Dreamland By Kuzibah

Disclaimer: The character of Angel and situations relating to "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the WB Network. No ownership by the author is implied. Song lyrics are also used entirely without permission. Follows �I Was a Modern Prometheus� Archive- Sure, but email me and let me know where it�s going. Feedback- Absolutely. ******************* Harlem, NYC- 1951 I don't know why, but I'm feeling so sad I long to try something I've never had Never had no kissin' Oh what I've been missin' Lover Man, where can you be The night is cold and I'm so all alone I'd give my soul just to call you my own Got a moon above me But no one to love me Lover Man, where can you be -J. Davis/ R. Ramirez/ J. Sherman The taxicab came to a stop in front of the Elmwood Hotel, a grand old brownstone structure and the most luxurious address in Harlem. The cream of Harlem society lived there: novelists, singers, playwrights, actors, and entrepreneurs. And though Harlem's golden age had passed, the Elmwood was one of the enclaves trying to hold off the changing times. A woman stepped out of the taxi. She wore a splendid champagne-colored gown that complemented her smooth, brown skin and fine, black hair. She looked a little tired- it was 4 am after all- yet there was a radiance about her. She shone a winning smile to the cab driver and paid him, tipping generously, then turned as the cab drove away. She started to ascend the steps of the building when a movement in the narrow alley alongside caught her eye. She squinted hard, and saw him, a pale young man huddling in the shadows. "You there," she called, "white boy. What you doing there?" The young man started, and began to rise, so she called again. "Come on out here, white boy. Let Beverly look you over." Hesitantly the young man stepped out of the alley. He was extremely pale, Beverly noted, and thin and dirty. He stared at the ground with dull, lifeless eyes. "What you doing here?" Beverly asked. The young man shrugged. "You a long way from home, baby," Beverly told him. In response the young man gave a small, bitter bark of laughter. "You got that right," he mumbled. Beverly smiled kindly and stepped down to him. She reached to touch his face and he flinched away, his eyes showing fear and pain, though he still didn't look at her. Beverly frowned. "You hurt, baby?" "Yes," he answered, then quickly, "no... I mean, I was..." Beverly reached for his face again, and though he still flinched she touched his cheek and raised his face to look at her. He averted his eyes nervously, only stealing a glance or two. She looked him over, still frowning slightly. "What's your name, sweetheart," she asked. The young man tried to pull away but Beverly held firm. "Please," the young man whispered, "leave me alone." Beverly smiled again. "You out pretty late, baby," she said. "Why don't you come upstairs, let Beverly take care of you," The young man looked at her then, surprised at the offer, then shook his head sadly. "I can't," he said. Beverly moved closer to him and took his arm gently, leading him towards the stairs. "You look lonely to me," she said, "and I'm lonely, too. Why don't you come with me and we'll both be less lonely." The young man hesitated, but Beverly was right, he was profoundly lonely, probably more than she could imagine. He allowed her to lead him to her apartment. At the doorway she stopped and turned to him again. "I think before I invite you in," she said, "you should tell me your name, sugar." "It's Angel," the young man said. Beverly smiled slyly. "And I'm sure you are," she purred. In truth, he was no young man, and he had not always been called Angel. Until his journey to America he had been known as Angelus, a torturer, a murderer, and a vampire. But a strange curse, laid on him in 1898, had made him unique among his kind: it had restored his soul and his conscience. Beverly's apartment was a beautiful nine room suite, sumptuously decorated and furnished. Her living room, into which they entered, had overstuffed chairs and sofa, in cream-colored velvet, all facing an enormous marble fireplace. Angel thought of the finest French salons, where the pre-Revolution aristocracy idled away many countless hours. Beverly dropped his hand and glided to an elegant glass and chrome bar. "Make a fire for me, Angel," she said, taking out two tall glasses and a bottle of gin. Angel moved unsteadily to the fireplace and knelt down to stack the fire. As he worked the habit of long decades guided his hands and he mechanically arranged the