PART ONE

There was a pattern, Wesley discovered. After a couple of complete cycles he found he could anticipate each stage.

It started with begging.

“Please.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“Not yet.”

“Soon?”

Wesley checked his watch, then held up his arm so Angel could see its face. “Five minutes.”

Inside the circle, Angel stood up, swaying slightly, vamped, manic. Wesley was beginning to regret the decision to use magic to restrain him instead of something tangible, like chains. The ring of white sand on the floor was effective, but there was something more than a little unsettling about seeing Angel prowling freely within it.

“Can’t wait. Now.”

Without warning, Angel launched himself at the edge of the circle. There was a flash of blue-green fire as he hit the air at the circumference, and he yelped in pain and fell back. Landing on the floor, he picked himself up and criss-crossed the ring, spinning in another direction each time he reached the line of sand defining it.

He approached the edge of the circle closest to Wesley, started to turn, then apparently changed his mind. Standing quietly, he said, “Please. I’m—starving. You don’t know—can’t know—what it’s like. Please.” He held up a hand, pleading. It was shaking so hard he could barely control it. “Come here. I want—to tell you—something—“

The ruse was so obvious that under other circumstances Wesley might have found it amusing. Here and now, it was pitiful. “No.”

Beneath the heavy ridges on his brow, Angel’s eyes narrowed. “You’re afraid of me.”

The pleading stage was over. Wesley fought down a tired sigh. Now the threats.

“I’m afraid for you,” he corrected. “Because I know how this will end if you can’t re-learn your control. You know as well.”

“I could snap you neck so fast you’d be dead before you felt it. I could drain you while your heart was still beating. I could slit you open right down the middle and warm my hands on the steam rising off your insides. I could—“

Wesley turned to the table behind him and lifted the cross sitting on it. When he held it up, the reaction was immediate and extreme: Angel hissed and half-fell, half-stumbled backwards. He moaned and hid his face, and after a moment Wesley tucked the cross into his belt, out of sight.

“Angel,” he said, “You’re not an animal. Remember how you used to be able to

contain the hunger? Tap into that. Find it again.”

“Can’t. All gone. Gave it away.” He lowered his hand and sank to the floor, drawing his knees up to his chest and rocking back and forth.

Wesley noted the foetal position and the shortened, half-formed sentences that heralded the most desperate point of the cycle: need so intense it stripped away everything except the most basic ability to reason and communicate.

“Your fault,” said Angel.

Wesley didn’t reply immediately. He took off his glasses and polished them. Finally he said, “The decision was yours.”

“Should have stopped me.” The rocking grew more pronounced. “Oh God, stop me. Please stop me. Someone stop me…”

Angel closed his eyes and buried his head in his knees, his voice becoming more and more distorted until it was only a faint moan.

Wesley checked his watch, then went to the kitchen. Taking a tub from the newly-replenished supply in the refrigerator, he opened it and poured a third of the contents into a plastic beaker. He returned the tub, and carried the beaker back into the main room.

Angel stopped rocking. He raised his head.

“It’s time,” said Wesley. He pulled the cross from his belt and held it up, watched Angel twist and scrabble away from it until he was at the far side of the chalk circle.

Only then did Wesley approach the nearest edge. Quietly but clearly, he said, “When I set this down, we’re going to count to ten. I want you to wait until we’re finished before you take it. You have to learn how to make yourself wait to feed again. Can you try to do that?”

Staring at the cup in Wesley’s hands, Angel nodded.

“All right.” He leaned forward and put the beaker down just inside the line of heaped chalk. “Now, with me: one, two—“

Wesley jumped back as Angel launched himself across the circle and snatched the cup. He downed the contents in a single gulp, then ran his fingers around the inside of the beaker and licked them.

Wesley sat down and exhaled heavily. “Well, perhaps next time we’ll make it all the way to two and a half.”

Inside the circle, Angel placed the empty cup close to the curved chalk line and retreated. He sat down at the centre of the circle and said clearly, “You can take it away now.”

He sounded calm, rational—briefly in control again now that the craving had been temporarily eased. The last stage. Wesley got up and retrieved the beaker. It was spotless.

“The woman,” said Angel. “From the diner—“

“We got to you in time. She’ll be all right.”

Angel shut his eyes, and nodded. He lowered his head for a moment; Wesley saw one hand ball into a fist and heard him grunt with some kind of effort, and when he looked up again, his face was human. “Thank you.”

“To be frank,” Wesley told him, “you owe more gratitude to Cordelia than me.”

“Cordelia…” His eyes clouded, as if he was sorting through recent memories with difficulty. “There was blood… Did I—harm her?”

Wesley shook his head. “No. But you did frighten her.”

“She’s strong.”

“Perhaps not as strong as you think.” Wesley stood up. “You have a responsibility towards her.”

“The visions…”

“Yes,” agreed Wesley. He took off his glasses and gestured with them. “But it’s more than that. Angel, Cordelia is nineteen and barely out of school. Now she has the gifts of a seer—an exceptionally powerful seer—and she’s grieving for this fellow Doyle. You’re the only person in this whole city she can turn to, and your response is to decide unilaterally to risk your sanity by indulging in some of the most unsafe magic to come out of Mediaeval Spain.”

“I wanted to help him,” said Angel. His voice was quiet, almost a whisper.

“To make Samuel feel better, or yourself?” asked Wesley. He let the question hang for a moment, then went on: “You have someone else depending on you now. You don’t have the luxury of being selfish. And if it makes any difference now, you’re right: I should have stopped you. I’ve been selfish too.”

But Angel was staring fixedly at a spot on the floor next to his feet, and Wesley could tell he wasn’t getting through to him. He began to rock backwards and forwards again.

“Angel,” said Wesley. He repeated it, more sharply: “Angel.”

“I’m hungry.”

Wesley held up his watch. “Twenty minutes. You can make yourself wait.”

Angel moaned and put his hands to his face. The flesh crawled beneath his fingers, and when he lowered them he had changed. “I want—I want—“

“Angel,” said Wesley firmly: “Fight. Come on.”

“I want to sleep.”

“You want—?” Wesley blinked, surprised. Then he understood. “You mean another dose of tranquilliser?”

