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By Gabrielle Lawson

Disclaimer: Joss Whedon, aka the Evil One, and his minions at Mutant Enemy own Angel, the characters, and the backstory of this vignette. Not that they deserve them. I just borrowed them for my own uses. The story here is born of my own imagination and should be treated as such.

This story is available in print!

It's been scrunched down to only 66 pages (scrunched, not cut!). It's bound and includes cover art and a drawing by Meredith Martini. Also includes the vignette, Just a Messenger. For details, see my Stories in Print page.

It was strange. Right from the beginning. Or was it the end? He wasn't really sure. He remembered it: kissing Cordelia and jumping over to the light. One look back over his shoulder. He'd smiled, feeling a sense of peace that what he was doing was right. It would be okay. He burned when he reached for the cables. His flesh melted away and he burned, and he felt every second of it. But he didn't scream, not until after he'd pulled the cabling apart. Not until after everyone was safe. Everyone but him. He hadn't minded then. Anything to take that pain away, even death. But it wasn't death, and it wasn't okay. That's about all he could figure out.

Everything was quiet when he'd opened his eyes again. Or at least he thought he'd opened his eyes. He was back at the harbor and Angel was driving away as Cordelia was staring back at the ship through the truck's window. He'd called out to them to wait, but they drove off anyway. He didn't understand it. Not them driving off. But him standing there watching them do it. I'm a ghost, he'd thought. They couldn't see me because I'm a ghost.

Not exactly the way he'd wanted things to go. He'd hoped for redemption, maybe a chance at the pearly gates. It was a long-shot, he'd figured, given the demon side of his family, but it was a hope he'd harbored anyway. So, having little else to do, and being a ghost, he'd started walking back into town to Angel's place.

He'd trudged along the empty streets for what seemed like forever. He got tired and paused to lean against a metal lamppost, but his hand had passed right through it. Frustrated, he'd tried to punch the offending post, but, again, his hand passed through without effect.

"Great!" he'd exclaimed, sitting down on the curb and shaking his head, "Just great! Can't touch anything, can't even lean on anything. God, I could use a drink."

As if in answer, the skies overhead had rumbled and a fine mist began to fall, growing heavier until he was caught in a rushing downpour. Like everything else, the rain passed through him as if he wasn't there. Like he didn't even exist. He could feel the droplets, but he didn't feel wet. The dampness in the air, though, had chilled him somewhat. Looking skyward, he'd turned up his mouth in a crooked smirk. "You know, this isn't the kind of drink I was talkin' about."

Hugging himself, he'd resumed walking toward Angel's.

After he had been traveling awhile, he smacked his lips experimentally and realized that he wasn't as thirsty as he had been. In fact, he wasn't thirsty at all. He smiled genuinely for the first time since he had realized the depth of his predicament. Somehow, through continuous contact with the rain, he had absorbed some of it. Had he been fully, and unarguably, alive, he would never have thought of LA rain as something to be ingested. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and he didn't exactly have a body to contaminate.

He'd seen the light in the window, and when he got close enough to the office, he could see his own image on the television. The commercial he'd recorded with Cordelia. They were watching it, sitting there in the window. But when he'd tried to go in with them, he found his foot went right through the first step. To him it had looked solid enough, and he was pretty sure ghosts were able to walk up stairs, but he wasn't. He tried another one and the same thing happened, only now he was standing knee-deep in a staircase. Ghosts can walk through walls, he'd reasoned, so he'd tried the more direct approach. But that didn't work either. He went through the wall alright, but then he'd promptly fallen right through the floor, landing without so much as a thud on Angel's floor. And the crazy thing was, it had hurt.

From that night on, the night of his so-called death, he'd begun to doubt that he'd actually died. He wasn't sure what had happened to him, but he knew that dead people don't get hungry as he had. Well, vampires did, but that was different. He wasn't a Angel's books happened with Cordelia's french fries. He couldn't touch food (or anything else). He could smell it. He could practically taste it, but he couldn't touch it.

Angel watched her from his office. It was a slow day. She was watching the television again. Playing the commercial over. He wanted to tell her to turn it off, that it hurt to hear Doyle's voice again. But he figured she needed it. Everyone grieves in their own way. That was hers. She'd helped him clean out Doyle's apartment. Harry had only kept a photo from their wedding. The rest had gone to Good Will, not that he had much to begin with. But Cordelia had only wanted that tape. He was alive in the tape, she'd said. He had a voice.

Suddenly she dropped the remote and gripped her head. Angel raced into the room as she grimaced in pain and dropped her head to the desk. She cried out, and Angel grabbed her shoulders and held her until it had passed. "What did you see?" he asked quietly.

