The Bronze is crowded, but he knows where to find his girl. Her scent is unique, and he can track her anywhere. Buffy is sitting with her young friends in the corner that has somehow become exclusively theirs. He slips by unnoticed and stands beneath the stairs – stands and stares. There is something about her, something that calls to him, something dangerous. Oh yes, she is all that, dangerous for the likes of him, and his whole being thrills to it, is enamoured with it. It draws him in, this danger, this dance with the killer of his kind.
She doesn’t look as if she is having fun, her eyes appear flat and lifeless, and her lips refuse to lift in a smile. Is she thinking of him, is she waiting for him to appear? She looks nervous and he sees her glance about. Maybe he should step out and let her see him just to see the changes emotion will work on her face. What would they be, he muses, as he lurks there under the stairs.
He is jostled by a passing oaf and he growls low in his throat at the intrusion. The young man stutters an apology, and darts away lucky in his escape. The young people here are more in tune with the goings-on in the town; they know that evil lurks. The dark is a place to be feared, people turn up dead, or mauled, or both. The dead can walk and talk, and take you with them when they descend into Hell.
And yet, he ponders, as he watches the witch and the werewolf, the slayer and the idiot boy, evil isn’t the deterrent it used to be. The Bronze is full of life, packed to the walls with the hum of hot young things. Hormones and pheromones permeate the air sending out messages of want, and need, and kill me, please.
He moves finally, and not into the light where Buffy can see. He threads his way through the crowd, his predator’s grace weaving a path free of flailing limbs and obtrusive bodies. The shadows hide him from view as he slips through the door and out into the night.
He turns and wanders down the alley, lost in thought. It was pure devilry that drew him to this place tonight. He knows he should stay away, and yet he risks everything to catch a glimpse of her. A slow smile crawls across his lips when he thinks of how she looked tonight. She is worried about him, and he tries not to let it undermine all he has accomplished. The slayer is concerned and he is the cause. What can he do for her, he thinks? How can he make it better? Perhaps he should have a talk with one of her friends to see what they think about him and her. After all, when one is courting a slayer, one has to have finesse. He wonders if he has what it takes.
The smile still in place, he catches up with the oaf from the Bronze. As he drags the young man into the dark, his fangs descending, Angelus contemplates his next move in tormenting the slayer. The body drained and cooling on the alley floor, the vampire adjusts his coat with a quick tug and brushes at a nonexistent stain. He hadn’t spilled a drop. He looks back towards the distant doors of the nightclub and cocks his head in defiance at the slayer within. Angelus’ style in all things is legend. He knows he has what it takes.
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