Rating: R
Disclaimer: While I have taken the liberty of adding a few characters of my own creation, all of the original BtVS characters and their world belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and The WB. The lyrics for "Every You Every Me" belong to Placebo. All are used without permission (I'll return them all unharmed) and no copyright infringement is intended (like most that post, I'm broke, so please don't sue).
Spoilers: All 3 seasons of BtVS, BtVS season 4/Angel season 1 implied.
Summary: Well, it's now early into the year 2048 and Aishling Rosenberg is still hard at work creating a formal archive out of a vast collection of letters, stories, research notes, etc. that her grandmother, Willow, left behind when she died.
Distribution: You want it, it's yours, just let me know where it's going to be living.
Feedback: Is there an author out there who doesn't enjoy getting feedback?
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Entry No. 27 - Part 3
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Sucker love is known to swing. Prone to cling and waste these things. Pucker up for heaven's sake. There's never been so much at stake.
I serve my head up on a plate. It's only comfort, calling late. Cuz there's nothing else to do, Every me and every you. Every me and every you, Every Me...he ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The Witch
The scream was so guttural that it actually damaged delicate tissues as it tore lose, leaving her throat raw and gory. She shot up, wanting to scream some more as she tired to focus on something, anything in the room around her, but her vision was clouded by a veil of blood. Panic washed over her, her heart no longer beating, frozen by fear. Her breathing had stopped as well and her body was literally as cold as her heart felt. When that realization hit her, she lost all control, sucked in a ragged breath and then screamed again.
She never heard the knock at her door, didn't sense someone approaching and therefore lashed out blindly at the intruder who sat down on the bed beside her.
"It's your hair, Aoífe," a feminine voice said soothingly. "It's fallen over your face, Love, just push it away."
Aoífe stopped striking out at her rescuer and started clawing at her own face, scratching her cheeks with talon-tipped fingers, actually drawing blood as she desperately tried to pull the long locks of hair away from her eyes. But she had been bathed in sweat and her red-hair was soaking wet, glued to her skin.
"Love... Love... gently, be careful, you're hurting yourself."
When a pair of hands suddenly tried to capture her own, Aoífe reacted reflexively and struck-out at the other woman, slashing the hands and arms that were trying to comfort her. Aoífe's nails were razor sharp and even the lightest of passes drew blood.
Blood... her blood... the other woman's woman... the smell of the blood in the dreams that somehow seemed so real... it was too much, it was driving her to a frenzy. Aoífe was overcome by a bloodlust the likes of which she had never experienced before. It was the scent of his blood that pushed her over the edge. Never before in this realm had she lost control like this, been so close to the demon within her. Only in Hell had she embraced the spirit, allowed herself to be dominated by that side of her being, giving in to her true nature so that she could properly care for him, heal her broken Angel.
Oh, but Hell was in fact one of the many places she had just revisited in her dreams.
"Focking dreams," Aoífe croaked, her voice thick with blood and the sound of the heavy Irish brogue that she normally suppressed.
All the fight or flight instincts fell away as the fear and the bloodlust subsided. She curled in on herself and started to cry. This time when the other woman reached out to her, Aoífe welcomed the comforting touch and gladly slid into the warm embrace.
"I'm sorry, Mauve," Aoífe whispered, once her tears ceased to fall. "I didn't mean to hurt you."
"It's okay, Aunt Aoífe. I know you were lost there... stuck in the dreams."
"No, I wasn't in the dreams anymore, but I couldn't see... and... and my heart... and the blood, it--"
"Shhh, it's okay now," Mauve crooned, finally pulling the matted-strands of hair away from Aoífe's face. "You're safe."
Ah, but you're not, Aoífe thought as she swallowed the saliva that had pooled in her mouth. Upon doing so, she felt that her fangs were still distended, and the blood on the arms of the woman holding her was smelling very sweet, very sweet indeed...
Aoífe's tongue snaked out and she lapped at the sanguineous flesh closest to her mouth.
Mauve quickly pushed her away and gave Aoífe a look of disgust.
No fear there, Aoífe noted. Which was to be expected. Mauve had lived her entire life with Aoífe and had always known of her aunt's true nature.
Aunt... well, for lack of a more accurate term, it served its purpose. After all, when you considered the number of generations that actually separated the two women, by modern standards they wouldn't even be considered related. Ah, but their little family still held true to the old ways. They traced their heritage via the matriarchal lines and due to the unique nature of some of their ancestors and the 'advanced' age these members generally attained, each and every offspring throughout the centuries was considered family.
Still, the look of distaste on Mauve's face stung Aoífe. Mauve obviously felt that even the slightest violation of the laws was not to be condoned.
Too damn much time spent with the 'old school' girls, Aoífe sighed, knowing she really had no one to blame for that but herself.
