Their eyes glowed in the dark, floating spots of red, and Naomi whispered quietly, "I can blast them two at a time. Do you think that will take care of them?"

"Your blasts? Yes," Angel agreed quietly, remembering how Shrike went flying when she really let go. The beasts were growling louder now, making them have to raise their voices out of necessity. "But two at a time probably won't cut it."

Giles was muttering something under his breath, a spell in Latin.  He interrupted himself long enough to ask, "When I ask, can you give me a burst of light bright enough to blind them?"

Naomi figured out he was asking her. "I think so."

"Good." Very slowly, so as not to startle the beasts into a charge, he handed the chameleon stone to Brendan.

"Why're you givin' me this?" he wondered. But Angel had already figured out what he intended to do. He was giving the job to the fastest one of them, who was also perhaps the one least unable to defend himself in a straight fight with the hellhounds.

"We'll take care of the beasts. As soon as we temporarily blind them, you have to find the sword. And I'm sure I don't need to remind you speed is of the essence."

"Me?" Brendan replied, sounding suspicious. But there was no time or room for debate here.

The growling was so loud now that it sounded like there was a dragon in the room, and they had tightened their circle, so now they blocked both exits. The light was growing slowly brighter, though, as Naomi started to gather energy in her hands, the light twitching above her palm like a living thing, and the hellhounds looked and smelled unusually anxious. They didn't know what she was doing or what it meant; they weren't the smartest demons in the world.

Giles continued to mutter a spell, and Angel let his vampire side emerge, the now stronger scent of his demon making the hair on the necks of the beast rise up. Did they think they were the only things in this room that could rip a living being apart? He even had an advantage over them as he could do it with his hands as well as his teeth.

They weren't waiting anymore. They lowered their massive heads into attack position, and Giles said, "Now."

15

The penthouse was rather sparse in decoration, with exposed concrete in areas where thick blue pile carpet didn't cover the floor. The counters were poured concrete topped with a stone looking laminate, which struck Logan as a really odd choice of decor. There was a window wall overlooking this part of the city, the cars flying by on the streets below and beyond looking a bit like toys.

A large brown leather sectional sofa sat in the center of the room, opposite a plasma t.v., and as the man walked to the glass and chrome bar, he said, "Have a seat. What's your poison?"

Could be literal. But did it matter? "Beer."

The man turned and glanced at him over his shoulder, appearing vaguely amused. "Beer? When you can have aged scotch or whiskey?"

Logan flung himself on the sofa - which was, he had to admit, really comfortable - and said, "It all tastes like shit, man. I'm just used to beer."

This made him chuckle. "Well, I don't have beer, I'm afraid. Never acquired a taste for it."

Logan just shrugged. "Fine, whatever."

The man poured him a scotch, and Logan noticed a slight bulge in the back of his shirt. He thought for a moment it was a gun, but he didn't smell gun oil, and there was something odd about the shape of it. A knife? No, it wouldn't push out like that ...

He didn't give him the drink, he simply set it on the low glass coffee table in front of the couch. He didn't want to get too close? Fine; at least it painted him as reasonably smart. The man perched on the edge of a brown leather chair as he contemplated him. "I bet you're wondering what this is all about."

"I'm wonderin' who the fuck you are," he replied, grabbing his glass of scotch.

The man chuckled again, but it was a nervous, uncomfortable titter. "I'm calling myself Brezakaran now."

"Callin' yourself? So not your name." Of course he already knew this, but he had to play along.

"No. I'm afraid respect sometimes has to be manufactured. Which I'm sure you understand." What the hell did that mean? "You and I have a lot in common, you know."

Logan looked around the large, austere penthouse, the man's thousand dollar shoes and silk dress shirt, and couldn't help but snicker. "Uh, actually, no we don't."

"We do. You're a mutant, and so am I."

That stopped him short, but he honestly didn't know why. The world was just getting lousy with mutants. "Are you now? What can you do?"

The man shook his head, glanced down at his own drink. "Nothing. I'm afraid my mutations are purely physical, and useless." He put his drink down, and that's when Logan really saw it for the first time, even before he raised his hand to show him. There was a fine membrane of mostly translucent skin between all of his fingers, webbing them together from the base to the knuckle near the tip of each finger. When he spread his hand, the effect was dramatic. "Webbed fingers and toes. The end result is I can swim really fast, but that's all; I don't even have gills. I used to have a tail too."

"Used to?"

"Yes. My parents had it amputated when I was an infant. See, I was born with it, and the doctors assumed it was a birth defect." He scratched at his lower back. "I still have the stump. Sometimes I can feel a phantom tail, but mostly it just itches."

