The two flanking guards had their stakes out-save for the one in the middle (the leader?)-who had drawn his taser. He stared at him with flinty eyes, and asked, "Did you really think this would work, Angel?"

He glanced behind him, and wasn't at all surprised to find three guards behind him, stakes drawn, blocking the other end of the corridor. He was bottled up-the doors here were all steel, and all required key cards for access.

Angel looked back at the flinty eyed guard, and admitted, "No, not really." He then forced a change, morphing into vampire face. As his brow pushed over newly yellow eyes, teeth becoming sharp and jagged as the fangs grew over his lower lip, he snarled, "But do you really think you can take me, you L.A.P.D. reject?"

He glowered violently at him, his hard face becoming stone, and then glanced over his shoulder, at one of the rent-a-cops behind him. "Take him down," he ordered, sounding like a commander in a war movie. Maybe he thought he was.

And they all charged Angel as one.

11

Either they thought he was wearing props, or they never even saw the weapons on his belt, so one of the stake wielders got a nasty shock as he closed in on him-literally.

Angel spun into a high kick that caught one of the men charging in behind him in the face, momentum throwing the guard into his two fellow officers, knocking them all to the floor like dominoes, and as Angel spun back towards the front of the hall, he grabbed his taser off his belt, thumbed it on, and jabbed the closest human blur rushing towards him.

There was an electrical snap, and the stake wielder on Angel's right went suddenly wide eyed, his eyes all hazel irises and pinprick black pupils, before he collapsed heavily to the floor, tripping the leader who almost fell on his own taser because of it.

But the stake wielder on the left got through and stabbed him.

Angel couldn't help but shout in pain as the wooden stake pierced his flesh and thrust out his back, ripping the fabric of his uniform shirt. It was a miss as good as a mile-it punctured his left lung and broke a rib, but wasn't anywhere near his heart-yet it still hurt like a bitch. Angel dropped his taser and slammed a flatten palm into the guard's face, breaking his nose on impact and knocking him cold. As he ripped the stake out of himself (shit, that hurt), something hard hit the back of his legs and he crashed down to his knees on the floor.

He sensed the guard more than he saw him, and lashed backwards with his arm at full extension. His fist caught the attacking guard on the side of the head, and the man's head hit the wall with the sound of someone punching a frozen side of beef. Although he had no doubt he was a complete asshole, Angel still hoped he hadn't fractured his skull.

He rolled up to his feet, in time to see he was being double teamed: the leader of the rent-a-cops and the lone conscious guy from the rear guard were coming at him from the side, one on the left, the other on the right. Angel reached out and grabbed the arm of the guard charging him with the stake and swung him around, straight into his leader. They both went down, and there was an electrical snap, as the leader accidentally tasered his own man. Painful for one, embarrassing for the other.

Angel could feel the puncture wound in his side throbbing like a phantom heart, his own cold blood staining his shirt and making it cling to him like a second skin, and he decided a tactical retreat was probably the better part of valor.

But as he turned down the adjoining corridor, he saw another half dozen guards rush in from an adjoining hallway, and glancing back, he saw another half dozen behind the five fallen guards, the slightly stunned leader getting to his feet as soon as he shrugged off the unconscious body of the man he had accidentally tasered.

The leader looked at him, flinty eyes slightly glazed, lips curling into a sneer. "Yeah, Angel, I think we can take you."

Angel knew he had a loaded gun on his hip, but he was not going to shoot these men.

Even if it was the only way out of here. He was just going to have to do it the hard way. He wished that, one of these days, there'd be an easy way.

Ignoring his injury, Angel attacked the first group as they swarmed him en masse, like a hive of angry insects.

*********

Ignoring the background throb of the dull pain deep inside his brain, Bob took the elevator down to the basement, figuring Angel had been a stubborn bastard who decided to stay until Bob decided to clear out.

The scattered bodies and sound of a fight in progress told him he was absolutely correct.

As he stepped over unconscious, groaning guards-real ones, by the look of them-he noticed another come flying out of the adjoining hallway, hitting a metal door head first before he dropped to the beige carpet like a sack of hammers.

