"So you can't tell when a Belial's lying to you? He doesn't need a customer base: he has more money than either of us could probably contemplate. And if he wanted power-and I mean the real deal, honey, not penny ante 'rule the Los Angeles underground' power; I mean full blown 'rule the world' sort of power-he could have it any time he wanted. I think you know that too, now."

Angel refused to answer that, although he was pretty sure the Host already knew what he'd say. "Just because he could abuse his power and doesn't does not make him a 'good' guy."

"No. But to give you the quick and dirty answer you want, I wouldn't hesitate to trust him with my life. If he's offering his help, Angel, take it: if he wanted to play you, he wouldn't put up with your crap; he'd just do it and leave. You're going to have to take a leap of faith and trust him - all our lives may depend on it. Besides, isn't he trusting you to help him? Return the favor."

Angel scowled at Bob on stage, still not convinced. Now he had the audience clapping and laughing with his campy, lounge lizard-y version of 'Shaft', and many were even singing along. It was truly disturbing.

Finally, he came to the end of the thing, calling out, "Who's the private dick who's a sex machine to all the chicks?"

"Shaft!" The crowd shouted back.

"No," Bob replied, and to Angel's horror, he pointed right towards him. "Angel!"

The crowd erupted into sharp, violent laughter, including the Host, Gunn, and Wesley; Cordy was doubled over and nearly falling off her stool laughing.

Angel hid his face in his hands, and quietly vowed to killed Bob as painfully as possible once the opportunity arose.

"You've been a great audience," Bob said, putting the mike back in its stand. "Drive safe, and enjoy the veal." That last bit of faux stage patter made the Host laugh that much harder.

As Bob came off stage, a green skinned female Stansin demon, who had a table near the front, got up and intercepted him. As she leaned in to whisper something to him, her whip thin tail wrapped around his waist, and she pulled what appeared to be a piece of paper out of her cleavage, which seemed to be mostly spilling out of her leather tank top. Angel assumed the paper had her phone number on it, until she rather deftly, and to Bob's surprise, shoved it down the front of his pants. As he walked away, back towards them, he smiled at her and made a 'call me' gesture that made Angel roll his eyes.

Only Bob would have groupies.

"So, how about a beer?" He asked the Host, ignoring the glare Angel was now shooting in his direction.

"We're going now," Angel said, grabbing him by the arm and heading towards the exit.

Bob pulled out of his vice grip, frowning. "Oh, come on, Angel-if you can't laugh at yourself, who can you laugh at?"

Angel was about to tell him when the explosion rocked the club.

It was somewhere outside, and relatively close: it shook the floor like a temblor, making glasses rattle on slightly unsteady tables, overhead lights swinging slightly, and everyone standing grabbed onto something to keep from stumbling.

The good mood Bob had infused the room with was suddenly gone, and several startled demons quickly headed for the exit, tables shoved aside with loud scrapes in their haste.

"What the hell was that?" The Host asked, shocked.

"Sounded like a truck in the street," Bob opined. "A big one."

Gunn nodded in agreement. "One of the zombies probably punctured the gas tank."

"On accident or on purpose?" A suddenly sober Cordelia asked, looking between them.

But they could only shrug, as there was no way to know.

Angel actually hated to leave the Host like this, but they had no choice. Things were still escalating outside, and they still had no answers.

So they were going to have to find them elsewhere. Fast.

14

Bob claimed to know someone he thought could help them, a guy he called Lucas, who had the largest and most obscure collection of demon related tomes in all of known Southern California. Angel thought that was Giles's personal collection, and Wesley argued that the largest known collection in the state was actually near San Diego, but Bob insisted this was a private collection virtually no one knew about.

They all grew more dubious about this when he led them to a posh but small modern art gallery just outside of Beverly Hills.

A thoroughly modern facade of white sandblasted stone and steel gray pillars that made the wide staircase leading to the front of the building look like the restored portico of a Roman ruin, they had to come up in the parking lot behind it, and even then Angel had to drape his duster over himself and dart for the shadows, as it was far too exposed and still too sunny. He made it, only smoking a bit, but damn if it wasn't painful-it felt like his own skin was trying to crawl off his body and hide.