So that was the lump in the back of his shirt. Creepy. "And what does that have to do with any of this shit? What the hell's going on?" Even though he hadn't had a drink yet, Logan got the most curious feeling. It was a brief moment of light headedness, but it still seemed to linger. What was that?

The man studied him with eyes as beige as hotel wallpaper as he sipped his scotch. "I intended to use demons alone as cannon fodder. Having a fellow mutant along was ... unexpected. Especially a man like you."

"Like me? Meaning what?"

He sat back, sloshing his drink around in his crystal glass. It was almost hypnotic the way it moved, swirling endlessly around the base. "After the original Brezakaran was killed, there was a power vacuum in the demon mob. It didn't help that some big power players in the area had to briefly pack up shop afterwards. Can you believe a do gooder vampire was responsible?" He shook his head dismissively. "What is the world coming to? Anyways, the vacuum was quickly filled by a group determined to bring in the biggest Human mobs as mules. Use them and slowly wipe them off the map, giving the demon mob the entire run of the show. But that fell apart. Do you know why?"

Holy shit, he knew he'd worked for the Triad. What was he supposed to do now? Lying was out of the question, though - he knew. Best to ‘fess up, but in a way that could still fit in with his cover. “Yer lookin’ at him.”

The man raised his eyebrow skeptically, as if he hadn’t been expecting a straight answer. “The question is why you were working against the demon mob.”

“I wasn’t. I was working against the Yakuza.”

“Yes, you were in the company of the Triad, weren’t you? What I don’t understand is why.”

He didn’t owe this guy an explanation, and yet he felt strangely compelled to give him one. His sense of dizziness increased as he tried to resist it, and he realized that there was something going on, perhaps a spell of some sort, that made him want to tell the truth. What a sneaky bastard. “The Yakuza killed my wife, left me for dead. You don’t forgive that kind of shit.”

Something like humor sparkled in his eyes, and Logan quietly vowed that before this was all over, he was going to rip his smug fucking face off. “You were in the Yakuza? You don’t look Japanese.”

“My wife was; you can’t pick your family. And the Yakuza don’t appreciate it when you do something they don’t like. I want to kill every motherfucking one of those bastards.”

“Which still doesn’t explain why you’d join the Triad.”

“I didn’t join them,” he snapped, and found himself fighting the impulse to tell the complete truth. At least he was skilled at fighting impulses that weren’t truly his own. Maybe that was the one favor the Organization had ever done for him. “They hired me. They knew I hated the Yakuza, and decided to see if I would even things up. I wasn’t gonna do it for free.”

“Oh?” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “But I thought you hated them.”

“I hate all fucking mobsters. Even if I was doing this for my own fun, I was gonna make those other bitches pay through the nose.”

“But what is this if not working for a mobster?”

It was an effort of will to suppress the complete truth, and it felt like trying to hold back a tidal wave with his bare hands, but so far he was managing. Maybe Xavier was right; maybe his willpower alone was a frightening thing, a force in itself, a hidden weapon. He just hoped he wasn‘t visibly sweating from the effort of concealing the real story. “Fuck that. It was a pit fight. Ain’t no one a better pit fighter than me. I didn’t want the fucking “prize” - I wanted the fucking title.”

He sat back, scrutinizing him, never taking his eyes off him as he measured his veracity. If he threw a spell to make sure he always spoke the truth, this would all be for show, another act for his benefit. God, he hated this bullshit. Why was there always so much bullshit? “You look familiar somehow, but I just can’t place it.”

Had he seen him on the internet? Shit - if he’d seen that security video feed from Liberty Island, placing him with the “X-Men”, this was over. “I’m the champion cage fighter in Canada. Ever been North?”

He shook his head. “Not farther north than Portland, no. So, let me get this straight. You’re a champion cage fighter who just happens to be a freelance mercenary?”

Logan shrugged. “It pays the bills.”

“Who’s paying you now?”

“No one.” Not even a lie. “Except you, I guess. There is money in this, ain’t there?” He actually wanted to ask what the asshole meant by “cannon fodder”, but for some reason he couldn’t quite spit out the words. The spell?