Doyle hated that. His visions. He'd given them to her. He'd hurt her. If he'd have known, he wouldn't have kissed her. He would have just jumped. He heard her cry out and come to the staircase. He could walk halfway up before he'd fall through the steps. He'd found that out the hard way. He figured then it must have something to do with the solidity of the steps. Halfway up, they stopped being solid, allowing a certain amount of storage space underneath. Still he had a few steps, and if he stood in the right place, he could almost see into Angel's office. And if the light was right, a reflection from the glass threw a distorted image of the outer office onto the windows. He'd stood there a lot the last few months. He'd had nothing better to do but waste away and wish for life or wish for death and bemoan the fact that he was stuck somehow in between. He wished it would just hurry now, the starvation. This was worse. He looked away and wished he could at least lean against the wall. He was so tired.

"What was it?"

"How should I know?! What do I look like, Giles?" Cordelia's voice rose in frustration. She was coming closer, probably wandering into the inner office. "Big horns, red eyes, your typical disgusting de--"

She had been about to say 'demon', Doyle knew, but something had made her go quiet.

Then Angel, "What is it? What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry." She apologized softly, "I'm still not used to this. Doyle always made it look so easy." She paused, drawing in and releasing a ragged sigh, "Sometimes . . . sometimes I can see him. In a reflection in a window or in my mirror, like he's still here."

Doyle felt his strength return to him, and he climbed the last two steps. She had seen him! All those times he had danced around like a fool and screamed at her until he was gasping for breath, on some level it had gotten through to her!

"I wish he was here," she sobbed. "I miss him so much."

"That's natural, Cordelia," Angel again. "I miss him, too. But we can't do anything about it. He's gone."

"No, I'm not!" Doyle cried, waving his arms madly in the air. "I'm here! Look! On the stairs!"

But she didn't. She'd buried her face in Angel's big shoulder, and Angel didn't seem to notice him. He thought it was all in her head; she was only seeing what she wanted to see. But Doyle knew she was seeing him. She was seeing him. For real.

She sniffed and lifted her head. "I could draw it," she finally said. "The demon. Won't be a masterpiece. . . ."

"But maybe we could recognize it in one of the books."

Books. Downstairs. They'd be coming down. But there were no mirrors downstairs. No windows. No way to see him.

"All those books," Cordelia muttered, "If Giles were here, he'd have a field day. That man definitely needs to get out once in a while"

Giles. Again, that name. He thought he had heard it once or twice before. But where? The elevator rose; they were coming down. He moved back into the room. Giles. Where the heck had he heard that name?

"Buffy inconspicuous."

As Doyle stared, stunned and relieved, she continued to look him over. "Don't I know you? You were in LA the last time I was there. You work with Angel. No offense, but you're not looking so good."

"Now there's a newsflash." He smirked and snorted to himself. "Buffy. You're the Slayer," he sounded like an idiot, even to himself, but he couldn't help it. It was the first time he'd been heard since . . . well, since. "You have ta help me." Forgetting himself in desperation, he reached for her arm. And caught it! "I need to find Giles."

She didn't seem to have heard him. Her eyebrows were drooping to the center of her forehead.

"Buffy!" A man's voice. There were footsteps too. A tall, young man, with a slightly comical face, ran up and stopped beside her, out of breath. "Who were you talking to?" he asked.

She looked back at Doyle. "Xander meet . . . . What's your name again?"

"Doyle," he answered, dropping her hand.

"Doyle," she repeated, holding a hand out in his direction.

"But he can't see me." He wanted the man, Xander, to go away. He needed Buffy.

"Have you been drinking?" Xander asked, looking down at her like a scolding mother. "Or are we playing games with the townie again?"

Buffy opened her mouth to answer, but didn't say anything. She turned back to Doyle. "You're a ghost," she finally concluded.

Doyle shook his head. "No. I'm alive."

"Let's see, insubstantial, transparent, night-time lurker?" she looked him over with a sidelong glance, "I'm going to have to stick with my original answer."

"I wasn't lurking." He answered sullenly, "I was just . . .restin'."

"You're talking to a ghost?" Xander obviously didn't like the idea, looking around trying to see where the threat was, "I can't see him."

"That don't mean I'm a ghost."

"Then what are you?" Buffy raised her eyebrows in question.

"I don't know." He shook his head sadly. "But I know I'm dying."

Buffy pulled in her bottom lip, thinking, then stepped a little closer to him. "If I were going to venture a guess, I'd have to say that that train left the station a while ago."