Only a small brass plaque by the entrance identified the place: 'Black Star Gallery'.

No one else had ever heard of it, and Cordy claimed she had never even seen it before in this part of town, but with no mind to them at all Bob went inside, the door opening for him automatically, and the others followed reluctantly.

He led them down cool, snow white painted narrow halls, high ceilinged, brightly lit and laid out like a minor but still baffling labyrinth, with doorways and even alternate corridors sometimes hidden behind trompe l'oeil and exhibits on equally blindingly white pillars.

The 'exhibits' were austerely placed, with little more than ten in each corridor, and all leaning towards the surreal, from a disturbing painting of melting eyes to a marble 'bust' that was actually just part of a head and chest with the skin peeled on the left side, exposing skeleton and muscle beneath.

"Now I know why I don't go to art galleries," Gunn noted quietly, his voice still echoing subtly, as there was no sound here at all save for their own footsteps and the hum of an unseen air conditioner.

Cordelia, wearing a v-neck red tank top and a short black skirt that had been perfect for the overly hot and sunny outdoors, shivered in this strangely sepulchral place, but Gunn, in a chivalrous gesture, gave her the black leather jacket he didn't seem to leave home without. It was too big, and she complained that it 'looked old', but she accepted it anyways, shrugging it on quickly as Bob finally stopped in front of a ceramic mask hanging at the end of this particular hall.

It could have been a Human death mask, molded from a corpse's face (and didn't he see the thin lines of stitches holding both the mouth and eyes shut?),painted bright blue and decorated with Native American looking symbols, save for the huge black star in the middle of the mask's forehead. Bob looked into the mask, and said, "Luke, it's me. It's business."

"Your friend is a mask?" Cordy asked, staring at him like he was a living bomb that could go off at any time.

But Angel felt it then; it was like a ripple that you registered inside your bones rather than outside on your skin, with a time delayed sort of tingle that stopped just as soon as it got started.

"A glamour," Wesley breathed, obviously feeling the magicks too, as the wall-mask included-seemed to disappear in front of Bob, revealing an old fashioned freight elevator, not unlike the one that used to be in the first building that housed Angel Investigations.

Bob simply got in, utterly unperturbed, and looked at them expectantly. "Well? We ain't got all day."

Again they followed, still dubious of this entire enterprise, but at this point they didn't have much to lose.

The ride was smooth and fairly brief, taking them down an entire floor at the very least, and when the door slid open, it was like they had entered another world.

It was a cavernous expanse, a maze of seven foot tall cherry wood bookshelves filling the background, while the foreground was set up like a luxurious living room, with a long, overstuffed cerulean sofa and a pile of huge, multicolored floor pillows placed atop an authentic Persian rug, while the wall it faced was full of...screens?

No-the largest one in the center, about six feet tall and eight feet wide, was a tropical fish tank with genuine white sand and orange coral formations on the bottom, and jewel tone hued fish swimming idly by, graceful in their mindless motion. The much small glass squares above it were indeed screens: the two in the center appeared to be t.v. screens, with the two other screens bracketing them security camera monitors. On either end of the fish tank were two more built in screens, but these were obviously computer monitors, running through web pages at such a rapid rate they were little more than photonic blurs.

The lights from the LCD displays flickered on the floor and across the sofa like flames, while the bookcase maze was lit with halogens so bright they seemed to mimic the sun, and Angel unconsciously shied away from it before he got a hold of himself.

As Bob walked across the delicately patterned rug, a voice suddenly emerged from the bookcases. "I haven't found shite on killing Belials so old they can exist as psychic energy, and I told you I'd call you if I did, you right bastard." A woman said, sounding annoyed, her voice containing a trace of an English accent-Northumbrian, if he wasn't mistaken.

"Luke, it's about something else. And I've brought ... well, people. People and a vamp."

