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Chapter Two
Angel stood in the front room of the pub, looking out at the mist drifting past the door. The shop fronts across the way were mysteriously veiled and the street lights wore golden halos. Doyle had told him that he could create his own reality. He could choose to be anywhere in the world he felt comfortable, or he could design his own world if he chose. He'd traveled far and wide during his long life. Where did he feel most comfortable? Where was the one place in which he truly belonged? Angel closed his eyes and stepped out of the door of the pub——into his own underground apartment at the first location of Angel Investigations.
“Good choice,” Doyle commented as he took in the familiar setting.
“This isn't real,” Angel argued. “It was blown up years ago—”
“Yeah,” Doyle agreed. “It was blown up, I'm dead, an' you're in transition. Yet, here we both are. I asked y' t' create th' place you felt most comfortable an' apparently th' bat cave is it. So it's as real as it needs t' be, for now.”
Doyle turned to reach for the kettle to make tea, when his legs buckled and he grabbed for the sink. He slapped a hand to his head as the pain tore through his skull like an out-of-control lorry.
“Th' docks . . .” he gritted out. “A freighter . . . smugglin' in some illegal Peruvian artifacts . . . includin' a rather nasty warrior . . . god . . . demon . . . somethin' that y' really don't want loose in LA . . . An' did y' have t' give me the headaches back? I've done my time. I'm supposed t' be beyond th' mortal coil!”
Angel grinned. He felt happier than he had in years. He was back doing what he did best — making a difference, one vision at a time. No employees, no compromises, no charging clients, no invoices or reporting to liaisons — just him and Doyle, doing their bit to help.
He threw his arm around Doyle's shoulders and handed him a battle axe as he hefted his own broadsword.
“Quit bitching, Doyle—we've got a warrior/god/demon thingy to stop!”
~*~
From Angel's perspective, the days slipped into weeks, and he was content. He and Doyle spent time researching, and Doyle developed contacts at the newspapers so they got a heads-up on the freaky, unusual cases. Many of them turned out to have demonic components, and Angel and Doyle Investigations went to work.They also spent some time in the seedy neighborhood bars Doyle preferred—shooting pool, playing darts and just relaxing in each other's company over a pint or two. They grew closer, and Angel found himself confiding in Doyle things he'd never been able to tell anyone. Somehow, Doyle made him feel that he wasn't a terrible person—an evil, unredeemable thing. He began, instead, to see himself as a person who had done terrible things—committed atrocious actions, which he deeply regretted. He couldn't change the past. He couldn't make amends. He could only choose what he did now and would do in the future.
He had lived with the miasma of overwhelming guilt for so long, that the inner change from guilt to regret to true repentance was almost too subtle to be remarked. He only realized how much the paralyzing guilt had crippled him after it was gone. The guilt had kept him from a real connection with anyone. He now accepted that he could change—had changed—and accepted that he could make a difference in the world.
He couldn't make a difference by selfishly trying to balance the scales, making his every act an attempt at reparation. But he could, simply because he wanted to help those who couldn't help themselves. Doyle had given him a new outlook . . . a new life. He wanted to say a 'spiritual awakening', but that sounded embarrassingly pretentious, even in his mind.
~*~
They were up in the Hills, following the trail of a Rhez'nekk demon, when Doyle's body jackknifed in the passenger seat as he clutched his head and moaned.“Some kids . . . foolin' around . . . stole a book . . . callin' up demons . . . we're near . . . hurry!”
Doyle propped his elbows on his knees and massaged his temples as he gave Angel directions. Angel made a hard right at the first turn-off, then a left. They were traveling so fast, Doyle almost missed the signs of the hidden driveway that he had seen in the vision. Angel stepped on the brakes as Doyle grabbed for the dashboard. Angel slammed the car into reverse, back into drive, and then fishtailed up the narrow, overgrown drive. The burned ruins of a 1920's Italianate mansion stood starkly in the moonlight beyond the open gate. Angel screeched the car to a halt and leapt over the door of the Plymouth. A PT Cruiser was parked behind a screen of wisteria vines. He unlocked the trunk of the Plymouth and hefted his sword, as Doyle grabbed the crossbow.
They ran around the side of the mansion, where a glow of light indicated a less damaged wing. The smell of fresh blood and offal alerted Angel to what they would find, before he crashed through the large window. Doyle clambered after him, and his pale skin took on a decidedly greenish hue when he saw the broken bodies of the three teens. A red glow, very high up along the back wall caught Angel's attention.
“Doyle! It looks like a Mohra—”
“If y' can wound it near th' kids—”
Angel went on the attack. This Mohra was huge—at least twice the size of the one he'd fought years ago. Angel feinted with the sword. He couldn't kill it immediately, although he knew how to do so. If he killed it, the dying kids wouldn't have a chance. He needed to herd it near enough to the teens that he could spray the Mohra's regenerative blood on them without allowing them to be trampled by the battle.
Angel felt the rush of air from the swing of the Mohra's huge sword and he managed to jump back and parry just in time. He amended his game plan to add: Herd Mohra near teenagers; cut Mohra; mix Mohra's blood with the kids' — kill Mohra before it decapitated him and took him out of the game.
