****************** 
Title: In Tenebris, Veritas
Author: Wasabi Oni (wasabioni@hotmail.com)
URL: http://www.angelfire.com/id2/WasabiOni/
Summary: Angel's got a new obsession as he spirals down... 
Notes: Spoilers through ATS "Reunion" Sorry about the latin, I had a 
better title, but someone already used it. 
Rating: NC-17 for violence, sex, bloodplay, language, all the good 
stuff. 
Distribution: Archives, Lar if she wants it, my site at 
www.angelfire.com/id2/WasabiOni Everyone else, please ask first. 
Disclaimer: Same old, same old. The characters aren't mine, but the 
work is. 
Feedback: Talk to me! WasabiOni@n... 

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

ANGEL: I'm the good guy. No, wait, I'm the bad guy.

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

Leaning against the wall, Angel realizes that some things never change. 
It's unimportant that the wall he's leaning against is concrete block 
instead of stone, or that the traffic on the nearby street is made up of 
cars not carriages. In the end, this alley is as dank, dark and fouled by 
piss and garbage as any other he has had acquaintance of in his 240-odd 
years. He likes to think that *he* has changed, though he still hates the 
waiting as much now as he ever did. 

It's warm for January, even for Los Angeles. The winter storms are at 
least a month late. The weatherman promised "a chance of showers" 
and the sky has clouded over, but there's no actual rain yet. He hears 
the scuttle of rats in the shadows and grimaces; the population has 
exploded, encouraged by the unusual weather. He hates rats; he never 
did get used to the taste. He folds his arms, settles himself a little more 
comfortably, and lets his mind drift a little. 

* He admires the way Kate stands her ground when he comes at her. 
She's an excellent shot, he feels the sting of the bullets, one, two, three, 
four, good hits, all nicely centered in his chest. They're not enough, not 
nearly enough to stop him. Good thing for both of them that she'd never 
been trained as a Slayer or she'd have known to go for a headshot. * 

*It's just like riding a bike: you never forget how. Grabs the gun arm 
and forces it up, and takes hold of her, small blond woman with no 
Slayer strength to save her as he jerks her forward into his embrace, 
feeling her heart pound rabbit-fast as he sinks his teeth into Kate's neck. 
The blood seems to leap into his mouth, making it hard to remember 
who he is supposed to be right then as he holds her tight and drank her. 
Paralyzed by the shock and pain, helpless, her eyes staring up at him as 
his hands gripped her hard. Holding her, needing her.* 

*The ache and loss when he had to let her go.* 

Someone laughed, a passerby on the lighted street and Angel shook off 
his reverie and returns his attention to the tedium of here and now. Still 
nothing. Maybe he should try somewhere else. He can hear the traffic 
and the crowds of shoppers only a few blocks away on Melrose. It bugs 
him a little. All those helpless humans blithely exposing themselves to 
the perils of night. Don't they read the paper? Watch the news? 
"Massacre in Bel-Air." "2 More Bodies Found." "LAPD reports another 
victim of the Twin Killers has been found, details tonight on News at 
Ten." Guess not. Of course, most of them are very young. They don't 
believe that death has anything to do with them. He knows that Liam 
must have felt that way once upon a time, but he's lost the memory. 

An insubstantial drizzle has started, just enough to liberate the stink 
from the filthy asphalt. He checks his watch. 11 p.m. He hopes at least 
that his people are inside, safe in bed. Out of harm's way. They've got 
no business in this fight. This is war, no place for civilians. They never 
understood that. Kate knows, she's a cop; she understands the 
importance of protecting the innocent, the essential people from the 
darkness that would destroy them. 

He's sure in his heart that the hope of their safety was worth the way 
they'd looked at him. 

Cordelia, shocked and hurt in a way that tore a bleeding gash in his 
own heart. There had been more than the pain of friendship betrayed in 
her eyes, and he hadn't known. 

Wesley - wounded, shoulders slumped, but under that almost relieved 
that the sword had finally fallen. Because he'd always known, after all, 
that anything he tried would fail. He'd been the second to leave that 
night, right after Gunn. 

Gunn. Angel had seen the disappointed betrayal in his eyes, when he 
realized it wasn't a joke. He just left, disappeared, went back to his 
other family. He's left no messages, hasn't come back. That bothers 
Angel: that Gunn, of all of them didn't understand that he was doing it 
for them, taking responsibility. 

They hate him now, and that's just fine. For the best. Cordelia hasn't left 
him a message for a week now, and Wesley hasn't been back since he 
changed the locks. 

He'd done what had to be done. Been the grownup. 

He sighs, and finds himself thinking about the last time he'd seen Kate. 