"No, I'm tellin' ya I'm alive!" Doyle insisted. "I'm too hungry to be dead. Dead people don't get hungry, do they?"

"I don't know." Buffy shrugged slightly, "Maybe you starved or something. You do kinda have the waif thing going on. Maybe you just don't remember."

"Who's Doyle?" Xander whispered.

"I remember," Doyle pressed his hands to his face and backed away, right into the sign. Through the sign. Damn it. "I remember distinctly, every damn agonizing second of it. It felt like I was riding the sun like a buckin' bronco. That damn light burning through my flesh."

"Light?"

"Light?" Xander echoed, scratching his head in confusion.

"A big half-breed killin' light," Doyle answered, getting impatient. "Burns away every shred a human ya got 'til there ain't nothin' left. It's a long story. I'd rather just tell it once. To Giles."

"Don't dead people go toward a bright light or something?" Xander offered. "That's what they say in all the movies anyway."

"If Xander can't hear you," Buffy reasoned, "then neither can Giles."

"Buffy!" Doyle pleaded. "Come on, ya gotta believe me!"

"Look, you're invisible, you walk through signs," Buffy sounded sincerely sorry. "As I believe I've already noted, those are classic signs of ghosthood."

"Starvation isn't," Doyle argued. "And I'm pretty sure ghosts can go upstairs or ride on trains if they feet like it. They can throw furniture around a room and write in blood on the walls. I can't do any of that. I can't even sit in a friggin' chair, fer cryin' out loud! I go through everything, not just walls or doors. Everything." His voice was getting hoarse. It hadn't rained in a few days. He was thirsty again. "But I can touch you. How do ya explain that, little Miss Skeptic?"

"Okay, that is a little weird," Buffy agreed.

She was hesitating; Doyle could see that. "I'm not a bad guy," Doyl window. "Did. You. Come. From. LA?" Xander pronounced each word loud and distinctly as if talking to a simpleton.

"I'm not deaf, ya know," Doyle scowled.

"What?!" Xander shouted.

Fed up, Doyle simply nodded.

"That's a long way. You must be wasted. You look totally beat. We can rest for a few minutes, but I don't think we should stay out here alone." They sat quietly for little while, though Xander constantly tapped his hands on his knee. He was nervous, and Doyle wasn't sure whether it was because of the threat of vampires or because of him. "So you're a ghost, huh?" he asked the reflection.

Doyle rolled his eyes and shook his head. Then he got to his feet, ignoring their complaints and began to walk in the direction Xander had been leading him. "I don't get it," he heard Xander mutter behind him.

Buffy watched them leave from around the corner. She reached inside her pocket and pulled a folded piece of paper out. She fingered the lettering and traced the lines of the drawing that didn't look much like an angel. His phone number was there, just below the drawing. She could call it, ask him about Doyle. Maybe Cordelia would answer, or maybe she was already home for the night. What if Angel answered? It still hurt, maybe it always would. He should know, though, that his friend was here, ghost or not. He'd want to know.

Or would he? Would it just stir up the hurt again? Especially if Doyle was really a ghost or Giles couldn't help him.

There was a rustling sound in the bushes off to her left. She pushed the business card back into her pocket and ran toward the sound. Vampires and demons didn't wait for emotional indecision. The sound moved away from her as she ran, so she chased it, finally cornering it in a grove of trees. She slowed down as she neared it, stake at the ready. She pushed aside a branch blocking her view, but it was just three commandos. She couldn't tell if one of them was Riley or not. Their faces were covered. She backed away quietly.

She hadn't gotten past the quad when she heard someone calling her. "Buffy! Is that you?"

Buffy spun around to see Riley running towards her. She glanced around but no one seemed to have noticed. "Riley? Hi," she offered with a smile, letting him catch up to her. "What are you doing out so late? No homework to grade?"

He cocked his head at her, but then took a breath. He got it. "Um, no, not lately. It's been quiet. You? Homework to do, that is."

Buffy shook her head. "It's Friday. No class tomorrow anyway." No work for him, no slayage for her. She hadn't seen a vampire, except Spike, in the last four days. "I haven't had any homework to speak of since Monday," Buffy said, hoping to find out if it had been the same with him. "I'm beginning to think I'm missing an assignment or something."

He shook his head, still smiling. "It could happen."

"Seems odd," she commented, but there it was. Nothing for four days. She'd discussed this with Giles. There were no vamps. No vampire holidays that he knew of either. "Well, I guess I'll just go back to my dorm and relax then. Catch up on some reading. Read ahead. Whatever."