Mauve was her responsibility and over the last few couple of years Aoífe had been a bit derelict in her duties. Derelict, now that was an understatement. It started when she had become overly preoccupied worrying about events which were unfolding n Sunnydale, CA. Then Aoífe had for the most part been MIA for almost a full year. First she had spent nearly six months vacationing at Acathla's Club Dread. Then she'd sequestered herself at her home in Ard while she healed, physically and emotionally, and put the pieces of her life on Earth back in order.
All that time her 'sisters' had cared for Mauve. Mauve was already a member of their coven, having been brought into the circle when she was 16. The other witches had continued her training in Aoífe's absence and had begun preparing her what might come next, her turning.
For now Mauve was 22 years old. Her first child, a girl, was due to arrive in 5 months. She would be given time to nurse and nurture her daughter, and then, if the missing girl had still not been found Mauve would become Aoífe's childe.
Oh, but there was that big 'if'...
Somewhere there was a young woman, an even more direct descendant of Aoífe who was living a life other than the one that destiny had planned for her. Over the ages, she had been lost and now lived without any knowledge of her true ancestry and her rightful place in the circle.
Aoífe sighed.
That was all her fault, too. Had she not answered his mother's plea for help, their lines would never have mixed. But she had feared for his as yet unborn life and rightly so, for surely both he and his mother would have been lost in childbirth.
Dumb ass, Aoife thought, laughing to herself as she always did at the irony to be found in calling him that. The boy had after all, presented himself as a breech.
Still, when she agreed to assist in his delivery, Aoífe never dreamed for even a moment that he would recognize her. But just minutes after he came into the world, his soul, the soul that had been Uriel's, reached out to hers and made the connection.
As if that wasn't bad enough, things got even more complicated when her escort, Angelus' own uncle, stayed on in Ard for a few months after bringing her back home. During that time he fell madly in love with the youngest daughter in Aoífe's line, and the girl loved him in return. Aoífe could not find it in her heart to separate them in spite of the fact that she knew their union would somehow alter the course of the future. How could she force them to deny what they felt for each other when she herself had always broken the rules in the name of love?
Then, twenty-seven years later, she had misread the signs and made her way back to Galway. She had fallen in love instantly with the man he had become. It wasn't the drunken wastrel she fell for, although he was not without his charms. No, Aoífe lost her heart to the side of himself that Angelus kept so well hidden from others but had revealed to her. But for once in her life she was bound to play by the rules and in doing so she lost him. Or lost his soul, anyway, for the vessel which had contained it continued to exist in a different form. It would take well over a century to reunite his spirit with his body, but even then, he was still lost to her.
Aoífe was pulled out of her brown study but Mauve's melodic voice, a voice that had just the slightest hint of a lilting brogue, the side effect of long summer vacations spent in Ireland, and numerous hours spent in the company of the ancient Celtic witches of her coven. Of the seven vampires in the clutch, Aoífe was the only one who now treated Gaelic like a second language, instead of her native tongue, and who, for the most part, had scrubbed her speech clean of any accent. Only when she was very distressed, or when she was deep within the circle, did the heavy Irish brogue slip back in.
"You need to feed." The singsong quality of her tone made Mauve's blunt statement sound less harsh, but the stern look on her face still said she didn't approve of Aoífe's actions.
Aoífe just hung her head and shook it a few times before speaking.
"That's not it. I fed well last night. It wasn't hunger, it was...."
She didn't finish the thought. Instead, Aoífe looked back up into Mauve's eyes, trying to gauge her niece's present emotional state.
Mauve's expression softened when she caught sight of the pain and confusion that Aoífe wasn't hiding very well. She reached out and caressed her aunt's cheek. As always, she marveled over the fact that the pristine flesh beneath her fingertips was over 1000-years old. And then Mauve wondered if someday her own daughter's daughter's daughter's daughter might not touch her in much the same way and be just as awed.
The smell of Mauve's blood tickled Aoífe's nose once again, and she glanced down at the wounds on her niece's arms. She touched then just as gently as Mauve still touched her face.
"I'm sorry I hurt you. I didn't realize it was you. I--"
"I told you, it's okay," Mauve reiterated. "Just a few scratches, Love. They'll heal."
She took her hands off of Aoífe then, dug into her robe pockets and finally came up with a few tissues. And then just like Aoífe used to do for her when she was a little girl, Mauve wrapped the Kleenex around her finger, licked at the tip to moisten it, and began to wipe away the blood, sweat and tears which were smeared across Aoífe's cheeks.
"Of course not as quickly as yours," Mauve laughed lightly as her efforts revealed that the gouges Aoífe had self-inflicted just minutes ago, were already completely healed.
"I could remedy that, you know?" Aoífe offered innocently.
"No you can't," Mauve snapped at her as she stood up from the bed. "I've already told you that I don't want the baby touched by magic, not until she comes of age. And besides, you've been naughty enough already today, and it's only about 7am."
