15

Hendon’s was exactly what you’d expect in a funeral home. Lots of polished walnut and muted colors (no pastels, though, no beige, just a kind of pale burgundy and faded navy blue, and that got aesthetic points), sparse but tasteful furnishings, a high level of order imposed to make clients who had just suffered through the chaos of loss feel a bit safer and more secure. They’d tried to cover up a lingering sent of formaldehyde with rosemary and cinnamon.

They were met at the front desk by a man who could have been John Gielgud’s cousin, a tall, balding man in a natty dark suit, with a fringe of snowy hair ringing his head like a crown of laurels, and sleepy gray eyes peering out at them beneath bushy white eyebrows. He was as thin as a reed and stood ramrod straight, hands clasped behind his back, and Logan figured if he didn’t know better, he’d think this guy was a specter of some sort. No, just a slightly officious, slightly creepy man.

Feeling a bit like an asshole, he started to explain that they had brought with them the body of a former Watcher, and before he could get much further than that, Gielgud interrupted, “What was his name?”

He told him, and he entered it into his computer, just hidden from view on the left side of the desk. After a half a minute of clicking keys, he said, “Oh yes, the Wyndham-Prices, good Watcher family. Seems young Wesley got fired from the Council?”

“Fuck yer bleedin’ Council,” Ammy interjected savagely. “He got himself skewered fulfilling their mandate. Give him a slot, or I’ll erase your hard drives.”

He didn’t look at all perturbed, just raised an eyebrow slightly, giving her a seriously appraising look. “You’re not Human, are you madam?”

Did he know what dangerous ground he was treading on here? “I’m part, but I’m also part Belial, and I got the Blood, don’t I? Would you like a demonstration?”

“Look, bub, trust me - don’t piss her off. One body’s enough,” he advised him wearily.

Gielgud was still unfazed. “The Blood? What god are you the progeny of?”

“Bob.”

“I’m unaware of a god named Bob.”

“Look, dipstick -”

“The Drai’shajan,” Logan interrupted, before Ammy could turn him into a frog or whatever.

That made Lurch raise his other eyebrow. “Oh really? I guess that explains the blue.” He turned back to his computer, and started typing once more. That seemed to be the end of that.

Then they had to “specify” method of death, as it seemed there were special protocols to be followed if he was killed by specific beings. And special protocol if he was killed by magic or something enchanted. He was starting to wonder if they were on some kind of practical joke show or something, but Lurch was far too serious about it all.

Ammy was getting increasingly hostile, which wasn’t good. She kept sticking to her one sentence answer that he was just plain old stabbed by a creepy guy with a regular knife. He wasn’t sure how she knew that, and guessed she didn’t, she just didn’t want to go through this protocol shit any more than he did.

They got through it without anyone new dying, and Ammy didn’t change Lurch into a newt, so it seemed like a success. As soon as Hendon’s took possession of Wes’s body, she went back to California to get Helga, and he wandered out into a London afternoon (? Well, he was pretty sure …) and realized where he was. Not far from King’s Road, so that meant he was a stone’s throw from Srina’s place. He wondered if she would mind if he dropped by. He decided, since he had the free time - and had promised to see her soon - he would.

As he walked down the relatively busy sidewalks, he found himself wondering if any of these people had ever run into Wesley and not known it; if he had ever saved them from something, and they didn’t know it. How awful was it to constantly labor in the shadows, to be relegated to the same obscurity and darkness as the creatures you constantly fought?

And why a creeping sense of self-pity? That didn’t apply to him. Mutants got splashed on the front page, didn’t they? Didn’t people point at the articles and say. ‘Damn muties. We should just round ‘em up and shoot them all’.

Oh, he loved his hostile inner voice. Did he sound like that to other people? He must have, otherwise how would he be seen as such a pleasant person to be around? He knew he didn’t smell bad. Unless he’d been fighting demons or rednecks, then of course yeah, blood just lingered.

He needed a new life, badly and terribly. But at this rate, where did you stop to get one?

He came to the bookstore soon enough, and this time was pleasantly greeted by the owner, who must have remembered from the last time he was here. Logan made a mental note to peruse the shelves when he had the time, and went to the back, where there was a doorway leading to the internal stairs leading to the second floor, where Srina’s flat was.

Considering the time, he knew it was possible that Srina was out, but half way up the narrow staircase, he heard faint music coming from above. Pete Yorn. Certainly that seemed to fall in Srina’s musical taste range - no Megadeth for her. Which was cool; at least she didn’t listen to Kenny G.