wood and paper and struck a match. The stack burst into glorious flame, and Angel slipped back, drawing his knees to his chin and winding his arms around them. Beverly came to him, a glass of gin in her hand, and descended smoothly to the floor, her gown puddling around her. "There's a drink for you on the bar," she said. Angel turned to her as though she had just addressed him in Sanskrit, then murmured, "no... thank you." Beverly took a long sip of her drink, then set the glass on the hearth and moved closer to Angel. She reached towards his face, stroking a finger along his cheek and down his neck. Angel began to tremble. "You sure are a pretty thing," Beverly said softly. Angel said nothing, and Beverly began to arrange his hair, now tangled around his head. "What are you afraid of?" she asked. Angel shook his head and started to edge away. "You aren't afraid of me?" she pressed. Angel stood and backed away from her. "I have to go," he said. "I have to get home before dawn." Beverly looked amused. "You got somebody waiting for you," she said. "You didn't tell me you were a married man. And here you are leading me on." Angel was confused. "No, I'm not married," he said quickly, "I'm sorry..." But he was cut off by Beverly's laughter. She rose to her feet and retrieved the second glass of gin from the bar. "Oh, baby," she said, handing it to Angel, "you have got to learn to relax." Angel held the glass gingerly, sniffing its contents. He took a cautious sip. It was only gin. "That's right," Beverly said, as she lifted her glass and drained its contents. "Don't be scared. I don't bite." She filled her glass again and pushed Angel into a chair. "If you have someplace to be tomorrow," she said, "don't wake me on the way out. I work all night and sleep all day." "Actually," Angel said, "so do I." ******************************** When Beverly had finished her second tumbler of gin, she rose and yawned elaborately. "Let me show you the bath," she said, "wash some of the city off you." Angel stood up, alarmed. "Beverly," he said, "you don't know me. I can't stay with you." "I do what I want," she said, "and if I want to take a beautiful man into my bed, I will." Angel was so astonished he could hardly speak. He had never in his long life met a mortal woman so bold, not even prostitutes. "I can't," he said, "it's not right for me. I don't want to say why, but trust me, I'm not the kind of man you think I am." A little spark of understanding lit in Beverly's eyes, and she started to laugh again. "Actually," she said, "when you put it that way I think I get it." She shook her head bemusedly. "Should have known," she said under her breath, "it's always the pretty ones." "I should go," Angel said. "No, don't go," Beverly said. "I don't want anything from you you're not willing to give, but I don't want to be alone. And I don't think you do, either. I know the look." Angel hesitated, uncertain. After nineteen years of solitude it was overwhelmingly tempting. He wanted to be clean and dry and warm for once so badly, it tasted like rust in the back of his throat. "You stay in your pajamas, I stay in my nightgown," Beverly cajoled, "just like little children." This is insane, Angel thought, I must be the biggest fool on the face of the earth. He bit his lip, still hesitant, and Beverly took his arm, leading him again. She took him to a large bathroom, decorated in peach and white tiles. Thick rugs surrounded a huge tub, and a vanity piled with towels stood nearby. Above the vanity was a large, round mirror and Angel froze in his tracks. Beverly turned to him, barely concealing a smirk. "You aren't shy, are you?" she teased. Angel was trembling with confusion. He had been alone on the street so long, he had forgotten his survival skills. He should never have let this woman bring him here, and now dawn was coming on so fast. He was trapped here till sunset, now, at the very least, and who knew how many other traps there were in this place to betray his true nature. Beverly was staring now, her brow furrowed with concern. "Alright, lamb," she said, "you just stay here. Mama will take care of you." She entered the bathroom and opened the taps on the tub. It started to fill and she added some kind of oil that made the water foam, and scented it like flowers. She opened a drawer in the vanity and removed a set of white cotton pajamas, which she set on top. "I think these are your size," she said to Angel, who still stood frozen in the doorway, then, with a glance around, she drew close to him again. "I'll leave you alone," she