Persistence by Elektra
The
memories kept coming, plaguing him, devouring him. They stained his thoughts
like a well of ink spilt on a virgin white carpet, the liquid spreading out to
blackened every thread to its very core. He laid his head back against the
curve of the chair, blotting out the thoughts, the one image that lingered on
the edge of his perception. With a quick intake of breath, he tried to cleanse
the flickering pictures, their details fluttered about him as if they were the
wings of a flock of birds. He didn't need the breath, yet he longed for it to
erase the thoughts, yearned for it to obliterate the need growing in him.
The absolute bliss he experienced when he relived
the moment.
Over and again.
Lidding his eyes, he saw her and re-played the
moment again in his mind.
The silhouette of her figure against the light of
day. She had come to him in all light and grace. She shone and walked to him as
an angel might approach a wretched one, an unforgiven one. He couldn't move,
his body a crumpled mass of blood and broken bone. The extent of his injuries
left him there, abandon and alone for days in the darkness of the tunnel. The
crack in his jaw made his mouth and his voice useless. They'd crushed his fingers
and seared him with fire, yet still they let him live. He couldn't feed for
there was little to feed upon and so he accepted his fate and waited for some
kind of death to finally claim him.
Yet instead of Lucifer's hand, she came to him.
Kneeling beside him, she brushed with gentle care the crust of blood from his
forehead, his cheek. Her eyes spoke words to him, he didn't need her to say a
word. There, within the soul of her eyes, he saw certain acceptance of him, of
his fate, of their entwined fate. How could he have ever doubted her? How could
he have ever questioned her?
Cordelia eased herself to lay beside him and curled
her body to cradle his battered one. Her lips were on his forehead, touching,
caressing and soothing all at once. Her arms were around his shoulders and
never had he felt more secure than within her embrace.
There was little resistance left in him as she
offered. Cool wind hit them and he never knew where it originated from in the
depths of the tunnel. She found the soft tender place on her breast and gave to
him her life fluid and he took it as sustenance yet understood it to be so much
more. An offering, an oblation or sacrifice given in supplication to their vow,
their bond. The beast swam over him and he placed his mouth upon the fullness
of her breast. A craving, the desire of the flesh shuddered over him and he
broke the skin as a priest might break the host in holy communion.
She gasped as he drank, holding him, supporting his
head. The flesh of her, the hot liquid ran over him, through him, in him and he
became a part of her. The taste would haunt him, he knew. The taste would
torture him, yet he acquiesced to the moment. Fell into the vortex of the pool
of her blood as it drown him and saved him all at once.
Yet it was all just a memory.
He opened his eyes as he sat there in the middle of
his darkened room at the Hyperion Hotel and stared out as night took the City
of Angels to the border of hell.
A memory.
Persistent in its strength. Flawless in its detail.
Memory. He shivered as the hunger for her
manifested itself as something physical in its intoxication. And he wondered at
the persistence of memory.
A memory.
Yet it had never occurred.
In the wake of day, he stumbled and paused on the stairs.
Stretching out a hand, he groped for support and collapsed against the cool
marble of the pillar. He couldn't see her, not today. Not after.
He shuttered his eyes closed and the soft velvet of
her skin, her breast seemed to fill his mouth again as he hid in the dark
recesses. And the taste slid down his throat like liquid sun, warm, sheltering.
It dissolved him and, within the ritual of tasting her, he became her. He
shivered again at the recalled image. The ghost memory. Her complete surrender
to him had satiated the need, the ever present hunger that afflicted him all
his days. Swallowing, he opened his eyes and stared into the blackness.
He couldn't move. His legs wobbled, his hands
trembled with the thought. The thought of her within his grasp giving herself
to him, giving her life to him lifted his chest in a grasp for an unneeded
breath. Glancing up at the stairs, he considered secluding himself for the rest
of the day. Away from them. Away from her and the temptation.
Of his memory.