"It's only seven," Aoífe groaned and fell back onto her damp sheets and pillows.
"Yeah, but we're up now, so let's get on with the day. You, Love, are in real need of a shower. You're a mess."
Aoífe sat back up. She ran her fingers through her snarled, sodden hair, and glanced down at the nightgown which was so soaked it clung to her. It was then that Aoífe noticed that her body wasn't responding to the cold, wet fabric that lay upon it. She shuddered violently as she realized just what that meant. Her body temperature was the same as that of her surroundings. It had cooled.
She shot Mauve an accusatory look. Mauve cringed.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Aoífe hissed.
"You were already so upset," Mauve responded as she shrugged her shoulders in way that silently said, "I didn't know what to say."
Aoífe closed her eyes for moment as she refocused her attention on the here and now and put the ancient practices back into use. In just moments her heart was beating regularly and her breathing was somewhat shallow, but even. Slowly but surely her body temperature began to rise as the stolen blood she consumed was burned, and as it rose she opened her eyes to watch as some color returned to her skin. Delicate as it was, the faint peach blush was favorable to the pallor of death she would otherwise wear.
Satisfied with the effects of the magic she'd worked, Aoífe looked back to Mauve.
"Please," Aoífe cried beseechingly, "next time let me know. I haven't slipped like that since I first came back and I can't afford to--"
"Goddess, Love, what did he do to you?" Mauve whispered in shock.
"It's the dreams, darlin', that's all."
"But you've always dreamed... of him?"
"Yes. And no."
Aoífe paused for a long time. She had never shared her dreams with anyone. Not verbally anyway, for in fact she had been capturing most of her visions on paper for centuries. Some of those pictures she actually exhibited in museums.
An artist, that was her trade in life, her 'cover', for in fact she partook in a number of activities which were best not discussed in mixed company. Mixed meaning some of those assembled where human, some were not.
And there were still other drawings that she had secretly been sending to Angelus, and others, for quite some time now.
But perhaps it was time to tell someone about her dreams. They were changing again, and the changes this time were frightening. They left Aoífe feeling out of control. Judging by the state in which she had just awaked, they were in fact stripping her of some of her control.
Aoífe
motioned for Mauve to sit back down on the bed. Once her niece was comfortably
situated, Aoífe took a deep breath and started to tell her tale.
"I've dreamt of him since the day that Uriel died. But until recently, the dreams have always been very distinct. Where he was concerned, I only had one type of dream at a time."
"In the beginning, my dreams of Uriel were nothing but memories of our time together. But soon we began to do something we never actually did when he was alive. We made love. When it first started, I would wake feeling very guilty. I felt as though I was betraying Suibhne (Sweeney), being unfaithful to my husband in dreams, as I'd never been in real life. For much as I had come to love Uriel during our time together, I never acted on that love."
Aoífe fell silent and shook her head. A pained look marred her beautiful features.
"But I just realized, this very moment, that's a lie. Uriel and I may not have consummated our love, but in every other way that truly matters, I gave myself to him. I lost my heart and soul to him. I may not have taken him into my bed, but I craved his touch every waking hour; my heart leapt for joy each time he graced with a longing look. He was my champion and he became the love of my eternal life. And perhaps the only reason why we never became physically intimate was because all too soon Uriel was taken from me."
"When Suibhne was killed, I was saddened. He had been my closest and dearest friend for as long as I could remember. I had loved him, loved him enough to bear his children. But Uriel's presence in my life quickly eased that pain. Too quickly, perhaps, because we were soon the topic of many a whispered conversation. My daughter and I took up residence with him in what had been his parent's home. In all actuality it was my home even before he asked my to join him. For with Máthair's (Mother's) passing, everything that she possessed became rightfully mine. I was her only childe, and as such was free to lay claim to whatever I wanted. Did the right extend itself to her son? Any way, in spite of the fact that we had separate bedrooms, and never once shared anything more than just an occasional embrace or a chaste kiss everyone still assumed we were lovers. And yet, we were much more than that."
"When Uriel died, I was devastated. There was a void in my very being that could not be filled. I had no desire to fill it. That emptiness, that feeling of being incomplete was all I had left of him."
"For many years, hundreds of years, I simply took comfort in the dreams I shared with Uriel. Then they suddenly changed. He started to tell me stories. Like always, we would make love for hours. But afterwards he would hold me and whisper tales about distant times and far away places, places we had never been, times that had yet to come. The dreams went on like that for a few months. Until one night, while we made love, as we were climaxing for the first time, and he spilled his seed inside me, Uriel was taken from me forever."
"He gasped, the sound expressing a horrible mixture of unbearable pain and unspeakable pleasure. His eyes were suddenly ablaze with a golden light, and then he was gone. For the first time since Uriel had died I was left alone in my dream, but when I awoke I knew that I was no longer alone in the world. Uriel's soul had been reborn, Angelus had been conceived."
