Persistence

Author: Elektra
Rating: R
Disclaimer: 'kay I do this because I love the characters. I don't own them and I don't want to be sued. Joss and company owns them and more power to them and I hope they are incredibly successful!

Part 1

The memories kept coming, plaguing him, devouring him. They stained his thoughts like a well of ink spilt on a virgin white carpet, the liquid spreading out to blackened every thread to its very core. He laid his head back against the curve of the chair, blotting out the thoughts, the one image that lingered on the edge of his perception. With a quick intake of breath, he tried to cleanse the flickering pictures, their details fluttered about him as if they were the wings of a flock of birds. He didn't need the breath, yet he longed for it to erase the thoughts, yearned for it to obliterate the need growing in him.

The absolute bliss he experienced when he relived the moment.

Over and again.

Lidding his eyes, he saw her and re-played the moment again in his mind.

The silhouette of her figure against the light of day. She had come to him in all light and grace. She shone and walked to him as an angel might approach a wretched one, an unforgiven one. He couldn't move, his body a crumpled mass of blood and broken bone. The extent of his injuries left him there, abandon and alone for days in the darkness of the tunnel. The crack in his jaw made his mouth and his voice useless. They'd crushed his fingers and seared him with fire, yet still they let him live. He couldn't feed for there was little to feed upon and so he accepted his fate and waited for some kind of death to finally claim him.

Yet instead of Lucifer's hand, she came to him. Kneeling beside him, she brushed with gentle care the crust of blood from his forehead, his cheek. Her eyes spoke words to him, he didn't need her to say a word. There, within the soul of her eyes, he saw certain acceptance of him, of his fate, of their entwined fate. How could he have ever doubted her? How could he have ever questioned her?

Cordelia eased herself to lay beside him and curled her body to cradle his battered one. Her lips were on his forehead, touching, caressing and soothing all at once. Her arms were around his shoulders and never had he felt more secure than within her embrace.

There was little resistance left in him as she offered. Cool wind hit them and he never knew where it originated from in the depths of the tunnel. She found the soft tender place on her breast and gave to him her life fluid and he took it as sustenance yet understood it to be so much more. An offering, an oblation or sacrifice given in supplication to their vow, their bond. The beast swam over him and he placed his mouth upon the fullness of her breast. A craving, the desire of the flesh shuddered over him and he broke the skin as a priest might break the host in holy communion.
She gasped as he drank, holding him, supporting his head. The flesh of her, the hot liquid ran over him, through him, in him and he became a part of her. The taste would haunt him, he knew. The taste would torture him, yet he acquiesced to the moment. Fell into the vortex of the pool of her blood as it drown him and saved him all at once.

Yet it was all just a memory.

He opened his eyes as he sat there in the middle of his darkened room at the Hyperion Hotel and stared out as night took the City of Angels to the border of hell.

A memory.

Persistent in its strength. Flawless in its detail.


Memory. He shivered as the hunger for her manifested itself as something physical in its intoxication. And he wondered at the persistence of memory.

A memory.

Yet it had never occurred.

Part 2

In the wake of day, he stumbled and paused on the stairs. Stretching out a hand, he groped for support and collapsed against the cool marble of the pillar. He couldn't see her, not today. Not after.

He shuttered his eyes closed and the soft velvet of her skin, her breast seemed to fill his mouth again as he hid in the dark recesses. And the taste slid down his throat like liquid sun, warm, sheltering. It dissolved him and, within the ritual of tasting her, he became her. He shivered again at the recalled image. The ghost memory. Her complete surrender to him had satiated the need, the ever present hunger that afflicted him all his days. Swallowing, he opened his eyes and stared into the blackness.

He couldn't move. His legs wobbled, his hands trembled with the thought. The thought of her within his grasp giving herself to him, giving her life to him lifted his chest in a grasp for an unneeded breath. Glancing up at the stairs, he considered secluding himself for the rest of the day. Away from them. Away from her and the temptation.

Of his memory.

But a day would not protect her, could not dissipate the sensation of being a part of her, possessing her blood within him. No day, no night would make him forget.

Yet the memory was a fabrication. He couldn't place when it happened or why. Those images of her standing beside him, then holding him and giving her heat to him did not exist. They were misplaced, dreams or nightmares.

But as he thought of them, he licked his lips in wanton pleasure.

"Angel?"

Her voice shattered his reverie, the world about him breaking into colored shards as if a stain glass window exploded before him.

