Getting the jet shouldn’t have been a big deal, but it was.  Scott felt the need to go put his uniform on, which Logan balked at.  They didn’t know if they were fighting anyone; they didn’t know if the vamps would even be there when they arrived.  And it wasn’t like the suits had neck protection.  Still, he put the jacket on, if only to shut him up (also, if anything did happen, he didn’t want to have to try and wash more blood and ash out of his coat).

He was content to let Scott pilot, as he didn’t care to.  The Boy Scout tried to goad him into co-piloting (“Can’t you supposedly operate anything?”), but he ignored him.  He was more interested in trying to figure this all out.  It didn’t make sense, did it?  Well, okay, vamping mutants did -- but what then?  Would it make Humans easier to hunt?  It didn’t seem like vamps were having a hard time getting their prey.  But who knew?  Maybe there was a general opinion they needed an upgrade, since they were so twelfth century.

It also occurred to him that Scott had nothing to kill vamps with.  He could blast them into sunlight, but that was about it.  There was no wood in this damned thing, and no axes either.  Well, there'd be plenty of wood in a rural area, even if he just ripped a branch off a tree.

Scott lowered altitude as soon as the GPS put them in general range, and Logan looked out the window to get a general sense of the tow.  Wow, was it rural, and lousy with trees, a huge swath of dark and bright green sweeping below them like a thick carpet, with an occasional bare spot where a house or farm like pasture beat back the inevitable advance of the woods.  It looked pretty and quiet, a nice, safe place; perfect for some really ugly shit.

Logan was just scanning what he could before the plane passed beyond its view when he noticed the black smudge. “What the hell is that?”

“What?” Scott asked, checking the instruments first.

Logan leaned forward until his nose almost touched the glass (polymer - whatever the fuck it was), and craned his neck to spy even more of it, a huge black square almost shrouded by trees clustering around the back, tall maples that seemed to be trying to shroud the dead.  “Something’s been burned to the ground,” Logan said. That square could only be charred remains on top of a foundation that wasn’t all that flammable.

“What?  Where?  Is it recent?”

“It ain’t smoking’, but I won’t know for sure ‘til you put this crate down.”

“Oh yeah, I think I’ll land in that guy’s backyard. He’ll understand if I accidentally squish a cow or two.”

“Yer gonna make me freefall out the hatch, aren’t you?”

“Would you?”

“Only if you go first.”

He sighed. “You’re no fun anymore.”

“Can the comedy, and put us down,” he said, getting up and moving towards the back.  He wondered if there was any equipment in storage that would be useful here.

“Aye aye, Cap’n,” Scott replied sarcastically, apparently trying to affect a “Scotty” accent.  Geek.

He did put the jet down, but the landing was a little bumpy -- he’d found a clearing, but it wasn't cleared enough, apparently.  As soon as the engines shut down, he opened the outer hatch and left, even as he heard Scott shout, “Logan, dammit, wait a min-”

Why the fuck should he wait?  They’d been waiting around too much already. Maybe if they moved sooner, Matt wouldn’t be a member of the undead in the first place.

He found a pretty good sized broken branch on the ground, and broke off more bits of it until it was easier to wield and had a pointy end.  “I asked you to wait a minute,” Scott said crossly, coming up behind him.

He turned and thrust the stake into his hands. “Here.  If one of them gets close to you, use this.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Vampires!  C’mon, you’ve seen the movies - stake through the heart.  Don’t be surprised if they explode.”

“Explode?” He said, with a nervous titter. “What, are they Pintos?”

“They explode into dust.  I don’t know why, they just shriek and go boom.  That’s why police never trip over vampire corpses - nothing left to trip over.” He turned away from him, and added, “Slip on, maybe, if it’s raining.”

“You don’t actually think I’m going to stab someone through the chest with this thing, do you?”

“They’ll kill you first chance they get.  This isn't a game - it's for keeps, Summers, or didn’t Matt’s vamping teach you that?  Now be quiet a minute, I have to concentrate.”

“On what?” He asked, sounding both annoyed and bewildered.  But he did shut up for a few seconds.

Logan took a deep breath and began separating all the scents - it was as thrilling as it sounded.  There was what he expected - manure, burnt wood, dirt, foliage, plane exhaust - and something he didn't, although he had gambled it would be there.  "They were here," he finally said, exhaling. "Vampires."

"Do they smell like cow flop?"

"No."