said, "scout's honor, but let me help you first." She took hold of Angel's sweater, a dark, shapeless thing he had found in a dustbin several months ago. He started to move away, protesting, but she shushed him dismissively and pulled it over his head. "See," she said, "we're just friends here. Innocent and harmless." Angel turned his eyes from her. He was out of his depth, he thought, and there wasn't a thing he could do. He had walked in unaware, allowing his loneliness to counteract his common sense. "My room is down the hall," Beverly said, "but take as long as you like." "Thank you," Angel said, his voice barely audible. He stepped into the bathroom and couldn't help glancing resentfully at the mirror. He stripped off the rest of his clothes and sank into the scented water. The water embraced him and the warmth seeped into his muscles, pressing an involuntary sigh from his lips. He could not even remember he last time he'd had a bath. He managed to stay reasonably clean, not that it mattered, but baths required a residence, and that was a luxury he had never expected to have again. He sank lower in the water, then slipped under completely. He lay on the bottom of the tub, a little amazed that it was big enough to let him do so, and stayed there a long time, thinking. He had to stay until sunset, there was no other option for that, but maybe he could stay a few days more. Beverly had seemed to accept that there would be no romantic intimacy, but perhaps he could do some sort of work for her. He decided to wait and see. He rose and emerged from the tub, letting the water drain, and crossed to the vanity. He glared at the mirror. It reflected the towel as he dried himself, but he might as well not have existed. He wanted to smash it into splinters. He picked up the pajamas and put them on. They reflected for a few minutes, then slowly faded from view. Angel had known a vampire once, scientifically-minded, who had been fascinated by his own lack of reflection, and conducted experiments where he timed how long things took to vanish after he picked them up or put them on. Angel had no such curiosity; he hated that something as simple as a mirror was able to discern his true nature, to remind him that he should not be there, walking the earth. He crept down the hall to Beverly's bedroom. Dawn had come, and he prayed there were no open curtains in her room. There weren't. In fact, her velvet curtains were so heavy and dark it might still be nighttime for all the light they admitted. Beverly's bed, like all her furniture, was large and elegant. Beverly herself lay on a pile of pillows, asleep. Angel explored the room quickly, trying to determine an escape route should Beverly choose to enjoy some sunshine. He opened the closet, and noted with relief it was a large walk-in, more of a hallway than a closet. He could sleep on the floor near the door, and dive in easily if need be. He closed the door and turned back to the bed. Beverly had woken and was watching him. "I don't think they're your size," she said. "I'm sorry if I woke you," he replied. "No, no, don't worry, sugar," she said. "Come to bed now." Angel gave a start. "I was going to sleep on the floor," he said. Beverly climbed out of bed and came to him. "Don't be silly," she said, "now you come with me." It was confession time, Angel realized, no more trying to avoid it. "I have to tell you something," he said as he allowed Beverly to pull him into the bed beside her. "I can't bear the sunlight. At all. I can't explain why, but if you get up before me, please don't open the curtains." Beverly chuckled at him. "Please, honey," she said, "I plan to sleep right through my hangover. I don't intend to even see the sun tomorrow." Angel relaxed slightly, lying there on his back, his hands clutching the blanket to his chest. Beverly snuggled into the bedclothes beside him, and smoothed his damp hair against his head. "Oh, but you are the prettiest thing," she murmured as she slipped into sleep. "Such a waste." Angel lay awake a few minutes more listening to her breathing, then dropped into sleep himself. ******************************** Was I drunk? Was he handsome? Did Mama give me Hell? With his hands loose there's no refusin' Did he fight? Was I blue? Almost shamed to tell And I don't know yet the system he was usin' Well, I said, "Stop," and, "Please behave," Well, what's the use of braving He said, "Give," so I gave, After all what was I saving Am I glad? Holy Gee If I had fun, you're askin' me Was I drunk? Was he handsome? And did Mama give me