Spoilers: Um... none? This is like my own little BuffyWorld.
Disclaimer: Okay, Angela's mine. And so's the story. But everything else is property of the gods of Buffy and Angel. I bow down to you guys!
Dedication: To all you guys for being here. I love you all! *big hug*

I always knew I had a father. That was pretty much a given, considering I learned about the birds and the bees early on, most of the kids in my kindergarten class having been corrupted at their young ages. Plus, there was always the fact that I looked very little like my mother. She had golden blonde waves while I had dark brown, straight hair that had somehow naturally gotten blonde highlights. My eyes were a soulful brown, much deeper and darker than hers ever were. I was also taller than her, or I would be once adolescence hit. About the only thing we shared besides similar face shape was the wonderful ability to turn toasty brown in the sun. And our love for talking. Then again, I was told that was a given among all Summers women.

I suppose the first true evidence of my father came to me very early on. Mom and I shared a tiny, hole-in-the-wall, two-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of Sunnydale. My closet-sized room, decorated so lavishly with pastels and cutesy animals, faced the parking lot below, while hers face the overgrown lawn and nearly-drained lake on the side of the building. The apartment complex was only a couple stories high, but of course, our apartment was on the first floor. That was how my dad got to see me.

I never actually saw him peering through my window as I tossed and turned and tried to fall asleep, but I felt a paternal presence on the other side of the glass, even if the aura seemed surprisingly dark. Even though there was a sense of panic and fear running through my veins every time I felt him nearby, I always found comfort in knowing he was around. His nightly visits became more of a ritual, and I started to find that I could not fall asleep without knowing that he was carefully observing me through that cold glass. His presence became a security blanket to me over the years.

And I needed one.

While my mom held a day job managing a little Italian restaurant in downtown Sunnydale, she still left the house every night after sundown. Usually, she would read me a bedtime story or sing me a song, then curl up in bed with me till she was sure I was asleep (though I never was). Then, she would grab the gym bag she kept by the door and leave, making sure to lock the seven bolts we had installed on our front door.

I never found out where she went night after night. But like my father watching me from a short distance, her disappearance into the darkness became more of a pacifying ritual to me, something that I almost needed to happen every night in order to feel secure.

Mom would never speak of him, and she expected me to do the same. It seemed of poor taste and little respect to even mention the words "father," "destiny," and oddly enough, "angel" around her. Upon hearing them, she would fall silent and turn to stone. This far-off look would cross her face, and suddenly, there would be all this pain in her eyes. Trance-like, Mom would always just sort of wander away after that. Needless to say, I learned very early on that the subject of my dad was taboo in our apartment.

As I progressively grew older, I learned to push the lines a little. I would give my mom headaches questioning her about family history. I wanted to know my origins, my bloodlines, and it upset her greatly that she could not answer my impending questions. Perhaps she also knew the real reasons behind my asking. While bloodlines were not so important to me, finding my father was. Or at least finding out what he was like. I was curious, wanting to fill the gray void in my life. She never gave me complete answers.

I also suppose that as I entered the upper elementary grades, my mom began to worry about the person I was becoming. I blew off my homework far too often, which usually led to parent-teacher conferences, followed by me being grounded for the next week or so. I didn't really mind that much. I spent a good part of my time on the telephone, anyway. I hardly ever seemed to hang around her anymore, either. I think this bothered her immensely, to which I later found out the reason.

History always repeats itself.

Mom must have been scared that I was turning into the person she had been. Which meant she now had to assume an identical role to the one her mother had taken up several years before. She was smart enough to check on me every so often when I was grounded, for as I progressed into my teens, I often contemplated climbing out my window into the freedom that awaited me outside the apartment.

Then, ten days before my fifteenth birthday, everything went off in a massive series of explosions that changed my life. It all started when I got home from school. I found my mother sitting at the tiny poker table we used for a dinner table. She was looking at an envelope, scrutinizing it, staring at it like she was expecting it to explode or something. Her eyes were narrowed to slits, her brows furrowed. She didn't even look up as I walked through the front door and tossed my backpack full of books on the couch. It wasn't till I actually sat down in the folding chair next to her and grabbed her arm did she react.

In fact, she jumped.

It took her a minute to identify me, through the confusion and the pain and the terror in her eyes. I noticed for the first time how much darker her eyes had gotten since I had last really looked into them. I think I had helped age her, though some of the lines that appeared around her lips and eyes had been there since the beginning. Someone else had given her those. She tried unsuccessfully to smooth over her concern, but her fears were easily readable. Panic was written all over her face. "What is it, Mom?"

She sighed and eyed the envelope before saying anything. She suddenly looked tired. Worn-out. Instantly, she tried to hide it, though. Tucking the envelope under her arm, she glanced at me. "It's nothing, Angela."

I wasn't going to let her get off so easy. I was almost fifteen. She had gotten off too easy for fifteen years. She wasn't going to get away with it any longer. Not if I could help it. "Mom," I said, gently touching her tanned forearm again. My touch was gentle, and she jumped only slightly at this. I drew my eyes up to meet hers, seeing her eye-to-eye for perhaps the first time in my life. "Mom, what is it?" I repeated, dragging out the words for definition.

She stared into my dark chocolate eyes for quite awhile before she made any movement. Her mind must have been playing out every possible option, and the consequences of each. I'm not quite sure what her final decision was, or if she went along with it. Sighing and giving in, she handed me the envelope. "This came today."

My eyes brushed the manuscript that had so carefully taken shape of my name and address. I took note that there was no return address. So why was my mother so upset about me getting something in the mail? I had gotten magazines and letters from friends in the mail before. Why was this any different?

"It's from your father," she answered wearily, answering my silent questions. I felt her eyes graze over me carefully, studying my reaction to check for signs of anger or sadness or whatever other emotion was to come up.

I said nothing, not that I could had I wanted to. Instead, I slowly nodded and began tearing slowly at the envelope. I was cautious, anticipating the moment when I would read what he had to say. After fifteen years, he finally wanted to speak to me. I had been waiting my whole life for something like this to happen. Savoring each detail, each moment, I pulled a card out from the envelope.

Mom tried to catch a glimpse of it, leaning forward, but I pulled it away. She would have time enough to look over the card. For now, this was my moment, my card. My father.

His words were clear. On the front, "Happy birthday, Angela!" And on the back, "After all these years, I hope you find it in your heart to forgive me. I have watched you grow, and you are a beautiful child. Exactly the way I had hoped my baby girl would turn out. This I promise you, Angela: we will meet soon, and you and I can share a bond we've never shared. Till then, your father, Angel."

"Angel?!" I cried, my face scrunching in confusion. "My father's name is… Angel?" I tossed the card on the tabletop, and my mother quickly snatched it up. I hadn't seen anything for my mother to be worried about. So my dad wanted to start again. That was great.

Wasn't it?

My mom got that far-off look on her face again as she read over the words. When she had finished, she snapped the card shut and muttered, "Angela, you're grounded."

"WHAT?!" I cried. My dad sent me a card, and that was reason enough for punishment? I leapt out of my chair, sending it clanging to the ground. I glared at my mom, at her tear-filled eyes, at her fixed jaw, at her white knuckles as she gripped the card in her hands. "Mom, that is so unfair!"

"Angela," she said with such control and frustration that I forced myself to take a deep breath, "there are things I can't explain right now, but I need you to promise that you will not leave this apartment after nightfall."

I lost it. I know I shouldn't have, but I couldn't control myself any longer. I suppose my feelings had been supressed for so long, they needed release. "So… what? You want me to give up my social life because of some little birthday card that some stranger named Angel sent me? Because he's my dad? Because you're afraid that I'll meet him and he'll be a better parent than you? Look, Mom, sorry he left. But that was fifteen years ago! Get over it!"

Of all things I expected her to do at the moment - yell, punish me, storm away - she did none of those. Instead, she laughed. Bitterly. "You think that's the reason? That I'm lonely… or afraid you'll like him better?" Her laughter ended, once again replaced by a firm stare. "Angela, you have no idea what you're talking about. No idea."

"Because you never tell me!" I shot back.

"Because the second I do, your life is gonna change," she replied, matching my tone. She gave herself a moment, allowing her voice to calm. "I don't want to hold information back from you. Trust me. But I don't have a choice. There are things about your past… that you're not ready to know."

"I'll be fifteen in ten days. I'm older and more responsible than you think," I pointed out.

She nodded. "That may be, but you're still not ready. And you're not going out tonight. Or any night for the next few weeks." She flashed me a sympathetic smile and headed for her bedroom.

"I hate you, Mom," I sighed under my breath before leaving in a fit for my room. I spent the rest of the night bitching about her to all my friends on the phone.

That night, my father's presence was almost joyful as it filled the room.

Nothing else happened for the next week or so. The relationship between my mother and I did not improve. I avoided her, purposefully ignoring her every time she tried to speak to me. I knew she was kicking herself for some of the things she had said and done, and I knew I was only contributing to the guilt, but just as I started to give in and apologize, I would think about all the nights I had to spend in my bedroom while my friends were out having a great time together. And the anger returned. With all the hostility building up, our tiny apartment had become more of a silent warzone.

And still, my mother stopped by my room every night to tell me she was leaving and would be back in a few hours. As always, I would ignore her.

I wish I hadn't.