“Please. Make it—go away.”

Wesley thought of the bottle of Seditol sitting open on the kitchen table. The idea was tempting. An hour’s respite for both Angel and himself.

But when the effects wore off, nothing would be different.

Regretfully, he shook his head. “You know it wouldn’t help. You can’t stay

permanently sedated. You have to control it when you’re awake.”

“I can’t.”

The words were spoken with a simple resignation that filled Wesley with a deeper sense of dismay than anything he had heard so far.

Evenly, he said, “If you can’t regain control, then we’ll have to—“ He stopped. “We won’t have any choice. We’ll give you as long as we can, but sooner or later we’ll have to do it. Sooner or later.”

“I know.”

“Doesn’t that make any difference? Don’t you want to live?”

“Not like this.” Angel leaned forward on his hands, his head hanging down between his shoulders. “Please. I’m hungry.”

Full circle, thought Wesley. “You have to wait.”

“Please,” repeated Angel.

“No.”

“Please.”

“Not yet.”

“Soon?”

“Soon,” said Wesley soberly. He wasn’t talking about the next feed.

* * *

“Wesley, wake up.”

The voice was female and insistent. He was comfortable and warm, and he wanted it to go away.

“Wesley.”

“Don’t want to go to school—“ He opened his eyes and gazed blearily at the dark-haired fuzzy shape looming above him: “Mummy? Umm. No. Cordelia. I mean -“ He sat up in the easy chair, hooking his glasses on over his ears. Cordelia sighed.

“Believe me, being mistaken for a tea-and-scones vision of English matronhood is the least horrible thing that’s happened to me recently. And keep your voice down—he’s asleep.”

She stepped back and waved a hand, indicating the chalk circle, at the centre of which Angel sprawled, insensible. Wesley gave a relieved sigh and said, more softly, “Thank God for that. I thought he was past the point of being able to rest.”

Cordelia looked at him. “That bad, huh?”

“Well, I—“ He stopped, then nodded. “Yes. And getting worse.”

But Cordelia was no longer listening to him. Instead, she had turned back to the circle, and was staring at the empty space between Angel and the ceiling. “I can’t see it,” she mused. “But it’s there.”

“See what?”

Cordelia didn’t reply. She made her way around the outside of the sand circle and began to climb the stairs leading up to the offices above. Wesley waited long enough to make sure Angel was still sleeping soundly, then followed her.

He found her upstairs, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, a massive tome which looked to Wesley suspiciously like volume thirteen of the Black Chronicles open in front of her. Piles of similarly ancient books surrounded her on all sides.

“Grab one,” she instructed.

“Which one? And what am I looking for?”

“Any one,” said Cordelia: “And this.”

She reached behind her and produced a rough pencil sketch, which she held out to him. Wesley took it and lifted it to the light. It appeared to be a crude drawing of an amorphous black blob with numerous thread-like tentacles sprouting from its top.

“You’re holding it upside down.”

“Oh. Sorry.” He righted the paper. Now he was looking at an amorphous black blob with numerous thread-like tentacles sprouting from its base. “And this is—what, exactly?”

“You’re Watcher Demon Expert Guy. You tell me.”

“Umm. Is it perhaps an interesting re-interpretation of the symbol they use for ‘rain’ on the weather forecast? Oh no, wait—I see it now. It’s a mutant sheep, am I right?”

Cordelia looked up from her book. “It’s the thing that’s feeding on Angel.”

“It’s feeding on—“ Wesley broke off. “How do you know?”

“Because I saw it.”

He looked at Cordelia, the drawing, then back at Cordelia. She was staring at him boldly, daring him to contradict her. After a second, he sat down next to her, and placed the drawing on the floor between them. “When?”

She took a short breath. “Twice. The first time was during the spell. But nobody else saw anything, and I thought it was part of the magic. Then I saw it when Angel was attacking that woman last night. It was hooked right into him, like it was feeding on him at the same time he was feeding on her.”

Wesley paused, taking this in. Finally he said, “That’s what you were looking for downstairs just now, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah. But I didn’t see it. It must know I’m on to it. It’s hiding.”

“So—you think this is some kind of parasite.”

Cordelia nodded and started to talk rapidly. “I went to see Samuel. He was talking about addiction like it was a thing. And then it hit me: it is a thing. He called it a Crave. It’s a nasty, black, squiddy, slimy Crave, and when we did the spell we made it jump from him to Angel. You couldn’t figure out why the spell went wrong—you said the magic just didn’t work like that. Well, it doesn’t. There was never anything wrong with the magic, Wesley. It was the Crave doing this to Angel all the time.”

“Cordelia—“ Wesley looked at the drawing in front of him, and then at Cordelia. Her eyes were wide open, and everything in her face seemed to be willing him to believe her. Very gently, he put his hand on her shoulder. “Cordelia, I know how much easier it would be to think that something external is responsible for what’s happened to Angel. But we’re not going to help him by trying to hang the blame elsewhere. As distasteful as it is, his craving for blood is part of what he is.”

“Do you know how much these eyes are worth?” interrupted Cordelia.

Wesley stopped, taken aback. “Excuse me?”

“Thirty thousand dollars. That’s how much that skanky lady lawyer was going to pay for these seer’s eyes. Because that’s what I am now—a seer. I didn’t want it—God knows I hung out with enough freaks at high school to make me not want to join the supernatural club—but I got it. These eyes see things, and I know what I saw.” She held up the drawing: “This thing is killing Angel. It’s real. So if you’re not going to help me work out what it is and how to get rid of it, you can just leave now. And don’t bother coming back.”

She lowered the drawing and stared at Wesley defiantly. After a moment, he reached across her and shut the book in front of her. “You don’t need that.”

Cordelia stared at him. Coldly, she began, “If that’s how it is, then—“

He held up a hand to indicate he hadn’t finished. “What I mean to say is, the Black Chronicles aren’t particularly useful with respect to parasitical entities. I can think of better places to start looking.”

“So… you believe me?”

He smiled. “I think thirty thousand dollars would have been a steal.”

* * *

“If I ever decide to be an attendant at the zoo, after tonight I think I have reasonable grounds to claim relevant experience on the application form.” Cordelia flopped down in the chair opposite Angel’s desk. Wesley looked up from his book.

