but desperation and sorrow.

"Are you sure? Do you want me to call Buffy?"

"No!" Angel's eyes are wide and very dark with something close to panic. Giles backs off. He's had a hard and discouraging meeting with his new lawyer. He's too tired to deal with this now.

"All right."

Giles reluctantly leads him to the front door. As it opens, spreading sunlight into the hallway, he has sudden doubts about letting Angel walk out the door into the day. As if reading his mind, Angel carefully covers himself before stepping out into the bright sunlight. Giles watches carefully until he's sure the vampire is safe behind the specially tinted windows of his car before closing the door. Stands there until the car pulls away from the curb, worrying. He has a cold feeling in his gut that he's just made a serious mistake.

v.

The hidden stairs lead up to the attic, a shadowed windowless room that appears to run the length of the house.

"Dru," he says to the silence. Nothing. But he can feel her near. Smell her. The walls are lined with tall wooden cabinets. When he's closer he sees that the parquet fronts depict scenes of inventive torture. Taking hold of one of the tasseled red silk pulls attached to the brass handles he opens the nearest cabinet.

Spike's never seen a real unicorn, but he has no doubt that this one is/was genuine. The taxidermy is somewhat basic: the pearly hide has worn away in place to show the bones inside and old straw pokes out of the empty eye sockets. The horn is a little dusty, but it still shines with a deadly purity.

On the shelf above a collection of human hands has been lined up in strict order of size, from infant to stevedore.

Spike shuts the door and starts to shake, as hope drains from him. He knows what this is.

Supplies for her magics. Her trophy room.

He's never felt this cold. Not even when he lay drained and dying in the rain, Angelus' blood slowly spreading like hoarfrost through his body. Grimly he opens one cabinet after another and revealing their contents:

… ranks of jars filled with eyes. Animal, human, and demonic eyes, all sizes. Some of them react to the light when he opens the door.

… another crammed with whole human skins hung neatly on hangers like coats. They're warm to the touch.

…Teeth and organs pickled in brine; hides of various beasts; pelts, some of them still moist, some stiff as boards.

…what looks like strips of jerky labeled in a language he's just as glad he can't read.

…what at first he thought were wigs, but scalps is a more accurate term.

…the body of a woman, skinned alive and preserved in a sealed case of greenish fluid. Her lidless eyes follow him, and there's something familiar about the shape of her flayed face, the deep blue eyes.

…and on and on and on…

He finds her finally at the far end of the attic.

Long black hair. The hair that he'd knotted his hands in, buried his face in, brushed till it shone like silk, that had brushed across his face, his, chest, his hips for a century of nights. Drusilla's hair has been braided and coiled neatly around a tall crystal jar filled with a dark red substance. He leans close and peers through the dark liquid; sees the fist-sized lump of meat suspended there. It's silent and still, but that fact of its existence is proof that it possesses some kind of life.

"Drusilla," he says her name for the last time before picking up the jar and smashing it to the floor. Weeping as the last of his love is obliterated in glass and blood.

vi.

It's just past sunset and Alice is tired. She's had a long day, running errands all over town. First she'd gone by UC Sunnydale to pick up some registration materials for Xander, who was thinking about taking a few extension courses next semester. Then she'd gone over to the post office to pick up a passport application for Xander because they're going to Paris in April, cliched but it's something she's always wanted to do with the right guy. Then she'd gone by the mall, picked up a few clothes, and had lunch. Went by the bank to confirm a wire transfer, and then, finally, to Albertson's to do the Thanksgiving shopping before the big rush.

She parks, pops the trunk, and gets out of the car feeling twitchy. A late Santana is tormenting the trees in front of the house, throwing mad shadows, sending twigs and other trash skittering across the pavement. The dry wind makes her skin itch, and sets her teeth on edge. Glancing up at the moon's blank face she feels suddenly exposed.

She's never been nervous about being out at night. Why should she be? But the back of her neck feels vulnerable as she bends over to take out the groceries and it occurs to her, as she slams the trunk shut, that Sunnydale might be one place where it would pay her to be a little more cautious.