Hell? -Chick Endor and Charlie Farrell He awoke two hours before sunset, and Beverly was still fast asleep at his side. He rose carefully and went to explore the rest of the apartment, soon determining his hostess was not only extremely well off, she had exquisite taste. There was a formal dining room, a parlor with shelves and shelves of books and a grand piano, and a well-appointed kitchen. Angel wondered what she did. He returned to the bedroom and found Beverly just coming awake. She looked up at Angel. "You're still here," she said, sounding a little surprised. Angel stared at her, confused. "Where would I go?" he said. "I can't bear the sunlight, don't you remember. I told you last night." Beverly massaged her temple lightly with her fingertips. "Honey," she said, "I don't remember much after that second glass of gin. Don't worry," she said in response to his expression, "that's pretty much the story of my life. Speaking of which, I could use a little hair of the dog. Would you be a lamb and bring me a glass of something?" With a heavy heart, Angel fetched a tumbler of gin and brought it to her. She took it and started to sip while Angel stood respectfully nearby. Beverly patted the edge of the bed beside her. "Sit down," she said, "you're making me nervous, sweetie." Angel perched lightly where she indicated, twisting his fingers in his lap and staring at the floor. "I need to open my club in a few hours," she told Angel, "we need to find some clothes for you. Hand me my phone." She indicated the bureau nearby and Angel carried the device to her. She dialed the number. "Hey, doll," she said after a moment, "is Mr. Evanson available? Yes, put him on. Tell him it's Miss Brown." There was another pause, and Beverly whispered to Angel, "what's your favorite color?" Angel, a bit startled, could only shrug in confusion. "Red, I guess," he said. "Malcolm!" Beverly said into the phone, "I have a favor. A friend of mine just came in from out of town, and all the poor child's luggage was stolen." She winked at Angel. "He needs a suit to go to the club with me tonight, a few shirts and trousers, underclothes, socks, shoes, the whole wardrobe." She paused, then, "oh, he's a very big boy, broad and tall. Bring a selection of your bigger sizes. And he likes red." Another pause. "Right away, Malcolm," she snapped, "the child's wearing some of Stump's old pajamas, for God's sake. Thanks, Malcolm, you're a peach. See you soon." She replaced the phone in the cradle and Angel returned it to the bureau. Beverly smiled at him. "I don't suppose you know how to cook," she said. Angel thought of his last full meal, nearly two hundred years before in a Galway tavern, and almost laughed out loud. "Not really, no," he said, "but I'm not hungry..." "Well, I am," Beverly said. She handed him her empty glass. "Go freshen this up for me and meet me in the kitchen." Angel joined her a few minutes later with another tumblerful of gin. Beverly immediately drank half of it and topped off the glass with orange juice. "Now watch me," she told Angel, "I only take the 'I can't cook' excuse once." And Angel did pay careful attention as she made eggs, toast, bacon, and coffee, politely refusing her offers to prepare a meal for him as well. By the time she had finished and eaten, and Angel had at last consented to a glass of milk and some toast, for the sake of appearance, Malcolm Evanson had arrived. He was carrying several suits on hangers as Beverly ushered him into the living room. As he draped them over the back of a sofa he caught sight of Angel in the doorway and his face went slack with surprise. Beverly saw his expression and turned to Angel with a smile. "Angel, honey," she said, "fetch Mr. Evanson some coffee." As Angel padded down the hallway to the kitchen he heard the man urgently whisper, "you didn't tell me he was white!" "What business is it of yours," Beverly replied, "and anyway..." But the rest of the conversation was lost, and by the time Angel returned they were discussing the dampness of the weather. Evanson took out his measuring tape and carefully took Angel's size. "I have more things downstairs in the truck," he said when he had finished, "but I think I have something here appropriate for evening wear." He went through the hangers and removed an elegant pinstripe suit, black on black, with a red silk dress shirt. "Oh, that's splendid," Beverly said, "go put it on now." Angel took the clothes to the bathroom and dressed as quickly as he could, trying to get a vague idea of how he looked before the suit, "tainted" by