Ceremonies of Innocence

by Persephone

"Angel?" Cat paused uncertainly. Of course. He would have a name to match his appearance. "Tis pretty. Verra pretty."

And odd expression crossed his face, one of bittersweet nostalgia. "So I've been told," he replied quietly.

Cat mentally winced as she realized that she had stepped on a nerve. "Oh," she stumbled awkwardly, "Well, that's nice."

'That's nice?' her brain screamed at her. 'Great comeback, Cat. Inane much?' She could hear Megabyte's jibes now. 'Wait a minute,' she caught herself. She didn't know this guy--for all she knew, he could be a psychotic killer. What did she care how she sounded to him?

Unfortunately, for some reason that escaped her, Cat found that she did care. Very much.

Either he didn't appear to notice or he had decided to have mercy on her, instead shrugging, "I guess. Your turn."

My turn.... Oh. "Catriona," she replied carefully. He hadn't seen fit to give her his last name, so why should she give him hers? "But I prefer being called Cat."

That didn't seem to surprise him. In fact, a small smile quirked his lips, "That makes sense. It suits you."

"Really?" she crossed her arms, "Ye've known me for less than five minutes and ye already know what suits me? Omnipotent or just a lucky guess?"

"Peace, Catriona," he held his hands spread apart in front of him. "No need to sink those claws into me."

"Right," she muttered, annoyed by the twitching of his mouth into a smug smile. Cat straightened, "Ye were following me!"

"No," he corrected, "I was watching you. There's a difference."

"Bloody semantics! Ye were doing what ye were doing," she huffed.

"You were looking for me," came the placid counter-accusation.

There wasn't much to say to that, she realized. Especially since it was true.

"Weren't you?" he prodded with an smug air of knowing that made her want to smack him.

"Ye-es," she admitted grudgingly.

"Are you always this combative?" Angel appeared amused which raised her pique another notch.

"Are ye always so charming?" she replied sarcastically, "Ye are so annoying!"

"Why are you so angry?"

That gave her pause. Why was she so angry? Usually, she had to get pretty worked up before she got like this. What was her problem?

It was rather simple: she was afraid. And at the same time, completely perplexed.

The mixed, confusing signals she picked up emanating from him telepathically alarmed her. There was a darkness, a soul- blackening ugliness that surrounded him. Evil. Pure evil. Just touching it made her feel unclean, as if she had been wading through a year's worth of sludge. A simmering rage and a voracious hunger seemed to fuel it. Just the hint of it tempted her to teleport out now, in front of an entire mall full of people, just to get away from it. From him.

What stayed her?

Because in that corona surrounding him there was light as well. It broke through the darkness, flaring and tickling the edges of her senses. Gentleness and strange sense of sorrow that seemed to be at the core of his being. And most of all, regret; regret so profound it hovered over him like a cloak. The self-loathing she sensed in him confused her, made her want not to flee from him but take him in her arms and soothe him like a child. Yes, that was it. He reminded her of a hurt child, a wounded soul that clutched and hoarded his pain because he knew nothing else. Afraid to trust for fear of that being thrown back in his face, afraid to care for much the same reason. Isolated. Alone even in a crowd.

It reminded her uncomfortably of herself. Of how she had been before Adam and the others had come into her life. Of how she still was to some extent--trying to find herself, her place. To be perfectly honest, there were times she felt like she didn't belong with the other Tomorrow People at all. There was a dark place inside of her, had been for a long time. There were things she had been, things she had done, that she wasn't proud of. Things that the others wouldn't understand because they couldn't. So she kept those painful secrets bottled down so far, so deep that she even she wasn't sure what would happen they finally bubbled forth. She hated it, keeping secrets from them, not being completely honest. She wanted so much to share everything with them as they did with her. There was just this small part of her that was so afraid, so unable to trust. What if she finally plucked up the courage to lay it all on the line and the others couldn't handle it? The risk wasn't worth it; it wasn't worth the relief of unburdening herself if it meant losing or hurting those closest to her. Even if it meant never dealing with the past and all it entailed.

