14

Bob had a plan. An insane, unworkable plan. And yet, it was the only one they had, and no one had come up with anything better.

He laid out the basics for them while waiting for everyone else to join them. They needed an eclipse, which Giles and Willow were sure they could evoke, and Bob wanted to split them into two teams: mystical and physical. But there was a catch, of course, as there always was with Bob. He couldn’t tell them what the catch was, though, for fear that Ananga would “see it” in one of their minds. “Now what kind of bullshit thing is that?” Mordred complained, but it did no good. (Did it ever?)

Most of the group finished off the Chinese food, and drank sodas or coffee, complaining there was no beer until Angel pointed out this wasn’t a bar. Bob seemed pretty confident that he knew where Ananga would go, and how they could head him off. What Angel didn’t get was why he was so sure where he’d be, so Bob told him: “Because he wants to kill lots of people, and he wants to make sure we see it in glorious living color. If you want to rule in fear, it’s no good if you just try and tell people you’re scary.”

Even Wes could just shrug. “He has a point.”

Then Giles and Willow worked on casting the eclipse spell, while Bob told him he needed to see him in his office. He didn’t say why, so Angel was instantly suspicious, even more so when Mordred followed them in. Wes, who had somehow beat him inside the office, said, “They’re going to do the ritual of Chien Tong.”

Which is what he was afraid of. As soon as the door closed, Angel asked, “Okay, what is this? Is this going to blow up my office? ‘Cause I just got it …”

“Don’t worry, there should be no detonations,” Bob assured him, taking on his calm salesman voice - that was instantly suspicious. “But we are gonna need something from you, mate.”

Here it came. “What?”

Bob measured out a small distance between his thumb and forefinger. “We just need a wee bit of your blood.”

Mordred sat on the arm of the loveseat, rolling his strange black eyes. “Little more than a “wee bit”, Bob.”

“What? Why?”

As Bob told him, Wes also said pretty much the same thing he said. “Because a vital part of the ritual is the blood of a supernatural being. You’re a vamp, so you qualify.”

“Also, do you have a foil? An epee? You know, one of those tiny, flimsy swords?”

Bob smirked at him. “Afraid of a little pain, Mordy?”

He gave him a deep, ugly scowl. “No. And don’t call me that.”

“Wait, wait,” Angel said, holding up his hands. “Before I agree to anything - or allow you to do it in my office - I need to know exactly what the hell you plan to do.”

So, with a weary sigh, Bob told him, and while it followed the rules of many a typical ritual - blood, violence, Chinese in place of Latin - it still didn’t sound like something he wanted in his office. But clearly he didn’t have much choice, and besides, no regular Human could be exposed to this or participate in this without getting hurt. But just for the record, he asked, “Do I have any choice in the matter?”

Mordred shook his head. “Nope.”

“Not a sausage,” Bob agreed.

He wished he was surprised, but somehow he wasn’t.

Wesley stood by, watching with curiosity, as Angel dug out a short sword (no, he had no epees - he didn’t fence), and Bob went off and found a bowl somewhere, perhaps the “break” room. Mordred had conjured up the rest of the ingredients they needed, and they waited while Angel sliced open his wrist with the blade of the short sword, and did his best to squeeze out a good amount of his blood into the bowl. Because he had no circulation, the squeezing was necessary, and he felt a bit like an orange.

He couldn’t feel lightheaded, but he’d emptied about a pint of his blood into the stainless steel bowl before Bob judged it enough, and then they each cut their hands and let a few drops of their blood hit the bowl. A few?! He felt cheated.

Bob said a few words and stirred the mixture together, while Mordred sprinkled in some rare earth, and what smelled like dusted vampire. At least he had learned that Mordred had black blood, like ink, and it smelled not unlike licorice, which was far beyond weird. All mixed together, the blood took on a thick, blackish-purple cast, and Bob sketched out a wide circle of it on the carpet, adding lines that made it look more like an inverted starburst than a pentagram. They then put streaks of the blood on their faces, vertical lines on their foreheads and chins, horizontal lines on their cheeks, supposedly representing the four cardinal points of the earth. They then stood inside the circle facing each other, the bowl of blood at their feet, and they began reciting the words of the spell, mostly Chinese, but having to call on Okuni-Nushi, a Japanese god, meant it was actually a mélange of languages.

