Disclaimer: The character 'Angel' belongs to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy Inc and other corporate entities. Original characters and story remain the property of the author, who is at the end of the day, just having fun.

Summary: Sequel to The Hobo (which you don't need to have read) Angel tries to come to terms with the immediate past, but people just won't leave him alone to brood. No spoilers.

Thanks: to my wonderful beta, Cam, who has helped me turn something pretty mediocre into something so much better.
Rating R (language)

Warning: This story is set in the 1930s. As such it contains language appropriate to that time period. In particular, it contains racist language which many people today are bound to find offensive.

The Fugitive

by Cas

Oregon, summer 1934

Saturday

The mile long train clanked slowly northwards to The Dalles on the track following the course of the Deschutes River, across ponderosa scrub and open grassland. Inside an empty boxcar towards the rear of the train, Angel sat in the stifling, creosote stinking heat, staring blankly at the walls. He hardly saw the flickering light that filtered through cracks in them or heard the click of the wheels along the track and the occasional ding, ding, ding as the train passed a crossing. The steady rhythm was usually soporific, but not today. Today, he couldn't stop thinking about the events of the last few weeks - the pain from the gunshot wound in his shoulder was a constant reminder. The wound from the bullet that had also killed Jimmy.

Sometimes, he really wished he had the strength to walk into the sun. No matter how bad things got, apparently, they could always get worse. This boy who had been so insistent in believing that there was something in him that was worth caring about, was now dead. Because of him. He hadn't made Jimmy leave when he could have done. He had been starting to believe what the boy had kept saying, because it was good to hear, even if he knew, deep inside, that it could never be true. So he had let the boy stay, and now he was dead.

He put his head in his hands and cried.

**************

Coming out of his office in the newsroom of the Portland Examiner, Ed noticed Malloy sitting at his desk staring into the middle distance. He shook his head and went over. "Hey, Malloy, I can see you're real busy," he said with heavy sarcasm.

Malloy shrugged in response, barely looking round, he didn't really care what his boss thought any more.

"So this should be right up your street," said Ed, folding his arms and grinning. "Story just came over the wire about a hobo that killed a travelling showman and kidnapped a kid down in Crook County."

Crook County? Back end of nowhere, Malloy reflected. "And?" There had to be more to it than that. There was.

"Oh and get this, county sheriff says the guy's a vampire." Ed couldn't help chortling as Malloy turned disbelieving eyes on him.

"You're kidding me right? Some crazy freaks out and that makes this hick sheriff think he's a vampire? Jeez."

Ed shrugged. "I dunno. You're the reporter. You go find out. Anyway, figured it would give you something to do after, you know…" He shifted uncomfortably.

"To stop me thinking about all the money that bitch, Ruthie has cost me, you mean," Malloy clarified with a flare of anger.

Ed looked embarrassed for a moment. "Yeah, kid, something like that." In a brighter tone he continued, "So anyway, Jack Van Helsing, Ace Reporter, go get this vampire killer."

Oh great! Malloy glared at Ed as his boss turned, grinning and went back into his office. He was going to be Jack Van Helsing for the rest of his life. But he swore, if anyone called him that to his face, they were dead meat.

He picked up the sheet of paper Ed had left on his desk and read the brief details that had come over the wire. Crook County? God!

Ed peered through the blinds of his office out into the newsroom. At least Malloy had stopped staring out of the window. Now he might actually get something done. It would make a change.

***************

Although it was evening, it was still hot as Malloy jumped down out of the bus. When his feet landed, a puff of dust rose from the ground and covered his polished shoes. The driver threw his bag down at his feet. It landed with an even bigger puff of dust. He picked it up.

The bus had stopped outside what appeared to be Prineville's only hotel. It looked as if it had seen better days. So did the woman who let him a room. Raddled, in her forties, with harshly bleached blonde hair, she looked him up and down as if she'd like to chew him up and spit him out. She could give Mae West lessons.

"So, what's a guy like you doing coming to a place like this?" she asked. Even her conversation was derivative.

"Business," said Malloy. He never liked telling people what he did unless he had to. As soon as folks knew you were a reporter, they tended to tell you what they thought you wanted to hear. Now if they were just passing the time of day… So he flashed the woman an admiring smile. "Say, I was sitting next to a guy on the bus, said there had been some mighty strange things going on round here in the last few days. Hope it won't make the folks I have to see think twice about things."

The woman snorted, her expression telling him what she thought of his admiring smile. "I suppose strange is as good a word as any."

Malloy offered her a cigarette. After a pause and an ironic lift to one eyebrow, she accepted. He lit it for her as she settled comfortably to tell him all about it.

Later, when he finally got to his room, he wasn't sure what to think. Sure, the woman had embroidered what she said a little, but he'd bet it wasn't by much. And despite the impossibility of it, there was a horrible ring of truth to the story, made all the more real by the prosaic nature of the surroundings. Vampires? It hardly seemed possible. Vampires in Oregon? It couldn't be possible.

However, thanks to the woman he now had a list of people to talk to. The carny guys, the guys at the rail yard, the sheriff and Jimmy Woodward. He looked down at the flyer the woman had given him. As good a place to start as any, they might be gone in the morning.

In the light from the setting sun, the booths of the carny looked tawdry and lacklustre. The illustrations painted on the front, fantastic and dreary at the same time, making promises that both vendor and carny goer knew would never be kept. What bearded lady or other fairground freak ever truly impressed, Malloy wondered. He had been right to come now though, they were taking the booths down and packing everything away in their trailers.

Right at the end of the row of booths was one where the paint was fresher, more garish and the illustrations even more fanciful.

"Straight from Transylvania, huh?" Malloy commented, walking up to the man taking the booth down.

The carny guy grunted and carried on with what he was doing. Then he looked up and said, "Whoever heard of a vampire that wasn't from Transylvania?"

Malloy shrugged, the guy had a point. "Musta been quite a show." As the other man's face darkened, he saw that that was not the right thing to say.

"Depends on the sorta things you find fun to watch," the carny guy said, glaring at him.

Malloy tried to recover his ground. "Oh me, baseball, horse-racing, movies that kinda thing."

The carny guy snorted and carried on dismantling the booth.

"It's just," Malloy continued, "that someone was telling me what had happened here and it seemed kinda unreal. Especially the bit about the guy really being a vampire." He paused to light a cigarette, offering one to the carny guy.

"Oh, that bit was true," the man responded, accepting the cigarette. He straightened up, taking a long drag on it and exhaled a cloud of blue smoke. Malloy must have looked disbelieving as the guy continued, "Why, calling me a liar?"

Quickly Malloy demurred. "No, no not at all. It's just not the sort of thing you expect to hear about in a place like this. No spooky castle for one thing." They both looked round in the searing heat at the dusty town. "I mean, hey, crazy hobo kidnaps a kid and kills a guy, that's quarter of an inch of newsprint in any paper outside the county. But crazy vampire kidnaps a kid…. that's kinda different."

The guy looked Malloy in the eye. "He weren't crazy. Well, not much, and he didn't kidnap the kid. If anything, the kid kidnapped him."

"So what happened to him?" Malloy asked.

The carny guy shrugged. "Depends who you talk to. Some folks think he's dead, other folks think he managed to get on a train heading south."

"What do you think?" Malloy tried to sound casual.

He must have failed. The carny guy suddenly narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "None of your damn business. And anyway, what is it to you? You a cop or something?"

Malloy's face broke into a grin and he laughed. "You think I'm a cop?" Oh if only Ed could hear this! He reckoned it was time to come clean. "Name's Malloy," he said, "With the Portland Examiner. I'm a reporter."

The guy spat in the dust. "Almost as bad," he said. "You'd just want to lock the guy up or make an exhibition of him. If he was still alive, of course."

"Of course," Malloy agreed. He was curious about the man's attitude. "If he really was a vampire don't you think he should have been locked up, or staked or something?" He tried to remember everything he'd ever read about vampires.

"Never seemed dangerous to me," the carny guy responded.

"What? Not even when he was eating people?" Malloy rolled his eyes.

The guy ignored the sarcasm. "Huh, never saw him do that."

"So he didn't eat, er, drink blood then?" Malloy asked.

"Oh he drank blood all right, used to give him pig's blood. You shouda seen the difference it made."

Malloy still wasn't sure if the carny guy was spinning him a yarn. He didn't know much about vampires, had never been particularly interested, if truth be told. Sure he'd seen that Bela Lugosi movie a couple of years back but that was about all. He was having difficulty squaring the images from that movie with the very ordinary surroundings of a small town carnival. "So how come a vampire ended up working in a carny for God's sake?" he asked.

The carny guy fixed Malloy with a look. "Well, it wasn't like he had much choice."

Later, back in his hotel room, Malloy poured himself a shot of whiskey from the bottle he had brought with him. In the end, he had decided that the carny guy had believed every word he had told him and that he was also quite sure that the hobo was still alive. However, when Malloy went to see the sheriff, at the first mention of vampires, the man had quickly backtracked.

"Hell no!" he had exclaimed. "I reckon we all got carried away, believing the show the carny put on." Then he had laughed. "'Spose it was 'cause for once it was a decent show," he said. "We ran 'em outa town last year 'cause it was so bad." He had looked Malloy straight in the eye as he concluded, "He weren't no vampire. Don't you know, son, there ain't no such thing."

Which, Malloy thought later, meant one of two things. Either the man was telling the truth, or he had realised that he faced ridicule from the outside world if he continued to go on about vampires. The more people round here went on about vampires the crazier they sounded which meant everything they said was likely to be discredited.

