6

He knew he was dreaming, but it was all right by him.

He knew the feel of Yasha’s bed, the smell, and since it was much more comfortable than his, he didn’t care. He thought he was alone, but he should have known better. She pressed up against his back, running her hands up his chest, and she kissed his shoulder, before nuzzling her head into the crook of his neck. “Gonna bite me?” He teased.

She slid her leg over his, embracing him with her whole body. He closed his eyes, savoring the sensation of her skin against his. And it was then he realized something was very wrong. “Do you want me to?”

She was warm; her body was warm.

He turned over to face her, and it was Yasha all right - except for her eyes, which were full of flame. He was so instantaneously angry he almost shoved her out of bed. “Jean, what the fuck..? She’s dead, for Christ’s sake!”

“She always was.”

“You know damn well what I mean!”

She frowned at him like he was being the difficult one, her Yasha guise slowly being eaten away in a coruscating red glow that flowed down her body like water. “She’s not completely dead, Logan.”

“She is on this plane, and it wasn’t that long ago. I don’t appreciate you exploiting that.”

She arched an eyebrow at him as she propped her head up on her elbow, giving him a look that was both imperious and slightly amused. “So cheating on her was okay, but only when she was technically alive?”

He glared at her, wondering now why he didn’t shove her out of bed. “Do you want me to feel like a piece of shit, Jean? ‘Cause I already do - you don’t need to add to it.”

“Oh, don’t be that way,” she said, her expression softening. She reached out to smooth back some strands of hair from his forehead, and he flinched and reared back. Her lips turned down in a slight moue. “I’m sure “cheating” - as it were - doesn’t count if it’s not physical. Mental cheating goes on all the time. Just think if we were all penalized for it.”

“It felt real. And there’s a big difference between mental and psychic.”

She shook her head, her red hair moving like restless snakes. “And here I was splitting hairs to try and make you feel better.”

He moved to the side of the bed and sat on the edge, his back to her. “What d’ya want, Jeannie?”

“You haven’t guessed?”

“Stop it.”

“Has it ever occurred to you that the reason you were so fond of Yasha was because she reminded you of Mariko?”

He glared at her sharply. “Shut up.”

“You know it, Logan, subconsciously, you just won’t admit it. All women you’re attracted to - even me - remind you, in one way or another, of your wife. I think there‘s a psychological name for it. Transference? Something like that.” She gave him a silky smile he didn’t like, eyes glittering like spilled blood reflecting flames. . “I’m not making fun of you. I think it’s sweet. I wish someone would love me that much even when they don’t really remember me. Do you think they will?”

He continued to glare at her, knowing she knew how awful a subject this was for him. “Get out.”

“Come on, Logan. I can’t have missed you?” She put her warm hand on his back, between his shoulder blades, and while it felt good, he still tried to shrug her off.

“Tell me what it is you want, okay? I’m tired.”

“You’re feeling guilty, but who am I to stop your pity party?” She shifted until she was sitting beside him. “What’s Bob up to?”

That made him look at her sharply. “What? How the fuck would I know?”

She gave him a look so innocent and nonchalant he knew it was a lie. “He’s left energy in your head; I can taste it. He usually doesn’t do that without a reason.”

“I know, but he didn’t tell me why. If it’s like last time, it’s a failsafe for something.” He scowled in suspicion. “Why do you care about a single thing Bob does? I thought you didn’t like him.”

“I don’t. All the more reason to keep an eye on him.”

“That sounds like me, not you.”

“Are you the only one who can be paranoid?” She replied, giving him a lazy smile that skirted the edge of condescending.

He stared at her in disbelief. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Her smiled widened, showing her teeth, becoming just ever so slightly sinister, the flames in her eyes flaring as if stoked. “Shouldn’t I ask what you’re not telling me?”

“You can see my mind. I can’t see yours.”

“Would you like to?”

In spite of her smile, that almost sounded like a threat. Still, he couldn’t help but reply, “I’d love to know what’s goin’ through your head these days, darlin’ - I really would.”

