I have maybe half a second to save my life.

I slam up toward his chest with my left hand -- the one with the stakes. But my angle's awkward and Angelus is too damn fast. He's got my wrist in his iron grip in an instant, forcing my hand away from him, behind my back. The pain of it arcs through me like an electric shock, wrist to elbow to shoulder, and I gasp. Angelus clamps my other hand over my mouth, forcing me to silence myself.

"What was that?" The girl's voice. Fred's.

"I'm not sure," Wesley says. They are quiet for a moment, and Angelus looks over my shoulder, smiling delightedly. It's Angel's face, but it's not Angel's smile. Slowly, he pulls our hands away from my mouth, rests them, clasped, against my chest. My heart is pounding so hard it's got to be knocking against his palm. He raises an eyebrow, questioning.

If I want, I can yell for help or scream like a woman, and right this second, I'm not too proud to do it. But if I do, Wesley and Fred will open the door, and there won't be anything between them and Angelus. I don't know exactly what would happen after that, besides the fact that somebody would get killed. But there would be a lot of fighting, a lot of confusion. The chance I could get away in the middle of it all is pretty damn slim, but it's way better than my chance of getting away if I keep quiet.

But if I keep quiet, Wesley and Fred live, at least for now. That's the choice Angelus is forcing me to make. What Would Lindsey Do? I only learn the answer when I clench my jaw shut.

"Must've been a rat," Fred says.

"No doubt," Wesley says. "All the same, it's not safe here. Let's -- not dally."

They do the rest of what they have to do quickly, almost silently; I just hear the scrape of their shoes on the tiles. Angelus is laughing, silently, his chest shaking against my back.

"This duffel is full of men's clothing," Fred says. She sounds like she's pleased about that, like she's trying to pretend she's not. Wesley sighs heavily, and Angelus thumps our hands against my chest. He's still laughing as his tongue, cool and wet, traces around the curve of my ear.

I used to jerk off thinking about his tongue doing that, as well as a few other things. It's not sexy now. It's -- cold. It's dead. I still have time to scream. I don't.

Wesley and Fred leave, taking Lilah's stuff and mine. I hear their footsteps get quieter and vanish. Angelus remains silent and still for a few moments. The skin on my neck prickles, supersensitive, waiting for the fangs. I should be so lucky. It should be that quick.

I feel his muscles shift, just a little -- then I'm thrown, hard, into the door and through it. My face slams against the metal, then the tile of the floor. My stakes clatter onto the ground, out of reach. I scramble for them for the one second I have before Angelus' hands clamp around my shoulders. He shoves me against the wall, and the bastard's still smiling.

"This," he says, "is my lucky week. One toy surprise right after the other, but I thought for sure the highlight would be Wes and Fred taking themselves off to the one place in the city where nobody could EVER hear them scream. I was going back and forth -- kill Fred in front of Wes? Or kill Wes in front of Fred? Can't have your cake and eat it too. And each option had so much to recommend it. But then I pick up a third scent -- my long-lost pal Lindsey, come back to say hello. Unbelievable! It must be my birthday."

"You're gonna kill me," I say. My voice is steadier than I'd hoped. "Do it and get it over with."

"Lindsey. I'm hurt. I thought you knew me." Angelus cocks his head, smile faded, eyes wide in a perfect mockery of emotional pain. "Since when did I get just 'get it over with'? You know better than that. Don't you?"

All those files. All those murders. All those details. I read them all. Sometimes I read them for fun.

"You should have screamed," Angelus says. He leans forward, putting his whole weight on his hands, on my shoulders. "What profiteth it a man, to gain his soul and lose the world? Tell me, Lindsey, how does it look from the other side?"

My soul. All of a sudden, it's funny, and I start to laugh, right in Angelus' face. As he stares at me, I choke out, "You think I saved my soul. No, no -- you think YOU saved it. Don't you?" He's gonna kill me anyway, so what the hell: I add, "You stupid fucking idiot."

Angelus draws back, just a little bit; he's smiling again, but differently now. "You let Wesley and Fred live," he says. His eyes are boring into mine now. Just for the moment, he wants answers more than blood.