He poured himself another shot of whiskey. The sheriff had seemed quite keen that the whole business should be buried and forgotten, so Malloy was unsurprised that the sheriff was now adamant that the hobo had drowned in the Deschutes river, earlier reports notwithstanding. Maybe he had, maybe the sheriff had made sure he drowned, or then again maybe it was a convenient way of not having to follow anything up. The first frisson of excitement flashed across his mind as he considered, for a second, that the vampire deal might be true. Then he dismissed the idea as quickly. Whatever it was, he needed to talk to the kid, see what he had to say. Somehow he didn't think that was going to be easy.

***************

Eventually, long after sunset, the train slowed as it came up to the junction with the main line that ran east from Portland. Angel heaved the heavy sliding door of the boxcar open enough for him to sit on the edge. It would be safer to get off the train before it got to the next town. He hadn't thought beyond that.

Sitting there for a few moments, legs dangling, he took a deep, unneeded breath of the blast of cool air that swept inside. He could smell grass and pollen and in the distance a hint of diesel. It was better than creosote. The night was dark, heavy cloud obscuring the almost full moon, but there was more than enough light to see that when he looked down the ground fell away steeply. Not the best place to jump, but that hardly mattered. It wasn't as if the fall would kill him.

He jumped, curling up to protect his injured shoulder. Hitting the ground was always harder than he expected. This time he landed awkwardly and jarred an ankle. As he landed he heard shouts. Damn! He should have known they would be waiting for him here.

As the last of the boxcars disappeared down the track, red lanterns swinging, he looked round, but there was no cover nearby. Long grass stretched as far as he could see, down towards the thick, dark line of a large river. Probably the Columbia, he thought irrelevantly. Along the river's edge the lights of the town twinkled. Nearer at hand, he could see the men now, dark shapes blocking the way to the town and the river. From the sound of angry shouts it seemed he hadn't been the only one taking a free ride on the train.

He tried to run then, keeping low and zigzagging through the grass, but his ankle threatened to buckle even if he ignored the pain. The men were getting nearer now. Suddenly he tripped on a stone, almost falling, and automatically put his right arm out to steady himself. It wasn't enough to keep his balance and he toppled forwards, landing on his hand. He screamed, then crumpled up, moaning, clutching his wound. Before he could get up, he heard the click of a safety catch being released and felt the jar as the barrel of a shotgun was knocked against his temple. He froze.

"I wouldn't move an inch if I was you," a voice said, then shouted over to the right. "Hey, Earl! I got 'nuther one here."

"Well, bring him over, ya fool!" another voice replied.

The gun barrel was knocked against his temple again and Angel heard the voice behind him say, "OK, you heard the man, up you get and keep your hands where I can see 'em."

Slowly he staggered to his feet, gritting his teeth at the pain in his shoulder, nevertheless careful to hold his hands out. He could smell the sour, yeasty smell of beer coming from the man and if he was drunk he might just be ornery enough to shoot him for the hell of it.

Then the shotgun was jabbed into the small of his back. "This way, big fella," the guy said, pushing him forwards.

Angel stumbled, wincing at the pain in his ankle, and limped towards where he could now see two more of the railroad bulls, each with their own prisoner.

"Like fleas off of a drowning rat," one of them was chortling.

"What we do with 'em now, Earl?" the man behind Angel asked.

"Take 'em down to the yard same as always, Luke ya dumb asshole," responded Earl, a big, burly man, reeking of tobacco and stale sweat, face covered in three day stubble. The metallic gleam of a badge showed the source of his authority.

Angel was herded into the back of a truck with the other two prisoners. They were resigned rather than afraid. Old hands. One man, dark hair shot through with flecks of grey, and thin as a rail under his baggy clothes, sat staring at his boots with apathy. This was obviously something he was used to. The other was older, his woolly hair almost white, a contrast with his dark skin. He sat, a slight smile creasing his face, twiddling a harmonica in his hands. He noticed Angel staring at him, and the smile broadened, adding a twinkle to his dark eyes. He seemed about to say something, but two of the bulls got into the back of the truck with them and the moment passed.

As the truck lurched over a rutted track that gradually improved as they approached the town, the two bulls sat looking pleased with themselves. They didn't have a lot to do. The rail yard here wasn't busy, most freight going south went down the Willamette valley, further west, and most freight heading for Portland or back east barely even slowed here. The truck finally lurched to a halt and the prisoners were ordered down.

A single light bulb hung from the ceiling of the filthy room, at the back of the small building the railroad police used. The dim light it cast was barely enough to show that it was empty. The prisoners shuffled inside, and the door was slammed shut behind them. Angel heard the click as the key turned in the lock. None of the prisoners had spoken to one another, and they didn't speak now, moving to different corners of the room.

Angel sank down onto the floor and leaned back against the wall. He needed to drink, but he was unlikely to be able to. He ground his teeth, swallowing down the gnawing hunger, and closed his eyes. At least it didn't look as if they had been waiting for him. This was just a regular trawl by the bulls. All he had to do was keep his head down.

The old, coloured man pulled out his harmonica and softly started to play. Angel opened his eyes and looked over at the man. "What is it, son? Doncha like music?"

Angel snorted and closed his eyes again.

From the front of the building he could hear the chink of glasses and the trickle of liquid being poured. The bulls were celebrating. Harsh laughter filtered through to the prisoners. It sounded as if they were going to make a night of it.

As time went on, the laughter got more drunken, and then another note crept in. Angel's eyes flicked open and he glanced over at the door in resignation. It banged open. The harmonica music stopped. The big burly one stood there, silhouetted against the light. He had a bottle in one hand and a shotgun in the other. If he hadn't been drunk before, he was now.

"No-one rides the Union Pacific without paying, one way or another," he addressed the prisoners, leering. "We want all the money you've got, might just about cover the cost of the ride. Empty your pockets."

They all knew the routine. The younger of the other hobos sighed and produced a handful of small change. Earl grunted in disgust as he added it up. "Dollar and twenty three cents," he announced. "Luke, make sure he's not hiding any elsewhere."

But Luke didn't find any more, not even in the man's boots.

Angel pulled out the pockets of his pants to show he had nothing in them. "I don't have any money," he said. This didn't satisfy the bull, who grunted and patted him down anyway. Then he turned and said to the one in charge, "Reckon he's right, Earl."

Earl grinned. "Well, that's just too bad." Quickly shifting the barrel of the shotgun into his hands he swung the stock double handed at Angel's head.

The thwack as it connected was hard enough to knock the vampire over, seeing stars. Stay down, stay down, he told himself, fighting them always made it worse.

Earl gave him a kick in the kidneys and promised, "We'll finish with you later." He turned his attention on the old, coloured man. "Well, Gramps, let's see what you got."

The old man shrugged, his eyes guileless. "Ain't got no money neither."

Earl grinned again in an unpleasant way. "An' you reckon 'cause you're about a hundred years old that that's gonna save you from a beating like the guy over there?" He waved a hand over to where Angel was lying, feigning unconsciousness, but well aware of what was going on.

Again the old man shrugged.

Earl snorted. "Fucking nigger." He spat on the floor and waved his shotgun at the old man. "Unless you've changed your mind about having no money?"

The old man still said nothing.

Earl took offence at this. "I ain't being stared at like I was trash by some uppity nigger," he snarled and hit the old man on the head with his rifle butt, as he had done with Angel. The old man dropped to the floor, but Earl wasn't done. "O'Reilly!"

The one called O'Reilly jumped.

"There's some rope out front. Go get it. Time we taught Gramps here a real lesson." He kicked the old man's prone body.

"Um, Earl are you sure…" O'Reilly looked uneasy.

"Do I have to repeat myself?" Earl demanded to the room in general.

O'Reilly backed down. "I'll go get the rope," he muttered. He shuffled out of the room and Angel could hear him rummaging around in the front office.

Angel opened his eyes and flicked a glance at the other hobo. He was still standing at the back of the room, where Luke was covering him with his gun. He could see his own disquiet reflected in the other hobo's eyes, but he could also see that the man wouldn't interfere.

O'Reilly came back, a length of rope coiled in his hands. He handed it to Earl who immediately started fashioning a noose.

As Earl knelt down and flung the completed noose around the old man's neck, O'Reilly said in an uneasy voice, "Earl, you ain't serious 'bout this."

"Too damn right I'm serious," slurred Earl.

Angel stared at the floor, struggling not to remember other occasions when he had murdered without compunction as Earl was going to do; struggling not to remember the pleading and the screaming; but more than anything, struggling not to remember the thrill and the rush it gave him. It wasn't working. But he realised that being here at all and doing nothing would make him complicit in what these men did. The blood of yet another innocent on his hands. Outside his mind he sensed contemptuous amusement.

"I'm not having nothing more to do with this," muttered O'Reilly. He turned and left, banging the door behind him. In the distance Angel heard the main door of the building slam as he left.

Angel didn't want to be there either, involved in what was going on. "Leave the old man alone," he said finally, still staring at the floor.

Earl swung round, narrowing his eyes at the prisoner. "What did you say?" He sounded incredulous.

"I said, leave the old man alone." Angel raised his head and looked up at the railroad detective. The man was standing above him, a sneer on his face.

Then Earl laughed. "Better watch out, scumbag, or we'll lynch you when we've finished with him."

"No you won't."

Angel launched himself at the man, changing as he did so. He moved so fast Earl didn't have time to scream, as his head banged against the wall knocking him out. Before the other man could even turn his shotgun towards him, Angel had leapt over to him and had him by the throat. Struggling to control himself in the blast of fear and piss he smelled from the man he hissed at the other hobo, "Get the old man and get out, now!"

