Disclaimer: Angel, Willow, Buffy & Co. belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, The WB, and 'Grr Arg.' Neither the author or the archiver claim any legal hold on any copyrighted material within this page. (Or the next, for that matter.)
Willow stared sullenly out of the window as the plane crossed the Atlantic. She had raised the shade as soon as the sun had set. Angel sat next to her, fighting his growing queasiness of flying.over water. It had been bad in the steam liner in which he had originally traversed the ocean many decades ago, but the added variable of height was also a nuisance. Any change in cabin pressure made his sensitive ears pop. He had tried to be in high spirits for the young girl sitting next to him, but she became increasingly irate the farther they got from Sunnydale.
Obtaining fake passports had proved relatively easy. Angel knew enough people who wouldn't ask questions and Giles had been helpful in taking care of some of the other details. Angel had to clear out his Sunnydale Bank and Trust account in order to pay for the tickets, but he knew where enough money was hidden around the world to ensure that they would be covered in most scrapes.
He leaned back in his seat and glanced at Willow's profile. Despite her fussiness, there was something enormously attractive about her, as if she were becoming more and more beautiful each second..."Stop it," he thought. "She's Buffy's friend and you love Buffy." He knew that it was just the vampiric glamour that made her curves look so appealing; her ripe mouth, so kissable: and the arch of her eyebrows, so provocative and inviting. "This is going to be trouble," he finally concluded.
"How are you doing?" he asked.
She looked at him tartly. "What are we going to do once we get there?"
"We're going to visit a friend."
"Is 'friend' a nice way of saying it's someone who's going to want to take your Quickening?"
Angel laughed, not quite understanding the reference, "No, this is someone I've known for a few years."
"Do you think she can help?" Willow asked, something of her old hopefulness peaking through.
"If not, *he'll* know where else we can go."
They arrived at Charles DeGaulle airport just before dawn, and managed to get a hotel room in Paris before it became too bright. Willow, being a vampire hybrid, was resistant to the sun, but Angel needed the shelter and, until such time as he had trained her in the requirements of her new life, was her only protection against things far worse than sunlight. Angel pushed the bed to the side and cleared a big space in the center of the room.
"I'm fairly good at savate," he said, taking a fighting stance, "So I'm going to teach you a few moves. They're not as fancy as some of the eastern disciplines, but combined with your new strength, they're a good start. Come at me."
Willow looked shocked. "I can't hit you!" she laughed nervously.
"Willow, you're going to be facing things that aren't going to want to be friends. If you're going to survive, you've got to learn at least a little hand-to-hand combat," he said, as gently as possible. But the girl remained horrified. Finally, to prove his point, he jumped at her, thinking just to frighten her. She screamed, but then grabbed him under the arm and, turning his momentum against him, flung him into the ground. As he lay on the floor, looking up at Willow, her mouth gaping in surprise, he realized that whatever had been done to her had made her stronger than him.
Willow Rosenberg flopped onto the ground, drenched in sweat. Angel sat down next to her; he looked unmussed as usual. There were distinct advantages to being unable either to sweat or breathe. She had mastered a variety of defensive and offensive moves by this point, and Angel felt that there was little more he could teach her in this regard.
"That was good," he said. Willow panted to catch her breath. "Are you thirsty?"
She paused before nodding her head. He reached over to one of his bags and pulled out two blood packs. He tossed one over to her. She held it delicately, as if it were about to explode and looked over at Angel, who now wore his "game" face. Without looking at her, he casually sank his teeth into the plastic and began to suck contentedly. Willow felt an ache in her canines as they elongated. Both fascinated and disgusted, Willow watched and finally spoke up. "Has Buffy ever seen you feed?"
Angel looked up from his meal and realizing what he must have looked like, wiped his mouth off on his forearm. "No," he said.
