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Then twenty.

  It may be true that absence makes the heart grow fonder.

  But that is if one still has a heart.

  Angelus, being of the undead, officially possessed such an organ, but it no longer beat.

  Into the twenty-fifth year he found himself missing Darla less and less. It was in that time that he truly began living for himself. He traveled widely and developed quite a reputation among the forces of darkness. He was universally feared. No one wanted to cross Angelus, the Scourge of Europe. It was exhilarating, to say the least.

  Finally he made it to London, the city of his youthful dreams, and it was even more astonishing than he had imagined. Of course, the entire world was more astonishing than when he had been alive. A century had gone by, and so very much had happened: steam engines, electricity, the telegraph. And so many other wonders were on the way.

  But nothing compared to the ancient wonder of the hunt. The primeval joy of the kill.

  The eternal celebration of evil.

  As in this particular moment, when Angelus had entered the confessional of a small Whitechapel church, ripped open the throat of a Catholic priest, and killed him.

  He was sitting with the man’s body still warm in his grasp when he realized that someone had entered the penitent’s side of the box.

  A shaky girl’s voice announced that it had been an entire two days since her last confession.

  And his unbeating, dead heart was won. Posing as the priest, he urged her to confide in him. Trust in him.

  She told him that she saw visions. She had seen that morning’s mine accident before it had occurred. Her mother insisted that foreseeing the future belonged to the provenance of the Almighty himself. A mere wretch of a girl should not be able to do such things . . . unless she were cursed by the Devil himself.

  Oddly moved and highly amused, he assured her that this was indeed so. She was a hellspawn, and therefore, she should yield to evil. Fulfill God’s plan by performing vile deeds. The poor chit was bewildered, but she was a good girl at heart, and good girls listened to their priests.

  So she kept coming back for more of his terrible advice. Her name, he learned, was Drusilla.

  As he had with his own family, he murdered all her relatives. He tore out the throats of her friends and of a boy she had hoped to marry.

  Anyone she spoke of to her confessor behind the rood died soon after. Convinced of her inherent wickedness, she fled to a convent, and for a time he let her soak up the purity of the good sisters around her.

  Then, on the day she was to take the veil, he changed her as Darla had changed him.

  That was what drove her completely and irreversibly mad.

  Now they two ran together, and on occasion Darla joined them. Dru changed a young Brit named William the Bloody, and they were a pack. A fearsome clan of the most brutal vampires in history.

  Angelus led them in savagery and mercilessness. He inspired them to torture and torment their victims. William became “Spike,” for his habit of driving railroad spikes into his victims.

  Drusilla discovered she had a wonderful gift for mesmerizing her victims. She was like a cobra, coiling to strike, holding the gaze of her prey as it shuddered and trembled. It was glorious to behold.

  It was highly satisfying to Angelus that she was his get. With a native skill far exceeding Darla’s, he had made a marvelously base creature.

  Drusilla was his most glorious achievement, and he took partial credit, at least, for most of her particularly sadistic deeds. London, 1883

  Drusilla stood watching, her eyes shining, as her Angelus dallied with Margaret, a pretty young servant. Drusilla herself wore a fine frock of brilliant red velvet, and she had garnets around her neck. There were Christmas roses and pearls in her hair, and Angelus was formal and handsome and exquisite in his evening clothes.

  The young servant — stupid cow — was uneasy with the attentions of her employer’s guest. How could a woman, mortal or vampire, resist the kisses and caresses of Angelus, the One with the Angelic Face? The Scourge of Europe, the Terror of Mongolia —

  — Drusilla’s sire, and her dearest love?

  “Spike, look,” she whispered, and Spike drifted to her side. He was fidgeting with his dress clothes; a Cockney, as she was, he was still unused to bucking the class system. No matter; he was her other dearest love, and she had sired him.

  “Spike, it’s grand watching him, isn’t it?” she cooed. “He’s so masterful. Such a romantic.”

  He grunted. “He always does this,” he complained. “Goes for the frisson. I say, slap her around, show her your teeth, and get on with it. At the very least he should torture her a little. But it’s always this . . . this minuet he’s dancing.”

