Miserere

Author: starlet
Rating: R for blood, sex and majik.
Email: starlet2367@comcast.net
Summary: A summer-reading post-ep for Tomorrow.
Spoilers: Through US S3 Finale.
Disclaimer: This story is a work of original fiction; however, it is set in the universe of Angel, created by Mutant Enemy productions and the Warner Brothers Television Network. I make no claims to any copyrights regarding these characters. This work is written entirely for my enjoyment and the enjoyment of friends.
Distribution: Please tell me where so I can visit.
Notes: Thanks to my writing coach, Ebonbird, for showing me how much more was possible—and making me work for it. To Tonya and Somogyi whose comments helped make a good first draft into a story worth reading. To Lark for the yeast that made the Challah rise. And to Julie Fortune for reminding me of the story I always meant to tell.
This story wouldn’t have happened without the proliferation of what-really-happened theories spawned by the Strangers, especially Ebonbird, Prima and Penny Century. Big kiss to Florrie, for giving me the link to the UK football site.
Feedback: Yes, please.

Part 1

***

Miserere - n. 1, the 51st Psalm. 2. a prayer or expression of appeal for mercy. [L: lit., have pity]

"Kye-rumption.... It's when two great heroes meet on the field of battle and recognize their mutual fate." Fred, Offspring

***

Fred rolled over and grabbed the shrilling cell phone. "'Lo.”

"Hey, sleepyhead," Gunn said.

"Mmm, hey." She curled her body around the sound of his voice. "...Time's it?"

"About eight-thirty. Thought I'd swing by, bring my girl some breakfast." In the background she heard him rattle a bag. "Bet you can't guess what I got."

"Wait, wait, don't tell me.” She laughed sleepily. "Um, two breakfast burritos, large, with extra salsa. A, um, donut...no, no, a cheese danish. And a chocolate chip muffin."

"Damn, you're good! What gave it away?"

"Well, it wouldn't be that I gave you the menu last night before you left, would it?" She kicked her legs and stretched luxuriously.

"Aw, man, you got me."

Fred sat up on the edge of the bed and the strap of the white, baby-doll nightgown slid down her arm. "That I do.”

"That you do.”

She glanced around the room. As usual, it was littered with clothes, take-out containers and books. Through the phone line she heard a car honk. "Where are ya?"

"Comin' down Wilshire. 'Bout to open the courtyard gate--" The hinges creaked. "Hear that?"

Crud. That didn't leave her much time. She hopped out of bed, kicked yesterday's jeans toward the hamper and shoved the empty containers out of sight.

"Uh huh, sure do." She jerked the covers up over the pillow. "That means you're getting close. I should probably get out of bed and make myself decent." The tin of Altoids rattled when she opened the bedside table drawer.

"Not on my account, baby.”

"Oh, Charles." She giggled then popped a mint. The phone on the nightstand rang. "Shoot. Can ya hang on a sec? The phone's ringing."

"Let Cordy get it."

"She's probably not here yet. Hang on--I'll be right back." She dropped the cell phone on the bed and answered the blinking landline.

"Hello?"

“Is this Angel Investigations?”

A painted wooden box sat, lid askew, on the nightstand. “Yessir." She peered into the container and started sifting through the contents. "We help the hopeless. How can we help you?” One of her elastic hair bands had gotten tangled in the tines of a small voltage tester. She pulled the band free and slipped it on her wrist.

“Ma’am, this is the vehicle impoundment center of LAPD."

The next trick was finding her hairbrush. She dropped to her hands and knees and lifted the bed skirt. Sure enough, it had gotten kicked under with the food containers and now leaned precariously against Tuesday's Moo Goo Gai Pan.

"Uh huh?" She scooped the brush out and knelt next to the bed, where she began smoothing out the night's tangles.

"Do you own a ‘67 Plymouth convertible?”

Her hand stilled, mid-stroke. “My boss does. Why?”

Her eyes widened as she listened. “Abandoned? At Point Dume? When?” She tapped the brush against her palm. “That can’t be right. He went out there last night to meet--”

"Knock, knock," Gunn called.

"Hang on.” She scrambled to her feet and opened the door for Gunn. “Yes," she said, waving him in. "I’m authorized to pick it up. Yes, we’ll be there in an hour. Thank you very much." She hung up.

Gunn dropped the brown paper bag onto the dresser. "What's goin' on?" He grabbed her blue flowered robe off the back of the chair.

She pitched the brush toward the bed where it bounced off and landed on the carpet. “LAPD found Angel's car at the Point.” She took the robe from him and threaded her arms through the sleeves. As she knotted the sash her eyes widened. “Oh, my God, Gunn."

He put his hands on her shoulders. “Don’t even go there," he said, patting her gently. “Probably Cordy had a vision or something and they took off."

“Sun's been up for hours." Panic thickened her voice. "Angel always calls if he's gonna be out past sunrise.” She pulled away from him and started pacing.

“Look,” Gunn said, and his deep voice went into “soothe” mode. “Why don’t I go up and check his room? You never know. He might have had car trouble and had her drop him off here.”

“Good idea." She turned back toward the bed and the robe flared like Angel's duster. "And while you do that, I’m gonna call his cell phone.”

"Which is probably in his jacket downstairs." He smiled. “Why not start with hers?"

Fred had the phone in her hand, watching as Gunn made his way out the door. “I have a bad feeling about this,” she said to his retreating back.

“I’m sure everything is fine,” he called as he disappeared down the hall.

Five minutes later, he was back, looking significantly less calm, and Fred had called every number available for Angel and Cordy. “No luck?” she asked, nervously snapping the hair band on her wrist.

Gunn shook his head. “Hasn’t been in all night, from the look of it. You?”

“Nothing.” They stared at each other.

“Okay, so what’s the plan?”

“I'm the physicist, not the strategist.”

“Okay. Let’s get the car first then drive over to the Point and see what’s what. You remember those directions?”

“Yeah." She nodded. "Just let me get dressed. I'll meet you downstairs in ten."

***

Wes woke up wrapped in sheets that smelled like Lilah.

"Oh, God," he groaned, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes.

The clock on the nightstand read 9:24. Sun bore down brightly through the slats of the half-drawn shade.

Wes rolled out of bed, stripping the sheets as he went.

He dumped the soiled linen into the bathroom hamper and turned to the sink. The mirrored medicine cabinet reflected him back, pale and unshaven. His hand appeared, first in the reflection, then on the door handle and the cabinet opened with its usual metal-hinged squeak.

Unthinking, he reached for his razor. Light caught the blade, throwing off a sharp-edged gleam. The razor fell into the sink with a clatter.

That queasy, morning-after feeling intensified.

"Dammit," he muttered. With a trembling hand he picked the razor up and looked at it, then, again, at the scar on his throat.

A tug of war: to shave or not to shave. His face was nearly hidden by stubble, but the doctor said to wait until the scar was completely healed. He set the razor back in the medicine chest and closed the door.

His shoulders slumped and for a moment he stood, braced against the sink.

Then he turned and twisted the knob in the shower. Spray hissed against the plastic liner as he adjusted the water well into the red zone. Slowly, feeling the pull of sore muscles, he stepped over the edge of the tub. The sting of scalding water against raw flesh was a shock. Somehow he hadn't connected the reality of Lilah's nails with what she'd carved out of him.

He lathered his body in the same pattern as always: left arm, right arm; left leg, right leg; face, torso, genitals. Then he stood, eyes closed, arms hanging limply, until the water ran cold.

Finally, shivering, he turned off the tap, got out of the tub and dried himself. He closed the curtain with a lethargic tug and draped the towel over the rod, making sure to line up all the corners. Then he went to the bedroom to dress.

As he pulled on his shirt, he noticed that the knuckles on his right hand were scraped. There was a dull roar in his head, the flash of Lilah’s mocking eyes, and the jarring feel of bone meeting flesh.

When he came to he found himself kneeling on the floor wearing only his boxers and unbuttoned shirt.

He looked slowly around the room, noticing the exposed mattress and discarded comforter. Through the open closet door he could see a pair of pants trailing from a hanger. He stood, joints crackling, and focused on setting everything to rights.

At last he slipped into his jeans and shuffled to the kitchen. There he pulled down the teapot Fred brought over that morning in the hospital. His hands clenched on the antique bone china and in its rounded edge he saw her hot, accusing stare.

There was a dull "chink" and the sound of glass shards hitting tile. "No," he cried. The pot--his grandmother's--lay in pieces on the counter top. He scrambled to collect them, ignoring the way the raw edges shaved his fingers open.

"Have to fix it," he muttered. But the pieces kept slipping out of his trembling hands, breaking into smaller and smaller shards. It didn't take long to figure out the pot was beyond repair.

He set the remains carefully on the counter, pulled a couple of paper towels off the roll, and wrapped them around his bleeding fingers. Then he went to collect the paper from the hallway.

It wasn't the first time he'd been unemployed and alone. One would think he should be used to it by now.

***

They pulled into the impound lot and Gunn turned off the engine. “Okay. Guard says we go to the window and tell ‘em who we are.”

They climbed out of the primer-coated truck and walked to the window.

“Hi,” Fred said to the uniformed guard behind the glass.

He nodded at her. “You here to pick up a car?”

“Yes, sir. I’m with Angel Investigations. Our company car was impounded last night.” She pulled out her license, a copy of the registration, and the insurance papers.

“That’ll be three hundred dollars,” he said.

“Okay.” Fred reached into her bag and pulled out a wad of bills. “I wasn’t sure how much it would cost,” she said sheepishly, as she counted out twenties.

“You let her carry that much dough?”

Gunn shrugged. “Not much choice,” he replied with a smile.

The guard grinned back. “I heard that.” He took the money from Fred and stuck it in the drawer then he reached behind him to a hook-covered board and pulled off a set of keys. “I’ll drive it out,” he said, and he disappeared into the garage.

A moment later the door rolled up and he drove the black Plymouth out into the bright, morning sun. “Honey of a car,” he said. “Rides real sweet.”

“Should, considering the money we put into it,” Fred said. She glanced over his shoulder, her eye caught by a bright flash. “Oh, my God." She grabbed Gunn’s arm. “Is that…?” She pointed toward the rows of cars inside the garage. A yellow Jeep sat next to the space vacated by Angel’s car.

Gunn skimmed the license plate. "Oh, shit." He whipped around and pinned the attendant with his gaze. "Hey, can you check on something for me?"

"What?" the attendant asked, glancing up from the Batmobile.

"That Jeep," he said, nodding toward Cordy's ride. "It belongs to our other co-worker. Can you tell me where you pulled it in from?"

The attendant shrugged. "You can't pick it up unless you're on the registration or the insurance papers."

Gunn nodded. "I know. It's okay. We can leave it here. We just need to know."

Fred clenched his arm tighter. "Yeah, it'd be real helpful.”

The attendant wandered back to the office. "Hang on a minute."

"Thanks," Gunn said. He reached up and tapped Fred's hand gently. She released his arm, slid her hand down, and laced their fingers together.

By the time they made it to the office he was nodding. "Uh huh. Belongs to Cordelia Chase."

"When was it brought in?" Gunn prompted. "Can you tell us that?"

"Oh, sure." He ran his finger down the page. “Uh, about one o'clock. Huh. That's interesting. About the same time as his," he said, jerking a thumb toward the convertible. "I remember his only 'cause we don't get that many in here."

"So you were on shift all night?"

"Yeah, twelve to twelve. Three on, four off."

"Good schedule," Gunn said. "So, if you found his at the Point, where'd you find hers?"

The guy frowned in concentration. "Hang on," he said, glancing at the report again. "Abandoned on the side of the highway." He pointed to the report. "My first guess would be that she ran out of gas, but she had three-quarters of a tank." He leaned on his elbows, his eyes sparking with curiosity. "What happened, if you don’t mind my asking?"

Gunn shook his head. "We don't know. They didn't come in last night, didn't call. They're good about checking in."

"Maybe they just, you know," the guy said. He waggled his eyebrows.

"If they never even met, how could they, you know?" Fred asked, voice tight.

The attendant shook his head. "People want to be together bad enough, anything's possible." He held up his hands. "All I'm sayin' is there weren't any signs of foul play at either site, 'cause if there were, I wouldn't be holding the cars in General."

Fred nodded. "Okay. You've been incredibly helpful."

"Hey, it's a quiet morning. Glad to do it." He nodded toward the convertible again. "Hope you find 'em."

"Me too."

Gunn took Fred by the elbow. "Come on. Let's get the car back to the hotel. Then we head to Cordy’s, check out her place.”

“And after that?”

He shrugged. “Guess we just do what we do."

"What does that mean?"

"Well, we're detectives, right?"

Her face cleared. "Oh, right. We detect."