Maybe this was Angel's idea of fun.

He came around the corner, wary of flying bodies, and thought he saw the vamp in a knot of blue and black uniforms, a clot of struggling bodies like the body of a huge, ungainly insect trying to move into several different directions at once.

"Hey, Angel, wrap this up," he said. "I want to get out of this pit."

The seething mass of fighters seemed to stop as one, and look towards him, mostly baffled by his sheer audacity; Angel included.

One of the guards broke away from he main body and charged him with his taser out, but Bob simply glanced into his eyes, and told him, "Broken leg."

The guard's right leg seemed to give out beneath him, and he hit the floor screaming in pain, grabbing what he thought he was his snapped leg as Bob walked past him.

There was a moment of hesitant disbelief, then half the guards broke away from trying to subdue the bloodied Angel and came after him, drawing tasers and guns, dimly aware that stakes wouldn't work.

But those weren't going to work either.

He saw a guard unclip his radio and raise it to his mouth, and Bob knew he was going to call in reinforcements, as well as the discovery of the psychic disturbance in the building. "Shut up," he ordered, and while the guard opened his mouth, absolutely no sound came out. He kept trying to talk, eyes bulging in panic, and forgot all about his radio.

As he looked at the mass of guards swarming towards him, he sighed impatiently. What he had gotten out of McDonald was bad upon worst, and he didn't want to be here any longer than he had to be. Right now, he wanted to go somewhere quiet and have a nice, stiff drink. "Laughing gas," he said.

The mass of guards stopped as one, and then most burst out laughing, some dropping their weapons while others staggered to the wall, leaning against it for support. They were too high to remember their orders, or even care right now.

Angel threw one of the few guards left having at him over his back, nailing another guard, and of the few still sober and on his feet, one shouted, "Fall back!"

Before they could, he caught their startled and occasionally wounded gazes. "Nighty night, boys."

They toppled like toy soldiers, hitting the floor sometimes on top of one another, and the one Angel had been fighting ended up falling forward into his arms. Angel dropped him, startled, and looked at Bob curiously, his face still vamped and strangely kind of attractive, in an animalistic sort of way.T he blood streaking his face just added to his savage charm. "How the hell did you do that?"

"Never underestimate the power of suggestion, mate. Now come on, let's blow this pop stand." He carefully stepped over the dozing bodies of the guards, and Angel morphed back into human face as he walked by. Yeah, he preferred him in vamp face; made him seem more honest somehow.

Of course he could smell the blood on Angel, and saw the left side of his shirt was almost black with it, making it cling to him like he was the winner of the wet uniform shirt contest. "You okay?"

Angel stared at him, frowning. "Oh yeah, I always bleed like this."

He stared right back at him, ignoring his sarcasm, and wondered why he was even bothering. But, shit, he had asked him for his help, and he had come against his better judgment...although he continued to mistrust him, the racist bastard. Still, maybe he'd trust him enough to let him find out what was going on with the lovely Cordelia. "You're not bleeding."

"What? I was staked in the lung! Of course I-"

"Angel," he said firmly, grabbing his eyes and holding them with his, ignoring how the throbbing in his brain amped up its pulsing, like a larva trying to squirm its way out of an egg sac. "You aren't bleeding. You aren't hurt."

He blinked rapidly, released from the trance, and said, "Yes I am. I..."He trailed off, his dark brows drawing downward in sudden confusion, as he glanced at his chest, peeling the bloody shirt up for a better look.

In spite of all the blood, there wasn't a wound to be seen; his skin was as unblemished and eerily perfect as always. When Angel looked back up at him, he seemed slack jawed in astonishment. "How the fuck did you do that?"

"I didn't-haven't you ever heard of mind over matter?" He rubbed his temple, feeling the throb move there, and several radios burst to life around them, supervisors and overseers wanting the troops to give status reports on the situation, unaware no one was awake enough to give such a briefing. "You're going to have to lead the way to the sewer-I don't know the way."