his vampiric nature, faded from view. He returned to the living room, and was pleased by Beverly's gasp of delight at his appearance. Evanson had brought several more items from his truck and he handed Angel matching red socks, a black tie, and shiny black wing-tip shoes. Angel sat on a chair and put them on. When he stood again, Beverly came to him and straightened his tie. "You're quite the fancy man," she said, and she arranged his hair with her fingers. "You'll be a real sensation tonight at my club." "Your club?" Angel repeated. Beverly smiled her dazzling smile. "You know it, honey," she said, "Miss Beverly's. Only the hottest room in Harlem." And she laughed. Angel smiled nervously. He was slipping further out of his depth. ******************************** A taxi took them to the front door of Miss Beverly's, where a crowd had already gathered, waiting to get in, and the lady herself stepped onto the sidewalk. One of the doormen hurried to escort her when Angel emerged beside her. The employees surrounding her grew suddenly silent and still, staring. Beverly reached for Angel's arm and pulled him to her side. Her head high and proud, she marched into her club, Angel in tow. She was led to her table near the stage where a six piece band was playing. She slid into her chair and turned to Angel. "Be a sweetheart, and get me a martini," she said. Angel walked slowly to the bar, feeling as though every eye was on him. "Miss Beverly would like a martini," he said quietly. The bartender stared at him coldly for a long minute, then finally mixed the drink. Angel carried it back to the table and slid in beside Beverly. Two young men had also joined her and looked at Angel with amused contempt. One leaned over and whispered into Beverly's ear. They laughed together. Angel felt extremely uncomfortable, as though a dirty joke was being told about him. He winced self-consciously, and Beverly reached across the table and took his hand. "You okay, baby," she said seriously. Angel nodded faintly, his eyes darting restlessly over the faces that stared at him from all sides. Beverly turned to the two young men sharing the table. "I think you boys need to get back to work," she said. "Why don't you tell Stump I'm about ready to sing." Looking chagrined, the young men left them alone. Beverly took both of Angel's hands in hers. "Baby," she said, "I know you're feeling a bit like a trained monkey at a state dinner, and that's my fault. But you're my guest, and if anyone treats you bad, they're going to answer to me. You understand?" Angel nodded again, but his brow was furrowed with confused worry. Beverly squeezed his hands reassuringly, then rose and glided towards the stage. A warm, golden spotlight came on to illuminate her progress, and she ascended smoothly to take the microphone. The band started playing slow and bluesy, and Beverly sang, her voice low and husky, "If I should take a notion... To jump right in the ocean... T'ain't nobody's business if I do..." ******************************** January, 1952 What lies before me? A future that's stormy A winter that's gray and cold Unless there's magic The end will be tragic A tale that's been told so often My life revolves about you What earthly good am I without you? Oh, I tell you I mean it I'm all for you body and soul -J. W. Green/ E. Heyman/ R. Sour/ F. Eyton Angel was lying in the bed in Beverly's guest room, leafing through a book about architecture and design, one of Beverly's passions. He could hear the maid moving around the apartment, and even though he had met and spoken to her, he didn't want to face her disapproving looks today, so he stayed put. Beverly had taken a young man, a saxophone player, to her bed a few weeks ago, and even though Angel had expected to be sent back to the streets, Beverly had kept him on. As what, he wasn't certain. Part valet, part companion, part pet, and part ornament, as nearly as he could figure. Maybe part social statement, as well, but the woman was so confusing. Even with her many friends and her lover, she seemed lonely and empty, often opening up to Angel late at night as she drank in the darkness. He had told her one or two things about himself, too. Vague things, hints at his own loneliness and his evil past. She didn't understand, he knew that, and it was a cold comfort to whisper of his pain to a person so self-involved that she forgot his words almost as soon as they left his lips. He was using her, he admitted, for her home and what little emotional connection she could give, but she was using him, as well. And