"The dreams stopped coming. For twenty-seven years I slept dream free. Well, that's not true. I still dreamt of my sire's past and of her sire's and so on back down the line. But those dreams are in a separate category from the dreams I shared with Uriel and then later Angelus. For you see, my dreams with Angelus began the night he was turned."
"When Darla embraced him, his soul was ripped away, relegated to the ether once more. It was then free to return to me, and return it did, with a vengeance. That soul now possessed a sense of passion, the likes of which I'd never felt before, or since. And amazingly, even after the demon took over the body, that passion was such a force to be reckoned with that it in fact became the very essence of the vampire that was born."
"Ah, but because Angelus became a vampire, his soul could not come to me in a physical form, like it could when Uriel died. Instead, it joined me on a purely psychic level, and took me on journeys to places I would never have gone on my own. It forced me to watch events unfolding, events I don't ever want to speak about. I would wake from these dreams feeling so torn. I felt like I was emotionally dismembered. I was left with so many conflicting thoughts and feelings that at times I honestly wanted to die, just to make the dreams stop."
"You see my greatest fear was that it would never end. Angelus has the potential to be immortal, just as I do. And so as long as the vampire existed, the body remained undead, and the soul stayed trapped in the ether. For whatever unknown reason, God has deemed that so long as the body lives the soul is not free to move on. Which isn't to say that a soul can't linger after the body dies, many often do. In that case it is the spirit's choice to remain, for whatever reason. But when a vampire such as Angelus is created, the banished soul has no choice in the matter. It must stay in limbo until the body it inhabited perishes."
"I was terrified that I was faced with an eternity during which all my sleeping hours would be spent bearing witness to the atrocities Angelus committed on a nightly basis. At first I considered destroying him myself. But a little demon, know only as Whistler, was sent by the powers that be to watch over Angelus. Whistler did his job well. And he still does, I suppose. Anyway, he managed to keep me from killing Angelus. By the time that vampire and I crossed paths again in real life, I was well beyond the point where I could even consider harming him. I had, in fact, through my dreams, fallen in love with the demon. Slowly, insidiously, like a poison or a cancer, he had worked his way into my heart."
"Now I realize that had it not been so, I would never have survived my journey to Hell and back. Not only did I need to be intimately familiar with his demon's way of thinking, but I also had to come to love both halves of the whole. The creature I found in Hell, the creature that walks this earth today, is not the reticent Irishman I first fell in love with, the one who hide his true self behind a loud, obnoxious drunken demeanor. Nor is he the openly passionate demon whose pure darkness touched my heart. Angelus' body has once again been reunited with its soul and this time around, the demon which shares that vessel is learning to accept its fate, just as the soul is beginning to embrace the demon."
Aoífe didn't even realize that she was crying until she paused in her speaking and Mauve took that opportunity to pass her a Kleenex.
Aoífe accepted the offering with a sad smile, wiped her tears away and blew her nose before speaking again.
"Well," she sighed. "I guess I dumped enough on you for one day."
"No, not at all," Mauve countered. "I'm fascinated. And you haven't explained yet how the dream you had this morning is different from the rest."
"I told you that Angelus' soul recognized mine from the first moment I held him in my arms."
"Yes," Mauve said, nodding her head. "I remember."
"That bond was very dependent upon physical proximity. The more I distanced myself bodily from the baby, the weaker the connection became. I knew that if I kept far enough away from him, the tie would be severed once more and he would not even remember that I existed. I thought that was for the best, that it was how things were meant to be. Everything I had ever read, all the ancient writings and prophecies indicated that Angelus had to come into his own before his destiny could even begin to be fulfilled. That part of my interpretation was correct. It was the timing, the actually changes that had to take place, that I got all wrong."
"You see, Angelus is just now beginning to come into his own."
"His Becoming was such that when the demon took over, every trace of humanity was stripped from him. When his soul was restored to him the first time, it had a crippling effect. All he longed for was to regain the humanity that had been taken from him."
"Can you imagine, for even an second, what it must feel like to be faced with over a century's worth of memories, whole lifetimes during which you did nothing but live for the kill? When the only time you felt any sort of emotion was during the planning and execution of the death of another? And even then, whatever feelings you derived from the experience were so hollow they didn't sustain you for long. The blood you'd just stolen hadn't even made its way out to your extremities and already you were plotting your next conquest."
"His demon never knew love. There were no memories of a freely given love for the demon to absorb and process. I think that's because Angelus had never experienced mature love during his mortal days. By that, I mean he had never loved someone of his own choosing. Yes, Angelus had loved his family, but that's a love that's sort of foisted upon you. You don't choose it, it's a given. The man had never shared his heart with another, at least not completely."