Angel tucked his shirt back in-there was nothing Bob could do about the rip or the blood soaked into the fabric, as the shirt had no mind to reach-still giving him a strange look, somewhere between awe and deep suspicion. "Why not go back on the surface?"

"Because I just know the sun'll kill me," he said, with all honestly. Until he had a good, strong drink, he had the equivalent of a migraine. The Scanners were coming on hard and fast now-he had stayed with Lindsey too long. But boy, had he found out more than he wanted to know, and yet somehow also less too.

He pulled out his sunglasses and put them on, as Angel continued giving him a queer look. "Did you find out where Bellara is?"

"Not as such. Lindsey didn't know. But I think he narrowed down the choice of safe houses."

"Lindsey? You enthralled Lindsey McDonald?" Angel laughed, like it was the funniest joke he had ever heard.

"He hates your guts too."

"Well, at least it's mutual," Angel replied with a shrug, and then started stepping over bodies, heading for the sub-basement access, and Bob followed, hoping he could stand the smell of the sewer.

Bob didn't want to share his pessimism, but knowing what he now knew, it was hard to be optimistic. Deep in his heart, he really thought, when up against the wall, he would be a match for the virtually omnipotent Bellara. Now he knew he didn't have a virgin's chance at a vampire's 'coming out' party; he was screwed ten thousand times over. In fact, if they couldn't figure out some way to kill her, they all were.

As he massaged his knuckles into his aching forehead, trying to relieve the pressure, he wondered how bad it was outside, and if the killings had started yet.

Because they would, sooner rather than later. And what killed him was he didn't know how to stop it.

\12

Back at the Hyperion, Bob got a drink and all of them-Wesley, Gunn, Cordelia, a sick looking Bob and Angel-sat around the front desk and tried to put together the information they had.

And it just went to prove the old saying about things never being so bad that they couldn't in fact get worse. They hit the nadir, the very bottom of the well, and surprisingly, they kept on digging.

Bob had 'shared' a memory of Lindsey's-supposedly-that put him on the scene of Bellara's resurrection, although he was apparently clueless as to what was going on. She had been aided in her release by a warlock named Caliban, whom Angel was willing to bet was the man he'd seen with Nathan Reed in the basement level; Bob's description certainly jibed with the man he had seen.

But whom she had been released into was almost beyond belief.

"Marla?" Gunn exclaimed, glaring at him like he had just become one of the vacant people destroying cars in the streets outside. "She's dead. She took a short jump off a long roof."

"She landed in a dumpster," Bob replied, holding his tumbler of whiskey with both hands. He claimed he needed 'something strong-but no cheap stuff' to keep his head from exploding. While he seemed to be a little pale, with a definite bluish undertone to his skin by the time they got back, he seemed better now, the color in his face far more human. "She was rendered comatose, not dead."

And Angel remembered seeing her hit the dumpster. Damn it, he knew he should have checked it.

"But she's Liigon," Wesley interjected, looking slightly less glum. "She's an imperfect host."

"She's half Belial," Bob sighed, swirling the dregs of his whiskey around in his glass. "She's better than perfect. At least for their purposes."

"Half Belial? Well, that explained why she was evil," Gunn noted, with obvious irony. Bob frowned at him, but didn't show any further reaction.

"What do you mean better than perfect?" Wesley continued.

But Angel, who had just figured it out, answered first. "She's a full blown telepath. She may actually be enhancing Bellara's already formidable powers."

"Oh, wonderful," Cordy said, tapping her manicured fingernails impatiently on the desktop. "What's next?"

"Lindsey seems to think there's more going on, and so do I, but neither of us know what." Bob offered wearily.

"There is," Angel agreed, nodding, and informed the others of the ritual sacrifice scene he had found in the basement. He already had a demon dictionary in his lap in hopes of looking up the tall, lizardy demon he'd seen with Reed, but so far he hadn't the time.

"I had to ask," Cordy sighed, biting her lower lip in anxiety.

"Why would someone sacrifice a Hellhound?" Wesley asked, frowning in thought, his glasses sliding down to the tip of his nose.

