Angelus is drinking my blood. His body is heavy atop mine, heavy and cold. The jab of his fangs in my throat should hurt more -- but my strength's going, and I'm too lightheaded to hurt too much.

I feel the damp pavement cold beneath my back. My neck hurts, and I'm getting dizzy, and ten minutes after I thought I'd saved my life, I'm going to die. I thought it was inevitable, I thought I wanted him to do it, but now that it's come I want to fight him. I push against him, but he's too strong. My thoughts are scattered, sharp-edged, without meaning or emotion. They're like shards of a broken bottle. Everything is spilling out.

I'm dying.

Carole giving me a fern at Christmas. That time it snowed, and Dad drove around to four neighbors' houses to get us enough pailfuls for a little snowman. Lilah and I smiling at the guests at the firm's charity ball. DZK pledge week, all porn videos and pushups. My mother's old gray cat, Chef Pierre, licking his paws on the windowsill. Darla smiling up at me from my sofa, swaddled in blankets and my own robe. Angel standing beside my truck, telling me goodbye.

"No," I gasp, pushing against Angelus, but he's as heavy and cold as stone. He shoves my hands down against the pavement, clamps down harder, drinks deeper. I feel his body move against mine, grinding into me, a mockery of sex. His cock presses against my hip, hard and insistent. My own body is responding, but it's pure instinct now, the loss of the blood, the closeness of death. Most men come at the moment they die, and it looks like I'm going to be one of them.

I tell myself I won't drink. It's a lie. In the end, everyone drinks. I know that too well. I watched Darla drink. Angel cried when he watched her. I smiled. Turning's no more than I deserve.

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

Angelus is sucking at my neck, his lips no longer cold against my skin. Our chests are pressed against each other; my heartbeat is getting slow and strange, thumping weirdly inside me and against him. My skin prickles, white-hot and cool at once, and the pain is changing into something deeper and better, and everything in my body is tensing as I start to go.

I'll belong to him. I will be, finally and forever, evil. A flash of that black fire, that deep and terrible and beautiful purpose, flashes through my mind. It's the only warmth left in the world.

Angelus pulls his face from my neck and kisses me. His tongue delves deep. I can taste my own blood. I kiss him back.

Then he rolls off me and sits up.

I lie there for a moment, unable to do anything but wait for him to come back and kill me. But he's licking his lips, straightening his shirt. I try to push myself up on my arms, but it's like they're filled with water; they wobble, and I fall back.

Angelus glances over at me. "Need a hand up? Whoops, no, you already found a spare."

"Aren't you -- going to kill me?" I ask because I'm too confused to say anything else.

"Maybe," Angelus says. "Probably, eventually. But not tonight."

"Didn't -- feel like -- not tonight," I gasp.

"A preview of coming attractions," Angelus says. "You still have time to grab some popcorn before the show."

I manage to roll over on my side. My neck's still oozing blood, but slowly. I could faint or vomit, maybe both, but I try to hang on. "You're wasting time."

"You're in one hell of a hurry." Angelus raises an eyebrow, rests his back against the side of my truck. "Lindsey, I gotta admit it -- I'm procrastinating. Sometimes you run into a human who's just a little too much fun to hurt. You find one of those, you stretch it out, play it for all it's worth. Buffy was like that. Drusilla, now, she was the ultimate in that category. Even better than Buffy. However, the Russian and French judges are awarding you the bronze."

"You turned Drusilla," I point out. The black fire that had given me purpose for a few desperate seconds is already fading into so much smoke. But I don't want him to turn me. I don't. I can't.

"When I was ready, and not one second before. You, Lindsey -- you're the biggest snarl of guilt and perversion I've run into in the better part of a century. And it all flows right out of your twisted soul. When I suck that out of you, your torment goes too, and believe me, it's your best feature. Turning you is gonna be like throwing a Goya on the bonfire. It's a damned shame, but -- sometimes you need to stay warm."

"But not yet," I say. I think maybe I can sit up now. I try it, and my head reels, but I can manage. He must have stopped after a couple of pints.

"Not yet," Angelus says. "I'm not nearly done with my fun. And neither are you."

"This isn't my idea of fun."