"For a very long time I believed that the demon based all his emotions on the thing that is the opposite of love. Hate. But the more I was forced to watch, the more I came to realize that the vampire didn't even know hate. How can you find the opposite of something that was never there to begin with? No love meant no hate, only a huge void that the demon filled with unadulterated evil."
"I still think it's amazing that each childe he sired kept at least some of their human emotions, affection and jealously, if not full-fledged love, while for Angelus the Vampire there was none. Passion, yes. Love or hate, no."
"After his soul was restored, it took almost a century for Angelus to come back to a place where he could be reached. For nearly one hundred years, he isolated himself from almost every kind of human contact, which is pretty ironic if you consider that to be human again was the thing he desired most."
"At first he did it out of fear, fear that he would feed upon the living. But he quickly learned to live with the bloodlust, to forever go unsatisfied, even when his thirst was slaked. It was then his guilt that kept him apart from mankind. Sometimes, someone would reach out and touch him. A few times he tried to reconnect. But things always seemed to go awry, to fail. By the time his wandering brought him back to New York for the last time, he'd sunk so low he was slowly starving himself to death, living off of nothing more than the blood from an occasional rat that the demon within him couldn't resist."
Aoífe saw Mauve wrinkle his nose with obvious distaste.
"Pretty, gross, hunh?" Aoífe chuckled. "You think his eating habits were bad? Thank the goddess you didn't ever have to take a whiff of him. His personal hygiene at that point was lacking, to say the least."
"You saw him during that time? In person, not just in your dreams?"
"A few times. And I didn't dream of him at all during that time. That's what I meant to tell you when I started this. When Angelus was conceived, my dreams with Uriel ended. But my dreams with Angelus didn't begin until he was turned and his soul was set loose. Once it was returned to his body, the dreams stopped. That is, until he reached the Hellmouth. Then I can only surmise that the forces there somehow triggered them again. I began to dream of him, much as I did when he's without his soul. I got to see bits and pieces of his life unfolding. I saw his second fall coming long before even his appointed guardian did, but I was powerless to stop it."
"That's because I knew there were still two things that had to be broken before he could embrace his new life properly and begin down his predestined path."
"And what where there they?" Mauve prodded when Aoífe stopped talking.
"His craving for humanity and his heart," she replied, her voice thick with emotions. "Hell broke one. The Slayer took care of the other. But don't ask me which one goes with which, because I don't think I honestly know anymore."
"The strangest thing was that when Angelus lost his soul for the second time, it didn't come to me. The dreams I'd been having ended. It was like he'd been trying to warn me, begging me to help him before it was too late. The next thing I knew, it was too late."
"He gave his heart to The Slayer and she gave him hers in return. She loved him as he had never been loved before, and he lost himself in that love, literally. She made him feel human, which was something that his curse does not allow for. The gypsies believed in vengeance. Angelus was meant to live for all eternity bearing the burden of guilt for his sins. He was never meant to forget, for even an instant, just what it was he had allowed himself to become."
"So their love robbed him of his soul?" Mauve asked, her voice reflecting the awe she felt. Such a truly tragic love story...
"No, not their love," Aoífe explained. "His denial."
"For a few brief moments Angelus turned a blind eye on his past and as I said, he lost himself in her vision of him. Blanketed in her feelings for him, his body thoroughly warmed for the first time in hundreds of years by her physical touch, their love-making, he saw a future for himself that was no longer meant to be. As he came inside her, he truly believed, for just an instant, that he could once again live like a human. And with that belief he forfeited his soul."
Neither woman spoke for a long time. Aoífe was lost in her memories, trying once again to fathom just how it was that she had come to know and understand so much. Mauve was busy trying to process all that she had heard and to formulate her next question.
"So, why didn't his soul come back to you in dreams?" she finally asked.
"It was busy elsewhere, busy trying to give The Slayer the strength and courage she would need to destroy the demon and finally release the soul from its tortured existence."
"But that's not what came to pass," Mauve whispered, stating the obvious.
Aoífe silently shook her head. She no longer had the strength or the desire to continue on with the story. She couldn't seem to bring herself to tell Mauve about the agonizing decision The Slayer had been forced to make after Angelus had succeeded in re-awakening Acathla. And Aoífe would rather have slid splinters of wood under her nails than recount for her niece the tale of Angelus' round-trip to Hell, an excursion she herself had chosen to make with him.
"The dreams I've had lately," Aoífe said in a very soft, almost timid voice, "all begin the same."
"I get a brief flash of something in the recent past or a vision of something to come in the not too distant future. Then I slide in to my regularly scheduled nightmares from Hell."
"After that, each night I fall a little bit further back into the past. In this latest dream I went as far back as the night of my own Becoming. But something was wrong with the dream. No, not really wrong, just not quite right. I only wish I could remember what was that was so different about this dream."
Aoífe let a small growl of frustration. Mauve leaned in, completely unafraid of the sounds emanating from the creature before her, and pulled Aoífe into her arms.
