Vengeance

07

Seraphim turns to leave when Angel's voice rings out

"What are you going to do after this?"

Seraphim freezes. Her gaze trained on the bookcase peeking out from the doorway. Her eyes shut. She reopens them and schools her expression. She mustn't show weakness. She turns around and shrugs as if asked what she would like for dinner.

"I don't know. Maybe die again."

The casual tone she applies to the heavy words sends a shiver through Angel. He goes rigid and swears his heart has ceased to beat. None of the nightmares she inflicted on him could compare to the image of that. He can't lose her, not like that, not forever. The phantom she is, no matter how gut-wrenching, is alive. Even when she requested he abandon her Alan passed along updates to him. He had something to hold onto. He can't imagine his life without her presence in one form or another. They've been friends, partners, lovers - something for almost two decades. It's always been the two of them. What's a coin without one of its faces?"

Seraphim's eyes flicker over his face. First there is shock, but it morphs into fear and finally, hurt. She digs her nails into the flesh of her palm, savoring the pinpricks of pain. She deserves it. She has done this to him, given him false hope, made him turn against all he believes. He should loathe her. She deserves it, but its too late. What has been set in motion can't be stopped and she wouldn't end it if she could. Seraphim deserves vengeance and she won't give it up. Not for Angel. Not for anyone.

Seraphim leaves and vanishes into the night.

***

Seraphim drops down on the sloped roof. Her suit keeps the rain from touching her bare skin, but her hair is drenched. The cropped strands are plastered to the side of her face. She peels them away from her cheek and tucks them behind her ear. Around her the relentless rain hurls itself against the shingles of the roof.

She crouches down, gasping one of the roof's vertexes. The storm clouds have muted the moon's visibility. Instead of producing a radiant glow as bright as any flashlight, it resembles the beam of a halogen floodlight.

It's enough and with it she can see the winding deserted streets of the cul-de-sac. If it weren't for the roar of the wind and rain it would be almost dead silent. In the background she can hear a dog bark and a car door slam. All around Striker's house is quiet though. There is a sole light on in the house across the street.

Seraphim climbs over the vertex and slides to the roof's edge. Gripping the protruding ledge with her gloved hand, she drops down, landing on the stone patio with a muted thump. She glances around once more before reaching for the handle of the glass door. Seraphim gives it an experimental tug and, to her shock, it parts. Her gaze darts from the gap to the dark inside, visible through the unobstructed glass.

It seems a rather foolish thing for a man such as Striker. Too foolish. She traces the doorway with her eyes, searching for triggers or hints of a trap. There's nothing.

He's heard of Tidal Wave's death. He must know she is the culprit. Why would he overlook such a basic defense?

She has come to far to turn back. She slides the door open further and slips inside, scanning the dark interior for signs of danger. She shuts the door and the house is plunged into an uneasy silence.

The only light in the kitchen is the illuminated digital numbers on the stove and microwave. They announce the time to be 10:44. The fragments of light are enough to grant her a sense of the room.

She makes her way across the linoleum, thankful for her boots which mute her footfalls. The hall is illuminated by streetlight streaming in through the half-bath window. Seraphim glances both ways. To her right is a hall with three open doors and to the left the hall blooms outwards into the foyer.