"Tell it to somebody who hasn't got your come all over his clothes." Angelus frowns down at his black pants. "I bet there's not a dry-cleaners open in this entire city. Shit."

I look up at the black and roiling sky. I try to imagine driving out from underneath it, seeing the sun again. It feels like a cheap fantasy, something I'd laugh at in a movie. Something that doesn't happen to real people. "So what are you gonna do? Drag me around with you for weeks? Keep pretending to be your better half?"

I want to make love to you, he said. Angel's voice. Angel's face.

"Probably, eventually. But not tonight," Angelus says again. "You wanted me to turn you, Lindsey. Don't deny it. I felt you getting hard. I felt you kiss me back. And you hate what you're doing, back in Abilene or Knoxville or Baton Rouge or whatever backwater hell you've dragged yourself off to. You don't have anything left to lose except your soul. You're ready to lose that too. But giving in isn't enough for me, Lindsey. I want you to ask me for it. I want you to beg. When are you going to beg me?"

"Not tonight." That's the best answer I can give him. That's all I have to say for myself or my soul.

Angelus laughs, his face upturned, grinning in anticipation of victory. "Oh, Lindsey, we're going to have some good times turning you. Before, during and after. That I can promise. Until then -- hey, honey, let's go for a drive."

He scoops one arm beneath mine and hoists me up. I can't avoid leaning against him as he half-walks, half-drags me back to the truck. He slides me across to the passenger side and holds out his hand. "Keys. Unless you want me rummaging around in your pants some more, which isn't a bad idea --"

I hook the keys and toss them to him. He starts up the truck, grins approvingly as the motor grumbles into life. Angelus works the stick shift like a pro, steering us through the streets of L.A. I lean my head against the side window, trying to pull my head together. I'm still dizzy, still weak. I tell myself that's why I'm not fighting him.

Then I realize -- this neighborhood looks familiar. This street. And then Angelus pulls up right in front of the Hyperion Hotel. When I stare at him, he kills the motor and smiles. "All ashore who's going ashore."

"You're -- letting me go?" I expect him to laugh at me, then reveal some other labyrinthine plan of murder and revenge. Instead, he nods. Impossible. "You're lying."

"If we're going to spend the next several decades together -- and we are -- you might as well learn this up front. I never lie when the truth will do." Angelus shifts closer to me, his face so near mine he must be able to feel my breath. My blood is still on his lips. "I told you that I wouldn't turn you until you asked me to. I won't. And you will."

He kisses me again, hard. I don't respond this time, even though my heartbeat rattles harder inside my chest. We can taste ourselves in each other's mouths. I wonder what it would be like to belong to him. To have all that doubt and fear and guilt gone forever.

Angelus pulls away just slightly, then licks my neck once, one last lap of my blood. Then he leans past me and opens my door. "Go on, Lindsey. Try to do all the stuff you told yourself you'd do if you got away. You've been dropped off right at Good Fight Central. No two-week old vampires are gonna pick you off the street; you're safe. Clear. Free as a bird. Nothing can fuck you up now except you. But 24 hours from now, if you're still in town -- when you're still in town, I'm going to find you. I'll know what you want, and by then, so will you. And then the fun really starts."

He climbs out of his own door and saunters off down the street, without looking back. He's that sure.

The Hyperion Hotel doesn't look quite as well-kept these days. Our surveillance agents used to report that Cordelia was out gardening a couple days a week, and about once a month she'd either break down and do the windows or get that Gunn guy to do them for her. Nobody's done any of that in a while. I guess if volcanic dust is raining down every day, tidiness becomes less of a priority.

I still feel like hell. I need to eat something, drink some juice, sleep for about three days. Will they let me? Fortunately, pretty much any shame I had left has been beaten and screwed out of me in the past day. Otherwise, even I wouldn't have the gall to walk in Angel Investigations and ask for help.

It would be different, if I hadn't been dropped off at their doorstep by my demon lover. I'd be sure of my welcome if I were going in there to take up arms. The world's ending, I could say. I'm here to fight with you. Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country. They'd eat that up; they love that kind of shit. But I'm not. I'm going in to beg them to keep me safe, and then, when they give in -- because they pretty much always do -- I'm going to lie there and decide if I'm ready to become a vampire and turn against them forever.