He knocked on the door, then announced, “Srina, it’s me, Logan.” He waited a moment, sure he heard some shuffling inside, the slap of bare feet on wooden floor and carpet, and then there was the soft clank and click of locks being undone before the door was opened.

“I’m sorry I -” he began, but stopped as Srina flung herself into his arms and kissed him mid-sentence. Her body felt too warm, and she tasted both of illness and a strong medicine. He held her back at arm’s length, and, after catching his breath, said, “Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize you had a cold.”

She did. Viruses and bacteria had different smells, and she smelled like a cold virus. For visual proof, her nose was slightly red, her eyes were glassy and slightly bloodshot, and she had the florid look of a fever victim, even though her bronze colored skin made it difficult to see. She was wearing a purple chenille robe (it didn’t quite match her magenta hair and eyes, but it was close), black cotton pajama pants with red Oriental style dragons on them, and a blue t-shirt that sagged on her like loose skin, and he realized belatedly it was a man’s t-shirt - one of his? “Hey, what the fuck, right?” She replied, voice airy even though slightly nasal. Wow, look how blown her pupils were. “You don’t get colds, do ya? ‘Cause if so, sorry for infectin’ you.”

“I don’t get sick. My immune system kills off everything, pretty much. Part of my healing factor.”

“Oh goody,” she replied cheerfully. Grabbing his arm and pulling him inside. “I wish I had that. You’ve never been sick? With anything? Ever?”

He shrugged, kicking the door closed once he was across the threshold. “Not that I know of.”

“What about food poisoning?”

“Ah. Well technically if it’s a toxin or a drug, it’s got one shot to kill me or work on me, then that’s it. My system will have antibodies to negate it next time it’s introduced into my system. Haven‘t I told you this?” He honestly wasn’t sure.

She just shrugged, so stoned on cold medicine she didn’t care that much. “That’s some cool ass shit. I’m glad you’re here.”

“You are?”

“Oh yeah. The meds are really kickin’ in, and I feel like dancing.” She attempted to tug him out into the center of her small living room - the only place where dancing was possible, and yet still not perfectly possible for two average sized people - and started singing along with the music, somewhat drunkenly. “And we held and we tried, there was more than lust between us -”

“Hon, I don’t dance,” he told her, pulling her towards him as she stumbled over her own feet, and almost literally fell into his chest. “And I really think you need to lay down. How much medicine have you had?”

“Just a snort of Night Nurse and a codeine chaser.”

“Are you fucking serious?” He had no idea what “Night Nurse” was - the British version of “Night Train”? - but combining anything that potent with codeine sounded like a really bad idea. “How are you standing up?”

She smiled up at him. “Are you tryin’ to get me into bed?

He sighed, and she put her arms around him, leaning into him as if she couldn’t quite remain upright. (Possibly true.) “I think bed is a great idea.”

Her smile grew wider, meaning even more stoned than before. “I wonder if we share enough body fluids I’ll get your immunity.”

“I’m pretty sure it doesn’t work that way.” Unless she was a vampire, but he wasn’t going to mention that.

She patted his back, a curious look on her face. “Is your spine exposed? I’m feelin’ something’ hard, and it’s in the wrong place for your-”

“It’s a sword.”

“Why is a claw guy carrying a sword?”

How could she be as high as a kite and yet still a smart ass? “I’m holdin’ it for someone. C’mon, let’s get you to bed before you pass out.” He picked her up, sweeping her up off her feet easily, and she let out a little “whoop” of enthusiasm, and draped her arms around his neck. “Why did you take so many meds?”

“I’ve felt like shit all week. My throat hurt, I couldn’t breathe through my nose, I could hardly sleep - even my hair hurt. I tried homeopathic remedies, tea, soup, everything, and finally I figured fuck it, I just want to feel better. I shoulda done this days ago.”

“Keep that in mind for next time.” He carried her to her small back bedroom, where evidence of her illness were rife: crumpled, used Kleenex dotted the available surfaces of the room like confetti after a parade; the curtains were drawn, and looked as if they might have actual dust on them; and her bed was unmade, a tangle wad of sheets and blankets perched haphazardly on top of the mattress.

Still, he found a relatively even place to put her down on top of the bed, and even so, she didn’t let go of his neck, and almost pulled him down on top of her. “Where do you think you’re going?” She asked, smiling.

He scowled down at her. “Sex is no fun if someone passes out half-way through.”

“I won’t pass out if you keep me up.”

“Darlin’, you need to sleep.”

