8

Xavier let it be known that if anyone saw Matt, they should report it to an adult immediately, and under no circumstances were they to talk to him or - gods forbid - invite him in.  Although there were some obvious questions as to why, Brendan figured it out, verging on hysterical. “He’s a vampire?!  How the hell can he be a vampire?!” He wailed.  He was in Xavier’s office, but Logan could hear him even down the hall.  He asked Scott if they should worry about the other kids hearing that, but Scott had no idea what he was talking about - so it was just his hearing picking him up, apparently.  Logan felt bad for him, though, but he had Rogue and Xavier there to calm him down, and besides, he had to get to work tracking him down.

Scott wanted to head to Pennsylvania, but Logan noted that was pointless. Matt had to be long gone - the sun was up - and the people he probably hated the most (his parents) were dead.  He could come back for Brendan - in theory - but Matt wasn’t so stupid that he couldn’t figure out they’d all be aware of that potentiality by now.  And now that he was playing by vampire rules, he was restricted, which was the one good thing to be salvaged out of this situation.

Admittedly, they had nothing to go on but what they'd had before. They needed to go meet that spleen-eater, hope that he bothered to show up, and see if they could track the vampire responsible for Matt’s metamorphosis.  Hel hadn’t gotten back to him yet, which was a little worrisome - she was okay, wasn’t she?  Maybe she and Bob were off somewhere (otherwise, why did Jean ask him about Bob? Couldn’t she have tracked him down herself if he was around?).

Logan thought of calling the Way Station, but he was in no mood for Lia’s abuse, so he decided to call Angel instead.  It was going on five in the morning on the West Coast, but he was a creature of the night, right?  He was probably up.  He phoned him while Scott futzed around with some coffee.

At first Angel sounded pissed off, then shocked, and he wondered what the fuck was up his ass until he realized things were pretty fucked up on the other coast as well.

Angel brought him to speed on the vamp mutant attack there, while Logan waved Scott’s questions away or gave him short, sharp answers.  He had no desire to talk to two people at once.

The idea that Angel knew the vamps probably behind it was comforting, in a way - at least they were a known quantity.  These new mutant vamps didn’t sound good, though.  Neither of them thought this was some massive coincidence either - they’d both had too much weird shit happen to them to ever believe that.

Angel asked if they'd confirmed Matt was a vampire, and he told him of the very powers/vampire like murder of his parents, which led Angel to groan, and admit, “That’s almost a vampire rite of passage, killing the family.  It’s … I guess you could say it’s a way of getting rid of the “old life”.  Also, you’d probably be surprised how few people actually get along with their parents when they’re around median vamping age.”

It was something in the way he said it that made Logan instantly realize Angel had killed his own parents.  It was just a gut feeling, but probably right.  He wasn’t going to ask him about it, though, because it really didn’t matter right now.

While they were trying to put together some plan of action -- it was difficult, since they had no idea how many mutant vamps they were dealing with, or where the hell they actually were, to say nothing of what the fuck they were after -- Storm came into the kitchen, pissed off and wondering how the hell one of the students could have become a vampire.  Logan let Scott try and explain it to her while he turned his back on them and wandered off to the far end of the kitchen, standing to the side of the window and covering his exposed ear with his hand.   It didn’t help all that much;  what could you do when you heard far too well for your own good?  In fact, he knew that goddamn Spike was there in Angel’s place, because he could hear him occasionally making smart ass remarks in the background. Angel ignored him, so he did too.

As Wesley was attempting to get a location fix on their bad guys, they discussed them coming here, or them going over there.  It all depended on where the hell they ended up, but it seemed like the best plan would be a joint one, a team effort.  Still, that left the problem of mass and instantaneous transport, possibly across the country.  It was hard to fight a teleporter without a teleporter, and the blue guy wasn’t back. “You know, if you could get Bob --” Angel began.

“Consider him out,” Logan interrupted, as he heard Spike, in the background, say, “That bleeding Ozzie bastard. I still don’t believe he’s some kinda big hoo-haa.  Shit man, he’s a kangaroo fucker!  They don’t have gods!  Unless you count those big ass cans of beer …”  “I haven’t been able to get in touch with him.”

