| Title: Blood and Water Author: Ruth Hanna Chapter 2: Hello, Lover "Okay, I'm coming out now. Are you ready?" Angel looked up from the book he was reading and frowned at the empty room. "Ready for what?" "Ready for the full-on, no-holds-barred, man-catching phenomenon that is Cordelia Chase. Taaa-daaa!" With a flourish, Cordelia stepped out from behind the partition into the apartment's hallway, performing a graceful spin on her way to the center of the lounge. A semi-transparent stole was draped over her shoulders, its tasselled edges brushing the hems of the bright red dress which covered her chest and thighs and little else. "What do you think?" Angel searched for the right words, and failed to find them: "I think it's...very nice." Cordelia gave a derisory tut. "I know it's nice, I want to know if it's jaw-dropping, two hundred dollars' worth of spectacular." Angel wondered how it was possible to pay so much for so little fabric. "How much?" "Don't worry, my bonus will cover it." "What bonus?" Cordelia waved a hand dismissively and went into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator and pouring herself a glass of mineral water. "Dennis, have you seen my earrings? The little silver drops?" Angel watched as a tiny pair of metallic objects levitated out of a bowl of trinkets on the end of a bookshelf and floated purposefully into the kitchen, depositing themselves into Cordelia's waiting palm. "Thank you, Dennis." Finishing her water, she returned to the living room, hooking each one into place in turn. "C'mon, Angel. Remember that whole 'honesty and tact' talk we had after the Rebecca Lowell thing? Well, I'm going out on a first date and I'd value the honest and tactful opinion of someone whose views I respect. So hit me." Angel closed his book and leaned forward slightly. "It's nice," he said. "Really." "And...?" prompted Cordelia. "And, ah, well, don't you think you might be a little cold in that?" "Oh my God, you think I look like a slut." Cordelia spun on her heel and strode towards her bedroom, just as the front doorbell began to chime. "A cheap whore! A call girl! I have to change. Get that." Angel looked from Cordelia's retreating and entirely exposed back to the apartment's front door. He sighed and tried to remember when and why staying with Cordelia had seemed like a workable solution to his current lack of accommodation. He put down the book and, stepping carefully around the boxes of possessions and equipment salvaged from the wreckage of the office, he opened the door. "You're here," said Wesley. "Good. I need to speak with you on a matter of prime urgency." Angel stood back from the door and allowed Wesley to enter. "Just so long as you don't want my opinion on what you're wearing." "Pardon me?" "Never mind. What's up?" Wesley was already sitting at the table, lifting a cardboard tube from his backpack. He removed one end and carefully slid out an ancient, yellowing parchment, which he unrolled slowly, working it flat with his fingertips. "I've been making a complete translation of the prophecies of Aberjian. Everything leading up to the... well, the shanshu thing. I've been concentrating particularly on attempting to work out the timings of the events foretold." Angel sat down opposite him and held down the corners of the scroll. "Is that possible? Most prophecies don't come with a handy fold-out calendar." Wesley pored over a section of the manuscript, apparently searching for a particular reference. "It's not exactly a science, but if one knows what to look for, it's possible to make reasonably safe guesses. Now, what I've found which is interesting is this..." "Oh, Wesley, it's you." Cordelia sounded disappointed. "I thought you were my date." Angel looked around and saw Cordelia had changed into a full-length black silk dress with lace detail on the sleeves. Beside him, Wesley cleared his throat. "Cordelia. You look stunning. I mean... well, stunning. Oh my." Cordelia smiled sweetly at Angel. "You see? That's the reaction I was looking for." She saw the scroll on the table and scowled. "No, no prophecies, thank you. This is my night off and I emphatically do not want to know about demons, ghouls or the coming apocalypse." "I think I've found something very important in the manuscript," protested Wesley. "Does it prophesy that the world is going to end before dawn tomorrow?" "No, but..." "Then I can still go out on my date and I'm not interested." The doorbell rang, and Cordelia made a dash back in the direction of the bathroom. "That's my date. I'm not ready. Be nice. Talk to him." Wesley looked at Angel curiously. "Her date?" "They met when she drove through a