The Bronze. It was the same as it had always been. Through the weeks and months since his change, he had wondered if anything would ever be different in the Slayer’s little circle. Granted, Xander and Cordelia had become an official couple. The little sweetheart, Willow, was dating Oz, the guitarist.
Love. How mundane.
Then he realized that he could make changes. In fact, he was already in the process of changing everything.
Always at the apex, that’s me.
Angelus stood on the balcony and looked down on the dancers. The sensual rhythm of the music stirred seductive movements, glances; the candlelight from the glass votives on the tables caught the warmth and glow on their faces. Languid smiles passed; questions were asked, promises made.
Angelus moved down the stairway, searching. He knew she was there. He could smell her; feel her.
He stared through the crowd. She was dancing. Smiling. In a tight T-strap top and skirt, her hair tousled as if from savage kissing, she swayed and rolled her hips. Her eyes were on her friend, Xander, as he danced with her. The young man was not unaffected, but it was clear that he knew this was a moment between friends, not lovers. Cordelia, assured of her changed status as his official girlfriend, chatted easily with Willow at a table on the perimeter.
Angelus watched. He stared, unblinking. His gaze devoured every gesture. He walked around the edge of the dance floor, never blinking, moving fluidly, a hungry, intent predator.
Passion, he thought. It lies in all of us. Sleeping, waiting, and though unwanted, unbidden, it will stir, open its jaws, and howl.
* * *
She was wearing vanilla, her new scent. She had worn it on the night they had made love. It wafted through the night air as she left with her friends, arm in arm with Willow, Xander and Cordelia bringing up the rear. As they passed him, he inhaled the aroma, drinking the blood of the victim in his arms, a young woman he embraced as if she were his lover, when all she was was food.
The four were innocent, unaware as they chatted, Willow sucking a Tootsie Roll pop with girlish casualness. Still in vamp face, Angelus let the young woman’s body drop to the ground as the Slayer’s group strolled on . . .
He morphed back to his human face and trailed them.
One by one, her friends left Buffy’s side, to go home to their beds. At last, she was alone, in her room. The window was open, and though she peered through the Venetian blinds as though she sensed something, she left all the lights on as she undressed and got ready for bed. Another might see a beautiful school-age girl setting her alarm clock and climbing into bed. Lying back into the darkness in pink satin, closing her eyes. Angelus saw the Slayer, an exquisite, highly dangerous creature of unbelievable power.
He remembered her touch.
Her trust.
He crept in through the window and sat on her bed. Studied her as she slept. The pulse in her neck beat rapidly. Perhaps she was dreaming of him. Gently, he smoothed a tendril of hair from her face, trailing his fingertips against her forehead, her temple, and inhaled her scent.
It speaks to us, guides us. Passion rules us all, and we obey. What other choice do we have?