That movement behind the eyes, he recognized it, didn’t he? No, it wasn’t his memory - it was Bob’s. He had gleaned something from having had his energy in him so many times, and he knew that darkness behind the eyes was really bad. It was a sign of physical corruption, of a type of possession. “Who needed it? Who are you representing now, Spike?”

Spike stared at him belligerently, as if not understanding the question. “I don’t represent anyone, oik. I just wised up. I have no idea why I ever switched to the losing side. Temporary insanity, I guess.”

He wasn’t sure he followed what he was getting at, but then he dug up who Bob ascribed those dark and moving eyes to, the ones who he considered “corrupted”. “You’ve sided with the Senior Partners?”

Spike scoffed. He smelled right … more or less. There was a hint of a new, strange scent beneath his normal vampiric one, something that must have been the smell of the Senior Partners. It was a really strange one, like stagnant water. “Sided? They weren’t the ones who abandoned me to a slow and hideous death, are they?”

“No, they’re just the ones who subjected you to a slow and hideous death.”

He glared at him, not amused. But it was the truth, wasn’t it? If Angel wanted to kill him, he’d just have staked him and been done with it. With no warning at all, Spike punched him in the face, not breaking his nose but definitely bloodying it. “You fucking moron, you have n-”

Logan slammed a flattened palm in his face, hard enough to shatter his nose and send him flying back into the wall of the karaoke bar. It wasn’t hard enough to shove the fragments of cartilage into his brain, but he just barely restrained himself, and Spike had to know he could have if he was really in the mood. “Who’s the fucking moron? You’re still a vampire, and I’m still the “Decapitator”. You wanna fight? You won’t last long - one swipe and I’m done here, and so are you. Why don’t you get on your way before I decide to get your traitorous ass out of the picture for good?”

Spike wiped away some of the blood pouring from his nose, smearing it across his face as he sneered at him, glancing between his face and his right hand, which he had extended out to his side, hand curled into a fist. He hadn’t popped his claws, but he could have in a millisecond, and they both knew it. But Spike didn’t like it. “You took the opportunity of a lifetime and pissed it down your leg. You think the fucking Powers are gonna give you your sodding wife back? They want to keep you unhappy; it works better for ‘em to keep you miserable. Not that that‘s all that difficult.”

“My wife is dead,” he growled, really wanting to kill him now. “All they coulda given me was a simulacrum, infected like you are.”

Spike continued to glower bloody murder at him, but didn’t dare make a move. Whatever the Senior Partners had done to him, it wasn’t enough to ensure that decapitation wouldn’t mean his death. “Believe that if you want, if that makes it easier for you to sleep at night. But you’ll never know, will you? You blew it. And why? I know; I know who you are, and I know what’s gonna happen. You can’t do it, Logan. Are you that thick? You haven’t figured it out yet?”

“Shut your fucking mouth,” he growled.

He ignored him. “Old baldy is using you, and you’re letting him! Why? ‘Cause you wanna pretend you belong somewhere? You wanna pretend you’re not a freak among freaks?”

Logan grabbed him by the throat and slammed him into the back wall of Rakudo, raising his fist and holding it three inches from his eyes. “Will the Partners give you new eyes?” He snarled.

Spike chuckled dryly, although he was emitting a fear scent now. “It ain’t like I don’t sympathize, mate. I ended up that way myself. You want to feel like you’re not really alone, and Xavier needs someone in his ponce brigade who can pull the trigger when the time comes. Do you think of any of his pets could cowboy up and do it? He needs a weapon, someone who won’t be so concerned about their own self-righteousness that they’ll hesitate to bring the hammer down when they need to. And you know it. He doesn’t tell his tin soldiers, and you don’t talk about it, but you know. You know he pretends he’s aiding your “rehabilitation” and opening his home and wallet to all mutants, when in reality he’s really just stockpiling a weapon for a future disaster. He’s psychic, isn’t he? He knows what’s coming, and he knows they’re gonna need you. And you know what role you fill, even if the pansy division has no idea. You have been and always will be a time bomb; it’s al! l you are and all you’re good for. You’re a killer, Logan, plain and simple. So why not use that to your advantage? As soon as Xavier sees no further need for you, you’re out the door - possibly with the “safety of the children” excuse. Stop being a patsy. Control your destiny for once.”

