TITLE: "Emergence: A Story of Doyle's Return (Crossover Fic)
AUTHOR: Jenny Kane 
DISTRIBUTION: Ask please
SPOILER WARNING: "Hero"
RATING: PG
PARTS: 1-5
CONTENT WARNING: Some violence, cursing
SUMMARY: One year post "Hero": Angel, Cordelia and Wesley discover that Doyle 
is not dead, but is in mortal peril. Can they get to him in time? Not without 
some help from Sunnydale.
FEEDBACK: Absolutely
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Buffy, Angel, Doyle and Company. They belong to Josh 
Whedon, David Greenwalt and the WB. No copyright infringement intended.
 

  Chapter One

 
     In her dream, she was running through a heavy mist, a mist so 
thick that she could barely see her hand in front of her face, let 
alone anything else. She had no idea of where she was running or why 
she needed to get there, only a feeling that it was urgent that she do
so. As she ran, she could hear strange sounds and sense bizarre 
shadows of things she felt sure she didn't even want to know about. 
She was running out of breath, but still she kept going--driven by 
she didn't know what.

      Then suddenly, everything stopped. The noises ended, the shadows 
dissipated, and she, too, had stopped running. There was dead silence 
as she stood there with the heavy mist swirling around her. As it 
swirled it seemed to be calling, "Cordelia...Cordelia..." Faint and 
indistinct at first, then slowly growing in strength until it sounded
like...like...  

      The mist right in front of her suddenly started to change, 
becoming more substantial, forming itself into a figure. It was dark 
and unrecognizable at first; then, with increasing clarity, it began
forming, changing, metamorphosing into the shape of a man, in 
silhouette only, like someone standing behind a screen or curtain with
a light shining on it. But then...the face became brighter while the
body stayed dark--features began to emerge...dark hair, angular 
handsome features, a nose, a mouth that tended toward a mischievous 
grin, blue eyes that could look into your very soul. They were looking
directly into hers. Doyle. His mouth--not smiling now--moved, spoke her
name, "Cordelia..." The same voice as from the swirling mist, now with 
the Irish lilt she knew so well. In her mind, she could hear his voice:
Our rats are low...Princess...Too bad we'll never know, if this is a 
face you could learn to love. "Cordelia...help me...help...me...
please..." His voice faded with the last three words, and he began to 
disappear again into the mist.
      "Doyle, no!" Cordelia cried. "Don't go!"
      Then, as he faded--was enveloped--back into the mist that had 
formed him, his face suddenly contorted in agony and he screamed, the 
same tortured scream he'd let out on the Quintessa, right before... 
      A bright flash of light stabbed through the mist . . . and he was 
gone.
      "Doyle! Doyle, no! Come back!" Cordelia Chase cried as she sat up
in bed, his scream still echoing in her mind. She was disoriented, tears
running down her cheeks, her body shaking violently.  She reached out
blindly into the darkness, her hand almost knocking over the lamp on her
nightstand. This brought her fully awake and aware of where she was. She
quickly turned the lamp on.  The light illuminated her room--her room in 
her apartment--the apartment he had found for her.
      Still shaking, her face wet from her tears, his agonized scream 
echoing in her mind, she slowly swung her legs over the side of the bed.
She sat on the edge, and took some slow, deep breaths. This was the worst
yet.
      She had been having dreams about Doyle ever since his heroic death 
almost a year earlier. The dreams had come often the first few months, 
often and with unbelievable vividness: in living, breathing color. They 
were three-dimensional dreams that she could almost reach out and touch. 
The dreams had come less frequently over time, and the vividness had 
dimmed somewhat, until the last month or so, when they came nearly every 
night, more vivid and real than they had ever been before. They were so 
real...  
      Cordelia took another deep, cleansing breath. She was going to have
to tell Angel about them; they were getting to her and she needed to talk
about them. And Angel was the only one who would or could understand. He 
was the only one she could tell, period. However, talking to him about 
Doyle was hard. She couldn't remember the last time they had talked about
him, even though she knew they both thought about him a lot. She was sure
that Angel thought about him as much as she did. In fact, he probably 
thought about him more. He was just way too good at covering his pain and
grief and guilt. Burying them was more like it. Like out of sight, out of 
mind. You don't think about it, you don't talk about it . . . maybe it 
won't hurt as much.
      Right, Cordelia thought. It hurts worse.
      Another deep breath. At least she had stopped trembling, but was now
wide-awake, with no hope of going back to sleep. She looked at the clock 
beside the lamp she had almost knocked over. It was 3:35am.
      "Great," she muttered. "And I've got an audition at 10:00am. 'Hi, I'm
your happy, healthy, exhausted housewife.' Actually, maybe I'll look the 
part. Talk about your method acting. Try no sleep for a month." She laughed 
at herself. "You're talking to yourself, Cordelia. Maybe you really are out 
of your mind." She yawned, stood up, put on her robe and slippers, padded to
the door. "Well, maybe a cup of tea will help." 
      She opened the door. She could sense that Dennis hovered just outside,
obviously having heard her yell for Doyle. He radiated his concern.
      "Its okay, Dennis. Just another nightmare. Gee, you know, nightmares 
and visions, where would I be without them?"
      She went to the kitchen, felt Dennis following closely. She took the 
teakettle from the stove, went to the sink and began filling it with water. 
She smiled as she watched Dennis open cupboards, get out tea, low cal 
sweetener and her favorite mug.
      "Thanks," she said as she turned off the water, took the kettle back 
to the stove, turned on the burner and set the full kettle on it. Dennis 
proceeded to put an open teabag into her mug, then added two packages of 
sweetener.
      Cordelia smiled again, then sat down at the table. She knew watched
pots never boil, but she wasn't really watching it, she was thinking about
Doyle, about the dreams she'd been having the past four to five weeks.  It 
had occurred to her that in each and every one of them he'd asked for her 
help...begged for her help. She tried to remember if he had done that before.
