4

Logan knew he was dreaming the second he stepped into the living room, and found that it had transformed into something else.

The front room of the cabin was now a brightly lit, sprawling room, with walls painted a robin’s egg blue, and windows letting in bright sunshine only partially filtered by cherry trees in full bloom. There was the bookcases full of books in a dozen languages, and the Dali painting of melting clocks, and Mariko sitting in a leather wing chair, wrapped in a black silk robe with a white crane motif on it. She looked as beautiful as she always did, and sat there calmly, nonchalantly, holding a cup of what smelled like orange pekoe tea.

He looked at her for a moment, wishing that same old ache would go away - no, it didn’t - and he dropped to his knees before her, feeling defeated. He let his head rest on her knees, and he could feel the warmth of her skin through the thin cloth. She stroked his hair in a comforting manner, and it gave him chills to feel her warm fingers on his scalp and neck. “I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted. ”I don’t know how to get beyond you.”

“I hope you’re not asking me,” she replied, but there was a faint, warm amusement in her voice. “I don’t want you to go.”

“I don’t think I can.” Even from his limited vantage point, he noticed the clocks in the Dali painting had melted past the frame, and were dripping down the wall.

He woke up, but wasn’t instantly sure why. He just lay there for a good while, staring at the shadows the swaying branches made on the ceiling. The wind had come up since he went to bed earlier that morning, meaning he had called it correctly when he thought he smelled a hint of rain in the air.

He got up, but was in no hurry to do anything. The good thing about being here was he could sleep whenever he wanted, and do whatever he wanted when he wanted. There was no schedule to live by, or other people to deal with, just him. Which was bad enough usually, but this week had been strangely refreshing and relaxing. Had Bob “pushed” him? Probably; he hadn’t had any nightmares either.

It was early night, but the crescent moon was bright, casting dim shadows through the windows. Coming through the skylight in the living room, it gave the room a pale blue wash, until clouds scudded over and blocked it.

The fire in the hearth was down to a few glowing embers, so he tossed another log on the fire, and wedged in some slender branches as kindling. He’d found a diseased tree in the forest not too far from here, one that could only spread the disease to other trees of its species, and cut it down and dragged it into the “back yard” to chop it into firewood with an axe he found in the shed. There was also a chainsaw, but he didn’t want to use it. He liked the work; he liked stretching and straining his muscles stripping and chopping the tree down to reasonably sized pieces. He felt better after physical labor, and during it, he didn’t have to think about anything but what he was doing. Like sex, it was a distraction from self-pity, although admittedly not quite as enjoyable as the former.

He also kind of enjoyed cooking for himself, mainly because he usually ate stuff other people cooked, or lots of processed, re-packaged stuff that often tasted strongly of the chemical preservatives used to keep it shelf stable. (He figured that was attributable to a better than average sense of taste, because other people seemed to love the stuff.) He found himself making things that he didn’t know he could make, which made him wonder when he learned to cook. For instance, the last time he was in town, he got ingredients for paella - since when could he cook that? Didn’t matter, as he could actually make a pretty good one.

Now he just decided to through together a dish of mizutaki, a kind of Japanese stew made with chicken and vegetables, and surprised himself by not grabbing a beer from the fridge, but a bottled green tea. It was thinking of Mariko that made him crave Japanese food, he supposed. Desire sublimated into food? Probably. Mizutaki was always cooked quickly, so even though he didn’t have a lot of time, he turned on the stereo, and went to log on to the computer to check his email.

Since it was Bob, he had lots of weird shit to play on the stereo, including cds by bands he’d never heard of in his life, and he’d left one in the stereo. Logan decided to play it, figuring Bob had left it in there for a reason, and it was a disc by the Future Sounds of London. He knew them as a more raucous electronic outfit, but this cd was strangely soothing, and it actually made for very pleasant background music. Not that he’d ever admit that to anyone - he had an image to maintain - but it was pleasant enough ambient music.