The man let out a large sigh, one that spoke of a lot of weariness, and he put his glass down on the coffee table before standing up. “What you’re working for is much better than money.” He turned his back on him and walked towards the window. If he was going to attack him, now would be the ideal time, except Logan couldn’t seem to get up off the sofa. So what did he know so far? The guy was a mutant, but claimed not to have any mental powers at all, which could be a lie. But, considering everything that had gone on, including the fact that everybody was terrified of him, he was probably some kind of spell slinger - a sorcerer, a wizard, whatever the fuck. (He honestly didn’t know how those distinctions were made, and he didn’t care.) Did he make himself look like Brezakaran, however he actually appeared to be? That might explain why everyone was fooled.

“I need warriors for my cause,” the guy continued, looking out at the Los Angeles skyline. “As a fellow mutant, you’re almost too good to waste. Because, you see, as soon as I’m finished, we won’t be the minority anymore.”

“Huh?” Oh god, was this Magneto shit? If this was Magneto shit, he was going to shove him out the window.

“The tyranny of homo inferiors is coming to an end, Logan. After tonight, there will only be homo superiors on this planet; the inferiors will simply cease to exist.” He looked over his shoulder at him, and gave him a deeply unpleasant smile, one sharp enough to cut glass. “And how well do you think the demons will fair against us? The Earth will be ours alone.” He turned away once more, and Logan realized he was already viewing the city as entirely his, a benevolent dictator gazing out at his lands. As far as he was concerned, it was all over but the dying. “You’re a lucky man. Tonight, you’ll be witnessing history, and helping me usher in a golden age.”

Holy shit. He was going to shove this nutjob out a fucking window … as soon as he could get up off the couch.

Damn it. Where was Bob when you needed him?

16

As soon as Giles said “Now,” Angel closed his eyes and hoped Brendan did the same.

There was a noise like water thrown on a hot skillet, a sizzling crackle, and a flash of light so bright that Angel cringed from it as it seemed to flash fry his corneas straight through his eyelids. He could see all the fine lines of capillaries in the thin skin, the things that would be carrying blood if only he was a living being once again.

The beasts whimpered as if struck, and he opened his eyes as soon as the light died, blinking away after images. Brendan must have closed his eyes, because Angel saw him sneak through a gap in the circle of beasts and make a run for it. Two wheeled to follow, based on scent and hearing alone if nothing else, and Naomi blasted one with a bolt of electricity so powerful that Angel could smell the burning fur on impact.

They may not have been the smartest demons in existence, but they knew they were in trouble, and reacted accordingly - they attacked as one, swarming them like rabid dogs. One lunged for his throat, and Angel grabbed it by its neck as its jaws snapped at his face, its fetid breath reeking of rotten meat. He squeezed until he snapped its neck, the little bones cracking like twigs, and threw the corpse of the hound into one of its pack mates, sending it sprawling. But two more hounds lunged at him, from the left and the right, as Naomi fried another, and he heard one whimper behind him as Giles stabbed one of the hounds. (Giles had a knife? Did he pick that up from one of the piles of crap, or did he actually carry one around nowadays? All those averted apocalypses had to make you a much tougher customer.)

Angel held out his left arm and let the hound close its jaws around it, teeth sinking to the bone (there were no words for the pain, but it pissed off the vampire in him, which he saw as a good thing in this circumstance), and he grabbed the one coming in from the right by the muzzle, twisting it hard; it shattered like glass under his fingers. It let out a deep whine as he dropped it and spun, slamming the body of the other hound into the wall. It didn’t let go, so when another beast lunged at him, he bludgeoned it with his pack mate. It finally let go, but ripped out a good chunk of his skin.

He kicked another one clear across the room, and when a wounded one feinted an attack, he grabbed it and snapped its neck cleanly, throwing it at another beast. Maybe there were more than a dozen, but it didn’t matter, as the three of them were actually doing a pretty good job putting them away.

One of the beasts’ had gotten the better of Giles, who was now pinned to the floor and struggling to keep it from sinking its jaws into his throat. Angel grabbed its head and yanked it back hard, ripping it off Giles’ and snapping its spine at the same time. A bolt of electricity sizzled past his head, frying a beast in mid leap, but something hit him hard in the back, a large hound bringing him down.

He tried to catch himself as he hit the floor, and he felt its teeth sink into the back of his neck.

****

Why did they give him this job? Didn’t they know he was basically a fuck up?

Brendan ran through the dark, messy house, hearing the rapid thuds of heavy steps behind him, one of those hyena looking things. What had Angel called them? Hellhounds. Boy, that was a promising name. And there was no way he was going to outrun it, and there were no doors to slam in its face. Damn it!