"Angel? Are you coming down or are you just going to hone up on your lurking skills?" she called again. "‘Cause you're not very good at it. I know you're there."

Gritting his teeth, he steadied himself and, inhaling the useless air, dropped down the last few steps to the landing at the lobby entrance. She frowned when she saw him and shook her head.

"For a dead guy, you're looking especially pale today." She nodded as if her work was done and then marched off to the lobby counter. She rattled on about the paperwork she needed to do and how he never assisted her at all. "And since you aren't the boss around here, I don't know why I have to do all the filing."

He joined her at the counter, only lingering there for the breath of her scent. Its sweet essence clouded about him and he breathed in, taking it as if he might sample her.

"Hey?" She turned around and glared at him. "What the heck are you doing? Since when do you breathe?"

Stumbling back from her, he shook his head and waved her off. "Nothing, it was nothing."

Pursing her lips, Cordelia tapped the pen she held against the fine line of her jaw. His line of sight followed her jaw to the pulsing, throbbing artery in her neck, then dropped to the swell of her breast. Her breast filled his mouth, her skin fragrant and her blood like the sugar of summer fruit.

"Hello? Hello?" Cordelia snapped her fingers. "What is with you today?" She put her hands on her hips and tilted her head. He noticed she always wore her jeans low, riding low on her hips so that the full curve of her waist was exposed.

Exposed. It slammed into him. Hit him with such force he nearly tumbled over, but caught himself and fumbled for the sofa.

"God, Angel what's wrong?" Her hand grabbed his arm and helped him to the seat. He shook his head, not wanting to explain. "You look like you've seen a ghost." She jumped up and scanned the lobby. "You haven't, have you? You would tell us if that paranoia demon came back or something creepier was around, won't you?"

"No, I just." He closed his eyes but the image came back. The image of Cordelia's body, so smooth and slender, curved and tender, laying before him, naked before him. "I'm just not sleeping right I guess."

"Oh no, not with the Darla thing again?" She tossed the files in the air.

"No, Cordelia," he replied. He didn't want her to worry. He would figure this out, clear this up and no one would have to worry. "It isn't Darla. It's just that I haven't been sleeping enough. Staying up at night, trying to keep regular business hours." He pointed to the sunlit day. It sounded logical. He could almost convince himself.

Almost.

If the taste wasn't still taunting him on the back of his tongue.

"Well that's a relief!" She was leaning over him, the sway of her body brought the recalled figure of her back to his mind. Her above him, straddling him, giving to him, giving all of herself to him.

He gasped and leapt onto his feet.

"Geez, Angel!" She considered him and then said, "You do look pale. I'm getting you some blood."

Blood. "No, tea." Tea was safe. Tea was good. "Tea, I want tea."

"Tea isn't going to help you at all." She shook her head. "Nope, you need blood, buster and that's what you are going to get!"

Sinking down onto the sofa, he reclined against the cushions and said it in rote. Not enough sleep, he wasn't getting enough sleep. He was sleep deprived.

Deprived. Of her. Of the taste and the fire of her. And he witnessed her again, come to him as he lay wounded and dying. Without hesitation, without shame, she offered all that she was and more. Without burden or prejudice, she accepted him. He drank from her. His broken body saved by her and then she gave herself over to him. He looked down at his fingertips and brushed his thumb over them, knowing he had felt her supple body respond to his touch. He felt the weight of her breast in his palm, remember the pain of his crushed fingers lance through his tendon yet recalled the comfort of holding her, stroking her.

"Here you go, all warm and yummy?"

He startled and knocked the mug of blood from her hand. It splashed over him, burning him. "Cordelia, you could at least warn me."

"Warn you, warn you?" She clenched her teeth. "You're the one that knocked the mug out of my hand. You did!" She pointed a finger at him. "What the hell is...."

As the vision smashed into her, she fumbled for footing and finally fell against him. He grappled to hold her and she cried out, screaming against the pain, the torment. It shook her, blasted her for several minutes before it relented and gave her release. She stayed in his arms, sobbing as he quieted her.

After a moment, he asked, "What did you see?"

"You, I saw you."

Part 3

There, within the strength of his arms, she lay still weeping from the visions, still clutching him. He attempted to settle her upon the sofa, yet she refused to let him go and clung to him as if the thought of not physically holding him terrified her. And so he rested on the sofa, wrapping his arms about her in a protective shield to cradle her and comfort her. She murmured words of fear and he only hushed it away.