Doyle fired the crossbow and the Mohra spun to face the new attacker. It made a flying leap for Doyle, with Angel in hot pursuit. The demon's upper body was covered in armor, and an attack there wouldn't accomplish his goals. The Mohra reached for Doyle as Angel threw himself to the ground, stabbing upward toward the femoral artery. Doyle fired the crossbow directly into the jewel in the Mohra's forehead as Angel rolled, flinging the Mohra blood from his sword in the direction of the eviscerated teens. He shut his eyes tightly and pressed his lips together, careful not to get any of the Mohra blood into his own system. The Mohra disintegrated, and Angel crawled toward the kids, wiping the flat edge of the sword across their bodies.
The green glow of the Mohra blood working into their systems spread throughout their bodies and the two boys and the girl began to stir. They sat up with looks of terror on their faces. Angel faded back into the shadows.
“What happened?” “Who are you?” “I thought for sure we were dead!” “What was that . . . thing?”
Doyle held up his hands to halt the babble of questions. “I trust ye'll not be callin' up any more demons in future?”
Three scared faces frantically moved back and forth before him, as the kids unanimously shook their heads 'no'.
“I'll be takin' th' book wi' me, then.”
Doyle held out his hand, and the girl scrambled to a broken circle of colored sand and tipped-over candles. She clutched the book, covered with blood and melted candle wax, and extended it to Doyle. She then backed away, her terrified eyes never leaving his face.
Doyle slung the crossbow over his shoulder and took the weighty tome from her trembling hands.
“G'wan with y' — get outta here.”
All three scrambled for the smashed window, not wanting to spend any further time in the house.
“An' I hope y' learned yer lesson—no more messin' wi' forces y' don't understand,” Doyle called after them.
“No, sir!” one of the boys squeaked, as he ran to catch up with his companions.
~*~
Back in the apartment, Angel poured them both a drink. Doyle swallowed his immediately and held out his glass for a refill. Angel obliged, and then carried the bottle to the living room, where he sank down on the sofa. Doyle sat beside Angel, and rolled his glass between his palms, warming the whiskey. He took a sip, leaned over to place the glass on the end table and cleared his throat.“I happened t' notice,” Doyle began, conversationally, “That y' made a determined effort not t' get any of th' Mohra blood on yourself.”
Angel took a drink of his whiskey and remained silent.
“An' I was wonderin' about that,” Doyle continued. “Y' knew ye'd signed away th' Shanshu, an' here was a god-given opportunity for y' t' become human—no strings attached—an' yet y' turned it down again.”
Angel smiled briefly. “Being human wouldn't change things. You helped me finally 'get' that, Doyle. See, ever since I learned about the Shanshu, I saw it as a reward—an external sign that I'd been forgiven and would have a chance to start over with a brand new life. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I didn't deserve to be forgiven.
“When the Black Thorn demanded that I sign away any claim to the Shanshu prophecy, I felt . . . free. Free of trying to live up to impossible demands. Free of giving control of my 'destiny' to some shadowy organization with the power to decide when and if I was good enough. They had that power because I gave it to them.
“During my time here with you, I've finally realized that no matter who forgave me, it wouldn't matter until I was able to forgive myself. To accept that 'Angelus' wasn't some alter-ego that took over my will, but that the seeds for that evil were already in me. The demon brought them out in more terrible ways than I hope I would ever have done if I'd lived and died my allotted life span, but the ability was already there. It's there in all of us. There are human serial killers that come close to rivaling Angelus at his most creative. I get that now. It's not whether you're human or demon that matters. It's the choices you make every single day—to act on your baser instincts, or to consciously choose to be the best person you can be this moment, regardless of what you've done in the past.
“Even if the best 'person' you can be happens to be a demon. Or a half-demon—like you and me. I don't need to be human, Doyle, I just need to remember who I want to be. And that's someone who, even if he makes a mistake, who fucks up royally, gets back up and tries again. Who never stops trying.”
Doyle nodded. A brief flash of yearning, followed by resignation, showed in his eyes before they shone with pride. “Ye've made your decision. An', once again, I'll never know if this is a face y' could ever learn t' love . . .”
Doyle placed his hands gently on the sides of Angel's face as he drew Angel toward him. He touched his lips to Angel's, and felt Angel's strong arms encircle him and pull him close. Doyle closed his eyes as he felt the firm pressure of Angel's lips responding to him . . . kissing him back. His hands dropped to grip Angel's shoulders and he tightened his grasp, as if he could keep Angel safe with him for just a little longer.
The tip of Angel's tongue traced his lips, and Doyle felt, more than heard, a whispered breath saying “Thank you.” Doyle's hands clutched at empty air, and he could never be sure if he'd actually heard, or only imagined, the faint “I could . . .”
Angel opened his eyes to sensations of cold and wet and pain. His clothes were plastered to his body, and he was bleeding from numerous cuts and gashes. He was pretty sure his right shoulder was dislocated, and his arm lay at an unnatural angle and might be broken.
He felt a persistent tugging on his ankles as he was dragged inch by painful inch across a hard, broken surface. Each movement sent a jolt of pain through his arm and his thigh, which seemed to be missing a chunk of muscle. He lifted his head a fraction and blinked blood out of his eyes to look at his thigh. The wound was ringed by the impressions of very large teeth.
“Good, you're awake. How 'bout some help movin' this bloody great carcass of yours before the sun comes up an' ruins all my hard work?”
Angel looked at Spike, as battered and bloody as himself, lip caught between his teeth in concentration, as he fought to drag Angel away from the rapidly brightening sky. Spike closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, as he gave a final heave and they both tumbled through the battered doorway of a derelict building, and down a broken flight of stairs just as the sun rose on a bright new day.
The End
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