Arms full of groceries, she heads for the house and freezes.

No mistaking that hulking silhouette as he steps out of the shadows besides the porch, blocking her way. "Angel?" she says, flatly. "What are you doing here?" He's backlit by the porch light so she can't see his eyes, and she doesn't like the way he's standing there, looming at her.

"I needed to see you," he said in that light, oddly deracinated voice of his. Alice felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise and she takes a step back.

"Why?"

Amazed again that someone so big can move that fast. He grabs her, lifts her off her feet and as she opens her mouth to protest there's a sudden a sharp pain in her arm, and a burning sensation. She looks down at the hypodermic needle, and reaches for the change but it slips away from her as darkness rolls her under and out.

She watches the road roll out anonymously in front of her, slowly becoming aware that she's in the passenger seat of a car, tightly belted in. Her hands are cuffed in front of her, she can feel metal around her neck, and her ankles are shackled. He's not taking any chances.

"You're awake," Angel states, his eyes on the road.

"So how'd you lose your soul this time?" she asks. He sighs.

"I didn't."

"Good. Pull over then, and let me out."

"Sorry, I can't. I need your help." His eyes are off the road now, focused on her, and the hunger in his look makes her wish she could throw open the door and take her chances with the blacktop at 70 mph.

"Need me." She said flatly. "How?" He doesn't answer her immediately, goes back to staring straight ahead.

"I'm losing control," he says finally. "Of my -- wants." His hand, apparently autonomous, strokes her cheek; it feels like a silk glove filled with ice.

"Hey!" she says jerking away and wondering how Buffy, how anyone could want that touch.

Without warning he swerves off the road and drives the car down the shoulder and stops it in a ditch. He switches off the engine and the lights and before Alice can react, he's out of the car and gone into the night.

She sits listening to the engine cool, waiting for her heartrate to slow, knowing that death has passed too damned close. When she's a little closer to calm she takes a look around. Cars pass by intermittently on the highway, but she doesn't think they can see either the car or her in it. Far away, across fields filled with some kind of waist high vegetation, she can see a lonely light, a farmhouse probably. She hopes Angel isn't headed there. Best case scenario is for him to just keep going, straight on till sunrise catches him in the middle of a shelterless field.

The driver's side door is ajar.

She twists her wrists until they're raw, hoping she can get at least one hand free; even if she can't get loose, maybe she can reach the horn, summon help… Panic slowly resurfacing as she finds that the cuffs are too tight, even when lubricated by spit and blood. Her ankles are securely fastened to the body of the car, not the seat. He's done this before. Damn, damn, damn.

Exhausted, she finally has to give up. She sits there thinking about Xander, who will be home by now, wondering what's happened to her. Depending on how clever Angel has been, he might be worried by the abandoned car, the dropped groceries. She hopes Angel was sloppy, so at least Xander won't think she's abandoned him. And maybe someone will know to look for her in time. She doesn't think much of her chances. The vampire has obviously gone 51/50 again, and Xander's told her what that was like the last time.

The door opens suddenly, and Angel climbs wearily back into his seat. He smells of blood, she can see it smeared on his hands and face and mouth and it worries her that in this form she can't tell what kind.

"Just a deer," he told her in answer to her unspoken question. He sniffs and leans towards her as she squirms backwards as far as she can go. In the close confines of the car he seems to fill her whole world. "You've hurt yourself," he says, looking at her wrists.

Oh, *mother* fuck. "I'm OK."

"Yeah, but I'm not." He looks away, presses the button to roll down all the windows and lets the fresh cool air blow through the car as he continues. "I drained that buck dry, but I'm still hungry. Always hungry. Nearly killed Giles today and I would've killed him if I'd stayed, if he'd just come a little bit closer…"

Alice shivers at the regret in his voice.

"You really don't like me, do you?" He asks, changing tack.

"No." No point in lying about it, even if he could be fooled.

