"In my opinion," Angelus said, "Detroit forgot how to make quality cars in 1968."

We are driving along the streets in my truck. Angelus is in the passenger seat, smoking a cigarette he took from the body of a dead man on the curb. My jaw hurts, my knees ache and my gums are raw; he was on me for a long time. I didn't think he'd ever get tired of me sucking him off. He got tired of it before I did. One part of me is in physical pain, is scared and humiliated and angry, is desperate to try and get away, for what little good it might do with the Beast out there. The rest of me is wondering when Angelus will take me again. Waiting for it. Anticipating.

I guess it's too late for therapy.

"The '68 Falcon Futura -- that was a nice car," Angelus says. "Still had a little fin to it. Mustang looked good that year too. But the '70s were coming on fast. I knew the first time I saw a Volkswagen Beetle, cars were about to get completely castrated. Glad to see you feel the same way." His fingers stroke the dashboard almost tenderly. "You know, every once in a while, I used to think about bringing that up to you. Classic cars. Something we had in common. I thought --" He's laughing now, but not at me. "I thought it was a way we could bond. God, a soul is a pathetic thing."

Angel wanted to talk to me. He wanted to reach out to me. I tell myself that means less to me than the fact that he never did. Doesn't matter. Right now, nothing seems to matter -- not the too-black sky, not the pain in my jaw, not the broken turn signal, nothing.

Angelus peers over at me, his eyes unreadable in the dim glow of the dash. "Turn left. Right here." He keeps watching me as I turn, waiting for my reaction as we pull into a parking lot that's empty of cars. But it's not empty. A gang of vampires are fighting here -- maybe a dozen of them. The only human beings in this lot are a couple of dead bodies lying, already forgotten, on the pavement. And me. A few of the vampires turn toward us, their eyes illuminated in the headlights, flat circles of reflected glare.

I gave up on the idea of surviving this the moment Angelus threw me to the bathroom floor; the will to live flickers now, in dim fits and starts, kindling that can't quite catch flame. Yeah, I just drove into a nest of vampires. Doesn't matter. An apocalyptic demon and one of the worst vampires of all time are already lined up to kill me, so I don't guess my situation's gotten any worse.

The vampires let their battle go for the minute, start coming toward the truck. They're smiling, delighted and surprised and stupid, unable to believe their next meal drove right up to them.

To my surprise, Angelus reaches in his coat pocket and takes out the stakes I dropped before. He tosses one to me, his victim-to-be, who's sitting just a couple feet away. I say, "I thought I was the suicidal one."

"Like you're fast enough to stake me. No, our targets are out there. These -- things -- don't even deserve to be vampires," Angelus says as he flicks his cigarette out the window. His lip curls, and for a moment he looks a little like Holland used to when he tasted an inferior Chenin Blanc. "Their median age is probably five days old. They have no idea who made them. No idea of serving anything besides their own appetites. In other words, they're not very different than they were as people. Mindless, ravenous fools. And they're taking over MY city? Not a chance. They haven't heard of me yet. I intend to change that."

"And I'm supposed to help you," I say. "What are we, some kind of S&M Batman and Robin?"

Angelus shrugs. "Help me or don't. You won't fight me for your life, but I'd like to see you fight, Lindsey. I want to see if there's anything left of a fight in you." The vampires are getting closer, and Angelus holds the stake up between his fingers, as though he were flipping them off. "If not -- don't worry. I won't let them kill you." He smiles, making it clear that he means nothing's going to stop him from killing me himself.

He's out of the truck in an instant, just as the pissed-off vampires charge him. Most of them, that is. About three of them are headed around to the driver's side.

Fight or die? It would be a lot easier to just give up now. But as one of the vampires pulls open the door, instinct takes over, and I punch out with the stake, dusting him instantly.

One of the others shrieks, "How did you do that? How did you do that? We're already dead!" Stupid bastard doesn't even know about getting staked. Out of the corner of my eye, I hear another vampire shrieking as he turns to dust, see one more tumbling through the air bonelessly.

"I did it like this," I say, staking the panicky one in an instant. The third one finally catches on, crouching just out of arm's reach.

More shrieking behind me. Clouds of dust are blowing across the hood of my truck. Angelus isn't wasting any time. He'll be done in a minute, and if I could hurry, if I could kill this vamp right here, right now, I'd have a few minutes to run like hell. I probably wouldn't get away. If I did, it would just be a matter of time before the Beast found me. But isn't it worth a try?

The third vamp says, "Okay, is that, like, a magic stick or something?"

"Something," I say, feinting right. He ducks left like the amateur he is, right into my waiting stake.