He laughed. He did have a beautiful smile. "I'll walk you back then."

She held up a hand. She wasn't really going to the dorm. She had to get to Giles' and see about this Doyle character. "I can make it, really. You don't have to."

"I'd like to."

Well, maybe a walk back with Riley wouldn't hurt. And Willow could help shed some light on the Doyle situation. "Okay, I give in."

Cordelia yawned, and her head nodded forward. She did that a lot lately. She couldn't really help it. She'd already told Angel about the nightmares.

"Why don't you put your head down for a little while?" Angel told her. "Wesley and I can keep working here." He looked to Wesley for confirmation.

"Certainly," Wesley agreed.

"I'm afraid to," she admitted. "It's awful. And it's always the same thing."

"What is it?" Wesley asked.

" were books everywhere. Books about demons and vampires. Just what he'd hoped. Now he just needed Buffy, so she could speak for him.

"He was here just a while ago," Xander was saying.

"How do you know if he can't be seen?" Giles asked and Doyle noticed he wasn't mocking. He was used to the unusual, it seemed. Of course, he had to be if he was the Slayer's watcher.

"Reflections," Xander answered. "Doyle? You think you could stand in front of a mirror for us?"

Doyle really only wanted to sit and wait for Buffy to return. Maybe even sleep. No, not sleep. Sleeping meant dreaming and he didn't like the dreams he'd had since. . . . He'd stay awake until she returned. He'd managed the last four days without so much as a nap. He could last another hour. He hoped it wouldn't be longer than that. He looked around the living room, which was divided in two by a couch. Behind the couch was a small table with folding leaves. He spotted a mirror beside the door.

"There's one beside the door," Giles called. He himself stood in front of the mirror and didn't appear too shocked when Doyle stepped in behind him.

"I need your help," Doyle said slowly, trying to make the words as distinct as possible.

"I see," Giles said, and Doyle wasn't sure if that meant he'd understood or not. He stepped back out into the room. "Xander go get another mirror. Something we can put in the living room."

"My mom's got a full-length one in the hallway upstairs," Xander offered. "But I'll need to borrow your car." Giles threw him the keys and he darted out the door.

"I can't hear you," Giles said, moving to the little table, "so I don't know how to help you. I'm assuming that Buffy could since she told Xander to bring you here. So we'll just have to wait until she comes." He pulled out a chair. "Please sit down."

Doyle didn't bother trying. Giles wouldn't know it anyway. Instead he went to the books, taking a seat on the floor in front of the largest group. They were very old, with frayed leather covers and broken bindings. He could read a few of the titles, but many were in foreign languages. One was even Irish and he could hear his grandmother's lilting voice when he read it. Vampires though. Not demons. Wouldn't help.

"Bye," Buffy said, leaning her hand on her own doorknob. Riley had walked her to her door. He was sweet that way, but it could get in the way.

He smiled and kissed her gently on the cheek. "Tell Willow I said hello. See you soon."

"Yep, homework in hand."

"I hope not," he replied, grinning. He turned and left and Buffy pushed open the door. "Will, get your shoes."

"What's going on?" Willow asked, sitting up in her bed. "Is evil afoot?"

"Always," Buffy said, pulling out her box of weapons. "But I'm thinking this one isn't so evil. Bring your spell stuff. We may need it."

That got her attention. Her eyes lit up and she started pulling on her shoes. "What kind of spell?"

"The kind of spell where you make an invisible person visible," Buffy answered going through her own things. She wasn't sure what she needed though. She wasn't going to slay anyone. Then she thought of it and closed the box again. She went to her dresser and pulled out her makeup kit and the large hand-mirror inside it.

"Who's invisible?"

"You'll see when we get there," Buffy said, hand on the door again.

"Where? And how can I see when I can't see?" Willow had thrown some things into her backpack.

"I'll explain later," Buffy said. She opened the door. "When we get to Giles' place."

Willow was skeptical. "Giles is invisible?"

Xander arrived back before Buffy. Doyle looked up when the door opened. Spike was with him. Doyle didn't get that. The vampire wasn't even trying to bite anyone. He didn't get up though. He was too tired. Giles directed Xander to put the mirror in one corner of the living room. "So where's the ghost?" Spike asked. "And don't point that thing at me."

"I'm not a ghost," Doyle argued, knowing not even Spike woul know Giles. Everyone, this is Doyle."

"The beginning then, huh?" Doyle sat down, on the floor. He didn't like looking up at everyone, but he was still too tired to stand. "The Scourge. That was the beginning."

"The Scourge?" Buffy asked.

