"Of course," Gabriel replied, resting against a crumbling stone pillar. All too familiar chocolate eyes studied the broken crucifix on the far wall. "She's a runaway, purple hair, maybe sixteen. Has a tattoo of a solar cross on her forehead. A pack of vampires near Les Promenades de la Cathédrale are going to try for her before morning."

Angel nodded and reached into an old confessional, retrieving his weaponry. "Is she alone?" Another runaway, another corpse. He'd grown accustomed to not finding these stars of Gabriel's visions. It was as though they didn't want to be saved. The Dark One seemed to favor them, as though they were particularly tasty morsels for his delectation. Perhaps they were.

"Yes," The young man confirmed. "Probably new in town; I haven't seen her at any of the missions and shelters."

"Speaking of shelters..." Angel walked into another confessional stall and returned with a large cloth bag. "I cleaned out a Kathar demon nest last night. Figured you could use these." Ever since Gabriel had moved out of the church and into his office at the central downtown shelter, Angel had worked hard to keep the man supplied with everything he needed: food, clothes, even money. After all, Angel needed far less of that kind of thing than did the living man.

Gabriel took the bag of clothing with a sad smile. "Thanks, we do. I'd better get going if I'm going to make it back to work before sundown." Angel watched as his grandson left, taking the only joy in the church with him. The vampire then turned around and walked quickly to the back of the church. A trapdoor in a side room gave him access to the underground mall that was beneath his home. That was where he would start his search for the endangered girl.

A quick look through the grate at the end of his access tunnel told Angel that there was no one in the dressing room of Electric Death, the clothing store that was also his way into the underground. The store itself was packed with teenaged customers not wholly unlike the girl he was looking for. Garish hair painted and lacquered into impossible shapes, metal shoved through every available patch of skin, leather covering as little skin as possible. Clear thermal plastic gave the rest of the youths' bodies a cheap child's-toy appearance. Perhaps that was the point; these children wanted to look like objects to be played with and discarded.

That was what was going to happen to them anyway. If the street gangs didn't kill them outright, they'd hook the lost ones on the substance of the week. On the off chance these refugee youths escaped that death, another one was waiting for them at the hands of the government. Reform corporations were contracted to teach runaways and vagabonds how to be meaningful, productive members of society. They usually did that by killing them.

***1

"Maudit!" Angel growled as something sharp hit his shins. He glanced over to see a scruffy, homeless man leaning against a garbage can. The guy looked just criminal enough to have seen something. Ignoring for the moment his now-aching legs, Angel approached the man, watching for whatever had struck him. "Er, bonsoir," He began, eyeing the club the man had in one hand.

"Sacre ton camp," The man shot back, growling.

Angel ignored the man's order. "Est-ce que vous avez vu une fille d'environ seize ans, les cheveux et un tattou représentant une croix solaire sur son front?" Angel inquired, staying a safe distance from the club.

"Non," The man replied, turning away from Angel. The vampire grimaced at the odor of unwashed human that wafted over to him.

"Êtes-vous sûr?" Angel pressed. The man knew something, Angel was sure of it.

"R'garde, man. J'suis aveugle, tabarnac. J'ai pas vu une câlisse de chose depuis quinze ans," The homeless man spat, holding out his club.

::That went well.:: "Oh. Um. Est-ce que vous avez entendu une fille de seize ans dernièrement?" Angel tried, using a more friendly voice.

"Si j'avais rencontré une fille comme ça, j'serais encore en train d'la baiser. Tu peux-tu sacrer ton camp? Tu rends mon pusher nerveux." With that, the guy swung his club at the garbage can, making a loud racket. Angel jumped back and prepared to make his hasty retreat.

"Ah. ok. Merci," Angel muttered as he walked away, leaving the man to his aromatic loneliness.

***1

Angel continued down the dingy corridors of the mall, looking for anyone even remotely useful. His informants were strangely absent, gone from sight to whatever hovels they inhabited. The ventilation system in the underground was working a bit too well; while the place was blessedly free of the rank stench of human waste, it was also nearing the frigid temperatures of the aboveground city. Montreal in winter was not always a hospitable place; the bitch-goddess who ruled the ground, river and sky was a pitiless creature.

Visions like this one were, ironically, what kept Angel on the road to redemption. It wasn't the cases where he saved the night and the girl that made him want to continue. No, it was this kind of thing, where he knew with the certainty of the damned that he wouldn't reach her in time; that she would be drained, turned or both long before he located someone who knew something. He would stumble upon her cooling body, for once the unnatural pallor not caused by drugs, malnutrition and cold. It was when he was decapitating and burying the discarded innocents that Angel saw who he was. Warrior? Most certainly not. That title did not belong on a man who passed his nights amongst the dross of humanity, sifting through the junkies, winos and dealers for a few roughhewn gems worth setting in The Powers' crown.

The world had become a dark place, one that frightened even Angel at his most ferocious. An apocalypse had come and gone, bringing plagues of locusts and raining brimstone, taking Angel's son and last love. Connor had been so very sure that he could stop the dark coming. Instead he had been banished to the nothingness from which he'd come. Cordelia, heavy with child and stewing in a broth of her own making, had tried to run. She'd begged Wesley to help her escape, to get away from Angel. The seer couldn't allow Angel any contact with his grandson, wouldn't let him know what his own son had planted inside her. Wesley did not allow that injustice to occur and forbade her flight. The darkness took her at the child's birth and once again Angel found himself kneeling in sorrow, one love gone and another, newer one, in his hands.