"For the kicks?" Gunn suggested.

"There's another more immediate problem," Bob interjected, after gulping down the rest of his drink. "Lindsey received a memo, telling him to not watch the channel seven news at noon and six. He didn't know why, but I do."

"Noon?" Gunn repeated. "That's when all this shit started happening."

"Are you saying they got Marla...er,Bellara, on television?" Wesley wondered, pushing his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose. "But can Belials transmit their energy over such a broad medium?" He paused briefly, then threw up his hands." What am I saying? The rules don't apply here anymore."

"So you're saying she put the whammy on them through a t.v.?" Gunn actually looked slightly impressed. "I always knew t.v. could rot your mind."

"And she's going to do it again at six?" Wes continued. "We have to stop it."

"How?" Bob asked him, genuinely curious. "It's probably just a bit of film they subliminally inserted between adverts; she wouldn't need long at all."

"Neither would we," Gunn replied, his expression stony with grim resolve. "Blow up the channel seven transmitter. No signal, no brain scrambling."

"Gunn," Cordy exclaimed, shocked. "That's like...well, a major felony at the very least. And this is L.A.-screwing with television may warrant the death penalty."

"They're probably innocent victims," Angel told the young man. "They probably have no idea what they're sending over the airways."

"I don't care," Gunn said, a resurgent anger narrowing his lips to a thin line. "Who knows how many more people will be zombified by six, which is prime time for the news, by the way. We have to stop it, no matter how wack it seems. The ends justify the means."

Angel shook his head, reluctant to admit Gunn had a point-but he did. Could he think of a better way to stop the transmission?

"I have friends I can pay to interrupt the transmission, without resorting to blowin' stuff up real good," Bob said, setting the empty glass tumbler aside. He looked pretty much normal now, which was either good or bad, depending on your point of view. "But that's a temporary solution. If they can get it on one channel, theoretically they can get them on all of them. What we need to concentrate on is how we're going to kill her."

"Isn't that convenient-you know people who can stop it," Gunn said darkly, giving Bob a suspicious glare.

"What about that knife?" Angel interjected, as Bob glared back at Gunn. "The one I used to kill the Executioner-would it work on Bellara?"

Bob stopped glaring at Gunn long enough to look at him. "What, you mean this one?" He reached down, and pulled a slim leather knife sheath out from his boot, and slapped it on the counter between them. Angel recognized the bejeweled, filigreed gold handle, underneath what appeared to be leather strips wrapped around the bottom of the haft, allowing Bob to handle it without burning his hand.

Wesley picked it up first, carefully withdrawing it from the sheath, the lint glinting hard silver off the curved blade. "Extraordinary," he gasped, the blade doubled in the reflection of his glasses. "Didn’t you say this was blessed by a god? Which one?"

"Well, see, I'm not really sure. I just know it wasn't Ganesha," Bob replied, finally turning his attention away from the suspicious Gunn. "Don't get me wrong, he's a super nice god and all, a real dag, but he's half elephant, you know...there's an odor..."

Wes glanced at him sharply over the blade of the knife. "Are you saying you've met Ganesha?"

"What's a dag?" Cordelia wondered.

"Will this kill Bellara?" Angel asked, getting back to the point.

"It will kill Marla," Bob said, with a shrug. "But Bellara...I have no fucking idea. She could just flee the host body and find another."

"So we kill all the Belials around-she'll have nowhere to go," Gunn suggested, with a bitter sort of facetiousness.

Bob gave him a look that could have splattered his brains across the lobby tiles. "I know you're just bein' a bastard, but do you know how many Belials there actually are? The general ratio is one in ten: one of every ten people you meet will be Belials, or part Belial, whether they know it or not. Even you might have some Belial in your family; you'd be surprised how many humans do."

Gunn's dark hazel eyes narrowed to lethal slits, hands clenching into fists. "Take that back, asshole."