***

"So, y'all didn't hear anything? Anything at all?" Gunn popped a peanut in his mouth.

They were at a bar on Figueroa that had always been Angel's last resort. The lights were on as the cleaning crew worked. The room smelled of spilled beer and ammonia, and in the light of day, the place looked dingier than it did at night. Which was saying something.

"Nope," the first-shift bartender said as he counted the till. "Not about them, anyway."

Fred pulled the cherry off the little red sword and chewed thoughtfully. "So does that mean you heard something else?" The sword fell to the napkin beside her Shirley Temple.

"Seems like there's a new Big Bad in town," the bartender said, glancing around the bar. He leaned closer, spoke under his breath. "Mosta my clients are of the demon variety."

Gunn nodded sagely. "Which is why we're here," he said, rattling the ice in his Coke glass. "'Cause you're always the one we go to first for news about the demon world." He glanced at Fred. "Always say that, don't we? Need demon news first, go to Jim-Jim's."

Fred nodded. "You bet," she agreed. "So, what'd you hear?"

The bartender glanced from one to the other, obviously not buying their poor attempt at bullshit. "Nothing you couldn't find out anywhere else," he said. "Dude calls himself The Destroyer." He shook his head. "Heard he looks more like Peter Pan, but that didn't stop him from taking the head off a Durstler last night."

Fred and Gunn looked at each other. "Oh, crap.”

"You said it,” Fred muttered.

The bartender dropped the cash tray into the register and closed the machine with a bright ding. "What, you know the guy?"

Fred pushed away from the bar. "Can't really say." She glanced at Gunn, eyes full of worry and fear. "You ready?"

He laid down enough money for their drinks and a healthy tip. "Yeah. Thanks, man. We'll see you around, huh?"

"I'd stay clear of him," the bartender called. "He sounds like bad news."

"Thanks," Fred replied. They exited into late afternoon. "Holy crap," she said, turning to Gunn. "Connor’s the Destroyer?” She shivered despite the heat. “That’s crazy.”

“Yeah, but it makes sense if you think about it.”

“Makes sense, how?”

Gunn slid his sunglasses on. “Well, he was what the sluks were running from, right? Plus, he really likes killing things.”

“But what about Angel and Cordy?" She paused, brow furrowed. “Say Connor is the Destroyer, what does that have to do with not being able to find Angel and Cordy?"

Gunn looked up and down Figueroa. The restaurant across the street held a mix of wilting tourists and overly-tanned locals. Normal folks who never had to think about things that went chomp in the night. And it was his job to make sure they never did.

He began turning over options. "Maybe nothing."

"We need help," Fred said. Her eyes widened as an idea struck. "Lorne--we should call Lorne."

"Why? He split to Vegas."

"Because we need him. We need *someone*," she said. "We can't do this alone."

He put his arm around her and walked her toward the truck. "I don't know why not," he said. "I've been thinking. Why can't we just do a locating spell and find 'em ourselves? After that, we can work on tracking down Connor."

Fred pulled back. "Magic? Us? Charles, that's like asking me to go on TV and impersonate Julia Child. Ya can't just," she waved her hand wildly, "suddenly think you're an expert because you once heated some fish sticks."

He took her hand. "Well, I say let's give it a shot. I mean, we have the books. We know where to get the supplies. I'll even help you do it, okay?"

"What do you mean, you'll help *me*?" she squeaked. "When did I become the spell caster?"

"You *are* the resident genius, right?" he reminded her, opening the passenger door and helping her in.

***

Wesley sat on the couch staring blankly out the window. Sun slashed him across the face and chest, where before there had been only the soft glow of ambient light. Must mean the day was getting on, then.

"Really should get up from here," he whispered, as he rolled the bottle of Glenfiddich between his palms. There was much to be done: organizing his books, catching up on correspondence, giving the place a good, thorough cleaning. Now that he was free, he could focus on anything he chose.

Free. Ah, yes. He tapped his fingernails against the glass, and the flat ping rang through the silent apartment.

He was certainly a free man, now. Free of all entanglements, of all commitments. He could go anywhere, do anything, and no one would care.

He rubbed his chest absently and thought, again, of Connor. In his weaker moments, Wesley had dreamed of finding him and bringing him back safely. But someone obviously beat him to it.

His laugh felt dry in his throat.

Connor fought with a boy's exuberance, spending energy as if he had pockets full. Against Angel's spare, lean moves, Connor was an explosion, a dervish.

And yet the core was there. In those few seconds he witnessed, Wes saw in Connor the makings of a fighter every bit as good, if not better than his father.

Death into life, death made flesh. A chill walked over Wesley's spine.

Was Connor Angel's Shanshu, then?

Wes shook his head. Prophecies. What good were they when they led you down the wrong path? He bounced the bottle absently against his knee. As far as he was concerned, they were near useless. He wondered if he would ever find itself within him to believe one again.

"A crisis of faith," he mumbled. Then he blinked, realizing what he'd said. "A crisis of faith," he repeated. What was the remedy of this sort of crisis, he wondered. Years of church, years of schooling, even years of living in the real world hadn't prepared him for such a loss.

He stared into an abyss so large that it was impossible to see the edges. An abyss whose mouth was opening to consume you as you waited, helpless and unable to fight back.

He lifted the bottle and against his cheek the glass felt cool and dense. Out the corner of his eye, the five fingers of Scotch rocked, waves against a dock. He licked his lips and let the memory of its warm burn and peat-smoke flavor comfort him.

He had promised himself he wouldn't start drinking until five and if he'd failed at keeping the big promises, he refused to fail at the small ones. So he set the bottle on his knee again.

It was so clear now, how Angel and Cordelia had rescued him from a life that was going nowhere. How they'd made room in their tight circle for him. Neither of them knew the wall their connection threw up around them, the way it blocked everyone else out.

Despite that, they'd been a family. Meant for each other. Or so he'd believed.

Cordelia, no matter what she'd said about there being no one for them, had certainly jumped at the chance to pair up with Groo. He'd seen what that did to Angel, who had--sometime when Wes wasn't looking--fallen in love with her.

He stared at his hand, at the fingers wrapped tightly around the long, glass neck, at the fleshy pad of his thumb resting against the cap. His skin whitened when he mashed it against the black plastic, went pink again when he relieved the pressure.

Maybe they'd all just needed to relieve some pressure. Maybe that's why Cordy had been so quick to leave with Groo. After all she'd been through she certainly deserved some pleasure in her life.

Of course, she could have called to check in. Though he didn't know why he had expected it. After all, Cordelia's first instinct was hardly to think of others.

He slapped the bottle down on the coffee table.

If Cordy had been there, none of this would have happened.

He stared out the window, jaw clenched.

And then the anger leached out of him like evaporating steam. He could blame Cordy if he wanted to. But, really, he was the one responsible. If it weren't for him, their family would still be together, and he wouldn't be sitting here alone, waiting for evening to give him permission to drink.

A golden slant of sun fell across his knees. He stared at it until his eyes watered. Then he glanced at his watch. 5:07. The black plastic top unscrewed with a cooperative snick-hiss.

He didn’t bother with a glass.

***

Connor and Justine stood back-to-back, surrounded by a ring of vamps.

"Call yourself the Destroyer, do you?" one of the demons jeered.

"With good reason," Justine said.

"Well, come on," taunted another. "Destroy me." He got close enough that his long-armed slap brushed Connor's temple.

Over the pounding of his pulse Connor barely felt the blow. The blood filled him, temples to wrists to ankles. It tasted like a hot blade on the back of his tongue.

Father had trained him to honor its beat. It separated him from demons and carried him in battle.

"Aren't you gonna say anything, Peter Pan? Or maybe I should call you Wendy?"

The vamps laughed, pulling their already distorted faces into something uglier. The breeze danced down the sticky concrete and his nostrils flared at the sour smell of their dead flesh.

It was strange that Angelus had not smelled that way.

Angelus disguised his demon nature well, but that did not deliver him of wrongdoing. He deserved every pain that a demon could feel. Every pain....

The liquid heat of Connor's pulse flashed like Quar-Toth's red lightning. With a cry, he slipped into its core.

In less than a minute, the dust of six vamps wreathed the air. War drums pounded in his head and over them he heard a moan, a human sound, and he remembered Justine.

She leaned against the wall, clutching her side. At her feet lay a shattered stake.

He slipped his own stake into his pocket and went to her. "Can I be of assistance?"

She laughed harshly, and he saw then that she was not injured, merely breathing hard. "Gettin’ old’s a bitch."

Connor turned toward the sodium glare of the street lights. "Father used to say that."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to--"

"Do you need anything? Food? Drink? Rest?" He looked over his shoulder.

"No, thanks." Her smile was bright, her eyes fevered.

It was a look he understood. Before he could think better of it, he continued, "I feel at home with you."

Justine's eyes widened. "You do?"

He strained against the mouth of the alley, water at a dam. "Are you ready to continue?"

The blood was calling. He forgot to wait for her response.

Part 2

A loud bang rocked the Hyperion's lobby.

"Oh, crap," yelped Fred. "I think we just blew up the table."

"Angel's gonna be pissed," Gunn said, waving away the cloud of crimson smoke. "You think we can fix it?"

Fred leaned down and inspected the scorched wood. "Nope. It's a goner." She sighed. “So's the spell book, the candles and the...." She looked up at him, eyes watering in frustration. “I suck at this."

Gunn walked around the table and rubbed his hand across her back. He could feel the tension coiled in the long, thin line of muscle. “You did better than I would've."

“I doubt it.” She stood and leaned her head on his shoulder. “What are we gonna do? They *need* us.”

Gunn glanced around the too-quiet office. It unnerved him. He was used to it being full of voices, ringing phones, movement. Now it felt open, empty. Like it should be boarded up and left for the pigeons.

He decided to just spit it out, the fear that had been nagging him all day. “Honey, we don’t know that,” he said, as he gazed out at the echoing lobby. “They may not need us at all.”

She touched his arm, drawing his gaze back to her. “I don’t believe that.” Her chin trembled. “They’re not dead, Charles. I’d know it if they were.”

He turned her toward him, massaged her shoulders comfortingly. “I’m just sayin’….”

She slapped the charred spell book. “Maybe I can’t do this, but someone can.” She ducked out of his embrace and went to the desk. “Someone in here can do this,” she said, yanking the Yellow Pages out of the drawer. "And I’m gonna find ‘em.”

***

Wes stared into his drink, watching the Scotch's rich caramel color break down under the melting ice. The Pogues filtered through the speakers, Shane MacGowan's bleeding Irish vocals the perfect background to Wes's sour mood.

On the telly Man U was beating the holy hell out of Chelsea. Normally, he'd have been pulling for Chelsea just because he despised Manchester United, but today he found himself secretly pleased when the camera caught a Man U forward brutally working the heels of Chelsea's star player.

"Is this seat taken?"

His back stiffened. "Yes," he said, not bothering to turn around.

"That's funny.” She slid the chair out. "Seeing as how you're one of only three people in here, and the others look as lone-wolf as you."

He sighed. "Lilah," he said, turning to face her. "Once wasn't enough?"

She smiled, a slight quirk of lips. "With you? More than."

He blinked against the whiskey haze. "Why are you here, then?" He tapped his glass absently with his fingertips.

She picked it up and sniffed. "Mmm," she said. "Bartender? Another round for him and one for me, please." She set the glass down. "For a guy who's got nothing left to live for, you sure can pick your Scotch."

He shrugged. "A man's got to have some standards."

Lilah laughed. "Oh, yes. Some."

Wes stared at her sullenly while the match raged on the screen behind him.

"Order up," the bartender called.

She went to the bar, paid, and came back with two tumblers. "Here's to standards." She tapped his glass with hers and took a sip.

Wes went back to watching the match.

"Too bad the ref didn't catch that foul. Chelsea might've had a chance," Lilah commented.

Wes glanced at her, his brow arched. "Showing basic knowledge of my country's home sport, Lilah? If it weren't so obvious a ploy to ingratiate yourself, I'd say I was impressed." He turned back to the game.

"I should get points for effort, though, don't you think?"

"If I give you points will you leave?"

"Poor Wes. Turned out by his family. Nothing to do but drink and brood." She sighed dramatically. "All that education going to waste. It's such a shame."

"Like you care."

She snorted. "Oh, but I do." She ran her finger up his sleeve. "I care a lot about that enormous...brain of yours."

"You're so predictable. You think I didn't see the ad you ran in the paper?" He slid his eyes away from the match. "VP of Research, Lilah? Why didn't you just write my name in the blank and be done with it?"

"There's an ad in the paper by that title? My, my. What were the odds?"

"Oh, please. Quit playing games."

"But, why, when I've finally got a worthy adversary?"