"Why not? I mean, it's been awhile since I could check for myself, but most women seem to think I'm reasonably good-looking. Lucy for one. But not you."

"You're dead," she says flatly. "Walking around, talking, but still dead. You make my skin crawl." He flinches slightly; the truth hurts, she thinks unrepentantly.

"Too bad," he says starting the engine. "It'd make things easier. "

He pulled back onto the highway.

vii.

She knew the moment Spike entered her storeroom, but at the time she'd been in the middle of a faculty meeting and it just wasn't practical to leave right then. In any case she wasn't too concerned, the irreplaceable items all had their own protective magics. There was a limit to how much damage he could do.

Still, she grew more and more annoyed when she saw the destruction he'd wrought amongst her things. Beginning with the splintered door in her room, the stink of spilt natron, formaldehyde, brine, and oil that greeted her at the top of the stairs. Seeing the broken glass, the rare relics he'd spilled onto the floor and willfully crushed and broken and tried without success to burn.

He crouched on his heels in the midst of it, his black coat trailing in the mess, smoking, staring at her silently as she picked her way through the chaos he'd made. He's not afraid of her, she realizes. Thinks he's lost everything already. Fool. If that were true he wouldn't be here waiting for her, dust doesn't have much interest in vengeance.

When she reaches him he stands, revealing the gas can that was hidden under his coat, and blows a long plume of smoke into her face.

"How long?" Spike asks face drawn and hard. Sylvia smiles, shrugs.

"Ummm, early May I believe; a few days after my agents delivered her," her eyes drift away from him, continuing to calculate the damage. "You see, I knew you'd come after her. I originally meant to keep her intact for rather longer but she was simply too much trouble." From the corner of her eye Orexis sees Spike's face twitch, muscles working with rage. "She was mad you know, she *liked* the pain. Quite unsuitable. I kept just enough of her to work the spell that brought you here."

She smiles, facing him again as he tosses the cigarette aside and slashes at her with the pickax. He staggers as pain arcs through him. Gritting his teeth he lifts his weapon again, to try again.

Orexis hisses in annoyance, she really hasn't got time for this kind of thing, and she's rather annoyed about the disarray and the damage. She sloughs off the professor and tosses the skin into a corner. Spike swings as she expands into her true form but she lashes out and grabs his arm; it snaps it with a dull crunch and Spike roars and drops his weapon.

And oh, he'd thought he'd known something about pain before, but that had been entertainment and art. She's in no mood for subtlety this time. She simply rends and crushes, breaks and tears, taking minutes to remind him or his proper place in her world. She holds him close and whispers to him that his screams are only partial payment for what he'd done to her possessions and for spoiling her good mood.

When she's done she stands over his broken, seeping, body. "And what have we learned from this Spike?" she asks mildly.

He doesn't answer. He appears to be unconscious. Ah well.

"We'll continue this conversation later," she promises. Leaves him there. She has a lecture this afternoon, and she doesn't want to be late.

viii.

"Hi, Giles."

"Xander. What's the matter? It's rather late." Nearly 9:30. Joyce looks at him questioningly, and he shrugs.

"Yeah, sorry. Have you seen Alice today?" Giles finds it worrying that Xander isn't even attempting to hide the tension in his voice.

"No, I'm sorry, Xander, I haven't. Is something the matter?"

"She should've been home by six. I tried her cellphone but it's off. I thought -- I don't know, if she couldn't reach me maybe she might have called you…" His voice shakes.

Oh damn. Well it isn't as if it were totally unexpected, still, poor Xander.

"Is her car there?"

"No."

"Are any of her things, er, missing?" Giles probes gently.

"Nope. Unless you count the car."

"Well, I'm sure it's nothing serious. I wouldn't worry, Alice is certainly capable of taking care of herself," Giles says sincerely. The image of her gracefully dealing death to the Capteniel is clear in his mind as he speaks. Remembers a muzzle thick with ichor, gleaming eyes...if ever there was a creature safe on the Hellmouth, it's her.