“Not alone. That’s old.” She pulled him down into a kiss, and he just let it happen, as it wasn’t a bad thing. But her hands snaked under his shirt - her skin still felt hot and dry - and he knew she just wasn’t going to give up. What the hell was in Night Nurse? Maybe he should keep it in mind as a future aphrodisiac.

He pulled away from her, but rather than fight her, he softly kissed her forehead, then continued to pepper her face slowly and deliberately with kisses, sure to kiss her eyelids, and her cheeks and chin. He could feel her arms start to go limp, and when he reached her neck, her hands fell to her side. “See, I knew just as I started to get interested, you’d pass out,” he murmured softly. He got up, pulled the blanket over her, and left the room.

He did feel bad for her. He might not personally know how bad colds were, but he knew no one seems to have a good time with them, and on top of that, she probably stayed up above the bookshop, alone and suffering quietly, probably going “invisible” to leave and lift her cold medicine (she could have bought it, but he had a feeling she didn’t), and never actually interacting with another person. He didn’t as a rule trust people either, but that seemed ridiculous. People generally sucked, but wouldn’t have been nice to just go to the pub and kvetch about how miserable you felt to the barmaid? As much as he sometimes avoided it, human contact was actually necessary, and sometimes - perversely - it even made you feel a bit better, even if you didn’t say a thing to anyone. It was one of those weird things even crazed loners like himself couldn’t quite beat - Humans were social animals. But Srina was honestly so burned out - or so traumatized? - she just couldn’t bring herself ! to do it. She was so lonely, possibly even lonelier than him at his absolute worst.

He felt responsible. He wasn’t sure if he was or wasn’t, or only a single contributor to a long time problem.

He turned down her stereo, afraid if he turned it off right now the sudden silence would rouse her, and found a small plastic bottle sitting on her coffee table. Studying the label, he confirmed it was Night Nurse, and seemed to be the British equivalent of Nyquil. Considering how low the level on the bottle was, he wondered how much she took. Shit, should he roll her onto her side, so if she vomited in her sleep she wouldn’t choke on it? It was then he heard a noise like a Vespa revving outside, and realized that it wasn’t coming from the street below, but from the next room - she was snoring. Loudly. He turned off the stereo.

There was almost no sign of her newfound wealth. Oh, her sound system was better, her television bigger, her DVD all region, but the furniture was the same thrift store specials she always had, the linoleum in her kitchenette still starting to peel in spots, the refrigerator small and humming with a faint, echoing sound, like a mouse was inside it practicing on a kazoo. It looked like she got a more up to date microwave, though.

He had just reached into her fridge for a Guinness - it was still mostly empty, save for beer, diet Pepsi, orange juice, take out cartons from Indian and Chinese restaurants, and a few sad apples - when he sensed the disturbance a millisecond before Ammy and Hel popped into existence just a meter away, between the far counter and the window.

“How the hell did you find me?” He hissed, keeping his voice low, in spite of the fact that Srina continued to snore periodically, and sounded like a chainsaw that was having a difficult time getting started.

Ammy glared at him spitefully, as if he just insulted her. “Ya got Bob’s energy in ya don’t cha? And why the fuck are we whispering?”

Hel cocked her head, and opined, “I think it’s ‘cause of the leaf blower in the next room. This a girlfriend’s place?”

“Kinda, a friend. Srina.”

Hel nodded, clearly remembering he had mentioned her before. Helga had changed into what could be considered her “sex warrior” clothes: black leather pants, boots, and tank top, that showed off a nice bit of jade green cleavage. But she also wore fingerless black leather gloves with silver studs on the knuckles - studs with almost microscopic titanium, copper, and silver shards in them, so they would cut you up as they fucked you up. And her bullet belt was filled with real bullets. He could smell that she had at least one gun hidden on her person. Ammy had not changed, but now carried a small blue knapsack over her right shoulder that smelled pungently of herbs. He could remember Wesley having a bag he called his “emergency magic kit”, and felt a brief twinge in his gut. “The invisible mutant? Cool beans. Why didn’t you wake her up?”

Ammy shook her head. “She’ll be of limited use. Even if they can’t see ya, some demons could hear you or smell you.”

“She’s not in on this. I just came to see her ‘cause I promised I would. Besides, she’s sick; she’s in no shape to fight.”

Ammy sighed heavily, the world’s bluest martyr. (Come to think of it, why had Lurch said “I guess that explains the blue” after he clarified that Bob was the Drai’shajan? Did they know he was composed of blue energy? Was the color significant, or just chance?) “So it’s just us? Man, we’ve come a guster, haven’t we?”