"What, you couldn't get a hit off of Angel, so you thought you'd give me a go?"

"You're hardly second best, Wesley."

"I didn't say I was. I said you were a low-class--"

"Now, now, Wes,” she interrupted. “That's not very nice. Especially when I'm just a company girl going the extra mile for my employer." She leaned in, voice low and seductive. "But you'd know all about that, wouldn't you?"

"Would I?"

"Oh, I'd say so. Interpreting prophecies, saving the boy all by your lonesome. Bet you're doing a lot of things by your lonesome these days."

He grunted.

"You know, Wes, I've been asking myself something."

"Why you exist?"

"No, although that is a question for the ages. More like, what do you have to lose? You're already damned. Why not team up with people who can fully appreciate your intelligence and put it to good use?"

"You call working for a company that's the personification of evil putting my skills to good use?"

She rolled her eyes. "Don't be such an innocent. We don't embody evil any more than anyone else does." She tapped a well-manicured nail on the table. "Including you."

He flinched.

"Ah, I see you wondered about that. Realizing you'd played right into Holtz's hands, that'd have to grate."

"You have no idea what grates on me, Lilah. If you did, you wouldn't be sitting here."

She covered his hand with hers and said, in a disarmingly sympathetic voice, "Seems to me that, in your world, the good guy never wins. I mean, heck, the good guy got his throat slit and lost all his friends." She leaned forward. "Maybe, you should give the other side a try."

As she drew closer, the Budweiser sign's neon flashed illuminated the faint traces of a fist-sized bruise on her jaw. Well hidden by make-up, but obviously not more than a couple of days old.

His scraped knuckles tingled and his head filled with a dull roar.

When he came to she was staring at him, eyes as sly as her smirk. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

He swallowed back a burst of acid and said bitterly, "What do you get when you mix a misinterpreted prophecy, a resurrected vampire hunter, and a baby stolen and returned grown like some sort of comic book character?"

Her smile widened. "The bad punch-line to a cosmic joke?"

Wes flinched. "No. My life." He shoved away from the table, reached into his pocket, and dropped several bills next to his sweating glass. "Well, as much fun as this little chat hasn't been, I believe it's time for me to go."

She watched him out of cat's eyes. "If you're sure." She stood, smoothed her skirt, and smiled deliberately when his gaze followed the movement of her hand. "Why don't I walk you out."

***

Lorne sat at the small, round table in the corner of All Bets Are Off, nursing his drink and listening to a client sing.

“Hey, Lorne," Mickey, the bartender and owner of All Bets, yelled over the din. "You got a phone call.”

Lorne laid his hand on the lapel of his lavender silk jacket and made a “Me?” expression.

Mickey nodded. “Some girl. Got a guy’s name.”

He blinked. “Fred?”

“Yeah. Sounds right.” He jerked a thumb toward the office door. “She’s been on hold a coupla minutes.” He went back to mixing a Caucasian for the line-backer sized demon down the bar.

Lorne slurped the Seabreeze to vapors and left the empty glass on the table. “Be right back.”

Mickey nodded. “Take your time.”

He walked into the office and picked up the phone. “Fred?”

“Hey, Lorne! How are ya? I'm doin' fine!"

The roar of the bar muffled Fred's voice like cotton. Lorne put his hand over his ear and leaned as far away from the open door as possible.

"Everything here is, um--so you work at a place called All Bets Are Off? That's kinda funny, 'cause the reason.... "

Lorne tried to keep up with her and the singer, who barreled through the second verse of Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'."

"...that time Gunn made that bet and was supposed to, um, lose his soul, and, um, Angel rescued him?”

The singer warbled into the bridge, skidded into the high note, and the speakers whined.

“Fred, sweetie, I'm having trouble hearing you."

"Can ya hear me now?"

"Hang on a sec." He kicked the door shut with the toe of his ostrich Stacy Adams and lowered the bar’s roar to white noise. "There. God have mercy on us all."

"Huh?"

"Nothing. How you doing sweetie?"

"Fine, thanks. You?"

“Not bad. If you don’t mind living with a bunch of drunk gamblers in the middle of the desert.”

She giggled, a brittle sound. “I’ve never been to Vegas but I’d love to see it. Maybe sometime….” She trailed off, until there was nothing left but the humming phone line and the bass reverberating through the closed door.

He leaned against the edge of the desk. “Fred? Everything okay?”

“Um, well, remember earlier when I was talkin' about that time Gunn sold his soul, and Angel rescued us and all?"

"Mmm hmm." He was pretty sure she hadn't called just to reminisce but he was still waiting to pick up the clue train.

"Well, we're, uh, kinda in a similar situation now."

Lorne's eyes widened. "Gunn sold his soul for another truck?"

"What? No! I mean, we're in another one of those situations where someone needs to be rescued. Only this time, it's not us. It's Angel," she said in a shaky voice. "And Cordy."

His fingers tapped the desk in time with the pumping bass. "Crap. I was afraid of something like that.”

She sniffled. “You were?” Her voice was muffled by what was probably the shirtsleeve she was wiping her face on.

Lorne winced at the thought. “Yeah. I got a, uh, message right before I left.”

She gasped. “You did?”

“Uh huh. Let’s just say, the odds of me staying alive in LA this summer? About as good as winning Twenty-One with a two and a three.”

“But…but…. What about us?” Her voice rose with panic. “Making it through the summer alive, I mean?”

“You’re human, sweetie."

“What does that have to do with--” There was a moment of silence. Lorne could practically see the colors of the Rubik’s cube lining up in Fred’s gi-normous brain.

“Oh," she said.

“Yeah. Young Connor isn’t exactly the most open-minded of raging killers.”

“Oh, crap. You think maybe he.... But he seemed to be so thrilled to be home."

"Honey, let me tell ya, the only thing that kid's thrilled about is collecting trophies. And I don't mean of the bowling variety."

"But he's Angel's son. And Cordy purged him of all the ick. You said so yourself."

"That she did. Of the Quar-Toth ick. But not the rest of it. He was raised in a hell dimension by a psycho. There’s not a whole lot she could do."

Fred was silent for a moment. "Okay, well that makes my next question even more important than I originally thought.”

“Shoot.”

"We need a locating spell. To find Angel and Cordy. Without them….”

“No helpless being helped?”

“Not even us,” Fred said. "And let me tell ya, I'm beginning to feel pretty darn helpless."

“Okay. Got paper?” In his mind, he could see Connor’s aura, filthy with vengeance and hate. Lorne ran his hand over his horns, scratching around the base of the one on the left. It only itched when he got nervous.

“’kay,” she said. There was the barest glimmer of hope in her voice.

“Call this number.” He rattled it off.

The scritch-scratch of Fred’s pen could be heard across the miles. “Okay, I got it. Now who is it?”

“Dame Dorothy. She owns a metaphysical bookstore. Does some dabbling on the side. If she can’t do the spell, she knows who can.”

“Okay." Fred's voice was stark with relief. "Look, I don’t wanna get you in trouble, so I won’t keep you.”

“It’s okay. Management’s easy here. Plus, the guy singin’? Sounds like Edith Piaf on steroids.”

She laughed. “It’s good to talk with you, Lorne. Maybe, if we take care of this, and you know, get everyone back, you can come back, too.”

He sighed. “When I can. Until then, I’m thinking about you.”

“Me too,” she said. “Oh! There’s Charles with the food. Talk to ya soon?”

“You bet.”

The line went dead. He dropped the handset back on the cradle, and stood, hand on the phone, thinking. “As dear old mom always said, better the Scum Pits of Ur than the canyons of Trelinsk,” he muttered.

The bar was dark, hot and smoky when he opened the door. He made his way back to his table, nodding to Mickey as he passed.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he said, scratching his horn. “Everything’s fine.”

***

They called Dame Dorothy at daybreak.

"She's what?" Gunn asked, not quite believing what he'd heard.

Fred slumped in her desk chair. "On vacation." She waved the phone back and forth. "Message says they're closed for summer holiday. Be back in two weeks."

"Shit." Gunn shoved his hands in his pockets. "What now?"

She sat quietly, chewing on her lip. Then she shoved back from the desk, grabbed her purse, and hustled toward the door.

“Fred?” Gunn called, running to catch up. He grabbed her arm, brought her up short and got a good look at her face. “No. No *way*.”

She jerked free and started for the door again. "It’s the only way,” she said, voice sharp.

He dogged her all the way to the street, where the a.m. commute was already in full swing. “Fred.” A garbage truck grumbled into the alley and started backing in. The reverse-warning beeps shrilled. “Fred!” he shouted. “Listen to me!”

She whirled. “No!” She was giving him the full Pylea treatment now: jaw set, mouth trembling and eyes wild. “I tried the spell and blew up the table. We can't get Dame Dorothy."

He zeroed in on her. "Dammit, Fred.” The blue-breezy, LA morning faded into the background. “He told me not to ever come back. Any of us."

Fred closed her eyes and her face went tight. "I know," she whispered. "D'ya think I'd go if I thought we had a choice?"

Gunn deflated. Drew her close; thought through the options. "Let me go,” he finally said.

She shook her head and he felt the imprint of her cheekbone against his chest. "He'll respond better to me."

"Honey, you bitch slapped him all to hell when he was in the hospital. What makes you think--"

She pulled back and looked at him. "Trust me on this." Her dark eyes were liquid, pleading.

He sucked in a breath. "Y'know how much I hate this, right?"

"What part, specifically? The part where we're stuck here alone looking for answers to questions we can't even articulate?"

He snorted. "Yeah, something like that. Only I'd've said, why are the two non-demon, non-spell-casting folks left to solve the problem?"

Fred's eyes widened. "Oh, my God."

"What?" He shook his head. "What'd I say?"

Her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh, my God," she repeated. "What if we were supposed to be left alone? What if someone's doing this on purpose?"

Gunn's lips thinned. "You know I'm gonna be kickin' some major booty if that's the case."

Fred shuddered. "Before you go booty-kickin', let me see what kind of help I can get from Wes."

"Okay. But I’m driving.”

“You don’t have to—“

"I'll drive you over and wait in the truck while you go in,” he stated firmly. At her look he softened. “Look, I just think we shouldn’t be alone right now, just in case."

She took a deep breath. "That's smart." Her eyes closed. "I wish I knew where they were.”

Gunn wrapped his arm around her waist and guided her toward his truck. "Don’t worry. We’ll find 'em."

Part 3

Fred raised her hand to knock then dropped it back to her side. "Now, Fred," she said, pretending her mother was standing next to her. "You just get out there and do it, girl." The familiar words of encouragement spurred her on.

Before she could lose her nerve she knocked. Under her knuckles the door was hard and unforgiving. She waited for a few minutes and knocked again.

"Crap," she whispered. "He's not...."

The door opened.

"...here," Fred finished.

Wes hissed.

Fred stuck her foot in, wincing when the door smashed it against the jamb. "Wes, I need your help.”

His jaw clenched. "I told you people never to come back.” He blocked the door with his body, and all she could see was the sleeve of a rumpled t-shirt. He was unshaven and his hair was wild. The slice on his throat gleamed angrily against his pale skin.

Fred’s lips trembled. "I know you did. And I wouldn't be here if I hadn't tried everything, but I did. But we can't find them," she said, eyes filling against her will. She dashed the tears away with a frustrated move of her hand. "They disappeared."

"Ask me if I care," he said, glancing over his shoulder. "Now leave."

She shook her head and put her hand on the door. "Please, Wes. I know you don't care about Angel. But it's Cordy, too. They're just...gone."

His eyes narrowed. "Maybe he finally shagged her. Got a little too happy and took her down Mexico way. I mean, it'd be a little sunny for the likes of Angelus, but you never know--"

Enraged, she banged her fist on the door. "Goddammit, Wesley, I don't know what happened to you--"

His eyes went to flint. "Shall I replay it for you, little Fred?" he said. "How about all those hours where I lay on the ground bleeding to death? Or the part where none of you came to hear my side of the story...that setting off any bells?" His voice was thick, black smoke. "Or…I know…what about when the man I *thought* was my best friend tried to kill me while I lay defenseless in my.... Hey!"

She shoved hard, forcing the door open and stumbling into the room. "I've had enough, Wesley," she shouted. "Enough of your bitterness and your betrayal and your not coming around. You know, you could have fixed this if you'd just told someone about the prophecy. But, no, you had to--"

"Wesley, did I hear someone?" Lilah glided out of the bedroom, wrapping herself in Wes’s long, striped robe. "Oh, hi," she said with a twist of her lips.

Fred's face paled. "What is *she* doing here?"