There was nothing to fear.

Nothing at all.

Except for the memory.

The weight of her in his arms, the gravity straining his muscles, his tendons set the yearning afire and he swallowed back the need, the awakening desire. She curled in his arms, burying her face in his shirt and he felt the water of her tears stain his chest. A brief shiver went through him as the memory enslaved him. Her above him, her mouth on his, her breath within his lungs filling him with so much more than oxygen, filling him with life.

And the reality of her in his arms detonated the images into flames that prickled the very fibers of his nerves, burned the tips of his fingers as he fought to not caress, to not brush his hand over the swell of her breast, to not share the very breath of her life.

He heard the door to the lobby open, but ignored the swing and fall of it opening and closing for he wanted to die in this moment.

"Good lord, what happened?" Wesley was on his knees, gripping Cordelia's hand and peering up at Angel.

He opened his mouth to answer but instead Cordelia came to herself and turned to the ex-Watcher.

"Wes." She blinked and released herself from his grasp. "Wes, I need to talk with you."
She started to stand and Angel went to follow her but she placed a hand on his chest and pushed him back to the sofa. "Just Wes."

"The vision?" He raised a hand as if to indicate it by pointing to her.

Frowning, she rubbed her forehead and shook her head. "Not now, Angel. I'll talk about it in a minute. It hurts too much." She closed her eyes and he saw her clench her teeth. "I just wish it wouldn't hurt so much. It hurts more and more."

He reached up to her hand but did not touch her. Without noticing his gesture, Cordelia grabbed Wesley's hand and they proceeded to the office, leaving him there.

To the memories. And for the first time, the darkness of night seemed to glisten with sun light. His desire for the sun seemed to quell when he was in her presence. He glanced up to the lobby counter, and it dawned on him. With a hand to the arm of the chair, he climbed to his feet and rounded the counter to the edge of the office door.

Cordelia stood next to Wesley, her hand to her temple and she sniffled as she explained.
"I saw him Wesley. Him." She shot a look to the doorway and Angel ducked to the shadows.

"Are there any details. What was happening?"

"Nothing. No details nothing." She shrugged and put a hand to her forehead as if to find some relief from the pain. "Only Angel and," she paused and started to pace as if the vision clarified in her mind. "A feeling."

"A feeling?"

She searched the ceiling, her eyes roaming for the answer her mind sought. "A feeling like he knew he was doing something wrong. Something, oh God." She bit her hand and stopped her frantic racing. "He doesn't feel right in the head." She glanced up at Wesley.

"What do you mean Cordelia," Wes said. He held her by the shoulders, hunched over her to stare into her eyes. "This is important, Cordelia, you must tell me exactly what you mean."

Withdrawing from his touch, Cordelia crumpled inward, her arms clasped about her. "No, I can't. It doesn't." She furrowed her brow and the vision hit again.

A single beat of her heart passed and he caught her as she tumbled to the floor. Wesley stood over him his face etched with lines of worry, but Angel couldn't discern to whom the concern was directed. Cordelia's cries captured his attention and he guided her to the chair.

"What?" He kept his hand on her shoulder, needing to touch her, to provide some degree of solace. He hated to see the visions rip apart her, slice into her fine chiseled beauty and mark her with pain. He rubbed a hand down her back, caressing her and imagining the brush of her bare skin.

"Cordelia, what did you see?" Wesley whispered, he considered Angel but then turned back to her. "Was it more about your earlier vision. Some more detail?"

She shook her head, squeezing her eyes closed until tears leaked down her cheeks. Tears, salty and sweet like her blood. And he licked his lips in sweet remembrance of her taste on his tongue. Shaking the memory away, he focused on her and said, "Is there something more?"

Wesley pursed his lips and, grimacing, said, "Would you like it if Angel left the room? We could discuss this in private."

"No,"Cordelia said and glanced up at them. "It wasn't the same vision." She used her open palm to hold her forehead. "Lucky me, it's two for one day."

"A different vision?"

She nodded. "Yeah, it was vamps near where Gunn's gang lives. I think he needs help or something." Tears streamed down and she bunched over, laying her head on her knees. "I'm sorry it's all blurred with the pain. I can't see anything else."

"It's enough," Wesley said then looked up to Angel for confirmation.