But a day would not protect her, could not
dissipate the sensation of being a part of her, possessing her blood within
him. No day, no night would make him forget.
Yet the memory was a fabrication. He couldn't place
when it happened or why. Those images of her standing beside him, then holding
him and giving her heat to him did not exist. They were misplaced, dreams or
nightmares.
But as he thought of them, he licked his lips in
wanton pleasure.
"Angel?"
Her voice shattered his reverie, the world about
him breaking into colored shards as if a stain glass window exploded before
him.
"Angel? Are you coming down or are you just
going to hone up on your lurking skills?" she called again. "‘Cause
you're not very good at it. I know you're there."
Gritting his teeth, he steadied himself and,
inhaling the useless air, dropped down the last few steps to the landing at the
lobby entrance. She frowned when she saw him and shook her head.
"For a dead guy, you're looking especially
pale today." She nodded as if her work was done and then marched off to
the lobby counter. She rattled on about the paperwork she needed to do and how
he never assisted her at all. "And since you aren't the boss around here,
I don't know why I have to do all the filing."
He joined her at the counter, only lingering there
for the breath of her scent. Its sweet essence clouded about him and he
breathed in, taking it as if he might sample her.
"Hey?" She turned around and glared at
him. "What the heck are you doing? Since when do you breathe?"
Stumbling back from her, he shook his head and waved
her off. "Nothing, it was nothing."
Pursing her lips, Cordelia tapped the pen she held
against the fine line of her jaw. His line of sight followed her jaw to the
pulsing, throbbing artery in her neck, then dropped to the swell of her breast.
Her breast filled his mouth, her skin fragrant and her blood like the sugar of
summer fruit.
"Hello? Hello?" Cordelia snapped her
fingers. "What is with you today?" She put her hands on her hips and
tilted her head. He noticed she always wore her jeans low, riding low on her
hips so that the full curve of her waist was exposed.
Exposed. It slammed into him. Hit him with such
force he nearly tumbled over, but caught himself and fumbled for the sofa.
"God, Angel what's wrong?" Her hand
grabbed his arm and helped him to the seat. He shook his head, not wanting to
explain. "You look like you've seen a ghost." She jumped up and
scanned the lobby. "You haven't, have you? You would tell us if that
paranoia demon came back or something creepier was around, won't you?"
"No, I just." He closed his eyes but the
image came back. The image of Cordelia's body, so smooth and slender, curved
and tender, laying before him, naked before him. "I'm just not sleeping
right I guess."
"Oh no, not with the Darla thing again?"
She tossed the files in the air.
"No, Cordelia," he replied. He didn't
want her to worry. He would figure this out, clear this up and no one would
have to worry. "It isn't Darla. It's just that I haven't been sleeping
enough. Staying up at night, trying to keep regular business hours." He
pointed to the sunlit day. It sounded logical. He could almost convince
himself.
Almost.
If the taste wasn't still taunting him on the back
of his tongue.
"Well that's a relief!" She was leaning
over him, the sway of her body brought the recalled figure of her back to his
mind. Her above him, straddling him, giving to him, giving all of herself to
him.
He gasped and leapt onto his feet.
"Geez, Angel!" She considered him and
then said, "You do look pale. I'm getting you some blood."
Blood. "No, tea." Tea was safe. Tea was
good. "Tea, I want tea."
"Tea isn't going to help you at all." She
shook her head. "Nope, you need blood, buster and that's what you are
going to get!"
Sinking down onto the sofa, he reclined against the
cushions and said it in rote. Not enough sleep, he wasn't getting enough sleep.
He was sleep deprived.
Deprived. Of her. Of the taste and the fire of her.
And he witnessed her again, come to him as he lay wounded and dying. Without
hesitation, without shame, she offered all that she was and more. Without
burden or prejudice, she accepted him. He drank from her. His broken body saved
by her and then she gave herself over to him. He looked down at his fingertips
and brushed his thumb over them, knowing he had felt her supple body respond to
his touch. He felt the weight of her breast in his palm, remember the pain of
his crushed fingers lance through his tendon yet recalled the comfort of
holding her, stroking her.