Even by my standards, this is low. If I didn't feel so much like I was about to pass out, I might not do it. But I'm going to. Hell, why should I stop taking advantage of other people at this late date? I might need to get back into practice.

The street looks clear of vamps. I take a couple of deep breaths, get out of the truck and walk as fast as I can to the front door. Wouldn't do to get killed or pass out right now. Much less to change my mind.

I go inside. I didn't come here but once. I didn't remember it being quite this big. Nobody's in the lobby. It feels -- empty. Emptier than it ought to. I realize that I imagine Angel in this place -- like even after everything I just went through with Angelus, Angel would still be in here, looking up arcana in his books, waiting to help the hopeless. The thought of him behind that counter stings more than I would have thought.

"Hello?" I say. "Anybody home?"

"Somebody," says a voice from the top of the stairs. "The others are on patrol. It's just me."

I look up and see Cordelia. She cocks her head, birdlike, as she stares down at me. Her hair's shorter, and she's gained a little weight. Amazing how much people change. "Lindsey McDonald," she says, more like somebody trying to recall your name at a cocktail party than somebody facing down an old enemy. She starts coming down the stairs, confident and regal, like the beauty-pageant contestant she undoubtedly was a time or two. "I didn't expect to see you here. Honestly? Never expected to see you again, period."

"The feeling's mutual," I tell her. "I had some business to clear up here after the firm got exterminated. Lilah had a plan to get us out of it. Came too late for her."

"So you're the one who helped Lilah get that book," she says as she draws closer. "Do we have to go through the whole fake-condolences thing? Because I'm pretty sure you're not sorry she's dead. I know I'm not."

"No point," I say. I wonder if the A.I. group pretended to be upset when the firm was slaughtered, or if they threw a party. Probably acted sad, drank toasts to the Beast in private. That's what I would have done in their place. Maybe they're better than I am. I guess I'm about to find out. "I ran into Angelus. Heard you guys let him out on purpose. If you don't mind me asking -- what the HELL were you thinking?"

Cordelia sighs. She looks tired all of a sudden. "It seemed like a good idea at the time." She walks right past me, pausing only when she reaches the weapons cabinet. As she braces one hand against it, she says, "Why are you here?"

No way to say this without swallowing my pride. What the hell: I've swallowed enough today. "Angelus walked off with a couple pints of my blood. I need a place to crash. You guys have a forgiving philosophy -- and a couple dozen spare rooms."

To my surprise, she looks amused. "You think this place is still in the forgiveness business, Lindsey? Excuse me for going, 'Shuh, RIGHT.'"

It sounds so weird, to hear her say that. Not that Cordelia ever struck me as the most warm-and-fuzzy of the crew. But then I realize -- she never would have said that, if Angel were here. Angel would have listened to me. Angel would have let me take advantage of him --- not without bitching and moaning, but he would have. He's still in this room, somehow; it's like I can hear him and Cordelia can't.

"What exactly changed around here?" I say. I have a feeling it changed before Angel's soul got snatched out. Bringing back Angelus -- that's hard and cold, not something they would have done before, not the way I remember them.

She gestures at the window. "You might have noticed that it's the end of the world out there. Anybody who thinks they can fight that with hugs and heart-shaped boxes of candy? Not with the program. Hard times make hard decisions. I think everyone here has learned that by now -- in other words, I finally got it through their thick heads."

Okay, Cordelia is now officially a hard-case. With Armageddon happening outside the door, I shouldn't be that surprised. This brings us to the begging portion of the evening. "I don't need much," I say. "And maybe -- maybe I could help out. I got that book, so maybe there's other stuff I could do here."

I've moved straight from begging into outright betrayal -- promising to help out while I figure out if I'm going to Angelus. It stings. Not because Cordelia's looking at me with wide, dark eyes. Because I imagine Angel hearing it, believing me. Letting it go, walking me upstairs, talking about classic cars just to have something to say.

Cordelia pretends to stare into the weapons cabinet, so she doesn't have to meet my eyes. How awkward do you have to feel to stare at a double-edged axe instead of the person you're talking to? I remind myself: I deserve to catch some shit from these guys. And I need them. As much as I hate it, I need them.

