2

It was funny how he felt he had gone backwards in his life. Er, unlife - existence.

He has started by traveling through the sewers, and ended up with a garage full of cars with necro-tempered glass, so he could actually feel the sun without bursting into flames. And now he was back traveling through the sewers again, in a run down office, with Giles and Brendan, who reminded him way too much of a younger, more extroverted Doyle - a remembrance he didn’t need - and Naomi, who at least he didn’t have to worry about. A woman who could control and shoot electricity? Yeah, she was fine. She was, in fact, “back up muscle”, which seemed to amuse her no end. “You have a nearly forty year old woman as muscle? That seems kind of sad.” But most “nearly forty” year old women couldn’t electrocute a person who pissed them off without moving a muscle.

Angel wished that he didn’t sound like such a whiney bastard inside his own head. That was extremely embarrassing. He was alive - in a sense - which was more than he could say for Wesley, Cordelia, Fred, Gunn, and Doyle, and Wolfram and Hart had lost their L.A. branch. So what if he was technically back where he started? He wasn’t evil lawyer material anyways. And Logan had given him a beautiful apartment - so what if he had to take the sewers to get there? He should be grateful for so much, and yet he knew he wasn’t. Gods, that was so irritating.

He could smell the Kumo long before he saw it, before he even felt the vibrations of its steps within the sewer tunnel. It smelled like … what was it? Brendan had said it before: overheated asphalt, burned … not hair, but something close to it. Could this have caused the problem at the Galleria? No way - it would have destroyed part of it getting out, not to mention how in the hell did it get in there in the first place. The Galleria wasn’t that close to West Hollywood - someone would have noticed the big, grumpy demonic spider between here and there, especially if it was using the streets. But there was no reason the incidents couldn’t somehow be related. Did these things talk?

The sewer tunnel he was in, a large one that would inevitably lead to the heart of the city, started to tremble. It was extremely minute, but he could still feel it, the thrum of its rhythmic eight legs hitting the metal walls in rapid succession, and it was moving fast for something of its weight. Even though it was a demon and not actually a spider, it moved like one, scuttling like an insect. Okay, he was a grown man on top of being an old vampire, but he couldn’t help but shudder. Damn, that was creepy.

Finally its shadow was a deeper darkness in the stinking tunnel, and it started coming through at a rapid clip. He reached behind him and pulled out the sword of Weyland from the sheath across his back. It was cloaked with a spell cast by Giles, but also had a minor “protection charm” on it, so it didn’t bother him so much. But it still did; it still made his skin crawl and his flesh sting beneath the sheath. He wore leather gloves when he had to wield it, even though the hilt itself wasn’t made from Dolonn’s blood. But this thing wasn’t just poisonous, it was consumptive; it wanted to kill, as if there was a homicidal will buried somewhere beneath the hardened metal. It was why he knew they’d have to destroy it eventually, or do something with it, guarantee that no one else could ever get their hands on it, simply because there was something so corruptive about it, that even if it fell into innocent hands, they wouldn’t be innocent for long.

The Kumo hesitated and stopped, its bulk blotting out almost all the light in the tunnel, as it just barely fit. It could sense the evil of this thing, and wanted no part of it. “You’re gonna tell me who you’re working for and how you got here.”

The thing answered with a screech. A screech that was at the absolutely highest range of Human hearing, and stabbed into his ears like a dental drill burrowing straight into his brain. He winced and took several steps back, trying futility to shake the pain from his head, and muttered, “Okay, talking’s out.”

Taking advantage of its disabling sonic scream, it charged forwards, its eight legs a blur of movement, and Angel knew he had no time for finesse. He threw the sword, which sank deep between the spider’s large red eyes, all the way up to the hilt. It stopped moving, and for a moment seemed to stand there, totally paralyzed. Then it collapsed with a thud, causing the little puddles of rancid water to splash him in the walls in equal measure. “Son of a bitch,” he snarled, wiping droplets of Human waste off his face.