Did he really need to add that? Were not vampires people too? Okay, dead people, but still...

"What?!" The woman sounded extremely pissed off, and they could hear rapid footfall between the stacks." What the hell are you doing bringing some god damned blood sucking leech here, Bob?"

"This leech has a soul," Gunn called out, and then looked back at him with a grimace. "No offense intended, man."

Angel scowled at him, but didn't say a word.

"And that's supposed to impress me how?" The woman carped, finally emerging from the stacks. Angel didn't know what he had been expecting, but not her; she was lovely enough that Angel knew his breath would have been knocked out of his body if he did, in fact, breathe.

Although clad in a humble pair of blue jeans and a gray and purple baseball style t-shirt, it showed off a wonderfully lithe, athletic body, and made her face-as pale and delicately featured as a china doll's-look that much more youthful. Her chestnut colored hair was cut short in a boyish style, but that only served to show off an Audrey Hepburn-ish type neck, slender and graceful. In spite of the obvious annoyance in her fire blue eyes-she was a Belial too-she was so beautiful even Wesley seemed to pause.

She glanced at them all, and snorted derisively, putting a hand on her hip. "What a motley crew. Who the fuck are these people?"

Bob didn't even look, he simply pointed over his shoulder at them. "Cordelia Chase, Charles Gunn, Angel, and Wesley Wyndham-Price. And try to stay below NC-17 with the language, okay Luke?"

"I don't censor myself for anyone," she shot back, scowling at him.

"You're Luke?" Angel asked, stunned. He had been expecting a man with that kind of name.

"And you're Angel, the soul sucking leech," She replied coldly.

"Blood sucking leech," he automatically responded, only realizing what he had said after it had fallen out of his mouth. "No, I didn't mean that-"

"Where do you think you're going?" She snapped, turning her attention to Wesley, who had started wandering down one of the aisles, a nearly blissful look on his face as he gazed in awe at the shelves upon shelves of neat stacked ancient-and not so ancient-tomes.

"This is...magnificent," he finally decided, intently scanning the spines of the books. "Why on Earth have you hidden it all away?"

"Because these are mine," Luke said, following close behind him and watching him like a hawk. "And no one gave you permission to touch anything, four eyes."

He looked at her sharply. "Four eyes?"

"He's a former watcher, love-I'm sure he'll be careful," Bob advised, walking over to her, taking her arm, and gently pulling her aside. "Now, do me a favor, and listen to the shit that's hit the fan since this morning."

But then Bob fell silent, saying nothing yet still holding her arm in his, and Luke herself seemed to stare off at a nowhere point somewhere across the room, frowning at nothing.

"Did I just go deaf?" Cordy wondered.

"He's showing it to her," Angel guessed, fascinated. "Telepathically-or as close to Belials get to it, at any rate." It was a strange notion, although intriguing - it must have saved a lot of time.

Bob let go of her arm, and her frown deepened. "Wow, when you fuck things up, you do it up big, don't ya?"

He shrugged with his hands. "Well, what can you do? Why do you think they call me Maximum Bob?"

"I thought it was due to the size of the monster in your pants," Luke said, walking after Wesley again.

"Now what would you know about that? "Bob replied, smiling.

"Oh yeah, like I haven't met any of your girlfriends."

"Say what?" Cordelia asked, looking equally dubious and intrigued.

Bob turned towards her, and gave her a charming if slightly embarrassed smile.""You'll have to forgive her-her mind's as dirty as her mouth is."

But as he turned away, back towards Luke and Wesley, Angel noticed both Cordy and a curious Gunn glancing towards Bob's crotch.

Oh god-could things get any worse?

"You might want to go down there, next bookshelf over and on the left," Luke told Wesley grudgingly, pointing the way. "The Volumes of Ahkmen are down there, and they catalog every blood ritual known to man and beast. But be careful handlin' it, 'cause it's fragile, and if you break it, you bought it."

"The Volumes of Ahkmen?" Wes repeated, eyeing her warily. "Those were all destroyed in a fire centuries ago."

