Buffy the Vampire Slayer - Buffy Season4 08 by unknow

Author:unknow
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2012-06-30T13:33:26+00:00

Angel and Wesley were waiting inside Bo Peterson’s house when he pulled his truck into the drive. He killed the engine and a moment later walked through his own front door. Fortunately for Angel, Peterson didn’t know the spell that could uninvite a vampire who had once been invited in. Peterson’s mouth fell open with shock when he saw the two men sitting in his living room. Wesley folded the newspaper he’d been flipping through, set it down beside him on the sofa, and stood up. Angel kept his seat. “Time for us to have another talk, Bo,” he said calmly. The calm was a façade. Peterson made him sick. Any cop who used the badge to cover up, or facilitate, his own crimes, was the lowest of the low to Angel. At least, as far as humans went. There were death demons Angel liked better, because at least they were honest about their shortcomings.

Peterson’s continued existence on the planet infuriated Angel to his core. When he felt this way, he worried a little—this was Angelus territory, he knew. The kind of emotion he’d been comfortable with, in those days. When one was full of rage, it was easy to unleash it on others. As Angel, he worked to hold that back, to channel it in more acceptable directions. But Peterson brought it all front and center.

Peterson looked questioningly at Wesley.

“Wesley Wyndam-Pryce,” Wesley offered. “I can’t say it’s a pleasure to meet you, considering what I’ve heard. But it should be an illuminating conversation. I don’t believe I’ve ever spoken with a crooked police officer before.”

“That you knew about,” Angel put in.

“Quite so.” Wesley inclined his head.

“Did I accidentally say something once that made you think you could come around here any time you feel like it?” Peterson demanded angrily.

“You should have thought of that before you decided to go on the take,” Angel observed, barely keeping the fury that bubbled inside him in check. “You don’t have a private life anymore. You belong to me.”

Peterson looked defiant, but Angel knew the man could be broken. More easily each time, he believed.

“I don’t think so,” Peterson objected. But his face was pale and his expression shaky.

“You keep thinking that,” Angel told him. “But you’ll give me what I want.”

Now he looked even more uneasy. “And that is?”

“Who’s Vishnikoff?”

Peterson blinked. “Never heard the name.”

“We know differently,” Wesley interjected. He balled his fists and took a step toward Peterson, who outweighed him by about a hundred pounds, most of it solid muscle. “You’re going to sing like a canary,” he said in his best Bogart.

Peterson looked at Wesley. Wesley looked at Angel. “Not helpful?”

“Not particularly,” Angel said.

“Sorry.” Wesley stepped back. “Carry on, then.”

“Vishnikoff,” Angel reminded Peterson.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Peterson insisted, but if he had ever harbored acting ambitions, it was good he had a day job.

“Vish-ni-koff,” Angel said again, separating out each syllable. “It’s a Russian name, if that helps.”

“Why would that help?”

“You trying to tell us you’re

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