"More than enough." He stood, yet didn't want to let Cordelia out of his sight. The thought of leaving her in the large empty hotel dug a hole in his chest. "You'll be okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," she mumbled into her lap. "Just go help Gunn."

He paused. The fine blades of her shoulders poked the blouse she wore and he realized for the first time how small she was, how delicate. In all the years he knew Cordelia Chase, she carried herself so well, so triumphantly above the crowd he never considered how fragile she might be, how the strength she drew upon might fail her one day.

He dropped to his knees again and, gently, lifted her chin so that he could see into her eyes. "It's enough Cordelia. Don't worry."

"I worry all the time," she confessed.

Her eyes found his, told him of the pain and the guilt she combated. An overwhelming guilt of failure to help those victims that still haunted her at night, that, like ghosts, followed her at the periphery of her life. Always there, always begging her for help.

The realization struck him and he had no words to share with her, had nothing to offer. He felt as if he walked the streets as a beggar again. Poor, helpless. His quest, his mission did this to her, inflicted her with pain and guilt. She did not deserve this.

He deserved it. It was his burden to shoulder.

A flicker, an image swam before him. The memory took shape and he experienced the pain of his broken body, his wounds. He stumbled before he could clear his mind, before he could see Cordelia sitting in front of him again.

"Angel, what? What is it?"

Standing, he only mumbled a reply and answered Wesley's call. He had a battle to fight. And he knew then, the real battle, the real war would come after. It came to him easily, swiftly like the fall of silk in still air.

It was time to stop the visions once and for all.

Part 4

He broke through the barrier of demons and people, shoving them aside with a singular purpose, lone pursuit. Scanning the bar, he caught sight of his prey and, with a low growl in his throat, went to the demon host of Caritas. The demon bellowed out another ballad, prancing about the stage in utter oblivion to Angel.

Something low, deep, dark within laughed. There was a time he would have lingered, watched and then slowly devised a way to maim and torture the Host before finally casting his bones aside to be devoured by rabid dogs. The image wavered before him, expanded the demented one within his own body until he fought off the vision and steadied himself in this reality.

He glanced around the bar, the shadows held their secrets and demons shifted in and out as if to taunt and tantalize him with their presence. Swallowing, he turned back to the Host as he continued his performance.

He didn't have time for this. He'd spent enough time tonight, wasted enough time. He'd done his duty and cleaned up the vampire nest taking residence near Gunn's gang. He didn't have time to wait for a performance. Cordelia didn't have time for this.

"Oh crap," he mumbled and rushed the stage. In one motion he grabbed the Host, jerked him off the stage, and ushered him to a secluded table.

"Have you ever heard of applause? No need to accost the singer, though I can see why you just want me for yourself. You big hunk of hero." The Host winked and snapped his fingers at the bartender.

Angel seized his wrist and twisted it, hard. "That can wait."

"Whoa, now Angelcakes, you are vibrating with some serious dissonance. Calm those tendons or they are gonna snap like a piano string."

Snarling, Angel leaned toward the Host and wrenched his lapels. "Just tell me where to find them."

"Them?" The Host yanked his jacket away from Angel's grasp and, accepting the seabreeze from the bartender, pointed to an empty table. "It's been said rushing where angels fear to tread might not be a good idea and I'm thinking that might be something you should take to heart. Even if it isn't beating. Think of it as your own personal motto."

Angel settled on the edge of the chair, the beast within struggling to the surface and he felt sweat form at his hairline, down the middle of his back. His mouth ran dry and he grabbed the drink from the Host's hand and downed it in one gulp.

"I'm thinking you have a problem," the Host said as he frowned at the empty glass.

"I want a straight answer. An easy answer. I don't want any empty swimming pools or funny killer gurus." Angel bent over the table, his weight straining the fragile legs. "Tell me where to find them."

"It would be good if you clued me in on who they or them or whoever are, is." He rolled his eyes and waved for the bartender to refill the glass.

Angel eased back, watched the bartender bring another drink and, taking a useless breath, said, "I want to know where I can find the Powers that Be."

"Whoa, Big Guy, what's with the sudden need to find spiritual enlightenment?"

"I'm not seeking spiritual enlightenment." Angel glared at the Host, battling to keep the dream, the memory from bursting the surface. Yet it came, unbeckoned and unwanted. It hunted as if he played the part of a mouse and it the part of a hawk. It swooped down and captured him, tearing him apart and ripping him from this world.