"Are you all right?" Angel asked. There was none of his earlier cockiness. If anything, Cat thought, she would swear there was a genuine concern in his voice.

Concern for someone he didn't even know? It wasn't very likely. "Yes, I'm fine," she replied brusquely, brushing a strand of hair out of her face.

His eyes searched her face. She tensed at the expression she saw there, at the flash of sympathy. She was surprised to find herself blinking back tears. 'What the bloody hell is wrong with me?' she raged. 'Why am I acting like this?' Great, this was just what she needed, another nervous breakdown.

"Yeah," he said quietly, "You look it."

"This was a mistake," she shook her head, "I'm leaving."

She started to spin around on her heel when she heard that soft voice ask, "Why are you here in the first place? Why did you come?"

It gave her pause. Cat wondered what would happen if she told him just what she was. Would he believe her? Would it even matter? 'What's wrong with me?' she demanded of herself again. Why were all these feelings suddenly being dredged up again? She hadn't felt this low, this useless in such a long time.

"I dinna ken," she felt her shoulders slump in defeat. "I dinna ken."

His eyes narrowed suddenly. Without warning, his hand shot out and grasped her arm. In shock, she tried to wrench away from that sudden contact. "What are ye doing?"

"Stop that," he said, the commanding note in his voice causing her to cease her struggles. He studied her for a long moment. Then a flash of understanding seemed to enter his eyes. "Raise your shields."

"What?!" Cat gaped at him, not exactly sure she had heard him right.

"You're a psychic, aren't you?" Angel queried, his voice low as his eyes darted around the crowded mall before coming back to rest on her.

"I--ye--," For once, Catriona found herself totally at a loss for words. Fear and surprise were too busy choking them out of her.

"Just trust me. Raise your shields and I think you'll find you feel a lot better," he replied.

With some misgivings, Cat began to realize just what he was talking about. Her mental shielding had lowered (instinctively?) around him, fixing on his mental processes whilst shutting out all the other minds droning in the background. Drawing in a breath, she began raising her shielding up again. Instantly, the malaise and depression seemed to lift and she felt relatively normal again. The feelings she had been experiencing ... they had been her own but amplified by his own mental state. Like an echo in a cave, she had some how latched onto him and gotten the backwash of his emotions, dredging up and doubling her own emotions. She had been so busy leeching his emotions that she hadn't even realized what was happening.

A number of thoughts raced through her mind. First, Angel had to be one hell of a psychic if he could effect her on this level. Second, his emotional state was not exactly great at this moment. Then there was the fact that Angel had known she was a psychic...

"How did ye ken?" she tilted her head up towards him.

"You're not the first psychic I've run into," he explained. Slowly, his grip loosened on her arm, hand nearly losing contact with her flesh before she caught it, holding it firm. The expression in his eyes was unreadable as he stared at her then their clasped hands. "You should be completely normal again in a few minutes. It shouldn't be so bad the next time because you'll know what to expect. That is," he amended, "if you have some measure of control over your abilities."

"Next time?" she echoed.

He appeared stricken. "I meant...," he trailed off, "I'm not exactly sure what I meant."

"Who are ye, Angel?" she whispered. 'And why do I feel so drawn ta ye,' she thought.

He smiled, a rueful smile, "Better that you should go back to your original question of what am I."

Angel watched as Cat cradled her coffee with shaky hands. When he saw that she wasn't shaking off the psionic effects she had experienced earlier as fast as she should have been, he had insisted she find a place and sit down. When she looked like she might be mulish about it, he had simply taken her by the arm and dragged her over to the food court, overriding her protestations that she was fine. Somewhat reluctantly, she had allowed him to get her a coffee though she had insisted on paying. That had made the corners of his mouth twitch in amusement. She was a stubborn lass, this Cat, and it would take a stronger man than he to resist her.