*Hustled out of the lawyers' offices by a mob of nervous security 
guards, and handed over to the cops. Cuffed and shoved into the back 
of the patrol car. Most of his attention taken up by fighting the urge to 
rip off the cuffs and introduce the cop's head to the car's roof, when 
he'd been distracted by a familiar scent. He turned in surprise to see 
Kate.* 

*"Oh, great," he snapped. Regretting it instantly. She simply looked at 
him with her pale eyes in her too-pale face. Her hair gleaming in the 
light, the fatal hue. Her expression isn't exactly friendly, more neutral, 
and that is far more than he'd expected, so much more than he deserved 
and the shock makes him splutter out some stupidity. She still doesn't 
get angry. * 

*"Two people were just murdered in a clothing store at Fifth and Hill. 
Preliminary reports say that two women were spotted leaving the scene. 
One of them matches the description of your pal Darla. - They're not 
done, are they?"* 

*He thinks that she's looking at him the way he remembered her doing 
once upon a time, before it all fell apart: as though he were a person 
and not an *evil*, evil thing.* 

*"No." She flinches a little at the confirmation of her fears. "Why are 
you telling me this?"* 

*"Because I don't think I can stop them. Maybe you can." And he is 
lost. Ah Katie: strong, and honest, and true. Willing to deal with the 
Devil if that's what it took to save the innocent. She'd searched his eyes 
and if he only knew what it was she was looking for, he'd have given it 
to her. He'd felt cheated when she turned away and ordered the driver 
to pull over. She'd unlocked his cuffs. He'd looked at her for a long 
moment, then reluctantly got out. Stood there watching the car until it 
was out of sight, but she never turned her head.* 

He's done his best, his very best to live up to her expectations. He's 
searched for Darla and Dru every night, but he's come up empty. He 
can feel them, he knows they're still here, still in his city, but apparently 
Darla's in no hurry for her goodbye kiss. They're hiding from him, but 
he will find them, in time. He will fulfil his charge by killing them both 
again. Prove himself to Kate. 

The LAPD are having no luck either. They circulate the duo's 
descriptions and clear away the corpses. The "Twin Killers" 
designation was the invention of a local newsmen. He gets to talk to 
Kate almost daily on the phone. She treats him with strict 
professionalism. It's all so civilized, just as if he'd never had his teeth in 
her neck, her blood in his mouth, as though he didn't still have a few 
Kate corpuscles wandering through his body. 

Just as if he didn't spend hours mooning over her picture. 

Kate doesn't know that he's fired his staff. She believes that he knows 
nothing about the massacre at the Manners' house, and he's been careful 
not to disillusion her. He'd asked her if Lindsay had been there, and 
managed to cover his surprise when she said no, "he skipped the party, 
lucky guy." So he guesses he knows who Darla's new fuck-toy is. And 
in his idle moments, inquiring minds want to know: how long 
McDonald will last, breathing or otherwise; does Darla still like to 
share with Dru; and whether Lindsay regrets any of his choices now. 

Wolfram and Hart seems to have recovered remarkably quickly from 
the blow of losing so many lawyers. McDonald has been promoted. 
Angel tried tailing him, hoping he might lead him to the girls, but the 
new Partner's comings and goings are better shielded than the 
President's. No joy there. 

The sounds of a scuffle nearby jerks him back fully into the here and 
now. Finally, he thinks and follows the sounds deeper into the dark 
maze of alleys, to the back of a restaurant where two humans are 
struggling with a third on the dirty ground. Angel swoops in and grabs 
the bigger attacker and tosses him away into a heap of empty boxes. 
The second man stares up at him as he hauls him up by his grimy 
denim jacket and slams him headfirst into the wall. The man groans and 
goes limp. 

The woman they'd been trying to put down gapes up at him. She's 
worn-out, crackhead thin, her no-color hair hanging in greasy strands 
over her face. A long scratch across her exposed chest seeps red. 

"Go," he tells her. She's smarter than she looks; she scrambles to her 
feet and goes. 

The one he'd tossed away is back on his feet, and he has a knife that he 
weaves back and forth, indecisively. There's more fear than aggression 
on his narrow face. "You too," Angel says letting his true face show. 
The wannabe rapist does a quick recalculation of the odds and then he's 
gone as well. 

"Alone at last," Angel tells the unconscious man. He lifts him and holds 
him against the wall with one hand, rips open his collar with the other, 
and leans in. This one hasn't had a bath for awhile, but the stink of 
unwashed flesh is swamped by the delicious aroma of blood. Fresh, 
warm, human, blood. 