He couldn’t see in the dark - his demonic abilities were just a tad more useful than his mutant abilities, but not by much - but he could see certain variations in the darkness, places where the shadows weren’t so heavy, and he thought he could make out the shape of something that he could use as a weapon. He grabbed it and spun as the demonic dog closed the meager distance between them. He swung the object at the red eyed dog, hoping this thing was solid enough to do something, as now that he held it in his hands, it felt needlessly flimsy. It was long and thin, surprisingly light, and he had time to wonder if he’d grabbed a broom when he heard a wet noise as he hit the dog.

Only after the thing slumped to the floor did Brendan realize his stupid luck had finally paid off - he’d grabbed a spear. It was a flimsy spear, but clearly the point was sharp enough. He held on to it, and took it with him as he ventured farther into the house.

Now how was he supposed to find this thing? He had the rock, but it still glowed that sickly yellow-green, and he had no idea how close he’d have to get to the sword to find it. He could hear yelps as the dogs were fried, beaten, and otherwise given a hell of a fight by Angel, Naomi, and Giles. What if they killed one of them? (Okay, a hellhound probably couldn’t kill a vampire, ‘cause they weren’t wood, but they could still hurt him.) Now that he had a spear, he felt he should go back and skewer some of them.

But Giles told him to find the sword. Damn it. He barely knew the guy, but he had a feeling he should do what he said - he might be just a Human, but he had a kind of gravitas that suggested you do what he said, or else. Had he ever been a teacher? He had that kind of vibe. Or maybe that just came along with being British; the British had a tendency to make everything sound good and reasonable, even when they were as clueless as everyone else. It had to be the accent.

He held the chameleon stone out like a scanner, hoping for some kind of color variation as he ran it over piles of various junk, keeping one eye out for a better weapon. (Oh, if only this place had a gun, or maybe a grenade or two.) The first room was a bust, for both weapons and that sword, and it was getting harder to ignore the noises of a brutal fight near the front of the house. He should be there; he shouldn’t be on a scavenger hunt while people might be dying in another room.

He was half way through the second room when he heard growling behind him. He turned, bringing the spear to the ready, but the thing had already jumped. Luckily, hellhounds weren’t the brightest bulbs in the socket, as the thing leapt straight onto the spear, but momentum still carried it forward, farther down the shaft, and the sudden weight made Brendan stumble and fall on his ass. As he hit the floor, the weight of the beast broke the spear; he heard the flimsy thing crack, and it fell away with the demon dog, thudding on the floor like a dropped bowling ball.

So here he was, sitting on the floor and holding a broken stick, as another dog with glowing red eyes stood in the archway of the room, growling at him. Fuck! Did wood kill them like vampires? If they did, he was still in the game. Otherwise, he was totally fucked.

He tried to shove himself back quietly, looking around for something more substantial than a stick, when he noticed a light glowing in the corner. Wait a minute - that was the chameleon stone. He dropped it when the first dog jumped on his spear and impaled itself. The stone was still that sickly yellowish color … except the far side of it was now glowing a pale red. Oh, praise his stupid, random ass luck.

He shifted towards the stone, trying not too move too fast and spook the thing. But it crept forward slowly, raising its muzzle, the black pad of its nose quivering as it scented the blood of its partner. Christ, these things weren’t smart enough to hold a grudge, were they?

He knew he wasn’t going to make it as the thing charged at him, so he scrambled back and hoped to grab the sword, but he couldn’t see it. His hand closed on the stone and he brought it up as the thing attacked, smashing it in the side of the head hard enough to send it staggering back. God, it had the worst dog breath he’d ever smelled. What had it been eating, garbage?

He started feeling around blindly for something sword like, and felt like he’d put his hand in a junk pile. He felt things that seemed like plastic, like stone, like wood, but nothing metal. Was the sword not metal? No, no, it was - it was made from demon liquid metal terminator blood. He scattered stuff noisily as the devil dog lunged at him, and he brought up the broken stick, plunging it into its side.

It yelped and reel once more, but Brendan already knew that the wound wasn’t anywhere near fatal. He’d probably just pissed it off even more.

He dug desperately through the pile of random crap, scattering it all across the floor, and his hand brushed something stiff and leathery that made him pause as an afterthought. Was that a sheath? That could have been a sheath.

He grabbed it, and was relieved by its weight, length, and heft. Yes, it was a sword all right. Now he just hoped it was the right one.

He sat with his back against the wall as he pulled the heavy sword out of its dusty leather sheath (the dust made him sneeze), and he had time to notice that the sword had a funny smell - more like dirt and salt than metal - as the dog jumped at him once again. It hit the sword, almost shoving it into his face, and then the most extraordinary thing happened. The dog staggered back, went stiff, and hit the floor like a fifty pound bag of shit.