“How is he?”

“I wasn’t getting much in the way of coherent sentences. Or even recognition.“

Wesley said, “I think I’ve found something.”

Cordelia pushed herself out of the chair and hopped on to the edge of the desk, so she could look over his shoulder. “And you waited a whole thirty seconds to tell me this? Give it up. Now.”

He lifted a magnifying glass and held it over a section of the text. “That’s it.”

“That page?”

“Umm, no.”

“That paragraph?”

“Actually,” said Wesley regretfully: “That sentence.”

“Yay,” said Cordelia sourly. “The body of knowledge increases by a whole twelve words. I hope they’re doozies.”

He indicated the page as a whole: “This chapter is about the sub-demonic class of entities. Beings which exist on the cusp of reality: not intelligent, but more than just random pulses of magical energy and—you’re not in the least interested in this, are you?”

“I’m wandering. Summarise.”

“They’re the demonic equivalent of viruses. This sentence refers to a type which is attracted to certain dark psychological states. Lunacy, hatred, lust—and addiction.”

Cordelia nodded slowly. “Remember when we first talked to Samuel? He said he’d been doing pretty well for a couple of months—then suddenly he couldn’t deal any more. I’m betting he only picked up the Crave recently. It hopped on to him from somewhere else.”

“Yes,” agreed Wesley. “The parasite is probably attracted to individuals who are already susceptible. Then it erodes any ability they have to resist the addiction. Once they’ve given in once, it pushes them harder and harder, until…” He didn’t like where the reasoning was going, so he stopped.

Quietly, Cordelia concluded for him: “Until they OD. Except Angel can’t do that. He can only get hungrier.”

“That’s why it jumped during the spell,” realised Wesley. “It sensed the possibility of symbiosis. Endless craving.”

“So how do we get rid of it?”

Wesley scanned the page once with the magnifying glass before setting it to one side.

“There are no clues in here. But there’s a standard way of dealing with non-corporeal entities. You have to force them into physical manifestation. That’s when they’re vulnerable.”

“That’s gonna be tough,” said Cordelia. “I mean sure, when Angel was getting necky with that woman from the diner, I saw this thing, but it was like a—a shadow of what it really was. It wasn’t touch-me-feel-me there.”

Wesley thought for a few seconds. At last he said, “Perhaps it didn’t get enough of what it wanted. Or, more specifically, what Angel wanted. We arrived before he could complete the kill. He wasn’t anywhere near satiation.”

“So the suggestion on the table is to let Angel drink himself into oblivion then cut this thing off him?”

“Yes.”

Cordelia held up her hands and rested one on top of the other at right angles, forming a T shape in the air. “Okay, time out. My extra-curricular activities at school were cheerleading and fighting evil, remember. I know something about this. Vampires are stronger right after they feed. And the way he is right now, Angel isn’t gonna be able to stay on top of that.”

“He’s already almost beyond reason. By the time the Crave manifests itself, he’ll be at peak strength as well. He’ll be extremely dangerous.”

Cordelia swallowed. “Just wanted to clarify.”

“I don’t suppose those extra-curricular activities included swordfighting, by any chance?”

“You know, I wanted to, but the class was full.” She put her head on one side: “Wesley, what are you talking about?”

“If our theory is right, you’ll be able to see the Crave before me. Even a few seconds could be vital. It would be better if you were the one to attack it when it does appear. So—how are your sword skills?”

Cordelia thought. “On a scale of one to ten, four.”

Wesley felt buoyed. “Good. That’s much better than I was—“

“Let me finish. That’s a scale where ten is ‘abysmal’ and one is ‘let’s not bother with the fight, just stab me now’.”

“Oh.”

“You can be Sword Boy. I’ll shout directions. Angel will try to kill us both.” Cordelia smiled a bright, false smile: “See? Everyone has something to contribute.”

Four

“Remind me why we can’t just use the last of the Seditol to knock Angel out for the duration.”

Wesley drew the whetstone along the edge of the sword he was holding for a final time. He looked up to see Cordelia take off a bulging backpack and dump it unceremoniously on the other side of the kitchen table. “Because the parasite must be feeding on Angel’s craving, and he can’t experience that if he’s unconscious.” He turned the blade on its side, and examined the way the light glinted along its length. Satisfied it could not be made sharper, he put it down.

“We could at least chain him up,” said Cordelia, opening the bag and beginning to unload the contents. A large collection of irregularly shaped tubs and containers started rapidly to accumulate on the tabletop.

“It’s an option,” he conceded. “Although by the time he’s consumed the feed we’re going to give him, he’ll be exceptionally strong. He might be able to break out of chains—he can’t cross the boundary of the circle.”

She eyed him sceptically. “You’re absolutely, one hundred per cent sure on that? Cause, y’know, they told us in biology class that blood moves through the body in a closed system, and I’d really like mine to stay that way.”

“I’m sure.” Wesley sat down, the sword in front of him. “Just remember—“

“—Not to break the sand line,” finished Cordelia. She glared at him: “You don’t have to tell me twice. I have a brain.”

“I wasn’t implying you didn’t. But this could get—frantic. It won’t be easy to watch where you’re stepping all the time.”

Her hostile expression faded. “Sorry. Just—getting a little jumpy over here. I’ll be glad when this is over.”

“So will I.” He gestured at the stacks of tubs in front of her: “Did you have difficulty getting that much?”

Cordelia shrugged and replied, “No. I said I was a science major and I needed it for a research project. Good thing they didn’t ask what kind of research needs twenty pints of animal blood.” She looked at the collection of containers: “It’s a lot, isn’t it? “

“I only hope it’s enough.” Cordelia didn’t reply, and there was a pensiveness in her face which Wesley didn’t know how to interpret. Gently, he said, “This is necessary, you know.”

“I know. It’s just—“ She stopped. “Angel doesn’t like drinking in front of people.”

“We’ve already seen him feeding on Robyn Murray,” he reminded her. “He didn’t seem to mind then.”

“If we get rid of the Crave, he’ll be okay, right?” asked Cordelia hopefully. “Self-control back, everything copacetic again?”