"Here you go, all warm and yummy?"
He startled and knocked the mug of blood from her
hand. It splashed over him, burning him. "Cordelia, you could at least
warn me."
"Warn you, warn you?" She clenched her
teeth. "You're the one that knocked the mug out of my hand. You did!"
She pointed a finger at him. "What the hell is...."
As the vision smashed into her, she fumbled for
footing and finally fell against him. He grappled to hold her and she cried
out, screaming against the pain, the torment. It shook her, blasted her for
several minutes before it relented and gave her release. She stayed in his
arms, sobbing as he quieted her.
After a moment, he asked, "What did you
see?"
"You, I saw you."
There, within the strength of his arms, she lay
still weeping from the visions, still clutching him. He attempted to settle her
upon the sofa, yet she refused to let him go and clung to him as if the
thought of not physically holding him terrified her. And so he rested on the
sofa, wrapping his arms about her in a protective shield to cradle her and
comfort her. She murmured words of fear and he only hushed it away.
There was nothing to fear.
Nothing at all.
Except for the memory.
The weight of her in his arms, the gravity straining his muscles, his tendons
set the yearning afire and he swallowed back the need, the awakening desire.
She curled in his arms, burying her face in his shirt and he felt the
water of her tears stain his chest. A brief shiver went through him as
the memory enslaved him. Her above him, her mouth on his, her breath
within his lungs filling him with so much more than oxygen, filling him with
life.
And the reality of her in his arms detonated the images into flames that
prickled the very fibers of his nerves, burned the tips of his fingers as he
fought to not caress, to not brush his hand over the swell of her breast, to
not share the very breath of her life.
He heard the door to the lobby open, but ignored the swing and fall of it
opening and closing for he wanted to die in this moment.
"Good lord, what happened?" Wesley was on his knees, gripping
Cordelia's hand and peering up at Angel.
He opened his mouth to answer but instead Cordelia came to herself and turned
to the ex-Watcher.
"Wes." She blinked and released herself from his grasp.
"Wes, I need to talk with you."
She started to stand and Angel went to follow her but she placed a hand on his
chest and pushed him back to the sofa. "Just Wes."
"The vision?" He raised a hand as if to indicate it by pointing to
her.
Frowning, she rubbed her forehead and shook her head. "Not now, Angel.
I'll talk about it in a minute. It hurts too much." She
closed her eyes and he saw her clench her teeth. "I just wish it wouldn't
hurt so much. It hurts more and more."
He reached up to her hand but did not touch her. Without noticing his
gesture, Cordelia grabbed Wesley's hand and they proceeded to the office,
leaving him there.
To the memories. And for the first time, the darkness of night seemed to
glisten with sun light. His desire for the sun seemed to quell when he
was in her presence. He glanced up to the lobby counter, and it dawned on him.
With a hand to the arm of the chair, he climbed to his feet and rounded
the counter to the edge of the office door.
Cordelia stood next to Wesley, her hand to her temple and she sniffled as she
explained.
"I saw him Wesley. Him." She shot a look to the doorway
and Angel ducked to the shadows.
"Are there any details. What was happening?"
"Nothing. No details nothing." She shrugged and put a
hand to her forehead as if to find some relief from the pain. "Only
Angel and," she paused and started to pace as if the vision clarified in
her mind. "A feeling."
"A feeling?"
She searched the ceiling, her eyes roaming for the answer her mind sought.
"A feeling like he knew he was doing something wrong. Something, oh
God." She bit her hand and stopped her frantic racing. "He
doesn't feel right in the head." She glanced up at Wesley.
"What do you mean Cordelia," Wes said. He held her by the
shoulders, hunched over her to stare into her eyes. "This is important,
Cordelia, you must tell me exactly what you mean."
Withdrawing from his touch, Cordelia crumpled inward, her arms clasped
about her. "No, I can't. It doesn't." She furrowed her
brow and the vision hit again.