"I'm sure it will all come to you when the time is right, Love," the younger woman said confidently. "It always has in the past."
Aoífe gave her a brief hug, then disengaged herself.
"I think I'm a bit lacking in the personal hygiene department myself, right now," she snickered. "I think that maybe I'll strip the bed and head for the shower."
"Ummm, a nice warm shower," Mauve purred. "That sounds like a wonderful idea."
"Care to join me?" Aoífe teased.
"Sorry, Love, as tempting as that offer might be," her niece joked in return, "it's nearly nine. I'm sure Liam's up by now and if he hasn't already showered, I'd prefer to join him." With a whimsical sigh she added, "My hubby scrubs my back like no one else can."
"I'm so sure..." Aoífe drawled.
Both women laughed, then Mauve stood up and head toward the door as Aoífe started to pull the soiled sheets from her bed.
Just as she reached the door, Mauve turned back to her aunt, a quizzical look upon her face.
"Say, Love, who's the strange little man in the guestroom?"
"Oh, shit, Doyle! I forgot he was here. Is he awake?"
"Hell no! Judging by the way he was snoring, and the overwhelming stench of stale beer and whiskey wafting out of the room, I'd lay odds he'll be out for quite some time to come."
"Lay
odds," Aoífe chortled. "If you only knew...."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Aoífe panicked when she first entered the guestroom and saw that the bed was vacant. Her fear didn't last for long. She could still smell him, and she quickly honed in on the sound of his heartbeat.
She stepped further into the room and found Doyle sprawled on the floor beside the bed.
Aoífe came to halt beside the little half-demon's prone form. She then kicked him, none too gently, in the side. He groaned, but didn't stir.
She looked down at him. What she saw left her feeling more than just bit distressed. Just how the hell was this drunkard supposed to help Angelus? He couldn't even keep his mind off the next possible bet long enough to properly care for himself, and now he was to be entrusted with the life and well-being of someone she cherished above all else. But the powers that be had chosen him for the task, and Aoífe herself has worked the magic that would aide Doyle in his new assignment. Now all she could do was send him on his merry way and let the future take its course.
Still, she couldn't help but laugh to herself as she remember just how easy it had been to lure him back to her lair.
Doyle had been found in a less than reputable drinking establishment that was located in one of the seedier parts of LA.
By the time she arrived he was seated in a dark booth in the far back corner. Tiny pieces of torn track betting tickets lay all about the table like confetti, and he was well on his was to drowning his sorrows, forgetting about his losses for the time being.
More than just a few heads had turned when Aoífe entered the bar. She knew she stood out like a sore thumb, dressed as she was in an elegant silk gown. She had been at the opera when the call had come in on her cellphone.
Liam had found him. What was he to do next?
"Nothing," she'd told her niece's spouse. "Just see to it that he doesn't leave before I get there."
"I don't think you really want to come down here, Love. This dive is not in one of the nicer areas of town."
"Doesn't matter. I can take care of myself."
"Oh, I know you can... Grrrr," Liam teased.
"Smart-ass," she chided. But he that she was pleased by his attempt to relieve the tension that building up inside her. "Just sit tight. I'm on my way."
As Aoífe moved further into the room, she realized that it really wouldn't have mattered what she wore. The fact that she obviously wasn't a whore or the poor unfortunate wife or mistress of one of the patrons, was enough to set her apart from every other woman in the place. To make matters worse, she was vampire, a beautiful one at that, and her preternatural appearance was something she had a hard time hiding.
She didn't stop beside Liam where he sat at the bar, nursing a beer. Aoífe simply exchanged a quick look with her cohort. Then he downed the rest of his drink and quickly exited the bar as she continued to walk toward Doyle's table.
He was so engrossed in the study of the amber liquid in the mug before him, that he completely missed her approach.
Aoífe stood silently beside the booth for a few moments, before she cleared her throat and drew his attention away from his beer.
She was honestly shocked by the sight of his eyes as he looked up and found hers. They were green, a shade similar to her own during her mortal days. But there was so much pain behind them that she suddenly found herself pitying the poor creature that sat before her. Typical Irishman, she thought. Numbing his pain with alcohol.
And maybe it was that thought that led her to speak to him as she did.
"Cén chaoi a bhfuil tú?" (How are you?) Aoífe asked.
"Tá go maith, go raibh maith agat," (I'm fine, thanks) was his wary rely.
Doyle looked Aoífe over, from head to toe and eyeing her with open suspicion. She definitely didn't belong there. Not only did the lady before him speak in Gaelic, she was also quite the looker, and dressed to the nines to boot. And now she remained silent, forcing him to make the next move.
"Ar mhaith leat deoch?" (Would you like a drink?) he asked politely.
"Ba mhaith," (I would) Aoífe replied.