Wesley didn’t answer for a moment. Finally, he said, “I don’t know. All I can say for certain is that with the parasite gone, he’ll have the opportunity to regain control. Whether he can or not is up to him.“

Cordelia looked at him. “Note for future reference: when I ask questions like that, I expect to be told what I want to hear.”

In spite of the situation, Wesley found himself smiling. “So noted. From now on, I undertake to lie to you in emotional stressful situations.”

“We never got to this point before, did we?”

“What point?”

“The actually-having-a-conversation point. We kind of bypassed it and went straight to the kissing stage. Not,” she added too quickly, “that I’m saying anything negative about the kissing part, because it was great—“

“—Very enjoyable, no argument about that—“

“—It’s just that it’s good you’re here in a researching-things, sword-wielding capacity instead of a kissing capacity. Because that’s what I need right now. What with Doyle—and—“ Cordelia broke off. “In case it’s not obvious, I’m working up to a ‘thank you’.”

“That’s funny, because I was going to thank you.”

She stared at him, apparently genuinely perplexed. “For what?”

“For letting me help.”

“Oh.” Cordelia nodded slowly, then smiled widely. “So, that makes us even, doesn’t it? Clean slate, new leaf and every cliché in between?”

“I suppose so.”

Leaning over the table, Cordelia lifted the sword and thrust it towards Wesley, hilt first: “Let’s do it.”

* * *

“…It’s a parasite. We’re going to remove it. Angel, do you understand what I’m telling you?”

At the centre of the circle, Angel stopped rocking backwards and forwards long enough to look up at Wesley with predatory intensity. “Hungry.”

Wesley sighed and stood up. He turned to Cordelia, who was opening the last of the plastic containers. She shrugged resignedly and said, “Guess that’s a ‘no’. Ready?”

He nodded. “Ready.”

She handed him a polystyrene foam tub. It brimmed with blood, black and viscous. Wesley took it, then assumed a position across the circle from her, Angel between them.

He bent down and very quickly deposited the open container inside the boundary of the ring. Within a second, Angel had pounced on it, and was gulping it down. He tilted the tub faster than he could swallow, and soon trails of blood were visible trickling down from his mouth, towards his neck. He didn’t seem to notice or care.

Wesley watched him, making sure Angel was fully occupied with the act of feeding. He nodded at Cordelia. “Go now.”

At the far side of the ring, she darted forward and placed the second tub on the floor where Angel could reach it. Just as she began to retreat, Angel dropped the first container, now empty, and spun around. He was across the circle and on to the second serving faster than was humanly possible.

Cordelia yelped in surprise and stepped backwards just in time to avoid coming within Angel’s reach.

“Are you all right?” asked Wesley.

She was breathing quickly. “Yeah. Just didn’t know we were going for the speed record, that’s all.”

“He can’t help himself. If it’s there, he’ll drink. Do you see anything yet?”

She looked towards the ceiling, and her face screwed up in concentration. “Not yet.”

“Keep looking up,” he instructed, lifting a third container from the supply on the table.

Cordelia was watching Angel feeding with distaste. “No arguments on that one. It’s more fun than looking down.”

Wesley couldn’t help but agree with her. Angel finished the third measure of blood, ripping the carton open to get at the last drops. There seemed to be blood everywhere now—on his clothes, his face, his hands, the floor. Feeding time at the zoo, thought Wesley, and felt a sudden sense of pity mixed with sadness. Watching this seemed somehow prurient, intrusive.

By the fifth dose, they had fallen into a routine: distract, deposit, feed, repeat. At the ninth or tenth, Wesley removed the newly-sharpened sword from its scabbard. When, by the twelfth feeding—or thereabouts, he was losing track—Cordelia had still seen nothing, he was beginning to wonder if the plan was going to work at all.

Cordelia was apparently having similar thoughts. She gestured at the dwindling row of cartons on the table at the side of the room and said, “Supplies running low.”

“I see that. Cordelia—“

“I know, I know.” She scanned the room, and shook her head. “Still nothing. Wait a second—“

Her gaze had fixed on a spot above and to the left of Angel. Wesley stared, but couldn’t see anything. “Is it there?”

“I’m not sure, I thought I saw a flicker—“ She broke off, then said with more certainty: “It’s there. I can see it.”

Wesley gripped the hilt of the sword with both hands and raised it in front of himself.

“Where exactly?”

“Up. Now left. Forward—there.”

Standing at the edge of the circle, Wesley sliced the blade through the empty air as she directed. Angel, still intent on feeding, ignored him.

“Did I get it?”

“No. You’re too far away. You need to move closer.”

Inside the circle, Angel dropped the empty carton and looked around hungrily. Wesley watched him. “I think I see the inherent flaw in that plan.”

“No kidding.” Cordelia lifted a container of blood. “One distraction coming up.”

She dropped the carton on to the floor inside the circle. Angel fell on it without hesitation. While he knelt on the ground, head lowered, Wesley stepped quickly inside the circle and made another pass with the sword. “That time?”

“No, it moved with him.” She pointed. “It’s over there now.”

“All right, I’ll—“

“Wesley!”

At Cordelia’s warning shout, Wesley turned and saw Angel rising drunkenly to his feet. He jumped backwards just in time.

“Where is it?”

“Up there, in the corner.”

She was indicating an inaccessible crevice in the alcove next to the apartment stairs.

As far as Wesley could tell, there was no way to reach it except by crossing the area of the floor marked by the sand circle. “We need another distraction.”

“No can do.” Cordelia gestured regretfully at the empty table: “That was the last of it. We’ll have to try again later.”

Inside the ring, Angel was moving about with manic, uncontrolled energy. The only sound he made was a low growling, and there was no trace of humanity in his face, voice or behaviour. Wesley realised what he was seeing was pure vampire, a creature driven by insatiable, uncontrollable hunger, without intellect or emotion.

But with a soul. A soul which, no matter how deeply it was buried, still existed; a soul which must now be experiencing a degree of self-loathing Wesley could not begin to conceive.

Firmly, he said, “No. We’re going to put a stop to this right now.” He looked at Cordelia: “Can you see it?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

Wesley thought for a moment. He felt oddly calm. “Very well. We do have one more distraction to use.”