"Here." He took the blood pack from her. Using his teeth, he tore off the tip and returned it to her. "Until you feel comfortable with the fangs." He smiled that winning smile at her, and the oddity of the situation struck her. She brought the pack up to her mouth as the contents began to drip out. She had tasted blood before, her own blood, when she had bit her lip particularly hard or suffered from a nosebleed. She had not found the taste particularly appetizing then, but there was something sweet and filling in what slid down her throat now. She began to gulp it as if she were chugging a Dew, tilting her head back and squeezing the packet to get every last drop. Finally there was no more and as she licked the residue off the packaging, she noticed that Angel had finished his meal and was watching her with a mix of keen curiousity and something darker. She quickly looked away and put the empty bag down.
"Thank you," she said. He smiled.
After the sun set, he cracked open the window and stuck his head out into the Paris night air. He turned towards her and with a mischievous look said, "Come on." He reached for something above him and a second later had disappeared out the window.
"What are you doing?!" she gasped, running over to the window and looking out to see him rapidly scaling the side of building.
"Come on!" he shouted back. Sighing and looking at the ground five floors below, she reached and grabbed the gargoyle just above their window. She pulled herself out, praying that she didn't fall, but feeling oddly confident that she wouldn't. She slowly negotiated the climb and when she finally reached the roof, Angel was waiting, staring at the moon. Somewhere below, she could hear the sounds of street players assaying on accordion and violin what she thought was the love theme from "Lady and the Tramp." "The French," she thought to herself and rolled her eyes. Angel walked up to her and took her right hand with his left and wrapped his arm around her waist. Willow giggled at his familiarity as they began to move to the music.
"Ah! Stone Face smiles!" he teased. "How are you doing?" he asked, repeating the question she had left unanswered on the plane.
"Well, I think I'm past the stake phase, thank you," she joked, then shrugged. "It's very strange. Just a couple of days ago I was a nice surburban teen with an unhealthy interest in computers and an unfortunate tendency to choose men who were bad for me. Now I'm legally dead and climbing French hotels. It's like some really bad Jackie Collins romance. All I need to do is to inherit my father's company and lose it to unscrupulous underworld types, and then win it back through sheer pluck. Or maybe have a torrid affair with a recovering gambling addict." She had meant that as a joke, but when she looked up at Angel, she found the look in his eyes both discomfiting and warming. There was an awkward silence.
"You aren't wearing a cross or anything, are you?" he finally asked, grinning easily at her.
"No?" she began but was interrupted when he leaned forward and kissed her suddenly on the mouth. She was surprised, but her arms came up around his neck and she kissed him back. However, when they broke apart, she quietly breathed out one word: "Xander."
He nodded, eyes shut. "Buffy," he said in agreement. They stepped away from each other. "Sorry," he rambled, "Uh. Vampires give off a sexual aura. It...uh...makes attracting prey easier. Sorry."
"Let's just find your friend."
"Sorry. It's like...uh...fairy glamour. Things get confusing."
"It's alright."
"Pheromones, or something."
"Right," she said finally. "Pheromones." She began to descend from the gabled roof to the window below. Once Angel was alone, he slapped his palm against his forehead and repeated, "Stupid. Stupid. Stupid," before climbing down himself.
Brother Luca, a distinguished gentlemen of three score and four years with strands of silver in his otherwise jet-black hair, was dressed in a tank top and running shorts and roller-bladed through the open market, stopping now and then to examine the wares of some of the fruit and vegetable vendors. He had found a beautiful spaghetti squash that he planned to serve with a little butter and white wine this evening. The members of his brotherhood, Our Lady of Demonic Assassinations, were particularly lax in observing certain proscriptions recommended by Mother Rome and he felt no guilt in indulging in culinary excess. But Brother Luca had once been Lazlo Hunyadi and he knew his responsibilities.
He had been "on sabbatical" in France since the night the Hellmouth opened in Sunnydale, having escaped from the warriors sent to silence him. Now, he just wanted to relax. He found a nice seat in a sidewalk cafe and ordered a cappucino, while taking out his laptop computer. It was a specially modified PowerBook all the brothers of his order carried that shared the OLODAnet server out of Cortona (a very exclusive Internet Service Provider). He had new email from Colombine Baptista.