I look over at the other side of the truck. Angelus still has three vamps on him. If you didn't know it was him, you'd think he was in trouble. I have time to run. But once I run away from Angelus, it's just a matter of time before I get killed by the Beast. I wonder which of them would kill me faster.

Then I realize -- I want Angelus to do it. Not because I want to die, which I damn sure don't, but because at least if it's Angelus, it would be because of who I am, what I did. If it's the Beast, it's because of Wolfram & Hart. The firm swallowed up every other bit of my life; I'd like my death to belong to me.

Of course, I could off myself. But if I had the guts to do that, I would've done it a long time ago.

Instead, I go sliding across the hood of my truck, slamming my stake into one of the vampires fighting Angelus. I can't see them for the dust, but I can hear Angelus laughing as he kills another. Then he grabs the last vampire and slams her head into my truck again, and again, and again.

"Hey," I say, feeling the strongest emotion I've had in a few hours: annoyance. "Cut it out! You're gonna dent the door."

Angelus cackles in delight -- at his victory or at me, maybe both -- as he tosses the vampire to the ground. He twirls the stake in his hand, then puts it back in his pocket. "My name is Angelus," he says to the vampire, who's retching on the ground. "Tell everyone. You can fight me and die, or join me and rule this city. It's your choice." The vampire looks up at him, her eyes moist with pain and wonder. Angelus waves her off. "Go."

She runs away. Her sneakers blink red on every footstep. For the first time I realize she's probably no older than thirteen.

Thirteen. Jesus Christ. That's -- junior high. Or not quite. I remind myself that she's not a kid anymore -- not anything human anymore -- but it still hits me in a way I thought it wouldn't. In a way I thought I couldn't get hit anymore.

"And here we are, just you and me, beneath the stars," Angelus says, grinning at me. He twirls the stake in his hands like a six-gun. "I always wanted to fuck someone in the middle of the street, but the cops have a way of raining on your parade. But no cops around here."

I don't look at him, not exactly. I'm still trying to deal with the fact that I killed vampires for Angelus, with the fact that every vampire on these streets was a person, just a week or two ago. The unreal haze that had settled over me -- it's thinner now. Reality's closer. Too close.

Angelus, sensing the shift, sighs impatiently. "What, are you too virtuous for me right now? BOR-ing. I mean, we can do the whole rape thing, sure, but there's something really hot about seeing you give in without a fight."

This is my traitor body's cue to start getting hot for him again. Doesn't happen. I'm still confused and scared; right now, it seems like the only real thing in the whole world is my truck, the cold metal beneath my hands. Angelus still has power over me, unyielding as steel, but in this moment, it's not sexual. It's something else, something worse. "This isn't the way things are supposed to be," I say, inadequately.

"Oh, I get it," Angelus says. "You're on a little nostalgia trip. You miss those days when you thought changing your life would change your soul."

"You are way too into hearing yourself talk," I say.

"You want to get nostalgic? We can do that." Angelus steps up beside me, crooked grin on his face.

Then the smile's gone. His eyes get wide. His posture shifts -- the shoulders draw in just a little, the head a little further back. His chin drops just a little. Hesitantly, he says, "Lindsey?"

He doesn't look like Angelus. He looks like Angel.

I suck in a breath, almost reeling. Angelus doesn't react -- at least, not like Angelus. He slowly puts one hand on my shoulder, as if uncertain of my reaction. As if he'd run away from me at the slightest rejection. Even his grip is different -- more tentative, more comforting.

I choke out one word: "Don't."

"I know I hurt you," he whispers. "When you came to me, that first time you wanted out of the firm -- I was just so damn angry, Lindsey. So many things had gone wrong for me, and I didn't trust you. Maybe it was reasonable for me not to trust you. But it wasn't right. I know that. I always did."

"You aren't him," I say. "You can't even pretend to be him."

But he can, he can, and he's perfect. It's Angel standing here in the parking lot with me, Angel who's moving just a little bit closer, Angel who's pulling me down under this warm tide. Doing what Angelus couldn't. "Do you know how many times I wanted to tell you I was sorry? How many times I wanted to let it all go? I felt like you never gave me a chance to do that. But maybe I'm the one who never gave you a chance."

This isn't Angel. This isn't really the way Angel felt, the way he thought. What went down between us was as much my fault as it was his -- okay, way the hell more my fault than his -- but what he's saying now is better than the truth. It's exactly what I wanted to hear, all that time. Angel knew it all along. Those memories are spilling out of Angelus now, my cue in a play I wrote myself.