He figured he might be bored by now, but he wasn’t yet. Still, he had been surfing the web, and he found some of the Liberty Island video clips. Thankfully, none showed his face well at all, and he was grateful all attempted “image enhancements“ made things worse. He began wondering if Mystique appreciated all the guys who had built drooling pages in dedication to the “hot blue chick” - if only they knew she’d kill them so much as look at them, especially for the “chick” remark. If they had any idea how old she actually was, they probably would have done a spit take as well.

Anyways, he’d emailed Srina the other day, and he was hoping she’d gotten back to him. He knew she always checked her email, and he hadn’t heard from her for a while. He missed her, he couldn’t help it, but he also knew she was probably right to dump him - he was nothing but the kiss of death. Srina had emailed him back - he didn’t know why he was relieved; as far as he knew, he wasn’t on her shit list - but oddly enough, Xavier had also emailed him. Maybe it was spam, and they just picked his name. There was only one way to find out.

Clicking on it, he found it was indeed from Xavier itself. The message was even more unexpected than he could have anticipated.

‘Logan,

A man called here yesterday looking for you. He said his name was David Abrams, retired Colonel for the Canadian military, and he said he had a pressing need to talk to you as soon as possible. He said he was dying of inoperable liver cancer, and his doctors had given him six months to live, although he figures he’ll be hospitalized within three or four months. He insisted it wasn’t a trap, that he’d be transferred out of the Organization a long time ago, and before he dies he just wants to make some amends with you, as you’re one of the few people left alive that he can make amends with. Because of what he was talking about, I scanned him, and I can say that he was telling the truth.

He says he knows some things about your past you might like to know.

He also said you could call the place and time of the meet, and bring anyone you wish. He means you no harm, and couldn’t do you any harm regardless. He said he was in Toronto, and left a phone number for you to get in touch with him. While he seems to be telling the truth, I don’t need to tell you that trust is still up in the air. The number is at the bottom of this missive, but I’m willing to go with you if you wish to check this out. But I should stress that I don’t think you should go alone, if you do. Please call.

Xavier ‘

Sometimes it was impossible to choose.

5

“So you guys know each other?” Bren asked, looking curiously between them and Xander. Naomi looked on neutrally, waiting to see how this developed.

Giles cleared his throat, and said, “Yes. I - I was a librarian at a high school, and he was one of my students.”

“One of your students?” Xander replied with obvious disbelief. “Why so modest, G-man? You can tell him I was the best student you ever had - I won’t be embarrassed.” He barely waited a beat for Giles’s accusing stare before he scoffed, and admitted to Bren, “Naw, I’m kiddin’. I was the big dumb guy. Big being a relative term; it helps to be surrounded by petite girls. I’ll have you know I was voted “Most Likely To Star In A Bum Fights Video” and “Most Likely To Be Eaten By A Mutant Hellbeast That Mates Then Kills”. Sunnydale High had the funnest yearbooks ever.”

Giles adjusted his glasses nervously, and muttered, “He’s not kidding about the last one.”

Angel stared at him in disbelief. They wrote that in the yearbook? He definitely should have flipped through Buffy’s copy when he had the chance.

Bren was staring at Giles too, but just in mild curiosity. “You were a librarian in an American high school? Good god man, why?”

Before Giles could respond, Xander answered for him. “He had a sacred duty to watch a young, nubile girl. Which isn’t as perverted as it sounds. Oh, who am I kidding? Of course it is.”

“Umm, guys,” Naomi interjected hesitantly. “Wasn’t he a werewolf when you shot him?” She was pointing down at the body, which was now a naked Human male with scruffy brown hair, of average height and weight, back turned towards them and a silver coated arrow sticking through his side. There was very little blood.

“Werewolves generally revert back to their Human guise in death,” Giles told her, as Angel went over to retrieve the arrow.

“Why were they after you anyways?” Bren asked Xander.

“They weren’t after me. Well, not originally. They were chasing this woman across the parking lot; I just got in their way.”

“Where is this woman?” Giles wondered.

“I told her to go to my trailer and lock the door.”

“Trailer?” Naomi replied.

