~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two weeks passed. Angel never brought up the Tequila incident, and neither did I. We fell easily back into the Best Buddy routine, but all of a sudden, we were spending a lot more time working out. He told me he was worried about my safety, as much time as I spent out at night. He said it made him feel better, if I could really handle myself in a fight, if I had to.

He taught me more about various kinds of swordfighting (obviously his favorite), martial arts, and even meditation and concentration exercises. He took advantage of my natural psychic abilities, and taught me how to reach out with my senses to measure an attacker's proximity, size, and speed. He gave me instruction on using a crossbow, all kinds of knives, and how to handle almost any object I found on the ground as a weapon. I felt like Luke Skywalker, or La Femme Nikita, or something, and Angel was my Obi-Wan (although, granted, a much more attractive mentor...). It was very cool. Here I was, this little, tiny chick, and I was swiftly learning how to kick some major ass.

Of course, any excuse to get close to Angel was fine with me, anyway. He seemed to be a little more comfortable touching me, but only when it was necessary to adjust my posture, stance, or whatever weapon I was using. Still nothing on the personal end.

It was pretty strange. Angel told me I had a special gift for fighting, and he thought it was one I should develop. When he said stuff like that, I used to just give him a look. Now that I'd been honest with my feelings about him, his increasing desire to play some weird Sensei role was absolutely confounding, to me. But, keeping the Tequila incident square in the front of my mind, and liking his closeness as teacher more than his out and out rejection of my advances, I kept my mouth shut.

Given time, I was sure he would come around.

But I was still a young woman, and still full of all kinds of romantic fantasies, so when Collin Roarke, the son of one of the wealthier patrons of the museum asked me out on a date for Valentine's Day, I said yes. I mean, a girl needs flowers and chocolates, right? And I doubted Angel-san would be coming through with any wooing. Besides, there's nothing like a little jealousy to give a reluctant guy a kick in the ass, right?

If I had known all of the things I now know about Angel then, I wouldn't have been so quick to play games with him.

It was 7:00 p.m. on Friday night, when my doorbell rang. Collin wasn't due until 8, so I was still in robe, curlers, and bunny slippers when I ran for the door.

"Angel... hey," I said, moving aside to let him in.

"Hi," he said, fidgeting with a little wrapped package he held in his hand.

I looked at it. Definitely not flowers. And if it was a box of chocolates, then he must have thought I needed to go on a diet.

"Come on upstairs," I told him, "I have to finish getting dressed."

We walked to my bedroom, and he stood, obviously uncomfortable, in my doorway.

I smiled at his shyness, "I promise I won't jump you," I said.

His tension broke, and he smiled at me. "As long as you promise," he said.

I looked down at the gift again. "Is that for me?"

Angel looked down at it -- he'd probably forgotten it was there. He chuckled nervously and held it out. "Happy Valentine's Day," he said.

I took it and happily tore the bright red paper away, revealing a beautiful black lacquered box.

"Wow..." I said, "It's beautiful..."

"Open it," he encouraged softly.

I did, and almost fell over. It was a silver cross of exquisitely hand tooled silver, edged with a delicate Celtic-style border.

"Oh," I gasped, "Angel. You shouldn't have. This is just..."

I looked up at him, and saw again that strange expression I so often caught sneaking across his features -- some odd mixture of happiness and unfathomable sorrow, as if each gesture he made toward me was somehow as painful as it was genuine. His eyes met mine, and I was suddenly twice as speechless. I remember wondering if he would be upset when my heart exploded and I dropped dead right in front of him.

Then his neutral mask fell back into place, and it seemed like I might survive after all.

"I hoped you'd like it," he said, and smiled.

"I do. Thank you," I said, trying to fight the urge to hug him, "Oh! I got you something too!"

I grabbed the gift and brought it to him, watching as he carefully undid the scotch tape and unwrapped it. So fastidious, my Angel...

He stared at it. It was an antique journal I'd found in one of my favorite junk shops down on 3rd. It was still in perfect condition, the heavy cover not even faded, and the hundreds of pages of fine parchment still not showing the drying signs of age the shop owner said was common. A good find, on my part.

Angel read my inscription: "To the best friend I've ever had. Rain", and looked up at me again.

"Thank you. It's lovely," he said sincerely.

I smiled. "I thought maybe you could use a place to write down the products of all your endless brooding," I joked.

He chuckled, "A journal is always a good thing," he agreed, "Helps me keep my thoughts straight."