“Shit.  Well, I knew that would be too easy.”

“And you don’t like indebting yourself to him.”

“Not particularly, no.”

“Rags.”

“What?”

“Get Rags.  He’s prob’ly at the Way Station, his home away from home.  Just follow the Long Island iced teas.  He’ll teleport anyone anywhere for a hundred bucks, or maybe a drink.  He’s easy.”

He heard Scott say, “And he apparently has some kind of “in” with the Gorgons.”

“What?” Storm asked. “You mean the snake haired women of myth?”

“They don’t have snake hair,” Scott corrected her. “Although it does look like it moves by itself.  They’re actually kind of pretty, just … I got the impression you really don’t want them looking at you.”

“The turn-to-stone thing?” She guessed.

“Yeah.  Apparently that part’s true.”

“Rags does bring that whole High Priest thing with him as well,” Logan told Angel. Well, just because Scott mentioned it didn’t instantly make it a bad idea.

“A priest named Rags?” Storm asked in disbelief.

“I guess that might come in handy,” Angel reluctantly agreed.

“Do you know why the hell he’s called Rags?” It was doubtful Angel knew, but it was worth a shot.

He sighed, as if he was tired of the question. “He’s a Persaid demon.”

“Which means what, exactly?”

“Well … Wes could probably explain it better than me but, basically, they’re scavengers.”

“As in crows?”

“Yes…and no.  Cultural scavengers is more like it.  They have no authentic culture of their own - they acquire the scraps and remains of other people’s culture.  Never challenge a Persaid to a trivia contest -- you’ll lose.”

“Huh.  Doesn’t explain the name, though.”

“That’s another thing they acquire.  Their real names are unknown to outsiders - they have Persaid names - ones only known to fellow Persaids - and then there's the name that everyone else calls them.   And those names, oddly enough, are usually ones involving things: Rags, Box, Street, Lamp - we have one on the payroll who goes by the moniker Coffee.  And I’ve heard of one who goes by the name Burger King.”

“I know one who calls herself Blue Oyster Cult,” Spike said in the background.

Angel covered the phone, and said, “You do not.”

“I do so!  I used to play poker with her.  She had a knack for gettin’ royal flushes.  I was sure she was cheatin’, but I could never prove it.”

“Huh.” After a moment, Angel said, “Guess it could’ve been worse.  “Don’t Fear The Reaper” is a pretty cool song.”

“It’s gotta cow bell,” Spike agreed. “You gotta love that.”

Logan considered banging the receiver against the wall, but knew it would
just get him strange looks from Scooter and Storm, so he didn’t.  Angel finally uncovered the phone, and went on.  “Other demons have a tendency to treat them like crap, which is a shame, 'cause society as a whole owes them all.”

He was sure he had missed something.  “Pardon?”

“Part of their “scavenging” includes the absorption of collective negative energy; they are inadvertent psychic sponges.  Have you ever wondered why the bad mood of a group doesn’t always lead to violence?  ‘Cause some Persaid probably siphoned it off.  They live off everything we shed or cast out, and that includes the emotional as well as cultural ethos.  The Watchers discovered that Persaids were first seen on this plane around the time the Dark Ages ended.  Coincidence?  Well, maybe.  But it does cement their reputation as demonic equivalents of janitors.”

Angel really wasn‘t explaining it all that well, but Logan was pretty sure he got
the gist of what he was trying to say.  Persaids took all the various day-to-day shit, absorbing it and living off of it like a plant turned sunlight into nourishment; emotional photosynthesis.  And without Persaids to mop up all the psychic baggage, there‘s be some equivalent of emotional global warming.  “Is that why Rags drinks so much?  He can‘t handle it?”

“No, I think that‘s because he‘s an alcoholic.”

Spike snorted. “Most of the smart people are.”

“Can they absorb all psychic energy?” He didn’t remember Xavier ever saying he couldn’t read Rags, but then again, he'd never mentioned Rags at all.  He hadn’t been here all that long, and demons being immune to his power was probably nothing new.

Logan considered that a moment. “I don’t know.  It’s worth exploring.  But isn’t he kicked out of the Way Station by this time?”