The night before my fifteenth birthday, I heard her knock on my door, like she was intruding on my territory. "I'm going to go out now, but I'll be back. Try to get to bed early, okay?"

I responded by pulling on the headphones to my Discman and pressing play, the heavy urban beats of Nelly filling my head instead of her voice. And still, I'm sure, even to this day, that through the loud noise, I heard her whisper, "I love you, Angela," as she left. I even remember turning my head to look at her.

I fell asleep that night with so much… confusion that I didn't notice my father wasn't watching me. I was too caught up in thoughts of my mother. Was all this anger really worth it? What if she was right? Maybe there was something dangerous she was trying to protect me from. After all, we had been more of friends than mother and daughter, even when I started getting in trouble. She would never purposefully try to make my life miserable. I fell asleep tossing and turning.

That night I dreamt the only dream I would ever remember.

My mother was walking around in a cemetery. It was the classic setup for a horror movie. A young, attractive woman, walking around all alone, between rows of headstones, looking around her to see if anyone - or anything - was close. And there was something close. So close it could have breathed on her. If it had a breath.

She must have felt him, for she spun around with reflexes so fast. "Angel," she whispered, her eyes narrowing as she looked him in the eye.

The sparkle in his eyes was unmistakenable. "Hello, lover," he said tauntingly, almost laughing. "Miss me? It has been… what… fifteen years?"

"And a few months, but who's keeping track?" Mom replied with a sharp tongue, trying to match his calmness, though I could feel her tense as I slept. She folded her arms and grew serious again, her voice assuming a warning tone. "You stay the hell away from my daughter, Angel."

"Don't you mean our daughter, lover?" Angel corrected her.

"You will not come near her, or this earth will have one more pile of dust to play with."

"You really think you can stop me?" he challenged.

She grinned in a half-menacing, half-challenging way. "Let's find out," she said confidently.

They engaged in a battle, full of sharp cuts and punches and kicks that made me jerk underneath the covers. He would pick her up and throw her, but she would only bounce back, driving at him with so much force that he would double over. This went on for several minutes, until somehow, Angel had taken over the upperhand. He held my mother close to her, her back pressed against his chest, his arm wrapped around her neck. She struggled to breathe, her neck only inches from his mouth. In her mind, she must have been anticipating the fangs breaking the flesh on her neck, but it never came.

A swift jerk of the arms and the crack of her neck, and my mother fell lifeless to the ground, a dazed and terrified look now forever on her face.

I cried out in my sleep. "Noooooooooooooooooo!"

*****

PART TWO

My cordless, bedside phone was what really awakened me that night, though the scream had probably already drawn me into a state of semi-consciousness. I sat up so quickly that my head whipped forward. My dark hair was matted to my head as sweat poured down my face and body. I forced myself to brush some of it away, realizing then that I was trembling all over.

It took several rings for me to actually pick up the receiver and mumble a "Hello?"

"Angela Summers?" a deep voice from the other end of the line presumed in a very business tone of voice. I knew only one thing could come of a business-sounding phone call at two-thirty in the morning, and I drew in my breath, anticipating the inevitable. "Angela, this is Deputy Stewart from the Sunnydale Police Department. I'm sending a cop to your apartment. He's going to come and knock on your door, and I'm going to need you to go with him, no questions asked, okay?"

"Where…?"

"He's just going to be taking you to the police department, that's all," Deputy Stewart assured me.

"Wha… why?" I pressed my hand against my forehead, trying to keep myself from crying out.

There was a long pause. "We'll explain when you get here, okay?"

"Okay," I agreed, hanging up the phone. I spent the next twenty minutes sobbing. I clutched my pillow to my chest, feeling the hot tears roll down my cheeks and off the edge of my chin. My entire body convulsed with the hollow sobs as I struggled to breathe. I couldn't think, couldn't hurt, couldn't see. No, that would all come too soon. I was waiting for everything to hit me. It was inevitable, after all. Like death.

I was taken to the police station dressed in my pajamas and fuzzy slippers. One of the men handed me a blanket, trying to save some of my dignity, for it was not cold as I entered the police station. The rooms there were a dull gray, a low buzz with the occassional sounds of a beeping phone line and the faint clicks of the keys on keyboards. I was led to Deputy Stewart's office in the back. By then, my crying had stopped, leaving me with puffy eyes and a headache so extreme that nothing seemed real. I was seated in front of his desk, offered coffee (which I politely declined), and then left alone with him.

I don't think Deputy Stewart knew quite how to begin. How do you tell a barely-adolescent girl that her mother had just been found dead? He studied me carefully for several minutes, probably trying to decide the best approach to the situation.

I don't suppose I offered much help, staring at the fuzz of my warm slippers. However, I decided it best to give the young deputy the benefit of responding, whether than having to start the conversation. "How 'bout telling me why I'm here, Deputy?" I didn't even bother to raise my eyes from my footwear.

He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "The night watchman of one of the local cemeteries was patrolling just an hour or so ago, when he spotted the body… the…" He couldn't say it, for I suppose he could see my lower lip trembling.

I bit my lip so hard that I tasted blood. "My mother's dead, isn't she?" I couldn't stop myself from breaking out in tears all over again. I forced myself to try and choke my sobbing down to a much more sane level, seeing as this was a public place full of straight-faced men and women. But the tears wouldn't stop. Neither would the haunting memories of my dream. Of my mother's death. Oh, God, how could it be true…?

Deputy Stewart tried to flash me a sympathetic look, but as it can be with babies, crying can be contagious in the midst of tragedies. He quickly excused himself, leaving the office. It was unprofessional to show tears and helplessness in such a dignified job.

By the time he had returned, I had forced myself down to the uncontrollable whimpers that always follow a good cry. He seated himself once again behind his desk. His face looked damp. He had been washing away tears in the bathroom sink. "Angela, we need to discuss what's going to happen from here. No one seems to know who or where your father is, and your only known grandmother is deceased. It seems your mother has made it very clear that you are to live with whomever you desire, so long as we see fit, and you inherit everything she owns."

I sighed, standing up against the edge of his desk. "Deputy, if you don't mind, it's past three in the morning. I'm tired, I'm sore, and I just found out my mother's dead. Can I just go home now and leave this to tomorrow?" I begged, my cinnamon eyes trying to plead and reason with him.

He nodded, shutting an open folder on his desk. Was this a case file he was working on? I wondered to myself. Was that what my mother was to them? A case file? The bastards. "I'm going to send a policeman over there to keep watch tonight. At this time, we don't know who came after your mother or why, and it's quite possible he or she may be after you. You understand the need for extra measures?"

I nodded, not wishing to argue. I knew who had killed my mother. There was not one doubt in my mind. Angelus. My father. The murderer. And from the sound of his birthday card, he wouldn't have reason to come after me. I knew his perversion, sensed it. He had gotten what he had returned for. And at the same time, made my life a hell he could play with when he grew bored.

By the time I fell into my bed again, daylight was just beginning to break on the horizon. I groaned, tossing and turning, until finally, I managed to fall into a restless slumber. The nightmare of learning about my mother's death was over.

And a new nightmare was just beginning.

******

It wasn't until I was seventeen that I had a chance to learn about my mother's life. By then, I had gotten over the crying and the loneliness, but I knew the despair of her death and the hatred towards my father were still buried inside. I still felt his eyes on me every night, even after I moved in with my friend Jill. His gaze made me feel unclean as anger flash-boiled my blood.

I didn't have much left of my mother. The funeral arrangements were mostly taken care of by people I had never heard of, but I was allowed to decide what she was to wear and such. When the undertaker presented her body (I still cringe at speaking of my mom that way), she wore a silver necklace with a cross around her neck. I don't think she had ever taken it off, and yet, I undid the clasp and slid it off of her neck and onto my own. The medal was cold against my chest. Cold as death. But my heart warmed it, as hers once had.

And I had never once taken it off.

Most of her other stuff had been put into storage, the pain still to fresh to dig through all of it. I had found the birthday card a week after her death. I lit a candle in the church in her honor, and I burned the card in the flame, hatred blazing from my eyes as I watched its ash mix with the liquid wax.

The next two years had gone by slowly, but I was recovering. As I mentioned, I had moved in with my friend Jill, not because she was my closest friend, but because her parents were known for never being home and being incredibly dim. And I felt I didn't need any real parents anymore. I had gone through my allowed set of parents, after all. One was dead, and the other was "at large." So Jill and I spent most nights getting ourselves into trouble - throwing parties that got out of hand, buying alcohol underage at local bars, picking up strange men to heat them up and turn cold. We lived the high life, in our opinions. And I suppose it was the trouble that kept me from grieving.

And I suppose that's what led me to finding out about my mother's history. See, Jill and I were on one of our nightly cruise-for-guy missions, dressed in leather minis that clung to our hips and barely grazed our thighs as well as tops that allowed our cleavage to be almost completely visible. We had decided to browse one of the local bars that we frequented, hoping for some action.

I found him sitting in a corner. He had dark brown, almost black, curly hair with an evening shadow. His eyes were brown, and they seemed to see so clearly through almost everything, despite the three empty beer bottles on the table and the one half-drunk bottle in his hand. He was dressed in tight pants - leather, no less - and a tight, white muscle shirt that showed off his amazingly pumped biceps. He was watching me.

"Hey, honey, buy me a drink?" I presumed, climbing onto his lap.