No need to be delicate with this one. Just open wide and take a big bite, 
teeth slicing through the grubby skin to the treasure underneath. Angels 
grunts as the blood fills his mouth and pours down his throat. Really 
hits the spot: salty with adrenaline, laced with alcohol and the merest 
soupcon of cocaine, it washes away all his weariness. 

And hasn't he earned it? He busts his ass for the PTB, risks his 
existence night after night and he's sick of doing it on butcher's blood 
and expired plasma. He needs this, deserves it. And it's not like he's 
preying on the innocent. He wouldn't do that, will never need to do that 
here in the big city. There are more than enough little sharks for the big 
shark to feed on. 

He drinks till he's feeling comfortably full, then pulls his fangs out, and 
lets his victim drop bonelessly to the ground. He looks down at him 
dispassionately; the man's heartbeat is steady, and he'll wake up an hour 
or four from now feeling like shit, but he won't die of this. Maybe he'll 
rethink the whole life of crime thing. Angel wipes his mouth and his 
hands with a handkerchief, and drops it onto the man's chest. 

It's starting to rain in earnest now, big fat raindrops splatting down on 
the ground, the unaware man. Tapping on his shoulders as he heads 
back toward the light. 

*** 

Next stop, Wolfram and Hart. Angel parks a few blocks away, out of 
sight of their external surveillance cameras, slipped in through the 
parking garage and took the elevator. He'd found Dru's 'tag' when he 
went back to search the greenhouse where Darla had been reborn; a 
handy little amulet that keeps the seer-demons from setting off the 
alarm when a vampire enters the premises. 

Lindsay has a nice new office. Two floors up from his old one with a 
stunning view of LA's sparkly lights. A huge desk commands a sea of 
gray carpet. He's shocked but not surprised to see a picture of Darla 
next to the phone. Evidence that the late unlamented Holland Manners 
had been even further out of the loop than he'd thought. It's not out of 
the realm of possibility that the "Special Projects" group had always 
been slated for sacrifice. He picks up the photo and studies it, for clues. 
He thinks it's probably undead Darla: the skin seems a little too perfect, 
and the eyes are a bit too bright for humanity, but he can't be sure. 

He puts it down gently and gets down to searching the desk, the file 
cabinets. He doesn't bother trying the computer, everything the lawyers 
do digitally is securely guarded by password and spells. Comes up with 
nothing. Feeling frustrated, he went over to the window and stood 
staring out at the spectacular view, unmarred by his reflection. He 
knows there must be a safe around here somewhere. 

He hears a soft click, and in the window watches as a demon steps out 
of the wall. Angel doesn't recognize the species. It's toweringly bipedal, 
big vaguely horselike head, lots of teeth, with dangerous looking spikes 
all over its slimy whip-thin body there are no weapons in its great big 
clawed hands. Considering its size it's remarkably silent as it sneaks up 
behind him. 

It freezes when Angel turns around and smiles. "Hey, I was wondering 
when you'd get here." Brief look of uncertainty in the yellow goat eyes, 
then it attacks. 

Angel lets it come, still smiling, moving at the last instant to sidestep 
the reaching claws and take hold of its elbow, wrenching hard, using 
the demon's own momentum to send it flying across the room. It lands 
in a confusion of limbs, but it's up on its feet in an instant. His hands 
are tingling, the damned slime must be corrosive. He wipes them clean 
on his jacket, glad that he no longer has to answer to Cordelia for his 
clothing bill and picks up a big Ficus, fancy Mesoamerican pot and all, 
lifts it over his head and slams it into the demon's head when it rushes 
him again. The pot cracks and dirt showers onto the carpet as it goes 
down again. Angel feels a sharp pain and realizes that he's been slashed 
across the chest. Fuck. It hurts, and he liked this shirt. He snaps off the 
stem of the plant and drives the makeshift spear into the demon's chest. 
It takes several tries before he hits something essential and the demon 
goes limp. 

He leaves its head on top of Lindsay's desk, oozing corrosively over the 
expensive wood. Takes Darla's picture, and tosses a chair through the 
wall of glass for good measure. Alarms start to blare as he leaves via 
the secret passage, which leads to the basement. There are a couple of 
guards waiting at the exit, but they weren't expecting him, they're no 
problem at all. 

He emerges into the night again. The rain's stopped. The sky is 
beginning to clear. He grins up at the stars gleaming high above the 
office towers. Dru's probably out there somewhere, talking to them. He 
remembers Darla's pained tolerance of her babbling. He's feeling pretty 
good despite his wounds. He'd enjoyed that, fighting, killing: it's what 
he's best at, why the PTB chose him to be the Warrior, the dark killer 
for the powers of light. As he jogs the couple of blocks back to where 
he left his car it occurs to him that the demon had been playing for 
keeps. Apparently, Wolfram and Hart no longer want him dark, dead 
will do. Whatever. 