At last, Cordelia shakes her head. "I don't think anything you could do here would really be helpful to me," she says. "Wesley knows as much as the team needs to know. I'm sure he'd agree."

He probably would. No question that hothead Gunn wouldn't give me the time of day. Fred doesn't know I saved her life or anything else about me, and Lorne probably remembers that I skipped town without settling my tab at Caritas. As far as I know, that only leaves Connor, and I kinda think I know how he would vote.

I swallow the last bit of dignity I've got left. "This place used to be about giving people a chance."

Cordelia looks at me almost regretfully. "All I can tell you is, if you'd come here before you left Wolfram & Hart, back when it mattered -- well, Lindsey, things would have been a lot different between you and me. But you didn't. And basically, all I need you to do is get out. These days, we can't afford a lot of dead weight."

Dead weight. Angelus' body on top of mine. Anger and humiliation crackle through me, and at a distance I can feel that black fire again.

She goes behind the counter and rummages around quickly. Then she pulls out a money bag and tugs out some cash. This plus my $20 from Jailbusters should give me enough cash to get to Arizona -- or to check into a hotel, leave the door unlocked and wait for Angelus to return. Cordelia says, "Go. Get gone. Keep yourself safe. And don't come back here again."

The only reason I can think of for her to give me this is that she remembers -- down deep -- what this place used to be about. Like Angel gave her a nudge. I wonder if his soul is trapped in this building now, influencing people without them knowing. I wish like I hell I could stay. I find myself imagining that hotel room with the unlocked door again -- but it's Angel I wish would come through the door, look at me the way he did in the back of the truck, but this time for real. Won't happen. Can't ever happen. But for the first time in too long, I know: That's what I really wanted.

"Goodbye, Cordelia," I say. And then, because I have to say something -- "I hope you win."

"I will," she says, and she smiles so confidently that it takes away some of the sting as I go out the door.

I get to my truck and start it up; Angelus left the keys in the ignition. The engine grinds gears a little as I start driving off. There's hotels close by. There's also signs that will take me to the highway, if I follow them long enough.

Finally, I know what I wanted, and it's something I can never have. Figures. The question is: What do I want now?

When I come in on Monday morning, I see Mr. Graham waiting for me. The note Carole left on my kitchen counter told me he'd be there, and that I'm over watering the ficus.

Same old industrial-grade carpeting. Same painted-paneling walls. Same yammering Mr. Graham. I'm not glad to be back. But I'm back.

Tandy will get the sofa. Yes, he is sure. He is really sure this time. Mr. Graham puts his pen to the paper, then looks up. "Just one thing --"

"Yes?" I say politely. I am, at this point, prepared to give Bryan my own sofa if it will finally shut this man up.

"When I was a teenager-- well, there was this girl, and we -- I have a daughter. We gave her up for adoption, and it's not like I've ever seen her or even tried to. We don't have to include her in the will, do we?"

I count to ten in my head, really slowly. "In Texas, a child given up for adoption retains inheritance rights from her biological parents, unless the adoption decree states otherwise. We've got to account for that."

"I knew I should have mentioned it before," Mr. Graham says. He crumples up the will without my telling him too. Just as well. It's worthless.

The end of the world is probably coming -- and soon -- and I'm not drinking champagne in Paris, making all Waltons-nice with my family, doing any of that big, bold, spectacular stuff. Instead, I'm counting off gray hours in a small room, doing work that is Good but feels like nothing. That's what I've done -- jumped straight back into this world of nothing to await the end.

They say that evil is only the absence of good, but they lie. Evil is real, tangible, intoxicating and beautiful, in its way. It eats you alive, it tears you up, and you don't even care. So maybe it's the other way around. Maybe good isn't anything real at all. Angel could have told me, if I'd ever asked him. I wish I'd asked him. I think about what it must have meant to him, to spend a century writhing in the memory of that black fire. Once he beat it out, Angel must have felt so -- quiet. So still. Maybe that's all he asked anymore, that quietness.

Maybe good is just the absence of evil. Or the absence of evil is as close as I'll ever get to goodness. As close as I'll ever get to Angel again.

I'll take it.