He removed his left hand from the sword’s hilt and drew it along the blade. The pain in his palm made him wince, and when he removed his hand the sword’s edge was stained red. “Catch.”

He threw the sword to her. She caught it automatically, then looked at him in confusion. “Wesley, what are you—?”

Before she could complete the question, he had bent down and was reaching towards the circle’s white sand outline. With one deliberate movement, he drew his uninjured hand through the line, breaking it. He held up his right hand, palm out. “Angel. Over here.”

At the other side of the circle, Angel stopped. He sniffed the air. He turned.

Wesley said, “Cordelia. Be ready to—“

He didn’t get any further.

The bite didn’t hurt as much as Wesley had thought it would. Yes, there was a stab of intense pain in the first second, as two rows of sharp teeth punctured the skin on his neck, but it faded quickly. Soon the overriding sensation was a numbing cold that swiftly began to creep through him.

He could feel the blood being drawn from him swallow by swallow, in time with the beat of his slowing pulse. The edges of his vision started to cloud to grey, then black.

It wasn’t, he decided, entirely unpleasant. Like going to sleep, except more permanent. Now he understood why vampires’ victims tended not to struggle more, or harder.

Someone screamed.

Then everything stopped.

Wesley lay still for what might have been seconds, or minutes. When his breathing had normalised, he tried to sit up, accomplishing the action with difficulty. He felt light-headed, dizzy. He put a hand to his neck, and his fingertips came away bloodied.

Angel was sitting against the base of the bookcase at the other side of the room. His eyes were closed and he was shaking. Cordelia was nowhere to be seen.

“Angel?” hazarded Wesley. He tried again: “Angel?”

There was no response. Wesley put down a hand and tried to push himself to his feet. Half-way up, he ran out of strength and gave up. He allowed himself to slip back down on to the floor.

“Well,” he remarked to no one in particular: “That was a new experience.”

“Wesley? Are you okay?”

Cordelia’s voice came from the stairs behind him. He looked around, with difficulty.

“Considering I just lost half my blood supply, I’m feeling surprisingly chipper.”

She jumped off the last stair and ran into the apartment’s main room, still carrying the sword. Dropping it, she crossed to where Wesley sat and helped him to his feet. He found he could stand, but only by leaning heavily on Cordelia.

“It wasn’t that much,” she said. “He was on you for maybe half a second before I managed to cut the thing off him. That was a really—brave thing you did.”

Wesley attempted to draw himself up straighter. “Well, one does try to rise to the occasion—umphh,” he finished as Cordelia hit him.

“And also really, really stupid! Don’t you ever try anything like that again!”

He rubbed his bruised arm. “I sincerely hope I don’t have to. I heard a scream—“

“That was Angel.”

Wesley nodded to himself, a suspicion confirmed. “We were just in time—if he felt its pain, then the symbiosis must have been almost complete.” He looked around the basement apartment. “Where is it? If it manifested, and you killed it, it should be here—“

But Cordelia was shaking her head. “I didn’t. Kill it, I mean. I just sliced those tentacle things to get it off Angel. As soon as it was separated, it went upstairs and outside. I chased it into the street, but I lost it.” She pointed at the sword: “And can I take this opportunity to add that running down a city street late at night waving a blood-stained sword gets a person some really, really strange looks.”

“We should try to find it.”

“Jeez, Wesley, haven’t we had enough excitement for one night?”

“If we don’t, the Crave will simply find another host. This will start all over again for some other poor devil.”

Cordelia looked to where Angel still crouched, shivering. “I don’t want anyone else to have to go through that. But, Wesley—it’s gone. You should have seen how fast that thing moved once it was outside. I can see it, but I can’t track it.”

With Cordelia’s support, Wesley moved to one of the easy chairs and sank into it gratefully. She sat down next to him on the armrest.

Angel said, “I can.”

* * *

The elevator shuddered to a halt. Cordelia’s hands were full holding a tray laden with tea, coffee, milk and half a packet of stale cookies she had found at the back of a kitchen cupboard, so she used her elbow to push back the cage door.

They had relocated, at her suggestion, to the office upstairs. The basement apartment was going to require yet another major cleaning in the not-too-distant future, this time probably involving bleach, and Cordelia had decided that could wait until the next day. In the meantime, she felt it was important that Angel spend as little time as possible in edible surroundings.

She carried the tray into the smaller office and put it down on the desk. Wesley looked up and nodded his thanks, tugging absently at the fresh white bandage on his cut hand.

Angel, leaning his arms on the desktop and touching his fingertips to his temples, didn’t move. He had showered and changed, and his face was back to normal, a small detail which Cordelia opted to interpret as a good sign.

She poured a cup of tea for Wesley and added milk and sugar. And more sugar. And then some more sugar.

“Steady on there.”

Stirring the drink, she told him, “We need to get your blood glucose levels up. Eat a cookie.” She lifted the cup of black coffee and set it hesitantly in front of Angel. “This is yours.”

He opened his eyes and looked at the cup for a moment. Then he lifted it and took adrink. To Wesley, he said very quietly, “I’m sorry.”

“I knew exactly what I was doing. So let’s not hear another word about it.” Wesley sipped his tea and made a face: “Ughh. There must be half a sugar cane plantation in this.”

“Quit complaining and drink,” said Cordelia amicably.

“Angel, what did you mean, you can track it?”

Angel put the coffee cup down on the desk, but kept his hand wrapped around it. “I can—sense it. It’s getting weaker, but it’s there.”

Wesley nodded. “It must be the residual effects of the link. If you can tell us where to go, we can—“

Angel was shaking his head. “I won’t know until I start following it.”

Cordelia exchanged a look with Wesley. To Angel, she said, “You sure you’re up for that?”

“I’m fine.”

“Oooh, and when did I hear that recently?” Cordelia rolled her eyes and feigned deep concentration. “Oh yeah, I remember—right before you went for my throat.”

“You drank a lot tonight,” observed Wesley. Angel made no reply, and after a moment he went on, “More than you have for a long time, I imagine.”

“It’s been a while.”