A single beat of her heart passed and he caught her as she tumbled to the
floor. Wesley stood over him his face etched with lines of worry, but
Angel couldn't discern to whom the concern was directed. Cordelia's cries
captured his attention and he guided her to the chair.
"What?" He kept his hand on her shoulder, needing to touch her, to
provide some degree of solace. He hated to see the visions rip apart her,
slice into her fine chiseled beauty and mark her with pain. He rubbed a
hand down her back, caressing her and imagining the brush of her bare skin.
"Cordelia, what did you see?" Wesley whispered, he considered Angel
but then turned back to her. "Was it more about your earlier vision.
Some more detail?"
She shook her head, squeezing her eyes closed until tears leaked down her
cheeks. Tears, salty and sweet like her blood. And he licked his
lips in sweet remembrance of her taste on his tongue. Shaking the memory
away, he focused on her and said, "Is there something more?"
Wesley pursed his lips and, grimacing, said, "Would you like it if Angel
left the room? We could discuss this in private."
"No,"Cordelia said and glanced up at them. "It wasn't the same
vision." She used her open palm to hold her forehead. "Lucky
me, it's two for one day."
"A different vision?"
She nodded. "Yeah, it was vamps near where Gunn's gang lives. I
think he needs help or something." Tears streamed down and she
bunched over, laying her head on her knees. "I'm sorry it's all
blurred with the pain. I can't see anything else."
"It's enough," Wesley said then looked up to Angel for confirmation.
"More than enough." He stood, yet didn't want to let Cordelia
out of his sight. The thought of leaving her in the large empty hotel dug
a hole in his chest. "You'll be okay?"
"Yeah, yeah," she mumbled into her lap. "Just go help
Gunn."
He paused. The fine blades of her shoulders poked the blouse she wore and
he realized for the first time how small she was, how delicate. In all
the years he knew Cordelia Chase, she carried herself so well, so triumphantly
above the crowd he never considered how fragile she might be, how the strength
she drew upon might fail her one day.
He dropped to his knees again and, gently, lifted her chin so that he could see
into her eyes. "It's enough Cordelia. Don't worry."
"I worry all the time," she confessed.
Her eyes found his, told him of the pain and the guilt she combated. An
overwhelming guilt of failure to help those victims that still haunted her at
night, that, like ghosts, followed her at the periphery of her life. Always
there, always begging her for help.
The realization struck him and he had no words to share with her, had nothing
to offer. He felt as if he walked the streets as a beggar again.
Poor, helpless. His quest, his mission did this to her, inflicted
her with pain and guilt. She did not deserve this.
He deserved it. It was his burden to shoulder.
A flicker, an image swam before him. The memory took shape and he
experienced the pain of his broken body, his wounds. He stumbled before
he could clear his mind, before he could see Cordelia sitting in front of him
again.
"Angel, what? What is it?"
Standing, he only mumbled a reply and answered Wesley's call. He had a
battle to fight. And he knew then, the real battle, the real war would
come after. It came to him easily, swiftly like the fall of silk in still
air.
It was time to stop the visions once and for all.
He broke through the barrier of demons and
people, shoving them aside with a singular purpose, lone pursuit.
Scanning the bar, he caught sight of his prey and, with a low growl in
his throat, went to the demon host of Caritas. The demon bellowed out
another ballad, prancing about the stage in utter oblivion to Angel.
Something low, deep, dark within laughed. There was a time he would have
lingered, watched and then slowly devised a way to maim and torture the Host
before finally casting his bones aside to be devoured by rabid dogs. The
image wavered before him, expanded the demented one within his own body until
he fought off the vision and steadied himself in this reality.
He glanced around the bar, the shadows held their secrets and demons shifted in
and out as if to taunt and tantalize him with their presence. Swallowing,
he turned back to the Host as he continued his performance.