"Bloody hell!" Spike exclaimed, "That's no beginning. All those fanatic freaks know is endings."

"I see you've heard of 'em," Doyle commented. "Not the prettiest buncha fellas, but they are dedicated. They won't give up until every demon that's even got a little human in him is dead."

"They're a demon army out to get anything that's not fully demon," Buffy relayed what Doyle was telling her. "Mighty Nazi of them, if you ask me."

"They came looking for a group of half Lister demons," Doyle continued and Buffy repeated. "I got a vision and we did our best to get them out of LA before it was too late. But the Scourge caught up to us. They had a weapon called the Beacon. Sort of like a big bug zapper except it only affects human parts. Not a real treat for half-breeds like m--the Listers. Angel was ready to jump over and pull the plug. But I figured the world needed him more than it needed me."

Buffy paused for a moment but then repeated what he was saying to her so the others could hear. "So he did it. He stopped it."

Xander nodded. "Sort of jumped on the grenade to save his whole platoon."

"Something like that," Buffy agreed. "Then he was standing on the docks watching Cordelia and Angel drive away. He's been hanging around for the last few months, but no one but me can hear or see him. And he's hungry. He says he's starving."

"What's the stuff about the Promised One?" Buffy asked Doyle.

"Lister demon prophecy," Doyle told her. "The promised one would come and save them from the Scourge. We kind of thought it was Angel. Turns out, it was me, I guess."

Buffy repeated the answer for the others. "Lister Demon prophecy. They thought it was pointing to Angel but it's Doyle."

"Lister," Giles repeated. "I think I have something on that." He stood up and went into the bookshelf behind the couch, returning with one of the large books.

"Maybe Anya should be in on this," Xander suggested. "You know, demon's side of things."

"Former demon," Buffy corrected quickly. She nodded to Xander. "Maybe she's heard of the Scourge. What do you know about them, Spike?"

"Just what you've said," the vampire answered. "Full-blood demons trying to kill anyone who's not like them. The only way to deal with 'em is to give 'em lots of room and wait until they pass."

"Great," Buffy sighed, "Just when I thought Sunnydale had the market cornered on unstoppable evil."

"So why the invisible stuff?" Willow asked. "And what made him decide to come here? It's been a few months. Why now? For that matter, why is he still here at all?"

"Cordelia saw me," Doyle answered, still feeling a sense of relief and wonder. "She thought she was imagining it, but she saw me in a window. Then I knew I was real. But they couldn't help me."

"But you didn't know that I could see you," Buffy interjected after relaying his answer to Willow. "How was Giles going to help you?"

"I don't know," Doyle answered honestly. "I didn't think that far ahead. I was desperate. I still am."

"He didn't think that far ahead."

"So if the light didn't kill him," Xander offered, returning to his seat, "what did it do? Maybe he's having an out-of-body experience."

"He'd have to have a body left for that, you ninny!" Spike rolled his eyes, "Sounds to me like his is spread all over LA harbor."

"You can always count on Spike to be encouragin', huh?" Doyle noted.

"He has a gift," Buffy agreed.

"'At the end of that age,'" Giles said, reading from the book, "'the Promised One will come and save them from the Scourge.' That's it. The last page of the book. Not exactly a lot to go on. Is there anything else you can tell us?"

"I don't know," Doyle sighed and placed his head in his hands. It was useless. What could they do? If the books Now that someone saw him. Now that he had a reason to hope. He'd concentrate on Cordelia, the way she smiled or the way her eyes gleamed when she was mad. Maybe he'd dream about her. Buffy led him into a space just under the stairway. "No one will step on you here."

Doyle nodded, thankful that she'd thought of that. He laid down on the floor and closed his eyes, visualizing Cordelia's long brown hair and her soft lips, as hushed voices continued in the living room.

Then all the ordinary sounds drifted away. And so did Cordelia. She was on the catwalk with Angel as he turned to them one last time. He turned back to the Beacon. The light was already blinding but he could just make out the cables by their silhouette. The light burned through him, and he again felt the fire melting away his skin. But he pulled against the cables, forcing his fingers to stay locked around them. He pulled with every last bit of energy he had and they came apart. The light flashed once brightly before winking out, and all he had left was the pain. The scream tore out from his throat and then he was gone. There was darkness and misery, pushing its way through every part of him like a parasitic cancer, feeding on his energy, his life. It began to take shape, forming into a cloud of death that hovered over him and held him down with great force. He tried to turn away but no longer possessed the strength to do so; its influence was much too strong. He could only stare back at it, helpless as he was, and then it had him in its grasp.