“Uh, possibly.  But the Sisters can find him.”

“The Sisters?  Oh god.  No offense, but I really don’t want to bring them into this.”

“Look, I don’t like ‘em either, but we gotta be realistic - we don’t know how many people we’re going up against, or what kind of powers we’re facing.  Will they be assets or liabilities?”

“Liabilities.  Huge, titanic liabilities.”

“Angel...”

He exhaled hard, as if punched. “Yeah, okay.  Shit, I hate this.”

“I don’t like ‘em either, but they make up for huge gaps in personnel.  They’re an army of two.”

After a moment, Angel covered the phone again, and said, “Spike, go to the Way Station and find Rags and the Sisters -”

“Fuck you!” Spike exploded. “Am I your messenger boy?  You go get ‘em.”

There was a paused before Angel replied, “You’re afraid of them.” Not a question.

Spike scoffed, but didn’t deny it. “Damn right I am.  Those bitches are psychos. They remind me of Dru’s dolls come to life.  I bet they even got porcelain heads.”

There was a pause, during which Logan could hear the creak of Angel’s leather chair as he sat back. “Oh, that’s right, they beat you up in Minsk.  What did you say to them to piss them off so much?”

“Nothing!  Those bints are crazy!”

It was impossible to hear skepticism in a pause, but Logan was still sure he did. “You didn’t suggest a threesome, did you?”

“No!  Bloody hell!  And if Dru told you that she was tryin’ to be funny!”

Oh god.  Logan rested his forehead against the wall, wondering how stupid this guy had to be.  Not only stupid, but how drunk did you have to be to find the Sisters remotely attractive?  Well, in a physical sense he supposed they were attractive enough, but once you knew them, they were as much of a turn-on as an out of control bone saw.  You’d probably be better off sticking your dick in a blender.  Angel must have grokked it too, because he said, “Oh Jesus, Spike, what the hell were you on?”

“I didn’t do anything!” He lied. “They’re just vicious wackos!”

“Well, they didn’t kill you, so they must not have taken you seriously.  Just go get ‘em and bring ‘em back here.  Tell them … tell them Logan needs their help.  They like him better than me.”

“I just said I wasn’t -”

“Get them, Spike, or everybody in the building knows the Sisters handed you your ass on a platter by lunchtime.”

Another pause, that seemed to be filled with resentment.  “I hate you.”

“I’m crushed.” Angel said nothing else until they both heard the door slam, then commented, “Even if he just goes off drinking, it’s still a win-win situation for me.”

“We’ll need to bring them in eventually.”

“I know.  Um, maybe you can get over here and do it.”

“I ain’t getting’ over there without Rags.”

Angel sighed heavily, and it sounded like he thumped his head on his desk. “It’s always something, isn’t it?”

Oh yeah.  He’d learned that the hard way, more than once.

 9

It made sense to go after Bob, and get him before he … well, whatever it was Bob
did.  Jean didn’t trust him, but she especially didn’t trust him since he’d left energy in Logan's head, and hidden himself from her.

The funny thing was, when she disincorporated (if that was a word - if that was indeed what she did), she was without eyes, but saw perfectly well - the universe was devolved to nothing but energy, waves and particles, filaments and motes of light too intense to be mere photons;  energy like blood, flowing between the atoms of realities.  It was beautiful, it was like living fire … and no one else could ever see it.

Well, gods maybe, the things calling themselves that, the energy beings who dwelled in-between, in the sub-basements between universes, in their own pocket worlds.  Was she perhaps a tad jealous?

Earth seemed wrong for her now.  It was strange and crowded and altogether too small, too … fragile.  Some emotional ties lingered but, more often than not, they felt like a burden.

She had visited Camaxtli’s old realm, but it was in the last stages of collapse, and didn’t appeal to her in the least.  She would have liked to create her own world, but didn’t know how;  in fact, the power had almost killed her at first.  She had no idea how to handle it all, or even begin to interpret it;  it was simply angry static, energy raging out of control.

But, slowly, she learned to handle it;  somehow she'd learned to channel it, to compress it into something she could use.  It was like she had this small voice in
the back of her mind, guiding her, helping her cope.  It had taught her much, but not how to create her own world - yet.  She wondered if she could, and what she would make, given half the chance.  She really wasn’t sure.