“You must be feeling a little—“

“I’m fine,” said Angel, looking up. At the same time, Cordelia saw his knuckles whiten as he gripped the coffee cup harder. And harder. There was a sudden crack, and the cup shattered in his fist, sending coffee and shards of white china across the desk in equal parts. Angel looked at his wet, steaming hand, his expression close to shock. “I’m—sorry.”

Cordelia lifted a paper towel and started to soak up the spill. “Enough with the apologies already. Just be straight with us. You’re not okay. Nowhere near.”

After a moment Angel said, “I can—think clearly again. The Crave is gone. But what’s left is—“ He stopped.

“What?”

“Me. What I am.”

“Can you control that?” asked Wesley.

“Yes,” said Angel. He swallowed and looked down. “Maybe. I… I’m not sure.”

“Well, I say we up the certainty level.” Cordelia balled the sodden towel she had been using and threw it into the office wastepaper basket. Then she went to the free-standing cupboard in the corner of the room and opened the doors.

Wesley watched her with curiosity. “What are you looking for?”

“Something no self-respecting S&M club or undead detective agency should be

without,” Cordelia told him: “Handcuffs.”

She held them up so he could see, then walked around the desk until she was standing behind Angel. He had already positioned his arms behind his back, wrists together. Cordelia slipped the bracelets over his hands and snapped them shut. This done, she lifted his jacket down from the peg behind the door and draped it over his shoulders. Then she stood back to assess the overall effect. “It’s a little eighties, but I think you can carry it off.”

Wesley got up, looking, Cordelia was relieved to note, steadier on his feet. “We’ll need to bring weapons.”

She indicated the still-open cabinet at the side of the office. “Take your pick. There are a couple of axes, a choice of swords, a mace or two—oh, and that scary thing with the spikes. I can never remember what that’s called. Should we take anything else?”

“Yes.” Angel rose to his feet, his arms pinned awkwardly behind him. “A stake.”

* * *

“It’s close.”

The convertible slowed as Cordelia eased off the accelerator. From the back seat, Wesley asked, “How close?”

“Close enough to follow on foot.” There was no way to sit comfortably with his hands secured behind his back, and Angel could feel his arms beginning to cramp, the muscles twisting. He tried to ignore the pain and concentrate instead on the buzzing itch swinging like a compass needle somewhere in the back of his head. It had been getting stronger for the last several blocks, and was now so intense he could feel a thudding echo pounding in his inner ear. “Pull over.”

Cordelia stopped the car by the side of the street, then got out and opened Angel’s door for him. Wesley lifted a bag from the trunk, and winced under its weight. “At least we’re not under-equipped. We must have brought everything bar the kitchen sink.”

“Are kitchen sinks useful for demon-slaying purposes?” asked Cordelia. ”Because if so, I want one of those babies with us next time.”

Wesley said something in reply, but Angel was no longer paying attention. He shut his eyes, turned around on the spot, tried to isolate in which direction the pull felt strongest.

Concentrate, focus—

Hunger—

Drink. Feed. Kill—

He felt warmth next to him, heard the soft beat of a pulse, scented something living. Prey.

He opened his eyes. “Don’t touch me!”

Cordelia stepped backwards quickly, taking her hand off his shoulder. “Your coat was slipping off. Take it easy.”

He turned around again. The compass needle spun, then settled. “This way.”

“Uhhh, Angel?”

“What?”

Cordelia and Wesley were standing side by side behind him. Cordelia waggled her fingers in front of her eyebrows. “Face?”

He hadn’t realised. He concentrated, found the control he needed, struggled, held it somehow. He started walking.

In truth, he wasn’t sure the Crave was close enough to find on foot, but he needed to move, to work off some of the excess energy the night’s exceptional feed had given him. His answer to Wesley’s question hadn’t been completely straight: it had been more than a while since he had drunk so much at once. It had been decades. Longer.

Even when hunting and killing had been a nightly pleasure, he hadn’t indulged himself to that extent. It was dangerous. A gorged vampire was an irrational, crazed vampire, craving more, and more, until—

The buzzing in his head reached a crescendo. Angel stopped, heard the rapid clatter of footsteps as Cordelia and Wesley drew up behind him at a run. “Break out the weapons. It’s here.”

“You can have the sword,” Cordelia said to Wesley as she took the holdall from him and unzipped it. “I call scary spiky nameless thing. So where is it?”

Pointing wasn’t an option, so Angel nodded. “In that building.”

“In that building?” repeated Wesley. “Ah. Oh dear.”

Cordelia said, “Angel. That’s a hospital.”

“It’s there,” he said with conviction.

“Well, yes, maybe, but—“ Wesley paused. “We don’t doubt your instincts, Angel.

However, in your current condition, do you think it’s possible you might have been drawn here by, umm—“

An ambulance pulled up in front of them. Its doors opened, and the smell of fresh blood hit Angel. He stared as the paramedics lifted a man out of the back of the vehicle on a stretcher, the blankets covering him stained red.

Even when they had disappeared through the swing doors and into the ER, the scent of blood persisted. Angel looked around, suddenly unsure. “I—was certain.”

Cordelia put her hands on his shoulders and began to turn him around. “Maybe this wasn’t the best idea ever. Let’s just get you home, huh?”

The smell of blood. Overpowering, whispering sweet, tempting invitations that reached into him, caressed the heart of his desire.

Angel’s head buzzed. It was the parasite. He knew it must be able to feel him, if he could still feel it. It must be feeding even now, on his need, his weakness—

He tugged away from Cordelia. “It’s the Crave,” he said. “It is here. It’s—influencing me more, the closer I get.”

“You mean—“ She stared at him for a moment, then her expression cleared: “It’s like it knew you’d come after it.”

Wesley completed the thought: “So it came to a hospital. The worst possible place Angel could be right now. That’s—worryingly intelligent.”

“I can find it,” said Angel. “You can kill it.” He started towards the hospital entrance.

“Wait.” Cordelia was pointing at the metal archway positioned just inside the doors.

“That’s a metal detector. We’ll have to leave the weapons outside.”

“We’ll improvise.”

She looked at him and added pointedly, “And the handcuffs.”

Angel moved his hands behind his back, feeling the metal binding his wrists chafing his skin.

Wesley said, “You should know that Cordelia and I agreed that—well—“ He

hesitated, then met Angel’s gaze and finished clearly: “If we so much as suspect you may be about to lose control in there, we’ll kill you.”