He didn't have time for this. He'd spent enough time tonight, wasted
enough time. He'd done his duty and cleaned up the vampire nest taking
residence near Gunn's gang. He didn't have time to wait for a
performance. Cordelia didn't have time for this.
"Oh crap," he mumbled and rushed the stage. In one motion he
grabbed the Host, jerked him off the stage, and ushered him to a secluded
table.
"Have you ever heard of applause? No need to accost the singer,
though I can see why you just want me for yourself. You big hunk of
hero." The Host winked and snapped his fingers at the bartender.
Angel seized his wrist and twisted it, hard. "That can wait."
"Whoa, now Angelcakes, you are vibrating with some serious dissonance.
Calm those tendons or they are gonna snap like a piano string."
Snarling, Angel leaned toward the Host and wrenched his lapels. "Just tell
me where to find them."
"Them?" The Host yanked his jacket away from Angel's grasp and,
accepting the seabreeze from the bartender, pointed to an empty table.
"It's been said rushing where angels fear to tread might not be a
good idea and I'm thinking that might be something you should take to heart.
Even if it isn't beating. Think of it as your own personal
motto."
Angel settled on the edge of the chair, the beast within struggling to the
surface and he felt sweat form at his hairline, down the middle of his back.
His mouth ran dry and he grabbed the drink from the Host's hand and
downed it in one gulp.
"I'm thinking you have a problem," the Host said as he frowned at the
empty glass.
"I want a straight answer. An easy answer. I don't want any
empty swimming pools or funny killer gurus." Angel bent over the
table, his weight straining the fragile legs. "Tell me where to find
them."
"It would be good if you clued me in on who they or them or whoever are,
is." He rolled his eyes and waved for the bartender to refill the
glass.
Angel eased back, watched the bartender bring another drink and, taking a
useless breath, said, "I want to know where I can find the Powers that
Be."
"Whoa, Big Guy, what's with the sudden need to find spiritual
enlightenment?"
"I'm not seeking spiritual enlightenment." Angel glared at the
Host, battling to keep the dream, the memory from bursting the surface.
Yet it came, unbeckoned and unwanted. It hunted as if he played the
part of a mouse and it the part of a hawk. It swooped down and captured
him, tearing him apart and ripping him from this world.
And he glimpsed it in the recalled memory. A vague shifting shape moving
toward him, through him in one motion. It washed him in light brighter
than the sun and in darkness blacker than the dead of night. He trembled.
"Hey, what's got my big boy end over end?" The Host's voice jarred
him and he refocused on him.
"I need to know how to contact the Powers that Be directly."
Angel licked his lips but the pain rose in him, started to take root in the
base of his spine. He felt the slightest crack in his ribs when he moved
as if the persistence of the memory transformed it from something ghostly to
something solid. Each time he experienced the images, they became clearer
and lured him to relive them again.
Again.
And the memory took him.
She moved over him and then she swept her fingers across his face in blessing
and in love. The force of her body overpowered him. Nothing frightened
her, not his pleas, not his warnings. She wrapped herself about him,
around him. The grace of her breast near his mouth and his kiss, his
mouth filled with her. His body drinking her and bathing in her.
The urgency hit him, how she needed to be with him. How she was
pleading with him to drink from her, to love her. To make love to her.
He gulped back the memory and heard the Host saying, "You are under some
spell. You in love or something, sweetcakes?"
Angel put a hand to his forehead and shook his head. "I just need to
contact the Powers directly. Where can I go?"
"What about that fine article of womanhood at your office?"
He looked to the floor, remembering his release, his acquiescence to her
seduction. "No, Cordelia can't know about this. It isn't, she just
can't." He snapped his attention to the Host again. "Do you
know or not?"
The Host lifted his shoulders and said, "I'm seeing a path here. A
path into a forest of where you might not make it out."
"It isn't about me."
The Host considered him, smiled slightly and said, "Under the post
office."
"Where the oracles were?"
The Host only nodded and Angel stood. Before he could depart, the Host
called after him and asked, "Is she worth it?"