The silence that had fallen over the table was uneasy. The young woman across from him kept darting glances in his direction, her gray eyes asking him a million questions. Questions that he wasn't sure he wanted to answer. Like the inevitable question of --

"What did ye mean by I should go back ta my question o' what are ye?" Cat spoke up at last, her tone subdued.

'I knew I could rely on you,' he thought ironically. Cutting right to the chase with no hint of playing around. Anyone else and he might have been able to stave off this conversation. No, he had to run into the one person who by nature, if he read her right, would make that impossible. And there were certain things that she just didn't need to know--high on that list was that he was a vampire. Of course, he hadn't made this easy on himself--his comments had practically begged her to investigate further. Instead of giving her the brush off and holing up until Giles and Buffy arrived, he had all but invited Cat's attention.

'I must have a death wish,' he mentally sighed.

"Are ye," she hesitated, "Are ye some kind o' psychic?"

Angel kept his face blank, void of any incrimnating emotions. It was a mask he had schooled himself to wear, had perfected it to an art. "In a manner of speaking."

'Let her draw her own conclusions,' he thought. Humans always looked for a way to catergorize and normalize things they didn't understand. The fantastic became mundane in an instant. It made a vampire's life much, much easier.

'Well,' he corrected himself, thinking of Buffy and the Slayerettes, 'most humans were like that.'

"You're not wrong," he replied in his best imitation of Xander's method of deadpan. It wasn't exactly a lie. All vampires were, to some extent, psychic--leaning more towards the empathic end of the spectrum. It was tied to their feeding process.

She raised an eyebrow, obviously waiting for him to elaborate further. When he didn't, she pursed her lips. "That's no' much of an answer."

"No," he agreed.

Those slanting, feline-shaped eyes flashed gray fires. "My," she said in a voice heavily laced with sarcasm, "aren't we chatty? Ye're a real fountain o' knowledge."

"Maybe you'd like to tell me about yourself, Catriona," he said deliberately.

That shut her up as well as made the tension level skyrocket another five notches or so. They glared at each other, a mini-tug of war for control ensuing, neither willing to give any ground.

Finally, Cat leaned back, letting out an explosive breath, "This is ridiculous. We're no' getting anywhere. "A compromise?"

He was wary. "What?"

"I'll answer a question o' yers and ye answer a question o' mine. Is it a bargain?"

Angel considered it. It was a dangerous game he was playing but he had gone this far, so why stop now? And answers could be twisted, shaped into things that contained a seed of truth but not the whole truth. Misdirection would be easy if she asked him something he wasn't prepared to answer.

"All right," he conceded, "One question. I'll go first."

She nodded, crossing her arms in obvious anticipation. Angel studied her, noted how one hand absently tugged an errant lock of red hair, the colors of fire, and copper, and strawberry contained therein that one strand of hair. Her fair skin was fused with color, excitement coloring it pink. Out of habit, he found his gaze travelling to her bare throat, watching the pulse of blood under her milky skin, then to her wrists where branches of blue veins lay just below the surface. Her warm, salty scent aroused his hunger, tantalized him. How long had it been since he had fed? Hours? Maybe longer. But the cold blood he had stolen from the Red Cross was no comparison to the rich, copper-tasting river pumping through her. At one time, not so very long ago, he would have had no hesitation about taking her, letting her hot life's blood spill out in a red gush over his lips. Even now, conscience and all, it was so very difficult to fight the demonic impulses that argued that this life should be his, his rightful prey. And she wasn't helping much--not with her heart speeding with adrenaline and fear. The smell of it was addictive and he knew if he didn' stop now, there was no way he would be able to stop.

He caught her eye, staring at her the way a snake might stare at a helpless bird. Gray eyes eyes lost their spark, growing glassy with bewilderment and lethargy. The signs of a glamor, the trick vampires used to attract their prey. 'This isn't right,' screamed a voice in his head. Angel knew it was wrong, knew that he should get out of his seat and get the hell out of here but he didn't. There was something about this girl, the way she felt to him, the way her emotions radiated out like rolling waves, the way she smelt--it attracted him. His subsequent reversion to Angelus then later on, his sojourn in Hell had altered him, had placed him more on the edge than he had ever been. The division between his vampiric nature and human conscience had become even more pronounced and of late, he had found his control slipping. Maybe it was the influence of this burgeoning Hellmouth, but ever since his arrival in London, Angel had found himself struggling harder and harder to leash in the destructive impulses that sang their siren song to him.

