by Mel Odom
“Then why lie to her about all the things you’ve done?” Angel challenged.
“She had no reason to know. She is still . . . weak.”
Angel shook his head. “You haven’t completely turned her. She’s still an innocent.”
Angrily the old woman lashed out at the glowing wall, battering it furiously, causing it to wobble and shift.
“Angel,” Gannon said in a brittle voice. His face was covered with sweat. “I don’t think this exorcism is going to vanquish her. She’s too strong. It would be easier to destroy her.”
“No,” Angel snapped, turning to face the man. “We have a chance here.”
Gannon looked at him. “You came to me because you thought I was the best chance you had at doing this. I’m telling you now, I can’t do it.”
The old woman cackled with insane glee. “The frailties of human flesh. Has it been so long for you, hellbeast, that you’ve forgotten? They are not as we.” She spread her thin arms out. “We are eternal. Eternal in our hatred and in the bloodlust that possesses us.”
“No,” Angel told her. “Hatred and bloodlust are not eternal.” He thought of Buffy, how he’d felt when he’d been with her, how he’d felt when he’d had to leave her. “I’ve learned some of the things that are. Belief is eternal.”
“Belief is a lie,” the old woman screamed, stringing smoky spittle across the inside of the dome. “It can’t be weighed or measured.”
“That’s because nothing can hold it,” Angel said. “Not even you. Moira was a believer. You haven’t taken that away from her.”
“She was a stupid, dead child when I found her,” the old woman screeched. “Her pride and her fear of dying left her vulnerable to me. And I claimed her as my own.” She turned her attention back to the prison that held her. Her claws darted out, testing every inch of the surface. Green sparks flared with every contact.
Gannon’s voice rolled steadily in prayer, but it was failing. Doyle joined the man, sharing the Bible, lifting his song with Gannon’s. The green glowing wall increased in brightness.
“You weren’t the only one who killed Moira!” the banshee screeched in accusation. “The blond-haired woman with you that time in the Galway tavern shot her. I had to fix that as well. I restored her beauty. And there were still others. Men who threw themselves at her, who took advantage of her when there were more of them than she could handle even with her great skill.”
“What about the others?” Angel asked. “Did all of them threaten Whitney?”
The banshee grinned, exploring her prison more, gaining confidence. “No. Not all of them. Some I fancied for myself. I’ve been killing men since before I melded myself to this little girl.”
The words jarred Angel, making him remember a little more of the information he’d looked up earlier. “Banshees were also thought to come from the souls of women who committed the sin of pride.” He looked at the old woman moving around inside the dome like a spider navigating its web. He remembered the swordswoman who’d faced him on Handsome Jack’s deck. “But that pride wasn’t everything Moira was about, was it?”
“Don’t be foolish, hellbeast. I am what’s left of Moira.”
“No,” Angel said. “I’ve seen the real Moira.” He remembered how she’d been on the ship, haughty and confident; but he’d taken that from her when he’d defeated her and broken her. Guilt swarmed over him, burying him for a moment.
The banshee pressed its withered face toward Angel. “She was not real. She was only a child, a proud, gifted child who believed in herself and her calling. You robbed her of that, Angelus. I gave her back strength and a purpose.”
“To kill? That’s no purpose. That’s insanity.”
“So high and mighty now, Angelus?”
“No. I’m just learning to be at peace with myself.”
The banshee spun angrily at superhuman speed, the withered features turning into a blur. Her hands lashed out, scraping the sides of the dome, drawing lightning. Fractures appeared in the dome and the smooth outer surface took on a jagged texture.
“Angel!” Cordelia yelled, pointing up.
Craning his head, Angel stared up in time to watch an LAPD helicopter float slowly above the top of the warehouse, visible for a short time through the building’s skylight. Even if the police officers aboard the ship hadn’t spotted the green glow of the holy dome, they had a forward-looking infrared radar mounted under its belly. The FLIR communicated signals to an onboard monitor that would reveal anything inside the building above room temperature. They wouldn’t read him and maybe not the banshee, but they would know Cordelia, Doyle, and Gannon were inside the building.