"I don't know where you are, old man," it read. "But I'm going to find you and when I do I'm going to snap your head back like a Pez dispenser."
He replied, "Baby, why don't you suck it out of my..." but was interrupted when the waiter arrived with his drink. He finished his thought and sent it, knowing that nothing from OLODAnet could be traced.
The neatest thing about this setup, of course, was the most comprehensive fingering function in the history of technopagan design. He opened the OLODA homepage and clicked on the search function, then inputted the name "Buffy Summers." The hourglass appeared briefly and a smaller window popped up. "Buffy Summers resides in Sunnydale, California. She is currently wearing an attractive spaghetti strap tank top in light blue with a pair of Guess? jeans. Her hair is tied in a ponytail. She is moping around her house, missing her friend Willow and her boyfriend Angel, but she will eventually leave to pick up a box of maxipads. The kind with wings. You are gregarious and well-liked. 1-15-27-28-9-34"
Next he fingered Colombine Baptista and got the following: "Colombine Baptista is currently pleasuring herself with a young toreador from Barcelona whom she will subsequently tear into small, easily digested pieces and feed to her cats. Sarcasm is the defense of the unimaginative. 4-29=16-6-23-24"
Next he fingered Georges Duchenne of Paris: "Georges Duchenne will soon receive visitors. Consequently, he will die. You will find a new love. 8-7-15-10-22-37"
Damn, he thought, switching to the AeroFrance homepage and digging out his credit card. But he knew that Georges would need his help, because once he had been Lazlo Hunyadi and he knew his responsibilities.
----
Angel and Willow walked up 7 flights of stairs because the elevator in the building they had gone to was out of order. As they went, Angel explained that the friend they were going to see was related to the gypsies who had cursed Angel and was well versed in the traditions of his people. They did not discuss what had happened on the rooftop, although Willow did catch him periodically throwing surreptitious glances in her direction. He was embarassed, she knew, and she herself was conflicted. The kiss had been chaste enough. "No," she thought defensively, "It wasn't chaste. It was hot." He had kissed her like a grown-up and she had kissed him back. Part of her was ecstatic, "I made him want me, even enough to forget Buffy. And if we had kissed long enough, maybe there would have even been *tongue*!!"
She hadn't had much experience kissing boys, although she had practiced for hours on a teddy bear whose secret name was Xander. Xander. She felt a rush of bitterness as she thought of all the joy and love she had poured into that boy, all of which he had blithely ignored. And where had he been when she needed him? Who had rescued her from the Anointed One's cruelty? Who had nursed her terrible wounds and held her when she woke screaming in the night? Who was now too mortified by his desire to even look at her? Her feelings for Xander were monochromatic compared with the feelings that stirred within her. Maybe now he'll appreciate what he's lost, she thought, a little more cruelly than she had intended. Angel had explained something of this in Sunnydale: because she was acutely sensitive to the world around her in her new state, things would seem bigger; emotions, more important. Angel touched her shoulder and startled her out of her haze.
"We're here," he said.
Angel knocked on the door and she heard a dog bark on the other side. A few seconds later, a muffled voice shouted, "Who's there?"
"It's me," Angel shouted back. There was a pause, then the sound of a latch being taken off its hook and a deadbolt being turned. The door opened and a man looked out into the hallway, saying hopefully, "How can it be you?"
"You're blind!" Willow blurted out.
The phone rang a few times before Xander Harris answered it. "Hello?" he said, sleepily. He had dreamt that Willow had come to him, terrible in her vampire beauty, and chastised him for ignoring her when she could have been his. He had been dressed as a carrot and said he would take what was behind door number 2. When Willow opened the door, his mother had made a strawberry shortcake out of paper clips. Dreams were like that.
There was a long pause on the other end. "Hello?" he repeated.
"Xander?"
He froze. "Willow?" he asked tentatively.
Then the line went dead. Xander slowly hung up the phone and fell back onto his bed. He thought he had run out of tears, but instead felt their angry sting beginning again.
------
It took Willow several minutes to stop shaking, her hand resting on the receiver. Angel had gone into the kitchen with George, and Max, the German Shepherd who had barked when they knocked, sat at her feet looking at her expectantly. "Hey, boy," she said, scratching his head.