at least there was some kind of honesty there. He heard the door shut as the maid left for the day, and he rose and dressed, casually in trousers and shirtsleeves. He exited into the apartment and listened for Beverly. Yes, she was awake, but indisposed. Shaking his head, Angel entered the study and put the book back on the shelf. The sun was not quite down, and the sky outside was rosy, but darkness would be here soon. He quickly went to the kitchen and started the coffee and toast. Beverly emerged ten minutes later, calling for him. Angel grabbed a cup of coffee and a glass of gin and hurried to her. She took the gin first and drained it, standing in the hallway in her nightgown and robe, then handed it back to Angel and took the coffee. She smiled kindly and patted his cheek. "You're a good boy," she told him. "Scottie has to get to rehearsal before we open, so he won't need breakfast. Just make a boiled egg and toast for me, and whatever you want for yourself. I'll be there in a few minutes." Angel returned to the kitchen and put the water on to boil, then set the end place in the dining room for Beverly. This can't go on much longer, he thought for the thousandth time, but always Beverly managed to keep him in her orbit. Beverly sent her young man on his way and entered the dining room. She acted like a queen, Angel thought, as though she expected the whole world to bow to her wishes. And it did, even him. She gave him orders as though she never expected them to be disobeyed, and somehow, Angel always followed them. Even he couldn't explain it. When she had finished eating, she went to the bathroom and bathed while Angel cleared and washed the dishes, then he joined her in her bedroom and helped her dress and do her hair, always careful to stay out of her line of view when she checked her hand mirror. Although he sometimes wondered if she even would notice, so absorbed was she in her own reflection. When they both were ready, they descended to the street, and climbed into the cab to go to Miss Beverly's. ******************************** Angel felt a bit more in his element at the club now than during his first visit. For one thing, all of the employees knew him and knew who he was, at least as far as Miss Beverly, Miss Brown to them, was concerned. And even if they weren't all chummy with him, they were polite, and that was better than the contemptuous glares he'd gotten before. Beverly was up and singing almost as soon as they got there, requesting that Angel bring her drinks from the stage, much to the patrons' amusement. Angel didn't care. If they thought he was her servant, or her admirer, or her suitor, it was all the same to him. He was sitting alone at his table, watching the performance, when three men and a woman came up and joined him. They were formally dressed, very elegant, and moved smoothly and gracefully. The hair on the back of Angel's neck rose as they slipped into the chairs around him. "Something I can do for you?" he asked. The largest man, obviously the leader of the group, put out his hand. "Just wanted to introduce myself," he said. "My name is Walker." Angel took the man's hand, and narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Angel," he murmured. There was something strange here, he thought, with all of them. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but it was at the edge of his awareness, ready to come into focus. "So," said Walker, glancing at Beverly, "what are you working here? You working your way into the boss lady's good graces, or are you planning to turn her?" "What are you talking about?" Angel asked, his internal alarm clanging loudly now. Walker smiled conspiratorially. "Don't worry," he said, "we're not moving in. Just wanted to check out your angle." Suddenly it hit Angel like a barrel full of bricks. "You're vampires," he hissed. The four of them laughed at him. "It took you this long to notice?" Walker said, "Are you cokey?" Angel looked around at their faces. "I've just never seen a Negro vampire before," he said. "Get used to it," one of the young males snapped. "Easy, Trick," Walker said, putting a hand on the fledgling's shoulder, "Angel here's an old-world bloodsucker. You can tell. Isn't that right, Angel?" "Yeah, that's right," Angel murmured, but he added this knowledge to his mental list of mistakes he had made in America. But of course there would be Negro vampires. If there was one thing he had learned in his long unlife, it was that there truly was no difference among human blood, not to nature or that outside it. At