She didn't think so. Well, maybe in the beginning, but not all the time. What
did it mean? What did the dreams mean, period? Why had they come back with 
such severity? It had been a long time since she had watched that commercial 
they had made, so it couldn't be that. "Our rats are low. Is that that it? Am
I done?"  She shivered a little, hearing his words in her mind. It was almost
a year now since his death, but still, it seemed like something else had 
started them, something...   
      The teakettle went off at the same time the mind-numbing, 
skull-splitting pain of the vision hit. Both sent her up off of her
chair, but it was the pain of the vision, the worst she had ever felt, 
that drove her to her knees, her hands pressed against her head, her eyes
tightly closed. The horrifying images rocked and rolled inside her 
tortured brain, blocking out all other sounds or thoughts. Finally, they
dissipated, and the pain started to ease. When she felt like she could 
breath again, she took her hands away from her head, sat up straighter. 
Her eyes stayed closed though, processing what she'd just seen. It always
took her a few minutes to assimilate the visions, to put them together so
they made sense in her mind. This one, however, was quick to coalesce. 
With a sharp intake of breath, her head came up and her eyes, now filled
with fresh tears, snapped open.
      "Oh my God," she said in a choked whisper. "Oh my God...Doyle."


Chapter 2

      Angel sat in the dark. He was sitting at his kitchen table, staring at 
the darkness, a half-empty mug of blood by his hand. He had been there all 
night--in the dark. 'Brooding', Cordelia would call it, and maybe she was 
right, most of the time. Not tonight, however; tonight, Angel called it 
restlessness; tonight and every night for some time now. He did not need to
sleep, but he usually functioned better when he did--rest the brain and all 
that. The problem was, sleep or no sleep, Angel hadn't been functioning that
well. Oh, he went through the motions; he fought evil; he conquered evil; he
saved people; he "helped the hopeless," but his non-beating heart just wasn't
in it. It hadn't been in it since he'd lost his connection...since he'd lost
...Angel shut down that thought like a steel door being slammed. Nevertheless,
unbidden, the words whispered in the back of his mind...Doyle, his connection,
Doyle, his mentor, Doyle, his confidant and his friend. He had been unable to
think about his friend, especially the events surrounding his agonizing death 
nearly a year earlier, a death that Angel felt should have been his. He knew 
Cordelia wanted to talk about him, probably needed to talk about him, but he 
could not bring himself to do it. More often than not, when she tried to 
bring the subject up, he would shut it down quickly, change the subject, or 
worse, just walk away. There was just too much pain...too much grief...too 
much guilt.
      Suddenly, he heard a furious pounding on the front door, and someone's 
voice calling frantically as they were knocking.  Then, above the din, he 
distinctly heard Wesley's voice. He glanced over at the clock. It was 4:45am.
What was he doing here? He had left almost twelve hours ago to go home, 
hadn't he? What was he doing back? When had he come back? Angel hadn't even 
heard him. He shook his head as he got into the elevator, started up. The guy
was still too eager to please, trying too hard to fit in, which he'd never 
really done. He could never really replace . . . Angel pushed away that 
thought. Anyway, he was, at times, annoying.
      As the elevator hit the top floor, he could hear Wesley say, for the 
third time, "I'm coming, I'm coming." He opened the front door just as Angel 
came into view. "Cordelia!"
      Cordelia Chase hurriedly pushed by Wesley, not paying any attention to 
him, which was something she often did. However, showing up here at 4:45 in 
the morning was something she never did, and as Angel watched her walk toward 
him he saw several things he did not like: she was pale and shaking, her eyes 
were wide with shock and red from crying. Also, she didn't walk toward him so 
much as stumble, and as he caught her hand when she nearly fell into him, he 
noticed it was cold even by his standards.
      Vision, he thought as he put his hands on her shoulders, could then 
feel her violent trembling. Bad vision. He led her to the leather couch in 
the office. Vision yes, and yet, this had to be more than just the usual 
vision. He'd never seen one get to her like this; she was shaking and 
breathing so fast that he feared she'd pass out.
      He sat her down onto the couch, sank down beside her. Still feeling her 
shake, he watched her clasp and unclasp her trembling hands, wondered how she 
had managed to drive here. He put an arm around her, and though he already 
knew the answer, he asked gently, "Vision?"
      She nodded, still trying to catch her breath. Angel looked up at 
Wesley, who had wandered from the entryway into the room, looking worried. 
"Wesley, why don't you get her some water . . . or tea . . . or something?"
      Cordelia shuddered at the word 'tea.' "No, I don't want anything," she 
protested between breaths. "Just give me a minute . . . please."
      The two men stayed silent as she closed her eyes, and took several deep 
breaths. She obviously knew she needed to get control of herself.
      "Okay," she said after minute or two. "Okay. Okay, Cordelia, you can do 
this. Okay."
      "What did you see, Cordelia?" Angel prodded gently, trying to get her 
focused. It was obviously urgent, or she wouldn't be like this. Time must be 
short.
      "I, oh God, how do I tell you this?  How do I make you believe this? 
It's so hard!"
      His hand tightened on her shoulder. The other went to her chin, turned 
her face to look directly at him. "Just tell me." 
      Her wide, tear-filled eyes probed his dark ones, and she took another 
deep breath.  "Okay," she said, exhaling. "But don't you shut down on me 
Angel!! Don't shut down and tune me out. You have to listen."
      The urgency was back, now with underlying panic. Angel nodded 
encouragingly, but suddenly felt very apprehensive.  She was scaring him, and 
he didn't know what to expect.  
      "Okay." She licked her lips, keeping her hands clasped so they wouldn't 
start shaking, and looked Angel directly in the eyes as she said, "I saw . . 
. Doyle. And Angel . . . he's alive."
      If Angel's heart still beat, it would have stopped. This he could not 
do. A wave of despair and denial washed over him. He dropped his hands and 
her gaze, and shook his head, withdrawing from her, as always, when it 
concerned Doyle.
      "NO!" Cordelia spat out, despair filling her own voice. "Don't do this, 
Angel, don't shut me out! You promised! Listen to me. I'm not . . ."