In the next minute the helicopter vanished, but Angel knew it wouldn’t be long before the troops arrived.
“We can’t hold the exorcism,” Gannon said. “You’ll have to destroy her if you don’t want to see her go free.”
Without a word Angel seized a short iron prybar from the top of a nearby crate.
The banshee stopped her twisting and spinning at once, focusing on Angel. She hissed and flicked her claws.
Steeling himself, Angel moved toward the dome, carefully avoiding the thick chalk line. He raised his free hand and placed it against the green glowing barrier.
The shock that resulted nearly numbed his arm, but his hand penetrated the barrier. Screaming, the banshee sped toward him, intending to take advantage of the break he’d created in the barrier.
Angel thrust his other hand forward, holding the prybar. “Iron,” he growled. “If you’ve got any kind of faery heritage, you won’t be able to survive it.”
Stubbornly the banshee reached out to touch the prybar. As soon as the metal touched the wrinkled, sagging skin, the flesh blackened and the creature yowled louder than ever and snatched its hand back.
Even as the withered face contorted in pain and the banshee screamed, the features softened, returning to Moira O’Braonain’s for a heartbeat.
“Angel,” she gasped, and her voice was so soft that he almost didn’t hear it even with his hyper senses.
More confident, but grimly aware that he was cutting down the options he had open to him, Angel shoved himself through the barrier. For a moment he felt certain the blistering agony was going to destroy him. Then he was through, unable to stand on legs that felt almost powerless. He collapsed.
The banshee’s face was intact again in an eye-blink, withered features cruelly twisted. “Now you’re going to die, hellbeast. You would have been better off staying out there with your friends.” She shoved a hand out and pale blue lightning formed a sword shape. The blade flickered as if it was energized. She pressed the attack at once.
Rolling, feeling his strength coming back to him, Angel lifted the prybar and blocked the sword blow. An explosion of twisting orange and black flames flashed and faded quickly when the sword blade met the prybar.
The banshee drew back, gnashing its teeth.
Feeling stronger, Angel rolled to his feet. He gripped the prybar at the end like a short sword and stepped easily into a fencing stance.
With a shriek of maddened rage, the banshee swung its sword, cleaving at his head.
Angel blocked clumsily, his reflexes not quite back on-line after passing through the barrier that caged the banshee. He had to step back to disengage the magic blade. The banshee raked her claws at his eyes, and he turned just in time to let them slice his cheek instead of blinding him.
“You’re an instant away from death, hellbeast!” the banshee roared with insane glee. “How does it feel?”
“You’re too confident,” Angel stated. He set himself in his stance again, mentally keeping note of where he stood in relationship to the creature and the wall. “If you had been able to kill me so easily, you’d have done it two days ago.”
“She prevented me. I can only manifest when she sleeps. That night when she stayed with you, I waited for her to sleep. But she didn’t. She fought me the whole time. She slept for a short time at th
e television site today, didn’t she? And the chauffeur paid the price for that.”
“You hoped I would keep the Blood Cadre from you until you could slip away.”
“Lies!”
When the banshee attacked, Angel parried, slipping the lightning blade to one side, then he tried a tentative blow, instantly realizing that he’d pulled the blow too much to do anything with it. Before he could recover, the banshee cut him across the midsection.
Incredible agony burned through Angel, throwing his timing off. He stumbled, watching as Moira’s face formed on the hag’s body again.
“I’m sorry,” she said in fear-filled pain. “I can’t stop her.”
“Yes you can,” Angel said, breathing shallowly to block out some of the pain. “You’re strong enough, Moira. You’ve held her back before.”
Her face sank into the banshee’s withered features like quicksand. “No, she’s never been strong enough,” The voice of the withered old crone insisted. The blade flashed again, seeking out flesh.
Angel blocked the blows, trying to ignore the pain that ripped across his stomach.