Angel yanked the arrow out of the man, and noticed, while he was bent over him, that he had something like a shadow on the center of his chest. He figured it was a tattoo, but he nudge him over on his back to have a look. He was glad he looked, because it wasn’t a tattoo - it was a brand. A mark of red scar tissue in a rough triangle burned deep into his skin, with two spikes coming off the top like horns … or ears. A wolf face silhouette?

“Giles, take a look at this,” Angel said, dipping his head towards the body.

“I’m a foreman,” Xander said, answering Naomi’s question. “Of a construction site. We’re building a group of “boutiques” here -” he made air quotes. “ - or, as I like to call them, shops selling “overpriced crap”.” He made the air quotes again.

Giles peered down at the body warily, studying the brand. Angel asked him, “Does this look familiar?”

He hesitated a moment, scrutinizing it closely. “Perhaps. I’m afraid I don’t have an encyclopedic memory of arcane symbols.”

“You don’t?” Xander exclaimed in mock horror. “Then what the hell good are you?” When Giles gave him an evil glance, he flashed him a game show host smile, full of teeth. Apparently, “growing up” was a relative term when applied to Xander Harris.

But didn’t he always assume that would be the case? He couldn’t ever picture Xander as an adult, just an overgrown boy-child. To be fair, he looked like a man at the very least; there was more solidity to his frame, he’d gained a little weight since he’d last seen him, and he had a suggestion of a five o’clock shadow that took the boyish edge off his face. There was also his glass eye, which looked realistic enough, matching the color of his real eye, but if you looked at it long enough you couldn’t help but notice it never moved, and it reflected light in a slightly odd way.

Xander reached down to pick up the end of his broken baseball bat, but then thought better of it and just kicked it away. “So how’d you guys know about these things? And Giles, I thought you’d retired.”

“I did,” he agreed, shifting his focus away from the dead werewolf. “But I started going mad, so I thought it best I get back to work.”

Xander nodded in understanding. “I hear that.”

“A guy I know named Thrak called us and told us there was a bunch of werewolves running around downtown and killing people,” Bren said, answering the first question. “We didn’t believe him - since when do werewolves travel in packs? - but we checked it out anyways.”

“We should make sure the woman is all right,” Giles said, steering the conversation back in a logical direction.

Xander led them all back to the trailer set up in a far corner of the construction site, and Angel realized with a cold shock that this was where the Hyperion used to stand. Coincidence? How the hell could any of this be coincidence? Xander - of all people - was supervising construction where his hotel used to be, and where a pack of werewolves attacked on a night without a full moon. Just like the graffiti in the sewer tunnel where he killed the Kumo, this meant something. But what? He couldn’t quite organize it into a coherent picture yet. And where did that Hollywood sign vandalism come into things? Giles seemed to think it was connected, but Angel honestly hadn’t figured out how yet. He had a feeling that the woman Xander rescued probably wasn’t a coincidence either.

Xander knocked on the door of the trailer and assured her it was him rather than digging out his key, and she opened the door a crack and peered out warily. “The dogs are gone?” she asked.

“They’re gone,” he assured her. “The cavalry arrived. The freaky, freaky cavalry.”

She opened the door and stood aside to let them in, although the trailer was so small they had to filter in single file. Introductions were made, reminding him that no one had actually introduced Bren and Naomi to Xander, and vice versa. Of course, it wasn’t the most pressing thing at the time, so it was easy to overlook. The woman, who was neatly dressed in an expensive business suit, introduced herself as Nika Taqwa, which made Giles furrow his brow in consternation. He recognized the name somehow, but couldn’t quite place it, which made Angel feel more certain that this was part of the puzzle. They find out how Giles knew her name, and they just might have an answer to all of this crazy shit.

There wasn’t so much a couch as a tiny loveseat wedged into the narrow, utilitarian trailer, but Nika and Giles were able to share it, while Bren sat casually on one of the arms, and Xander found a stool for Naomi, while he pulled out the chair from behind the drafting desk. Angel was more than content to stand.

Nika’s story was pretty straightforward. She was a CPA, who was doing a “routine” audit of the books over at the Magic Castle, and had stopped for a coffee, only to find that Jitters had closed early for the night due to a broken water pipe. She was returning to her car when she was cut off by the said “pack of dogs“.