Wes glared at Lilah, who ignored him, and instead took her time cuffing the sleeves with calculated, graceful moves. "Honey, I know you're still awfully young, but I'd think it'd be obvious what I'm doing here." She smiled at Fred, all bottomless eyes and sex-tumbled hair.

“Lilah, leave."

She blinked. “In your robe? What will the neighbors think?” But, after blowing a kiss at Wes, she left them alone, closing the bedroom door behind her with a soft click.

Wes's gaze slammed into Fred's. “Happy now?"

"How could you?" she asked, voice cracking like a china plate hitting the floor.

Wes shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He held her gaze defiantly. "How could I not?"

"I thought better of you," she said. "I thought...." The ice storm of her breath rattled through her. "I can see I was wrong."

She walked through the open door and into the hall. The shiver that ran across her shoulders chased away the numb shock, and left behind a cold, determined fury.

The sound of the slamming door echoed through the hallway.

***

The hot water ran out thirty minutes ago. His skin, pink from the friction of wet terrycloth, stung under the cold needles of spray.

He slapped the water off and yanked the towel off the curtain rod. Who did Fred think she was? Coming into his home and demanding he help her. He dried his hair roughly and stepped out onto the mat. “Thought I’d come crawling back at the snap of her fingers, did she?”

He dropped the used towel on the floor and stalked to the bedroom. The rumpled bed reminded him of Lilah, who had departed quickly once the fun was over. But not without a parting shot.

“You sure you don’t want to reconsider that job offer?” Her eyes had sparkled.

His gaze focused on the uncovered bruise. His fist clenched. “Go to hell, Lilah.”

She smiled, a sales girl at the perfume counter. “What if I got you the kid?”

The wheels in his mind spun like tires on a gravel road and he hesitated just long enough for her smile to widen. “Get *out*,” he shouted, realizing he had, once again, given more away than he should.

Lilah knew when to retreat. “You change your mind, you know where to find me.” The door closed behind her, leaving only the lingering scents of Chanel and malice.

Wes pulled on jeans and a clean t-shirt, shoved his feet in his driving moccasins and grabbed his car keys. His skin felt too tight and he knew if he stayed he’d break more than his grandmother’s tea pot.

He wove through the morning traffic like a New York cabbie, stomping his brakes and blowing his horn and flipping off anyone who got in his way.

Finally he made it to the PCH, hit the power window buttons and turned up the radio. Cool, salty air pounded through, ruffling his now-dry hair and filling his ears with its roar. KCSN was still playing the news every half hour and, tired of hearing about the rest of the world’s problems, he punched the buttons randomly until he found someone playing rock.

The Clash’s “London Calling” vibrated the speakers against the console. A non-smile twisted his lips. “How appropriate,” he drawled. “Hello, Father,” he said, as the imagined conversation spun out. “How kind of you to call.” He gripped the steering wheel, acutely conscious of the motion tugging the torn skin of his knuckles. “Just fine, thanks. Why, no, it’s all going swimmingly. Except for that part where I misinterpreted the prophecy and got my friend’s baby stolen.”

He gritted his teeth. A mini-van had pulled in front of him where the road narrowed at Malibu and had yet to reach the speed limit. “Dammit,” he said. “Would you go *on*?” He blew the horn.

The way news traveled in their world it was likely his father already knew. And equally likely he was distancing himself from his son more even quickly than usual.

Wes hung his head out the window, saw no one coming, and hit the gas. The Jeep lurched forward and he whipped around the van, glaring at the driver as he passed. “Like the rest of us don’t have lives,” he growled at the blond behind the wheel. “Like we don’t have places to be.”

It hit him, then, how alone he really was. And how justifiably angry. If it weren’t for him, Connor wouldn’t be alive today. Angel had been traveling a path of destruction, fueled by spiked blood and spiraling violence.

Wes willingly sacrificed his own life for Connor’s. And none of them saw it. Instead they huddled around Angel as if he were some sort of…of….

Like he was perfect.

“No, he didn’t fire us, leave us to fend for ourselves and get shot up by zombie cops. Didn’t bang his sire and risk everyone’s life because he felt cold and dead. News flash, Angel,” he said, whipping out of traffic and onto one of the canyon roads. “You *are* dead.”

Ahead the tarmac twisted up and around, and he slowed the Jeep to follow the curving path. The Clash had long ago blended into something less rewarding and he slapped the dial again.

Classical music poured through the car. He let it wash over him, let the fugue build on the speakers and in his head until he had no recollection of driving, until he was surprised to look up and find himself at some sort of dive just off of the 101. The clock on his dash read 11:54.

He pulled into the gravel lot and as he got out, he saw the sea breeze had cleared the sky of the yellow ozone haze. It was a beautiful day, blue and perfect. He slammed the door and made his way into the bar, unable to get out of all that beauty fast enough.

As if it had gotten a good look at the clock, his stomach rumbled. No food since…he couldn’t remember when. The bar was dark and even though no one smoked indoors in California anymore, the scent of thousands of cigarettes permeated the building from scarred linoleum floor to dark wood beams.

He slid onto a stool at the bar. “Do you serve food?”

The bartender shoved a menu at him. “Yeah.” Her long red hair was slung into a messy ponytail and several strands had slipped free to halo her pale skin. Her coloring and sharp features reminded him of Justine and he had to force himself not to get up and leave.

“Burger,” he barked. “Fries. Coke, no ice.”

She yelled the order into the kitchen in a voice flattened by too many years in the Valley and came back with his Coke. He sipped the warm drink, felt the burn that only made his urge for Scotch stronger.

Unable to avoid it any longer he replayed the morning’s events. He kept getting stuck on Lilah’s parting shot. Connor—she could give him Connor. “To what end, though?” he whispered, rolling the glass between his hands.

His intuition fired, the same insight that told him to go after that prophecy. He told himself not to trust it, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something important there. Something he needed to know.

The bartender dropped his plate in front of him. He pulled a paper napkin out of the holder, spread it in his lap and took a bite of the burger. His stomach lurched, then settled as the food hit. He closed his eyes and chewed, letting the protein fuel his thoughts.

He needed to research.

When he’d left the hotel, he’d only taken the barest minimum of books. He planned on restocking when he and Connor got situated.

Wolfram & Hart had books. Probably more than he’d seen since his days at the Council.

His heart pounded. Was he actually considering…?

He shook his head and took another bite of his burger. Connor. That boy had the power save or ruin mankind. And if his track record was any indication, the future did not look good.

None of this would be an issue if Angel had-- He cut himself off. Had life with his parents taught him nothing? He set his half-eaten burger on his plate.

Depend only on yourself, his father told him countless times. And then he forced Wes to learn independence by abandoning him.

Those bastards he’d once considered family couldn’t teach him something he’d already learned.

He dropped a ten on the bar and stalked into the summer afternoon, slapping on his sunglasses to cut the blue-bright glare. Gravel kicked up under his tires as he pulled out of the lot and headed for the freeway.

If Connor was indeed the Destroyer, he couldn't be allowed to live. But none of the other players would sacrifice him. Wolfram & Hart wanted to maximize his dark potential. Angel wanted to save his son, regardless of the consequences to the rest of the world.

Wes knew what it meant to stand alone, to do the right thing no matter the cost. What if he considered the resources Lilah offered as a means to an end? He could study the boy and the prophecies. If Connor's evil nature showed signs of manifesting, Wes would do whatever it took to stop him. With the fire-power of Wolfram & Hart behind him, he stood a much better chance of succeeding.

Doing so would pit his interests against Wolfram & Hart—and Angel Investigations. In war one must sacrifice the few to save the many. If he had to choose between saving the interests of the other players and saving mankind, he knew which one would win.

***

They came across the girl in the alley, half-drained, the vamp hanging over her like a wraith.

Connor descended, an avenging angel, and dusted the demon before it could lift its head.

The girl lolled against the concrete block wall, eyes glassy and staring. The musty smell of urine permeated the air and from the rip in her throat, blood bubbled, water from a spring.

Justine crowded in next to him and grabbed his hand. She put it on the wound, showed him how to press the gaping edges shut. "Apply pressure," she said. "I'll go for help."

The girl moaned in pain and twitched away, exposing the rip again. He stared uncomprehendingly. He’d seen the demon himself, knew it to be a vamp.

Remembering his assignment he scrambled after her and pinched her throat shut. The warm syrup of her blood covered his hand. He could feel the ends of the wound, nearly as long as the span of his fingers.

She wriggled, drawing his attention back to her.

"Bit...me...." She rasped.

"I know,” he said. “The demon is gone now. There is nothing to fear."

The girl’s shining eyes sought him out. "...hurts...."

He closed his eyes, unable to look at her pleading face. Behind his eyelids he saw his father, neck punctured, spilled blood stilled by a lifeless heart. "I know,” he said, voice breaking. “I'm sorry. Help is coming."

***

Lorne kicked back in his chair and propped his feet up on the table. The bar was empty, which was a good thing, because at nearly 2 a.m., he was ready for a little shut eye.

“So, Mickey, how’d we do?”

Mickey had one hand in the till and the other on an ancient adding machine. He grunted.

Lorne nodded. “That sounded like the grunt of a good night. Otherwise, I’d get the moan. I hate that moan. Heard myself make it far too many times.”

There was a rattle at the door and both men looked up.

“Is this where Lorne works?” A woman, probably in her early 20s, stood just inside the door.

Lorne blinked. In this light she resembled Cordy. Or Cordy before the bottle of yellow dye hit her pretty little head. “It is,” he called. “I’m Lorne. But we’re closed.”

She stepped out of the shadows and into the bar. She was pregnant. Hugely. And her aura was doing some really funky stuff.

Mickey tallied a column then glanced up. “Like he said, lady. Come back tomorrow.”

Lorne got to his feet. “We’d be glad to call you a cab, though.”

Her lips trembled. “No, thanks." She clutched her hands together in front of her. “I’ll just….” She motioned over her shoulder with her thumb.

Something about the forlorn look, the sagging shoulders and the maternal vibe got to him. “Look, you really just need to go home, get some rest. You know, get off your feet?”

She rubbed her belly. “Yeah. You’re right. Thanks, anyway.” She turned and he heard the door slam behind her.

“Go lock it for me?” Mickey asked, sliding money into the night deposit bag.

“Sure." Lorne walked to the door. God, he’d hated to turn her away. But business was business, and if he didn’t get some sleep, he wouldn’t be much good for business tomorrow.

He walked down the short, narrow hall. When he reached the door, some instinct made him open it instead of locking it.

The girl stood on the sidewalk, leaning against the wall, head back, eyes closed, humming a lullaby. Under her tight shirt he could see the ripples of the baby moving, a swimmer under the water’s surface.

He jolted. “Hey,” he called quietly.

She opened her eyes, big and brown, and blinked away tears. “Yeah. Hey.”

“Honey,” he said, stepping out onto the sidewalk.

She shied away like a beaten down dog. “No, really. It’s okay.”

He shook his head. “I…you know what I do, right?”

She shrugged. “Read people. Help them.”

“That’s right.” He stood over her, a good head taller, and from this close, her distended belly almost bumped right into him. “When people sing. I read them when they sing.”

She covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh,” she whispered. “So, just then, you…?”

“Yeah. I didn’t mean to." Lorne put his hand on his chest, as if swearing the truth. "It just happens."

"I'm sorry. If I'd known, I never would have...."

He smiled. "It's okay. Look, just go home, all right?"

She blanched. "I...."

"Really. You're aura's telling me that you've been out on the road too long. People are worrying about you. They need you."

She laughed hollowly. "No one needs me."

Lorne shook his head, totally focused on the message, as if the Powers were pouring it straight through him. "You're the only one who can...." Then it hit him. This was the same advice he'd given to the last three customers. He closed his eyes as his words sank in. "Who can..." he repeated.

"Who can what?"

"Do what you do." Lorne's eyes opened. "You're the only one who can face your demons, sweetie. The only one who can work your own brand of magic." He put his hand on the woman's arm. "They're not a complete unit without you."

She stared at him for a good thirty seconds.

"Look," Lorne said, "I'm a seer. I just read what you put out there, and what you're putting out there is bright and clear. Go home." He stepped away from her and buttoned his coat.

She blinked. "But...."

"Listen, I'd love to stay and chat with you all night, but I've got a plane to catch."

She shook her head, brow wrinkled in confusion. "Huh?"

"Just taking a dose of my own medicine." He grabbed a twenty from his pocket, stuck it in her hand. "For the road." Then he stepped through the door and locked it behind him. "Mickey!" he called into the darkened bar. "I've got some good news and some bad news."

***

Fred kicked the poof in frustration.

"What am I gettin' us for dinner?" Gunn asked. He sat in an exhausted heap on the floor, leaning against the blue, velvet cushions of the round couch.

"Food's not gonna help," she said.