She continued to give him that, slick, cold smile that gave him a chill down his spine. “Fine - have a look. I’m sure you can take it.”

Before he could say anything, his mind flooded with something akin to red hot lava, something molten and searing that blinded him and ripped away all conscious thought in a stream of pure chaos and power. He may have screamed - he didn’t know; he no longer had any sense of self. He was just a conduit, a vessel for the power, and it hurt; it was a pain beyond all others …

… but it felt good, oddly so, tearing him down and raising him higher than he had ever been, destroying him and rebuilding him, unbearable and yet strangely erotic - total destruction as massive aphrodisiac …

He woke up with a startled yelp, instantly rolling out of bed and into a crouch, as if ready to fight. But fight what? His head throbbed like an open wound, and he wasn’t sure he could see straight for a minute. But his vision came back slowly but surely.

Why the hell had Jean done that? He wasn’t sure if it was a show of force or a cry for help. Maybe a bit of both. He was torn between being aroused or completely scared shitless, and the dichotomy of the two was disturbing. Was Jean living with that all the time, or was that something she made up just for him?

Figuring he was done with sleep, he stumbled off to the bathroom and stood under the shower until he actually woke up, which was probably somewhere between five and twenty minutes. When he first heard the pounding, he thought it was just the pipes, and then he remembered he wasn’t in a cheap motel. He shut off the water, and shouted, “What?”

There was a pause, as if the vitriol behind that single word took the person on the other side of the bathroom door aback. “I think I know what’s become of Matt,” Scott finally said.

Oh great - was he going to feel guilty about cuckolding the little weenie? Well, psychically cuckolding - did that count? Jean never would have looked at him twice if she was all that happy anyways. And there was the mitigating circumstance that she wasn’t exactly herself - or maybe she really was, for the first time in her life. Now there was a thought that would keep him up nights. Logan grabbed a towel and dried his face as he asked again, “What?”

Scott sighed, and he wondered why he was being such a fucking drama queen. “It was on an internet news site, I guess it happened too late for the morning papers …”

“What? Would you just spit it out?”

“Matt’s parents, Greg and Deena Parker … they were found brutally murdered in their home this morning.”

Logan froze, and for a moment stared at himself in the mirror fogged over with steam, rendering him a featureless blob. In spite of all the humidity, he felt instantly cold. “How brutally?” He finally asked, hastily getting dressed, no longer bothering to dry himself off.

“Umm, well … the Professor had to use some connections, but it seems Deena Parker simply had her neck broken. Greg Parker … just about every bone in his body was broken. But that’s not what killed him.”

Logan felt sick, because he knew what Scott was going to say. “His throat was ripped out, wasn’t it?”

There was a long pause before Scott said quietly, “Yeah, that’s exactly right.”

Oh holy fucking shit. Matt was a vampire.

7

“You got beaten up by a little girl?” Spike said, laughing.

“I was not beaten up,” Angel replied sharply.

“Can we stop this now?” Wesley asked, although it was really was more of a demand. The three of them sat in Angel’s office, but evenly spaced, as if they were volatile elements that couldn’t be too close to one another without causing combustion. Spike was off to the far left, lounging on the couch against the side wall, while Angel was sitting behind his desk, using it as an emotional and physical barricade. Wesley was slumped in an arm chair in the center of the room, trying desperately to stick to the topic and not yawn.

Angel suggested he go get some sleep, but Wesley wasn't about to let this go just yet. He wanted some answers, and he was roughly certain he wouldn't sleep without them. Sleep well, at any rate. Outside the mystically treated glass wall of Angel's office, the sky was just starting to lighten to a scummy sort of gray, as this deep within the steel and glass canyons of downtown Los Angeles, light pollution and smog colluded to guarantee the sky never became the proper color of night.

Spike was around Wolfram and Hart because ... well, it seemed like he was always around. Didn't he have something else better to do? No, probably not; maybe he was corporeal again, but it was still clear he had no idea what to do with himself. Death probably would have been a mercy for him, simply because it would give him no choices, no free time to kill. Which lead to the odd thought that maybe making him “live” was punishment - damned to eternal boredom for various crimes against humanity.