The hobo didn't need telling twice. By this time the old man had pulled himself to his knees and was dazedly shaking his head. The hobo grabbed one of his hands and pulled him to his feet, dragging him out of the room. As the door banged behind them, Angel's instincts overcame him, the need to drink was so great.

At last, with a gasp of revulsion at himself, he flung the man's body away from him. He sank to his knees, relaxing out of the change and reflexively wiped the man's blood off his mouth. Feeling rejuvenated in a way he hadn't for months, if not longer, Angel closed his eyes, with every passing second feeling the damaged tissues in his shoulder start to knit together and heal, strength returning. Oh yes, he had needed to drink.

Then he gave himself a shake and looked over at the man's body, hoping to see the rise and fall of his chest, but there was nothing. He stretched forwards and picked up the man's wrist. His questing fingers found a faintly fluttering pulse that died away to nothing after a few moments. Too late, the man was dead. He despised himself for allowing his overwhelming need to control him, but the guilt he felt for the man's death was tempered by the knowledge that he had seemed happy to be involved in murder.

Then he heard the main door open again, and someone come up the corridor. Whoever it was would be easy enough to deal with. But then it occurred to him that it would be easier for him if they thought the other hobo had been the one who had killed this one, at least for a while. He glanced over to where Earl was lying slumped against the wall, a trickle of blood running down his forehead, his breathing loud and stertorous. He might never come to. Angel flung himself over onto the floor where he had fallen when Earl had hit him before. The door opened.

O'Reilly had banged the door behind him as he left the building. His anger and disgust throwing off the fog the liquor had cast over his brain. Hell he was no saint, but the thought of lynching someone just about made him puke.

He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, angrily dragging hard on it, making the end glow bright red in the dark. The harsh smoke filling his lungs calmed him down a bit after a while and he stopped pacing up and down. Fact of the matter was, he needed the job and wasn't about to walk away from it. You're turning into an old woman, he sneered at himself. Never had any problems in beating up hobos who couldn't pay. And yet, sheesh! Killing someone, even a nigger, was different.

From the front of the building the door banged. That was quick, O'Reilly thought. He walked back round to the front, in time to hear footsteps running off between a couple of boxcars. He waited for the others to appear, but nothing happened. Finishing the cigarette he flung the butt on the ground and walked inside. The door to the storeroom was closed, but he couldn't hear anything. He tentatively pushed it open.

"Holy shit!"

Sunday

Jed Andrews, the Wasco County sheriff, did not appreciate getting woken up at half past three in the morning by a hysterical railroad detective. However, he eventually grasped what O'Reilly was trying to tell him and got down to the rail yard as quick as he could.

He was still not sure the extent to which O'Reilly had been exaggerating - the man had sounded as if he had been drinking after all. So he arrived, prepared to find the remains of a fight over cards. But the sight of O'Reilly's pale features and shaking hands soon cleared that up for him. "What happened?" he demanded.

"Well, Earl's near dead, Mr Andrews, and Luke is. I reckon one of them hobos did it."

The sheriff sighed. "Start at the beginning, O'Reilly. What hobos?"

"Oh, right, well, we brung three hobos in tonight. Caught 'em coming off a freight train south of town," O'Reilly said with a self-satisfied smirk, but the expression faded as he continued, "We brung 'em back here. And I don't rightly know what happened." He broke eye contact and looked down at his hands. "I, er, stepped out for a smoke. I heard someone running off, and when I went to see what was up, two of them hobos was missing, Earl and Luke was lying on the floor…" His voice trailed off.

Andrews frowned. "What about the other hobo?"

"Oh he's still here. He was out cold too."

"So the other two hobos attacked Earl, Luke and this one, is that what you're saying?"

O'Reilly looked uncertain. "Not exactly. He was, uh, out cold before I went out."

"Uh huh. So he wouldn't be able to say what happened then?"

"Shount think so," O'Reilly responded.

"OK let's have a description of the other two hobos." Andrews folded his arms.

When O'Reilly had finished however, the sheriff frowned in dissatisfaction. "O'Reilly, you are trying to tell me that a half starved hobo and an old coloured man, both unarmed, attacked and killed one armed man and wounded another?"

"I guess." O'Reilly sounded uncertain.

"Hmmm." Andrews sniffed the air, and caught a yeasty whiff. He glared at the railroad detective, "Were you all drunk?"

O'Reilly looked shifty. "Well, we maybe had a coupla beers, but that didn't make no difference."

Andrews gave a disbelieving snort. "Well let's go speak to the other hobo, see what he has to say."

O' Reilly had at least shown some sense, Andrews thought when he saw the remaining hobo. The man had been locked up in an empty storeroom, and he was sitting against one wall, arms resting on his knees. The guy turned his head and looked at him. Andrews got the distinct impression that if the man had been a dog he would have growled and his hackles would have gone up. Just went to show you that all these scumbags were stinking animals at heart.

"Right, stand up," he ordered.

The man didn't move for a long moment, then he got to his feet. He was tall, taller, than himself, Andrews thought. There was an ugly bruise down one side of his face, probably what had knocked him out cold. His face was expressionless but the sheriff still got the impression the man was growling at him. "I want to know what happened," he said.

"I don't know," the guy responded.

Andrews hit the man across the face. Dark red blood welled up from where the man's teeth had bitten into his lips, and trickled down the side of his mouth. He ignored it.

"Let's say I don't believe you," Andrews said flatly. "What happened?" he demanded again, this time pulling out his cosh and swinging it gently from one hand.

The guy's eyes followed the swing, hardening, and this time Andrews could have sworn he really did growl at him, a low sing-song in the back of his throat. This was sufficiently weird to make Andrews back off for a moment. However, refusing to be intimidated by a filthy hobo he added, "I mean, you expect me to believe you slept right through two men getting violently attacked?"

"I don't care what you believe," the guy said glaring at him.

While the sheriff was just about fed up with this attitude, he didn't really think this man had had anything to do with the attack. O'Reilly had confirmed he had been out cold both before and afterwards, and that bruise was evidence in itself. However he felt the guy needed breaking of his attitude, so he turned to O'Reilly and asked, "What you usually do when you catch 'em?"

Again O'Reilly looked shifty, "Well, er, that depends."

"On what? How bored you are?" He sighed. "I am asking what you usually do, not what you are supposed to do."

"If they can't pay, beat 'em up and let 'em go. Saves on the paperwork," O'Reilly muttered.

"I'm sure it does." Andrews tossed his head over at the hobo, "So, teach him the usual lesson and throw him off railroad property."

O'Reilly sounded relieved. "Right you are, Mr Andrews."

***************

Later, although it couldn't have been much later, Angel regained consciousness. He groaned. There was a throbbing pain in his head, and it felt like every muscle in his body had been pummelled. But it wasn't just the pain that made him groan, there was a sense of urgency growing in him, a feeling of awful, naked exposure. He opened his eyes.

He was lying in a ditch beside a road that ran along beside the rail yard fence, with a patch of scrubby woodland beyond. He didn't need the clear, dawn light to tell him sunrise was fast approaching, his internal sundial did that. With a feeling close to panic, he knew he had to move, had to get away from the sun.

With an effort he pulled himself to his feet, but a wave of dizziness swept over him and he fell over again. Trying a second time, he managed to stand up, swaying slightly. The trees weren't far off. He desperately hoped there would be enough shade.

As he staggered into the patch of woodland, his hopes plummeted and he felt a wrenching twist of fear in his guts. The thick forest of further west had dried out here. He was frantic when at last he found a shelter of sorts in the space underneath two trees that had fallen across one another. Quickly he pulled branches over it trying to ensure he would be completely covered throughout the day. At last he was satisfied and curled up where the leaves were densest and slept.

***************

Malloy got out of the borrowed pick up truck and looked around, screwing his eyes up in the glare from the early morning sun. The house wasn't very big, and had a kind of run down appearance as if the people who lived there were putting all their energies into other things, surviving perhaps. A woman was standing arms folded, at the door behind the insect screen, watching him. Her thin, straggly hair was pulled back behind her head, and her expression was tired and strained. She was probably younger than she looked.

Malloy tipped his hat to her. "Ma'am," he said.

The woman looked him up and down, taking in his dusty, city suit, and said, "What you want, mister?"

Malloy walked forwards, smiling. "Name's Malloy, ma'am. You Misses Woodward?"

The woman shrugged, which Malloy decided to take as an affirmative, but she didn't smile back. "You didn't answer my question, Mister Malloy."

Malloy realised there was no getting away from it. She wasn't going to make any small talk. "I wondered if I could talk to you and your son, Misses Woodward," he replied.

"Why?"

"Uh, I work for the Portland Examiner, and we heard that there had been some mighty strange things happening down here."

She looked as if she was about to slam the door in his face. "My son got shot," she said flatly.

"So I heard, that's why I wondered if I could talk to the two of you, your husband too if he's around?"

At this her hand had actually come up to the door handle, when there was a weak cry from the back of the house, "Mom!"

Instantly she flung round and disappeared.

Malloy couldn't help noticing that she hadn't completed the action of closing the door. He grinned. Now to get his foot in the door.

Silently he stepped up onto the porch and opened the insect screen, catching the door before it swung closed. Inside, the hall was gloomy. Voices were coming from a room off to the left.

"Mom I'm not stupid!" a boy's voice complained, sounding weak and fretful. "If he had gone I'd've heard the truck engine fire up."

"Oh now Jimmy," the woman responded.

"Is it someone with news about Angel?" the boy's voice demanded, eagerness overcoming the weakness of the tone. "Please, Mom, tell me!"

"It's nothing that need concern you, son. You just lie down and take your medicine like the Doc said." The woman tried to sound authoritative but was unable to hide the desperate concern in her voice.

