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  “I try not to, but I can’t stop,” he said brokenly.

  “Me, too.” Her voice cracked as she was over-come with emotion. “I can’t, either.” She pressed her nose against his.

  They kissed. The kiss grew. They were crossing a bridge; they were going somewhere together they had never been before. Buffy’s heart pounded, as if with the knowledge that this kiss was the beginning of something much bigger; this was a seal, and a promise, and a first step.

  Their passion grew. Angel was starving for the taste of her; he shook with the need of her.

  Panting, he pulled away. “Buffy, maybe we shouldn’t . . . .”

  “Don’t. “She touched his face, held it. “Just kiss me.”

  Their lips met again, and again.

  Angel drew Buffy down into his bed. She’s so beautiful, he thought. She feels so amazing. Her skin, her hair . . . He breathed her in. The scent of her, the satiny softness of her neck, her shoulders. Her hands, caressing him.

  Oh, Buffy, Buffy, let me lose myself in you.

  Love me.

  As they melted into each other, Angel soared with joy. For the first time in two hundred and forty-two years, he had hope of heaven.

  The thunder rumbled and crashed.

  Angel bolted awake, unbelievable pain ripping through him. White-hot agony seared him, body and soul.

  He panted, fighting it. It was an ancient pain, and he knew what it meant. He knew what was coming, and he was desperate to stop it. He clutched the sheets, heaving, as Buffy slumbered beside him.

  No, no, not now . . . it can’t be. . . . Buffy . . .

  Everything was shattering. As he convulsed, he clung to one thought: He had to put as much distance between her and himself as possible.

  Protect her . . . oh, my darling, oh, Buffy . . .

  Protect her from me . . .

  Angel dressed and stumbled out into the storm, into the wildness of the night. He clung to the hope that it would stop, that it would not happen. But as he fell to his knees, he knew: His soul was being torn from him once more.

  “Buffy!” he shouted.

  She was the last thought of the man who loved her.

  And then the pain was silenced.

  But it still grew.

  Sunnydale, 1998

  Buffy knew he was trying to end the world. She knew how. He didn’t care if she knew why.

  All he knew was that he had to kill her as quickly as possible, or everything would be lost.

  She had come for him armed with a powerful sword given to her by Kendra, the Slayer Drusilla had recently killed. As they battled — unknown to him — Willow was invoking the Spell of Restoration of Souls on his behalf.

  But he didn’t know that; and he wouldn’t have wanted it, in his state. All he wanted was to kill Buffy so she couldn’t interfere with his plans to send every single living human being straight to Hell.

  He fought her with all his strength, and at one point he thought it was over. So he had taken the time to toy with her — always Angelus’s weakness when dealing with his enemies; the temptation to add a little soupçon of cruelty was too sweet to pass up.

  In the garden of the mansion he shared with Spike and Dru, who had come to roost in Sunny-dale, the Slayer was sprawled on the flagstones. She was boxed in; every move she tried, he mirrored, and he played the sword near her face, loving every moment of her torment.

  “That’s everything, huh?” he’d asked with mock concern. “No weapons, no friends. No hope. Take all that away and what’s left?”

  His words hit home. She looked exhausted, and terribly sad. She shut her eyes.

  He lunged, shooting his arm out, the sword straight at her face.

  Without opening her eyes, she slammed her palms together over the blade, stopping it an inch from her face.

  “Me,” she said.

  She jerked the sword back, knocking the hilt into his face, and kicked him hard in the chest.

  He fled into the mansion, landed hard on the floor. He got back up and she charged him, sword in hand, pounding at him as he fought back with his own sword; driving him back.

  She knocked his sword out of his hand, cutting him in the process.

  He stood before her, spent and beaten.

  At that moment, in the hospital, Willow finished the ritual to restore his soul to him.

  In incredible pain again, Angel fell to his knees.

  Buffy was about to behead him when he looked up at her.

  She must have seen the glow of his soul, but even after he called softly, “Buffy?” she took a step back, supremely cautious.