Angel didn't look at him, just stared at the black tiles on the floor. A
void seemed to open before him and he plummeted into it. Yet before he
fell he murmured, "To me she is. She's everything.”
He tossed the last offering into the sacred urn
as he murmured the words to open the portal. A flash blinded him, the
light sizzled his skin and he landed on all fours in the inner sanctum of the
oracles. A soft wind brushed over him, its touch lingered and, with
ten thousand unseen fingers, probed his face, his features. The
touch paused upon his brow as if it checked for a fever. A sudden whip
stung his face and he hissed, the beast briefly transforming his face. He
raised a hand to his forehead and it came away wet with thick blood.
Climbing to his feet, he glanced around the deserted vestibule.
A certainty swept over him; they watched him.
He twisted on his heel but caught only a glimpse of light shifting, like the shadows
of a cloud as it passes over the sun. An image of which he dreamt with
poignant desire. A low rumble reacted to his recalled dream as if they
mocked him, as if they laughed at him.
A slithering traced around his feet, roped his ankles and, jumping, he scanned
the room for them. Reaching behind him, he pulled out the broad sword
strapped to his back. He squeezed the hilt, swallowed and then called,
"Show yourself."
A blur of motion swirled about him, warped the walls, tilted the floor until he
tumbled to the cold marble.
"Are you ready?" it whispered.
He jerked around to find the source of the question but no one appeared.
"Surrender." The voice slid around him, embracing him, caressing him.
A cold wind whispered like the brush of dead leaves on a silent winter night.
It echoed as a remembered kiss might haunt a long lost lover. There
and gone.
"Surrender and we might forgive your trespassing." The sound
ricocheted off the stone walls becoming ever more distant yet deafening in their
depth. The words reverberated in and out and he realized he did not hear them.
.
He'd spoken the words himself.
Clenching his teeth, he gripped the sword and crawled to his knees, then
grappled to stand as a whirl of air rushed about him. He rotated the
sword against his palm, allowing the weight of the weapon to dwell within his
muscles.
He wasn't there to play their games. The games were over. He sliced
the air with the blade, threatening and defending all at once.
"And who do you fight?"
Swinging around, the ghost stood before him and tilted her head in false
sincerity. The blues and golds marking her skin glittered in the light
streaming from the archway beyond the vestibule.
He found his voice, though it was low and rough in his throat. "I didn't
come here to fight."
"Yet you bring a weapon into this holy place," she huffed and turned
from him. Her physicality wavered, shades of other phantoms gathered around her
and tendrils of her robe reached out to the hovering wraiths.
"I brought the weapon to give to you," he hesitated. Clasping
the blade near the hilt, he extended the sword to her. "I can no
longer be your warrior, your champion."
She glared at him then a smile crossed her lips and she said, "You have no
choice. You forfeit your life, such as it is, if you are not our
champion."
His mind never faltered as he thought of Cordelia crouched on the sofa, weeping
softly, crying only because she believed no one was there to witness her pain.
Watching her from the shadows of the hotel, he saw her ball her body into
the fetal position and moan as the aftermath of the visions took their toll.
He wouldn't allow her to suffer anymore. Not her, not his Cordelia.
And it struck him. The memory. The insipid pictures invented by his
own mind to taunt him with a dream he could not possess. Yet he
luxuriated in each passing sensation, each lift of her chest as she breathed
over him in the recalled images. The press of her breast upon his lips, the
texture of her velvet breast as he punctured it with his teeth, the cushion of
her flesh as it nourished him. He shuddered from the pleasure, the lust
for that moment to be real.
"And you're here to defend her, my poor daddy." The voice ended
with a giggle, a deceitful sound that lied about its intent.
Shaping before him as the colors of blue and gold melded and melted with the
apparitions surrounding the oracle's ghost, his childe stood. She tilted
her head and sniggered. "My poor daddy, you don't know how to love
you never did."