In the kitchen, George poured three glasses of lemonade, listening to the sound of the liquid to gauge when each glass was filled. Angel leaned against the refrigerator. "She seems like a lovely girl," George said, "I think this is the first girlfriend I've ever met. How long have you been dating?"
"We aren't dating. We're just friends," Angel said.
"She sounds kind of young."
"She's 23," Angel lied. George threw him a quizzical look.
"She sounds younger," he replied, then shrugged. "Still 23 is pretty young to be dating a guy in his 50's."
Angel laughed, "You are relentless! We aren't dating."
"That's not what it looks like from here," George said teasingly.
"You can't see," Angel reminded him.
"You'd be surprised what I can see," George retorted, picking up the tray on which he had set the glasses and a plate of cookies and taking them into the living room.
"Did you make that call?" George asked Willow.
"They weren't home," Willow replied.
"Angel tells me you're 23," George said, resting the tray on the coffee table. Willow looked to Angel to cue her on the lie, but he had simply slumped into an overstuffed armchair and watched them distractedly.
"Uh, that would be correct," she answered.
"So what's a young girl like you doing with an old man like him?" George joked.
"He's keeping me alive," she said, which made the older man burst out with a loud laugh. "How old are you?"
"I'm 38," he said, still chuckling.
"You look younger," she said, noting that at first glance, George, with his linebacker frame and short, dark hair looked like a former All-American-turned-graduate-student.
He smiled at the compliment. "By the way, Angel..." He got up and headed towards a bookcase. Willow saw by the way he walked that he was counting steps. He took a package off one of the shelves and returned, holding it out in front of him. Angel took the package from him. "Sorry I missed your birthday," George continued, "But you didn't leave a forwarding address last time. Happy 57th, buddy."
Willow looked at Angel in surprise, and he raised a finger to his mouth and silently shushed her. "How do you know Angel?" Willow asked, in an innocent voice.
"Well, when I was young..." George began.
"I was his tutor," Angel finished. "I made a deal with his parents..."
"My mother," George corrected.
"His mother," Angel repeated and grimaced. "It was about 33 years ago."
"He practically raised me. My parents were very wealthy and very interested in other things besides me. Angel left when I was about 12; after that he would call or send letters, birthday presents. The last time we were actually in the same room together was...when?"
"DesMoines, 10 years ago," Angel smiled fondly.
"Have you always been blind?" Willow asked gently, intrigued by whatever game Angel was playing here.
George nodded, "I was born this way." He leaned towards her and whispered conspiratorially, "Tell me. Does he still look as good as he sounds?"
"He's remarkably well-preserved," was the only answer she could think of.
George laughed heartily, then got up and began to head towards the bedroom. Max got up from his spot next to Willow and trudged happily behind him. "I dug up my grandmother's books," he began disappearing through the doorway. "They were stored at my parent's house in Nice, but I had them expressed up here, just like you asked." He reappeared in the doorway with a box, "Unfortunately, they aren't in braille, so I can't tell you which one has what you're looking for. Did I tell you my Uncle Lazlo is coming to visit?"
Angel bristled at the sound of the name, but he took the box from George and answered with remarkable pleasantness, "Is he? Perhaps, I'll get a chance to see him?"
"Well, he told me to meet him tonight at a club called Saracen."
Angel set the box on the chair where he'd been sitting and looked at Willow, then said, "Then maybe a night out would be in order?"
"Whaddaya say, boy?" George said to Max. "Wanna go for walkies?"
Max barked happily and began to chase his tail.
"I don't want to ask why he has women's clothing and make-up in his closet," Willow said, stepping out of the bedroom, dressed in a dark suit over a white blouse with wide lapels. Max had been particularly fidgety, so George had taken him on a brief stroll around the block. They had decided to meet in the lobby and walk over to the club a few blocks away.
"I feel like Heidi Fleiss," she grumbled, but the blouse was silk and felt cool against her skin. She had also pinned her hair up in a way that reminded Angel of Buffy and suddenly he ached.