Luke snorted derisively. "Do you believe everything you read?"

"Now behave yourself, Luke-I have to go," Bob told her, with a sort of paternal sternness, pulling what looked like a business card out of his pants pocket. He put it up against a bookshelf, and started writing something on it.

Where had he gotten the pen?

"Where do you think you're going?" Angel wondered.

"Hey, I ain't babysitting no humans for you," Luke complained, nearly stepping on Angel's question.

"They will be helping you search, Luke," he replied casually, answering her first. "And I have to go track down some mercs I know to disrupt the channel seven transmitter. We're gettin' down to time here."

"I'll go with you," Angel said. As intriguing a place as this was, a combination of control center, library,and really swinging bachelor pad-and as alluring as Luke was (in spite of her attitude and her mouth)-he wasn't about to let Bob go off by himself. Maybe the Host had a point about trusting him, but how could he?

"Nope, you'd scotch the deal, Batman," Bob said, turning to him and holding out the card. Angel glanced at it before taking it; Bob had scribbled his cell phone number and home address on it. On the back of an Angel Investigations card, in fact-when had he gotten this?

Once a thief, always a thief.

"Maybe you're unaware of this," Bob continued. "But a lot of demons hate your stinking rotting guts, mate."

"They are not rotting," he snapped, not willing to admit he had a point .But Bob did, and he knew he did: Angel would never be voted 'Most Beloved' of the demon community. Bob might be though, judging from all the reactions he seemed to get. And that made him instantly suspicious, Belial demon or not. "Who are these 'mercs', anyways?"

"A pair of Phoson demons, the kind that can channel electrical impulses. I can get them to disrupt broadcasts from six to seven at least-just their proximity to the transmitter will probably short it out but good."

"And they'd help you why?" Gunn asked, still suspicious. That made Angel feel better.

Bob gave him a knowing and slightly patronizing smile. "Cold hard cash."

Gunn nodded, sold. "That'll work."

"I'll try and be back, but I may have to run home and get my contact book. I'm gonna see if I can't find someone with Woolham and Shark connections who may have the skinny on what's going on. I don't care how secretive they are-they're too big not to have leaks somewhere. Call me if you get something; I'll have my cell." Bob then walked over to Luke, and gave her a peck on the cheek. "Don't kill them, darlin'."

"I will if you don't get back here soon," she warned him, giving them all a suspicious look. But she gave Bob a firm hug around the waist, and a peck on the cheek in return. "Don't get killed."

"Who, me? I'm Maximum Bob-larger than life, and twice as nasty."

"You wish," she said, giving him a final pat on the back, and then went in pursuit of Wesley. "Hey, gobshite, fifth shelf! Jesus, can't you can't you read Sumerian?!"

As Bob walked past him, Angel grabbed his arm, and whispered, "If you try and double cross us..."

Bob gave him a hard, angry stare. "If I wanted to do that, Liam ,I could've already." He then yanked his arm away ,and gave Cordy and Gunn a presumably charming smile. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"I don't think that narrows it down at all," Cordy said, although...did she just give Bob a faint smile? Oh no, she couldn't have!

"No, guess not," he agreed, giving her a wink, his smile growing more broad and flirtatious.

Before Angel could make a retching sound (gods knew he felt like it-did Cordy forget he'd tried to enthrall her this morning?),Bob disappeared into the elevator, and as the door slid shut, Angel could swear he heard him singing, under his breath: "It's the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine..."

Bob would. He just knew it.

"Oi, are you guys just rubberneckers, or can you read?" Luke asked sarcastically, as Wesley delicately removed from a high shelf a book about the size and shape of a cement block (and from the way he grimaced, it probably weighed as much)."Come on, parasite, you can help me find something on old geezer Belials."

It took Angel a moment a minute to realize she was referring to him.

Oh crap-and he had thought dealing with Bob was fun.

15

When she realized her meeting with Leonard Mitchell-an associate of Nathan Reed's-had been cancelled, Lilah Morgan was instantly, although only momentarily, terrified.