“The Magic Castle?” Naomi asked.

“It’s a magic nightclub,” Bren told her. “Showbiz magic.”

That made Nika give them curious looks, smooth brows meeting over deep brown eyes. “Showbiz magic? Like there’s some other kind?”

Xander faked a cough, but then smiled innocently, which he was sure no one believed.

Angel realized he had been smelling something odd since they got in the trailer. And it wasn’t just that Xander was carrying a gun (!), as well as a flask of single malt whiskey. There was the slightest hint of a burned smell, like something was overheating, but he knew it wasn’t coming from Naomi, who just had the faintest hint of an ozone smell when she wasn’t using her powers. Was that smell coming from Nika?

She still seemed a little shaken up, so Xander pulled out his flask and offered it to her. She turned it down, but Naomi helped herself to a swig, and from the way Xander was looking at her, Angel was afraid he was going to start flirting with her. Not that he cared if he did, it was just that they really didn’t have time for more of Xander’s jackassery. (If that was a word; it probably wasn’t. Damn it, he’d been in Los Angeles too long.)

When he took back the silver metal flask, he got a shock big enough that there was a brief flash of a blue spark, and while Xander kept a hold of the flask, he exclaimed, “Yeouch!” and moved the flash to his other hand before he shook his shocked hand in the air. “Wow, have you been running over shag carpets in your socks or what?”

Angel had no idea why, but he was looking at Nika when that occurred, and she gave Naomi a look that could best be described as intrigued. Something about it seemed unhealthy and suspicious, and he couldn’t say why, but Angel shifted his weight forward to the balls of his feet, ready to jump into action and pull the sword. Something about Nika just wasn’t right, and he was beginning to wonder if the whole “chased by werewolves” thing was a set up. But why? And why Xander? She could have no guarantee he would have helped her - he was a civilian, and most of them didn’t jump into battle with one werewolf, not to mention a pack. But Xander did - and most likely would - because he wasn’t your average civilian. He was, as he told Bren outside, the “only guy in the group without superpowers”, and while he claimed to always need rescuing, that wasn’t precisely true. Usually true, but not always. And it was very possible someone knew that.

“Sorry,” Naomi said sheepishly, and pulled her leather gloves out of the back pocket of her jeans. She hadn’t noticed Nika’s look, but it seemed no one had save for him.

“Where is your car?” Giles asked, being polite. “We’ll be happy to escort you to it.”

Nika gave him a faint smile, but it was weak and not overly sincere. “Thank you, I think I’d like that. I never expected to be attacked by a pack of ugly dogs in downtown L.A. What kind of dogs were those anyways? They looked weird.”

“Coyote hybrids,” Xander said, so easily it seemed to be a lie he had used before. “When those things mate with Rottweilers, yeesh. We are talking a one way trip to Ugly Town.”

She seemed to accept that, but suddenly she sat ramrod straight and looked around with wide, startled eyes. Angel followed her gaze, and saw it led to a tiny black garter snake peeking under the open door of the tiny bathroom. His immediate thought that she was afraid of snakes was quickly supplanted by the curiosity that she had somehow sensed it. Nika got to her feet hastily, and said, “Well, thank you for all your help, but I probably should go -”

“What’s your hurry?” Angel wondered, keeping his voice neutral. Absolutely suspicious … and where the hell had that snake come from? It was still just wedged under the door, not moving If it wasn’t for its tongue constantly flicking in and out, he’d have thought it was dead.

Xander stood up, looking slightly baffled. “Is everything okay?”

It was then the flimsy trailer door slammed open, making everyone jump to their feet, ready to fight, as Angel grabbed the hilt of his sword. But he didn’t pull it out, because filling up the doorway was Bob, in a “Death From Above 1979” t-shirt and black leather pants, his hair longer and a bit more blond than the last time he’d seen him. His eyes were a complete, glowing electric blue. Xander looked like he was reaching for his gun, but Angel grabbed his arm and stopped him.

“Okay, Taqwus,” he said, his voice pitched lower than usual, his Australian accent giving way to the curious one of the older gods. “You wanna tell me why you’re here, or do I just kill you now?”