Everyone else - save for the night shift crew - was gone. Fred, Gunn, Lorne, even Harmony were all at home asleep, or ... well, whatever. He really didn't want to know what Harmony did with her evenings.

Wesley sat forward, forcing his own posture to straighten up, and said, "Clarice - I need to know about her."

Spike snorted derisively. "What's to know? She was Darla's pet after Angel became soul boy. Then they realized they both couldn't be vamp queen, and Clary buggered off. Last I heard, she was knockin' 'em dead in Suriname."

“When was that?"

He shrugged, and pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. "Dunno. When was that war?"

“What war?" He was going to have to be more specific than that.

“You're not smoking in my office," Angel warned him.

Spike gave him the British two finger salute, and continued to pull out a cigarette. "I think it was around the '50's or so. I was kinda busy at the time."

Angel spun his chair around, removed a ceremonial dagger from his wall display of weapons, and turned back around towards Spike, dagger raised in a throwing posture. Spike's eyes narrowed. "You wouldn't dare."

“Try and light up and see," Angel replied.

Now Spike gave him the one finger American salute, but put the cigarettes away.

“I thought she died in Bangalore in the early '20's," Angel said, putting the dagger on his desk as opposed to away. Maybe it was a subtle threat to Spike to try him again. "You know, with that fire."

“Oh come on, do you really think a bunch of torch wielding angry townspeople were gonna wipe out Clary? She was one of yours, wasn't she? You had a tendency to pick resilient weirdos."

Before that could kick off another traditional round of an Angel/Spike insult fest, Wesley looked at Angel curiously and asked, "What's the connection to Darla? You mentioned she groomed her, and Spike mentioned she was her pet, but you changed her, yes?"

Angel glanced away, embarrassed, and Spike interjected, "She was a present, wasn't she?"

Wesley looked at him now. He should have known Spike was more than happy to dish dirt on Angelus. "What?"

“Clary was a present for Darla. They had one of their usual mondo hissy fits and broke up for a while - Angelus and Darla were always fightin' over who could be the bigger princess - and when Angelus came grovelin' back to her, he always brought her presents. Darla had a thing for redheads. But only in women, right? She liked her men darker, yeah?"

“Would you please shut the hell up," Angel snapped, then shook his head. "She was - It's not exactly like Spike is telling it, but ... look, we had a fight over Dru. Darla was ... disappointed in her. She wanted a female vampire she could mold in her own image, and that wasn't Dru. So I ... I found this Scottish prostitute and changed her for Darla." He kept looking down at his desk, like there were fascinating patterns in the desk blotter. "It's just another of the many things I'm not proud of."

“Oh boo hoo," Spike replied.

"Would you consider her as dangerous as Darla?" Wesley asked Angel, because he knew he couldn't count on a fair assessment from Spike.

Angel leaned back in his chair and sighed, finally looking at him. "I really don't know, Wes. But just by virtue of having been alive this long, and teamed with the group she's teamed with, she has to be in the same league."

“What about Diablo? Who's that?"

“Bloody hell," Spike exclaimed. "Diablo? That prick was there?"

Angel looked at Spike, and there was a weariness in his expression that suggested he agreed with Spike's personality assessment. "No, but she mentioned him."

“Fucking hell."

“Who is he?" Wesley reiterated, looking between the two souled vampires - the twin impossibilities.

Angel sighed as if deflating, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back against his chair. "One of Dru's."

That was pretty much all he needed to say for Wesley to grasp how bad he was. "Oh shit." Nothing Dru ever sired was ever any good. The case in point was on the couch.

“Dru said she saw his past life," Spike said, stretching out on the sofa like it was a psychiatrist's couch, getting comfortable with his story. "She said he was one of those guys in the Inquisition, y'know, who stuck red hot pokers up pagan's bums. She felt that he was full of darkness - evil - just waiting to be unleashed, so she unleashed it for him."

“By turning him?”

“No, by braiding his hair. Jeeze, what d’ya think?”