She had also learned that every being had a specific energy to it, and gods and demons even more so.  Bob’s energy signature was relatively unique, icy hot and blue into the ultraviolet, it seemed … compromised somehow, corroded, not as pure as others.  Was that ironic or what?

Because of that, she knew where he was.  He was like a neon bruise among the brighter lights; among the velvet glow he was nothing so much as a stain.  It was like falling in a deep well of light, headed for a sunset at the bottom of the world.

When she phased into the dominant energy - getting her body back, in other words - she was surprised at where she found herself.

It was an office building.

It was what appeared to be an endless row of cubicles, white, featureless walls expanding into the horizon on all sides.  Beige carpet formed paths between the empty cubicles, which still had the accoutrements of the every day office workers (cheap desks, boxy computers, overflowing wastepaper baskets) even though it seemed clear that no being had ever occupied it.  Florescent lighting made everything look flat and unattractive.

And now, where the hell was Bob?

“Hello,” A man’s voice said.  He sounded Irish.  “Wow, Cammy picked himself a lovely new form.  If you’re looking for Bob, he left just as you arrived.  It’s a trick I’m sure you’ll learn in time.”

The realm had altered, a subtle shift, but she was unable to sense the weave of energy that made up this world;  all she saw was what the maker wanted her to see, a sterile office building reeking of old coffee and copy machine toner, and her attempts to reach through were as rebuffed as easily as if she were only Human again. “Hon, I’m sorry, but I improved my security after Cammy dropped in unexpectedly last time.  I really don’t like unannounced visitors.  I’m sure you understand.”

She looked sharply at the man, ready to snap at him for even trying to trap her - but stopped as soon as she saw him.

Gods never looked like you expected.  She had yet to run into a long haired guy in a robe, or an eight armed dancer, but still they surprised her every now and then. This one … this one was one of the most grotesque she had ever seen.

From the neck down, he appeared to be a regular man, a little overweight, with a rounded belly straining against his white button down shirt, although his navy blue slacks hung lose on incongruously slender legs.  His sleeves were rolled up, revealing thick, hairy forearms and a Timex on his wrist, and while this was baffling, it still wasn’t grotesque.  Then she attempted to look at his face.

He didn’t have one.

Well, he did, but it couldn’t have been more wrong.

He had a slightly oversized, egg shaped head, wide on top, tapering down to a pointed chin, with a tiny, lipless mouth just below … a huge eyelid.  His whole face was a massive eyelid, sealed with silvery duct tape.  He had thinning brown hair, two ears on the side of his head … and that one massive eye, perfectly shut.  What the fuck was this?!

She tried to read him, but his mind was as impenetrable as the realm;  it was like bouncing off glass, sliding along a mirror.

“I’m Balor, by the way.  Bob asked me to keep an eye - excuse the pun - on ya while he gets set up.  Seems you’ve been after him?”

She glared at him, wondering if she could hurt even though she couldn’t access his mind. “He’s a liar.  Who’s shocked?”

He chuckled, and said, “Now, lass, don’t even try and hurt me.  You don’t know your Celtic mythology, do ya?  I’m a death god;  an elemental.”

“Elemental?” She glanced around, trying had to see the energy matrix beneath it all.  He had to have a flaw she could exploit - most things did.

“Yep, elemental force of nature, tied directly into the force of the multi-verse
 itself. Kinda ironic, isn’t it?  Death gods can’t die.  If you wanna get technical, you can knock us out of the game for a bit, but we always pop back up again.  But Cammy wasn’t strong enough to knock me back, and certainly you aren’t either.”

She knew he could be lying, and probably was, but considering she couldn’t quite “plug” into her powers, he may have also been telling the truth. “Balor?” She repeated, just trying to buy time. “Why would you help Bob?”

“Call me Al,” he said, as the realm shifted again, and a file folder appeared in his hand as he walked back to a large office that also just suddenly appeared. “You beings usually pronounce the vowels in my name all wrong anyways.  No offense.”

