“Cordelia,” Angel said, “I’ve had my doubts about this Web site from the start.”
Cordelia’s nod was emphatic. “Say no more.” To Arnold: “Pull the plug, geek boy. Now!”
Arnold’s shoulders sagged. “All right.”
Someone tapped on the door.
Chelsea Monroe. She wore a sleeveless forest-green sweater dress that complemented her auburn hair. “May I have a moment to apologize?”
Angel nodded toward his office. Even with the door closed, he could hear Cordelia’s continuing and impressive tongue-lashing of Arnold. Angel gave a little shake of his head, then sat down opposite Chelsea.
“First of all,” she said. “I want to apologize for the piano bar.”
“Already forgotten.”
Chelsea smiled, crossed her right leg over her left, and appraised him for a moment. “I’m a reporter. I have just one question, so please humor me.” He nodded. “Why?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Why are you fighting a natural impulse?” she asked. “I’m attracted to you, and I think you’re attracted to me.”
Angel sighed. All the obvious reasons remained unspoken: Because I’m a lie, a fraud. You have this idea about who and what I am. But that’s not really me; it’s just a mask I wear, a convenient deception that lets me live in your world. You could never accept what I am, and even if you could, it would not be an option. But Angel thought she deserved an answer, a truthful answer, and finally it came to him.
When the glamour demon had opened the door to Elliot’s apartment and showed Angel his heart’s desire, it hadn’t been Chelsea. It had been Buffy . . . still Buffy. “I’m getting over someone,” Angel told her. “Someone who still means a lot to me.”
Chelsea looked away for a moment, then nodded, accepting his answer and meeting his gaze again. “She must be something special.”
Angel smiled, but it was bittersweet. “She is.” And I will never be with her again.
“She’s one lucky lady,” Chelsea replied, then let herself out.
Later, long after Cordelia had dismissed Arnold, Angel stepped out of his office. Doyle and Cordelia stopped talking and regarded him. “You dumped her, didn’t you?” Cordelia asked.
“She was only interested in the image,” Angel said.
“Angel, you are your image,” Cordelia said. “And I don’t mean that in a phony L.A. way. You may define your entire existence by the fact that you’re a vampire. But you’re more than that. You’re one of the good guys. You say you help the helpless and you do. That’s who she saw. And that’s real.”
Doyle had a renewed, hopeful gleam in his eye. “She has a point.”
And Angel thought, Maybe she does at that.
About the Author
John Passarella lives in Swedesboro, New Jersey, with his wife and two sons, Matthew and Luke. His co-authored first novel, Wither, won the Bram Stoker Award for Best First Novel of 1999 and will soon be a feature film from Columbia Pictures.
Already an avid fan of the Buffy the Vampire Slayer television series, John decided the time had come to write his own Buffy novel after the San Francisco Examiner and Chronicle remarked, “[Wither] hits the groove that makes TV’s Buffy the Vampire Slayer such a kick.” The result was John’s second novel, Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Ghoul Trouble. Angel: Avatar is his third.
John developed a whole new appreciation for Web site design when he took on the task of revamping (no pun intended) the Horror Writers Association Web site at www.horror.org. Please visit John at www.passarella.com or e-mail him at [email protected].
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