City Of

by Nancy Holder

  The second night on the journey the rear axle of the coach snapped. The coach veered precipitously close to the edge of a deep chasm. The women were like hens, shrieking and flying about inside the coach, and it was only by taking command of the situation that Angelus managed to escape unharmed. He told them to join him on the opposite side of the coach, their combined weight serving as a counterbalance. He climbed out first (naturally), urging the horses to move right, using their weight. He assisted the fainting ladies out and managed, with the horses, to drag the vehicle a bit away from the chasm.

  The driver had been thrown off, his neck broken on impact. Though Angelus assured the ladies he could drive a coach, or preferably lead them out on horseback, the females returned to their blind panic. The women’s shrieks and yowls were so intense that they eventually attracted a pack of wolves. The creatures of the night surrounded the three travelers and stared with hungry, glowing eyes as the snow began to fall.

  The horses reared and screamed, and the wolves gathered their muscles, preparing to spring. When Angelus stood between them and the horses, they backed down in submissive postures.

  As for the two women, they clung to each other and began praying and making the sign of the cross, until Angelus could abide it no longer. He tore out the throat of the older woman, which caused the wolves to attack the horses. He was able to save two of them, but to his regret, the wolves took the opportunity to drag off the young heiress. Smears of her blood in the snow told him where they’d gone, but he figured there’d be nothing, if anything, left worth retrieving.

  So he made a fire and sat beside it for a time. The snowstorm was worsening, and he wondered what he should do for shelter when the sun rose. He considered the carriage and decided that if nothing else, it would keep the sun off him. What a cramped, boring refuge that would be. Perhaps the heavy snowfall would be sufficient to keep the morning brightness at bay.

  The fire crackled, and he sat drumming his fingers. Now and then a wolf would venture near, but sensing what he was, they all kept their distance.

  An hour dragged by. Then the snow fell too heavily to see his pocket watch. He felt rather ridiculous. He wondered if Spike and Dru had already reached Budapest.

  Then, in the swirls of white, a fair-headed woman approached. She was singing sweetly, and when he cocked his head and squinted through the storm at her, she said, “Hello, precious.”

  Darla. His wonderful Darla.

  “Nice weather we’re having, eh?” he quipped.

  It was as if they had never parted. She came to him and kissed him, and they curled together in the snow, oblivious of the freezing weather. Her eyes were a crystalline blue, like the frozen Siretul River. Her lips, pink and lustrous. She was more beautiful than he had remembered.

  “Where have you been, you naughty man?” she chided.

  “On my way to Budapest,” he informed her.

  “Alone?” She touched his face. He transformed for her. And she for him.

  “Not anymore.”

  They rolled in the snow and cavorted like the wolves that watched them.

  The wolves that knew far better than to attack these splendid predators.

  * * *

  The snow stopped falling midday the next day, and the sun came out. Angelus and Darla hid in the carriage, amusing themselves by catching up.

  The horses survived the storm, and the two vampires mounted them, riding bareback.

  They traveled on to Budapest. Spike and Dru met up with them. There was an earthquake, of all things, and in the delicious chaos amongst the human population, the four picked the fruit right off the vine. It was a vampire bacchanalia.

  It was what being a vampire was all about.

  After that, Dru spoke of Spain and wanting very much to go there. Darla refused to go; she had very bad memories of the Spanish Inquisition, not a happy time for creatures of the night. Despite the focus on the Inquisition’s barbarity in dealing with human beings accused of witchcraft and heresy, truth was the monks and priests had significantly reduced the power of evil in the world.

  Darla demanded to stay in the Balkans. Spike seized the moment and suggested he accompany Dru to Spain alone — accent on alone, thank you very much — while Angel “squired his sire.”

  So it was decided, with Drusilla acting a bit crestfallen. They would meet later in the year in Bucharest.

  But, of course, they never did.

  Darla and Angelus returned to the Romany woods, ranging over the countryside like the wolves that sang to them at night.