Even Malloy felt that the woman was losing ground. He tip-toed along the corridor and pushed open the door of the boy's room. "It would be much easier if you let me talk to the boy, Misses Woodward," he said.

The woman whirled round, outrage on her face. "How dare you come into my house! Get out!"

Malloy threw up his hands as the woman seemed on the verge of physically attacking him. The boy yelled, "Mom! stop it!" Then he turned to Malloy, "Have you got news of Angel, mister?"

Malloy looked at the tow-haired boy, taking in his pale features and the bandage round his shoulder. But above all the desperate hope in his face. Whoever Angel was, he meant a lot to the kid. He would have lied, but the boy's mother was bound to call his bluff. He shook his head. "Sorry, no I don't." The boy's face fell, prompting, Malloy to add, "But I'm trying to find out."

"I'm not having my son talking to a reporter," the woman stated, but eventually gave way before the boy's insistence.

Malloy sat down on the edge of the boy's bed and was about to pull out a cigarette, but thought better of it. "So," he said, "tell me about Angel. What does he look like?"

The boy considered. "Well he's pretty tall, with dark hair. He needs a hair cut."

Malloy smiled at this comment. "How old is he?"

Again the boy considered. "I don't rightfully know, but he looks sorta the same age as you."

"What do you mean 'looks'?"

"Well, being a vampire an' all, could be any age I guess."

"Oh, of course." Malloy smiled again, a little uneasily this time. However the description pretty much matched the one he'd had from the sheriff.

"What does he do?"

The boy looked surprised. "Don't you know? He's a hobo."

"Oh, right." Malloy looked round the sparsely furnished room, and his eyes saw a dog-eared copy of a Weird Tales magazine peeking out from under the bed. Inspiration perhaps, he wondered. "How do you know he's a vampire?"

Jimmy looked at the reporter as if he were an idiot. "Because he changed, of course, and he drinks blood."

"What do you mean changed?" Malloy got the boy to describe in as minute detail as possible exactly what happened when the hobo had 'changed'.

Jimmy's Mom turned round from where she had been standing staring out of the window. "Right, Mister Malloy, that's enough."

"But I'm not through."

"Yes you are. My son needs to rest."

"One last question then. Please?" Malloy looked at the woman. She gave a reluctant nod. The reporter turned back to the boy. "Did he kidnap you?"

"Course not. I was rescuing him from the carny. I took him down to the main line where he could get a train out of here."

"Right. I see. Thanks." He stood up. "Don't worry I'm gonna find him."

Jimmy smiled. "Will you tell him I'm all right, in case he's worried? That it wasn't his fault I got shot?"

Malloy smiled back. The lie was easy. "Sure," he said.

As he drove back to town, Malloy felt that frisson of excitement again. It lasted for a little bit longer this time before he thrust the idea away as just plain dumb. The kid had to be making it up - all those Weird Tales magazines were evidence of that. Too much H.P. Lovecraft giving him nightmares or something.

***************

Back in town he tried to speak to the rail yard supervisor, an unpleasant looking man who sat in his sparsely furnished office looking out on the whole world with contempt. At first the man wouldn't talk to him, but the reporter persevered.

"I don't usually talk to the press, Mr Malloy and I'm certainly not going to talk about vampires," he said eventually in a thin, precise voice. "There's no such thing as vampires."

"I know that," responded Malloy. "It's just that quite a few folks round here seem to think there are, Mr Duffy and I was wondering why."

Duffy gave a superior smile. "Just a crazy hobo," he said. "There's lot of them. It's not even as if they made much of an effort to catch the man," he complained in an aggrieved tone. "He's very dangerous, you know. He stood there, and broke that poor man's neck in front of us all. If we hadn't stopped him he would have murdered that child as well."

"That so," murmured Malloy encouragingly.

"Yes that is so," Duffy said, beginning to sound annoyed. "We tracked that man down to one of the bridges over the river and then that fool of a sheriff said the dogs had lost the scent."

"The sheriff told me the guy had drowned," Malloy commented.

Duffy snorted. "He would say that of course. There was no evidence the man had drowned, we haven't found a body yet."

"So what do you think happened?" Malloy managed to squeeze some deference into his voice.

The rail yard supervisor looked gratified. "Well the man obviously made his escape on a train."

"But surely that was followed up?"

Duffy sniffed. "I know they had contacted Bend, but I have no idea if they checked up the line, up to Madras and The Dalles. I certainly suggested it." His tone made it quite clear that he could not be held responsible for any consequences arising out of the authorities' failure to act on his suggestion.

"Well I'm sure you did what you could, Mr Duffy," Malloy said soothingly. Then he quickly made his excuses and left, relieved to get away from Duffy's combined air of self-congratulation and self-justification.

Once back in his hotel room though he sat and thought for a while. There didn't seem to be much more he could do here. He either accepted that the story was done, and filed a piece on mass hysteria or some such, or he could follow up and head north, to see what turned up, vampire or no vampire. He knew what his instincts told him.

***************

Once they had checked on Earl, who didn't seem likely to regain consciousness, Andrews and O'Reilly returned to Earl's dreary office at the rail yard.

"So where do you think these fugitives would have headed?" Andrews asked the sleepy railroad detective.

O'Reilly shrugged and yawned. "Could be anywhere," he suggested helpfully. "Course there's that hobo jungle a coupla miles outside of town, might be hiding out there, or someone might've seen them there."

Andrews frowned and yawned himself. "I know the place you mean," he said, although he didn't really, or not well at any rate. While conscientious with important matters, he usually left keeping an eye on vagrants and such to the likes of Earl and his crew. "Earl never saw fit to break it up?"

"Hell, Mr Andrews you know there's only three of us. Any road, even when we do they always come back. It's easier to get rid of poison ivy."

The sheriff acknowledged he had a point, but concluded, "Well it seems as good a place as any to start looking for these scumbags, wouldn't you say?"

"Oh sure, Mr Andrews," O'Reilly nodded, anxious to agree with everything the sheriff said.

In the end it was after lunch by the time they got organised. It didn't take the sheriff long to collect his deputies, of course, but it took O'Reilly a while to gather together enough railroad workers to make sure they could overcome any number of hobos. He hadn't been sure how many there were likely to be. Fortunately there had been a spare group of rail crews who were happy enough, most of them, to get some action.

In the meantime, Andrews, wanting to cover all the angles, put in calls to the county sheriffs down the line, to see if anything unusual had happened. He called Prineville last as it wasn't on Union Pacific tracks. What he heard surprised him.

"You're sure this guy was dead?" he demanded over the crackly connection. "Pretty sure, uh huh. So what did he look like?" When the Crook County sheriff had given the description he slammed the phone down in annoyance, cursing. He was still angry when he stomped into Earl's office, which O'Reilly seemed to have taken over.

"O'Reilly!" he shouted. "You're absolutely sure that guy was out cold the entire time?"

O'Reilly bridled. "'Course I'm sure."

"And that when you 'taught him a lesson', earlier he didn't have no gunshot wound on him?"

"Gunshot wound?" O'Reilly looked astonished. "Think I would've noticed that."

"Musta been the other guy," the sheriff muttered.

"Why? What's this all about?"

"I just checked south, down the line. Seems a hobo killed a showman and kidnapped a kid in Crook County early yesterday."

O'Reilly goggled at him. "So how come we never heard?"

"Sheriff said he was sure the guy had been drowned in the Deschutes. But from the description he could've been either of the two white guys." Andrews pointed at his own shoulder and explained, "He had a gun shot wound in his right shoulder."

O'Reilly shrugged. "Well, my boys are ready. We could go get him."

"So let's go."

***************

The encampment was in a clearing in a hollow in one of the patches of sparse woodland that lined the banks of the river. Open on three sides, the back was a rocky cliff about fifteen feet high or so, a last remnant of the Columbia Gorge.

Andrews, O'Reilly and the rest, could smell it long before they got there. A combination of wood smoke, unwashed human and something cooking. Andrews and O'Reilly crawled forwards to see how many hobos there were. They peered through the trees at the circle of old mattresses gathered round the cook fire. A kid of ten or eleven was sitting beside the fire, stirring a large metal can with a stick. The smell coming from it was surprisingly appetising. On the mattresses were sitting a further eight or nine men of varying ages. Some were talking to one another, but mostly they sat in silence, staring at the flames.

Andrews whispered to O'Reilly. "I make it ten. How about you?"

O'Reilly nodded his agreement. He was surprised at how few there were. The last time they had broken up the camp, the previous fall there had been over thirty. This was going to be a piece of cake.

"Are the bums we're looking for there?" Andrews hissed at O'Reilly.

O'Reilly squinted at the scene before him, wanting to make sure. "Well the old coloured guy ain't there but…" His voice trailed off as he looked round the group of men for the other hobo. Then he was sure. The guy was sitting there, over to the left, hunched over his knees, the worn patches in the blue material of his pants clearly visible. Same grey flecked hair, staring down a long, narrow nose at the fire. O'Reilly pointed. "Him," he said.

Given that they so outnumbered the hobos, it didn't take them long to round them up. Most of them had the sense to keep their mouths shut, and those that didn't soon wished they had. However, when it was clear to the others that the bulls were only interested in one of them they relaxed.

The guy was looking at them in consternation. "What's going on?" he demanded. "I haven't done anything."

Andrews punched him in the stomach. "I ask the questions here," he said as the guy gasped in pain. "I'm arresting you for the murder of Luke Waters over at the rail yard last night, and the assault of Earl Grainger. And I believe you're wanted for questioning in relation to murder and kidnapping charges down in Crook County."

Now the guy looked even more alarmed. "Never heard of them. And I've never even been to Crook County."