Even though the window was closed, wind started to mysteriously kick up, circling the two of them, as the blood on the floor began to glow, first a neon blue, slowly transitioning to a bruise purple and a livid red, the blood in the bowl boiling. This went on for a minute before sparkles of light appeared in the wind tunnel surrounding them, contained within the boundaries of the circle of blood, and came down on them like a shower of sparks. Their skin seemed coated with the faintest sprinkling of gold dust, and he knew the time was near. Angel picked up the short sword and readied himself, standing just outside the circle, facing Bob’s back. As soon as the bowl of blood began to glow, he rammed the sword through Bob’s right side, and straight into Mordred. Supposedly, charged with magic as they were, this wouldn’t kill them - hurt them, yes, but it would also bind them physically and by magic, which was the point.

There was some magical feedback along the sword that sent him flying back into his desk, like he’d just gotten a massive electric shock, and his hands tingled while the wind and the curtain of light surrounding the two of them began working itself into a frenzy, like they were the eye of a strangely site specific hurricane. He gave it a minute or two, feeling the magic crawling up his skin like a thousand flesh eating insects, then lunged for the sword, grabbing it and ripping it out before the feedback could shock him away.

Still, he caught feedback, and went flying, this time hitting his desk and going over it, nearly getting caught by his chair before hitting the floor and cutting himself on the sword. “That was graceful,” Angel muttered bitterly to himself, shoving himself up from the carpet.

“At least it wasn’t wood,” Wes pointed out.

A small blessing. As he stood up, using the desk as a type of cover, as the light and wind reached a crescendo, and a small shockwave seemed to burst from them and radiate outward as it faded into darkness. He braced for impact, but the wave seemed to pass harmlessly through him. Mordred staggered away from the circle, grabbing his side. “Fuck!” The wound was healed already, but it probably did hurt. Mordred’s eyes were all black - not just the pupil and iris, everything.

“You can be such a pussy sometimes,” Bob chided. “I’ve been nailed to a wall.” Bob’s eyes were still an unnatural cobalt, but seem to be fluctuating between neon blue and deep black, a vertical ebony pupil like in a snake’s eye. He looked at him, and asked, “Do I look as weird as I feel?”

Angel nodded, keeping a hold of the sword. Well, when it came to magic this powerful, you could never be too sure.

****

She wanted to punch him, she honestly did, and that made her feel bad. Then she felt even angrier because he was making her feel bad. Why on Earth had she ever slept with him? Oh, right, it was during her nutball Sunnydale days.

Faith made sure she kept her distance on the couch from the fidgeting Xander, while Giles and Willow cast the eclipse spell over what looked like a chafing dish. They kept throwing stuff in, half of which could have been soup ingredients, and it just wasn’t thrilling to watch. She was about to doze off. Just to keep conscious, she asked about the guy that was coming in. Xander didn’t know him, and Naomi shrugged uncomfortably - she knew him, but didn’t want to talk about it. “So he has some adamantium weapons or something?” Faith prodded, hoping to get her to talk.

Naomi shook her head, occasionally glancing towards Angel’s office door nervously. Worried for Bob? Why? If the guy was any more indestructible, he’d be a rock demon’s codpiece. “No, he’s made of it. I mean, his skeleton is, it’s laced with it.”

“What? How’d that happened?”

“Some government agency did it to him, to … to make him a weapon, I guess. I’m not clear on the whole “why” of it. It might have been “because they could”. He also has knives in his hands.”

“Knives in his hands?” Xander repeated, perking up a bit. He must have been bored too. “What the hell good are those? He must stab himself all the time.”

“No. I mean, I don’t know him well - not as well as I used to, apparently - but I’ve never seen him stab himself.”

“He’s a mutant?”