  “It’s a matter of elegance,” Drusilla insisted. “He has it. He’s more upper class than us, you know.”

  “Humph. He’s Irish.” Spike made a face. “Any English beggar’s better than an Irish king.”

  “Have a care,” she said delightedly. “He’ll rip out your throat if he hears you.”

  “Let him try.” Spike touched her cheek. “I wish he would. I’d kill him, and then I’d have you all to meself.”

  “Or so you assume.” She glittered at him, dimpling, giggling. She adored them both, her two strong men. It made her feel like a duchess when they challenged each other for her company. Always in jest . . . or so they liked her to think. But they were like any other two boys: playing at roughhousing, but each with a knife behind his back in the event things got out of hand.

  Meanwhile, the maidservant was begging to be allowed to return to the party, and Angelus was blocking her way. She was truly becoming very afraid. Drusilla could smell her fear. She could hear the woman’s heart pumping all the nice, warm blood.

  “It’s delicious,” Drusilla murmured.

  “Speaking of delicious, by the time he’s done, there’ll be nothing decent in the whole house left to drink,” Spike groused. “Did you have that punch? What was in it, sugar water and milk? The champagne’s already all gone.”

  “You should have joined the men for brandies after supper. Angelus did,” she added pointedly.

  “You said you were hungry,” he grumbled.

  “So I did.” She preened. She’d sent him on a fool’s errand; he’d gone off and nabbed a young girl selling chestnuts on the corner. Meanwhile, she and Angelus had shared a few private, tender moments alone on the terrace. Such was the nature of their little family.

  She had only nibbled at the girl, and Spike had been pouting ever since, going on so about all the trouble he’d gone to to provide her a decent meal. Cor, he was as bad as a fishwife.

  “Besides,” she added prissily, “you take far too much strong drink. You didn’t drink half that much before I changed you.” She ran her nails down the side of his face. “Aren’t you happy, luv? Don’t you know I love you best? It’s only that he’s my sire.”

  “I don’t believe you for a minute,” he hissed at her, but she could see the hope in his eyes. She loved his weakness.

  Slowly she turned and whispered, “I’ll make it up to you, Spike. Don’t I always?” Her eyes widened. “I hear sleigh bells. Or are those dead fairies and angels, begging Father Christmas to bring them back their souls?”

  “It’s the howling of Irish wolves,” Angelus growled behind her.

  “Angelus,” she said delightedly.

  His mouth was smeared with blood. Drusilla pulled a handkerchief from the bodice of her dress and set about wiping it away.

  “Leave off with that,” Spike said, irritated. To Angelus, he asked, “Where’s the body?”

  “Drained and tossed,” Angelus replied casually.

  “That’s not very polite,” Drusilla chided. “Spike’s gone without to make me happy. And then I barely touched my meal.” She smiled sweetly at Spike, who refused to smile back.

  “My dinner has a son,” Angelus drawled.

  Drusilla clapped her hands. “Oh, a tender, fresh one,”
she said happily to Spike. “See? He came through for you after all. And you so grumpy.” She cupped Spike’s cheek. “It’s Christmas, luv. Say Merry Christmas.”

  Spike glared at Angelus.

  Angelus glared back.

  “Merry bleedin’ Christmas,” Spike said between clenched teeth.

  Drusilla was pleased. “That’s the spirit.”

  Cordelia knew it was not a Malibu condo.

  It wasn’t even a condo.

  It was a depressing, crummy apartment in a depressing, crummy apartment building.

  The dress was gorgeous, though.

  And Cordelia took very good care of it. She pressed it after every party and hung it up carefully in her threadbare closet.

  She’d learned a lot about taking care of nice clothes, but not from when she could buy them without looking at the tags. It was after her parents lost all their money because they didn’t bother giving any of it to the government.

  So, no college tuition money, no prom dress money, even — Xander had paid for her prom dress, of all people — although if she could actually admit it to herself, it did seem like something he would do.

  No money for anything, not even dreams.