"Yeah, I guess I'm just being Paranoid Guy. Sorry, " Xander says, disappointment clear in his voice.

"Call me tomorrow if you don't hear anything," Giles says.

"Bye Giles."

Xander hung up the phone, not happy. Giles had been the last person on his list, and he'd been about as much use as… some totally useless thing. Same as everyone else he's called. She's an adult, it hasn't been 48 hours yet, call us when it has been or when you find the body, pretty much summed up Sunnydale PD's response. He really hadn't expected much more from them. The response from his friends had been a different matter.

The house feels very empty. He tries to take comfort in her clothes filling the closet, in the undisturbed female stuff cluttering the bathroom. She wouldn't leave without her comb and deodorant, would she? Wouldn't just leave him. He knows that's what they're all thinking, Giles and Joyce and Buffy and Willow and probably Spike too when he finds out. They all think she's come to her senses and left him. But he knows better.

She wouldn't. She loves him. It took him awhile to believe it, but his faith is strong now. Something's happened to her.

ix.

She watches the road roll out anonymously in front of her, slowly becoming aware that she's in the passenger seat of a car, tightly belted in. Her hands are cuffed in front of her, she can feel metal around her neck, and her ankles are shackled. He's not taking any chances.

"You're awake," Angel states, his eyes on the road.

"So how'd you lose your soul this time?" she asks. He sighs.

"I didn't."

"Good. Pull over then, and let me out."

"Sorry, I can't. I need your help." His eyes are off the road now, focused on her, and the hunger in his look makes her wish she could throw open the door and take her chances with the blacktop at 70 mph.

"Need me." She said flatly. "How?" He doesn't answer her immediately, goes back to staring straight ahead.

"I'm losing control," he says finally. "Of my -- wants." His hand, apparently autonomous, strokes her cheek; it feels like a silk glove filled with ice.

"Hey!" she says jerking away and wondering how Buffy, how anyone could want that touch.

Without warning he swerves off the road and drives the car down the shoulder and stops it in a ditch. He switches off the engine and the lights and before Alice can react, he's out of the car and gone into the night.

She sits listening to the engine cool, waiting for her heartrate to slow, knowing that death has passed too damned close. When she's a little closer to calm she takes a look around. Cars pass by intermittently on the highway, but she doesn't think they can see either the car or her in it. Far away, across fields filled with some kind of waist high vegetation, she can see a lonely light, a farmhouse probably. She hopes Angel isn't headed there. Best case scenario is for him to just keep going, straight on till sunrise catches him in the middle of a shelterless field.

The driver's side door is ajar.

She twists her wrists until they're raw, hoping she can get at least one hand free; even if she can't get loose, maybe she can reach the horn, summon help… Panic slowly resurfacing as she finds that the cuffs are too tight, even when lubricated by spit and blood. Her ankles are securely fastened to the body of the car, not the seat. He's done this before. Damn, damn, damn.

Exhausted, she finally has to give up. She sits there thinking about Xander, who will be home by now, wondering what's happened to her. Depending on how clever Angel has been, he might be worried by the abandoned car, the dropped groceries. She hopes Angel was sloppy, so at least Xander won't think she's abandoned him. And maybe someone will know to look for her in time. She doesn't think much of her chances. The vampire has obviously gone 51/50 again, and Xander's told her what that was like the last time.

The door opens suddenly, and Angel climbs wearily back into his seat. He smells of blood, she can see it smeared on his hands and face and mouth and it worries her that in this form she can't tell what kind.

"Just a deer," he told her in answer to her unspoken question. He sniffs and leans towards her as she squirms backwards as far as she can go. In the close confines of the car he seems to fill her whole world. "You've hurt yourself," he says, looking at her wrists.

Oh, *mother* fuck. "I'm OK."

"Yeah, but I'm not." He looks away, presses the button to roll down all the windows and lets the fresh cool air blow through the car as he continues. "I drained that buck dry, but I'm still hungry. Always hungry. Nearly killed Giles today and I would've killed him if I'd stayed, if he'd just come a little bit closer…"

Alice shivers at the regret in his voice.