And he glimpsed it in the recalled memory. A vague shifting shape moving toward him, through him in one motion. It washed him in light brighter than the sun and in darkness blacker than the dead of night. He trembled.

"Hey, what's got my big boy end over end?" The Host's voice jarred him and he refocused on him.

"I need to know how to contact the Powers that Be directly."

Angel licked his lips but the pain rose in him, started to take root in the base of his spine. He felt the slightest crack in his ribs when he moved as if the persistence of the memory transformed it from something ghostly to something solid. Each time he experienced the images, they became clearer and lured him to relive them again.

Again.

And the memory took him.

She moved over him and then she swept her fingers across his face in blessing and in love. The force of her body overpowered him. Nothing frightened her, not his pleas, not his warnings. She wrapped herself about him, around him. The grace of her breast near his mouth and his kiss, his mouth filled with her. His body drinking her and bathing in her. The urgency hit him, how she needed to be with him. How she was pleading with him to drink from her, to love her. To make love to her.

He gulped back the memory and heard the Host saying, "You are under some spell. You in love or something, sweetcakes?"

Angel put a hand to his forehead and shook his head. "I just need to contact the Powers directly. Where can I go?"

"What about that fine article of womanhood at your office?"

He looked to the floor, remembering his release, his acquiescence to her seduction. "No, Cordelia can't know about this. It isn't, she just can't." He snapped his attention to the Host again. "Do you know or not?"

The Host lifted his shoulders and said, "I'm seeing a path here. A path into a forest of where you might not make it out."

"It isn't about me."

The Host considered him, smiled slightly and said, "Under the post office."

"Where the oracles were?"

The Host only nodded and Angel stood. Before he could depart, the Host called after him and asked, "Is she worth it?"

Angel didn't look at him, just stared at the black tiles on the floor. A void seemed to open before him and he plummeted into it. Yet before he fell he murmured, "To me she is. She's everything.

Part 5

He tossed the last offering into the sacred urn as he murmured the words to open the portal. A flash blinded him, the light sizzled his skin and he landed on all fours in the inner sanctum of the oracles. A soft wind brushed over him, its touch lingered and, with ten thousand unseen fingers, probed his face, his features. The touch paused upon his brow as if it checked for a fever. A sudden whip stung his face and he hissed, the beast briefly transforming his face. He raised a hand to his forehead and it came away wet with thick blood. Climbing to his feet, he glanced around the deserted vestibule.

A certainty swept over him; they watched him.

He twisted on his heel but caught only a glimpse of light shifting, like the shadows of a cloud as it passes over the sun. An image of which he dreamt with poignant desire. A low rumble reacted to his recalled dream as if they mocked him, as if they laughed at him.

A slithering traced around his feet, roped his ankles and, jumping, he scanned the room for them. Reaching behind him, he pulled out the broad sword strapped to his back. He squeezed the hilt, swallowed and then called, "Show yourself."

A blur of motion swirled about him, warped the walls, tilted the floor until he tumbled to the cold marble.

"Are you ready?" it whispered.

He jerked around to find the source of the question but no one appeared.

"Surrender." The voice slid around him, embracing him, caressing him. A cold wind whispered like the brush of dead leaves on a silent winter night. It echoed as a remembered kiss might haunt a long lost lover. There and gone.

"Surrender and we might forgive your trespassing." The sound ricocheted off the stone walls becoming ever more distant yet deafening in their depth. The words reverberated in and out and he realized he did not hear them. .

He'd spoken the words himself.

Clenching his teeth, he gripped the sword and crawled to his knees, then grappled to stand as a whirl of air rushed about him. He rotated the sword against his palm, allowing the weight of the weapon to dwell within his muscles.

He wasn't there to play their games. The games were over. He sliced the air with the blade, threatening and defending all at once.

"And who do you fight?"

Swinging around, the ghost stood before him and tilted her head in false sincerity. The blues and golds marking her skin glittered in the light streaming from the archway beyond the vestibule.

He found his voice, though it was low and rough in his throat. "I didn't come here to fight."

"Yet you bring a weapon into this holy place," she huffed and turned from him. Her physicality wavered, shades of other phantoms gathered around her and tendrils of her robe reached out to the hovering wraiths.

"I brought the weapon to give to you," he hesitated. Clasping the blade near the hilt, he extended the sword to her. "I can no longer be your warrior, your champion."

