The head on the right side darted out towards them, and Faith raced towards it, turning into a spinning kick that hit it in its lower jaw. It was like kicking a concrete wall, and it probably didn’t feel it much, but it still reared back with an annoyed hiss. “This one is ours,” she said, taking up a battle stance as she watched it pull its head up into the air like a snake, a forked black tongue as long as a fire hose darting out to taste the air.

“Fine,” Giles said, grabbing Bren by the arm. “We’re on the left.”

“And I’m center square,” Bob agreed, pulling out the sword and smacking the center head on the nose (?) with the flat portion of the blade. It didn’t cut it, it just reared back and hissed/roared indignantly.

Giles had brought himself a sword, although it was less ornate and more functional than the one Bob had, and Bren had armed himself with a machete, which seemed a lot more economical. They started slashing and hacking at the third head, not bothering with finesse, and she was glad, because that meant she could do much the same thing. She had no weapon, mostly because they gave her funny looks when she asked about knives (okay, okay, that was fair enough - just like Angel was naturally reluctant to give her a crossbow), so she went with something very simple, very personal and very ugly: brass knuckles, although one with little spikes on them. When its head lunged at her, she punched it square in the point that may or may not have been its nose, ripping at its thick, leathery hide and drawing mustard colored blood, while Xander buried the axe blade in the side of its face. Naomi was standing off at the side, holding her hands together and gathering what looked like a ball ! of electricity between them; she’d already said she’d wait for them to move before she joined in.

The snake reared back once more, but only to escape the pain of the blades; it quickly darted back towards them, snapping its big and numerous teeth at her and Xander. “Now!” Naomi shouted, and both she and Xander dove clear as she hit the snake thing with a huge bolt of electricity. Faith could smell its flesh baking as it screamed and jerked its head away, its body writhing and knocking down yet another studio warehouse.

Off to the side, she noticed a scarily thin woman with big breasts standing next to a pretty boy, and they both looked vaguely familiar. Actors? Maybe - but she honestly wasn’t sure. The man was looking on with a sagging jaw and the stupidest look on his face. “I thought they did all that CGI stuff on computers!”

She didn’t hurt people anymore, right? Would it be an unforgivable sin if she roughed him up just a little? Angel would probably understand.

“Come on, you stupid piece of shit!” Bob was shouting at it angrily. “Stop stalling and do this thing!”

She had no idea what he was on about - taunting as a battle strategy? - but then she saw what was going to happen as if in movie slow motion. It reared back its middle head, and darted down, mouthing hinging open wide, and she couldn’t even shout a warning as it came down on Bob, and swallowed him whole.

Bren let out a scream of pure shock, and although he seemed stunned for a moment, Giles yelled, “Back! Everyone get back!”

“It ate Bob!” Naomi countered in horror. She was charging up for another blast, her hands glowing like blue fire.

Faith grabbed the battle axe from Xander’s hands and jumped up to her feet, burying the blade in its third head and taking out one of its eyes. It reared up so violently it almost ripped the axe from her hands.

“It’s what he wanted,” Giles explained.

“What?” Naomi replied in disbelief. “He wanted it to eat him? You’ve gotta be kidding me!”

“Why?” Faith asked, assuming there was a point. Well, beyond being suicidal.

That’s when she noticed the snake seemed to freeze, and it started to stink. It was the baking flesh smell again, but a million times stronger and worse. Smoke started pouring out its mouths, and Xander said indignantly, “I thought you said it didn’t breathe fire!”

The thing began to tremble violently, like it was freezing to death in the ninety degree heat, and finally it collapsed with an asphalt shattering thud, making her nearly lose her balance, as it looked like it was being eaten away from the inside out, its flesh starting to glow a molten orange. Finally, it all seemed to dissolve into a messy pile of burned flesh, the charred meat smell coming from it overwhelming and making her nauseous.

Kneeling on the ground, amid the burned meat, was Bob, with his arm raised above his head. The amulet was now spewing what looked like a translucent red fog, although it quickly dispersed and dimmed with exposure to the air. Bob looked up, shaking burned skin out of his hair, and said, “Goddamn, I hate going through digestive tracts.”

“What just happened?” Bren asked.

Bob stood up, and tapped the wrist cuff like he was turning it off. “It burns with holy fire, and since its scales were so tough, I figured this would be the easiest way to kill it - inside out.”

“How come you’re not hurt?” Xander asked, clearly suspicious.

“Check it out - mystical protective wards still in effect,” Bob said, pointing at the scars on his face. “I’m good ‘til I heal.”