He jumps into the car and starts the engine. He wonders how Darla 
feels about wasting so many weeks of her second chance crawling into 
his bed at Wolfram and Hart's behest, wriggling and whispering 
obscenities into his ear, jerking him off in his sleep. Does vampire 
Darla think it's funny? One thing for certain, he's sure she wishes she'd 
been a little more persuasive. Having Dru as a sire is no walk in the 
park, and he's not around this time to play nursemaid. 

Maybe Spike could give her some pointers. He's sure he'll be pleased to 
hear that his grandsire's back in action? Angel smiles at the thought as 
he pulls away from the curb. Like hell, Spike never liked Darla and 
vice versa. The only person Spike liked less than Darla was the Master, 
it was one of the few things he and Angelus agreed on. If he's smart, 
he'll stay far away from LA. Angel has no serious objection to killing 
him, chip or no chip. 

He doesn't like Spike being in Sunnydale. Doesn't trust the posing little 
monster, much less the U.S. govt. issue tech currently holding him in 
check. He's expressed his opinion to Buffy and been told, very clearly, 
to mind his own business. So he has. Trusting The Slayer to take care 
of the situation if the necessity arises. 

He seems to have a thing for angry women. Small, angry, blond 
women. The quiet-for-LA streets don't require much of his attention, so 
he gets back to his hobby, obsessing about her... Ah Kate. Her blond 
hair gleams like metal wire but felt soft and smooth against his face. 

Katie, Katie, Kate. He knows he should give it up, but he's never been 
very good at that. Now if you want someone to obsess and brood, well 
then, he's your man. 

Does she think of him? 

He knows where she lives. Has gone there, a few times, maybe more 
than a few times, and stood looking at her apartment. Wishing he could 
simply walk up and knock on her door, and that this time, she'll invite 
him in. 

The memory of her blood haunts him like lost opportunities. It had 
made it that much harder to resist Darla's plea. Darla would either 
laugh or cry if she knew just how close he'd been, that night in the alley 
watching her offer her neck to that idiot vamp. Angel wishes at least 
that he'd allowed himself more than those few stray drops that night 
under the water tanks. As he turns onto his street, a sudden image of 
Kate in Darla's place shines brightly in his mind's eye. Kate suspended 
in his grip, her back molded into the pillar as his fangs scrape down the 
side of her neck. The taste of fear in her blood, not desire. Her voice 
begging him to stop, not egging him on... 

He drank her, but Kate is alive and well. With his mark on her. There 
are two women now alive in the world that he's tasted. Kate's blood is 
the most recent, but it's frighteningly easy to close his eyes and 
summon up the essence of Buffy's life in his mouth. 

Both alive, and the thought tempts him. 

He could make it so good for her... 

Darla had been a good and thorough tutor, he knows how to slip his 
teeth in slyly, how to slowly draw the blood out, how to make the 
magic that transforms it from pain to sweet ecstasy so that they die 
smiling and can be propped neatly in their pew or carriage seat and left 
there, no-one the wiser. 

Home again, home again. The King returned to his huge, dark and 
empty castle,. He parks in back and takes the freight elevator directly to 
the 3rd floor. Avoiding the darkened lobby which is thick with the 
memories of departed friends. He does miss them, but he knows he did 
the right thing, making them go. They held him back, kept him from 
doing what needed to be done. Forced him to spend energy pretending 
that he's something he isn't, slowed and hampered him with their 
concern. 

As soon as the elevator doors open he smells it. Blood. 

Kate's blood. 

He runs down the hallway to his room, and kicks the door open. Sees 
the limp figure on the bed, crumpled and pale against the sheets. 

The room blurs around him. She's unconscious, lying on her side, her 
hands cuffed behind her. He bends over her anxiously, his nostrils 
flaring at the smell that rises from her bruised skin: Darla and Dru are 
all over her, mixed with the fear and anger and blood. Deep relief 
floods through him when he finds her heartbeat is steady and strong. 

Only then does the rest of it penetrate. Her shirt's been torn to show her 
breasts and the keys tucked into the valley between them. Her jeans 
unzipped and tugged down just enough to reveal the lace top of her 
white underwear. The final touch is the red satin bow tied prettily 
around her throat, stained by the slow ooze of blood from the concealed 
wound. 

Perfect. 

Like all the other little presents left in so many beds by his doting Sire. 
He remembers the pleading eyes, the useless struggles, the sweet blood 
singing with panic as he unwrapped each pretty gift and ran cold hands 
over warm, soft, helpless flesh. Remembers Darla's approving smile as 
she sat watching her greedy boy play with his treat before he gobbled 
them up, every last drop. But not this one. Not this time. There's a 
twinge of guilt, because he can guess how Darla found her. The present 
is meant for Angelus, not for him, but same difference in her mind. 
She's wrong, he hopes. 