red light and rear-ended him. Fortunately, he works in motor insurance." "Only Cordelia could turn a road accident into an invitation to dinner." The doorbell rang again. "Ahh, perhaps you should...?" Angel got up, motioning to Wesley to put the scroll away. He opened the door to a surprised-looking blonde man wearing a well cut double breasted suit. "Oh. Hi. Have I got the right address? I'm looking for Cordelia Chase." "Yes, you've the right place. She's not ready just yet." Angel stood aside, allowing Cordelia's date to enter but not explicitly inviting him in. He crossed the threshold of the apartment, unaware he had just passed the first test, and Angel closed the door behind him. The man smiled pleasantly, and held out a hand to be shaken. Angel pretended not to notice, and after an awkward few seconds he withdrew it and acted as if he had intended to jangle his keys in his pocket all along. "I'm Todd. Todd Kinney. And one of you must be Dennis, right?" At the table, Wesley was carefully rolling up the scroll. "Oh, don't mind me. I'm just passing through." Todd looked at Angel. "So you're..." "A houseguest," Angel told him. "There was a fire at my place. I'm staying here until it gets fixed up." Todd sat down on the couch and nodded sympathetically. "A fire. Man, that sucks. How'd it start?" "Gas leak," said Wesley. "Bad wiring," said Angel, at the same time. "The gas leak was caused by bad wiring," he amended, then wished he hadn't. "Riiight," said Todd, slowly. He had noticed the engraved broadsword leaning against the coat rack, and for a moment he stared at it nervously. "So is Dennis around?" he asked, looking back at the table and Wesley. Behind Todd, the broadsword levitated until it hung suspended in mid-air. Then it gracefully traveled across the hall and through the doorway leading to the den, safely out of sight. "He's floating about here somewhere," said Wesley. Angel felt a change of conversational tack was required. "So, where are you two going tonight?" Todd looked round at Angel as Wesley got up and casually dropped his jacket over the gold-handled ceremonial dagger jutting out very noticeably from one of the boxes on the floor. "There's a new restaurant in Bunker Hill I thought we'd try. La Boheme. You know it?" "I don't eat out a lot. How are you getting there?" "I'm driving." "Will you be late?" asked Wesley. "Well, I guess, ahh, that depends on-" "The city isn't safe at night. If anything happens, you can phone here. We'll come." Angel thought of something. "Did Cordelia mention her migraines?" Todd blinked. "Migraines? I don't think that, umm..." "Because she gets these migraines. They come on very suddenly. If she's standing up, you have to make sure she doesn't fall and hurt herself." "That's cool, man, I can deal with..." "She was hospitalized last month, because of the migraines," said Wesley. "She's still a little fragile." "Hospitalized? She never mentioned..." "What are these guys telling you about me?" Cordelia swept into the lounge, carrying a black clutch bag and tucking the last errant strands of hair behind her ears. Todd stood up and offered her his arm. "That you look fantastic." Cordelia smiled as she accepted it, and allowed herself to be piloted towards the door, shooting Angel a look which clearly said that everyone else was more than capable of complimenting her appropriately. "Have you got your...?" Angel curled his free hand into a fist and mimed a staking motion. "Like I'd go anywhere without one. Have an exciting night reading old books, guys, as I know only you two can. Don't wait up." "I don't trust him," said Wesley when they had gone. "He had the look." "The look?" "You know. The look. The *look*." "Wesley, what did you want to tell me about the prophecies?" Wesley was still staring at the door. "Hmmm? Oh, right. The prophecies." He unfurled the manuscript again and indicated a portion of text buried within an intricate pattern of symbolic illustration. "You recall that I said that it appeared as if, before the shanshu prophecy came about, a number of other things had to happen first? Fiends, apocalyptic battles, plagues?" "I remember." "Well this, as far as I can tell, is event number one. And it's due to happen right about now." "What is it?" Wesley traced the lines of text as he translated them, his finger hovering just above the fragile vellum. "It says, 'And a plague of demon-possessed blood-drinkers shall come upon the city of angels, and there shall be death in the streets, and unto those who live also.'" "Vampires." "It looks very much like it," agreed Wesley. Angel pushed his chair away from the table and leaned backwards, looking up