“When I first taught her to kill, she cried,” the banshee said. “She had these lofty ideals, you see, that men had given her. I taught her to be a true female predator. We found men and we killed them. And every time we killed one, she could only think of you, how you’d beaten her and broken her on Handsome Jack.”
Angel whirled, moving the prybar steadily, getting the heft of it.
“After a while,” the banshee said, “I made her start forgetting. It was easy; she didn’t want to remember anyway. Then, when it came time to start looking older, before we overstayed our time and made others suspicious of us, I made her forget her past life and filled her in on her new one. I killed men, and each time I left a drawing of the Blood Cadre insignia. That was part of what drove them even further underground in the eighteen hundreds, drawing attention to them and their works as they searched for me. They betrayed her when they turned her away from them. It was the only true home she’d known.” The creature leaned forward, slashing at Angel’s knees.
Angel leaped, spinning over the blade. He landed on his feet and swept a backhanded blow out that caught the creature in the shoulder.
The banshee cried out again and wheeled away. Off-balance, it bounced up against the barrier, throwing sparks in all directions.
Squinting against the sudden blaze of light, Angel pressed his attack. The prybar wove an iron net before him, deflecting the banshee’s attempts to penetrate. Doyle’s and Gannon’s voices sounded louder, stronger, and the barrier grew more opaque.
And in all that time LAPD forces had undoubtedly been getting closer.
“Moira,” Angel called. “I know you’re in there. You can fight this thing and take back your life.”
The banshee cackled as it stepped back to avoid the whirling prybar. “She has no life without me, hellbeast, and she knows it.”
“Is that right, Moira?” Angel demanded. He blocked another swing of the magic blade with the prybar, knocking orange flames in all directions.
“Yes!” the banshee screamed.
Too late Angel noticed the shadows creeping from the stacks of crates. Doyle and Cordelia were watching him, having no idea of the danger they were in. He turned to show a warning, then the banshee knocked him flat. Evidently one or more of Gannon’s team had managed to trail them to the warehouse.
The Blood Cadre members surged from the shadows, attacking at once. One of them knocked Cordelia to the ground before she could move. Doyle grappled with another, dodging the wicked knife the Cadre warrior carried. As a half-demon, Doyle was fair prey for them as well.
Two other warriors grabbed Gannon, yanking him down to the floor and pinning him.
“No!” Gannon cried. “You can’t do this! We may be able to save her!” They didn’t listen to him.
Without warning, the greenish dome exploded into a pyrotechnic blaze, like a soap bubble bursting. The banshee whirled madly, screaming with insane glee. Then she raced among the Cadre members, her claws flicking out and leaving wounded men in their wake.
Dazed, Angel pushed himself to his feet. He watched helplessly, thinking the Cadre warriors would destroy her at any moment.
The raucous laughter filled the warehouse. Warriors dropped as soon as she touched them, bleeding profusely. Some of them never moved again, or ever would.
Gannon screamed hoarsely, ordering his men away from him.
“Moira!” Angel bellowed.
The banshee halted for a moment. When she looked at him, her eyes held compassion. But that emotion was quickly covered over by inhuman coldness. “You won’t reach her, hellbeast. She’s safe with me now.” She shook her head like an unhappy parent. “You tried to take something that belonged to me. Now I will take something that you seem to cherish.” She reached out and snatched Cordelia from the floor.
“No!” Doyle cried hoarsely, batting a Cadre member from him.
Cordelia fought the banshee’s grip but couldn’t break it.
The banshee flew through the air over the crates, lifting Cordelia with her. “This one will make a fine new home for one of my sisters, hellbeast.” She flew toward the front of the warehouse. “I will break her carefully, and wait until she is weak enough. Then, together we will return for you.”
Angel sprinted forward. Cadre warriors challenged him immediately. He struck out mercilessly, chopping the men down as they faced him, leaving them bruised but alive. He vaulted to the top of the nearest crate, using his vampire strength to hurl himself out of the Cadre warriors’ reach.