  It was in this time that she introduced him to the Master, an ancient vampire whose name in life had been Heinrich Joseph Nest. Angelus never saw him in other than his true face, and it was more demonic than his own, very pale, almost ratlike. Angelus envied him his looks.

  Darla was clearly one of the Master’s favorites, and he took an instant liking to her bloodchild, Angel. Eager to impress him with her judgment, she recounted many of Angelus’s exploits to him. Soon Angelus was numbered among the Master’s inner circle, and he was known to say Angelus was the most vicious creature he’d ever met. He promised Angelus that come the day when his plans for domination of the world came to fruition, Angelus would sit at his right hand.

  In return, Angelus vowed loyalty and devotion to all the Master’s causes. It was a promise not undertaken lightly, and one he fully intended to keep.

  At the time.

  The idyllic year passed, moving into summer. Angelus had agreed to meet Spike and Drusilla in September, and it was now August.

  Perhaps Darla meant to keep him there, with her and the Master and the court. He never had a chance to ask her.

  One warm night they had laughed and loved together, wearing exotic silk kimonos one of the Master’s children had brought home from a rampage through Japan. Her cold skin beneath the silk stirred him; her kisses inflamed him.

  Then she led him through the woods for a midnight hunt. Some Romanies had arrived in the daytime and chosen to park their wagons on the vampires’ hunting ground.

  “What sport,” Angelus said quietly.

  “Look there, precious.”

  Darla pointed at the most beautiful human woman Angelus had ever laid eyes on. She wore a full, striped skirt and a billowing white blouse, her splendid shape silhouetted by a tight waistcoat laced beneath her bosom. She was barefoot, and on each ankle, chains of gold coins jingled. Her black hair was loose and free, and her face . . . ah, the moon herself.

  “For you,” Darla said generously. “Knowing as I do that you appreciate the finer things in life.”

  They smiled at each other.

  Then they parted, to dally with their prey. Darla would find a handsome young man, of that Angelus was certain. Meantime . . .

  “Hello,” he said softly, coming upon the exquisite Gypsy as she strolled alone by the river.

  She started. The frightened look on her face did not diminish as he stepped from the shadows. Her eyes darted left, right.

  He gestured to his mouth. “I’m thirsty.”

  She blinked. “Pai?” she asked in a soft, pleasing voice.

  “Pai,” he agreed. He smiled kindly. He could hear her heart; it was thundering. She was mortally afraid.

  “I’m staying with friends, and I wandered off,” he said in English. “I’ve been walking through the forest for hours.”

  With that, she took off. Angelus watched her go, highly amused, terrifically enchanted. He decided then and there to woo her.

  The look of horror and betrayal on her face when he took her life would make the kill all the sweeter.

  And it did; it was the most wonderful kill of his life up until that point. She had come to him and said, in the halting English he had taught, “Angelus, I love you.”

  Then she had kissed him, quite sweetly. Contrary to common prejudice, Gypsy women, while passionate, were chaste until marriage.

  Since such a marriage never could, and never would, take place, Angelus decided th
at this was the moment he would celebrate his triumph over her. He was careful to allow her to see his transformation; more careful still to give her a head start before he threw her down and tore open her throat.

  What Angelus had not realized was that he had been seen murdering the girl, whose name still eluded him.

  He had a rival, a brash Gypsy who had adored her, but considered himself unworthy of her. She was the clan’s favorite daughter, and he was only one of many cousins.

  That didn’t prevent him from loving her, and from wondering who it was who had claimed her heart.

  Ashamed of himself, he had decided that very night to follow her.

  And he had seen.

  At the Gypsy camp the girl was lovingly laid out. Her burial gown was the best the clan possessed. The keening of grief was a delightful ode to Angelus’s savagery. On the path back to the Master’s underground lair, he stopped to listen. He had not expected them to find her so quickly. Now he was torn between pretending to be drawn to the camp by the sound, to see what was amiss, or returning to the Master’s court to boast about his accomplishment.