“Oh, wait, no. Am, there’s somebody in Los Angeles you gotta go get for me.”

“So I’m a fucking taxi service now?”

He glared at her, aware that they should probably just punch the shit out of each other and get it over with. “The Sisters. They said they’d help if we were going after the bitch that got Bob. We ain’t there yet, but it’s a step on the way, and they’ll never miss a fight.”

Even Ammy had to admit that was true. She rolled her cobalt eyes, and hissed, “Fuck. It’s always the Dunny rats, isn’t it?” She then cursed and teleported out of there, leaving him alone with Helga.

He looked at her, and asked, “Did you understand that?”

She shrugged. “I haven’t been in Australia that long. Although I think the guster comment was derogatory.”

“I got that one.” She was giving him a strange sidelong glance as a sly smile began to curl her lips. “What?”

“You’re probably about to live out a male fantasy - or maybe a female one, could go either way. You’re going into battle with nothing but women.” She gave him a wink. “Bob would be so jealous of you.”

He stared at her, amazed that that had never even occurred to him. But what a group it was: a former assassin (like him, but a lot better looking), a half demon demi-goddess witch, and a pair of identical twin psychically linked vampires who were just a little more psychotic than your average bloodsucker. And almost no one trusted another one completely.

Oh yeah, that sounded like a total fucking party.

16

She let the boy kiss the girl, as that seemed to be the most efficient way to do this.

It was difficult to remember all the mating rituals of these things, but that seemed to work. She had the boy kiss the girl and pull her into a narrow corridor off the club, and then started to drink her soul.

By the time the girl figured out something was wrong, it was way too late. She tried to pull away, but she was pinned her against the wall by the scrawny boy’s dubious bulk and drained of every last ounce of energy.  Let tingthe corpse drop where it was, she went back out into the apocalyptic cacophony of the nightclub.

In spite of the deep bass noise of the theoretical music and the pulsing lights that added flashes of colorful illumination to the otherwise dark scene, this place was strangely peaceful. Maybe it was all the souls crowded in here, all giving off the healthy white glow of virgin, untainted souls, fruits ripe for plucking.

The substance was circulating here too. The boy - who used to be called Dell, and who was distressingly frail (but the most inviting souls often had the frailest bodies; it was something inherent in the natures of people who wished to sign their lives away) - thought of it as a “drug”: ano, A, the “pink”. It wasn’t, or at least not as her and her people knew it. It was an elixir, a tonic made of blood of their offshoots, beings already tainted by their presence. In the old days - when they were remembered; when the meat were reverent - it was used by shamans and oracles to contact them, or even to invite them in. These poor idiot children had no idea what they were letting in. Yes, it was pure joy, but it had a price beyond money.

But they didn’t know. Sometimes it was just too easy, wasn’t it?

And this was just the beginning. Supposedly it was spreading. If it spread wide enough, most of her kind could come through. Banished from this plane, were they? How times had changed.

But she was no fool. Someone was doing this; someone was deliberately bringing them back. Surely they too would have a price, a demand, something they wished of them and thought they could acquire. Perhaps followers, offspring who felt forgotten, but she knew better than to trust that. Things were happening; something had shifted, and she had a feeling they were being called in. Why? Perhaps someone needed an army, or perhaps just needed as many people as possible out of the way. She supposed she would find out soon enough. Whoever was spreading this had to have some way of finding them, no matter their new bodies. She wondered if she would recognize them.

It had been a very long time, and she was still hungry. A young man blundered by, his soul clear but his body polluted by more toxic substances than a chemical spill, and kissed him, drinking his energy like a fine wine. His struggles were pathetic and momentary, and she let his slightly desiccated corpse fall on the floor, where no one really noticed. The lights were too transient, and the people too intoxicated, to notice or care.

She wandered out into the buffet of sweaty, oblivious humans, searching for her kindred, and looking for a pre-midnight snack.

****

Mayfair was an upscale part of London, proved by the Corvette dealership they passed as they searched for the “underground”. The problem was there were many upscale shops around, and none advertising themselves as the “underground”, so when Ammy returned (the Sisters were nearby, hiding out in a shady area), she threw a “locator” spell, and they followed a phosphorescent trail only they could see to a small, well hidden door in an alley between a gourmet sweet shop and a men’s haberdashers, which seemed like a uniquely British thing to have. (Logan couldn't help thinking about how Mayfair got a mention in that “Werewolves Of London” song. Good rhyme scheme, or did the songwriter know something they didn’t?)