I rolled my eyes. "Sure it does. Well, I'm glad you like it," I looked up at the clock, "Shit. I've got to hurry." I ran back to the bathroom, leaving Angel sitting at the edge of my bed, staring at his gift.

"You're going out?" he asked, obviously trying to sound casual.

I stifled a knowing giggle. Yes, sir, nothing like a little jealousy...

"Yeah. You know Mrs. Roarke? That old bag the Romantic wing is named after? Her son's taking me to dinner," I replied.

Nothing from Angel. I poked my head around the corner and looked at him. He had exactly the same calm expression, and sat in exactly the same position I'd left him in. He looked up at me.

"Good," he said, "You should go out more."

I ducked back into the bathroom so he couldn't see my disappointed scowl. I really wanted him to object, but I should have known better. I yanked the curlers out of my hair and brushed it out, then pulled off my robe and slipped into the wine-colored cocktail dress I'd bought especially for the occasion. Then I checked my details, spritzed on a little perfume, and walked back out again.

"Ta da!" I announced, and slowly spun for his inspection, "What do you think?"

He stared at me, his brow furrowed.

"What?" I asked, "Oh, please don't tell me there's a stain on it... Oh... wait... does this make me look fat? Damn! I knew it!"

Angel stared at me for another moment, then stood, taking me in from head to toe and back again. His glance was so intense, it was almost a physical caress, and I shivered in spite of myself.

He shook his head a little. "No," he answered evenly, and mustered a warm smile, "You look... really great."

I cocked an eyebrow at him, " 'Really great'? All that poetry, and that's the best you can come up with?"

He took a hesitant step toward me, but his expression didn't change. I tried to pretend I wasn't getting more and more breathless as he came closer.

"Okay... How about... stunning? Incredible? Devine? Magnificent? Ravishing?" he said, his smile slipping away and his voice low. There was a heartbeat between each adjective, and I could feel the magick... the truth that he always hid from me, in the words.

I forced a smile and tried to stay collected as I blushed madly, "That's better..."

In another second, I was going to attack him, if I didn't move away. His proximity was sucking all of the oxygen out of the air, and I was starting to get dizzy. So I backed up to my bureau, claimed the necklace he'd given me from the top and handed it to him.

"Could you..." I asked, and turned my back to him.

I could feel Angel's breath on the back of my neck as he carefully slid the necklace in place and did the delicate clasp.

I slowly turned and found my face only inches from his. His eyes were locked on my lips, and for a second, maybe two, I was certain he was going to kiss me.

But he backed away and broke the spell.

"It looks nice on you," he observed, not bothering to hide that his breathing had become a little rough, too.

Unable to speak, I reached up and touched the pendant at my throat as I looked at him, and he looked at me, and I got that feeling again... That feeling like there was nothing else in the world but Angel and I, and that it had always been that way, since the beginning of time. I felt warmth flow through me, and electricity crackle around me, and all of a sudden, something in my mind seemed to break. That safe, familiar feeling that I always had toward him seemed to get stronger, almost overwhelming me, making me feel like there was something important I was supposed to remember, but couldn't, quite...

The doorbell rang, and the moment was shattered. I bent over to slide on my shoes and snatched my bag off the chair as I ran for the door. I practically broke my neck stumbling down the stairs, calling "Just a minute!" as I plunged into the front closet, searching for my wrap. It was nowhere to be found amongst all the crap I kept stowed there. I cursed and bitched as I tossed shoes and boots and sporting equipment aside.

Finally, I gave up and stood, trying to catch my breath, turning to reach for the door.

Which allowed me to run smack into Angel, who had somehow simply appeared behind me. I almost knocked him flat from an automatic defensive response that he taught me.

"Jesus!" I snapped at him, "Could you not do that?"

"Sorry," he said contritely, and held up the missing wrap, "Is this what you're looking for?"

I tried to be annoyed with him, I really did. But my heart pounding in my chest choked me from scolding him further, so I just turned around and relished the feeling of his big hands laying the soft cotton across my shoulders. Collecting myself (again), I turned around.

"Thanks," I managed to mutter, and reached for the door, "Could you lock up when you leave?"

"Sure," he said, "Have a good time."

