The Man With A Thousand Faces: Twenty Three
by redmoon
Twenty Three

9 July, 2001, Los Angeles

Stephanie shook her head in disgust. “You son of a bitch.” She raised her hand to slap him, but he stepped away gracefully. “You mean I did all that fuc–”

Loki raised a finger. He cocked his head, a little disappointed. “Language,” he said softly.

“I did all that fucking meditation crap,” she raised her voice, “and– and ‘get thyself clean’ shit for nothing?”

Loki pressed a hand to his silk covered chest. “I’m hurt. Aren’t you a better person now than you were?”

She threw her fists to her sides in anger. “I’m not a person at all! I’m a... Specter!” she spat as if the word were an obscenity that even she was loath to use.

“And what’s wrong with being a Specter?” Loki prompted, burying the insult as efficiently as ever. “It allowed for your... lifestyle quite effectively, didn’t it?” He dropped her used syringe to the table top where a mirror and a razor blade had been hastily covered upon his entry. “And you obviously don’t want to give up that lifestyle, so what are you complaining about?”

Her eyes shifted back and forth furiously, trying to come up with some explanation. Her fists shook at her sides, either from anger or from the spike.

“You get to fuck and cut to your heart’s content now, without a care in this world about what it’ll cost you. You have been given a rare gift, Steph,” he said patronizingly, “a life with no regrets. When you die, there’ll be no booming voice, no blinding light and circles of fire, just an end to... this.” He glanced again at his reflection looking up from the table top, marred by a white streak. “So by all means,” he finished, “enjoy your life. Enjoy your last—” he glanced at his watch, “sixteen hours.”

He turned to go, wiping his hands disgustedly on his khakis. She let the tear of frustration roll down her cheek, unaware, perhaps, of its presence. “Bastard!” She shouted after him, feeling her life slipping away, and any hope of redemption with it. She sank to her knees in front of her motel room bed, letting her bare arms hang across her thighs, sobbing uncontrollably. “You... fucking bastard” she wept, doubling over, covering her face in her hands. Her sobs sounded out past the door where Loki stood with his back turned, listening.

He blinked stoically, thinking it was the perfect time to take up smoking. He glanced curiously over his shoulder, noticing the tall dark form standing to one side of her door in the moonlight.

“Pretty cold,” Angel observed, his face unused to hiding the pain he felt for others.

“Are you offering me your jacket?” Loki asked sardonically, glancing quickly over his shoulder again. Angel said nothing. Loki looked up into the night sky, listening to the desperate sobs from inside. “Give it a minute,” he sighed at last, closing his eyes and letting the moon bathe his face in its glow.

After three minutes, Angel turned away from the conjurer, stuffing his hands in his pockets and staring back for the hotel. Sudden motion made him pause.

Loki took a deep breath and turned, throwing the girl’s door open and stepping inside. She looked up from red eyes with nothing left but desperate hope. That was all he wanted, because it was all she needed. She had hit bottom and been allowed to feel that there was no climbing out.

Loki pulled the small vial from his pocket and uncorked it with a small pop. To her confused but still desperately hope filled face, he drew the vial back, then whipped it forward, spraying her with fine droplets. Then came the part he liked least of all.

As the water met her clammy skin, she immediately felt its burn. She collapsed from her kneeling position onto her back on the thin carpet of the motel, letting out a breathless whimper of agony. The world and all its hidden places, all its dark secrets soared around her, combing through itself, looking for her missing piece. Then it was found. In a pulse of light that emanated from her chest but burned through her eyes and mouth, nostrils and fingernails, her soul was rejoined with her body, leaving her moaning incoherently on the floor.

Loki finally turned, sweeping the drugs from the table into a trash bag and carrying it out with him, past Angel, to the dumpster where he tossed it. He wiped his hands together in a small amount of satisfaction, then led Angel away from the cheap motel.

“You always stay for that last bit?” the vampire asked, walking faster to fall into step beside the conjurer, unaccustomed to being led.

“Always,” Loki nodded, a small smirk on his face.

“So, she’s all whole now?” the vamp pressed, a little uncomfortable with the terminology.

“Yup. And she doesn’t even have time to screw it up.” He glanced at his watch. “At five o’clock tomorrow afternoon, she’ll be hit by a runaway Lincoln Towncar whose brake lines have been cut.”

“I can’t believe you told her that,” Angel shook his head.

“I didn’t tell her how it would happen,” the conjurer defended, “but she needed to know her time was running out. She had to really want it, you know?”

Angel shrugged. “What do I know about it? I’m just glad Angelus is all tucked away in obscurity, never to see the light of day again,” he cocked his head, “so to speak” he added with a frown.

"That what he says every time he gets out," Loki chuckled, stepping up his pace to leave the frowning Angel behind.

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