The invading mist was like a million pins and needles at first, pricking the surface of his flesh. Then the pins and needles became knives that cut in deep, tearing apart his soul.

Help me! his mind cried out. Wake up. . . . Wake up or you'll die.

He screamed, but he could hardly hear his own voice above that of the cloud, the mist, as it whirled over him, cursing him and berating him, even as it burned away his flesh. He tried to get away, to pull against the chains that bound him, but he'd run out of strength long ago. He could barely move, barely even breathe.

As the black nemesis continued inflicting its terrible torture upon Doyle, shapes and shadows began to materialize around him. These phantoms would become solid for only a few seconds--long enough to show their demonic faces--before dissolving back into the mist.

The excruciating pain made him want to die, but something inside of him was not going to let go. His limbs were frozen and he screamed in terror and agony as piercing, red eyes glared down at his own.

Doyle choked and when he wasn't choking, he screamed. The cloud hung above him howling in anger. Its red eyes glowed as it devoured him slowly. The skin of his face and hands was gone now in places, leaving only a few places unexposed. The shirt he wore was now red with his blood that seeped out onto the floor already sticky with the blood of countless others. Their bones rattled beneath him.

Then there was no physical pain; it was gone, like an illusion or waking dream. What remained was worse: visions of ghosts, demons, and horrors unknown. And yet there she was, watching the destruction of the one she loved by some phantasmal entity or entities. . . .

Cordelia cried out and sat up in her bed with a violent jolt, flinging the covers off of her sweating body. Her stomach turned and she tried to force the already-fading images from her eyes, but faint echoes of the nightmare remained. She still felt the shadow of it, creeping up on her like a cinematic vampire about to strike its intended victim. She always did. She felt the bile rise up in her throat and ran for the toilet in the bathroom. Dennis, always present and actually quite considerate, handed her a wet cloth. She wiped her mouth and, sitting back against the wall, started to cry.

Buffy stretched her arms behind her head and yawned. Six books already she'd been through and no pictures to match what Doyle had drawn. They'd set out the table, opening the leave one Doyle had drawn, though with more detail.

"Now there's a Revlon face," Buffy commented. "Be back in a minute. Need coffee." She made her way into the kitchen and found a pot already brewing. The stuff of all-nighters. She didn't realize Giles had followed her in there.

"Buffy," he said, keeping his voice low. "I think we should call Angel. He knows Doyle and might know more of what happened to him. We're not getting anywhere, and I'm not sure he has much time left."

"Then he isn't dead?"

"I'm not sure about that either." Giles leaned back against the kitchen counter. "I haven't read about anything like him. He doesn't meet the requirements of a ghost, exactly, and yet he's obviously not altogether alive."

"I'll call," Buffy whispered back. "If nothing else, he might want to see him again."

Giles left her alone and returned to the other room. She knew he'd be listening in though. He was sometimes a little overprotective. She liked to think he didn't need to be, but she was glad he cared. Still, Buffy had Riley now. She had distance from Angel. She took a steadying breath. Distance, she reminded herself. She picked up the phone and dialed the number on the folded card still in her pocket.

"Angel Investigations," Cordelia answered brightly. "We help the helpless."

"Cordelia," Buffy said, "I need to speak to Angel."

"Oh, Buffy," Cordelia said, sounding put out. "Um, hold." The click came immediately and Buffy sighed as she waited for Angel to pick up.

"Buffy?"

Buffy took a deep breath. This was easier when it was just Cordelia. Her heart still raced just hearing his voice.

"Hello?"

He'd hang up if she didn't answer. "Angel," she finally managed.

"Are you alright? Has something happened?"

This was going to be hard. She'd known that. Hard for him; hard for her. "There's something you need to know. I've been seeing a friend of yours," she said.

"Oh." Came his surprised response. There was a quiet pause and then, "I . . .I've kind of been expecting this. As long as he makes you happy, I guess I can't really--"

"Makes me happy?" she cut him off, wrinkling her nose and frowning in confusion, "What are you talking about? I meant seeing in the ocular sense, not the romantic sense. It's Doyle. He needs help."

"Doyle?" Angel nearly choked on the name. There was a moment of stony silence from the other end of the phone before he continued. "Doyle's dead."

She could hear the regret and loss in his voice and her heart constricted with sympathy. But now was not the time to rehash old pain. "That's what I thought at first," Buffy admitted. "But he's got quite an argument to the contrary. Being able to give an argument in the first place being the big part of that. I see him, Angel. I've talked to him. He came here looking for Giles. He asked for my help."