She smells so good. 

He wants so badly to undo the ribbon and paint a line down the smooth 
skin of her neck with the tip of his tongue to the sweet hollow of her 
throat. Wants to cover her lips with his, to invade her with his tongue 
and map every soft ridge of her mouth the smooth surfaces of her blunt 
human teeth. He wants to press himself along the length of her body so 
that she can feel him, hard, aching for her. Wants to slide his hand 
between her legs, to part her hidden lips and push inside. Wants to feel 
her wet, warm cunt clench around his fingers, as he captures her 
waking gasp in the cold cavern of his mouth. 

The demon whispers to him, to take the gift, begging him to open her 
up and salve his wounds, his pain, his doubt in her blood and emerge 
reborn, tempered, a dark arrow aimed at evil's heart. 

Kate stirs. She groans, and tries to move her arms, and her half-
conscious struggling nearly undoes all of his good intentions. He steps 
back as she opens her eyes and sees him, her expression swiftly shifting 
from surprise to wariness, but not panic, not yet. 

"Angel?" She pulls against the cuffs. "What's going on?" Eyes 
challenging him. Demanding that he live up to her trust. 

------------------------------------------------------------------
KATE: "You told me to forget about it.  I'd like to." 
------------------------------------------------------------------- 

i. 

Night, and it's raining, streetlights, headlights, traffic lights reflecting 
gaudily in the black mirror streets.  Kate sees none of it as she drives 
home on autopilot.  She pulls the Tercel up in front of the apartment, 
turns off the engine and just sits there, too tired to get out of the car.  
The music is soothing.   

//Slippin into darkness// 

She remembers this song coming on the oldies station, when she was a 
kid, and Mom (if Daddy wasn't around) would turn up the radio.  
Remembers Mom singing along with the weird lyrics, an infrequent 
smile on her face. 

//Take my mind, beyond the trees...// 

Trees? she wonders, not for the first time.  Closes her eyes and leans 
forward to rest her forehead against the steering wheel.  She's so 
goddamned tired; tired of chasing monsters, night after fucking night, 
and *nothing*.   The entire LAPD scouring the city and they can't find 
the bitches despite plastering their faces across every squad room in the 
city.  They're supposed to be vampires not fucking ghosts and she's 
been assured that they can't turn into bats or anything else, or fly, but 
still all they ever find is the drained corpses they leave behind.   

Darla and Drusilla seem to like the Westside.  Over the past couple of 
weeks Kate's been to way too many chi-chi shops that she'd never have 
been inside otherwise; she's sick to death of looking at beautiful clothes 
spattered with blood.  It's getting hard to find a store open late 
nowadays.   

//I was slippin into darkness....// 

Two weeks since she answered the call to the Manners' house.  It's a 
beautiful place in a neighborhood a long way in every sense from her 
Harbor City apartment.  Everything was lit up like Christmas by the 
strobing coplights that turned the long smear of blood on the porch 
black and red and blue by turns.  At the end of the blood trail is the first 
victim:  Mrs. Manners, ex-trophy wife, lying beautiful and very dead 
where she'd managed to drag herself in a useless search for help.  The 
cop standing guard over the body met her eyes as Kate stood there and 
shook his head.   

"Damn shame, but there's worse downstairs," he said, trying to prepare 
her. 

//Take my miiiind beyond the trees...// 

Kate's been a cop for what seems a long time, almost seven years, and 
she's seen way too many awful things: dismembered bodies sealed in 
car trunks, women raped and dumped in the brushy hills like garbage, 
young men, women, and children blown away in drive-bys, and so on 
and fucking on.  So the scene in the wine cellar wasn't the worst thing 
she'd ever seen, there were no kids involved, but it was bad enough. 

//Where I talked to my brothers.... who never said their names // 

The overwhelming stink of blood hit her as soon as she stepped through 
the shattered doors.  Even after all these years it still amazed her how 
much blood there is in a single human body, and she guessed the two of 
them couldn't manage to drink it all.  There was blood everywhere, 
splashed on the walls, clotted in half-filled wine glasses, on the neck of 
a broken bottle; smeared on $1000 dresses and Armani suits, caked in 
$200 haircuts, pooled under the bodies that had held it.  15 lawyers, 
clever mouths stilled, all thoughts ended.  Every one of them, 
absolutely, positively dead. 