He looked at me, said nothing, and took a long swig of his beer, emptying the bottle. Then, he returned his focus to me. He squinted. "An… Angela?"

I nearly fell off his lap, and had he not caught me, I would've hit the wooden floor. Blinking back shock, I replied, "What?!"

"Buffy… Buffy wrote of your birth. You look… just like her. You have to… HAVE TO be her daughter," he declared slowly, the alcohol having somewhat of an effect on his speech.

My jaw dropped slightly, and I forced myself to shut it. "My mother and I looked nothing alike."

His hand reached out, and I started to shy away, when I realized he wasn't reaching for me, but my necklace. He took the silver cross in his hands, examined it, and looked me in the eye. "You are her daughter."

"Was," I corrected sharply, standing up. I wanted to leave. Needed to. This was not the fun it was supposed to be. He was supposed to be buying me drinks, talking to me about the wild fantasies he had at night, and how I would be the lucky one he could act them out with.

However, the man grabbed my arm, and his voice did not wobble as he stated what he had to say. "Your mother and I were very close friends. She told me when you were born that if anything were to happen…"

"I'm sure she did," I interrupted. This had to be the lamest pick-up line ever.

"No," he continued. "Angela, I know about her past, things I know she kept from you."

He had my attention. Minutes later, I was helping this stranger out of the bar, waving goodbye to Jill. She flashed me the thumbs-up signal and winked to say "Way to go!" before returning to the man she was sipping a margarita with. We managed to find his beat-up pickup truck, and I insisted on driving. While I loved living on the dangerous side, I was in no mood to find myself in a serious car crash that night. Somehow, the man had remembered directions to the hotel he was staying at.

I had expected for him to make a move on me back at the hotel. After all, he looked to be a tired man, in his mid-thirties, handsome, but maybe going through a tough time in marriage and work. However, he surprised me by pointing to the big queen bed before grabbing one of the pillows and curling up on the floor. He told me he'd tell me everything in the morning, even though I realized he would probably be have a hangover and be in no mood to talk. Still, I settled underneath the covers and somehow found myself falling asleep, this time without the presence of my father.

When I woke up, I found him sitting at the two-person table, preparing the two plates of food he had brought up from the continental breakfast being served downstairs. When he noticed me rising from my slumber, he gestured towards the untouched plate. "Eat up."

I dragged my feet to the table, but did as I was told. It wasn't until after we had both had breakfast and both had a shot at the shower that the man finally introduced himself and got down to business. We sat facing each other, cross-legged, on the bed, legs crossed. He had given me a pair of Adidas pants and an old T-shirt to wear, saying the skirt and top looked uncomfortable, and like something he knew my mom would never let me wear out of the house. He was right.

"First, I guess I should introduce myself. I'm Alexander Harris, known in the business world as Alex, but my preferred name is Xander." He looked to me for a formal introduction..

"My name's Angela Summers, and I go by Angela. Always have. Mom never really liked the name Angie too much."

Xander smirked. "I'd imagine not." His smile disappeared. "Where would you like to begin?"

A smile broke out on my face. "I don't care; just tell me EVERYTHING."

And he did. He told me of my mother's move to Sunnydale, and about his crush on her. He told me about hanging out with her in the library, about her poor grades and behavior in school, and about the disappointment her mother showed in her daughter.

When he moved on to the story of my mother and a man named Angel, my throat caught. I could sense some bitterness from Xander's end, but I supposed that if he had had a crush on my mother, this Angel fellow could never prove himself to Xander. However, the story was captivating. Their love was forbidden, and in the end, they were forced to leave each other. "Star-crossed lovers," as Xander had called them.

He went on to explain, "Seventeen years ago, your mother left Sunnydale in somewhat of a depression, from what I understand. I would've come to Sunnydale to comfort and help her, but business in New York was keeping me on a twenty-four hour business schedule, and I barely had enough time for myself, let alone an old friend. So she went to visit Angel. A month later, I got a letter from her, claiming that the two of them had… gotten caught up. And how she had wound up pregnant with twins. She was terribly afraid for their lives."

"Why?" I asked.

Xander sighed. "See… you father… he wasn't exactly… human."

"He… what?" I replied.

"Angel… Angelus… was sort of a…" He gulped. "Vampire?"

"Wait a minute," I interjected. "You're trying to tell me that my father is a creature of the undead? A Dracula?"

"Oh, no, we met Dracula, and Angel was nothing like him. He was far more broody." I said nothing, doubting both my sanity and his, but I waited for him to continue. "Anyway, Angel was a vampire with a soul. It was a curse. A curse that came undone only when he and your mom…" He gave me a weird sort-of look that took me a moment to comprehend.

"Oh," was all I could say to that. Angel could only lose his soul if he and Mom had had sex… Ewww. I shivered, not wanting to think about my parents, of all people, doing that. Still, the romanticist inside me took over as I thought about it. How terribly Romeo-and-Juliet-ish. They couldn't be together like that, and yet… they wanted it so badly.

"Eight months later, I got an announcement for the birth of Angela Marie Summers."

"But didn't you say my mother was pregnant with twins?"

"She was. Apparently, there were problems at birth, and… your brother didn't make it. It upset her greatly, as far as I could tell," Xander went on. He looked up. "And that's all I know."

"Wow," I commented, feeling breathless. It was an amazing story. Vampires, torn lovers, the death of a love child that had spawned the evil within my father. It was all incredible. But there seemed to be a detail missing. I asked, "But… why… what… how did you guys find out Angel was a vampire? Up until this point, I've always thought they were fairy tale."

"That's the reason I'm in Sunnydale on business." He cleared his throat. "You mother, uh, never told you about the Watcher's Council, did she?"

I shook my head. "Was she supposed to?"

"See, there's on girl in all the world… a Chosen One… who stands alone against the forces of darkness. A Slayer," he explained, sounding textbook on the matter. He cleared his throat again, and I realized this was probably harder for him than he anticipated. "When one Slayer dies, the next in line is called. And the line is determined by birthright. Once… once a Slayer is called, she is trained by her Watcher to battle the evil of the world."

"Why?"

Xander shrugged. "I've always thought it was to balance the big bad babies of the night with some ass-kicking fems in leather, but the official explanation is that it is a sacred duty and prophecy and all that crap…" he said nonchalantly. "Anyway, to get to the point of this entire trip, I've… sorta been working for the Watcher's Council, in their top-secret New York office, and apparently… our present Slayer has just died. And there… there seems to be a… glitch, if you will, in the birthrights."

"What kind of glitch?" I questioned, eyes wide open. This was a lot to take in at once, but for some reason, it all made perfect sense to me. My mother had snuck out every night with a gym bag. We had seven locks on our door. I was grounded when Angelus had tried to get in touch with his daughter. It all made sense.

"Well..." He shifted his weight on the bed. "The Watcher's Council had made a mistake somewhere in the paperwork, and it turns out there is no possible girl that could fit the role of the Slayer. Not at this time. The next one with a birthright is three years old."

I sighed. I couldn't help it. Not that I even knew or totally cared who or what a Slayer was, I did know that it was always a good thing to have someone fighting for the greater good of mankind. Especially if the evil they were fighting against was something most people didn't believe in.

He leaned forward, and our eyes met in a sea of brown. "Angela, I know this is all seeming like too much at one time, but I've talked with the Watcher's Council, and they feel that with the success of your mother as a Slayer… you might become a suitable Slayer, if everything works out. Would you be… okay with that?"

I gulped. How the hell was I supposed to respond to a question like that?

*****

PART THREE

How could I turn it down? This man, my mother's former friend, Xander, was offering me the chance to relive and carry on the legacy of my mother. According to him, no Slayer had survived as long as her or made such a large impression on the underworld. Her name struck fear in the hearts of many demons and vampires, and most fled upon hearing it. Better to flee than to stick around and see if the mumbling of her name was in precedence to her arrival. How could I not renew her spirit?

I returned to Jill's house later that night as a teenage girl pending Slayerhood. Thankfully, her parents had not yet arrived home from Paris, and I had enough time to shower before their flight came in. Jill pumped me for information about my previous night and how it had been spent, but I revealed nothing. I knew what she had thought I had done, and I figured it was a better explanation than the truth, so I let her believe in her theories. I mean, how was I supposed to explain to this girl what a vampire Slayer was when I wasn't exactly sure myself?

That was the last week I spent at Jill's house, for by that Friday, Xander Harris returned to Sunnydale, and this time for good. He had bought out a tiny house near the high school, and when he offered me a space, I immediately took him up. The last week had been somewhat rough. Jill kept wanting to party and find her ways into trouble, as usual, but I couldn't be bothered with such things. I had too many other things on my mind - vampires, demons, magic, killers, good and evil - to even start thinking about hitting the usual night clubs. We grew apart that week, Jill and I. I left her house with no more than a thank you note left on her parents bed, and not once did I look back.

Funny, it was at this time that I no longer felt my father watching over me as I slept. Perhaps it was an omen of the good things to come. Or the emptiness that would result from it.

Living at Xander's was a challenge from the start. We had very little space to start off with, so most of my stuff either had to go into storage or to Good Will. He offered to let me sleep in the bedroom, but I told him the couch would suit me just fine, and that living room couch became my bed for the next couple of years.