"Calm down-this isn't helping," Angel said, looking directly at Gunn. If Bob wanted to fight him ,he wouldn't have to get up out of his seat, and Gunn wouldn't land a single blow before losing quite badly-seeing what Bob had done to the security guards had convinced him Bob was a far more dangerous creature than he'd ever given him credit for. "Okay, so what do we know: Caliban, this warlock, has been casting 'chaos' spells randomly over the past two weeks, making normally peaceful demons go crazy, as preparation for something, something that might involve a seven foot demon and the sacrifice of both a Human and a Hellhound."

"And Marla's made half the town her personal playthings via the boob tube," Bob said, glancing away from Gunn. It was clear he was tempted to hurt him, but he was trying to restrain the urge.

"And we still have no idea how to kill her," Cordelia offered, resting her forearms on the desktop. It looked like she was weary enough to put her head down. "Or even how to slow her down. Guys, this sucks."

"I can hit my connections," Bob said, sounding defeated. "Somebody has to know something more than this."

"Yeah, you," Gunn spat angrily at him, although he turned his corrosive gaze towards Angel. "This guy is playing us."

Wesley resheathed the knife reluctantly, and opined, "It is what Belials do best. But so far there's no proof of that. Yet."

Bob shook his head, sneering contemptuously. "You bloody racist bastards !I put my ass on the line here, and you keep giving me all this stereotypical bullshit!"

"You brought her here," Gunn pointed out, continuing to glare daggers at him.

"And you did do that mojo thing to me when you first came here," Cordy added, although she sounded far more forgiving than Gunn.

"Because there's something wrong with you, love," he told her, and seemed to instantly realize he didn't phrase that right, his electric blue eyes widening in embarrassment. "No, I didn't mean it like that."

It was her turn to glare at him. She crossed her arms over her chest, scowling, hazel eyes as cold as ice. "Too bad we can't hook him to a lie detector. Preferably one that delivers electrical shocks to the testicles for every line of bullshit."

After every man around the desk winced, Wesley told her, "No lie detector works on a Belial."

"No mechanical lie detector," Angel mused, thinking aloud.

Wesley cocked his head, giving him a curious look. "What do you mean-"he began, but then tapered off, pale blue eyes widening as he suddenly understood what he meant. "Oh, I see. That's a good idea."

"What's a good idea?" Bob asked, looking between them and frowning sourly.

As Bob retrieved his blessed dagger, Angel asked him, unable to keep the smile off his face, "Ever heard of a place called Caritas?"

13

Maybe the fact that Bob admitted he had heard of Caritas, and yet had no reluctance to go, should have been a giveaway. But that was one of those wonderful lessons you learned best in retrospect.

As soon as they entered the dark, moodily lit club, the air thick with scents of demon, alcohol, and fear, the Host's crimson eyes widened upon seeing them, and he happily exclaimed, "Bob!"

The Anagogic demon embraced the Belial in a big bear hug, and Bob slapped him on the back like an old pal. "Long time no see! Where have you been you goddamn liar?" The Host asked with obvious humor, a beaming grin splitting his green scaled face. The Host looked over his shoulder, and said, "Hanging out with these guys?"

"No, this is new, and temporary," Bob told him, as the bartender working the opposite side of the bar reached over and left a glass of water within Bob's reach.

Angel knew this was all a really bad sign.

The club seemed almost full, unusual for this time of day ,but by the scent of fear and heavy drinking, he guessed the events outside were even getting to the demon population, at least as far as freaking them out. But Bellara could control them just as well as the Humans ,and even if they didn't know who was doing it, they had to suspect the danger.

"Full house," Angel noted, glancing at the Host, who had finally released Bob and retrieved his own drink, which was certainly not water-not with that little paper umbrella in it. And he assumed he'd dressed in a hurry, or to match his eyes, because his bright purple suit sort of clashed with his skin.

The Host nodded, giving his club an additional once over. "Normally most of these guys couldn't give a crap about Humans-well, except when it came to food-but now they're scared. What's happening is wicked bad, and they know they could be feeling the pain of it soon enough. Most of them want me to read them before they leave town."