      "Have you been watching that video?" he asked her, suddenly angry. It 
occurred to him that the year anniversary of Doyle's death was only a few 
days away; it would make sense for her to start thinking about him, watching 
that video. It also occurred to him that it was probably the reason for his 
restlessness of late . . . a year since Doyle's death.
      "No!" Cordelia cried. "Angel, I saw him!"
      "He's dead, Cordelia! We both watched him die. You must have dreamt 
this or
imagined it! It's almost a year since his death. You've been thinking about 
him and you must have . . ." In agony now, Angel stood up.
      "No, Angel . . ."
      "I can't . . . do this. I . . . can't." Visibly shaking himself now, 
Angel left the room, went into his office, shut the door--hard. The light 
remained off.
      "No, oh God, no. He can't do this. He can't! There's no time," Cordelia 
whispered, tears sliding down her cheeks. She remained motionless for a 
moment, and then looked up as Wesley approached. Truth was, she'd forgotten 
he was even there. Now he stood before her, searching her eyes with his own.
      Holding his gaze, she slowly stood up so that they were on more even 
ground.
      "Wesley," she said evenly, though her voice still trembled and she had 
yet to unclasp her hands. "You have to listen to me, and then you have to 
make him listen to me."
      "Go ahead, Cordelia." He made no promises regarding Angel. He wasn't 
sure he had much influence there, anyway.
      Her eyes never left his as she spoke; they were filled with tears, and 
every once in a while a tear would escape, and roll down her cheek. However, 
her gaze never wavered. 
      "Doyle is alive, Wesley. He is! I saw him. And it wasn't a dream or a 
hallucination or wishful thinking. It was a vision. I mean you'd think that 
since I've been having the head-splitting things for the better part of a 
year that I'd, you know, know the difference. It was a vision from them, and 
he's alive . . . he's hurt and he's in agony and he's terrified . . ." Her 
voice broke into a sob. She took a deep breath, had to swallow before 
continuing, "But he is alive." She finally unclasped her hands, and put one 
on each of his shoulders, her eyes boring into his. "But, Wesley, he won't be 
alive for long if we don't do something . . . if he doesn't do something . . 
. fast.  He won't be alive for long." As she said this, fresh tears filled 
her eyes, and the pain that Wesley saw reflected there was more than he could 
bear.
      He'd often wondered about this Doyle, this young Irish half-demon, who 
had so obviously affected and changed both Angel and Cordelia's lives.  They 
rarely spoke of him--unless it was a slip of the tongue--like some secret 
pact they'd made trying not to cause each other pain. Yet, even through their 
silence, he knew they both felt his loss acutely, that they both missed him 
desperately. More than once he'd seen Cordelia watching a video Doyle had 
made--the same one Angel had just alluded to?--some sort of commercial for 
the agency. He'd never let her see him, but he'd watched, pain in his heart, 
as she'd watch the tape over and over. She'd follow Doyle's every move, 
saying the words out loud with him. Then she would break down, sobbing over 
the noise of the snow coming from the TV after the video ended. He hadn't 
seen her watch the video lately, but looking at her now, he knew her pain had 
not lessened. 
      He actually had never seen her like this before, neither physically nor 
emotionally. Her pale face was devoid of makeup, and showed clearly her lack 
of sleep and grief. She had lines where no twenty-year-old girl should have 
them. Heavy dark circles underscored her eyes, which, along with her nose, 
were red from crying. She was dressed haphazardly, obviously in whatever she 
had grabbed first from her closet or drawers; nothing matched, and her 
usually neat and tidy person was all askew.  He'd also never seen her act 
like this about anyone. He had never seen her so full of desperation and 
urgency and compassion, had never seen her care so much in such a selfless 
way. As he stood there watching the pain, the pleading, and the desperation 
swirling around in her tear-filled eyes that looked straight and 
unflinchingly into his, he realized two things with sudden jolting clarity: 
Number one: she was telling the truth; Doyle was alive; and two: she loved 
him. Whether she was totally aware of it or not--and he thought she probably 
wasn't--she loved Doyle with all her heart and soul, and without him, her 
life was empty.
      Wesley took a deep breath. He rather envied this Doyle who still held 
this girl's heart a year after his supposed death. Because he, too, cared 
about her, Wesley vowed that he would do whatever he had to do to return 
Doyle to her.
      It took a lot of effort to look away from her, but he managed to do it. 
He took her hand, and led her to the desk he used, Doyle's desk. He sat her 
down, put a pad and pen in front of her and said, "All right, Cordelia. I 
want you to write down everything you saw and felt. Everything, no matter how 
small it might seem. Everything."
      She picked up the pen, then looked up at him, her eyes now full of 
relief and hope. "You believe me then, right?"
      Wesley nodded. "I believe you.  And I will now go talk to Angel."


Chapter Three  


      Wesley approached Angel's door tentatively. Through the thick, opaque 
glass, he could see that everything was dark.  He'd never had the temerity to 
enter a room when the boss was brooding in the dark, but desperate times 
called for desperate measures. Wesley found himself raising his hand to 
knock, and then realized that desperate times did not call for protocol and 
decorum. He dropped his hand to the doorknob, took a deep breath, and opened 
the door quickly. He hastily entered, promptly closing the door behind him. 
His hand fumbled for the light switch, found it, and turned on the overhead 
light..
      Angel blinked as the bright light hit his eyes. He'd heard the door 
open, close, and the switch snap on. As he looked toward the door, still half 
blinded by the light, he could see him--the only one who'd ever dared 
interrupt a darkened brooding session. Doyle: standing in the doorway, arms 
across his chest, shaking his head, an amused smile on his face. "Do we have 
to go through it again, man?" he would ask as he crossed the room, and sat 
down on the other side of Angel's desk. Then, he would put his feet up on the 
desk, his blue eyes twinkling mischievously. "It's not about brooding in the 
dark, Angel. It's about getting out there, meeting people, making that 
connection . . ."