We had converted the basement into a high-tech gym. On one end was a treadmill, a weight machine, a couple of handheld weights. The other end was completely padded with styrofoam rubber. Several ancient fighting tools hung on his wall, as well as some updated ones, like the crossbow. When I asked him how he had acquired such rarities, he made some reply about a man named Rupert Giles and his will.

Training started slow. I usually didn't workout till after five in the evening, at least. That was usually about the time he arrived home from his job at an office supply store. He had a rule that I had to finish my schoolwork before the punching and kicking and sweating could begin, but since he had never been much of the overachiever, most of my schoolwork went untouched. He, still, however, would not allow me to skip school for any reason, giving me the excuse that the creepy crawlies wouldn't be out till after sundown, anyway.

I didn't know I had so much strength. I had never really been into athletics before, but even if I had, my sudden capabilities were… unreal. It was unnatural to jump so high or kick so hard, especially when I could do so without breaking a sweat. I was astounded at my own strength and power, but Xander only seemed satisfied. He said the power was granted to all Slayers, and that apparently, if the Council deemed someone worthy to become a Slayer, she received the powers naturally. No one knew quite how, although he suspected some of the top authorities knew what went into it. I had the feeling that while Xander worked with the Watcher's Council very closely, he never fully trusted in it.

Graduation came that spring, and by then, I had already staked more vampires and slew more demon than most of the other Slayers had in their entire duration as the Chosen One. I didn't think much of it. No, slaying had become more of a chance to release any tension or hard feelings the day had brought to me. It was a way to get in touch with everything I kept inside and to deal with it.

I passed my eighteenth birthday Council test with flying colors, showing the same wit and creativity my mother must have conveyed. Some told me this with admiration and pride; others seemed to want to place me above my mom, which I would not allow. It seemed as though she had quit the Council, and some of the authorities were still somewhat bitter about her rebellion, even if they did admit they respected her for surviving that long. Nevertheless, I was proud to be the daughter of Buffy Summers.

By the time I had reached my nineteenth birthday, I was reputed to be one of the most valuable and promising Slayers the world had ever brought forth in its battle against evil. My strength was growing, my skills developing themselves into new, more advanced techniques. I grew more independent from Xander, and I allowed him the time he needed to rethink and rework his crumbling marriage to Anya Harris, who still resided in New York as a romance novelist. The two had been on rocky terms for as long as I could remember, and I decided that I could do well enough with Xander's focus elsewhere.

It was a day that he was in New York that I received a phone call. I had not wanted to answer it, since I had not been much of the social type since I began my path into Slayerhood, but I knew the call could just as well be from Xander, leaving me important news. I answered by the third ring, not even out of breath from my mad dash up the flight of basement stairs. "Hello?"

"Who's this?" a feminine voice demanded from the other end of the line, sounding impatient.

Who did the person think I was? An idiot? "Depends. Who's calling?"

There was a slight snuff from the other end of the line, and I could almost hear this lady preening herself up proudly. "Cordelia Chase. As seen on the Cover Girl adds and Pepsi commercials." There was a hard-earned dignity to her voice that led me to believe there was more to the person than just the few ads she had done. "Now, who, may I ask, is this?"

"Angela."

"Angela… who? I was given this number by Xander, to call in case we needed help."

"Well, Xander's in New York right now with Anya, so if you have an urgent message for him, I can give you his New York number…" I looked on the fridge, among the pictures and notes held by magnets to the fridge till I found the number he had left me.

The lady interrupted. "Wait, you're not Angela Summers, Buffy's little daughter and Xander's trainee, are you?"

"And if I am?" I replied defensively. Was there something wrong with being the daughter of Buffy Summers and the student of Xander Harris?

There came a sigh of relief from Cordelia's end. "You are JUST the person we've been looking for!"

"Whose 'we?'" I asked suspiciously.

"Angel Investigations, we help the hopeless. Or something like that," Cordelia answered with a professional edge found only on voice messages and annoying advertisements. "This is just my job on the side. All professional actresses have them."

I rolled my eyes. "So… why me?"

"Well, my boss seems to have let this… vampire get the best of him, and he needs you to help him out," Cordelia explained. "We've asked Xander before, but he refused to let you come to LA to help."

"Then why were you calling again?" I reasoned.

"Because it's getting really bad. Look, Angela, we're in some real trouble here. Wesley's in the hospital, and-."

"And this is in LA?" I cut her off, trying to be clear on the terms. LA? I had never been outside of Sunnydale, never once in my entire life. I hadn't seen any big cities, or any smaller towns at that. I'd heard of LA, the shopping, the style, the savvy nightlife. The despair and the hopeless must have been left out of the conversation, because all I could remember thinking at this point was that I was going to see the bright lights of LA at last.

"Yep."

"Count me in," I told her.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" Cordelia replied gratefully. "Any idea when we can expect you?"

"Tomorrow afternoon?" I suggested.

"Sounds GREAT!" she commented with enthusiasm before hanging up.

I spent the rest of the day packing, taking careful consideration into each item I stuffed into my two duffel bags. I had no idea how upset Xander would be to find I'd left the house without a word and had taken off to a city he obviously didn't want me in. Plus, it sounded like there was a lot of trouble in the city. I had no idea what weapons to take, so I settled on the ones I handled best in combat. The last weapon in was a curvy stake Xander always called "Mr. Pointy." While I wasn't sure about the whole name thing, it had always been my luckiest stake, averaging far more kills than any other stake, and I kissed it gently before placing it in the bag among other medieval and contemporary weaponry.

The following day, I managed to make my way to Main Street, and from there, I caught a ride with a trucker, who had stared at my chest quite profusely before letting me aboard for the ride. I figured that if a bit of staring was what it took to get me to LA, it was well worth it.

It didn't take long for me to find Angel Investigations. The trucker let me off at one of the street corners, and within minutes, I had managed to find a white card with a sketchy angel design on the front and a phone number. A little bit more searching, and I was soon standing in front of the door that would lead me inside their offices.

It took me several minutes of contemplating, but I opened the office door carefully - afraid, almost. Who were these people that asked for my assistance? And why did Xander not want me journeying here to help? I was soon to find out.

The lobby was small, contemporary, slightly messy, but in an ornate sort of way. A creme-colored couch was pushed up against one wall, magazines thrown on the end table at either end of the couch. Across the lobby from the couch was a large, disordered secretary's desk.

The secretary stood behind it. Actually, at the moment, she was currently leaning against it with all her weight, pounding her fist against the wooden surface. "No, you listen to me!" she cried, exasperated. She grunted angrily. "I am perfect for the role! Trust me!" The woman on the other line said something, to which the secretary replied, "No, I know they want a young, vibrant actress, but I can be young! … and vibrant!"

The argument continued for several minutes, so I quietly took a seat on the plush couch, watching this secretary discuss - very heatedly, I might add - a role with whom I assumed to be her agent. I identified this to be Cordelia Chase, the outgoing, somewhat self-centered woman I had spoken with on the phone just the day before.

The intense conversation must've ended, for Cordelia's face fell, and she slowly replaced the receiver in its cradle, shrinking back into her office chair. "I am not to old," she mumbled to herself and to the person she had been talking to, who could no longer hear her. Her head fell into her palms, and she ran her fingers through her dark brown hair. It took her all of ten minutes to notice someone else was in the room.

When her eyes skimmed over me, she turned on the instantaneous charm, flashing me her big, bright smile. She looked to be Xander's age. "Hi, I'm Cordelia Chase of Angel Investigations. How can I help you?"

"You can tell me why you and whoever else needed me in LA," I replied, flipping through an issue of Glamour I had found on one of the tables.

"Oh, you must be Angela!"

I stared at her over an article about the newest in fall fashions. "Yeah," I said slowly. These people were certainly quick to catch on, now weren't they? It was no wonder they needed the assitance of the Slayer to combat evil.

I think my edge must have gotten to Cordelia already, for she stood up and glanced at the two bags at my feet. "Well, you must be exhausted. Let me… uh… find you a place to lay down."

I said nothing - why would I? - and looked to her expectantly, picking up a duffel bag with each hand.

"Right, then," she muttered to herself and led me through an unoccupied office to a flight of stairs in the back. The stairs were dark, dank leading us into the shadows, the darkness swallowing us whole. She slipped on a light switch, and the darkened apartment filled with dim light, sending the shadows scampering to their corners.

We appeared to be in a well-furnished basement, for there were no windows. The furniture was in no way new and cast a melancholy and slightly… antique look to the living quarters. Yet everything looked welcoming and comfortable, despite the despair interwoven with the fabrics and wood. I sighed, nodded my head in approval, and collapsed onto one of the easy chairs, resting my bags at my feet.

"He'll be home soon. He just had to visit Ka-… Detective Lockley," Cordelia explained, judging my every move. Was I expected to react to the person she started to mention? I knew no Detective Lockley, and the name meant nothing to me. She headed for the stairs to return to her desk.

"Who's 'he?'"

Cordelia turned as she reached the bottom of the staircase. "Angel." She left me alone to my thoughts in the basement.

Could it…? No, it wasn't possible. Angelus was a demon vampire, the one who had killed my mother. Did he really have people working for him? And had this whole "we need help" thing been a scam, a snare to entrap the little Slayer? Was that why Xander had refused to allow me a trip to LA? Suddenly, waiting around in this dimly-lit, no-escape basement seemed like a not-so-smart idea.