His eyebrow arched. "Wow. Didn't expect to hear that."

She shook her head. "I don't know what else to do." She sank to the cushions, then leaned over and put her elbows on her knees. Her hair curtained her face.

Gunn reached over and tucked a long strand behind her ear. "Hey," he said quietly. "There's a reason for this, so that means there's a way out. We just have to find it."

"I know I'm not exactly the Cavalry," Lorne said, dropping his bag to the floor with a thump. "But will I do?"

Fred looked up, shock and a wild sort of hope on her face. "LORNE! Oh, my God!" She leapt to her feet and ran to him. Her momentum carried them into a twirling hug.

"Easy, there, little filly," he said. Over her head, he met Gunn's gaze. "Charlie," he said.

Fred scooted out of the way when Gunn rolled forward and stuck out his hand. "Since you're steppin' in to save the day? Gonna ignore the flagrant violation of the nickname rule."

Lorne stepped back. "Sorry, got carried away." As he took off his sunglasses and baseball cap he studied their faces. "From the sour pusses, I'd take a wild guess and say that things haven't improved."

Fred covered her face with her hands. "Understatement," she moaned through her fingers.

"Wes is sleeping with Lilah," Gunn said. "And if that weren't skanky enough?" He pointed to the paper.

Lorne's eyes trailed to the article, face-up on the desk. He scanned the headline, eyes narrowing. "That son of a bitch."

"Now, Lorne," Fred said.

He shook his head. "Sorry, sweetie, it's just--"

"I meant, if you're gonna cuss him, do it right. He's a rat-tailed bastard and being tortured by Helvroth demons would be too good for him."

Lorne blinked. "Oooh-kay." He glanced at Gunn.

Gunn shrugged. "I wasn't there, but she walked in on Wes and Lilah. Kinda changed her opinion of him."

"Wow." Lorne put his hands in his pockets. "And I say again, wow."

"It's been nearly two weeks and we still can't find 'em,” Fred said, voice rising.

Lorne put a gentling hand on her arm. "Did it occur to you that....?" He glanced toward heaven, hoping she'd get the clue.

Her gaze followed his. "They're dead?" She nodded. "Of course it occurred to me. But I'm not gonna give up just because...you know...." She swallowed hard. "She’s my friend. And he saved me," she said. "He rode in on a horse and saved me." She put her hand over her heart. "And, darn it, Lorne, I'm gonna get ‘em back."

"Then let's go to work." He picked up his suitcase.

"Let me get that," Gunn said, taking the bag from Lorne. "Look, I've moved my stuff here for now, 'cause I don't think we should be alone. It be okay if I put this back in your old room?"

Lorne nodded. "Home's where the heart is, sweetie." He patted himself on the ass. "And last time I checked, my heart was right here." He turned to Fred. "So, give me the skinny, Skinny." He put his arm around her and led her to the office.

Part 4

"Your Connor's making quite the splash," Lilah said. She leaned across the desk and swiped a leaf of Wes's salad bare-fingered.

"He's hardly my Connor," Wes replied, spearing a slice of carrot.

"Yeah, well, whoever he is, he's been tearing up the night. And I mean that literally." She settled onto the edge of his desk and her short, navy skirt rode up her slim, toned thigh. She smiled when Wes's eyes followed the trail of flesh. "You still want me to get him for you?"

"Whatever would I do with him?"

She inclined her head.

He blinked, feigning mild surprise. "Oh, I see. You thought that’s why I hired on."

“Wasn’t it?” She watched him through narrowed eyes. “Whatever happened to, ‘You call working for a company that's the personification of evil putting my skills to good use?’” she said in a surprisingly good British accent.

He chuckled and slid his pawn one square further into the Queen’s territory. “A man’s got to eat.”

Lilah stretched her arms over her head in a way that exuded silver-screen star confidence. He knew by now that it was an act. At heart, she might have delusions of glamour, but the fact that she was jumpier than a 12-year-old girl at a horror movie effectively negated them.

He knew better than to underestimate her, though. If he was David to Wolfram & Hart’s Goliath, then Lilah was his slingshot. And the first rule of the game was to avoid friendly fire.

"Well," she said, folding her hands in her lap like the proper lady she'd never be. "Putting your motivations aside, I say we track him down and make him an offer he can't refuse."

Wes finished his salad and tossed the container into the garbage can next to his desk. "You do recycle, don't you?" he asked, nodding toward the plastic.

"What?" Lilah asked, following his gaze. "Oh, sure. It's a Number 2, right?"

Oh, Lilah, he thought. What a model citizen you are.

She squinted at him. "You do that on purpose, don't you?"

"Mmm."

She stood, smoothed her skirt. "Well, I haven't eaten yet," she said. "And I have a long afternoon." She examined her meticulous manicure. "One that'll probably turn into evening." Her eyes met his. "Which means I won't be seeing you."

"My heart is broken, I can assure you," he said, reaching for his legal pad and a book.

"Sure you don't want to come?"

He glanced her way. "You mean, to track down Connor?"

She nodded.

"No thank you," he said, returning his gaze to his book. "I’ve got a date.”

“Really." She trailed toward the door. "Anyone I know?”

He tugged one of the long, red ribbons attached to the binding and opened the book to the page he wanted. “No one you've met, no."

She snorted. "Right. Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, international man of mystery."

He wrote a note on the pad, flipped another page. Glanced up. "You still here?"

"No," she said, and she disappeared down the hall.

***

Lorne's contact uttered the final words of the locating spell and the surface of the map wavered, a long strip of asphalt under the desert sun. Finally, the landmarks began to take shape again and a dark point appeared.

"That's strange," Lorne said, leaning over the table for a better look.

"Uh huh," Melissa replied. She was a friend from the Caritas days, an accountant who dabbled in the white arts. She put her hand on his shoulder and pushed him gently out of the way. "Now scoot so we can all see."

"Is he in the ocean?" asked Fred.

"Looks like it," replied Gunn.

Melissa marked a spot with the tip of a Sharpie then leaned back in her chair. The metaphysical marks swirled away, leaving only a standard US map with a black ink spot about 20 miles offshore. "Maybe he's in a boat or something."

"Maybe they weighed him down and dumped him," Gunn said.

Fred glanced at him, her eyes filled with horror. "Oh, God."

"Sorry." He lifted his hands in the air. "Thought we were exploring all the possibilities."

Fred looked at Melissa. "But this means he's not dust, right?”

Melissa nodded. "If he was dust, I couldn't pick him up at all. So this means he's still alive. Well, intact," she said, with a wry glance at Lorne.

"Oh, thank God," Fred said, collapsing in the chair closest to her. Suddenly she went tense again. “But what about Cordy?”

"I got something," Melissa admitted cautiously. She pulled out her Palm Pilot and flipped the case open. “See?” she asked, showing them a series of hieroglyphics. “The results seem to be a vapor trail instead of an actual physical presence.”

Fred squinted at the screen. “May I?” she asked, holding her hand out.

Melissa nodded and handed her the Pilot.

“That looks like physics,” she said, excitement tingeing her voice.

Melissa nodded. “Kind of. It’s the same as any other equation—all you have to do is learn to speak its language.”

"Hold up," Gunn interrupted. "So what you’re sayin’ is that you didn’t find Cordy at all, you just found traces of her?” He shook his head. “Obviously not the math geek in the room, but that just don’t make sense any way you look at it.”

Lorne sighed. “What is it with the merry old month of May?”

Fred looked up from the Pilot, glazed eyes finding focus. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, man,” Gunn said, getting it. “That was when Cordy got sucked into the portal last year.”

“Actually,” Melissa said, leaning on her elbows. The crisp pin-striped sleeves of her suit brushed the squared off corners of the map. “You might be onto something.”

“You mean, besides the definite May-sweeps-month feel to our lives?” Lorne asked wryly.

Gunn snorted then sobered. “Say we did find a hot spot, we still stand a pretty good chance of ending up wherever she’s not.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Even I don’t like those odds.”

Lorne caught Gunn’s eye. “Well, let’s focus on making the odds better, then.” He turned to Melissa. “Can you tell exactly where in the ocean Angel’s located? Surface or bottom?"

"Oh, sure. Hang on a sec," Melissa said. She closed her eyes, waved her hand over the paper, and chanted a few phrases. The map swirled and reappeared in three dimensions. The dot hovered for a moment on the surface then plummeted.

Fred swallowed. "Guess that answers our question," she whispered.

"Huh," Lorne said thoughtfully. Everyone looked at him. "I was just wondering why the sharks haven't gotten him."

"I'm getting an odd reading," Melissa said thoughtfully. "Could be that I'm just not strong enough to reach that far...or...it could mean that he's in some sort of...container?"

"Let’s hope. ’Cause otherwise he'll be lookin' all pruny,” Gunn commented.

"Guys," Melissa cut in. "Just thinking out loud, but how are you going to get him out of there?"

Lorne nodded. "She's got a point," he said. "There's no way we can get him out by ourselves."

Fred looked at him. "Sure, there is."

Gunn cocked his head. "How?"

"We'll hire a boat. Get divers to go down and bring him up."

"Us and what money?" Lorne asked.

"Connor's college fund," Fred said. "Cordy wanted to buy a boat with it, right?"

Gunn snorted. "Don't think this is quite what she had in mind."

"On the other hand," Melissa said thoughtfully. "It might not be a bad idea."

Fred nodded. "See?"

"We math geeks gotta stick together." She drummed her fingers on the map. "You know, I just might know someone who can help you." Her gaze honed in on Lorne. "Remember Jack, who used to come into Caritas? He dated that blond-haired demon, Nellie?"

Lorne's eyes widened. "Oh, boy, do I remember Nellie. Bazooms out to *here*," he said, holding his hands way out in front of his body.

Melissa laughed. "Right. The perfect woman for Jack.” At Gunn’s questioning look she continued, “Jack’s an…interesting guy. Besides having an appreciation for all things female he fancies himself the next Mel Fisher."

Gunn arched his eyebrow. "Think he might hunt up some buried treasure for us?"

She shrugged. "Only one way to find out." She glanced at Fred, who was immersed in the equation on the handheld. “Mind if I borrow this for a minute?” she asked, tapping her fingers lightly on the open cover.

Fred jumped. “What? Oh. Oh, sure.” She flushed and handed the computer to Melissa. “Sorry.”

Melissa laughed. “Not a problem.” With a deft slide of the stylus across the screen she pulled up her address book, wrote the number down on a sticky and handed it to Gunn.

“Thanks,” he said, glancing at her neat writing. “We’ll just—“

Fred grabbed the note from him and ran to the office. “Uh, I guess we’ll just go call.” He loped off, leaving Lorne and Melissa alone.

Lorne sat down in the chair next to her and leaned in close. “Okay. Now that the kiddies are gone, spill.”

Melissa closed the cover on the Pilot and set it on the table. “I’m getting a definite vibe on Cordy. A sort of dark magic vibe.” She cast her eyes to the office, where they could hear Fred talking excitedly. “Didn’t want to say much in front of them, but if I were you? I’d find her. Fast.”

Lorne nodded. “Yeah. Well, we’re kinda out of our league. Our primary researcher is sleeping with the enemy.”

Melissa packed her supplies in her black leather briefcase. "And your Champion’s sleeping with the fishes.” She shook her head. “Lord, you’re in bad shape. But, hey, Jack’ll do nearly anything for a buck. At least that’s good news.” She glanced at her slim, efficient watch. “Crap, I gotta run. Late meeting."

Lorne walked her to the door. "Thanks," he said. "You’ve given us a lot to go on.”

She stood on tiptoes and kissed his cheek. "Any time,” she said, wiping a smudge of lipstick off his green skin. “And, Lorne? Watch your back. I worry." She patted his shoulder. "Gotta go crunch some numbers. I'll be praying for you."

"You do that," Lorne said, closing the door and locking it behind her.

***

Connor was as familiar now with the dark side-streets of LA as he had been with the shadowed canyons of Quar-toth. It was his favorite hunting ground. All the bad things liked the dark.

Justine was a half a block behind. Over the rushing traffic and the sounds of night life, he could hear her boots clomping on the sidewalk as she rushed to catch up. It wasn’t hard to pick her out in the crowd; like everyone else, she had her own rhythm.

And for reasons he didn’t question it was starting to grate on him.

The hair on his arms prickled. Vamps. Somewhere close. He swung into the alley and found a pack of them pinning a terror-soaked human to the wall. The vamp yanked the man’s head to the side and buried her teeth in his throat. Blood spurted, leaving a shiny trail on the brick.

The call and response of Connor’s pulse told him to move. He ignored it and stood silently, watching the demon drink.