Naomi dropped her hands to her side, although they were still glowing with energy. “You couldn’t warn us?”

He gave her a cheesy, smart ass grin. “What, and ruin the surprise?”

Oh yeah, he was completely insane. No wonder he was a friend of Angel’s.

11

Logan couldn’t believe how good it felt to laugh. He hadn’t realized how long it had been since he’d had a good laugh.

“Yeah, right,” he finally told Abrams, wiping tears of amusement from his eyes. “Fuck you, fuck them, fuck everyone and the horses they rode in on. Tell ‘em to send their guys - I’m not interested.”

“They did - that’s the problem. They’ve all died -”

“Those fuckers used me and threw me away,” he growled, pounding his fist on the table. He did it hard enough to make the table jump, but not break. It still made Abrams stiffen, giving off a whiff of fear. “What makes them think I’d ever do another goddamn thing for them?”

Abrams dipped his head to the side. “I wondered that too. But it involves mutants. I guess they thought you’d like to contain it before it gets out to the public.”

He glared at him, not sure where to start. “First of all, just ‘cause I am a mutant doesn’t mean I give a fuck about all of ‘em. And secondly, was that some kinda threat? A blackmail attempt? Why the fuck should I care if somethin’ gets out?”

“Well - can I reach into my pocket? It’s just photos.”

Why was he even sitting here for this? He nodded tersely, and held a hand up so Marc didn’t have to ask if he should drop him or not. Abrams pulled out what were actually copies of photos, probably downloaded digital photos at that. They weren’t of the best quality, and copying them made them grainier, so when he first saw them, he had no idea what he was looking at. Devastation, yes, maybe an explosion, but beyond that it was unclear. “These are photos of some suicide bombings that happened in Asrahar three weeks ago - do you know where that is?”

He nodded, vaguely insulted. “Flyspeck of a country, disputed region between Afghanistan and Pakistan, technically a DMZ for the moment.”

“Right. Well, here - picture three is from a suicide bombing that happened in Kazakhstan just a week ago. All of them share the same hallmark: people were bombs.”

He scoffed, not even glancing at the third picture. “Newsflash: suicide bombers are nothing special. Hell, they’re about a buck a pound nowadays.”

“No, you misunderstand - the people here are the bombs. From what little forensic evidence we’ve been able to get from the scenes - and believe me, there’s precious little - the people’s blood has been altered into a type of volatile explosive, not unlike nitroglycerin. The explosions always emanate from the chest cavity. Possibly the heart, but we have no idea since the most intact parts they ever find are the feet. These explosions usually kill people in the immediate area, and make a mess, but almost never damage buildings. The first bomber was Edward Long, a teacher of English at a business school in Punjab. The suicide bomber in Kazakhstan was an American embassy worker named Caroline Perkins.”

“What?” He looked at the photos again. What he’d thought was devastation was just mess, and the general untidiness of a depressed area. There were lots of blood splatters. “Both American? Both white?”

“Correct.”

Weird enough on its own, as Americans generally set bombs and left before they went off, and women as suicide bombers? That was a recent development, mainly in Israel, but still exceedingly rare. A white woman? Never. “Religious nuts?”

Logan glanced at the photos once more, then shrugged. “So? Everyone has intelligence agents. Get ‘em on it.”

“This is what happened to the last man who tried to infiltrate the group.” He slid another picture across the table. It showed nothing but a tremendous blood splatter and fragments of bone and skin on dusty ochre ground, with a pair of feet sticking out from a pair of common sandal. The feet ended in splintered bone just above the ankles. “This is why they want you. No one’s successfully gotten in; no one’s even found their home base. The locals don’t talk, for a damn good reason, and we’re down to time, since the threat is believed to be genuine. From what I gather, they want - need - their “impossible man” once more.”

Logan shook his head, and shoved the pictures back towards him. “It’s a shame he’s dead, isn’t it?”

“Logan, please -”

“Fuck you! You and your people have no fucking right to ask anything of me.” He got to his feet, and glowered down at the shrunken little man. The fact that he was ill was the only thing keeping him from punching him.

He swallowed hard, and squinted up at him with wearily. “The Americans have turned over everything to the Organization. We don’t believe they want to stop Black Fire - we believe they want to absorb the mutant into the Organization.”

“They probably do; sucks for the world. Thanks for the memories. Try to use your last days more productively, ‘cause I’m a lost cause.” With that, he turned and stalked away, tapping his ear piece and saying, “Egress?”

“Route is clear, no movement on the perimeter,” Marc reported. “How’d it go?”