"Maybe I just didn't want to give you the satisfaction," I say. "Not everybody falls for your little mind games. I'd rather die straight out than play a role in one of your melodramas. You know, you would've had a big career in soap operas. You ever write to 'Young & the Restless,' let 'em know you were available?"

Angelus laughs in what sounds like genuine amusement, until the moment his fist slams into my gut.

Gagging, I slump against the wall, fall to my knees. As I gasp in a breath, he says, "You were always entertaining, Lindsey. I'll grant you that."

His belt buckle is on a level with my forehead, and he's about six inches away from my face, and he's hard.

He murmurs, "I guess I could see my way to keeping you alive for a while." His hand, broad and cool, curves around the back of my neck. "As long as you entertain me."

If I punched him in the groin, hard, right now, there's every chance he'd break my neck and kill me instantly. But even as the idea flickers into being, my mind seems to go dim, short-circuited by the black fire that's flowing through me, cock to gut to brain. This is turning me on.

Not the part where I'm getting raped before I die. I'm screwed-up, but I'm not that screwed-up. No, it's the part where I'm about to die. I've been in enough life-threatening situations -- demon attacks, vampire stalkings, performance reviews at the firm -- to know that this is instinct, hardwired in the human body. Before you die, you want to fuck. Your last chance to pass on your genes, your last chance for pleasure, I don't know what it is. But it's real, and it's taking me over. I let it.

I grip his belt in my hands, slide the leather from the metal buckle. Angelus keeps one hand at the back of my neck, not shoving my face into his crotch, but not letting me move away either. He doesn't get it yet; he doesn't realize I don't want to move away. Not anymore. This is my death. This is the last humiliation of Lindsey McDonald. It feels like a celebration, just because it's the last. As I unzip his pants, Angelus braces his other hand against the wall.

Goddamn, he's huge. It's enough to give a guy a complex, or a hard-on, or in my case both.

His cock is thick and heavy in my hand, the veins pulsing slightly against my hot, damp palm. A human's cock -- mine -- would be flushed dark and hot with blood, but his is cool and pale. Hard like marble.

Slowly, deliberately, I draw back his foreskin, revealing the glistening tip. Seeing that he's turned on by me, by having me here on my knees, just makes me crazier. I reach out my tongue, flick across the head, just enough for him to feel it. His thigh muscles tense beneath my hand. I remember -- Angel or Angelus, this guy probably hasn't gotten any in about two years. I feel a thrill, the illusion of power, for one instant before he rams his cock between my lips.

So much for finesse. He wants me to suck him off, so I suck him hard. He's cool in my mouth, and he tastes like salt, and I take him in deep, so deep I have to fight not to gag, and it still doesn't feel like it's deep enough. Angelus helps me out, pumping into my mouth, slow and deep at first, then faster, shallower, faster again.

I grip him at the waist, feel the hard curve of his pelvic bones. It's not enough. I grab his ass, moving with him, helping him fuck my mouth. His hand slides from behind my neck to my jaw, angling me just the way he wants me, just the way that lets him thrust deep and fast at the same time. Fumbling, I slide one hand down to my jeans, peel open the fly, grab my own straining cock in my hand. I'm working myself as best I can, and it doesn't take much, not with Angelus in my mouth, his salt and my saliva thick in my mouth, spilling onto my chin, making slick, wet sounds as he rams into me again, and again, and again --

I come, so fast it's on me before I know it, a jolt of hot semen spilling through the fingers of my clenched fist. Angelus laughs -- one short, breathless bark -- then grabs my face in both hands and thrusts his cock down my throat. His come is cold. I drink it down; I lick him clean.

Angelus pushes me away, hard enough to knock me against the wall, not hard enough to hurt. He staggers back, off-balance in post-orgasmic haze. He's staring down at my open fly, at the white foam all over my hand. "You," he says, almost admiringly, "are one sick little bastard."

