Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Sin City belong to their respective creators, Joss Whedon and Frank Miller.
A couple of nights later, she comes again.
I could wish she’d picked another time. My mitts are still wet and dripping from where I helped a few lowlifes rethink their outlooks on life back at the bar and it’s late enough that I haven’t walked off the buzz. It’s an hour to dawn and I’m looking for somewhere to take my medicine and flop for the day. It’s stopped snowing but the pavement’s still chunks of ice in places and the wind is like a knife in my back. This coat’s seen better days, just like the chump wearing it.
I’m thinking I could use another drink when I smell it again, through even the cold and the stink of the city and the blood on my hands and the booze on my face.
That smell. That angel smell.
And there she is. Green Eyes.
She comes walking out of an alley like some highbrow dame out for a stroll. The same black coat, the same blonde hair, and her greener than life eyes lowered as if she’s thinking about things too deep for her to bother with anything less than the Second Coming.
It wasn’t the meds. It wasn’t me being me.
My feet hit the brakes all on their own, and I’m standing there gawking like the dumb lug I am, staring at this girl picking her way through the trash. She’s closer than she was before, coming closer, and all I can think is how small she is, how tiny. I bet I could pick her up and slip her under my coat and walk off, and no one would know.
My fingers twitch.
I didn’t think I was the stealing type. If I take something, it’s usually because I’ve killed whoever owned it before, and I think that’s pretty fair. You keep what you kill. It’s damn near a law.
I wonder who I’d have to kill to keep her.
She gets close, close enough that I could touch her if I wanted to, and my head is full of her, her angel smell. She stops in front of me, her hands in her coat pockets, and looks up.
She has to crane her tiny neck to look up at me, has to lean her tiny head so far back I worry for her tiny bones. It’s dark, most of the streetlights don’t work in this part of town, but I can see her face as if there was a light shining under her skin, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more important than the shape of her lips.
Not Old Town. Never Old Town. I think of some jerk’s filthy hands on her and I can feel the rage in me, can feel it snarling and seething, and I could kill the next bastard I see.
She’s looking at me.
She’s looking at me the way no other woman ever looks at me.
I’d do just about anything to get her to keep looking at me like that. I wouldn’t mind telling her, either, except I think my mouth forgot how to work.
So instead I stand there like a jackass until her eyes lower, her head goes down, and she slips around me like a ghost. Her hair brushes my sleeve and my arm goes numb like it’s been shot.
By the time I look around, half-afraid she’ll be standing there laughing at me, she’s gone and the first light is coming into the haze that passes for a sky around here, the gray before morning in Sin City.
I touch the cross around my neck, remembering what the sisters used to tell us about God on His throne surrounded by His angels, and I wonder.
She has scars on her neck.