  * * *

  “Mulo,” the Gypsy woman murmured. It was Gypsy for a dead person associated with uncleanness. It meant vampire.

  She wore a shawl and had painted the seal on her forehead. She waved her hand over the Orb of Thesulah and began the incantation:

  Nici mort nici al fiintei,

  Te invoc, spirit al trecerii

  Reda trupului ce separa omul de animal

  Cu ajurtorul acestui magic glod de cristal.

  Not dead, nor not of the living.

  Spirits of the interregnum, I call.

  Restore to the corporal vessel that which separates

  us from beast.

  Use this orb as your guide.

  In the forest a horrible pain ripped through Angelus. He stumbled, looking over his shoulder, trying to see what had attacked him. There was obviously nothing in front of him.

  He fell to his knees, gasping.

  Never had he felt such terrible agony. He was being ripped apart inside, by an unseen enemy. He ran through the woods, heedless of his direction.

  He fell again, and this time he lost awareness for a brief moment.

  As he got to his knees, groggy and bewildered, an old Gypsy approached and hovered over him.

  “It hurts, yes?” he said in English. “Good. It will hurt more.”

  Angelus was dazed. “Where am I?”

  The man was contemptuous, bitter, filled with rage. “You don’t remember. Everything you’ve done, for a hundred years, in a moment, you will. The face of everyone you killed — our daughter’s face — they will haunt you and you will know what true suffering is.”

  “Killed?” Angelus repeated, confused. He thought to himself, Where’s Sandy Burns? Where’s that charming woman I followed into the alley —

  “I don’t —”

  In a flash the memories rushed over him — Darla; his change, his rampages, the tortures he had inflicted on his victims. Drusilla. Servants, ladies, men, children, babies.

  The Gypsy girl, so sweet and trusting —

  He had done it all.

  “Oh, no, no.” His guilt was unbearable “No!”

  As the Gypsy man looked on with satisfaction, Angelus began to scream.

  BUFFY

  “She was my first love. I’m not saying it was an easy relationship. But it was real. I guess I knew it couldn’t last. You see, Gypsies, they pulled a funny on me. If I ever experience a moment of true happiness, if my soul is ever at peace, I’ll lose it, become a monster again. So I had to leave. I wanted to shut the world out. No more love, no more pain, no more demons.”

  And that was what it all boiled down to: the grief had a name. Buffy.

  Darla had tempted him. Drusilla, he had corrupted. Faith, he had failed.

  Tina was dead. Tina, whose trust was shattered too many times. Who ran from the one person she should have been able to run to.

  But Buffy . . .

  Every thought he’d had, every memory he had relived since returning to Los Angeles, related to his love for the Slayer.

  He had fallen in love with Buffy that very first time he had seen her. He remembered telling her that once; something about how she held out her heart, and him wanting to hold it against his chest. It had actually been very gross, and they’d chuckled over it.

  Thinking of it now, he smiled wistfully. He wondered about her constantly. Tried to imagine what she was doing.

  The pain washed over him in waves.

  Buffy . . .

  He remembered their night, their only night; and as he did so, he realized he was finally saying goodbye. The memories would start to fade.

  That hurt worst of all.

  The memories would fade.

  Sunnydale, 1998

  The blue demon called the Judge had tried to burn them, kill them for their humanity to charge up his evil-force batteries. Together, in the strange almost-telepathy they shared, Buffy and Angel had created a diversion — dropping a pile of TV sets on the floor — which had also, luckily, broken through the floor.

  Voilà, instant escape route.

  To neither’s joy, they landed in the sewer. Silently, no need for talk, they slogged through the muck until they found an opened utility door. With an economy of motion a Green Beret would envy, they darted inside and shut the door behind them.

  Spike and Dru’s followers landed soon after. The two were hot on their trail, but they couldn’t see the nearly invisible seams of the closed door, and moved on.