Spike knew nothing about him, about Xavier, about his life. This had to be the Senior Partners talking, or using Spike as a mouthpiece. It didn’t make him any less furious, any less willing to tear him into a dozen different pieces. He dropped his fist, and rammed it into Spike’s gut, springing his claws on impact.

Spike made a noise of pain and doubled over, as Logan grumbled, “If I was really just a killer, they’d have gone through your neck, you smarmy little shit.” He tossed Spike down the alley, retracting his claws, and trying to get a hold of his temper. It was extremely difficult. “Control your own fucking destiny. Stop being a puppet of the Partners, and then get back to me.”

It took him a moment to climb to his feet, holding his gut the whole time. But when he was standing again, he was snickering, and turned to look at him with a pained smirk. “The time is coming, you stupid twat. Make your choice soon, or have it made for you.”

“Oh boy, another vague threat from a bunch of evil, absent fuckheads. Watch me shake.” Spike just turned and walked off, apparently not willing to risk further dissection. Who was he calling ponces again? “Hey - what did they need the stone for?”

His answer was to hold his hand over his shoulder and give him the finger, making Logan wonder if he even knew why. Maybe it was just an order he was supposed to obey.

Did he think he was going to get anywhere? He had his scent now; he could trace him through the city. All he had to do was call Angel, and they could hunt him down. He and Angel and Giles could make real short work of Spike and his Senior Partner “symbiont”, or whatever the fuck was in him.

It was then headlights scudded across the alley wall, and he heard an awful lot of car doors opening and slamming shut, along with the cocking of guns. Ah, so his earlier appointment had arrived. Well, time to take out this trash - Spike could wait for now.

It wasn’t like he wasn’t going to come back and haunt them all.

20

Taking out a bunch of gangsters was always a bittersweet thing. Yes, a big dirty fight did make him feel a little better, but it also made him feel a bit worse. There was the guilt, of course, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as the multiple bullet wounds and some minor but painful burns (he should have known that if the Triad could get flamethrowers, so could the Yakuza).

Still, as soon as he stopped smoldering, and decided to go back to Bob’s place (where else did he have to go?), it actually occurred to him to make a detour. He’d promised to pay someone a visit, hadn’t he?

He drove to the Wing building, and just in time, as it looked like it was being abandoned for the night. The guy in the lobby gave him a funny look, probably because of all the bullet holes that had made his new shirt (again, not his - grabbed from Bob’s stuff) - oh, and the blood splatters, and some minor charring. “Tell Lotus the hairy bastard gaijin is here,” he told him. “She’s expecting me.”

He seemed reluctant to believe that, but he called up, and Lotus, who was here, gave the okay to send him on up. He took the elevator to the top, where Wing’s office had the nicest view and the most powerful air conditioning. It was still all polished wood, leather, and plush carpets, and low lighting, because Lotus only had her desk lamp on. She was loading documents into a briefcase, her sharp features even more drawn and lupine in the sparse light. “Dare I ask what happened to you?”

He shrugged, and slumped down in the nearest chair. He was still pretty achy and tired. “I guess I’m not welcome in the Japanese bars of Chinatown. So why’d you want to see me? If it’s a lecture, I’m just gonna go.”

She slammed the briefcase shut and shoved it aside, sitting in the chair behind the desk with a weary sigh. “It’s not a lecture. My father is dead.”

He nodded. “I figured as much. He sounded really bad the last time I talked to him. Next time I past a Buddhist temple, I’ll go and light some incense for him.”

She raised a perfectly arched eyebrow at him. “You don’t strike me as a Buddhist.”

“I’m not. I’m a failed Buddhist. The funny thing about finding peace is you can’t if other people won’t let you have it. So what did ya call me here for? Certainly not just to invite me to the funeral.”

“His funeral was last week.”

“Of course it was.” He didn’t think she’d invite him anyways.

“It seems, Mr. Yashida, that my father named you in his will.”

He looked around for digital cameras, on the off chance he was being “punked”. “Huh?”

“Yes, that was my reaction as well,” she deadpanned, opening a drawer in the desk. “First off, he left you a check for fifty thousand dollars that he wishes you would anonymously donate to that mutant school of yours. He added that perhaps you’d like to spend the funds on more security.”