"Okay, then I'm not smelling them."

He scowled at Scott's little joke, but didn't turn and let him see it.  "The fire's not new either.  It's maybe two or three days old."

"What would we do without you, Tonto?" Before he could let him have it for that remark, Scott quickly added, "Why would vampires be into arson, anyway?"

"Vampires are into whatever it takes.  Think of them as lawyers, and you'll start to get the picture." He walked on, towards the square of burnt offerings, just to check it out.  The fact that it was old didn't mean there wouldn't be any clues left.

There was something about the remaining timbers, reduced to black shadows of themselves, packed collections of ash that could blow away at any second, that made him think this wasn't a house, but a building.  Albeit a rather small building.

He had to walk carefully, as every step could cause an exposition of soot and ash that went straight up his nose, but right here, in ground zero of the blaze, he smelled something that resembled plastic, but with a hint of leather.  "Something was burned in here," he told Scott, who was still standing just beyond the foundation, as if he didn't want to contaminate a crime scene.  "Someone."

"A person?"

"A demon person most likely, but yeah."

"Shit.  So vampires kill fellow demons?"

"Do Humans kill fellow Humans?  There's no loyalty code in any species."  He noticed something glinting among the black carpet of ash, and crouched down for a better look.  It was melted gold - well, not real gold, but gold colored metal - with a weird smear on the top.  A smear like ... a little man?  "Okay," Logan opined. "This was a church."

"It was?  What was a demon doing in a church?  And why would vampires torch it?"

"We don't know that they actually did it, but I can tell you for sure they were here." He stood up and started walking around again, but even he was no longer sure what he was looking for.

"Could someone have burned the church with them inside it?"

"It's possible, but I'm not smelling vampire fricassee, just demon flambé." He chose that moment to go into a sneezing jag (there was only so much ash and soot a nose could take).  He just knew Scott was dying to make a smart ass comment.

Yep.  "Maybe you should stop sniffing around, Deputy Dawg."  He flashed him the finger, but Scott didn't stop.  "Look, this is a crime scene.  We shouldn't be -"

"Where's the tape?"

"What?"

"The yellow tape police and fire investigators use to cordon off a scene.  Where is it?" Logan had finished his circuit of the burnt remains of the church, and was about to head back, when he was suddenly struck with the oddest feeling.  What the hell was that?

"Maybe ... it blew away.  The air currents caused by the descent of the jet -"

"Nothing blew away.  I saw no sign of yellow from the air."

"You might not have been able to."

"No, I would have." After a moment of pacing, he found what felt like the hot spot for ... well, whatever the fuck it was.  He crouched down, and searched the area for anything unusual.  He was disappointed, as there wasn't anything really odd, except ... an imprint?  Yes, a small rectangular imprint, not quite as large as a shoebox lid, as if something heavy was here even after the flames.

"Found something?" Scott asked.  He took a tentative step into the ash.

"I dunno," he admitted, holding his hand out to touch the imprint ... and he immediately pulled it back.  What the fuck was that?

"Something wrong?" Scott came over to look for himself.

"Put your hand over this," Logan said, pointing at the imprint.

"Why?"

"Just do it."

With great reluctance, Scott crouched down on the other side, and held his
hand out over the imprint.  "Now what?"

"You don't feel it?"

"Feel what?"

"A ... sensation;  something - not quite right?"

"No.  Why would I?"

As soon as Scott dropped his hand, Logan held his out again.  But the feeling was still there - like a thousand needles pricking his palm, pressing against his skin as if
trying to arm wrestle him away.

"You feel something?" It wasn't really a question.

“Yeah.  It’s kinda -”

But his attempt at description was cut short by a sudden “whoomp” behind them. They both turned sharply, but the scent had already reached his nose before his eyes settled on the figures in the shade of a cluster of huge sugar maples - Rags and Wesley.

Rags looked really hung over, his dirty blonde hair sticking up in clumps like he was a badly tended lawn, while Wes looked completely wiped out, the dark circles under his eyes making his face looked bruised.  But at least he didn’t have the complexion of bad cottage cheese, like Rags.  “Go back, tell Angel it’s a little too bright to come here at the moment,” Wes said to Rags, even as he shouldered his bag and started walking towards them.

“Why am I doin’ this again?” Rags groaned.

“You’re being paid by the teleport,” Wes replied crisply.

“Oh, right.” He pulled some glitter out of the pocket of his bowling shirt, threw it over his head, said something unintelligible, and “pmoohw “-ed out of existence.