      That connection. Angel smiled, a small, sad smile, because from that 
moment on, he'd be lost. Doyle would then somehow pull Angel out of his 
brooding mode, make him smile, and get him up and out, to make that connection.
      His eyes focused, becoming used to the light. He saw that it was Wesley 
standing in the doorway, not the man he both wanted, and half-expected, to 
see. With a sound that might have been one of pain, Angel dropped his gaze, 
closing his eyes. "Wesley, get out."
      Wesley was determined to stand his ground. Cordelia was counting on 
him, and so, it seemed, was Doyle. "There's no time for this Angel, so no, I 
won't get out. You thought I was him didn't you? For an instant, you thought 
I was Doyle. Because he was the only one to ever dare to interrupt a brooding 
session wasn't he? Because he was comfortable with you; he knew you; he was 
your confidant, your friend, maybe your only friend. In two hundred years, he 
was the only one true friend you ever had; the only one who ever really 
understood you wasn't he Angel? And losing him was like a knife in your 
heart, and every day that knife twists a little deeper doesn't it?"
      "Wesley . . ." Angel's voice was dangerously low.
      "Do you really think you're fooling anyone, Angel?" Wesley was nervous, 
scared actually, went on nonetheless, "With your silence; pretending to be 
stoic? Well, you're not, let me tell you, you're not. It's all there Angel, 
in your eyes, every time his name is mentioned, every time you're reminded of 
him, it's all there--the pain, the grief, the guilt. Not that you mention him 
very often, this half-demon who saved your life. Is this what he threw 
himself onto that Beacon for, Angel? To never be spoken about, to still have 
you sitting in the dark, never really facing any of it, burying your pain 
until you think it's gone. But it isn't, Angel, it isn't, and neither is 
hers." He gestured toward the outer office where Cordelia was. "Why won't you 
listen to her, Angel?"
      Angel's ears still burned with the words, "Is this what he threw 
himself onto that Beacon for" . . .  He shook his head. "He's dead, Wesley."
      "So sure of yourself, are you? Why? You still blame yourself for his 
death don't you? So buried in that guilt you can't even try to see anything 
else!"
      Angel's head came up. His eyes locked with Wesley's, staring into them 
with a deadly gleam. It took all of Wesley's willpower not to step back. "I 
watched him die, Wesley. I watched that thing destroy him. I heard him scream 
in agony as he disappeared. I can still hear him. And, yes, I blame myself, 
because I let it happen--because it should have been me!" He turned away from 
Wesley, his head down.
      Wesley moved closer to him. "He made a choice, Angel. A brave 
self-sacrificing choice. He decided that the world needed you more than him, 
and he acted on that decision. And because he did, there are people alive 
today who wouldn't be, including yourself. You owe him, Angel. You owe it to 
him to open up your mind and consider what might be possible."
      "He's dead," Angel said in a voice devoid of emotion.
      "These visions of Cordelia's . . ." Wesley abruptly changed the 
subject; Angel stayed still, waiting, wondering at the change, "are really 
quite remarkable. They're always accurate aren't they? I mean, I was not, of 
course, privy to them when Doyle had them, but I've been here for almost all 
of Cordelia's, and they are always one hundred percent accurate. Wherever she 
says to go, whatever she says will happen there . . . it always does. Was it 
the same with Doyle?"      "Of course," Angel said in a puzzled tone.
      "Then in the name of God, Angel," Wesley said angrily, leaning on 
Angel's desk. "With all the visions you've been given, all the visions you've 
relied on, trusted lives with, believed in, why would you disregard this one, 
when it could be the key to getting back this precious person that you have 
lost?"
      "Because he's dead, Wesley. It's been almost year since he died. That's 
what Cordelia is feeling! What she saw was a vivid dream or . . ."
      "I see," Wesley interrupted. "You're afraid, Angel. You're actually 
afraid. You're afraid of false hope. And I can see that, I can understand it. 
False hope is very painful, and I agree that it would be very painful to 
follow up on this vision only to discover that it was a dream or a 
hallucination, to discover that Doyle really is dead. Of course, we're 
entirely disregarding the fact that Cordelia has been having these 
head-splitting visions for the better part of a year, and that she should 
know the difference between visions and dreams.  But yes, it would be 
heartbreaking to discover that he really is dead."
      Angel said nothing; his back was turned to Wesley, his head still 
hanging in a mixture of hopelessness and defeat. Wesley found courage in 
Angel's downtrodden attitude, actually moved closer, around the desk to 
Angel's side, leaning over to speak directly into the vampire's ear. Angel 
did not move. "But let's consider the alternative, Angel," Wesley said in a 
soft voice. "Let's presume that because we're afraid of false hope, we do 
disregard this vision as a dream, or a hallucination, or even wishful 
thinking, if you will. We do nothing to follow up on it. We just move on with 
our so-called lives, and do nothing. Then, at some point down the road, 
however distant it may be, we discover that we were wrong. We discover that 
at the time of the vision, Doyle was alive, but he's not now. Because we did 
nothing . . . now he truly is dead." Wesley took a deep, trembling breath. 
Angel remained motionless. "Now, Angel, I don't know about you, but I can't 
think of anything more heartbreaking than that. And the guilt? I don't know 
if I could handle it, and I don't even know him. How do you think you're 
going to handle it, Angel? You can't even handle the misplaced guilt you've 
got now! How do you think you'll function? You won't. All this will be gone, 
finished; you're work here will cease. Not only will you have failed 
yourself, Angel, you'll have failed Doyle as well by not fulfilling your 
destiny; and that will mean that everything he did for you; everything he 
sacrificed for you; everything he meant to you; was in vain. And this time, I 
think you could say that his death would be on your head."
      Silence, deafening silence, reigned for several seconds. Then Angel 
swiftly raised his head, meeting Wesley's gaze for only the second time. His 
dark eyes were full of tortured anguish, and innumerable other painful 
emotions that Wesley knew he'd never seen there before. He looked at Wesley 
for a full minute, then breathlessly mumbled, "You're right. You're right." 
He swiftly stood up, and then was out the door so quickly, Wesley had to run 
to keep up with him.