He went to retrieve the sword, and he had to put his foot on what passed for the Kumos face and pull with all his might, as it had a thick, armored carapace. It appeared to be almost a foot thick, and had a density not unlike depleted uranium - no wonder only magic could kill it. This was probably better protected than any tank.

But the question remained: where had this come from, and what was the purpose behind it? He put the sword back in his sheath and started heading back towards the office, but then something caught his eye. He had to close in on it before he saw it clearly, but it was indeed graffiti written rather neatly on the sewer wall, some he would swear he hadn’t seen on his way here. It said, in clear, yellow block lettering: ‘Did you think this was over? Are you that big a fool?’

There was no name on it, no indication that it was directed at anyone. But he had a feeling that was meant for him. And he had a sinking feeling just who wrote it.

*****

There were five of them, four males and one female, all Caucasians save for an Indian man. The one in front of the group was a fugly customer, a man with skin like pumice thanks to his great network of acne scars, and shoulder length brown hair that looked stringy and greasy. He wore a black leather jacket, and looked vaguely like the guitarist of Spinal Tap.

The only good looking woman among them was the girl, who still wasn’t a looker for the ages, just seemed attractive by comparison to the rest of the group. She was a bottle blonde with big, heavy lidded cow eyes, and about twenty pounds more than necessary, with a pinched face, like she had a drain at the base of her jaw and all her features had slid towards it. He figured if he was really drunk, or she wore a bag on her head (or preferably both), he’d do her. But only if he was desperate.

“Okay guys,” the guy with the butt rock hair snarled, curling his upper lip up like Billy Idol. He had a very faint Gallic accent, faded almost to inaudibility. “Casser la gueule.” He dramatically ripped off his leather jacket as his face and body began to change, bones suddenly lengthening and muscles appearing as coarse gray fur began growing through his skin. In the background, the same thing happened with all his “gang”, although the color of their fur varied. The bottle blonde was a mousy brown, and he wondered if her Human carpet matched those wolfen drapes.

Igor froze the videotape, and said, “See? Isn’t that cool?” The Slavic vampire was almost jumping up and down in eagerness, so excited Spike was surprised he didn’t wet his pants. When did he have his last hit?

Spike snorted and shook his head, tapping a cigarette out of his pack as he leaned back against the plush couch in what was basically an overly stylized waiting room. “So what? They’re werewolves. I hate those ugly fuckers; they always pee on everything.”

“But they changed when he said the phrase! It wasn’t even a full moon! He has ‘em … well, I dunno. Hypnotized or somethin’. That’s the trigger word. Er, words.” Igor’s name wasn’t actually Igor, but he forgot what it was, and called him Igor instead. He didn’t seem to mind, but then again, he was high a lot of the time. Igor was a drug addict in Bulgaria when some desperate vamp changed him, and even though he was now undead, he couldn’t shake his habit. It didn’t matter that he had to do a big bucket of cocaine just to feel a bit of it; he did it. It was basically psychosomatic, and a weakness that the Partners were happy to exploit. He was spineless, eager to please, and easy to influence and control. Perfect cannon fodder.

Spike shrugged, still not impressed. “Ooh, I’m shaking. What kind of shitty code phrase is that anyways? ‘Break the jaw’.”

“Actually, it’s a slang phrase, meaning break the face,” a petite, dishy Hispanic woman said, entering the room. “Your French isn’t that good, is it William? Angel’s was much better.”

He scowled, aware the dig was on purpose and meant to goad him. He didn’t appreciate it. “So you’re the new representative, huh Chiquita?” She smelled mostly Human, but there was a hint of something else, a deeper darkness like grave dirt, which he knew was the Partners‘ influence. “The name’s Spike - don’t forget it, J-Lo, or you’ll be sorry, no matter who you work for.”