A change like that could never be good; experience had taught her that. But when Nathan called her and told her Lindsey had been removed from the Bellara case and it was now hers, she was elated. Okay, so the only reason Lindsey was kicked to the curb was because Bellara didn't like him and preferred to deal with women anyways, but it still felt like a victory worth savoring: poor Lindsey. He'd even been born the wrong gender.

She quietly gloated all the way to the safe house situated near Laurel Canyon, a large, Victorian style three story that resembled nothing so much as a giant child's dollhouse. It was only used for really important clients, big wigs, and she couldn't remember the last time it had been occupied: it had too many windows with Eastern and Southern exposure to be friendly to vampires, and the carpets were far too nice to waste on something slimy or dripping or otherwise capable of breaking the 'no messy kills in the house' rules.

But from what little she understood, the way Bellara killed didn't leave a mess. Only a corpse.

In fact, as she pulled her Lexus up into the driveway, a white 'cleaner truck' (disguised as a 'Wilson and Hahn Carpet Cleaning Service' van-very cute),was loading what looked like rolled up carpets and mats in the back of the truck-but up close, it was clear they were loading lumpy rolls of fabric into a refrigerated van.

Bellara must have just had lunch-good. Then she wouldn't have to worry about her getting peckish during the meeting. She didn't know the exact mechanics of how she killed, but honestly she didn't want to know.

She entered the home as the last two cleaners left, the roll held between them, although they had to stop for a minute when the corpse's arm came loose and slid out from between the fabric. She left them in the foyer, tucking it back in more securely, as she headed up the stairs.

"Bellara? It's Lilah Morgan, from Wolfram and Hart," she called out, in her most cheerful, professional voice. She had no idea what she'd do if surprised.

It was as dark as a grave on the second floor, all the heavy velvet drapes pulled against the sun, and she wondered why, getting a bad feeling in her stomach, until she heard a familiar, almost childlike voice purr, "Oh goody-they sent the wicked one."

Drusilla was here.

Lilah frowned to herself, but made sure to paste her smile firmly back on before she entered the open doorway of the room where she had heard the voice. At one time, she had found Dru creepy, and to some degree she still did, but mostly she just found her annoying, like a persistent but minor ache that never quite went away no matter what you did. She really was surprised the crazy little bitch had lasted this long without getting staked, but her 'seeing' abilities and tendency to team up with much more perceptive (and violent) vampires-Angelus, Darla, Spike-had probably saved her a thousand times over. Too bad.

Lilah entered what looked like a drawing room, also very dark due to the drawn curtains, but there was some light coming from the big screen television that took up most of the left side wall. It was showing news footage of a large group of people in the street-maybe Mulholland, she wasn't sure-piling up stolen goods and broken off bits of cars in a large pile, then lighting it up, creating a bonfire turned funeral pyre, as an internal explosion with the scrap heap threw out a gout of flame that set four people standing around it on fire as well. They didn't seem to notice, even as their hair burnt away, and their flesh started to melt.

Lilah then noticed Bellara had the 'picture in picture' going, showing more footage, this time of people playing demolition derby on the freeway, shattered glass glittering like jewels on the macadam as cars burned in the background and bodies were smeared like so much pate over the roadway.

"I'm getting bored," Bellara said, blowing out a cloud of smoke. Bellara-whom she still couldn't help but think of as Marla (Marllara? The thought almost made her genuinely smile)-was lounging on the end of the red velvet daybed, smoking a filterless cigarette, her electric blue eyes lambent in the gloom. Dru was sitting on the floor, back against the daybed, clutching a porcelain doll that was so dark haired, pale, and glassy eyed it resembled Dru in great detail.