  Sitting in her slip on her little bed, she hit the Play button on her phone machine.

  “You have one new message,” her machine informed her.

  She kept listening.

  “Cordy, it’s Joe at the agency. No luck again. I’m having trouble booking auditions. The networks are saying they’ve seen enough of you. Which means it’s time to take a little breather, let ’em forget they remember ya . . . so don’t call — you know, no need to call me. I’ll buzz ya if something changes. ’Bye.”

  The machine added, “You have no more messages.”

  Cordelia sat for a long moment. Then she picked up a napkin and unwrapped it, revealing two star-shaped sandwiches from the party. Dinner.

  She lifted one to her mouth, took a bite, and chewed slowly.

  Through her window the city looked dark. She couldn’t remember ever feeling so hopeless. Okay, except for the time she and Buffy had been chained down in the basement of a frat house, and their reptile god, Machida, had tried to munch them for dinner.

  Not to mention the time her supposedly dead boyfriend, Daryl, almost got his kid brother to cut off her head so she could be the centerpiece of his new patchwork girlfriend à la Dr. Frankenstein.

  Or on Halloween, when everyone but she went a little insane (a little? a lot!) and Buffy became this disgustingly wimpy girl.

  Kinda like Cordelia was being.

  Resolutely she finished the sandwiches. Then she picked up her book titled Actors and Auditions.

  As she dutifully read, her stomach growled with hunger.

  “Stop that. How rude,” Cordelia groused, near tears.

  They were in Angel’s apartment.

  Tina came out of his bathroom in a T-shirt over her black work pants. She dropped her party dress in her large carryall.

  “My Girl Scout training,” she explained. “Be prepared. I can live out of this for days if I have to.”

  Girl Scout, Angel thought sadly. She probably took ballet lessons and giggled about boys at slumber parties.

  A few lifetimes ago.

  “Good,” he said. “’Cause you can’t go back to your place. You can stay here.”

  “Yeah.” She glanced at the bed. “I guess this is the part where you comfort me. Not like you didn’t earn it.”

  She gave him a hard look, her emotions churning beneath the surface.

  When he moved toward her, she tensed.

  He said, “No. This is the part where you have a safe place to stay while we figure things out.”

  Her face betrayed her confusion. “You don’t want to . . . ?”

  “You’ve got enough people taking advantage of you right now.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. She tried to brush them away. “Boy, are you ever in the wrong town.”

  She sank onto the couch and cried. Angel gave her a tissue.

  She said, “Thank you.”

  Gently he asked, “How about some tea?”

  She nodded. He headed into the kitchen and started filling the pot.

  “I’m just so tired,” she said. “I can’t sleep. He’s going to find me.” She sounded more defeated than anything. “Russell always finds you.”

  “Russell have a last name?”

  “Yeah, but you don’t need to know it,” she said firmly. “You’ve done enough already. This is L.A. Guys like him get away with murder.”

  He had not forgotten that a demon who could channel some Powers that Be somewhere had given him Tina’s name and workplace.

  Maybe this is why.

  “Who’d he murder?” he asked.

  She took a moment.

  “I don’t know. Maybe nobody. He’s got the bucks, likes to hang with starlets and such.” She shrugged. “He was nice at first. I’m not an idiot. I know he’s gonna want something in return — I figured what the hell, at least I’d be eating good.”

  Angel moved back to her. “What does he want in return?”

  She was embarrassed. “He likes to . . . he likes pain. I mean he really does; he talks about it like it’s a friend of his.”

  Angel took that in. He had known monsters like that.

  He himself, for one.

  “And you don’t leave him,” she continued. “He tells you when he’s had enough. I knew a girl, Shanise; she tried to get away. She disappeared off the face of the earth. He finds you.”

  “Not anymore,” he told her. Promised her.

  The teapot whistled, and Angel headed into the kitchen.

  After less than half a cup, she dozed. Angel covered her with a blanket and studied her for a moment.

  Then his gaze fell on her bag.

  He put it on the table and reached inside.

  The first thing he found was her address book. She’d written her name and address on the first page — usually not all that good an idea, if you were running with the kind of crowd she was.