He steadied the sword in his hand, the tension rippling through his muscles and
pulling his tendons. "No, I'll no longer be your warrior if she has
to suffer. This is my burden to shoulder, not hers." Throwing
the sword in the air, he caught it as it dropped and swung it at the phantom
that was Drusilla.
A zephyr dissipated the ghost and he stood staring at the blank marble bricked
wall. It shifted, moved and the bricks began to push out from the
structure of the wall. The marble contorted, transformed before him and,
like a cubist's painting, a figure formed. It emerged from the wall,
shaking off the clatter of stones.
He fell back, fumbling for support.
"And why would you sacrifice yourself for her, when you never did for
me?" Buffy asked him.
He opened his mouth as if to answer and the wraith glided closer, her golden
hair a mist about her head. "You don't know how to love. You
are, afterall, only a demon."
Closing his eyes, Angel took solace in the fleeting dreams, the imagined images
of Cordelia by his side. "No," he said. "I have a
soul."
She laughed, cold as if she were the monster. "And you think that makes
you any better than the rest. You're nothing more than what we
define." Her breath touched his neck, grazed the spine of his back.
"Do you think *they* make you more, do you think she makes you more
than a demon? You never thought that when you were with me."
He kept his eyes shut, but her nails clawed the skin of his arms and he felt
the blood leak to the floor, sprinkling it with tiny droplets.
"I'm asking for you to relieve her of the visions. She never asked
for this, this isn't about her."
"And what, may I ask, my dear sire, is this about?"
He opened his eyes to see Penn, his long dead childe, reclining against the
arch to the hallway. "I don't have an answer for that. All I
want is for you to release her."
"Let me ask something first, dear father." Penn sauntered to
him and, his features shifted to reveal the demon within. "When I
met her I wanted to taste her, I wanted so much more of her. Do you dream
of tasting her?"
Lashing out, he slashed the sword at the figment but struck nothing. The
ghost only laughed in mock gaiety.
"So you do." Penn smiled, tapping a finger against his lips.
"It's nice to see Angelus is alive and well."
"Angelus is dead."
Raising an eyebrow, his childe commented, "Don't be too sure, my dear
father. But I digress." He straightened his shoulders and his
face shifted to his human visage. "I'll give you what you want."
"You'll release her?"
Before him the figure of Penn melted like a sand sculpture in the rain, the
features lost and dissolving together. Blues and golds spun another image
and the oracle reformed before. "Yes." She nodded. "But there
will be a debt to pay."
Readied for her request, he bowed his head in capitulation.
"For the link to be severed, there can be no more Angel in this
world." She waited for his reaction but he said nothing. "You
understand? If the link to the seer is cut, then you cannot survive.
There is no other way."
"I understand."
"Do you accept the conditions?"
The question came as a disembodied voice. To no one he answered, "I
accept."
He couldn't remember what happened next. He knew only the persistence of
pain as he lay discarded in the tunnel. Blinking he tried to clear his
vision of the blood running from the wounds on his face and head. Burns
scorched his body and he groaned, realizing he couldn't stand. His bones
screamed in retaliation against any of his movements. His right hand still
gripped the sword and he let it go. The simple action of opening his hand
caused him to cry out as he realized his fingers had been shattered. He balled
his body against the growing ache in his abdomen.
As the hour passed, he watched the pool of his blood form a lake of red glass
around him. As the day passed, he felt the wounds try to close, to mend
themselves, but the extent overwhelmed even his recuperative powers. As
the night passed, he groaned against the waking desire, the need to feed as it
grew deep and thick inside of him.
He could not remember the time. He could not remember the day. He
only understood the persistence of pain. His mouth ran dry and his eyes
blurred.
And a halo of light shimmered before him, glistening like the sparkle of the
stars reflected in a still lake. He blinked his eyes but failed to clear
his vision. He felt his head lifted, felt a body cradle him, knew the
press of flesh against his mouth.