She glared at him then a smile crossed her lips and she said, "You have no choice. You forfeit your life, such as it is, if you are not our champion."

His mind never faltered as he thought of Cordelia crouched on the sofa, weeping softly, crying only because she believed no one was there to witness her pain. Watching her from the shadows of the hotel, he saw her ball her body into the fetal position and moan as the aftermath of the visions took their toll. He wouldn't allow her to suffer anymore. Not her, not his Cordelia.

And it struck him. The memory. The insipid pictures invented by his own mind to taunt him with a dream he could not possess. Yet he luxuriated in each passing sensation, each lift of her chest as she breathed over him in the recalled images. The press of her breast upon his lips, the texture of her velvet breast as he punctured it with his teeth, the cushion of her flesh as it nourished him. He shuddered from the pleasure, the lust for that moment to be real.

"And you're here to defend her, my poor daddy." The voice ended with a giggle, a deceitful sound that lied about its intent.

Shaping before him as the colors of blue and gold melded and melted with the apparitions surrounding the oracle's ghost, his childe stood. She tilted her head and sniggered. "My poor daddy, you don't know how to love you never did."

He steadied the sword in his hand, the tension rippling through his muscles and pulling his tendons. "No, I'll no longer be your warrior if she has to suffer. This is my burden to shoulder, not hers." Throwing the sword in the air, he caught it as it dropped and swung it at the phantom that was Drusilla.

A zephyr dissipated the ghost and he stood staring at the blank marble bricked wall. It shifted, moved and the bricks began to push out from the structure of the wall. The marble contorted, transformed before him and, like a cubist's painting, a figure formed. It emerged from the wall, shaking off the clatter of stones.

He fell back, fumbling for support.

"And why would you sacrifice yourself for her, when you never did for me?" Buffy asked him.

He opened his mouth as if to answer and the wraith glided closer, her golden hair a mist about her head. "You don't know how to love. You are, afterall, only a demon."

Closing his eyes, Angel took solace in the fleeting dreams, the imagined images of Cordelia by his side. "No," he said. "I have a soul."

She laughed, cold as if she were the monster. "And you think that makes you any better than the rest. You're nothing more than what we define." Her breath touched his neck, grazed the spine of his back. "Do you think they make you more, do you think she makes you more than a demon? You never thought that when you were with me."

He kept his eyes shut, but her nails clawed the skin of his arms and he felt the blood leak to the floor, sprinkling it with tiny droplets.

"I'm asking for you to relieve her of the visions. She never asked for this, this isn't about her."

"And what, may I ask, my dear sire, is this about?"

He opened his eyes to see Penn, his long dead childe, reclining against the arch to the hallway. "I don't have an answer for that. All I want is for you to release her."

"Let me ask something first, dear father." Penn sauntered to him and, his features shifted to reveal the demon within. "When I met her I wanted to taste her, I wanted so much more of her. Do you dream of tasting her?"

Lashing out, he slashed the sword at the figment but struck nothing. The ghost only laughed in mock gaiety.

"So you do." Penn smiled, tapping a finger against his lips. "It's nice to see Angelus is alive and well."

"Angelus is dead."

Raising an eyebrow, his childe commented, "Don't be too sure, my dear father. But I digress." He straightened his shoulders and his face shifted to his human visage. "I'll give you what you want."

"You'll release her?"

Before him the figure of Penn melted like a sand sculpture in the rain, the features lost and dissolving together. Blues and golds spun another image and the oracle reformed before. "Yes." She nodded. "But there will be a debt to pay."

Readied for her request, he bowed his head in capitulation.

"For the link to be severed, there can be no more Angel in this world." She waited for his reaction but he said nothing. "You understand? If the link to the seer is cut, then you cannot survive. There is no other way."

"I understand."

"Do you accept the conditions?"

The question came as a disembodied voice. To no one he answered, "I accept."

He couldn't remember what happened next. He knew only the persistence of pain as he lay discarded in the tunnel. Blinking he tried to clear his vision of the blood running from the wounds on his face and head. Burns scorched his body and he groaned, realizing he couldn't stand. His bones screamed in retaliation against any of his movements. His right hand still gripped the sword and he let it go. The simple action of opening his hand caused him to cry out as he realized his fingers had been shattered. He balled his body against the growing ache in his abdomen.