He had to think about how to respond to that, and he honestly wasn’t sure what to say. He wasn’t sure how he felt. “It was worthless.”

****

Although he felt funny about doing it, it was better than standing around fretting about the others and how they were doing. So Angel sat down at Bren’s desk, and punched up the number Bob gave him. It rang four times before it was picked up. “Yes?” A man said. He had the hint of an odd accent.

“Um, yeah. I’m calling on behalf of Bob; he’s calling his favor in.”

“Bob?” He sighed heavily, put upon by him and the universe equally. “What does that maniac want now?”

Maniac? At least that meant he did indeed know him. “It seems that Ananga is back, and determined to … well, honestly, I’m not sure what his ultimate goal is. He just burned up a bunch of people in the Galleria so far. Which is bad enough, I’m not saying it isn’t, but … hello?” Things had gone strangely silent at the other end of the line. “Are you still there?”

There was a strange noise, something like an inverted, muffled “pop”, and suddenly there was a man standing in front of the desk, holding a cell phone. “Ananga?” He repeated, in his strange hybrid French/English accent. It was like he’d spent so much time in both places he tried to split the difference, and failed. “Isn’t that motherfucker dead?”

Angel hung up the phone, and offered a shrug. “So Bob says, but it would seem not.”

“Damn it! This is just what I need, you know? Some fucker hit my Jag and didn’t even leave a note, now this. What a week.” He reached into his jacket pocket, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He was a tall, lean figure, roughly thirty-ish, dressed in dark linen pants, possibly a designer button down shirt in a rich burgundy color offset with silver buttons, a loose sports coat made of shiny black sharkskin, and a glance past the desk revealed he was wearing Bruno Magli shoes. A rather well off sorcerer, wasn’t he? He had shoulder length brown hair, and black eyes that seemed to have flecks of mica deep within them, lights within the dark, as well as an unusual face that was more striking than handsome, although it was possible to be mistaken for good looking. He kind of looked like that guy from La Femme Nikita, and he smelled … odd. A faint hint of Human, nearly overwhelmed with a scent like energy.

“Who are you?  Bob didn’t say.”

He put a Galois between his lips, and snapped his fingers, making a tiny blue flame arc from his thumb. “I’m Meldane,” he said, lighting his cigarette. He blew out his thumb, and asked, “And you are?”

Meldane? He didn’t think he knew the name, but there was almost something familiar about it. “I’m Angel.”

Something in his eyes lit up, but not necessarily in a good way. “Angel? As in Angelus, the scourge of Europe?”

He stood up, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. “I have a soul now; I’m not the same person.”

“Goody for you.” He blew a small cloud of exceedingly stinky smoke, leering at him in a predatory way. “Otherwise you’d be quite dead. How is that soul thing working out for you? Do you feel more warm and fuzzy towards your fellow bipeds?”

He glared at him, aware that he was trying to goad him for some reason, but unclear why. Maybe he was just an asshole. Or maybe he had a grudge against Angelus; maybe that’s why he seemed vaguely familiar. Oh shit, had Bob just put him in a revenge scenario? “Do you want to fight?”

“You wouldn’t even last a minute.” He looked around the office in an exaggerated manner, and finally said, almost cheerfully, “How delightfully squalid. We’re in America, yes?”

“Los Angeles. Would you not smoke that in here, please?”

He looked at him archly, smiling thinly, blowing out more smoke in an almost gleeful manner now. Yeah, this guy was just a putz. “You don’t breathe, so you can’t possibly be concerned about second hand smoke.”

“No, but Galois stinks worse than a regular cigarette, so do me a favor and put it out. Before I do.”

He snickered, eyes glittering with challenge. “Ooh. Going to go all vampy on me?  Should I be scared?”

He bent down and opened the bottom drawer of the desk, where Bren kept some emergency weapons. There were knives, holy water, stakes, and a gun that had silver bullets in it. “Maybe I’ll just shoot you.”

He raised an eyebrow at that, but before he could make some snaky comment, the door opened, and Faith came in, saying, “I think people in L.A. are stupider than I originally thought.” She stopped short as she saw Meldane, and Xander, who was right behind her, almost ran into her back. “Hey, ain’t you that actor guy?”

Meldane rolled his eyes, exasperated, as if he got that all the time and was sick of hearing it. “No, I’m not “that actor guy”. He stole my look.”

Giles looked slightly startled. “Mordred? What are you doing here?”

“Mordred?” Angel repeated in disbelief. “As in almost destroyed the world Mordred?”

He looked irritated, his features pinching dramatically. “Are you one to talk, Angelus?”