“His name was - is - Diego,” Angel said, contributing more relevant facts to the narrative. “I believe she met him … in Madrid? Wasn’t that after the first time she dumped you?”

Spike gave Angel a look that could have melted a Qester demon. “She didn’t dump me! She never dumped me! She just got in moods sometimes. You should know, you made her crazy in the first place.”

“From your reaction earlier,” Wesley said quickly, before the juvenile name calling could ensue. “Diablo - Diego - is much more dangerous than Clarice. Correct?”

Angel nodded, but with some reluctance. He shot Spike evil glance number three before adding, “He’s a sadist and ambitious. Two personality traits you really don’t want joining forces.”

“Yeah, he came up with that stupid Master plan,” Spike agreed. “I was up for a good slaughter as much as the next bloke, but that never made any sense to me.”

“Master plan?”

Angel sat forward, resting his hands on the desk. He seemed tense, which was hardly shocking, but Wesley was willing to bet he was tired too. “Once he found out we were a part of the Master’s bloodline, he thought there was a way for us to take his power while he was trapped behind his mystical barrier, and set in motion a new hell on earth. But it was half-baked, and clear the power could only go to one person. It wasn’t hard to see that, even if it worked, he intended to double cross us all. The most galling thing was he knew we knew, but he didn’t care.”

“Told ya,” Spike agreed. “Big prick.”

He considered that a moment, trying to figure out how that could work, but in the end it didn’t matter - the Master was now very, very dead. Still, it was a reminder that, technically, Angel was (and Spike - sort of) special -he was a “grandsire” of the Master, technically the first vampire to walk the Earth. Spike hardly counted, since he was the sire of a great-grandsire, which meant that Diego hardly counted either. Still, if he was an ambitious sort, maybe the idea that he was “hardly special“ ate at him. “He went his own way after that?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Angel said.

“Darla an’ Angelus kicked his ass and threw him in the Volga,” Spike added. “Angelus was a bigger prick.”

Angel shrugged with his hands, grimacing slightly. “That’s the shorthand version.”

“Did Clarice and Diego even know of each other?”

Angel shook his head. “Diego came before Clarice, and was long gone after she showed up.”

“And now they’re working together. Could it be revenge?”

“Well, yeah. Everybody wants to kick his ass,” Spike supplied.

Angel scowled at him, and then said, “That seems too pedestrian for Diego, especially after all this time.”

“The girls must be key,” Wesley said, speaking aloud as he rubbed his dry eyes. He was having a hard time kick starting his mind into gear, and he could almost feel hints and clues slipping through his grasp. Maybe an hour’s down time wouldn’t hurt. “That and what the Markisan had. Maybe if we identify who it was, we can backtrack.”

“The girls were prob’ly witch-lets before they were turned,” Spike opined. “Threw a little ooga-booga your way.”

“I guarantee you they were not using magic,” Wesley told him firmly, and tossed him the Marker’s stone he was carrying in his pocket. It was a special crystal, about the size of a marble, a milky white color normally, but when exposed to alien mystical energies or magic, it turned any color from azure to plum purple depending on the magicks used. It was the same milky white it was when he left the building with Angel earlier in the evening.

“But no one can teleport without a spell, unless they’re a god,” Angel pointed out, grimacing in frustration. “A demi-god?”

Wesley considered that a moment, then shook his head. “God energy would have altered the stone. Besides, if she had that kind of power, why not turn it on us?” They all considered it - Spike obviously thinking of something else, flipping the Marker’s stone in the air like a coin - and then it hit Wesley like a kick between the eyes. Oh no, it was so obvious; it explained everything. “Bloody hell, Angel - they were mutants.”

Angel stared back at him, brown eyes widening in the same cold shock. “Oh god. Wesley, is that even possible? If a mutant is vamped, do they keep their powers?”

“Mutants?” Spike said, not at all concerned. “Ya mean those weirdos? Like your Chops friend?”

“Chops?” Wesley asked.

“Y’know, wolf man, the guy who can’t scratch his balls without doin’ a Bobbit. Ugly, mean, apparently a pawn in some kinda god war?”