Angel noticed that the noise he kept hearing in the background-a sort of arrhythmic burping and aborted, wounded howling-could actually be traced to the small, spot lit stage, where a local Slime demon known as 'Smelly Ken' (and for damn good reason-he smelled like a cabbage boiled in fermented urine-and yet, he seemed oblivious to it) was belching out a song Angel couldn't even begin to recognize. All he knew was he wanted him to stop now before he guaranteed he had no future; from the number evil glares and plugged ears in the unwilling audience, there were a lot of people obviously willing to back him up. "Is that why you and the Justice League are here, Angel cakes?" The Host continued, taking a sip of his drink.

"Can you make him stop?" Cordy asked first, pointing towards Smelly Ken.

The Host's thin red lips curved down in a mock frown, the horns on his forehead moving slightly as his brow furrowed. "Honey, I wish. If I could have, I would have already. He never knows when to stop or when to leave. And I always have to air the place out afterwards."

"Anything new on the song list?" Bob asked.

That seemed to perk the Host back up. "Just a couple for you, sweetie. Most demons prefer to live in the past, you know."

The bartender-a young man who looked Human but didn't smell like it-passed by long enough to put the updated song list on the bar before Bob, giving him a look of barely contained awe as he did so.

"Fuck the past," Bob said dismissively, scanning the list. "It sucked. No electricity, no indoor plumbing, disco. Maybe they'd feel differently if they spent roughly a year on a British prison ship."

"Are you kidding? I think that's the latest attraction at Disneyland," the Host replied, giving him a sly smile.

Bob looked up at him and smiled back. "Really? Cool. I need to go on the scurvy simulator. Maybe we could go together."

"It's a date," the Host agreed. "Oh, and you remember our deal, don't you?"

Bob nodded. "Of course. Would I cheat you?"

After a moment, the pair of them laughed as if on cue, the line apparently an old joke between them, and the Host slapped Bob on the shoulder. "Come on, my little shish-ka-Bob, you can help me evict Smelly Ken."

"With pleasure," he agreed, following the Host as he wended his way past full tables towards the stage.

"Anyone get the feeling we've been set up?" Gunn wondered.

"We never asked how well he knew Caritas," Wesley said, but even he sounded defeated.

"At least it seems safe in here," Cordelia added, taking a seat on a bar stool. "If a bit stinky."

"For now, but there's no telling how long that will last," Wes replied, taking the empty stool beside her.

They had all taken the sewer tunnels to get here, mainly because they were safer in a group, and things seemed to be getting even weirder outside. Nothing truly bad-beyond the mass destruction of property-had happened yet, but Bob felt she was 'cementing' her hold, and from the look in the possessed's eyes-which had been glazed, but now just seemed hollow, the eyes of department store mannequins, flat and lifeless-Angel believed he was telling the truth.

The Host had to rip the microphone out of Smelly Ken's hands, and Ken went to grab it back, but Bob stepped up and glared at him over the Host's shoulder. Angel couldn't tell if Bob was using his powers or if he was simply being intimidating-he towered a good foot over Ken (if you didn't count Ken's antlers),and certainly had better muscle tone than the scrawny, oozing Slime demon. Ken stepped back, rather than go for the microphone again, and there was a huge sigh of relief from the crowd.

"Thank you, Ken, that was really...different," the Host said, turning on his charm and pasting on a smile. Smelly Ken seemed to give Bob a wide berth as he made his way off stage, nearly tripping on the blue velvet curtain that served as a backdrop.

As Smelly Ken made his way to the exit, he stopped and stared at Angel with small, hateful eyes, and then said something very fast and somewhat strangled, spittle flying from his lips in a fine spray before he turned and stalked away. Luckily, none of the spittle hit.

"Did he just curse at you in Welsh?" Wesley asked, astonished.

"I think so." Sometimes he forgot Smelly Ken claimed to be Welsh, although he doubted that.

"Nice to know he's a fan," Cordy said ironically, waving a hand in front of her nose.

"Now you're in for a real treat," the Host continued, sounding genuinely happy now that Smelly Ken had left the building. "The man who put the 'arming' in 'charming', our own Maximum Bob."