"Don't worry. You look fine," Angel said.
"Am I beautiful?" she asked coyly.
"You look like you won't get carded," he said, trying to ignore the small thrill he felt at the inadvertantly seductive glance she threw him.
"Am I as beautiful as Buffy?" she continued. She began to unbutton the top of the shirt slowly, exposing her cleavage. He walked over to her and stopped her hands from undoing the next button. The look she gave him was hardly inadvertant now. "Help me," she breathed, encouraging his fingers to unfasten the rest of the shirt. He pulled his hands away from hers and then buttoned the shirt up again, gently saying, "What are you doing?"
Willow suddenly felt disoriented and sick. What was she doing? The proximity of Angel's body to hers also disturbed her. What had she been doing?! Then she felt the first wave of nausea hit her and she pushed Angel away and rushed into the bathroom. She had eaten nothing and was wracked with dry heaves for several minutes. Angel sat next to the bathroom door, waiting for her to come out. He knew there was nothing he could say to her at the moment. He heard running water and a few seconds later the door opened. Her face had the ruddy glow of someone who had scrubbed off her tears. She did not look at him as she walked to the front door, and out.
-----
"Did something happen?" George asked Angel as they walked towards Saracen. George held Max's leash in his left hand, his folded cane in his right. Angel had taken his right arm and was leading him towards the club. Willow followed about 10 steps behind, looking away quickly whenever Angel turned around to check on her. One to one, he thought, calculating the balance of embarassment so far this evening.
"I just forget how young she is sometimes," Angel explained. George nodded, understanding.
"Saracen is one of three safe houses in France," George began. "No one knows who owns it, but I assume it's someone with a great deal of power who can enforce the 'no blood spilled' rule."
Angel listened intently. Lazlo Hunyadi clearly wanted to meet on neutral ground, meaning he was probably being pursued. Meaning he was probably being pursued by Colombine Baptista. None of this reassured him, recalling his last encounter with Colombine. Even at his most savage, she had almost kill him.
"How much does she know?" George asked, meaning Willow. "About the magick? Does she know she's in danger just by being associated with us?"
"She's under my protection," Angel said, the tone in his voice brooking no argument. A neon sign flashing over a dingy orange door in the wall indicated that they had found the club. There was no line and a thickly built man stood guard.
"Good evening," the man said, in French, "You are lucky to come so very early. There is no crowd as yet, but we expect their prompt arrival a little after 2 am. 10 francs each, please, and the dog must remain on his leash. Your friend looks a little young."
"She's a model. The adolescent girl look is very hot now," Angel replied, also in French.
"Bonjour," Willow said, in her best high school French. The bouncer smiled at her warmly.
"Alright, but you must chaperone her and she is to have no alcohol," he said to Angel. He then opened the door and ushered them in.
The bouncer had not lied. The club was fairly empty and a mediocre cage dancer was thrashing about on the stage. Angel did not see Hunyadi anywhere, but offered to get the three drinks, surrepitiously indicating Willow to follow him to the bar.
"We should talk," he said.
"There's nothing to say," Willow said, looking down at her feet. "I made a complete and total fool of myself in the apartment."
"Just like I made a complete and total fool of myself on the roof?" Angel suggested.
"That's different."
"How?"
Willow shrugged, then after a pause, "I wanted you on the roof, but you didn't want me in the apartment."
"I explained why..." Angel began.
"Pheromones, I know, I know," Willow interrupted, "I thought maybe you wouldn't need pheromones to like me. And in the apartment, it seemed so right...I felt so beautiful...and then it was like I woke up...and you didn't want me...and I wasn't beautiful."
She was becoming agitated and Angel put a hand on her shoulder. "You are beautiful." This calmed her some. "When I was made, I had lived something of a life. I had known love and hardship and those things that make us adults. But when the Anointed One took you, you were still very much a young girl and suddenly you were thrown into a world filled with complicated adult emotions. It would have been easier if you had just let the demon take over, but you were strong and you fought. I didn't. In a way, I'm kind of jealous of you."