"You really don't like me, do you?" He asks, changing tack.

"No." No point in lying about it, even if he could be fooled.

"Why not? I mean, it's been awhile since I could check for myself, but most women seem to think I'm reasonably good-looking. Lucy for one. But not you."

"You're dead," she says flatly. "Walking around, talking, but still dead. You make my skin crawl." He flinches slightly; the truth hurts, she thinks unrepentantly.

"Too bad," he says starting the engine. "It'd make things easier. "

He pulled back onto the highway.

x.

Xander's going crazy. Thinking of all the things that could have happened to her, may be still happening to her. He doesn't care what Giles says, she's just a woman. A small one, out in a night full of monsters, some of them human. And she can be unlucky just like anyone else.

Only one more person he can think to call; it's time for desperate measures.

He gets the number from directory assistance and pays the extra 75 cents to be connected. Listens to the phone ring, one, two, three times as he looks worriedly at his watch, realizing how late it is.

"Angel Investigations, we-help-the-hopeless." In his present mood Cordelia's chirpiness grates more than usual, on the other hand the thought of Queen C as a receptionist makes the medicine go down.

"Cordelia," he says half expecting her to hang up on him.

"Xander?" Pure amazement. "You've got to be kidding, two apocalypses in less than a month?"

"Nah. No apocalypse. Not this week anyway. How are you?"

You mean beside the painful visions, my complete lack of any kind of a social life or a career. Oh, and my boss the friendly vampire who appears to be losing his grip, Cordelia thinks. Oh, and lest we forget, the world's least appropriate office romance.

"Great, just great. So, why are you calling?"

"Is Angel in?"

"Sorry, both Angel and Wesley are out right now." Which is true, in the sense that Angel had been missing since yesterday and Wesley was out getting some food so they could hang around the office a few more hours, hoping he'll come back.

"So, he's definitely in LA?"

"Yeah, sure," Cordelia said.

"Oh. Listen, has Angel been acting strange lately?"

"You mean stranger than his usual? Noooo…why do you ask?" Cordelia says covering for Angel automatically.

"Uh, no reason." Uncomfortable silence. "Well, anyway, when he gets in, could you have him call me?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Thanks, bye."

xi.

Angel didn't say anything for a long time after they got back on the freeway; he just drove, which was fine with Alice. She was pretty sure nothing he was likely to tell her would be good news. After awhile, despite the circumstances, Alice started to feel drowsy. She was all out of adrenaline for now.

"Makes it hard, you looking so much like Lucy." His voice startled her awake. "I met her in an alley, 1929. I was hunting rats; she'd been jumped by a pair of vampires. One of them had a chain round her throat, so she couldn't change."

Alice didn't say anything, but promised herself that once she got out of this, she was going to track this Lucy bitch down and put a major hurting on that loose-lipped, brain-damaged, necrophiliac, whore.

He smiled, "No, she didn't tell me, not much on sharin' secrets was Lucy. I figured it out on my own. Did some research, later, after she'd gone."

"Anyroad, I got myself hurt helping her out, wasn't in the best of shape on my diet of rats. It was gettin' near dawn, so she took me back to her room." His eyes grew darker, as he half-smiled at the memory. "Ah, Lucy. She fucked me till I couldn't walk."

And there was a mental image she hadn't needed.

"Two years we had together. Wasn't love -- and just as well it wasn't - but we were good for each other. I helped her get her drinking under control and she cleaned me up, made me feel almost human. Only it was more than just a feeling. I noticed, after awhile that I could stand a little sunlight...not a lot, but a little, and that I didn't need as much blood. So I did a bit of research. Found out about what she was, what you are. Do you know what you are Alice?"

Up creek, sans paddle, she thinks, but says nothing.

"You're a goddess, with the power to bring life out of death."

Not a lot she can say to that. Giles had told her much the same thing, and maybe it's true, but she's not entirely comfortable with the concept of herself as some kind of deity; she was raised Baptist, as much as was possible anyway. She really doesn't like where he's going with the life-out-of-death thing. She, personally, has never healed anything more serious than a broken arm.