She nodded. “He has regenerative properties.”

“Regenerative? How so?”

An uncomfortable shrug. She have a bad history with this guy? She seemed not to want to talk about him. “He heals fast, and from nearly any wound.”

Xander scoffed, and sunk down deeper into the couch cushions. “Big deal. So do Slayers.”

“Not necessarily,” she replied icily, thinking of her own long coma.

There was a bright flash of light from under Angel’s office door, and Naomi seemed to jolt. “Was that a good sign?” Xander wondered.

Faith listened hard for a moment, then shrugged. “I don’t hear any screaming, so probably.”

For some reason, Naomi didn’t find that comforting.

Giles and Willow finished their little spell, and for some reason they both looked tired, although Giles more so than Willow. Maybe age was finally catching up to him. “Okay, in fifteen minutes, there should be an unexpected eclipse,” Giles said, sitting on the edge of the desk. “It should last ‘til nightfall, so we don’t have to worry about time running out on us.”

“Great. So what’s this about some other vamps joining the party?” Faith wondered, as Bob had mentioned that to Angel as well.

Giles grimaced, and decided to play with his glasses for a bit. An obvious nervous habit. “If they can be found. But I’m rather hoping they can’t be. Logan should be more than enough.”

“One guy?” Xander complained. He really didn’t like other men butting in, did he? He probably preferred to be the only guy amongst a large group of women - what man wouldn’t, though? “One guy can’t make much of a difference, rare metal or not.”

Giles’ soft blue eyes settled upon him, with such a firm, chastising look that he suddenly looked about twenty years younger. “Logan’s not a normal man. That’s what makes him so frightening.”

Xander was probably going to make another smart ass comment, but there was a soft, odd noise out in the hall, and Faith leapt to her feet, ready to fight. “That’s just Rags,” Bren assured her.

Still, she remained standing and on alert as the office door opened, and a rather disheveled, crystal eyed Persaid demon came in, clad in a white “wife beater” tank top and faded jeans full of worn spots and holes, barefoot, his dirty blond hair wet and plastered to his scalp. “Ya coulda told me it was rainin’ in Canada,” he said to Bren, his Cockney accent so thick it was hard to understand him.

“Come on, I know it rains in California, and I aint‘ gonna mention London,” a man scolded, following him in. “Don’t be such a wuss, Rags.” He too wore jeans with holes in them, but he wore them a lot better, maybe because his jeans weren’t a size and a half too big for him. He also wore a worn brown leather jacket that looked like it had seen its share of road rash, and a pale olive t-shirt that was so tight you could tell he had a hard, chiseled chest that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a marble statue in a museum somewhere. He was a fighter, you could see it in the way he carried himself, in the way that his body looked like it was made from stone, and the way he warily and instantly scanned a room when he stepped in it, sizing up and dismissing everyone as threats in the same millisecond glance. He had strange looking hair, and sideburns that would have been laughably out of date if they didn’t look so wolfish and feral. His eyes seemed to skid away from Naomi, a! s if he didn’t want to look at her, but then they seemed to stop and briefly scud back, something like bewilderment washing over his face. What? Faith would have looked, to see if Naomi was making a face at him or something, but she found herself unable to. Her eyes were riveted to him … because he was unbelievably fucking hot. Jesus Christ, what must that body look like naked? Goddamn. He had funny facial hair, she knew it, and she wanted to suggest he Google a razor and find out what it was, but … damn. If she’d seen him in a club, she’d be all over him like ugly on Berserker demon.

He must have known she was staring at him, because he looked at her once more, taking a quick glance of her entire body, but she didn’t mind at all. Interest? Terrific. As long as he wasn’t a tremendous asshole, maybe they could go get wasted after saving the world.

“Logan,” Giles said, breaking the sudden, awkward silence. “This is Willow, that’s Xander, and that’s Faith. Everyone, this is Logan.”

“Hi,” Willow said in a bubbly manner, giving him a small wave. How did she remain cheerful? Prozac?

That made him give her a weird look. “Hi. Where’s Angel?”