I look into his eyes, and I could swear I see the soul staring back at me. Angelus is too good at his games.

He tilts his head, just a little, the way dates did in high school to hint that they wanted a kiss. I reach out to him with the hand that's my own, trace around the edges of his jaw. He closes his eyes, as though just the touch of my skin against his is almost too much to bear.

His eyes still shut, he whispers, "Give me a chance, Lindsey."

Our mouths meet awkwardly at first, as though he really didn't know what to do. I'm the one who nudges my tongue between his lips; he responds slowly, gently, feeling his way. His mouth is cool and strangely sweet, as though he'd just had a glass of wine. But I'm the one who feels drunk -- heady and warm. This is our first kiss.

I slide my hands up to hold his face close so he can't let go. He puts his arms around me tenderly, in a lover's embrace. I can feel his fingers tracing along the lines of my back, outlining my waist, my shoulders, my spine. I pull him even closer. I wish I could pull him inside my skin and keep him warm.

He pulls his lips from mine to start kissing my face. My eyelids. My jaw. As he begins working his way down my throat, he whispers, "I won't hurt you. I wouldn't."

I'm coming alive again, not in the black, burning way I did when Angelus first attacked me. This is better. This fire wouldn't char me to ash; it would keep me warm. If it weren't a damn lie, that is. But I'm about past caring.

I run my hands down his chest, then up again, beneath his shirt. His muscles tense, and his nipples are hard beneath my fingertips. I move against him, feel his cock brush against mine. We both stiffen at the same moment, going thick against each other, and that makes the blood rush into my head so fast I feel dizzy.

"In the truck," I gasp.

His hands slide into my jean pockets, cup my ass. "No room to maneuver in the cab," he whispers, teasing in a voice that doesn't seem as much like Angel's. Or does it? Maybe this is how Angel sounds, when he's turned on and enjoying himself. All at once, I know that's how he sounds.

"I wasn't talking about the cab." I pull down the hatch of the truck, hop up into the flatbed. He raises an eyebrow, surprised and amused, then slides up beside me. The shocks squeak, and the metal is cold beneath us. I don't care.

I lie back, pulling him over me like a blanket. His face blots out the roiling, unnatural sky; I can only see his eyes, dark and soft and sincere. So sincere I'd mock him for it, if it were real --

I push away the thought, kiss him again. We start making out -- no other term for it. We're like teenagers, kissing and touching and kissing again, ravenous for something we don't dare to take. I feel him hard against my thigh. I know he can feel my pulse against his lips as he kisses my throat.

And my pulse is strong, I think stronger than it's been in years. My mind is ablaze, alight with possibility and intensity I haven't known in too long. I had been starving for so long I'd forgotten how to feel hungry, but I'm hungry now, so hungry I'll never get enough. Is it the lie that's brought me back to life, the idea of Angel making love to me? Or is it the truth -- that this is Angelus, that I am surrendering my soul, that I am finally, completely giving in to the evil inside me?

I'll figure it out after I come.

He moans into the curve of my neck, as if desperate with longing. I know he's going to wait for me to make the move. I take his hand and move it slowly down to my cock. He touches me for the first time, his square hand strong even through my jeans. Oh, godDAMN, that feels good. I arch up into his palm, and he grasps me as best he can through the denim.

"Touch me," I say. I try to make it sound like I'm ordering, not pleading. It doesn't really work.

Very deliberately, he looks into my eyes as he slowly unfastens my jeans. I feel his fingers, first through my boxers, then finally against my cock. I yanked myself off so many times today I thought I wouldn't ever be able to feel anything again, but I was wrong. Just his fingertips, cool and strong and sure, make me groan and push into his waiting fist. His hand is strong, stronger than a human's, and the pressure is almost as good as being inside him.

Oh, shit, I thought about it, I thought about being inside him, and just the idea of it -- his ass against my thighs, buried in him up to the hilt, sends me spiraling out of control. I pump into his hand again, and again, feeling the pressure of his hand and my cock, hardness on hardness, the beat of my blood within his cool flesh, again and again --

The world goes black, and something crashes inside me, and I can hear my own shouts echoing off the buildings around us as I come. His hand is hot and wet now, and he's still gripping me as I shake.

He whispers, "I want to make love to you."

I open my eyes to see him looking down at me tenderly. He says, even more quietly, his voice as warm and soft as candlewax, "Only if you want. Only if you're sure."

If I asked him to stop now, would the masquerade be over? I know the answer. I don't let myself think about it. "I want you to," I gasp. "I'm sure."

