The sharp rap at the door startled him. He wasn’t
expecting anyone. Cordelia, perhaps, come to tell him—what?
That Angel forgave him? That Connor had been found, unharmed?
Angel himself, come to finish the job? Most likely, Charles, come
back to tell him his cure had worked—or hadn’t.
Wesley sank further down on the couch, ignored the noise,
poured another whisky. Jack Daniel’s wasn’t quite as
smooth as the fifteen-year-old Macallan he’d preferred back
in London, but after the third glass the distinction blurred.
More rapping. Determined, whoever they were.
Wesley sighed, put down the glass. He made his way slowly to
the door, drew the bolts, opened it just a crack against the
chain. He glanced round, then leaned back against the wall,
suddenly faint. Took a couple of deep breaths – the pain in
his throat was oddly calming.
The last person he’d been expecting.
He trekked to the wardrobe, retrieved his rifle, returned to
the door, opened it slightly wider this time.
‘Justine.’
‘Came to return your car keys,’ she said. He wanted
to laugh. The sheer incongruity of the statement made him reel.
‘Car’s parked right outside.’
He went to the window, poked up the blind using the rifle. She
appeared to be telling the truth this time.
During the brief moment he’d had his back turned, Justine
had followed him in. Under the lights of his apartment, her black
eye still looked florid, though the split lip had almost healed.
She put the keys down on the table with a clunk. ‘There’s
a bit of a dent on the rear fender,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’
This time he did laugh, couldn’t help himself. It came
out more like a strangled giggle. He collapsed back onto the
couch, nursing his throat. The rifle clattered to the floor. He
took another swallow of Jack Daniel’s.
‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ he said. His voice
sounded gravelly. ‘I’m not quite up on the etiquette of
conversing with someone who slit my throat the last time we met.’
She glanced at his throat, at the scar that his beard didn’t
cover yet, then away towards the window. ‘Me neither,’
she said. Then added, as if it explained everything, ‘I
trusted the wrong man.’
Actually, on consideration, her statement did seem to
encompass most aspects of the whole debacle.
‘What made you change your mind?’
‘Holtz abandoned me,’ she said flatly. ‘Took
the baby through some portal.’
(So that’s what happened. Kind of someone to inform me.)
‘The vampire saved my life.’
(He tried to smother me.)
After a while, when he didn’t reply, she added, ‘The
two kids came looking for you. Tall black guy, skinny long-haired
chick. Nearly got themselves killed. Did they—’
‘They found me, yes.’
Justine nodded briskly, half-smiled, and turned towards the
door.
Suddenly he didn’t want her to leave. Not just yet.
Probably a reaction to having seen virtually no-one since he’d
been discharged from hospital. Over a week now. ‘You were
close. You and your sister.’
‘We had no-one else.’
‘What will you do?’
Justine turned back to face him. ‘Soldier can’t
fight if the captain’s deserted,’ she said, her hand
resting on the door knob. ‘Gotta job. Flipping burgers down
at Pier Nine. Near the Ferris wheel.’ The click as the door
closed echoed round the apartment. He could hear her heavy boots
tramping down the stairs.
Wesley picked up the keys, still warm from her hand, crushed
them in his palm. Stared at them for a long while, then replaced
them carefully on the bookcase beside his glasses.
Maybe he’d stop by Pier Nine one day.