"Things are going to plan," Lilah said, not sure how to address that. The carnage didn't bother her-most of those dumb assholes deserved whatever they got-but the idea that this could spill onto Rodeo Drive bothered her-she had some custom jewelry on order, and a Cartier watch in for repairs. "The Senior Partners are very pleased-"

"Like I give a shit," Bellara growled, stubbing her cigarette out violently on her own forearm. The smell of singed flesh wafted through the room ,a nauseating scent that made Lilah wince and swallow hard, but Bellara didn't feel or smell anything she obviously couldn't live with. "I don't have enough toys. I want more."

"Toys?" Lilah didn't even want to guess what she meant.

Bellara impatiently waved a hand towards the t.v. screen. "Pets. I need more. They're dying off too quickly."

"I assure you you'll get more than you can stand. We intend to live up to our end of the bargain."

Lilah noticed Dru staring at her, wide eyed, but had tried to ignore it. But Dru stood up in a flare of velvet skirts, her blue eyes as shiny as silver dollars, and said. "Oooh, you smell like Bob."

"What?" Was that an insult? What the hell was that supposed to mean? Crazy bitch.

Dru gave her that empty headed smile she knew all too well (could Dru smile any other way?),and held her hands in front of her eyes. "Peek a boo," Dru said in a sing song voice, like you might for a child, before lifting her hands away, as if shading them from the non-existent sun. "He saw you."

"What the hell are you on about now?" Lilah snapped at her. If she had a stake right now ,instead of just the cross in her purse, she'd get rid of the loon once and for all.

But Bellara sat forward, staring at her so intently she could feel the pull of her eyes, like a palpable force trying to tug her towards her. Lilah then felt something in her mind, a sudden sharp pain as if someone was trying to split her mind open with a chisel, and as she cried out and held her head in her hands, the pain-and the feeling of a violent trespass-stopped. "A bloodchild," Bellara gasped, sounding equally shocked and enraged. "A bloodchild is trying to subvert me."

Lilah felt something let go in her mind-it was like a dam breaking-and she remembered a man suddenly appearing beside at the elevator, as she was leaving Wolfram and Hart. "Turn to me," he said, and she had been unable to resist.

A really good looking man with nicely defined delts and pecs, the kind she might date if he had any money, except his eyes were just like Bellara's: too bright and blue to be real, and consumptive, as if they were a psychic cancer coming from the outside in.

And he made her tell him who was in charge of the Bellara case. Shit-was that the real reason Lindsey was kicked off the case?

What if they found out she told him?!

Belatedly, she recognized him from a file photograph: Robert 'Maximum Bob' Oberon, the purported head of the L.A. demon black market-and the man bringing Bellara here in the first place. Shit! Did they actually think he'd never figure out who stole her? And that he wouldn't want some sort of revenge, as well as to get her back?

"I want him," Bellara exclaimed, jumping to her feet, anger making her face flush an anoxic blue. "I want this traitorous bloodchild brought to me now."

Bloodchild had to be code for a fellow Belial: considering how old she was, everyone had to be a child to her. Rubbing her aching forehead,a nd trying hard to look at the general direction of her face without actually looking at her eyes, Lilah said, "You'll have him, I promise."

Lilah didn't bother to say she had no idea how they'd capture a Belial demon almost as powerful as she was ;that was for the higher ups to worry about.

16

"I'm awake," Cordelia exclaimed, jolting awake on the comfortable sofa in Luke's underground lair.

But looking around, she saw there was no around her to care, unless she counted the fish, or the big heavy book in her lap, which was currently open to a page showing a full color sketch of something called an Schzvrik demon (which looked like it was mostly jaw, with four legs and little squiggly things hanging off of it that looked like it had stuck bits of toilet paper all over itself-cut itself body shaving?),and she could swear the drawing was glaring at her.

She shut the book, and rubbed her dry eyes, wondering what time it was.

For some damn reason, her watch had picked today to break-if it was still today. Maybe it wasn't. Still, the damn thing was frozen at about five minutes before noon-could Bob have accidentally done that? Powerful psychic energy could fry delicate things, right? Well, he owed her a watch; she knew he had the money for it.