thoughtfully at the ceiling. "Maybe the prophecy's telling us something we already know." "How do you mean?" Angel shrugged. "There's a lot of demonic activity in L.A. A lot. It's almost as intense as Sunnydale, and I thought it was exceptional because of the Hellmouth. I spent eighty years in this country and hardly met another vampire. So maybe L.A. is already suffering a plague." Wesley nodded. "I hadn't considered that. If you're correct, it means we're one step closer to the fulfillment of the final prophecy than we thought we were." He grinned, and Angel realized Wesley was genuinely excited on his behalf. The doorbell rang. "And on the subject of prophecies, I predict that's Cordelia and that she's gone out without her keys, again." "Maybe it is closer," said Angel, going to the door, "but I'm still going to pass on that champagne." He opened it. "What have you forgotten?" "Lemme think," said Gunn: "Stake, garlic... nope, I ain't forgotten nothin'. You busy fighting evil tonight, man? 'Cos if you ain't got no other plans, there's something I want you to see." Title: Blood and Water Author: Ruth Hanna Chapter 3: A Night at the Opera "There is nothing so civilized as opera. The disparate elements - words, music, movement - work together to serve a higher harmony. Executed well, it is magnificent. Are you a fan of opera, Mr. MacDonald?" Lindsey looked down from the box where he sat to the stage below, where Mozart's Don Giovanni was reaching its conclusion. At least, Lindsey hoped it was reaching a conclusion. He didn't think he could face another hour of people in period costume singing at each other. But his prospective client loved opera, and that was reason enough to endure it. "I'm gaining an appreciation," he said over the swell of the orchestra below. "And please, Mr. Favard, call me Lindsey." "Then you must call me Francis." The silver-haired man seated in the box beside Lindsey smiled warmly, revealing a gracefully tapered pair of canines on either side of his overbite. Lindsey had been told that as vampires aged, they found it increasingly difficult to hide their true demonic natures. He also knew a vampire had to be extremely ancient before that became a problem. "It's good of you to accompany me. I find I rarely get the opportunity to share my passions." Lindsey smiled back, sensing the moment was right to start making his pitch. "At Wolfram and Hart, Francis, we believe in getting to know our clients. It allows us to serve their specialized needs more effectively." Favard held up one claw-like finger. "Wait. Listen to the phrasing..." He shut his eyes and moved his hand slowly through the air, following the tempo of the music and voices rising from below. "Isn't it exquisite? I was in the audience, you know, the first time this was performed. Mozart was there." He shook his head. "A genius, of course, but no ability to plan. Did you know he wrote the overture to Don Giovanni the night before the premier? I saw him, just before the curtain rose, handing out the sheet music to the orchestra. The ink was still wet." He dropped his hand and broke his reverie. "Forgive me. You don't want to hear endless historical anecdotes, I'm sure." "Actually, I find talking to our clients fascinating. I had a college professor who used to talk about living history. I never guessed I'd get a chance to meet it." Favard chuckled. "Or unliving history." Lindsey laughed. This was going well. Share a joke with the prospect, show him you're on his side. Wolfram and Hart: professional, discreet, flexible, accommodating. Above all, accommodating. "Would you like a drink?" Favard raised an eyebrow. "Here?" "Absolutely." Lindsey reached into the pocket of his jacket, hanging over the back of his chair, and found the leather hip-flask in the pocket. He had deliberately selected a design which included a small handle, a enclosed loop of twisted silver. He steadied the bottle by slipping the appendage that had replaced his missing right hand through the loop, then he unscrewed the lid with his left hand using short, sharp movements. The operation lacked a certain grace, but it was effective, and for the moment that was all Lindsey required. Holland had assured him that it would be possible to do something about his missing right hand, but the magic involved was proving trickier to master than they had anticipated. In the meantime, the temporary substitute Lindsey had been given was good for frightening children and not much else. At last the lid came free, and he handed the flask to Favard. "It's not warm, but it is fresh." The vampire drank appreciatively, even greedily, and Lindsey watched with satisfaction tinged