Creative Works   

Second Coming (Part 2)
By Carla Kozak
© 1999
writeangled(at)yahoo.com

Disclaimer: All of the characters from BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER are owned by Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, 20th Century Fox Television and the WB television network. I am merely a BTVS enthusiast who has woven these characters into a story of my own.

. . .

Part Two.
INTERMEZZO: The Ceremony of Innocence/Wake the Echoes of the Song

"Angel, Cordelia. We’re so glad you’re here. Come right in," Naomi and Jake, her pleasant, bespectacled husband, welcomed them into a house that seemed bursting at the seams with people, noise and the smell of good food.

Angel breathed a small sigh of relief at the invitation—one awkward moment avoided. He’d had misgivings about attending the party: another child had disappeared, and he felt he should devote his time to searching, and helping solve the crisis. His sixth sense told him that it was one he was expected to work with. But Cordelia was enthusiastic about meeting new people, even in the setting of what she deemed "some lame family get-together," and he wanted to support her willingness to try something new.

Aaron and Tamar were in the foyer, urging them into the den, where they had a group assembled for dreidel spinning. "Wait a few minutes, kids," their mother said. "I’d like to introduce Angel and Cordelia to a few people, and they might want something to eat or drink first."

"I’m fine," Angel said, handing Jake a wrapped bottle of wine. "I’ll be glad to go with Aaron and Tamar."

"I’d like a Diet Coke," Cordelia followed Naomi into the thick of the party, in the living and dining rooms, which were lit by candles in many nine-branched candelabras.

Angel was led to the den, which was cozy and full of kids, and a few other adults. Martin was there, with his girlfriend and a couple of younger brothers. There was a large basket full of foil-wrapped chocolate coins and other candies, and some wooden tops, on a side table.

"Angel, my man," Martin greeted him, introducing him to the group at large. "Let’s check out your gambling skills." The players arranged themselves in a comfortable circle on the floor.

Angel held a dreidel in his long, sensitive fingers. It brought back a distant memory of carving tops for his little sister, and teaching her how to spin them, a very long time ago.

As Tamar explained the meanings, both symbolic and those relating to the game, of the four Hebrew letters on the dreidel, Angel flashed back many, many years. He saw his sister, biting her lower lip in concentration, dark braids falling over her shoulders even as Tamar’s did. But his sister’s eyes had been blue, not dark like Tamar’s…though a tragedy at the time, Angel was grateful now that his sister had died young, some years before he was changed. He was grateful that he had mourned her death, not caused it.

"Are you okay, Angel?" Tamar was looking at him with concern. He realized that he had sighed.

He tugged at a braid. "Sorry—I was just thinking about something. I’m okay. Let’s go for the gimel, partner." Angel put his hand over hers, and together they sent the dreidel into a beautiful, long spin that landed on the "take it all" letter. They were off to a good start, giving Martin and the others a hard run for the chocolate money.

In the easy camaraderie of the circle, with cheers and jeers and some good-natured jostling of elbows, cloaked by the warmth of happy people in congenial surroundings, Angel realized a long-absent feeling of family. This was a feeling very different from what he’d had with Buffy—and he was doing level best to deal with that void—or how he’d felt helping her and the Slayerettes through various crises. It was a while since he’d been part of even a vampire family, and his memories of a human one were more distant still. Meanwhile, Tamar had attached herself to him, leaning over his shoulder as they played, and he was flattered by her affectionate trust.

The game had reached a fierce crescendo, with Martin and Aaron and a few others doing well, but no one matching Angel and Tamar, when Naomi came in, telling them to tie it up after that round. "Jake’s got platters of latkes that want eating, and after we make a dent in them, there’s the concert."

"What concert?" Angel asked.

Aaron answered, "Another annual tradition. All of us here from the Music Academy put it on. But don’t worry—we’re practically professionals. You’re not going to wish you’d never come."

The game ended in laughter at that comment, and also at Martin’s good natured sneers of "Beginner’s luck!" at the pile of loot in front of Angel. Bags were handed out to stash it, and Angel pushed his share over to Tamar.

"But half of it is yours," she protested.

"I don’t eat much chocolate," he told her. "But I’ll keep a few, as mementos." He slipped them into his pocket. One advantage to his lack of body heat, he thought wryly—they wouldn’t melt in there.