The banshee swept forward with inhuman speed. She gestured at the warehouse doors and they burst out of their moorings. If the police weren’t already interested in the warehouse, Angel thought, they will be now.
The dock fronted the Santa Monica pier on the west. Piers ran out into the dark water. The banshee flew toward the ocean without hesitation.
Still holding onto the iron prybar, Angel ran after the creature. He watched Cordelia fighting against her captor but the banshee’s strength was too much. When Angel reached the wooden pier stretching out toward the water, he heard two sets of feet slapping against the planks. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Doyle pacing him, drawing on his half-demon heritage.
“You get Cordelia,” Angel said. “I’m going for the banshee.”
“You may have to kill her to save Cordelia,” Doyle said.
“I know.” At the end of the pier, the banshee disappeared under the water. Angel and Doyle were only a couple steps behind. They threw themselves in and dived deeply.
Underwater, Angel could barely make out the banshee and Cordelia ahead. He swam, watching Cordelia struggling to get away. Kicking harder, he reached the creature with Doyle only a heartbeat behind him.
Angel held the iron prybar in his fist and rammed it into the banshee’s arm.
The creature’s mouth opened in a vengeful scream, but only bubbles escaped her lips. Blood stained the water.
Drawing the prybar back, Angel struck again. Doyle grabbed the banshee’s arm that held Cordelia as the creature dived deeper. The iron burned the banshee again and again. Stubbornly she held on to her victim.
Then Doyle managed to break the banshee’s grip and stripped Cordelia from the creature’s hold. Holding on to Cordelia, the half-demon swam toward the surface.
Not needing to breathe, Angel swam after the banshee, finally managing to grab her blouse. He pulled himself down toward her, dodging the sharp talons easily because the water slowed the banshee down. Pulling himself against her back, he thrust the iron bar under the banshee’s chin and pulled up.
The creature yowled in pain, silvery bubbles exploding from her lips and tracking immediately toward the sea surface, catching the fierce moonlight that burned down. She flailed again, trying desperately to get Angel from her back. Resolutely, he clung to her, holding the iron prybar against her throat. The contact hissed and sizz
led audibly in the water.
Finally, the banshee stopped diving toward the sea floor and rose up, following the pressure Angel used to guide her. They surfaced only a short distance from where Doyle held Cordelia, who still breathed deep, shuddering breaths.
“Moira,” Angel called.
The banshee continued to scream and flailed out with a fistful of claws.
Angel twisted his head and let them go by, then levered the prybar more tightly under her chin, letting the creature know he wasn’t about to let go. “Moira!” He gazed into the rolling, fear-maddened gray-green eyes.
The woman’s face surfaced in the banshee’s withered features again for a moment. “Angel, help me!” She looked scared and vulnerable, the same way she had that night in his home.
The sea splashed over Angel, filling him with the cold numbness. He focused, forcing himself to continue holding the creature. “Let her go,” he ordered.
“Never!” the banshee shrilled. “She is mine! You are destroying her! I can’t keep myself hidden from her any longer!”
“Nooooooo!” The cry that ripped through the air belonged to a human in pain, not the foul creature that had possessed her.
“She knows,” the banshee snarled. “She knows what she has done. She knows about all the men we have killed together.”
Desperate, Angel looked into Moira’s gray-green eyes. “Moira, you can do this.”
Whitney’s features surfaced in the withered face again. “I’m a killer, Angel,” the young woman said. “God forgive me, I remember them all. I even killed Tobin Calhoun and hung him from the suspended crosswalk before the movie was finished.”
In the next instant the banshee’s withered features leathered over again. “She is a killer! Would you doom her to know all the atrocities she’s committed?”
“Moira,” Angel called. “Come back to me. Don’t hide from the pain. Heal it. You can do this. I promise. I’m doing it. God, it hurts, but it’s better this way.”
The banshee struggled in his grasp, almost dislodging him. “She doesn’t want to hear you, hellspawn.”