Against his will, the beast came alive and fought to the surface. Her
breast filled his mouth and he broke the skin without ritual or ceremony.
He heard her intake of breath and felt her pull him closer, urging him to
drink.
And with abandon, he found solace in her arms.
Like an angel, he watched over her as she
slept. He followed the line of her neck to the rise of her breast.
The certain silence of her slumber brought to him the hunger, the craving
that lurked. Reaching out, he felt the throb of her pulse at her neck and
knew he possessed that beating life. He withdrew his hand for he did not
want to disturb the last of this quiet peace which had descended upon her.
Shifting, he balanced on a bruised elbow to look at her once again. Light
radiated from deep within the hollow of the tunnel as if the darkness harnessed
there had collapsed in on itself and transformed. Less than a day had
past since she appeared at the entrance to the tunnel. Unbidden, she came
to him. He didn't know how she found him. He didn't ask. How
did she know. His seer. She had given herself as a gift to him, to
save him, yet never realizing the sacrifice she had made.
And he remembered.
The truth of the memory.
Her arms supported his head as his mouth found the cushion of her breast.
His transfiguration completed before she could speak, before she could
refuse. But it had been her hand that unbuttoned the blouse, that cupped
his head as she asked him to drink. Without hesitation, he pierced her
flesh, cutting down into the warmth, the life held within the swell of her
breast. He heard her gasp, experienced the tremor of fear quake through
her. But the soft lick of his tongue, the gentle movement of his mouth
upon her quelled her fears.
His broken hand found the blush of her flesh and caressed her breasts to soothe
the anxiety. She shifted and a sigh escaped in lips in hushed pleasure.
She leaned down and kissed the crown of his head as her hands roamed
through his hair. Slipping his hand into the silk of her blouse, he teased
the nipple of her breast and a moan grew low in her throat. Her hands found the
rest of the buttons of her blouse to open it then moved over his own shirt to
release it.
Flesh bare. And he stopped drinking the fluid of her life to glance upon
the curve of her breasts to the panting of her abdomen. He went to speak
but she pressed her fingers on his lips and shook her head. In the dark
of her eyes, he recognized the yearning, the need, the connection they shared.
She murmured the words and he thought he'd dreamed them. Make love to me,
she had said. Make love to me Angel. Their mouths touched shyly at
first then with a need, devouring each other. On the threshold of the divine,
they lay entwined and together. Though he protested, she refused his
words of warning. She knew, she finally understood the vision. Her hands
slid over his chest as it healed from her blood. She unbuckled his
trousers and found him, ready and hard. She caressed him, pulling slightly and
stroking.
She was the very shape of his desire. He grasped her, bringing her close
to him and burying his face at her neck. Kissing and suckling there until
she cried out. Yet the pain of his wounds crippled him. With tender
care, she moved to straddle him. Lifting her skirt and discarding her
panties, she stroked him with her hands. He groaned and she encompassed
him. Leaning over him, she allowed the rhythm to take her. The
crush of her breasts, the fresh puncture wound tantalized him and he drew her
within his mouth again, drinking as the crash hit them.
Spent. Tired. Exhausted, he fell asleep as she curled on top of
him. And now, he stared down at her. The flittering of a dream
crossed her lashed eyes. And he wondered what she was dreaming, what she
had been thinking when she came to him.
A vision, she had said.
A vision. So right and so wrong.
The taste of blood, human blood on his tongue still enticed him. He let
his fingertip linger on the pulse of her throat. The heat of her blood
seemed to burn his nostrils. He lifted her wrist and kissed the fine
skin, scratching it with his teeth. Slowly, he licked the droplet of blood and
eased back.
The taste.
He closed his eyes. It persisted, the taste, the yearning, the craven
hunger for her. Stumbling to his feet, he struggled to get his clothes
on. She slumbered still. It occurred to him it could be her silent
last repose.
If he chose it to be.
A smiled edged across his lips. No, not today.
But soon.
And Angelus left her there at the altar of his saviors.
The End.