"Or maybe just a demigoddess, because you aren't immortal, are you Alice me girl?" He asks thoughtfully. "Because you can die can't you?" That sounded a lot like a threat. "Lucy promised to heal me. Promised to make me human. We'd made all the preparations, were just waiting for the next full moon…and she walked out of the house one day, and never came back. No note, nothing."

"I searched for years before I gave up. I knew she wasn't dead. That she was out there somewhere...but I never found her. So I went back to the rats for a few decades. Made myself forget about her. It's been almost 70 years."

That was a very sad story, Alice thought as he fell silent again. Wait a minute while I find my violin. A sign flashed past: Los Angeles, 109 miles. She'd figured that was where they were headed, but it was nice to have confirmation.

"The ritual's fairly simple," he said starting up again. "A potion, an incantation, we fuck under the full moon, you give me your blood willingly, and 'Hey Presto!' I'm human." The note of disbelieving hope, the look on his face makes him suddenly look very young and appealing, it's almost enough to make her care. Almost, but not quite.

"No," she says. "Not. Uh-uh. Ain't gonna happen. Remember: I don't like you."

"Yeah, I got that. But beggars can't be choosers," he tells her cheerfully. "And you're no 20 year old ingenue are you? How old are you really, pretty Alice?"

"Doesn't matter how old I am, or how many men I've done in my time. It's still no."

"Ah, but you're not considerin' all the factors." What's with the brogue? She thinks and she knows she didn't blink but suddenly his oversized hand is around her throat above the collar, squeezing lightly. She swallows hard as the car hurtles along without guidance.

"I'm barely holdin' on here Alice me girl. Every hour the demon's that much closer to gettin' free. An’ if I go down it's certain I'll take a lot of people with me. Xander for one. I don't like him. The demon's none too fond of him either. And Xander, along with all the other people I'll kill will be your fault. Do you want that on your conscience? Help me. Please."

xii.

How does she hate Xander Harris, let her count the ways… the latest addition to the list being that phone call. He was lying about something, she was covering for Angel. Nice to know some things never change.

Why had Xander asked if Angel was in L.A.?

Where the hell was Angel anyway? She went out back and for the umpteenth time that day, leaned out the window to check their parking space. Bingo. The deSoto was there, gleaming blackly under the streetlight. So Angel was back. The jerk must have come in through the back while they were worrying about him upstairs. Damn him.

Cordelia headed downstairs to give him a piece of her mind. She blocks out the thought that she should probably wait for Wesley to get back. She's not sure she wants Wesley there when she talks to Angel about some of the things she needs to talk to him about.

Like that kiss. Talk about your dramatic exits. She can still feel it, still taste it branded on her lips. It had kept her up late last night, thinking, worrying about it, wanting more…

She knocks on his door. "Angel!" she yells. And again, louder. "Angel? You in there?"

The door's not locked. It never is. She takes a deep breath and steps inside. It's very dark in there, not even the courtesy light he usually leaves on. She switches on the lamp by his bed.

Déjà vu all over again -- Angel asleep in his bed, shirtless, and maybe pantless -- she's not checking. "Angel?" He's fast asleep, not peacefully, mumbling in his sleep. Queasily, Cordelia turns away from the sight of his demon playing peek-a-boo with his human face. Notices the odor, again: he stinks, of blood, inhuman sweat, and the distinctive reek of the sewers. As do the clothes lying in a heap at the foot of his bed, including his precious coat. And that's so not Angel that she wonders if maybe this would be a good time to bring out the chains again.

The sewers? She wonders, noticing the trail of muddy size 13 footprints he's left on the floor. It's nighttime, what was he doing down there? She goes back upstairs to get a flashlight and change her shoes. She's about had it with mysteries.