      Cordelia looked up from her pad of paper as Angel came into the room.
      He knelt before her, his pain-filled eyes looking into hers. "I'm 
sorry, Cordelia.
I'm so sorry. For everything."  She simply nodded and he stood up. "Now tell 
me everything you saw."
      Cordelia nodded shakily. "Okay, it was all pretty fast, and jumbled up 
like they always are. But it was Doyle."
      "I believe you Cordelia." Angel was antsy now. "Tell us what you saw."
      "Okay." Cordelia took a trembling breath. She knew she had to keep her 
emotions under control. "He's in a cell. Like a dungeon cell, all dark and 
damp and creepy, with thick, gray stone walls, you know, like dungeons have. 
He's," and a sob choked her voice, "chained to the wall, and he's hurt, and 
he's scared, Angel, he's so scared." She stopped as another sob racked her body.
      Angel knelt beside her again, taking her into his arms. "I know, 
Cordelia. I know this is hard but . . ."
      "I know. I have to tell you everything. I have to focus." Cordelia drew 
a shuddering breath, but nodded determinedly. "It's just so hard, to see him 
. . ."      "I know, but if we're going to get him out, I do have to know 
everything." Angel stood up then, but stayed close to her.
      "Everything," Cordelia sighed. "There wasn't much . . . everything. The 
cell, the chains . . ." she said, averting her eyes from Angel's. There was a 
lot that she did not want to have to tell him, but she knew she had to.
      Angel knew this, knew he had to tread softly. "This dungeon he's in, 
where is it?"
      Cordelia still did not look at him. "I don't know for sure, but it's 
someplace massive. It's somewhere in LA, I think, but the vision didn't show 
me exactly where." She finally, but slowly, looked up at Angel, shivered a 
little as she said, "But it did show me who, and oh, Angel, it's bad."
      Angel swallowed hard. "Who has him, Cordelia?"
      It took everything she had to say the words. They came reluctantly, 
painfully from her mouth, like maybe if she just did not say them, they 
wouldn't be true. "It's the Scourge, Angel."      "My God," Wesley breathed.
      Angel felt sick. "Are you sure, Cordelia? He's half-human, half-demon; 
he destroyed their instrument of death. I can't even begin to imagine what 
they'll have done to him, what they will do to him . . ."
      "No, you can't imagine and you don't want to," Cordelia said with 
certainty. "But yes, I'm sure, Angel." Cordelia looked paler as she looked up 
into his eyes, "And Angel, one more thing . . ."
      "What?" Angel asked, dreading anything more that there might be.
      "They're building another Beacon; bigger, more powerful than the other 
one." She swallowed hard. "And I think they mean to test it out on Doyle 
first, and then . . ."      "Unleash it on all humanity," Wesley said.
      "Or at least on half-demon humanity," Angel corrected.
      "To start with, maybe," Wesley agreed. "Since they do consider 
half-demons to be impure and unworthy of existence. But I highly doubt that 
it will stop there. All of humanity is at risk."
      "So, now we have two missions," Angel summarized, "Save Doyle, and stop 
the Scourge, again."
      "Not an easy task if we don't know where they are," Wesley mused.
      "So how do we find them?" Angel asked, frustration in his voice. "Why 
didn't the vision tell us where they are?"
      "I don't know. If they want us to save Doyle, not to mention the rest 
of humanity, it would make sense to . . . what is it Cordelia?" Wesley 
interrupted himself at seeing the pensive look on Cordelia's face.  
      "Well . . ." she hesitated. "It's kind of weird. This vision was, like, 
different."      "Different how?" Angel asked.
      "The first part was normal, like all mind-numbing and stuff, and that 
was the part where I saw Doyle, and that he's alive, but then . . ." She 
hesitated again, trying to find the right words, "It was like when you change 
channels on a TV or radio, and the signal is weaker, you know, less clear.  
The part about the Beacon was like the channel had been changed; the pain got 
less and the picture became less clear, and . . . this is going to sound 
really weird. It felt like that part of the vision came directly from Doyle. 
Is that possible?"
      Wesley and Angel were silent a minute, staring at her. Then, Wesley 
shook his head slightly, as if to clear it. "Well, now, let's consider this 
for a minute. Doyle gave you the visions . . ."
      "He kissed me," Cordelia agreed dreamily.
      "Yes, well," Wesley stammered. He wondered what it would be like to 
have someone look like that when speaking about him. "Could it be, perhaps, 
that when he did that, gave you the visions, I mean, he also opened a 
channel, a connection between the two of you, if you will. A connection that 
remains open even now."
      "Yeah, but I've never gotten any messages from him before," Cordelia 
pointed out.
      "Not that you are aware of anyway," Wesley nodded. "You said that the 
part from Doyle was a weaker signal then the first part of the vision. It 
could be that the only reason you consciously received this message was 
because the vision was about Doyle."
      "You mean, I may have been getting messages from him all along? All the 
dreams I've been having the last month and even before that, they could be 
from him?" Cordelia asked, wonder in her voice.
      "Possibly, yes, but I think that if this is happening, it's happening 
on a subconscious level," Wesley said. "If your dreams have been coming from 
him, obviously the signal is stronger when you're asleep."
      "I wasn't asleep this morning."
      "No, but again, this vision was about Doyle. Maybe that somehow 
amplified his signal, so that you saw it while awake."
      "Do you think he's aware that he's sending her messages?" Angel asked.
      "Bear in mind that we don't know that he is sending messages for sure," 
Wesley reminded him, "But no, I don't think he does realize it, if he is. I 
think it is all taking place subconsciously, and because there is an open 
link between them. I think that if he knew he was doing it, he would have 
sent a direct, clear message to us long ago, telling us that he is alive, and 
where he is. I think what you've been getting," he nodded at Cordelia, "are 
his feelings, his fears, his pain, manifested in nightmares, and the closer 
the Beacon gets to completion, the more intense his feelings have become. 
That's probably why the dreams have been so intense of late."
      "Do you think I'm sending him, 'signals' too?"