He tugs my jeans down, exposing me to the cold night air. That's not why I'm shivering. He kisses me once more, gentle and deep, then rolls me onto my side. I push one knee up for him, make it easier for him to get his hand where he wants it to go. His fingers are still warm and wet with my come as he pushes two of them inside me. He takes it slow. He knows how to make it not hurt. "Lindsey," he whispers, as though my name alone was everything he could ever want to say.

I breathe out the name. "Angel."

He pushes his fingers in deeper, then deeper again, then begins tracing circles with his fingertips. I feel myself opening up, relaxing, pushing back against him to get even closer. His fingers press against that one place, that place that makes your balls go tight and your cock get hard. When he slips in a third finger, I start to groan, making sounds like something in heat. It's so good, and it's still not enough.

Then he shifts his weight, pulls his hips up behind mine, and I feel his cock sliding slowly, slowly into me. It still hurts -- he's too big, and my own come isn't enough lube, not for him -- but I don't care. The pain just makes my nerve endings come alive. My whole body's electric as he pushes into me, splitting me open, digging deep.

He takes his time. He's gentle. He kisses the back of my neck softly as our bodies lock together.

Then he's in, as deep as he can go. He clutches at my shoulder and my waist, pulling our bodies closer together, thrusting slowly at first, then faster, then faster again. He's cold inside me, thick, so thick. I want him in deeper. I want him to tear me in two.

I move with him, making it harder, making it faster. It's hurting worse now, and he makes a hungry sound; I think he can smell my blood. I grab one of his hands and pull it down to my cock. He's not working me with his hand, but he grips me tightly, and I can thrust into him at the exact same speed he's thrusting into me --

He comes, cold in the depths of me. One more thrust and I come too, body shaking, mind numb.

We lie there for a couple of minutes, wordless, motionless. I pretend that we're lying in bed, not the flatbed of the truck. I pretend that the Beast isn't after me, that the world isn't ending, that the sky above us is just a sky.

Then he says, "You are a piece of work."

Spell broken. I look over my shoulder and see Angelus, who's shaking his head in what looks like disdain and amusement. I say, "Yeah, I'm the psycho in this picture."

Angelus pulls out of me, and now the pain isn't drowned out by anything. I wince as he shakes his head. "Just when I think you've sunk as low as you can possibly go, you fall through this trap door I couldn't even imagine."

"I got what I wanted," I tell him. It's a lie, and we both know it. His eyes narrow, and whatever twisted admiration he had for my insanity is gone for an instant. He hates me for being weak, and I hate myself for knowing he's right.

But then he relaxes and smiles at me, his eyes narrow and content, like those of a cat. "I think you're going to work out fine," he says.

I realize then what he wants from me, why he's kept me alive, why he's tested me as his lover and his fighter and even his goddamn chauffeur. "You're going to turn me," I say, and I can't control the shiver that goes down my back.

"I need someone to work with," Angelus says, leaning back against the side of the flatbed, his arms spread against the cab, as though he owned it. "Somebody I can make in my own image. Just between you and me, I was going to go with Lilah. She would have had a talent for it. Hell, she was practically a vampire when she was alive. When she met her untimely end, as opposed to the timely one I had planned for her, I was kind of at a loss. Cordelia, now --" A faint smile plays on his lips. "She would be brilliant. I mean, amazing. I can always tell. The Master himself would have wanted her turned, and damn, the two of us would have had some fine times. But somebody with that kind of talent -- they get greedy, Lindsey. They don't want a piece of the pie; they try to take the whole damn thing. So Cordy's out. I was just about to settle for Gunn when you came along."

Turned. Made a vampire. The one thing Wolfram & Hart promised never to do to you, the one promise they always kept. For a long time, it was the only thing left that frightened me. Then one night, in a wine cellar, with Darla's cool hands on either side of my face, it became the only thing I wanted.

I remember how bad I wanted it. I remember the hungry way she looked at me. I remember hearing Holland's body hit the ground, heavy and wet.

Who wouldn't want to get rid of a soul as screwed-up as mine?

"No," I say automatically. I don't have any idea if I mean it or not. I feel the cold of the metal more than I did before, and I struggle into my clothes.

Angelus smiles at me, cocky and confident and smooth. "Don't worry," he says, beneath a sky that's shot through with jagged red bolts. "I'm not gonna do it against your will. Turning you, I mean. Fucking you against your will, sure. But turning -- we'll make a deal, right here and now. I won't do it until you ask me to." He casually reaches out, tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. "And you will ask me to."

I want to tell him he's wrong. But I don't. I can't. Something's waking up inside me, something I thought was dead instead of just sleeping. I felt the shadow of it the first time I saw Angelus. But now it's on me, swallowing me up.