There was a polite round of applause as Bob smiled at the Host and took the microphone from him, and the music, which Angel didn't recognize at first, started as the Host left the stage.

Angel pondered when Bob had told the Host what he wanted to sing, because he had missed that, but maybe it had occurred during the Smelly Ken spitting fit.

As the Host joined them again, Angel went up to him and asked," Can you-"

"I can't read him," he interrupted, before Angel could even finish the sentence.

"What?" Gunn exclaimed, sounding pissed off. "Then what the hell was that all about?"

Bob started singing then. It was Radiohead's 'No Surprises'-not a traditional karaoke favorite, so he thought it was forgivable that he didn't recognize it at first-but the club went so quiet you could have heard a pin drop.

Bob could actually sing. He had a smooth but powerful voice that seemed to build in all the right lyrical places, coming straight from the diaphragm and soaring straight towards the rafters. It was the voice of a trained, professional singer, and Bob had no right to have it. Everybody in the club seemed utterly rapt, hardly moving, not even drinking, just staring in wide eyed astonishment. Even Wes, Cordy, and Gunn looked like they were in shock.

"Why can't you read him?" Angel asked the Host, refusing to be sucked in by his siren song.

The Host seemed to have to tear himself away from Bob, and annoyance flashed through his ruby eyes. "He's too much; he's an overload that threatens to blow out my speakers. It's like I'm a cable modem and he's digital." Angel stared blankly at him, and he said, "Too new fangled for you, big guy? He's FM, I'm AM-we just have a different set of psychic wavelengths, sweetie. But he can't work his voodoo on me either, so we're even. Now hush, I want to hear him sing. After Smelly Ken, I deserve this."

Angel leaned against the bar, frowning, and as he looked at the audience, he noticed at least three demons suddenly burst into tears, including a Butcher demon, which he was reasonably certain couldn't cry. He shook his head, and, leaning over, muttered to Cordy, "He's not that good."

But she shushed him, waving her hand at him like he was an annoying fly, never taking her eyes off Bob. In fact, if he was a thief, this would have been an optimum time to circulate through the crowd and lift wallets, as no one seemed to be paying attention to anything but Bob.

At least it wasn't a long song, and as the music came to an end, there was a single moment of pure quiet before the audience suddenly erupted in applause and cheers, many actually bouncing up to their feet enthusiastically.

"He missed his calling on Broadway," the Host said, coming up beside Angel again. He seemed ready to talk now.

"Why make him sing if this was a waste of time?"

The Host's eyes almost bulged out of his head." Are you serious? Didn't you just hear him?"

The audience was only now starting to taper off in the cheering and whistling. "He's not that good," Angel said defensively.

The Host stared at him a moment, and then gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. "Jealousy is very unbecoming, dear heart."

"Jealous? Of him?" Angel scoffed, aware that it made him sound bitter. He wasn't-Bob was okay, maybe, but he didn't deserve a standing ovation. "I don't think so."

A second song started while Bob was still on stage. Bob smiled, and said into the mike, "Why don't we lighten the mood a bit, huh?"

Much to Angel's horror, he recognized the music as the theme from 'Shaft'. Oh, he was not going to sing that, was he?!

"Why is he still singing?" He asked the Host, appealing for help.

"That's our deal-if he comes to sing, he has to do two songs," he explained, downing the rest of his cocktail and then putting the empty glass on the bar, singling for the bartender to give him a refill. "You don't trust him, do you?"

Angel knew he was talking about Bob." Of course not-he's a Belial demon."

"Just like vampires are always bad, Belials are always bad?"

"Well...yeah."

"Then why haven't you staked yourself yet?" The Host shot back, as the bartender refilled his glass, nearly spilling, as his eyes were fixed on Bob.

"That's different and you know it-I have a soul."

"And he has a conscience, as well as common sense. He didn't have to help you kill the Executioner, you know-and yes, I know about that too." He picked up his drink and swirled it around, eyes scudding towards Bob and then back to him. "Have you ever asked yourself why he did that?"

"Because he said he didn't want his customer base being killed off."