On the night of Gabriel's birth, Angel left Los Angeles forever. He took the child away, to somewhere without the stench of demonic law firms and oracles. In Montreal he found the abandoned Église St-James, resting like a defrocked priest amidst the bustling, sinister downtown streets. He bathed the baby in wells that once held holy water and swaddled him in the holy robes of those who'd come before him. The child never questioned why he lived in a church and never attended school like other children. By the time that age had been reached, the shadow of chaos had descended on Montreal, as it had the rest of the world. No one questioned a father's right to protect his child.

Some days Angel spent his idle time remembering the past. Wesley, who made his amends with Angel but died anyway, slain by the bitch Lilah. Angel tried to warn him, tried to explain that she was something to avoid. Wesley never listened to the important advice, only the stuff that was easy on the soul. Gunn and Fred? Angel didn't know and couldn't force himself to care. The couple had made it very clear that their first priority was keeping themselves alive. Perhaps they'd succeeded. Angel doubted it, though.

Angel growled at an ill-behaved street child and looked for someone else to talk to about the runaway. He spotted a possible source in a beady-eyed old woman. That type saw *everything*.

***2

"Salut," Angel began, smiling at the ancient lady.

"Violeur! Meurtrier! À l'aide! Au feu!" The lady screamed, pointing at Angel.

::Oookay, this is not going well,:: Angel thought. ::What god did I offend today?:: "Uh, excusez-moi. Je veux juste vous poser quelques questions," He tried, hoping she'd calm down.

"Pédophile! Voleur! Cambrioleur! Piromane! À l'aide! À la bombe!" The old woman's gargantuan purse came up defensively.

"Laissez-faire," Angel growled, stomping off. ::Why do I get the feeling that someone doesn't want me to find this girl?:: Angel asked himself. Crazy blind men, crazier old ladies... The people in the mall scurried to avoid the menacing vampire as he prowled through the corridors.

***2

Angel glanced at his watch. Sunrise was in less than half an hour. If the girl had survived the night, good. If not, he'd deal with it later. It was time for Angel to go home, sup on the blood of the dead, and curl up in his bed for a day of restless, painful slumber. The weather reports had been for clear skies, so Angel climbed a sewer access tunnel and took to the streets. Fires burned here and there, their presence masked by hordes of bodies surrounding them, soaking up their meager warmth. Angel ignored the catcalls, the offers and the threats as he made his way back to his church. None of the locals bothered him, knowing somehow that the only current resident of St-James was a dangerous killer.

Angel eased open the weighty front doors and welcomed himself home. The church was dark, air a bit damp. He needed to open a window before he retired for the night. As he found something to prop open the nearest panes, a tendril of something achingly familiar teased him. His mind frowned, flipping through memory after memory. What was that? Where had he encountered it before? A name rested on the very tip of his tongue, but he couldn't grasp it. Frustration laughed at him as he tried to remember, tried to discern. All he got was lust, sorrow, ache, loss, and want.

The shuffling tap of rubber on stone alerted Angel to the presence of an intruder. He spun around even as a sharp dagger appeared in his hand. Had he not had a death-grip on the weapon, though, he would have dropped it immediately upon seeing his uninvited guest.

"Spike."

***1

"Shit!" Angel growled as something sharp hit his shins. He glanced over to see a scruffy, homeless man leaning against a garbage can. The guy looked just criminal enough to have seen something. Ignoring for the moment his now-aching legs, Angel approached the man, watching for whatever had struck him. "Er, good evening," He began, eyeing the club the man had in one hand.

"Go away," The man shot back, growling.

Angel ignored the man's order. "Have you seen a girl, about sixteen or so, with purple hair and a solar cross tattoo on her forehead?" Angel inquired, staying a safe distance from the club.

"No," The man replied, turning away from Angel. The vampire grimaced at the odor of unwashed human that wafted over to him.

"Are you sure?" Angel pressed. The man knew something, Angel was sure of it.

"Look, man, I'm fucking blind. I haven't seen a goddamned thing for fifteen years," The homeless man spat, holding out his club.

::That went well.:: "Oh. Um... have you heard a sixteen year old girl lately?" Angel tried, using a more friendly voice.

"If I'd met anyone like that, I'd still be fucking her. Could you leave? You're making my dealer nervous." With that, the guy swung his club at the garbage can, making a loud racket. Angel jumped back and prepared to make his hasty retreat.

"Ah. ok. Thanks," Angel muttered as he walked away, leaving the man to his aromatic loneliness.

***1

***2

"Hello," Angel began, smiling at the ancient lady.

"Rapist! Murderer! Help! Fire!" The lady screamed, pointing at Angel.

::Oookay, this is not going well,:: Angel thought. ::What god did I offend today?:: "Uh, excuse me. I just wanted to ask you a few questions," He tried, hoping she'd calm down.

"Child molester! Thief! Burglar! Arsonist! Help! Bomb!" The old woman's gargantuan purse came up defensively.

"Never mind," Angel growled, stomping off. ::Why do I get the feeling that someone doesn't want me to find this girl?:: Angel asked himself. Crazy blind men, crazier old ladies... The people in the mall scurried to avoid the menacing vampire as he prowled through the corridors.

***2