      "I don't know.  He gave you the visions. I don't know if that means 
it's a one-way connection or not. And of course, without Doyle, we can't know."
      "Okay," Angel cut in. "This is all really interesting, but how does it 
help us find him?"
      "I don't know," Wesley said. "I don't know that it does. We'll have to 
wait a bit and see what happens. It could be that the Powers were telling us 
how to find them, but maybe Doyle interrupted them with the Beacon image. 
Now, they must know that we didn't get the whole message, so, undoubtedly 
they will . . ."
      "Like right now maybe. Oh, boy!" Cordelia cried, as the familiar 
bone-crushing pain hit. Her hands flew to her head; her head came down hard 
on the desk. The images raced, fast and furious, through her mind.
      "Try to hold onto it Cordelia," Wesley instructed quietly, as he and 
Angel supported her, stayed close. "Try to find Doyle."
      Cordelia did not reply, still gripped in the vision. Finally, the pain 
eased, and then abated. She sat up, eyes closed for a minute or two. She 
heaved a deep sigh, and opened her eyes. "I don't know who all that was from. 
A mixture of both, I think.
I saw Doyle again; he was . . . somewhere else, out of his cell. He was in a 
big room." She shuddered slightly. "I don't want to even think about that 
right now. Then I saw a . . . doorway, a portal, and I swear I heard someone 
say, this is the way, and that was it."      "A doorway?" Angel asked.
      "Yes, a doorway." Wesley looked at Angel, their eyes met. "I'm not sure 
what I think of these Powers of yours, Angel."      "Why? What is it?"
      "A doorway to the Scourge? That can only be the Demon's Doorway."
      "And that is?"
      "It's a portal that demons use to get around in, to travel from place 
to place. It can be inter-dimensional as well as stay in this one." Wesley 
hesitated, then went on, "There's a ritual, a fire, a chant you say to open 
it, and a, uh . . . demon guide is summoned, shows the way to wherever you 
want to go."      "Then let's open it. Let it take me to the Scourge; to Doyle."
      "But it's dangerous, Angel. These are pure demons: pure evil. They can 
immediately sense your human soul."
      "But it's the only way, Wesley. It's the only way to find them fast 
enough. And the voice I heard was Doyle's voice . . ." Cordelia trailed off.
      "Then it probably is the only way, but, nonetheless, a deadly way." 
Wesley shook his head.
      "We have no choice, Wesley," Angel said firmly. "We have no choice."


Chapter Four


      Angel and Cordelia finished getting together everything they needed to 
open the Demon's Doorway: enough stones to make a large ring, wood for a 
fire, a large metal drum for the fire to be built in, and three powders that 
Wesley said were essential. The book, which held the chant to summon the 
Demon's Doorway, lay open on the floor. Angel had been studying it, had it 
memorized. He'd found that it was actually quite simple.
      Wesley came into the living room, another open book in his hands. 
"Well, I think I've got what we need to solve the problem."
      "Got what? To solve what problem?" Angel asked confusedly, putting the 
last piece of wood into the metal drum.
      "The problem of your human soul, Angel," Wesley reminded him, rolling 
his eyes in exasperation. "I'm telling you, if you try to go into that portal 
with your human soul exposed, they will kill you."
       "You can't get rid of his soul, Wesley," Cordelia argued. "I mean, 
then he'd go all Angelus on us. Grrrrrrr. And we really need that now, don't 
we?"
      "I'm not talking about getting rid of his soul, Cordelia, just cloaking 
it a little.  Making it undetectable to them, so that they can't sense it, so 
he can pass through unharmed. Otherwise . . ."
      "Okay, okay," Angel interrupted. "What do I have to do?"
      "Nothing," Wesley said. "Just stand there. Are you ready with the demon 
chant?"
      "Yeah, we've got everything right here. We light the fire and we're 
good to go," Cordelia confirmed, with an attempt at lightheartedness.
      It fell flat. All three of them were nervous, wanting to get started, 
but reluctant at the same time. This was new territory, this Demon Doorway, 
and no one really knew what to expect.
      "Okay," Angel said, breaking the silence. "Let's do this. Wesley . . ." 
      "All right." Wesley swallowed. "Just stand there, and we'll see what 
happens."
      See what happens? Angel threw Cordelia a panicked glance; her gaze was 
equally apprehensive. 
      "Uh, Wesley . . ." Angel began, but Wesley had already closed his eyes 
and begun murmuring something so softly Angel and Cordelia could not catch 
the words.   
      Suddenly the air around Angel seemed charged. His hair began to blow as 
a sudden gust of wind hit him. Wesley stopped murmuring long enough to open 
his hand, letting a fine white powder be caught up in the artificial wind, 
which blew the powder into Angel's face. Angel let out a cry as the powder 
flew into his eyes. As the wind continued to swirl around him, he turned away 
from it, falling to his knees. Wesley continued to murmur for several more 
seconds, and then abruptly stopped. He opened his eyes, and the wind stopped 
too, leaving an eerie silence.
      Angel remained on his knees, his face turned away from Cordelia and 
Wesley. They looked at each other worriedly, and then back to Angel. It was 
Cordelia who spoke,        "Angel, are you all right?"
      Angel turned to face them. Cordelia screamed, jumping back about four 
feet."Wesley!" she shrieked. "What have you done?"
      For . . . it was Angelus before them. Angel's face was fully vamped 
out, into what could only be called an expression of full evil, his eyes 
glowing malevolently. Cordelia's thoughts immediately flashed back to those 
horrible days in Sunnydale where he had tormented the 'Scooby Gang' 
mercilessly.  Both she and Wesley remembered, all too vividly, their more 
recent encounter with Angelus after that youth hungry actress had reawakened 
the monster with the drug 'Bliss'.
      "No, it's all right, Cordelia," Wesley assured her, although he looked 
ready to take flight himself. "It's not Angelus! We've just cloaked his soul; 
it's not gone! He's still Angel." He looked nervously at Angel. "Right, Angel?"