She heard a click, but it wasn't the sound like being hung up on. Angel had set the phone down. She waited. Finally, he picked up again. "He's a ghost?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"He doesn't think so," Buffy told him. "And he doesn't fit the pattern. Spike could sense his pulse and he sleeps and has nightmares. He's starving. He walked all the way here because he heard you and Cordelia talk about Giles."

Still a whisper, "You're sure it's him? You only met him for--"

He must not have caught the Spike part. "Dark hair, blue eyes, thin--much too thin--, Irish accent," Buffy said, deciding to leave out the translucent-while-sleeping description just now. "He told us what happened, how he died, or thought he died. It's really him, Angel."

"How is that possible?" He'd found his voice again, but it hurt to hear it. "I saw him die. He was burned up. There was nothing left."

"We don't understand it either," Buffy admitted, looking over at Doyle's barely-there form. "Giles is trying to find something. But I don't think he has a lot of time. Angel, I think he's dying."

Angel hung up the phone and walked out to the reception a the table. "Any luck?"

Willow offered an apologetic smile. Anya ignored her altogether. "Nothing concrete," Giles answered, "but there could be something to your nightmares. Can you tell us about them?"

Doyle froze and his eyed seemed to lose their focus. "It's just a dream," he breathed. Buffy remembered what Spike had said last night. He'd smelled fear from someone he couldn't even see.

"I have dreams," Buffy said, trying to give him something to reciprocate to. Professor Walsh had discussed communication last semester. "Sometimes they're prophetic. I see things and they happen."

"I used to do that," he told her. "Only mine weren't dreams. And they hurt like hell."

"You don't anymore?" she asked.

"Buffy?"

"In a minute, Giles." She was still watching Doyle, waiting for him to answer.

He shook his head and lowered his eyes. "I apparently passed that gift off to Cordelia."

"But you do have nightmares," Buffy continued, steering the conversation back on track. He didn't like it apparently, and he stood and walked a few steps away.

Buffy stood, too. "Doyle, something happened when you slept last night." He stopped, but didn't turn around. "You faded."

"I've already faded," he said, but he was listening.

"Not to me," Buffy held. "You're like flesh and blood." She touched his shoulder to prove her point. "But last night I could see through you, and when I tried to wake you, my hand went through your shoulder to the floor." He didn't turn or speak. The dreams must have been particularly disturbing. "Your dreams may hold some clue about what's going on with you."

"They're just dreams," he repeated, pleading.

"Maybe," Buffy granted, not removing her hand, "and maybe they're an extension of the visions you used to have."

"Visions?" Giles asked behind them.

Buffy shot him a look that sent him back to his book. Willow started ushering Anya out into the living room. Buffy returned her attention to Doyle. "Tell me about them."

He didn't face her, but he did start to talk. "It's always the same," he whispered. "It starts with me dyin'. Then I'm in a dark place, with . . . blood all around me and this . . . mist." "A black mist has a hold of me. It's digging into me, and. . . it's pulling the life out of me."

He shook as he told her and Buffy got the feeling this was more than just a dream. He pulled away from her, leaving her to fill Giles in on the details. He never faced the table as she did.

"And the visions?"

"He said he used to get them," Buffy replied, "but now Cordelia gets them."

"Visions of danger," Giles said, mulling that over. "Yes, Angel mentioned him when he was here. So he's a seer. That could have a bearing on the nature of his dreams. They seem to be quite vivid. Always the same dream?"

Buffy nodded.

"There could be something to it," Giles decided. "Recurring dreams, psychic visions, and demonic prophecy. It's too much to be merely coincidence. What if Xander was right?"

The television in the other room suddenly switched off. "I was right?" Xander asked, peeking back into the dining room. "Right about what?"

"Being stuck in two dimensions," Giles replied. "What if the man you're seeing, Buffy, is a manifestation of a man somewhere else?"

Buffy was surprised to find Doyle right beside her. "What are you saying?" he asked.

Buffy had a question of her own. "But you see him, too, in reflections. And how could he interact with us? He hears what we say, sees what we do. If he's really stuck in his dream, he's in no condition to do either of those things."

"I admit I haven't worked out all the details," Giles said, holding up a hand. "And it is just a theory. But it could explain his starvation."

"A manifestation of having his life sucked out?"

"No!" Doyle exclaimed. "You're saying this isn't real. I'm not real. But she can see me!" He pointed to Buffy. "She can hear me. She can even hit me! I only see the other place when I'm asleep. That's the dream. This is real! I'm real!" rain in earnest, and Doyle could feel his thirst decrease.

"We should head back," Buffy said, ducking her head to try and avoid the worst of it.