The door looked smudged, and almost blended in perfectly with the brick façade (it was a quaint sweet shop, and the smell of chocolate and marzipan was almost crippling him), but Ammy was able to make it more visible, and Logan felt the tingling along his skin that indicated a “glamour”. It also had a magical “locking spell”, but Ammy scoffed at it, called it “bodgy”, and unlocked it with a wave of her hand.

The plan - such as it was - was for him to go in first. If this had any hope of working, he had to come off as the mega alpha male, which Helga teased “Is a stretch for you, huh sweetpea?” She called him that only to make Ammy laugh, he just knew it.

He had showed them the note Yasha had received, but as it turned out, many(!) demons used Human blood as a writing medium, so that in itself wasn’t revelatory.   But Hel thought since the writing looked like calligraphy, or the kind made with an old fashioned quill pen, that it was a vampire mob (or nest, as Ammy called it), simply because a lot of old vampires did like to live in the past, at least to some degree. Many pined for the old days, when there were fewer streetlights at night, and fewer places where people congregated in large groups.

Inside it was dark - no surprise there - with small candles guttering inside hurricane lamps the only illumination down a dim and narrow stairwell. His eyes adjusted easily, and he was confident in what he was dealing with now. He could smell vampires now, many of them, along with old blood and dead flesh, sex, booze, and gun oil; smelled like a party in a mausoleum. He suddenly wondered if the sweets shop was the oddest, most ironic “front” ever constructed - he was willing to believe British vampires, just like Britons in general, had a very well developed sense of irony and the absurd.

He reached what must have been a sub-basement (not that a lot of them existed in England, to his knowledge), and since he heard stirring while he was coming down the stairs, he was not terribly surprised that he almost walked face first into a gun barrel.

“Boy, did you pick the wrong place to squat,” a husky female voice said, somewhere beyond the gun. “On your bike, arseface.”

Shadows seemed to uncoil from the walls of the dark room, as there were no candles down here, no lights, just whatever was reflected off the silver barrel of the gun. But he saw the shapes anyways, counted maybe a dozen people - vampires - and the same amount of yellow eyes that were almost glowing in the dark. There was a faint growling now, like gravel being chewed up in a garbage disposal.

“I’m here to talk to H.” He casually reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out the note. “Lady Blood sent me.”

There was some faltering in the growling as confusion swept through the room. He got the sense that it was as large as the sweet shop upstairs, and that the very shape of the room echoed the shop, only instead of a counter full of candy, there was furniture, mostly dedicated to sleeping, fucking, or killing. Possibly all at once. By the smell, they also had a well stocked bar.

The woman - and he could see her now, yellow eyed and in vamp face, with glossy black hair held up in a loose style with an ivory comb, and a dark olive skin tone that probably put her initial Human race as Indian or Pakistani - snickered derisively, not lowering the gun one inch. “Yeah, right. Lady Blood is gonna send a blood bag to do her bidding. What do you do, work for the post office?”

He could hear them behind him, smell them, and knew he was being surrounded. He didn’t care. “I’m hers; I’ve been marked. Can’t you tell? She gave me further proof, if you need it.”

More confusion. He knew it wasn’t his words that were throwing them but the fact that they couldn’t smell fear coming from him - fear, shock, surprise, concern. Nothing. He was led to believe that was an abnormal reaction.

The woman took a few steps back - both to cover him more completely, and to stay out of staking range - and said uncertainly, “What kind of proof could you have? Let’s see it - but slowly, or I’ll put a new hole in your head.”

He nodded in acquiescence, and swung the sword sheathe around to the front, so she could see the mark on the haft as he drew the sword out. It was so clean and polished, the silver almost seemed lambent in the gloom. He held it upright, point toward the ceiling, and let her peer at it, scrutinizing if as if to make sure it wasn’t counterfeit. “Is it real?” A slightly Cockney voice asked from the dark.

“Looks it,” the woman replied grudgingly.

“It’s real,” Logan confirmed, and then quickly spun around on his heels, holding the sword horizontally. In a single spin, he neatly beheaded and dusted all three of the vampires that had snuck up and flanked him, but aimed the sword down at the floor as he came around to face the gun toting vamp again. “And no one threatens the messenger of Lady Blood. Is that clear?”

She stared at him in wide-eyed disbelief, and he knew it would be this very moment that decided whether they would buy it, or simply kill him.

Well, no - decide to kill him. He would actually kill them. They just didn’t know that yet.