“None taken.” A death god named Al?  Who worked in an empty, modern office building?  This would have been funny in any other circumstance. “Bob’s a friend of yours, is he?”

“He’s a mate.  Also, he said by doin’ this we’d be royally tickin’ off Osiris, and, I mean, sign me up for a chunk of that.  That little bastard is always trying to take credit for my best work.”

Osiris?  Now that name she was familiar with, Egyptian god.  But what did he have to do with her?  “And how’s that exactly, Al?”

He sat behind his huge oak desk, with a sigh as if he’d been on his feet all day. Then he opened the folder and laid it out flat, sorting through what appeared to be blank pieces of paper as he talked. “Ah, that I don’t know, love.  Bob didn’t tell me all his plans.”

“And you agreed to help him anyways?”

“Of course.  I learned a long time ago that sometimes it’s best if you don’t know everythin’.  Know what I mean?”

“I’m sure I don’t.” She watched as he put blank pieces of paper in an in box, while others he tossed in the trash can beside his desk.  Was he insane?  What was the point of this?  She focused on the desk, and could imagine the molecules burning away, consuming themselves in a violent conflagration.

Only they didn’t.

“Love, only my powers work here unless I take the safeties off,” he said, never taking his eye off the papers he was alternating saving and tossing away. “Only Eris herself could push her way through, but I never see her royal arse, do I?”

Eris?  Goddess of discord?  Now there was an intriguing avenue to explore … when she could. “Why is your eye shut?”

He sighed heavily, and shook his slightly oversized head. “You kids today just don’t know your mythology, do you?  If I open my eye, everything I look upon withers and dies - even inanimate objects curl up and compost.  It’s rather distressing.  So
I don‘t open my eye unless I really have to.  I hope you never make me open my eye, missy.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No, simply a statement.  And a fervent hope.”

She didn’t believe him.  How could she?  He was supposedly some kind of “elemental” death god who could - it was strongly implied - kill her as well, and
Bob had arranged to trap her with him.  This was a threat, both veiled and obvious.  She knew he was up to something, that sneaky bastard. Did he plan
to use Logan at some point, or had he been nothing but bait?

He held out a thick manila folder out towards her, and said, “You don’t know how to file, by any chance?”

Now she knew he was insane.

10

They were in the garage when Wesley called them back.

He had to borrow Scott’s cell phone, but the Boy Scout let him have it, at least
for now.  Having nothing better to do, and not willing to just sit and wait, they
had decided to make their rendezvous with the spleen-eater, assuming he even bothered to show up.  But they had barely started arguing about who was going to drive when the phone buzzed.

Wesley hardly even bothered to note it was him who answered when he said, “Clarice is in East Morehaven, Vermont.”

“Vermont?” Logan exclaimed in disbelief. “What the fuck are vampires doing in Vermont?  Did they run out of maple syrup?”

While Wes told him there was no way to discern intention (he already knew that, but Wes sounded tired, so he just let him talk), Scott got a map out of his car and unfolded it on the hood.  Christ, he had a fucking map of Vermont?

As it turned out, he had a map of the entire fucking Eastern Seaboard, all the way to Maryland.  How anal retentive was he?  Well, okay, it was nice to have a map, but it was still fucking terrifying.  He almost wanted to pop the trunk and see if Scooter had not only a full emergency kit, but maybe an emergency lunch, a change of clothes including black tie and tails, and some scuba gear, ‘cause god only knew when you might need all that shit.

It took some time, but finally Scott found it, a mere freckle on the map, a tiny burgh north of a bigger town called Holland - and just a little South of the U.S./Canadian border.  Logan just bet it was rural, filled with dark places for vamps to hide, obscure enough not to notice them, isolated enough that it didn’t make a difference anyways, and fucking cold two hundred days out of the year. Considering the distance, they decided to take the jet.  Wes said they’d join them as soon as they found where the hell Spike had gone, as he wasn’t back with Rags yet, and there was some minor fear that the Sisters may have held a grudge regardless, beat him up, and dumped him in a sewer.  Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.

(Wait - wasn’t he a ghost?  Oh, hell, maybe not - this world was so fucking strange Logan didn’t know why he bothered to try and keep track anymore.)