I was gathering my luggage, scurrying to leave when I heard footsteps - heavy footsteps - of someone descending down the stairs. I froze in fear and anticipation.

Clomp.

Clomp, clomp.

Clomp.

Clomp, clomp, clomp.

The familiar feeling returned, the one I had felt every night as I drifted to sleep in my youth. I knew instinctively that this was the same man - or beast - that had watched me every night as I tossed and turned beneath the sheets.

And for the first time in my life, I came face-to-face with my vampire father, my mother's murder. My breath caught in my throat as he appeared on the stairs. He looked exactly as he had in my dream, every detail of his face and his body forever embedded in my memory. He had my eyes, of I had his. We shared our dark hair, the arrangement of our facial features. I hated it. I hated him for everything - the death of my mother, the passing on of his traits, the way he moved, the way my life had turned out. The way he didn't breathe.

"Angelus," I murmured under my breath, my eyes fixed on his. Slowly, my right hand crept up to my lower back, where I had Mr. Pointy tucked conveniently in my vinyl pants. I tried to make my actions unnoticeable.

"Angela," he declared quietly. His gaze fixated on my slowly-moving arms. "Don't."

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't," I challenged, jaw set.

"You have a lot to learn."

I stopped going for my stake, instead crossing my arms in front of my chest. This monster seemed reserved. He was too quiet, too peaceful, too calm. It wasn't right. Something wasn't right. "What do I have to learn about? My mother's death? No, I've dwelt on that the past five years, thank you very much. Or what about vampires and demons? Well, let's see, I haven't been going to college just so I can stay home and train. How about we just duel this one out to the death so I can get home before my Watcher even notices I'm gone." In one swift move, I produced the stake from my back.

"Angie…"

"Angela," I corrected sharply. "Learn it well. That's the last name you'll scream before your life becomes nothing but ashes in the wind." I held the stake up in attack position, looking at him menacing. Most vampires these days were smart enough to scamper when they saw I meant business, for most of them knew my high stake rate. Face Angela Summers, and see what it feels live the life of a pile of dust. That should have been my slogan.

This one, however, simply rocked back onto his heels, his posture extremely relaxed, considering he was face-to-face with a vampire Slayer out for revenge. I thought I caught a slight roll of his eyes; he seemed almost amused by my sharp tongue. "I'm not going to fight you."

This made me step back. I wanted to laugh at his words, to laugh in his face. Instead, I smirked, shrugging. "Okay, you can roll over and play dead. It's not quite as fun, but…" Without even thinking, I lunged at him, the stake of the point lowering at dangerous speeds towards his heart.

His hand grabbed my wrist just centimeters from his chest. He seemed unaffected by my sudden attack, his eyes moving slowly from the stake pointed towards his unbeating heart to my face, his expression blank. He was serious.

I could feel terror rip through my body. No, I told myself, I will NOT let this happen. It WON'T happen. He's not going to kill you like he killed Mom. Think. Don't let him do this Angela!

To my surprise, he suddenly let go of my wrist, our gazes still interlocked. "Don't," he said again, in a voice so soft I could barely hear. He then went over to the kitchen, luring over the stove, setting the kettle on one of the burners.

I, on the other hand, was left standing in the living area of the underground apartment, confused, shocked, skeptical. Was this really happening? Did a vampire really let me go when I had a stake pointed right at his heart, only milliseconds away from breaking the skin? What was he doing? I decided to stick around, against my better judgement. If this vamp wanted to play mind games, he had no idea how cynical I was. No one ever messed with Angela's head.

Wandering casually into the kitchen, I stared at the vampire's back. I couldn't bring myself to refer to him as my father, for to me, he was the thing that killed my mother. No more, no less. He was a creature deserving to die. I felt my eyes narrowing, wishing my stare could burn him to the ground.

He turned around just then, startling me. In each hand was a tea cup full of tea. "Would you like something to drink?" He held out one cup for me.

I accepted it, trying to play dumb. But I did not drink. No, Xander and I had spent much time on potions and poisons, and I was far too wise to accept a drink from a vamp. Especially this one. Instead, I set my cup down on the kitchen table, suddenly taking note of what a civilized house this vampire lived in. I wondered if he lured innocents in here often.

He must have noticed the light reflecting off the metal against my chest. My mother's silver cross. The one I had never had the heart to remove from around my neck. I wore it as a proud sign of who I was, who my mother had been. We were Warriors, we were strong. We fought to the death, and we protected others. The cross was my proud symbol of the spirit of the hunt, and I wore it close to my heart.

The vampire reached out for it, and I instantly shuddered away from his touch. "Don't you touch me!"

His hand retracted to his side. "That cross has blood on it," he observed.

My hand flew to my chest, clutching the warm metallic cross. I looked away. "It… it was my mother's." That's when I dared a look into his eyes. I had to. I had to see what they held for my mother. Joy? Glee? Pride? For some reason, all I saw was a pool of pain in their brown depths. I tried to look further, and he allowed me to. This disturbed me, so much that I drew away, once again on the defense. I was letting my guard down far too easily.

He hung his head. "I know."

That was it?! That was all he could say?! Here he was, given a chance to apologize, to do something, ANYTHING, and he chose to say "I know"?! I felt the hatred once again rise from deep within. This truly was a heartless beast. While other vampires were evil, others showed emotion. They laughed in the face of suffering, took joy in human mourning. But this one didn't appear to feel. With one flick of the wrist, I slapped him in the face, as hard as I could. "'I know'?! Is that all you can say?! Is that all you can feel?! I've met a lot of evil in my time, and NEVER have I found one so heartless. So empty inside. You took my mother from me. You deserve to burn in the flames of hell." Hot tears streamed down my face once again, my eyes broken floodgates. "Do you know how much I hate you?"

He didn't react, not at all.

I slapped him again, this time harder.

Still no reaction.

I once again raised my stake high, wanting so desperately to bury the creature in dust, to kiss the hurt and the pain and the loneliness away. To say goodbye to the haunting memories of my mother. To be at peace.

"Leave, Angela," he told me quietly.

I paused in my action. "What?"

"LEAVE!" he exclaimed, his voice snarling, his face transforming to reveal the demon underneath his skin. His sudden ferocity scared me, startled me.

"Gladly," I mumbled and took off, not bothering to grab my bags on the way out.

*****

PART FOUR

As I darted out onto the lightened streets of LA, into the warm sunlight, among the humans… relief. I was relieved. I was alive. I was scared, shaken, yes, but I was alive. I had escaped from the demon's fury, something my mother hadn't been able to do. And for that, I was relieved. And saddened. I didn't want to surpass my mother, because becoming too powerful could lead me to forget. And I never wanted to forget her. Never.

Doubling over, hands on my knees, head between my legs, wheezing, I felt the warm sun beating on my back, and I heard the sounds of shoes scraping along the concrete sidewalks, people walking to and from work. Heading home for the night. Home. More than anything, I wish I had just stayed put in Sunnydale, like Xander had wanted me to do. Instead, I had trusted my instinct.

And now, here I was, in the middle of LA, no clothes, no food, no money, no transportation, no shelter. I was off to a great start.

A new wave of terror washed over me. This was the first time I had really ever felt alone in my life. Sure, being out in the cemeteries during the early morning hours wasn't exactly a public job, but I always knew that there was someone backing me, or at the very least, someone to protect. I knew that when I was done patrolling each night, Xander would be waiting when I got home, or that he would return home within a day or so. And even before he had come along, I had always had Jill… and my mother. There was always someone to love, and be loved by. And here, now, in LA… I was truly alone.

As I looked around at the foreign buildings and streets, I couldn't help but fret. And there was only one thing that had ever cured my low spirits - clubbing. Okay, so the last time I had actually hung out at a nightclub when it didn't have to do with trapping a vampire was when I had lived with Jill. And that had been years before. But when the chips were down, and there didn't seem to be much hope of things getting better, on the dance floor was the only place my worries drifted away.

I found D'Oblique with no problem at all. It was one of the savviest clubs to hang in, and following a few scantly-dressed women in their mid-twenties, I found the place in no time. The bouncer let me in with no more than a glance. For being only nineteen, I certainly looked older, or at least carried myself as though I was in my early twenties. And my outfit of red vinyl pants under a tight, black top with a horizontal slit above my chest blended in perfectly with the other prostitutes that undoubtedly hung around here.

The heat hit my face within feet of the front door, and within seconds, I was doused with heat and perspiration. I could feel stray strands of my dark hair matting to my face, but I made no move to brush them away. My mind was on other things. Strolling up to the bar, I set in my order for a scotch on the rocks. The bartender didn't even bother to check for an ID, though I would have been happy to offer him my fake one. Sliding onto a barstool, I looked around at the various people - dancing and dining. Some were obviously with a significant other, while some were paired with people they had just met within D'Oblique's walls.

The bartender slid my scotch across the counter, and I accepted it with a half-smile and a long swig. If I had gotten nothing else from my years with Jill, my alcohol tolerance had built up, thanks to her. Hard liquor no longer phased me. Just as my glass was about to touch my lips for the second time, a hand slid over the rim, and my lips met the flesh instead.