that moment Beverly joined him. "Are these friends of yours?" she said to Angel. "Why don't you introduce me?" "Actually," Angel replied, "they were just leaving." Walker stood and took Beverly's hand, kissing it lightly. "A pleasure to meet such a lovely lady," he said, "however briefly." Angel bristled and stepped close to him. "Get out," he said, his voice low. Walker looked him in the eye, and every drop of charm had drained out of his face. "I don't know what your game is, white boy," he said softly, "but you best watch your back." "That's enough," Beverly said lightly, but her eyes were hard. "I'm so glad you enjoyed yourselves, but I don't really appreciate threats. So if you'll just be moving along... or shall I have my doormen escort you?" Walker smiled, all polish and elegance again, and motioned to his group. "Let's go," he said, and they moved out of the bar. Beverly touched Angel's cheek. He was trembling. "You okay, baby," she said softly. "Damn it," Angel said under his breath, "why can't I ever get away from this." Beverly waved for her maitre d'. "Get me a taxi, Roland," she told him, "We're going home." "Wait here," Angel said, heading for the kitchen. "Angel," Beverly hissed as she followed him, "have you gone crazy?" Angel stepped through the kitchen's swinging door and pulled a long wooden spoon off the wall. Effortlessly he snapped off the bowl and slipped the jagged handle into his jacket. "Humor me," he said to Beverly, and they were escorted to their waiting taxi. Once inside, Beverly looked at Angel wide-eyed. "You're in some kind of trouble, aren't you," she said. "Maybe," Angel allowed, "but I'm doing my best to keep you out of it." The taxi turned a corner onto Beverly's street, and one of the male vampires from the club stepped off the curb in front of it. The taxi driver slammed on the brakes, and the vampire jumped onto the hood, leading with his feet and shattering the windshield. Angel grabbed Beverly and pulled her out the back door, his makeshift stake in his hand as though conjured there. He shoved Beverly roughly behind him, and she stumbled on her high heels and collapsed to the pavement. Angel pounced on the other vampire, and his momentum carried them both over the hood of the car and rolling to the pavement. The other vampire threw Angel off and retreated behind the cab. Angel leapt to his feet and launched himself again, catching the other vampire on the shoulder and spinning him around. Angel raised his stake and pierced the vampire cleanly through the heart. It dissolved into shining dust that was swept away on the wind. The whole incident had taken less than twenty seconds. Beverly, still in a heap by the curb, began screaming hysterically. Angel looked around quickly for more vampires, and seeing none he moved towards her. The cab driver was also on his feet and moving dazedly about. Beverly turned to Angel, and it was as though her cultured veneer had been stripped. Her face was a rigid mask of horror, her mouth wide open, and her eyes bulging and white. She screamed and screamed, scurrying backwards through the gutter, heedless of her silk gown. At last she found her tongue. "Get away from me," she cried, and all the power she had cultivated as a singer gave force to her voice. It was as shrill and loud as a siren. "You're a devil! You're a devil! Get away, in the name of God!" And as Angel came back to himself, he realized she was seeing the demon that had surfaced to make his own face a mask of viciousness, the aspect of the beast within. Trembling, he regained control, pushing the demon back down. Beverly began screaming wordlessly again. "Beverly," Angel said harshly, "it's me. It's Angel. I'm the same." He kept walking slowly towards her. "Leave me alone," she shrieked, "don't ever come near me again, you lying fiend!" Angel felt her words hit him like hammer-blows, and he backed away, bruised. She had hurt him more than he would have thought she'd be able to, turning so quickly from benefactress to accuser. He backed into the shadows, curling protectively in on himself. "Forgive me," he whispered. "I swear I never meant to bring this on you." Beverly was sobbing uncontrollably now, and with a final look around for lurking vampires, Angel fled into the darkness. As night became day, and he crawled into a storm drain, ruining the finery that Beverly had decked him in, he would allow himself bitter tears. But for now, he had distance to cover. Lost Angel 7: The Hydrogen Jukebox Main Menu ~  Lost Angel

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