      Angel had to chuckle at that. "Right Wesley," he said, as he got to his 
feet. "It's okay, Cordelia. It's still me. But, I'm not sure I ever want to 
do that again." He put a hand to his face. "This feels weird. Do I have to 
stay like this?"
      "Yes, I believe so, at least until you return, and then I'll change you 
back."      "Can't be soon enough for me." Cordelia found her voice at last.
       Angel smiled at her. It looked like a leering grimace. She shuddered, 
and Angel turned to Wesley. "Okay, we've done the soul thing. It's time to 
open that doorway."
      "Yes," Wesley agreed. "Do you know what to say, and what powder to 
throw into the fire when?"
      "Yeah, I think so," Angel replied, striking a match, and lighting the 
fire. "What? You won't be coaching me?"
      "No actually, I won't be." Wesley turned to Cordelia. "I think it will 
be a lot more helpful and realistic if the demon guide were to see two dead 
bodies on the floor. That should make it clear that he really is evil."
      "You mean . . . us?" Cordelia asked.
      "Well, yes." Wesley produced a bottle of fake blood from his pocket.
      "Wait a minute," Angel said. "If these demon guides can sense my soul, 
what makes you think they'll believe you two are dead?"
      "Not a problem," Wesley said. "We'll each take one of these." He held 
up a bottle of little white pills.      "What are they?"
       "They'll slow down our respirations and heart rates just enough so 
that we'll appear dead."      "Isn't that dangerous?"
      "Not any more dangerous then that demon you're about to summon," Wesley 
stated. "I've used them before, actually. They won't last long, ten or 
fifteen minutes. Long enough for you to summon the portal and so on."
      "I don't know Wesley . . ."
      "Angel," Cordelia broke in. "He's right. In order to make this 
believable, and also to make sure we don't all die today, we need to show 
this demon guide guy just how evil you are. And if that means being dead for 
a few minutes, then that's what it means. Doyle's life depends on this, 
Angel. I'll do whatever I have to . . . to . . . well, you know, save him." 
Embarrassed by the intense looks Angel and Wesley were giving her, she turned 
and grabbed the bottle of fake blood from Wesley's hand. "Guess I can't look 
much worse than I do right now anyway."
      "Actually, Cordelia, I think you look . . ." Wesley began.
      Cordelia did not want to hear him say something Doyle might have said, 
had he been there. "Shut up, Wesley, just shut up," she snapped as she began 
to put the fake blood on her neck and clothes. When she was finished, she 
handed the bottle back to Wesley. "Okay, give me the pills please."
      Wordlessly, Wesley handed her the bottle of pills and began to put the 
fake blood on himself. Cordelia swallowed a pill, and then handed the bottle 
back to Wesley.
      Wesley followed suit, then turned to Angel. "Go ahead, Angel. We'll 
both be out by the time you've opened the doorway." He paused, and then 
looked Angel in the eyes. "Good luck, Angel. Please be careful."
      "Yes." Cordelia yawned. "And make sure you come back."
      "I will," Angel replied.
      Wesley and Cordelia lay down on the floor, and within sixty seconds 
were sound asleep. Angel looked at them carefully, trying to see them 
breathing, but couldn't; they really did look dead. Angel shivered a little, 
but as he continued to look down at his friends, his heightened vampire 
senses did pick up the faint beatings of their hearts; unnaturally slow, but 
their presence reassured him. He then remembered what Wesley had said, that 
this would only last ten to fifteen minutes. He needed to get on with the 
task at hand.
      He turned to where the fire blazed in the metal barrel. He closed his 
eyes for a brief second. He then opened them, and leaned down, getting a 
handful of powder, the first of the three powders he needed for the 
summoning.                                                                 
      "For Doyle," he whispered, as he threw the first powder into the fire. 
The flames leapt up high, and a thick smoke began to form. Angel hoped he 
wouldn't burn the place down as he began the chant, "Demon doorway, open to 
me, take me to the place I seek." 
       He reached down and got the second powder he needed, threw it into the 
fire. Again the flames leapt up, and the smoke became thicker. "Demon 
doorway, open to me. Take me to the place I seek. All that's evil knows you 
well. Come to me from depths of hell." In the same manner, the third powder 
went into the fire. "Demon Doorway, open to me. Take me to the place I seek."
      As Angel watched, the fire died, but the thick heavy smoke, which had 
increased again with the third powder, remained. It began to swirl in a 
circular motion, forming itself into an oblong shape, small at first, then 
bigger and bigger . . . until it was over six feet tall and four feet wide. 
Then gradually the smoke began to change, to solidify and merge from gray 
black to ink black. It suddenly began to shimmer, and Angel realized that 
this was the portal. The smoke had become the Demon Doorway. He moved a 
little closer to it, tried to see inside it, but all he could see was solid, 
inky blackness. So where was this demon guide Wesley had talked about?
      The answer to his question slid from nothingness into the doorway, in 
the blink of an eye. It was a huge, hulking figure dressed in a heavy 
black-gray cloak that hid everything except its orange-yellow eyes. They 
stared at Angel.
      "Vampire," It said in a booming voice that matched its massive form. 
"You have dared to open the demon portal. To what end do you seek your own 
death?" 
      Inwardly shaking, Angel put on his best Angelus attitude. He had to dig 
deep inside himself, to the angry demon locked away, and from it, he 
channeled the cold, hate-filled attitude he knew he needed. "Yeah, I dare," 
he said with Angelus insolence. "And I'm not just any vampire, I'm Angelus. 
And I don't seek my death, I seek the Scourge."
      "Angelus," the demon guide said. "Yes, all have heard of Angelus. He 
was much admired. He was the most evil, feared vampire to ever have lived. 
But, he was possessed with a human soul, a human conscience, and was rendered 
. . . useless."
      Angel smiled, a cocky, leering grin. "Got rid of it," he drawled.
      The demon guide said nothing, but its eyes turned a little more orange 
as it waited for Angel to continue.