“Hello,” Scott said, a bit warily.

Wes nodded tersely, and came up beside them, glancing down at the imprint. “What do we have here?”

“A burned down church,” Scott offered.

“Besides that.”

“An impression that feels funny,” Logan said, gesturing at the spot.

Wes held his hand over it, and said, “Funny how?” Just the way he said it suggested he didn’t feel it either.

“It’s almost painful.  It feels like my skin is tryin’ to crawl off.”

“Hrm.” Wes, who was only clad in a long sleeved black crew shirt, hiking boots, and worn jeans, pulled an ultra slim cell phone out of his pocket, and as he crouched down, he put it on the ground.  Out of his opposite pocket, he pulled what looked like a PDA, and started to scroll down its menu list.  He let the bag he carried slip from his shoulder, and deftly slid it onto the ground.

After a moment, he set the PDA aside and started going through the bag, eventually pulling out a handful of stinky botanical … well, dust.  He murmured something in old Latin (Logan really didn’t know the old Latin all that well, but guessed a rough translation was “Reveal yourself”) and started sprinkling the smelly dust over the impression.  The dust seemed to shimmer in the low afternoon light, hanging suspended in the air like it was frozen in time, and suddenly it began to settle into a shape - a larger rectangle, like the ghost echo of a box.  Wes picked up the phone - which was also, apparently, a camera - and snapped a picture of the odd, dust constructed image.  He then brought the cell to his ear, pressed a button, and said, “Fred, run that through the artifacts database, see if we get a match.” He then hit mute, and let his hand fall away.

“What exactly did you do?” Scott queried, examining the dusty image carefully.

“Cast a revelation spell.” He paused,  andthen Wes looked at him. “Do you have any idea why you felt such a thing from this, Logan?”

He shook his head, feeling suddenly very defensive (was he crazy when it came to this too?), but then the answer occurred to him, and it was so fucking obvious he could have smacked himself. “Bob’s energy.  He left some in my mind.”

“He did? Why-” But then Wes suddenly paused, blue eyes growing wide. “Oh shit.” He picked up his phone, activated it, and said, “Fred, skip general search, look in the demon god section.  Yes, I’m serious.” As soon as he muted the phone again, he explained, “If god energy is reacting to it, it can't be good.”

“A demon god thing in a church?” Scott replied, sounding dubious. “What kind of church was this?”

“Probably a very ordinary one, at least on the surface,” Wes answered him wearily. It looked like he was suppressing a yawn. “You have to understand many demons have a healthy sense of irony, and cloak themselves in the accoutrements of the holy.  Sometimes the most seemingly devout, pious people may in fact be working from another agenda.”

“Oh lovely,” Scott sighed, standing up and rubbing the back of his neck. “Another illusion shattered.”

“They aren’t all like that. You just have to … be careful.”  This time Wes had to press the back of his hand to his mouth to stifle the yawn.

“So I assume they didn’t beat Spike and dump him in a sewer?” Logan asked, somewhat curious.

“Huh?  Oh, well, they did rough him up a bit.  But they brought him back with Rags;  the Sisters choose odd moments to be cooperative.”

“So he’s corporeal now?”

“Spike?  Yes.  Oh, no one told you?  Someone used powerful dark magic on him, turned him back into the physical undead.”

“Bit of a pisser.”

“You could say that.”

“Who the hell are you talking about?” Scott interjected, sounding annoyed again.

But before they could answer, Wes’s phone made an odd beeping noise, and he brought it up to his ear again. “Yes?” He listened for a moment, and Logan noted his jaw going minutely slack, fingers tightening on the phone.  Logan was aware of a female voice on the other end of the line, but what she was saying didn’t make much sense to him.  She did sound a little upset, though.

“Send Rags back,” Wesley finally said, then shut his phone.

“How bad is it?” Logan asked, ‘cause he just knew it sucked big time.

He paused, and stood up, passing his hand over the dusty visage of the box.  It disappeared like it was never there at all.  “It matches the dimensions and appearance of the Cask of Annwn.”

“Ann Oon?” Scott repeated.

Logan stood up as well, not willing to look up everyone’s nose.  “Small for a cask, isn’t it?”

“Well, there wasn’t anything that Annwn left in this world, except a grail.”  Wes then sighed and shook his head, muttering under his breath, “..'Should have explored that Master angle more.”