Gosh, what a glamorous life I lead she thinks as she picks her way through the mud, following his tracks. She's grateful for the light that filters down through the occasional grate to help out her flashlight. Luckily it hasn't rained recently and it's easy to follow his footsteps in the mud. She tries not to think too much about the other nocturnal nasties that could be down here with her. The danger's probably minimal, the local talent seems to have figured out that big bad Angelus lives nearby, and they stay away. But just in case she's got a stake, a sprayer full of holy water and a big knife and she can run really fast in her Adidas.

The footsteps lead to a door, which she half remembers seeing before, it leads to some kind of DWP storage room. The paint is peeling off the door but there's a new lock on it, and this is definitely where Angel came from. She rattles the doorknob…it's locked. O.K. Cordelia steps back, and gives it a good hard kick just below the doorknob. She shoots, she scores! The nice new lock holds but the rotten wood of the jamb splinters. Door open. Cordelia grins as she pushes it open and steps inside. She plays her flashlight over the room.

Pipes and rusty equipment under rotting tarps. Dust and spiderwebs and things scuttling away from the light that she pretends not to see. Ohmigod. There's a woman lying unconscious on the floor against the wall, and when Cordelia turns her over she knows her. It's catgirl, whatshername, Alice. With a collar around her neck chaining her to the wall.

"So, he's definitely in LA?" Oh no, no, no, *Angel*. Wait a minute, maybe cat girl's evil and Angel had to -- but even inside her head, the rationalization rings hollow.

"Alice," she says pulling her up into a sitting position. Can't help checking -- clothes mussed, but intact, no bite marks. No obvious bite marks. "Wake up, come on." Shakes her a little. "Come on, come on," she's suddenly very aware of the darkness surrounding their little patch of light.

Alice suddenly jerks in her grip, tries to pull free of Cordelia, "No!"

"Hey, calm down. It's me, Cordelia. We've met."

"Hi Cordelia." Alice seems a little dazed. "I said I'd do it, but he didn't believe me…" she suddenly snaps into focus. "Where is he?"

"Who?" she knows who, but she has to hear Alice say it.

"Angel! Shit! He's gone nuts. We've got to get out of here. Can you get this thing off me?"

Cordelia tries, but the collar and the chain that he's wrapped around some very solid girders are made out of stainless steel and nothing they do has any effect. They need a key, or someone with superhuman strength…like for instance Angel… so on to Plan B.

"I'll get help," Cordelia tells her. Alice shivers, starts to protest, and then nods.

"God. Be careful. And call Sunnydale, warn them. Call Xander; tell him what happened, " she says urgently.

Alice watches Cordelia charge back into the darkness, she listens to the dying sound of her footsteps and lets herself slump back against the wall. She's not getting her hopes up. Not yet.

Running back through the sewers, scared to death she'll lose her way, but she doesn't. Back up the ladder, tiptoeing past the closed door that leads to Angel's quarters and into the office. She grabs the phone and dials just as the door opens and Wesley comes in with the Chinese. He's smiling, and then he's not and just as she hears Giles voice say "Hello?" it all goes black.

***

In Sunnydale, Giles hangs up the phone. "Odd," he says to Joyce. "No-one there."

"Try *69," she suggests

"Pardon?"

"It'll call back whoever just called," she explained patiently.

"Oh." He pressed the buttons, waited.

"You have reached Angel Investigations, We Help the Hopeless. If you're listening to this message there's no one in right now, but don't despair! Leave a message at the beep, and we will get back to you pronto! BEEEEEEEP!"

"Who was it?" Joyce asked as Giles hung up.

"No-one, wrong number I think." He has a very bad feeling about this. He's no longer sure he did the right thing by not telling Xander about Angel's visit and odd behavior earlier. Even though at the time he had no reason to suspect it had anything to do with Alice's disappearance -- and still doesn't. He doesn't want to fall into the trap of letting history get in the way of his judgment and blame Angel for everything. Still, tomorrow, if Xander hasn't heard from Alice, or he doesn't reach someone in L.A. he'll have to reconsider. Take action.

END part 8

Next: part 9, Night and Day