He snorted a small laugh. “Yeah, that’d be nice.”

She pulled out a key ring with two keys on it and set them on the desk blotter. “Also, he left you his “safe house” condo on the West Side. He rarely used it, he preferred having a home on the water, but it was for the times when he wanted to get away. It’s yours.”

He looked at her in confusion. She didn’t seem to be the kind of person who had a sense of humor, so it was unlikely to be a joke. “He left me a condo?”

“Just the penthouse suite; he didn’t own the whole building. Everything in it is yours, though; I don’t care to sift through any more things.”

He leaned forward and took the key ring, wondering what kind of relationship Lotus had with her dad. She didn’t seem to broken up about his death, but he’d been ill so long it was probably a relief that he finally just died, and stopped being in so much pain. Also, if she was trying to fill his shoes as head of the Triad, she probably couldn’t afford to show any sign of weakness - many traditionalists would be reluctant to follow a woman.

“That’s it?” he wondered. She wasn’t big on sentiment, so there was no reason for him to pretend he was either.

“Almost.” She stood up, and opened what looked to be a big, leather bound checkbook. “I never want to see you again.”

He’d heard that too many times to be offended. “Let’s call it mutual.”

She glanced up sourly, but the look was brief, and she busied herself filling out the check instead.

At least they had an understanding.

****

Out of sheer curiosity, he went to the condo. It was very nice, a conical tower of steel and glass, only twelve stories high, but looming over all the other smaller buildings in this neighborhood. The elevator was quiet and rapid, and the condo itself lived up to the “penthouse suite” name. The suite took up the entire floor, and yet the front room was so sparsely furnished as to make it look almost cavernous. A rich azure carpet stretched from wall to wall, and was so plush and deep he thought he could lay down on it and make a snow angel. The sofa was sectional, a reddish hued brown leather, arranged in a very loose semi-circle around a low, rectangular coffee table of highly burnished mahogany. A window wall looked out on this section of the L.A. skyline, and seemed to stretch on for an insane length, as if the glass was warping it somehow, mimicking the curve of the earth. Over in the cabinet where a large and relatively new television sat in a compartment over the su! rround sound stereo system, he found a small remote that didn’t seem to match any of the appliances. He pressed the main button out of curiosity, and the window wall began to hum. As he watched, it opaqued completely, to the point where the entire suite was thrown into complete darkness. Cool trick. Why did gangsters always have the neat stuff?

He prowled the suite, finding a big and rather lavish bathroom, all marble tiles, slate, and glass, and a large bedroom, where a king sized bed was draped in masculine colors of silk and cotton, a deep brown offset with bronze, while a built in bookcase contained many a book in Chinese, sometimes hiding American pulp paperbacks. Wing liked Tom Clancy? Weird.

The bed was impeccably made, but he messed it up when he climbed on top of it to have a better look at the painting hanging over the bed in a glass and silver frame. It was “Motiv Aus Hammamet” by Paul Klee, squares of colors with a hint of patterns included, but the funny thing was, it didn’t look like a print. There’s no way it could be the real one, was there? More weirdness. A Tom Clancy fan into early twentieth century expressionism? Maybe it was just an excellent forgery.

The place had been cleaned recently - he could still smell traces of cleaning solvents, and the exhaust of a vacuum cleaner - which made sense, since they’d want to make sure there was no trace of Mr. Wing in here, even forensically. It was unlikely that he ever had any illegal dealings here, but they’d still want to make sure.

The place was too nice for him, too big and too rich, and while he imagined he’d enjoy it for a while, he didn’t want a place in Los Angeles. He didn’t want to get comfortable here. The more time he spent in places like this, the more he missed Canada. But he did know who could use a place. After all, he accidentally ruined Angel’s last place - this would make up for it and then some.

He left, and returned to Bob and Helga’s loft in the far sadder side of the city, although the fact that Bob’s place was in an industrial area made it seem a bit less sad, and far more sterile. He parked the Harley inside the garage, where he had found it, and left the keys in the ignition, as it was unlikely someone other than him would be stupid enough to steal from Bob.