“A grail?” Scott continued. “Like the Holy Grail?  A cup?”

To his surprise, Wes nodded - Boy Scout got something right.  “Exactly a cup, stained with his blood, a source of great talismanic, dark power. But it was sealed in the Cask by one of his mortal enemies and sent into hiding, a cask made of a sort of magical substance that was impossible to open or break.”

As soon as those words sunk in, both he and Scott looked at each other, and said, in unison, “Matt.”  The boy could break anything with his touch.  Goddamn it, those fuckers had been targeting him, didn’t they?  There was no fucking way this could be a coincidence.

“That’s the mutant boy, yes?” Wes said wearily, as Rags ''whoomped' back into existence. “Well, Diego and Clarice must have planned this well.  If the box has been opened, we’re in serious trouble.”

“But it’s just a cup, right?” Logan said, trying to figure out the danger angle here. “How bad can it be?”

Wes rubbed his eyes before he started retrieving all his things, most of which he just threw in his magic bag. “It's a cup that can be used to open the door to Annwn’s realm.”

“And that’s bad?  A hell dimension?”

“Not exactly, no.  It is a sort of purgatory for deities and the semi-divine, others banned from their realms or simply without them for a variety of reasons, and, included in that underworld dead end is Mahr.”

“Who’s Mahr?” Logan asked, knowing he’d regret it.

Rags was standing by, waiting, leaning against a tree, arms crossed over his chest, eyes half closed.  Wow, between him and Wes, it looked like they needed about
a week’s rest to get back into top shape.  Wes swallowed hard and sighed, seemingly gathering his forces before telling them the story.  “The being believed
to be the first “true” vampire was called the Master.  Mahr made the Master.”

Scott scratched his head and grimaced, either not following or not wanting to. “Say what?”

Wesley just sighed again, closing up his bag and motioning Rags to join them. “Mahr is the father of all vampires, the true progenitor.  He is the vampire god.”

Oh, holy shit.  Where the fuck was Bob when you really needed him?

11

Angel figured Wesley would return from Vermont with Logan, but he didn’t anticipate Scott coming along.

Still, Rags brought them all back to his office and - as this was his first cross-country teleport - Scott instantly collapsed into a chair and rested his head on his knees, trying not to vomit.  Logan was fine - wasn’t he always? - and Wes was, in theory, okay, though the location jumping looked like it was taking a toll on him.  He just didn’t want to admit it, especially not now.

Mahr.  Shit.  Angel had heard that name once in his entire lifetime - the Master had mentioned it once in oddly flattering terms - but Angel hadn’t paid much attention, because he was Angelus at the time, and knew damn well that he should be leader of all vampires, not that wrinkled old fruit bat who thought he was such hot shit.

Spike was right - he was such a prick.

But it didn’t matter now.  Right now they had to snap into crisis mode, and figure out how to kill this thing or, at the very least, collapse the doorway, sending it back to whatever personal hell it called its own. (If the Master looked like that, what the hell could Mahr look like?!  He remembered how unattractive Vanth was, and almost shuddered - and Vanth was technically a “good” death god.)

Gunn was in court today, so the team was technically short, though not really, as he'd sent the Sisters off to research, warning them not to kill anyone in this office, or he’d have them cursed.  They agreed, but in that way that suggested they were humoring him.  He didn’t actually care as long as they were out of his office.

Wesley was looking for spells that could be used against Mahr, while Angel was looking for something - anything - on Mahr himself.  There wasn’t a lot so far - there wasn’t anything yet, in fact.  And something was really bugging him about this scenario.  “What’s Diego’s angle here?” He asked aloud, looking over at Spike.

Spike was back lounging on the couch, holding a pack of blue ice to his blackened eye.  At least the Sisters had only punched in one, though; he really should have considered himself lucky.  “Huh?  Bring back uber bad guy, vamp the world?”

“Yeah, that's what I thought, too.  Which doesn’t make sense, not for Diego.  That would make him second rate at best, if not just like everyone else.  There’d have to be an angle here - something he could be assured of gaining from this.”

“A vampire world isn’t enough?” Scott asked.  He was sitting on the sofa on the opposite side of the room, parallel to Spike.  He seemed to be regarding everyone and everything warily, as if he expected something to jump out and bite him.

“Not for Diego, no, not unless he was in charge.”

“Could he be in charge?” Logan asked.  He was slumped in the chair in the middle of the room, looking bored and uncomfortable.  “Maybe somehow take Mahr’s place or power or somethin’?”