"I think I'll stay," Doyle replied, standing and letting go of her hand. "I can't get wet, and I'd kind of like to be alone with my thoughts, you know. You go on. I'll find my way back."

She looked up at him, her blond hair sticking to her face. "You will come back?"

"I've come too far to give up now," he told her though he didn't feel that optimistic anymore.

She frowned--she had a very cute frown--but she nodded and turned back toward Giles' place.

Doyle watched her go and then carried on in the direction they'd been wandering. The birds were quiet now, the squirrels were hiding, and the lawn mowers were being put hastily away. The rain drowned out most other sounds, except the occasional car. Soon, the cars were more frequent and the houses and residential buildings were replaced by small shops. Despite having a hellmouth, Sunnydale was a quaint college town from the look of things, and Doyle felt he'd stick out like a sore thumb if he'd been visible.

He wouldn't have minded sticking out just now. He wouldn't even have minded the visions. He minded more the nightmares and the thought that they were real. One of the shop windows caught his attention. A bakery. There were samples in the window. Rolls, baguettes, and pastries. His mouth watered in spite of the rain. He could smell the bread baking, and he took a breath, filling his lungs--such as they were--with the aroma. His stomach ached stronger, growling. Manifestation? he thought. That would be quite a trick. He was hungrier now than he'd ever been in his life.

Buffy was drenched by the time she reached Giles' house and opened the door. "Towel," was all she managed to blurt out.

"I think I've found something," Giles said. "Is he with you?"

Xander handed her a towel and Buffy tried to soak up the worst of it before making a puddle in Giles' carpet. "He stayed out. Where's Will?"

Xander answered, "She wanted to change and get her computer."

Buffy nodded and then joined Giles at the table. "I've found a Brachen legend of a darkness that takes life from people, children to be precise. They banished it to a place known only as the Nether in 1023."

"The Nether?" Buffy asked as she sat down. Giles frowned at her wet clothes. "Where's that? Something tells me it's more than a hop, skip and a jump from here."

"It doesn't say," Giles went on, "though one could assume it's an alternate dimension of sorts."

"Who are the Brachen?"

"Demons," Giles replied, holding up a book to show her an old drawing of a spike-faced demon. "They've been fairly quiet in recent centuries. They've also been known to crossbreed."

"Just the sort of thing the Scourge would frown on," Xander commented, taking a seat himself.

"So this darkness was something even the demons didn't like?" Buffy asked.

"Well, not the Brachen at any rate," Giles replied. "It apparently did have some followers, 'for they carry on its work.'"

"What was its work?" Someone had made sandwiches and Buffy picked up one. She'd forgotten that she hadn't eaten yet.

"To destroy all traces of humanity on Earth," Anya answered for Giles. "Particularly the humanity that's in mixed-breeds."

Spike emerged from the kitchen with a mug of what looked like lumpy blood. "That certainly sounds like our boys."

Buffy made the mistake of looking at the mug and returned her sandwich to the plate. "So what did they do to Doyle?"

"I've no idea," Giles admitted. "I can't find any mention of a beacon, or light for that matter. Probably because this beacon, as Doyle described it, would have been modern technology."

"So it's not in ancient prophecy," Buffy concluded, giving in to her hunger and retrieving the sandwich. Spike held up his mug in mock toast. Buffy ignored him and took a bite anyway.

"You should change," Giles suggested. "You can call Willow and have her bring something. In the meantime, I've some sweats and a T-shirt upstairs."

Buffy smiled. There were times that she appreciated a little over-protectiveness.

It was dark by the time the rain had stopped. Doyle felt better now, stronger and a little less tired. He had kept walking after leaving the bakery window. He'd stopped looking in windows for fear of insatiable temptation. He lost track of time, too, wondering farther and farther through the city. He knew he should turn back, that Giles and Buffy were back there trying to help him.

But he didn't turn back, and he kept wondering if it was doing any good. He'd hoped that Giles would have had an answer for his present state. But all he'd had thus far were unpleasant theories.

He found himself at the harbor, and he could just hear the waves beneath the pier. He didn't dare step out onto the docks. He didn't care to see if he could still drown or not. Then again, drowning might have been easier than starving.

He took a few steps forward, still trying to make up his mind. Two more steps and the thick cement would turn to wooden dock.

He took another step and then froze. Beyond the lapping of the water against the dock's supports he heard a familiar sound. Footsteps. Dozens of footsteps all ringing together. They grew louder and louder until Doyle could no longer hear the water. The Scourge.

On to Chapter 2

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The MIDI file is
Enya's Evening Falls courtesy of Judith.

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