“Umm, why does that name some kinda familiar?” Xander asked, as everyone filed into the office.

Bob, who looked surprisingly tired, said, “Because he’s famous in Arthurian legends as the incestuous, treacherous son of King Arthur, which inevitably leads to his death. But, like most myths, it’s not precisely true.”

“It’s that incest thing I hate the most,” Meldane/Mordred grumbled sourly, taking a violent puff off his cigarette. “I mean, my god, how would you like to be famous as a product of boinking between a man and his half-sister?  If it was true, it would probably hurt less.”

Xander gave him a funny look. “King Arthur was real?”

“Not as Arthur - that’s a very pedestrian version of his name - but he was. And he wasn’t my father either.”

Faith, who had been clearly sizing him up, asked, “Who was then?”

“Merlin,” Bob volunteered. “Mordred’s a child of magic. If you excuse me, I’ll be back in a minute.” And with that, Bob went into the back, into the warren of hallways and rooms that made up the maze of the office.

“His name was Myrddin, actually,” Mordred said crossly. “What is it that people have against the Welsh? I don’t get it at all.”

“A child of magic?” Bren wondered. “What does that mean?”

“It means he’s an elemental,” Giles said, only slightly surprised. But to Angel, the idea was shocking - it meant he was half Human, and half supernatural energy, which was virtually impossible. Magic would run like blood through his veins, and he would probably be extremely hard to kill, as to kill him you’d need to kill magic itself, which wasn’t completely possible in this universe.

“You means he’s more of a thing than a he?” Xander asked, throwing himself on the sofa.

That earned him an evil scowl. For just that moment, Xander was his hero. “I am not an it.  But I can make you one.”

“Ladies, save it for Jell-O wrestling night,” Faith interrupted impatiently. “We’re not done, are we? What’s our next move here?”

That was a good question, and one that actually deserved to be the focus of their attention. He exchanged a questioning look with Giles while Mordred puffed his cigarette nervously, an suggested, “Killing Ananga before he kills us all, I imagine.”

“First we have to find him,” Bren pointed out. “How do we do that?”

“I’m going to go check on Bob,” Naomi said, sneaking into the back corridors. She still had that crush on him, didn’t she? Bob could be doing more to discourage her; he should have been. But he probably liked the ego rush of all the adulation and adoration he received (which was another point in favor of the him being Kama theory).

“Bob said he had some of his Powers energy signature, that we could find him that way,” Angel said, looking more at Giles than Mordred. Sure, he himself had tried to destroy the world as Angelus, but he could honestly claim he was a different person, because Angelus hadn’t been a person at all. Mordred couldn’t claim that. How had he changed? Updated his wardrobe?

But it was Mordred who nodded. “That’s a place to start. But who brought him back in the first place? Shouldn’t we be concerned about that?”

“One thing at a time,” Giles told him. “We’ll find Ananga first, then we’ll worry about the Senior Partners.”

Mordred’s eyes briefly widened, before he tried to adopt that world weary European coolness once more. It fit on him like a baggy suit. “The Senior Partners? Those buggers never give up, do they?”

And Angel knew that that, in a nutshell, was going to be one of their major problems

****

It was hard to get the smell of burned dragon out of your hair. In fact, it was damned near impossible.

He tried anyways, using the natural glycerin liquid soap - pear scented - Angel had in his bathroom. Since it was unlikely he’d picked that for himself, he was sure Naomi or Bren was behind it. They seemed more like pear soap people.

Bob rinsed his hair in the gleaming porcelain sink, and watched the soap bubbles swirl down the drain with tiny bits of burned flesh. He knew what he was going to have to do to get rid of Ananga this time, but he hated the idea of it. How many people that he loved would he hurt? Too many. Yes, it would be only temporary, but still, this kind of thing stung, even if you knew it was only momentary. It would probably “redeem” him in the eyes of the Powers That Be, but that was a vote against it as far as he was concerned.

Maybe that’s why they hadn’t contacted him about “taking care of this”. They knew he would, and they knew how. Shit.

He looked up, and saw his time was running out. His protective wards were coming off in flakes of dried blood, little blue bits that joined the burned flesh going down the drain. He grabbed a blue towel off the near by towel rack (this place had a shower - which was pretty cool, although it was probably just for washing off demon blood), and scrubbed his hair, aware that it would probably be dry the second he stepped outside. It was a hot, muggy L.A. day, the kind that made you feel like you were being charbroiled on the asphalt, and basted in toxic mist.

There was a knock on the bathroom door, and he continued rubbing his hair dry, even though it was pointless. “Come in, but only if you brought booze.”