with an edge of disgust he could not quite ignore. "You were talking about the importance of good planning." Favard drained the last of the flask's contents, and laughed quietly. "Indeed. Which brings us to the matter at hand very neatly. I have... certain plans, Lindsey. The details need not concern us here. However, the resources I need to carry out those plans..." He let the sentence hang unfinished between them. Lindsey leaned forward and carefully lowered his voice. "My firm provides an extremely wide range of specialized professional services. Most of which are not available anywhere else." "What I have in mind most certainly is not." Favard paused. "I wish to employ the Principalities." Lindsey blinked, and tried not to let any trace of his growing excitement show in his face or voice. Already he could hardly wait to break this one to the office at large - summoning and binding the Principalities was major league. And the client was his. Neutrally, he said, "Francis, I'll be honest with you. I'm just a guy in a suit - I leave the technical stuff to our backroom boys. But I've heard them talk, and I know the Principalities are about as tough an order as you can get. Those things don't like being dragged up here and they sure as hell don't like taking orders." He half-smiled: "No pun intended." Favard looked at him levelly. "So the task is beyond your firm?" Lindsey held up his left hand. "I didn't say that. I'm being straight with you here, Francis - no lawyer bull. If you want the Principalities, you can have them. But it won't be cheap." Favard appeared to relax. He nodded. "I can pay the price. I have tried elsewhere and been disappointed. I simply wanted assurance that I was approaching the right people. And now I see I am." "Wolfram and Hart is unique, Francis. No one else out there does what we do." Lindsey smiled broadly. He could tell Favard was going to be a dream client: he had already more or less agreed to pay whatever fee Lindsey chose to make for the contract. And then there was the junior partner's new client bonus... "I am beginning to suspect that." Favard made as if to say something else, and broke off. His face shifted back to its human countenance, and he winced. "Indigestion," he said apologetically. "A symptom of age I thought I had left behind." "Can I get you something for it?" "No," said Favard. "A moment, and I will be... I will be..." Without warning, he doubled over and retched violently. Blood poured on to the pale cream carpet covering the floor of the box. The man and woman in the next box looked around. Lindsey ignored them, and placed his left hand on Favard's hunched back. "Francis? Mr Favard?" The opera was reaching its climax below, as the statue of the Commendatore arrived at the finale banquet and demanded Don Giovanni's repentance for his crimes. "Mr Favard," said Lindsey: "I'll bring the car around to the front of the theatre." Favard was still retching and couldn't reply. Lindsey stood up and found his keys. He turned to go, and almost walked into the uniformed usher standing in the box's door. "Excuse me, gentlemen, but a couple of people have asked if you could refrain from talking during the..." The man faltered as he registered what was happening to Favard. "My God. Sir, are you all right?" "He's fine," said Lindsey, positioning himself between the usher and Favard. "He just doesn't feel well. We're leaving now." "He's vomiting." The usher's voice began to rise. "Oh my God, that's blood. I'll call an ambulance." "Listen to me. That is not necessary." Lindsey spoke as firmly and confidently as he could. He glanced to either side and saw that all the occupants of the nearby boxes, and a few audience members in the stalls, were now more interested in his drama than the one on the stage. "Sir, I'm calling an ambulance now." "I said that's not..." Behind Lindsey, Favard attempted to stand up, but doubled over in pain again, leaving him bending over the front of the box. Lindsey heard the ugly sound of retching again, followed closely by several screams from the ground floor. On the stage, Don Giovanni was being pulled down into hell, unrepentant and damned. Lindsey grabbed Favard by the back of his jacket and hauled him unceremoniously back into the box, where he collapsed on to the ruined carpet, clutching his stomach and moaning. When Lindsey looked back to the box's entrance, the usher had already gone. He guessed he had maybe five minutes before the ambulance arrived. Not long enough to get an incapacitated vampire out of the building. With no alternative course open to him, Lindsey sat down next to Favard's semi-conscious, twitching body, and waited. |