She guessed he wasn't back yet. He had called in several times to confirm the hiring of the Phoson demons, and report things had gotten so bad on the street he could barely move around, meaning they should stick to the sewers from now on. Not a happy thought at all. There were things down there she never wanted to smell ever again in her entire lifetime. Last call they got from him-well, that she was awake to hear-he was headed home to start calling contacts about 'Fulcrap and Sharp' (him and his silly names-either that, or a bad connection).

Angel still wanted one of Luke's t.v.'s turned to channel seven before six, just to make sure Bob was telling the truth. Luke proceeded to curse him out in that almost coherent way of hers, but did turn the channel, informing him, "He hasn't ever let me down, you plasma sucking crock of shite. What, you think he's so bleedin' bored he has nothing better than to take the piss out of you?"

She had a good point, but Angel didn't concede it, even though he was clearly attracted to her.

Luke did tune in, with Angel adding the unnecessary caveat that no one should look at the screen (well, duh).No one was watching when the station suddenly went off the air at five fifty six-it stayed dead air until close to eight.

But other news channels confirmed what Bob had said-it was getting worse. People were killing each other now, having gone beyond simply harming themselves. And the media was blaming so many lame things-gas leak, tainted food or drugs, massive hysteria, rioting, even gang activity-that Cordy found herself wondering if Principal Snyder was actually alive and working in public relations for the city.

She was still tired, and her head still hurt .She thought her little ,inadvertent nap would have helped, but she'd swear it had gotten worse. It felt like her whole head was pulsing with her heartbeat, a visible, throbbing wound.

She wondered if Luke had some aspirin in this super-secret hideout of hers.

**************

At the end of one corridor of bookcases was a desk, a basic white particle board type, the kind you bought cheap at IKEA and assembled yourself. Because it was so basic and inexpensive, it seemed out of place here.

But Luke had made up for that by piling it high with high tech equipment: two computers-a custom built pc and a laptop iBook (not unlike the one Angel had seen in Bob's seedy back room office so long ago-they were both high tech demons who shopped at the same place)-sat at either side of the desk, with vertical rectangles of connected hard drives under the desk, threatening the kneecaps of anyone unaware of their presence.

That was where Angel found Luke, sitting in a rather plush wheeled office chair, looking between the two computer screens, which were both using a 'hunter' program she designed to scour the web for any references to 'Belial, life span of' and ‘Belial, causing death of' or simply 'Belial, death'. Angel didn't know how that would work, but Gunn seemed impressed, as well as doubtful, since the internet was huge, and it would be impossible to scan every single web page in existence for such things in the amount of time they had. She pointed out she'd already been at it for well over a day, and had some 'hits', but so far nothing useful. Angel just pretended he knew what they were talking about, to be on the safe side.

He really preferred hands on research-looking through books, feeling the fragile pages, smelling the glue, the paper, the ink and sometimes tanned leather of the covers...okay, so computers scared him a bit. It wasn't that he couldn't use them-he was not an idiot-they just weren't the friendliest machines in the world. So much could go wrong if you pressed just one wrong button.

"I found the demon I was looking for," He told her, holding up the book he'd found it in, then glanced around for a second chair. There wasn't one.

"Whoopty fuckin' do," she said, not bothering to glance away from the laptop's screen. "I thought you were supposed to be looking for a way to top Belials who have reach virtual omnipotence, genius."

She did that on purpose, didn't she? Why did she deliberately try and keep people at arm's length? What had happened to make her so wary of people?

Except Bob, of course. Which he still didn't get.

"Well, this is related. I saw him with that warlock in the basement. It's a Sri-thal demon." According to the book, they were very rarely seen, as they did not generally dwell in this dimension, and when they did, it was usually in their roles as familiars' to a witch or warlock whom they had cut a deal

with. And that's how Angel figured he'd scented them before; as Angelus, he had tangled with a few witches and warlocks, although none as inevitably powerful as the Gypsy woman who cursed him.

"So what the feck does it do? Fart fire?" She asked, swiveling in her chair to glance at the pc screen.

"Uh, no. Supposedly it can channel dark forces from the ether."