O'Reilly cleared his throat. Andrews looked at him. "Erm, sheriff, shoun't we check for the gunshot wound?"

"Oh, of course." The sheriff signed to the guys holding the hobo and they pulled his jacket and shirt off him. His bony chest and shoulders showed no sign of any gunshot wound.

Andrews face screwed up in fury. Mostly at himself for releasing the other hobo before they had captured the others, but the guy standing in front of him didn't know that. He thought he was being set up, and there was no way he was going to fry for murders he hadn't committed.

"It must've been the other guy," the hobo said desperately. "He turned into some kind of monster."

Andrews, who was in the process of signalling to the deputies to bring the guy along, paused. "What did you say?"

"Last night, back at the yard," the man said. "The bulls were going to lynch the old coloured guy." At the mention of lynching Andrews flicked a sardonic glance at O'Reilly who had the grace to look embarrassed. The hobo continued, "And the other hobo just turned into this thing. Never seen anything like it I can tell you. I just ran."

This was too much of a co-incidence. Andrews remembered the last part of the conversation he had had with that fool of a Crook County sheriff.

"The man had been working in a travelling carnival," the man had said. "He was pretending to be a vampire. Some people even seem to think he was a real vampire." He had given an uneasy chuckle that left Andrews in no doubt that he had been one of them, before he concluded, "But that was just moonshine."

"What kind of a monster?" Andrews asked the hobo.

"I dunno, vampire maybe… his face went all strange, and his eyes turned yellow…But it was the teeth, great, huge fangs like a wolf or a big cat!" The man shivered.

At this dramatic announcement O'Reilly and most of the other lawmen burst out laughing. But not Andrews. He thought about the dreadful wounds on Luke's neck, almost as if he had been savaged by some animal. In fact, at first he had accused O'Reilly of leaving the door open and letting a dog get in. Then he thought about the man they had released, that fathomless expression, and the way he had seemed to growl at them. And he shivered as well, despite the heat of the afternoon air.

"Can I go now?" the hobo asked.

"I don't think so," the sheriff said. He wasn't making that mistake twice. "Whatever the truth of it, we'll need you as a witness. But don't you worry, you get three square meals a day in the jail, and a dry place to sleep." Turning to the other hobos who had been watching the interchange with superstitious alarm, he ordered, "Now get lost the lot of you!" and kicked over the can of stew, the liquid steaming into the air as it put the fire out.

***************

It was late afternoon when the bus finally stopped outside the Old Courthouse in The Dalles and Malloy got off. He looked round as it drove off, the gesture of brushing the dust off his pants habitual by now. This place looked marginally more interesting than Prineville had, but that wasn't saying much. The back end of nowhere looked pretty much the same wherever it was.

He decided to try the rail yard first, to see if they'd picked up anyone in the last day or so. The town being small as it was, it didn't take long for him to find it. He strolled in wondering where the railroad detectives hung out.

There was a subdued air about the place. Sure it was a small yard, but even on a Sunday afternoon, he would have expected more activity. A loud clanging told him where someone was slowly tapping the wheels of a boxcar and he went over. "Hey!" he shouted at the man, "You tell me where I can find the detectives' office?"

The man stood up and looked at him. "Yup," he said then bent back down and carried on tapping the wheels.

When it was clear the guy wasn't going to say any more Malloy asked, "So where is it?"

This time the guy didn't bother standing up. He jerked his head in Malloy's general direction. "Over by the gate, you walked right past it." Malloy turned to retrace his steps, but stopped when the railroad guy continued, "But there ain't no use going over there..."

The reporter screwed his face up in exasperation. "And why not?"

Extracting information from the rail yard worker was marginally harder than getting blood out of a stone, but eventually Malloy managed to establish what had happened the previous night. This was just too much of a co-incidence. There had to be a connection with the hobo in Prineville. And if there was, this was one dangerous sonovabitch.

He left the railroad guy tapping away at his wheels and went to see if he could find the sheriff. As he walked he began to seriously consider the idea that the vampire story might be true. Really consider, as in what that might mean, for him. And an avaricious smile emerged and settled on his face.

The smile was still in place a few minutes later when he met the sheriff coming out of his office. "Say, I wonder if you could help me, sheriff. Name's Malloy, with the Portland Examiner." He put on his eager cub reporter face, but the sheriff wasn't fooled, he had been in the game long enough to know a pro when he saw one.

"What do you want, Malloy?" Andrews demanded, suspicion clear in his tone. It certainly hadn't taken the press long to pick up on this story. Vultures the lot of 'em.

Malloy dropped the pretence. "Heard there was some big trouble over at the rail yard last night."

"So?" The sheriff looked Malloy up and down contemptuously

"My readers would be interested to know what you are proposing to do about catching the perpetrator."

"Fuck you, and fuck your readers," Andrews snarled, stalking past the reporter.

Malloy grinned after him as he walked away, and lit a cigarette.

***************

Slowly Angel became aware of a soft thread of sound, bluesy and sad on the warm air around him. He opened his eyes. The music stopped and a deep voice quietly chuckled.

"Son, you look in some mess," the old, coloured man said, putting away his harmonica.

Angel groaned and crawled out from his shelter, shaking off dry leaves, like some creature coming out of hibernation. The old man was sitting a few yards away staring at him, a broad smile creasing his face, eyes twinkling.

Angel was suddenly curious. The man had seen what he was, and yet he stayed, seemed to be waiting for him even. Like Jimmy had done. Unaccustomed grief clenched his guts as he stared at the man. But the other didn't say anything, just grinned right back at him. After a few moments of this he asked, "What do you want? Don't you know what I am?"

"I knew what you was soon's I saw you, son."

"So why are you still here?"

Again that deep chuckle. "Looks like you could use some help."

Angel shook his head and winced as the movement sent a throbbing ache across his forehead. "I don't. Go away."

The old man didn't move. Just carried right on grinning. Then he leaned forwards, "Let me put it another way seein' as you don't seem to understand. See, obligation's a powerful thing. You saved my life back there at the rail yard. You didn't have to do that, and it looks like the bulls beat you up real bad because of it."

Angel made a dismissive gesture with one hand. The old man ignored it. "Seems to me like I gotta pay you back."

"No you don't. It's all right, it doesn't matter." What could this old man do for him?

The old man laughed out loud. "You don't get it, do you, son? There ain't nothing you can do to change things. There ain't nothing you can do to say it's all right."

Angel gave a frustrated growl. How could he explain that it had been as much a case of stopping himself feel bad as of helping the old man? "I don't need anything you could do for me. Go away," he said harshly and slowly pulled himself to his feet, groaning as he did so. The sleep had helped him heal, but he was still in pretty bad shape.

The old man's eyebrows gave a sceptical twitch. "Looks like you could use some patching up," he offered.

Angel ignored him. He needed to drink again, and he leaned back against a tree, focussing on the craving, forcing it down, away, until he could cope with it. Then he looked around. Ahead of him, the trees began to thin, back the way he had come that morning. The sun had gone behind the hills now and it was safe to leave the woods, but he needed to find the tracks, get on another train, get out of here, out of the State.

"It's going to be hard to get on a train for a while. The bulls'll be looking for you," the old man said then, as if reading his thoughts.

Angel shrugged. "No they won't, " he contradicted. "They let me go."

The old man chuckled. "Well hell, they ain't completely stupid. Won't take 'em long to realise they made a mistake, now will it?"

Angel stared at him, face expressionless. If he could frighten him enough to make him go away…

But the old man just laughed. "No use trying that trick. You don't scare me. See I know you ain't like the rest of your kind."

Angel raised an eyebrow. "You're sure about that are you?"

"Hell, yes!" The laughter lines on the old man's face deepened. "It's like this, every person I ever met got this shining light all around 'em," he scratched his head, "'cept most folks can't see 'em of course. Some fancy preacher once told me they's called auras. An' you know, every one of your kind I see before ain't got no aura. But you, you got an aura, blazing away like a goddam halo. And I ask myself, vampire with an aura, worth finding out why."

"I don't care what you want to find out. Now go away. Leave me alone." Angel turned and walked away from the man, but he could hear him following. He turned round again, another harsh dismissal on the tip of his tongue.

"The railroad's over there, that away," the old man pointed in the opposite direction.

Angel glared at the other hobo, but walked past him. As he did so, the smell of blood almost overwhelmed him. It filled his mind, thick and viscous, and without conscious thought he stopped and looked back to where the old man was opening a jar full of a dark, red fluid.

"Opened a vein in a cow's neck and took this, 'bout an hour ago. Should be all right." The old man reflected as he pulled off the stopper.

"Give it to me," Angel broke in, need hoarsening his voice. "Now."

The old man had barely started to look up, as Angel reached forward and snatched the jar from his hands. He quickly drained it, as always both repelled and attracted by the taste. It wasn't enough to satisfy the craving, but he was used to that. He ran a finger round the inside of the jar, catching every last drop, and then slowly licked it.

He looked at the old man for a long moment, before acknowledging, "I was wrong, there was some way you could pay me back." His tone indicated quite clearly that he considered the matter closed.

However, the old man just grinned and said, "Oh I ain't hardly begun paying you back."

Angel stalked off without saying another word, following the lie of the land downhill. The old man followed him. He growled in frustration again.

Half an hour later he stopped. The old man was still following him. He had found the tracks, and was heading east, away from Portland. However, even walking silently and quickly along the edge of the tracks, as only someone like him could, did not seem to be enough to throw the old man off his trail. He could hear the crunch of the ballast gravel as the old man followed him at a distance.

Apart from that small noise, it was peaceful, the moon was rising above the hills, huge and gibbous, its light casting a silver sparkle on the dark water of the river on his left. It was getting darker.