//Yeaaaaaah// 

Holland Manners had had his head handed to him, literally, and the 
head of a dark-haired young woman balanced carefully on his 
shoulders.  It had taken the coroner to determine which body it 
belonged with.  Darla and her buddy had been very *thorough*; there 
wasn't an intact corpse in the room.  Images of torn flesh, obscenely 
repositioned body parts, in sharp focus every time she closes her eyes. 

//Slippin into darkness// 

And Kate couldn't shake the feeling that they were all looking at her, 
glazed eyes staring accusingly at her because Angel hadn't made it in 
time.  Because she'd let her fears, her feelings get in the way till it was 
too damned late. 

She told herself then, keeps telling herself that she did everything she 
could, that it wasn't her fault, that she'd *tried*.  Talking to Angel 
earlier, that night, had been one of the hardest things she'd ever done.   
Sitting in the close confines of the car, remembering the smell of her 
blood on his breath when he whispered into her ear: "Stay down or 
they'll kill you."  Dealing with him, and not trying to kill him or run 
away.  She'd still been having bad dreams about that moment when 
she'd known she was going to die, and not just die, but be *eaten*.  Just 
like Daddy.   

But Angel hadn't killed her, in fact he'd saved her life.but she'd still 
needed 3 units of blood when they got her to the hospital.  And that 
wasn't his gun she'd felt prodding her stomach. 

//When I heard, my mother say// 

The papers shrieked and the evening news plastered flashy new 
graphics across the nightly broadcast.  "Massacre in Bel-air!"  "Terror 
Stalks LA."  A terrible tragedy, all those powerful, wealthy, white 
people dead.  These are no South Central/East LA who-really-cares 
kinda homicides.  This is hitting a little too close to the homes of 
people who matter.  The department has thrown everything they have 
into the search.and there's getting to be a distinct edge to the Chief's 
voice when he asks for updates on the case. 

//I was slippin into darkness, (yeaaaah)// 

No-one, especially Kate is saying anything about vampires, good or 
bad.   She's personally checked Forest Lawn, Evergreen, Hollywood 
Memorial, Veteran's, Rose Hills, -- only the ones with tombs, not the 
newer monument-free ones.  She's killed a couple of new and dumb 
vampires.  But not a hint of the ones she's looking for. 

//When I heard my mother say// 

//(Hey what she sayin what she sayin)// 

He calls every day, keeping her updated, and every time there's a 
moment of sheer panic when she hears his voice.  She can push it 
down, but she can't forget any of it: not the terror, or the pain, or the 
horribly seductive need that she'd seen in his eyes, the bottomless, 
unqualified want.   

//You've been slippin into darkness.// 

She never wants to hear Angel's voice again, but she always takes the 
call, hoping that this time he's phoning to tell her that it's over.  That the 
deadly duo are dust and she can finally close the case and get a good 
night's sleep.  And then maybe she'll transfer over to traffic, or fraud.  
Or possibly she'll take a disability out, and move out of the city to some 
nice quiet monster-free town.  She's not sure she wants to be a cop 
anymore, not here anyway. 

//Pretty soon you're gonna pay, (yeaaaaaaaah)// 

The song's done.  Kate lifts her head and notices that it's stopped 
raining.  Might as well go inside.  She steps out of the car; the air 
smells clean, washed by the rain and the coolness feels good.  Yawning 
she walks up to her door, fumbling in her pocket for her keys.  She's 
not paying as much attention as she usually does to her surrounding.  
Later, she blames herself for that.  She turns the key in the door, 
nothing on her mind but a shower, maybe a drink, and bed when she 
hears a footstep behind her. 

"Hello Detective Locksley.  I remember you.  You were nice, so 
worried about the grieving widow," Kate spins around, going for her 
gun even before she consciously recognizes that sweet cyanide voice.  
Sees Darla standing smiling at her just inside the circle of light cast by 
the porchlight, so pretty. 

Then she moves, impossibly fast, slams Kate into the wall so hard she 
sees stars. Darla holds her immobile, arms at her side and the cold steel 
strength of her is just so fucking *wrong*.  Kate still fights, but the 
slim body pinning her down might as well be made of lead for all the 
luck she's having shifting it.  Darla blithely ignores her struggles and  
leans forward to put her mouth close to the thin scars marking her neck. 

"Mmmm.  My boy's been here," she purrs, a dank breeze against Kate's 
skin.  "Should I be jealous, Detective?" 

"Let. Me. Go," Kate says, trying to project Cop Authority while 
underneath she's fighting panic, trying to keep her mind focused on 
freeing her weapon.  Because if she can just get a shot, maybe.  It 
won't kill the bitch, but it might make her let go and her door is right 
there, and if she can just get inside, she'll be safe. 