Upstairs, Helga was sprawled on the couch, asleep, and from then on he was extremely quiet, not wanting to wake her. The sun was coming up in about forty minutes or so, it’d been a hell of a long night, and he was tired too. But he wasn’t sure he could sleep.

He got in the shower to wash off the blood and cordite, and his exhausted brain was still full of “what ifs” - what if he could have had Mariko back? What if it didn’t matter what side anyone was on? What if the only way he could find any peace was if he retreated from the world completely? What if Xavier did kick him out if he came to the end of his usefulness?

He scrubbed his hands through his hair, closing his eyes tightly against threatening tears. He wanted her back - he didn’t care if she was part evil, and not at all the woman she actually was. A part of him wanted Mariko in any form; it didn’t matter if he had to deal with the devils to get her back. And he didn’t know why he threw the stone away. Would it have mattered at all? If the Senior Partners reconstructed it or found a way to exploit the shattered stone, Angel would have kicked their asses. The Powers That Be wouldn’t bet the farm on a horse that couldn’t run the distance.

He didn’t need to be told he didn’t belong anywhere; he’d always known that. But when he had Mariko, it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

He was chasing a ghost, pursuing a memory he barely had, a woman who was more a feeling than anything else. All that he didn’t have - that he couldn’t have - was starting to consume him, and he knew he would have to let her go. But he didn’t know how.

The shower curtain was drawn back, startling him, but it was just Helga stepping inside. “Okay, so where have you been? Or maybe I should say whose ass did you kick?”

He lifted his face to the stream of water, washing away the tears, and said, “You smelled the blood?”

“And gunpowder, yeah. Do I even wanna know?”

“Probably not.”

She stepped in front of him, her green eyes as sharp and knowing as a cat’s. “Should I go?”

He stared at her, wishing she could be enough, and wondering why she wasn’t. “No. I just want to forget.”

“Easy enough,” she replied, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him into a passionate kiss, her slick, naked body pressing against his.

No, it wasn’t exactly love, but it would do for now.

****

He didn’t think he would dream, he thought he was too exhausted, but he did anyways. At least it wasn’t a torture memory.

This time he was standing in a cemetery, in front of a freshly dug grave, the sun turning the sky a honey gold while the rolling lawn was as green as Helga’s skin. He seemed to be the only mourner, and the coffin was on the grass beside the hole, shaped like a fat torpedo and glistening black, like a beetle’s carapace.

Was Mariko in there? He wondered, as the wind bent the trees and made a noise like air whistling through a piece of hollow bamboo. He could smell nothing but green, the scent of chlorophyll baking in the sun and the odor of fresh earth. He touched the coffin, its smooth surface was warm from the sun, and he moved up to the top, wondering if Mariko was inside. But the place was too empty, and he knew that people would have turned up for her funeral. Was it him? He suddenly had the idea that if he opened up the lid, he would be looking down at himself. He worked his fingers under the surprisingly heavy lid, and started to lift it up …

… and woke up, of course, because that was how it always happened, wasn’t it?

Logan sighed and rolled over, glancing at the clock on the nightstand. For some reason, it was shaped like a smiling green plastic snail with a small smiling ladybug on its shell. He didn’t understand it, but this was Bob’s place, and if it didn’t have these startling grotesqueries, he wouldn’t know where he was.

It was nearly noon, and Helga was gone from the bed. But he heard faint strains of music in the living room, and there was the smell of something savory cooking, soy proteins and herbs and vegetables, which was a surprise since he didn’t know she could cook. Well, why not? She could do so much else.

He stumbled to the shower and had a quick one, trying to see if cold water could get the cobwebs out of his head (no), and then stole clothes from Bob’s drawer, ending up with a Farscape t-shirt and a pair of jeans that more or less fit, and weren’t too gaudy or otherwise leather. At least they didn’t smell like blood and cordite.

He was headed for the living room when he recognized the soft sonic wash of the Stone Roses, and he heard a man singing rather expansively along with the song, “ … in me, I wanna be adored …”

He couldn’t believe it. Bob was here? He should have known. “I Wanna Be Adored” was probably his theme song.

And even though Bob knew about him and Helga - he knew everything, didn’t he? - he still felt unbelievably awkward venturing out from the bedroom. How did you look a guy in the eye when you were technically fucking his girlfriend last night … er, this morning? Oh yeah, and he was wearing some of his clothes.