Justine rushed in behind him. “Steven? What the hell are you doing? Shit!” She rushed forward, staked the drinking vamp and rounded on the others. The man slithered to the ground, trembling.

Connor joined the fight, slaying efficiently, but for the first time not thinking about the kill.

Vamps dusted, Justine whirled, face twisted with fury. “Wait here with him.” She sprinted to the street.

Connor squatted next to the man, ignoring the way he scrambled back. “Don’t worry,” he said, following him deeper into the shadows. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He pressed his hand to the long, jagged rip, feeling the edges carefully and superimposing that image onto the memory of his father’s punctured throat.

Connor slid his tongue over his canines, his incisors. He raised his arm and bit hard enough to draw blood. Then he compared the indentions in his skin to the wound on the man's neck. The low, awkward light of the alley confirmed what he suspected: Angelus did not kill his father.

Justine’s rushing steps called his attention to her. “Help’s on its way.” She fell in next to him. “You idiot! You could’ve gotten him killed.”

“But I didn’t.”

“But you could’ve.” She grabbed him by the shirt. “We’re here to kill leeches, not look at ‘em. Next time, dust the bastard. Save the stare-down for one that doesn’t have his fangs buried in somebody’s throat.”

He peeled her fingers off his shirt. “When I want your advice, I’ll ask for it.”

The whiplash crack of flesh on flesh split the air. Connor raised his hand to his face, stunned. “You hit me.”

“Cross me again and you’ll get worse.”

“C-cold….” The man at their feet shivered.

“Ambulance is coming,” Justine replied. She stood. Shadows distorted her face until she was unrecognizable. “I’m gonna go wait on it.”

She tramped out the alley, distance shrinking her until he could have crushed her with one slap of his hand.

***

The Typhoid Mary pulled away from the dock, engine churning up a wake not quite big enough to surf. The sun lay down in the water and died.

“How long till we get there?” Fred pulled her gaze from the streamers of sizzling peach and flaming blue and looked at the captain, who piloted the boat lazily. His loose grip on the wheel showed knuckles flattened from street fighting.

“Couple of hours,” he said around the hand-rolled, unlit cigarette clamped between his teeth. “Good night for it. ‘Course, night’s good for a lot of things." His eyes slid from her face to her breasts. “You a night person, sweetie?”

She knew he couldn’t see anything behind the neon orange life jacket, but she still crossed her arms over her chest. “Sure. I guess.”

He nodded. “My boys are too.” He hitched his thumb over his shoulder toward the scuba team who were lolling on the benches stern-side. “Do their best work then.”

She glanced at them, noticed their bulky muscles and razor-sharp eyes. Tried not to think of what other jobs the night might bring them.

Gunn appeared at her elbow. She jolted. “Gunn!” she squeaked. “There you are!”

He shot her an odd look. “You got your life jacket on okay?” He turned her toward him, gently uncrossed her arms, and started testing the fasteners.

“I’m good, thanks,” she said, cutting her eyes to the captain. “Jack, uh, checked me out himself.”

Jack laughed loudly.

Gunn’s mouth thinned, but all he said was, “That’s good. Don’t want nothin’ happenin’ to my girl.”

She beamed up at him. “Your girl. I still haven’t gotten used to that.”

“Well, get used to it.” He slung his arm around her shoulders and turned to the captain. “Thanks again for your help,” he said curtly.

“Whatever. You paid me enough.” He tapped the map in front of him and the glare of the overhead bulb showed fingers stained nicotine yellow. “Haven’t been out to the islands for awhile. Do most of our work in Mexico, now.”

Fred tried to look interested. “Really? One of our friends went to Mexico a few weeks ago-” About the time Angel’s son was taken to a hell dimension, she finished silently. Gunn’s arm tightened around her.

Jack’s gold tooth glinted. “Ever want to see the real Mexico, you just let ol’ Jackie know.”

Gunn tensed. “Right. We’ll be sure to let you know. Jackie.” He hustled Fred down the gangway. “Asshole,” he muttered.

“He’s not so bad,” Fred said diplomatically. At Gunn’s look, she lowered her eyes. “Okay, yeah. He’s a total asshole. But he’s our best bet for gettin’ Angel back.”

“I can’t believe he’s Melissa’s friend,” Gunn said. “Last person I’d expect a girl like her to be hangin' with.”

“Well, you know how Caritas was. Drew in all sorts. Lorne was real good about—“

The boat lunged as they picked up speed, cutting her off mid-sentence. Gunn steadied them against the rail. “Speaking of Lorne,” he said, shooting a look aft, where they could see him, head over the edge, losing his dinner.

“Oh, no. I thought he was feeling better.”

“Said he was gonna turn pink.” Gunn chuckled. Fred glared. “I’m not laughing at him,” he clarified. “He looks miserable. It’s just…pink?”

“I’m gonna go check on him,” she said, bumping his hip as she went past. It was a relief to channel the low-grade panic somewhere else. She slid in next to Lorne and put her hand on his shoulder. “Hey.”

He groaned. “Hey, Fred.”

She patted him awkwardly. “Gunn says you’re turning pink.”

Lorne laughed. At least, Fred thought he laughed. It could have been another wretch. “Right.” He stood and wiped his mouth with a wet paper towel. “That should about do it.”

Fred squinted at him. “Why? I mean, how can you tell? I thought seasickness was sort of unpredictable, or, rather predictable in that it--”

“Fred?”

“Uh huh?”

“You’re babbling.” For a green guy, he sure did look pale. His mouth was drawn into a thin line that changed his normal, friendly face into something almost, well, demon-y.

Fred swallowed. “Oh, right. Sorry. All the excitement must be gettin’ to me.”

Gunn joined them at the rail. “Yo, man. You’re lookin’ better.”

He smiled grimly. “That’s what I was just telling our Fred. Now if you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’ll just go freshen up.”

“Sure thing,” Gunn said. He turned and looked out at the sea. The boat bounced over the breakers and turned its nose toward the big waves. “Lotsa water,” he said, clenching the rail so hard that his knuckles whitened.

“How do you think Angel’s doing?”

“You readin’ my mind?”

Because he was still staring out at the choppy waves, she had to lean in close to hear him. “It is kinda freaky, all that water. Makes ya wonder. I mean, if he’s not in something waterproof, we’re talking fishy corpse. It isn’t gonna be pretty.”

Gunn nodded. “One thing you can say about Jack is he’s used to bringing up strange cargo.” He paused, as if considering his words, and turned to look at her. “Are you ready for this?”

Fred glanced toward slowly disappearing LA, unable to meet his gaze. “I think so,” she said. “I hope so.”

Lorne joined them at the rail. “The bitch is back.”

“You look steadier,” Gunn commented. He wove his fingers through Fred’s, gave her hand a little squeeze.

“Dramamine works fast on me.” Lorne took his ball cap off and mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. “Demon metabolism’s good for something, I guess.” He readjusted the cap and tucked the hankie into the pocket of his khaki pants. “So, what’s on the agenda?”

Fred glanced at her watch. “By my watch we’re about an hour-and-a-half out. I guess now we just sit and wait.” She slipped her free hand into her pocket and fingered the tazer she’d brought just in case.

“Well, it’s a beautiful night.”

She slid her gaze across the darkening sky. “Yeah. Beautiful.”

Part 5

Wes found him the second night, an unexpected surprise, considering the skill with which the boy moved through the city. He watched as Connor beheaded a particularly vile N'gahn demon and was struck, again, by Connor’s grace and strength.

But something about him seemed off. He was edgy, agitated.

Wes knew the feeling. “You have to bury its hands separately from its body, or it will put itself back together,” he said, stepping out of the shadows.

Connor stood, sword in hand, poised over the body of a demon nearly four times his size. His eyes narrowed and his shoulders, already tense, went ramrod stiff. “Who are you?”

Wes slid his hands in his pants pockets. “You don’t know me. I’m Wesley Wyndam-Pryce.”

Something moved in his line of vision, similar to a flash of light. He didn't realize that it was Connor until the boy was nearly on top of him. Such speed, some cool, reserved part of his mind thought. The other part, the one linked to survival, simply short-circuited.

Connor had the sword at his neck, right up against Justine's scar. "Why do you track me?"

Wes cleared his throat to get rid of the stutter. "You interest me." He raised his hands slowly, put them on the edge of the sword, and pressed.

Connor pressed back and for a few long seconds Wes wondered whether his life was, indeed, meant to end with a knife in his throat. But then the boy pulled away, and Wes stood, feeling dizzy as the blood rushed out of his limbs and back into his brain.

“How do you know such things?” Connor asked, pointing at the demon with his sword.

“I used to be a Watcher," he said in a voice that trembled. At Connor's look, he elaborated. "One who looks after the Slayer. Surely you know of the Slayer?”

Connor nodded. “Yes. My father told me. Why are you here, then?” He looked around, as if waiting for a Slayer to materialize from behind the building.

“I am no longer in the employ of that organization.”

Connor nodded, as if he were fitting it all together. “But you still watch.”

Wes laughed. “Yes. I guess I do.” He pointed to his hip. "I've got a knife strapped to my waist. I'd like to get it so I can cut the demon's hands off for burial. Would you mind?"

Connor looked at the demon, which was starting to twitch, and then at Wes. He seemed curious, as if he wasn't sure Wes would actually do it. "Sure." He stepped aside.

Wes nodded. "Great. Thanks." He pulled out his knife and squatted next to the demon. Its wrists were as big around as saplings, and it took several minutes to hack through the tendon and bone. The severed head groaned once when the first hand fell free and again when Wes severed the second. After that it stayed still and silent.

Connor stood aside, tapping his sword against the toe of his tennis shoe. Wes tried not to let the boy unnerve him, but frankly, he reminded him a little too much of Angelus not to.

From his pants pocket he pulled a couple of the large baggies that he'd gotten into the habit of carrying when searching for evidence. He bagged the hands, remembering suddenly one of the other times he'd dismembered a demon.

He, Angel and Cordy had tracked one into the sewers. Angel killed it quickly, and as usual, left them to finish the clean-up. Cordy pulled her knife from her bag and yelled at Angel's retreating back, "Thanks, Cordy! You don't know how much I appreciate all the hacking and cutting you do for me!"

Angel's laugh echoed through the tunnels.

She glanced at Wes. "Geez. How many times do I gotta tell the guy?"

He peered over the tail he was slicing through. "Tell him what?"

She wrinkled her nose. "Kind of an old joke. Angel killed a demon and left me and Doyle to get rid of it. So I explained to him that it was polite to thank someone for performing a dismemberment for you." She shook her head. "You'd think, being raised in the powdered-wig days, that the boy would have learned some manners."

Wes pushed his glasses up his nose and glanced down the empty sewer tunnel. "He's not the most verbal of people, is he?" he replied, still not sure how to take her humor.

Cordy snorted. "Oh, please," she said, as she hacked off the first of the six eyes. "My horse, Keanu, was a better conversationalist."

Such memories, he thought, zipping the bags shut, and standing. He wiped his knife with a handkerchief and put it back in its scabbard. Connor looked at him, and he thought it odd the way time looped.

If he'd known three years ago that he would no longer be friends with Angel and Cordelia, and that he'd be standing in a stinking alley dismembering a demon with Angel's son, he probably would have quit right then and gone straight back to England. “Well, that's all done."

"You were slow with it. I could have done it in one stroke."

Wes shrugged. "I'm better with books than knives, if you want to know the truth."

Connor smiled. "We each have our talents. My father used to say that a lot."

"Did he, now?"

"Yes." Connor might have been the one to bring up his father, but now that the subject was raised, the edginess, which had begun to dissipate, was back in full force.

"What’s your name?” Wes asked, as if he didn’t know, in the hope that the subject change would give Connor something to focus on. He didn't want to be on the receiving end of that restless energy again.

“Steven.”

Wes blinked, surprised. “Well, Steven,” he said, sticking out his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Steven looked suspiciously at Wes’s open palm. “What are you doing?”

“In our world it’s customary to shake hands when you meet. That way you know the other person isn’t carrying a weapon.”

Steven took his hand and shook it cautiously. He held up the sword with his left hand. “But I am carrying a weapon.”

Wes laughed, charmed against his better judgment. “So you are. But you’re not going to kill me with it, I hope.”

Steven looked him up and down, as if he were considering it. Then he shook his head. “I have no reason to kill you.”

“Nor I, you.” He held up the bags. “How have you been disposing of the bodies?”

Steven shrugged. “I just leave them behind.”

“Oh, dear,” Wes said, shaking his head. “That will never work.” He pointed to his Jeep, parked across the street. “We’ll load it in the truck then take it away to bury it.”

“But that means I won’t get to kill as many demons if I'm spending all my time burying them.”