He turned round, waiting for the other to catch up.

"Like I said, blazing away like a goddam halo," the old man chuckled.

Once Angel had stopped and waited for the old man, it didn't take him long to catch up. But as soon as the old hobo had done so, instead of saying anything, the vampire just turned and carried on walking along the tracks.

After following him for a while, the old man called out, "Signs say there's a jungle about a mile or so along here."

Angel stopped and looked back at the old hobo. "Signs, what signs?" he asked, puzzled.

The old man threw back his head and burst out laughing. "You a hobo and you don't know what the signs are?"

With a dismissive gesture Angel turned away to leave the old man again, but the other hobo put out a hand to stop him and touched the bare skin of his wrist. To Angel the man's hand felt warm and tingled slightly. The other man's eyes widened in shock and his usual irritating demeanour disappeared.

"Oh sweet Jesus, that's what it is!" he exclaimed. "You got a soul. A vampire with a soul, oh my."

Angel angrily tried to jerk his arm away from the other's touch, but his wrist was now held in a surprisingly strong grip.

"So much pain, such grief, for so many years…"

The pity and compassion in the old man's eyes were almost more than Angel could bear. Instinctively he changed, and grabbed the old man by the throat, the demon urging him to devour this quaking prey.

Except the old man wasn't quaking, he wasn't frightened at all. He just stood looking deep into Angel's eyes with the most understanding the vampire had ever seen from any human. They stood there for a long moment, eyes locked, perfectly still.

Eventually the old man said, "You can't do it, can you?"

Angel slowly let his hand fall and relaxed out of the change, eyes still locked with the old man. He shook his head. "You knew I couldn't," he stated.

The man's irrepressible smile flickered back onto his face. "Well, I kinda hoped you couldn't."

Shaken more than he would have admitted was possible, Angel grunted, then asked in a voice he was unable to keep a tremor from, "How, how did you do that, how did you know?"

"Don't rightly know myself," the old man admitted. "Always been able to look right into folks when I touch 'em hand to hand, look right into their souls. It ain't a popular thing to be able to do though. Got me run out of town on more than one occasion. An' I thought everyone could see auras 'til I learned not to talk about it."

The old man finally took his hand off Angel's wrist and walked past him, heading for a faint trail between the trees. He looked round and said, "You know, it ain't your fault."

The old man's assertion opened a floodgate of memory blatantly contradicting the statement. Angel saw in his mind's eye the seemingly never-ending stream of bloody atrocities that he could remember committing and worse, exulting in. Withdrawing inwards, he wrapped his arms tightly around himself in a vain attempt at self-comfort.

Cursing himself for his stupidity, the old man changed the subject. "Jungle's up here, get some coffee, some smoke, maybe something to eat," he suggested gently before starting off in the direction he had indicated.

The sheer ordinariness of the old man's words had the desired effect. With an effort Angel wrenched his mind away from the memories that threatened to overwhelm him and blinked dazed, returning to the peaceful Oregon night. He stood for a moment gathering his equilibrium before relaxing and followed the old man up into the trees.

***************

Andrews was having supper when one of his deputies phoned. He was exhausted - it had been a long day. "This had better be good," he snarled into the mouthpiece.

"Oh, it is!" his deputy assured him. "Some old hobo just walked in here saying the guy we're all looking for is headed for that jungle we raided today. And before you ask, nossir, he ain't drunk."

"You're sure?" the lawman demanded eagerly, his earlier weariness forgotten.

"Matches the description we got, sheriff, and he was with an old coloured guy."

Andrews grinned. "I'll be right there."

The hobo who was standing in the front office did not look like a reliable witness, and started shifting uneasily from foot to foot as the sheriff came in. Andrews looked him up and down before saying, "You got something to tell me?"

"Is there a reward for this?" the man retorted.

"There might be. Depends on what you got to tell me."

"I ain't saying nothing unless I get a reward," the man grumbled.

The sheriff reached forward and grabbed the man by the filthy collar of his shirt and slammed him against the wall. He rammed his face right up in front of the man's, trying hard not to breathe in the stench of halitosis and tooth rot coming from his suddenly frightened panting. At least there was no smell of alcohol, so the deputy was right, the man hadn't been drinking.

"You will start talking now, and finish when I tell you," he hissed. "If what you say is important I might let you go, otherwise you won't see the outside world for months. So start talking."

The hobo gave a frightened gurgle as the sheriff drew back and folded his arms. "Well?"

"Um, it's like this," the man started. "I heard you was looking for another hobo that looked a bit like old Wilkes that you grabbed this morning. The one that Wilkes said turned into a monster."

"And?"

"Well, I was down by the railroad tracks tonight and I see these two hobos coming along. A tall, young guy and an old coloured guy. See, they stops and they start yammering 'bout something, I don't know what, and suddenly the tall young guy turns into this thing. I ain't never seen nothing like it."

"Which looked like…?" the sheriff asked, since the man's description tallied with what Wilkes had said. Then he inquired further, "So did the, er, 'monster' attack the old man?"

"Well no, that was what was strange, after a coupla minutes he just changed right back."

"Then what happened?"

"They went up to the camp. I didn't follow 'em 'cause I knew this must be the guy y'all were looking for." The hobo's voice took on a whining, self-righteous note.

"And you had to be here first, to make sure you got the reward," the sheriff finished sardonically. Suddenly suspicious he added, "It's dark, how did you see what happened?"

The hobo looked surprised. "Moon's just past full, sheriff, it's near bright as day."

"Uh huh. So you got a good look at this young guy. Just what exactly did he look like?"

But the hobo looked vague at this. "Well, like I said, young uh, dark hair uh, too far away to see what colour eyes he had." The man screwed up his own before continuing, "No beard. Oh, and he had a bruise down one side of his face, or dirt or something…" He trailed off.

"Lock him up, Reynolds," Andrews said. "We're going hunting."

"You believe this guy?" the deputy said, when he came back.

The sheriff sighed. "I don't know what I believe. But I do know we never told nobody about that bruise."

***************

Outside the sheriff's office Malloy leaned back against the wall. His hands were shaking with excitement and he let out a breath he hadn't realised he had been holding in. Whoee! It was true! This was the story of a lifetime. The story that would make him rich. But he had to have the proof. He couldn't trust this bunch of clowns to catch the creature.

His mind made up, the reporter turned and went inside.

The sheriff was on the phone, calling up the rest of his deputies. He didn't look too happy to see Malloy. He finished his call and put the receiver down. "Well if it ain't the Examiner's Ace reporter," he said with an ironic lift to one eyebrow. "What do you want, Malloy?"

"Matter of public interest, sheriff. On the trail of a murderer. Same as you."

"Uh huh. Well stay out of it, you might get hurt."

"No room for an extra deputy with, lemme see, 'specialist knowledge'?" he sneered.

The sheriff scowled. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"This hobo you're after - not exactly normal is he?"

Andrews stood motionless for a moment, considering what to tell him. Eventually he said, "Maybe, maybe not."

Malloy smirked. "I mean, he attacked someone so bad, they looked like they been savaged by a dog, didn't he?" Before Andrews could reply the reporter carried on. "Same thing happened down in Prineville a couple of weeks back. Man survived that attack."

This was news to Andrews, but he didn't let Malloy see it.

"And er, 'man' that did that, also killed a showman there yesterday morning," Malloy continued, still smirking. "So if you gonna get this guy you need special equipment." He pulled out a stake.

The sheriff stared at him. "Oh puhlease," he said after a moment, rolling his eyes.

"Course that's only any use if you want to kill him," Malloy said. "'Cause I think we both know what we're dealing with." He narrowed his eyes at the sheriff. " Which makes going after him in the dark just plain dumb."

Andrews looked at Malloy with dislike. "Well, Mr Malloy, it's like this. The guy is hiding out at a hobo encampment just off the railroad track. Now there's at least four trains due through here tonight. And even I'm not dumb enough to think that I'll have a job tomorrow if I hold them up until daylight because there's a goddam, fucking vampire on the loose."

He nodded over his shoulder at the deputy standing behind him, "Reynolds here can swear you in for the night. You won't need that stake." Truth be told he was sure the reporter would just follow them and get in the way if he didn't swear him in.

***************

Angel could feel the tension twanging around the clearing where the encampment was long before they got there.

"Something's happened," he hissed at the old man, stepping past him. Silently he approached the clearing. He could hear angry voices muttering. Their anger wasn't directed among themselves but outwards. It was the anger of the powerless stirring themselves to do battle with the powerful.

Sensing no immediate danger, Angel waited until the old man had caught up, before they walked forwards into the firelight together. There were about a dozen men standing round the fire.

"What's up?" the old man asked, looking round at the signs of disarray. "Bulls been up here?"

"Something like that," one of the hobos responded. "Seems there was trouble over at the rail yard. You wouldn't know anything about that would you, Grandpa, you or your friend here?"

"Not me," said the old man. His nose twitched. "Say is that coffee I can smell?"

"Help yourself," the other hobo replied in a grudging tone, glancing at Angel.

The old man hunkered down by the fire and helped himself from the battered coffee pot bubbling away. "Want some?" he asked Angel.

Angel shook his head. He was looking uneasily round at the other hobos realising, perhaps too late, that their anger had been directed not at the bulls but at the vampire that had attacked them. He looked past the men, round the clearing, looking for a way out, but they were on the wrong side of the fire, against the sheer wall of a rock face. Angel looked up, behind him. On his own it wouldn't be hard but…

More men arrived, from the opposite side of the clearing. They had sticks and clubs, as if they had been patrolling. "Find anything?" the hobo who had spoken to the old man asked.