  “Buffy, what’s going on?” he asked, looking around. “I don’t remember. Where are we?” For he had moved Dru and Spike into the mansion after he had lost his soul.

  Buffy’s voice cracked as she said, “Angel?”

  He saw her wounds, said, “You’re hurt.”

  He went to her and took her arm. He folded her into his arms..

  “God, I feel like I haven’t seen you in months. Buffy, everything’s so muddled.”

  Later, he would know that she could see the vortex that would pull the world into Hell growing in the mouth of the stone demon behind him. But at that moment he had no idea what was going on.

  He only knew that she was very troubled, and that she was holding on to him as though she could never, ever let him go.

  “What’s happening, Buffy?” he murmured.

  “Sssh,” she said. “It doesn’t matter.”

  She kissed him passionately and said, “I love you.”

  “I love you . . .” His voice was filled with wonder: Were they to be together after all, then? Was it a dream, or could it really be true?

  Then she had said softly, “Close your eyes.”

  He had obeyed, trusting and happy.

  And she had thrust the sword through his chest, pinning him to the stone demon.

  The vortex emanating from its mouth pulled him straight into Hell.

  He was tortured and tormented for the earthly equivalent of five hundred years.

  And then, for some reason, he was brought back.

  Back to this world, yes, but not to Buffy’s arms.

  Never to Buffy’s arms again.

  And so, after a few failed attempts to build a simpler relationship with her — a friendship, even a hatred, even nothing — it became clear that Hell had followed him back.

  Now he belonged to Los Angeles. Where, according to Doyle, his job was not only to protect, but to minister to. To care for. To understand.

  He sighed heavily.

  It wasn’t Hell, but close to it.

  Purgatory, then.

  And if there was redemption to be found there, then someday . . .

  He closed his eyes . . .

  Someday there would be a heaven.

  ACT THREE, CONTINUED

  The sign by the plate-glass window said STACEY’S GYM SUPPLIES.

  It was still there after the thug came crashing through the window.

  Angel had Tina’s abductor — whose name, he supposed, was Stacey — by the throat, pressed up against a wall. He had to keep reminding himself that he couldn’t kill this guy. He had information Angel needed to get the monster who’d taken Tina’s life.

  “Where does he live? How much security does he have?”

  Despite his predicament, Stacey was contemptuous.

  “Listen, hotshot,” he told Angel. “Whatever she was to you, you better forget it. You have no idea who you’re dealing with here.”

  Angel tightened his grip around Stacey’s throat. “Russell? Lemme guess: Not big on the daylight or the mirrors, drinks a lot of V-8?”

  It was obvious that Stacey was surprised Angel knew his boss was a vampire. Still, he grunted, “You get in his way, he’ll kill you, he’ll kill everyone you care about.”

  Angel’s grip grew tighter. And tighter. Stacey nearly fainted.

  Angel said, “There’s nobody left I care about.”

 
After Angel left, he found himself thinking about someone who had made the same claim. She had believed she had no one, and that knowledge had hardened her, ruined her.

  Her name was Faith, and she had seen some pretty awful things in her life, even before she became a Slayer. Witnessing the death of her own Watcher had marked her soul.

  She had fled to Sunnydale in search of Buffy, and the two had teamed up to kick vampire butt.

  But from the start Faith had been channeling a darker side of slaying — enjoying the power and the perks, acknowledging no authority. It all caught up with her one night in a dark alley when she accidentally killed a human. A line was crossed. And that awful knowledge drove Faith straight into a doomed alliance with Sunnydale’s mayor.

  Angel, who couldn’t save himself without Buffy’s help, tried to repay the favor by saving Faith.

  Angel’s Mansion, Sunnydale, 1999

  Angel captured Faith and handcuffed her to the wall. She was a powerful Slayer; he had seen her in action, and he knew he had to be cautious around her.

  He said to her now, “I know what’s going on with you.”

  “Join the club,” she said sullenly. “Everybody seems to have a theory.”