I looked at my interrupter curiously and accusingly. But my accusing glance soon disappeared. It was a male, approximately my age, give or take a year. He had dark, dark brown hair, almost like the blackness of midnight. He wore it in waves, a few strands brushing in his face. Yet his eyes were green. Bright green, as I remember my mother's being. His skin was pale, especially in the blue and purple spotlights, but it wasn't enough to arouse any suspicions. His smile was sly as his hand retreated. "You really don't want to be drinking that."

To this I sent him a skeptical, "who-do-you-think-you-are" look and turned towards the bar again. "What do you care? I don't even know you."

The man slid in next to me, ever so smoothly, and he leaned over, so his face was ever so near to mine. I could feel his stale breath on my cheek. It was warm. That was a good sign. "You don't remember me, Angela?" He leaned back, the tension of his closeness fading. "No, of course you don't. Why would you? I worked for Angel. I was… and am… a messenger."

I finished the rest of this glass. "Does this whole damn town work for Angelus?" I muttered to the glass of remaining ice before returning my focus to the stranger seated on my left. "Why do you people work for him? Or haven't you noticed he's a fucking vampire?"

The man half-grinned, seeming distant then. It looked as though he was remembering something pleasant. "Yeah, we've noticed. Everyone who works for him knows he's a vampire. The clients don't, of course, but his confidants and enemies both know of his immortality."

"And why do you work for him, again?" I questioned skeptically. Did these people not know they were working for a murderer? Were they all that brainwashed? Or dumb? Or were they one of those vampire-worshipping cults?

My question widened his smile. "That… my dear… is a much longer story." He stood up and looked around, placing his hand against my lower back. "Look, you wanna go for a walk or something? It's getting really loud in here, and LA's a dangerous city. I could walk you home."

I studied him for a moment. This man posed no apparent threat. He had a breath, he wasn't deathly pale, and he didn't have the… feel of a vampire. And he had told me to stop drinking. That could imply higher moral values, I guessed. And his offer seemed genuine enough. It would be nice to have someone to talk to in this unfamiliar place, even if I had no idea who he was and would probably never see him again.

Nodding, I stood up. He flipped a couple dollar bills onto the surface of the bar, next to the drink, before leading me up the stairs to the exit. The air outside was significantly cooler than the interior of the night club. I had only been inside for all of ten minutes, yet already the sun had completely disappeared from the sky, the evening night no longer full of gold and pink and purple. I sighed and fell in step with the man, wandering if he was going to ask where I lived. I tried to think up an answer to the unasked question as we walked in silence.

Then the realization hit me like a sack of bricks. "How did you know my name?"

His face showed dismissal. "Huh?" I could detect the fake confusion dripping from his voice. The liar.

"Back at the bar… you called me Angela." I dared a look at his face.

"But I never told you my name. How'd you… know?"

He stopped walking, staring down at me in such a way that the risen moon danced off his pupils, and I saw what lurked behind them. Pure evil. He grinned, the dim light from the moon above casting shadows on his pale face, his smile appearing even more eerie.

I laughed in a dominating manner. "You vamps are all the same - leading a helpless, lonely girl down a darkened, I'm guessing dead-end street. And it always end with one more pile of dust for the street sweeping people to brush away." I easily removed Mr. Pointy from the back of my pants. "The Angelus thing… nice touch." The stake began to rise into battle position.

He laughed at this. "That won't kill me."

"Try telling that to the other thousand vampires that it's been plunged into," I challenged, holding it up.

This only brought up more hysterical laugher from him.

"What's so… funny?" Had this vampire lost his mind?! What was so funny? Something wasn't right. I felt it. The laughing… this wasn't how it was supposed to be.

Without warning, he swiped up and grabbed me by the throat, his eyes glowing red suddenly. He held me off the ground single-handedly, his grip unnaturally strong as my legs flailed about, hoping to kick him. Mr. Pointy dropped from my hands as my fingers fought to release me from his deathgrip. I knew I was running out of oxygen, so I forced myself to relax. Panicking would only deprive me of my precious oxygen cells. I struggled to calm myself.

The world was getting darker, the edges of my vision growing blacker and fading away.

I felt myself drifting away… no longer feeling the forceful clutch of my throat or the tingling in my legs. The sounds of distant cars began to lessen into almost silence.

I felt my breathing - and my heart - slow. So this was it.

Breathe in.

Fade away.

Breathe out.

Fade away.

Breathe in…

My eyes closed slowly. The last thing I remember seeing before the world went black were those glowing red eyes.

*****

The next thing I knew, I was lying on a hospital bed, a mouthpiece over my mouth and nose, regulating the airflow to my lungs. Air! I sucked it in with joy and appreciation, savoring the feeling of my lungs rising and falling with the sweet, life-sustaining gases. Near my head, a machine monitored my heart, and I heard all around me the hustle and bustle of nurses and doctors and visitors scurrying every which way, pages being sent over the intercom every now and then.

A blonde woman hovered near my side, looking in her early forties or so. Her eyes were sharp, her hair full of body, her face tight. I noticed wrinkles gathering at the edges of her eyes as she looked at me from above. She had a few freckles on her tired face. As I stared at her, I noticed something. Was that sympathy in her eyes? Who was she, if she wasn't dressed in doctors' of nurses' scrubs? I had had enough strangers for one night. "Angela," she said softly.

Great. Another stranger who apparently knew who I was, when I was clueless about them. I removed my mouthpiece to speak. "Who are you?"

She held up a badge, still shiny and bright, despite the wear of the leather in which it was displayed. "Detective Lockley. LAPD. I found you at the feet of Christian early tonight."

"Christian?" I asked dimly. Then it all returned… the struggle… the conversation… What an odd name for a monster. "Oh."

Detective Lockley gently touched my head. I realized then I had gauze wrapped around my head, holding a bandage on my forehead in place. "You hit your head when he dropped you. Took off running. Your lucky you ended up with no more than a blackout and a cut on the forehead."

I was about to reply when another figure rushed into my room, dressed in black pants and a dark satin shirt, his black trenchcoat flying around him. "Kate! I came as quick as I heard!" He looked from the lady to me. Shit. It was Angelus. I tried to pull myself up straight, but a slight wave of dizziness and weakness held me firmly in place. Detective Lockley worked for this man, too?! Did this vampire have the entire city brainwashed or something?! Or was LA just a city full of completely idiotic people?! He leaned over me closely, inspecting the damage. "Are you okay, Angela?"

"Go to hell," I replied firmly. No way was this creature of the night brainwashing me.

Detective Lockley placed a hand on his chest, as if holding him back from doing something irrational. However, the comment seemed to sting him slightly. He took a few steps backwards, pulling Kate aside. They lowered their voices, although I could still hear them clearly. "Was it Christian?"

She nodded solemnly. "Afraid so. I pulled up just as she passed out. She got lucky."

"Does she know?"

There was a long pause as they both glanced at me cautiously. I pretended not to be eavesdropping, although any idiot would know I was. Detective Lockley shook her head. "I don't think so. I thought I'd save the explaining to you." She grinned with amusement. "Though she doesn't exactly seem to have a warm spot for you."

"Do you mind if I just take her home?" he asked. "If you need some kind of report from her, I can send her in tomorrow."

Nodding, Detective Lockley replied, "She's very lucky, Angel. She could have died tonight. If I were you, I would keep the both of you low and off the streets. He knows she's here, and he's most likely going to want a fight to the death."

Angelus nodded. "I know." He started towards me. I tried to punch him as he leaned over me, unhooking and removing all of my machinery, but I was too weak to do anything. My entire body felt like it hadn't gotten rest in days.

Detective Lockley opened up a wheelchair from it's leaning place against one of the walls, and Angelus gently set me down in it.

"Nooooo!" I protested loudly. "Get your hands off me, asshole!" He and Detective Lockley moved me quickly through the hospital quarters and out into the parking lot. I did my best to make a scene and shout as loud as I can, but Angelus threw a hand over my mouth. I promptly bit his finger, but while he drew away, he didn't cry out in pain either. I guess my bite was nothing compared to his.

He loaded me into the passenger seat of his black car, Detective Lockley bidding him one last, solemn farewell before splitting to her cop car. Had I had any more strength, I would have fought in some way, at least knocked the keys out of the vampire's hands as he slipped them into the ignition and started the engine up. I figured yelling at this point would do no good since he had the top of his car up and the windows closed. The only thing my protesting would do would be giving us both headaches. And as weird and out of it as I was feeling, I was in no mood for a headache.

Angelus took great care of me, for being such a monster. Once we had reached the same basement apartment, he stretched me out across one of the couches and laid a blanket over me, fluffing the pillows up under my head. He forced me to guzzle some tea, and seeing as I probably had no choice, I did so anyway. I hoped that if it indeed had been poison, perhaps my high alcohol tolerance could save me.

He sat down on the coffee table next to me, stroking my hair for a minute. I shuddered under his cold touch, and he drew back. "Seeing as you can't make any move to fight back, you and I need to talk."

I turned my head to look at him. "I have no more words to say except that I hope you never get out of hell."

"Then why do you want to kill me?" he replied, his words both surprising me and confusing me. He went on to explain, quietly and uneasily, "Angela, I know you think I'm still the evil monster that killed your mom, but I'm not."

"Funny, you sure look like him."

"But I have a soul," he declared.

"Bastard," I stated, wishing I could have beat him to a bloody pulp then. Did he really mean to tell me that he had had a soul all this time, and he killed my mother?! Like this was supposed to help?! I wanted to kill him. I wanted to burn him to ashes and bathe in his remains.