She's shocked when Darla lets her go and steps back.  Before she can 
react Darla's talons rip open her shirt and her bra, exposing her breasts.   

"Pretty, pretty," Darla approves.  "My boy has good taste."  There had 
been a husky with eyes like Darla's in her old neighborhood, the cops 
had had to shoot the crazy bastard when he mauled the neighbor's kid.  
Darla dips her head, snake fast; and Kate shudders at the feel of an ice-
cold tongue on her nipple but her arm's free and she has to try.  She has 
her weapon in her hand and her finger on the safety. and she screams 
in agony as her arm is twisted till it feels like it's going to break.  The 
gun drops as she's spun around, held from behind. 

"Naughty," the giggly English voice chides.  Kate feels the last bit of 
hope wither as she realizes that, Oh God, the other one is there too. 
Kate' is face to face with the dark haired vampire: Drusilla, the crazy 
one. 

 "The Angel-beast dreams of her," she whispers.  Kate can see her 
frightened face tiny and lost in Drusilla's beautiful, empty, eyes.  Kate 
rakes her foot down the inside of her leg and stamps on her instep, but 
Drusilla is oblivious as she forces Kate's mouth open and shoves her 
tongue inside. 

Behind her, Darla giggles and licks Kate's neck. "Mmm, sweet.  I see 
why he likes you," she whispers.  "He's been watching you, and I've 
been watching him."  Kate tries to scream as Darla sinks her fangs in 
and she feels that razor sharp agony again, the horrible drawing 
sensation as her blood is sucked away.   

Fuck, she really doesn't want to go like this, molested and killed by 
fucking vampires.  Six months ago she'd been happily ignorant of the 
fact that there was any such thing as a vampire, and now the Locksley 
clan is about to be wiped out by them. 

Desperately, Kate bites down hard on the tongue that's choking her and 
gags on the taste of sickly sweet rot that seeps into her mouth.  Drusilla 
moans, not in pain, and sticks her tongue further down Kate's throat, 
but Darla stops feeding and admonishes her partner. 

"Dru, honey, she needs to breathe." 

"Oh, Sorry mummy..."  Drusilla let Kate go, and drops to her knees, 
nuzzling at her crotch.  "He wants to be here," she murmurs.  Kate main 
concern is sucking air into her lungs until she feels a cold hand 
unzipping her jeans and insinuating itself between her legs, long nails 
scratching at her thigh.   

"Invite us in Kate dear," Darla asks sweetly.  "This is a little bit public, 
don't you think?" 

Kate shakes her head stubbornly.  As long as they are outside, in view 
there's always the hope, however tiny that someone will interfere, try to 
help.  Somebody must have heard her scream; call the cops 
goddammit!   

"Well, alright then.  If you're not going to be sociable."  Iron hard hand 
around her neck as Darla leans back close to her throat, no hint of 
breath against the skin.  Kate shuts her eyes, waiting for the pain, and 
sure that this time there will be no reprieve, just death this time.  Trying 
to convince herself that that's the worst thing she faces. 

"Give Angel my love," Darla whispers.  Quick, soft kiss on the lips and 
then Darla's hand squeezing, cutting off her air till the lights go out. 

ii. 

She opens her eyes and Angel is looking down at her with those 
blackhole eyes in that beautiful face.  He's too close, she can feel cold 
coming off him like the wind off a glacier.  Remembers being held 
against that chill, body going numb.  She's scared, but knows she's not 
as scared as she probably should be.   

"Angel?"  Her arms hurt, her hands have been cuffed behind her, and 
with her own handcuffs she bets.  "What's going on?"   

Angel looks guilty, but what else is new?  "Sorry," he says and hastily 
leans across her to unlock the cuffs.  Helps her sit up and stays there, 
looming beside her on the edge of the bed. 

"Thanks," she says, trying to discreetly sidle away from him as she 
works at shaking some feeling back into her arms.  Reflexive check to 
confirm that no, Darla didn't think to tuck her gun back into the holster.  
Great.  Two for two. 

There's something around her neck, she tugs at it till it comes free, 
stares in incomprehension at the stained red satin band.  Then she gets 
it, about the same time she realizes that she's falling out of what used to 
be her shirt.  She tries to hold the tatters together, but it's a lost cause.   
Notices that Angel is carefully keeping his eyes focused on her face. 

"You're at the hotel.  Do you remember what happened?"  Something 
about his tone tells her he already knows. 

"It was them.  Darla and Drusilla... Caught me outside my apartment.  I 
was sure they were going to kill me," she fights down the shakes that 
come with the memory.  She looks at Angel, but his eyes, his face, give 
nothing back   "Why am I here?"   