Doyle gestured toward the empty seat in the booth and Aoífe slid in.
"Cad é ba mhaith leat le hól?" (What would you like to drink?)
"Uisce beatha." (Whiskey.)
"Good choice," Doyle said with a hearty laugh. "The beer in this joint is always warm as piss, and it ain't Guinness."
Aoífe flashed him a dazzling smile and simply nodded in agreement. Doyle was instantly captivated. He had to swallow hard before speaking again. Even then his brogue was thicker than usual.
"Beg your pardon," he said with a slight tip of his head, then he got up from his seat and headed toward the bar.
He returned a few minutes later carrying a bottle and two glasses. He took his place at the table, set a tumbler down before each of them, then proceeded to pour a very fine, single malt Scotch into the hazy glasses.
"Go raibh maith agat," (Thank you) Aoífe sighed, eyeing the sparkling golden fluid appreciatively.
"Ná habair é," (Don't mention it) Doyle replied, sheepishly.
He's smitten, Aoífe thought, with a kind of smug satisfaction.
"Sláinte!" she said as she raised her glass to her lips and took a sip of the whiskey.
"Cheers ta you, too," Doyle said as he tossed back his glass and downed the Scotch in one shot.
"Well, I must admit that I'm pleasantly surprised," Aoífe sighed.
"Me, too," Doyle said under his breath.
She chose to ignore his mumbled remark and continued with what she was trying to say.
"I never would have expected to find such a good whiskey in a place like this."
"Yeah, well, sometimes you find a diamond hidden a lump of coal," was his response.
Aoífe looked more closely at the creature before her and decided that where he was concerned that statement could quite well be true.
She smiled at him again, and this time Doyle smiled back.
Aoífe leaned across the table, reached out and straightened the collar on his leather jacket. For just a moment, she let her fingertips linger on the flesh of his neck before sitting back in her seat.
Her touch had the desire effect. In an attempt to hide his discomfort, Doyle poured himself another shot of whiskey and consumed it post-haste.
From that point on, getting him to follow her home had been an easy task. Aoífe continued to keep him on edge. She started to make small-talk and she used her smiles and the occasional casual touch to make him so flustered he couldn't get up the nerve to ask her just who she was, let alone what she was doing there. Aoífe also saw to it that his glass was never empty for long.
Over the course of the next hour, Aoífe did discover that even in his advanced state of drunkenness, Doyle was a consummate flirt. He was a gifted lady's man, just as Angelus had been in his youth. Had they been out and about together, they would have made quite the pair. The only thing that would have given Angelus the slightest edge was that while Doyle was a very good looking man, in Aoífe's opinion, Angelus was drop-dead gorgeous. And yet, maybe Doyle would still come out ahead because while Angelus tended to get exceeding more pompous, obnoxious even with each drink he consumed, Doyle was for the most part a happy drunk.
It was just before mid-night when Doyle reached the point where he was about to pass out. Aoífe deftly lead him out of the bar and into the car that was waiting for them. By the time they reached the house she had leased on the other side of the city, Doyle was out.
She helped to get him out of the car. Then Liam unceremoniously tossed Doyle of his shoulder and carried him inside. He dumped the drunk on the guestroom bed, and with a show of distaste, he left Aoífe alone with half-breed, to do whatever it was she had to do.
Luckily for Aoífe, the rituals that she needed to perform did not require Doyle's participation in any way, only his physical presence. Two hours later, she was all done and he was still asleep.
She'd placed a quick phone call from his room.
"So you picked him up?" the voice at the other end of the line inquired before she'd even said hello.
"Yes, yes I did," Aoífe answered.
"Do you really think you should have interfered?"
"Do you really think he could have handled what you're throwing at him without my help?" she hissed.
There was a long pause in the conversation.
"So just what did you do to him?" the voice asked.
"Listen, Whistler, let's just say that your little protégé won't be wasting his visions on pony picks anymore."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning I went in and re-tuned his receiver. Now the visions he gets will point him toward people in need of help. He'll be able to steer Angel in the right direction and maybe help them both find the redemption they need."
"Will you be staying in LA for a while?'
"No," she replied petulantly. "Just long enough to see to it that Doyle gets the background information he needs and that he contacts Angelus."
"I'll do that," Whistler stated in such a way that he let Aoífe know the topic was open for discussion.
"Fine. You can pick the little drunk up tomorrow. Late in the day, I would imagine. He'll be sleeping it off 'til then."
Without uttering a good-bye, Aoífe hung up the phone.
Now it was nearly noon and Doyle had yet to come around.
"Wake your sorry self up, man," she growled at him as she nudged him again with her toes, a wee bit gentler this time.
Doyle groaned louder then before. He also rolled over from his stomach onto his back. He tried to sit up, but moaned in pain and fell back to the floor.
"Oh, fock," he cried as his hands came up to his head and he applied a vice like pressure to his temples.