“So what we’re saying is,” said Cordelia, “if you’re gonna do this, could you please take a little time out beforehand to make a realistic self-assessment? Emphasis on ‘realistic’.”

Angel said nothing for a moment. The taste of fresh blood was a sweet recent

memory. The air around him hung heavy with its scent. And in his head, the Crave and the pure, dark heart of his nature told him to give in.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” he said shortly. “I do know I have to try.”

Wesley looked at Cordelia. She hesitated, shrugged, then reached into the pocket of her jeans and produced the keys to the handcuffs. She sighed as she released Angel.

“Y’know, I was really hoping for something a little more concrete in the line of reassurance.”

* * *

There was a junction ahead. Signs overhead pointed towards the hospital’s various departments. “Where now?” asked Wesley.

“Right,” said Angel.

Wesley squinted upwards. “Taking us towards… surgery.”

“Home of open wounds and buckets o’blood. It just keeps getting better,” said

Cordelia in a low voice. “Angel, are you completely sure you’re not just—“

But Angel had already started to move off down the corridor. They made to follow him, Cordelia running ahead to catch up while Wesley, still feeling slightly light-headed, took a moment longer. He tried to walk faster, slipping a hand into his jacket pocket and fingering the tapered wooden stake nestling in between the folds of fabric. That, at least, had been invisible to the metal detectors on the main entrance.

Cordelia was at Angel’s left hand side; Wesley fell into step at his right. It was difficult to keep pace with him: his movements were jerky and irregular. The huge quantity of blood he had drunk earlier was still affecting him. Angel, he realised with

a deep sense of unease, was high.

“Move aside there! Coming through!”

Wesley moved automatically to the edge of the hallway, taking Angel with him.

Cordelia went to the corridor’s far side, as a trauma team headed by a surgeon in scrubs and an attending team of doctors and nurses pushed a gurney past them. The man on it was unconscious, ashen faced. A significant portion of his stomach seemed to be missing.

There was a lot of blood.

The trauma team vanished into the surgery unit, the last nurse staying outside in the hallway. She turned and started to walk quickly back up the corridor towards them.

“Wesley,” said Cordelia quietly, pointing at Angel: “Problem.”

Wesley heard a low growl from beside him. He turned around, knowing already what he would see.

Urgently, he said, “Angel. Listen to me. It’s the Crave doing this to you. It must be very close now. But you’re in control here. You don’t have to give in.”

The nurse began to pass them, then hesitated. “Excuse me. Can I help you—“

“No,” said Wesley.

The nurse put her hand on Angel’s arm. “I think your friend is distressed—“

Angel turned. The nurse’s expression froze. “My God. Your face—“

There was a second’s horrified silence before Cordelia stepped in. Grabbing the nurse by the shoulders, she propelled the woman away from them. “Tragic, isn’t it? We’re suing the plastic surgeon. Look, there’s a sick person! Go help!”

Wesley turned back to Angel, who was leaning against the wall. He was shaking, and mumbling something to himself, almost too quietly to make out. It sounded like the same short phrase repeated over and over, like a mantra. Wesley leaned closer, struggled to make sense of the sounds.

Angel was saying, “I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t—“

Wesley felt suddenly cold. The stake was still in his pocket; he put his hand on it, made ready to take it out.

Before he could, Angel bolted.

He was halfway down the hallway before Wesley had completely registered what was happening. A second later Cordelia ran past him, in pursuit. “Wesley, come on!”

He started after her, pushing past a random assortment of surprised patients and staff.

“Excuse me. Coming through. Sorry there. Pardon me—“ Ahead of him first Angel, then Cordelia, vanished around a sharp bend in the corridor. Before following them, Wesley looked back the way they had come, and saw a group of burly-looking, blue-uniformed men emerging from the far elevators.

He skidded around the corner, and almost knocked Cordelia down. “He went that way.”

Breathlessly, Wesley said, “Cordelia—security’s coming.”

She grimaced. “My lucky night. I get to kill my boss and earn a criminal record.”

“You lead them off. I’ll find Angel.”

Cordelia nodded once. Then she ran back the way they had come, towards the

pursuing security guards.

Wesley set off in the other direction. He wasn’t moving as quickly as he needed to: he couldn’t catch his breath, and he felt light-headed and vaguely nauseous. He stopped for a second and, leaning on the back of a stationary wheelchair, breathed deeply. His neck hurt, and when he touched the skin, he found the bite wound had re-opened.

He blinked, shook his head, and moved on.

A notice on the wall instructed him to be quiet out of consideration for patients recovering from surgery. The hallway was long and straight, the plain cream walls interrupted at intervals by the doors of private rooms. The corridor was empty, except for a lone sanitary worker mopping the floor at the far end. Wesley guessed that if the man had seen a vampire running towards him in the recent past, he wouldn’t be going about his job with such assiduousness. If Angel had come this way, he was in one of the rooms.

He took out the stake and opened the first door on his left. The room was unoccupied, the bed neatly made.

The second room was empty too.

When he looked into the third room, a man with his left leg suspended in traction asked politely for a glass of water.

He opened the door of the fourth room and looked in. The woman sitting up in the bed, her arm attached to a drip, looked at him.

“Umm, hello,” said Wesley. “I wonder if you happen to have seen a tall, dark-haired man pass through here? Possibly with, ahhh, teeth? “

The woman didn’t respond. She wasn’t, Wesley realised, really looking at him. Her face just happened to be tilted in his direction. Her right hand was cupped around something she gripped tightly. Her fingers twitched regularly, but otherwise she made no movement and her open eyes were glazed over, inexpressive.

“Oh,” he said. “Right. I’ll just be moving along then…” He stopped.

A shadow moved across the shaft of light being thrown into the room through the open door.

“Angel,” said Wesley. “Angel. I know you’re there.”

He stepped into the room. Held up the stake.

Angel stood in the shadows in the corner beside the bed. His face was a study in raw hunger. He was focused entirely on the bed and the woman in it.

Wesley said, “Angel. Listen to my voice. You don’t have to do this—“

Angel leaped on to the bed, straddling the woman. His back was to Wesley, exposed.