  “But I know. What it’s like to take a life. To feel a future, a world of possibility, snuffed out by your own hand. I know the power in it.” He looked at her closely. “The exhilaration. It was like a drug for me.”

  She sneered at him and yanked on her chains. “Yeah? Sounds like you need some help. A professional, maybe.”

  He shook his head. “A professional couldn’t have helped me. It stopped when I got my soul back. My human heart.”

  “Goody for you.” She huffed at him. “If we’re going to party, let’s get on with it. Otherwise, could you let me out of these things?”

  Angel was not going to be distracted. Or deterred. “Faith, you have a choice. You’ve tasted something few ever do. To kill without remorse is to feel like a god —”

  She obviously didn’t want to hear it. She started to struggle. “Right now all I feel is a cramp in my wrist. Let me go!”

  “But you’re not a god,” he persisted. “You’re not much more than a child. And this path will ruin you. You can’t imagine the price for true evil.”

  There was a flicker in her eyes. Something he had said hit the mark. But still, she would not yield.

  “Yeah? I hope evil takes Mastercard.”

  “You and me, Faith, we’re a lot alike.”

  She snorted. “Well, you’re kind of dead . . . .”

  “Like I said. A lot alike.”

  “Sorry, buddy. I’m alive and kicking. In fact, I’ve got a bodily function that needs attending to pretty quick here.”

  Angel was insistent. He knew he was reaching her. He knew she was almost hearing him.

  “You’re not alive,” he said. “You’re just running. Afraid to feel. Afraid to be touched.”

  Part of her reacted to his words. But she averted her gaze and muttered, “Save it for Hallmark. I have to pee.”

  “Time was,” he continued, “I thought humans existed just to hurt each other.”

  Faith looked back to him now. She was silent.

  Finally, he thought gratefully. I’ve struck a chord.

  “But then I came here,” he pushed. “And I found out that there were other kinds of people. People who genuinely wanted to do right. They still make mistakes. They fall down. But they keep trying. Keep caring.”

  There was a long beat. She was taking it in, clearly wanting to believe. Angel saw it. He moved to her, speaking to her from the heart.

  “If you can trust us, Faith, it can all change. You don’t have to disappear into the darkness.”

  But she had. Poor Faith, she had.

  So who do I think I am, he wondered, that I think I can help anyone at all?

  And then he thought: It doesn’t matter what I think. Just like Buffy. She didn’t think she would be a good Slayer. But she’s the best.

  Ironically, Buffy had been exiled from Los Angeles to Sunnydale. He had been forced to leave Sunnydale for L.A. They had traded places, in effect.

  Something clicked in him.

  I really am supposed to be here, he thought.

  With a pang he finally left Sunnydale behind. The memories would begin to fade. He knew that now. He would miss them.

  But he was home.

  * * *

  Cordelia, in sweat pants and a T, kept her lotus position as she took deep breaths of cleansing energy. In, green. Out, red.

  A new self-help book, Meditation for a Bountiful Life, sat beside her. She just knew that aligning her chakras with the vibrational resonance of the book’s positive message was going to pay off.

  “I am somebody.” She took a deep breath.

  “I matter.” Another.

  “People will be attracted to my positive energy and help me achieve my goals.”

  She glanced at her phone machine. The message counter registered a big zero. The last call she’d received was that awful one from Joe. She hadn’t even had a date in over two weeks.

  Wouldn’t they just laugh their heads off back in Sunnydale if they could see me now?

  She remembered how snotty she’d been to Buffy about Angel. Always trying to snag him, very insulted when he proved unsnaggable. And then, of course, there was finding out he was a vampire:

  Sunnydale High, 1997

  Buffy and Willow were sitting in the girls’ bathroom at school, yakking or cutting class or whatever losers did. Cordelia came in to wash her hands and check her makeup, and she noticed the lack of conversation that occurred as soon as she showed. So she decided to give Buffy something new to talk about.