She was good looking, which was disturbing. She looked to be about twenty three, five six, about a hundred and thirty pounds, with wonderful California fake boobs, and a flat stomach you could only get by associating with evil. She had long, straightened brown hair with honey blonde highlights, contrasting against her Jessica Alba bronze skin and violet colored contacts, and wore a little slip of a summer dress in a florescent orange color that wouldn’t have been out of place inside a Chee-toes bag. She put a hand on her cocked hip, and glared at him in a way that he guessed was supposed to be intimidating. Wasn’t, but he knew it was supposed to be. “And my name is Saffron. Forget that, and you won’t have time to be sorry.”

He rolled his eyes, and lit his cigarette, glancing back at Igor. He was still standing uncomfortably by the television, fidgeting slightly, fondling the remote like a gun, looking like the bastard love child of Iggy Pop and a lemur. He was scrawny and gangly, with constantly startled glassy eyes, about twenty pounds under weight, with his greasy black hair cut in a “punky” fashion, which looked like a small, spastic child had been at him with scissors. Today he was wearing stained jeans and a denim jacket that looked like he’d ripped it off the corpse of a hobo. In this tastefully furnished office, with its translucent acrylic accents and leather furniture, Igor looked more out of place than he did.

Igor finally picked up on the awkwardness, five minutes after it had settled in. He gestured at the frozen television screen, and said, like an eager puppy, “We’ve been lookin’ at the tape. They’re pretty wicked.”

Spike scoffed. “They’re ponces.”

Saffron frowned in disapproval. “The Les Loups Rouges have done a lot of work for our Paris and Berlin offices. They are the best -”

He couldn’t help but snicker, almost choking on smoke. He may not have been fluent in French, but he knew enough to get what she said. “The Red Wolves? They call themselves that? Now I know they’re twats.”

Rosalita sighed loudly, fixing him with a pissy glare that almost made him laugh. “You know, your attitude - far from being amusing - can only make you a focal point of suspicion. Is that what you really want?”

He met her glare straight on, not flinching, even though he felt a hollow coldness settle in his gut. Of course they were the Senior Partners, big evil fuckheads, and they had to know how he felt about this. He was all for destruction, especially if he could destroy Angel in the process, but this plan just sounded doomed to spectacular failure. You didn’t fuck with gods, and certainly not angry, screwed up gods - he didn’t care how powerful the Partners were; they had their limits. And some of the so called good” gods were only “good” in comparison to others - by any Human standard, they weren’t exactly “divine” in spirit. In his experience, all gods were pricks, just different varieties and intensities of pricks. They were exactly like Humans, but to the nth degree, and with ludicrous amounts of power. They were far too overpowered for their general ego and emotional stability, and no good ever came of them. They would betray you with frightening ease, as “lesser beings! ” were nothing but fleas on their backs. “Look, chica, your bosses knew comin’ in that I ain’t the world’s biggest fan of authority. If you wanted a good little soldier, you probably shouldn’t have signed me up.”

“They don’t expect blind obedience, but they do expect compliance.”

“And the difference is ..?”

Her artificially colored eyes narrowed to hateful little slits. “Don’t make yourself more important than you are, Spike. You can easily be replaced. Especially if you’re going to turn into a craven coward on us.”

He jumped to his feet, and stalked towards her. “Don’t you call me a coward, you Partner powered bitch -”

Igor seemed to leap across the room and put himself between him and “Saffron”. He raised his hands as if to warn him off, but all it did was reveal recent track marks on his pale wrists. “Now, come on, we all know you’re not a coward. She’s just tryin’ to rile ya -”

“I’m trying to warn you,” the bitch insisted. “Both of you. If this somehow goes wrong, you will both be held accountable. And believe me, that’s not an experience you want. Be ready - you go out at sundown.”

Spike glared at her as she flounced out of the room, and he wondered if he could actually kill her. These “servants” of the Partners were technically immortal until they voided their contracts, right? He wondered if he could somehow get it voided.

