PART 3

I step off my jet that has recently landed in the Spanish International airport and assess my surroundings. The area is still bustling with activity even though it is four in the morning. As I walk into the airport building, my senses are assaulted by the various smells and sounds of life around me.

People walk by me, clustered together into groups. Most speak Spanish, others speak various languages, some that I cannot instantly recognize. I can pick out several conversations: business professionals arguing over some office matter; an exhausted mother and father trying to control excited children; joyous laughter from old friends reunited. A cultured voice announces flight schedules over an intercom and vendors call out about their products and prices. Different fragrances of cologne and perfume reach my nose. It is easy to distinguish who has taste and who must have no sense of smell whatsoever. The smell of many travelers who have obviously been in the air for quite some time, as is indicated by the obvious lack of a shower, also assails me.

I close my eyes and simply let myself relax into the atmosphere around me, absorbing every minute detail.

Yes, the details are unimportant to my purpose for being here but still, the nightlife of Spain is never unexciting, and I can't help but be swept away. That's what I love about this country. Due to the climate and cultural tendencies, most people take naps in the heat of the day and then remain awake far into the night.

It's been far too long since I've been here.

Things have changed since Darla brought Antony and myself here. Probably not the best of ideas considering the current Slayer was also in residence. The decision to move here proved fatal to Antony. Still, I never realized how much I missed the place. Being in California for over thirty five years has given me continual exposure to the Spanish language, but I'm afraid that my accent leans more toward Mexican than the formal Spanish spoken here. However, I don't anticipate too much of a problem with communication, unlike the time I recently spent in France.

Shaking my head to force myself to focus, I stride up to the information desk and attract the attention of the petite brunette behind the desk.

"Si," she asks, still looking down at some paper in front of her, "Como puedo ayudar?" (How can I help you?)

"Eh, el carro de Angel Carter, por favor." (Um, the car for Angel Carter, please)

The brunette glances up and suddenly seems unable to gaze away. Her eyes survey my body and she straightens her back, running her hand through her hair, her eyes widening. I haven't seen my reflection in over two hundred and forty years. It's nice to have a confirmation of my good looks every once and a while.

"Hable Ingles, senor?" (Do you speak English, sir?)

"I do indeed. What gave me away?"

"You have a slight American accent, sir."

I give her a rueful chuckle. "And here I was thinking I could pass for a native. I must admit English is still much easier for me to speak than Spanish."

The woman looks slightly horrified. "Oh no, sir, your accent is most wonderful and almost had me fooled. It is just that so many tourists have come here that I have grown unusually adept at guessing origins. I am sorry if I offend."

Not only is it gratifying to have ones desirability confirmed, it is also pleasant to have ones ego pampered. Unfortunately, I do not have the time. I only have a little longer before the sun rises. "Don't worry--" I glance at her name badge, "--Julietta. I shall survive the slight to my confidence. As I said, I'm here to find the car reserved for Angel Carter."

"At once." Her fingers move nimbly over the keyboard and within a matter of moments she looks back up at me. "I have it here, sir. One moment please." Julietta turns to a black filing cabinet behind her. Pulling out a manila envelope, she turns to face me once again. "Here is the paper work: insurance, license to drive, and a few other things. The keys are inside. I'll have someone show you where your car is parked."

Giving her a rakish smile, I thank her. A faint blush rises to her cheeks, turning her dark complexion to a dusty rose.

Yes, it is nice to have one's ego pampered.

~*~*~

Fifteen minutes later, I am on my way to downtown Barcelona in my silver Lexus.

It is a thirty-minute drive to the hotel in which I am staying so I should be safely tucked away before the sun rises, with time to spare. Nonetheless, my foot presses the accelerator with unnecessary force. I'm so close to her. I'm almost there. I close my eyes and envision her from the months after I was returned from hell. The months in which we were "friends".

The vision fading, I open my eyes just in time to swerve to avoid the car heading straight towards me and pull back into my own lane. Okay, so closing my eyes while driving is a bad thing. I'll have to remember that one.

So sue me, I'm not one for driving well while less than 50 miles away from the woman I have been searching for. Who would be able to focus?

Sighing, I steel myself to think of nothing but the road until I arrive at my hotel. Killing myself beforehand would be an awful waste, now wouldn't it?

~*~*~

As I walk into my hotel room, I gesture for the bellboy to leave my bags on the floor. I have plenty of time to unpack later. Slipping him a twenty-dollar bill, I thank him, close the door, and go over to the curtains to test their thickness. Luckily, the hotel has done as I asked and covered all windows in heavy, black curtains. People will do almost anything if you pay them enough, and the hotel staff was most eager to please such an *important* visitor as Angel Carter.

As I walk towards the bed, I stumble a little. My body is rapidly approaching exhaustion. I haven't eaten in over forty-eight hours. I haven't slept in at least seventy-two hours, but that is of no concern to me. Being a vampire bestows certain advantages. I don't get tired (I sleep merely to relieve the boredom), I heal rapidly, and I am impervious to cold or heat. But, I do have to eat.

I walk over to my pile of luggage and pull out a small silver briefcase, which contains my supply of blood. Ripping open two of the packets, I quickly assuage my hunger.

I can feel the blood rush through my body, stimulating and reviving. The only downfall is the slight acrylic taste one encounters with animal blood. As I walk over to the sink to fill a cup with water, it suddenly strikes me that I was supposed to call Trevor after I landed.