With a final glance, I left him standing there, and walked out of the completely mind-blowing presence of one stranger, into the only vaguely interesting company of another.

~~~~~~~~~~

I didn't see Angel for three days after that. He didn't return my calls, didn't appear, nothing. I know it was exactly three days because each one is noted with a string of sobbing lamentations and capitalized curse words, in my journal.

I don't think I've ever really forgiven him for not being by my side when Destiny finally came to call. It was late Tuesday afternoon when my doorbell rang. I almost didn't hear it, because I was vacuuming and listening to Madame Butterfly at full volume.

I wonder -- how would my life have been different if I hadn't felt that strange twitch in my gut, and thought maybe Angel had finally returned? Would Roger Lowenthal have gone away and never come back?

I doubt it, but, hey... a girl can dream, right?

As it was, I did feel that twitching, and I did assume it was Angel at the door, so I cut the vacuum, turned down the stereo, and went to answer the frantic knocking I finally heard.

I paused for a quick second, rifling through my mental index of derisive commentary, looking for something sufficiently blazing to express my anger at Angel for going suddenly incommunicado on me.

I don't remember what I had chosen to say, because the thought was completely erased from my mind when I opened the door. Not only was the visitor not Angel, he was practically the Anti-Angel: short, blonde, fat, and wearing the worst poly-blend suit I'd ever seen. He carried a ratty briefcase that appeared to be far older than myself and the stranger put together.

I stared at the little man on my front step.

"Um... listen," I said, not opening the screen door, "If you're selling God or Jesus or something, you can save your breath."

"Oh. No. No. I'm looking for... er... Miss Summers. Miss Rain Summers," the stranger said with a crisp British accent.

"Really? Well, she's not home," I said, thinking he might be after me for a student loan payment or something, "Unless you're from Publisher's Clearing House. I could use ten million bucks.."

The little Englishman blinked in confusion, "No... I..."

"Listen. Just for the record? If you're selling anything, I'm not buying. I have a vacuum cleaner, I have a set of encyclopedia disks, and I don't cook enough to rate investing in anything that slices, dices, chops, or..."

"Miss Summers, please," Tacky Suit interrupted, "I have come a very long way to speak to you on a matter of utmost importance. It is quite urgent, I assure you, and no money is in any way involved."

I continued looking at him through the screen door. Totally curious... and getting kind of nervous, besides...

"No offense, Mr. uh..."

"Lowenthal. Roger Lowenthal," he said, rifling through the pocket of his jacket. He fished out a card and held it up to the door.

Roger Stevenson Lowenthal
Representative
Watchers' Council of Britain

I wasn't impressed. "That's nice, Mr. Lowenthal, but FYI? Most women aren't going to just let some strange guy in their house, no matter how nice their linen calling card is. So, maybe you could just cut to the chase and tell my why you are here."

His face clouded into a very dire scowl. I almost slammed the door in his face, and ran.

"Miss Summers... I represent an ancient society of scholars that have, since time immemorial, been the defenders of humanity against evil. Or rather, we have trained those who do the defending. You have been Called. You are the Chosen One, and I am here to begin that training with you."

I let him in. I mean, why would an axe-murderer, serial rapist, or bill collector bother with such an incredible story? Besides, I was curious, and I was pretty certain I could kick the frumpy little man's ass without too much effort.

Roger Lowenthal shattered my reality. He talked for most of an hour -- about vampires and demons and the dire predicament of humankind. He talked about the End Days, and how virulent monsters walked the Earth far before the first ancestor of humanity, and how, since that time, there had always been a single warrior -- a mystical girl-child -- who was chosen by The Powers That Be to stand against the evil. How they were Called and trained to fight, and how they lived short and often tragic lives. And how there could only be One.

Two things kept popping into my head: a 20th century movie Angel and I had rented, called Highlander, and Angel himself. Angel's sudden appearance in my life... Angels' vehement insistence on teaching me how to fight...

"So... you're saying I'm this Chosen One..." I said, still completely unconvinced, and swiftly beginning to regret my decision to let Roger Lowenthal in.

"Yes," he said simply.

I sneered at him, "You're kidding, right? I'm some General in the Army of the Forces of Good? Mister, you're nuts. What are you really playing at?"

"I assure you, Miss Summers, I am not playing at anything. I am quite serious," he replied.

I've always been a little bit empathic (except with Angel, unfortunately...), and I could feel that, at the very least, Roger believed what he was telling me.

"Exactly how do you know it's me?" I asked him, "How did I get chosen? Do you draw lots or something?"

He almost smiled. "No, it's nothing like that. We have... seers, if you will. Powerful messengers who receive signs that foretell the death of one Slayer, and the Calling of the next."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." I said, holding up my hand to stop him, "You mean to tell me somebody died? Some poor girl got eaten by some monster, and that's why you're here?"