"For pity's sake, it's not all that bad, boy-o," Aoífe snickered.
Doyle's eyes cracked open and he tried to focus on the source of the mocking voice. Through just those little slits, Aoífe was still a sight to behold. The light shining in threw the window behind her created a halo about her head and made her hair gleam. Her face was half-hidden by shadows but her eyes still glowed with their own inner light. The gauzy white dress that she was wearing only added to the illusion.
"Oh Sweet Jesus," Doyle gasped. "I've gone and died this time."
"Tá tú ag glagaireacht," (You're talking nonsense) Aoífe snapped at him.
"But surely I've gone to heaven, 'cause I'm lookin' at an angel."
"Puleeze, don't you ever stop with the false flattery?" she said with disgust.
"Well, ya look like an angel to me," he whispered.
"Sorry, Doyle, but the only Angel you'll be encountering in this realm is about 6'1", with a brooding disposition and a less than angelic past."
"Shhhh, please," he begged softly. "My head feels like it's about to explode."
"Now whose fault is that?" Aoífe asked. But even as she said the words, it hit her that his current discomfort was just as much her doing as it was his own. She had seen to it that he got blind-drunk. Still, he probably would have gotten there eventually on his own.
"It's a hangover, man. You've had them before and I'm quite certain you'll suffer through more of them in the future."
"No," he moaned. "This is no bleedin' hangover. This feels like a mind splittin' migraine. What I woke up with earlier, now *that* was a hangover. But then a focking vision hit and the next thing I know I'm waking up on the floor with a head that feels like on over-inflated balloon. And you kickin' me wasn't very nice, ya know. You--"
"A vision? You had a vision?" Aoífe cried.
Doyle eyed her quizzically and then decided it would be fun to antagonize her.
"Well, my, aren't you the excitable type," he said in a teasing tone of voice.
"What did you see, Doyle? Speak up, you silly little demon."
"You know what I am?" he asked, a bit shaken by that revelation.
"Of course I do. Now tell me what you saw."
Who ever she was, Doyle realized she was not about to be put off. He had no idea why, but he found that he trusted the woman before him, even though he knew nothing at all about her. So he answered her honestly.
"It was wild. Wasn't like any other vision I've had before, I'll tell you that."
"How so?"
"No quick shot of the scoreboard, no sneak-peek at the winner's circle. This time there were people in it. Well--"
"People?"
"--one of them wasn't a people people. Not human, ya know? He was a vampire. And he was puttin' it to a pretty little red-head."
"He was feeding on her?"
"No, woman, I said he was puttin' it to her."
Aoífe gave him a puzzled look.
"He was fockin' her."
Aoífe's eyes went round with shock and her mouth hung open, speechless.
"I told you it was a wild dream," Doyle chuckled.
"You said she had red-hair?"
"Yeah, like yours, only shorter and straight like."
"What did he look like?"
"Look like? Like a vampire. Ya know, all bumpy faced and fangy."
"Human attributes, Doyle. Tell what he would look like if he wasn't a vampire."
Doyle shrugged. He really didn't see what the big deal was.
"Big guy, dark hair. Well-built, if ya know what I mean."
"Anything else?"
Doyle shook his head.
"Think man, did you see anything special, something..."
Doyle sighed and closed his eyes. He appeared to be concentrating. After a minute or two he spoke again.
"Yeah, he had a tattoo, on his right shoulder blade. Celtic pattern, like something out of the Book of Kells."
With a soft thud, Aoífe sat down on the floor beside him. She was obviously in shock. With a great deal of effort and a lot of pain, too, Doyle sat himself up beside her. She looked at him with fear in her eyes as she asked her next question.
"And the girl he was... the girl he was with, she was human?"
"That's the impression I got. She didn't vamp out or nothin'. Though he did call her a witch."
Oh my God! He found her, Aoífe's mind cried.
Suddenly she knew just what had been wrong in her dream. The faces of the most important people from her past had been replaced by the faces of the people Angelus had shown her in their dreams, the dreams they'd shared just before he'd lost his soul for the second time.
Things were most definitely getting out of control, not just in her life, but in all of their lives as well. What am I supposed to do now? she wondered.
Aoífe and Doyle sat in silence for a long time; each lost in their own thoughts. It was Doyle who finally broke the silence.
"Cad é an t-ainm atá ort?" (What is your name?)
"Aoífe atá orm." (My name is Aoífe.)
"You're not human, are you?"
"No. No I'm not."
That's all she said, then it was quiet again for another few minutes.
"So, Aoífe, are ya goin' ta tell me what the hell's goin' on?"
She shook her head, but she also smiled at him in a very reassuring way.
"Someone will be by shortly, someone who'll explain to you everything you need to know. Right now I've got to go."
She jumped up then and started for the door.
"Go? Go where?" Doyle called after her.
"To
Sunnydale."