Back among the other guests, Angel found Cordelia in the midst of a circle of admirers. She gave him a little wave, looking happier than she had in a long time.

He put a modest amount of food on a plate, learning long ago how to handle himself around human feasts. It was best not to call attention to himself by refusing food. Just look like everyone else, talk to people, take an occasional taste and comment on how good it was. And it did look and smell good; Angel was sorry he couldn’t really appreciate it. It would fill no void, satisfy no nutritional need. He had done that before, at home. He took little pleasure in the plastic containers of refrigerated animal blood that sustained him. He didn’t live to eat anymore, he ate only to stay undead.

The guests congregated in small groups, facing the living room, when the concert started. There were about eight young people—Tamar being the youngest—on a variety of instruments, arranged around the piano. Martin’s brother, Isaiah, was the pianist, and Aaron was on guitar. The group tuned to the "A" note, and started to play.

Aaron hadn’t been boasting, Angel realized. Naomi and Jake could have sold tickets to the concert—it was better than good. There was a range of music, much of it in a klezmer style, some classical, some jazz. All of it seemed evocative to Angel; his mind drifted not over the centuries, but to the previous year.

He’d been ready to kill himself then, tortured by memories, certain that he could only wreak pain on the world. Buffy, and what was either the weirdest weather system ever to hit Sunnydale, or a small miracle, pulled him through. Not that he hadn’t managed to put Buffy through more pain and sorrow—he seemed to have talent for doing that—but at least he was finding some ways to be useful now, trying to make amends. And he was helping Cordelia.

Angel glanced at her again. Apparently he wasn’t the only one whose memories were stirred by the music. She had a bittersweet expression on her face, even while surrounded by appreciative young men. Well, last year at this time she’d had an intact family, and a future she could count on. There were few certainties in her life now.

The musicians were playing "Rock of Ages," with Isaiah doing the main vocals, Aaron providing harmony in what Angel assumed must be Hebrew, and Tamar giving a tender accompaniment. Angel realized he hadn’t ever paid much attention to the lyrics, taking into account that hymns had never been his music of choice.

"Rock of Ages, let our song praise Your saving power;
Thou amidst the raging foes, You were our sheltering tower.
Furious they assailed us, but Thine arm availed us,
And Your word broke their sword
When our own strength failed us.

Children of the wanderers, whether free or fettered,
Wake the echoes of the songs, where you may be scattered.
Yours the message cheering that the time is nearing
Which will see all men free, and tyrants disappearing."

Did Tamar realize that was what she was doing—waking the echoes of the songs? Angel could see the spirit of Tamara Perlmutter alive in her descendent. Tamar held her violin, and swayed to its music, exactly the way her great-great-grandmother had. Given another ten years, or even less, he would bet that she would command the same attention, and excitement.

He remembered excerpts from Naomi’s recollections: Tamara had left Eastern Europe for America at roughly the same time he had. She had married a young musician and scholar who felt as she did that, despite her talent, and his knowledge, as Jews they would always be apart, the hated Other, in the old world. He predicted that things would get worse, not better, in the future. So they emigrated, and instead of playing in elegant concert halls, Tamara taught violin to countless children, in return for a few coins and, even more important, lessons in English. Her husband found what work he could, and they raised their children, struggling through the hard times of war, and economic depression, and a certain amount of prejudice. But things did get better, and the family thrived. Tamara and her husband were grateful they'd moved to America.

"So—the vampire," Tamara would tell her children, and grandchildren, their favorite of her stories. "How did I know he was a vampire? Did I even know the word, then? I knew other demons—dybbuks and dark angels. Now, Vilna was a town of art and culture, and I was privileged to have had an education. To my friends I am sure I scoffed at the old superstitions, but deep down, I believed. I knew that evil could take many forms.

"And here was this young man, dark haired but so pale of skin, attending all of my concerts, sending me flowers. I have to say, he was the most beautiful man I had ever seen, and yes, I was intrigued, though I sensed his lack of conscience, of soul, even from afar.

"But when he stood at my door, even handsomer than I had thought, I felt a chill. I knew if I had a moment of passion with him, it would be intense, but it would be my last. And I was not ready to die. Even more important, I was not willing to let anyone have control over me. So I shut the door in his face, and that was that. I never saw him again. But I knew what he was. I knew what he wanted."