“He’s -” Giles began, but stopped as his office door opened, and Angel himself saved him from further explanation. “Oh, hey Logan,” Angel said casually, with none of Willow’s enthusiasm, but with a certain familiarity.

Mordred followed him out, and Logan barely stifled a groan of disappointment. “You again. What the hell happened to you?”

Mordred gave him a sharp, sarcastic grin, which looked sinister with his new all black eyes. “I’m all charged up. Don’t piss me off.”

“Watch me shake,” he sneered, and his eyes shifted to Bob as he came out.

“Good, the gang’s all here. Maybe we can - “

But suddenly Logan was on him; he moved so fast it was nearly a joke. He had Bob by throat, and was shaking him like a rag doll. “Why do I smell her on you?!” he shouted in his face, twisting suddenly and throwing Bob bodily at the door, which seemed to explode open and send him falling out into the corridor. Faith remembered tensing to move in as Angel grabbed Logan’s arm, and then -

They were all talking in the office, Bob laying out the basic battle strategy while Logan stood in the near by corner, arms crossed over his chest, his shoulders hunched and his expression belligerent. Something had happened, hadn’t it? She was sure it had … and yet, she couldn’t remember.

Oh, whatever. It was a weird day anyways.

****

The rage was sudden, and probably caught Bob by surprise as much as it did him.

He thought he caught Bob’s scent on Naomi, but couldn’t quite believe it. Then when Bob came out, his scent was different … but still rife with her. He couldn’t deny it now, could he? And suddenly he wanted to rip his fucking head off.

He lunged for him, grabbing him by the throat, and shouted, “Why do I smell her on you?!” But he knew, didn’t he? That’s why he wanted to fucking kill him.

He tossed him through the door, and Angel grabbed him to stop him, but he yanked his arm away as Bob shouted, “Nobody hear this! Fucking Christ, Logan, what is your problem?”

“You know damn well what my problem is - you’re fucking her, aren’t you?” he snapped, stomping towards him.

Bob had been sitting on the floor, but stood up as he approached, and said, “Freeze.”

Sadly, he did; he felt like he’d walked into amber and solidified. At least he wasn’t alone - it seemed everyone else had frozen inside the room as well. “Let me go,” he growled, barely able to talk.

“No. You’re going to listen to me. I like her, she likes me, and you know I’d never hurt her, so what the hell’s your problem?”

“You know what the hell my problem is. You know what she means to me.”

“You love her so much you want her to be a nun? You won’t even talk to her, Logan - you won’t even tell her about your shared past. She wants to move on with her life. Why do you want to stop her when you won’t even be honest with her?”

He glowered at him, wanting to rip his fucking guts out. He was right, of course, but that just made him more angry. “You know what happened.”

“What, when she lost her memory? Yeah, I do - which is a bit more than she does. How fair is that?”

“How fair is it that everyone I love gets hurt ‘cause of me?”

Bob shrugged with his hands. “It’s not fair at all. But how can you make this all about you? Yes, you think you’re doing what’s “best” for her - but did you ever ask her? Don’t you think she should have a say?”

He glared at him, because it was all he could do. It was then he really saw what was happening in Bob’s eyes; a deep blackness seemed to swell and ebb, the blue shrinking or expanding accordingly. It was eerie and a bit unsettling, and Logan wondered if it had anything to do with his new, slightly bitter scent. “I thought we were friends.”

“We are. But Naomi’s a friend too, and I’m not gonna shun her because you feel guilty. This really isn’t the best time to get into it, ‘cause I’m so full of magic that I can barely contain it. Now either you get yer ass back in that room and save it for later, or I’ll make you do it. We don’t have time for a pointless pissing contest.”

“You’re a prick.”

“Yeah, well, tell me something I don’t know. Now make your choice.”

That was a joke, wasn’t it? There was no choice at all, and he knew it. “This isn’t over,” he promised,

Bob nodded wearily. “I know. It never is.”

