Unrequited Hatred: Part 2
by Jessi
Dylan Devons-Meurtreir IIIII flipped boredly through his geometry textbook in his room in Miami, Florida. The temperature was more than 89 that day, and he was forced to do his homework in just his boxers.

"Mom, we're out of ice!" he called out his open door. A loud shatter came from below in the kitchen, sending Dylan rushing down the stairs of his three-story Victorian home. There, on the floor of the vast kitchen, lay the sob-wracked form of his mother. Beside her were the phone and a shattered bowl of ice cubes. Janihiari, the house cleaner for the Devons-Meurtreir family, was sweeping up the ice around her weeping mistress. She picked up the cordless phone and spoke in Swahili to the person on the other line. She awaited an answer, and when it came, she gasped, set the phone down and joined Mrs.Devons-Meurtreir in the crying.

"Janihiari? Sara? Are you two still there?" Dylan's father's voice asked over the line.

"Dad?" the boy asked, picking up the cordless. "What's wrong with mom?"

"Oh boy…well, we've just been in a plane crash-"

"What!? Are you okay? Are Grampa and Trish okay?"

Dylan Devons-Meurtreir IIII scratched his crop of black hair and replied, "Trish and I are okay. It's…your grandfather."

"What?"

"He…didn't survive." a dry silence hung in the air as Dylan's eyes filled with water. He loved his grandfather, who had gone to 'Nam and survived four years imprisonment. How could he have died from just a simple plane crash?

"Dylan? Don't hang-" his son couldn't hear anymore. There was a loud click as the other line disconnected.

"Damn it!" the battered and bruised father said loudly, slamming the receiver down loudly and walking out of the phone booth, steadying himself with his crutches.

The younger Dylan sank to the floor beside his mother and his tears joined the ones already on the floor. For him, this was like a curse carried through the generations of Devons-Meurtreirs. Every 20 years, one of his ancestors would die. It started with his great-great-great grandfather back in 1898, of an unknown cause. After that, every 20 years one of the Dylan Devons' descendents would die. His son, Dylan Devons-Meurtreir, was orphaned when his mother died the same night, November 28th. No one knew how he or she died though.

* * *

The funeral was being held, for some reason that wasn't revealed, in the small town of Sunnydale in California. It wasn't quite as hot as Miami was, so everyone was wearing black. The casket containing his grandfather was in front of him as the priest droned on. On either side, Dylan's parents were weeping like mad. However, for some reason, Dylan had this urge to back away from the sermon.

'But why would I leave my grampa? He never left me, and I think I should pay my respects. What is wrong with me?'

'Trust me, Dylan. Look to the walkway.' Said an unfamiliar voice in his head. Dylan wondered why the hell he could hear it, and what could have caused it, but obeyed. There walking down the path were two young women, his age. One was tall and had shoulder length red hair covered by a violet hat and seemed distressed as she talked to her friend. This was the girl with her back to him. The one facing him was the one Dylan felt strangely drawn to. Her similarly shoulder length blonde hair was blowing in the soft wind,her green eyes were squinting from the bright sunshine and they seemed to be engaged in some sort of conversation.

'See that girl? You need to talk to her. Get some information. Let's go.'

'Who are you?'

'A friend.' The voice replied. Dylan noticed his family too caught up in weeping to notice. He wondered why he was doing this, but he decided he had to, to get the voice out of his head. Dylan looked around, and leaned into his dad.

"Dad, I…need to go find a place to…you know." He whispered. Between sobs, his father nodded and Dylan walked away sadly.

'Why am I going to her?'

'Just walk, and let me do the talking.' The 18-year-old nodded to himself and walked towards the girls.

* * *

"At least a month." Buffy Summers concluded. "Hi." She greeted the young man who had just walked up to them.

"Hi. Listen, uh…" his head seemed to jerk slightly to the left, then the right, and his green eyes went glassy. And brown. "Do you two know someone who goes by the name Angelus or William the Bloody?"

Willow and Buffy just looked straight at him.

"Angelus? William?" Willow repeated. The boy nodded.

"I need to find them. Do you know them?"

"What do you know about Angel?" Buffy questioned.

"Angel? Is that what that bastard goes by now?"

"Who are you?"

"My name is Dylan Devons."

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