Angelus wouldn't have hesitated. To him, there would have been no reason. She was human, she was prey. He would have amused himself by torturing her because she had challenged him. So many humans just laid down and died like the bloodbags they were, whispered the demon. The ones who didn't were worthy of special attention. They were the ones who made undead life enjoyable.

'But I am not Angelus,' he battled against the demon, the lust of for blood, for destruction singing in his mind.

'Aren't you?' hissed the demon. He saw once again the faces of his family as he killed them one by one. Then Drusilla, sweet and chaste Drusilla; he had ventured every form of mental torture ever known on her, had even made up a few new ones. He had driven her insane and then he had changed her. The Romani girl--he had enjoyed fooling her family, ingratiating himself into their good graces, then sucking their beloved daughter dry. Jenny Calendar, the heady smell of her fear, the way her neck had snapped so satisfactorily in his hands. Giles' pain had been exquisite but Buffy's... Buffy's had been beyond Angelus' wildest imagination.

His human soul was repulsed by the menage of images, wanted to retreat in loathing of himself. The demon wanted that. Just like it wanted to kill this girl. Suck her dry right down to the marrow of her bones. The thought of it made his teeth ache in longing.

A sharp intake of breath distracted him from the war going on inside him. He lifted his head to see the malaise afflicting Cat lift with a rapidness that was breathtaking to behold. Her eyes were widening in horror and he knew instinctively that somehow, in some way, she knew the thoughts that had been running through his head.

"A mhuire," she whispered in Gaelic. Her next words came out in a sibilant rush, so fast that he caught only one of them.

"...tannasaq."

'Spirit,' he translated. More than that, it meant a spirit of malevolence. One that feeds off the souls of the living.

Cat found her body and mind relaxing into a paralytic sort of languor. It was hard to stay focused on anything besides the lassitude seeping through her body and the dark, impenetrable gleam in his dark eyes. She couldn't have moved if she wanted to. Not that she did. No, she was too caught up in the sensations coasting through her body. Fear had subsided, giving way to another kind of tension. A physical attraction that was almost unbearable seized her. Emotions and thoughts that would normally have brought a blush to her cheeks were running a riot. Suddenly, Angel had gone from being just an attractive man to something else. The hunger in his eyes made her want to throw herself at him, on some instinctual level knowing that if she did so, he wouldn't turn her away. The pull of his mind was strong, the difference she felt there intoxicating.

She tried to throw off the fog clouding her brain, to think of Adam but all she could think of was Angel--his nearness, the almost unearthly glow of his skin, the memory of how soft his touch had been before. He was perfect, he was--he was....

A murderer.

Somehow, her shielding had lowered itself again, causing Cat to recoil from the barrage of images flooding through her mind. They flooded her mind, overwhelmed her. The sounds of screams, the hunger, and oh, God, the pleasure. Pleasure so deep it nearly caused her faint. Voices rose in cacophony, each clamouring for attention. Too many voice calling, demanding her attention.

'Do you want to play with me? Miss Edith and I are having a tea party...'

'You will remember the faces of all those you have killed...that will be your punishment...'

'Angel, I know that some part of you is still in there...'

And faces, so many faces. A beautiful woman, dark hair flowing around a face that was as pale as the moon. Her eyes... her eyes gave Cat shivers. They twinkled like two stars, completely devoid of anything resembling sanity. She had been so sweet, Cat somehow knew, and her destruction had been well worth the effort. Another woman, her eyes trusting and simple. Death after ugly death played through her mind but what horrified her most of all, was the powerful taste of blood in her mouth, the smell of it in her nose. She could almost feel it on her hands. How she seemed to revel in it; it was beyond any sort of pleasure she had ever known. Like sexual bliss, it gave her a feeling of completion, of peace. But it was something she only knew with the kill, with the taking of a life.