"Darla's trying to remind me of the good old days," he looks away, his 
words with their bloody implications of Angelus hang in the air 
between them.  Kate can't think of a damned thing to say to that.  She's 
sore, she's exhausted, and as soon as she gets a minute she's going to 
have a nervous breakdown...but not here, not now. 

"You have to find somewhere else to stay for awhile.  She'll kill you 
next time," he says. 

Not a lot she can say to that either, since it wouldn't be too tactful to 
ask what exactly he's sorry about: Sorry for not finding and killing 
them yet?  Sorry for stalking her and leading them to her?  Sorry for 
screwing up her career?  For getting her father killed? 

The lights went out. 

In the seamless black, Kate feels the last of her courage drain away.  
She starts to shake, and a little voice inside her frozen mind screams.  
No no no no no...they've found her, they're here.  Angel reacts as 
though he hears it, so maybe she said it out loud.   

"Kate.  Hold on.  They aren't here, I'd know," he makes her stand, half-
carries her to the window, so she can see the lightless city spread out 
under the starry sky.  "See, it's OK.  It's the whole city.  Just a 
blackout."  She nods, but she still can't seem to stop shaking. 

He walks her back to the bed, and drapes a blanket over her shoulders.  
He sits back down next to her.  She's so cold, he feels almost warm.  
Without thinking about it much she leans into him, accepts his arm 
around her shoulder as the waves of terror moving through her slowly 
subside. 

"It's going to be alright," he says. 

Is it?  She kinda doubts that. She's very damned aware of how big and 
empty the hotel is and of the unnatural stillness of the body holding her. 
She can feel a wet trickle down the inside of her leg that she's pretty 
sure is blood, and she knows he has to be aware of it.  And her neck is 
open, right there, in his face. He's stroking her arm now, trying to 
comfort her, maybe.  His fingers are dry and cool.  It feels like he's 
memorizing every tiny hair and imperfection, tasting her through her 
skin.  She feels the hair on the top of her head stir as he inhales deeply, 
and doesn't let it back out.  He has both arms around her now. 

Not sure why she isn't completely freaked out at this point.  Is it the 
knowledge that Darla and Drusilla are out there?  Maybe right outside 
in the dark, watching and waiting to see what Angel will do with their 
present.  And yea, I shall fear no evil...because Angel is the baddest 
SOB in the valley and she knows that if anyone can he'll keep her safe 
from all the other monsters. 

Or is it because even in the dark she can feel the pull of that face, that 
fucking gorgeous body, and the need?  It's comforting to be held, 
sheltered in his shadow.  But she's not making that mistake again of 
thinking that he is something he isn't.  This isn't a man holding her.  But 
she won't make the mistake either of thinking he's just a monster.   

"Kate," he says softly.  His hand has moved up her arm to stroke her 
cheek.   His lips, soft and cool as rose petals, press gently onto her 
forehead as a flashing neon warning sign goes off in her brain. 

Especially since his touch reminds her of just how long it has been 
since anyone touched her with friendly intent.  Story of her life.  Not 
much opportunity for dating, not when you're working to become not 
just the youngest *female* detective but the *youngest detective* 
period in the LAPD.   

Things haven't gotten a lot better since.  She spends all her time with 
cops, perps, and victims.  Not exactly an ideal dating pool. 

Angel is none of the above, and his touch is cool but gentle and sure.  
She'll never have to worry about him getting hurt because of her job.  
Never have to worry about him wanting to chain her to a house in the 
suburbs and kids.   

Oh, Kate, she thinks, as his fingers delicately trace the shape of her lips, 
and trail down her chin, to her throat.  You really do need to take some 
time off and get some *major* therapy.  She knows this isn't really 
what she wants, but it feels...   

Then the lights come back on, and she pulls away. 

"I need to take a shower," she says.  Looking him in the eye, and 
waiting.   He shifts, then removes his arms.  She stands up 
immediately, letting the blanket fall as she hurriedly puts a little 
distance between them, fully aware that it won't make a damned bit of 
difference if he changes his mind.   But all he does is gesture behind 
him. 

"The bathroom's through there.  I'll bring you some clean towels, and I 
think Cordy left some clothes around somewhere." 

"Thanks."  She takes a few steps towards the door, then turns, can't just 
leave it there.  "Angel, uh.  I know you saved my life..." 

"But you're too smart to date anyone without a pulse," his smile is 
totally human in its deadpan pain. 

"Yeah." 

"I know.  I really do."  She gives a sigh of relief, turns to go.   "But part 
of me doesn't accept it.  Won't accept it.  I've tasted you Kate."  He's 
backing away from her.  "I want you," he says and then he's gone 
before she can say anything at all. 



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