Brendan stared at its dark form, waiting for it to move again (could they strategize like that?), when he noticed how his own demon side was reacting to the proximity to the sword. It felt like he had a billion worms under his skin, burning holes through his muscles, swimming in his blood, gnawing through membranes in search of an exit …

He held the sword away from him, but didn’t drop it. This thing was a nightmare, wasn’t it? He no longer doubted that this thing had killed the dog just by touching it.

He got to his feet and left the sheath and the stone behind out of necessity, as this sword was so heavy he could only carry it with two hands (and his Brachen side was out! A normal Human probably couldn’t even lift this thing, begging the question of how it ended up here), and ran back towards the battle.

A hellhound met him in the hall, but one of the chop of the sword put it down; he didn’t even need to hit them with blade, which made things infinitely easier. He charged into the room, hitting every dog he saw, and one was currently on Angel’s back, so he made a beeline for him. He slammed the flat of the blade on the thing’s back, and it went instantly stiff. Boy, was Angel going to owe him, huh?

He’d missed one, though, and that demon dog launched itself at his back, sinking its teeth into his right shoulder. He screamed in pain and reflexively dropped the sword, instantly losing almost all feeling in his arm. But the thing’s teeth burned like hot nails under his skin, its saliva like acid, and he fell against the wall as the thing dug its claws into his back, trying to climb him like a fucking tree, and bring him down with its weight.

Angel jumped up to his feet and grabbed the dog, slipping its hand in its mouth and yanking up. Brendan couldn’t help but wince as he heard its upper jaw break, and Angel ripped it off of him, twisting its neck for good measure, snapping it with a sound like a gunshot.

Giles grabbed the sword as Angel threw the body of the beast down in a corner - he had a pretty good sized pile in that corner. Brendan leaned against the wall, grabbing his bleeding shoulder, as Giles said, “Good job. Are you all right?”

Brendan nodded, the pain making him gasp for breath. “Uh, yeah, I think so. They’re not poisonous, are they?”

“No.”

Giles was holding the sword up with both hands (proving a regular Human could hold it), in a stance that suggested he actually knew how to swordfight, and he looked around protectively, in spite of the blood dripping down into his eyes. Of them all, only Naomi wasn’t bleeding, but then again, little snakes of energy were flicking in and out of existence around her arms and legs. If they got close enough to bite her, they were probably repelled by her electrical field.

Angel rubbed the back of his neck, smearing blood on his hand. Blood was also dripping down his arm, but he didn’t seem to notice. “I think we’ve gotten them all.”

Giles nodded, but he didn’t seem to concerned. Maybe because he was holding the big death sword. “Good. Now we can get down to business.”

“And what’s that exactly again?” Naomi asked. She sounded a bit pissed off, but maybe she was just a little freaked by the big demon dog attack. “Remind me.”

Brendan rubbed his shoulder, and feeling was coming back to his arm, although it was that awful pin prickling sensation you got when your arm “went to sleep”. It was trembling involuntarily, and when he touched the wound, it was like rubbing lemon juice in it. Fuck, it hurt. He was probably going to need stitches, and a couple of vicodin. Hellhounds couldn’t have rabies, could they?

Giles wiped the blood from his brow with his forearm, letting the point of the sword rest on the bloody floor. Even though they hadn’t been dead long, the hellhounds were starting to smell really bad, like boiled cabbage starting to rot. “We find out if Logan has contacted us.”

“And if he hasn’t?” Brendan wondered, feeling ashamed at the painful wince in his voice. The dog couldn’t have done nerve damage, could it?

Angel held out his hand - the one without the blood on it - and with just a hint of reluctance, Giles handed him the sword. Angel held it up with one hand, in a way that suggested he too was no stranger at handling a sword. The metal gleamed like liquid in the light provided by Naomi, like freshly spilled blood, and every now and again, Brendan thought he saw something shift deep inside the blade. There was no way it could actually somehow still be slightly liquid, could it? No, it must have been an optical illusion. “Then we find him.”

“He might not be with the silver,” Giles pointed out. “And if Brezakaran is hiding out in a pocket dimension …”

“We’ll find him,” Angel said, with so much confidence it was hard not to believe him. “I think it’s about time the demons in this town learned that I’m back.” He held the sword close to his face, as if relishing the awful feeling the sword engendered up close, and a slow, unsettling smile grew across his face, the blade reflecting in his eyes like fire. “And I’m still a complete bastard.”