Roger seemed surprised by my outburst, "Of course. With several notable exceptions in our history, as I told you, there can be only one Slayer. The next is Called when the last dies."

So now the short, tragic life-span part of the story was starting to make sense. A very unpleasant sort of sense.

"So you think I should be the next sucker to step up and get tossed into Hell or whatever," I snapped, "Buddy, you're out of your tree. And you're also out of my apartment."

I stood and grabbed him by his tacky little arm and dragged him back to the front door, briefcase and all. He brought his hands up against the door jamb to keep me from pitching him out like a sack of potatoes, and strained to turn his wild eyes on me.

"Miss Summers, please! It has already begun!" he yelped frantically, "Haven't you noticed your increasing strength and agility since you reached puberty? Don't you often observe things in the shadows that no one else sees?"

I froze. I did.

He noticed the change in my demeanor, and jumped on it, "Do you not have the Summer's mark on your let hip? A heart-shaped birthmark with a short line protruding from the top?"

I let him go. Nobody who wasn't my parents or somebody I'd had wild sex with knew about my birthmark. I was pretty certain this guy wasn't either of my parents, and I knew I hadn't had sex with him.

"How did you know about that?" I hissed.

Roger straightened his coat and looked at me smugly, "You come from a bloodline that includes the greatest Slayer in history. You are her direct descendant, and you bear the mark that began with her. It has been foretold," he said.

Chewing my lip furiously, I stared at him. Maybe he wasn't a total nutcase, maybe he was telling the truth. But that didn't mean I had to like anything that he was saying, and that sure as Hell didn't mean I had to play along with his little Slayer game.

I sighed deeply, "Look, Mr. Lowenthal, I'm sure you mean well, and I'm sure your little Council or whatever has done tons of good deeds for the world. But I have a job. It may not be fighting evil, but it's mine. I have a life. And I'm really not in the market for another one, especially if it involves monsters and demons and such. So, I think you should probably just leave before I freak out and use my "Slayer strength" on you."

I was half-joking, but he flinched anyway.

"As you wish, Miss Summers. You'll certainly need some time to process what I have told you tonight. But please, I beg you, do not take too long. Time is running short, and the Forces of Evil already gather about you."

I looked into his eyes, and he held my gaze.

"You have my card," he added, "Don't hesitate to call anytime, and we can begin your training."

Roger Lowenthal, of the Watchers' Council of Britain, turned and left, leaving me staring out into the sunset after him, feeling my reality crumble around my ears. I slammed the door with all of my might.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

To say I was freaked out was a bit of an understatement. Add frightened out of my wits, and incredibly pissed off, plus still very incredulous, and you might be closer to the mark. But something deep inside of me knew that Roger was telling the truth. Even though my rational brain didn't believe in vampires or monster hunters, or even Hell, really, some part of my deepest self knew it was true, and that the knowledge had always been there, whether I realized it or not.

So, when you're a formerly run-of-the-mill 22 year-old with a pretty ordinary life, and you find out that you're some kind of avenging warrior with a Sacred Duty to give that life fighting nightmares, how do you deal? How do you cope with your entire reality crashing down around you? If you're me, you walk to the liquor store, by a quart of Jack Daniels on credit, and drink yourself into a blubbering, railing stupor.

And then you call your best friend. Predictably, his machine picked up. I have no idea what I said to it, but within a half an hour, Angel walked back into my house, finding me a total disaster, curled up on the couch in the dark, sucking down the last half of the whiskey.

He stood in the doorway, quietly looking at me. I couldn't see his face, or even really his posture, due to the fact that I had never bothered to turn on a light after Lowenthal left. I stared at his broad silhouette anyway.

"Where the fuck have you been?" I snapped/slurred at him.

Angel said nothing.

"Listen. If you've got something to say, say it, otherwise, get the Hell out and go crawl back into your hole or wherever it is you crawl off to. I don't need you." I clumsily turned away, giving my full attention to gulping down more numbing sour mash.

I felt him move across the room. I used to think it was funny, the way I could sense him, even when I couldn't see him. I could predict his movements, and even his words and expressions, with an increasing accuracy. Now, realizing it was some superpower or something, and not some amazing connection between us, it didn't seem so cute and funny anymore.

Angel reached down and gently took the bottle out of my hands, setting it out of my reach on the coffee table.

"You called me," he reminded me softly.

I looked up. Now I could see his beautiful face, lit by the streetlights' pale glow from my living room window.

"Oh. Right," I said, and burst into tears.

He sat down, and for the first time since I'd known him, took me in his strong arms. I collapsed against his chest and cried like a baby, knowing that was the safest place in the world for me to be.

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