Wes shrugged. “If you’re going to do the kill, you have to clean up afterward. At least in this world.” He thought how Justine left him, a bleeding mess, in the middle of the park. Obviously one could shoot for the best outcome, but the likelihood was that reality would fall far, far short.

“I don’t think I like this world. Too many rules.”

“Yes, well, they are rather a pain.” He smiled, pleased when Connor--no, Steven--smiled back.

“You do it.”

“Me? What, clean up after you?” He laughed. Oh, the irony, he thought. Haven’t I just spent years cleaning up after this boy’s father?

“Yes. I’m the Destroyer. It’s only fitting.”

Wes couldn’t stop the gasp. “You’re the what?”

“The Destroyer.” He puffed up his chest. “Surely you’ve heard of me.”

"Y-yes," he finally got out. "I've heard of you."

"I'm known in many dimensions." He smiled, and his eyes glinted.

In them, Wes could see Angel’s laser-beam focus, Holtz’s charismatic righteousness.

If Holtz’s moral compass was off, it was only because Angel spun the needle. Two men, lives inextricably linked. Fathers to the same boy. And he *was* still a boy. Just because he said he was the Destroyer didn’t make it so. Best to take this as a coincidence for now. To watch and wait and only move when he was absolutely sure.

Otherwise he could just as easily be killing the next Messiah.

"I...I'll clean up," Wes squeaked. He cleared his throat and glanced at the huge body on the ground in front of them, suddenly overwhelmed.

Steven cocked his head and peered at Wesley. "You're a very strange man."

Wes laughed, and even he could hear how high-pitched and crazy it sounded. "Yes, I suppose I am."

Steven grinned, a beautiful, flashing smile that would have disarmed Wes had he not known the potential for destruction that lay beneath. "Well, see you around." He tilted his sword at Wesley then vanished into the night.

***

The water, black underneath with a thin sheen of twilight, rocked the boat from side to side. It reminded him of the porch swing at his aunt's house. You could only get so comfortable because you never knew when you might tip out.

"So," Fred said, coming up behind him.

Gunn jumped. "Yeah. We're here."

"Uh huh. Lorne's around back. We should join him."

Gunn and Fred followed the deck around the boat. The first mate adjusted his mask, made sure his tank was properly strapped on, then gave the thumbs up. He fell over the edge and disappeared.

"You sure they know what they're doing?"

Jack lit his cigarette and took a deep drag. "They're pros, baby. No problem."

The other four went in like dominoes.

"How long?" Fred asked, leaning over the rail. Five bubble trails marred the surface then gradually disappeared.

"Depends."

She looked at Jack, who stared down at the water. "On what?"

"How he's staying down." He gestured toward the wheelhouse. "I've gotta go make sure everything's going okay," he said, and he disappeared down the deck.

The boat hung, a cradle in a treetop. The motor rumbled and spewed diesel fumes and the sea rumbled and spewed spray.

Then Jack turned the boat lights on. Fred jumped. "Shoot. I wasn't expecting that."

"We're all a little twitchy," Lorne said. "Stage fright's got nothin' on this."

Gunn looked over the rail. "Where are they? I thought they only had, like, a half hour of air in the tanks."

Fred shook her head. "No, they made sure they could stay down longer."

"Someone shoulda brought a deck of cards. You wouldn't believe what I learned in Vegas."

They let Lorne divert their attention with stories and it worked for awhile. Until one of the divers climbed up on deck.

"Holy crap," Gunn said, knocking his fist against his chest.

Fred leapt up and ran to the diver, who was removing his mask. "What'd ya find?"

The guy shook his head. "Nothing, yet."

Fred's shoulders slumped. "Darn it. I mean, not to imply that you're not doing your job or anything. Just that I'm disappointed, you know, because I'm impatient and...."

"Fred, honey," Gunn interrupted. He put his hand on her shoulder. "He gets it."

The diver rubbed his eyes. "We’ll keep looking."

"Thanks," Gunn said. He pulled Fred back over to the bench. "Sit down. We've got time to go, yet."

She bent over and propped her elbows on her knees. "It's just hard to wait. You know? I mean, we’ve been waitin' an age already."

They watched as the diver disappeared over the rail again.

“Waitin’ an age for what, Fred-girl?” asked Lorne.

“For our lives to get back to normal.” She toed the plank with her boot.

"Honey, our lives haven’t been normal since the ballet," Gunn said.

"Now, now," Lorne commented. "Don't go blaming it all on the Groosalugg."

Gunn shook his head. "Not doin' that. Just sayin', things changed that night. After Fred and I hooked up, and Groo and Cordy hooked up, it seemed like things went downhill."

"Thanks a lot," Fred grumbled.

Gunn took her hand. "You know what I mean."

"I’m not sure I do."

Lorne crossed his arms over the life vest. "I'm not one to regret much, but I do miss Wesley."

Fred's eyes flared. "Don't talk to me about him."

"Just stating a fact. I mean, he was the brains of the team. But more than that, he was family."

“Family don’t betray you,” Gunn rumbled. “If he was family, would he be off working for the big evil right now?”

Fred sighed. "Yeah. Especially ‘cause, without Wes, I’m stuck being the brains. I hate being the brains."

Gunn laughed wryly. "Too bad, sister, 'cause you got plenty to share."

"Whatever."

"All right you two," Lorne refereed. "Don't start picking on each other just because you're feeling a little tense."

"You're right," Fred said.

"Yeah. Sorry."

Lorne looked at his watch. "I think I'll go ask Jack what's the what."

Fred nodded. "Please. Maybe he can see something with his sonar thingy."

Lorne waved over his shoulder.

"Did you mean that?" Fred asked.

Gunn looked down at his hands. "What, that things went downhill after that night at the ballet? Yeah."

"No, that things went downhill after we hooked up."

Gunn looked up. "Oh, baby. No." He brushed his lips over hers. "The timing was odd, that's all."

"Because if you want out...."

"No. No! That wasn't what I was saying. All I was saying was--"

"We got 'im!"

Fred twisted her fingers together. "Thank God," she said. "I've gotta tell Lorne."

"I heard, sweetie," Lorne said, bustling down the planks. "And doesn't that just make you want to stand up and whistle Dixie?"

Gunn looked at him. "I never want to stand up and whistle Dixie."

"Right, sorry."

“I’ll be back," the diver said, and, taking the crane hooks in hand, he dropped over the edge.

The line spun out, its metallic hiss the high note in the night's dark symphony.

***

“You lost him? Again?” Lilah asked, voice climbing in frustration. “How can you lose the kid who’s destroying every demon in a 10-mile radius?” She hit the button on her keyboard and the player on the golf game took her swing. It went wide, landing in the rough. “Dammit!” She gestured rudely at the computer screen. “No, not you,” she said, returning her attention to the idiot on the other end of the line. “Look, forget it, I’ll do it myself.” She hung the phone up, activated the screen saver and pulled on her jacket.

One quick elevator ride later and she was standing in front of Wes’s closed door. She knocked. When she got no answer, she turned the knob. Locked. Well, it was after nine o’clock, after all.

She pulled out her cell phone, dialed his number, and waited for him to pick up. Instead she got the machine.

“Wes, it’s Lilah. When you get this, give me a call on my cell phone. Thanks.” She returned to the elevator, hit the button for her floor and watched as the doors slid shut.

Once in her office she grabbed her purse, buttoned her jacket and locked her door behind her. On the way down to the parking garage, she called her driver. “Meet me on G2 in five.”

***

The crane groaned as they pulled the box out of the water. Ocean sluiced off steel in sheets, leaving behind a bulky metal container sheened with wet.

"Bring him in!" Jack called, motioning with his hand. The diver worked the controls from the wheel house, drawing the box high enough to guide it over the rail. He let it down slowly but it still hit the deck with a jarring thud.

Fred grabbed Gunn’s arm. "D’ya think he’s okay?"

"We’ll know soon enough, right?"

Lorne came back with the cooler in hand. "Got enough blood in here for ten vamps."

"Figured he’d be hungry," Fred replied. "Just set it down, please, Lorne."

The divers eased the box, window up, onto the deck, and started wiping the glass clean. Fred moved forward. The inside of the box was in shadow, but the glass was spattered with dried blood and streaked hand prints.

"Step back, please," said a diver, who carried a pickaxe.

"Sorry," she muttered, getting out of his way.

He nodded to the crew, who stepped away, too, and drew the axe overhead. With one long, curving arc, the axe rose and fell, and the point of the pick cleaved the glass with a whump.

Fred let out a shaky breath.

The diver repeated the motion several times until the glass had a fist-sized hole in it. Then he flipped the axe to the flat side, hung it in the glass and yanked. There was a crunch, and a series of pops as the wire gave way, and then the glass crumbled, exposing the inside of the box to the night.

Fred rushed forward. "Angel!" she yelled, leaning over the edge.

He lay still as a corpse, head ridged, fangs extended. The wrists of his sleeves were brown with dried blood. "Angel," she whispered. Her hands flew to her mouth. "Oh, God."

One of the divers pushed her aside and reached into the box. He jerked once, twice, and fell in.

"No!" Fred cried. Gunn grabbed the diver and pulled him out. He stood, swaying, black blood painting his throat.

"Get him out of here," Jack said, thrusting him toward Fred. She rushed him to a bench and covered the wound with her palm. It was jagged, but not too deep, as if Angel were too weak to do much damage.

Or so she thought. There was a shout as another diver plunged into the box. He came up, furious, bleeding, and took a swing at Angel. Angel rose, roaring, a titan from the sea. The look on his face raised the hair on Fred’s arms.

Gunn went for his crossbow. "Gunn! Wait!" She grabbed her tazer. “Here!” She threw it at him.

The diver moaned. "It's okay," she said, half her focus on him and half on the melee. "It's not very deep. Lorne went for towels."

He rushed down the gangway. "Here!" He wrapped a long strip of paper toweling around his hand, then ripped them free of the roll and dropped the rest to the deck.

“Stay with him.” Fred rushed into the fray. If she could just get Angel’s attention, maybe he'd snap out of it. "Angel! Stop! It's us!"

He paused, and for a moment she thought she saw him, the man she knew, walk into the light. But then he faded behind the raging animal.

Gunn snuck up behind him, tazer in hand. He hit him once, twice, and the fizzy odor of spent electricity filled the air. Angel collapsed against the edge of the box, eyes open, staring blankly at the sky.

Part 6

Up this far, the wind was strong against his face, like a hand or a harsh mouth. He leaned into it, letting it press itself against him. It fluttered his short jacket against his thighs, slicked his hair back and tickled his scalp.

He heard the whine of tires on asphalt long before he saw her. He couldn't say how he knew it was her, out of any of the other 10 million people in LA it could have been. But he did. His stomach clenched and the nervy, breathless feeling he'd had since her call, expanded and overtook him.

He picked up the glance of headlights on gnarled cedar branches as she made her way up the turns. She was careening toward him, breakneck, the same way he'd come. His eyes widened as he heard the shush of rubber against soft, sandy shoulder.

His mind went spinning out over empty space as he imagined the Jeep hitting the turn wrong and taking flight. But then she rounded the last curve and hit the straightaway, and the fear gave way to relief.

He stepped into the road, breathing in the heat it radiated, left over from a day of baking like a sleeping snake in the desert sun. It wasn't full summer yet, but it was close. It pumped up through him, feet first.

The headlights slammed the first wisps of coastal fog. He didn't blink against her glare even though it was blinding him. She brought the too-big-for-her vehicle to a lurching stop, killed the lights, and sent him spinning dizzily into full night.

Then she was clamoring down, crunch of shoes on gravel, jangle of keys hitting car seat, and coming toward him. The moon caught her, a bow of light against a brighter star. And then she was there.

Here.

"Hey." Her lips trembled when she smiled.

He cleared his throat. "Hey," he said, and from the helpless way his eyes traveled over her, he knew he was giving himself away right up front. "You look...." He made an appreciative gesture to her clothes, something white, that was all he knew, something radiant. God, even when she wasn't glowing, she glowed.

Cordy laughed, and the moon caught that too. "I.... Thanks?"

He laughed with her, a high sort of rumble that felt as if something bubbly was flying up through his chest. "Radiant, I was going to say."

She rocked from heel to toe, surging and retreating, and the motion sent her scent swirling into the breeze, a scarf set free from its wearer's neck. He breathed, long and deep, letting the familiar, moonlight-scent of her body mix with the brisk air and sea salt. His mouth watered, his lips opened and he could taste her on the tip of his tongue.

"So," she said, looking up at him, doe-eyed and twitchy.

"So," he nodded, shoving his hands into his pants pockets. Change rattled, and the hard disks almost felt cool against his skin.

"Um." She glanced out at the waves, and the sharp breeze caught her and yanked her hair off her face. She crossed her arms over her chest and shivered.