“His name is Logan.”

Spike shrugged. “Who gives a fuck? But he’s one of those freaky deakies, right?”

Both Wesley and Angel decided tacitly to ignore Spike unless he had something constructive to add to the conversation. “I think it’s possible. Perhaps some mental powers can be ruled out since vampires are resistant to telepathy, but
not physical powers.”

“That would explain the teleporter,” Angel agreed reluctantly, scowling in thought. He tapped his fingers on his desk, probably unaware of the fact that he was idly caressing the hilt of the dagger with his other hand. Well, weapons were always comforting. “But wouldn’t being able to predict my movements be a mental power? And what about the other girl - did she use telekinesis against us?”

“Prediction itself isn’t necessarily telepathy. I mean, look at -” It was then that Wesley realized something that had never occurred to him before, but should have. “- Dru.” All this time, right under their noses. Was it possible? Well, hell, of course it was. He could have kicked himself for not seeing it before.

“What about Dru?” Spike asked, annoyed. Spike would probably never admit it, but he still carried a minor torch for his sire. Considering how long they had been together, that made sense.

“What if Dru was a mutant?”

Both vampires stared at him sharply, their gazes almost a physical pressure. “Dru was not one of those things!” Spike insisted angrily.

“Did mutants even exists back then?” Angel wondered.

Although that was a good question, Spike had already given them the answer. “Look at Logan. He could be as old as you, Angel - we don’t know. But it’s more than likely that mutants have been with us longer than we’ve ever known.”

Spike sat up, sitting forward in a posture that could only be considered hostile. “She wasn’t a mutant!”

“Being able to see the future is not normal,” Wesley pointed out.

Spike gave him a look that could have peeled skin. “The Sisters aren’t normal either. You callin’ ‘em muties?”

“The Sisters are hybrid vampires. I still don’t know how that happened, but they aren’t quite Human. I don’t think anyone would ever call them normal.”

Spike look like he wanted to argue, but he couldn’t. No one could ever argue the Sisters were anything other than weird. In fact, weird was far too mild a term.

“So, Clarice and Diego are working with mutants turned vampires?” Angel said, clearly puzzling this out aloud. “To what purpose?”

Spike snorted again. “Haven’t you been payin’ attention? To kick his sorry ass.”

Angel shook his head emphatically. “Diego never does anything without a grand plan. If it was just Clarice, sure, but not Diego.”

“Well, what the fuck could he do? The Master’s dead.”

“We have the resources of Wolfram and Hart at our command,” Wesley noted, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. He must be tired; he felt like punching something, and he didn’t know why. “Angel, dispatch a reclamation team to the site, have them bring the Markisan into the lab for identification. I’ll get the remote intelligence team on finding either Clarice or Diego, hopefully both.”

Angel must have been tired too - he accepted the orders without question. “I thought the remote team had a hard time finding vampires.”

As he stood, Wesley threw his arms out in a dismissive shrug. “We’re an evil empire. What bloody good are we if we can’t find a single member of the undead?”

“I could go beat up some other vampires,” Spike offered.

“To see if they know anything?” Angel asked.

He shrugged. “Or, y’know, for fun.”

Wesley was half way out the door when the phone on the desk range, and the noise was so sudden and unexpected they all jumped. They then stared at the phone as if it might jump up and bite them, and Wesley felt an irrational surge of rage at their group idiocy. It was just a goddamn phone. What the hell was wrong with them?! (It vaguely reminded him of a Mystery Science Theater he'd caught on cable late one night. During a pause in a very bad ‘50’s potboiler, the phone rang and the entire cast stared at it as if in shock. And one of the guys watching the film yelled, with overwrought fear, “It’s that thing again!  What does it mean?!”)

Angel picked up the receiver, and said warily, “Yeah?” His dark eyes widened in surprise and his gaze locked onto Wesley's as he said into the receiver, “Logan?”

He really should have caught that nap while he could.   Wes knew now that he wasn’t getting any sleep any time soon.