Her instincts had been correct, Angel reflected wryly. He had wanted to overpower her, to make her his instrument, to tear the velvet gown from her shoulders and sink his fangs into her neck—the epitome of the gothic bodice-ripper. Well, such novels were in their heyday then, and such behavior was what came naturally to him at the time.

He watched Tamar, coaxing notes out of her violin with a maturity far beyond her years. Is she as perspicacious as Tamara, he wondered? Just what does she see in me?

The music ended then, to much applause, and the chiming of the doorbell. Naomi and Jake were welcoming some late arrivals, and Tamar was once again at Angel’s side.

"I’m glad I came," he said to her. "I’d hate to have missed that. You play beautifully, Tamar. But I guess you know that."

"I feel good when I play the violin," she answered simply.

"I know. It shows," Angel told her.

"Angel, let’s go back to the den," Tamar had his hand, and was pulling him in that direction. He could sense unease—suddenly she was not feeling good. Was she afraid of something?

"What’s wrong?" Angel asked. He followed her gaze to the foyer. "Who was that at the door?"

"Just some more people from the Academy," she replied. "They brought the new teacher." Angel felt tension at the back of his neck, and wondered why. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He guessed he was picking up Tamar’s vibe. Maybe she just felt post-performance jitters? He followed her into the other room.

She turned then, and looked straight into his eyes. "My mom and daddy won’t let anyone hurt me," she said.

He knelt down, so that he’d be at her level. "Are you worried about the missing children, Tamar?" he asked, and she nodded.

Angel put his arms around her. She was so small.

"No, your mom and dad won’t let anyone hurt you," he said. "And neither will I."

. . .

The party began to break up not long after that. Angel collected Cordelia, making sure that she wanted a ride home with him, and not with any of the several other guys who were more than anxious to do the honors. Amazingly, she followed the old-fashioned protocol of leaving with the person who had brought her.

"They’ll call me," she said, when they were in the car. She was smiling. "I’d almost forgotten that some things are just easy, and fun."

"You’ve been coping well with a tough situation, Cordelia," Angel said. "I’m glad you got a break from that for a little while."

Cordelia seemed somewhat stunned. "It’s nice to see there are a few good people in the world. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but it felt good, being around people who weren’t totally sleazy. I felt like I was part of a family."

"You are part of a family," Angel said quietly.

She bristled at that. "Yeah," she said, her teeth clenched. "A family that cheated, and stole, and lied to me."

Angel kept his even tone. "People make mistakes. Granted, your father’s were rather severe. But I think this is the time of year we’re supposed to forgive them."

"Oh, right. I should forgive him for ruining my life? Who are you forgiving this Christmas, Angel?"

They had arrived at her apartment building. Angel pulled over, double parking in front of the entrance. "My family life wasn’t easy either, Cordelia. I forgave my mother and father any errors on their part long ago. And I’ve spent the last 100 years praying that they’ve found some mercy in their hearts for me."

He heard a soft sob, and saw that Cordelia was crying. He reached out, taking both her hands in his.

"It’s been too late for me for a couple of centuries, but it’s not too late for you. Call your parents tomorrow, Cordelia. You’ll be glad you did."

Cordelia said nothing, but she gave a small nod. Then she exited quickly, running for the privacy of her own room.

Angel watched, making sure she got in safely. He waited a bit longer, pulling forward so that he could see a light go on in her tiny back apartment.

Who was he forgiving? Buffy, for allowing him to walk out of her life as he’d insisted on doing?

He couldn’t even call her to tell her that.

. . .

Toward dawn, the songs from the concert replayed themselves in Angel’s memory. And he had a flash of a story he had missed. He experienced that raised-hackles feeling again, the one he’d had almost sympathetically when sensing Tamar’s unease. His brief period of contentment vanished, but there was little he could do about it except computer searches, until sunset. He flipped on the power switch, thankful that the days were short.

Angel was in the library as soon as possible. He’d made a brief stop for a winter bouquet of white carnations and bright green and red holly; a thank you gift for Naomi and her staff for making him and Cordelia feel so welcome.

Naomi was on the phone, so he took a chair at a nearby table. She grinned at him, and raised her voice just slightly. "I’m glad to hear that, I think it’s an excellent idea. We’ve got all the catalogs and schedules right here. Of course he’d let you take the time off, Cordelia. You’re not on a strict schedule, are you? Well, that’s all right. If Angel needs your help during the day, you’ll take a few night classes. I’ll bet you a manicure that I’m right about this. No, not a professional one—I’ll do your nails, or you do mine. I’m good at giving manicures, almost a pro. But you’ll never know, because you’re going to lose the bet. He just walked in, do you want to ask him? Okay, I’ll relay the message. See you soon." Naomi set down the phone receiver.