“Oh … there’s an unpleasant thought,” Angel admitted, frowning down at the ancient tome that was honestly telling him squat.

“Could he do that?” Spike wondered, and it sounded like he was just a little bit jealous at the thought.  He then glanced at Scott, on the opposite side of the room, and asked, “Why are you wearing a girl’s barrette on your face?  Are you a Trekkie or something?”

Logan snickered, while Scott scowled at Spike. “It’s not a barrette, it’s a visor.  And if I wasn’t wearing it, I’d have put a hole through this building.”

“Ooh, watch me quiver,” Spike scoffed.

Before things could get really ugly, Lorne came in through the door, not knocking, probably because his rather bright cherry red suit and yellow Tweety Bird tie did all the announcing for him. “Angelcakes, I found out who our Markisan is, and -” He paused as he took in all the visitors with his bright eyes.  Scott stood up, as if ready to fight (well, maybe Anagogic demons were startling if you’d never seen one before - especially wearing a suit like that), but Logan, still slouching, still looking bored, just glanced at him casually, hardly bothering.  Lorne’s eyes settled on him, and a big, flirtatious grin split his green scaled face. “Well, hell-o gorgeous.  Way to rock those sideburns, amigo.”

Scott coughed, clumsily hiding a laugh.

“Tell me you’re an actor,” Lorne continued. “We clean you up a bit, you could be the new Clint Eastwood - and I mean that in a “Sergio Leone days” way, not a “pretending to schtup lonely housewife Meryl Streep” way .  I could get you a two picture deal with Dreamworks - just like that.”

Scott was really laughing now, and Angel expected Logan to lose his temper, but amazingly he didn’t - maybe he knew Lorne wasn’t mocking him, but genuinely meant well.  “Sorry to disappoint you,” he said, and held up one of his hands.  Making a fist, he sprung his claws so Lorne could see them. “I’m the decapitator.”

“Ouch.  Those have got to hurt -- not the decapitations, the claws.  I’ve been decapitated, and believe you me, it’s no fun at all .  It's Logan, right?  You’re the Wolverine guy Angelicious has told me about.”

Angel rested his forehead in his hand, wishing Lorne could knock off the nicknames, at least for now.

Logan nodded, and retracted his claws.  Did he have any idea how creepy it was to watch his skin just instantly heal over like that?  “I’m the Wolverine guy.”

“Give me a call if you ever wanna get into the show that is biz -- acting ability is no longer a prerequisite, just don’t accidentally stab your co-stars.  There’s no way to spin that well.” Lorne’s eyes scudded over to the still laughing Scott, and after taking him in, said, “Tres kinky, frere.  Is that Jean-Paul Gautier?”

Scott stopped laughing, but it was now Logan’s turn to snicker as Scott asked, “What?”

“The leather duds!  Very cool and bondage-y.  But if you wanna get in the next Britney video, we’re gonna have to do something about the hair.”

Now Logan was laughing out loud, and just from the mischievous glint in his eye, Angel suspected that Lorne had done that on purpose, if only because he got the idea Scott was enjoying his mistake about Logan way too much.  Just because he could only read a person when they sang didn’t mean he couldn’t pick up on certain things without music.  “..The Markisan?” Angel prompted.

“Ahh, yes.  It was named -” Lorne made a sound like he was gagging on a hairy cheese ball.  “- although its nickname may have been Meg.  Anyhoo, it was a member of the Heralds, according to its clan mate -” Lorne made a noise like he’d swallowed Saran wrap - an entire roll. Scott stared at him like he was either insane or in need of a Heimlich maneuver.

“Heralds?” Spike repeated. “Like the name or the newspaper?”

“Like the renegade cult,” Wesley said, coming in through the open door.  He was carrying a very old book in his hands, but since spells made all texts in the Wolfram and Hart library accessible in any book, the outer covering didn’t matter.  “The Heralds were a group of … fanatics that split off from the Watchers, following the prophesies of Gaetane Vespasien, a Watcher who claimed to have seen the future while in pursuit of a deadly demon worshipping cult.  She claimed that demon gods were planning to conquer the Earth once more, and that we had to stop busying ourselves with lesser demons - which she claimed was a distraction - and focus on the “war” to come.  She was kicked out of the Council, but some followed her, honestly believing she was right.  The Heralds train only to fight and repel deities, no more;  they are god-mages.  They prepare for the day when a god will supposedly return to Earth - to beat them back.”