  “So, Buffy,” she began, in a sweetly accusing voice, “you ran off last night and left poor Angel by his lonesome. I did everything I could to comfort him.”

  “I bet,” Buffy replied.

  Hah. Score one for Queen C.

  “What’s his story, anyway? I mean, I never see him around.”

  “Not during the day, anyway,” Willow chimed in, like that was some big deal or something.

  “Oh, please don’t tell me he still lives at home,” Cordelia groaned, suddenly wondering if a honey like him could really be such a dork. “Like he has to wait for his dad to get back before he can take the car?”

  Buffy said helpfully, “I think his parents have been dead for, um, a couple hundred years.”

  Cordelia wasn’t exactly paying attention. “Oh, good.” So it took her a moment to process Buffy’s little ha-ha joke. “I mean — What?”

  “Angel’s a vampire.” Buffy seemed to take such delight in so informing her. “I thought you knew.”

  For a moment, Buffy had her. Then Cordelia said, in a sarcastic tone, “Oh. He’s a vampire. Of course. But the cuddly kind. Like a Care Bear with fangs.”

  Willow piped up. “It’s true.” The narc’s narc, that was Willow Rosenberg.

  Cordelia gave Buffy a knowing look. “You know what I think? I just think you’re trying to scare me off because you’re afraid of the competition. Look, Buffy, you may be hot stuff when it comes to demonology or whatever, but when it comes to dating, I’m the Slayer.”

  Yeah, right. Here I am, slaying away. Knockin’ ’em dead. So busy I don’t even have time to sit alone in my crummy apartment and even miss Xander, for heaven’s sake.

  She looked back down at her book, reminding herself that positive was magnetic, and negative was repellent.

  “I am right where I’m supposed to be and not dying for something to eat!”

  She hurled the book across the room, sitting there on the verge of tears. She was starving. She was frightened. She wanted to be rich again. She hated all this struggling.

  The phone rang.

  Cordelia jumped, startled, and picked it up. She said, using her new positive tone of voice, “Hello. This is Cordelia Chase.”

  “Cor, it’s Margo,” said the voice on the other line. Cordelia th
rilled. “You were such a hit at my party.”

  Yes, yes, yes. “Thanks. I had a great time. I want to have you over to my place” — she winced — “as soon as I’m done redecorating.”

  “Well, guess who saw my videotape of the party, and guess who wants to meet you?” Margo asked in a leading way, which meant it had to be someone important. Someone who could help her.

  “A director?” she asked excitedly. “A manager? An assistant to an assistant who’s ready to spring for lunch?”

  “Russell Winters.”

  Cordelia could scarcely believe her ears. “The investment guy?”

  “Oh, Cordelia, he’s a lot more than that,” Margo said, clearly amused. “He helps people get started in their careers. He knows everyone and . . . he wants to meet you tonight.”

  Cordelia’s eyes widened. “Tonight? Well, let me check my calendar.” She was so excited she thought she might pass out. Still, she made herself wait a beat, as if she actually had to consider the entire matter, before she answered.

  “I’ll have to cancel a couple of things, but I’m sure I can — Wait.” She took a little breath. “I don’t have to have sex with him, do I? ’Cause I couldn’t . . . I’m nearly positive that I couldn’t —”

  “No, no,” Margo assured her on the other end. “He just likes to help people. I don’t think he enjoys sex at all.”

  Cordelia said happily, “Oh, good!”

  “He’ll send a limo for you at eight.”

  And it wasn’t a joke. The limo actually came. A long, sleek, black shark like the ones that traveled the highways starting around the northern end of Orange County. The closer you zeroed in on Los Angeles, either coming south or north, the more limos you started seeing. And now she was in one, and it wasn’t last year’s prom or anything. It was real life.

  She rode in the very back, in plush comfort. Queen C triumphant. She drank mineral water and munched some nuts. Delicious, protein-filled, energy-laden nuts. She couldn’t help but hum a happy, tuneless melody to herself. Now, this was the way it was supposed to be.