I don't have anything to say to that, so I just wipe my hand on my jeans. That is, I start to -- Angelus grabs it up before I can finish and licks my fingers clean. My cock pulses once; it's too soon for me to get hard again, but another two or three minutes, and he'll have me there. I guess this is what they call going out with a bang. I don't fight it anymore. I just let myself feel his cool tongue slipping over the skin of my fingers (right hand, the loaner, the one he cut off, back when he had his soul.) I breathe in deeply, sucking in air while the mildew and filth is drowned out by the smell of sex.

This is the part where I expect to die. But Angelus doesn't move to kill me, or even hurt me. He's staring down, his eyes sharp. I realize that he didn't expect me to get turned on by that, which is fair enough, seeing as how I sure didn't expect it either. But I also realize -- by giving in to the guy, I've done the one and only thing that could guarantee he wouldn't kill me right away. I've made him curious.

I should've just punched him in the groin when I had the chance.

Angelus tucks himself back in, but he doesn't refasten his pants. We're not done with the sex, then. I try not to be glad. "How long has it been, Lindsey? Two years? I think we have a lot of catching up to do."

"We feel pretty caught-up to me."

"That's not catching up. That's making up for lost time, and we're not even close to making up for all of that." His voice is low, deep, deliberate. "You'll be working that off for a while now. As long as you still enjoy it, and then a hell of a lot longer. Right now, though -- we ought to talk."

"Do we have to?" I raise an eyebrow. I'm gonna die anyway, so what the hell? "Maybe you're a cuddler, but I'd just like to get some sleep. Maybe watch the game."

"Boy, you are the game." A slow, lazy smile spreads over Angelus' face. "Let's see. Where were we, when our story left off? That's right. You left Wolfram & Hart, because they were just too darned evil. Didn't bother you for a long time, and then it did, and so you left L.A. to lead a good and virtuous life. Am I right? Or did I miss a chapter?"

I remember driving out of Los Angeles that day. Felt like every bad thing that had ever happened to me was falling away, falling behind, not able to keep up. I was that dumb. "That pretty much covers it."

"And here you are. I don't guess you found this little penthouse at random, so you must have come to help Lilah. By the way, you were a little late."

"You have fun killing her?" I don't really care, besides wondering if he fucked her too, before the end.

Angelus chuckles. "Assumptions. Don't they teach you to avoid those in law school? I didn't actually have the pleasure." When I frown at him, disbelieving, he shrugs. "What, you think I'd lie about it to protect my reputation? Believe me, I would have loved to break that bitch in half. Didn't get the chance."

I start to ask who did do it, and then I think about the wasteland that L.A. has become. It could have been anything, anyone. I don't guess it matters anymore. "I didn't come here to help her," I say. Might as well clear that up. "I came here to help myself."

"Now, that's the first interesting thing you've said tonight," Angelus says. "Or today. I can't tell the difference anymore. So, you needed help. But you were working with Lilah, so it was something she needed help with too. Common cause. What would that be? Couldn't be our mutual friend the Beast, could it?"

I don't say anything.

He keeps talking, slow and steady. "I was in Wolfram & Hart right after the end, you know. Bodies everywhere. I had a soul at the time, so I tried real hard to be sorry. But I have to tell you, it was a beautiful sight. I thought the whole wine-cellar thing was a work of art, but I'm man enough to admit when I'm outclassed."

"I went there earlier," I say. "I saw."

"It is the Beast you're worried about, then. You think he's out to get you, too." Angelus' eyes glint with discovery. "Not that the Beast is all that picky about his victims, but he was concentrating on the L.A. area. So if you thought he were after you in -- where did you end up? Well. You'll tell me eventually. That could only mean one thing. You thought he'd be after you because of the firm. All that do-gooder energy, and it turns out Lindsey McDonald is still connected to Wolfram & Hart. Am I right?"

"I never went back." I don't know what the hell I'm trying to prove to Angelus, but I say it anyway. "I didn't take orders from them."

"But you never shook them off, not completely. Why not, Lindsey? Isn't that the whole reason you left Los Angeles in the first place? Didn't the saga of your brand-new hand teach you the error of your ways?"