"I didn't then," he added, averting my harsh gaze.

I didn't say anything, not wanting to speak. He had more to explain. If he didn't, I would force him to explain more. Having a soul didn't change things. A soul didn't make things better. It didn't bring back my mother.

He slipped a silver ring off his finger and began playing around with it, focusing on that instead of me. "Buffy and I… We were in love. We… wanted each other so badly, and we couldn't have it." Ah, so we were getting to the familiar territory. I waited to see how this forbidden romance played into the grand scheme of things. I didn't have to wait long. "If we ever…" he made a look to signify importance, and I caught the drift of his actions, "I would lose my soul."

"Did you?" I asked, though by now, I had figured it out. I just had to hear him say it. I had to hear it come from him to believe it was true.

"Twice. Once when she was barely seventeen… and once nineteen years ago." This time he looked me straight in the eye. "We couldn't stop ourselves, and the next thing I knew, the demon inside had awakened. The curse of my soul wasn't done until after Buffy was dead." He gulped long and hard, and a dreadfully morbid silence followed.

I decided to steer away from that topic. "But… if you really are my father, like everyone says… how, then?"

He shrugged slightly. "To this day, I'm not sure. The one thing that triggers the demon inside is a moment of perfect, human happiness. I suppose that in that one moment… I was human."

"Long enough to get my mom pregnant with me," I added.

"With you and your brother," he corrected.

"My brother's dead."

His eyes met mine. "That's a lie. Buffy gave birth to twins. They were brought to the nursery. I… I took the male, leaving a blue fetus in its place. The replacement was easy to find from the abortion procedures taking place. The nurses assumed the baby had died of complications, and you were taken home, believed to be our only child."

I shuddered. "So then… what'd you do with my brother?"

"I taught him… everything I knew. As Angelus, I was the leader of the underworld, the most dangerous, most deadly vampire on the face of the planet. And now I had my prince, my successor. I named him Christian, of all things, for I believed him to be the antichrist come to earth. He was so powerful." He fumbled a bit. "I should've known he would've tried to get to you last night."

"But he's human?"

Angelus… Angel… nodded.

"Then how's he so strong?"

"I'd imagine you'd know by now," he replied, surprised evident among his features. "I assume Xander's asked you to be the Slayer."

I nodded. "But what does that have to do with this?"

"The child of a Slayer and a vampire is very powerful. VERY powerful. You and Christian possess both Slayer and vampire strength and skill, making both of you virtually unkillable by any being that walks this earth. When the Council needed someone to fill in as a Slayer, it was no surprise they'd turn to you," he explained. "You have tremendous power inside you."

I sank back against the pillows. Wow. That was all I could think. Wow. So this was really it. Angelus no longer existed, no replaced by Angel, the tortured vampire with a soul. And now I had a twin brother who was the only person who could rival me, and suddenly, I supposedly had almost superhuman powers.

Wow.

"Once I regained my soul, I tried to stop Christian, but he's too powerful. He's taken out so many already that I knew you were the only one who could help. That is, if you could understand the circumstances enough to help. I asked Xander many times, but he didn't think you were ready. He wanted you to have complete focus and balance, both physically and mentally. I didn't expect to find you in my apartment earlier today."

I yawned, commenting, "I'll bet." Rolling over, I asked, "Angelu-." I stopped myself and started again. "Angel, can I please get some rest now? I'm so tired."

He nodded. "You've got a lot coming up. You need rest."

That was the last thing I remember hearing him say, although a familiar sense of deja vu washed over me. Here I was yet again, falling asleep under my father's watchful gaze.

*****

PART FIVE

Everything and nothing. That was how I felt when I awoke the following afternoon, tired and sore, cramped, headachy. I wanted to return to my peaceful slumber, but I knew I would find no comfort there. Not that the world I found when I was awake was any better. Stretching, I nestled deeper into the couch cushions. What need did I have to get up today? Angel had said he wanted me rested, that the minute I decided to leave the apartment would be the minute I was an open target for Christian.

How weird it felt. My own twin brother was out to kill me. And I didn't know I had a twin brother till a couple years ago; I didn't even know he was alive till yesterday. And already I was a moving target for him. I wondered if he found pleasure in meeting me. His twin. The Slayer. Would he be ecstatic to kill me? To torture me? To feel the fear I shed as he held me close? I never was scared of anything, or at least I believed I wasn't. Since last night, I had begun to doubt everything I was ever told.

And what about Angel? Sure, it seemed like he was telling the truth, but… was he? Everything seemed to match up with the information I had learned so far, but then again, I had been fed a lot of bullshit before. I wanted so badly to believe him, but at the same time, I prayed he was lying. He killed my mother. Both of us knew he would never be able to escape that fact, and no matter how much he appeared to have changed, the truth was, he had murdered my own mother. I suspected I would never truly be able to look him in the face and not see some of the evil that had once resided behind those eyes. The demon would always be inside him, whether it was blanketed by his soul or allowed to roam free. How much trust did that merit?

Thoughts and ideas and theories and memories swarmed through my mind as I laid on his couch. They clouded my mind, my senses, so that I could not even judge time accurately. Though it felt like I had only dwelt on my musings for hours, days had passed. Several times the moon had risen, and several times the sun had kept watch over the world. All the while, I was in the basement, sorting out my life. My past, my present, and my destiny. It was no longer my future. "Future" sounded unruly, and with everything that had dictated my life thus far, I had to believe that there was always a higher power nearby, silently guiding where I needed to go.

Angel didn't force me to train. In fact, he rarely spoke to me during this time. I suppose he thought of it as a time of transformation for me, of crossing over from one state of mind to the next, discovering the truths and working out my beliefs. All he did during this period of time was feed me, careful to gently touch a bowl of soup to my lips or the like. He didn't disturb my reverie.

I awoke one morning from my trance-like state to find him pacing, a cell phone raised to his ear, lines of urgency crowding his unaged face. "Come on, come on, Kate…" he murmured into the phone. Even from across the room, I could hear the low ringing tone that sounded from the phone. His throat muscles were flexed, I could tell, but other than that, he maintained control.

I spoke not, but waited to see what would happen.

Angel snapped the phone shut, startled to find me sitting up on the couch, staring at him intently. He jumped only slightly, and I could tell from the manner he did so that something more was on his mind. He noticed my eyes averting to the cell phone in his hand, and he nodded towards it. "I was calling Detective Lockley. She…uh… she was supposed to be gathering some more information on Christian. His whereabouts and stuff like that."

I caught the glimmer in his eyes reflecting off one of the dim lights. They weren't tears, no, for tears created an entirely different sort of sparkle. This was the sheen of worry, of fear. Of knowing. I tried to tear my gaze away from my distressed father, but found I could not. "You feel something for her, don't you?"

"Friendship," Angel declared. "She and I work together on cases. I could never…" He looked at the cell phone again, as if begging it to ring. "And she's not at the office."

"Maybe it's field work," I suggested. I had no idea what had him so worried, other than the fact that she had been working with him on finding out about Christian and that she wasn't at work today. Sure, she had stuff working against her, but I couldn't very well tell Angel that. I had to keep him hoping. Had to. "Angel, she could be anywhere, okay?"

He sighed, rubbing the back of my neck. "That's exactly what I'm worried about." With one final glance at the phone, he paced quickly into his room. "I'm going to go look for her."

I stood up, resting my weight on my legs for the first time in several days. "Me, too."

He stuck his head out the double doors of the bedroom, long enough to look me over and tell me firmly, "I don't want you going anywhere. You've been asleep for the past few days. You're in no condition to…"

"Fight and yada, yada, yada," I concluded, sending him an annoyed look. "FYI, Angel, I'm almost twenty years old, and I happen to be the vampire slayer. I'm gonna do what I want to do.

"And you're going to get killed," he added, pulling on a shirt over his head. We stared at each other for the longest time, sizing each other up, challenging the other to throw out some comment. The issues between us had yet to be completely resolved. This was my father, and I barely knew him, let alone trusted him. We would have a lot to learn from each other. I believed we could, if given the chance. But I knew our lives. We were Warriors. The fight between good and evil never stopped long enough to patch up differences. It only kept battle after battle heading straight for us. The fight would never end. Not till we died. "Angela, look, I don't want you getting hurt."

I folded my arms. "In case you haven't noticed, I've been hurt before," I stated quietly. "I'm a big girl. I can take it."

"Can you?" he challenged. "Do you really think you can face Christian, with everything he knows and does? Are you strong enough to face the reality that your mother won't be back and that you'll always be truly alone, no matter what you tell yourself? That you've never really been special, that all you are is some regular Jane dressed up in a superhero costume? That everything you believe in and live by isn't enough?" His voice was quiet, yet insistent. It demanded my attention, my focus, and yet, it was silent enough, gentle enough that I knew it was the truth. "Think you can handle it?"

I remained silent, staring hard at him. What would I have to say to that? I knew he was right. From what little I knew of my brother, I knew he could see into me. We were bonded together - the faces of pure good and pure evil. He knew things, saw things, that were deeper inside me than I was willing to go. If I wasn't strong enough…

My silence was enough of an answer for Angel. Slipping on his black duster, he slipped the cell phone into his pocket and headed for the stairs. "I'll be home hopefully by morning. If I'm not… don't come looking." I watched him go, the determined look on his face. He was right about something else, something he had said. We were truly alone, him and I. I saw it in his eyes, felt it inside. He had had a connection before, with my mother, but in the end, he was left standing and fighting in her wake. He could defend countless souls, but he would never be of them. And neither would I.