They shook their heads and one said, "Doesn't seem to be anybody up that away." The man noticed Angel and the old man and he froze. "Who are they?" he demanded.

The first hobo shrugged. "Just some guys that walked in about twenty minutes ago."

The second hobo stared closely at Angel for a long moment then, recognition set in twisting his face into a mask of hatred and fear. "You fools! This is the guy Wilkes was talking about!"

The fear and anger swirling around the clearing had suddenly found a focus, and Angel saw, dread knotting in his belly, that it was him. The hobos surged round, blocking the way out. The vampire's eyes flicked over them, calculating how easy or how hard it would be to break through there, or there, knowing their fear would make them clumsy. Before he could move though, pain exploded across the back of his head as he was knocked forwards, stunned.

"Out of the way, nigger!" he dimly heard one of them say to the old man, and felt them grab his arms, twisting them up his back to hold him on his knees. He tried to shake away the stars he was seeing and glare up at them, but only succeeded in generating a wave of dizziness, that made the world go black around the edges.

"Hey.." the old man started to say before Angel heard the thwack of a connecting punch, and the crumple of a body falling. He would get no further help from that direction.

"Lift his head up," ordered the second hobo. "I want to look him in the eyes when I do this."

Angel grunted as someone grabbed his hair, forcing him to look up. Through blurring vision he saw that the man had pulled out a stake, its point carefully sharpened.

"I know what you are," the man said. "I've lost too many friends to the likes of you not to." He stepped forwards, arm raised.

This was the way it had ended for so many of his kind, Angel thought as he struggled frantically in the grip of the angry men, the flickering torches flaring into the night sky around them. But there were too many of them. Somehow, despite everything that had happened to him in his long existence, he had never really believed that this would be how it would end for him.

It wasn't. Suddenly a gunshot echoed around the clearing. The angry voices fell silent, as the sheriff walked forwards. He looked around at the group of men, and at Angel. "Hell, Reynolds," he remarked to his deputy with a certain amount of irony, "don't let anyone tell you that there ain't no public spirited hobos around. They just gone and done our job for us, apprehending this guy." He looked down at Angel and said, "Son, you're under arrest."

Monday

Angel was lying curled up on the bench at the back of the cell, facing the wall. The rough stonework was filthy, covered in dust and dirt except where it had been rubbed almost smooth by the backs of previous prisoners.

At the front of the building he heard a door slam, and then voices talking, but he wasn't interested enough to listen to what they were saying. Then, as footsteps came along the corridor towards the cells, he heard the sheriff's voice say, "Well all right, he's through at the back, by himself. You got ten minutes, no more'n that." The door opened and someone came in.

Angel didn't move, but he could sense the man standing there, looking through the bars into the cell. Over the normal smells of dusty leather and tobacco there was a lustful eagerness about him that had nothing to do with sex. Then a fumbling noise and the scratching sound of a match being struck. The man inhaled loudly and the harsh tang of tobacco smoke drifted into the cell.

Finally, the man spoke. "Wanna cigarette?"

Angel ignored him for a moment before it occurred to him that the sooner he found out what the man wanted the sooner he would go away, so he sighed and swinging round, sat up. The guy on the other side of the bars was youngish, wearing a homburg pushed back on his head and a city suit that could do with cleaning. He looked vaguely familiar and Angel thought he remembered seeing him with the sheriff and his men the previous night. "What do you want?" he asked in return.

"Oh just a little talk. Name's Malloy. I'm a reporter with the Portland Examiner."

Angel snorted, but didn't say anything.

"Well do you?" the man asked after a pause.

"Do I what?"

"Wanna cigarette?"

Angel looked the man up and down thinking, not from you. Aloud he said, "So talk."

Malloy grinned. "No, you don't understand. You talk, I listen."

Angel stared at him. He'd seen this man's type a thousand times before, scuttering cockroaches the lot of them. He flopped back down onto the bench muttering, "Just go away." into the sleeve of his filthy jacket.

But the man, Malloy, didn't leave. He just stood there, smoking his cigarette. Eventually he said, "I hear you're being charged with two counts of murder, could be three if the railroad guy dies, not to mention the kidnapping."

Angel's silence clearly communicated the contempt he felt for the man.

The reporter tried again. "Well, I don't think they can make the kidnapping stick, the kid won't testify against you, and you could argue self defence for the mur - urgh!" Malloy broke off in a strangled gurgle as Angel leapt up from the bench, and reaching through the bars, grabbed him by the throat in less than an eye blink.

Malloy goggled at him as Angel hissed, "What did you say?" The reporter made another strangled noise and Angel realised the man couldn't breathe.

He relaxed his fingers slightly and Malloy gasped in a breath of air. "I said the boy won't testify against you."

"He's alive?" Angel stared at the reporter, eyes blazing.

"Well, yeah!" The reporter pulled back from Angel's suddenly slack grasp and rubbed his throat. "Jeez!" he croaked.

Angel slumped back down onto the bench and put his head in his hands. The words danced in his mind, he's alive, he's alive! Then sudden suspicion rushed through him and he looked up. The reporter was still standing there.

"How do you know he's still alive?" the vampire demanded, voice hard.

"Alive and well yesterday when I spoke to him." Malloy pulled out another cigarette and lit it, fingers trembling slightly.

"You spoke to him?" Angel raised an eyebrow sceptically. "What did he look like?"

Malloy looked blandly back at him and took a drag on his cigarette before answering. "Lemme see, 'bout twelve years old, tow-coloured hair, blue eyes, freckles, oh and a gunshot wound just below his left shoulder."

Hurt, but not dead then. Angel felt a near-imperceptible lifting of something. He almost smiled. The sound of the reporter noisily taking another drag at his cigarette pulled him back to the jail cell.

Malloy assumed an expression of curiosity. "You know, the thing that's got me beat about you is why you're living as a goddam hobo for chrissake."

"None of your damn business," Angel retorted curtly.

"I mean," Malloy continued, ignoring the vampire, " a guy like you should be rolling in it."

"I don't need money."

"Oh now, that's a shame," said Malloy. "Cause you see, I do, and when I look at you, all I can see is a great pile of money. It'd be a lot easier if you co-operate, but it don't matter that much if you don't 'cause you'll do what I want in the end anyway."

His words echoed what the showman, Cook, had said back in Prineville. If he had been capable of it Angel would have shivered. Cook had been right. In the end he would do anything for blood. All the same he said, "I wouldn't count on it."

Malloy didn't bother trying to hide the venal glint in his eyes as he grinned and said, "I would." Letting the ominous statement hang in the air, he flung the smouldering butt of his cigarette onto the ground and left.

But he didn't have it all his own way. As Angel lay, slumped back down on the bench he could hear Malloy's voice shouting at the sheriff. His lips curled in the shadow of a smile as the sheriff stated firmly, "I don't care what he is, or how much money you think you could make out of him, he's staying right here, until we're ready to try him. Murder is murder."

"You dumb asshole!" yelled Malloy. "Frying him won't kill him."

"Now, you know as well as I do that he'd only get sent to the electric chair if he's found guilty," the sheriff reproved. "And now, I think I've had quite enough of you, Mr Malloy. You'd best leave. Better still, leave town altogether."

The last thing Angel heard was the door slamming as Malloy left.

***************

Later that afternoon, when Reynolds came in, it was to find the sheriff sitting at his desk, twiddling a pencil in his hands, a dissatisfied expression on his face.

"What's up?" the deputy asked, surprised.

Andrews sighed. "It just don't fit," he said.

Reynolds raised an eyebrow. "What don't?"

Jerking his head behind him in the direction of the cells, the sheriff said, "Him, the hobo."

Reynolds waited as his boss subsided into silence. He knew the man would tell him what was bothering him eventually, so he poured himself some coffee and sat down again.

"I mean, there's no way that that mark on the guy's shoulder is a day old gunshot wound."

"Sure looked like a gunshot wound," the other lawman offered. He stirred his coffee for a moment and then looked back up. "Three, four weeks old maybe."

Andrews gave a grunt of frustration. "That's what I thought. Hell, I even phoned that dumb sheriff down in Prineville again. I tried to tell him we might have the guy he was looking for and he weren't interested. Said if our guy didn't have a hole in him that was still oozing, he'd never get it to stand up in court. The man was shot in front of a dozen witnesses on Saturday morning." He suddenly noticed his lack of coffee. "Hey, aren't you gonna give me some?"

"O-kay," the deputy said when he had sat down again. "Count Dracula through there ain't the guy from Prineville. So what?"

"Count Dracula!" Andrews snorted, telling Reynolds just exactly what he thought about vampires. "Look, O'Reilly swore blind the guy was out cold the whole time."

"He as good as admitted he was drunk!" protested Reynolds.

"OK, so he was drunk. You think some hobo raving on about monsters would go down better with a jury or old Judge Clooney?"

Reynolds made a face. "You got a point."

A contemplative silence settled over the room as the two men stared into their coffee for a few moments. Then Reynolds asked, "So, you think it was the other guy, Wilkes, that killed Luke?"

The sheriff made a sound of frustration. "I just don't know. Wilkes doesn't look like he would go three rounds with a fruit fly, far less wallop Earl so hard he near bashes his skull in, or, -"

Interrupted by the ringing of the phone, Andrews picked it up. "Oh, it's you, Doc." He put his hand over the mouthpiece and whispered to Reynolds, "Autopsy report." Then down the phone, "You got anything for me? Uh huh." He listened for a moment then broke in, "So what he die of? Heart failure? Uh huh. Doc, didn't you once tell me that in the end all causes of death are down to heart failure?"

Even Reynolds, sitting across the desk could hear the doc laughing at the other end of the line.