"They didn't tell me what to do," I insist. It's harder to look at Angelus now, so I stare at the muddy floor. I look at my hands in my lap; my right one is a little darker than the other, the wrist thinner, the hair on that arm more coarse. "That was enough."

"If they still wanted you, they wanted you for a reason." Angelus steps a little closer, raises his voice a little more. He doesn't like that I'm not looking at him. And I thought Angel had an ego. "Wolfram & Hart didn't have decent reasons for -- well, anything. You were off trying to do good, but you were still on evil's speed dial. That make sense to you?"

His questions hit me like his fist did before -- in the gut, hard, throwing me off balance. I want him to stop. I don't care why he stops, but I want him to stop. "Aren't you due to rape me again right around now?"

"First of all, that wasn't rape. It would've been, but you avoided that by giving in," he says. "Second, I'm not done talking. And you're not done answering. Where did you end up working, Lindsey? What did you end up doing with yourself? What cause was noble or worthy enough to make up for all the shit you'd done for the firm?"

"I'm still a lawyer."

"Bet we're not talking about a corner office. Or a view. Speaking of views, remind me to fill you in on Darla sometime soon. You're not gonna BELIEVE that story." Darla went back to him. A hundred nights I spent wondering if she'd come through my door, what I'd do if she did. But it's Angel she returned to, in the end, and I was a fool for ever thinking it could go down any other way. "If I had to guess, I'd say -- something for charity. Something nonprofit. Are you representing battered women? Child-abuse victims? Maybe migrant workers. Habla espanol?"

"Wrong," I say. My voice is too hard.

"Okay, I'm wrong. But I'm close." Angelus paces slowly in front of me. He has on the heavy black boots I remember from Angel, from other times. "You don't make a whole lot of money doing that, do you? You're not in it for the money anymore, I know, but I bet that doesn't mean you don't miss it, now that it's gone. You always had nice apartments, Lindsey. Sophisticated, in a black-lacquer-and-glass kind of way. Lorne says you always went for the premium-brand liquors. You don't like living cheap. But that's how you live now. Cheap."

In Austin, I have a one-bedroom apartment in a complex on the edge of town. I have a concrete balcony, two feet by four feet, that looks out onto a parking lot full of Hyundais and Camaros. I haven't tasted Absolut or Tanqueray in a long time. I could do with either one right now.

Angelus keeps talking, softly, almost sing-songing as he finds a pattern, lulls me into it. "Funny thing about helping the less fortunate: They always seem to be less fortunate for a reason. Admit it. When they're sitting across from you, in their Wal-mart clothes and their Supercuts hair, you don't feel bad for them, do you? They dug themselves into their own pits of poverty or drug addiction or whatever the hell it is you're supposed to help them with. They keep on digging, getting in deeper and deeper, the whole time you're trying to tow them up again. And they don't feel good about you, either. They see you as a rich man. A lawyer. They know you're not in as deep as they are, and they hate you for it. C'mon, Lindsey, you know it's true. You know it."

Mr. Graham, taking up hour after hour of my life that I'm not getting back, all so he can get rid of his fucking threadbare couch. How hard is it to wear a goddamn condom?

"Maybe, just maybe, you kept in touch with the firm for a reason," Angelus says. "I think maybe you wanted to leave your options open. I think you wanted to come back. Wanted to come crawling back on your belly, right back into the arms of Wolfram & Hart."

He's right. I've always known it, but hearing it out loud hurts worse. The cheap, flimsy decency I've built for myself over the last two years collapses faster than a house of cards. I try to hide my reaction, but it must show, because Angelus starts laughing. I hate him for it, but I hate myself more.

"There's hope for you yet," Angelus says.

"Doubtful."

"Try a little denial. Makes it all go down smoother." Angelus steps closer to me, and I know without looking up that he's hard again. "You've just been waiting for somebody to tell you what to do, haven't you? To give you a reason, or just something to fill the days. I think I'm going to have plenty for you to do, Lindsey. But let's start with what I already know you're good at."

I don't fight him. When his cock's between my lips once more, and I feel myself getting turned on all over again, I don't fight that either.