The door opened with some hesitancy, and a soft voice replied, “You’re the bar owner. Supply your own booze.”

He looked up into the mirror, pulling the towel off his head. It was Naomi he saw in the reflection. “Oh, hey you.”

“Hey yourself.” She shut the door and leaned against it, as if trying to keep her distance.

“They fighting?”

“Not yet. But it seems Mordred isn’t Mr. Popular.”

“No, he never is. He’s a professional asshole. He’s a child of magic, and it gives him a superiority complex.” He turned to face her, leaning back against the sink. “Can I help you with something?”

She stared back at him, blue eyes scrutinizing, and after a moment she took a step forward. “Yes, actually, you can. You can … turn off my powers for a little while, can’t you?”

That made him quirk an eyebrow at her. He was pretty sure he knew where this was going. “Yeah. Why?”

That made her grimace in sad humor. “Why? Because it’s getting worse. It used to be I couldn’t touch anyone or anything with giving them or it a mild electric shock. Now the shock’s a bit less mild.”

“You’re channeling a lot of extra power. That could be it.”

“Yeah, probably.” She stripped off her gloves, and put them down on the toilet tank. “Have you turned them off yet?”

“Uh, no powers. Yes, they’re off.”

“Good.” She reached out and touched his arm, tracing the quickly fading symbols carved into his skin. “Because I’ve been waiting to do this.” She pulled him towards her and kissed him firmly on the mouth.

It was pleasant, her lips were soft, but while he enjoyed it, part of him was urging caution, and he gently pushed her back. “Naomi - I’m not sure we should do this.”

“Helga said it was okay. Actually, her words were “go for it”.”

“Yeah, that sounds like Hel.” It did - monogamy was just too Human for her. “But it’s not that.”

Her eyes bored into his, curiosity with just a hint of annoyance. “What is it then? Am I not … attractive enough?”

“No! Gods no, you’re gorgeous; I’d bonk you in a hot second. But … Logan’s my friend.”

She sighed wearily, and let her chin sag down to her chest. “I don’t remember him; I barely know him. So why does he keep getting in the way of my life?”

It was unfair, wasn’t it? He pulled her tightly to him, and she leaned her head on his shoulder as he stroked her hair. “He loved you.”

“But isn’t that the key term? Loved - past tense. Surely he’s moved on. Why can’t I?”

He sighed heavily. She was right, of course, and he had no idea what to tell her. He’d encouraged Logan to talk to Naomi, but he wouldn’t. He was content to leave her be, for fear he’d somehow endanger her again, and also for the fact that he was afraid of suffering the pain of losing once more. That was the only pain that really got to Logan for any length of time.

Some selfish part of him reminded him of what he was about to do to put an end to all of this. It would be unfair to her if anything happened between them … but she was an adult. And she was probably desperately lonely - she could never touch people, not without hurting them. But he didn’t want to be a total asshole cad slut, which everyone thought he was (albeit for good reasons). “Naomi ..?”

She raised her head and looked him straight in the eyes. She was lovely. “What?”

“You know my reputation, don’t you? You know I can’t promise anything, and getting involved with a god - especially a fallen one that pisses other gods off - is bad bad bad, right?”

She nodded. “I know - I’m not a fool. I also know there’s a good chance we could all die. So what are we waiting for?”

“If you survive, would you regret it?”

“No.”

“Okay.” He slipped his hands around her waist and pulled her into a deep, passionate kiss, letting the towel fall to the floor.

****

Angel didn’t want to to do it, but he had to. He grabbed Mordred and pulled him back, away from Giles, as the two were starting to get into a heated argument about the best way to isolate Ananga’s power signature, and it looked like someone would do something they might regret. When the two arguers were major magic slingers, that could get out of control fast.

“Okay, we need to stop and think about this,” he said, as Mordred angrily ripped his arm out of his grasp.

“I am thinking,” Giles said bitterly, glaring at Mordred. “Unlike some other people.”

Mordred returned it arrogantly. “I am thinking. And since I’m the more powerful magician, don’t you think you should just suck it up and follow my lead, Giles?”

“Most powerful magician?” A female voice said curiously. “Can we get a revote on that?”

It was Xander who reacted first, getting to his feet so fast you could almost believe he wasn’t starved for sleep. “Will? You made it!”

He embraced her in a friendly bear hug, and Willow hugged him back, a genuine smile lighting up her face. “Of course I did. You call, I zap myself here lickety split. Er, more or less.”

Suddenly, the odds in their favor looked just a bit better.

! !