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7 December 2009
~Edenscroft Manor in Devonshire, England~
Approximately 3:00 a.m.

“No!”

Ephraim stirred and sighed tiredly at the familiar high-pitched scream.  The Slayer was fighting Angel again..

“NO!”  That scream was louder, more forceful and angry.

It was all for nothing.  She could not leave Edenscroft, the entire estate was warded with powerful magic, psychic barriers activated to bind her there until Angel decided she might leave.

The inevitable noises of scuffling reached Ephraim’s keen ears and the Drishlac demon’s empathic sensibilities amplified his sympathetic feelings until tears burned his smokey violet eyes.  Angel grunted with real pain when the Slayer struck him hard–a well-placed kick smashing into his shin, or perhaps a brutal elbow jammed into his ribs.  The Slayer gasped, air rushing wildly from her lungs as Angel tackled her against the icy stone wall.  Ephraim felt a loyal servant’s impulse to check on her, make certain she was warmly dressed.

*I’ve got to take my hat off to the Americans, they’re a tenacious lot,* he thought to himself as the fighting continued outside, mere feet away from his door in the narrow stone corridor that connected the servants’ quarters with the rest of the house. He just wished the Slayer didn’t feel the need to assert her independence at three o’clock in the morning.

“*Let–me–GO!*” Each word gained volume until she was howling.  Ephraim cringed and shuddered from the onslaught of the Slayer’s feelings as their flavors rushed over and scorched his ultra-sensitive psychic nerves.  Panicked fear, bitter rage, and, most potent of all, the love she felt for the vampire even as she wrestled his efforts to restrain her with every ounce of her considerable strength.  Angel loved her, too–incredible, the empathic patterns of the vampire’s love, it burnt inside his lukewarm body like an eternal torch, inextinguishable heat balanced only by his gentle concern that he not hurt her.

And, like bitter blood staining the purer emotions, Ephraim sensed Angel’s dread of losing her and his determination that, no matter his beloved’s choosing, *she would not leave Edenscroft.*

Angel had long ago updated the manor with central heating but Ephraim shivered and huddled deeply into his wool blankets.  The myriad of powerful conflicting emotions invading the atmosphere were like the pockets of icy air ghosts left in houses they haunted.

The sound of Angel’s voice–the steward could not detect his actual words–was low and deep, a soothing tone used for calming nervous horses and fretting infants as well as high-strung young women.  Ephraim often wondered what Angel actually said to her, what magic words made her sob and go weak, submissive, as the vampire picked her up and carried her back to their personal quarters.  Angel crooned lovingly to her as she wept, probably kissed her wet face adoringly. 

Her breathy little sobs became softer as she calmed.  Ephraim sighed in relief and turned over in his bed, hoping for another two hours’ sleep.

The Slayer’s desperate–and useless–bid for freedom would end as all the others had throughout the last eighteen months.  She and Angel would sleep very late.  Tomorrow afternoon their bedroom would require airing and their bed linens would need changing to clear away the odours of ardent lovemaking.  The Slayer’s wrists might be bruised with Angel’s fingerprints, or chafed from soft silk cord used to bind them, and she would walk gingerly, as though she had spent a rigorous day on horseback and her saddle muscles ached from the strain.

The Slayer would be calmer, happier for a while, loving her lover’s company and enjoying the beautiful home they shared.  It would be a while before she tried to run again.  Perhaps, one day, she would grow tired of trying.  Ephraim hoped so, her repeated distress was terribly disturbing to his delicate senses.

As Angel carried her past his bedroom door, the middle-aged manservant heard Angel’s tender words very distinctly.

“I love you Buffy.  Always.”

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