As the hour passed, he watched the pool of his blood form a lake of red glass around him. As the day passed, he felt the wounds try to close, to mend themselves, but the extent overwhelmed even his recuperative powers. As the night passed, he groaned against the waking desire, the need to feed as it grew deep and thick inside of him.

He could not remember the time. He could not remember the day. He only understood the persistence of pain. His mouth ran dry and his eyes blurred.

And a halo of light shimmered before him, glistening like the sparkle of the stars reflected in a still lake. He blinked his eyes but failed to clear his vision. He felt his head lifted, felt a body cradle him, knew the press of flesh against his mouth.

Against his will, the beast came alive and fought to the surface. Her breast filled his mouth and he broke the skin without ritual or ceremony. He heard her intake of breath and felt her pull him closer, urging him to drink.

And with abandon, he found solace in her arms.

Part 6

Like an angel, he watched over her as she slept. He followed the line of her neck to the rise of her breast. The certain silence of her slumber brought to him the hunger, the craving that lurked. Reaching out, he felt the throb of her pulse at her neck and knew he possessed that beating life. He withdrew his hand for he did not want to disturb the last of this quiet peace which had descended upon her.

Shifting, he balanced on a bruised elbow to look at her once again. Light radiated from deep within the hollow of the tunnel as if the darkness harnessed there had collapsed in on itself and transformed. Less than a day had past since she appeared at the entrance to the tunnel. Unbidden, she came to him. He didn't know how she found him. He didn't ask. How did she know. His seer. She had given herself as a gift to him, to save him, yet never realizing the sacrifice she had made.

And he remembered.

The truth of the memory.

Her arms supported his head as his mouth found the cushion of her breast. His transfiguration completed before she could speak, before she could refuse. But it had been her hand that unbuttoned the blouse, that cupped his head as she asked him to drink. Without hesitation, he pierced her flesh, cutting down into the warmth, the life held within the swell of her breast. He heard her gasp, experienced the tremor of fear quake through her. But the soft lick of his tongue, the gentle movement of his mouth upon her quelled her fears.

His broken hand found the blush of her flesh and caressed her breasts to soothe the anxiety. She shifted and a sigh escaped in lips in hushed pleasure. She leaned down and kissed the crown of his head as her hands roamed through his hair. Slipping his hand into the silk of her blouse, he teased the nipple of her breast and a moan grew low in her throat. Her hands found the rest of the buttons of her blouse to open it then moved over his own shirt to release it.

Flesh bare. And he stopped drinking the fluid of her life to glance upon the curve of her breasts to the panting of her abdomen. He went to speak but she pressed her fingers on his lips and shook her head. In the dark of her eyes, he recognized the yearning, the need, the connection they shared.

She murmured the words and he thought he'd dreamed them. Make love to me, she had said. Make love to me Angel. Their mouths touched shyly at first then with a need, devouring each other. On the threshold of the divine, they lay entwined and together. Though he protested, she refused his words of warning. She knew, she finally understood the vision. Her hands slid over his chest as it healed from her blood. She unbuckled his trousers and found him, ready and hard. She caressed him, pulling slightly and stroking.

She was the very shape of his desire. He grasped her, bringing her close to him and burying his face at her neck. Kissing and suckling there until she cried out. Yet the pain of his wounds crippled him. With tender care, she moved to straddle him. Lifting her skirt and discarding her panties, she stroked him with her hands. He groaned and she encompassed him. Leaning over him, she allowed the rhythm to take her. The crush of her breasts, the fresh puncture wound tantalized him and he drew her within his mouth again, drinking as the crash hit them.

Spent. Tired. Exhausted, he fell asleep as she curled on top of him. And now, he stared down at her. The flittering of a dream crossed her lashed eyes. And he wondered what she was dreaming, what she had been thinking when she came to him.

A vision, she had said.

A vision. So right and so wrong.

The taste of blood, human blood on his tongue still enticed him. He let his fingertip linger on the pulse of her throat. The heat of her blood seemed to burn his nostrils. He lifted her wrist and kissed the fine skin, scratching it with his teeth. Slowly, he licked the droplet of blood and eased back.

The taste.

He closed his eyes. It persisted, the taste, the yearning, the craven hunger for her. Stumbling to his feet, he struggled to get his clothes on. She slumbered still. It occurred to him it could be her silent last repose.

If he chose it to be.

A smiled edged across his lips. No, not today.

But soon.

And Angelus left her there at the altar of his saviors.

PART TWO

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