Bob released him, and he briefly thought about rushing him, but he wouldn’t be fast enough. Besides, was he really pissed off to him due to Naomi? Or was it just the final straw that sent him over the edge? Was everything just so fucked up he didn’t know what to do anymore?

He returned to the office and let himself sulk in a corner as Bob put everything back to the way it was before his little “display”, rearranging everyone’s memories like he was shifting deck chairs. He wondered if he should just ask Bob to burn out those parts of his mind that had memories he no longer wished to have.

Maybe once he got to kick something’s ass, he’d be okay. Then he could crawl back to his deep, dark hole in the British Columbia woods, and no one would have to bother him again.

15

The Dr. Ronald Fisher Show was a syndicated talk show capitalizing on the now fading wave of self-help “tough talkers”, people who specialized in telling people things they should know, but for some reason didn’t. It was all the more funnier because most of these people called themselves “Doctors” for reasons completely unconnected to their “common sense therapist” auras - Fisher, for example, managed to get his degrees in business administration.

Filmed on the Paradigm Studios lot in three day chunks - two shows per day - it was just squeaking by on the skin of its teeth. Audience members were often culled from studio tour groups to fill up the empty seats, and syndicators were dropping the show to the point where its survival was hanging on a razor’s edge. Fisher had hurriedly locked himself into a book deal, so at least he could have some income once the show dropped out. He also had an endorsement deal lined up with manufacturers of a new diet supplement.

They had just started filming the second show of the day, which was all about rebellious teenagers and the parents who couldn’t stand them. Currently on stage was a sobbing mother with her delinquent son, who had apparently burned down their trailer, and seemed to be soaking up all the audience’s boos and groans like it was better than applause.

The first hint of a problem showed up in the control room. The panel went nuts, the readouts flickering and the cameras showing nothing but static as the studio lights faded but didn’t quite die. They all came up again, the readouts returning to normal, as the floor director called “Cut” and tried to find out what had just happened.

The murmuring of the crowd - already grousing about what they largely assumed to be yet another blackout - covered up any noises from backstage as the stranger appeared, striding out on stage like he owned the place. His oily black coat flapped about him like wings, with long oil black hair framing a face that was instantly forgettable, save for his eyes, which glowed an unreal, vibrant blue, like alien suns. “People of the United States,” he proclaimed, in a voice that sounded like a rock being scraped along a cemetery gate. “God is back. And boy, am I fucking pissed at you.”

Everything burned. There was no transition, no movement on his part save for a dismissive wave of his hand, and suddenly everyone - from the producer in the booth to the entire audience and floor managers - suddenly dissolved into piles of charred ash, their burnt remains swirling in Brownian motions around the now empty studio. He leered at the cameras, enjoying the display of his powers, but it faltered, his razorblade smile twisting and fading as he looked up towards the studio roof. “Dad, is that you? I was wondering when your cowardly ass was going to show up.”

He thrust up his arms, and the ceiling burned away, along with the walls, the sudden burst of power making the plastic chairs tumble across the ground like dead leaves. The metal legs scraped across the asphalt lot of Paradigm, casting sparks, which was good, as it was suddenly pitch black. He looked up curiously, and the sun appeared to have been swallowed by a large black orb.

“What is this?” he asked. The remaining studios, roughly the size and shape of airplane hangars, cast long, deep shadows across the lot. He didn’t need to see him to know he was here, though; he could taste his blood on the wind, somehow corrupt and befouled. “Do you think you can kill me again, you deluded has been?”

A shadow moved, transformed into a man he had never seen before. He looked almost Human, but stank of something else, mixed in with clove cigarettes. His eyes were black, the deep black of primal magic, and his hand was alive with living sparks, glints of hard silver that tasted like blood. “I’ve never killed you before,” he said, his voice betraying a French accent. “But there’s a first time for everything, non?”

A bolt of pure magic shot from his hand and Ananga was shocked he could actually feel it, a hot knife blade through his essential form as he was propelled back and hit an aluminum wall with enough force to leave a dent. It was then he saw them all, figures swarming in, stinking of his father’s blood and essential magicks, and he couldn’t help but smile.