Immediately he shucked off his coat. "Here." It brought him in close, cupping him around her. Rounded shoulders filled his palms, then his hands flattened, stroking down the lapel, past the birdcage of her collarbone and to somewhere right around her heart, where he stopped and pulled the edges of skin-soft leather closed.

Holding her was like capturing a coat full of moonlight. He knew he was staring at her, could feel himself doing it, but he couldn't make his eyes move. It was.... She was....

"I'm what?" she asked, tilting her head at him. One corner of her mouth turned up, a slinky, silky, saucy little smirk that made him think of all the flirts he'd ever known.

"Huh?" he asked dimly. His feet took him closer and her sparkle had him leaning in. "I'm sorry, I didn't hear you," he lied.

Under his hands, fisted around leather and over her, he could feel the rabbiting thump of her heart. He closed his eyes, letting it wash over him, the surf within her and the surf without. Salt and water, pulling, sucking, pumping.

"You said," she whispered, and he felt his body shift as she edged up on her tiptoes, "that I was...something." By the last word, her lips were scant inches from his ear and her breath, warm and humid, spread its mist on his flesh.

She stayed that way, hung under his body, mistletoe on a branch. Then she danced, back and down and away.

He followed. "I...." He shook his head to clear the fog. "I...."

Her laugh was a light trill. Then her hands came up and out of the coat, breaking his grip on his lapels and sending his hands flying in opposite directions like startled doves at a hunt.

She caught them, mid-flight. "Walk?" she asked. Her hands were warm, a little damp and so very soft.

"Huh?" He realized he'd been stroking that fleshy mound behind her thumbs.

She opened her mouth again, but her eyes, when he finally looked at her, were glazed. “Angel?”

He watched her mouth, the way it wrapped around the sounds. Lips plush and gleaming, damp from lipstick or her tongue, he didn’t know. All he knew was….

"I asked," she finally said in a breathless voice, "if you wanted to take a walk?"

All he knew was that he was entranced by the spirals of breath, the voiced consonants, the unvoiced vowels, the way the air traveled from somewhere deep and dark and came out up here, up here, up here....

"Angel?"

He shook it off. "Yeah," he said. "Walk."

But when he turned toward the bluff-side trail she yanked on his hand. "Wait."

His brow furrowed as he thought back over the last few moments. Sure he'd been a little distracted, but he was convinced she'd said--

"I changed my mind," she said. "Just...let's stay here."

"Whatever you want.” He still had her hands, or she still had his, and he noticed that they'd somehow gotten their fingers twined and maybe, even if they'd wanted to, they couldn't have gotten them unknotted.

"I want...." she said breathily.

He went taut.

She pulled him closer. "I want," she whispered.

"You want what?"

She was iridescent, as if someone had dipped a brush in liquid pearls and painted her with it. A rainbow of colors refracted under the luminescence of her skin, tiny vessels filled with liquid life. Pulsing.

Pulsing.

"I...." She inched up, up toward him, feet arching, toes taking weight, calves tightening, he could feel it, feel his own legs responding as she moved.

She unlinked their fingers, trailed her hands over his hands, his wrist bones, lost her when she hit shirt but found her again when she clutched his upper arms.

He took her breath into him. "Say it," he said, ears ringing, head spinning.

"I didn't know," she confessed. "I thought...." Her breath fanned out, ruffling hair and sending flesh jumping. "And then he said...." The tip of her nose grazed his ear, just grazed it, right at the top. "And then I realized...." And her lips were there, on his earlobe, under his ear, soft and sweet and moist and...trailing.

Down his throat, skimming over wind-chilled flesh. He stood, poised. Waiting. His entire consciousness focused on that mouth, on the truth of it, of what it was saying, and what it was SAYING. Not just the words, but the meaning behind them.

What? What was the meaning behind them?

"Cor," he panted. "Don't tease."

She moaned, and he felt the vibration from skull to collarbone.

"As if." And then her hands moved, lightning fast, and fisted in his hair. And then those gleaming lips met his.

He gasped and inhaled her. She went in long and deep, filling him, feet to lungs to crown. He clutched her to him, feeling her strong, lean back and tiny waist under his hands. Not for the first time, but yes, this way, for the first time.

She climbed him like bougainvillea on a balcony rail. He barked, a growling puff against her lips and, mouths fumbling, full, tumbling, he took her back. In two giant, suddenly very focused steps he had her on the hood of the car. It gave a great, groaning creak, and there was the sound of metal popping, giving under their combined weight.

She already had her hands in his shirt. Fast little hands, up and under and through, past the dual layers of cotton, one hard, one many-washings-soft, and she found his flesh.

She stopped as she cupped him, one hand around each side of his body. Pressing. Kneading.

He looped his hands under the back of her knees and pushed, spreading her wide and falling right in.

"Oh, God," she gasped.

He lowered his head into the crook of her neck and settled against her, water on sand.

Her hands slip-slid up his ribs, tickling and sparking. They landed under his arms, where she slowed, waited a long couple of pulses, as if she were finding his essence through his sweat. It was an animal thing to do and he licked her throat and growled to show his appreciation.

She rocked under him, slipped out her hands and clawed his nipples with her nails. He growled again so she'd know how good that was.

But of course, she knew. She knew everything about him already.

He knocked his pelvis against hers. Let me in, let me in, let me in.

She opened wider, pulled her hands free and wrapped her arms around his neck.

He kissed her. It was like going down a well, a long, straight, terrifying drop into wet darkness.

Then he stopped.

"Angel, what is it?”

***

“I got your message,” Wes said, opening his office door and brushing past Lilah, who stood in the hall.

“Why didn’t you return it?” she asked around a sip of her non-fat double latte.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to call after nine? It’s rude.” He unpacked his briefcase efficiently.

“You were right,” she said.

“I’m sorry?”

“Oh, please, Wes. I said you were right. We can’t find Connor.”

“Oh,” Wes said. He pulled out his Herman Miller chair and sat. Before him rested a pot of tea and a small pitcher of warm milk, left, as requested, by the kitchen staff at 8:45 each morning. He poured a cup while Lilah watched him with cat’s eyes. “Yes, well, I’m not surprised,” he said, taking a sip of the strong brew. “My compliments to the kitchen, by the by.”

“You’re going to make me ask, aren’t you?”

He shrugged. “You’re a big girl, Lilah. I can’t make you do anything.”

She smiled, just a quirk of her painted lips. “You’re so right. But I’ll do it, anyway, because I want this boy on my payroll. Now,” she said, propping her lean hip on his desk. “Where can I find Connor?”

“Where have you looked?”

“All over the city. They either get there right before or right after him.” Her eyes went flat. “I’m not in the mood to waste any more time. So, give.”

Wes pushed his glasses up his nose. “Knowing his father the way I do, I’d say he’d be drawn to the same sorts of places.”

A line appeared between her brows. “I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”

“The hunter, at some point, becomes the hunted, Lilah.”

“Yeah, Hemingway, big deal. Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Think like a vampire. Or a demon.” He raked his gaze from knees to breasts. “Shouldn’t be too difficult.”

“Be careful, Wes,” she said seductively.

He sipped his tea, careful to keep his face bland. “I’m guessing your men have already completed a tour of the known demon haunts?”

Lilah nodded. “Started with those and fanned out from there.”

“Any idea where he might be living?” Wes asked, jumping into the game.

She shook her head. “We’ve got people checking hotels, but no one registered by any of his known names has turned up. I suspect he’s on the street, which allows him to disappear pretty effectively.”

“I’d say,” he replied noncommittally. Thinking fast, he continued, “Let me do some research. I know of a couple of avenues you may not have checked. Can I get back to you this afternoon?”

Lilah got to her feet. “Thanks,” she said. “This afternoon is fine. I’m not going after him until tonight, anyway.”

***

"Cordy," he said. "Wait. We have to stop."

"Can't," she said, and attacked his mouth again.

He pushed at her, not so gently now, and they parted with a smack of departing suction.

"What?" she groaned.

"Curse," he growled.

“Not a problem.” She twisted under him, face going taut, legs wrapping tight.

“Of course it is. I adore you. Look at me. I'm stupid over you."

"You are?" Her smile was a shooting star.

"Isn’t it obvious?" He pinned her gently, capturing wrists and hips, falling in love again with the frailty of human bone.

She shimmied away, breathless. “Angel, do you trust me?”

He looked at her. “Of course I do.”

“Then trust me when I say that, just this once, the curse isn’t in effect.”

“How do you—“

She hesitated. “Seer’s prerogative.”

“Cordy?” He let go of her wrist and turned her face to him. “What is it? Look at me.”

She opened her eyes. “It’s all right, Angel. Everything’s gonna be all right.”

Something was wrong, but he could see she didn’t want to talk about it. And when she pressed up, nibbling delicately at his mouth, his inhibitions scattered. "What are we waiting for, then?"

"I have no idea," she said.

He dove into her. Found the soft spot between neck and shoulder; rushed his hands over her clothes in search of what was hidden beneath.

"Too many clothes," she muttered, reading his mind.

"What do we do about them?"

"Tear 'em off," she growled. She dived for his belt buckle, hands working furiously.

"What?"

"I have more in the car."

He laughed wildly, not quite believing what she said. But the look of concentration on her face was so fierce that he knew she'd told him the truth.

He took the soft, white fabric in both hands and with one violent jerk he ripped her pants from waistband to crotch, exposing her just as she had exposed him. Her scent was savage, and it tore something loose in him.

Her panties, such as they were, ripped free with one easy yank, just as she got his pants down and around his hips.

Their eyes met. His hands dipped and cupped and drew her near.

In one swift push he was buried deep.

He swore he felt her heart beating around him.

She threw her head back, jaw clenched, eyes screwed shut.

He drove her against the hood of the car, sending the chassis rocking beneath them. Shocks creaked, metal buckled, but Cordy—she took it.

He groaned, finding her hair sweet with sweat. Her hands clenched his back, fell off, clenched again. She was restless beneath him, hot and tight and wriggly and fuck, electric.

She shocked him in so many ways on so many days. But tonight, she struck him like lightning.

In and out, ebb and flow, she rippled around him, muscles telling him the story of their pleasure. It collected at the base of his spine, a ball of heat.

He slipped his hand between them and stroked her with just the tips of his fingers.

She exploded, a fire-breathing dragon, and her body flew up against him as she cried his name.

He bucked into her, diving deep, not even looking for finesse. Finesse was for the second time, or the third, or the fourth. But now, here, this was about immediacy, about taking what he wanted, how he wanted. About not waiting another damn second.

He came, a storm hitting land.

She cried out again and he felt her pulling him deeper, opening up to him from the inside out. It was irresistible, the feeling of her body. Come in, she seemed to say. Come in and stay with me.

He was drawn out by her, drawn into her. Hungry, he’d been so hungry and he hadn’t even realized. And then she was there, pulsing, throbbing, burning beneath him.

He buried his face in her neck and breathed her in. “God, I love you.” When he pulled away she was crying, laughing, glowing.

Sparking.

“I love you,” he repeated, resting his forehead against hers and falling deep into her eyes. The laughter vanished and she sobbed against him. “Cordy?” He wiped frantically at the silver tracks of her tears.

“I love you, Angel. Never forget that.”

“I—“

She brushed her hand down his face. “Promise me you’ll never forget.”

“I—“

“Say it!” She trembled beneath him. “Say it while you’re still inside me.”

“I love you, Cordy. I’ll never forget.”

She closed her eyes.

And then she vanished, and he was left alone on the edge of the cliff holding nothing in his hands but moonlight.

***

Justine watched as Steven took the head of yet another demon. He was bathed in blood, his hands slick, but never too slick to lose his grip on his sword. He was that way, focused and determined, often to the point of being as cold and ruthless as she imagined Angelus had ever dreamed of being.

He held the head aloft, laughing happily. He had the look of a child when he laughed, carefree and beautiful. He flung the head down next to the body and wiped his sword on his jeans.

"There you are," she called to him, stepping from the shadows.

Steven turned, slipping the sword in its scabbard. "Justine," he said, turning that flashing smile her way. "Where have you been?"

She felt her own lips curve. "Around,” she said, warmed by his response. “Took me awhile to find you tonight."

He pointed at the demon. "Been busy. What about you?” He bounced on the balls of his feet and feinted playfully toward her shoulder.

Justine dodged. "Oh, you know,” she said, raising her fists into fighting stance. “The usual.” She swung toward his jaw, and her grin widened when he ducked. “You’re good,” she complimented.

Connor danced around her and she twirled, following him with her eyes. “In the blood,” he grinned back.

She laughed. “Your father taught you well.”

His smile widened. “That he did.”

PART 2

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