"Really?" she said, wiping away her tears. He smiled and nodded at her.
"Even when I was throwing up?" she said, with a small laugh. He chuckled and nodded again.
"God, why hast thou cast me into Seventh Heaven?" a voice from the stage said. "May I have a spot, please?" Suddenly, a bright white light blinded the two at the bar. Max began to growl, as did Angel. They could see the outline of the cage dancer striding confidently to the edge of the stage. "Hi, baby. Momma's missed her honey bunny."
"Colombine," Angel snarled.
Willow knew by the distorted features of her face that the woman on stage was a vampire. This chick's got muscle tone, she thought, stunned by the 6 ft woman in the black lycra work out outfit, She's like an American Gladiator!
"Who's she?" Willow whispered.
"Don't say anything. Whatever she does, don't panic. She can't hurt us here," Angel instructed her tersely. Colombine did a round-off off the stage, then ran a long-fingered hand through her short spikey hair, the three silver hoops in her right ear jangling in the light. Five large men fell in behind her as she approached the bar. Willow assumed they were vampires as well.
"What's going on?" George asked, as he tried to calm Max, who was pulling at his leash.
"Go ahead," Colombine said to Angel, "Tell him what's going on."
Not taking his eyes off her, Angel said calmly, "It's okay, George. Just stay where you are. Remember, we're in the club." Angel stopped as two of the vampires stood over the blind man. Max began to bark viciously, staring at the two menacing figures. Angel knew they wouldn't hurt him as long as he was in the club, but nothing prevented the two demons from dragging George outside. The situation needed to be defused quickly. "We're not looking for trouble."
Colombine shrugged indifferently, "I might be."
"Who's this?" she continued, looking at Willow, but speaking to Angel. "Dennis the Menace has been faxing all the major sects to be on the look out for you. Is this his little Slayer-killer? Dennis wants you back, little Slayer-Killer. Is she a good lay? She looks like she knows a few tricks. She'd have to, to keep you satisfied." She slipped her hand under Willow's jaw and dragged her close. Willow was frozen as she felt the woman's hot breath on her face. "Little Slayer-Killer, are you a good lay?"
Angel forced his way between the two women, baring his fangs at Colombine. "That's enough."
She grabbed him by the throat and lifted him off the ground. "How dare you show your temper to your betters!"
" 'No blood spilled,' " Angel croaked out, reminding her of the principal tenet of the safe house.
"I don't need to spill your damn blood to hurt you," she hissed at him, squeezing his throat hard enough to draw a grimace out of him.
"What's going on?" George repeated, the fear rising in his throat. Max's barking reached a fevered pitch and George struggled to hold on to the dog. "Put him down!" Willow finally said, trying desperately to sound like Buffy.
Colombine sneered at her. "I'm playing with him. You can play with my Wolves. I'm sure they'd like to find out how good a lay you are." The other vampires leered and snickered sinisterly at the comment, and Willow struggled to remember Angel's training earlier that evening.
Suddenly, a great calmness settled over her. What happened next she would later remember in a vague, third-person way, but Willow felt her hand move with blinding speed. She saw Angel's eyes grow wide as her fingers closed around the three large earrings in Colombine's ear, and she heard the other woman scream as she yanked. Curiously, Willow felt nothing except amazement at how easily the flesh had yielded.
Colombine released her grip on Angel and he landed on his feet. Her hand flew up to cover the explosion of blood, although the wounds had already begun to heal over.
Suddenly, the bouncer at the door appeared and said in French, "It is regrettable that you have chosen to reject this house's protection. In the interest of courtesy, I must ask you to leave..." But he didn't finish his thought as Angel grabbed Willow and threw her in George's direction, "Run!" he shouted, throwing a right cross into the dazed Master Vampire's jaw.
"Kill that bitch!" Colombine screamed, shaking off Angel's punch, "Bring me her dust!"
Willow reached for George, but one of the two vampires watching him leapt at her. There was a thwock and it fell away. A voice from the door shouted, "Leave him there! He's still protected! GET OUT!"