I waited till I heard the door upstairs click shut before I headed for the shower. I had been in such a daze for so long that I had not bothered to shower or clean or even sit up. Had I really gone through a transformation? I didn't feel different. Perhaps slightly more confused, but that was all.

The warm water rushing against my skin felt good. I felt my fears and worries and troubles running off my body with the soapy water, and perhaps it was then that the true conversion came. I knew then, as I wrapped a clean towel around my frame and looked myself in the mirror… There would be a battle. It was inevitable. And if I didn't go looking for it, it would look for me. Hunt me down till I could run no more. I couldn't bury the past. But I could lessen the pain of it. I could look it in the face, the face of that very evil, and I could control it. I wanted to control it.

The peace that came to me then was almost inhuman. Was this what the Buddhists had described as nirvana? One with the universe… That's how I felt. Everything around me had these connections with me, and I drew strength and power from my surroundings. I felt invincible, immortal. Was I destruction incarnate, as I had once read Slayerhood to be? Or was this simply my destiny?

I dressed slowly, not really caring what I had decided to wear. I felt as though I was floating above my body, like some unearthly spirit had taken control of my motions, guiding me to my trial of fate. Life and death would be decided today, and I would not return to the mortal plane until the decision was final. Who would survive?

The silver of the cross pendent against my chest was suddenly warm against my flesh. I could feel it burn its shape into my skin, my heart beating rapidly against it. All over, all around me, I could feel my body preparing for battle. I took no weapons, knowing that in the end, battle tools were obsolite. The real fight was not merely against my brother, but against myself. Against my past and who I was and what I was to become. I had to attain complete balance, and until then, the fights were no more than attempts at winning. But today. Today, I would win. Victory would be complete, and oneness would be achieved.

It had to be.

I don't remember much of my journey to the spot, but my destination is forever embedded in my memory, burned onto it so I still see it in my dreams, and when I'm awake. He was waiting for me, Christian was. Lurking in the shadows, waiting for his prey to feel the fear, to experience the turmoil and confusion. Unfortunately for him, all I felt was a hunger for triumph and the desire to complete this task. Fear floated above me, along with my full state of consciousness.

Taking a step into the darkened light of the parking garage, I could see him now, see how much he resembled my mother… and my father. And yet he didn't look a thing like them. He was pure evil, and he was human. He was an enigma, an argument with himself. Christian would not know peace, for both sides would forever be inside him. The driving passion of human truth would boil his blood and make him toss and turn in his sleep, while the evil would whisper to him through the wind, bringing forth the demon inside that never existed. He was human. But he had no soul.

"Look who's finally decided to face her destiny," he taunted. His eyebrows raised with amusement. "You ready, Angela? Or do we need more training sessions in your Watcher's basement?"

I was unmoved by any of his words. "Are you ready to die, Christian?"

He smiled at this, pacing slowly back and forth. To the left… turn… to the right… turn… to the left… turn… "You can't kill me, Angela. I'm evil incarnate. I am the shadows, and the night. I am your fears, your pain, your past. I am what eats away at your conscience, what kills you a little each day. You can't stop me. You're a part of me."

Once again, I remained ever so still. The feeling of watching this all happen from above returned, and while I wanted to lash out at him, the peace weighed me down. My time of success would come as patience held me in its clutches. I took a breath. And held it. "We'll see about that."

Swap. His arm had shot out then, aimed straight for my temple, a hammer in his grasp, but my hand caught him inches away from contact. I continued to stare straight ahead, feeling like I was asleep and like would never sleep again. But this did not confuse me, only added my power. My swift reactions had caught Christian by surprise. And pleased him still. He thirsted for battle, wanting to taste the fear and the excursion and the struggle. It was the hunt that stimulated him.

The battle lagged on, punch after punch, kick after kick. I could feel Christian tire, for while he was purely evil, he was still human. He could never be pure, and that was his weakness. But while I fought, I could feel my own balance and harmony slipping. Moments would pass where I was disgruntled and thrown, and I was left fighting him defenselessly. He must have recognized my slipups every now and then, and anticipating each one, he tried to take advantage of them.

He succeeded.

With a little wave of dizziness, I felt my harmony leave me and I prayed for its return. And in that very instant, he sent me flying across the garage, my back cracking against the concrete walls. White hot pain shot through each one of my limbs as I fell to the ground like a rag doll. I gasped for breath, and the pendent around my neck grew hotter till I almost cried out from the searing pain.

He approached me slowly, savoring each precious second. Slowly retrieving his fallen hammer, he stalked towards me, his eyes burning into my back as I struggled to regain my concentration and power. A sense of numbness was slowly creeping over my legs, and I doubted their strength. I felt hot tears leaking out of my eyes and in that moment, begged my own, deceased mother to give me the strength. I knew she was near me, in the spirit of my fight. I needed her, needed help. I needed to live.

And my prayer answered by an Angel.

"Drop the hammer, Christian," he commanded quietly from the depths of the shadows. I lifted my head in the direction of his steps to see him step into the dim lighting. His features were set on my brother. "You don't want to hurt her. She's not who made you what you are and then left."

"But look at her!" Christian exclaimed jovially. "She's so cute and sweet and innocent. What's one little hole in her head going to do?"

"Drop it," Angel bellowed, advancing slowly. He dropped the crossbow he had brought on the floor next to him, a sign that the battle was to be no more than psychological. He was an open target, and if one bit of Christian's humanity remained, he should have been able to see the options. Angel was surrendering himself.

Christian whirled around to face him head-on, his amusement disappearing. "And what if I don't? What if I…" He walked over to me as I tested my legs, failing miserably. Wrapping his arm around my neck, he picked me up so that the tips of my shoes dragged along the floor. His grip didn't cut off my oxygen supply, though after breathing in some of his breath, I decided passing out would be a better idea. "What if I were to just smash her head in? What would you do then, Angel? Go back to your little apartment and brood that you had lost another? Face it, you were the one who destroyed your family. You killed your wife, corrupted your son, and…. Watched your daughter die." I held my breath, waiting for the blow.

Everything must have held its breath.

Without warning, Angel lunged at Christian, knocking both of us of our feet. I heard Christian's hammer clang against the ground and took a deep breath of relief, touching my neck gingerly. Pulling myself safely aside, I watched Angel and Christian wrestle. They were both strong, both monsters in the core, both having tasted evil and drawing on its resources. I crawled on my hands and knees out of the way.

Christian grabbed my foot as I was scrambling away. I squealed out in surprise, trying to kick it away.

Angel punched him in the face, his fist catching Christian squarely between the eyes. Christian's grip on my ankle eased, and at that moment, I lunged for the nearby crossbow laying on the ground. I turned over onto my back to face them, pointing a crossbow at them.

As I did so, Christian slowly rose to his feet, Angel in the same arm-around-neck grip that I had been in either. Christian was using him as a shield. He grinned from ear-to-ear. "What are you going to do now, Slayer? Is my death worth the cost of his life?" he asked tauntingly.

Angel looked me in the eye, and I knew what he wanted.

And in that second, the oneness returned. This was what I had been born for. Not to defend the world, not to fight the demons. To live the spirit. To be the spirit. Everything I was and am led to that moment, and everything I would become rested on my decision. This was the trial I had been preparing for since the moment of my conception. The peace returned, and I sank back into my soul.

"Yes," I answered.

Christian's look of surprise only lasted a few moments, for my finger pulled the trigger, the flying arrow of the crossbow careening through the air, straight through Angel's heart and into Christian's.

Woosh! With one last look at me, Angel vanished. He was no more. No more than dust.

Christian's eyes bulged, and he fell to the ground, clutching his heart. A tiny stream of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

I did nothing for a moment, continuing to hold the crossbow out at arm's length, staring at where only seconds before, my father and brother had stood, kneeling on the ground.. The shock… the finality… It hit me with one hard bloke, and I suddenly tossed the crossbow aside, the weapon breaking against the wall. Lunging towards the pile of dust, I scooped some of it up in my hands and held it, staring at it until the tears clouded my eyes. No. This couldn't… no. Please, God, no…

I raised my eyes skyward. No…

The sobs washed over me as I collapsed against the hard, cold parking garage floor.

*****

That afternoon had never really left me. I had gone into battle wanting to be rid of all the suffering and pain, only to learn that I had more to endure. But I accepted it. I had emerged the Slayer from the heart of my pain, and it was part of me now. What more could I do than accept it? Fight it? I had already proven to myself that fighting would do nothing.

Night after night, I continued to hunt, though. I killed demons and vampires, their numbers countless. They meant to me anymore. They were merely puppets, and all it took was a simple pull of their strings to brandish them with the kiss of death. My powers grew until the Slayer handbook and Watcher's Council could say no more about me. I had surpassed the limits and had set my own.

And every night, I return my apartment alone, to fall asleep in an empty bed. The Warriors are always alone, he had once told me. But he was wrong. Because every night, as I fall asleep, I can still feel him looking over me, protecting me. This Angel watching by my bed.

THAT'S IT!!!

I can't believe I'm done with it! So... who's ready to lodge a spork in my side?

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