Igor looked at him imploring, with those alarmed lemur eyes of his. “Why d’ya wanna get into it with her? She’s hot. And she could have us all killed.”

He made a rude noise and turned towards the window, looking out on downtown Los Angeles. He hated this bloody city; he wanted to leave it and never see it again, save as a quickly fading image in his review mirror. But they wouldn’t let him leave. Supposedly, if he did this, they would, but he was pretty sure he couldn’t trust them. His downfall, as far as he could tell, was in ever trusting anyone.

He was a loner, he was best when he was on his own. Maybe, if he got through this, he could find a way to get there once more.

Dying - again - to do it didn’t sound so bad right now.

3

When he looked up from the desk, he was surprised at how dark it was. Was it really dusk already? Shit, he’d been here too long.

He gulped down the last of his cold and reasonably disgusting mochaccino, and rolled up the revised blueprints, securing them with a rubber band before sticking them in the wastepaper basket he used in lieu of an actual drawer. This was a drafting desk, and therefore no good for storing anything but pens in a cup. He walked across the tiny trailer, which sometimes seemed to shift uneasily beneath his feet, and used the bathroom, which was no bigger than his closet, and had a tiny toilet and sink that looked like a practical joke. He rubbed some cold water in his face and tried to focus on the outer world a bit more, wake himself from his blueprint reading haze. Sometimes it was like they put him in a trance, a confluence of lines and angles and mathematical equations that could really irritate him, until he “got” it. He couldn’t explain it even to himself, but he found reading blueprints were often like looking at those 3-D paintings that seemed like a collection of small! , flat interlocking images until you squinted your eyes and tilted your head just so, and if you were lucky, you could see the picture of what it really was popping out of the frame. For some reason, it was the same with him and the damn blueprints. As a result, there were days when he couldn’t read them at all, and other times when they seemed to hypnotize him, and he couldn’t quite start seeing them.

It was weird, but he also knew it was more or less normal, at least for him. And he clung to that perceived normalcy like a lifeline, because he’d found it the best way to cope. It was like everything that had happened to him when he was a kid was just a dream or a bad horror movie. It wasn’t, but there were times when he almost believed it.

He was searching his pockets for his keys and trying to decide on what he wanted for dinner tonight when he heard the woman scream.

It made him jump, a blast from the past that made him fumble his keys and drop them on the trailer’s vinyl tiled floor. His heart skipped a beat, started to race, as he heard her shout for help, a little closer this time. He grabbed his keys and listened to his heart pound in his ears while adrenalin dumped into his system and made him feel vaguely nauseous. One remnant of his past was his spectacular fight or flight response. Also, sadly, was a hyper developed sense of ignoring logic and getting safely away. His instinct - even though he knew what might be out there; even though he was probably going to be outmatched and no use at all - was to run into the fray, to defend and protect. That woman sounded scared and in trouble … and he couldn’t turn away. Shit! He’d be lucky to make it to thirty at this rate, and he knew it. He was lucky to have made it this long.

But that didn’t stop him from retrieving the aluminum baseball bat tucked into the corner parallel the desk, nor from checking his jacket for his concealed .45. Maybe he was powerless, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t go out fighting.

He left his trailer and stood on the top step, listening for sounds. The construction site was just off a major intersection, and cars were constantly driving past, stereos thumping like little detonations, but he was sure he heard strange noises coming from his far left, where the site met kitty-corner with a large parking lot. He started off at a brisk walk, but broke into a run as soon as he recognized some other strange noises, growing louder now.

Growling. And somehow it didn’t just sound like a dog.

It didn’t take long before he came upon the scene of a black woman in a well tailored and undoubtedly expensive navy suit being chased by what initially looked like five impossibly large and extremely ugly coyotes, only he knew that they were werewolves. But that made no sense - it wasn’t a full moon, was it? And since when did werewolves travel in packs?

He didn’t know, and he suddenly realized he didn’t care. How long had he gone without these supernatural bastards intruding on his life? He should have been scared, but he was overwhelmed by a blinding sense of fury. Why didn’t they just leave him the fuck alone?