Brother Luca, a.k.a. Lazlo Hunyadi, stood at the door, loading another bolt into his crossbow. The girl looked at him and then ran past him, throwing a glance back at Angel, who was suddenly obscured from view as Colombine and two other vampires threw themselves on top of him. Brother Luca raised to fire again but was pushed out of the way by two vampires giving chase to Willow. "Get her! Get her!" Colombine screamed, as she pounded her fists into the vampire struggling beneath her.
George was completely disoriented. He had heard his uncle's voice shouting and Angel's voice shouting and the sound of a struggle, but turned his head in multiple directions trying to locate the fight. Max, howling desperately, broke free from George's grip, dragging the leash behind him, and ran after the two vampires pursuing Willow.
She hadn't been paying attention and found herself trapped in a dead-end alley. "Oh, no!" she murmured, under her breath, but as the two moved against her, she whirled and planted a foot into the gut of one and followed up by catching another with a haymaker punch that sent him into a row of garbage cans. She marvelled at her strength and grace and wondered if Buffy would have been impressed. In her moment of distraction she felt the other vampire grab her and pin her arms behind her. The one who had landed in the garbage cans picked himself up and grabbed a broken piece of crate that he then broke into a pointed end. Willow struggled against her captor as the other approached her brandishing the improvised stake.
Suddenly Max rounded the corner and with a growl leapt at the armed vampire, biting fiercely at the demon's throat. Willow took the opportunity to plant her foot heavily into the shin of the vampire holding her. She heard the bone crunch under her kick and brought her elbow up into his nose with another satisfying crunch. As the vampire staggered away, howling in pain and blinded, she fell to the ground and rolled forwarded, grabbing the dropped stake and thrusting it upwards as the wounded vampire fell on top of her. There was a light scream and then a shower of dust fell on her. She turned to the other in time to see it grab the leash dangling from Max's neck.
"No!" she screamed running towards the struggling pair, but the vampire yanked Max off him by the leash and swung the dog around, knocking Willow unconscious. The dog howled in terror as the vampire grabbed the scruff of his neck and proceeded to beat him again and again against the opposite wall. Finally it dropped him and Max laid on the ground breathing sporadically and whimpering. The vampire started towards Willow, but the sound of the fighting had attracted people and it could hear the voices and sirens quickly approaching. Frightened, it leapt onto a fire escape above and scurried away over the rooftops.
Brother Luca had grabbed George under the arm and made ready to escape the club with him, but George asked, "What about Angel?"
"He can take care of himself!" Luca said, but George resisted, "No, he needs help!"
Brother Luca sighed and cursed Colombine in the name of the laughing gods. He then pushed George out the door. "Okay, I'll do what I can to keep them here and help him! Go! I'll catch up!" George heard the slam as Lazlo barred the club's door behind him. George heard fighting and shouting nearby and, tapping madly with his stick, headed towards it, calling for Max. He was one of the first to reach the alley, and he heard the animal's pained whimpering. "Max?" he said; the dog barked weakly. George felt his way to him, resting his hand on the dog's body, feeling the slowing rise and fall of his rib cage.
"Max!" he screamed. The dog whined. "It's okay, boy. It's okay," he continued, stroking the animal gently. "Someone, help!" he shouted, "Please! Someone, help!" But he knew it was too late: the dog's body was broken beyond repair and there was a warm stickiness under his fingers.
Willow stirred; she had heard the sound of someone shouting and opened her eyes slowly to see George hunched over something on the ground. Although she couldn't see the object, she knew what it was, and slowly dragged herself into an upright position, leaning back against the wall. She started to speak until she saw the image of three ghostly white wolves slowly materialize out of thin air. They were insubstantial, with bright red eyes, and circled the blind man cradling the dying dog, finally raising their heads in unison and howling silently before fading into nothing. George, sobbing uncontrollably, had been ignorant of their presence, but Willow, dazzled by the strange sight, spoke quietly, "George?"
He turned towards her voice. "Willow?" he said, suddenly sounding very tired, "He's dead." ----
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