One chance. There would only be one chance. If he didn’t get it right—

Wesley moved towards the bed. Made ready to strike.

There was a tray sitting on the table beside the bed, holding the remains of a hospital meal and an empty glass. With a fast, smooth movement Angel reached down and scooped up something from it. He held it up.

The blade glinted in the faint light from the hallway. It was a knife.

Wesley hesitated, suddenly unsure. Vampires killed with fangs, not weapons. But they still killed, so did it matter how—

The woman’s hand twitched again. She was pushing something with her thumb. A

panic button? wondered Wesley. No, because surely security would have come by now if—

Something else?

Angel was lifting the knife. Wesley held up the stake.

Last chance.

Suddenly he understood what was happening.

He dropped the stake on to the floor. It landed with a dull wooden clatter.

At the same time, Angel stood up on the bed, wrapped his fist around the knife, and stabbed it towards the wall above the woman’s head. Wesley heard a high-pitched wavering noise, and saw a trail of black liquid suddenly appear on the previously spotless wall. Angel stabbed the blade at the wall again, and this time met with resistance as something began to solidify out of the air. It was black and soft and glistened wetly. A cluster of tentacles dangled in the air beneath it; most were half-severed and trailed uselessly, but the remaining few were firmly rooted in the flesh of the woman in the bed.

Wesley stared, and realised he was seeing the Crave.

The wailing reached a pitch, then abruptly stopped. Angel stabbed the oily mass again, and Wesley watched it slide down the wall and sink into a glutinous heap on the floor next to the bed. A thick trail of rancid-smelling fluid marked the path of its descent. It quivered for a moment longer, and was still.

Wesley said, “Angel. It’s dead.”

Angel hopped down from the bed and raised the knife again. Wesley grabbed hold of his wrist, and with his other hand took the blade from him. “That’s enough. It’s dead. Enough.”

“Wesley?” The voice came from the doorway. When Wesley looked around, Cordelia was standing just inside the room, breathing hard. She looked at Wesley, then Angel, then woman in the bed and finally at the thing on the floor.

The woman’s hand was still convulsing spasmodically. Wesley left Angel and went to her. Gently, he unwrapped her fingers from around the device she held and set it out of reach.

“What is that?” asked Cordelia.

“She’s on a morphine drip,” explained Wesley. “It’s not uncommon after surgery to let patients control their own medication. But morphine has addictive properties. That must have been what drew the Crave to her.”

“And Angel killed it.” She touched his arm, but Angel didn’t respond. “Is he okay?”

Wesley nodded. “I think he will be, now.”

* * *

Angel watched Wesley place the glass on the table between them, made himself wait while he filled it.

“I’m going to count to ten,” said Wesley: “One. Two. “

Concentration. Focus.

“Three. Four. Five.”

Hunger. Need.

“Six—“

Angel snatched the glass from where it sat on the kitchen table and drained its contents. He pushed it away from himself, disgusted.

Reassuringly, Wesley said, “That was a marked improvement. You should be

pleased.”

Traces of blood clung to the sides of the empty glass. Angel shut his eyes. “How long before—“

“Two hours. I think that’s a reasonable target.” Wesley looked at him: “Can you wait that long?”

Two hours. Eternity felt shorter. “I can try.”

“Okay. The living room is now officially liveable again.” Cordelia was standing in the kitchen doorway, holding a scrubbing brush in one hand and a bucket in the other. She smelt overpoweringly of disinfectant. She went to the sink and tipped the contents of the bucket down it. “If this ever—and I think I speak for all of us when I say please, God, no—happens again, I am absolutely insisting we hire professionals for the clean-up job. Did you tell him yet?” she added, stripping off her rubber gloves and addressing herself to Wesley.

He shook his head. “Not yet.”

Angel looked at their faces in turn. “Tell me what?”

Cordelia folded her arms resolutely. “What happens next.”

“And that is…?”

Wesley said, “You stay here. One of us will be here all the time. We’ll control how much you drink and how often, until you can do it yourself again.”

Approaching the table, Cordelia continued: “You get to work through this whatever way is best for you. You want to talk, we’ll listen. You want to hit something or balance on one leg, that’s cool too. What you don’t get is to be Mr I-Can-Deal-With-All-My-Problems-By-Myself. You don’t get to be alone.” She rolled her eyes. “I’d like to say you don’t get to brood either, but I don’t want to be unrealistic.”

They made, thought Angel suddenly, an effective team. He wondered when that had happened.

Cordelia leaned across the table, and put her hand on Angel’s arm. “You’re gonna be okay,” she said. “We’re gonna do this. No quick fixes and no magic. Just the three of us and as much time as it takes to get you back to where you were.”

“Now, how do you feel?” asked Wesley.

Cordelia added, “Be aware any answer including the word ‘fine’ will be immediately disregarded.”

He felt hungry. That wasn’t going to change, or go away. But something was different.

Angel said, “I was falling. And there were people there to catch me. I feel—grateful.”

“Good start,” said Cordelia. She smiled. “Hey, this isn’t all bad, y’know. Didn’t I say we needed to hang out more?” Her bag was sitting on the floor beside the table. She reached into it and held up a video cassette: “The Sixth Sense. C’mon, Angel. It’ll kill the next two hours, and then some.”

“I—“ He stopped. “I hear the twist is that Bruce Willis is a ghost.”

Wesley looked innocently at the ceiling. “Can’t think where you got that from.”

“Then it’s settled,” said Cordelia, getting up. “And after that, we can start on my E.R. collection. I have the first three years on tape.”

Wesley got up and began to follow her, leaving Angel sitting at the kitchen table. “Really? I haven’t seen all of those.”

“You like E.R.? How did I miss finding out this stuff about you back in Sunnydale?”

“I have hidden depths.”

Angel listened to the conversation as it receded into the next room. He looked at the empty, stained glass still sitting on the table in front of him. A single congealing dark red trail tapered down its smooth curved side.

He reached a finger towards it, and stopped. Several seconds passed. Then he curled the extended hand into a fist and brought it back towards himself.

Not a monumental victory, but enough for now.

He got up and followed Cordelia and Wesley.

| Fiction Index | Home Page | Back |