He reached the woman first, who looked at him in wide eyed fear. She was going to say something to him, but the wolves were closing fast, and he really wasn’t interested in chatting now. “Get to my trailer, lock yourself in,” he demanded, pushing her in that direction. “Don’t let anyone in unless it’s me. “ She seemed to hesitate, so he shouted, “Go!” as he saw a wolf lunge out of the corner of his one good eye.

He turned swinging the bat, and met its muzzle full force in what was probably a triple if not a home run. “I knew all those years of little league would pay off,” he said, as the wolf hit the asphalt with a whimper, its lower jaw broken.

The others were almost on him, so he started swinging wildly, smashing them as soon as they were within reach of the bat, but he was aware this would do nothing but slow them down. That was okay, as all he was trying to do was give himself time to run back to the trailer.

One must have been smarter than the others and realized he was favoring one side, as it launched itself at him from his blind spot, and he didn’t see it until it was almost on top of him. He got his bat up in time to block its snap at his throat, but it crashed into him and sent him falling to the parking lot. He kept his grip on the bat, but before he could use it again, the wolf - a big red furred bastard who smelled like a combination of wet dog and cigarettes - grabbed it in its mouth and ripped it out of his grip, biting the aluminum bat clear in half.

As they surrounded him, growling, he slid his hand in his pocket and settled it around the butt of the gun. It couldn’t kill them - they weren’t silver bullets, just plain old hollow points - but he bet it would still hurt pretty bad. “I hope none of them is you, Oz,” he muttered, flicking off the safety.

This was a familiar sound, a faint “whoosh” of air, and suddenly a small silver arrow buried itself in the red wolf’s side with a thunk. It actually looked in the direction it had been shot before not collapsing so much as toppling over, stone dead. There was a crackle and a smell of ozone before a bolt of what appeared to horizontal lightning shot out and hit the second wolf closest to him, sending it flying in a sour scent of burned hair. The other wolves, including the one with the broken jaw, started to back away from him, looking at their mystery assailants and growling , when there was another familiar noise - the sound of a sword being drawn from its sheath.

The strangest sensation ran through him, a cold chill down the spine that made him taste bile in the back of his throat, and suddenly he wanted to join the wolves in backing away. What the hell was that?

Of course, the wolves were no longer backing away - the sword and whatever feeling it gave off was too much for them. They ran off, tails literally between their legs, and he heard a familiar voice say, “The moon is waning - there shouldn’t be werewolves out.”

He sat up, looking at the group making its way across the parking lot towards him. There was a kid he didn’t recognize, maybe seventeen, with black hair and red eyes, holding a compact crossbow he had stopped to reload. So he killed the werewolf? Seemed young and the wrong gender for a Slayer. There was also a woman with short brunette hair in worn blue jeans and a Ramones t-shirt, with blue lines of electricity encircling her hands like hungry snakes. He didn’t recognize her at all, and couldn’t decide if she was a witch or a demon. But the old English guy and the big broody vamp who easily resheathed his scary sword one handed - well, how could he not know who they were? He sat up and scoffed, wondering why life liked to play these cruel jokes on him. “I thought there was a way for a werewolf to change when it wasn’t a full moon.”

Both Angel and Giles stopped dead in their tracks in shock as he got up, but the kid and the woman kept walking, not aware of what was going on. “Yeah, I think I read that,” the kid said, hefting his crossbow up to his shoulder casually. “But I thought only overwhelming emotions could trigger the change in lieu of the moon. You piss these guys off or what?”

The woman seemed to notice the other guys had stopped, and looked back at them curiously. “What is it?”

Neither Angel or Giles answered her. They were both too busy staring at him in a shock that was almost comical. “Xander?” they said in unison.

He stared back at them, and suddenly felt like he was in high school again. God, he hated that feeling. “Well, duh.”