But Bob was far from surprised to see him. He waved, stirring something in a wok on his stove, and said, “Will you get the croissants out of the oven? That fish head shaped thing hanging on the fridge is a hot pad.”

Good god, it was. He scowled at Bob, but he went on singing and ignored him. So he took the fish head and got the croissants out of the oven - there were six of them on a cookie sheet - as Bob poured the contents of the wok in a big bowl.

Bob didn’t have a kitchen here more than he had a kitchenette, so there was nowhere to put the stuff except on a small wooden table that was essentially filling in for a genuine kitchen table. Bob still had the longer, blond highlighted scruffy hair, and looked more or less the same as he always looked, wearing leather pants and a blue tank top with the curious logo “Hot Space Station Justice” and a small cartoon robot on the front (he’d learned not to ask if he didn’t want to know), but was something different about him? It was hard to tell, what with the scent of fresh croissants and Bob’s odd breakfast concoction filling his nostrils, but he was relatively sure Bob’s scent had changed ever so slightly. The Belial demon smell of him - which smelled oddly like dried leaves - seemed to more predominant than usual.

Bob took a seat and started ladling the stuff in the big bowl to smaller bowls. “Yer in for a real treat. You’ve never had my boble before.”

He put one of the small bowls in front of him. It was full of stir fried vegetables, soy bacon and sausage pieces, cellophane noodles, dried cranberries, and about six different herbs. It smelled strange, but kind of good. “Boble?”

“It’s a contraction of “Bob’s scramble”. I’d throw a bunch of different leftovers in a pot and make something of it. Now I’ve made it a science, much to the dismay of my kids. There’s soy and hot sauce if you want either.”

“Thanks,” he replied dubiously, as Bob tucked into his bowl of “boble”. Logan sat down, and reluctantly picked up his fork, picking at it slightly. What he thought was a snow pea turned out to be a green bean.

“Hel’s at the bar. She’s better at running the day to day stuff than I am. Also, she generally scares the customers more.”

“Hard to believe.” It was equally hard to believe the crap in the bowl tasted good, but strangely it did. The oil he used was tinged with basil and red peppers.

Bob smiled at him, but in a curious way that suggested he knew something he shouldn’t. “You know, don’t ya?”

“Know what?” He was going to have to narrow it down.

“I’m on parole. That’s why you don’t have any of my energy anymore. I’m kinda … corporeal at the moment.”

He stared at him, not sure he understood what he was saying. “So … what? You’re not a god anymore?”

Bob shrugged, grabbing up a hot croissant and tearing it apart. “I am, just a slightly trapped one. Don’t worry - the Powers have done this to me before, and I got my powers back anyways. And I’m still an old Belial demon, so I have all the requisite powers. It’s all good.”

“Don’t old Belials go nuts?”

“Oh, I’m immune to that. I’m already nuts.” He gave him a big, cheesy grin before chewing on part of the croissant.

Yeah, he meant that as a joke, and yet it wasn’t, which was frightening.

Bob asked him about “saving the universe”, and Logan told him about it, as much as he had to, and tore into a croissant himself. It was really good, but then again, this was technically food of the gods, right? (He internally grimaced at the pun.) He wasn’t surprised Naomi had shown up - suspicious in itself - but when he tried to steer the conversation towards whether he had told her about their previous, pre-mind wipe relationship, he turned the conversation back to his “parole”. “What did you do to piss off the Powers now?”

Bob shrugged, grimacing in an embarrassed way. “Oh, it’s related to the whole Jean/Camaxtli thing. They didn’t like the way I handled it - Eris complained - so -”

“What Jean/Camaxtli thing?” He asked, staring at him. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to understand that or not.

Bob gave him a strange look in return. “You know, this whole Jean as demi-god shit that’s made life a living hell for the past few months.”

He couldn’t help but feel a surge of anger, not sure why Bob had to pick now to be especially incoherent. “The hell?  Jean was never a demi-god. She died at Alkali Lake.”

Bob’s strange glance became a startled stare, his cobalt eyes growing impossibly wide. “Holy shit. They erased your memories.”

Logan stared back at him, not sure if he should be genuinely upset or just vaguely irritated.

What the fuck was he talking about?!

___________________

To Be Continued...