      "Had it removed, exorcised. It's gone, kaput." Angel nonchalantly 
leaned against the wall. "Got tired of having a conscience, of feeling all 
that guilt. It was a pain," he chuckled a little, "in the neck. So now it's 
gone, and I'm back."
      The demon guide still had not spoken, actually seemed uncertain. Angel 
pounced on that. "Don't believe me?" He swiftly approached the demon, trying 
to take it off guard. "Do you sense a soul?"
      The orange eyes grew even more orange as it said, "No, no soul."
      "Well, then." Angel shrugged at it.      "Why do you seek the Scourge?"
      "Because we've got a lot in common. Because I want to aid them in their 
quest to     rid the world of all the half-breed scum. They've got no 
business living, and besides," he grinned, a malignant, deadly grin, "they're 
unpalatable."        
      The demon actually blinked. "So, you think you can help the Scourge?"
      "Sure." Angel shrugged. "Having a human soul wasn't a complete waste. 
It gave me a renewed insight into human and half-human behavior. It let me 
get close to them, earn their trust. I know them; can lure them out. I can 
help the Scourge find them, and exterminate them. In fact, it will be my 
pleasure."
      The demon guide was silent a second, obviously considering what Angel 
had said. Then it looked past Angel, and Angel knew it was seeing Wesley and 
Cordelia.      He smiled. "Just a snack," he told the demon. "Humans, almost as 
worthless as half-breeds, but tasty."
      The demon had sensed out Wesley and Cordelia . . . and found no sign of 
life. It's gaze returned to Angel. "Very well, Vampire, come with me."  It 
turned and disappeared into the void.
      Angel hesitated a moment, looked back at where Wesley and Cordelia lay 
in a pool of fake blood. They remained quiet and unmoving. He knew that they 
were depending on him; that humanity in all its forms was depending on him . 
. . that Alan Francis Doyle was depending on him.  With a sigh, and a look in 
his eyes that clearly showed a man with the weight of the world on his 
shoulders, Angel followed the demon into the ink-black darkness.


Chapter Five


      The maze of corridors and passageways inside the doorway turned out to 
be just as black as the outside. It was pitch black, the only light coming 
from the demon guide itself, an eerie glow of orange-yellow light the color 
of its eyes.
      As Angel followed it through many twists and turns, he wondered how he 
would ever find his way back home, or back to the Scourge.
      The demon guide seemed to sense the thought. "Once you have been guided 
to your destination, the way back will be illuminated for you. And should you 
decide to return to your requested destination at a later time, a password I 
will give you will allow you to find it easily."
      Well, that answered that question. Silence reigned as they walked on in 
the darkness . . . and walked . . . and walked, until Angel thought it would 
never end.
      Then, suddenly, the demon guide stopped. Solid blackness lay in front 
of them. The demon guide turned toward Angel, its eyes now a bright, almost 
fluorescent yellow. It waved its arm at the blackness in front of it and 
said, "Behold, Angelus. The Scourge."       
      As Angel watched, the solid blackness began to shimmer, become 
transparent. An image began to form, as the doorway began to open . . . 
clearer and clearer . . . larger and larger it became, until the doorway was 
completely open.
      Before them lay the Scourge's compound. Angel stared at it with horror 
and dismay, for it was a huge, partly underground fortress, surrounded by 
barbed wire and electric fences. It was heavily armed with sentries guarding 
the outside every few feet. Angel knew the inside would be heavily protected 
as well.  I'll never do it, not alone, he thought dismally. I'll never get 
in, save Doyle, destroy the Beacon and get out again. We need help.
      The demon guide seemed to sense his disquiet. "What's the matter, 
Vampire? Too much for you? You don't want to meet the Scourge that you so 
eagerly sought?"
      Angel forced himself back to being Angelus. He gave the demon an 
insolent grin.    "No, not too much for me, yellow eyes," he drawled. "They 
are impressive though, very impressive. I guess I'd just feel . . . more 
impressive myself, if I came to them with a sacrifice in tow, a half-breed 
sacrifice, to show them my good faith, my willingness to serve, to kill."
      The demon guide considered that for a moment, and then nodded. "Yes, a 
wise decision. You are intelligent, Vampire, and shrewd. The Scourge will 
definitely benefit from knowing you."
      Angel gave the demon a cocky smile. "That's my goal." He laughed, then 
turned toward the blackness behind him. "So, you say I can find my way back . 
. . "               
      "Yes," the demon guide boomed at him. "Just start walking, and the way 
will illuminate for you."
      "And the password, for when I bring my sacrifice?" Angel raised his 
eyebrows as only Angelus could.
      "The password is Kana (pronounced Kay-na)." With that, both the demon 
guide and the doorway to the Scourge shimmered, and then disappeared, leaving 
only pitch-blackness behind.
      Angel heaved a deep sigh, turned and began walking the way he had come. 
As promised, the way before him illuminated itself with a dim, greenish light 
whose source he could not even begin to fathom.
      As he walked, he went over and over in his mind everything that he had 
seen, trying to figure out the best way to approach the Scourge, the best way 
to complete the tasks of getting Doyle and destroying the Beacon. But no 
matter which way he looked at it, it all came down to the same thing.  They 
needed . . . he needed help.
      And I'll find it, Angel thought. Somehow, somewhere, I'll find it. Just 
hang on, Doyle. Hang on.
      He could almost hear Doyle's reply. Hanging on, man, hanging on. But 
hurry, and don't do everything the hard way, when the best way is right in 
front of you.
      Angel stopped dead in the passageway. Where had that last thought come 
from? The hard way. The best way. HURRY!
      He shook his head and went on, now running at a good clip. He abruptly 
came to the end of the line. Solid blackness suddenly loomed in front of him. 
He almost ran into it. He stopped, stood still, closed his eyes, and said, 
"Kana."
      As the doorway to the Scourge fortress had opened, so now did this one 
. . . until it grew clear enough and large enough to see what lay beyond it: 
in this case, his living room. With a sigh of relief, Angel stepped through 
the doorway, back into familiar territory. The portal closed behind him . . . 
as if it had never existed.