Purpose, evil and twisted and wrong but real, crackles through my brain like black fire. For the first time in two years, I'm hungry, I'm angry, I WANT. Everything I've done between leaving the firm and this very second was so much killing time. This, here, now -- this is real. No matter how much I don't want it to be.

They say that evil is only the absence of good, but they lie. I feel it now, settling back over me, and it warms me in a way I haven't felt in way too long.

I turn away from him, trying to shake off the cloud that's surrounding me. Angelus laughs, long and loud. "What's the matter, Lindsey?"

I don't want to love this feeling, this dark intensity of purpose. But I do. It feels like I've cracked through the dry white bone of my existence and found marrow: bloody, dark and rich. Why this? Why does Angelus' voice do to me what two years of charity work couldn't do? I dig deep into my reservoir of witty banter. "Shut up."

"You hate yourself for the things you want, don't you?" Angelus says. He's behind me now; I'm bracing my hands on the very back of the truck. "You hated yourself for wanting to leave the firm when you were in it, and you hate yourself for wanting to go back now that you're out. Sort of out. Whatever."

"I won't ask you to turn me," I say, trying to convince myself a lot harder than I'm trying to convince him. "If that's what you're waiting on, you might as well go ahead and kill me now. Not like you to waste this much time."

"You'd like me to make it that easy for you," Angelus says. "Not gonna happen. You're more delicious now than ever, right now. All that guilt you're giving off -- some people find it damn sexy. I ought to know."

I look at the faint yellow paint on the concrete, the spaces drawn out for cars that will never come back. I wonder how many yards I could run before he took me down, which space would be the one where I'd die.

Run, I tell myself. Just run like hell. Angelus would catch me, and he'd kill me, but that would be it. The end. No turning. No more asking myself if I would ever let him do that to me.

I vault out of the truck, fast enough that it catches him off guard. I make it to the ground, feel the pavement slam into my feet, start running like hell. Behind me, I can hear Angelus swearing -- but he's laughing. He knows he can catch me. I know it too.

But even as I run, I hear a commotion ahead. Yelling, fighting. More vamps, from the sound of it. Shit, shit, shit, better Angelus than some damn idiot who believes in magic sticks --

I skid to a stop at the entrance to an alleyway, just short of the shadows of some fighting. Several vamps are ringed around one figure, a man -- no, a boy. Someone young, anyway. But by the way he moves, he doesn't even look scared.

Angelus slams into my back, and I gasp as he hugs me from behind. "Oh, perfect," he murmurs in my ear. "I'm glad you guys are going to get acquainted."

"Is it the Beast?" I ask that too quickly.

"A teenager?" Angelus rolls his eyes. "Trust me. When the Beast shows, you'll know about it. Shut up and watch."

One of the vamps charges the boy, and he sidesteps the vamp smoothly, stakes him in one fluid motion. Dust rains softly down onto the concrete. The kid is intent -- too intent to even notice us, standing there in the shadows.

"That boy," Angelus whispers. "You're gonna help me kill him."

"No," I say. I mean it. I have to mean it. "I'm not helping you kill anybody."

"I seem to recall you killing for me a few minutes ago."

"Those were vampires." This kid, whoever he is, kills vampires. Does he do it because he's a Good Guy, or does he have other reasons, like me? This isn't a question I can afford to ask.

"If we don't kill him, he'll kill us."

It grabs at me -- death by an anonymous stranger, versus death by Angelus. Why does it matter to me? Dead's dead. Angelus pulls us forward into the dim halo of a streetlight, and I can see rhe boy's eyes go wide. I feel Angelus kiss me on the cheek, and I'm more aware than ever before that I'm not exactly pushing him off me. The boy whirls away from us, concentrating on the vampires around him again, but now there's no doubt -- "He's coming after us," I say.

"I hope so," Angelus said. "Let's make him work for it."

He pulls me into the building next to us -- a warehouse -- and quickly we ascend the stairs. I try to get my head around all of this; too much is happening too fast. This kid is coming after us. This kid might want to kill us. This kid is not a vampire.

As though he can read my mind -- and maybe he can -- Angelus says, low and smooth, "Don't you want to know who he is?" He flings open the door to the roof, draws me out on it. As one we go to the very edge, look down on the boy, fighting vampires -- fewer vampires -- below. "Did it ever occur to you that I might actually have a really good reason for wanting him dead?"

"No. Why would it?"

"Fair enough." In my ear, he whispers, "That's the son of a bitch who killed Darla."