The revulsion she felt dispelled the mists clouding her mind and she hastily pulled her shields back into place until she was alone in the sanctuary of her own mind, nearly crying in relief at the dissipation of those memories. It was all she could do not to shriek and teleport out as fast as she could manage.

Recognition shone in Angel's eyes and he looked almost as horrified as she felt.

Almost.

Normally, Cat was not one prone to irrational behavior. Still, she was a Highlander, a Scot; there was in her blood, the knowledge of things beyond the explainable. Education and time had quieted that superstitious streak that ran through all those with Celtic blood but it had not been irradicated. It lay there just below the surface, ready to come out again like it was at this moment.

"A mhuire," she murmured, reverting to Gaelic. The Roman Catholicism of her youth caused her to invoke Mary. The Gaelic also supplied her with a name for what sat before her--Tannasaq, a ghoul, an evil spirit that fed off of death and destruction.

He reached a hand out to her. She jerked away from him, pushing her chair back with a loud scraping noise that drew several annoyed glances. None of which bothered her very much at the moment. Her stomach roiled in nausea at what she had gleaned from him. Part of her wanted very much to show her absolute disgust by throwing up all over his shoes.

"Dinna touch me," she growled. Where, oh, where were her uncles when she needed them? Several inches of steel might be helpful in this situation.

His hands fell back, landing on the table. He used them to gracefully push himself up until they were eye to eye. His next statement took her completely by surprise.

"You said I could ask one question of you. Will you keep your word?" Angel asked quietly.

Cat stared at him in disbelief. Was he completely insane? It no longer mattered to her to know anything about him. She already knew too much as far as she was concerned.

Still, her sense of honor nagged at her, yer word is yer word.

Damn my word, she thought back furiously. That nagging voice refused to quieten. And there was only one way she knew to do that.

"Aye," she said through gritted teeth, "What is it ye want?"

Angel looked so pathetically grateful at that bone she threw him that she almost felt herself soften. Then she recalled the broken images she had received from him and felt herself harden again.

"What did you see?"

"What do ye think I saw?" she snapped. Cat didn't want to dwell on those images even if her mind seemed to be permantly stuck on replaying them.

"Just tell me."

"I saw ye...," she trailed off before making herself continue, "And I saw blood and bodies...Ye're a killer. Yer worse than that--ye *enjoy* hurting people."

"No--"

"Will ye then be telling me what I saw?" she demanded, "And dinna try ta convince me I was confused or my mind was playin' tricks on me. I ken better. I ken what I saw so dinna try ta convince me otherwise."

"I wasn't planning on it," Angel replied honestly, "You're not confused or wrong. I am a killer."

His admission floored her. She had expected him to argue, to protest his innocence, to try to convince her that she was wrong. "Weel," she floundered, "at least ye're honest."

'At least he's honest?!! I am such an idiot,' she berated herself. 'Why the hell am I still here?'

Because, because of the expression on his face. A look of guilt and remorse that was completely at odds with what she had mentally gleaned from him earlier. 'Looks can be deceiving, Fraser, she berated herself, after all, he doesn't look like a psychotic killer but...that's what he is, a killer. He had even admitted it.'

She didn't understand--didn't comprehend the juxtapostion of images and sensations she had received coupled with this sense of guilt that was radiating from him. And for some odd, suicidal reason, she found that she wanted to understand.

"My turn," she spoke. He appeared startled, surprised that she was still there. "I want ye to tell me why."

"What does why matter?" he replied bitterly, "It doesn't change things."

"Just answer the question, damn ye," she snapped. "I answered yer question, so I want ye to make me understand."

"You wouldn't believe me," he stared at the table.

"Try me," she said wryly, "Ye might be surprised."

There was a long pause, then he said quite simply, "I'm a vampire."

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