“Rootin’ tootin‘,” Lorne agreed … possibly.  Hard to know what to make of a statement like that.

“Bob must have slipped under the radar,” Scott muttered, sounding disappointed.

Logan sat forward with a sigh. “Okay, this is all comin’ together like pieces in a puzzle.”

“It is?” Spike and Scott said in unison.  They both looked horrified to have been on the same wavelength as the other.

“Diego must have targeted Matt - somehow, and as soon as I find out how, heads are gonna roll.  He learned about Matt’s mutant ability to break anything, and then he turned him so he could open that fucking box, and around the same time, this Clarice dame was killing one of the god watchers, and it’s a god they plan to bring back.  It all fits.”

“Bollocks it does,” Spike countered, putting the ice pack down on the arm of the couch.  His eye was still swollen, but less purple than before. “They killed one fucking Herald - one.  If their intent was to stop the god herders from interfering-”

“That we know of.” Wesley interrupted.

“What?” Spike gave him an evil look, upset his rant was interrupted.

“We only know that this dead Markisan was a Herald.  We don’t know where the other Heralds are - they could be dead, for all we know.  There’s no way to track the group.  Believe me, the Watchers tried.”

“There’s still something missing here,” Angel pointed out. “Diego’s angle.  He would not bring back Mahr just to be his bug eating henchman.  If he’s not leading the parade, he doesn’t bother showing up.”

“The thing they took from the Markisan,” Wes responded, seemingly apropos of nothing.

Angel stared at him, hoping for a visual cue, but he didn’t get one. “What, the necklace?  What does that have to do with anything?”

“As I said, the Heralds are god mages - they specialized in magiks and artifacts meant to repel and otherwise contain or kill gods.  I doubt Clarice was just stealing an expensive piece of jewelry.”

It took him a moment, but Angel understood what Wes was getting at. “A pendant that could contain or control a being like Mahr?”

“Perhaps.  Lorne, did you find out what it was wearing?”

Lorne shook his head and grimaced, briefly scratching one of his horns. “They wouldn’t tell me that.  Apparently it was on a “need to know” basis, and while I felt I needed to know, they didn’t.”

“That’s his angle,” Angel said, spelling it out for everyone else.  “They resurrect Mahr, but Diego controls him.  The servant becomes the served.”

“That’s fuckin’ twisted,” Spike said, almost admiringly.  “Think it has a chance in
hell of working?”

“Gods don’t like falling in line,” Logan said.  It sounded like he was speaking from experience, and Angel felt instantly bad - after all, it was his fault Logan got mixed up with the Highers, wasn’t it?  “And if this guy is some kinda evil god, I don’t see him standing for being pushed around, even if they have some way of keeping him in a cage.”

“Yeah, those kind of dogs turn on you in no time,” Lorne agreed.  “Pissing off a god is a really good way to lose your breathing privileges.”

“That wouldn’t stop Diego.”

“He's convinced he can do this,” Logan said, clearly speculating, but with all the confidence of a criminal profiler.  “That he can handle whatever comes, because he thinks he has an ace up his sleeve.  He must have another card to play, one we don’t know about yet.”

That felt right - and it was also the most frightening thought of the day.  So far.

12

It was amazing how easy it was to get people to volunteer to die for you if they thought you were their savior.

In the beginning, Diego had felt soiled just pretending to be the grinning, moronic “miracle man” these poor dumb sheep were looking for - what was with the cattle and the thing so many of them thought of as their god?  As if gods were ever benevolent;  as if they thought of anyone but themselves!  But as he looked out
at them now, spread out on the concrete, their blood running down the channels cut into the floor, he felt good.  It was worth it, passing himself off as one of them, if only for all their precious, freely given blood.

“Are you ready?” He asked, turning to the makeshift altar.

Matt was there, looking down at the Cask of Annwn as if it smelled bad.  “This thing is makin’ my flesh crawl.”

“For good reason.  Why don’t you see if you can open it?”

“What do you mean 'see'?” He grabbed the cask, and appeared to concentrate for a moment, his brow furrowing with the effort.  Finally a loud crack like a gunshot echoed through the mostly empty room.  The smell of old blood - tainted, slightly corroded, not with time but with something far more perverse - mingled with the smell of new, and Diego smiled at his new young protégé.

This was going to be brilliant.