Andrews smiled briefly, but he was thinking hard. "Could you tell what kind of animal savaged him?" He rolled his eyes at the deputy and shook his head. "Something big. Look, is it possible that he got knocked out and then savaged by whatever it was? Uh huh. Possible. Or even, savaged after he was dead? Unlikely. OK. Well, Doc you get the report over to me soon's you can."

He put the phone down and put his hands behind his head. "You know what I think happened?" he said in response to the deputy's look. "Like we said, O'Reilly was drunk, hell they was all drunk! When he came back, he panicked, went for help, and a wild dog or something got in."

Reynolds sucked his teeth and looked about to object to this explanation, so Andrews added, "Hell, I do know, it's a damn site more likely than it were a vampire that done it."

"So what about Wilkes and Count Dracula?" responded the deputy tacitly agreeing with his boss.

"Judge'll give em' thirty days for vagrancy I expect."

Outside, listening at the open window, Malloy flung aside his unsmoked cigarette in disgust. Were they nuts? He stalked off without waiting to hear the sheriff put in a call to the Examiner in Portland.

***************

Angel fought his way out of sleep, woken by the feeling that someone was watching him.

"Are you gonna lie there all night?" a voice asked.

Angel opened his eyes and saw Malloy standing there swinging a ring of keys in one hand. Relief flickered across the man's face for a second and Angel realised he must have been wondering if he was dead.

"I mean," Malloy continued, "You're welcome to take your chances in a sun-filled courtroom, but me, I don't think I'd want to risk it."

"And the alternative? A spectacle for the curious?" Angel's voice reeked with the contempt he felt.

"Oh come on now, no need to be like that," Malloy tut-tutted. "You could be in the movies, be famous, be someone."

"I think I'll take the sun-filled courtroom." It would be quicker at least.

Malloy grinned, ignoring him. Angel realised he had something else planned.

"Feeling hungry?" the reporter asked, a wildly confident glint in his eyes, as he pulled out a jar.

Instinct was far stronger than the tattered remnants of pride and dignity and in a flash Angel was at the bars of the cell, reaching through. But Malloy was standing well out of reach.

"Give it to me," Angel hissed at the reporter.

"You have to come and get it," taunted Malloy, "and that means you gotta leave the cell." He gave a fake start of amazement and waved the keys at Angel. "Oh, look what I got," he said and flung the keys into the cell, past Angel where they landed on the floor at the back.

As soon as they left his hands he turned and ran out of the room. He knew the vampire would be fast.

Angel barely glanced at the slumped form of the deputy lying asleep or unconscious on his desk in the front office. Fury at the reporter and need for the blood forced the change on him and heightened his reflexes: the door was just closing behind the man as he caught up to him, out in the cool night air.

"Taunting a hungry vampire is about the most dangerous thing you can do," he hissed, fangs brushing the man's pulsing neck. "Perhaps after all I prefer my blood fresh."

It was almost more than Angel could do to control the demon, the smell from the half open jar of blood mixing with the blast of fear coming from the squirming man. Too late, as pain seared across his face, he realised the man hadn't been squirming to get away but to open a bottle of holy water. He screamed in shock and agony, flinging the man away from him, trying to shake the liquid off.

A revolting smell and equally revolting noises told him that Malloy was puking his guts up on the sidewalk. Quickly Angel snatched up the now half empty jar of blood and ran.

***************

Andrews had just settled down with his after dinner pipe and that morning's newspaper, it was the first chance he had had to read it after all, when there was a frantic banging on the front door.

"Oh what now?" he demanded, shaking his head in exasperation. Sighing he put down his paper and opened the door.

"Mr Malloy," he said after a short pause, taking in the reporter's dishevelled hair, heaving chest and vomit-stained jacket. "I thought I told you to leave town."

Malloy gave a dismissive gesture, that wasn't important now. "Sheriff!" he cried wildly. "That vampire's on the loose!"

This did not get the reaction he expected. Andrews just stared at him. "Uh huh."

"Didn't you hear me? That goddam bloodsucker's free again!"

Andrews chewed his lip. "Would that be the boy we all picked up at the hobo jungle this morning?"
At Malloy's affirmative nod he continued, "'Cause see, last I heard he was in jail, and I'm sure Reynolds would've told me if he got out."

"Oh, it doesn't matter how, the important thing is he's loose! He's a killer, don't you understand?"

Andrews gave the reporter a hard look. "I think I understand. OK, let's go. I'll just tell my wife I have to go out." He stuck his head round the kitchen door for a few moments, speaking in an undertone before calling, "Bye, hon." behind him as he picked up his hat.

When they walked into the sheriff's office, it was to see Reynolds putting the phone down. "Sheriff! Thank God!"

Andrews took in his deputy's pasty white face. "What happened to you?"

"Somebody knocked me out," The other lawman said, rubbing the back of his head and wincing. "But I'm all right."

"Any of the prisoners missing?" Andrews asked, then seeing his deputy swaying on his feet belying his statement, immediately pushed the man back down into his chair and amended, "No wait, I'll check." He glanced at Malloy, who was almost hopping up and down with impatience.

He came back a few moments later, swinging a bunch of keys from his fingers. "Count Dracula's missing," he said to Reynolds. "Looks like he had some help."

The two lawmen turned and looked at Malloy.

"You wouldn't know anything about that, would you, Mr Malloy?"

"Me? Why would I know anything about that?" Malloy's flush betrayed him.

"No reason," Andrews said with heavy irony.

A car pulled up outside the sheriff's office, and the Doc came in. "I brung it," he said, holding up his black bag.

The sheriff gestured meaningfully towards Reynolds. "Well you'd better have a look at him." He pulled the reporter to one side so he didn't catch the Doc's puzzled expression.

"Musta been quite a shock, seeing a vampire," he said to Malloy.

"I'll say," replied the reporter, wiping his forehead. "I mean, you think you know what to expect, but when you really see what they turn into. It's, it's horrible. And then when he tried to…" Malloy was visibly sweating now. "I swear, if I hadn't had that holy water by me I'd be laying dead in the street this minute."

The sheriff gave a sympathetic murmur. "You mean he tried to bite you?"

Malloy nodded, shaking. He put a hand up to his neck. "He had his teeth, God, his fangs right there…"

Suddenly Malloy gave a slight gasp, his face relaxing, and he fell forwards into the sheriff's arms.

The Doc stood back, a now empty syringe in his hand. "Mad as a coot like you said, Jed," he commented.

"Spoke to his boss in Portland this afternoon," Andrews explained as he lowered Malloy's unconscious body onto a chair. "The man was real worried, said he'd sent Malloy down to Prineville to follow up some stupid vampire joke story. Thought it would bring him out of himself a bit. Guy's been under a lot of strain apparently."

The Doc nodded. "Nervous exhaustion most likely. Well this'll keep him sedated for a while, until they decide what to do with him." He shook his head and rolled his eyes. "Vampires!"

"So what about Count Dracula?" asked Reynolds, when the Doc had taken Malloy away.

"What about him? You don't think we're gonna see him again do you? Hell, I bet he's already on a train. I know I would be, if I'd had a lunatic like Malloy throwing holy water all over me and screaming vampire."

"Well I guess if it keeps him out of our hair, it's as good as a spot in jail for vagrancy," the deputy commented.

The two men looked at each other and laughed.

***************

Down by the river, Angel crouched, splashing water on his face, wincing as the cold liquid touched his blistered skin. Slowly his bleary vision cleared, and he sat back on his heels.

He considered seeking out Jimmy, to tell the boy he was all right, but thought better of it. The boy was alive after all, but that in itself didn't change much. It didn't change his fundamental otherness, nothing could. He was a danger to everyone, even to the likes of Malloy, who tried to exploit what he was.

Thinking about Malloy brought a fresh wave of disgust and self-loathing. He knew the only reason Malloy was still alive was because the reporter had had that bottle of holy water. A few seconds more and he would have ripped the man's throat out. No, best to stay apart, that way everyone stayed safe.

He stood up. Here the railroad tracks were right beside the river, and he started walking eastwards along the ballast gravel. He remembered a place on the way to the jungle with the old coloured man, where they had walked up a shallow incline. Trains would slow enough for the nimble and the quick to jump on there. As he walked, Angel listened for the distant wail of an engine telling of an approaching train, but heard nothing.

Then, ahead of him, the familiar bluesy sound of a harmonica drifted mournfully into the night air. He stopped and almost turned round, but then shrugged and walked on.

After a moment the harmonica stopped and he heard footsteps coming towards him.

"Leaving town?" the old man asked.

"What do you think?"

The old man glimmered a smile at him. "Mind if I walk along?"

"I don't suppose I can stop you," Angel retorted.

They walked in silence for a while. Suddenly Angel pulled up short and demanded, "Why can't you accept you 'paid me back' as much as I'm ever going to let you?"

The old man's smile vanished and his mouth pulled down at the corners. "Well, I could do more. After all, you ain't never come to terms with what you are. I could help you do that."

Angel snorted. "I think I've had long enough to realise what I am."

"Oh that ain't the same thing and you know it. But if you're not ready to move on, ain't nothing I can do to help. You gotta find your own path. There ain't no-one that can do that for you." The old hobo seemed to shrink in on himself and his expression drooped even more. "You don't want my help, I can't force you to take it."

"Good. I hope that means you're going to leave me alone."

"You know, son, you can't do everything on your own," the old man said.

Angel stared back at him in silence for a moment, face expressionless. Then he said simply, "Yes I can." and stalked off along the railroad track.

The old man stood looking after the retreating vampire, watching the turbulent colours of his aura, and murmured with a melancholy smile, "The lies we tell ourselves are the greatest lies of all."

He nodded sadly. "Ain't that the truth."