  He started thumbing through it. A business card fell out. He looked at it. WOLFRAM & HART, ATTORNEYS AT LAW.

  Weird logo, he thought, laying the card aside.

  He kept riffling through the book until he found what he was looking for.

  Shanise Williams.

  All the phone numbers beside her name were crossed out.

  Written off, he thought.

  In the early twentieth century Charlie Lummis, then head librarian at the Los Angeles Public Library, commissioned a branding iron, patterned after those used in Mexican and monastery libraries. Such irons were called Marcas del Fuego. Fire marks. Lummis used his to brand the covers of the library’s more important books.

  So it had to be mere irony that so many of the library’s holdings were destroyed in a terrible fire in 1986. Those which could be replaced were, but the branding iron was never recovered from the huge piles of soaking ash and sodden pulp — the results of the efficient sprinkler system.

  Now, late at night, the refurbished library was a dimly lit, deserted cavern. If any of Angel’s haunts resembled the Batcave, this was the one.

  He wondered when he’d see the Irish demon again. He didn’t exactly doubt that he would. But it occurred to him that maybe this was a test of the new Los Angeles superhero defense system. If he didn’t pull this off, maybe the Powers that Be would move on to another candidate for savior of Los Angeles. Maybe there was some other poor schmuck vampire with a soul who needed a hobby.

  The computer screen lit up, casting his face in the glow of soft X rays. He’d called up a newspaper site on this particular monitor. Named it computer number three. He’d already booted up two other computers. He was gathering data from all three.

  Call him the Man Who Fell to Earth.

  On the news site keyboard, Angel typed in MURDERS, YOUNG WOMEN.

  Meanwhile, on the second screen, information was coming up in res
ponse to Search: WILLIAMS, SHANISE.

  It read, ACTRESS, MEMBER S.A.G., A.F.T.R.A.; DANCER IN LAS VEGAS UNDER THE NAMES LYLA WILLIAMS, LYLA JONES.

  He typed WILLIAMS, LYLA, and JONES, LYLA, and hit Search.

  Meanwhile, he shifted to the third screen and scrolled POLICE FILES.

  Back on the first screen, he scanned various back-page headlines. Unidentified Woman Found Strangled. . . . Hiker Finds Body in Angeles Crest Forest. . . . Murder Victim Trashed in Dumpster. . . .

  She had never made the front pages. Back page all the way, ashes to ashes, morgue to a Jane Doe deepfreeze pending closing of the case. After all, who was she? In the big drama that was Hollywood, nothing more than a background extra.

  He sighed as he glanced over at the second screen. There she was: LYLA JONES, DANCER A.K.A. SHANISE WILLIAMS. Dressed up in a Vegas costume. She looked happy in the photograph. He doubted seriously that she had been at the time, if ever.

  On screen three he scrolled through MISSING PERSONS REPORTS and JANE DOES. He stopped, thinking he’d caught something, and scrolled back.

  It was a Jane Doe report: Five foot ten, 115 pounds — IDENTIFYING MARKS: tattoo on left shoulder.

  On the second screen he went back to the Vegas photo of Lyla Jones.

  She had a small flower tattoo on her left shoulder.

  It was almost dawn by the time Angel slid his car into the covered parking by his building. The sun was heating up the last traces of night. He’d cut it pretty damn close.

  Oh, well, other people skydive for thrills, he thought ironically.

  It was strange how the sun pulled on him, made him tired. He had never understood precisely why. He hadn’t made the time to investigate it. Figured it had something to do with being demonic, forces of darkness, yada yada yada. Whatever worked. And he didn’t, in full sunlight.

  As he was moving down the hall, he heard a woman shouting.

  “No! Please don’t! I can’t.”

  Tina was still on the couch, in the throes of a nightmare. He crossed to her.

  “I can’t —” she cried.

  “Tina,” he said.

  She screamed, arching up, clawing at his face, real horror in her eyes.

  “No!” she shouted.

  “It’s all right,” he urged. “Everything’s all right.”