"You’ve taken on a 19 year old foster child," Angel guessed.

"A very attractive but demanding one," she laughed. "No, really, it was a pleasure to talk to her. She was quite taken with Steve, at the party. He put himself through college and med school and is doing his internship now. He’s got all sorts of ideas for helping Cordelia get ahead. She’s thinking of taking some classes next quarter—design, or business. I told her I bet you’d support her in that effort."

"Go pick out your nail polish," Angel deadpanned. "And make sure she honors the bet."

"She also said she’s going to visit her parents over Christmas," Naomi added. "I had a feeling you’d be glad to hear that, too."

"You’re right again," he said, and presented the flowers. "These are from both of us, with many thanks for your hospitality, in your home, and here in the library—and for all of your help. Now I’m going to hit the books. I actually had an idea earlier today."

"Thanks, Angel, they’re beautiful. We’ll put them right up front on the circulation desk," Naomi breathed in the crisp scent of the carnations. "I’m so glad you and Cordelia were at the party. But I have to warn you—I think Tamar is experiencing the first pangs of love. She seems to have fallen for an older man."

Angel looked slightly stricken. "Oh, no. I was hoping I was coming off as fatherly."

"Fatherly!" Naomi echoed. "Hey, you’ve met Jake. Sweet guy—great guy. And attractive, in that comfortable, middle-aged professorial way. But have you looked at yourself recently? There’s a bit of a contrast." She moved away toward the front desk, with the flowers.

"Actually, no—I haven’t," Angel muttered, when he was certain Naomi was well out of earshot. He found the books he needed and began to read, hoping to find some answers to his many questions.

. . .

A few more nights, and days, of books and computer screens. Angel had searched countless websites, and tapped into police files (once again praising Willow’s excellent tutoring sessions.) His work yielded little, however. Frustrated, he left for the office. The evening air was damp and chill, typical winter weather in Los Angeles. It suited his mood.

He was surprised to see light glowing through the thick glass pane of the door. Cordelia was there, sorting through some files.

"Hey," Angel greeted her. "Does it say ‘Scrooge and Marley’ on the door? I thought I gave you time off for the holiday."

"What? Oh, that old movie. Well, I’m not going to Sunnydale till tomorrow morning. I’ve got a late dinner date tonight, when Steve finishes his shift. Just thought I’d straighten up a few things before I left," Cordelia said.

"Well, thanks." Angel was touched by her dedication to his work. "I appreciate that." He declined to mention that Charles Dickens had written "A Christmas Carol" long before anyone filmed it.

Cordelia looked up from the files. "Angel, what are you doing over the holiday? Are you going to be all alone?"

"That’s my plan," he said. There was only one person Angel really wanted to be with, and that wasn’t a possibility. "Christmas isn’t a big deal for vampires, Cordelia."

"But you don’t hang with vampires. Not usually, anyway. You should be with friends. I know—Naomi and Jake! Christmas isn’t a big deal for them, either. Oh, I guess Jake will be at the hospital. Naomi said a lot of the Jewish doctors work that day. But you could do something with her and the kids. Tamar would love it. She’s all crushed out on you."

Bemused, Angel realized Cordelia’s idea actually appealed to him. Not that he was going to act on it, of course. For one thing, he didn’t think he should be encouraging a 9 year old’s puppy love—doing the math on that was a bit daunting. "I’m sure they have plans, and I’m not about to intrude on them. I couldn’t get out during the day, anyway. Maybe Doyle will drop by. I could teach him the fine points of dreidel spinning—it’s not all that different from roulette, if we use real money."

"Oh, yeah—Doyle," Cordelia sniffed. "Now there’s the guy you want to spend Christmas with."

"At least he understands my limitations," Angel said, as the phone rang.

Cordelia answered it. "Hello…oh, Naomi! We were just talking about you!" Then her face went pale. "Oh, no. Oh, Naomi, I’m sure it’s not that…." Cordelia covered up the mouthpiece of the receiver, and turned to Angel.

"Tamar’s missing," she whispered.

End Intermezzo

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