The next few minutes are spent trying to hook up my videophone and get a clear channel through to the U.S. Embassy in Berlin. Finally, after 10 minutes of frustration, my efforts are rewarded and Trevor's image appears on the screen.

"Wondering when you were going to remember to call, Angel," he says, amusement coloring his voice. "Memory ain't what it used to be, huh?"

"I've got a lot on my mind, Trev." I reply with a dismissive wave of my hand.

Suddenly serious, Trevor looks me in the eye and replies, "That you do, m'boy. And that's what I want to talk about, and you're going to listen. Just what the hell are you going to do now?"

His question takes me by surprise. Sitting up straight, I retort, "Get Willow back, of course. That is what this whole venture is about, you know."

"Look, kid, you can't just march in there, fling Willow over your shoulder, and walk out. Doesn't work that way. From what you've told me, you pretty much acted like a horse's ass the last time you saw her. What's to make her get up and walk away with you? No, don't you pout like a little kid, Angel. I want you to think about this. I've been trying to tell you over the last two months that this won't be as easy as you think it will be."

Unknowingly, a small growl escapes me.

"And don't you growl at me you big oaf. You know that doesn't work on me anymore. Tell me, how are you going to get here out of there? If you don't give her a choice and just take her away, she'll always hate you, y'know."

As much as I hate to admit it, he's right. He's always right. Sighing, I concede his point. "Fine, you're right. What should I do?"

Trevor leans back in his chair and stares at me for a long time. Just as I am about to break the silence, he leans forward again. "Talk to her. Find her and talk to her."

"But what can I say?" I hear the whine in my voice and despise it. I'm two hundred and forty two years old, not two.

Trevor raises both his hands to convey that he is at a loss. "I can't tell you that one. No one can. Find her, and talk to her you'll know what to say. I'll be waiting to hear from you." The screen abruptly goes blank leaving me alone once more.

Talk to her. Well, I have exactly twelve hours and twenty-three minutes to figure out what to say.

I sit on my bed and wait for sundown.

~*~*~

Moments after the sun sets, I am off and on my way to Willow's hotel. A quick word with a member of the staff lets me know that while Kane is still in the room, Willow has gone out. My demon rages at me to go upstairs and remove the threat to my Willow, but I cannot miss the opportunity fate has given me. Willow is out, away from Kane. The only problem is, where do I find her?

After two hours of prowling the streets of Barcelona, looking in every store, looking down every road, I come upon a small central park I have not yet searched. I wander down the small paths slowly. For once, my urgency to find Willow abates slightly. I want to sit down, close my eyes, and simply be. I want to embrace the night and let go. I want all my worries to leave me.

I want many things which I cannot have.

Sighing at the futility of my thoughts, I continue down the path into a small clearing. It is almost semi-circular in shape, three sides surrounded by bushes and trees with an opening on the fourth side, that looks out onto Calle St. Bernardo or St. Bernard's street. In the middle of this alcove is a small park bench with a lamppost at it's side that casts soft light on the lone figure seated on the bench. It's easy to discern that she is female, sitting with her back to me, shoulders hunched and head bent. The position of her head causes a cascade of red hair to fall over her shoulders and into her face. Obviously annoyed, she pushes the fiery locks back behind her ears with a hissed, "Stay there," that only my enhanced hearing enables me to pick up.

Suddenly, I freeze.

I know that voice.

Slowly, and oh so quietly, I move closer. If my heart had been capable, it would have be pounding, and if my lungs were able to draw breath, I would be breathing raggedly. I am almost standing directly behind her before my suspicions are confirmed.

It's her.

Relief, joy, and something else I can't even identify overwhelm me. I've finally found her. Here she is, scribbling in a journal in the middle of a park in Spain, lost in her thoughts.

And now I find myself reluctant to intrude upon those thoughts. I've been searching for her, waiting to see her once again, waiting to hear her voice speak my name. And now, I can't even move. I struggle to identify this emotion that is coursing through me. And, suddenly, it hits me.

It's fear.

Fear of rejection. Fear of more hatred being directed my way. I've come so far in respect to my guilt over my actions of the past two hundred centuries. I've finally felt like I belonged to a group for a while now. Felt like I was accepted.

And now I'm terrified that that dream is over. It finally hits me that I've driven away all my Sunnydale friends and I can't even bear the thought that this be might be true as far as Willow is concerned also. I couldn't stand that.

I don't think I could go on living if that happened.

But I have to know. I have to give her a chance to tell me how she feels. Anger, sorrow, hate, love….. I have to see her and let her see me. I have to let her yell at me if she feels like it, let her (Dear Lord, please!) forgive me if she feels like it, or any other damned thing she feels like doing. I owe her that much.

So, I pull up the one characteristic I had in abundance as Angelus. The one characteristic I have never despised and desperately wanted to retain in it's fullest measure: confidence.

I softly seat myself on the bench beside Willow and stare out onto the street. She doesn't even notice my presence. She continues to scribble furiously in the notebook. A million race through my head.

I stare up at the stars as if searching the heavens for something to say. Luckily, the night lends it's helpful presence. Quietly, I say, "The night is beautiful, isn't it? I've been inside far too much lately. I'd forgotten there were so many stars. Like the lights going out in an opera house at the end of the third act, and then the curtain falls -- black velvet embroidered in stars."

Cautiously, I turn to face her. Her mouth is hanging open, her face and eyes are unreadable.

Finding nothing else to say, I let the first thing I think of fall from my lips.

"Hi, Willow." I offer with an impish grin.
 
 
 

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