  After waiting a few more minutes than they thought were necessary, Buffy and Angel reemerged into the tunnel. As good city planning would have it, there was a ladder nearby, which led to the street overhead.

  The rain was coming down in sheets, washing the street to a slick, black shine as Buffy pushed the manhole cover out of the way. She was shivering almost uncontrollably by the time Angel got out and took a quick mental survey of their surroundings.

  “Come on,” he bellowed over the thunder. “We need to get inside.”

  They slogged through the weather to his apartment. Ever chivalrous — might have had something to do with when he was born — he unlocked the door and let her enter first.

  The dim light made Buffy look colder as she stood in the center of the room. Across the wall, just above his bed, the reflection of the rain down the window made a strange kinetic sculpture.

  Angel pulled off his duster and turned to her, stroking her shoulders. “You’re shaking like a leaf,” he said.

  She nodded, shuddering violently. “C-cold.”

  “Let me get you something.” He went to his dresser and got out a bulky white sweater and a pair of sweats. They smelled as if they’d just come out of a warm dryer.

  Handing them to her, he suggested, “Put these on and get under the covers. Just to warm up.”

  A little hesitantly, maybe feeling shy and self-conscious, Buffy walked over to his neatly made bed. She stood in front of it for just a second before she sat down on the mattress, the bundle of fresh clothes in her arms. The coverlet and pillow cases were scarlet.

  The rain continued its drizzling pattern on the wall. Distant thunder rumbled.

  Lightning crashed.

  Angel came to her and faced her. When she looked up at him, he realized he was staring at her. He said, “Sorry,” and turned around.

  Still, she was very near. He could almost smell her, the wetness of her hair, the tantalizing freshness of her skin. Buffy always smelled good, though she herself would beg to differ.

  She was awkward as she unbuttoned the drenched cardigan of her twin set. As she drew out her left arm, she grunted. There was something wrong with her shoulder.

  “What?”

  “Oh, um. I — I just have a cut or something,” she murmured as she finished taking off her sweater. He knew she knew he wanted to look at her, and she was behaving with touching shyness.

  �
�Can I . . . Let me see.” His voice was gentle but firm. He would brook no refusal; if Buffy was injured, he wanted to know.

  “Okay.” Modestly she arranged the sweater across her front so that she was covered. He was moved by her innocence. This was a Buffy he had glimpsed on several occasions, but to see her here, in his room, on his bed . . . it gave him an overwhelming sense of protectiveness toward her.

  He sat behind her on the bed as she turned to show him the wound on her back.

  His fingers touched her shoulder as he pulled the spaghetti strap of her camisole down. His touch was infinitely gentle and tender. Both of his hands moved over her upper back, “It’s already closed,” he said hoarsely. “You’re fine.”

  Neither moved. Buffy was trembling harder. Angel swallowed hard. He was certain he could hear her heartbeat, or was that his own pulse magically restored, racing as his arms cradled her?

  She turned, leaned into him. Breathed him in. Tears welled. He was overcome by her nearness, by the fact that he had almost lost her. That tonight he had thought he might never see her again.

  Echoing his thoughts, she said, “You almost went away today.”

  His fingertips stroked her arm as he held her, tension in his body. He was being careful of her; he was struggling against what was taking them both over: the fear, and the need. He reminded himself constantly of how young she was, how innocent in these matters. How could she be otherwise? She spent most of her waking hours fighting monsters, not kissing boys.

  He said, “We both did.”

  She started to cry. “Angel, I feel like . . . if I lost you . . .” She caught her breath. “You’re right, though. We can’t be sure of anything.” She moved her lips to the side of his face and wept.

  “Sssh. I . . .”

  She opened her eyes, waited. Looked at him. “You what?”

  “I love you.”

  And when he said it, her eyes brightened in wonder, though the tears were still there. He loved Buffy. He knew it was what she had longed to hear, for such a very long time; and yet, there was tremendous sorrow in his words, and in knowing what he had barely dared to dream. Angel loved her, and now, knowing that, he had so much more to lose.